by Sara Dahmen
“I gave you my word,” I say lightheartedly. I feel my entire day has dashed me up and down. Fear, worry, and enjoyment are all tangled together in my gut. I just want to go to sleep, but I know when I get back to Widow Hawks’ house, I will have to explain my ruined dress.
We begin to wash up the dishes together by discussing the happy news that fireworks will be set off tomorrow evening, and the doctor re-wraps my hands after the bandages are soaked through. The sting seems to have disappeared, and the swelling is down considerably, for which I’m very grateful.
Bern walks me home. He is bursting with bravado and excitement for the Independence Day races. He is an able cowboy, though I have not heard him spoken about town with reverence. I do not think he will take the races by storm as he says he might, but I listen and nod. It’s possible I lead him on with my amiable evening strolls. He may abandon me when he learns of my delicate condition. But for now, I will bask in his manly attention.
Without Kate’s bidding, I asked Widow Hawks to make a cornbread for tomorrow, and I smell it in the fire when I walk in. The corn has a sweet and earthy scent. I know it will crumble perfectly in my mouth, and that it will be seasoned with one or two herbs. She is chanting lightly. I smile as I listen and watch her finish the bread and unwrap it to cool.
“You ought to wear the lavender dress for the festivities. You haven’t worn it yet and we need to see if it still fits you,” she says by way of greeting.
“I ruined the brown,” I respond, gesturing to my bed, where the dress from my morning mishap droops across the furs. “It seems I have no notion how to use lye for cleaning.”
She nods. “I noticed the damage. I can patch it.”
“I’m so sorry. All your work,” I sigh. “I should be the one patching it.
“Do you know how?” She eyes me up, but not unkindly.
“I think so. I’d like to try,” I say.
“Good. Then I’ll pull out the scraps for you. Now, let’s get on the lavender.”
She is very kind to think of my fashions, as if I was her own kin to fuss over. Everyone in town is making such a commotion about Independence Day and I feel like I must do something special, too, so I don’t mind the trouble of trying on the dress tonight. With her help, I slip into the fresh cloth, and we find we need to take out the waist seams an inch right along the edge of the hips. It’s an easy fix for her talented fingers.
“You’re small for how far along you are,” she observes as she fits the lavender dress around me. “That is nice, and a little unusual. Most of the women here have babies that are very big.”
“How big?” I ask nervously.
“Oh, twelve pounds or so at least, is what I recall hearing.”
I gulp and clutch my belly tightly. The round curve of my womb is there, but it doesn’t seem to be getting too big too fast. I’m glad of it, and yet nervous too. I’m planning to tell everyone how Henry and I conceived at Christmas, right at the end of his illness, so the dalliance with Theodore five weeks later won’t be too far off the mark. If I don’t start looking more pregnant soon, will it be obvious that my timeline is very off? I press on my flesh and will it to spring back bigger and rounder than before.
“I’ll need to say something to Bern soon,” I admit. She doesn’t say anything in response. Since she has had children, I rely on her for leadership on the proper way to do things, and I hope she will give me direct answers on how best to tell people I am pregnant. Will she know what words I should use so I do not create a stigma on myself? Will she give me an idea on how to gracefully keep a beau I may want to have around?
“Widow Hawks,” I start as she unbuttons my outer dress again. “Why did you marry a white man?”
“I wasn’t long married to him before he died. Have you learned the truth?” I blush as she looks at me directly and nods, answering her own question. “Ah, I see you have. But I think you are really asking why I left my people, to live where I was not well-liked or often respected?” She pauses, then says decisively, “Because I am a strong woman, and I know what I want. I wanted Percy, and he me, and we never doubted one another. We had beautiful children, and when we could, we married in the white man’s way. And we did not waste much time being without each other. Life is too short.”
“Why haven’t you gone to live on the reservation then? After he passed?” I think of the one in the West, the one I hear mentioned in passing conversations.
“Because I want to be near my only family living.”
“Your son? Daughter.” I recall. “You have a daughter.” I watch her spin the needle and start to pick at the seams of my dress. I want to learn the tricks, do as she does them, as I will soon have enough sewing of my own with the baby.
