by Paige Tyler
Between bathing the children to control their fevers, she managed to scrape out the spoiled remains of food and wash up the few dishes. They were mismatched. Some were chipped porcelain with an ivy-leaf pattern, and some were plain tin. As she snooped through the cupboard to put them away, she had to acknowledge that first impressions could be deceiving. The cupboard was clean. No spilled flour or sugar collected insects. Fresh shelf paper had been laid beneath the jars.
Curious, she took a lantern and inspected the rest of the tiny cabin. The hearth was swept clean. No cobwebs or dust boles gathered in the corners. Even Mr. O’Shea’s bedroom, a small room with a much-patched quilt on the simple iron-frame bed, was clean and orderly, if noticeably empty.
Where was he?
Had their letters crossed in the mail? Had he told her he’d meet her somewhere else? Further up on the trail, giving them more time together? Or perhaps so they could find a priest and be rightly married? The original plan had been for him to meet her in Weston Corners, and join him here. Mr. O’Shea had written that the priest would come by within a few weeks to offer them the sacrament of Holy Matrimony, and he would sleep in the barn until then.
Morgan gathered her courage and went out to the barn to look. In the loft, a small bedroom had been prepared, with a simple hay tick mattress, a quilt and a lantern, but there was no sign of Mr. O’Shea there, either.
A team of mules stomped impatiently in their stalls. Morgan sighed. The children should be her first concern, but she just couldn’t ignore the aging beasts. Her uncle had a large horse barn with many fine animals. Although she had been expected to work mostly in the kitchen, she knew enough about his farm to help out almost anywhere. She tossed an armload of fresh hay in their mangers and gave them each a handful of grain. Judging by the condition of their stalls, it hadn’t been more than a day or two since they were last cleaned.
And if the mules were both here, then Mr. O’Shea couldn’t have gone far. If he’d merely gone out hunting, then he should be home soon. It was getting dark.
Morgan continued to explore, counting a dozen chickens, three cats, one of which was exceedingly pregnant, and a flock of sheep too large to count. A large, floppy-eared dog stayed with the sheep, ignoring her when she tried to call him to her. He was white, with long curling hair that made him almost look like one of the sheep.
It was a simple homestead. It couldn’t even begin to compare to the hundreds of green, rolling acres her uncle had owned, with dozens of red-and-white outbuildings and miles and miles of white fence. Her uncle’s farm shouted success, but she had never been more than an unpaid servant there. Here she would be a full partner. Latching the barn door behind her, Morgan hurried back into the cabin.
The crippled boy stirred. He gave a frightened gasp, but then he scowled, trying to hide his unease. “Who are you!” he demanded.
“I am Morgan Margaret Shaunacy,” she said, offering him a friendly smile. “Soon to become Mrs. John Patrick O’Shea.”
He continued to scowl. “Papa changed his mind. He don’t want no bride now,” he said.
“Where is your father, and I can talk to him about that?” she asked, trying not to alarm the boy.
“Out.”
“I see. How long will he be out?”
The boy sniffed his nightshirt and gave her a suspicious glare. “It smells good.”
“Yes, I imagine it does. I love the smell of clean clothes.”
“You WASHED it? How!” He clutched his quilt around his thin frame, beet red coloring his neck and ears.
Morgan sat on the edge of his narrow bed, plumping the pillow and urging him to lie down. “You’ve been quite ill. We can talk about everything tomorrow, after you’ve rested.”
The boy sneezed and shivered. “How’re the girls?”
“I’ll check on them next,” Morgan said. “But they are doing better.”
He covered his mouth as he yawned widely. Morgan smiled, pleased to see the simple gesture. Perhaps these prairie waifs weren’t entirely wild. “I’m hungry,” he said sleepily.
“You go ahead and rest. I’ll wake you when dinner’s ready.”
The boy nodded, snuggling down into his quilt. A fine sheen of moisture still coated his forehead, matting the golden wisps of hair to his face. Pale eyelashes rested against pale cheeks. His lips were delicately defined, almost pretty. Morgan felt tenderness for him well up inside, and she was compelled to kiss him. He stiffened, showing boyish indignation, but then he smiled.
