Annie peeked out as they lumbered through the small frontier town, past a building that said Post Office, then a two-story log building with a sign proclaiming “Lansdowne Hotel.” The rest of the town was made up of a few frame houses, numerous shacks, and even a dozen tents. They crossed a narrow steel bridge that spanned a river almost covered in ice and finally set off across an expanse of frozen prairie.
For a while, Annie worried about Indians. She knew that the red-coated Mounted Policemen had brought law and order to this barren land several years ago, but she didn’t see any around here.
She didn’t see any Indians either, so after a while she worried instead about how Noah Ferguson knew which direction to take. The whole flat, bleak landscape looked exactly the same to her in every direction, cold and gray and empty, dreary beyond measure. She’d never imagined this much space with so little in it. She realized after a time that he was more or less following the path of the frozen river.
Slowly, despite the cold wind and the snow whirling around them, Annie’s body grew warm beneath the heavy covering. The fatigue of the long train journey coupled with intense relief at not being deserted at the depot combined to make her sleepy.
Bets had already cuddled close beside her beneath the heavy robe. She was sound asleep, and at last Annie too put her head under the covering, pulling it over the two of them until only a small space remained for fresh air.
It was dark inside. It smelled strange, but it was like being safe in a warm cave with a storm raging outside. She slept, an uneasy sleep interrupted by the sound of the wind, the jingle of the harness, and the occasional word of encouragement spoken by Ferguson to his horse.
His voice and the fierce, joyful barking of a dog startled her awake. "Hello there, old Jake,” she heard him say. "Good dog, good boy.”
She stuck her head out, shocked to discover how dark it had become. The snow seemed to have
stopped, but the air was frigid.
The wagon was still moving, but past Noah's shoulder Annie could see a substantial log house directly ahead with light in the windows, and the dark outlines of numerous other buildings scattered nearby. The dog, large and black, was barking madly and running alongside the wagon.
"Quiet, Jake, good dog.” At Noah’s order, the dog stopped barking, running close beside them with his tail wagging hard.
Bets, too, was awake now. Eyes still heavy with fever, she peered around and then took Annie’s mittened hand in her own and squeezed it. Annie gave her a reassuring smile.
The wagon stopped. Noah jumped down and came around, lifting first Annie and then Bets to the snowy ground.
“Go ahead in,” he instructed. “Tell Gladys Hopkins I’ll take her home right away.”
Stiff from the hours in the wagon, Annie staggered up the steps and across the porch to the door, Bets’s hand tight in her own. It was thrown open before she could decide whether to knock. Inside was a small, round woman with a neat brown bun on the top of her head, prominent blue eyes, and a wide, welcoming smile. She looked perhaps a dozen years older than Annie. The room behind her was warm and smelled of food cooking.
"Well, so here you are. Welcome to you." Already wrapping herself in a black coat and holding a red checkered shawl, the woman closed the door behind them with a bang. “No sense heatin’ the world, I always say. I'm Gladys Hopkins, we're Noah's neighbors west of here. So you’re the new Mrs. Ferguson. Noah already said your name was Annie." Her bright eyes were kind and curious. “And who might you be, dearie?” She smiled at Bets.
"This is Betsy Tompkins, my sister,” Annie supplied hurriedly. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hopkins.”
“You call me Gladys, I'll call you Annie. We’re gonna be friends. Goodness knows we’re the only white women this side of the Hat. Sorry I have to hurry off like this, but it’s fixin’ to storm, and I got a husband and a daughter waitin’ on their supper. I left soup and fresh bread on the warmer over there fer you.”
She gestured to the cookstove against the wall and then tied the red wool scarf over her hair. She leaned close to Annie, whispering in her ear, “The old man in there’s had his supper. Didn’t eat enough to keep a sparrow alive. He’s in a right fair temper, same as always these days. Don’t you let him get the best of you now, dearie.”
At that moment, the door opened and Noah came in with the tin trunk.
