by Verna Clay
Pauline grinned at Joy. "Before we reach home, my husband will have told you our entire history. I think that's why he and Luke get along so well. They both like to tell stories."
Jake laughed. "When Luke was here I introduced him to my father and stepmother and they gladly described their journey along the trail that was traveled by an estimated 400,000 people. Imagine that. There's even a portion of the track passing through our property with the ruts of wagon wheels etched like scars into the landscape. And I don't mean that in a bad way. Scars are nature's way of healing so we don't forget what's gone on before. Some are deep and visible, others tiny and almost imperceptible. My dear Pauline lost her parents and her scars are deep…but healed. She often talks about her mother and father and shares her memories. For a long time, she couldn't do that, but now it's as if her parents are just down the road from our home."
Joy pondered his words. "I think I know what you mean. My grandmother Abby traveled from Philadelphia to Texas to become a mail order bride. After a time of getting to know each other, she and my grandfather fell deeply in love. My grandfather had three children, Luke, Jenny, and Ty, and my Grammy Abby loved his children like her own, and when Ty died of pneumonia only a few months after her marriage to my grandfather, it almost killed her. The way she tells it, she was unable to function even in the smallest way. It was only through much love from her family that she was finally able to go on. I have often heard her talk about Ty and the funny things he would do. I believe her scar runs deep, but just like Pauline's, it's healed, and sometimes I imagine I see little Ty holding the skirts of my grammy's dress just like he did when she was young." Joy became silent and wondered if she had spoken too much of her personal thoughts aloud.
Pauline reached into the back seat and patted her knee. "My dear, you shall become a great artist because you have the gift of seeing what others cannot. I swear that I can also see my parents at times, just as you see little Ty."
The remainder of the drive was filled with conversation punctuated by Jake pointing out the different flora and fauna of the land he so obviously loved: reddish-orange Indian paintbrush, purple Oregon iris, pink rhododendron, and the State Flower, Oregon grape, whose yellow flowers in summer would become bluish-black berries in the fall. Joy's hands itched to replicate such beauty on canvas. She imagined interspersing the flowers with the many species of ferns, and painting them beneath a canopy of conifers, poplars, maples, and alders. Yes, Oregon was heaven on earth.
Chapter Seven: Painting Heaven
The next two weeks became pure joy for Joy. Her hosts happily took her on jaunts across dirt roads that had been forged in the 1800s and were now smooth enough for their horseless carriage to drive on. On one stretch of road they pointed out the ruts of wagon wheels from pioneers long ago. Jake said that his father and stepmother had traveled that very road on their way to the Promised Land, Oregon City.
Joy's heart surged with happiness and she often wished she were alone in the wilderness, but she knew her caring friends would never agree. After all, there were bears and wildcats roaming the mountains. Still, the thought of being completely alone in this vast wilderness, as her father had been in Montana, made her pulse pound.
During the second week of her stay in Oregon, Jake said he and Pauline were traveling to town to buy supplies and asked if she wanted to go. Some of Joy's art supplies were running low and she hoped she could find what she needed in town. She readily agreed, not only because she wanted to replenish her paints, but because she was anxious to explore the town.
Their first stop was the auto supply store. Jake said he always kept extra parts for his automobile because of its penchant for breaking down. While he spoke with the store owner, Pauline and Joy walked across the street, avoiding the many autocars and horse conveyances jamming downtown. The town was much larger than Joy's own little burg of Two Rivers.
Pauline led her to a milliner's shop where the two of them giggled over the latest fashion of bell-shaped cloche hats. The selection included straw ones, felt ones, velvet ones, woolen ones, and on the sides of each were ornamentations of either bows, or flowers, or stitching, or feathers.
Pauline purchased a gray felt cloche encircled with a wide black ribbon and decorated with red silk flowers. It was simply lovely and Joy exclaimed over it. However, to the dismay of the saleswoman, Joy declined buying one for herself. Although she had plenty of money budgeted for her trip, she wasn't one to splurge on non-necessities.
