by Loree Lough
It had been decided, between the sheriff and the doctor, that Mary’s horse had likely reared up, frightened by a rabbit or a raccoon, upturning the wagon and tossing Mary into the underbrush. The doctor assured Micah she hadn’t suffered, but the fact did little to ease the family’s pain.
Bess had been twelve when it happened, Matt and Mark, barely walking. In the graveyard, Micah promised his children that he’d miss and remember his Mary always. He’d also promised that sadness would not haunt Foggy Bottom. “She’s with Jesus now,” he’d said, “and that’s something to be joyful about.”
She had taken comfort from the strength of his words. But in the weeks and months to follow, Bess learned Micah hadn’t believed them, himself. If she’d known then what she knew now about her father’s fragile emotional condition, she’d have been even more diligent about filling Mary’s shoes.
Gradually, Bess took over more and more of her mother’s duties. By the age of seventeen, she was running the house with organized yet gentle efficiency, and kept Micah’s ledgers in better order than even he ever had. It was good, she repeatedly told herself, that the work kept her so busy, because although her determination was genuine, Bess missed her mother more than she cared to admit. And of course, she couldn’t admit it, for Bess sensed how much her father and brothers depended on her stubborn strength.
Only in the privacy of this room could Bess give in to loneliness and despair. Only here could she admit feeling tired, overburdened, deserted. Only in this peaceful, private place did she have the freedom to voice the whys and wherefores of death and dying…or dare to let tears fall. Surrounded by the things her sweet mama had so lovingly made, especially for her, Bess did her most honest mourning.
Now, she took a deep breath and sat back, peering out into the dark, silent yard. A rabbit raced alongside the corral fence, a barnyard cat close on its heels. She said a little prayer for the bunny and glanced at the clock on her mantle. Nearly midnight. She could almost hear her mother’s voice: “The breakfast bell rings early at Foggy Bottom; better get some sleep, or you’ll pay the price tomorrow!”
But not even the comforting weight of the afghan Mary had crocheted soothed Bess’s ragged nerves. Her mind swirled with thoughts of Chance. Where had he come from? And what deep secret had darkened his beautiful blue eyes? He’d flirted blatantly with her during dinner. Why, to be honest, he’d started flirting the moment he climbed down from the wagon!
The thought made her smile a bit as she stretched, yawned, closed her eyes. At the sound of whinnying horses, she opened them again. As a mother reads the meanings of her baby’s cries, Bess knew her horses’ moods. It wasn’t like them to make such a racket at this hour.
She’d heard in town yesterday that rustlers had run off with a dozen of Abe Macpherson’s best quarter horses…. Well, she determined, getting to her feet, they won’t get away with ours. At least, not without a fight!
Quietly, she scrambled across her room and, without lighting a lamp, stepped into her boots and buttoned them halfway. She belted a navy skirt atop her nightgown and shrugged into a red lambswool jacket, fastening it as she hurried down the stairs.
For a moment, Bess stood in the shadowy foyer and peeked through the bubbly leaded window beside the door. Instantly, she recognized the tall silhouette. She threw open the door and half-walked, half-ran toward the corral. “Chance Walker,” she whispered loudly, “what’re you doing out here at this hour?”
He’d been leaning against the corral gate’s top rail, and straightened at the sound of her voice. “Well, if it ain’t Just Plain Bess,” he said. “I might ask the same question….”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I was—“
“—looking out your window,” he finished. “I know.”
She glanced up at the house, and realized that from where he stood, he could, indeed, have seen her sitting in her window seat. Bess ignored her hard-beating heart. “Are you aware that it’s after midnight?”
His quiet chuckle punctuated her comment. “Don’t you worry. Your daddy will get his money’s worth out of me tomorrow.”
Bess gasped, and clutched her jacket tighter around her throat. “That isn’t… I didn’t…. I only meant….”
He took a step nearer. “Whoa, there, Bess. Settle down. I was only funnin’ with you.”
