by Judith Pella
Virginia!
No … no … that was impossible! But why should she think of it now when it had not entered her mind for four years?
She still had no desire to return to Virginia. She was a frontierswoman now and wished her children to grow up here in this lovely land. Especially did she want Sky to be close to the land his father had so loved. But the estate in Virginia still belonged to her. At least it had before the trouble in Stoner’s Crossing. Her able, and she believed honest, manager and lawyer, Raymond Stillwell, had kept her apprised of the standing of the property during the marriage to Leonard. She remembered Leonard once saying, “I should get a nice price for that land after the war.” His use of the possessive “I” had angered her but not surprised her. He said little about selling when the war turned against the South. And when the war ended, Leonard’s death had happened too quickly upon the heels of Appomattox for Deborah to have a chance to learn how her Virginia home had survived the war, or if it had at all. Reports of devastated plantations and estates had begun to reach Texas and it had not appeared hopeful. Moreover, she knew that for many southerners, reconstruction had finished off what little the war itself had left intact.
How had the Martin estate fared?
Perhaps it was about time she found out. It could do no harm to inquire, but she must do so discreetly because it would never do if Caleb Stoner heard of her inquiries and through them traced her whereabouts.
Seven years ago, though her grief had forced her from her home, she had been loathe to sell her father’s beloved land. Now, so far removed both physically and emotionally, she felt no such compunctions. If the estate still belonged to her, and if she could sell it …
Suddenly Farley’s land in Texas did not seem such an impossible dream.
“Dear God, could this be what you’d want for me? Did you nudge the memory of Virginia just for this purpose?”
Deborah hardly slept the rest of the night. She couldn’t wait until the first light of day so she could go to the post telegraph and contact Mr. Raymond Stillwell.
59
Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Deborah went to the fort telegraph office. She would have gone sooner, but she wanted to draw as little attention to herself as possible. As it was, she caused enough of a stir—the white squaw woman, who until recently had so stubbornly dwelt with the Indian prisoners, now wishing to send a telegram. But her request was granted.
She had spent over an hour constructing the wording of her message so that it would be clear to Stillwell, but shrouded to anyone else who handled the message:
DEAR MR STILLWELL STOP AM INQUIRING AS TO THE HEALTH OF MY DEAR FRIENDS THE MARTINS WHOM I HAVE RECENTLY LEARNED MIGHT BE IN ILL HEALTH STOP MY NAME IS DEBORAH GRAHAM AND I SPENT MANY HAPPY TIMES RIDING UPON THEIR FINE ESTATE STOP I ESPECIALLY RECALL HOW JOSIAH MARTINS DAUGHTER WHEN SHE WAS BARELY ABLE TO TALK CALLED YOU UNCLE SILLY BECAUSE SHE COULD NOT PRONOUNCE YOUR NAME CORRECTLY STOP I WOULD GREATLY APPRECIATE ANY NEWS YOU MIGHT FORWARD ME OF THESE FINE AND DEAR FRIENDS STOP I CAN BE REACHED AT FORT DODGE IN KANSAS STOP THANK YOU MOST KINDLY END
It was pretty cryptic, perhaps too cryptic even for Stillwell, but Deborah hoped the reference to “Uncle Silly,” which no one but she ever called him, along with the use of her first name and her brother’s name as a surname, might clue him in on the truth. He had always been a kind, genteel man who had never married and, having no children of his own, had taken a partiality to his friend Josiah’s children, especially Deborah. But Deborah recalled her father often saying of Stillwell: “That man is a saint, to be sure, but the shrewdest saint there ever was.” She hoped now that particular trait of shrewdness would come to the surface. She feared the risk of saying anything else more specific in the telegram, and she only hoped that if he replied he would understand by her covert style that discretion was vital. She saw no way to avoid risk entirely.
After leaving the telegraph office, Deborah found Mr. Farley in the mess hall finishing his breakfast. Not wanting to go into the place herself, she asked a passing soldier to deliver a message.
Farley was surprised to hear that the pretty white woman from the Sutler’s was asking for him.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Graham?” he asked, wiping a sleeve across his mouth as he stepped outside to greet her.
