St. John, Cheryl

by Prairie Wife

  The men grabbed their hats and exited.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Shelby," the woman said softly.

  "Wait a moment." Amy quickly prepared sandwiches, added apples from the bushel Sam had brought that morning and wrapped the meal in newspaper. "You'll need to eat before Omaha," she said.

  The woman accepted the offering gratefully. "You're very kind. Thank you."

  Amy followed her through the door, stood on the wooden walkway that led to the stable and lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the sun. Three men who'd eaten breakfast earlier were waiting at the corner of the building. Shelby Station was the only one along the Overland Trail with sleeping accommodations, and many travelers had told her that by far, she served the best food. Most stations were at least half a day's ride apart, and those stops were usually only forty minutes to change horses and drivers. Passengers had to sleep sitting up, being jostled about in the coach, so the bunks her father had built with foresight and a head for business were as good as gold in the bank.

  Jesse checked harnesses on the team of matching grays hitched to a Concord coach. He had trained those horses well for the task, and they stood attentively. He was the stock man. He had brought the horses and know-how into the partnership. Amy's mother, until she died, had helped Amy cook and feed travelers.

  Hermie Jackson, Jesse's right-hand man, had finished loading trunks into the boot and fastened the straps over the lid. The two stood back as Mr. Buckingham helped his wife into the coach and the men who'd been waiting boarded and closed the door.

  After climbing to his seat and picking up the reins, Pearly bellowed a "H-yah" and snapped the reins. The team pulled the coach forward. Hermie strode back to the stable.

  Jesse turned and spotted Amy where she stood in the sunlight.

  They stared at one another for a long moment, a year of silence cloaking anything they might have wanted to do or say, a lifetime of regret and guilt closing the door on what should have been. His partnership with her father had been her introduction to the man she would love and marry. The man who would give her a child.

  Jesse adjusted his hat.

  Amy flattened her hand against her waist.

  He turned and strode toward the corral.

  She found her feet and returned to the kitchen.

  ***

  Though he stood in the shade of the open stable doors, sweat poured from his forehead and upper body as Jesse held the foot of a gelded black between his knees and deftly cleaned the hoof. An intolerable ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he resisted the impulse to go dull it with a hefty swig of liquor. Problem was, he knew he'd feel better if he did, so resisting was a monumental battle.

  A soft footfall alerted him to someone's presence and he looked up to see Amy. She appeared fresh and cool in a calico dress sprigged with a tiny green leaf pattern. Her hair was hidden beneath a straw bonnet, green ribbons laced beneath her chin.

  He straightened and, still holding the iron pick, wiped his forehead.

  "I'm going to place an order at the mercantile. Will you have time to pick it up after Mr. Liscom has filled it?"

  He nodded. "Shouldn't be a stage until suppertime. This is the last horse to get ready."

  Her gaze flicked over the black gelding. "Anything you need?"

  A moment passed and her cheeks turned pink. She waited for a reply without meeting his eyes. Most of their conversations were conducted like this, it seemed.

  "You might ask John if the linseed oil has arrived."

  "I'll do that." She turned and headed toward the mercantile.

  It was a ten-minute walk, but if she'd wanted a horse, she'd have asked, he thought.

  Jesse finished with the hoof he was cleaning and spoke to the black, wearily rubbed his forehead and neck. Then he rinsed at the pump and pulled on his shirt before returning to the house.

  He entered the kitchen, where Mrs. Barnes glanced up from peeling potatoes. She was a handsome woman, with dark hair turning gray at the temples. Giving her a polite nod, he passed on to the front of the house and stood at the bottom of the stairs, one foot on the first step. This time of day the house was unnaturally quiet. The scent of lemon oil told him someone had been polishing wood.

  Silence closed in on him. There should have been a child's voice echoing through these rooms, footsteps on the wooden floors, toys scattered and a small pair of boots standing beside the door. Tim should be here. His precious Tim.

