by Debra Samms
Now things were falling into place. "So," she said, "Fred's mother is the one who has not forgiven you."
Silence.
"But most of all . . . you have not forgiven yourself."
He turned just a little, so she could see the side of his face. He seemed to blink and then stare out into the distance, as though trying to comprehend what she had said.
"George, it isn't possible that your words hurt that man. I know it seems like it. But listen to me: You are not that powerful."
He tightened his jaw, and shook his head.
"You're not," she insisted. "Only God could speak and take a life. Are you claiming to as powerful as God, George?"
His eyes opened wide, and he blinked again as he gazed at the tree trunk. It was clear that he had not thought of it that way. "No," came the harsh whisper again.
Clara stepped closer to him. "I am so sorry his mother could not find it in her heart to forgive you. But perhaps she simply was not strong enough to carry such a burden on her own – the burden of losing her son. And so she made you be the one to carry it."
The peaceful quiet of the grove settled around the two of them as George stood motionless beside the tree. But Clara was sure he was considering her words. Finally he took a deep breath and she thought she saw a slight nod.
"That was not fair to you. But you have done her a great kindness – a great service – by allowing it. No one could have done more.
"Yet I can tell you, George, that now, your work is done. You have carried this burden for her long enough. She will go on now as she always has. Whether Fred's mother forgives you or not, the time has come for you to forgive yourself."
He looked down towards the ground, but she could see that he was listening.
"You have earned it, George. You have more than earned it. All who do penance deserve forgiveness. And you have done far more penance than any man I know."
She reached out and placed a gentle hand on his very strong arm. He did not resist. "Please, George. Walk with me back to the town. I don't want to go alone. I don't want to go without you."
To her relief, he turned very slowly until he faced her. She waited patiently while he gathered his thoughts, for she could see that he wanted to say something.
"You . . . forgive?"
His words were slow, but she could see the intense pain in his eyes. "You mean – do I forgive you, for the loss of your friend?" Clara shook her head, and smiled through her tears. "Oh, George . . . there is nothing to forgive. But yes. Of course. Of course I do."
The sun began to shine through the parting clouds, down into the grove where George and Clara stood. He reached out and held her close, resting his head on top of her own. They simply stood together in the cathedral of the forest for a time before walking together back into the town.
***
Just over a fortnight later, Clara borrowed a genuine white lace wedding gown from her friend Delilah Michaels and allowed the other girls to fit it to her. She let them arrange her soft, dark-brown hair into something like curls, and then took up a little bouquet of delicate white Queen Anne's Lace wildflowers – and just for fun, she placed little bits of dark-green watercress among the flowers and tied it all up with a piece of green ribbon.
When all was ready, Clara walked with two of her closest friends – Miss Susannah Lake and Mrs. William Strong – down the road that led out of Sawyerville, walking towards the east.
Clara found George Conyers waiting for her in the pretty little grove in the woods. It was the same place where they had spoken together on that day when she'd come out to watch him work, the day where they had come to terms with each other and George had come to terms with his past.
Standing with George were Bradley Fisher and Sheriff William Strong, and waiting with them was the preacher.
After a short and simple ceremony, the groom kissed his glowing new wife, and Clara could not stop smiling. She'd never been so happy as she walked hand-in-hand with her husband up the road back into Sawyerville.
Though the wedding itself had been quite small and simple, a very fine, and very large, wedding reception awaited them at the Sliding Belle saloon.
The other girls living at the Sawyerville Ladies' House had spent the morning and all of the previous day making wedding cake and cookies, and so the wedding party and their closest friends sat down inside the Belle for cake and lemonade. All those who could not crowd inside – which seemed to be nearly everyone living in the town and in the loggers' encampment – enjoyed dancing and socializing and cake in the street outside.
Sitting with her new husband at a table, Clara looked up and waved to her friend Susannah. The other girl quickly picked up a couple of boxes from a side table and brought them over.
"Thank you," Clara said, taking the boxes. "Now, George, we get to open our wedding gifts to each other! Here's yours. I hope you like it."
Very carefully, he unwrapped the green ribbon and then slid off the plain brown paper. There was a small, flat cardboard box inside.
George gave her a knowing smile.
"I'll bet you think you know what's in it," said Clara, with a mischievous smile. "But I'll bet you don't. Go ahead. Open it up."
His expression did indeed change when he lifted the lid and found a stationery set, with good quality paper and a real pen with ink. "No book?"
Clara grinned, delighted at having surprised him. "Not this time. But we'll get more books. It's just that you do write beautifully, George, and I hope you will always write. As much as I love speaking with you, I'll always love your notes as well."
He smiled at her and looked genuinely happy, which warmed her heart as well.
Then he handed Clara a gift, too. It was about the same size as the one she had given him and also wrapped in brown paper, though this one was tied with a thin blue ribbon. Quickly she tore into it and lifted the lid on the box.
"Oh! It's beautiful," Clara said, as she lifted out a nicely worn leather book. "Let me see . . . it's called Pride and Prejudice, by Miss Jane Austen."
