The Brides of the Old West: Five Romantic Adventures from the American Frontier

by Peggy Darty, Darlene Franklin, Sally Laity, Nancy Lavo

  “So you’re Swedish. I thought so. We had a Swedish community in Lafayette.”

  “My grandparents came from Sweden and lived in Ohio. My parents live in the same farmhouse my grandpa built. I’m the oldest of thirteen children.”

  “The Indian women only have three or four children each. I thought that odd.”

  “Not when you consider that a man might have three wives. Then he is supporting nine to twelve children.”

  Tildie’s eyes grew big. “I hadn’t noticed that.” She thought for a moment. “The Indian who wanted me, did he have other wives?”

  Jan laughed. “You would’ve been wife number four. The elders weren’t too happy with his greed.”

  Tildie blushed. Jan continued, ignoring her discomfort. “He also had a passel of kids. He must have admired you quite a bit to be willing to take on three more.”

  He laughed again, but the thought sobered Tildie. She looked over to where the children sat happily engaged in their own activities.

  “That’s going to be a problem.” She sighed. “They’re good children, but I can’t imagine how I’m going to provide for them. The homestead was profitable when Uncle Henry was alive, but John Masters pretty much ruined it. I’ll have to depend on the foreman to turn it back into a working ranch.”

  “There’s a foreman taking care of things?”

  “Yes, George Taylor. He’s probably getting more done without John Masters underfoot.”

  “Tell me about the ranch.”

  Tildie began with what she knew from the letters they had received from her aunt and uncle after the two headed west to settle. Boister came over to sit beside her, soaking up the information about his parents’ early life.

  “Uncle Henry had a way about him,” said Tildie. “He was a friend to everyone. He was strong and ready to lend a helping hand to anyone. There were just a handful of settlers in their group, and he became their leader.

  “He was helping with a load of rock. They were gathering the stones from a streambed to make a chimney in a neighbor’s house. The load tipped, and he and the wagon went down the bank in a landslide.”

  Boister took hold of her hand. “I got to him first,” he said. “Everyone was yelling, ‘stay back,’ but I didn’t mind ’em. Pa was dead.”

  Tildie gave him a squeeze with the arm she draped across his back. His scrawny frame tensed as he leaned against her. It was the first time she’d ever heard him say anything about the accident. She knew it was a monumental step for the little boy but wasn’t sure how to respond. He probably didn’t want her to make a fuss, so she plunged on with the story.

  “Aunt Matilda had never been without someone to guide her. First it was her father, my grandpa. Then when he died, it was her brother. She married Uncle Henry when she was eighteen. They lived in Lafayette for two years before he decided to move west.

  “After he died, she needed someone to help her. Unfortunately, John Masters came along and sweet-talked her into believing he was the answer to her prayers. He wanted the house Uncle Henry had already built, fields that were already plowed and sown, and the thriving cattle spread Henry already started.

  “Once they were married, John showed his true colors and browbeat my aunt and the children. He got drunk regularly and drove off most of the hands.

  “When I came, there was no help in the house anymore. Aunt Matilda had Evelyn, who was almost a year old. Aunt Matilda had given up, just quit.”

  Tildie stared off into the distance remembering the woman who came to the door when she knocked. Thin, aged, with vacant eyes, she stood there, not recognizing her favorite niece. Her face and demeanor were so altered, Tildie thought she had come to the wrong house. With dawning horror, she realized this pathetic woman was the aunt who had played with her when she was young. This was the vibrant young woman whose earlier kindness had won a place in Tildie’s heart forever.

  She had reached out and taken the thin, rough hands of her aunt. “Aunt Matilda, it’s Tildie….”

  The guide she’d hired to bring her from the nearest settlement realized something was wrong. “Miss, this is the right place. Weren’t you expected?”

