by Ruth Glover
Anne staggered back a step, looked around wildly. There was nowhere to go, and the thick sod walls would effectively stifle all cries. Buster—could the child bring help, and in time?
“The brat can’t get the door open by himself,” Lucian said with a curl of the lip, as though reading her thoughts. “So he’ll just have to be an onlooker; it will be his first lesson in intimate relations.”
He stepped away from the door, his eyes narrowing. “Forget the brat. Get that heavy coat off, Miss Fanny! If you think you’re getting away from me this time, you have another think coming. By the time your hoity-toity Mr. Ketchum goes through his buildings looking for the guest whose cutter sits in his yard, it’ll be over and done. No need to dally, right, Fanny?”
Stepping forward, Lucian gave Buster, who had crowded close to Anne’s side, a shove, toppling him onto the dirt floor.
Catatonic until that moment, a feeling as of fury itself arose in Anne’s breast. She didn’t have time to identify it as the rage that surfaces in the maternal breast when her young are threatened; she only knew it came naturally, like a flood. His treatment of Buster was not to be countenanced!
Automatically, without thinking, and hampered though she was with her heavy wraps, Anne flung herself at the weakly handsome face that was now filled with purpose and passion and intent on her and her alone. Surprised at the attack, Lucian spent a few moments defending himself from the spitting fury that was Anne Fraser. Hadn’t he learned a thing? Almost . . . almost it was the Binkiebrae roadside affair all over again.
But this time Lucian had an advantage: Anne’s fingernails, so effective last time, were inside her woolen gloves. Lucian’s swift punch to her face sent her reeling, tripping over something behind her, falling . . .
With an oath and a snarl he was upon her, ripping at the opening to her coat, tearing off the buttons, struggling to tear the garment from her . . . rolling in the dirt, knocking items left and right, his hand going to her throat as she attempted to scream.
There was not a sound necessary, and none was made, when a hand that was calloused and square and strong grabbed Lucian’s collar and an arm that was muscled and mighty yanked the fop from his prey. Through slitted and already-battered eyelids Anne looked up to see the flaring nostrils and clenched teeth of the man she had spurned to ride home with. The rock-solid, four-square, powerful Frank, the man to whom she had been reluctant to trust herself; Frank the quiet, the stolid, was going about the methodical business of thrashing her attacker.
Frankie, never out of control, knew when to quit. With a final smashing blow he straightened himself, dusted his hands on his pants, and leaned toward Anne. “Can you get up, Annie?” he said practically, his heavy breathing the only sign of his brief display of violence. And he helped her to her feet and moved her out of harm’s way. Moved her into the sheltering arms of Will Ketchum.
For Will, having seen the strange cutter and horse, had made a survey of his outbuildings and found no one there, turned to the soddy and the tracks leading to it and had burst into a scene more terrible than he could have imagined.
While Frankie went about the business of trying to get the beaten Lucian to his feet, Will held a trembling Anne in his arms and felt a thrill all out of kilter with the horror of the moment. Looking over her and beyond to the tar paper roof, he mouthed a prayer more earnest than any uttered thus far this day: “Thank God! Oh, thank God!”
But just what Will was thankful for was not clear. Except, of course, to God, who has all things planned and must rejoice to see His children fulfilled and happy.
But the full understanding of all that was some way off—except to God with whom tomorrow is as today.
Buster came creeping out of the shadows, to be gathered into his father’s arms and Anne’s. For it seemed natural and good to her to slip one arm around Buster and another around Will, while both she and Buster leaned their heads on Will’s shoulders.
Before they stepped out of the soddy—with its moments, its memories, and its madness—Frank had located a length of rope and was trussing the groaning form of Lucian MacDermott tightly, attempting again to yank him to his feet. When that didn’t work and Lucian collapsed, Frank heaved him over his broad shoulder, through the door, and to the great outside. Here he dumped him into his own cutter, tied him down, covered him up, and left him there, half conscious, and went inside to wash his bleeding knuckles, gather up his belongings, and say his good-byes.
