Gunsmoke and Gingham

by Kirsten Osbourne

  He shook his head. “Not really. I just thought it would be nice to go for a long walk with my wife. On a day that isn’t a Sunday.”

  She smiled, loving the idea. “Let me check the roast, and I’m happy to go.” She hadn’t yet frosted the cake, but she could do that later. She was thrilled that he wanted to spend the time with her. Day by day, she realized he was trusting her more and more. Her life wasn’t quite as idyllic as she’d once imagined being married to him would be, but it was getting there.

  She removed her apron, and put on her bonnet. “I used to laugh at people who wore bonnets like this, but they’re so much more comfortable than a hat. If I don’t want my face to burn to a crisp, they’re perfect.”

  He smiled, enjoying listening to her talk about anything. Together they walked around the farm, hand in hand. “I thought about getting a second homestead. I could add a tree farm to this one. The government is convinced that there should be forests along the prairie.”

  “It would be nice if you didn’t have to buy wood for your furniture, but you always seem to find enough trees for firewood.” She stopped and picked a few pretty pink flowers. She had no idea what they were called and truly didn’t care. They were beautiful and would look good on her table in the vase he’d gotten her.

  They talked as they walked, and they dreamed of the future. He no longer talked about sending her back East if the letter said she was a liar, and for that she was thankful. She tried not to think about it often.

  Every few steps, she’d declare a new flower too pretty to pass up, and either she would pick a few, or he would do it for her, but they never picked more than two or three of each kind. She needed to leave most of them for other people to enjoy, and so more would grow the next year.

  As they got back to the house, she smiled at him. “Thank you for coming home early and spending your birthday afternoon with me.”

  “Who else would I spend it with?”

  “Well, Dorothy Ann seemed awfully interested in you at church last Sunday…”

  “Dorothy Ann is old enough to be my mother!”

  At the mention of his mother, they both sobered a little. She stepped close to him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. “Happy birthday. I hope it’s everything you want it to be.”

  He stroked her cheek, happy that she’d remembered. He hadn’t had a birthday cake since he’d left home, and to have someone remember his birthday was truly a treat.

  After supper, she gave him the gift she’d worked on. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine. “What is it?” he asked, turning it over in his hand. “I thought the special supper and cake were my birthday gifts!”

  She shook her head. “Of course not. I shared those with you.”

  He carefully untied the string and opened the paper, taking out what she’d made—a new stocking cap, a scarf, and mittens for the cold weather. They were made of a blue that matched her eyes perfectly. “I’ll think of you every time I wear them.”

  “I know it’s strange to give someone a gift like that in June, but Christmas would be too late for you to wear them all winter!”

  “They’re perfect. Thank you.” He caught her hand and pulled her onto his lap, kissing her. “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

  She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder for a moment. “I have to get the dishes done. Don’t go anywhere!”

  He picked up his book and found his marker. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

  Chapter 9

  Just after William left to work the following morning Mary realized she was out of flour. She wouldn’t be able to bake fresh bread for supper that night if she didn’t get some. If she hurried, she could get to town and back home before William was home for lunch.

  She hurried through the dishes and made the bed, sweeping the floor of the house. She wanted as many chores as she could get done finished before she headed into town. It would be an abbreviated work day for her, but she couldn’t not make fresh bread. The look on William’s face when he took a bite of it fresh from the oven told her that he’d missed having it too much for her to skip it, even for one day.

  She sat down at the table and made a list of things she needed from the store before hitching up the team. It was her first time to go anywhere without William since she’d arrived in South Dakota, and already it felt strange. They’d been to the store twice and to church four times since her arrival.

  As she drove, she admired the countryside. He sure had picked a pretty area to settle down in, and she was happy to be there. It seemed like the kind of place she had always wanted to live, even though she’d never thought to leave her little home town.

  When she got to town, she walked into the store and shopped around a little. She hated shopping with William, because he always crossed his arms, leaned against one wall, and watched her shop. She wanted to be able to take her time, looking things over and deciding what she wanted.

  She asked for the flour and a couple of other small things and headed to the counter to pay. Dorothy Ann was there, and she really didn’t want to talk to the meddlesome older woman, but there was no way to avoid it. “Hello.” Her husband had helped her in the store and was busy carrying Mary’s things to her wagon.

  Dorothy Ann smiled. “Where’s that handsome husband of yours today?” Even though her lips smiled, her eyes were shrewd. Her eyes made Mary feel as if she knew something she shouldn’t, and soon the whole town would know.

  “He’s working. I had a flour emergency, so I had to come into town without him.” Mary hated telling the woman even that much of her business.

  “I see.” Dorothy Ann offered her two letters. “A letter for each of you from Massachusetts. It’s so odd to me that you came here as a mail order bride, but you’re from the same state. Seem to even be from the same town.”

  “Massachusetts is a big state. I moved out here from Beckham, and he’s from a small town north of there,” Mary responded, taking the letters. She didn’t bother to glance at them with Dorothy Ann watching, knowing the older woman’s propensity for gossip. “Thank you.” She quickly paid and hurried out of the store, her purchases already loaded for her.

