Place Called Bliss, A

by Ruth Glover

  Kezzie’s eyes were riveted on the expensive envelope in her hand. That it was expensive Molly knew from her perusal of the catalog and the “Papeteries” section. Hurd’s Irish Linen, she supposed, or Royal Superfine, or Crown Imperial, or Harmony Stationery, and all “cream wove or with superfine cream finish” (Molly wondered what that meant—the only cream she knew anything about came from cows or was rubbed into dry skin). As Kezzie drew the single page from the envelope, Molly identified it, to her own satisfaction, as “Gold Edge Papeterie,” with its vaunted “tinted ruled octave paper and fine gold edges, round corners, baronial envelopes to match.” That it came from a tinted box, Molly knew, too. Why would one need to own it, when looking at it gave one such satisfaction? Contemplating her proposed life as a minister’s wife, Molly happily settled for the latter and felt none the poorer for it.

  But what, this time, had the faraway object of her Mam’s devotion written? That it wasn’t bad news she could surmise from her grandmother’s face. But neither was it good news. Perplexed for the moment, Molly watched the aged face and its conflicting play of emotions.

  “Good news?” Molly finally asked.

  “Yes . . . I guess so. Yes, of course. She’s comin’.”

  “Coming . . . to Bliss?” Molly was dumbfounded. The rich, pampered, stylish Margaret Galloway was coming to Bliss?

  “For goodness’ sake, why?” Molly asked bluntly.

  “This land—the Bliss place,” her Mam said, “it’s hers now.”

  “Well,” Molly said, perplexed, “so are dozens of other properties, if what I’ve heard is correct.”

  Molly knew Hugh Galloway had died; Margaret’s letter had been sent immediately confirming that. Now, apparently, she was writing to tell of the will’s disposition. But come to Bliss? With so many other options, so many more important responsibilities? Besides, there was her marriage. . . .

  “Do you mean after the wedding?” Molly asked, small alarm bells ringing. It would be one thing to entertain Miss Ritzy Galloway, another to include a husband, a man unknown even to Mam. And on their honeymoon? What a honeymoon! A train trip, a bush hideaway—

  “Apparently there’s been no weddin’,” Mam said and seemed a little confused. “Listen, I’ll read it to you. It’s verra brief.”

  Lifting the “linen wove” stationery to her fading eyes, Kezzie read, “‘Things here are such that I’ve made up my mind to make a change. This is no longer home. I’ll explain when I arrive, for it seems the only’”—here the writer had struck out the word only and substituted best—“‘the best option, to come to Bliss. My father’s property there, the will says, is mine. I understand it’s under the caretaking of your grandson Cameron Morrison. There is no time to write back, Granny Kezzie, for my plans are made, and I will leave as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements.’

  “She’ll be here . . . two weeks from tomorrow, if there are no delays. Bein’ summer and all—or nearly so—the train should come straight through.” Kezzie looked blankly at the letter in her hand.

  “Is this troubling you, Mam?” Molly asked gently. “Isn’t it something you’ve longed for?”

  “In a way . . .” Kezzie quavered, swallowed, and continued. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ve dreamed of holding my angel girl in my arms again before I die. On the other hand—”

  “You’re afraid we’re not fancy enough for her. That’s it, isn’t it, Mam?”

  Kezzie hesitated. “No, no, of course not—it wouldn’t matter to Margo.” She hesitated, glanced at Molly, down at the letter, back to Molly. “Well, yes, maybe that’s it,” she added lamely, and Molly knew instinctively it wasn’t the problem at all.

  “We’ll all pitch in and help,” Molly promised, brushing her Mam’s soft cheek with a kiss. “Now, I’m off home. Don’t you worry about a thing, you hear?”

  Kezzie blinked, brought her thoughts and attention back to Molly, and managed a smile. But it was an uncertain smile, and Kezzie’s eyes looked strained. Perhaps even alarmed?

  Molly met Cameron in the yard.

  “Hey,” he said, knowing his sister well. “What’s the trouble? Things not going well with . . . you know who?”

