by Regina Scott
She knew he didn’t mean “anything” literally. In fact, he wasn’t liable to agree to anything now.
“All right,” she said, as if it didn’t matter. “I think I’ll go lie down for a bit. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”
She knew Horst would be stationed outside her tent “in case she needed anything”—or tried to walk away.
*
It had been a full day, beginning with the final Sunday chapel service, in which there had been much laughter and not a few tears. Despite Elijah’s inner turmoil about Alice, he’d kept the sermon light, encouraging and brief, and had ended it with an invitation for anyone who wished to help him and his brothers found a new town and a new church to head for the south bank of the Cimarron near a boulder that jutted out of the river. Whether they ultimately settled there or elsewhere, he thanked the entire congregation for their support and fellowship.
In his benediction, Elijah blessed them, praying for safety on the morrow during the Land Rush, and prosperity and happiness to all those who would become new homesteaders in the former Unassigned Territories.
After the service, the men of the congregation—joined by Gideon and Clint—took down the big tent that had served as the walls and roof for this body of faithful Christians and folded it up. It would be packed away on the Thornton brothers’ wagon, to serve as the temporary new church until one could be built. While the men worked, the women readied a potluck lunch, and the children played.
Before the meal, they gathered in a circle over the bare patch of earth that had been the floor of their chapel and joined hands while Elijah said grace.
Elijah had just said “Amen” when Cordelia Ferguson spoke up. “Reverend, you didn’t mention it in the service, but did you get an answer yet to that matter we prayed about?”
“Not yet, Sister Cordelia,” he had to admit. “I spent several hours yesterday sitting amid the tall grass of the prairie, praying about that very same matter and listening for the Lord’s voice. I don’t have an answer yet, but I will tell you He sent His peace flooding over my heart.”
“That’s good, Reverend,” her sister, Carrie, piped up, “but I don’t s’pose it would hurt any to pray about it once more, while we’re all still in a prayer circle.”
Gratitude and other churning emotions made his throat feel thick and his eyes sting with unshed tears. “I think that would be fine, Sister Carrie. Why don’t you start the prayer? And anyone who feels led can join in.” He didn’t trust his voice not to break.
When would the Lord answer his pleas regarding Alice? he wondered as Carrie began to pray. As he’d said, he had felt the Lord’s peace yesterday, yes, but was it a peace that came in spite of painful circumstances or the peace that heralded the promise of an answer? Answers always came, he knew, but sometimes the answer was “No” and sometimes “Not yet.”
Lord, please give me patience while I wait on Your perfect timing.
While folks picnicked, they talked of the homes they planned to build. Some would erect temporary “soddies”—small dwellings built out of blocks of sod cut from the prairie—to be lived in until a more permanent frame or log cabin could be built; others would continue to live in tents and start building their houses right away. Those who planned to farm rather than dwell in the new town and start businesses had the added need to quickly plow up the sod on part of their 160 acres and start crops. They were getting a late start, so they had to plant crops that would grow quickly and provide food for themselves and their livestock through the first winter.
Elijah knew the new church would be started only when its members had built their own dwellings, so services were likely to be held under the tent for quite a while. Fortunately, however, Oklahoma had later and usually milder winters than many of those who had come to settle it were used to.
Those with big families had a distinct advantage in building their homes and “sodding off” their land to plant crops, but those who weren’t married or were just starting their families promised to pitch in and help each other. Farming veterans freely offered to advise those who were new at it. Cane and sorghum were the crops to plant, they said, as well as a kitchen garden to feed the family, of course.
“You’re planning to farm and raise livestock, too, aren’t you, Lars?” Elijah asked the big Dane, who was sitting next to him. “Near us, if it’s possible?”
“Ja, of course. And someday I hope to have a wife and children to help. Meanwhile, I am glad my sister is with me for now.”
“And Katrine? What are her plans?” Elijah inquired. He couldn’t picture the beautiful Katrine living with her brother and his family forever.