  She was just about to climb up onto the wagon seat when Patsy Hardy, the doctor’s new wife, stopped her. “How are you, Mary?”

  “I’m good. I wasn’t watching my supplies closely enough and ran out of flour. How am I supposed to bake bread without flour, I ask you?”

  Patsy grinned. “I’ve done the same thing. I’m closer to the store than you are, though.”

  Mary smiled down at Patsy’s little girl, who was throwing a ball up in the air and catching it with the baseball glove on her other hand. “Is there a baseball game going?”

  Emily shrugged. “Haven’t found one yet, but a girl should always be prepared to pitch.”

  “I didn’t know you were a pitcher!”

  “Best pitcher in all of Butterfly Meadows!” Patsy said with a smile at her daughter. “Someday she’ll learn to like flowers and other things girls like, but for now, we’re just proud of her pitching.”

  Mary squatted down so she was eye-level with the girl. “You just keep being you, Emily. Sometimes you can’t worry about other people’s expectations of you.”

  “Dolls are boring,” Emily said with a sigh.

  “I can see where you might think that!” Mary stood up straight, smiling at Patsy. “It was good to see you. I’d love to have your family come to supper sometime soon. Maybe on Sunday?” She and William hadn’t had any guests since her arrival, and with all the work she’d done on the house, she liked the idea of showing it off. Besides, this woman was a midwife, and she wanted lots of babies. It wouldn’t hurt to be friendly with her for when the time came.

  “Sunday supper sounds lovely,” Patsy said. “I haven’t had time to make a lot of friends here yet. It will be nice to have some adult conversation.”

  Emily eyed Mary suspiciously. “I don’t have to
play with dolls at your house, do I?”

  “Of course not! You can bring your ball and throw it if you want to.” Mary didn’t care what she did. She thought girls should be encouraged to do whatever they liked to do. Climbing up into the wagon, she waved and drove out of town. They could finalize plans with the Hardys on Sunday morning at church.

  As soon as she was out of town, Mary pulled over to the side of the road and looked at the letters in her hand. One was from Sam, William’s brother, as she’d expected. The other was from Mrs. Johnson. No wonder Dorothy Ann had been suspicious. Both letters were from the same town. Their secret may be out. She’d have to talk to William about it over lunch.

  She quickly opened the letter from Mrs. Johnson, whom she’d written as soon as she’d arrived in South Dakota. It wasn’t her usual long newsy letter as she’d expected.

  Dear Mary,

  I received a visit from Sam, William’s brother, today. He was asking me questions about what happened five years ago. He said that he’d had no idea you were told William died, but that he was on his way home to ask his mother everything. I thought you’d want to know that someone is finally trying to get to the bottom of the deception.

  I miss you a great deal. I hope you won’t forget me way out there in the West.

  Mrs. Johnson

  Mary closed her eyes. If his brother didn’t know what she’d been told, then how would he respond? She was almost afraid to give the letter to William, but she knew it was the right thing to do. She’d never deceived him, and she never would.

  Her drive home was torturous as she tried to wrap her mind around the fact that the answer was finally there, but it might not be the one she needed it to be. How on earth would she be able to go on if he sent her home to Massachusetts?

  William found he was working for shorter periods of time. He went out after breakfast, but his lunches were earlier and earlier. Why it was only eleven-thirty now, and he was already standing in the kitchen, wondering where his wife had gone. She’d been upstairs the day before, so he headed up there, calling her name.

  He looked into the bedroom where he’d found her. “Mary?”

  There was no answer, and he frowned. He’d come home early to see a wife who wasn’t there. Where had she gone? His eyes landed on the trunk full of letters that she’d closed when he’d looked at it yesterday, and he wondered what was in there that she hadn’t wanted him to see.

  Even as he opened the trunk, he told himself it was wrong, but then he reached for the first letter. It was dated just over four years before.

  My Dearest William,

  I know it makes no sense that I continue to write letters to you every day, but I still miss you with everything inside of me. When I walk to the market, which I do frequently, because I work as a cook, I look for you in every stranger’s face.

  At night, while I’m in bed, I think about you the most. I can’t quit wondering what our lives would be like if we’d married when we wanted to. Every day that I live was a day we were meant to live together.

  I must confess, I feel your death is in some way my fault. My father is the one who sent you away. How can I forgive myself for that?

  All my love,

  Mary

  The next letter was dated six months later. Were all the letters to him? He read it, feeling his heart break for his sweet wife.

  My darling William,

  I made myself go for a week without writing you. I felt like I was doing something horribly wrong for not taking pen to paper every evening as I have for the past year and a half, but I know that you would want me to move on and still live my life. But how does one live when her heart has been shattered?

