Knowledge, not that he could give, but knowledge in the biblical sense, between a man and woman, was something else again. He was a student just as she was in that regard, and he found it impossible to talk of it. Yet didn't he know that talking of a thing made it less fearful? Didn't he say out loud to his troops that they might die come morning? It had opened the door to spiritual talk beneath stars that some saw for the last time.
Instead of talking of what he wanted most for her, for them as husband and wife, he'd lost his breath when he watched Tipton walk toward the lamplight that night, blue ribbons fluttering at her neck, her hair like twisted strands of gold cascading down her back.
“Leave the light on,” he'd said, the croak of his voice startling him as much as her.
“Never,” she said and blew it out.
“Tipton,” he'd said then, his voice a wail.
He'd feared she might not slip beneath the coverlet to share his bed. When she did, he felt so grateful he hadn't frightened her away that he'd lost control. Instead of merely holding her, stroking her hair as he had for weeks since their marriage, gentled her head into his chest until she fell asleep, he found himself drowning in the fragrance of her, in the smoothness of the linen formed over her gentle curves. He'd become not Nehemiah Kossuth, former hotel owner, teacher of recruits and one young girl, packer of supplies and family provider, but Nehemiah Kossuth, husband.
She had never spoken ofthat night and he found he couldn't either.
A coyote howled as Nehemiah squatted at the flames. Sparks flew high into the Oregon sky. He told himself it was his right as husband, that he'd been patient, surely that was true. And yet he'd wanted it to be a mutual giving. Perhaps the fifteen years between their ages was too much for her. Perhaps she had married him not because she felt a single spark of love, some level of devotion that might grow, but out of duty, to tend her mother. Surely that spark would disappear into the dark night just as the ones he watched here on the trail. He should have thought of that before. He stood, restless, amazed at the depth of his denseness. Did she even realize what had happened? He rubbed the back of his neck, scratched at his muttonchops. Poor child. Listen to him. That was how he thought of her, just a child.
He heard a horse nicker and stomp. A night owl hooted and swooped.
“You up for a reason, Boss?”
“Just restless,” Nehemiah told the Mexican man.
“Sun comes up. We make an early start. Be back home soon. You greet your wife then. Tell her all you see along this trail. Teach her much.”
“Yes,” Nehemiah said. “That's exactly what I'll have to do.” Only it wasn't just her who needed to be taught.
“But surely we could remain here at the boardinghouse until you're certain this…arrangement will work,” Sister Esther told Suzanne.
“It is working, Esther. We just need to modify some. Accommodate, remember? Wasn't that you who recommended accommodation?”
“It's the cats, isn't it? They're troublesome, that's certain.”
Suzanne sighed. Every step of this move had been a trial. Not as difficult as coming across the prairies, but difficult nonetheless. She had tried to keep her vision forward, tried to stay focused. Practice surrender, she told herself. Try new and different paths. But she'd encountered little stones along the way, little pebbles unexpected that she'd stubbed her toes on. Esther's reactions, for one. It was as though she held a secret of some sort that she wouldn't share.
“I need a good yard for the boys, fenced in. I need rooms that I can keep the same way. So I can learn my way around. And private rooms for the boys' lessons. For you. And for Sterling Powder.”
“And his cats.”
“And his cats.” Suzanne continued, “He's done well with Clayton. The boy doesn't cry out or throw fits as he used to, which is pleasing. And he seems more gentle, not surprising me with his fists as he did.”
“The man has him working the soil.” Suzanne couldn't tell if Esther approved or found that worrisome. “He encourages the boy to dig in the dirt he warms by the fire, until his face is a mess. Then allows him to splash in the copper tub.”
“He told me as much,” said Suzanne. “Something about wanting the child to ‘feel' things, take them inside himself to really learn them, Mr. Powder says.”
“All the handwriting was different, at least, in his letters of introduction,” Esther clarified. “I noticed when I read them to you.”
“What are you suggesting?” Suzanne turned to face her.