Lars shrugged. “She has not said. But of course I would wish for her that she finds a good man and has a blessed, happy life with him and the children they will have. But my sister’s husband must be a godly man, ja? It is something we both value.”
Elijah nodded. “Yes, the Bible does indicate Christians should marry those of their faith.”
Was there a veiled message in Lars’s words? Elijah had thought Katrine might suit Clint at one time, but if Clint never returned to faith, it sounded as if there’d be no blessing from Katrine’s brother for such a match. What Clint did was up to him. Elijah knew he could only serve as an example.
And where would Alice settle? The question bubbled up in his head like a wellspring. Or would the pushy New Yorker who’d come to claim her talk her into going back East?
He didn’t have long to ponder before someone posed another question.
“What will you call this new town, Reverend?” The question came from Winona, who was sitting with the Gilberts nearby, as were Gideon and Clint.
The question took him by surprise. “I confess I hadn’t given it any thought, Winona. I guess I figured some name would occur to us when we got there, right, brothers?”
They nodded. Elijah turned back to the Cheyenne woman. “Are you familiar with the area, as Lars is? Do you have any suggestions?” He wouldn’t be averse to a Cheyenne place-name, he thought, to reflect the Indian heritage of their part of Oklahoma. The red man had been here long before the white settlers.
She nodded. “Yes, I have been to this place of which Lars speaks. We call it by Cheyenne words that mean ‘Brave Rock,’ for this boulder stands tall at the edge of the river, never changing, no matter if the river is full with the rains of spring or its level drops in heat of summer.”
“Brave Rock,” Clint murmured. “I like the sound of that.”
Gideon nodded his agreement. “I think we’ve got a town name, Lije.”
Later, when the congregation had dispersed to their campsites to complete their packing and anticipate tomorrow, Clint turned to Elijah. “Feel up to a little more work, Lije? Mrs. Murphy promised us food for our suppers if we helped them take down their tent. And one of her ginger cakes. You’re not getting overtired, are you?”
“I think it’s been long enough that you can stop coddling me, with—” He stopped, realizing he’d been about to say, “with Alice’s blessing.” He’d always assumed Alice would be present during this final day’s events, and on the next day when everyone lined up at the border and awaited the noon rifle shot signal.
Alice…
“Sure, if she’s offering ginger cake, I’m in,” he said. The busier he stayed, the better.
*
“Is that everything?” Elijah asked, as Clint loaded one more rope-bound parcel inside the wagon that evening after supper.
“Yep, everything we can pack before morning, anyway,” Gideon said. “Since the Land Rush isn’t starting till noon, we’ll have plenty of time to get dressed, have breakfast and strike our tent in the morning.”
It sounded like way too much time to kill to Elijah. He wished the rifle shot was to sound at dawn. He felt like a bedspring with a hundred-pound weight on it, anticipating being released to its full height. There was entirely too much time to keep him from impulsively going to Alice and trying once more to get the
truth of whether or not she was with Peterson against her will. He still couldn’t believe she had actually chosen to put herself under his thumb. This was 1889 America, not medieval Europe. Women were not chattel. Why, in Wyoming, they could even vote.
Dusk was rapidly deepening into night. Lantern-light dotted Boomer Town here and there, and the shouts of children at play had ceased.
“Reckon we better turn in early,” Gideon muttered, after throwing the last of his coffee onto the fire. “Going to need a good rest to get through tomorrow.”
“I reckon you’re right, brother,” Clint said. “Coming, Lije?”
“In a minute.” Long after his brothers had let the tent flap fall behind them, Elijah stood at the dying campfire, staring as far as he could see at Boomer Town. Many of the tents had already been taken down, especially those that had sheltered businesses. By an order from the army, the whiskey tents had closed by evening—the last thing they wanted to contend with during the run were tempers fueled by liquor. There were bare patches of earth where the mercantile and hardware tents had been, too. Before long the dirt roads would grow grass again and what had been Boomer Town would revert to prairie. There would be no sign that this place had ever been packed with tents, wagons, livestock and hundreds of folks all wanting the same thing—a piece of ground to call their own.