“My son died in childhood, but my daughter lives. You know her. My Katherine, though she goes by Kate.”
Chapter 10
4 July 1881
I cannot believe how early the town rises on July the fourth. Everyone meets in the center of town, at the crossing of Main and Davies streets, where the general store and the Golden Nail Saloon stand as sentinels to the festivities. Handsome Joe Greenman of the Prime Inn, and Robert Brewer, the owner of the Main Inn, bring barrels of rainwater to the general’s shadow, and sweeten them with sugar. Toot Warren has her son, Trusty Willy, carry out a gigantic barrel of her lemonade from the Golden Nail, with Elaine planning to demonstrate the use of the new juicer. Gilroy and Horeb move their seats to the general’s porch so they can watch, jeer, and taunt everyone who walks by, as the races will take place on the west end of Main Street, circle around on Depot Row and return back in front of the post office. Tables up Davies Street display wares for sale from the cooper and the tannery. David Fawcett has old rifles for trade, while Jarle Henderssen is hawking his wheels. Kate plans to feed everyone along General Street between the bank and the Golden Nail. The town feels swollen with bodies and shouts and good humor.
Fortuna, the owner of the Powdered Rose bordello, has had her girls decorate all their windows with ribbons, and I hear several of the Brinkley wives discussing how distasteful the display is. Dell Johnston is quick to pick up on it, and he heckles the girls whenever he passes to his own saloon—the Powdered Pig—shouting up into the open windows that they’d best use those ribbons wisely and cover themselves up. Fortuna takes to rushing out with her biggest frying pan whenever she sees him, and Horeb takes bets from anyone who walks into the general on what hour of the day Fortuna will finally get a whack on Dell’s head.
Alan Lampton has provided a pig roast, and the smell of it makes one forgive the disgusting scent of pig urine that usually billows around his buildings. The Yang brothers have set up a table across the street with a well-seasoned noodle soup, sold by the cup to whoever wanders by with an empty tin, though many are waiting for the free dinner provided by the women of Flats Junction.
I see the newcomers, Isaac and Hannah Horowitz, wandering about with interest early in the morning before they hustle to set up a display of used, discounted shoes Isaac has had stashed away. Sadie Fawcett immediately asks them to save a pair of ivory heeled boots, as Miss Harriet Lindsey, the schoolteacher, watches with envy and dismay. Joseph Greenman has paid the peddler for the fireworks, and he has an array of the unfired shots on display in front of the Prime Inn. The livery is full of horses and wagons brought in from farmers and their families in the neighboring area. I wave to solemn Danny Svendsen as he rides in with a large group of his cowboy hands fresh in from the ranch, Bern among them.
The town echoes with shouts and laughter and horses whinnying. Already, it feels like it will be a hot day, but no one seems to mind. I head to the doctor’s house to pick up my foodstuffs.
Still stunned by last night’s revelation, it rolls over and over in my mind. Kate is the daughter of Widow Hawks and Percival Davies! And that means Doctor Kinney knows her from his time spent in the Davies home when he first arrived. His affection for her must go back years. I wonder why he has not courted her.
Or is he too shy to ask, without a parlor to sit in or a father to recommend it? Or am I wrong about his heart, and he merely sees her as a woman he’s known a long time? Does he have no romance in his bones? It doesn’t seem so, otherwise I’d have to believe he might try romancing me sometimes with his kindness. I wonder if I’ll get an answer to my hunch today.
My reverie is broken by the doctor himself, who meets me at the door in clean shirtsleeves and pants, still attaching his suspenders.
“Mrs. Weber!” He waits for me as I walk in, shutting the screen door without letting it slam and follows me into the kitchen to watch me make the coffee. I wonder at his loitering, his hovering about me, so I turn around and see that he has grown serious.
“You will please to remember you must drink water all day. It will be hot, and the womenfolk can faint on us enough as it is. I don’t want one of them to be you.”
