Threads of Change

by Jodi Barrows

  “Yes,” Lucas continued, and he looked directly at Abby and Emma, “from our letters, I assume you know the military is leaving the fort abandoned. A freight system and mercantile is badly needed there. That area has seen growth with ranches and a few farmers, and I see it as the business opportunity we are looking for. They are expecting us and quite excited about it all. Fort Worth has the ability and desire to grow into a proper community.”

  The teapot on the stove started to whistle, and Liz got up to make the hot tea for the women. Coffee wasn’t their morning choice, Thomas observed.

  Emma started to eat, watching Abby as she asked, “I heard the cavalry is moving west to fight the Comanches. Does this mean we won’t have any problems with Indians? That’s been my greatest concern of our move.”

  “Most likely we won’t see any, but they are still out there. We could get worried about it, but I choose to just be smart with our choices. We won’t provoke them if we see them, and we’ll stay together.” Lucas’s expression darkened as he added, “I repeat, always stay together. I have also been in contact with a small group of Texas Rangers. I’ve made arrangements for them to meet up with your wagon train at the border. They will continue on with you to the fort.”

  Abby felt a little better and took in a deep breath.

  As each family member prepared their breakfast plates at the Mailly table, they seemed to fall into their own thoughts of the adventure before them, and Thomas was no exception.

  Liz interrupted his thoughts as she verbalized a list of the tasks she needed to complete and how many days she needed to accomplish her list.

  “Dishes and glass cups will be packed in the sawdust, hopefully keeping them in one piece over the bumpy wagon trail ahead,” she said to no one in particular. “We’ll need one wagon alone for Megan’s fabric and new sewing machine. There are trunks to pack, food to prepare, and all of the barn supplies need to find a place.”

  She looked as if her mind had set to swirling without a pencil in front of her to organize it. She smoothed out the skirt of her blue cotton dress with its crocheted collar as if she might hop up and tackle all six wagons at that very moment.

  Young Luke seemed more troubled by the looming civil war than about what he might pack to take the journey. Like his namesake, Luke dreamed of open territory, fresh and green, someplace untouched and unchanged, where bison roamed and stallions galloped; a place in the West where adventure saturated every day and Indians settled on mountaintops and deep in the valleys. Thomas smiled, realizing Luke wasn’t frightened by any of it.

  Lucas lifted an eyebrow at Thomas. “I’ll have to get gold for the sale of the mill. Any other currency is just too unstable with a civil war so close to exploding.”

  After all, it was essentially war from which they fled, which, according to Lucas’s assessments, would devastate the mill’s operation. He had a keen understanding of the politics of the day from the many newspapers he regularly read.

  Thomas knew it just about broke the old man’s heart to sell the timber mill, his only way of life. On the last fishing trip they’d taken with Luke, Lucas had told them, “This is what life is all about. Take a risk, see if you can fly. Regardless of the outcome or what may develop, it is better to try than always wonder.”

  “We’ve almost finished all of the blackberry jam,” Megan commented as Abby reached for it.

  “I know,” Liz said, surprised.

  “We should grow our own blackberries again,” Megan said, “when we get to Texas.”

  “Do you think they’ll grow in Texas?” Emma asked.

  “Surely they will grow,” Megan said, and she turned to Liz. “Don’t you think so?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” Liz replied, “but I can’t imagine breakfast without blackberry jam.”

  The women all looked down at the generous layer of jam that covered each slice of warm bread. Thomas smiled at Luke as they watched and listened to the jam conversation between them.

  “Too bad we’ll miss the last berry-picking season in Lecompte,” Liz lamented.

  “We have six wagons, full of supplies to drive,” Lucas interrupted them. “So I’ve hired John and Blue from the mill to help drive the two extra teams. Chet is from Texas and knows the area well. He will ride scout for us.”

