Glory

by Lori Copeland

  Lily sniffed the pleasant smell, rubbing her swollen ankles. “I’m just too plain tired to eat.”

  Glory smiled to herself as she mixed brown beans and potatoes in a bowl. Lily might think she was too tired to eat, but once she got a taste of Poppy’s recipe, she’d come alive. Poppy had fixed it twice a week—had vowed it was good for what ailed you.

  Rummaging through the staples box, she located the bundle of hot peppers. There was nothing better than a dose of Poppy’s Blazing Fire stew to get the blood circulating. That should get them back on their feet.

  While the others dozed before the warm fire, Glory added seasoning to the skillet, humming as she worked. The mixture in the pot bubbled merrily over the red-hot coals.

  Ruth finally stirred and went to the back of the wagon. Glory glanced over her shoulder to watch Ruth climb into the wagon. She wondered if Jackson would follow, but he didn’t. He sat by the fire, hat tipped over his eyes, resting from the long day.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Glory went in search of Ruth. She found the young woman taking a sponge bath in the privacy of the sheltered wagon. Ruth glanced up when Glory rounded the corner.

  “Oh!” She quickly drew her bodice back into place.

  “It’s me, Ruth. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Ruth smiled and returned to her nightly grooming. I swear, she’s going to wear a hole clean through her skin, Glory thought. But she envied Ruth’s scrupulous good habits … and even more, she admired the way Ruth was so happy and satisfied, so sure of what she wanted. Glory longed for Ruth’s peacefulness and inner beauty, and she had a hunch it had something to do with the Bible. Ruth understood life and what was expected out of a person more than most folks. Whatever it was that caused Ruth’s glow, Glory wanted it.

  When Glory continued to stare, Ruth turned to look over her shoulder. “Thought I’d freshen up a bit while supper is cooking.”

  “You’re not going to take a bath in the river?”

  “No, it’s rather shallow here. I’ll just freshen up a bit in the wagon.” She flashed a wholesome smile. “Care to join me?”

  “Can’t. Supper’s cooking.” But she would later. It was getting to where she didn’t sleep well unless she was spanking clean. As far as she could tell, the daily baths hadn’t hurt her skin.

  When Glory continued to stand there, Ruth frowned. “Did you need something from the wagon?”

  “No, needed to ask you something.” It was a thought that’d been going around in Glory’s mind for weeks. The only way she knew to get rid of it was to come right out and ask Ruth directly so she wouldn’t be thinking about it day and night.

  “Ask away.” Ruth’s slender fingers refastened the front of her dress.

  “You like Jackson, don’t you?”

  Ruth’s brows lifted curiously. “Like him? Yes, he’s very nice.”

  “No. I mean, you like him.”

  When the implication sank in, Ruth’s smile gradually faded. “Don’t you like him?”

  “I like him a whole lot, but he doesn’t like me.”

  “Nonsense.” Ruth laughed. “He’s been very good to you, Glory. What a thing for you to say. He’s been kind and considerate and most thoughtful of all our needs.”

  “He doesn’t like me like he likes you, Ruth.”

  “Nonsense.” Ruth picked up the round basin and emptied her bath water in the bushes.

  “But you do like him, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think that’s a proper thing for you to be asking.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well … because. Whom I like and whom I don’t like is a private matter. Besides, Mr. Wyatt has arranged for me to be a mail-order bride. Even if I were to find Mr. Lincoln attractive—”

  “And you do?”

  Ruth glanced away. “Even if I did, he isn’t free to return my sentiments.”

  Glory couldn’t let it go. It was like a worrisome hangnail that just got worse with too much handling. “But you want him to like you as much as you like him.”

  Ruth feigned indifference, but Glory knew better. “I can’t say that I don’t find Jackson a desirable man, not only in appearance but in various other ways.”

  Glory nodded. She knew the other ways. Confident, self-assured, powerful—he attracted Ruth all right, and Ruth’s feelings amounted to more than like.

  Ruth turned to face her. “Seems to me he’s rather partial to you. After all, he entrusted his family Bible to your care.”