  Molly smiled faintly. “They’re not going particularly swimmingly, to my way of thinking, if you mean Parker. But that’s not it. Cameron,” Molly lowered her voice, though there was no chance of Kezzie’s hearing the conversation, “that girl—Margo—is coming.”

  “To Bliss?” Cameron sounded unbelieving. It was a development he had not foreseen. That someone—a representative of the Galloway estate—should eventually come by, he half expected. That he would need to be prepared to give a reckoning, he expected. But that it would be to the “heiress” herself, now that was a surprise. Cameron whistled.

  “My future looks a bit uncertain,” he said. “I knew there had to be a change sometime, however. Well, I’ll take it a day at a time. She’s welcome to get someone else to run this for her . . . or, better yet,” Cameron’s tanned, square face lit up, “maybe she’ll sell. I could meet her price, I believe, or her terms. Say, wouldn’t that be great?”

  Molly mounted the buggy with much less zest than she had alighted from it and drove home thoughtfully: Mam troubled and uncertain; Cameron building hopes on the faint possibility that the Bliss place might yet be his. Loving them both, Molly laid aside her own uncertain future to take on the burden of prayer for her grandmother and her brother.

  Margo had marveled at the prairies. Nothing she had heard had prepared her for the vast stretches of open spaces of the northwest. In her mind’s eye she could see the humped backs of the buffalo, and she felt a strange sorrow over their decimation. Once, at a small town, she saw a massive pile of buffalo bones, the first crop, she was told, for many homesteaders. Sold for fertilizer, they brought about seven dollars a ton. Often, around a small town’s station, ragged, aimless men lingered—former buffalo hunters, and at a loss since the passing of their way of making a living. Indians, also, poor and thin and pathetic, lounged around the stations, selling handmade items that the white man sometimes found interesting.

  It would take a very special woman, Margo felt, to agree to live in such isolation as she saw from time to time from the train window. Small huts, called soddies, since they were built from the sod of their own land—dark, sometimes windowless, ugly, lonely—dotted the prairie, with only gophers, rabbits, and hordes of mice for company. But such blue sky Margo had never seen, and once, stepping from the train at an isolated stop, the wind had blown across the greening land, and endless miles of grass had bent and swayed to its orchestration in a silent grace that was sheer beauty. Margo had caught her breath, feeling very small indeed, and had crept back onto the conveyance—made by man and creeping painfully and noisily across the same land—and acknowledged the sovereignty of the One who ordered, “Let the earth bring forth grass . . . and it was so . . . and God saw that it was good.” It wasn’t difficult to believe in Creator God, on the prairie.

  Nevertheless, she breathed a sigh of relief when the green arms of the bush made their appearance. Almost, it seemed, they reached out to her. Could Margo find some semblance of reason and sense for the turn her life had taken—in the bush? Here, in the deep and secret vastness of the bush, would there be some light shed on the reason behind her father’s strange will and his stranger message that she might find out “why” if she cared to? Was her heart leading her to Kezzie? Was it possible that, as well as comfort, she would find understanding?

  If not, and this turned out to be a dead end, she could sell the property, return to the east, and make a new start with the funds obtained. It was the only resolution Margo arrived at.

  Stepping down, finally, to the platform in Prince Albert, the bustling, busy northern center of civilization, Margo knew only vaguely that here French Fur Traders and Mountain Men had coexisted with the Indians a century and more ago.

  Here, Margo also knew, Angus and Mary Morrison had ended their long trek from S
cotland’s bonny braes by a disastrous ocean trip and a long, wearisome overland passage by boat and by trail across Canada. Here Granny Kezzie had been summoned, and here she had stayed. Accustomed to the sounds and sights of a large city, Margo looked around with wonder, almost as she would look on a new world and a new species.

  “Miss Galloway?”

  Margo turned and found herself looking into dark eyes in a plump, dark face.

  “I’m Sadie LeGare,” the stranger said, “friend of Angus and Mary Morrison. Your train is considerably overdue—”

  “There was some kind of repair work going on . . . frost had thrust the rails out of line, I understand.”