Gladys jumped back and said in a loud, guilty voice, “I’ll come visitin’ soon as the weather allows. Hope you settle in fine, Annie. My stars, would you look at this snow? Bye-bye, now, Betsy.” She went out quickly, closing the door behind her.
Noah thumped the trunk on the floor, returning a moment later with the carpetbags and her hat, which he dumped unceremoniously on top of the trunk.
“Make yourselves right at home," he said, and Annie flushed, recognizing sarcasm when she heard it. “It’ll take me at least three hours to get back, and then, madam, I’d say you have some explaining to do.”
Before Annie could begin to think of a response, the door slammed shut behind him and she and Bets were alone. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed a sigh of relief. At least she’d have time to gather her wits about her before she had to face him again. He was downright formidable.
For a few moments, they busied themselves with taking off their coats and shawls and boots. They hung their things on the pegs by the door, then stood side by side, looking wide-eyed around the large, pleasant room, each silently comparing it with the small, cramped space they’d shared in the city.
Noah Ferguson had written that he wasn’t well off, but to Annie, this looked like a grand house indeed.
The area was softly lit by a coal-oil lamp that had roses on the glass shade. The lamp was set on a crocheted doily on a high dresser beneath a window.
The room, a very large combination kitchen and living room, had a huge iron cook stove presiding at one end and a wood heater at the other. Both were giving off waves of comforting warmth, and Annie and Bets moved hesitantly to stand by the heater and warm themselves.
There was a square wooden table and four chairs near the cook stove, and a horsehair sofa and a rocking chair at the opposite end of the room where a narrow staircase led to another floor. There were several cross-stitched pillows on the sofa, and a border of hand-embroidered roses trimmed the white fabric of the curtains at the window. The wooden floor had several braided rag rugs, and there was floral wallpaper on the walls. An ornate clock sat on a shelf specially made for it. Also on the walls were several pictures clipped from magazines and carefully mounted on cardboard.
Everywhere Annie looked was the mark of a woman who’d made this house into a cozy home.
Noah Ferguson had told Annie in his first letter that he was a widower, that his wife and baby son had died two years before.
It was obvious that Noah's wife had loved this house, Annie thought uneasily. Her touch was everywhere, although as Annie looked more closely, there was also a general air of neglect. There was a thick layer of dust on the dresser, and the curtains were limp with dirt. Although the wide boards on the floor showed signs of a recent sweeping, it was plain they hadn’t been scrubbed in some time.
Near the heater were two doors. One was shut, but the other was ajar, and suddenly, a loud banging came from behind it, as though someone was hammering on the floor with a heavy object.
"Lordie, that scared me.” Annie’s hand went to her heart. “I forgot there was anybody else here.”
Bets’s eyes were wide and fearful.
“I think it’s Mr. Ferguson’s father,” Annie indicated. "I will see to him. You warm yourself by the fire.”
Hesitantly, she tapped at the door and then pushed it open so she could enter the small room. It was painted blue, and on the wall was a picture of a smiling cherub cuddling a kitten. A chair, a dresser, and the single bed took up most of the space.
"Mr. Ferguson?" Annie said in a hesitant tone, standing beside the bed. “I’m—I’m Annie. I’ve only
just arrived. Is there something you want?”
The white-haired man lying propped on pillows in the disheveled bed held a cane tight in his right fist. When he saw Annie, he lifted it up and brandished it threateningly, making strange guttural noises in his throat.
She cried out and leaped back, certain he was about to strike her.
His face was twisted grotesquely to one side, and it was plain to Annie that his right hand and side were useless. It was also obvious that he was in a furious temper.
Annie stared at him, horrified. Was he a madman? Noah Ferguson had mentioned his father in his letters, but all he’d said was that the older man was “in ill health.”
He stopped trying to speak and lay back panting, staring at Annie with the same coal-black, angry look his son had given her earlier.
“Can—can I get you something, sir?” she asked again.
He used the end of the cane to gesture at a water glass and Annie cautiously sidled over and snatched it up.
“Water? I’ll bring it directly.” She backed out of the room, expecting at any moment that he’d throw the cane at her.