  That was true, he had. And it still was hard for Glory to believe.

  Ruth consulted a small mirror on the back of the wagon. “Does that answer your question?”

  Nodding, Glory studied the brush Ruth was pulling through her hair. The thick tresses were shiny and as black as coal. “You’re in love with him.”

  Didn’t matter, really. Glory figured most every girl on the wagon trip was in love with him, except Harper, who didn’t like men, period.

  “But he can’t return my affection, so it doesn’t matter,” Ruth repeated, her tone gentler now. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, I smell supper burning.”

  “Yes, probably so.”

  When Glory returned to the fire, Harper was stirring the bubbling concoction with a large wooden spoon. Her dark eyes surveyed the pot curiously. “Girl, what in the world is this?”

  Moving her out of the way, Glory replied, “Never mind. You’re going to like it.”

  And like it they did. Jackson ate four servings, and Glory noticed with considerable satisfaction that even Ruth went back for seconds. When Lily scraped the skillet clean, Glory thought she would burst with happiness. Maybe cooking wasn’t so bad after all.

  The moon rose high over the campsite. After some time, however, the girls left the wagon, one by one, and ran toward the creek. Eventually, Jackson staggered from his bedroll and beat a path to the bushes. By dawn, the whole party was lying on the riverbank, gripping their stomachs.

  “What did you put in that devil’s brew?” Harper moaned. She rolled to her side and heaved.

  Lily, Patience, Ruth, and Mary wet towels and put them over their eyes.

  Lying prostrate on the ground, Glory mustered enough strength to reply, “Just some beans … potatoes … chilies … and grease.”

  Grease—lots of thick, heavy lard. Guess she must have gone a lot heavier on the grease than Poppy did. She’d never paid much attention to how much of each ingredient he’d used.

  Lily doubled over, holding her stomach like something was about to fall right out of the middle. “Oh, mercy!” She moaned in agony. “In all my life I’ve never felt so close to death.”

  Patience groaned. “We may all be in heaven before too long.”

  “Except for those of us bound for the alternative!” Harper’s glassy eyes burned feverishly in her head.

  Glory felt the ground spinning beneath her as she continued to lie belly down. Oh no. They couldn’t all go to Heaven tonight and leave her! She’d been sicker than this before, though it was hard to remember exactly when, but she knew she was nowhere near dyin’. And what was that alternative thing Harper was talking about? Glory didn’t even know what the word meant.

  She winced when she heard Jackson struggle to his feet and make another dash for the bushes.

  Well, she thought, closing her eyes against a wave of nausea, if they were so fired up about teaching her to cook, they’d have to suffer the consequences.

  Jackson wasn’t talking. No one was, and no one wanted breakfast, even though Ruth offered to cook it. They sat around the fire, wrapped in blankets, making periodic sprints into the brush. The whole incident cost a day of travel, and Jackson wasn’t too happy about it.

  Glory wasn’t any happier, but the way she figured it, she could have killed them all—almost did. She’d lain there on the riverbank, holding Jackson’s worn black book and looking up at the sky, where she’d pleaded with someone to please not let Jackson die.

  And while you’re at it, I’d sur
e appreciate it if you’d spare the other girls’ lives, too.

  Someone had answered her prayer, and Glory was truly beholden to the source.

  On the other hand, Jackson didn’t miss the chance to tell her that it would be a cold day in August before he ate that stuff again.

  Chapter Nine

  In the next couple of days, the party recovered enough to eat solid food again.

  But Glory was anything but a quitter. For the next few weeks, she watched Harper’s cooking methods attentively, followed her directions as well as she could, and prepared a few dishes under Harper’s close scrutiny.

  Glory was itching to try something on her own without the teacher’s continual criticism. The others were leery about what she fixed, giving her recipes a wary eye. For that reason, she’d decided not to ask Harper for help. This time she’d try a tasty treat that she knew was one of Jackson’s favorites: apple pie. If she couldn’t make a simple apple pie, then she was a plain disgrace to womanhood.

