“What’s so funny?” he inquired. “A minute ago you were near tears and now you’re giggling.”
“Oh, nothing, I was just imagining the meals I‘m going to make for you when you return.”
“And… that’s funny?” His dark brow rose.
“I figured if I could become a brothel madam in the bedroom, anything is possible.”
They shared a laugh, but the mood quickly turned somber. They embraced. She soaked in his warmth and breathed in the smell of him to sustain her until he returned. He buried his nose in her hair and heaved a sigh. Reluctant to part, they stood in silence and watched the sun creep over the distant mountains. The chilly night gave way to a heavy morning mist that created an eerie sight as it hung around the corral, looking almost ghostlike.
Holding back tears, Cecile kissed him. “Please be careful and do hurry home to me.”
He held her at arm‘s length. “I will, I promise. Now, don’t forget to milk the cow every day. Try to use the oats for the horses sparingly, and stay out of the rooster’s way.”
As if he needed to remind her. She pulled a pouting face, making Walt laugh, and stepped back into his embrace.
After a long, lingering kiss, he peered down into her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll hurry home. You just keep my place in bed warm.”
While he climbed aboard the wagon, she recalled the pleasure they’d shared last night and how his easy nature always calmed her worries. There was no way to measure how much she loved him. She squared her shoulders and feigned confidence she didn’t feel. His last glance at her shouldn’t leave him wondering as to her capabilities. Tears welled and she blinked them away.
Slapping reins and creaking wheels disturbed the dawn’s silence as Walt drove out of the yard. She waved one last time, then stood shivering until he had disappeared from sight.
Suddenly, the quiet returned, this time bringing a hollow feeling that forced out her tears. Gazing around through the blur, she realized how truly alone she was. Just her and the animals, at least that’s what she hoped as she ducked inside and closed the front door, sliding the locking bar across it.
The warmth inside felt good as she stood next to the fire. She choked back her sadness and resolved to be brave. A little extra work never hurt anyone, and time alone would let her reflect on her life. Well-earned blisters grated nosily together when she rubbed her palms back and forth over the flames, and she grimaced, knowing she would only earn more with her added chores. What happened to those blemish-free hands she once had?
Her thoughts turned to Walt. Where was he now? Was he thinking of her? She smiled picturing his handsome face and appreciating how wonderful he made her feel. Despite her nervousness at the moment, her life was better because he was part of it. She looked around the still dismal room, realizing she could live anywhere as long as they were together.
Although tempted to crawl back into bed and sleep until he came home, she admonished herself for acting so childish. She donned her work clothes, imagining the look on her father’s face if he saw her dressed for farming. His little girl milking the cow and gathering eggs; he’d faint dead away. She forced herself out of the coziness of the cabin into the cool morning air. “Okay, Bossie, here I come. My hands are nice and warm for you.”
Her first solo milking experience went better than expected. She carried the heavy pail into the house and poured the milk into jars, covered them with cheesecloth, and put them on the shelves. With Walt gone an entire week, she had no idea who was going to drink it all. It wasn’t even her favorite drink.
“Now, I need to feed the horses and, Lord help me, muck out the stalls.” She clucked her tongue against the back of her teeth and slogged back to the barn. After putting oat-filled feedbags on the horses, she led Bossie into the corral, filled the feeding trough with hay then returned to clean the cow’s stall. The smell of the manure and urine made Cecile gag. She hadn’t been feeling up to par for a couple of days, but chalked it up to being upset about Walt leaving. Today, for some reason, her stomach really churned. Still, she knew it was on her to get everything done, so she pushed herself a little harder.
After she finished mucking and spreading clean straw across the floor, she removed the horse’s empty feedbags and hung them back on the wall. She led the team to the outside corral, thankful that two of the animals were with Walt. At least she had fewer to clean up after.
The sun sat higher in the sky, and the rooster strutted around as if he had something to do with getting it there. Cecile put off gathering eggs until later; she didn’t want to deal with the possibility of being spurred until she absolutely had to.
