Sixteen Brides

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Linney let go and sat back, brushing the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand. She gazed around the dugout. “I wouldn’t mind living here,” she said. “I could make it homey.”

  “I know you could,” Matthew agreed. “But I’d mind your living here. I promised myself I’d do right by you. And I will.” He stood up. “Now get your duds on while I see to things outside. We’ll have us a nice breakfast before we get back on the trail toward Plum Grove.”

  He’d pulled the door open when Linney called out. “Can we stop at ho—” She swallowed the last sound of the word home and replaced it with another question. “Can we stop by Ma’s grave?”

  Matthew kept his gaze on the horizon. “If you want.”

  “Maybe you could show me where the violets are blooming. The ones you said she liked so much.”

  If Linney knew how the thought of Katie picking wildflowers seared through him, she’d likely never mention violets again. But she didn’t know. She was just a sweet girl longing to move home and wishing her ma was still alive. Matthew nodded and stepped outside.

  As he headed for the spring where he’d get water to make coffee, he wondered anew how he was going to tell Linney he’d sold the homestead. The new owner would be coming into Plum Grove sometime this week. Linney probably wouldn’t see the sale as anything but horrible when, in reality, it was progress, at least for Matthew. He’d faced the fact that he would never be able to live in Katie’s house again, and was taking steps to move toward creating a new future for himself and their daughter. But Linney wouldn’t see it that way. She’d likely be hurt and angry.

  Maybe Martha Haywood would help her understand. Martha. If ever there was a living, breathing angel on this earth, it was her. Matthew shuddered to think what would have happened to Linney without that good woman agreeing to take the baby and “give Matthew some time.” He often wondered if Martha would still have said yes had she known that “some time” would turn into years. Had she known she’d end up doing the better part of raising Katie’s only living child. Something told Matthew it wouldn’t have mattered. Every time he screamed at heaven that he just didn’t believe there was anyone up there listening, anyone who cared, it was as if something whispered Martha Haywood back to him as proof he was wrong.

  His coffeepot filled, Matthew returned to the dugout. As he opened the door, the aroma of ham frying made his mouth water. Linney was standing at the stove, her back to the door. When she turned toward him, something in the way she held the meat fork reminded him of Katie. His heart lurched. And the demons danced.

  Ruth Dow looked up from her book to where Jackson lay sprawled across the empty seat opposite them, his rolled-up jacket for a pillow. He’d been reading the book he’d purchased at Union Station, but now he was staring at her with sad brown eyes. “Do you think Aunt Margaret will ever come and visit?” he asked.

  “Did she say anything about visiting when you said good-bye this morning?”

  Jackson sat up. With a shake of his head he closed the book and laid it next to him. “No, but—” He shrugged. “It might be nice if she did someday.”

  Ruth waved him over to sit beside her and, looping her arm through his, said, “Once we’re settled in our own home I’ll write.” She forced a chuckle. “After all, they say that ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’” Of course, unless absence was a force for miracle working, the chances the two sisters would ever so much as speak again were slim. But fourteen-year-old Jackson didn’t need to know that.

  “If she won’t come to Nebraska, can I go back to St. Louis sometime and visit?”

  “Good heavens, Jackson. We’re barely out of the city. It’s a bit early to be planning a visit, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t see why we had to leave in the first place.”

  “I told you why. Margaret and Theo needed the room, and it’s time we made our own way in the world.” And while your father’s legacy is rich in character, he left us destitute. Ruth pointed at the book he’d left on the bench. “Is it good?”

  Jackson shrugged. “You wouldn’t like it.”

  Ruth reached over and picked it up. Texan Joe, or Life on the Prairie. A dime novel. Not exactly the kind of reading material a general’s son should—

  Ruth caught herself. You were going to turn over a new leaf, remember? Positive thoughts, positive words. “Perhaps you’ll learn something useful.” She made a point of looking out the window. “Do you remember how far Mr. Drake said it was to the first station on the route? You might be thinking on what you’d like to eat.” She handed Texan Joe back. Thankfully, Jackson dropped the subject of his aunt Margaret and returned to his book.