“Do I get to call you mama?”
“Yes, honey. I’m your mama, now,” Morgan whispered, wiping away the tears that filled her eyes.
Chapter 2:
Morgan sat up with the girls all through the night. The older three seemed to pass a turning point, but the littlest one remained weak and listless. She didn’t seem that feverish, but her eyes had a vacant, empty stare that frightened her. Morgan bundled her in a blanket and carried her down the steep ladder. She had spied a handcrafted rocking chair by the fire, and couldn’t resist the urge to use it. It was a little big, built for a man, which made her smile. Not many men would take the time to rock their children. Warm, tender feelings towards the stranger she would take as her husband were growing stronger. If only he would come home.
“Good morning, mama,” the boy said, just as pink colored the horizon.
“Is it morning yet?”
He smiled, and the impression she’d had of a little angel deepened. “Morning comes early on a farm,” he said sagely, perhaps reciting something his father had taught him.
She agreed. “I grew up on a farm, too. My uncle’s farm was very large and he had many sons and hired men to do the work. I was going to fix something for your breakfast, but I didn’t see your cow. Does she run out to pasture with the sheep?”
He shook his head. “We don’t have a cow.”
“No milk?”
He cocked his head at her, as though she were being particularly dense. “We milk the sheep,” he said. “It’s my chore, mostly. But I guess Papa’s been doing it since I got sick. Where is Papa?”
He craned his head towards the little bedroom, his eyebrows puckering.
“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “I haven’t seen him since I arrived.”
“But he should be here! Something must have happened to him! We have to go look for him now!”
The boy’s frightened response stirred her own misgivings. From what she’d seen of the little cabin, Mr. O’Shea seemed to be a loving, sensitive father, so why had he abandoned them? She felt sick inside, praying that her dream to be married wasn’t going to turn sour.
“Don’t you worry now, young man,” she said, drawing in a deep breath. “First things first. I’ll get breakfast, then I will go look for him. I have never milked a sheep before. Is it very different from a cow?”
“I’ll do it,” he sighed.
“You should stay in bed, you’ve been terribly sick.”
“It’s my chore! They don’t know you, and they’ll just run away. Turn around, so’s I can pull on my pants.”
Morgan turned. She felt anxious, but also a little relieved. She knew she’d be learning many new things eventually, but she didn’t want to learn them all today. She folded her hands to keep them from picking at her buttons nervously. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Lee,” he said, huffing already.
Morgan glimpsed over her shoulder, startled as she watched him yank hard to tie leather thongs around his twisted legs. The leather was nailed to smooth wood supports padded with fleece, a sort of homemade brace. When both legs were thoroughly tied from thigh to ankle, he tucked crutches under his armpits and struggled to stand. He glared at her, as though daring her to say something stupid. Morgan forced a smile over her churning emotions.
“You manage very well,” she said.
“Papa made these for me,” he said proudly. “Maybe I can’t run, but I do just about ever’thing else.”
�
�I’m sure you do. And thank you for offering to get the milk.” She watched as he made his way to the door, moving first his crutches, then dragging his legs. His twisted feet never touched the floor, only the wooden braces. He looked unstable, but he didn’t fall, not even when he shifted both crutches to one arm in order to open the door. Morgan waited a few minutes before going to watch from the window until he disappeared behind the barn, surprised at the protective streak she felt for him already. Then she went to stoke the fire.
The littlest girl stirred from her awkward position in the rocking chair. She fisted her eyes, staring blankly around the room. Morgan gave her a bright smile. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said. “I’m going to be your new mama. Did your papa tell you I was coming?”
The girl didn’t respond. Morgan tried not to let it hurt her feelings. “You look like you’re feeling better. Do you like eggs? Or what do you usually have for breakfast?”
“She don’t talk none,” came a high-pitched voice from the attic. The golden - haired daughter appeared at the top of the ladder, with a sunny face. “My name is Bridget. That’s Rebecca. Are you really our mama now?”
