A Proper Marriage

by Dorothy Love

  Peering through the foggy gloom, Olivia shivered and bent her head against the biting wind. At last she glimpsed the summit of the mountain. They were nearing Coulter’s Gap and the ridge. She let out a shaky breath. Just a few minutes more and they’d cross the ridge road and head down into the valley, toward a warm bed and safety.

  It happened in a trice. Pegasus stumbled and the wagon slid across the icy road. Luke cursed and hauled the reins, but the horse whinnied and reared in his traces. The wagon lurched. Olivia prayed they wouldn’t overturn. She heard the crack of wood as a wheel broke. Luke yelled and pushed her from the wagon just seconds before it slid sideways and disappeared, tumbling end over end toward the precipice.

  Chapter Four

  Darkness came down like a rock. Dazed, half-frozen, and bleeding from a gash on her forehead, Olivia struggled to her feet. Knee-deep in the heavy spring snow, she could see nothing but drifts piling up against the dark mass of trees.

  Cupping her hands against the wind, she yelled again and again for Luke, but there was no answer. She stood paralyzed, not knowing which way to go. The deep snow obscured any landmark that might have guided her—a particularly tall tree, a boulder, the deep ruts that marked the ridge road. Even in broad daylight she could not have guessed which way led deeper into the ravine and which would lead her downward to the valley and safety.

  The sudden sharp report of a rifle echoed through the trees, startling her. Perhaps some farmer in the valley far below firing at a coyote or interrupting a fox on a midnight raid to the henhouse. “Luke?”

  The wind was her only answer. “Luke! Where are you?”

  Deep silence filled her ears until she thought she would die from it. Terrified and exhausted, her hands stiff with cold, she sank to her knees in the snow. Lord, I have committed the most grievous sin, save murder. I am not worthy of forgiveness. If you won’t help me, I understand, but please spare Luke, who is here only because of me.

  She heard the crunch of snow behind her and felt a hand on her shoulder. She struggled to her feet.

  “You’re all right,” Luke said on a ragged breath. “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.” The moon emerged from behind the clouds, casting a silver glow onto the snow, revealing a dark trail of blood. “You’re hurt.”

  “Fractured my leg when I jumped. It hurts like the devil.”

  “Oh, Luke, what are we going to do?” She fumbled for a handkerchief and blotted the gash at her temple.

  He gestured with his rifle. “Wagon’s down that ravine, about fifty feet or so. It’s busted up, but it’ll do for shelter till morning. Then we’ll find our way out.”

  “At least we have Pegasus. You can ride and I’ll—” Her stomach dropped as he turned away. “He is all right?”

  “I had to shoot him.” Luke’s voice cracked. “He broke both front legs in the fall.”

  She burst into tears.

  “He was suffering, Olivia. It was the right thing to do.”

  He leaned against her, and they started down into the dark ravine, pausing every few steps for Luke to catch his breath. Presently they stumbled upon his shovel, his tool box, the leather trunk containing her clothes, and finally, the still, dark shape that was Pegasus, already growing stiff in the cold.

  The wagon had come to rest on its side against a tree. They huddled beneath it, holding onto each other for warmth. As the night wore on, Luke slipped into a fevered sleep, but Olivia sat shivering, alert for the smallest sound that might mean rescue. Though she couldn’t imagine who would be traveling in the middle of the night, in a snow storm. Her anger flared. Oh, why hadn’t Luke paid attention to Mr. Dumbarton’s warning?

  Morning came. The snowstorm had passed, leaving in its wake a spring sun that poured buttery light into the valley and quickly melted random patches of snow. While Luke slept, Olivia gathered his coopering tools, the hoe, and a box of provisions and dragged them back to the ruined wagon. Her sketchbooks were wet and tattered, but she couldn’t bear to think they were gone forever. Perhaps something might be salvaged once they were safely off the mountain.

  “Olivia? What are you doing?” Luke woke and was trying to stand, using his rifle as a crutch.

  “We’ll need these things when we get to Laurel Grove.” Opening the box, she took out tins of tea and matches and a dented kettle. “At least we can have something warm to drink.”

  “We’ll have to make it quick. I don’t want to spend another night on this mountain.”

