by Natalie Dean
“The cart does well for farm work. It’s not necessary for me to own a number of large, costly animals.”
“Oh, you just like looking fancy and pretty when you go into town,” she bantered.
She had an infectious laugh. He chuckled at her remark and answered, “That’s the first time anyone has ever called me pretty.”
“Because they are dazzled by your buggy first.”
He knew she was teasing him and it no longer bothered him. Wherever she went, her humor strode along, as bright and bouncing as the sunlight that flitted between the trees. The buggy had been as practical an asset as anything he owned. Even if it was stylish, it shaded against the sun and sheltered from the wind and rain.
He had forgotten there were girls like her. He barely remembered his academy years, except that they were years of study. Girls like her didn’t exist there, nor did they exist in the social circles of aspiring professionals and ambitious status seekers. They didn’t exist among the harsh women in the mining camps. They were like rare, exotic wildflowers, scattered here and there. Your eyes had to be quick and your mind nimble to find one.
He regretted his hastiness in judging her, yet still felt he had been right by releasing her from her obligation. The only correct way to marry a girl like Greta was to court her and win her hand.
“If we are to dazzle the good citizens of Boulder, let’s dazzle them properly. We’ll go shopping, and afterward we’ll dine at the Palace Hotel.”
“What should we shop for?”
“If I am to look pretty, I need a new dress and bonnet.”
She clasped her hands together and bent over them as she laughed.
Chapter 5
They arrived late. Greta clicked her tongue as they drove up to an already unloaded stagecoach. In front of the bank, a new group of miners were getting acquainted with two young passengers still covered with travel dust, standing amid an assortment of extremely well-worn luggage. They looked shabby, as though their years of want extended beyond their ability to remember finer things.
Joseph went to the delivery window and made an inquiry with the teller who pointed at a bound, wooden crate then shoved a record of receipt into his hand to sign.
“Well, that went rather quickly, wouldn’t you say?” he asked as he offered Greta his arm.
“That’s because you missed all the excitement. It’s more thrilling to wait for the stagecoach, you know.”
“This one is run by Jim Snyder. He’s not such a likable fellow as Owen. He swears. He drinks. He becomes disgraceful on his days off work.”
“There haven’t been complaints about him?”
“He runs his coach through Indian country. Nobody complains about him.”
Boulder’s trading goods store was three times larger than the trading post at the mining camp. Joseph held his amusement inside as Greta fingered the different fabrics, peered at lace and china tea sets and wandered over to view other household items.
“Have you found anything that delights you?” asked Joseph.
“A bit of cloth I believe, and some yarn. I find my hands idle too often.”
They had bundled their purchases and were ready to stroll to the hotel when a voice behind them began calling for Greta. They turned around. The woman calling to them appeared to be in her thirties. Her dress was cut noticeably low in front, and her bodice noticeably tight. Her reddish colored hair had been somewhat brutalized by both the natural elements and a few chemical additions.
Still, she was pretty in a hard, bright way. Under the heavy make-up, were fine, creamy features. Beneath the harsh expression, were liquid brown eyes that glowed with their own life. She ran toward them, and Greta suddenly wriggled in recognition. “Hannah! Hannah! You’re still here? You haven’t married?”
“Oh, not yet. Beatrice went off with a prospector, but I don’t know if they struck it big or not. I haven’t heard from her since she left. Laura found a cattle rancher. Between you and me though, I found I make more money as a chorus girl than I would hooking up with one of these maybe get rich miners.
I just started thinking about it a few days after we got here. They never bathe. They brawl all night. What kind of husbands would they make? I’m holding out for a better offer, and if I don’t get one, well, the money’s right here in Boulder.”
“You intend to become an independent woman?”
“Not intend, my dear. This is what I have become. I was once a woman of means. I will be so once again, and not by pushing a plow or digging by the side of a river. Enough about me. Is this your betrothed, Greta?”