In the twilight, his eyes looked more silver-gray than blue. She thought again of the wolf, and hugged herself to fend off the unexpected chill that wrapped around her. Blinking, she forced herself to say, “That’s an interesting accent you’ve got there. Where are you from?”
“Texas.”
The retort was short and deliberately evasive, so she pressed him for more. “I’ve been to Texas.”
He took another step closer. “Is that so?”
Bess didn’t understand the worry lines that creased his brow. It took all her willpower not to step back, put more distance between them. She felt a little afraid, a little curious…and a whole lot interested. So she stood her ground and nodded in response to his question.
“Went with Pa to Houston, on business.”
“Well,” he drawled, smirking, “there’s Texas, and then there’s west Texas….”
She didn’t understand the comment, but the smug expression on his face told her he held the western part of the state in high esteem.
He hadn’t moved any closer, yet somehow, Chance’s nose seemed only inches from hers. His eyes bored into hers with such concentration that it made her pulse race, and Bess didn’t understand why his mere nearness inspired such an intense physical reaction in her. Her father had a favorite saying—“You learn with your ears open and your mouth shut.” And her mother often said “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” With those witticisms to comfort her, Bess smiled.
“Good lookin’ horses,” he said, gazing into the corral.
Her plan? Make him feel so comforted by her friendly, non-threatening demeanor that he’d start yakking and not stop until he’d spilled his whole life’s story. Instead, he’d distracted her with talk of horses of all things!
Tucking in one corner of her mouth, Bess sighed. “Oh, they’re all right, I suppose.” And then, to hide the frustration in her voice, quickly added, “They’re Shagya Arabians. Pa had them shipped here from Syria just over a year ago. He’s hoping to breed them. They’re as strong as they are beautiful, just as suited to pull a wagon as to seat a rider.”
When he met her eyes, both blond brows rose high on his forehead. “It ain’t often you meet a lady who knows her way around horses.”
Shrugging, she stared at her feet. Until now, she hadn’t realized how cold they were…. “I don’t know much about most horses, but I made it my business to know about these.”
“Hmmm.” He spoke to the Arabian that was nuzzling his hand. “She’s smart, pretty, a good cook, and honest, too. Hard not to like a woman like that….”
Unnerved, she struggled for something clever to say. “Would you believe I’ve already forgotten where in Texas you said you’re from?”
His beautiful smile vanished like smoke. “So she’s ‘tricky,’ too, is she?” he said, more to himself than to the horse. He met Bess’s eyes. “Never said where I was from.”
His closed expression warned her to stay out of his business. Out of his life. She got an ‘or else’ message from those dangerous orbs, too. Or else what? she wondered. Bess swallowed hard, hoping to repress the tickle of fear bubbling in her throat.
Well, food had always soothed the boys, and Pa, and the farm hands….
“There’s leftover chicken in the kitchen….”
He patted his stomach. “Wolfed down enough at supper to last me two days.”
She’d been around men all her life, and never had a bit of trouble getting along with them. Bess didn’t understand why this man rattled her so.
“Pa tells me you’re going to be an excellent foreman. Have you done much of that kind of work in the past?”
Dozens? “I don’t imagine your wife and children think very much of being without you for such long periods of—“
“Don’t have a wife. No young’uns, either.”
The flat, emotionless tone had returned to his voice. Bess took a deep breath. She wanted to bring back the teasing drawl, the wonderful smile.
“Maybe instead of chicken, you’d prefer a slice of cherry pie?”
Silence was his answer.
Exasperated, she blew a stream of air between her teeth. “Won’t you sit with me, then, while I have a slice?” she asked, walking toward the house. He’d either follow, or he wouldn’t. Bess hoped he would.
“I reckon I could do that,” he said, falling into step beside her, “if you think you can rustle me up a glass of milk.”
Without missing a beat, she winked. “Easy as…pie….”
The sun was peeking over the horizon when he headed back to the bunkhouse. They’d talked for hours. About Foggy Bottom. About Mary and Micah, Matthew and Mark. About her….