“May I speak with you privately, Mr. Farley?”
“Well, I ain’t got no place—”
“We could walk about the parade ground.”
They walked around the perimeter of the vacant parade ground. The day was already warm and muggy.
Farley opened the conversation. “We got the prettiest, coolest little stream running by my pa’s place back in Decaturville. I reckon it gets hot there in summer, but never like this—and never, ever like in Texas!”
“I’ve been in Texas,” said Deborah. “It certainly had its faults, but I thought it had many redeeming qualities as well.”
“Far as I’m concerned, you can have it! I don’t want no more part of it.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Farley,” said Deborah evenly, despite the anxious thudding of her heart. “Is your land still for sale?”
“Sure is. You know someone interested?”
“I am interested.”
“Ma’am?” His forehead creased with perplexity.
“I am interested in purchasing your land.”
“Ma’am, I don’t think you understand what I been saying. It’s good land, and there’s money in cattle these days, but it’s a wilderness out there, on the frontier of Texas. It ain’t fit for families, especially for women alone—and I take it you’re a widow with no man to protect you?”
“I am alone, but isn’t my safety my concern?”
“I’d feel responsible, like I was taking advantage of a poor widow and her fatherless children.”
Even though Deborah realized this man’s statement indicated only the best intentions, it rankled her nonetheless. The part of her that wanted to be self-reliant and independent reared its prideful head. She caught it in time to utter a silent prayer for God to help her keep this part of her in harmony with her commitment to Him.
“Mr. Farley, I appreciate your concern and your honesty,” she said calmly. “Believe me, I don’t want to do anything foolish, but in this country, it’s a risk for anyone to strike out alone, as your own situation proves. I do not plan to marry simply for protection, and thus I may be alone for a long while. Yet, I nevertheless desire my own home. I doubt I can afford a place in a settled area, but even if I could, I prefer these plains and the challenge and isolation they provide.” She made no mention of the anonymity they also would give her. “As far as protection goes, I will have to hire men to help with the ranch. I believe they would offer adequate protection.”
Farley just stared in response. In a moment he rubbed his scrubby chin and shook his head, still silent.
“I believe,” Deborah went on, sensing even as she spoke how right this decision was for her, “with God’s help, I can do this, Mr. Farley. My one drawback is I don’t have any ready cash.”
Now Farley quickly found his voice, for he could understand money far more than this feisty woman’s compelling argument. “No cash, ma’am? How do you per-pose—?”
“No ready cash,” Deborah corrected with emphasis. “I have an inheritance, but it may take some time to sort out all the remaining assets.”
“Time, you say?”
“A few weeks.”
“Ma’am, this is pure craziness. Here you are alone, with two young’uns, and no money to speak of, and you want to buy a ranch. But that ain’t even the craziest part! What’s really loony is you almost got me plumb convinced to sell it to you!”
“Then you will consider it?”
“I don’t know why I should—”
“But you will?”
“Tell you what, I got to get to Abilene to sell my cattle. I’ll be there a spell. If you can get there with the money before I l
eave, I’ll consider it … long as no better offer comes along. I won’t be able to pass up someone with a fistful of cash.”
Farley wasn’t the only one to think Deborah had gone crazy. Hardee sputtered and clicked his tongue over it all afternoon, but when Griff happened into the Sutler’s he was far more effusive with his opinion.
“You’ve gone loco, Deborah! Plumb touched in the head!” he said as they sat alone in a far corner of the store. “I ain’t saying you couldn’t run a ranch if you put your mind to it; lots of women did during the war. But you’re talking about one of the most unsettled parts of Texas. Your closest neighbors might be fifty or even seventy-five miles away. And the Comanche are a durn sight closer!”
“That’s one thing that appeals to me, Griff,” said Deborah with calm reason. “Not the Comanche, of course, but the isolation. I don’t need a bunch of neighbors around asking questions about my past.”
“And speaking of that,” Griff put in hurriedly, “why Texas at all? Wouldn’t you be better off and safer farther away—California, maybe, or even Virginia? I’d think you’d never want to go back to Texas.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense, but despite everything that happened there, I liked Texas. And maybe if I went back, I might someday be able to clear my name.”