After bringing in water, and fuel for the next day’s fire, she collapsed into the rocker Walt had salvaged. Exhausted, with her arms and legs splayed wildly, she thought of the first time she laid eyes on the old chair and saw it as nothing more than firewood. Now it was her place to rest, crochet, and meditate about life.
Her mouth stretched into a wide yawn at the same time her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten anything since a light breakfast with Walt, but she was too tired to get up. She thought about him again. Where was he now? Was he eating his dinner? She silently prayed for God to keep her husband safe and bring him home quickly.
***
Walt readied his campfire for dinner. He’d been gone for five days now, and Cecile never left his mind. The wagon was filled with supplies to see them through the winter, plus a special gift for her. The extra expense was an extravagance, but he bought a beautiful green dress that matched her eyes. No telling where she’d wear it, but he knew she’d love it. He heated and dished a plate full of beans, shoveling them in hungrily, then rinsed his tin plate and stowed it away.
Tonight, as with every night when he crawled into his bedroll, he missed Cecile the most; the way she curled against him in their narrow bed, like one spoon nesting in another. He almost smelled her lavender scented toilet water. How was it possible to miss another person so much? He rolled to his side and gazed at the fire, tingling with joy that in just another day or so he’d be home. Perhaps he’d spend his first day back in bed, making up for the loving he’d been missing. Right now, the idea sounded wonderful, especially since his drawers strained to contain his hardness. He continued watching the flames until the last one crackled and died.
***
Cecile decided on a cold biscuit and a glass of milk before bed. She was too tired to fix anything more, and without Walt, cooking was a waste of energy. The loneliness lay heavy on her heart. There was no one to talk to except the animals, and she felt a little foolish telling Bossie how much she missed Walt.
Worse than being alone, the quiet wore on her nerves; she constantly listened for something out of the ordinary, then wondered what she’d do if heard something.
Vowing to take a good hot bath tomorrow, she washed the dust from her face, hands, and arms and climbed into bed. Now, all she wanted to do was pass time sleeping and wake when Walt came home. She pulled his pillow close and inhaled, breathing in his musky smell. It reminded her of their passionate lovemaking the night before he left. She was so exhausted she managed only a brief smile before drifting off to sleep.
Cecile beheld the season’s first frost when she awakened and peered out the shutters. The coating of white on the grass reminded her that winter snow was not far behind. Her mind drifted to Walt, somewhere out on the prairie, and she worried for him. While she prepared coffee, she pictured him sitting with her in front of the fireplace, cozy and warm and safe from the ravages of winter. In contrast, the coldness of the house pervaded her thoughts because she hadn’t yet lit a fire. Luckily, she’d carried in wood the evening before so she didn’t have to venture outside.
While kneeling in front of the hearth to light the kindling, a severe wave of nausea hit her. With the trip to get the animals, all the repairs, and Walt’s leaving, she’d lost track of the last time she’d experienced the awful woman’s curse. She tried to remember when she’d last bled
, but the nausea dulled her memory. Cecile sat in the rocker and waited for the queasiness to ebb.
She pondered her situation; she didn’t really know much about the facts of life. Her mother evidently never felt comfortable talking about womanhood issues. Oh, Cecile knew how women got pregnant, but hadn’t really given much thought to it happening to her. She didn’t know anything about giving birth, so what if she was pregnant? How could she have a baby all alone, here in the middle of nowhere, without a doctor? Engulfed in panic, her eyes brimmed with tears, but she blinked them away. Crying wasn’t the answer. But what was?
Panic overwhelmed the nausea and she rose, went to the hearth, and stoked the fire, all the while assuring herself what she feared wasn’t true. She shook her head in disbelief, then smiled, her emotions running wild as a stallion. What if motherhood was in her near future? Walt would most likely take her back to Silver City until the baby was born. At least thinking of the possibility made her feel better for the moment.