In her room, changing into a white-cuffed pink frock, Bess thought of the way his golden waves had shimmered in the kitchen lamplight. As she piled her long, dark curls atop her head and secured them with a satin ribbon that matched the one at the collar of her dress, she thought about the thick black lashes that trimmed his crystal-blue eyes. Hooking the buttons of her black leather boots, she marveled that in their time together, Chance had learned a lot about her, but he’d told Bess precious little about his past.
Who was this beautiful man with the sad, soulful eyes, and what ghosts had dogged his heels for ten long years, over thousands of miles? Bess swallowed the hard lump of fear that formed in her throat, knowing that if she didn’t find out why, everyone at Foggy Bottom might pay a hefty price.
***
It had been easy to teach the new men her routine. Up at four-thirty every morning to perform barnyard chores. Wash up for breakfast, served at five. Back out in the fields by quarter of six.
This day, the meal consisted of fried ham. Griddle cakes swimming in maple syrup. Eggs, sunny side up. Honey-buttered bread. Hot coffee and cool milk. As Bess filled and refilled plates, the men ate and discussed the day’s plans.
She’d saved the sticky buns, hot from the oven, for last. As she slid them onto a warmed plate, she heard Chance’s quiet, authoritative voice. Not even her tasty surprise distracted the men from his instructions. They liked him, anyone could see. But more than that, they respected him. That fact alone told her he’d be one of the best foreman Foggy Bottom had ever seen, and Bess had seen enough foremen over the years to know a good one when she saw one.
In the month he’d been with them, Chance had gotten to know the farm almost as well as Micah knew it. Had gotten to know Matt and Mark. And thanks to late-night chats—some in rockers on the front porch, others at the corral gate, still others over pie and milk under the soft glow of the hanging kitchen lamp—he’d gotten to know Bess well, too. But despite all the hours of gabbing they’d racked up, Bess felt she didn’t know any more about him now than she had on the day he’d arrived.
‘The eyes are the windows to the soul,’ or so the sages said. If Chance’s eyes were any indicator of what lived inside him, she thought, he’s about as good as a man can get. She sensed something in this man. Something honorable. Something decent.
And she’d had plenty of time to evaluate her feelings about him, since he seemed to be on her mind almost every waking moment! Still…something told her Chance hid something painful behind that tight, careful smile. If she could only get him to open up, maybe she could help him put whatever it was behind him. It’s what her mother would have done….
Bess was stacking the breakfast plates, hoping to find a way to reach his well-protected heart when he walked into the kitchen. “Lubbock,” he said, leaning an elbow on the water pump. When she didn’t respond, he said it again. “Lubbock.”
She arched her left brow and grinned. “I don’t know whether that’s a very poor imitation of a bullfrog, or if you have something stuck in your throat.”
Chance chuckled. “It’s my home town.”
Her heart skipped a beat, because he’d told her, in four simple words, that he trusted her, finally. Bess smiled. “So tell me, was the town named for a bullfrog? Or did the founding father have a frog in his throat when he pronounced it Lubbock?”
He threw his head back and laughed. She loved the music of it, hearty and deep and wholly masculine. Twice now, he’d treated her to the sound. Bess decided right then and there to make him do it again, and again, and as often as possible. But before she could conjure up another joke to inspire a repeat performance, he saluted and grinned and left her alone with the mountain of dirty dishes. To her regret, Bess didn’t see him again until dinner time.
At least, she didn’t see him in person.
Bess saw plenty of him, though, whenever she closed her eyes.
Once she’d cleaned up the breakfast mess, Bess set some bread dough to rising near the warmth of the cookstove. Savory beef stew bubbled on the stovetop, and a batch of Apple Betty baked in the oven. Just before the men came in, she’d whip up some potato dumplings and drop them onto the gently boiling stew. Meanwhile, she’d tidy the house, then the bunkhouse.