Elijah supposed he should follow his brothers’ examples and try to get some shut-eye. But he knew it’d be of no use. After an hour of listening to his brothers’ soft snores, he set out on a walk through Boomer Town. For one last time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alice couldn’t sleep.
Everything in the two tents was in readiness for the next day, thanks to Horst’s efficient packing, and yet they had eaten a gourmet meal tonight as always—steaks worthy of Delmonico’s, roast potatoes, a crisp salad and chocolate cake for dessert. Maxwell had drunk deeply of port wine and retired early, much to her relief. He had remained on his good behavior, but she had learned that when Maxwell imbibed, there was no telling what could set him off.
“Sleep well, Miss Hawthorne,” the ever-courteous Horst said after he had escorted her to her tent. “By this time tomorrow night everything will be different, ja?”
“Yes…good night, Horst.” Same captivity, different location, she thought ironically. For tonight, though, Horst would take up his position at her door as always, she supposed. She couldn’t imagine when the little Bavarian man ever slept. He was always present, ever ready to serve his master’s slightest whim—or hers. He would remain in Boomer Town with the wagon Maxwell had purchased until his master and Alice had staked their claims and sent word as to their location; then he would follow. Alice knew Maxwell wouldn’t go back to Horst himself—he wouldn’t be willing to leave her and his claim. She wondered idly how he expected to send word. Did he assume the prairie would be thronging with messenger boys, just hoping to take his missive in exchange for a generous tip?
Maxwell had announced they would head due north to where he had heard a town called Guthrie was being planned. It was probably best that she and Maxwell were headed to a different location than the Thorntons. It would surely be torture to see Elijah marry someone else and live happily with another woman, knowing all along she could have been his wife if she had not been so foolish. She knew he had originally said he was going to remain single and devote himself to building his church, but somehow she couldn’t picture the handsome preacher forever without a wife, sons and daughters at his side. He was too kind, generous, and, yes, handsome a man to remain a bachelor.
It was airless in this tent. She was never going to get any sleep, especially if she didn’t stop thinking about Elijah and wondering how his last services at the tent chapel had gone. Could he be lying in his tent, awake as she was, and wondering what she was doing? Most of her hoped not. She wanted him to be happy, even if that meant being happy without her.
She should think of something else. Would Clint become sheriff of the Thornton brothers’ new town? She supposed they might well call the town “Thornton.” Whom would Clint marry? How about Gideon? Would he always be content to be alone? She could picture Gideon raising the finest horses and beef cattle in the territory and, later, the state of Oklahoma.
How were Dakota and Winona progressing with their English? How were Lars and Katrine? She’d enjoyed the pretty Danish girl’s delicious cooking and pleasant company. Would Mrs. Murphy still make those delicious ginger cakes wherever she built her new café?
What had happened to Cheyenne, the pretty Appaloosa mare Lars had sold to her? Had the Thorntons given the mare back to him, since she would not be riding her tomorrow? The matching liver-colored chestnut saddlebred geldings that Maxwell had brought for both of them to ride wouldn’t be nearly as fast as the agile Appaloosa, she thought. Ah, well, it didn’t matter to her whether she and Maxwell ended up with claims or not.
She’d gotten another letter from her mother just yesterday. Realizing the temporary post office would be closing at the end of business on Saturday, she’d sent Horst to check one last time for any letters, and there had been one for her with a New York postmark. He’d brought it to her just after she’d finished dressing for dinner.
The seal hadn’t been broken, so Horst had either brought it directly to her or Maxell had figured there was no way, with the Land Rush taking place tomorrow, that a letter from her mother could affect the outcome anyway. Alice opened it eagerly, poring over the lines of familiar script until she found these words:
I should tell you Maxwell Peterson was here shortly after you left inquiring as to your whereabouts. I didn’t tell him anything, but he said he has ways of finding out. I never did like that man, and I didn’t think you did either, my sweet girl, so I hope he’s not as smart as he thinks he is.