She turned to look at George. "How did you get it? You must have made a special order with Mr. Frost at the mercantile! Thank you. It really is beautiful."
Then George took the book from her, opened it, and showed her the handwritten inscription on the inside cover.
For Mary Hannah Braun Conyers, from her friend, Eulalie Maria Moran Beaumont, Christmas, 1848
Clara looked up at him, thinking, and glanced back at the inscription again. "Mary Braun Conyers. This was your mother's book. Wasn't it?"
He nodded.
"And the one who gave it to her – Eulalie Beaumont – was the mother of your friend, Fred Beaumont, who died. His mother once gave this book to your own mother. They were friends."
He stood looking at her in silence, though his face was calm.
"Are you sure you want me to have it?"
George took her hand and used it to gently close the cover of the book, and then he pressed the book against her chest. "Yours."
"Thank you, George. And I'll read it. I'm sure you have. Then we'll talk about it, if you like."
"Yes, Clara. We will. I promise I will talk to you always."
THE END
Clara And The Silent Groom
A Sawyerville Brides story
BRIDGE TO MY HEART
A Sawyerville Brides story
CHAPTER ONE
Near the Oregon Pacific coast
August, 1878
"Gods above," Hattie whispered. "What happened here?"
The covered bridge over the ravine, which Hattie remembered traveling over when she'd first arrived at Sawyerville, now had the scorched pieces of an enormous Douglas fir tree lying right across the middle of its caved-in cedar-shingle roof.
"That tree must be two hundred feet tall," marveled Sheriff Strong. "Or was."
"Hit by lightning, sheriff?" asked Zachary.
"Had to be. The trunk is all scorched and broken. Still smoldering a little, too, there in the
middle."
"That bridge'll have to be rebuilt," said Allen. "Floor looks intact, but I'd never trust it again – not after being hit like that."
"So this is the work the storm did, after it left Sawyerville," said Hattie. "Now we know why the wagon train never came back."
Hattie slid down from the horse and gave the reins to Ben. She walked over to the smashed and broken bridge, getting as close as she dared.
The bridge was only about sixty feet long, and the ravine only some forty feet wide, but it may as well have been forty miles wide for all that they could get to the other side – the other side of the ravine where John Gilbert had gone. She could only hope that she'd find him over there somewhere, if it wasn't too late and he'd already left forever.
And then something on that other side caught her attention.
***
Sawyerville, Oregon
June, 1878
On a fine summer afternoon in the great spruce and Douglas fir forest along the Umpqua River, Harriett Mary Norton walked down the hill from the higher of the two streets in the town of Sawyerville. She could hear the ringing of the blacksmith's hammer coming from the livery barn at the bottom of the hill, and smell the burning charcoal of the forge.
"New skirt, Hattie?" asked her friend Ruby Swanson, walking beside her and carrying a basket.
"Just finished it last night," answered Hattie, tossing her long brown braid over her shoulder and then lifting her blue patchwork skirt out of the dust as she walked. "This is the third one I've made."
"I like how you've used all shades of blue for this one. It'll match your eyes. The other skirt is all made from yellow pieces, isn't it?"
"It is. With just a little green."
"What about the third one? I don't think I remember – "
But just as they swung past the very large livery barn and turned onto the main road, there was a sudden stomping of hooves followed by a torrent of cursing. Then there was the loud snap of a rope breaking, almost as loud as a gunshot.
"Look out!" Ruby pulled Hattie out of the way as a loose horse came tearing out of the barn.
"Hey! That's Sheriff Strong's horse!" cried Hattie. She pushed past Ruby and took off after the small Palouse mare, which was running down the main road but going away from the direction of town.
Hattie knew she'd never be able to catch the horse by running it down. Her own legs were short and round, like the rest of her, and her heavy pistol in its holster bounced at her waist. She'd have to find another way.
The mare, whose name was Butterfly for the white pattern over her dark brown rump, would soon realize that she was running away from all of the other horses in the barn and from all the hay and grain she was given there. Hattie slowed down and just walked quickly along, waiting for the mare to figure it out – and very soon, she did.
The horse had gone down the curving road far enough that she was out of sight of the familiar town, and suddenly found herself alone and surrounded by nothing but dark, heavy, and very tall forest. Butterfly dropped into a trot and swung back around towards the town. The short length of broken rope still dangled from her halter.
That's when Hattie saw her chance. "Now, then, little girl," she said, stepping right into the middle of the road and spreading out her arms. "My daddy told me about this. He said horses don't like to be alone. He said they'd much rather be with a person – almost any person – than be alone. So here I am."
The little mare stopped, looking around with her head high and her ears flicking everywhere, and then stood staring at Hattie – who stepped forward as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and caught the broken rope where it trailed from the halter.
"Nice work," said a voice from behind her.
Keeping a firm hold on the skittish mare's halter, Hattie looked up to see a man walking towards them on the road.
She didn't recognize him, but she and the other prospective brides from the east coast had only been here in Sawyerville for some three weeks and there were nearly a thousand loggers living in the camps.