After the milliner's shop they entered the general store a couple of doors down. As in every town, it was a hub of activity. While Pauline picked up jars of pickled apples and other fruits, peering at the contents, Joy stepped to the wide counter behind which a chubby man in a white apron punched amounts into a large, ornate cash register. The register dinged every time he pulled the handle to open the cash drawer. After ringing up an order for a rosy-cheeked, round-faced woman with a baby in one arm and a toddler clinging to her skirt, the proprietor turned his attention on Joy.
"What can I do fer ya, ma'am?" He spoke loudly and his double chin jiggled.
"I was wondering if you carry art supplies. Specifically, I'm looking for paint tubes."
The middle-aged man scratched his chin. "My wifey rearranged that kinda stuff a few days 'go. Art supplies used to be over there," he pointed, "but now I b'lieve they're in that little alcove over yonder." He pointed toward the back of the store.
"Thank you, sir," replied Joy, and walked to the alcove. Perusing the shelves she was surprised to find such a nice selection of paints, brushes, turpentine, and even blank canvasses and paper. She reached for a tube with a dark purple dot on the front, and then replaced it.
A motion distracted her and she glanced down to see a teeny girl of maybe four or five staring up at her. The elfin child with golden blond hair and eyes the color of a clear summer sky, pointed to another tube and said, "Pretty."
Joy picked up a lavender paint tube, and grinned. "So you like this color?" She stretched out her hand holding the tube. The little girl's wavy hair bounced against her shoulders when she nodded. Joy said, "I think you're right. I like it, too."
Just then a tall man with hair the same color as the child's, but a tanned complexion that was startling by contrast, rounded the corner. He looked harried and gave a sigh of relief when he saw the little girl. He said, "Misty, you had me worried. How many times have I told you not to wander off?"
The little girl lowered her head to stare at the floor. The man moved his gaze from the child to Joy. Joy almost staggered backward. The gentleman's eyes were of such a pale blue he almost appeared otherworldly, and with his pale blond hair and defined bone structure, he was the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes upon. Her breath hitched. To cover her embarrassment, she asked quickly, "Is this your daughter?"
The man smiled and Joy felt her insides melt. His smile was as beautiful as his eyes.
He joked, "How could you tell?" and smoothed a hand down his daughter's hair.
Inwardly, Joy sighed, and thought that the woman married to this man with such kind eyes and beautiful smile, was very lucky indeed. She returned his smile. "While I was selecting my colors, your daughter told me how pretty the color lavender is." She displayed the tube of paint.
The man's smile faded and his eyes became guarded. "What?" he questioned, looking bewildered.
Joy repeated what she had said and the man's brow furrowed. He said, "Miss, you must be mistaken. My daughter is mute. She never talks."
Joy's mouth gaped and she was just about to argue when an older woman stepped into the alcove. It was the disgruntled spinster from the train; the one who chastised her for traveling alone.
The elderly lady was just as sour-faced as before and became even more so when she recognized Joy. "You!" she said, and sniffed. "Are you still without a chaperone?" Before Joy could respond, she touched the man's sleeve and said, "Walker, this is the disrespectful and foolish young woman I told you about from the train." Sh
e reached for the little girl's hand. "Come with me, Misty. I have something special I want to buy for you." The woman pulled Misty from the room.
Joy was so taken aback that she lifted confused eyes to the blond-headed man's azure ones. He was still frowning. With only a nod, he turned and walked out of the alcove.
Whereas Joy had found it difficult to inhale enough air before, now she almost choked with anxiety. She had heard the child speak!
After a few minutes she calmed herself, selected several more tubes of paint, and cautiously stepped from the room. Pauline was now in the fabric section fingering some gingham and Joy noticed the man, his child, and the cantankerous aunt at the counter. The proprietor boomed, "Will that be all Dr. Flemming?"
"Yes, George. Thank you. I'll return this evening to load the staples."
"They'll be ready!" the portly man boomed again.
Dr. Flemming and his group walked toward the store's doorway, but before they stepped outside, Misty turned and looked at Joy. The expression in her eyes spoke louder than words: "We share a secret."