In the outer room, Bets was coughing again, huddled in an exhausted heap on a chair by the fire. Annie went over and felt her head.
“You’re burning up. We need to get you to bed, sweets.”
She filled the water glass from the pail on the washstand, but before she could take it back into the bedroom, the awful hammering began again.
Annie rolled her eyes and blew her breath out in an exasperated whoosh. He was trying her patience, that was certain.
She walked quickly back into the bedroom and over to the bed, holding out the glass. In a firm tone, she said, “Here you go, and I'd be grateful if you’d please stop that banging, Mr. Ferguson.”
The old man made a grumbling noise, put the cane on the bed beside him and snatched at the glass with his good hand, but he misjudged and bumped Annie's arm. The glass spilled, sloshing most of the water on the patchwork quilt that covered him.
With a roar of absolute rage, he grabbed the glass and flung it against the blue-painted wall. It smashed into shards, and Annie let out a shriek and ran for the door. Trembling, she closed it firmly behind her, and the now-familiar thumping began again.
She wasn't going back, she told herself. Thirsty or not, he’d have to wait until his son came home and tended to him.
With the constant banging as accompaniment, Annie set out bowls, and she and Bets ate the thick, aromatic soup simmering on the back of the cook stove. A loaf of freshly baked bread stayed warm beneath a snowy napkin, and there was butter in a bowl.
Annie sent Gladys a heartfelt thank-you, but the incessant banging was difficult to ignore, and her hand trembled as she spooned up the soup and spread butter on a slice of the crusty bread.
Bets ate only a spoonful of soup, took several bites of bread, then sank back in her chair, exhausted.
The young girl needed rest, but where would she put Bets to sleep? Hurriedly finishing her meal, Annie lit a candle and peeked into the other ground-floor bedroom. It was obviously Noah’s room; his clothing hung on wall pegs, and two pair of immense boots stood side by side on the floor.
Feeling like an intruder, Annie stepped inside, swallowing hard as she looked at the wide double bed. Her mind’s eye filled now with the image of the muscular giant who, in name at least, was her husband. Her cheeks grew hot at the thought of climbing into that bed beside him.
“I’d say you have some explaining to do, madam.” His parting words echoed in her head. Well, Mr. Ferguson, you have a bit of explaining to do yourself, she concluded. Such as why you didn’t tell me the facts about that impossible old man.
Next she ventured up the staircase with her candle, anticipating an unfinished loft, drafty and primitive. There were two doors, and when she opened the one on the right, her eyes widened and she caught her breath with pleasure.
Here was a cozy little gabled room with a single bed covered with a warm quilt. There was a beautiful old dresser against the wall and a rocking chair beside the window. A wooden chest stood at the foot of the bed, hand-carved in a beautiful pattern of birds and flowers. It was the gnarled pipe and the tin of tobacco resting on top of the chest that told Annie this must have been the old man’s room before he became ill.
She looked around again, more carefully this time. In a corner was a box of wood-carving tools and several small blocks of wood, one of them half carved into the rough shape of a bird. She remembered the twisted claw that was his hand, and she felt a stab of compassion for the wild old man trapped in the bedroom downstairs.
She peeked behind the other door before she went down.
It was an unfinished attic, and the candle sent eerie flickers of light over a cradle, a high chair, a box spilling over with toys—sad reminders that a baby had lived in this house not long ago.
Annie loved babies. Her throat grew tight and she quickly shut the door and hurried downstairs.
In front of the heater, she helped Bets take off her clothing. Her sister was exhausted and sick. Annie sponged her down quickly from a basin, rubbing her dry with a clean hessian towel she found in the drawer of the washstand. From their trunk, she took a thick flannel nightdress and fresh under drawers and bundled her sister into them. She urged Bets up the stairs and then tucked her into bed in the cozy little room, pressing a kiss on her sister’s flushed cheek. Bets sighed and was asleep in seconds.