“Not while Caleb Stoner is alive.”
“He can’t live forever.”
Just then the front door of the store creaked open and Sam Killion strode in. Squinting momentarily at the change in light from the bright sun to the dim interior of the store, he didn’t immediately notice Deborah and Griff seated alone together at a table farthest to the rear of the store. When his gaze finally adjusted and turned in that direction, he seemed to hesitate, reticent to intrude upon what seemed a private conversation. But Deborah saw him before he had a chance to retreat and waved to him.
“Sam, I’d like your opinion about something,” she said.
“I’ll bet it’s about that land deal you want to make.” Only his twinkling eyes hinted at his suppressed grin.
“So you’ve heard.”
“It’s all over the fort. That Farley’s been telling everyone about that crazy woman in buckskin who wants to be a rancher.”
“I should have told him I wanted it confidential.”
“Doubt that would have mattered.”
“Well, now that it’s out, what do you think? Am I crazy?”
“Tell her, Preacher!” put in Griff. “She’s slipped over the edge on this one.”
“Why?” said Sam. “Because she wants her own place? Who can blame her?”
“But in that country? You been there Killion; it ain’t no place for a lone woman—”
“I won’t be alone,” said Deborah, growing defensive and sorry she had brought up the subject at all. Why was she asking anyone’s advice, anyway? Maybe it was time she made her own decision. She’d pray about it, of course, but no need for it to go beyond her and God.
“Yeah,” said Griff cynically, “a bunch of cowboys who can’t be trusted no more’n the Comanche.”
“Have you prayed about it, Deborah?” asked Sam.
“I have and I plan to again. I haven’t made a final decision yet.”
“Well, if it’s what God wants—”
“Come on!” exclaimed Griff. “God don’t want her to get butchered by Indians—and I’ll tell you, Comanche and Apache are a different breed from Cheyenne, and don’t you forget it. They don’t take prisoners—except maybe women and children who’d be better off dead, anyway.”
“That is said about all Indians,” said Deborah.
“But it’s true ‘bout them two tribes.”
Deborah shook her head with disgust and, not wishing to discuss that sensitive topic, turned her attention back to Sam.
“Sam, how will I know if it is God’s will?”
“Pray about it and read your Bible; maybe He will show you something in His Word. Maybe He’ll show you by making all the pieces fall together. Maybe He’ll show you through good counsel—”
“That’s it right there!” broke in Griff smugly. “Half the fort will counsel her against it.”
“Could be …” said Sam, drawing out the words thoughtfully. He looked directly at Deborah. “In the end, though, the decision will rest entirely with you. You’ll have to step out in the way you feel is best, the way your heart is leading you. Maybe a little verse I always have liked will help you a mite. In the Psalms it says, ‘The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord.’ I think that includes women, too—” He added that last remark with a slight smirk at Griff. “If you ask God and you trust Him, I don’t figure you can go too wrong.”
“I want to trust God, Sam. I really do.”
“I can see that, Deborah.”
“Oh my!” groaned Griff sarcastically. “Ain’t this the sweetest thing I ever seen. You’re both loony!”
“I’m touched by your concern, Griff,” said Deborah sincerely. “But there’s no sense wasting your worry now, because it may turn out to be all for nothing. I still have no idea about the status of my family estate, and perhaps no way of finding out. Even if I do find out, the chances are pretty slim that I will get to Abilene in time to catch Mr. Farley.”
“It’s in impossible situations just like this,” offered Sam, “that God can truly show His hand.”
“I can’t think of a better way to have it, then,” Deborah replied. And she meant it, for as much as she wanted her own place, she desired even more to please the God to whom she had so recently committed her life.
60
Four quiet days passed. Deborah fell back into her usual routine and all but forgot the prospective Texas land deal. She’d decided the timing was all wrong—for Farley’s land, at least. However, it all had one positive consequence because it had prompted her to contact Stillwell about her inheritance. She might never have thought of it, or had the motivation to pursue it otherwise. Of course, that might become as much a pipe dream as the land. Seven years was a long time, especially with a war intervening. Also, she wondered if word of her trouble with the law had reached Virginia and Mr. Stillwell. If it had and he thought she was dead, he might have already sold the estate and pocketed the profits as his reward for all his trouble over the years. Who could blame him.