“He was certainly patient waiting through all those interviews.”
Esther must have busied herself with something because Suzanne could hear scissors snipping again. It would be easier to let this conversation die right where it was, but Suzanne was finding that not talking about a thing didn't necessarily make it go away, didn't keep it from exploding later into conflict.
“Esther, I want this to work for me, my boys. And for you, too. I don't want you to be upset or offended. When you find fault with things, I feel…guilty and angry and sad because you're my family. What I think we all need is a place for privacy.” She hoped the words had the effect she intended.
“Privacy. Yes,” Esther said. “You're right.” Suzanne heard more snipping. “I should have thought of that.” Esther said it as though she already had.
Could the woman have been this inscrutable on the trail? She'd seemed so predictable then, so sure of herself, marching toward California with her promised-brides, figuring out how to resolve the broken contracts. She was different back then.
But so was Suzanne. She wondered when she would stop comparing everything to that trail time, as though it was the standard for when life began and how much she or others changed.
“Maybe we should visit Mei-Ling,” Esther suggested then.
“I'd like that. The children would too. After we find a new place. We could invite them to visit us then, something hard to do at this house, you must agree.”
“She has done well, though I fear for her. They will move the Chinese out before long.”
“Out of Chinatown?”
“Out of all California. She and A-He will have to leave then.”
“I haven't heard of this,” Suzanne said.
Esther sighed. “Sometimes, I wonder what kind of place I brought her to. I thought I was doing what was right. But now I see so many Chinese are…badly treated, Suzanne. The women especially. Most are mere girls,” Esther said. Her voice rose in pitch. “Young girls, but they are…employed by Tong leaders, men who treat them like pots and pans to be used up, tossed about as though life was a dirty kitchen. And Naomi—”
“Perhaps we could go see Naomi,” Suzanne suggested, her voice kept light to contrast Esther's intensity. Esther could talk at length about the Chinese, Suzanne found, and without seeing her face, Suzanne couldn't decide when to interrupt, know when Esther might be finished or if she ever would be. “We could all go for a little visit.”
Esther paused. “In this rainy weather?”
“Yes. We could see Mei-Ling and take her with us to visit Naomi. With the children and Sterling Powder. A mans presence might soothe the matter, and we could see for ourselves if Naomi's all right. We could bring a gift for her baby.”
“Suzanne,” Esther said. “There is something—”
Suzanne turned to the sound of a bell.
“It is I, Mrs. Cullver,” Sterling Powder answered. He had a formal way of speaking, Suzanne noticed, not unlike Esther. “I have taken the liberty of removing the bell from your sons shoe, which I hold now in my hand. I thought it an important first step.”
Suzanne frowned. “It's how I know if Clayton is about,” Suzanne told him. “Where is he?”
“We have gathered flour and water for paste, and he creates colored treasures for you with pieces of melted wax and cloth. But we do have a decision to make. The boy uses the sound to tease you. He has found clever ways to remove the bell when it suits him. He even allows the cats to play with th
em thus confusing you more as to his whereabouts.”
“He has? I didn't recall being confused.”
“You will not have noticed. But, yes. He has. Just this morning he was in the room with you while you played your harp, with Pig lying at your feet asleep. You were unaware, as the boy had slipped his shoes off. The bells included.”
“But why? Why would he bother with such deception? He's only three years old.”
“Perhaps he wished not to disturb his mother,” Esther said.
“Why indeed. That is our challenge, gentlewomen. Children only manipulate when their needs go unmet. So we must discover what wish he has that tricking you achieves so we can create opportunities for him to learn other, more acceptable ways.”
Esther snorted. “He cant talk with her, that's plain enough. He can't tell her what he wants. That's what his need is. When you teach him to speak, that will be placed in the past.”
“So he follows her about. Until what? She notices him or stumbles over him because he's removed his bell and she is not expecting him? Is that what you think, Mrs. Maeves?”