  “Nor do I.” She glanced at his injured leg. “I don’t see how you can walk all the way down before dark.”

  “I have no other choice. We need to get help and come back here for our things.”

  He fished his knife from his pocket, stripped bark from the tree, and looked around the wagon for a piece of splintered wood. Soon a fire crackled in the clearing. Olivia filled the kettle with snow and set it on the fire to boil. Since they had jettisoned their household goods, they took turns sipping tea from the lid of the kettle. Olivia sipped hers slowly, bracing for the wave of nausea she knew would come, but her stomach stayed calm. Maybe it was the sharp, thin mountain air. Or maybe she was simply too frightened to be sick.

  “I’m going to need a crutch,” Luke said.

  “One of the wagon shafts snapped in two. It’s just up the ravine a ways, next to your tool box.”

  “That might work. Can you drag it down here?”

  “I think so.”

  He nodded. “You didn’t happen to see my ax lying around anywhere?”

  “No. I found your hatchet, but I couldn’t carry everything at once.”

  “Good enough.”

  She plodded up the hill, the damp cold seeping into her thin leather boots, numbing her toes. The snow was melting quickly, turning the ground beneath her boots slick and spongy. Surveying the wreckage strewn about the ravine, she found the hatchet again. She dragged the broken wagon trace down the hill to where he waited. While Luke worked on fashioning a crutch, Olivia drank more tea and piled their salvaged belongings beneath the overturned wagon, ignoring the nagging emptiness in her stomach.

  When his crutch was finished, he made a sling from a blanket and threaded it onto a sapling limb to make a hobo’s pack. Into the sling he put their tea and kettle, his tin of matches, and his ammunition.

  They set off. At the base of the mountain far below, the road became visible again, a thin line of brown winding through the green valley. A wisp of smoke from a partially obscured chimney drifted into the sky.

  “Is that Laurel Grove?” Though she wanted to get off the mountain as soon as possible, Olivia slowed and matched her steps to his. With the sun warming their faces, they inched down the mountain, stopping often to rest.

  “No. Hickory Ridge, most likely. We’ll stop there for the night, like we planned, and head to Laurel Grove tomorrow.” He winced as his foot hit a tree root. “I guess there’s no real hurry now. We’ve lost everything.”

  “I suppose we can rent a dray, or buy one, to retrieve what little is left.”

  “Depends on how much they’re asking.” His eyes met hers. “I won’t lie to you. I spent nearly everything I had on the wagon and tools and such. We’ll need every penny of what’s left to make the first payment on our land. And before you say—”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “You have a right to, I reckon. I should have listened to Silas—and to you—and waited for the storm to pass. It would have saved us a whole pack of trouble.”

  “Yes, it would have. But what’s done is done.”

  “I’m sorry. This isn’t turning out like I planned.”

  An image of George bloomed in her mind and she forced it away. “No, Luke, it isn’t.”

  He swayed on his feet. “I feel—”

  He slumped to the ground. She bent over him. “What’s the matter?”

  Pulling away the tattered fabric of his trousers, she saw that blood had darkened his woolen sock and dripped down th
e side of his scarred leather boot. She unlaced his boot and drew it gingerly over his swollen ankle. She removed her cloak and sweater and fashioned the sweater into a thick bandage. He moaned when she wound the cloth around his shattered bone, but he didn’t open his eyes. She folded her cloak into a pillow for his head, bathed his face with snowmelt, and considered her options. Should she leave him here and go on alone to get help, or stay until he was rested enough to continue to the valley road?

  As if reading her thoughts, Luke opened his eyes and squinted up at her. “We have to go on, Olivia.”

  “I don’t see how you can possibly stand on that broken leg. Your ankle is swollen so badly I could barely get your boot off.”

  “What?” He sat up. “You never take off a boot when your foot is swollen! The foot swells even more and it makes it impossible to put the boot back on.” He winced and fell backward onto the snow. “Lord. How could you be so stupid? Don’t you know anything?”

  She wanted to cry. “I was trying to help you, but if you’re going to be mean about it, I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Luke sat up again and reached for his boot, but it would not go on over his swollen ankle. After several minutes of trying, he gave up and lay back on his makeshift pillow, his breathing ragged, a sheen of sweat covering his face. “You’ve got to get to Hickory Ridge and find us some help.”

