Marna

by Norah Hess

"It don't feel like no bee sting, I'll tell you that. But I don't feel as bad as I thought I would. Layin' on my back, it must be drainin' good."

  Jake answered that he was most likely right, and started to turn away. Matt carefully leaned on an elbow and asked, "How come you're livin' here, Jake? Used to be a young couple here."

  "You mean the Robertses. I bought the place from them three days ago. Seems like the wife got a little leery of spendin' a winter here."

  Jake bent to lay some wood on the fire and asked over his shoulder, "You live around here, Matt?"

  Matt was so long in answering him that Jake was beginning to think his question had been improper. He was about to beg his pardon when Matt answered, "Yeah, I guess so. I had planned on livin' in the Ohio Valley, but things are too uneasy there. I was afraid of being caught up in the war. I've already had my share of fightin' Indians. I was on my way back to my men when them red varmints caught up with me. At first they were after my stallion. I had to kill a couple of them back in Ohio, and then they were after me. I'm glad to be back, I'll tell you."

  Jake looked like he wanted to pursue the subject but asked instead, "Are you hungry? You ain't ate in three days."

  "Three days! Was I out that long?"

  Jake gave a dry chuckle. "You was out, all right. Out of your head, too."

  Matt looked at him suspiciously. "Did I do a lot of talkin'?"

  Jake hunkered by the fire and, dipping stew from a pot, grinned widely. "Yeah, you talked a lot." He stood up and moved toward the bed, the steaming bowl in his hand. "Who's Marna?" he asked.

  Matt felt blood rush to his face. What crazy things had he shouted in his delirium? In his embarrassment, he did not notice the trembling of Jake's hands as he set the stew on a small table, nor did he see the eager, waiting look in the blue eyes.

  Finally he answered shortly, "She's my wife."

  The shadowed corner hid the draining of Jake South's face. His ragged sigh escaped Matt as he continued to squirm uncomfortably. It was a great relief when Jake asked matter-of-factly, "Can you manage the-spoon, or do you want me to help you?"

  "I can do it," he answered curtly, and took up the spoon.

  The meat was tasty, and Matt could feel a new strength running through him as he ate. He finished the bowl and asked for more.

  Matt did not know when he had fallen asleep, but when next he opened his eyes, bright sunlight was pouring through the drawn curtains. He felt strong and rested. Cautiously he rose to a sitting position. His back hurt him only a little, and he carefully lowered his feet to the floor.

  At that moment Jake entered the cabin, bringing a cold rush of air in with him. He carried a pail of steaming milk. Setting it on the table, he removed his gloves. Again Matt was startled by the smoothness of the long, tapering fingers. Jake South has never done a stroke of work in his life, he thought, and he wondered what the man was doing so far out in the wilderness.

  Jake looked at him and smiled proudly. Indicating the pail, he said, "I'm beginnin' to get the hang of this milkin' again. I haven't done it since I was a kid." He removed his coat and hurried to the fire. Turning his back to it, he remarked, "It's colder than hell out there in that shed." He looked at Matt. "I see you're feelin' better. You want to try and get on your feet for a while?"

  "Yeah, I believe I will. You done a right good job on me. My back hardly hurts at all."

  "I used some stuff I always keep with me. A woman gave it to me years ago. It's almost all gone now."

  "I know an old woman who makes up salves and stuff," Matt mentioned, sliding his feet into his moccasins.

  "An intense gleam shot into Jake South's eyes. "Do you, now?" he asked with interest.

  But Matt only answered yes, and moved slowly toward a chair.

  It looked for a second as if Jake might question him further about the woman, but instead he turned quietly to slicing bacon.

  It wasn't until the second day that Matt had been up and around that Jake brought up his marriage. Having just finished a hearty supper of roast venison, along with potatoes baked in the ashes, they sat in front of the fire, having their coffee. With their stockinged feet stretched out to the heat, they sipped in companionable silence. A liking for each other had grown between them, and each knew the other's need for silence.

  After a few minutes, Jake broke their easy silence with a question. "How long you been married, Matt?"

  Matt shot him a surprised look, then answered shortly, "I don't know. Two or three months, I reckon."

