by Jillian Hart
She should have realized what it meant to see that sole stool standing alone in the middle of the floor when she first entered this place. Adam might have written her the letter asking her to marry him and he might have sent her the money to buy a railroad ticket out here, but he hadn’t given any thought at all to what their life together would be like. Even Mrs. Stout had given more consideration to this new life; in addition to the peppermint oil she’d placed in her valise, the older woman had given her a dozen linen handkerchiefs and a book on raising a lady so Eleanor would know what to do for her young charge.
She watched Adam look around the room as though he hadn’t noticed until now that it was furnished for one lonely old man who never even had company for dinner.
“Those trunks I put in the back room—the ones that have Hannah’s things. We can sit on them,” he finally said.
“I have some lengths of flannel that I can drape over them,” Eleanor said, offering what she could. As an early Christmas gift, Mrs. Stout had given her back some of the cloth she had woven this fall. “They’re nothing fancy, but most of them are a nice sheep’s gray. And warm. I could add some red ribbon to the corners to make them festive. And they’ll keep everyone’s clothes clean and prevent any snags from the trunks.”
“Good,” he said quietly, but she could see that his heart wasn’t in it. He looked tired. “The ribbon will be nice. A woman’s touch is what we need to make this a home.”
“The ribbon is a little worn,” she added, determined to be truthful.
What had she done? Eleanor wondered. She’d never thought the man she was setting out to marry would worry about ribbons. She’d grown up in a sheepherder’s wagon; she never felt she quite belonged in houses that had what he called a “woman’s touch.” Needlepoint and lace doilies were not for her. She had assumed her husband would be happy when he found out all of the practical things she could do. This was the West. She’d thought men needed women who could settle the land with them. She wasn’t even sure she could tie the ribbon into a pretty bow.
She forced herself to stand tall and remember that she had no need to be ashamed.
If she were applying for a job here, she’d mention that she’d gotten quite a reputation on Nantucket Island for being able to sheer a sheep and, black or white, cord and weave its fleece into some of the softest flannel around. And, with the wool that was left, she could make beautiful dyed threads using onion peels or goldenrod flowers or even tree bark if that’s all she had. Added to that, she knew herbs and salves well enough to cure whatever plagued a farm animal.
Any farmer should be happy to have her as his wife.
Given all of the confusion lately, though, she realized she had one critical question she had yet to ask. “You are planning to farm, aren’t you? Cows and maybe some sheep? Mrs. Stout seemed to think—” she let her words trail away when she saw the scowl settle on his face.
* * *
Adam wondered what his mother had told Mrs. Stout and Eleanor. He’d only sent the one letter, but his mother had written one, or maybe two, before that. He hadn’t even read what she’d said.
“You’ll have enough to worry about with Hannah and the house.” He realized he should have made it clear to the woman that he expected to make her life easier. “I’m not marrying you in hopes of having a field hand.”
“Oh,” she said.
He thought he saw something go out of her face, but it couldn’t be. All of the women he knew would be happy to be spared a man’s work. “I could probably use some help with the chickens if I can find someone willing to sell me a sitting hen.”
She raised her head to him at that. “You can’t mean to get one now. Baby chickens would freeze to death around here. I wouldn’t even let my kitten outside at night. The wind comes from the north, down from Canada, right between those low mountains behind us. I’ve never felt anything so cold in my life. I can’t imagine what a little chicken would do.”
Her look demanded an answer.
“I plan to build a place for the hens to roost in a corner of the shelter. That backs up to the fireplace,” he told her. He noticed she wasn’t giving up anything, not even that cat. “They’ll be warm enough there when we start to have a fire in the cabin more regularly—which we’ll do from tonight on.”
She nodded, but still seemed dubious. “You’ll have to make the shed back there bigger. You’ll keep the horses, of course, and we might want a cow. And maybe a few sheep.”
“Whoa,” Adam said. He’d been around this area long enough to know one thing. “This is going to be cattle country. There might not be many herds here yet, but none of our neighbors will speak to us if we bring in sheep. They eat the grass right down to the root. I know the Hargroves are bringing in more cattle from Texas this spring. Longhorns, I think.”
“There’s nothing wrong with sheep no matter how they eat their grass. The Good Lord Himself compared us to them. And we’re His beloved children.”
Unfortunately, his mother came through the curtain in time to hear Eleanor’s defense of the wooly animals.
“You’re not telling people you’re Irish, are you?” his mother demanded as she strode into the room with enough force to make a squadron hesitate. “All this foolishness about sheep. That’s your father talking. Your mother was pure English—whether she talked to her parents or not, she had their blood, and hers is stronger than some poor Irishman’s. That’s all people need to know.”
“What’s that got to do with—” Adam began.
“I’m Irish enough,” Eleanor said before he could even finish his words. She was squared off against his mother. “And I see no shame in it. Saint Patrick himself came to the blessed island and—”
“Hush, now. Surely, you don’t want people to know,” his mother continued as she reached up to tidy her hair. “You’re in America now. You can see how people feel about the Irish. Putting aside their loud ways and fondness for strong drink, none of them are, well, refined enough for society. Think of the troubles it might cause Hannah.”