Chapter Six
The pesky rooster crowed as sunlight barely lit the room. For Cecile, he only announced another lonely day filled with tasks she hated. Still tired from yesterday’s chores, she fought the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, but resisted. Although staying within the comfort of the warm and cozy blankets was much more enticing than all the things that had become her responsibility, she threw back the covers and steeled herself against the brisk morning air.
The rough plank flooring felt icy cold as she moved her bare feet from side to side, searching for her slippers. She pulled on her worn and faded wrapper and, hunching into a shiver, shuffled across to the fireplace. Fingers of morning light touched the pitiful mismatched furniture and rough hewn walls, a grim reminder of her disappointment in her new home, nothing at all like the painted rooms and elegant furnishings in her parents’ place. Who would have guessed that marrying the man of her dreams would bring her miles from civilization to a life that left her feeling older than her actual nineteen years?
When flames crackled in the fireplace, she opened the door and stared across the prairie, at the fiery orange halo stretching across the horizon. A light breeze blew the knee-high grass back and forth in a rhythmic dance, and drops of dew reflected the rising sun. Goose bumps peppered her arms. Loneliness hung heavy in her heart.
The chickens foraged the ground for feed, and the cow and horses kicked the wall of the barn, restless for release into the roomier outside pen. Unhappy grunts from the pigsty indicated the sow was ready to eat. Cecile sighed, wondering about Walt. He should have been home by now. Maybe today was the day. She ducked back inside and changed into her work clothes.
During her husband’s absence, she’d perfected the routine of balancing the outside chores with the inside ones. Thankfully, the weather change lessened the amount of dust seeping through the crooked shutters, giving her a respite from sweeping. With everything done for the day, she sat down to practice her crocheting, noting she was getting pretty good at it. Strangely, the practice piece of knotted yarn was beginning to grow into something resembling a baby blanket.
Images of a young boy in little coveralls, working alongside his father, filled her head. The lad looked like Walt. The picture switched to a miniature of herself, the Cecile that wore pretty dresses and looked feminine as a child.
Which would Walt want? A son or a daughter? He’d said he wanted lots of children, but was she up to the challenge? If this sickly feeling was part of it, she didn’t much like it.
She poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot simmering on the back of the stove. It was bitter from having sat for so long, but at least it was hot; she didn’t feel like making a new batch. She tired more easily of late so she went back to her rocking chair, longing to see her mother and get answers to the million questions spinning in her mind. More than anything, she wished Walt would come home so she could share her suspicions with him—with anybody, really. Why did her new friend, Hilda Stinson, live so far away?
Cecile rocked back and forth, pondering the possibility of motherhood. Footsteps on the porch interrupted her thoughts. Funny, she hadn’t heard the rumble of wagon wheels in the yard, but then she'd been preoccupied. Her heart fluttered in anticipation. Walt was finally home! Her lips spread into a wide smile.
Tossing her crocheting aside, she prepared to jump up and welcome him home, but before she got out of the chair, the front door flew open and hit the wall, vibrating the whole house. In staggered a stranger…an Indian. Fear seized her throat. Frozen to her chair, she wondered if this was her time to die.
The man before her was a mirror image of the red-skinned people she’d seen before only in storybooks and magazines, and those tales didn’t portray them kindly. This one wore fringe-trimmed buckskin leggings and shirt, and had long ebony braids. He towered over her; his cold, steely black eyes bored through her.
Cecile stared back, her mouth agape, trying to accommodate the scream rising in her throat. Strangely, she couldn’t make a sound. Escape entered her mind, but even if her trembling legs supported her, where would she run?
As quickly as the Indian entered, he fell to the floor at Cecile’s feet. She remained seated for several minutes, dazed, confused, and frightened, waiting for him to move. When he didn’t, she slowly slid off her chair and knelt beside him.
Was he dead? She gently poked him, and then quickly drew her hand back. Seeing no reaction, she rolled him onto this back and gasped. A spreading crimson stain colored the front of his shirt. He was hurt, and she had to do something. But what? How she wished she wasn’t alone.