“This is Mr. Marston. We have decided to put off marriage.”
“And why would you do that, Mr. Marston? What tiny flaw did you see in our good Miss Samuelson that you should reject her?”
“No flaw,” muttered Joseph. “I would not expect you to understand, or perhaps you would. Miss Samuelson also needs to know her independence before she can make choices.”
“And you, unfortunate soul, are full of poppycock. What would you have her do now in the middle of her quest? Perhaps she would like to come and live in Boulder. I have a perfectly fine room. You can join me, my dear,” said Hannah, drawing Greta close to her.
“Greta has a teaching position and a place to stay. She is welcome in our settlement for as long as she likes.”
“I’m quite sure of that, but you, Greta. What are your thoughts?”
“I haven’t quite made up my mind, but I did send a letter to my brother stating I might continue west. I’m waiting primarily on a reply.”
“Oh, but if you wish to continue west, you won’t need to wait so long. Haven’t you heard? The drought in Kansas still hasn’t ended, and now people are leaving in droves for the western trails. A wagon train is supposed to come through here sometime within the next two weeks.”
Joseph suddenly felt his heart squeeze anxiously in his chest, and he flashed a look sideways at Greta. If she appeared excited, it seemed more for talking with someone she hadn’t seen in a while than for the news that a wagon train of her own kindred would be passing through. At least, that’s what he found himself hoping.
“Will you join us for dinner?” Joseph finally asked, seeing no recourse beyond common courtesy.
She gave him a look that was oddly indulgent, as though she was playing with him, and might at any moment, grow tired of him and devour her prey. “I was on my way to work. And I don’t suppose the dancehall at the corner of Main is exactly the type of place you bring your colleagues for entertainment.”
“I wish you well, Miss Hannah.”
“I will do well, thank you, Mr. Marston. But if you have doubts, please put your timidity aside for an hour and come watch the show.”
He felt almost possessive of Greta as they watched Hannah walk away, and covered the hand she had placed on his forearm with his own. “Don’t you think it would be rude not to watch Hannah dance?” Greta asked. She wasn’t being facetious. There was a genuine note of concern in her voice.
“If we dally too long, it will be late before we return home. It’s a Saturday. Men will be filled with drink, and those who take advantage of the inebriated will be waiting at the side of the road. We could have dinner or see a show, but it will be tough to cover both.”
“Then I suppose it should be dinner. We could catch the show the next time we return to Boulder.”
“You would like to meet up with the wagon train when it arrives?”
“I would. It will be exciting to receive news from home.”
He dropped the subject until they were once again on their way back to the mining camp and their own slowly developing settlement. The food had been exceptionally good for western cooking; tenderized, seasoned steaks, fried potatoes with onions and freshly snapped green beans. Greta’s expertise in cooking the tough, gamey meat and mixing herbs and seasonings was as youthful as her appearance, although it showed promise of improvement with each meal.
She ate with relish, which
made him happy, but something was lost. He had meant the day to be the first in formal courtship, and now it seemed to only reinforce his determination to allow her to make her own choices.
Joseph reasoned to himself, I’m not handsome, certainly not in the way that would normally command the attention of a young, pretty girl. She could marry into much greater wealth. I’ve seen the way men look at her. She wins them over with no more than a smile and a kind word or two. Above all, she is kind, and it’s only her kindness that would cause her to consent to marriage. I cannot take advantage of her kindness, although I can encourage her career.
He cleared his throat and clicked at the pony, who, despite Joseph’s warning as to its disposition, was growing fat and lazy under Greta’s care. “You know, Snake Bite isn’t really a pet although it must seem that way to someone who has grown up on a farm with rather large and powerful horses. Snake Bite is a breeding animal, a cow pony. He is a cross between a Shetland and a quarter horse. We’ve found that cow ponies adapt best to our terrain.