I brush it off. “You’re too kind to worry.” He shakes his head and crosses his arms. I know the stance. It is a bit argumentative.
“I mean it, Mrs. Weber.”
I nod in return and pour his coffee, which he takes into his study. I do hope he dances with Kate today. I’d like to see them together and to finally make a match of it. If he’s going to be properly married, raise his standing in Flats Junction, and find happiness, it seems she’s the best option in town. Single, unhindered, and beautiful. Why wouldn’t he want her? He’d certainly be far better off with Kate. Otherwise there are few other single women for him in Flats Junction, myself among them. I don’t think I could handle such a scandal should he show such interest! No—he ought to court her. Woo her. They’d make a handsome pair.
Grabbing up my pies, I notice an amber bottle on the corner of the stove glinting in the sun. The doctor’s scrawl lists sideways on the label:
How kind of him! Sweet, nearly. The thoughtfulness tickles my sensibility, and I tuck the bottle into the pocket of my apron for safekeeping.
When I arrive at the food tables set up on General Street before midday, the women trickle in with their delicacies. Alice Brinkley finds me, her little Pete strapped to her back for the walk into town. He is only a few months old, but already the birth seems eons ago.
“I’ve seen the men bringing the beef on the wagon before the games begin. Mitch’s mother is bringing tarts and some cheese.”
“Thank you, Alice.” I smile wholeheartedly at her, and it strikes me that I might be able to ask her womanly questions as my time grows near, and that she would answer them. The thought brings me comfort. In truth, she is more a friend to me than Kate is, though I see Alice less than I would prefer.
“And here are the puddings!” Sadie Fawcett announces, with a trio of children behind her. Each little one is balancing a bowl carefully in their plump arms.
“Bravo!” I turn to her, winking at Alice over Sadie’s head.
The women are all in a good competitive spirit, and I hear the chatter of cooking secrets and childrearing advice patter through the small gathering. It is a clear, refreshing sort of simplicity. Everyone is familiar with each other and offers their thoughts and personal opinions freely. Most call me Jane, and I like how I know most of them by sight, if not name, from my walks around town and my attempts at trying to fit in during the Catholic Mass. While I still miss the smell of salt air, and the pattern and ease of my life in Boston, I like the people out here more than the ones I knew in the careful society of Henry’s circle.
“Jane Weber!” Anette Zalenski is at my elbow. “I’ve heard you are a big part of the festivities this year.”
I smile up at her. Anette’s wheat-blond hair coils in gleaming, thick braids and the cornflower blue of her calico dress matches her laughing eyes.
“I’m trying to make a go of it.”
“Oh! And I’ve brought along mother’s klubb—the potato dumplings—her usual.”
Her stout husband, who is several inches shorter than Anette, holds a large pot in his wide hands. Kate motions him to the end of a table, and Anette grins at me again.
“You haven’t met my mother formally yet, have you? She used to convince old Walter to get out for the dancing, but don’t expect Marie or Thad. And I won’t stay long. I told my Jacob I want to be home early. Perhaps to do the usual.”
I’m not at all able to follow her train of thought, and she winks cheekily.
“You know. Making another babe.” My mouth drops open, and Anette laughs outright. “You blush as much as Marie does when I tease her about the earthier parts of life.”
Still chuckling, she turns to scoop up the youngest one by her skirts, and walks away, her husband, Jacob, shooting me a half-sheepish smile at his wife’s antics before following her toward the huge group gathering near the edge of the school house. Judging by their tall blondness, I would guess they are Anette’s siblings and family. I only know one of them: Jorge. He works at the tannery. He’s here with his lanky wife and several tow-headed children.
“The races are starting!” Shouts rise from the gathering crowd.
Alice is at my elbow again. She knows, like everyone else, that Bern has been courting me, and she leads us through the growing throng so I might be able to get a good view. At first, I cannot spot him, but then I see his horse and then himself.