  “I wrote a letter…”

  The door opened wider and John Masters pushed Matilda aside to stand in the doorway. His feet apart, his arms crossed over his chest, he looked at the uninvited guest with barefaced contempt. “We wrote back, ‘don’t come,’” he growled. “I got enough mouths to feed. I took on two brats when I married your aunt, and we have a gal of our own. You’re not needed here. If you could ride a horse and work the cattle, that’d be different. Can’t keep decent help out here.” He turned, pushing Matilda out of the way again, and stomped back into the dark house.

  “You want me to take you back to the way station? A stage will be coming through next week. Take you back East,” offered the guide.

  “No.”

  The word was but a whisper. It didn’t come from his passenger, but from the woman in the door. Aunt Matilda took hold of Tildie’s arm and looked her full in the face. Her eyes filled with tears and the grip on Tildie’s arm tightened. “Stay. Please stay.”

  “Yes, Aunt Matilda, I’ll stay.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jan handed Tildie a bowl of soup. She took it absentmindedly. Evie toddled over to thump herself down on the ground next to her cousin. The tousle-headed charmer held her chubby hands out to Jan with a irresistible smile and said, “Please.”

  “You want some soup, too?”

  Jan dipped out the broth and handed it to the little girl. “Be careful. It’s hot!” he warned.

  “Hot. Blow,” she commanded and held the bowl in front of Tildie’s face. Tildie turned from her memories to involve herself in helping Evie cool her soup. Evie handled her spoon very well, even though she hadn’t seen her second birthday yet.

  “Hot. Blow,” she said repeatedly, making them laugh as she dipped the spoon into the crude bowl, then held it out for different people to blow. Some soup was spilled, but not enough to cry over.

  Tildie admired Jan’s way with Evie. Some men didn’t know how to handle a toddler’s enthusiasm. Jan took it as a matter of course that Evie’s soup needed to be blown, and some spoonfuls required a blow from each and every one of her dinner partners. He had as much fun joining in her foolishness as the family.

  Eventually, they had to resume their long trek. They watched the sun set over the Rockies as they followed it west. Jan informed them that the mountains originally had been called ‘Shining Mountains,’ and Tildie agreed it was more than appropriate.

  Evie soon rode in the sling again, hanging on Jan’s side. When Mari got tired, they stopped to shift the loads. Tildie got Evie and the sling. Jan hoisted Mari onto his back. He shortened his long stride so Boister and Tildie had to do less scurrying to keep up with him.

  As they walked, he told stories. Some were of his travels in the wild, unsettled plains. Others were of his childhood. His Swedish grandmother had a store of Old World folktales, and Jan related them with a heavy Swedish accent. The accent alone sent the children into peals of laughter. The travel seemed easy with the merry sound of laughter and eager questions.

  Tildie was distracted. She barely listened and didn’t join in. Her mind dwelt on the time she spent living with her aunt and John Masters. Again, she felt the cold fury toward the man who had come into her aunt’s life and made a bad situation so much worse. She stewed on his meanness and missed the humor in the stories Jan told.

  Silver clouds scuttered across the moon. The night breeze gentled after the blustery day. They walked with only short rests until the travelers began to stumble over their own feet.

  In spite of the long nap in the afternoon, the children settled down as soon as Jan and Tildie had the blankets rolled out. Tildie lay down as well, but she found it impossible to sleep. After a time, she gave up and went to sit on the trunk of a fallen tree, gazing out over the moon-drenched landscape. Gladys plopped at her feet, quickly going back
to sleep with her chin on Tildie’s bare toes. When the dog raised her head sharply and gave a muffled woof of greeting, Tildie looked over her shoulder to see the huge form of the Swede coming toward her.

  “Can’t sleep?” He sat beside her.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “I’m used to Gladys being tucked up beside me. When she moved, I wondered why.”

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She waved a hand gesturing to the slightly rolling hills and the towering mountains beyond.

  “It is.” They sat in silence for a while.

  Out of the stillness of the night came an owl’s call, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”

  “What was that?” asked Tildie, brought out of her reflective mood by the strange, mellow sound.