I’m breeding him out this winter to a ranch that has a number of nice mares. I’m thinking of bargaining him up for a couple of them and buying a larger carriage for two horses to draw. This way, we could bus children to school with parents who can’t get them there otherwise.”
“But you will be taking Snake Bite back?” Her voice sounded a little alarmed, and her fingers flurried to tuck her end hairs into her bonnet. “You’re not trading him?”
Joseph shook his head and gave a short laugh. “No, just his services. I was wondering what you thought about it.”
“Well, yes. I believe that’s an excellent idea. There are quite a few children who would come to school more often if they didn’t have to walk or rely on their parents.”
The sun was settling low over the mountains. In the dusk, they stopped to light their carriage lamps, then continued along the trail. It was still several more miles, but it would be several more hours before the night prowlers began stalking victims. He hastened Snake Bite a little, anyway. The animal really needed more exercise.
“When the railroad comes, Boulder will grow rapidly. It may even take over our own settlement with time. We may even become annexed into the Boulder school system. Their educational committee is highly industrious. They even talk of building a university. Miss Samuelson, with your skills, you would be a great contribution to our academic society.”
“Are you asking that I stay?”
The words he wanted to say knotted up in his throat, and he answered weakly, “Our school needs you.”
“I see.” Whatever she saw, she pulled her shawl up over her shoulders and contemplated the trail ahead. Joseph cursed himself, wishing he could tell her, “I need you”, and knowing if he did, it would compromise what he really wanted; to earn her love.
The rest of the ride home was splattered by the lamplights swinging by the trees and the somewhat elusive moonlight hiding behind clouds, shimmering through trees and revealing itself in bursts over open fields. As had become their custom, Joseph put away the buggy while Greta attended Snake Bite.
They were both silent until they had entered the house and put away their outer clothing. At the bottom of the stairs, before retiring to her room, Greta turned and said, “I want a puppy.”
Joseph stared at her, just a little confused and a little amazed. “You want a puppy?”
“Yes. Your house needs one. A puppy will liven it up.”
“I will attempt to be livelier.”
She laughed and placed a hand under his chin. “You will fail. You live by too many rules. A puppy, though, doesn’t live by any. You have to teach them. That’s what makes them lively.”
“I hope you don’t say such things to your students.”
“Only the part where they need teaching.”
He followed her up the first few steps, unwilling to let go of her scent, the warmth that seemed to wrap around him as soon as he got close, the soft tingle of her laughter. On the fourth step, he paused and took hold of her arms, turning her around. He felt the velvety texture of the flesh just above the elbows and caressed it gently. “Good night, Miss Samuelson. I very much enjoyed your company today.”
“Good night, Mr. Marston. I enjoyed the day as well.”
Joseph gripped the staircase railing as she disappeared into her room. Please, he whispered to the empty passageway, please don’t choose to leave me.
Chapter 6
The wagon train was coming. Runners had been galloping ahead of it for days, announcing its progress. Not all who traveled the trail continued on to Oregon or California. With each wagon train, a few people stayed, adding to the growing community of settlers. They were bending the land and shaping it to fulfill their needs. They were farmers and merchants, blacksmith’s and tanners, all hoping to set down roots that would flourish and grow.
The Colorado/ Wyoming territory was just as good for setting down roots as the lush Oregon country on the other side. The soil was rich and loamy, and fresh, clean water was plentiful. Money ran like rivers in the mining camps, but cattlemen etched a permanent prosperity with their solid, far-spreading ranches. The Boulder area preened itself, waiting for the new arrivals.
Greta’s feelings had become so mixed she couldn’t say there was any one way to describe them. She was excited. Atchison was a main thorough way for all western bound traffic. She was accustomed to meeting the trains as they passed through and knew they had ignited her desire to travel. She wondered if the train would ignite this passion again, or if her happiness would be confined to seeing fellow citizens of Kansas.