Chapter Eight: Who Is She?
Walker Flemming opened the passenger door of his Saxon S4 Touring Motorcar so his wife's Aunt Zena could enter. Then he lifted his daughter into the backseat and set their parcels from the general store beside her. As he pulled away from the curb he glanced back at the store, frowning. Sometimes it seemed as if he wore a perpetual scowl. At one time he had been a carefree and joyful man, but his disposition now bordered on stern and humorless most days. He often thought he'd forever lost the ability to laugh.
When Misty had gone missing and he'd turned the corner to see that young woman smiling at his daughter, it had actually put a smile on his face, and when she'd lifted laughing eyes to his, he'd almost laughed, too. Since the death of his wife a year previous, he'd done precious little of that, and so had Misty. His daughter had retreated into herself and hadn't uttered a word since her mother had fallen from a horse and died of a broken neck.
He'd been working in the garden behind the house and needed something from the barn. Rounding the side yard, he'd come upon a scene that should only be in nightmares. Misty was hugging her mother's prostate body, crying and begging her to wake up. Immediately, Walker had known his wife was dead by the angle of her neck. Murphy, their horse, was near the tree line, his reins dangling.
Even now, Walker shuddered at the terrible sight. He'd lost his beloved Emily and in a sense, he'd lost Misty, too. He pushed the scene from his mind.
Making a u-turn so he could drive in the opposite direction, he noticed the young lady exit Beecher's General Store with Mrs. Jerome. Who was this woman who had obviously mistaken hearing Misty speak? Surely, Misty wouldn't talk to a stranger before her own father. Walker loved his daughter and told her so daily. His aunt had claimed the woman was disrespectful and foolish, although she hadn't seemed that way to him.
He sighed and turned his thoughts to his patients. Today, he'd closed his office at noon to accomplish errands and the sorely needed task of replenishing staples for his home, but tomorrow he had a full day of patient appointments, among whom was Mr. Farmer and his hernia, Mrs. Botkin who was two weeks overdue in birthing her sixth child, and Henrietta Mercer who complained of every known ailment, as well as some unknown ones, just to get attention.
Walker dropped his aunt and daughter at home and then drove toward his sister Octavia's house to check on Solomon, his nephew, who had been complaining of a sore throat. After visiting, he planned to stop by his office located a block from the city square, so he could pull patient files. Because he always had unexpected drop-ins, he wondered what the next day would bring, and that almost put a smile on his face. He had come to expect the unexpected.
He parked in front of his sister's two-story Victorian home and rang the doorbell. Octavia answered and warmly beckoned him inside.
He asked, "How is Solomon feeling, sis?"
"He's seems much better today. That poultice worked wonders."
"Good. It's an Indian remedy I learned years ago from a medicine man named Running Colt when I assisted in the care of his tribe after a fever ran rampant. Is Solomon sleeping?"
"Yes. Do you want to check on him now?"
"I will in a few minutes. Why don't we sit and chat?"
"Yes. Let's do that. It's such a lovely day. I squeezed fresh lemonade this morning. I'll bring it to the back patio. You go ahead; I'll meet you there in a few minutes."
Walker crossed through the house and exited the back door. He chose his favorite rocker and plopped down. He really needed to take a day off. Working six days a week and always being available for emergencies was wearing him down. At first, after Emily's death, it had been his way of coping, but now exhaustion might put him in bed with an illness himself if he didn't slow down. He made a decision—he was going to close his practice two days a week. He would add Monday as an additional rest day. Tomorrow he would post a sign letting his patients know.
Octavia joined him carrying a large tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. When he started to rise to help her, she said, "I've got it. You just rest because you look like you need it. You're working way too many hours."
"I know. In fact, I've just decided to go back to my former schedule. In addition to being closed on Sunday, I'm going to close on Mondays again, except for emergencies."
"Good." She set her tray on the small table between their rockers and handed Walker his drink before lifting her own and settling into the other rocker. She took a long draw of her beverage and said, "Sitting here like this reminds me of when Ellis and I used to."