  Thomas gulped down the last of his coffee as Lucas continued. “I’ll be there as soon as the sale of the mill is finalized. The new owners need to be comfortable before I can leave. I feel this is the respectable manner to address the new owners. Also, the land contract in Pineville will need to be finalized for the purpose of logging rights. I will be along as soon as I can. We’ll start packing today. It will be a lot of work to fit it all in, but we can do it.”

  Luke squirmed in his chair. The excitement seemed to amount to more than he could handle.

  “Well, let’s get started,” Megan agreed.

  “I thought Emma and Megan could start here in the kitchen,” Liz began. “Only leave the bare minimum. Grandpa will have most of his meals at the mill with the other men. The sawdust and wooden crates are stacked in the breezeway. Pack the breakables in the sawdust and nail each lid down well. Also, think about what we will need for the next few days. We can pack those items right before we leave. We want to take as much as we can on this trip. Grandpa will only bring what he has to, because all of his wagons will be freight.”

  Thomas watched Emma and Megan swish out the door to the breezeway, and he smiled at the way Liz had taken charge.

  As Emma gathered several of the crates from the porch, Megan struggled with a heavy bag of sawdust. She tugged with frustration on the sturdy burlap, but it wouldn’t budge. She stepped away from the bag and placed her hands tightly against her hips, her hair damp at the temples from the morning sun, which beamed straight through the open porch.

  Emma tapped her on the shoulder with a giggle as Liz and Abby headed to the cellar to retrieve the canned goods. The door creaked open and dusty sunrays ran ahead of Abby down the stairs. The dark place filled with light as she gathered her skirt and entered the coolness. Cobwebs hung carelessly and hit Abby in the face.

  “Ewww,” she cringed, blinking as she tried to adjust to the new surroundings.

  Wooden shelves were on all sides, bulging with stone crocks and canned goods. The pantry brimmed with peaches, dried apples, tomatoes, and several sacks of onions and potatoes.

  “You Maillys are excellent gardeners,” Abby told Liz. “And equally blessed in your canning skills.”

  Abby squealed when she found a stockpile of the special jam that had caused such a stir at breakfast.

  “We won’t have to worry about a berry patch in Texas for a while, after all. Look what I found!”

  Even though it was the end of the season, the cellar was full. Liz and Megan had prepared their harvest well.

  “You and Megan have grown so confident since I saw you last,” Abby said as they loaded crates with canned fruits and jam. “I admire your independence you’ve achieved in spite of … everything.”

  Liz knew Abby had aspired to attain such independence as a teacher, but she might now have matured enough to know that kind of thing came from poise and confidence and not from vocation.

  Abby began to sort the abundance into categories. The shelf closest to the stairs would be for Grandpa Lucas, and she placed a sack of coffee beans and an extra jar of peaches next to the other items that Liz had requested she set aside for him. As Liz surveyed the shelves, it looked like more than her grandfather would need, especially if he were to take his meals at the mill with the other workers. But she decided to let Abby work on her own while she gathered a few things to tide them over the next few days. She lined up the butter crock, a small block of cheese, jam, and another crock that held salt.

  Abby seemed impressed with Liz’s organizational skills. “There will certainly be plenty of food for the trip,” she observed, “and an amount sufficient to start our new home. I have to hand it to you, Elizabeth. Y
ou’re really prepared to make this journey.”

  Liz left Abby to finish sorting while she headed upstairs to check on the progress of John and Blue. They were struggling to lift some heavy, pre-packed boxes into the freight wagons. “Miss Elizabeth, we can never get all of this in these wagons.” John wiped the trickle that dripped down his face, taking one glove off as he tried to explain the situation to the obstinate female before him.

  “John, I don’t wish to be difficult, but if you would just try it this way. I am certain it will fit. See, I have it all planned out here.” She pushed her note paper toward John.

  He took the paper and reluctantly looked it over.

  “Is everything all right?” Abby asked as she joined them.

  “Yes,” Liz firmly stated, “as soon as he completes it my way.”