  “Don’t be foolish. I can’t leave you here alone, with no way to defend yourself.”

  “I’ve got my rifle.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t care. I think we should camp here tonight and continue on in the morning after you’ve had more time to rest.”

  “I’ll be worse by morning. Fever is setting in. I need a doctor to set this leg. The sooner the better.”

  “But—”

  “Please. If you go now, you can make it before dark. Send somebody to get me.”

  “Oh, Luke. If only I’d known not to remove your boot. I’ve made an even bigger mess of things.”

  He managed a weak grin. “I’m sorry I called you stupid. I guess wilderness survival wasn’t part of the curriculum at Miss Pritchard’s School for Young Ladies.”

  “We’re in an awful fix. I don’t see how you can joke about it.”

  “I’ve been in worse fixes than this,” he said on a sharp intake of breath. “Many times.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Touched at his attempt to reassure her, she knelt beside him in the snow and brushed his hair from his eyes. “What could possibly be worse than this?”

  “Get going, will you? It won’t do to have you wearing widow’s weeds before the ink is dry on our marriage papers.” He lifted his head and handed back her soggy woolen cloak. “You’ll need this tonight.”

  “But—”

  “Go on, now. I’m counting on you.”

  Unexpected tears stung her eyes. “I’ll send help as soon as I can.”

  She headed down the trail, skirting overhanging branches and thick, ropy tree roots snaking across the path. The sun rose high into the cloudless sky, warming her skin, melting the last of the snow lying in the low places. The March wind chafed her cheeks and tugged at the hem of her dress.

  Her forehead throbbed. Her feet swelled inside her thin leather shoes as the morning dragged on. Her stomach heaved and groaned. How long had it been since she’d eaten?

  At last the path widened into a clearing, and up ahead she saw the road. Relief rushed through her. Quickening her steps, she passed beneath clusters of gnarled trees and peered around each bend in the road, looking for a house, a farmer with his wagon, anything at all. But the road spooled out endlessly before her—warm, dusty, and still.

  Once, thinking that she heard voices, she hurried toward the sound to find nothing but a flock of noisy blackbirds feeding in a greening field. She stopped, arching her aching back, waiting to catch her breath. She felt the familiar prickling sensation in her stomach and sat down, blinking away the black spots flashing before her eyes. The last thing she heard before she fainted was the song of a cardinal in the trees beside the road.

  Chapter Five

  Cool hands soothed her brow. Half-formed images bloomed and faded behind her closed eyes. She felt as if her stomach had been attached somehow to her backbone. Her arms and legs felt leaden, but oh, what bliss this bed was. A warm, spicy scent drifted in the air. Sassafras? Sandalwood? Luke! Olivia blinked awake.

  She was lying in a narrow bed in a room with unadorned plaster walls and the simplest of furniture—a nightstand that held a white stoneware water basin and pitcher, a chest of drawers, a pier glass in the corner. Dust motes swirled in the late afternoon sunlight falling onto the wood floor. In the hallway, voices rose and fell. A woman in a dark green dress and a matching shawl entered the room carrying a tray on which sat a cup and saucer, a small pitcher of milk, and a teapot that sent fragrant steam wafting into the small space.

  She smiled at Olivia. “Ah. Awake at last.”

  Memories came rushing back. The icy ridge road. The wrecked wagon. And Luke waiting for rescue. Olivia sat up and threw back the covers. “Where am I? Is this Hickory Ridge?”

  The woman set down the tray and poured tea. “This is Sweetbriar Creek. Hickory Ridge is—”

  “I must go there. Our wagon, that is . . . my husband . . . oh, where are my shoes?”

  “There, now. Slow down, my dear, and tell me. What’s the trouble?”

  The story came out in fits and starts, beginning with their departure from North Carolina, their overnight stay with the Dumbartons, and ending with her attempt to summon help.

  A tall, bushy-bearded man in denim pants and a blue work shirt, sleeves rolled back to his elbows, strode into the room, bringing with him the scents of hay and horses. “Delia, what’s this I hear about a lost traveler?”