Walker glanced at his sister and wondered if she was about to cry. They had both lost their spouses within a month of each other. Ellis had been in San Francisco on business when he'd been struck by a runaway horse-drawn wagon. He'd died the next day from head injuries and Octavia had taken to her bedroom for months. It had only been in the past six months that she'd made a valiant attempt to continue living for the sake of her son—and that had happened because Walker had dragged her out of bed and ordered her to get dressed. Then he'd proclaimed that he was no longer taking responsibility for the care of Solomon; it was time for her to return to the land of the living. He'd spoken harshly and she'd cried hysterically, clutching him, and together they'd wept over their loved ones; but then, together, they'd made a pact to go on for the sake of their children. And they had. Their sadness, however, was always palpable and Walker often wondered if joy would ever return to their households.
Now, sipping his drink, he asked the question that was another reason, besides Solomon's illness, that had brought him to her house. "Sis, when you were on the train with Aunt Zena, did you happen to meet a young lady traveling by herself that Zena perhaps had words with?"
Octavia wrinkled her brow. "Why yes, in the dining car. I'm afraid Auntie was very rude. I think you and I are the only ones who know the kindly side of her. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it seems I ran into the woman at Beecher's. She was in the art supply alcove. Misty disappeared on me and I was frantic, but I found her in that room—you know how she loves to draw and paint. Anyway, when I entered the art area, this woman was laughing and then she said…" he paused, glanced across the back lawn to the climbing rose hedges, and sighed. "She said that when she was selecting her paints, Misty told her the color lavender was pretty."
Octavia gasped. "You mean she said Misty talked?"
"Yes. I explained that she must be mistaken because my child was mute. About that time, Auntie entered and spoke harshly to her." He tapped the armrest of his chair. "Octavia, since you've already encountered this woman, what is your opinion of her?" He added as an afterthought, "If she was indeed traveling alone, being so young, maybe she is foolish and flighty."
Octavia stilled her rocker and also tapped the wooden arms of her chair. "I actually found her to be quite pleasant and Solomon seemed taken with her. I don't know why Auntie is behaving this way."
Wal
ker pinched the bridge of his nose. He had the beginnings of a headache. He said, "If she truly heard Misty talk, it would be the breakthrough we've been waiting for. I must find her. I saw her leaving the store with Pauline Jerome. Tomorrow I'll drive to the Jeromes to find out more about this mysterious lady."
His sister said, "Her name is Joy Ryder."
Her unique name caused Walker to smile.
Chapter Nine: Murphy
Walker left for the Jeromes' homestead after his last appointment of the day. Old Mr. Munster's gout was acting up and Walker had reiterated the same instructions he advised every time he saw the feisty little man—lay off the moonshine. That had started the cantankerous old backwoodsman on a rant about the newly enacted Volstead Act, intended to make the United States a "dry" country.
Walker had inwardly sighed and listened to Mr. Munster because there was no shutting him up. And actually, he agreed that the act was foolish, but he never talked politics or religion with his patients. Early on, he had discovered that it only generated animosity toward him if he didn't agree with their perspectives.
He glanced at his pocket watch and as tactfully as he could, excused himself from the old man, stating that he had an appointment out of town. It was a fib because the Jeromes didn't know he was coming, but it worked for Mr. Munster as he grumbled his way out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, Walker had hung the closed sign with the attached instruction that if there was an emergency, Birdie Swick was the person to seek out. She was the local midwife who was also a trained nurse. Walker had approached Birdie five years back suggesting a cooperative arrangement after he'd moved from Portland with his wife and newborn to start his practice in Oregon City, and the wise—and very skilled—middle-aged woman had agreed. Over the years she had asked for his assistance in difficult pregnancies and even refused a patient that she believed needed the skill of a trained doctor. The pregnant woman had balked at first, but acquiesced when she'd almost lost the baby. Five months later, Walker had had to perform a cesarean section before the child reached term, but mother and infant had survived and thrived.