Tierney, with Anne in her arms, her face shocked, was trying to grasp it all. Will set Buster down in a rocking chair and began to remove the child’s overshoes and wraps, his gray eyes fixed on Anne, the light of discovery in them.
“I’ll take this law-breaker to the proper authorities,” Frank was saying. “We don’t put up with things like this in the territories. I can guarantee,” he said, looking at Anne, “that he’ll never bother you again. You need to believe this, Annie. If I haven’t put the fear of death into him, the Mounties will. After he sits in jail for a while—and they’re not comfortable this time of year—he’ll be glad to go back where he came from.”
Anne—and who can blame her—turned from Tierney’s arms and ran into Frank’s. “Oh, Frankie . . . oh . . .” was all that she could say, but so much was said in that broken phrase. Frank patted her shoulder, shook hands with Tierney and Will, and turned to leave.
“I’ll follow you,” Will said. “I need to go to Fielding today anyway, and you may need a witness to corroborate your story. I have a certain standing in the community by now, and they’ll believe me. Yes, Annie, I think you may rest secure from now on. And I trust and pray,” he said, looking directly at her, “you’ll be doing that . . . from right here.”
Anne’s puffy eyes looked back, and even the swelling couldn’t hide the answering glow in them. “Yes, Will,” she breathed through equally puffy lips, “I’ll . . . be . . . here.”
Tierney, watching, amazed, believed she had seen and heard as definite a proposal of marriage as a girl might want. And had listened, amazed, to its response. Who’d have thought it! Anne and Will!
Now, what would she, Tierney, do; where would she go?
Will returned from Fielding brandishing a letter.
After putting the team away, bringing certain purchased items into the house, and removing his wraps, Will sat at the fireside, the girls gathered around him, and he spread the letter out before them.
“This is from Lavinia’s parents, Herbert and Lydia Bloom, who live in the bush north of here, a place called Bliss.”
To Tierney, it sounded like a state of being rather than a town or district.
“Of course I’ve already read it,” Will said, “but some of it bears reading to you; at least it’ll give you things to think about. It’s written by Lavinia’s father.” Settling in the chair, he began to read:
We are slowly finding comfort for our broken hearts in regard to the loss of our Lavinia and quite understand your problem where the domestic help, Tierney Caulder, is concerned. How good of her to stay on in your time of need; we join you in gratitude. I should hate to think of you and Buster struggling on alone.
But of course, for her sake, you will be trying to make other arrangements, though what they might be we can’t see from here. I know it is difficult in winter, and so far from the headquarters of the British Women’s Emigration Society. But we are praying about it, and trust the best will be done.
Lydia is not doing well, and things here are too much for her. Maybe we are too old to take on homesteading at our age! We are making it through the winter, with its decline in our workload, but dread the spring with its garden work, broody hens to set, and baby chicks to care for, not to mention the new ducklings and goslings, and so on. Just the thought of the spring housecleaning is enough to almost make Mother swoon.
It’s my suggestion, and Mother concurs, that when you find a substitute to take Miss Caulder’s place, you send her on up to us. It would be a solution for her, I think, as w
ell as for us. In the meantime you can prepare her for the idea, so that it won’t be like going to strangers, exactly. Tell her how much we need her, and that we’ll be willing to carry on with the terms of the Society’s contract. I assure you we will be very good to her, for she will be doing us such a favor.
Will let his eyes roam down the pages.
Mother joins me in sending love to you and our dear Buster, whom we regret not having seen since you left here almost four years ago when he was just a baby. So near and yet so far! The workload, as you know, precludes any trips in the summer time, and the weather won’t allow it in the winter, especially as the train doesn’t come through either Bliss or Fielding.
Please let us know what Miss Caulder has to say about our proposal. Spring is almost upon us, and as soon as travel is open and you find a substitute, we hope she will agree to come to us.
Herbert S. Bloom.
“What do you say, Tierney?” Will said, looking up from the letter and studying Tierney’s face. “Does it make sense to you? Do you think you could settle for life in the bush?”