Downstairs, Annie realized that at some point the floor banging had stopped. She tiptoed to the old man’s door and peeked in. He was snoring heavily, cane propped beside the bed, damp quilt thrown on the floor. She drew the covers up over him, blew out the lamp, and brought the damp quilt to dry by the heater.
The farmhouse was silent except for the crackling of the flames in the two stoves and the occasional gust of wind outside.
More than anything, Annie wanted a wash, and she’d better hurry, before he got back.
She stripped off every scrap of her soiled clothing and lathered a cloth from the bar of yellow soap. Luxuriously, beginning with her face and working downward, she methodically washed and rinsed every inch of herself, glorying in the wonderful sensation of being clean again.
Her bone-thin body ached as if every muscle had been strained to the breaking point, and she longed to be able to lie down somewhere and sleep as Bets was doing, but she didn’t dare give in to the bone-crushing weariness. She couldn’t even put on a nightdress. She opened her trunk and found a clean dress, underwear, and stockings, and put them on.
She intended to stay alert, because when Noah Ferguson returned, he wasn’t going to get the best of her.
She glanced at the room where the old man slept, and shuddered.
Maybe she’d been less than honest in her letters, but it seemed that Noah Ferguson wasn’t far behind her when it came to leaving out important details.
Annie’s mouth tilted in a rueful grin.
Maybe after all was said and done, the pair of them were made for each other after all.
Chapter Three
The wind had quieted, but it was black-dark and icy cold by the time Noah again drove into his farmyard late that evening.
He was in a foul mood. Gladys Hopkins, kind as she was, talked far too much. All the way to the Hopkins homestead, she’d blathered on and on, all of it about his new wife.
"That red hair of hers is a caution, don’t you think, Noah? And she looks mighty frail, poor soul. Makes a body wonder if folks in the city get enough to eat, don’t it?”
Noah made an indeterminate noise in his throat and clicked his tongue, flicking the reins so the team would go faster.
Unfortunately, Gladys went right on talking.
"But those eyes, my stars, Noah, I never in all my bom days saw eyes that shade of green before. Must be what the books call emerald, wouldn’t you say? And big like saucers, why they seem to swallow her whole face, don’t they? Long eyelashes too. Awful pale complexion, though. Ne
eds some good old farm grub to fatten her up some. Now how old did you say she was, again?”
Fortunately, he hadn’t said, and he didn’t now. "Old enough to wed,” he growled. Old enough to deceive an honest man.
Gladys wasn’t in the least put out. "Her sister’s a quiet little thing, ain’t she? Not a single word out of her. Looks to be about the same age as my Rose. Rosie’s gonna be over the moon when she hears there’s a girl her age over at your place. She'll pester me to death wantin’ to visit. Now, Noah, my experience with girls that age is they never stop talking. Just you wait till she gets over her fit of shyness, won’t be a quiet moment. I think you did good, the two of them will be a big help with Zachary, that’s certain.” She paused for a moment, then added in a different tone, “Your poor old dad ain’t doin’ too good, is he? You sure had your share of trouble, Noah, first Molly and the boy, and now Zachary.”
Damnation. With all the goings on, Noah hadn’t given a single thought to the inevitable meeting between the two females and his father. He felt a twinge of apprehension and a renewed surge of guilt. He ought to at least have warned Annie.
“How was he today, Gladys?” Noah fervently hoped that Zachary was having one of his rare quiet periods, but Gladys's response settled that idea.
"Contrary. Threw a cup at me, he did,” she said with a sigh. "And he banged that infernal cane on the floor most of the day. It beats all how a kind, sweet gentleman like your father was could turn so willful now he's sick,” she commented with a shake of her head.
“Mind you, I recollect Harold’s aunt, sweetest old thing—”
Noah was relieved beyond measure when at last Gladys was safely inside her own house and he was free to ride home in silence. Trouble was, some of what she’d prattled on about seemed stuck in his head.
Annie did have amazing green eyes, he conceded. And some secret part of him was immensely relieved that she wasn’t grossly fat. He preferred a slender woman. He wondered what all that wild, curling hair would be like, loose down her back.
A Lantern in the Window Page 2