She pushed aside her fear and tried to assess the nature of his injury. Maybe if he survived he’d be grateful enough to let her live. That niggling voice in her head that piped in at the most difficult of times suggested she just let him die to assure her safety. One look at the softness of his brow reminded her he was a human being in need of care, and she was the only one available. She had to chance trying to save his life.
Cecile took a deep breath and pressed her ear to his chest, listening for a heartbeat. It wasn’t strong, but the thumping was still there. Before doing anything, she needed to determine how he’d been hurt and what action to take. Tugging at his shirt, she lifted it enough to find his injury. Blood oozed from a nasty lesion just below his left shoulder. Since she’d never seen a bullet wound, she wasn’t sure if she dealt with one. A closer inspection led her to believe the jagged injury looked more like a stab wound. Hopefully, her amateur evaluation was correct, for if indeed a bullet remained in him, there was little she could do. Frustration surged through her as she hurried to find something to use for bandages. After finding an old petticoat in her trunk, she tore it into pieces.
“Damn you for leaving me here alone, Walt Williams,” she mumbled. Her nausea and thoughts of pregnancy were forgotten.
Using water from the pitcher, she washed the wound, trying to be gentle, cleansing the area around the gaping hole. She folded a piece of cotton cloth torn from her undergarment and placed it directly on the injured site. The remaining strips she wrapped around his chest to secure the bandage in place.
That’s the best I can do, she thought, sitting back on her heels. His smooth, well-muscled chest rose and fell with each breath, so totally different looking than her husband’s fur covered skin. Dared she risk a touch to compare? She resisted.
She couldn’t move the injured man, much less get him onto the sagging bed, so she covered him and put a pillow under his head. Exhausted from the ordeal, she collapsed back into the rocking chair to rest and wait. Dozing in and out of sleep most of the night, she kept a watchful eye on her patient lest he awaken. What would she do when he did? She had no idea.
At sunup, he still hadn’t stirred. The blanket covering him moved with each breath, so he still lived. She gazed at his bronzed face and wondered who he was and why he’d come.
Although stiff and sore from sitting in a chair all night, she forced herself to rise and get more fuel for
the fire. She silently called upon God to let Walt come home before the stranger woke, but as she added another log, the Indian’s long steady moan proved her prayer fell on deaf ears. He moved around restlessly.
Cecile knelt at his side, and again, with trembling hands, checked his wound for bleeding. She breathed a sigh of relief at seeing no fresh stain on the bandage. His forehead felt cool to her touch, indicating no sign of fever. Her heart seized a beat when his eyes fluttered.
The Indian’s half-lidded gaze showed his confusion. He struggled to pull himself up, but she urged him back on the pallet. “Lie still. You’re hurt, you mustn’t move.”
He gave a knowing nod and relaxed, though his breathing seemed labored.
“Who are you? Do you understand English?” She cocked her head to fully see his face.
He nodded again and opened his eyes. “I am Lone Eagle of the Sioux.”
Although his halting words were weak and heavily accented, she understood them.
“How were you hurt? How did you find this place?”
Still groggy from his injury and loss of blood, he dropped back into a restless sleep.
Her shoulders sagged. “Oh Lone Eagle, please wake up. Please!”
What if he died? What would she do? She inched back up into her rocking chair and silently prayed again that Walt would come home soon.
***
She came in from another failed attempt to gather the eggs and, forgetting her sleeping patient, slammed the door behind her. “Damn that rooster! I ought to ring his neck.” A laugh begged to explode at the absurdity of her ranting. There was no way she’d risk getting that close.
Lone Eagle had somehow gotten himself into the rocking chair. Her cheeks warmed at her unladylike display.
“Oh, you’re up! At least I wasn’t the one who woke you. Sorry about the door.” For unexplainable reasons her fear of him was gone. She placed her empty basket on the table and turned to him. “How do you feel?”
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