  “It happens,” Sadie LeGare said with a twinkle. “Now, if you feel comfortable about it, you’re to come with me until one of the Morrisons, or someone from Bliss, comes in. They’ve been checking daily, so I s’pose it won’t be long you’ll have to be waitin’.” Sadie LeGare lifted inquiring brows.

  “Thank you,” Margo answered, relieved. She had been feeling very alone, and very far from home. “My things—”

  “I’ll see that they are stacked for the time being. Pierre, my husband, will get them, or whoever comes for you.”

  “Bliss,” Margo asked when the two women were walking together, “is it some distance?”

  “About twelve miles,” Sadie LeGare said, hefting the one small bag she had decided to carry; Margo had identified it as containing personal items that would be important to her toilette.

  “Mrs. LeGare,” Margo asked, “how did you know me . . . or had you asked others first? There were several disembarking with me.”

  “It was no problem,” Sadie LeGare said promptly. “Not only because of your dress . . . you look the part of Margaret Galloway, to my thinking. Our fashions here, of course, are several years behind yours. But—more than that.”

  Sadie LeGare turned her squinted gaze on the mass of dark hair and the delectable complexion of the young woman walking at her side and added, “I don’t know, really. There’s a resemblance . . . but that’s silly, I guess. You are about the age of Molly—”

  “She’s two years older, Gran . . . Kezzie . . . always told me.”

  “Well, she’s young and strong and built like you. Fresh and vigorous, full of life. Two young women would have much in common. You’ll like Molly.”

  “I trust so,” Margo said somewhat primly, willing but at the moment feeling strange and wondering just how much she could possibly have in common with a bush-raised girl.

  Thankfully Margo turned in at the small frame house, scrupulously neat, that was the LeGare home. Gratefully she accepted the use of a bedroom and a basin of warm water and the assurance of privacy should she care to bathe and rest.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, the steaming basin and snowy linens on a pine stand, Margo breathed deeply and looked around; never in her entire life had she seen anything like it: simple, almost barren, small, clothes hanging on nails along the wall, a rag rug on the board floor, homemade curtains at the one window. If she had been transported to the moon, she felt, it couldn’t have been more foreign.

  Having completed her bathing and freshening up, she was at a loss about what to do with the basin of water. Looking around, she saw no signs of any exit except the one through which she had entered, and it led into the living quarters of the home. Opening the door, she asked hesitantly, “The basin . . . what shall I do with it?”

  “Just leave it. I’ll get it later.” As she spoke, Sadie LeGare opened the back door and tossed out the contents of a dishpan; with a squawk, a dozen chickens dashed for its contents. Even on the edge of town, it seemed, people raised their own food; Margo could see a large garden just beyond, greening nicely.

  “Come, sit down,” Sadie invited. “I’ll get the tea ready. I know it will be refreshing after such a trip as you’ve had.” And she directed Margo toward a comfortable overstuffed chair in the part of the room obviously designated as . . . drawing room? Parlor?

  “You’ll find the Morrison place more . . . commodious. Pierre helped them build the first phase of their home, and it’s grown from there. They’ve done so well, you’d be proud of their accomplishments, if you just knew how raw and rough things were in the beginning. We, Pierre and I, feel ourselves so blessed, here in our home. God has been good to us.”

  Margo almost burned herself on the tea she gulped in astonishment. If this was blessing, she’d been living in Gloryland. And hadn’t known it.

  The tea and fruitcake were barely consumed when there was the sound of a rig outside and a masculine voice ordering “Whoa!”

  “That’s the Morrison buggy,” Sadie LeGare said after a glance through the open door. “I wonder who’s come for you. Molly came yesterday, and the day before that—”

  Mrs. LeGare was setting aside her cup and reaching for Margo’s as she spoke. Before she could reach the door, the screen was thrust open, and a man strode in. Looking toward the light of the entrance, Margo could see the outline of a tall, well-built male, broad shouldered, with shirt sleeves rolled up, immediately sweeping a hat aside. The sun, behind, lit the fair hair with a touch of fire, like a halo in the darker room.