Suzanne heard bluntness, not just honesty, in the man's words and annoyance and impatience inside Esthers. Her fingers fluttered at her neck as they spoke about her.
“Please put the bells back onto my son's shoes until such time as we've discussed this further, Mr. Powder. Meanwhile, Esther, if you would be so kind as to ask that a carriage be brought around, I wish to make a trip to a land agent. We're going to be moving to a new home, Mr. Powder.”
“This fits precisely into another issue I must raise. I have taken the liberty of preparing a calendar,” Mr. Powder continued. “There is entirely too much disorder.”
“I keep our rooms well,” Esther defended. “You—”
“In routine, not physical space, Mrs. Maeves. It intrudes with Claytons learning. He needs routine.”
“Mr. Powder, the children like to go visiting and surprises. So do I. Rainy weather mustn't keep us housebound—”
“Whose wishes are being addressed here is the question to be asked. There will not be room on the calendar for our locating a new home, as you put it, until…perhaps Thursday, next.”
It was time, Suzanne decided. Time to stand firm with their need to find a larger place. And time to set the limits for Sterling Powder. Maybe Esther, too. Suzanne smoothed her skirts. “Very well. Let us plan our trip for next Thursday, you said, Mr. Powder? Meanwhile, please put the bells back on Claytons shoes, and I'll think further of why he might be taking his shoes off. Unless it has become a part of his routine.”
David rehearsed just what he wanted to say. He wouldn't push him too far. He just wanted to face Zane, to tell him that his attempt to harm others, his intent for evil would be used by God for good. Oltipa had come into his life as his wife now, not a purchased slave of Zane Randolph. She was safe and couldn't be touched by the likes of him. He would inform Zane that his hope to harm Ruth hadn't met its mark.
Ruth had begun a new life. He'd say that. Not where she was, but that she was heading on with her life and he best do the same. Then he'd hand Zane the divorce packet and be on his way. David stood tall. He was ready.
David decided that if the man looked pathetic, he'd temper what he had to say. It wouldn't be easy. The memory of Zane's having nearly choked David to death last year caused him to straighten his neckerchief, rub at his throat. Still, there was nothing courageous about taking advantage of an invalid, David thought. He just wanted the deed done, so he could redeem himself. So he could get some sleep having faced the man who had brought such misery to the ones he loved.
David watched as a couple offtakes of snow melted as they touched the ground. Another early winter? He hoped not. David's heart beat as much from frustration as anticipation as he made his way to the house at the end of the French Gulch street. Outside, a purple shay waited and a horse stood head low, one leg bent in respite. Must be the doctors rig, David thought. He swallowed hard. At last, his time had come.
He knocked on the door, rustling the lace curtain sheltering the hand-blown window glass. He carried the white packet wrapped with a black ribbon in his hand. It reminded him of funeral missals, the black marking a death. He guessed Ruth's package did mark a death—of a marriage gone wrong. He knocked again and finally watched the pale outline of a man shimmer behind the curtained glass. Even hunched over, he looked to be the same height as Zane but his hair was white, all white. Must be an elderly gent, this doctor. David removed his hat.
Then he noticed or rather heard the shuffle-thump, shuffle-thump sound as the man walked, then stopped, fumbled at the latch. David heard something scrape against the wall as the door opened, saw the crutch fall and the man curse as he bent, one leg in a bracelike contraption.
David replaced his hat and quickly bent to retrieve it. The body that stood before him looked ravaged by coyotes, worn and torn. White hair? Zane hadn't had white hair. The man had aged a decade. Pathetic.
“Here,” David said. “Let me help you.” He reached for the mans elbow.
Zane Randolph raised his head slowly, and the eyes that met David s were cold and empty, eyes he'd first faced at a flesh auction a year or more ago. When they recognized David, they hardened even more.
“Here to steal more of my property, are you?” Zane said. He wrenched away from David s touch as he handed him the crutch.
“Me stealing from you?” David said. He sounded defensive. Zane had drawn first blood. “I helped a woman get free from your clutches, that's all I did.”
