Wealth Beyond Riches

by Vickie McDonough

  She rushed to his side, wondering what had happened. One eye was blackened, and his bloody lips were swollen twice their normal size. A goose egg with an inch-long gash had risen on his forehead.

  “Oh! What do we do?” She looked to her uncle for guidance.

  “Let’s get him inside.”

  Dewey took Jim’s shoulders, and she lifted his ankles. His dead weight was much greater than she’d expected. Finally, with both of them heaving and straining, they got Jim onto her bed.

  “I’ll get some more water. There are some rags in a box near the stove.”

  Sasha smoothed back Jim’s dark hair. She hated seeing him so battered and hurting. Her emotions overcame her normal reserve, and she leaned over, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. Her feelings for him had grown and blossomed more than she realized. Everything in her wanted to pound whoever had done this to him.

  He was such a nice man. He’d never once treated her with disrespect or acted like her being a half-breed mattered in any way.

  She admired his fine dark looks and the lithe way he moved, like a man confident with his body and skills. He was always patient with her many questions about the Bible and answered her intelligently, not patronizingly, as one would answer a child. Seeing him each day made her heart soar. And when their gazes collided—oh my!

  Could this be love?

  Jim moved one of his legs and emitted a low groan. He murmured something unintelligible, and then the words “Gypsy woman.”

  Sasha stepped back with her hands on her cheeks, taking in his bloodied blue shirt. It was the same shirt her rescuer had been wearing.

  This was her fault! Once again Jim had come to her aid, but this time, he’d paid a terrible price.

  She ran into the kitchen and grabbed the rags, then hurried back to his side. Jim’s eyes were open as she stepped back into the bedroom. He grabbed hold of her hand.

  “The woman. Did she. . .get away?”

  Sasha leaned closer, hoping her assumption was wrong. “What woman?”

  Jim licked his puffy lips and winced. “The old Gypsy.”

  Sasha laid her hand on his chest. “Why would you help an old Gypsy woman?”

  “God loves everyone. . .even poor. . .old women. How could I not help?”

  Tears stung Sasha’s eyes. She couldn’t stand the thought that this kind man had been injured because of her.

  Dewey hobbled in with another bucket of water. Sasha dipped a tin mug in it and helped Jim drink. He guzzled down the whole cupful, then collapsed against the bed. As she dabbed at his cuts, Sasha hoped that facial wounds were the only injuries he’d received.

  “Why would someone do this to him? Jimmy never hurt a soul.” Dewey glanced across the bed, his dark eyes looking pained.

  “He was helping an old Gypsy that some men were accosting.”

  Dewey harrumphed. “Sound likes something he’d do. I just hate to see him hurting.”

  “Me, too.” Sasha applied some salve Dewey gave her and bandaged Jim’s head. He’d remained silent as she tended him, only grimacing a time or two.

  Guilt flooded her. Should she confess she was the one he aided to put his mind at ease? But how would she explain wearing her costume so he would understand?

  She desperately wanted to tell him but feared the disgust she’d see in his eyes. No, she couldn’t tell him. Soon, but not until he was better.

  ❧

  Sasha’s pounding heart matched the quick hoofbeats of the gelding pulling the buggy.

  It had taken Jim three days to recover before he was able to work at the big house again. And even then, he only worked a few hours before coming back to his tent to rest awhile. He’d suffered no broken bones, but his ribs were bruised and his muscles sore.

  It pained her to see his handsome face darkened with purple bruises and to watch him being careful with his movements.

  If he knew what she planned to do today, he would have insisted on escorting her—and she couldn’t have that.

  To make things easier, she’d donned her Gypsy outfit, then shrugged her dress over it. A few miles from the cabin, she’d slipped off the dress and applied her makeup. Now, as she guided the buggy into Rag Town, she began to have second thoughts.

  The massive tent city sprawled out in all directions. Children sat playing in the dirt or running around. Tired-looking women stood talking in small groups, hanging laundry or cooking at campfires. As far as she could see, not a man was in sight. Most likely the ones who lived here were at work in the oil fields.