The child’s warm greeting stirred Morgan’s heart. She hadn’t realized just how important it was for her to feel welcomed. Her brother loved her, but her uncle had always treated her with disdain. He hadn’t even loved her enough to give her a good spanking when she’d deserved one, although her brother had received his fair share, along with her rambunctious cousins. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the petulant emotions. She was here now, for better or worse.
“Good morning, Bridget. You look like you’re feeling better.”
“Uh-huh! An’ I’m starved!”
“Well, come on down, and you can help me with breakfast.”
“I can’t!”
Morgan stared at the expressive little face, all screwed up now like she might cry at any moment. “Why not, darling?”
“I don’t see my clothes! Papa don’t let no one come to the table in our sleep wear.”
“Your dresses are still dirty, I did not have time yesterday to finish the laundry. And since you girls were so sick, I insist that you stay in your nightgowns all day. Even to eat.”
The girl looked skeptical. “Did Papa say so?”
“Your papa isn’t here right now. But I say so. Come on down.”
The girl hesitated only a moment before scrambling down the narrow ladder. “We most always have cooked oats for breakfast,” she informed Morgan. “With milk! An’ sometimes Papa lets us put fruit on top.”
Oatmeal was probably best to settle stomachs, Morgan acknowledged as she glanced longingly at her starter. If she replenished it with milk and flour today, she could make a batch of sourdough pancakes tomorrow. Bridget kept up a steady stream of chatter, telling her just where everything was, and exactly how Papa made it. Her high-pitched voice was a little grating on the nerves, Morgan thought ruefully, and hoped one day she’d get used to it.
The older girls soon joined them. Bridget informed her their names were Kate and Hannah. Hannah smiled shyly, but Kate’s black eyes looked wary. Morgan hoped it wouldn’t take long to gain her trust, and perhaps, even her affection.
“Hannah is a lovely name,” Morgan said, giving the quiet girl a smile. “It’s a Bible name, meaning “gracious”. She was the mother of a great prophet.”
The girl’s smile deepened, but her head dipped and her shoulders inched up like a turtle trying to climb back inside its shell.
“What’s my name say?” Bridget demanded.
Morgan laughed. “Your name isn’t found in the Bible. It’s Celtic. It means “strong.” I think it suits you.”
“I’m strong!” the little girl proudly declared.
“Strong-willed,” Kate whispered in her ear.
Bridget’s lower lip protruded and her hands perched on either side of her hip. “I’m telling Papa!”
Kate flinched, but she quickly recovered. “It ain’t name-calling when it’s the truth.”
“Enough, girls,” Morgan said, amazed when her feeble attempt to ward off an argument succeeded. Kate set the table, Hannah helped the littlest one wash up at the sink and Bridget tugged a comb through the tangled knots of her golden hair. Kate took the comb from her, finishing the task with surprising tenderness.
Morgan’s heart filled with hope. The children had rules and knew they ought to obey them. They respected their father, yet did not seem to fear him. That could only mean that he enforced discipline with loving consistency. In that regard, he must be a lot like her father had been. John Patrick O’Shea was a most unusual man.
Her uncle had been volatile. One day he’d just ignore his three demon spawn while they destroyed furniture and broke windows in their roughhousing, and the next he’d whip them severely for sneezing at the dinner table. The only rule seemed to be “thou shalt not irritate thy father.” As a result, the boys had grown to adulthood without developing a conscience.
Her father had been as different from her mother’s older brother as any two men could be. Robbie Shaunacy had large, capable hands, the hands of a farmer, but he’d never used them in anger against his family. Oh, she’d been turned over his knee a few times for a spanking she’d obviously earned, but even while she was sobbing her eyes out, immobilized in the ignominious position, she’d always known that she was cherished. For years she’d prayed for a husband who would love her like that!
Lee returned, his crutches and braces making a loud thump - scrape on the wooden floor. Kate jumped up to take the milk from him, pouring a portion of it into a pitcher on the table. Then she opened a small door in the floor and climbed down the ladder. Curious, Morgan followed her.
