by Prairie Wife
He carried his cup back to the table.
"Church social tomorrow afternoon," Mrs. Barnes reminded them. "Might be the last one we can hold out of doors before cold weather."
Sam leaned across the table and secured himself another slice of molasses cake. "I'd better practice, in case there's a cake-eating contest."
Hermie laughed. "You're always practicin' for that contest and it's never happened yet."
Sam ate his cake, then stood and glanced at his daughter. He often wore a look that said he wondered what was going on inside of her, but everyone—including her own father—had learned to stay at arm's length and keep their advice to themselves. But she saw it there—the loss. And she looked away.
"I still have more apples for you to dry. When do you want 'em?"
"Monday will be good," she replied.
"See you in the mornin'. Ladies." He plucked his hat from a hook and exited the house.
"Mrs. Barnes, you go on home so you can prepare for tomorrow," Jesse told the older woman. "I'll help Amy clean up after the guests."
"That's right nice of you," she told him. "Hermie, want to see me home?"
The hand got up and escorted Mrs. Barnes out.
There were only three boarders that night. Amy served them supper, and Jesse showed up to help her clean up as he'd promised.
"I can do this," she said uneasily, knowing he'd worked as hard or harder than she had all week, and not wanting to pile additional work on him.
He picked up an empty bowl. "I thought maybe you could stand my presence long enough to get through the dishes."
"It's not that," she said.
He scraped plates into a bucket for the hogs without looking at her. When all the scraps were cleaned up, he carried the pail out the door.
Unexpectedly, Amy's heart chugged. She placed a wet hand over it and collected her thoughts. It wasn't that she couldn't stand his presence. It wasn't. The problem was that when he was around it was more difficult to keep a tight control on her feelings.
She found herself waiting like a fool to see if he would return. The sound of boots hitting the back porch made her jump, and she spun around to appear busy.
She washed dishes.
He carried in firewood and stacked it in the bin beside the stove.
She dried the pans.
He swept the floor and stacked the clean plates on the table for morning.
A well-orchestrated dance of avoidance.
"Has your mare foaled yet?" she asked.
"Two nights ago. A pretty little brown filly with a blaze on her forehead. They're in the barn if you want to see her."
"Okay."
He put away the broom and picked up his hat. "Night, then."
"Jesse?"
He paused, his hand on the open door, and looked back at her.
She wiped her hands self-consciously on her apron. Didn't he understand this was the only way for her to survive? He believed she had chosen this road. Truth was, it had chosen her, and it took her full-time energy to keep from taking a wrong turn and becoming lost. He wanted too much from her.
She didn't know what she'd planned to say. "Thank you" was all she could think of.
He gave half a nod. "Yeah," he said as he left.
She stared at the closed door.
***
The first Sunday since Jesse had moved to the boardinghouse dawned as deceptively normal as any other. After preparing and serving breakfast, Amy got ready for church alone in the house. She had selected a dress with sprigs of blue flowers before she realized it took a great deal of effort to button it up the back herself. Her arms ached when she was finished, and she stared at her disheveled state in the mirror.
Quickly, she brushed her hair and pinned it up, found her matching hat and a pair of gloves, and made her way downstairs.
Jesse had polished her Sunday boots and they waited for her beside the kitchen door. She put them on, then gathered all the food she had prepared and placed it on the end of the table, and donned her gloves.
Jesse was waiting at the bottom of the porch stairs. He frowned as he loaded the food into crates in the back of the buggy, and she wondered if he'd had too much to drink the night before. Silently, he helped her up to the seat, and she noted his rifle carefully tucked beneath. They always rode alone to church while her father, Hermie and the other women traveled together in the wagon.
Silence between them used to be comfortable, but now it was loud with unformed thoughts and unspoken questions.