  Like oil spewing from a gusher, guilt washed over her. She’d never seen such poverty before. New York had its underprivileged areas, but her mother had never allowed her to travel in that part of the city or see where the impoverished lived. How did people survive in such squalor?

  Here she’d been gallivanting to Tulsa and back, buying furniture and spending her uncle’s money supplying his new house, while these people struggled to put food on their plates. Why did life have to be so lopsided?

  Curious stares surveyed her as she drove through the shantytown. She tried to decipher what else she read in the tenants’ eyes and decided it must be hopelessness. She knew a bit about that. Hadn’t she felt hopeless of ever earning her mother’s love? And in the end, she’d failed.

  A swath of color grabbed her attention, and Sasha recognized the quilt hanging on the line to be of the same pattern as the one she’d bought Uncle Dewey. A woman in a baggy gray cotton dress stepped out from behind the quilt, and Sasha knew she’d found the woman she was searching for.

  Sasha clambered out of the wagon and used her stick to shuffle over to the woman. The lady approached, curiosity dancing in her blue eyes. Sasha hoped and prayed her makeup would hold up to close scrutiny, but she’d do her best not to get too near the woman.

  She took a deep breath, then plodded forward, hoping her plan worked. “That fancy bed cover of yours caught my eye at the festival last week.”

  The woman offered a shy smile. “I didn’t see you there, but it was very crowded. My name’s Mary McMurphey.”

  Ack! Sasha hadn’t considered having to give her name. She didn’t want to lie, but she needed to protect her true identity. “Monique,” she said, thinking her middle name sounded a bit like a Gypsy.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Apprehension battled curiosity in Mary’s eyes.

  Sasha ambled toward the crate full of dresses in the back of the buggy. “I. . .uh. . .sometimes pick through people’s trash before they burn it. Found a few jewels I thought you might could use.” She hoped her accent resembled a Gypsy’s.

  “Me? Why would you bring me anything? We’ve never met before.”

  Sasha picked up the dark blue dress and fingered the fine fabric. Mary’s gaze darted from the fabric to Sasha and back. Her interest was obvious.

  “I can’t sew—other than to do some mending. I saw your fine quilts the other day and thought you could use these clothes to make some more.”

  “Oh. . .I don’t know.” Mary’s suspicious gaze traveled past Sasha, and her eyes widened.

  Sasha turned back to the buggy, lifted a dark rose-colored dress out of the back, and shook it open.

  “Oh, that’s so lovely. I rarely get fabric that color.”

  Sasha smiled to herself. “It would be a shame to just return it to a trash barrel so somebody could burn it up, but I have no use for it.”

  Mary licked her lips. “Well. . ..if you’re sure.”

  Sasha nodded and laid the dress in the crate. She started to lift it before Mary changed her mind.

  “Here, let me get that.” Mary hoisted the crate and carried it into her tent.

  Sasha prepared to mount the buggy, but Mary halted her with a hand on her shoulder. “Please, you must stay and have tea with me. I have to tell you, I prayed for more fabric, and God sent you. You’re an answer to prayer.”

  Eleven

  Sasha drove the buggy back home, thinking about her time with Mary. That was the second time
someone had said she was an answer to prayer. Was that possible? Could God use someone and that person not even be aware of it?

  She shook the reins, urging the horse up the hill. The buggy creaked as it dipped into one rut in the road after another. These country roads were just as rugged as the landscape. She passed field after field littered with oil wells and tanks. Where the derricks stood like angry sentinels, rarely was there a tree or bush. Even the ground was blackened from oil spills. Now she understood why Dewey was so determined to keep his land undefiled.

  Sasha breathed a sigh of relief as she entered Dewey’s property. Here, knee-high grass and wildflowers wafted in the wind and birds chirped lively tunes. Cattle grazed peacefully on the green hills. The countryside was alive and made her feel cheerful. She’d done a good thing today.