Settle for life in the bush, when her heart rebelled daily against the bleakness and barrenness of the prairie? Settle for the bush, when her heart longed and cried out for something that grew higher than herself? Settle for the bush, when she thought of the shade, the beauty, the greenery?
“I believe,” she said calmly enough, “that I could settle for the bush. I believe also,” the newly praying Christian added, “that it’s an answer to a prayer that I’ve barely put into thought, let alone words. I think it may be an example of ‘before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.’”
Tierney’s eyes were starry. What a marvelous God! She wasn’t afraid to trust herself and her future into His hands. “I’ll go,” she concluded, “jist as soon as you find someone to take my place.”
All unplanned, the gray and gentle eyes of Will Ketchum sought the brown and gentle eyes of Anne Fraser, and what passed between them was enough for him to say, “I think you can begin to get your things in order, Tierney. Anne—unless I’m mistaken—will stay. Annie will stay with Buster and me. Am I right, Annie?”
Tierney may be excused if her mouth fell open. Anne may be excused if hers dimpled and smiled, both shyly and roguishly.
But Anne, being Anne, could only be simple and straightforward. “Ye’re not mistaken, Mr. Ketchum—Will. I’ll . . . stay. An’,” she added, pinking beautifully, “happy to do so.”
And so it was settled.
And so it was that, in the bright and blossoming month of May, Tierney found herself on a train, heading north.
At first the scenery was as she had known for the last three-quarters of a year, although the grasses were greener than she remembered. She had to admit that springtime on the prairie had its beautiful aspects. And though only a hint of it had been seen on the day when Lavinia and her baby had been taken from the small granary that had sheltered them and tenderly laid to rest in the bosom of the earth, it was enough to promise that there would be an awakening—on another day—and to dry the tears of those gathered at the graveside.
Spring had fully come when the preacher had been called to the homestead again, mollified that at last things would be done decently and in order. His wife and Tierney were witnesses to the simple but meaningful ceremony that united Will and Anne in marriage.
Anne was more beautiful than Tierney had ever seen her, with a new pale yellow waist and brown skirt that the girls had stitched as the winter went out on a whimper and a sigh and spring settled in with fresh breezes, birdsong, and prairie flowers. Anne had carried no bouquet, but her dark hair had been spangled with buttercups and one yellow dandelion, the offering of a capering and excited Buster. Will was the tower of strength Anne needed, and his supreme confidence in the rightness of what they were doing spread a peace and calmness over the day and the occasion.
Tierney had no qualms at all about leaving Anne in a household with two males—a son and a husband.
She was done with reminiscing when the bush began to appear; it was all she dreamed and more. Parkland, it was called. Seen at the springtime it was glorious—birds were returning by the thousands, with flashes of color and bursts of song; a million and more rivulets ran down every incline to form another slough, and they glittered in the sun and frisked in the gentle breezes; the fresh fragrances, the running sap, and a trillion and more buds breaking out everywhere—it was all too much for the senses to absorb at once. Tierney was heady with sight and sound and smell.
Looking out over the little farms coming awake with energy and new life, Tierney took her Bible—never far from her these days—from her bag, and turned to Psalm 65, a portion of Scripture that seemed to be written for this present place and this present time:
Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it: thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God, which is full of water: thou preparest them corn, when thou hast so provided for it. Thou waterest the ridges thereof abundantly: thou settlest the furrows thereof: thou makest it soft with showers: thou blessest the springing thereof. Thou crownest the year with thy goodness; and thy paths drop fatness. They drop upon the pastures of the wilderness: and the little hills rejoice on every side. The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing.
Pondering on the pastoral picture the Scripture conjured up, Tierney was reminded, at last, of Pearly and her number one verse—Isaiah 40:11—He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom. . . .
“Dear Pearly,” she whispered to herself, “you were right. I know it now. Thank God! And thank you, Pearly Gates Chapel, for your faithful ‘testimony’!”