  Jesse's chest tightened with a familiar, lonely ache.

  A man should be able to share these feelings with his wife, the only other person in the world who knew the same grief.

  Jesse glanced up the stairs. There should have been other children, too. Another son. A daughter, perhaps. Not to replace Tim, of course, but to fill this house and their lives.

  He couldn't stay here anymore. Couldn't see Amy every night, lie beside her and grieve for the life they'd once had and the things that should have been. He couldn't think clearly when he was here, and he needed to sort things out in his head. Jesse pushed himself into motion.

  In their bedroom, he gathered his clothing, comb and brush, and extra boots and placed them in the center of a blanket, which he bundled up and carried quickly down the stairs and across the space between buildings to the plain quarters where travelers slept.

  Most rooms held at least six bunks, but he chose one of the two downstairs rooms with only two bunks and deposited his belongings on the bed he had slept on the night before. He could hear someone moving in a room above as he stacked his clothing in a drawer.

  Footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned.

  Adele McConough, the young woman who changed linens and did laundry, started at finding him. She clutched a stack of sheets to her chest.

  "Didn't mean to scare you," he said apologetically.

  "That's okay. I didn't expect anyone to be in here during the day." She gave him a bashful smile.

  He hadn't wanted to explain, but of course the hired girls would know if he used this room. "I'll be sleeping here. You don't need to change the sheets every day. Once a week will be fine."

  "Y-yes, certainly, Mr. Shelby," she said, obviously puzzled.

  "And please," he added, "don't mention the fact that I'm bunking here to anyone." Amy didn't need the added embarrassment of gossip.

  "I won't," she said, turning to go.

  "Appreciate it." He closed the drawer and left.

  Back outside, he went to the spring house and raised a bucket containing jugs and jars from the cold water, found a jar of buttermilk and drank it slowly, hoping to calm his stomach and quench his thirst.

  Feeling better, he headed back to the stable to finish preparing for the next stage.

  ***

  The kitchen table was filled with travelers that evening—two businessmen, a young couple, a woman with a son about the age of eight and two elderly sisters. Sam participated in a conversation about the Wells Fargo lines with one of the bankers.

  Mrs. Barnes, Adele and the laundress usually ate before the guests, along with Hermie and the other hands. Often Sam joined the other workers, but occasionally, he dined with the guests to stay current with news and happenings on the road.

  Catching Amy by surprise, Jesse arrived and seated himself beside one of the older women.

  Amy served the meal, and then, while Mrs. Barnes filled cups, she sliced more roast and cut a thick molasses cake into wedges. Jesse ate breakfast with the guests, but he always waited until they were gone and in their rooms before he came in to share a private supper with her. This change of schedule was an unsettling surprise.

  She went about her tasks, and one by one, the diners left, until only Jesse and her father remained. They discussed a mare ready to foal, and as Amy picked up the last dish, Jesse followed Sam out the door without a backward glance.

  A sinking shred of disappointment almost made its way into her chest, but she stifled it immediately and, taking her place beside Mrs. Barnes, dug into the stack of dishe
s.

  Eventually, everything was washed and dried and Mrs. Barnes left. She rode in about five miles every day from her son and daughter-in-law's homestead to the west. Her job here was her contribution to their struggle to keep the place going.

  Amy picked up the plate on which she'd saved a portion of food for herself and ate a few bites without bothering to sit. She wasn't being fair to Jesse, but she couldn't talk to him. She didn't have anything to say, and she refused to open wounds best left scarred over.

  Taking out her patterns and material, she finished cutting two dresses and started pinning the seams together. With little time to devote to herself, this project would take months, but it kept her hands busy this evening. Night had fallen full upon the station and there was no sign of Jesse's return.

  She wanted to ignore this problem, too, but maybe she had better go see where he was. After putting away her sewing, she lit a lantern and carried it to the stable.

  The lamps were still lit, and that was one of Jesse's last chores, so she searched the building, walking past stalls where horses stood placidly. An occasional nicker prompted her to reach through the gate and rub her knuckles on a bony forehead.