“It’s got nothing to do with Hannah,” Adam protested.
“Well, of course not,” Eleanor said as she turned away from him and walked toward the door.
She caught him by surprise and he said the first thing that occurred to him. “Stop. You can’t go out there.”
She turned around and looked at him. “Is that an order, Sergeant?”
“I’m out of the army now. Call me Adam,” he commanded. “And it’s bitter cold out there.”
Her green eyes smoldered but she listened, so he added, “The sun’s almost gone down and you’ll freeze. You don’t even have a cloak with you. Where is your cloak, anyway?”
“I don’t need one.”
The fool woman was worried about unborn chickens and didn’t have sense enough to take care of herself, he thought. And then he finally understood. “Surely, you have a cloak.”
“I wrap up in a piece of my flannel. Or one of the army blankets. That works fine,” she said and went over to sit down on the stool next to a ball of yarn. She picked up her knitting needles and began to knit something yellow.
“Nice yarn,” he said by way of showing he was sorry he’d pricked her pride. He’d had no idea she wasn’t properly provided for on that estate where she worked. Now wasn’t the time to ask about it, though.
“I corded the yarn myself,” she said, her voice not much warmer than before. But then she seemed to remember something and her mouth twisted. “Made a mistake by boiling it with some late-blooming goldenrods, though. It had been dry that year and the color didn’t take for some reason. Mrs. Stout said the yellow was so faded and uneven it wasn’t fit to warm the feet of the stable boy.”
She looked at him, then. “You see, each year for Boxing Day the housemaids would knit a new pair of stockings for everyone on the estate. Since they couldn’t use it, Mrs. Stout gave the yarn to me when I left. She said there’d be some use for it out West. Just like there’d be for me.
”
With that, she bent to her knitting and was silent.
“You miss the Stout estate?” he asked, unwilling to let the conversation die and still curious about how she’d fared there.
She nodded.
The sergeant was congratulating himself on making progress with his intended, when he heard a gasp behind him.
His mother had come into the room and was staring at the ceiling. “Whatever is that?”
Drops of mud were falling down onto the old piece of carpet that covered most of the packed dirt floor. It looked like several lengths of muslin had been nailed into place from beam to beam to cover the sod ceiling, but the material had obviously gotten damp and rotted.
“It’s the snow on the roof,” Eleanor said. “The fire must be warming things up.”
“I’ll go out and brush the snow off in a minute,” he said.
“Hannah can’t stay here,” his mother said more quietly than he would have expected. She almost sounded as if she regretted the fact.
Adam didn’t want to upset his mother, but he was going to keep his daughter with him.
“We’ll fix this place,” he assured her. “And, it’s only for the winter. Come spring, I’ll build us a new house. With sawmill planks and a roof that’s not covered with sod. Hannah will do fine until then.”
He glanced over to Eleanor and was surprised at the look of sympathy on her face.
“Here.” She gathered her yarn and stood, gesturing for his mother to sit on the stool. “Mrs. Martin, please, sit here for a spell and I’ll get supper on the table.”
His mother nodded and walked over to the stool, sinking down on it as if she had more trouble than her heart could bear. Adam figured that’s about how she felt, but he didn’t risk asking her if everything was all right. He knew the list of things lacking in him and his home was long, and she’d name every one of them if he let her.
“I hope you’re not planning to build another two-story house,” his mother finally said, her voice clipped and her mouth firm. She was talking to him, but staring at Eleanor who had made her way over to the cook stove.
“No.” He swallowed, and then managed to walk to the door. “It won’t be that kind of a house. Not again.”
He kept his back straight. His mother never hesitated to attack where he was most vulnerable. He was known for strategy when it came to leading troops into battle, but he had never found the way of anticipating her words. And she was right. He should have been able to muster a better plan for providing for his new wife.
The sting of icy air hit his face as he opened the door. When he married Eleanor, he would be pledging to care for and protect her. He didn’t take that vow lightly. The gray sky had almost disappeared in the whiteness of the blizzard that was swirling around. Women, wives in particular, were such delicate creatures.
He needed to get the horses settled in the shelter for the night and then brush off the roof. The snow was wet and falling heavy by the time he got to the wagon. The contents that were still packed would be fine if he pulled the canvas tight over them and moved the wagon so it was sheltered by the cabin.
He did that and then fought the wind as he unhitched the horses, all of which left his mind free to remember things he’d sooner forget. He’d already failed to protect one wife. He remembered the house fire had come up while he had been out on patrol almost a year ago. Catherine had wanted to live away from the fort so there was only one neighbor, a frail man, who was around to come to their rescue. The flames had already touched Catherine and their daughter when his panicked wife managed to toss Hannah out of their upstairs window, no doubt hoping the girl would fall into the arms of the neighbor who stood below calling out to them. The old man was not strong enough to catch her right, though, and his daughter injured the same leg that had been scorched in the blaze.
In all the terror of that, his wife became increasingly agitated and finally refused to jump, saying she was too afraid. Adam lived with the knowledge that, if he’d been there, he would have saved them both. A sergeant’s first duty was to the ones under his care and he’d failed to be there when they needed him the most.