  During the noon break, she’d walked the horses to the stream to water them. On the way back, she’d discovered a wild apple tree. It had reminded her of the autumns she’d shared with Poppy. Early September had always brought golden days, crisp nights, and delicious apples. She’d filled her apron with ripe, tart fruit and hidden it in the wagon upon her return.

  That evening as they set up camp Glory peeled, cored, and sliced the apples the way she’d seen Poppy do so many times. Now for the crust. Poppy had let her help with the apples, but he’d always fixed the shell himself. Said it was easier to do himself than to teach someone how. Claimed you had to have a feel for it, an instinct that told you when to add more water, when to add more flour, when to let it rest, how to roll it out just so.

  Glory shrugged. How hard could it be? Didn’t everyone say “simple as pie” when they thought something was easy? Poppy never measured ingredients, so neither would she. She began with a scoop of flour, a splash of water, a pinch of salt, and a generous handful of lard.

  Everyone was busy setting up camp. Mary paused on her way to the stream, carrying dirty clothes to wash. She studied the mixture, brows arched. “What are you making?”

  Glory spun around. “Nothing.” She shoved a lock of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand, and a sprinkle of flour sifted down like the first flecks of an early snow.

  “Baking?” Mary smiled. “Are you making Harper’s famous biscuits?”

  “Hmmm,” Glory smiled. “They’re the best, aren’t they?”

  “The very best.” Mary glanced around, her eyes searching for Lily.

  She wants Lily to help so I won’t make them all sick again. But Lily was busy gathering firewood.

  “Well … need any help?”

  “No. I can do it alone.”

  Shifting the basket of dirty clothes into her other arm, Mary frowned. “Best get these clothes washed—”

  “Better do that.” Glory spun back to her pie dough. Interruptions and distractions she didn’t need. “Where was I?” she mumbled. “Oh yes.” She grabbed a wooden spoon and began stirring.

  The dough formed a sticky ball. She nodded, remembering seeing this step in Poppy’s process. It was now that he got his hands into it. She dumped the ball onto the wooden board with a satisfying thud. Working it with her hands felt good at first, but then it got too sticky. She tossed in a few handfuls of flour and worked harder. Pretty soon, the dough got too stiff.

  She rummaged around until she found the rolling pin. Now things would go better. She shoved at the dough, but it resisted her efforts. Leaning on the rolling pin, she bit her lower lip. This was harder than it had looked when she’d seen Poppy rolling it out.

  Maybe some water would soften it up. She reached into the bucket and scooped out a handful and tossed it onto the mound of dough. “Oh no,” she muttered when she saw specks of dough floating in the water bucket. She glanced toward the others. “I’ll have to get fresh water before supper,” she murmured, making a mental note for later.

  Now the dough was softening up. It was also sticking to the rolling pin and her hands and her elbows. She was so exasperated she could scream. Hearing the girls’ laughter alerted her that they were on their way back from the stream. She rolled faster. She had to get this done.

  Grabbing the pie tin, she slapped the dough into it. Desperately, she pushed at the dough with her hands to spread it. It required so much force that the tin flipped up and down and spun like a top to the edge of the board. With a lunge, Glory caught it before it dropped to the ground.

  “Enough of this,” she muttered as the sound of laughter grew nearer. The dough would probably spread nicely when heated. She tossed the apples on top of the dough and then added a generous scoop of sugar, three tablespoons of flour, a gob of butter, and a dash of cinnamon. The top crust! She closed her eyes, and her head rolled back. She’d forgotten about the top crust. She remembered how Poppy had laid neat strips of dough across the top of his pie, weaving them, humming while he worked.

  “Next time,” she muttered, “next time we’ll have neat strips.” For now, she’d have to make do with a few stray lumps of dough that had previously escaped the pie tin. She tossed them on top of the pie and hurried to the fire.

  The girls were close now. Glory spied the large cast-iron pot Patience had used to boil water. Glory had seen her pour the water into a bucket and take off with it. Obviously, she was finished with it, so Glory slipped her pie into the pot and clamped on the lid. Carefully, she settled the pot down into the hot coals.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, she straightened. By the time supper was over, her pie would be baked to perfection. A triumphant smile spread across her face. Won’t everybody be surprised, she thought with smug satisfaction. Poppy had been right as usual: cooking was a matter of instinct. You had it or you didn’t. Tonight she’d show them all. She had it.