Thus, when an enlisted man came to the store after breakfast on the fifth day, no one was more surprised than Deborah. As he handed her the envelope, she hardly had the courage to take it. Its contents could have the power to make or break all her dreams.
Hardee watched with a grimace as Deborah took the envelope with a wooden hand.
“Bad news, I shouldn’t wonder,” he muttered. “No one ever pays money to send good news.”
“Thank you,” Deborah said to the soldier, who tipped his hat in reply before leaving the store.
Deborah lifted the flap and slid out a sheet of paper inside. “Here goes, I guess.” As her eyes scanned the single sheet they began to widen with excitement.
HOW KIND OF YOU TO INQUIRE OF THE MARTIN FAMILY STOP YOU MAY NOT REMEMBER ME MRS GRAHAM BUT I KNOW WHO YOU ARE STOP I AM SORRY TO SAY JOSIAH MARTIN AND HIS SON WERE KILLED IN THE WAR AND THE DAUGHTER IS AWAY HOWEVER I HOPE TO SEE HER AGAIN IN THIS LIFE STOP I REMAIN THE MANAGER OF THE FAMILY ESTATE UNTIL HER RETURN STOP THE LAND IS FINALLY BEGINNING TO TURN A PROFIT SINCE THE DEVASTATION OF THE WAR THOUGH I HAVE HAD TO SELL OFF SOME TO PAY TAXES AND SUCH STOP I HOPE OVER THE YEARS I HAVE CONTINUED THE MARTINS FAITHFUL SERVANT AND AS THEIR FRIEND YOU MAY CONSIDER THE SAME OF ME SHOULD YOU VISIT HERE IN FUTURE STOP REGARDS R STILLWELL END
Smiling, Deborah refolded the paper. Old “Uncle Silly” was a cagey one indeed! I know who you are. That simple phrase said it all. Not only that he knew it was Deborah Martin writing him, but that he knew of the trouble in Texas and understood the need for discretion, also apparent in the covert wording of the telegram. And the faithful family friend and lawyer had remained so all these years, loyally holding on to the land in hopes of her re
turn. Deborah decided then and there that if she could sell the estate, she’d give a substantial portion of the proceeds to Stillwell. He had earned it.
Hardee had stopped work and was waiting impatiently for some clue about the contents of the telegram. Finally he could stand it no longer and ventured, “Ain’t bad news, is it, Deborah?”
Deborah looked up. “I don’t think so.”
“You gonna get that land?”
“It may take time to come up with the money.”
“You know, Deborah, I got me a little stash—”
“Thank you, Hardee, for the thought, but I won’t borrow money. If I do that, how will I ever know if it’s God’s will that I have it?”
“Hearin’ that would sure make Sam happy,” said the storekeeper, his own pride obvious. “An’ I admire you, too, for stickin’ to your principles. But it’s there if you want it.”
“Thanks, Hardee. You are a true friend.” Deborah paused, tapping the telegram thoughtfully against her chin. “Hardee, how far is it to Abilene?”
“Oh, a good four days’ hard ride.”
“Do you mind watching the children while I see Sam?”
“No problem.” But Hardee paused, then added hesitantly, “You ain’t thinkin’ of riding to Abilene, are you, Deborah?”
“Not right away.”
“That’s a wild an’ lawless place there, Deborah. Don’t you think ‘bout goin’ alone.”
“I won’t.”
She left the store and went in search of Sam, whom she located in the mess hall talking with two recently converted soldiers. She entered the place rather timidly. Not only was she reticent about being a female invader of male territory, but, despite her months at the fort, she continued to hold resentment in her heart toward the bluecoats who had killed her husband and destroyed the life she had come to love. With no one at hand to go in for her, she had no choice but to venture in alone. She paused at the open door, taking no farther step inside, and cleared her throat to get someone’s attention. Luckily, there were only a handful of men remaining from breakfast, but even her timid entrance roused their immediate attention. Sam also saw her and greeted her.