  Looking at her son’s profile, Ruth realized that the older Jackson got, the more he looked like his father. Unable to get her mind back into her own book, she pondered Jackson’s bright future. He was George Washington Jackson Dow II, and someday, thanks to what his mother was doing right now, he would stride across a dais somewhere and receive a university diploma. It was a plan that would make the General proud, and Ruth was going to see to it. In five years she would prove up and sell her homestead at a profit. The money would enable her and Jackson to move wherever he wished to seek his degree, and she would keep house for him, taking in sewing to make ends meet.

  As the train sputtered and clacked its way west, Ruth gazed out the window. The trees in this part of Missouri were beginning to leaf out. Mr. Drake said that tree planting was one of the first things most settlers in Nebraska did. He’d warned them not to expect trees. Ruth couldn’t quite imagine a landscape without trees. They would plant oaks. She would have flower beds on either side of her front door. Perhaps she’d transplant some wildflowers at first. A trellis would be nice, too. With roses. Red ones. She would have to remember to ask Mr. Drake which merchant in Cayote stocked the very best rosebushes. Some might see such a purchase as excess, but a woman needed beauty.

  Fear nudged its way into her plans. What if the homesteads near town are already claimed? What if you have to live far out on the prairie…alone…just you and Jackson…? What if… The familiar knot returned to her stomach. She gazed about the car. No one had taken the initiative to begin any conversations at the station, and Mr. Drake had disappeared as soon as the train began to move, promising to return soon and “make introductions.” She’d overheard the names of the ladies across the aisle. Zita. Ella. Hettie. For the most part, though, everyone was keeping to themselves.

  Zita…Ella…Hettie…the four sisters…Double Chin and Rotund…Redhead and Rebel…Ruth took each woman’s measure, feeling somewhat dismayed by the excess of calico and bonnets. Only three of the ladies wore silk, and Ruth was the only one dressed in mourning. And those sisters. Plaid might be fashionable this year, but really—one needn’t use up an entire bolt. Plaid dresses and bows and cuffs and collars. They must be very close sisters to have planned coordinating traveling ensembles. What would that be like? she wondered.

  What if I could take it all back…apologize…accept Margaret’s advice…avoid that awful scene…? What if… Sighing, Ruth leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She could still see the fine lines around Margaret’s mouth deepen as she pursed her lips with displeasure at Ruth’s refusal to see things her older sister’s way. It wasn’t the first time they’d spouted angry words at one another, but it proved to be the last.

  “Cecil Grissom will make you a good husband and Jackson a good father.”

  “I disagree,” Ruth protested. “He’s insufferably strict.”

  “He’s firm, and if you ask me, Jackson needs a firm hand. You don’t even try to discipline him.

  He’s spoiled rotten, and you know it.”

  “Well, I didn’t ask. And since when are you the family expert on child rearing?” The instant the words were out, Ruth wished she could draw them back. Her voice faltered. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I shouldn’t have said that. It was unkind. But—there’s more to it than the way Cecil and Jackson get along. The Ge
neral was my soul mate. I loved him with all my heart and—” She took a deep breath. “I can’t just decide to ‘move on.’ It…it isn’t that simple.”

  “I didn’t say it was simple. But it’s been four years, Ruth, and you still dress in full mourning. Couldn’t you at least try to encourage Cecil?”

  Ruth stamped her foot and snapped, “I am not going to marry Cecil Grissom!”

  “Fine.” After a brief moment Margaret sighed. When she continued, her voice was calm. Calm and dismissive. Her hand went to her midsection. “I didn’t want to tell you this way, but the fact is I’m about to gain some experience in child rearing. We’ll be needing your rooms. Jackson’s for the nurse Theo wants to hire, and yours—” Margaret’s expression softened—“yours for the baby.”