  As the group sat around the fire finishing rabbit stew, Patience stood and reached for the pan. “Anyone care for seconds?” she asked.

  Jackson extended his plate. “I would.”

  Glory glanced up. “Better save room for dessert.”

  “I didn’t make dessert,” Harper said. “Too much washing to do.”

  “What’s this?” Patience asked, pointing down at the iron pot nestled in the ashes.

  Glory bounded to her feet. “Allow me.” She wrapped a cloth around the handle of the pot and pulled it from the coals. Carefully she removed the lid and lifted out the pie. It didn’t look like the apple pies Poppy had made, but she figured in the future they would look better.

  Patience approached, peering over her shoulder.

  “It’s not how it looks that’s important,” Glory began defensively. “What matters is how it tastes. Jackson, if you’ll pass your plate over here, I’ll serve you first.”

  After a slight hesitation, all eyes turned to Jackson. Harper reached her hand across the circle. “Here,” she said, with a beckoning wave. “No need to get up. I’ll pass your plate over.”

  Jackson paused a beat before handing his plate to Harper. “This isn’t like Poppy’s Blazing Fire stew recipe, is it?”

  Glory’s hand shot to her hips. “I don’t want to hear another word about Poppy’s stew.”

  Harper returned his plate to him; it was laden with a huge slice of pie. “Eat up, Mr. Lincoln.” She grinned.

  Jackson nodded, eyeing the pie. “Looks … mighty good.”

  He cut into his pie, while Glory continued to fill one plate after another. “Oh, my,” she exclaimed when the pie tin was empty. “I forgot to save a piece for myself.”

  “Here.” All plates extended toward her.

  She waved their plates away, smiling. “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “I wish you could,” Harper murmured, staring bleakly at the wad of crust on her plate.

  Glory looked at her friends, beaming now. “I have to admit I didn’t want to learn to cook, but fixing this surprise for you has taught me the true meaning of …
What’s that saying? ‘It’s better to give than to receive.’ Never made sense to me before.” She shifted, settling her hands back around her waist. “Now what else can I get for everyone?”

  “Water,” Jackson managed to choke out. He coughed, and Glory prayed that a chunk of dry crust wasn’t wedged in his throat.

  “Coming up!” She quickly filled his cup from the dipper in the bucket and handed it to Ruth to pass to him, all the while keeping her eyes on the others as they slowly ate their pie.

  “What’s this?” Ruth asked, staring at the white blobs floating on the surface of the water.

  Glory leaned forward to look. “Oh.” She’d forgotten to get a fresh bucket of water after she’d dipped her hand into it. Clumps of dough were floating in the bucket and in Jackson’s cup.

  “What is it?” Mary echoed, staring into the cup as she passed it to Jackson. Wide-eyed, she looked up at Glory.

  Glory shrugged and snatched up the bucket. “I’ll get some fresh water from the stream.” She picked up the lantern and disappeared.

  When she returned, she was happy to see that every plate was empty. They must have loved my pie—not a single scrap left behind, she mused. She would have enjoyed hearing their praise, but she guessed the moment had passed while she was at the stream.

  When the last dish was cleaned and put away, Mary asked Glory to help her with the mending. Glory didn’t make an excuse but willingly sat down to learn. She’d proven she could make a pie, so domestic duties weren’t so bad, certainly not as exciting as hunting and fishing, but necessary just the same.

  She intended to do her share of work. Truth was, she was beginning to find satisfaction in doing nice things for others. Her pie had been a hit, why not darn Jackson’s socks? He’d appreciate having those unsightly holes repaired.

  “Perhaps you’d want to practice mending tea towels first, dear,” Mary suggested gently.

  “No, I like doing things for Jackson.” The words were out of her mouth before she even realized she’d thought them. Embarrassed, she bent her head to her task, drawing closer to the fire, hoping that anyone looking would believe the warmth of the flames was causing the redness in her cheeks.