She picked up her brush and ran it slowly through her hair. Along with excitement, she felt dread. She knew that when the wagon train came, Joseph would expect her to make a choice. Although her position was secure and she was free to leave anytime she wanted, practicality told her that the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave it all behind. The harder it would be to leave Joseph, who still had said nothing about getting married.
She looked at herself in the dresser mirror. The early morning sun was just beginning to sneak through the window. It played over the top of her head, making her curls look fuzzy and yellow, and found a place to settle by the far wall. Outside, a rooster fluffed his feathers, crowing. Within these walls, it was an orderly life, no different than the one she had left. Outside them, was a different world; one that attempted to piece together order from disorder. Joseph had been right about one thing. Administering to the broken shells of men defeated by war was far different from administering to the wayward and lawless, but it wasn’t more hopeless because children feed on hope. Their survival depended on hope.
“Oh Lord, I don’t know what to do. If I stay, will I have failed to answer my calling? Was I meant to continue on into unexplored territory where my brother waits or is my place here among your untamed children? I have grown fond of the community here and have learned much of their ways and customs, but it is most difficult, Lord, most difficult to overcome my affections for Joseph. Wouldn’t it be better, more sensible, to continue on my way so as to forget him? I would be most grateful if you would provide an answer.”
It didn’t really feel like a proper prayer. Her upbringing had taught her primarily a system of thankfulness, not petitions for favors. Still, she reasoned, all she had really asked for was guidance, and if the prayer had felt uncomfortably different, it was because she had never felt herself at such a crossroads before.
Joseph was already up and moving around in the kitchen. With a last look in the mirror to make sure she was neatly groomed, Greta tripped down the stairs and watched him coax a fire in the kitchen stove, and set coffee on to boil. The coffee was a luxury that he doled out in tiny amounts to stretch out six months, leaving the pot on the back burner for two or three days at a time until there was no possibility of extracting more flavor from the beans.
Today it was fresh. When it perked, the aroma would fill the kitchen. Greta greeted him cheerfully
and picked up the egg basket. “Special occasion?”
“No. It’s just that with winter coming in, fresh coffee is more pleasant. The mornings have become chilly.”
“I’ve noticed. The chickens have been getting lazier about setting.”
“I’m surprised they are still setting at all. They must be trying to please you.”
“Or they are afraid you’ll put them in the stewpot,” she chirped brightly.
“I’m not really such a villain. I know they need a rest period. Besides, if we ate all our chickens, how will we have some for laying eggs in the spring?”
Greta picked up on Joseph’s nuances. Lately, he had been habitually using the word “we” when talking about the future. She knew what he was doing. He was subtly trying to talk her out of joining the wagon train, but he hadn’t spoken the words she was waiting to hear, and those words had nothing to do with how valued she was by the community or how dangerous it was higher up the western trail.
Even after checking all the hiding places, there were only four eggs. Greta placed them at the very back of the eggs stored in the pantry, moving the oldest ones forward. “Our chickens have definitely gone on vacation,” she said when she returned. The smell of coffee now overwhelmed the kitchen. Their breakfast was reheated beans, scrambled eggs and thick wedges of bread. Greta’s baking skills were a point of pride. She still hadn’t developed the knack for tenderizing Colorado’s sinewy meat, but she was quite adept at baking bread, biscuits, cookies, and cakes.
While they were eating, Greta noticed there was an unusual amount of traffic on the road to Boulder. “Has the wagon train arrived?” she asked.
Joseph flushed and scowled, but rose from the table. “I guess we should find out.”
Odd how reluctant she felt. A part of her hadn’t really wanted to know. A part of her had hoped that the train would slip by and they would be too late for her to join it. She would have an excuse to stay a little longer, hoping Joseph would change his mind about marriage. But as they drew closer to the riders, her reluctance grew stronger until it brought the same terrible pressure she used to feel each time the mail brought unimaginable horror through a letter, notice, or news item. Her knees began to shake and her hands felt clammy. This wasn’t just reluctance. This was dread.