They were greeted at the church door, as usual, and sat together as the service began. Amy took some small comfort from the familiar hymns, the Scripture readings and the drone of Reverend Calhoun's message. It was only here, within these sanctified walls and the safe cocoon of God's house, that she let herself think about Tim. Think his name. But even here her thoughts were carefully controlled and selective. She thought of Tim in heaven, sitting beside the throne of the Father, eternally three, forever happy and free of pain and life's troubles.
Those thoughts gave her the only tiny measure of peace she allowed herself. Once a week for an hour. She never let herself think of her life without him. Or of the loss. Or of Jesse's pain. And if anyone dared to mention her son, which they didn't any more, she pretended not to hear.
It was how she survived.
The service ended and the reverend spoke to his parishioners at the door as they exited.
"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Shelby. How are you this fine day?"
"Well, thank you, Reverend," she replied.
Behind her Jesse spoke a few words to the preacher, and then he joined her and they stood outdoors in the sunlight.
Already men had begun assembling tables in the side yard, as the women unpacked their tablecloths and aprons. Jesse carried their crates to a table for Amy, then disappeared while she joined the women in setting out the food.
Leda Bently, a farmer's wife, drew a young woman toward Amy. "This is Rachel Douglas. She and her husband just moved here. Her man is helping with the harvest at our place."
Amy greeted the pale-haired young woman and immediately noticed the faded shawl she held so that the ends covered her swollen belly. It was obvious that her dress was inappropriate for her growing figure, because the front of her hemline was inches above the back, revealing worn boots and black stockings.
"Where are you from?" Amy asked.
"Jack is from England. I met him in New York. We were married there, and he couldn't find work, so we came West."
"You have family in the East?"
She shook her head and glanced at Amy's flower-bedecked hat. "No. I outgrew a foundling home and worked as a maid for two years before I met Jack."
"Rachel is real good at household tasks," Leda told her. "What a blessing for me that Frank hired Jack for the fall. My house has never been so clean."
Rachel blushed. "I'm earning my own keep," she told Amy. "I'm just so glad to have somewhere to settle for a time and not be riding on a wagon, that I'd do anything."
"Amy and her husband and father run the way station," Leda told Rachel. "Even with the transcontinental railroad finished last spring, they still get a lot of travelers."
"Do you need any help?" Rachel asked. "I can clean and cook and do laundry. And Jack is a real hard worker. He'll need work after Mr. Bently's crops are in."
"I have three women who help me now," Amy told her. "Jack would have to talk to Jesse. He does the hiring."
"I'll tell him." Rachel gave her a shy smile.
When she turned to look away, Amy noted her thin frame. The journey west was hard on women, but it must have been especially trying for a young woman expecting her first baby.
"When will your baby be born?" Amy asked.
Rachel glanced back and blushed. "Sometime this winter. Mrs. Bently helped me figure about December."
Amy nodded and, sharing knowledge of the experience the young woman would face, she and Leda exchanged a concerned glance. "Well, I wi
sh you the best," Amy told her. "I hope you and your husband find someplace you like to settle."
"Oh, we like it here," Rachel told her quickly. "I'd never seen so much wide-open space. The fields are magnificent to behold, all that corn waving as far as the eye can see. Garden vegetables and fresh milk every day. This is a land of plenty, to be sure."
Amy almost felt the young woman's pleasure, almost understood Rachel's sense of wonder at having enough food, and her appreciation of the land. But she held herself in reserve and turned aside to slice pies.
Another half hour passed before the parishioners gathered around the tables and Jesse dutifully sought her out. As Reverend Calhoun said a blessing for the meal, Amy glanced up and unerringly found Rachel. She stood with a tall fresh-faced young man who held her hand to his chest and closed his eyes reverently as the preacher prayed. The two of them were so young, so earnest, so— She stopped herself before she could think in love.
Beside her, Jesse held his hat by the brim with both hands. She glanced up to find him gazing out across the landscape.
The prayer ended and the air hummed with voices. Two lines formed and the woman began serving food.
Her father found a group of men and sat with them under the shade of the maple trees growing in the churchyard.