  Ruth’s stammered congratulations fell flat, as did her apology. And suddenly, one season of her life was over, and she was forced unwillingly n into another. Where to live now? How to provide for Jackson? She’d saved so much by living with Theo and Margaret, but not nearly enough. What to do…and then she saw a flyer at the milliner’s and discovered an answer that would require only five years instead of a life sentence of marriage to a man she merely liked.

  As the train rumbled and the car rocked, Ruth’s thoughts cycled back to her list of “what ifs,” and once again her stomach roiled. Oh, God…please, God…I know I haven’t said much to you these past years…. She broke off. God hadn’t listened when she asked him to keep the General safe. Why would he listen today? With a sigh, Ruth gazed out the window at the greening countryside. It was up to her now. Everything was up to her.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  It is better to trust in the Lord than to put confidence in man.

  PSALM 118:8

  The train had belched and clacked its way halfway across Missouri before Caroline looked up from her worn copy of Jane Eyre and noticed that Sally Grant, her once pale cheeks bright red, was leaning against the window hugging herself as if she were cold.

  “You feelin’ poorly?” Caroline closed the book and laid it aside.

  Sally didn’t even open her eyes. “I’ll be all right,” she murmured. “I’m just real tired.” She coughed into the handkerchief she held wadded up in one bare hand. “Didn’t sleep worth anything last night. Too nervous.”

  “Let me see the conductor about getting you a blanket,” Caroline said. She glanced behind them. A few passengers had come aboard since St. Louis, but there were still empty seats. “We could fold out a berth if you’d like. You might as well stretch out.”

  “You don’t got to go to any trouble on my account,” Sally murmured.

  “It’s no trouble. I’m glad to have somethin’ to do besides readin’. In fact, once you’re settled, how about if I fetch some tea?”

  “Only first class is allowed in the dining car,” Sally said. “Mr. Drake said so.”

  Where on earth was Mr. Drake, anyway? Caroline wondered. For all his talk about seeing to their every need and “facilitating introductions on the train,” he hadn’t shown his face since St. Louis. She smiled at Sally. “They’ll make an exception for a lady.” Reaching for her shawl, she headed up the aisle. No rule had been made that a gentleman wouldn’t break for a determined southern belle.

  Caroline peered through the dining car–door window to where Hamilton Drake lounged, his back to the door. It was annoying enough to discover the man had apparently bought himself a first-class ticket at the expense of the Emigration Society. But she felt a great deal more than annoyance when she saw whom Drake was lounging with. The stranger didn’t look any less threatening without the wide-brimmed black hat he’d had on when he descended from that carriage at Union Station this morning. Cool gray eyes. Chiseled features. Broad shoulders. And something about the mouth—cruelty? No…not that…something more familiar. An expectant, self-assured smile that somehow rankled. When he nodded at Caroline and then spoke to Mr. Drake, the latter turned around and, laying a napkin atop the table, hurried to greet her.

  The gray-eyed stranger and his two traveling companions stood up, too. “Don’t tell me this is one of your ladies, Drake,” he said, his gaze never leaving Caroline’s.

  Caroline looked away from the stranger to smile at the approaching waiter. “Now, I know my place, and it’s not in the first-class dinin’ car, but I am sincerely hopin’ y’all will make an exception and make some tea for a passenger—a friend of mine—who is feelin’ a mite poorly.”

  The stranger’s gaze followed the contours of Caroline’s body as he spoke. “It’s obvious you are first class in every way that matters.” He smiled at the waiter. “And I’m certain George, here, will agree and fetch anything you request.”

  The waiter gave a little bow. “Lemon and honey, as well, ma’am?”

  “How kind of you to offer. And yes, please.”

  With another little bow, the waiter retreated toward the small kitchen at the opposite end of the dining car. When the gray-eyed stranger pulled out an empty chair so that Caroline could be seated, she remained standing. Looking Mr. Drake’s way, she purred a gentle scolding. “We all been wonderin’ where you were. Dare I hope you’ll agree to escort me back to the emigrant car?”