  She found Jesse in a large stall toward the back doors, which were closed and barred. He sat on a bushel of hay, a sorrel mare with swollen sides placidly blinking at him.

  The swiveling light from Amy's lantern caught his attention and he glanced up. "Hey."

  "What are you doing out here?"

  "Just keeping her company." Though his words were carefully enunciated, she heard the liquor that laced them.

  Spotting the bottle between his boots, swift anger warmed her face and neck. Anger... disappointment... or guilt?

  Chapter Two

  "And drinking whiskey," she said, her tone flat.

  He plucked up the bottle by the neck. "Yeah."

  "You've been doing too much of that lately."

  He turned his head to look up at her. "What the hell do you care, Amy?"

  "It's not an answer for anything—" she began.

  "And what needs answering, huh? What's the question? D'you have a question?"

  "I mean a solution," she corrected. "It's not a solution."

  "Maybe not." He squinted and stared at the nearly empty bottle. "But it's a helluva lot better'n the choices. I'm not hurting anybody out here."

  She stood, keeping her silence, hating what she was seeing Jesse become.

  "Maybe you ought to try it, Amy." He raised the bottle toward her. "Go ahead. Maybe it'd loosen you up a bit."

  "If you're an example of loose, I don't need it."

  Pushing unsteadily to his feet, he caught his balance and stepped toward her. "Come on, maybe you'd feel better. Maybe you'd feel, period."

  She took a step back. "This isn't you talking, Jesse."

  "What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked, anger in his tone. "You can't stand to have me around. I'm giving you what you want, so don't suddenly act... concerned. I know you don't give a damn what I do or where I am. I'm surprised you even—even knew I was out here."

  His words found their mark, but she refused to let them wound. If she felt them—like he wanted her to— she wouldn't be able to cope. She turned to leave. "I'm sorry I came."

  A crash sounded. Jumping in alarm, she spun to see the broken whiskey bottle lying at the base of the gate frame, amber liquid soaking into the wood and scattered straw. The scent rose and burned her nostrils.

  She turned to see Jesse facing away from her, scrubbing a hand down his face. He'd thrown it, but not at her.

  "Shit," he said, turning and coming toward her, awkwardly kneeling and reaching for the broken glass.

  "No, let me," she said.

  He grabbed for the pieces, and Amy watched with dulled senses as a crimson rivulet ran across his thumb and dripped to the hard-packed earth.

  "Jesse, what have you done?" She grabbed his wrist.

  She turned over his hand and he opened it, revealing a shard of the bottle protruding from a deep gash in his palm.

  "I can't even feel it," he commented, staring at the oozing cut.

  Amy reacted quickly, gently plucking the glass from his hand and pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. She pressed the clean white fabric against the wound. "Do you have any more of that whiskey?"

  He nodded. "Y' want a slug after all?"

  "No, you fool, I want to pour some over this cut before I stitch it."

  "There's a wooden crate in the tack room. Look under my s-saddle."

  "Sit and don't move," she ordered.

  He dropped onto the bale and gripped the handkerchief against the cut.

  Looking where he'd instructed, she found the case of whiskey, six bottles already missing. She took one out, then ran to the house for her sewing basket and returned with hot water and supplies.

  Placing both her lantern and his on either side of where he sat, she knelt before him and guided his hand into the water. While the needle and thread soaked in a saucer of whiskey, she poured more on the cut, then held a clean rag against it.

  "Maybe I ought to take a drink of that before you start stitching."

  She refused to look up. "You already said you couldn't even feel the cut."

  "I can see it."

  Finally, she looked at him. His eyes were reddened and his hair mussed. "Don't look."