This man was just a couple of inches taller than she was, which wasn't saying much, but she noticed right away that he had black hair and brown eyes and a nice smile. "I'm John Gilbert," he said, and extended his hand to her. His arms and hands were short and thick and strong, like the rest of him.
"I'm Hattie Norton," she said, quickly shaking his hand and then putting both hands on the flighty mare's halter again. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you. Now, I take it you came out to Sawyerville with the rest of the women who wanted to get married?"
She shrugged. "I came here with some other women. We all wanted to get away from the factories back east. We might get married. We might not. Either way's fine with me."
He nodded. "I came out here to start over myself. Good place for it."
"I suppose that's what a lot of the men out here do. Always work for loggers."
John laughed. "Sorry, but I ain't no logger. I'm a farrier."
"Oh, I see. Then – you must have been the one putting the shoes on this mare."
"Tryin' to. But she's never had shoes on before, and she spooked when I hammered a little too loud."
The mare raised her head as they came into sight of the livery barn once more and neighed loudly, pulling even harder at the short length of broken rope. John reached over and took hold of the halter himself, making Hattie step back. "I'll take her. Thanks for your help. I’m just glad that she didn't run any farther than she did."
Hattie stepped back, glad enough to let him take the fractious horse. She dropped back to walk alongside John Gilbert, suddenly conscious of the fact that she wore a man's shirt with her patchwork skirt . . . and that she had buck teeth and her figure was short and round and somewhat heavy.
But she could do nothing about any of that now.
CHAPTER TWO
Soon Hattie and John were back inside the barn, where he tied the mare to a post once again. "You mind standing at her head?" he asked. "You seem to know how to steady her just fine. She might like this better with you at her head for company. I know I would."
John Gilbert flashed that nice smile at her again, and Hattie nearly forgot what she was doing as she watched his white teeth and brown eyes. "Hold her, now," he said sternly, as he reached for the hammer again, and Hattie quickly took hold of the halter as John started work again.
"Fancy skirt you've got there," he said, picking up Butterfly's left front foot and hammering away again. The mare stood with her eyes bulging out and her ears flicking, but she remained still as long as Hattie stayed at her head.
"Thank you. I've always liked sewing and knitting better than cooking. I'm always sewing on something, it seems."
"I wouldn't mind having a nice quilt made like that someday."
"I make those, too." Then Hattie made herself turn away from him and just look at the mare's rolling eye, for she herself could hardly think straight as long as she had John Gilbert in sight.
A small movement at the open barn door caught Hattie's attention. She glanced back to see Ruby looking in at her with a puzzled expression.
John was still setting the nails through the shoe and into the hoof. Hattie quickly waved Ruby off, mouthing I'll meet you later! and hoping her friend would understand. From Ruby's sly grin, she understood perfectly, and walked away towards the main street.
Hattie sighed with relief and kept her attention on the nervous mare, who was beginning to settle down now that she had a patient hand to steady her. Butterfly was learning that being shod was strange, but did not hurt her.
It was not long before the shoeing job was done. John untied the mare and led her to the back of the barn, where he opened the door and turned her out into an attached corral with Big Joe, the black work horse who belonged to Sheriff Strong's wife, Molly. Then he closed up the door and walked back to Hattie.
"I'm gonna eat," he said. "Care to join me?"
Hattie shrugged. "Already ate befo
re I came down today."
"Well, you can still join me, can't you?"
She hesitated. Thinking back, she couldn't recall a single time a man had simply asked her for her company.
"I've got apple walnut cookies that one of the camp cooks made," he said. "I'll give you one of those cookies if you'll sit with me."
Hattie looked up – and couldn't help but smile. "Apple walnut," she repeated. "I suppose that's pretty hard to turn down."
"Don't, then." John grabbed a metal bucket with a linen napkin covering it from near his anvil. Then he walked across the barn aisle, heading towards the stack of small bales and loose hay stacked high along the side wall in the front half of the barn. "Have a seat."
He sat down on one bale of hay and pulled out another for her, and soon Hattie was sitting across from him while he pulled out fried chicken and biscuits and cornbread from the bucket – and a large apple walnut cookie that he handed to his guest.
"So," he began, around a mouthful of buttered cornbread, "you said your name's Hattie?"
"Harriett Mary Norton," she said, breaking off a piece of the cookie. "My father liked to call me Hattie."
John gave her that fine grin again, and she could not help smiling in return. "Well, then, Hattie Mary," he went on, "was it your father who taught you how to get along with horses?"
"He did. I always did like horses, anyway."
"Me, too. That's how I ended out here as a farrier, shoeing them and doctoring them. Rather do that than just fell trees or drag logs all day."
She nodded. "I can understand that. I sometimes come down here and take a piece of sugar to the horses out back in the corral."
"Oh. So you're the one."
She shot him a look, wondering if he'd been watching her, but he only reached into the bucket for more cornbread. "After I got here," Hattie went on, "I found that I missed being around horses. Visiting them out here, under these huge trees, was the best reminder that I was finally out of the city."