The cellar had been dug out of the earth, with thick blocks of ice stacked in the corner, blanketed in sawdust. Morgan rubbed her arms briskly. It was a good forty degrees colder down there. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars of fruits, vegetables and even stewed meats. A few sausages hung from hooks in the ceiling-the floorboards from the room above - although there were a number of hooks that were noticeably empty.
“Did you do all this canning?” Morgan asked, gesturing to the jars.
“Me an’ Papa,” she mumbled. “We all work together. We manage fine by ourselves. We don’t need you here.”
Morgan was stunned at the resentment in the girl’s voice. “Well,” she said, drawing in a deep breath. “I see. Perhaps you can teach me how to can meat, then, and I’ll teach you better grammar. The correct way to say that is ‘Papa and I’.”
The girl glowered at her, before scurrying back up the ladder. Morgan hurried after her, a little worried that Kate might close the hatch and lock her down there. The other children were sitting at the table, their bowls filled with steaming oatmeal, tin mugs of milk beside each place, yet no one was eating. Morgan glanced at the chair at the head of the table. It was obviously their papa’s chair, but there wasn’t one for her on the other end. Should she sit on the bench with them, where her bowl had been placed? No, she decided. This was a battle best fought immediately. She might not be their real mother, but she was an adult, and soon to be their papa’s wife. She deserved their respect. Morgan moved her bowl and cup to the head of the table.
Lee and Kate both grimaced at her, but Hannah gently touched her hand. “We can’t eat until you say a grace,” she whispered.
Morgan smiled. Thank God! Her husband wasn’t a heathen! She clasped Hannah’s hand, and took little Rebecca’s hand, waiting until all the children joined the circle, then she bowed her head and recited a simple grace. “Amen” was immediately followed by “pass the jam” and “more milk, please” as the children showed that they were indeed, just children. They talked with food in their mouths, and wiggled constantly, and spilled on the table. All except the littlest one. She ate woodenly, like a little puppet on a string, without the slightest expression on her face. Something was very wrong with her. Morgan needed to talk to her betrothed.
If only he would come home!
She waited until the food was nearly gone and their appetites seemed to have been satiated before she asked again about their father. “Do any of you know where he might have gone?”
The girls shook their heads, wearing identical expressions of concern. Lee shrugged. “He might ‘a said something, but none of us remembers. We was pretty sick.”
“I know. But the mules are in the shed, so he couldn’t have gone far. Where should I go to look?”
“I’ll go with you,” Lee stated.
He would slow her down. Morgan felt panic starting to well up inside. She needed to stay busy, or she might lose control altogether. She put water over the fire to heat for washing dishes, but Kate wedged her away. “That’s my chore,” she snapped.
“Fine. Let me know when the dishes are finished, and I’ll heat wash water for your dresses.”
“That’s mine, too.”
“But you’ve been ill. Shouldn’t you take it easy today?”
“You cooked breakfast. That’s mine, too.”
Morgan clenched her teeth. She hadn’t expected his children to be loving right from the start, but she really had not anticipated such resentment.
“Let’s get started,” Lee called, already halfway out the door.
Morgan followed him to the pasture, plugging her ears when he let out a shrill whistle. Promptly a fat little pony ran up to him, nearly knocking him over as it nuzzled him affectionately. Lee hobbled into the barn, the pony tagging behind, where he struggled with a small saddle. Morgan couldn’t just stand by and watch a moment longer. She gave him what she hoped was a friendly smile, and helped to saddle the pony. At least if Lee were riding, he wouldn’t slow her down.
The saddle was like none she’d ever seen, with leather straps and buckles in odd places. Lee sat on the ground and untied his leg braces. The pony lowered itself down, too, and Lee crawled on its back, then fastened his legs to the saddle with the leather straps. The pony stood only when Lee was secure in the saddle. Not only was John Patrick O’Shea a caring man, but he was incredibly clever. She’d seen a trained circus pony before, but had never met a man with the patience to train one himself.