  But it hardly seemed enough. Still, she had to be careful not to steal Mary’s dignity by helping her too much or too often. An occasional trip now and then should suffice. If only there were more she could do.

  The wagon hit a big rut, and Sasha braced herself with her foot. She clucked to the horse as she’d seen Jim do, and the animal heaved forward, pulling her back onto level ground.

  The tea Mary had offered her had been weak and sugarless, but the company was cordial, and in the muted lighting of the tent, Sasha’s makeup had passed the test. It was evident that Mary held beliefs of faith similar to those of Jim and Dewey. Sasha was beginning to feel left out.

  But her mother and their New York friends had rarely gone to church, except on Christmas and sometimes Easter, and they had done all right. Hadn’t they?

  The theater troupe had worked hard to put on superb productions. They performed in the evenings, then ate dinner afterward and spent time on the town. Sasha had usually preferred to retire to her room after dining to read before going to bed. But what had been the purpose of that life? To entertain others?

  Was that a noble cause?

  Never once in her life had she done anything that had given her the satisfaction she had received from taking clothes to Mary. She could still see Mary caressing the fabric, looking as if she could hardly wait until Sasha left so she could get to work.

  She smiled. Yes, she’d done something good today. Her uncle would be proud, but her mother would have said Sasha had wasted her time and the fine clothing, having given it to someone who couldn’t appreciate its quality.

  Sighing, she thought again about her uncle’s faith and Jim’s. Both men were the real deal. They weren’t living their lives trying to impress the wealthy people of the world. They cared for others, but more important, they cared about God.

  A deep longing coursed through her. She wanted to believe like they did. Believe in a God who loved her no matter if she sometimes messed up. She glanced at the sky, wondering how one went about approaching God. Jim had said you just had to believe in Jesus and confess your sins to Him, but that still seemed too easy. Surely you had to do penance—or something.

  Up ahead she saw a corner of the cabin come into view and heard the rhythmic whacking of someone chopping wood. Perhaps it was Jim, though he shouldn’t be exerting himself yet. Excitement at the thought of seeing him again made her limbs weak. Suddenly, she remembered her costume, and her heart nearly jumped clear out of her chest.

  Using all the muscles she had, she forced the horse to stop on the road. The stubborn animal that longed to be back home where it would be freed from its binding and fed was less than cooperative. Sasha set the brake. She grabbed her dress from under the seat, climbed down from the wagon, and darted into the woods before someone could see her.

  Hiking her skirts, she hurried through the thick brush toward the creek. How could she have been so carelessly caught up in her thoughts?

  Behind her she could hear the horse whinnying and pawing the dirt. Surely Jim or her uncle would come to investigate.

  At the creek, she flopped down on the ground and scrubbed her face with the small jar of cold cream she kept in her pocket. She scooped up some water and splashed it on her face again and again, all the while her hands shook and heart pounded.

  Jim was supposed to be working up at the house. Perhaps her uncle was the one chopping wood. She would have to be more careful in the future if she donned her costume. Using her scarf for a towel, she wiped her face. Quickly, she removed her skirt and blouse and pulled the wrinkled calico over her head. She stuffed her costume under a bush and noted the surroundings so she could find it later.

  Making her way back to the wagon, she gathered a handful of wildflowers for the table. As she stepped out of the trees, she saw Jim holding on to the horse and looking around. Relief filled his eyes as his gaze landed on her.

  “What are you doing?”

  Her mind raced. Not wanting to lie to him, she held up her hand and showed him the bouquet. “I thought some flowers would look nice on the table.”

  Jim’s brows dipped, and a muscle in his jaw ticked. “In these parts, we tend to our animals first, then do things like. . .uh. . . pick flowers.”

  Sasha ducked her head, knowing he was right. But she couldn’t very well explain her frantic rush into the woods. “Sorry. I’ll do better next time.”

  “That’s all right. You’re new to the area.” He released the brake, and the horse started of its own accord. The wheels on the buggy squealed as it rolled forward, and Jim followed it into the barn.

