River Bend

by Barbara Shepherd

  “That would be nice,” Jake said. “He would be honored.”

  “I’ll bring some for my husband at the same time,” Belle said. Grasping the preacher’s arm, she asked him if he would pray over Michael’s grave. When he agreed, she walked beside him to a large stone with Michael Strong’s name carved into it.

  Thank you, Stephen. That was a nice gesture.

  Jake watched the widow from a distance, waiting to escort her back down the knoll to the wagon that would take them to the main house.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Belle and Jake had a tasty evening meal and a pleasant conversation, seated far apart—at the ends of the massive dining table of River Bend. He spent the night and left for the trading post long before daylight.

  Unpacking her few belongings took little of Belle’s time that next morning. She and Johnathan toured the grounds and visited with Lizzie in her kitchen.

  “Lawsy, missy,” Lizzie said, “so good to see you again. Cain’t believe this youngun’s growed so big.” She lifted Johnathan like she was weighing him the same way she hefted a bag of cornmeal. His laughter delighted her, so she found him a stick of hard caramel candy. “He can gnaw on this.”

  “How about me?” Belle held out her hand. When she tasted the homemade treat, she closed her eyes for a few seconds. “This is scrumptious, Lizzie. I’ve never tried to make caramel. Will you teach me how sometime?”

  “Easy as chess pie, missy. Are you gonna be here long?”

  “I haven’t decided yet what my future holds, Lizzie. The hotel needed as many rooms as possible during rendezvous, so I gave mine up.” Belle looked away to hide her sadness. “My child and I are here for now.”

  “Missy, we’s all happy ’bout that. Happy as a pig when he sees the slop bucket comin’ his way.” She burst into song which made Birdie dance a few jig steps.

  Belle beat biscuits for supper with Lizzie before returning to the main house. She found a place for Johnathan to play and sat with her fabric to plan a new quilt.

  When Old Bailey summoned her for dinner at mid-day, he laid a small package next to her silverware.

  She gave it a pat. “What is this?”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “Found it by the front door.”

  Wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string, bold lettering on the package read: MRS. STRONG. Belle untied the knot and unwrapped a leather-bound book. Opening it and seeing its blank pages almost took her breath away.

  “It’s a journal!” She clutched it to her chest. “I’ve missed my writing.”

  Old Bailey smiled and stepped away.

  “You know where this came from, don’t you?” She couldn’t hide her accusing tone, but it didn’t matter. Old Bailey gave no response and showed no emotion when he supervised the serving of her meal.

  In the afternoon, she put her child down for a nap and opened her journal, inserting her nose to smell the newness of its pages. Excited to start writing again, she picked up a sharpened pencil and wrote her name on the first page: Belle Strong.

  “Not Mrs. Michael Strong,” she said, “and not Mrs. Strong. Just my name. I’m me.”

  Laying the pencil down, she released a deep sigh. She still felt like she was carrying a heavy weight on her shoulders.

  “Now comes the difficult part,” she said. “Where do I start?” She closed her eyes and leaned back in the rocker. Remembering the loneliness she’d felt ever since coming to Texas and what she had written before her dugout had been destroyed, she decided not to go back and try to recreate that portion of her life. Events since then had not been written but held no passion for her to record them.

  “Perhaps, I should look at this as a new beginning.” She opened her eyes. “What if my life starts now? Today. Everything else got me here, but what happens from here forward is my real life.”

  She bowed her head to pray before she wrote:

  I am a temporary guest at River Bend, a magnificent plantation in the wilds of the Province of Mexico known as Tejas. We call it Texas. My son, Johnathan, is the bright spot for me in every day. He never knew his father because I was widowed so early. Today, we played, beat biscuits with Lizzie, and I’m starting a new quilt.

  That evening, she went down to the dining room where Old Bailey greeted her with his customary smile. I love that smile. His teeth look like pearls.

  He seated her at the end of the large table where a sparkling place setting awaited her. After he poured cool tea in a crystal goblet for her, he excused himself to check on the food.