  It was Jake's turn to stare in surprise. "Two or three months? Don't you know?"

  Matt squirmed impatiently. "I don't keep track."

  Jake shrugged his shoulders. "I guess your marriage ain't like mine was. I always knew to the day and hour how long I was married."

  "I take it your wife is dead, then."

  Jake sighed. "Yeah, I lost her over fifteen years ago. She was the prettiest little thing God ever created."

  "How did you lose her?"

  "Childbirth." Jake stared morosely in front of him. "She was just a child herself. Only fourteen."

  "I think my wife is only thirteen," Matt muttered.

  A strange disappointment shot into Jake's eyes. "Only thirteen?"

  "Well, there seems to be some disagreement on that point between her grandparents. The old woman claims thirteen, and the old man says closer to sixteen."

  Matt sat staring in front of him as though in deep contemplation of his wife's real age. After a while he muttered, "She looks like sixteen to me." He gave a short laugh. "Maybe even twenty. She's sure full grown."

  Jake had edged his chair closer to Matt. Now he urged, "Is she pretty, Matt? What does she look like?"

  "Pretty?" Matt snorted. "Not hardly. The old woman thinks she is, though."

  Amusement for a grandmother's feelings softened Jake's eyes. "Describe your wife to me," he urged.

  Matt sat a moment, his eyes going dreamy as he pulled Marna into his memory. "Well, let's see," he began. "She's on the slender side, but real shapely. She has the most beautiful pair of breasts I ever saw on a woman. Her hair is reddish brown, and her eyes are blue and shaped like almonds."

  A small sound, as though of acute pain, escaped Jake. Matt looked at him curiously. His new friend sat with a hand covering his face, the big head bent low. He must he thinking of his dead wife, Matt thought, and was in sympathy with him.

  On the fourth day, before he left, Matt asked, "Can I help you with your traps before I go, Jake? I notice you ain't been foolin' with them. I hope it's not on my account."

  "Traps? What traps?" Jake laughed. "Hell, I'm not gonna freeze my butt off runnin' traps. I'm gonna stay close to this fire all winter."

  Matt stared his surprise. "What are you doin' up here, then?"

  "I'm lookin' for someone."

  It was on the tip of Matt's tongue to ask, "Who?" Then he remembered in time that you didn't ask that kind of question in the hills. You took whatever a man volunteered.

  When he stood on the porch, ready to take his leave, Matt thanked Jake for his care and hospitality. "My camp is situated a half day's ride from here. If you follow the river, you can't miss it. And if you ever need my help, just come and ask."

  "Thanks, Matt. I'll be lookin' in on you."

  At the edge of the forest, Matt looked back at the lone figure. There was a forlornness about him as he leaned against the porch post. He wondered about Jake's past, and who he was looking for. Lifting the reins, he said aloud, "If it takes that gloomy look off his face, I hope he finds his man."

  It was dark when he reined Sam in on a boulderstrewn hill and gazed down on the small post. Among the lights shining below, the kerosene-lit tavern shone the brightest. The flickering candles in the scattered cabins cast a dim light through the windows. Betsy's place was barely discernible, the lights were so low.

  He smiled in amusement as he pictured Betsy going through the motions with her customers. He remembered that he had been a long time wit
hout a woman. A few hours spent with the madam was just what he needed. Besides, Marna might welcome him more readily if he showed up with a chair or something.

  He nudged the stallion, sending him down the rocky path. His mind went over the pieces of furniture in the bawdy house. None of it really appealed to him. Just like the bed, it was out of place in the rustic cabin. He was almost sorry he had brought it to Marna. He should have made her one when he made the table and benches.

  Matt pushed the too-late thought from his mind. To keep it from returning, he put his mind to the girls who worked for Betsy. Maybe he should try one of them for a change. He might be missing something. Their painted faces and flamboyant clothes were kind of attractive. An idea came to him, and his face showed excitement. Clothes. That was the answer. Marna needed clothes.

  He had seen Betsy's wardrobe, and he imagined her girls had the same kind of garb. His mental eye ran over the other women. He decided that the slim redhead was Marna's size and that her clothing would do nicely. He urged Sam on.