  “Watch out, Drake,” the stranger chuckled. “When a belle’s voice sounds like molasses, she’s got you in her crosshairs. Careful she doesn’t take aim and shoot.” He snatched Drake’s hat off the hook on the wall above their table and handed it over. “You’d best do whatever the lady wants. We can talk another time.” Once again he looked Caroline up and down. Slowly. “Since Drake, here, seems to have forgotten his manners,” he said, “allow me to introduce myself. Lucas Gray.” He indicated the other two men standing beside him. “These boys are two of my ranch hands. Johnny True and Lowell Day. I make them travel with me so I can keep an eye on them.” He winked.

  The man’s air of familiarity was unconscionable. She was itching to slap the leer right off his face. Why didn’t Drake speak up? Why don’t you just handle it yourself? Mama would. Mama could glide through social muck and remain untouched. Caroline had once seen her defuse a situation likely to end in a duel without batting an eye. If Mama could do all that, surely Caroline could resist the temptation to slap a stranger who didn’t have the sense to stop staring at her that way. But land sakes, were all westerners this rude?

  The waiter arrived with a basket into which he’d nestled a sturdy white teapot alongside slices of lemon, a delicate teacup and saucer, and a sugar bowl. As Drake fumbled with the coins to pay for the tea, Caroline shone her most charming smile and thanked the waiter. “You, sir, are a very kind gentleman.” With barely a nod in Lucas Gray’s direction, she pretended that Drake had offered his arm and took it. She managed a triumphant retreat for a few steps. But then she gave in to temptation. Wishing to bask in the idea that she’d handed the arrogant Mr. Lucas Gray a gentle but undeniable social defeat, she glanced back as she and Drake exited the car. Expecting to see the rancher sitting back down, hoping perhaps that his two ranch hands were taking pleasure in seeing their boss put in his place, Caroline was disappointed.

  Lucas Gray was watching her. When she met his gaze, he didn’t bow. Instead, he smiled and winked. Again. Oh dear. Feeling her cheeks warmed by a blush, Caroline looked away. She could almost see Mama shaking her head in disappointment. In games of cat and mouse, there must be no doubt to either party as to which player has the claws. Using those claws, however, is always a lady’s last resort.

  As she followed Mr. Drake toward the emigrant car, Caroline flexed her right hand, embarrassed by the knowledge that in this most recent game, she hadn’t been the player with the claws. She’d been the prey.

  When the southerner returned to the emigrant car with a tea basket–toting Hamilton Drake, Ruth couldn’t help but smile to herself. Leave it to a southern belle to get her way, enlist a man’s assistance, and transform him from absentee to solicitous escort in the process. Why, Drake actually sat down next to Rebel an
d Redhead and helped with the pouring and preparing of the tea. It was a wonder what a tiny waist and a winsome smile could accomplish.

  A few minutes later as the train began to slow for the next stop, Drake made a little speech about how the Ladies Emigration Society was pleased to invite them all to dine together at the Society’s expense. He begged their pardon for “absenting himself” for the first part of the journey and assured them that he had been “detained by business of the utmost importance” to the Society’s membership.

  Had Hamilton Drake always been this…pompous? Had her own sense of desperation made her overlook all the little things about the man that set Ruth’s nerves on edge now? For the first time she noticed that he never quite looked any of them in the eye. He had a nervous habit of smoothing his beard when he spoke. And that pose, one hand on the back of a seat, the other in a loose fist poised at his waist at just the right angle—as if he were the subject of an artist’s portrait. Why hadn’t she noticed these things before? Ruth wondered.

  But then the train screeched to a halt, and amidst the flurry of activity, Jackson bounded off the train ahead of her, and Ruth forgot her concern for anything else as she hurried to catch up to him.

  Clearly Jackson had not listened to a thing his mother had told him about speaking with strangers, for by the time she got inside the station he was engaged in conversation with a tall stranger wearing a cowboy hat—and sporting a western-style holster and a gun. Jackson gave a little wave the minute he saw Ruth, but instead of coming over to her, he took the bag the candy-counter attendant was holding out to him and hurried back toward the train. Ruth frowned. The broad-shouldered cowboy walked her way.