He’d given up asking God to forgive him. It was his fault his wife died; he deserved any suffering he had. She had hated military life and had begged him to let her father set him up with a desk job in Washington. She complained that life was too difficult in the West and she wanted the parties she used to attend in the capital. He told her he’d be stifled behind a desk. She refused to hear his reasons, retreating into the vapid conversation that had characterized their courtship, and eventually he hadn’t known what to do but agree to ask her father. He was too late, though. If he had heeded her desires when she first voiced them, she would be alive today.
He shoved his memories aside. Even if he hadn’t given up the army for Catherine, he had no choice but to do so for Hannah. Now that his daughter had been scarred and crippled, she was even more delicate than his wife had been. She needed him and he did not intend to be absent again.
After he settled the horses into the shelter and gave them some of the hay that was stacked along one wall, he took a shovel outside and scraped the sides of the roof. The movement was enough to make the snow tumble down to the ground.
He’d taken off his gloves before feeding the horses and his hands were red and damp after moving the snow so he quickly walked back to get them before returning to the wagon. He uncovered a saddle bag from the back, rummaging through it to find the utensils he’d used at the fort. He’d always considered himself well supplied because he had two tin spoons for eating and the same number of cups for coffee.
The wind was loud and strong as he put the utensils inside his coat and fought his way back to the cabin. He opened the door and then closed it, only to have the noise stilled once he was inside. The place was stronger than he’d thought since it didn’t rattle.
“The drip stopped,” Eleanor informed him when he walked through the door.
“Good.”
He brought the cups and spoons out from inside his coat and set them down on the split-log table in the cabin. It was clear they weren’t enough. The trapper hadn’t left anything that could be used for eating. Eleanor had a bent spoon and a chipped china plate that she credited her employer with giving her on some Christmas years ago.
“We’ll have to share,” Adam said, too tired to make it sound any better than it was.
Fortunately, his mother didn’t protest. She was sitting on one of Hannah’s trunks and his daughter was seated on the stool.
Eleanor took the cast-iron skillet over to the table and served his mother on the plate before giving Hannah a cup of beans.
Then Eleanor silently filled the other cup and held it out to him.
It was a simple gesture, but it brought a lump to his throat. He had always been the one to do for Catherine. Neither of them had expected her to sacrifice more for him than she had when she married him.
“You eat,” he said to Eleanor with a shake of his head. “I should get some more wood before it gets too dark, anyway.”
She looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded. She gingerly sat down on the other half of the trunk that held his mother. The flame in the fireplace gave a golden light to the room and he noticed she’d pulled her bright hair back into a tidy bun. He rather missed the abundance of her hair when it was loose.
“I’ll bring the buffalo robe inside,” he said as he stood beside the table. Having announced he’d get the wood, he found himself reluctant to leave. “I’ll bed down with the horses tonight. There’s some hay in the corner of the shelter.”
“I figured your mother and Hannah could share the bed,” Eleanor said with a glance at the other woman. “I don’t mind sleeping out here by the fire.”
“That’s kind of you,” his mother said with a congenial nod, and then spoiled it by adding, “Hannah isn’t used to sharing a room with strangers.”
“Eleanor’s not a stranger, Mother,” A
dam said, and then to reinforce his words he turned to Eleanor. “We’ll ask to see the reverend tomorrow when we go into Miles City.”
Adam was surprised to see a pink blush cover the woman’s face. She suddenly looked very young so he added, “If that’s all right with you?”
He was bungling things already. Maybe he was supposed to formally ask for her hand in marriage again. He should have paid more attention when his mother talked about these arrangements.
Eleanor seemed uncertain for a moment and then stiffened. “Yes. Tomorrow is fine.”
Her green eyes filled with resolve until she looked as if she was facing a firing squad without the benefit of a blindfold. Her back was rigid and her shoulders square.
“We could wait a few days,” he offered. “As long as my mother is here, it’s proper.”
That would give him time to buy her some candy or take her for a walk in the moonlight. Except that it was freezing outside and all the mercantile in Miles City had was licorice and penny candy. A woman like Eleanor deserved a tin of those fancy chocolates that came over by ship from France. They had to be brought overland to the territories from Seattle, though, and not many tins made it through.
“I’d just as soon do it quick,” Eleanor said, looking straight ahead and not meeting his eyes. “The getting married part, that is.”
He heard his mother shift on the trunk. “Goodness. There’s no need to rush anything. Why, you’ve only just met each other.” Then she turned to look at his future wife. “I could always pay your way home, dear. I’m sure Mrs. Stout would take you back, even with the nephew there. She spoke so highly of you in her letters.”
“Mother—” he warned.
He suddenly noticed his daughter was on the verge of tears.
“But Hannah—” the woman managed to say with a glance at his daughter. She must have seen the look on his daughter’s face, too.
“Don’t worry. Hannah can just come back with me,” his mother said, looking at him defiantly. “We can’t have her raised by this sheep woman. With me, she will learn to be a lady. We need to just forget all this marriage nonsense and go back to the way it was.”