  Even before the long building came into sight, Matt heard the loud laughter of revelers. Tying Sam to the hitchrack, he grinned. He had recognized the voices of some of his men. It would be good to see them again.

  Easing the door open, he stood in the shadows a moment, watching the men and women in the lowceilinged room. It was as usual. There were some paired off in dark corners, and the more indifferent ones were carrying on in plain view. The men without partners stood at a small bar, waiting their turn.

  Matt shook his head. He wanted privacy when he fooled around with a woman. Having an audience made him feel like an animal running with a pack.

  Partly concealed in a large chair was one of his men. Oblivious to everything but the half-clad body sitting on his lap, the hunter gazed at the ceiling, a dazed look on his face. Betsy removed her hand from inside his buckskins and whispered in his ear. The man nodded his head vigorously.

  A humorous smile curled Matt's lips. He would burst the hunter's bubble, he decided, and stepped out into the light. Betsy's gaze fell on him at once, and she let out an excited squeal. She jumped to her feet, the hunter forgotten. Throwing her arms around Matt's neck, she rubbed herself against him. "When did you get back?" she purred. "They said you had gone to the Valley for the winter."

  "I was there. I came back because I missed you so much," he teased.

  Betsy laughed liltingly. "I doubt that." Lowering her voice, she teased also, "Did you think of something else your wife needed?"

  Matt chuckled. "You hit it, Betsy. She needs some clothes."

  "Clothes? I somehow had the idea your wife is on the small side."

  "She is." Matt's eyes wandered to the redhead who worked desultorily to arouse a drunken homesteader. He jerked a thumb in her direction. "That one's clothes would fit just right."

  "Hell, Matt, I can't ask Julie to give up her finery."

  Matt's arms loosened from around her waist. "Maybe if I spent a couple of hours with her, she'd give them to me herself."

  Betsy jerked his arms back around her. "I'll make the whore give them up."

  Matt smiled down at her. "You won't regret it, Betsy. I've been a long time without a woman."

  Betsy's breathing became rapid at the promise in his eyes. "Come show me," she whispered, tugging him toward the door in the back.

  Matt held back. "Get my friend a replacement. He looks in a bad way."

  Betsy glanced at the sullen-faced hunter, then motioned to a plump young girl. "Rosie, take care of my friend here. Give him the works.. .on the house."

  Following Betsy's trim figure down the hall, Matt asked, "What's the works?"

  Betsy smiled coyly over her shoulder. "You'll find out in a minute."

  A couple of hours later they were going through Julie's clothing. Matt picked out filmy underwear, gowns and robes. Everything was in shades of blue and green. His fingers trembled as he visualized Marna's body shimmering through the sheer material.

  Betsy, always sensitive to what went on around her, sensed his thoughts. Jealousy rushed through her. "That's enough," she snapped sharply. "Leave Julie something. Besides, I'm going to have to replace these."

  Matt tossed her a grin and rolled the clothes into a neat bundle.

  Back in the main room again, three of Matt's men gathered around him. "Glad you're back, Matt," one of them said. "The place has gone to hell since you left."

  "I told Henry to keep an eye on things while I was gone-keep you men in line."

  "Hell, we don't hardly see Henry. Dove lives with him now, and he's always smellin' around her."

  "I see," Matt muttered, moving to a corner and setting down at a table. Betsy brought over a jug of whiskey and some glasses. Uninvited, the hunters joined him and waited for him to say more.

  For some time Matt only studied his folded hands clasped on the tabletop. Then, almost reluctantly, he asked, "What about Caleb? He'd have made you a good leader."

  The men looked away from him, an uneasy embarrassment on their faces. Then one of the hunters gave a decisive grunt. Leaning across the table, he said, "Matt, I hate to say this, but since you left, Caleb spends a lot of time with Marna. Mind you, I'm not sayin' anything is goin' on, but Caleb don't give a blast what goes on in camp."

  Matt gave no sign of being upset by the man's words. He coolly picked up the jug and splashed the clear liquid into the glasses. The hunters watched him, intent to see if his hands shook.

  Admiration came into their eyes as he calmly and steadily raised his glass and drank.