Clean laundry flapped colorfully on the clotheslines out back. The chickens had been fed and the eggs gathered. She’d save the mending and darning for evening, when she and the boys and Pa gathered around the parlor fireplace until bedtime. At last, her least favorite morning chores completed, Bess could indulge her other passion: ciphering.
Bess loved few things more than adding up columns of numbers in her father’s blue-lined ledger books. She’d learned precisely when to order seed, what kind and how much to order, and which peddler would give her the best price. She’d learned to wrangle a fair deal from old Samuel down at the livery stable when saddle cinches and blankets wore out, too. While other young women her age were having babies, organizing tea parties, and crocheting doilies, Bess was busy running Foggy Bottom, and loving every minute of it.
Well, almost every minute….
One Sunday after services, Pastor Higgins told her that she should pray long and hard about her future. “‘A prudent wife is a gift from the Lord,’” he quoted Proverbs.
“Yes,” she quoted the same book, “but ‘even a child makes himself known by his acts, whether what he does is pure and right.’”
The reverend’s jaw sagged and his eyes bugged out. Bess felt fairly certain that her retort stunned him sufficiently, and doubted he’d discuss marriage with her any time soon.
The following week, at the church social, his wife took up the gauntlet. “Don’t you sometimes see your girlfriends with their little ones,” Mrs. Higgins asked, “and wish you had a baby of your own?”
Years ago, when her friends began falling in love and setting up house, Bess thought maybe there was something wrong with her…that a maternal heart did not beat within her bosom, for she truly didn’t yearn for a husband, a home, an infant to suckle at her breast. She’d shared her fears with the Widow Reddick, who owned the general store.
“Bess, my dear,” the old woman had said, “babies and husbands are grand, and I’ve had a couple of each, so I know what I’m talking about. But babies spit up, and husbands, they just plain spit.” The joke inspired a round of laughter to bubble from the old woman’s throat, and once she’d regained her composure, the Widow said something Bess would never forget: “If you follow those young hens, they might well lead you to a fox in the chicken coop…but your heart won’t steer you wrong.” She’d placed a withered hand upon Bess’s sleeve and added, “When the right man comes along, you’ll know it.
“Now, don’t you roll your eyes at me, young lady. I’m tellin’ you true! When that man comes along, you’ll want to make a home for him and give him children. Trust me, there’s nothing you won’t do…for the right man.”
Bess had been eighteen when she slid that sage advice to the back burner of her memory. Four short years later, standing in the church basement facing Mrs. Higgins’ judgmental stare, Bess called upon the strength it had given her. “I have, at any given time,” she told the pastor’s wife, “as many as ten ‘babies’ to cook for and clean up after, if you add the care of hired hands to the list of Beckleys. Besides, I think I’m the best judge of when the good Lord calls me to motherhood.” From the look on the woman’s face, Bess got the idea the pastor’s wife wouldn’t be discussing marriage with her any time soon, either!
As she replayed the all-too-recent scene in her mind, Bess’s pencil hovered above the ledger book. In the blink of an eye, the memory of that Sunday, of the Pastor and Mrs. Higgins, vanished as she thought of Chance Walker…for the hundredth time that day.
He had all the outward qualities of the right man…if she wanted a husband. Bess grinned at her own silly, romantic notions. Why, Chance Walker is probably no more interested in you than he is in that hitching post out front! Giggling to herself, she added, It’s not likely there’s a ‘hitching’ in his future!
Still, he had blatantly flirted with her, right from the start. And he had, after all, sought out her company, time after time. He’d hinted they were friends. Entrusted her with the one thing that she sensed he hadn’t shared with anyone else: his home town, Lubbock, Texas. Why he’d keep such a thing such a thing a well-guarded secret paled by comparison to the fact that he’d entrusted her with the information.
Many a night, she lay awake, hoping Chance would open up to her more. That someday he’d tell her why he’d left Lubbock in the first place. If he did, would she have the strength to be the giving, loving friend he’d need?