  She turned back and, with a deep breath, steeled herself for the task she had to do. The wound was in the center of his palm, making her chore more difficult, but she had wisely chosen the smallest needle she could find. It took several minutes to neatly sew the cut closed and tie off the thread. She'd performed this unpleasant duty for a few of the stable hands and more than once for her father, but it never got any easier to pierce someone's flesh and draw it closed. By the time she was finished, her stomach felt queasy and her head was light.

  "I'll make you some coffee," she said, pouring the water out onto the ground in the corner of the stall. "I don't want any."

  She gathered up the supplies. "You should get some sleep, then." From the corner of her eye, she saw him stand. She took a few steps and paused. "Will you be coming in soon?"

  She waited for his reply.

  "No."

  Her heart stammered, but she collected herself. Well, there it was. Just another situation to ignore. She was good at that.

  She crossed the distance to the house and steadied herself with a hand on the porch rail before entering the kitchen. She put away the bandages and ointment, banked the fire in the stove and picked up the lantern and a pail of water.

  At this time of night Jesse was usually just behind her, or finishing chores and would be joining her shortly. Not this night, so her footsteps echoed alone on the stairs.

  She set the lantern on the washstand and poured the water into the basin.

  Slowly, with numb fingers, Amy removed her shirtwaist and skirt and set her shoes aside. In her chemise and drawers, she crossed the room and opened the top drawer of the bureau.

  It was empty, except for the velvet box in which Jesse had kept his father's watch. The second drawer held only a packet of letters and the white shirt he'd worn the day they were married.

  Amy opened the wardrobe to find only her clothing remaining. She closed it. At the basin she removed her chemise and washed, then pulled on her nightdress and blew out the lantern.

  Jesse wasn't coming to bed. He wasn't coming back to this room. From the window, light could be seen shining from the rear of the barn where Hermie slept. A few windows at the boardinghouse were illuminated. Jesse was in one of those rooms.

  Amy pulled the curtains closed, turned back the covers and climbed into bed. The mattress dipped and swallowed her into its softness. She lay on her side with her eyes closed against the darkness... against the emptiness.

  Tomorrow morning she would rise early to bake bread. There was a social on Sunday after church, so a cake and pies were called for. Mentally going over the list of supplies, she
checked that she had everything.

  For a brief time after her mother's death, she'd handled all the meals, but then Jesse had hired Mrs. Barnes. Since the woman had been with them, Amy's kitchen chores were less hectic and she had more time to prepare ahead. Adele cleaned rooms and changed linens at the boardinghouse, and Maggie Townsend, whom Jesse had hired last year, did the laundry and helped in the garden.

  There had been a time when Amy had done the laundry herself, her son toddling in the yard while she hung sheets to dry. She had spent more time chasing him than she had at her task, but somehow she'd managed to do everything she needed to and look after him, as well.

  More than once Jesse had come upon them outdoors and run up to sweep the little boy off his feet and toss him in the air. She could still hear the toddler's infectious giggles and see his fair hair glistening in the sunshine. And the smile on Jesse's face... she hadn't seen that smile since.

  Amy clamped down hard on the unwanted thoughts. She willed herself to be strong. Don't think about it. Don't remember.

  She hadn't realized she'd reached for it, but somehow Jesse's pillow had become clutched to her breast. She curled herself around it and ignored the unoccupied space in the bed. Everybody made their choices and Jesse had made his. He couldn't move on, and she wouldn't go back. She wouldn't lose sleep over things she couldn't control.

  He'd been as good as gone for a long time anyway. For months they'd lain side by side with a mile of hurt separating them. That was just the way things were.

  ***

  Jesse made a new habit of eating with the hands before the guest meal. Amy adjusted to the change without comment. She saw him at breakfast with her father, half a dozen hands, and the women present. He came in at noon with the others, and then she saw him at supper. The two of them hadn't spent a minute alone since the night he'd cut his hand.

  She noticed the bandage had been changed and was clean, so she said nothing.

  Finally, when he stepped to the stove for more coffee after Saturday supper, she asked, "Do you need those stitches out?"

  "I'll do it myself," he replied. "Thanks."