“It does make it easier to share food,” John said passing a basket to the couple sat at the other table.
“We should do this for Thanksgiving.” Susan clasped her hands. “Wouldn’t it be glorious? The whole town outside, not just the volunteers.”
Betty raised her brows and looked at the scene before her, taking in the peals of laughter, stories being told over shared pies, and strangers asking for and giving out water, bread and meat to each other.
“You’re right,” she told Susan and turned to John. “We should do this once the chapel is finished. Not just for lunch, but a Thanksgiving dinner.”
“To celebrate the year and everything we’re thankful for,” Clyde added. He grinned down at his wife. “Like marrying you, for example.”
“I can relate to that,” John murmured beside Betty.
She blushed and told him to eat some more, her mind already thinking of recipes and the delicious meals she could cook up for Thanksgiving. Looking at the happy faces all round, she was convinced it would be a success.
Chapter 6
“You didn’t have to come to the market with me,” Betty said, taking the basket from her husband. “Just rest for a bit before you have to get back to work again tomorrow.”
But John had a stubborn side to him that only surfaced when it came to Betty – and helping other people.
“Well, I knew you were gonna be carrying a lot.” John placed a tied bunch of five carrots inside the already loaded basket. His eyes roamed from crate to crate checking the vegetables and fruit on display.
“That’s because you want second helpings of everything,” Betty said, nudging him with a smile.
“Not my fault you cook really well.” John nudged her back.
They smiled at each other.
But Betty was eager to get back to the shopping, so she quickly turned back to the stall. With John by her side, groceries always took twice as long to sort out. Primarily because they couldn’t stop teasing each other. It was a pleasant distraction, but a distraction nevertheless.
“No wonder it smells like a pig sty.”
They both turned to the left to see Stephen Sternham and his sister, Sylvia walk up to the next stand. The dainty young girl with ribbons in her long blond hair picked through the fruit on display.
“I’ve heard Injuns don’t bathe,” Sylvia muttered and wrinkled her nose.
“Actually they do,” John said. “In fact, they use the juice from berries in their hair and –”
“Is that why your wife smells like the woods?” Sylvia teased.
The carrot stick in Betty’s hand broke in two and glared at Stephen. “At least I don’t smell like cheap liquor.”
Sylvia’s face reddened, and she tossed her basket to her brother. She placed her hands on her hips and pouted.
“Well at least we’re not a family of thieves.” She pointed a finger at John. “And he’s not even a real Christian.”
Betty wanted to pour some sense into the girl, and though she knew better her hand itched to throw the basket at Sylvia.
“And insulting and lying about your neighbor is a very Christian thing to do?” She stepped forward, but John held her back. “My husband is more Christian than you will ever be, Miss Sternham.”
Sylvia’s bug-eyes grew larger.
“The bible said nothing ‘bout Injuns. And it says plenty about thieves. People like him,” she threw a glance in John’s direction, “will never be accepted in this town.”
“Did you have the chickens for breakfast?” Stephen asked, folding his arms against his chest, squawking as he waved them up and down.
“I didn’t steal anything,” John said.
“Sure you didn’t.” Stephen looked around and raised his voice. “Old Reece woke up this morning and his chickens were gone. And what’d he found in his yard?” He paused, looking meaningfully at the passers-by who stopped to listen. “He found an arrow, that’s what. Looks like someone went a-hunting...”
Elijah, who ran the vegetable and fruit stand, dragged his wooden boxes away from John and Betty. She glared at him, and he gulped.
“I didn’t take the chickens,” John said. “And why would I be hunting chicken when I can just buy them?”
“Well why do you have to hunt boar when you can just buy a pig?” Stephen shook his head, and turned around to address an older man standing behind him. “I wouldn’t trust him around my house if I were you, Mr. Wicker.”
“That’s it!” Betty threw her basket at John as she grabbed Stephen by the shoulder. “Apologize to my husband! You have no right to say those things to him.”
Stephen shrugged off her hand. “I’m an upstanding Christian and I will say what needs to be said. I’m just concerned about my town.”
“Well, so am I,” Betty said.
Stephen sneered at her. “Wrong. This ain’t your town.”
Before she could do anything with her clenched fists, John stepped between them and said, “Stephen, however I’ve wronged you, please don’t take it out on my wife. I didn’t steal the chickens. I swear.”
“Like your word means anything.” Stephen spat at his feet.
“What’s going on here?”
Everyone looked around, then instantly scurried to look busy when a tall and large man wearing a black smock walked up to John and Stephen.
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” He placed thick hands on the two Stephen and Jon’s shoulders, his eyes dark and narrowed.
The stranger’s smile stretched wide on his face, but the hard lines and stubble on his face spoke of a far less gentle side.
“I don’t think it’s any of your business.” Stephen glared at the newcomer as he shook of the man’s hand.
“Oh, but I think it is, considering I’m your pastor.”
Everyone looked at the man with wide eyes. Someone coughed nearby and a few people in the back cleared their throats.
“Y-you’re the pastor?” Sylvia asked.