“Defend your own thievery by blaming others—such gall! How'd you find me? Come on. Speak up, boy!”
“I…we got a poster. The doctor…” He had to get a handle on this. David looked beyond Zane to see if anyone else was there.
“What poster? You've been hunting me, have you? You and your warped virtues, rescuing savages.” Zane scoffed.
“No. Miss Martin—”
“You know my Ruth?”
“I… she's—”
“Now you found me. Now what?” Zane laughed.
“I ain't been hunting you. I just came to give you something.” He was under control now. Had a purpose. “From Ruth Martin. The woman who bested you,” David said. He could tell from the flinch in Zane's eyes that he, too, had struck blood. “She sent you this,” David said, thrusting the packet at the man. “You'll be divorced come spring.” Zane jerked back as though receiving a blow and lost his balance.
“Take advantage while a mans down,” Zane said, scrambling and reaching for his cane.
David wasn't certain what to do. His inclination was to help, but when he extended his hand, the man growled. “Ruth. Always Ruth,” he said. “She sends a boy to tower over me.”
“I'm not towering over you!” David said. “Here. I'll help you up.”
“She thought sending you would keep me from going there to get her?” He laughed. It was a laugh that made David wish again he'd never met this man. He was glad Ruth Martin was on her way. “Nothing will stop me from getting my Ruth.”
“She has someone to defend her, to help her out. She doesn't need to worry over the likes of you anymore,” David said. He should just go, not worry if the man couldn't get up. It was pointless to try to defend Ruth or himself to such a person.
“Out there, brazen, in the open meadow.” The man talked even while he groveled for the crutch, lifted his pegged leg, pulled himself up against the door, struck at David's legs with his one good one. David stepped backward. “She's just teasing me as if I was a lame cat and her a succulent mouse,” Zane said. “Well I know where she is—”
“She's safe, I tell you. Safe. Away from you.”
Zane glared at David, his eyes in a hollow shell that made David think of a dead coyote's stare. David felt his skin grow cold. He could almost smell the rot of the man. David felt the blood rush to his neck, his face. The man might appear weak, but his spine was made of the devil's fork, just as straight and piercing. David's finge
rs ached to reach out and press his hands at the man's throat, push against the soft flesh until he felt the spine, shut the eyes that mocked him as he stood.
“And my little Ruthie, ran off, did she? Still fearful?”
“Not of the likes of you. She headed straight to what she always wanted.”
“She went north. Didn't she?” he seethed. Zane's words cut like rawhide against uncallused skin, going deep. David willed his eyes not to flicker. “Her brother put Oregon in her head. That's where she's put her tail between her legs and skulked off to, isn't it? Answer me, boy!”
Zane laughed then, ending with a raspy breath. “Your eyes answer,” Zane said. “You cannot tell a lie even when a life's at stake.” Spittle formed at the side of Zane's mouth. “Not a solicitor in the state who won't tell me what I need to know. I've been served papers.” He nodded with his chin toward the black-ribboned packet that had fallen to the floor and slid beneath a cabinet. “She may have thought filing for divorce would be the end of us. But Ruth was never one to think things out. You tell her if you see her again before I do. You tell her this from me—if I can't have her, no one else ever will.”
With that, he poked at David with his crutch, pushed him out, then slammed the door.
9
They found a place to bring the wagon through into Ruths meadow. She already thought of it that way. Her meadow. She dismissed a sudden ache of missing Jumper and took a deep breath from her belly. She'd make this a worthy place to start over if it was the last thing she ever did.
In the morning Matthew and Ruth saddled up to ride into Jacksonville. Matthew must have had words with his mother about it because Lura scowled and slammed the spider in the fire when she cooked up flapjacks for them all. She rattled around in the camp box in the back of the wagon, grabbed a tin of syrup and said, “Waste of time to just ride in there without taking the wagon and getting us vitals, you ask me.”
What Once We Loved Page 15