  Later, as Matt picked up the clothes and headed for the door, Betsy grabbed up her wrap and scarf. "I'll ride partway with you," she said. "I need some fresh air."

  Little was said between them as they rode along. Matt's mind was on Marna and of how she would greet him. Did he have a chance with her? Inwardly he railed at himself for not having taken her to bed.

  Matt and Betsy had arrived at a small cedar glade not far from the cabin when he brought the stallion to a sudden halt. Deep within the glade stood Caleb, his arms around a woman. The woman leaned away from him, staring up into his face. His heart thudding against his ribs, Matt recognized the woman as Marna.

  A wild and blinding anger shot through him. Unconsciously he lifted the reins and pressed the animal toward the pair.

  Weeks had passed since Matt had left. The morning cold extended throughout the day now. The wild ducks that had splashed in the rivers all summer had long since flown south, and still the snow had not come. The old-timers said that this was the latest in their memory that snow hadn't fallen. The hunters were becoming restless in their quarters and debated whether to set out their traps anyhow.

  Marna was back to her normal health, with only the thin, long marks on her shoulders and tiny, indented teeth marks on her leg to remind her of the cat.

  Hertha had returned home some weeks ago, back to Emery and his orneriness. But she had promised to visit every week.

  Henry and Dove were still living at the cabin, but every day Henry worked on a small place of their own, only a short distance away. He wanted it ready against the time Matt would come home. Hertha had come close to telling him the day before she left that it would be awhile before Matt returned.

  She had been tending Dove, who lay moaning with pain inside her little enclosure. Henry was crouched at the girl's head, awkwardly stroking her forehead. As his hand moved over the smooth skin, he talked to her soothingly. "Pretty soon Matt will be back, and then we'll be in our own place. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  Hertha opened her mouth to speak of Matt, but just then Dove groaned loudly, and Henry gazed up at her helplessly, "Is she gonna suffer like this every time she gets her monthly?" he whispered hoarsely.

  Hertha looked away from his anxious face. "No, no. She's only fifteen, you know. Young girls get bad cramps at first. Could be this will be her last bad one."

  "Thank God for that," Henry muttered. "I don't think I could stand this every month."r />
  Hertha shot him a side glance and answered drily, "No, I'm sure you couldn't."

  As she laid a warmed, folded blanket across Dove's stomach, her lips drew together. Inwardly she said, I wonder if he could stand the thought that Dove carried Corey's baby until a few hours ago.

  Tucking the blankets around the dusky shoulders, she prayed silently that God would forgive her part in the termination of the unfortunate pregnancy.

  She had come upon Dove one morning, crouched in the chimney corner, retching up her breakfast. When the girl discovered she was being watched, she turned away in shame. Pity had flashed in Hertha's eyes and she had moved to the young squaw's side.

  "Is the child Corey's?" she asked softly. When Dove nodded her head, she asked, still softly, "Do you want it?"

  "Never!" Dove ground out between clenched teeth. "I will kill it as soon as it is born."

  The girl had started to cry then, great sobs that shook her thin body. "Henry will turn me out as soon as he learns of it."

  Hertha had said no more, but the next morning Dove's coffee had been unusually bitter. By the afternoon she was bent over in pain, a trickle of blood running down her leg. Her black eyes had darted a question at Hertha. Hertha had given her a tiny, significant nod. Thankfulness had welled in the girl's eyes, then she was wilting to the floor.

  A month later Dove was still convalescing. Mama took care of the semi-invalid whenever Henry was away. A warm friendship grew between the two girls as they continued to live together.

  Marna brought out the loom Caleb had made for her. She placed it in front of the window to catch what light there was. Grandma had brought her some flax, and she would make a length of homespun from it. She was tired of wearing the buckskins all the time.

  As her fingers worked nimbly with the flax, her mind was on Matt. Was she foolish to hang on to that tightly rolled piece of paper that made her a wife? Wouldn't she be wise to have the meaningless words struck aside and put Matt Barton out of her mind? She might never lay eyes on him again. She could have Caleb's arms if she wanted them. And what was more important, he had declared his love for her even before she washed her face.