  “So—you’ve arrived,” the voice said. “Miss Galloway, I’m Cameron Morrison, welcoming you for my grandmother and apologizing for her that she couldn’t be here in person.”

  Cameron Morrison stepped into the room, away from the blinding outline of light. His eyes, as blue as Kezzie’s, were fixed on the face of the newcomer in frank appraisal.

  Margo raised her eyes to a square, bronzed face as masculine as any she had ever seen. The nose was strong, the eyebrows straight, the mouth firm. But it was the blue eyes and the depth to them that held her transfixed. Margo Galloway, trained in some of the country’s best schools, gracious hostess and elegant, self-possessed dinner companion, was wordless before the keen, warm gaze of Cameron Morrison.

  With Margaret’s things piled around them, before and behind and on her lap, the man Cameron Morrison vaulted (there was no other term to describe the vigorous motion) into the buggy and picked up the reins. Even with her burden, the buggy tilted with his weight. Cameron Morrison was a big man. Big but without an ounce of flesh to spare. Big and healthy and, obviously, filled with the joy of . . . about to say “life,” Margo paused in her assessment, remembering Kezzie’s letters and repeated reference to her family’s personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Margo was hardly comfortable with addressing the Almighty as God, let alone heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and Holy Spirit. Such familiarity made her uneasy. Thankfully Granny Kezzie seemed to find it as unreal as Margo herself. Surely a man as masculine as Cameron Morrison would find such familiarity with one’s maker as unmentionable as all Margo’s other acquaintances had.

  But Cameron Morrison was saying, “Thank God you’re here safe and sound. According to Mam—that’s Kezzie, of course—it’s not proper for young females to travel unaccompanied. And so we all prayed faithfully for you. Other than being a little tired,” the blue eyes looked down on Margo in kindly fashion, “which is perfectly natural, you seem to have come through unscathed. Once in Bliss, with Mam, and our good fresh air and lots of rest, you’ll be as right as rain, I’m sure.”

  “How long until we get there?” Margo managed, feeling young and gauche and, somehow, furious because of it.

  “Two hours or so. Depends on whether we hurry. And I don’t see why we should. This is one beautiful road. Well, not the road itself, which tends to be rutty after a rain such as we had last night, but look—have you ever seen such green?” Cameron gestured toward the bush that crowded the road, cut back occasionally to accommodate a way into someone’s property.

  He was right. It was the new green of spring. Margo became aware of the freshness of the air and found herself breathing deeply.

  “Pure perfume,” Cameron said. “No pollution by man. Let’s hope it stays that way. I know it’s pristine—that is, hardly touched—so that it comes as nea
r to Eden as is possible here on this old earth.”

  “You sound . . . you sound . . .”

  “Foolish?” Cameron asked with a grin.

  “I was going to say contented.”

  “I suppose I am,” Cameron said. “I like what David said—”

  “David?”

  “The psalmist,” Cameron responded, and Margo felt herself flush at her ignorance. She hoped this man—so strong and vital and masculine—would not be a spouter of religious banalities. Would that be his one flaw? For that he was near perfection in all other ways Margo was blindingly certain. She hoped rather desperately that she would immediately discover a human frailty and that it would, once and for all, still this strange tumult in her heart.

  “The psalmist?” she asked now, and waited for his trite and stilted “testimony.”

  “It has something to do with fat paths.” Cameron’s grin was fleeting, but it was there. Was he teasing?

  “Fat paths?” Margo asked cautiously, intrigued in spite of herself.

  “Fat paths, happy hills, and singing valleys.”

  And that was all. Margo sat, stewing, in silence.

  Finally, “It’s Psalm 65 if you should care to explore it for yourself,” Cameron added.

  “Fat paths?” Margo burst out with after a moment’s silence. “That’s the reason you are a contented man? Fat paths?”

  “Would you prefer shining paths?”

  What was wrong with the man! Why couldn’t he just preach to her and get it over with!

  “The path of the just,” Cameron all but sang out above the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the occasional creak of the rather ancient buggy, “is as the shining light.”