Bern is striking in his way. He’s lean and a few inches taller than most of the other men. His dark brown hair is longish along the back of his neck, and it is swiped along his forehead under his hat. I’m quite sure he’s around my age, or thirty at the most. Like the others, he’s dressed in rumpled and dusty clothes, with worn patches along the insides of the pant legs from always being on horseback. He seems very sure of himself, as do most of the cowboys lining up. I think perhaps I should be anxious for him, but I find I am just merely interested.
At the gun, the horses are off, down Main Street, to the Tannery on the west end, and then back around, racing through Depot Row and squeezing past the old abandoned livery building. They circle north, then, and climb the hill to the ancient Sioux buffalo jump, where old Henry Brinkley is waiting to make sure every one of the horses zig-zags through the tall pines. Crossing Flats Basin River at its deepest, they then skirt south on Second Avenue, sopping wet and yelling. I watch in silence, while Alice cheers loudly next to me. I smile and try to care more than I do, but it is mostly just grass and dust and prairie once the riders head up the path-like Buffalo Jump Road. Ivar Henderssen is helping Henry Brinkley with the judging, shouting disqualified riders from his perch on Tommy Winters’ house whenever Henry waves. His decrepit father, Morten, gives a running commentary through black teeth in his thick Nordic accent: “And there’s Hank, straight from Texas, surprised he’s still awake, you hear he slept at every meal last week—ah, and Thunder, of course, still alive and keeping Chrissy guessing when he will marry h—oh, and the ginger. What’s his name? Tate, yah, Tate, sun still burning him as bad as ever. And there goes Noah. He was telling those bad Catholic jokes again, Lara O’Donnell’s sure he’s going to hell . . .”
Bern somehow escapes Morten’s comments, careening toward the finish line, his face tight and set as he leans over his horse. He slaps his reins, leaning over the saddle with intensity. For a moment, I think he might collide with grizzled Thunder, who is just ahead of him, but he pulls back just in time.
“Oh yeeee!” Alice shouts and waves as the last riders bolt past us. She turns to me, wide-eyed and flushed. “Your Bern took fourth. That is very good!”
“Is it?” I ask. “And he’s not my Bern, you know.”
Alice stops short and gives me a curious once-over. “Do you wish he wasn’t?”
I look away from her, at the horses and riders who have finished, Bern among them. I suppose many women might call him dashing, same as I think. But I do not feel myself especially drawn to him, and he is more a convenience than a love. I realize this at the same time I know that I should not dismiss him so outright. That my affection for him ought to grow.
“There you are!” B
ern swaggers toward us, sweat and dust mingling on his face and clothes. He grins widely. “Did you see the finish?”
“We did,” Alice puts forth quickly. “It was exciting!” She is so much more vivacious than me, and quick to smile back at anyone. Somehow, her joy translates to an infectious happiness that fills the air around her. We’re almost exactly the same age, but she’s not burdened by secrets, by the need for properness, or the strange draw to learn and inspect and doubt. I wish I could be like her.
“Yes,” I intone instead. “Very much so.”
“Jane! Time to get ready for lunch.” Kate beckons me through the crowds, and I feel as though she is rescuing me. Alice and I follow her to the long tables groaning with food, and we unwrap the last few cheeses from the Brinkley farm. Bern follows us to eye the spread and gives an appreciative whistle.
“If this is lunch, I cannot wait to see when it’s time to sup.”
“Mrs. Weber made pies.” All of us turn to see Doctor Kinney standing nearby, his shirtsleeves rolled up in the heat. “And I know Kate is always good with puttin’ on a better celebration than the previous year. She outdoes herself every time.”
“Go off, you.” She waves him away teasingly.
I watch their banter. I do not know if I can read anything between them that is particularly flirtatious, though they are certainly animated with one another.
Widow Hawks approaches, the cornbread in her hands wrapped in smooth brown paper.
“What is she doing here?” Kate mutters. I am surprised at her sudden rancor.
“Well, you put me in charge of the food, and I thought all the women who wished to do so were contributing,” I say, stumbling for an answer.
“Not her.” Kate is seething mad. It’s so obvious and palpable I could choke on it. I know I am the cause of her fast, dark mood, though I do not understand why.
“But she—”