For, noting the new-turned furrows, the springing growth everywhere, the words indeed seemed fitting, so right, that Tierney herself could have shouted for joy and sung, but, for the sake of her traveling companions, settled for a small hum instead.
That the bush seemed to wrap her in its very embrace was no problem for Tierney; she felt as though she were coming home, that every branch was a welcoming arm and that all roads, until now, had led directly to the Saskatchewan parkland.
And to Bliss in particular.
Mr. Bloom was at the station in Prince Albert to meet her. He was much as Tierney had pictured him—a man past middle age, of middle height, with nothing particularly outstanding to draw the attention of anyone, but with the kindest eyes one could imagine, and a gentle, thoughtful way of speaking. Lavinia had chosen a husband much like her father. Herbert Bloom, like Will, would undoubtedly be the salt of the earth, of this Tierney felt quite sure. And then he spoke, and it was confirmed.
“Welcome to the bush, Miss Caulder! Mother, that is, Lydia, and I are so happy you’ve come. May we call you Tierney, even though the Society doesn’t recommend it? We’d like it, you see, if you’d just consider yourself one of the family.” Not only had the bush reached out to her but flesh and blood and bone!
Tierney felt a warm gush of tears behind her eyelids. It was all too much! God’s loving kindness and constant presence, the loveliness of the bush, the Bloom welcome.
“I’d like it very much,” she said unsteadily.
“I’m only sorry you couldn’t bring our little Buster. But of course his place is with his father and his new mama. We’re depending on you to tell us all about Anne and all about the wedding. We wish our dear ones much happiness and are glad their happiness resulted in your release to come be with us.”
“They send their love, Mr. Bloom. And of course I’ll tell you and Mrs. Bloom all about everything. You would love dear Annie. Will has made her one happy and contented woman.”
The trip from Prince Albert to Bliss was heaven on earth to the beauty-starved girl. Mr. Bloom introduced her to the flora and fauna, pointed out features of the farms they passed, the acres and acres of virgin bush still unclaimed, the land still unworked, the
new little homesteads taking shape, and the time flew by happily.
“Now this,” he said eventually, “is the hamlet of Bliss. Named for the first settler, they say. And we’ve tried to live up to it,” he grinned, “ever since. We’ll stop for the mail and go on through. I’ve done what buying I needed to do in P.A. Choices are limited here. Will you get down and come in?”
“I’ll wait in the buggy, I think,” Tierney said, not yet ready to exchange the freshness and freedom for the lesser attractions of manmade structures.
Mr. Bloom climbed back into the buggy, and they were off again, passing through a leafy tunnel onto Bliss Road. “It’s called that because the Bliss place is out this way,” he explained.
But before they left Bliss he pointed out the small white building that was church and school. “It has great meaning for all of us,” he said. “It’s our spiritual home. You’ll enjoy our pastor and our people, and soon they’ll all feel like family to you.” Blessing upon blessing!
The horse knew it was approaching home and stepped out. Tierney leaned back on the tufted seat, closed her eyes, breathed deeply of a fragrance that she was to come to know as the essence of the bush, and offered up a prayer—another one—of thanks for God’s good provision and care.
“Now here,” Herbert Bloom said, “is a comparatively new homestead just coming under cultivation. It’s a good example of how we all begin. The owner got here last fall in time to put up his cabin for the winter, get up his wood, and lay in supplies. I believe he also got a cow and a horse or two. All winter, when weather allowed, we would see him out cutting bush, grub-hoeing, getting started on the clearing he has to do to prove up his land. That’s him over there, getting ready, it looks like, to put the plow in the ground for the first time, turning over new soil, probably for a small garden. Yes, it’s satisfying work, all right. Hardworking guy—he’ll make it, I think.”
It was a homey, nestling sort of place, set among poplars and bushes Tierney didn’t recognize, some of them white with blossoms, with a small wisp of smoke coming from the stovepipe lifting above the rough, hand-made shingles on the cabin roof. It was new, and it was raw, but it looked as if it belonged and as if it would endure.