  All of a sudden, the man with the scar burst into the room, holding Birdie by the nape of her neck. They moved to the head of the large table. Shoving her face down on the shiny wood, he shouted, “Here. Damn you. Here.” He released the frightened slave. “This is my chair. Set the table for me.”

  Without a word, Birdie scrambled to leave the room.

  Belle stood to address the man but hesitated when the young girl dashed back in. Birdie hurried to lay out china, crystal, and silverware for the man and rushed out of the room.

  Phineas pulled out a chair and sat at the head of the table—the same seat where Jake had sat the night before and Stephen before that.

  “I’m Phineas Grayson.” He motioned to her. “You may be seated, Belle.”

  Noting that he sat before she did added more evidence for her that he was no gentleman.

  “You may address me as Mrs. Strong,” she said. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  “I’m the overseer for this plantation,” he said. “In the absence of its owner, I’m in charge and afforded certain luxuries. Comforts, if you will.”

  “You forget yourself, sir,” she said.

  “And you forget you’re only a guest here,” he said, sneering. He turned toward the service pantry. “Bring my meal. Now.”

  Although Belle had no authority to discipline the overseer, she felt compelled to speak. “The staff here at River Bend…”

  “I’m the staff,” he said, interrupting her. “Do you mean slaves? Or is that word, or the people themselves, too beneath you for you to say it?”

  “The staff,” she repeated, “whether paid or unpaid…” She paused. Aha, he winced. Good. “The staff is to be treated with respect, just as they were when Mr. Owens lived. We do not treat them with cruelty.”

  “We?” He waved away her comments and pointed for her to sit down. She continued to stand and saw movement near the pantry. Old Bailey stood beside Birdie, who held a tray of food.

  “Staff,” Belle said to them, “please serve Mr. Grayson with this wonderful meal Lizzie has prepared.” She had to summon her inner strength to call the overseer by name. I can’t say this gentleman, because he’s not.

  “He is a guest at our table tonight,” she said, “but will find dining elsewhere for all his future meals.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up her hand for silence.

  “Old Bailey,” she said, “I’ll take my meal in my quarters.” She turned on her heel, leaving the dining room. As she entered the foyer, she wanted to run up the stairs. But because she knew the overseer sat where he could see her, she slowed her pace, put her nose in the air, and ascended the staircase like any other proper Southern lady.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  At the trading post, Jake was covered up with furs—literally. He and String baled the furs as soon as they came in to keep walkways open for trappers to file in and out with their year’s bounty. Jake had pulled Burcham and Absalom from the hotel to help. Burcham managed the counter where the trappers paid for supplies to last them into next year while Absalom lugged the fur bales out to Jake’s wagons.

  “As soon as rendezvous is over,” Jake said, “we’ll be back on the high seas.”

  “Masta, can I go?” Absalom cowered when Jake gave him a hard look.

  “I’m no man’s master. I told you that.”

  “Yas, suh, Trader Jake, suh.”

  “The answer depends on Burcham’s
needs at the hotel. If he can do without you, he’ll let me know.” He gave Absalom a soft punch on his shoulder. “No sneaking aboard my ship this time, though.”

  They both laughed.

  A yellow-haired man pushed his way through the crowd to bring a sample for Jake. “Brought you lots of red foxes this year, Trader Jake.”

  “So you say. Good to see you, Frederickson. If the rest of yours look this good, you’ve made my overseas buyers very happy.”

  “They are all this good. The rest of them are outside, strapped to my pack animals.”

  “I’ll follow you out. These I’ve got to see.”

  Outside, Jake completed his examination and the barter but stopped short of shaking the man’s hand. “One more thing.”

  Frederickson gave him a puzzled look.

  “Did you bring your fiddle?”

  “I did. It’s at the campsite.”

  “Good. If you could play a dance for us tomorrow night, I’m ready to seal our deal.”

  “Done.” Frederickson pumped Trader Jake’s hand.

  “Absalom,” Jake called out. The boy was there within seconds and helped Jake unload the pack animals and carried the inventory to the baling area.