Alice had chuckled at that. She’d gotten much of her shrewd judgment of people from her mother. She read on.
You’d be better off alone the rest of your life than with that bully. Well, I’ll close here and send this off. I’ll wait to hear from you once you are settled. Best of luck to you and be well. Know that you are in my prayers, my darling daughter.
Your loving mother
After reading it, Alice removed the globe from the lamp and held the letter up to the flame, then dropped it to the dirt floor of the tent and watched it fade into ashes. She’d have liked to keep the letter to reread later, but she dared not, not with what her mother had said about Maxwell. She didn’t trust him not to search her things.
Alice wondered if Maxwell would permit her mother to come and live with them, once they were settled. She longed to see her and didn’t want her mother to spend her final years alone, but would it be better or worse with her mother there, witnessing Maxwell’s controlling ways and temper?
She sighed, the sound echoing in the empty, dark tent. Fortunately she didn’t have to decide anything about the future tonight. She was just borrowing trouble to try to plan so far ahead. She had to survive tomorrow first.
Commit your way unto the Lord, and He shall bring it to pass.
Where had that verse come from? Once Maxwell had come and forbidden her to attend any more chapel services, she’d felt as if she was living in a vacuum, cut apart from fellowship with other Christians.
She couldn’t sleep; she might as well take her lamp outside and read from her Bible. Horst wouldn’t bother her if he saw that she had just come out to read. Maybe she could find that verse, if she looked hard enough.
Putting on a wrapper, she picked up her Bible, her lantern and a box of matches, and stepped outside.
Horst wasn’t there.
For a moment, she couldn’t believe her eyes and rubbed them before looking again. There was no figure sitting in his usual camp chair by the entrance flap of her tent, nor was he sitting by the embers of the campfire, nor could she make out his figure hovering between the campfire and Maxwell’s pavilion.
Was it a trick? Was the little Bavarian man lurking somewhere in t
he shadows, ready to sound the alarm if she stepped one foot away from the campsite?
She stepped as close as she dared to the side of her tent in both directions, but no Horst emerged from the shadows. Perhaps Maxwell’s servant had decided it was high time he got a good night’s rest, too. Or maybe Maxwell had told him that there was little chance now of Alice slipping away—not so close to the race.
For one crazy moment, she contemplated sneaking away, stealthily setting first one foot, then the other onto the dirt road that led between the rows of tents and wagons, until she was able to run the rest of the way to the Thorntons’ tent.
But no—it was still too late, she reminded herself bitterly. After his second attempt to speak to her, Elijah had made no further attempts. He didn’t need her, now that the inhabitants of Boomer Town were about to disperse in myriad different directions tomorrow. She had saved his life, yes, but he’d always said that he had never planned to marry. Perhaps if Maxwell hadn’t come, Elijah might have changed his mind, but she had seen the bitter hurt in Elijah’s eyes. He’d taken her refusal to stand up for herself as a final no. He didn’t need such a spineless woman, and if she went to him now, way past time for a decent woman to be paying a call, she’d only embarrass herself—and put Elijah and his brothers in danger if Maxwell figured out where she’d gone.
Maxwell had shown her the matching pistols he’d brought from New York—pistols he planned to carry during the race tomorrow, he’d confided slyly. She knew he’d think nothing of using them against any man—or woman—who crossed him, then find a way to cover it up. And Maxwell still had a long arm that could reach clear to upstate New York, where her mother lived.
It was better she remain right here and do what she had planned to do—read her Bible and pray. Prayer was always the best option, wasn’t it? And it was her only option.
*
Elijah hadn’t been able to prevent his feet from carrying him to Alice’s campsite. He had resolved to walk in every direction around Boomer Town but the one that would take him past the tent in which Alice slept—and the larger tent of Maxwell Peterson. But he’d walked all over the partly dismantled tent city, praying for those he passed, and felt no drowsier than before.