  They laughed gently as Liz noticed that John had begun arranging the boxes her way, and she quietly delighted in the fact that they looked like they might fit into their predestined locations.

  A short while later, Liz and Abby approached the kitchen area, and laughter could be heard from the two inside.

  “What is so funny, dear sister?” Abby asked Emma.

  Coming up for air, Emma stumbled with her words. Megan came to her aid and said, “She was telling me about the school picnic and the gift you received.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to even think about little Samuel and the snake!” Abby waved her hands and changed the topic. “I’ve worked up such an appetite in that cellar with all of that food. I must eat something! And by the way, Liz, you and Megan have really outdone yourselves. The cellar is packed with jar after jar. Emma, you would not believe it. Here is the most beautiful jar of pickles I have ever seen. Did you ever enter these in the county fair?”

  “Yes, we did and we gained several new enemies throughout the county,” Megan teased. “Grandma Claire always had the purple ribbon until we came along. Lonnie Gluffer said his wife was right glad we’re leaving. She just might have a chance at it now.”

  “Oh my, then! These must be worth a lovely fortune.” Abby held the jar high and admired it as the light caressed the shiny glass. Secret spices and seeds floated in and around the perfect slices of little cucumbers.

  Casual boot steps sounded on the front porch to announce Thomas’s arrival for lunch.

  “I’ve just been chatting with John and Blue out front,” he declared from the breezeway. “It appears that Miss Elizabeth has a celestial list from which they’re not allowed to deviate. Do I have that right?”

  “And?” Liz remarked.

  “And nothin’, I s’pose,” he said with a grin. “I saw Caleb wind up on the losing end of that argument many a time.”

  He removed his hat and walked into the kitchen. “Looks like the family pickle secret is about to be shared. Should I come back?”

  “Of course not, come in,” Megan said, smiling at him. “We were about to have some lunch. Won’t you join us?”

  “Thank you, but I have a lot to do today. Liz, can I see you on the porch for a moment?” Thomas held the door open for Liz and she followed him outside.

  “Thomas, if this is about John … I can’t imagine the problem,” she stated firmly. “It’s quite simple. The crates were not fitting in the wagon as I had planned and it was because he wanted to do it his way. We have a lot to pack and it will not all fit if such things are not considered. I even had the crates made a certain size so that we would not waste one lovely inch of room in the wagons. If they do not place them as I have recorded on the sheet of paper, it simply won’t work. I did it to save them time and trouble.”

  “I think they’d have figured it out, Liz, if you had let them.”

  “But why should they waste time figuring this out when I already have?” she asked, not really seeking a response. “They would then tell me I couldn’t take all the items and that is unacceptable. These crates are life or death.” She paused, seething at the expression on his face. “I’ll tell you what, Thomas, I’d load all this myself if it weren’t so heavy.”

  Liz felt her blood begin to boil, infuriated that Thomas had obviously attributed her words to a silly woman’s drama. Their life might well depend on what she made room for and where she chose to store it, in fact. Megan was to start her dress shop in Fort Worth, and she had to have her supplies, as well as the inventory for the mercantile. This was no easy task that her grandfather had given her.

  “Let’s not pretend. The real problem is that I told him what to do and he wouldn’t have it.”

  Liz stared at Thomas, but he didn’t respond.

  “Am I not right? Are the crates fitting?” Liz held her ground like an animal defending her young, her lace-up boots pressed firmly against the porch.

  She watched him as Thomas looked over to the two freight wagons. The crates appeared to fit in their places, with no wasted space; surely he could see that. He looked back to the covered porch, probably estimating the space for the remaining freight.

  “All right then. I will have a word with the boys.”

  Thomas turned and walked down the steps, and Liz headed back to the kitchen.

  Men! she silently exclaimed.

  Thomas stood by the wagons and examined the final boxes to be loaded.

  “You came out well on that one,” Blue groaned as he lifted one of the crates into the wagon.