The man nodded, thick blonde hair bobbing. “I’m afraid I had been delayed, since I had to stop in Angel Creek to get some supplies for the chapel. Oh, but I did manage to find out one thing already,” he turned to Stephen, “Old Reece had found his chickens. Said he saw them wondering in Mr. Sternham’s garden.”
Stephen’s face reddened. Betty stepped towards him. “And you had the gall -!”
“Betty River, isn’t it?” The pastor asked, shaking Betty’s hand as Stephen scurried away, his sister running to match his stride. “I heard you’re one of the best cooks in town.”
“I – uh – well.”
“And John River.” The pastor shook John’s hand. “You’re one of the chapel builders?”
“Yes, Reverend.”
He looked at the couple. “I haven’t had a lot of time to go around Fernville, yet. Would you two like to show me around?”
“Of course!” John and Betty said together.
“Good.” The pastor clasped his hands together. “I’d very much like to see how the build’s progressing.”
Chapter 7
John leaned back in the chair he’d built a few days ago. It was sturdy and comfortable. He ran his hands up and down the arms and closed his eyes. It was a tiring day, and he relished every minute he had at home.
“Feeling sleepy?”
John cracked open one eye to see Betty handing him a cup of hot cocoa. “Thanks.”
“I got a letter this afternoon,” Betty said. “My mother was asking about us, about the town.”
“Oh, how’s your mother? She all right?”
Betty nodded. “She and my older sister get along very well. Plus, she has fun being with her grandchildren. Speaking of which…” Betty eyed John over her cup, but John could see the red spreading all over her face. “She – she was asking about, you know, when we were planning to…”
“To have kids?”
Betty coughed and cleared her throat. “Yeah, but – it’s – well, Mother is old.”
Joh
n sat up straight and sipped his drink, the wisps of steam hiding the small blush on his face. “My grandfather once said, ‘Children are gifts from the Great Spirit.’” He smiled, seeing campfires, songs, and dances in his mind’s eye. “I remember our tiyospaye.”
“‘Tiyo – what?”
“Tiyospaye.”
“What’s that?”
John shifted in his seat and took another sip before answering. “In a Lakota tribe, everyone works to raise the children together. The tiyospaye – it’s sort of a – I don’t know how to phrase this – a camp? A bond we share with our tribe.”
Betty nodded, but then furrowed her brows. “Wait, I remembered you saying you were also a Sioux?”
John smiled. “It’s what many people call the Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota tribes.”
Betty pursed her lips, nodding slowly. “Sounds confusing.”
John chuckled, but before he could begin to explain to Betty the difference, something hit their door.
“What was that?” Betty asked.
Then, something hit their window, wood splinters flying everywhere. They both jumped to their feet as something rolled towards them, then stopped at their feet. John picked it up - a piece of cloth wrapped around a large rock. Big red letters that spelled SAVAGE and MURDERER stood out against the dirty white strip of fabric.
“Come out here, you savage!”
Betty turned to the door instantly recognizing Stephen’s voice.
“Stay here,” John said. He approached the door, but didn’t open it. “Who’s there?”
“Murderer!” A woman’s voice rang clear in the night, followed by more insults and rocks pounding against the door.
“John,” Betty began, but he held up a hand to stop her.
He opened the door, and ducked just as a small rock sailed over his head. He stood up straight. A small crowd gathered at the foot of their front porch, throwing rocks and sticks at their door.
“What’s going on? What do you want from us?” John asked.
“Get outta our town!” Stephen Sternham raised a clenched fist in the air.
“You’re just gonna bring us trouble,” another man shouted, teeth bared like a coyote.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John said, throwing his arms wide open. “I haven’t done anything. I’ve been in town all day, helping the build –”
“Some of you Injuns attacked a bunch o’ rangers a few towns over,” another neighbor, Willy Russoe, added.
John sucked in a shaky breath. Tension between Indian tribes and soldiers or rangers had been growing lately in the area. He splayed his arms “I had nothing to do with that, Willy,” he said.
“You’re just like them savages!” Stephen said. “You should get outta town before you get any of us in trouble!”
He picked a rock and threw it at John who evaded it, but a gasp from behind stopped him cold.
He turned around. Betty had her hand pressed against her head. The rock lay at her feet.
“Betty.” He placed an arm around her and touched her head.
“I’m fine. It’s just a small gash.”
A red-hot sensation blossomed in his chest as he turned around to face Stephen and the others. But they all had backed away once they saw the rock hit Betty.
“Stephen,” John croaked, the name almost impossible to say without anger.
But before he could approach the young man, the loud ringing of the bell echoed around town, followed by shouts growing louder by the minute. A red column rose into the sky. Chris Donovan streaked passed them, shouting, “-on fire! The chapel’s on fire!”
Chapter 8
John trudged down the road, feeling the heat of blatant glares and the hiss of suspicion from his neighbors.
He almost let out a loud sigh when he reached the pastor’s house.
“John?” the pastor greeted him, as soon as the door flew open, eyebrows raised.
“Good morning, Reverend.”