  “This young woman fainted on the road. Ben Thornburg found her on his way back from town and brought her here. She says her husband was hurt.”

  “Luke needs to get off the mountain,” Olivia said. “He needs a doctor.”

  The man’s eyes widened with concern. “We will find him. Now tell me what has brought thee so far from home.”

  Thee. So these were Quakers too. Olivia felt the tension leaving her shoulders. If this couple was anything like the Dumbartons, she and Luke would be safe in their care.

  The woman quickly explained to her husband, then said to Olivia, “I am Delia Mills. This is my husband, Samuel.”

  Mr. Mills moved about the room, gathering warm clothes and bandages from the wooden chest in the corner. Olivia described the location of the accident as clearly as she could.

  “It must be near Coulter’s Gap,” Samuel decided. “I know that road.”

  “Yes, that’s it.” Now Olivia remembered Luke’s mentioning the gap. “He thought we could cross the ridge road there and stop at Hickory Ridge before going on to Laurel Grove. But the snowstorm came. You know the rest.”

  “I’ll take Noah Pierce and Ben Thornburg with me,” Samuel said to his wife. “In the meantime, send Charlotte for the doctor.”

  Olivia could do nothing except admire their quiet competence, their unquestioning acceptance of a complete stranger. Samuel clasped Delia’s hands. “Pray for us, wife, and for the lost one.”

  “We will.”

  When he had gone, Delia showed Olivia to a chair in the sparsely furnished parlor and disappeared into a kitchen connected to the main house by a short breezeway. Olivia watched chickens scratching in the small yard, their rust-colored feathers gleaming in the soft light. In the orchard, the bright new leaves of the peach trees stirred in the wind. A farmer with his mule team plowed a distant field. Despite her concern for Luke, she thought of home. By now her father would be home from his law office in Blue Gap. Ruth, home from school, would change into a clean dress for dinner and try not to say or do anything to provoke his anger.

  An image of Ruth’s sweet, heart-shaped face rose in her mind. Olivia’s eyes misted. Undoubtedly her sister’s life
would now become more difficult. Their housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Fondren, had looked after them and the house ever since their mother’s departure. She’d been sympathetic to the girls but too dependent upon her position to challenge their father. Olivia twisted her handkerchief into a sodden little ball. So many lives had been irrevocably altered because of her one foolish, selfish choice.

  Delia bustled into the room with a tray. “Thee must eat.”

  After the woman’s quiet blessing, Olivia devoured a bowl of soup, rich with carrots and beef, a plate of hot biscuits swimming in butter, a slice of pie, and a wedge of cheese. “Thank you, Mrs. Mills. It was delicious.”

  “It was my honor to offer it, Mrs. Mackenzie.” She set the tray on a table beside the door.

  “Mother?” A young woman rushed in, a dark-haired scarecrow of a man at her heels. “Here is Dr. Chadwick. Has Father returned yet?”

  “Not yet, Charlotte.” Delia rose and took the doctor’s bag and cane. “Will thee have some tea, Daniel?”

  “I’d love some, yes. If it isn’t too much bother.”

  Delia returned to the kitchen. The doctor smiled down at Olivia. “You must be the wife of the wounded. How do you do?”

  “I’m well, all things considered. Thank you for coming.”

  “You’re welcome. Suppose you tell me about his injuries.”

  She described Luke’s fractured leg and his fever and admitted to removing his boot. “I know better now.”

  The doctor nodded. “Anything else?”

  “He has some cuts and bruises.”

  “And so do you.” He indicated the gash at her temple. “That needs tending.”

  “I’m all right. Mostly I’m tired and terribly hungry, but Mrs. Mills has kindly remedied both.”

  “Nevertheless, I can’t let it go untreated.” He handed her a tin of salve from his bag. “Clean that wound and apply this twice a day.”

  Delia returned and poured tea all around. Charlotte, whom Olivia guessed to be near Ruth’s age, eyed her curiously. “I’ve never been to North Carolina. What’s it like?”

  “Parts of it are like here. Full of mountains and forests.” Olivia set down her cup. “The coast is my favorite part of the state. I dreamed of living by the ocean one day.”