  Thomas remained silent.

  “What does she have in this one?” Blue complained as he wiped the sweat from his face and neck with his red bandana. “I might need a hand here, fellas.”

  “No! This one? It can’t be that heavy. It says Megan’s fabric on the side,” John answered back, confused.

  “Well, it’s rather heavy I’m telling you.”

  Thomas looked to the boxes on the porch that still awaited placement in the wagon. On the side of each box, in bold lettering, was written: MEGAN’S FABRIC—FREIGHT WAGON 2

  Thomas swung his leg over the back of his horse. He had rather enjoyed the little joust with Liz. It would be his life if any of it were left behind.

  “Boys, don’t forget any of these,” Thomas reminded the men as he rode away laughing. “It’s apparently life or death.”

  The days passed quickly and the wagons began to groan as they adjusted to their new weight. Everything had been loaded except for Megan’s treadle machine. A special area had been created for it with ties to hold it in place and keep it from moving around on the trail. The work had taken less time than Liz had anticipated, and she felt relieved that they would leave on time.

  The ladies would take a break all afternoon to finish their personal agendas and rest some. If time permitted, they planned to quilt around the old frame. Otherwise, they would get an early start and quilt the next day.

  Liz and Abby sat in their rockers on the porch. Megan stood by the treadle machine, while Emma sat in a straight-back chair with quilt blocks in her lap. All of the square patch units had been completed, and she meticulously pieced the triangle units that would go on the sides. Two triangle pieces were sewn to a red square, which created a large triangle unit that was then sewn to the nine-patch. The fabric remained consistent throughout the quilt, except for the center squares which varied in shades of red and green. Liz noted that Emma seemed at her best with a needle and fabric in her hand; calm and at ease with the world. They rocked and waited in utter silence for the men to load the treadle.

  Abby broke into Liz’s thoughts.

  “I have something for everyone. Being the schoolteacher that I am, I thought we should record our trip west.” She reached into her apron pocket and took out a little journal for each one of them. “I have already started mine. In fact, I’ve been keeping one since I went away to teach school. We should do it for ourselves, but for history, too.”

  Abby handed a small pencil to each one just as she had no doubt done a thousand times in her classroom. Abby was a natural teacher—encouraging, patient, and persistent. “Write whatever you wish. It’s your story.”
>
  “How exciting!” Megan cried, always the first to respond to something new. “I’ve never kept a diary before.”

  “Abby, what a lovely idea. I would have never thought of it myself,” Liz agreed.

  Emma placed her book in her sewing bag at the side of her chair. She quickly picked up her needle again and got back to her stitching. “Thank you,” she said indifferently.

  “Oh, come now, Emma. It will be fun!” Megan begged her cousin.

  All the ladies except Megan rocked in silence and waited for the men to arrive and provide the muscle needed to load the treadle. She paced around the machine like a mother hen.

  The ladies completed their morning routine in record time and hastily made their way into the sewing room. It had one large window and a small closet that had been turned into a bookshelf, and the wooden floors still looked new, as though they had somehow escaped the passage of time.

  A large yellow cat slowly pranced across the floor in front of Emma and rubbed against her leg.

  “Where have you been hiding?” Emma said, reaching down to pet the plump, yellow ball of fur.

  “That’s Samson,” Liz said. “He’s very old.”

  “Oh. Well, aren’t you the most charming old fellow,” she said in a baby voice. “Where have you been hiding?”

  Liz had grown very anxious to quilt. The last few days had been filled with loading and work, with no time left for quilting. Now, they gathered around the quilt frame with their sewing baskets and started at once.

  Abby licked the eye of her needle and pressed the heavy cotton thread into it. “I can’t wait to get started on this quilt.”

  They all watched, observing Abby’s technique.

  “I thought you licked the thread, not the needle,” Megan said, “to help thread it quickly.”

  “Well, you can, I suppose. But a friend of Mother’s always said to do it this way.”