“Come in, come in,” the pastor stepped aside to let John in. “What brings you here so early in the morning?”
Placing clammy hands inside his pockets, John took a seat opposite the pastor in the living room. He let his eyes wander around the sparse house, thinking about his own humble dwelling, and how it would look like stripped bare. Would anyone buy the house? Or would he have to leave it, knowing full well that either someone would claim it or burn it to the ground – the last legacy, last gift from his great grandfather.
“I heard about the chapel,” John began.
“I assume everyone in town has,” the pastor said with a sigh. He massaged his forehead. “We’ve spent so much on the materials already. Not sure we can rebuild any time soon…” He paused and looked at John. “But that’s not why you came is it? What seems to be the problem?”
John rubbed the back of his neck. “I – I’m thinking of moving my family elsewhere.”
“Moving?” The pastor leaned back, running a hand up and down his leg. “Why? Has something happened?”
“Last night,” John began, “before the fire, some people were – were making a ruckus outside our house.”
The pastor nodded. “I heard there’d been a skirmish between some rangers and some Indians a few towns over. But that’s got nothing to do with you. I’m sure everyone will calm down in a day or two.”
“I don’t know…” John hesitated. Things have been getting worse, not better the last few months. “They were pretty adamant I should leave, and Betty got hurt.”
The pastor’s brows furrowed and he shook his head. “I think I better talk to them then. Who were they?”
John put up his hands. “Oh, no, Reverend, it’s all right.”
“It clearly isn’t.” The pastor folded his arms across his chest. “I will not tolerate this kind of behavior in Fernville.”
Except that they’d still take it out on John, or Betty, and he wasn’t up to ratting out people like a schoolboy.
John shook his head. “It won’t change anything, Reverend. Plus, I think it would do Betty and me good to start fresh somewhere.”
“And what does Betty think about that?”
John leaned back in his seat. “I haven’t told her yet. But I’m doing this for her. I don’t want her to get hurt just for being my wife.”
Pastor Quill sighed. “Where do you plan to go?”
“Maybe Oregon. My cousin and her family are staying there.”
“And your cousin is…?”
“Someone of Lakotan descent, but she has converted to Christianity.”
The pastor nodded. “I wish you didn’t have to leave because of this, John.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best.” He sighed, and then looked up at the pastor. “I can still help with the chapel though. I know it’s not the same as doing the work myself, but if you need supplies… My family has always worked with wood, I’m sure they could spare some building materials. Here, here’s the address and a letter I wrote you can take with you. They’ll get you all you need.”
“John, I don’t know what to say.”
“Just pray for us Reverend.” He stood up, shook the Reverend’s hand and left the house.
Once outside he took in a deep breath and trudged back home, head down, trying to make himself invisible. He didn’t have anything to do with the fire, but gathering from the whispers he’d overheard earlier everyone seemed to think he’d asked his Lakotan relatives to do it in his place. John clenched his fist. No doubt Stephen was behind the rumors. Maybe I should have asked the Reverend to speak to that boy before he gets himself into real trouble…
The steady pace got him home quicker than usual. John opened the front door expecting a quiet day ahead, but instead he found Betty busy running around the table, laying out several dishes.
“Is it your birthday? I’m sure you said it was in May.” John chuckled and closed the door behind him. No matter what happened the sight of his wife always put him in a good mood.
Betty turned
to him with a smile.
“Oh, no, you remember correctly. I’m just trying out the dishes I’ll be serving for Thanksgiving. Susan’s gonna come by later today so we can see what works best and who can do what.”
“Listen, Betty,” he began, a stinging hot sensation rising up in his chest. “I went to see the pastor – about last night.”
She quickly stopped pacing. “What happened? Do they know who it was? Is he going to talk to the people who did it?”
John tilted his head, on the verge of coming up with something that would put her fears to rest, but instead, he said the truth, “I’ve been thinking about moving.”
“Moving?”
He took a seat at the dining table. “I think it’d be better if we moved to another town. You know, one where – where we don’t get insults written on our wall, where they don’t throw rocks through our windows, where -”
“But the plans for Thanksgiving are underway.” Betty wrung her hands. She looked like a child who’s about to have candy taken away from her. “Susan and I’ve invited other people too.”
“They might not come, not after last night.” He didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but his gut told him otherwise.
“But if we help repair the chapel…”
“I don’t think it’s going to help much.” He stood and approached her. “We’re not welcome here.”
“But if we leave,” Betty said, stepping forward, “it’ll be like we gave up, like we’re guilty.”
“Betty –”
“They have to know that doing this to someone is wrong, and that we’re not gonna let them drive us away from our home, John.”
He stared into his wife’s gray eyes, dark and deep, that held all the strength and courage he admired from the first day he laid eyes on her.
John opened his mouth to speak, but something hit their window. Yellow ooze dripped down the glass leaving behind the white shell pieces stuck to the window. Betty gasped when another one followed.
John drew her close as the barrage continued.
“This is all my fault,” he muttered.
A Mail Order Bride for Thanksgiving: Betty & John (Love by Mail 5) Page 4