  Some days the sorrow is so great that I’m not sure if I can continue on. My friend, Elizabeth, makes it easier for me. If not for her, I don’t know where I’d have ended up. It’s funny how life has changed for me. I grew up the daughter of the wealthiest man in town, and now here I am, the cook for a woman who was raised in poverty, but lives in a mansion. Elizabeth won’t admit it, but she is in love with her butler. Doesn’t that sound like something out of a bad romance novel? I think he loves her as well, but he’s fully aware of his position in her employ.

  I’m rambling again. I miss you. Have I said that yet in this letter? I would give anything to have you by my side. Some days I’m so stricken with grief it’s hard for me to get out of bed. Other days, I’m so filled with anger, I want to scream. I feel that all the days and weeks and months and years that have been taken from us are completely and utterly lost. But, William, my heart has died along with you. I will never love again.

  Now I will sleep and dream of you, for truly, it’s the only time I’m happy.

  Yours,

  Mary

  He took out another letter, and then another. He couldn’t seem to stop reading them.

  My darling William,

  It’s been four years since your death, and I’m slowly learning to move on with my life. Oh, I’m not talking about romantically, of course, because no man will ever hold my heart but you. I mean I’m able to get up every morning without prompting. I’m actually enjoying my job now, as I should have all along.

  I tried a new recipe today, and all I could think of as I sampled it was that I wished you were there to try it. Everything I do, even now, is for you.

  I bought some flowers for my room today, spending a small bit of my hard-earned money. I bought them, because they reminded me of a bouquet you left on my desk in school once.

  I ate a peppermint stick, and I thought about you giving them to me at different times, and Albert taking the credit.

  I saw a puppy today, and it reminded me of your dog, Clarence. I wonder if that dog is still alive somewhere. I don’t know if you left him with your family or took him with you. If you took him, I hope a kind family has taken him in. If not, I hope that Sam is taking good care of him.

  If I haven’t mentioned it yet in this letter, I miss you every second of every minute of every hour of every day. My heart is with you.

  All my love,

  Mary

  He brushed at the tears that streamed down his face, even as he reached for another letter. Why hadn’t she shown him these? They told him everything he needed to know about whether she’d been part of the deception.

  He knew he needed to stop reading them, because they were tearing him apart. Imagining his beautiful, happy Mary going through the kind of anguish that was in every line of each of the letters broke his heart. He wanted her to always have a smile on her face, and laughter on her lips.

  He realized she’d learned to laugh again after marrying him, because he’d seen it happen gradually. She’d started out being very formal with him, but slowly, she’d started joking, and her sense of humor had come out. Her smiles had come more readily, and her heart had seemed as if it was on the mend. Slowly.

  The only thing keeping her from being truly happy was him. She was waiting until he got his letter before she allowed herself to live and breathe easily again, and it was his fault. He should have believed her from the beginning. How could there be the kind of love he felt for her without trust?

  As he sat there on the floor, he read through letter after letter. There was little difference from one to the next. They were all about how much she missed him. There were daily details in some, but not in most. Most just talked about how much she missed him. There were two where she was angry with him for leaving her alone to deal with life without him.

  They’d mourned one another differently, but they’d both mourned. He’d worked himself into a frenzy and given up sleep, while she’d clung to sleep, being happiest when she was dreaming of him. He knew because she told him over and over in letter after letter.

  Now he understood why she didn’t want him to see them. She didn’t want him to understand the depths of her despair at his death. She wanted him to think she was strong and capable…and he now understood she could be both.

  She could be strong, b
ut weak at the same time. She was a fighter, and she’d made it through the loss of “the only man she’d ever love”—her words again, not his. She said she hadn’t cried for him, and he now understood that her pain had been too great for tears. Sometimes the hardest things—the things that you think will be the end of you—are the things that you can’t cry over.

  He didn’t need the letter from his brother. He didn’t need anything but his Mary. He’d start all over again with nothing if that’s what it took to convince her that he believed in her—and the love they had for one another.

  He stuck one of the letters in his pocket, the one from four years after his “death” and carried it with him as he went looking for his wife.

  Chapter 10

  Mary got into the house and found it empty, breathing a sigh of relief. Sometimes William was a little early for his lunch, and she didn’t want him to have to wait for her.

  She made flapjacks for lunch with some bacon, a simple, fast meal, so she could get it ready before he came in for lunch. She set the table while the bacon was frying and poured milk for them both.

  After it was set, she put the letter from his brother on top of his plate. She was afraid of what was in it, but she couldn’t keep it from him. She loved him too much for that.

  She heard a sound from behind her, and saw William standing there, looking at her. “You weren’t here when I got home for lunch,” he said, sounding a little lost.

  His eyes were bloodshot, and she immediately started fussing. “Are you getting sick? Let me get you a hot towel for your eyes.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, quickly wetting a kitchen towel and laying it on the back of the stove to warm it.

  “Where were you?”

  “We were almost out of flour, and I didn’t want to make you go without fresh bread tonight, so I went to town to get some. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” She bit her lip nervously. “I used my own money, but I made sure that I kept the paper Dorothy Ann wrote the amount on, so you could pay me back if you felt the need. I know you don’t want me spending my own money.”