"Sun or shade?" Jesse asked from beside her.
"Sun."
He spread their quilt out on the grass a distance from the crowd, and they sat. The afternoon sun felt good, and she removed her hat to enjoy the warmth on her hair.
Jesse ate his fill of fried chicken, one of his favorites. Afterward, he took an envelope from his pocket. "There was a mail stage this morning."
"Yes, the driver had a quick breakfast."
"I got this letter. It's from my mother."
She glanced from his face to the envelope. He received letters from his mother in Indiana every few months, and Amy often saw him at the secretary in the parlor, writing to her. Because of all his responsibilities here, he hadn't seen her for six years.
"What does she say?"
"She's not well."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. What's the problem?"
"A weakened heart, the doctors have said."
"Would you like to go see her?"
"She's coming here."
Amy blinked. "Oh."
"She's bringing Cay."
Cay was Jesse's sister's son. His sister, Ruby, had run off and left Cay with her mother when he was just a little boy. "How old is he now?"
"Twelve, best I figured. My mother has been having trouble with the boy. He's become more than she can handle, and she asked if we could help."
"What can we do?"
"She wants to bring him here. She needs the rest. And the help. My father died when I was about his age. I know what it's like to grow up like that and I don't want the same for my nephew."
Caught off guard by this announcement, Amy simply nodded. Certainly the woman deserved some rest if she was ill. "She's your mother, Jesse. Of course she's welcome here if she wants to come. We can take care of her."
Jesse's face relaxed somewhat.
The boy was another matter. If he was troublesome, they didn't need that aggravation added to their lives. She felt guilty for resenting the intrusion.
"When will they arrive?"
He glanced at the date on the letter. "Another week, I'm thinking."
"I'll fix the other upstairs room for her. What about Cay? Where do you want him to sleep?"
"He can stay in the boardinghouse. Or he can sleep on a pallet in the parlor."
Parlor was a fancy word for the large room they used for a variety of purposes, among them, extra sleeping space on the floor when necessary.
What would Jesse's mother think of the fact that Jesse didn't sleep in the house? Would he return to their room so he didn't have to explain?
Amy gazed out across the churchyard, took in the various groupings of families sharing meals. Her attention was drawn to Rachel and Jack Douglas. They were seated on a horse blanket, eating leisurely and smiling at one another. Rachel grabbed the plate on her lap suddenly, and looked down. Jack followed her gaze. She spoke, and he reached to place his hand on her belly.
A knife blade of pain cut into Amy's chest, and she jerked her gaze away. She gripped her plate and forced herself to breathe evenly.
"Amy, what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
She shook her head. She had seen a ghost. The ghost of a young couple in love and anticipating the birth of their child. The ghost of naive bliss.
But ghosts weren't real. So with practiced effort, she exorcised the agonizing glimpse of the past and concentrated on her food.
"Jesse, have you met Jack Douglas?"
"Don't believe so."
"He's working the harvest at the Bentlys'. His wife mentioned he needed work after the crops were in. They're... young."
Jesse studied her curiously. She wasn't in the habit of discussing employees with him, and her mention of the man probably seemed out of the ordinary.
She tried to sound casual when she asked, "Can you use another hand?"
He set down a jar of buttermilk and wiped a white mustache from his upper Up. "You asking me to hire this Jack Douglas?"
"No." She busied herself picking up their plates. "I was just wondering, is all. She asked me, and I told her Jack would have to speak with you."
"If he comes to me, I'll talk to 'im," he said.
That was all she was going to think about that. She had enough to deal with, now that Jesse's mother and nephew were coming. Amy packed their lunch things and watched Jesse lope down the grassy lawn to join a group of men.
***
Jesse no longer knew his wife. She wasn't the woman he'd married. She wasn't the woman who'd lain beside him in the intimate stillness of a winter night and shared dreams and feelings. She wasn't the woman who'd once loved him so fiercely and well that he'd thought his heart would burst to overflowing.