  After two long days of bartering—buying goods and selling supplies—Jake and his temporary staff were exhausted. Mountain men were getting bathed, shaved, and fed. Some partook of the entertainment offered by the saloon and the fancy women who had come to the settlement for this special event before moving on to another celebration.

  “News of the dance spread through this crowd like castor oil through a constipated dog,” Benjamin said, joining Trader Jake on his way back to the hotel. “I got up the courage to ask Miss Amelia to the dance.”

  “Did she say yes?”

  “She shore did.”

  “That’s wonderful, Benjamin. Better hold onto her real tight. You could lose her in a heartbeat with all these men—hungry for a woman’s touch.”

  “More than a touch,” Benjamin said. “See you at the dance, Trader Jake?”

  “Don’t know. Just want a bath for now.” Jake ducked into the hotel and ordered a bath. After he bathed and shaved, he ate supper and moseyed toward the saloon.

  The piano had been pushed out onto the worn porch of the saloon where Frederickson plucked the strings of his fiddle. The piano player brought out a stool, sat down, and tickled the keys of the old piano. The two men struck a chord, and music blanketed the night air.

  The crowd lined the street but hesitated to venture forward although they hummed the words to familiar tunes and tapped their feet. One man jumped up on the porch. “Grab your partner and dosey-do. Don’t be bashful. You pull. She’ll go.” With the caller in charge, the fun began in earnest, the trappers taking turns to dance with the saloon girls.

  A gambler joined in with a mandolin, strumming it and singing a ballad to give the caller a chance to catch his breath. One of the trappers hopped up to the porch and sat on the top step. His mouth harp added to the impromptu band and received a cheer from his fellow trappers.

  With so many people dancing on the dirt street, it offered up a cloud of fine dust. After Benjamin and Amelia promenaded to a couple of songs, they tried to get Samuel and Catherine to join them.

  “No,” Catherine said. “Maybe later.” She whispered to her sister, “This big man’s shy.”

  Amelia looked him up and down but didn’t offer an opinion. She just smiled and allowed Benjamin to pull her back into the street—beginning to harden as scores of feet in worn moccasins and new boots packed the red dirt.

  Samuel and Catherine moved to a nearby alley where she convinced him she could teach him to dance. In less than an hour of coaching, she had taught him the square and how to jig, promising him a waltz for later.

  “We’re not going to be exposed to any serious dancing out here on this frontier,” she said, “so don’t worry about a cotillion.”

  “Good,” he said, “’cause I never heard of that.”

  “Let’s join the festivities,” she said. “We’re missing out on all the fun.”

  Samuel let the tall woman lead him back to the crowd. It took a little longer before he followed her into the street and let the world see him dance.

  The next day, Patterson waited outside the trading post with his pack horse, loaded with beaver plews. Jake examined them before unlocking the door to his trading post.

  “Thought you’d be likin’ the beaver this year, Trader Jake,” the young trapper said.

  “You thought right, Kid. These are fine quality. You trapped them at the right time of year.”

  “Yep. In late fall, when they get that new growth—hair thick enough to get them through the cold winter—early enough before it shows any wear.”

  “Come on in, Kid,” Jake said. “We’ll barter for your supplies against your beaver pelts. I have gold coin for you for the fine casket you fashioned.”

  Kid grinned and followed Jake inside.

  After they finished their trade, Jake asked, “Have you ever seen a quilt frame before?”

  “My ma had two,” Kid said. “One for her chair close to the fireplace and a big one outside in the summer. Why?”

  “Would you know how to build one?”

  “Shore. My uncle built hers. Ain’t nothin’ to it.”

  “Well,” Jake drawled, “if you could stay long enough to build one—the large size—I’d appreciate it.”

  “I ain’t much for the drinkin’ and gamblin’, so I’d have time to build it. Got any lumber?”

  “See Burcham down at the hotel. Tell him I sent you to pick through the woodpile out back.”

  Kid turned to leave, but Jake stopped him.