  “It’s a barred owl. It could be almost a mile away.”

  “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” the owl repeated.

  “It’s eerie,” observed Tildie. “Are you sure it’s far away? It sounds so near.”

  “No, I’m not sure. The sound carries so well, he could be in one of the trees above us or clear across the field.”

  “It sounds like he asked who’s cooking.”

  Jan chuckled. “He has another cry.” Just as he finished his sentence, a shrill, cat-like scream rent the air. Tildie jumped and grabbed Jan’s arm.

  “That’s it,” laughed Jan.

  “Did he kill something? Wasn’t that the cry of his victim?”

  “No, that was his other call. I always thought he was venting his frustration because no one answers when he asks who’s cooking.”

  “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” came the call on the still night air.

  Tildie laughed. “We should answer him. I don’t want him getting frustrated again.”

  They were silent for a while, listening to the night sounds. A slight breeze whispered through the leaves above. The brook bubbled over the round stones. A plop in the water sounded nearby, and Tildie lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Jan.

  “Toad, most probably.”

  She nodded, confident that Jan would be able to identify any of the mysterious night sounds.

  Jan watched her as though puzzled. “Why are you disturbed? You’ve been quiet since you told me about John Masters’s and your aunt’s spread. The children joined in the talk as we walked, but you seemed far away.”

  Tildie turned her face from his scrutiny. He was a missionary, a man of God. Would he understand the torment she’d felt since the day John Masters died?

  “You tell people about Christ, don’t you?” Her words were a bare whisper hovering among the quiet sounds of the night. “You tell them how to be saved?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you feel when someone believes in Jesus, accepts Him?”

  “I feel good.” Jan shrugged, baffled by her question.

  “Have you ever hated the one who accepted Christ? Have you ever wanted to take the words back, wished you hadn’t spoken, wanted the man in hell?” Tildie voice remained low, vibrating with the pent-up rage she’d been hiding.

  “Who, Tildie?”

  “John Masters.” She drew her knees up until her feet rested on the wide log and her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She bowed her head against her knees, hiding her face. “I hate him. I can’t let go of the feelings. While he was alive, we just tried to get through each day without having more trouble than we needed. I didn’t realize how much I hated him.

  “He destroyed what my uncle had built. He destroyed my aunt. Boister has never recovered from his father’s death, and that can be laid at John Masters’s door, too. The girls were mistreated. He even hit them when he was drunk. Once he swung at me. I ducked and he fell into the fireplace. He hit his head and was out cold. I pulled him out, and Aunt Matilda and I wrapped his burned hand with salve and clean linen strips. We left him to sleep it off on the hearth rug.

  “I didn’t feel the anger then, but when he was lying there, dying in the Indian tepee, rage surged inside of me.”

  She turned her face to rest her cheek on her knees, and Jan saw wet streaks. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized she was crying. Her cold, dispassionate voice hid the tears.

  He laid a hand on her back, and she closed her eyes, relaxing somewhat in the comfort of his touch. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. It came in a shudder, and her lovely features tightened into a grimace as she tried to control her feelings. Jan’s hand stroked up and down her back in a soothing motion.

  “Tell me about it, Tildie.”

  She couldn’t face him as she spoke, so Tildie lifted her head to stare off and away from the lonely spot where they sat. “I don’t know what I was thinking I would say when I managed to sneak away from Older One and crossed the village. I knew he was dying. I had to see him, but really didn’t know why.

  “He was mangled, and the smell was horrid. He looked so dirty and disgusting. All the times he was drunk, I never felt pity for him, and all of a sudden, I was sorry for him.” She paused, remembering the confusion of strong feelings.

  “I hated him. Aunt Matilda was already dead. He was supposed to take care of her. He didn’t, and she was dead. He was supposed to take care of the children, and he was going to die and leave them and me alone in that Indian village. Any minute he would slip away. I starting telling him how horrid he was, how mean and low-down. He was dying, and I was railing at him.”