He lay on the bunk in the stark room he'd taken and stared at the knotholes in the pine ceiling. He could remember so many details of their life together that the memories drove him crazy long into the night.
As cavalry soldiers, he and Sam had met at Fort Kearny during the war. Jesse'd been making a profit selling horses to the Army, and Sam had homesteaded land in Nebraska. Seeing the need for way stations, they put their heads together and came up with the plan to build one in a prime location. They worked out their partnership, and after the war ended, scouted and purchased land with access to water and grazing ranges. It was agreed that the stables came first; horses would be their security and the base of their operation. But until the business prospered, Sam had to provide a roof overhead for his wife and daughter, so once the stables and barns were built, construction began on a sod house.
Jesse remembered the first time he saw Amy. Sam's wife, Vanessa, and his eighteen-year-old daughter had arrived by wagon, bringing supplies and furniture. He'd been surprised that very first day to see Sam's daughter climb down unaided from the wagon she'd driven, using the spokes of the wheel as a step, and turn to help her mother.
From beneath her bonnet, honey-colored hair hung down her back in waves, and she carried herself in a capable and confident manner. She'd spotted her father stacking blocks of sod to form the base of the house and had taken off running. Her bonnet fell back, and the sun glistened from that shiny, thick hair.
Sam Burnham had stopped and straightened, and a smile that would have lit the prairie night split his face. He plucked off his gloves, tossed them down and ran forward to greet her.
She locked her arms around his neck and he swung her in a circle, her laughter floating like a melody on the air.
"Whoo, Daddy, you smell like a goat!" she'd scolded him, backing away and inspecting his stained clothing.
Neither he nor Jesse had bothered to launder their clothes since they'd run out of clean a week or more a
go.
"And you smell like a spring flower," Sam replied.
Jesse gazed at the curvy young lady wearing a pale green dress, who looked as fresh as a new day, then glanced at his own clothing. He'd been plowing sod behind a pair of oxen for two days, and his boots were caked with mud and manure, his dungarees stiff with dirt. He smelled like the backside of a buffalo. He stayed where he was.
Amy Burnham's attention shifted to him, and he was caught off guard by how dark her eyes were—he'd expected blue, but discovered them a rich caramel color. She looked him over, head to toe, an assessing but not critical inspection.
Vanessa joined them then, her greeting less exuberant than her daughter's. Sam kissed his wife on the cheek and she took her fill of gazing at him, as though she was making up for the weeks apart.
"Jesse," Sam said finally, gesturing for him to come closer. "This is my wife, Vanessa, and my daughter, Amy. Ladies, this is Jesse. My partner."
Jesse doffed his hat then, but he stopped a good five feet away from the women. "Ma'am," he said with a polite nod. "Miss Burnham."
"You're younger than I expected," Mrs. Burnham said.
"I'm older than I was yesterday," he replied with a grin.
Vanessa Burnham looked him over. "You're young for a man so financially solvent," she explained.
"I've caught, broke and sold a lot of horses to the Army, ma'am," he explained. "I've outfitted stage lines and buffalo hunters. Then the war scared the nonsense out of me. I met your husband and started thinking about the future, and knew I wanted to settle in one place."
"This is the future," Sam told the ladies with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. "A prime spot along the Overland Trail, no other way station in a hundred miles. Once we get the horses ready, we can build sleeping quarters and attract travelers like flies to honey."
"Isn't that like bees to honey, Daddy?" Amy asked with a twinkle in those captivating eyes. "Flies are attracted to... other things." She glanced at Jesse's boots.
He'd recognized the teasing glimmer in her eyes, and though he'd blushed, he hadn't taken offense. She wasn't prissy, not then and never since. Over the years he'd seen her work hard and find satisfaction in the growth of the operation and in their success. She was the woman he loved beyond reason, the woman who made every day of his life and all the effort he'd put into Shelby Station worthwhile.