  “Another thing, Kid. Keep this task between you and me.”

  Kid gave Jake a curious look. “You ain’t no man quilter, are ya?”

  “No.” Jake laughed. “Just want this to be a surprise for someone.”

  “As well as you pay me,” Kid said, “I’ll take your secret to my grave.”

  The afternoon sun filtered through knotholes in the walls of the trading post. Jake and his helpers had baled the last deer hide for the day when the brass bell on the door tinkled. Belle and Old Bailey walked in.

  “What are you doing here?” Jake demanded.

  “That’s some greeting,” Belle said. “Your tone of voice does not befit a gentleman or a store owner.”

  “Never mind my voice. You should not be here.” He spoke to Belle but looked past her to Old Bailey who shrugged.

  “Why not?” Belle stepped closer to Jake.

  “Because of the rendezvous,” he said.

  She stamped her foot. “Why are men telling me what I should do, where I should sit, or how I should act? I am a lady. I know proper etiquette. And I’m a woman. I know my own mind.”

  “Just concerned for your safety, ma’am.” Jake bowed to her.

  “Don’t be impertinent,” she said.

  “Have other men tried to, uh, direct you?”

  “Besides you,” she said, taunting him. “Only one.”

  “Who would that be?” Jake responded to her taunt. “Who would dare?”

  “Mr. Grayson, the overseer.”

  Jake’s eyebrow shot up. He clenched his fists at his sides

  Belle walked away and looked at the items he had for purchase.

  Jake motioned for Old Bailey to come forward and whispered to the old gent. “Sounds like I need to have another talk with Grayson.”

  “No, suh,” Old Bailey said in a soft voice. “Missy, uh, Missus Strong, she done put him in his place—his real place—not at the head of Masta’s table. That man ain’t no plantation owner. He ain’t no gent-a-man either. Never said those words, but she shore told him her way.”

  “Sounds like the fiery, green-eyed widow I know,” Jake whispered.

  “I’d like sinew,” Belle said as she returned to the counter. “I need it to sew on buttons for Johnathan. Thread won’t hold up for that ramb
unctious child.”

  Jake smiled. “Where is that boy?”

  “At River Bend,” she said. “I chose not to bring him in with so many strange people here.”

  Pulling a cone of sinew from the shelf behind him, Jake handed it to her. “I traded tobacco with a Chickasaw for this.”

  “Thank you.” Belle inspected the thread substitute before placing it into her basket, the same one she used for cut flowers. She turned to go.

  “Wait,” Jake said. “I have tea from China I’d like for you to try.”

  “Tea?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I was there when they packed it into trunks for shipment. Hot tea is a nice substitute for coffee. I know this tea is good quality, but I’d like to get your opinion and see if you think it’s better than the English teas we normally stock.” He slipped a packet of the loose tea from Canton into her basket.

  She opened her reticule, but Jake laid his hand on it.

  “Don’t pay,” he said.

  She jerked his hand away. “Still telling me what to do, I see.”

  “No, the only thing I’m collecting this week has to do with trappers—not local folks. I’ll start a tab for you, so I won’t forget.”

  “See that you do.” She turned to Old Bailey who opened the door for her.

  “Keep ahold of her,” Jake said. “She’ll be a fine catch for a flea-bitten, grizzled old trapper to carry back to his hunting grounds.”

  Old Bailey shook his head at Jake and made a clucking sound.

  Belle left the trading post without saying a word.

  A group of trappers streamed in and kept Jake busy as they purchased knives, hatchets, canteens, and tobacco in exchange for their furs and hides. One traded powder horns he had made from buffalo horn to get a new coffee pot and plenty of coffee beans to last him a year.

  “You’re new here this year.” Jake stuck out his hand.

  The trapper shook it. “Yup. Mosely. Brought Martin pelts for you.”

  “These are fine quality.” Jake admired the fur from the small animal. “You trapped high in the north country to get these.”

  “Yup. Also got a capote for you to look at.” He unrolled a long coat with a hood.