  With her heart still throbbing, she walked toward the cabin, disappointed at Jim’s reprimand. In her heart, she wanted to please him because she liked him and was grateful for all he’d done for her.

  Soon, his shadow darkened the open cabin door. Droplets of water still clung to his dark stubble from his washing off. Sasha busied herself, peeling potatoes for supper.

  “Got any coffee left?”

  She looked up, and their gazes collided. His black eyes glimmered, and his damp, messed-up hair gave him a cute, boyish look.

  “Pretty,” he said, never breaking eye contact.

  Sasha’s heart, which had just slowed to normal, skittered out of control again. Was he talking about the flowers in the cup on the table? Or about her?

  ❧

  “So, what do you think? Light blue or floral wallpaper?” Sasha looked at Jim, hoping he’d help her decide which paper looked best for the foyer.

  Jim glanced at the paper, then at the walls. “I don’t know. I’m not good with decorating.”

  “Well. . .you built the house. Surely you must have had some picture in your mind how it would look when completed.”

  He shrugged. “Actually, I never thought about it that way. I was just focused on finishing it.”

  Sasha turned back to the wall and held up the wallpaper samples she’d gotten in Tulsa. “All right then, let’s go with the floral. It seems more natural than blue for the entry way.” She held up the blue again. Maybe she’d use it upstairs in one of the bedrooms.

  She peeked at Jim, who stood casually with his hands in his back pockets. “Have you always been a carpenter? You do wonderful work.”

  His neck and ears took on a reddish tint, and he looked out the tall window next to the front door. “No, actually I’ve been a farmer most of my life. I learned carpentry on the farm, having to repair and build things, but refined my skills during the Spanish-American War.”

  Sasha frowned. “How did you learn to be a carpenter during the war?”

  Jim’s brow dipped, and his lips thinned as he pressed them together. “I was on funeral duty for a while. Built a lot of caskets.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, Jim, I’m so sorry. That must have been difficult.”

  He nodded and heaved a long sigh. “After that, I didn’t want to fight anymore.” He glanced at her as if she’d scold him for losing heart.

  “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t have, either.”

  “I just kept thinking of the families of those men who were hoping and praying their fathers, sons, and husbands would come home.”

  She squ
eezed his arm. “It must have been horrible for you.”

  He studied the ground and nodded. “I was threatened with a dishonorable discharge if I didn’t fight, but a captain I was friends with stepped in. He got me put on repair detail—fixing wagons, making a structure safe for temporary headquarters. . . stuff like that.”

  “God was watching over you.”

  His stunned gaze matched her own surprise at the comment that had spilled from her mouth.

  Slowly, his lips turned up in a roguish smile. “I guess He was at that, though I wasn’t walking with Him back then. In fact, I was quite a mess for a while after returning home.”

  “Why didn’t you go back to farming after the war?”

  He looked out the window again. “I tried, but I was too restless. As much as I wanted to be with my family, it was hard realizing that I’d changed so much while they’d remained the same. I wanted to buy my own land and heard about all the money to be made around here, so I left home and came to Indian Territory.”

  “Do you plan to buy land around here so you can drill for oil?”

  Jim shook his head. “No, I hope to get land closer to my uncle’s farm. He lives near Guthrie in the Oklahoma Territory.”

  Disappointment washed over Sasha. Jim wasn’t staying in these parts. When had she started hoping that he might care for her? That they might have a future together?

  She licked her lips, knowing she must be a glutton for punishment, but she wanted to prolong her time with him. “So you’re not of Indian blood? I thought maybe because of your coloring. . .”

  He smiled, lifting her mood. “No, the way I understand it, we’re French and Scottish. I have a grandfather I’ve never met who owns a big plantation in Georgia.”

  Sasha fiddled with the samples in her hand. Being French would explain his dark good looks. Still, disappointment raced through her. Jim was the first male friend she’d ever had. Actually, her first true friend. And he didn’t seem to mind that she was half Indian, but she couldn’t help believing that if he was of native blood, too, he might be more open to a deeper relationship with her. But knowing he was a white man, she doubted he would.