  She paused again, almost too ashamed to go on. Jan waited.

  “He heard me. He said I shouldn’t talk to a dying man like that, and then I was telling him to repent because he was going to hell. I didn’t hear him say the words, but I know he did. I could see it on his face when he was dead. That despicable, low-down worm of a man had a look of complete and utter peace on his face, and I was angrier than ever. He’d made so many people suffer, and he didn’t get punished. I didn’t want him to get off scot-free.”

  The last words came out in sobs and Jan put his arm around her. First she stiffened and drew away, but the emotion had too hard a grip on her. She leaned against him, trying to stifle the sobs against his chest.

  She thought of the sleeping children and didn’t want them to waken. As in the lonely nights in the Indian encampment, she desperately did not want them to see her weak. She must be strong for them… and how could she explain the bitter tears of hatred for their stepfather? How could she be an example of a strong and loving Christian when she was so weak and full of hatred?

  “There, there, Tildie. Cry it all out.” Jan spoke softly into her hair, rocking her gently in his arms. After a bit, the violent, racking sobs subsided. She rested within the curve of his arm.

  “You know, he did suffer,” Jan said.

  “He was in terrible pain from his injuries,” agreed Tildie. The shame of her verbal attack on a dying man softened her voice.

  “Yes, but I was meaning every day of his life.”

  Tildie pulled back from him and took out the scrap of calico she still used as a handkerchief. She blew her nose and wiped her tears.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “If you know a person who acts like he did, you can walk away from him. Some of them, you can walk away and never deal with again. Some of them, you can at least have a moment’s peace from time to time away from their distemper. But imagine being that person. You could never get away for even a moment. Even in your dreams, you would still be the despicable character everyone hates.”

  She leaned against him again, and he held her close to his side.

  “I never thought of that.” Tildie sighed.

  “There must have been a lot of hate in that man, and as much as he aimed his hatred at you and his family, he aimed more at himself. He knew he wasn’t as good a man as your uncle Henry. That probably made him meaner. Even in his evil intent to take over the ranch and live a life of ease, he failed. Do you think he ever succeeded at anything?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted.
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  “Do you think he liked himself for taking a good thing and making it bad?”

  “He said it was the lazy hands, bad weather, and coyotes. He had an excuse for every failure.”

  “And did you believe the excuses?”

  “No,” she said strongly.

  “Do you think he really believed them?”

  “No,” she said quietly.

  “He was a miserable man, and he suffered every day of his life just because he was stuck being himself. He knew of no way to change. He didn’t have our Savior to ease his pain and lead him to a better way.”

  “I haven’t been a good Christian, Jan. In the Indian camp, I asked God to help me and didn’t expect Him to listen. God knows He had to force me to talk to John about salvation. I didn’t want to, and God knows how angry I am that John didn’t go to hell.” She hiccuped on another sob. “Jan, that sounds so horrible. Everytime the thought goes through my head, I’m ashamed. How can God even stand for me to call on His Name?”

  “Well, let’s count your sins. One, you hated a hateful man. Two, you begrudgingly helped him to heaven. Three, you’re angry with God for forgiving him. Four, you doubt God is good enough to forgive you of your sins. Five, you doubt God is strong enough to help you conquer the resentment and hatred and provide for you and the kids all at the same time. Maybe, the last one should count as three. One for resentment, one for hatred, and one for thinking He wouldn’t take care of you. That makes seven.”

  Tildie leaned back to look at his face, uncertain as to where his list would lead her.

  “How many times did Christ say we were to forgive?” he asked.

  “Seventy times seven.”

  “Uh-huh. Maybe because He figured that was about all we were capable of. Personally, I think He just meant not to be keeping score.” Jan shifted and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Now God, being God, should be able to forgive a whole lot more sins than a human’s puny four hundred and ninety. Doesn’t that figure?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, since He doesn’t keep count, having lost previous sins in the depths of the ocean, it figures He could handle your seven sins.”