by Lydia Olson
David dwelled on those words as the road dipped down and the wooded area opened up significantly. Oh, Father, he thought. You always say things were a blessing … but I wish you could have retained what you fought and worked so hard to achieve.
In many ways, David’s family had recouped their losses after the twister that ravaged their once-thriving ranch. They were never as financially stable as they’d been in Galveston, but they had still managed to retain a small portion of their money after selling off the last of the ranch’s assets, and invested it in a small, ten-acre tract in Arkansas after an arduous trek across the country to obtain it. David’s father, along with David’s assistance, built a comfortable, one-story home on the land that David admired from a distance as he emerged from the woods, the entirety of the property fenced off squarely, with the remaining lumber used to erect the corral where four horses were currently being broken in by his father. Yes, it was a small property, but the view beyond the home was magnificent—a seemingly endless field featuring a magnificent sunset every evening that one could not help but be awestruck by, no matter how many times they saw it.
David swelled with pride. He lived a quaint, peaceful life, constantly engaged in one activity or another, but this was his home, his life, his family. He gave his all to his mother and father, seeing to their every need at any given moment—even though his parents had grown increasingly wary in the past few years over the fact that their twenty-four-year-old son had yet to, in many ways, “leave the nest” and carve out a life of his own.
Again, a smile crept across the corners of David’s mouth as he looked at his aging father. Most men who were well into their sixties might have slowed down a tad from the toll that daily living brought upon the body, but David’s father moved, and talked, and functioned like a man still in his forties.
David’s father waved. David waved back and began his descent toward the ranch.
Breathing in the late morning air, he began going through the tasks he knew he needed to complete as his father brought the horses in the corral to a settle. Again—he was always a man who was working, always occupied from one moment to the next.
“Easy,” David’s father crooned to the horses. “Easy, now…”
The horses settled, David resting his arms on the fence tracing the corral as he patted the mane of the chestnut brown horse that David’s mother had dubbed Delilah.
David’s father eased his shoulders back, dabbing the sweat that had accumulated on his brow before gesturing toward the woods. “What was all that commotion over there? I thought I heard gunfire.”
David grinned. “You did, indeed,” he said. “Deputies Shaw and Gaines were trying to bring in a man who tried to shoot it out with them back in town.”
“Good Lord.”
David waved his father off. “Oh, all is well. They squared things off. They have him now.”
David’s father winked at his son. “I suppose,” he said, “that you might have had something to do with that …”
David looked at his father and said nothing—but the lack of reply said everything.
“Where’s Mother?” David asked.
His father forked a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s inside,” he said. “She told me to fetch you after your morning walk. She said you skipped out on breakfast. Again.”
David took pride in the fact that he had copious amounts of energy and a muscular frame that he inherited from his father, a rancher’s body, his round shoulders and biceps showing impressively in the sleeves of his light-colored tan shirt. David always got by on eating very little, most of the time, but his sinewy frame never seemed to diminish because of it.
“I’m fine,” David said. “I had a slice of toast and a cup of coffee.”
“Regardless,” his father said, “she prepared you a nice meal. You should go on inside and eat it. We, uh, need to talk about something, as well.”
David looked at his father curiously as he pushed away from the corral. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Just go on inside now, okay? I’ll meet you in a moment. Just need to take one last look at this lot here before I head into town to the auctioneer.”
David patted his father on the shoulder and headed into the house, his father looking over the lot of horses as David entered the house and saw his mother standing in the kitchen with a serious look on her face.
“David,” his silver-haired, sweet-faced mother said, “how many times have I told you to eat before you start work for the day?”
Planting a kiss on his mother’s cheek, David said, “Every morning, Ma. Every morning.”
“Sit,” his mother said, pointing the wooden round table in the center of the comfortable kitchen, the table that David and his father made for her birthday just three months prior.
David pulled out a chair and sat as his mother placed a plate in front of him piled high with eggs, bacon, and a buttered slice of bread.
“Now,” his mother said, “you’re not leaving until you eat that entire plate, you hear?”
David grinned as he picked up a fork, his mother patting him on the back as he proceeded to shovel the food in his mouth as quickly as possible. Once he finished, the front door opened, and his father walked in as he removed his hat and wiped his hands on the kerchief stuffed into the back of his pocket.
“Did he eat?” David’s father asked.
David rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I’m glad to know you two are so concerned about my eating habits.”
“Well,” David’s mother said, “if you had a wife at your side, it would be her responsibility.”
“Don’t start this again, mother.”
His mother shrugged. “I’m just saying, son. It might be good for you to start actively looking.”
“I’ve got plenty on my plate as it is. But I’ll get around to it. I promise.”
David’s mother cocked her head to the side. “That’s what you said last year, my dear.”
“Well,” David’s father said, “maybe you’ll find a nice young woman to settle down with while you’re on the road.”
David looked at his father curiously. “What do you mean?”
David’s father and mother exchanged subtle glances, as David alternated watching each of them, trying to discern what was on their minds.
“Are you two going to tell me what’s going on,” he asked, “or are you going to keep me in suspense?”
David’s father approached the table, reaching into his pants pocket and producing and envelope that he placed in front of David. “That’s a letter from Clarendon,” he said. “It’s from a lawyer who worked for your Uncle Fletcher.”
David’s eyes went wide. “Uncle Fletcher,” he said. “How is he doing?”
His father’s smile melted into a frown. “I’m sorry to say that he passed, son. It happened just over a month ago.”
David felt his heart sink. He had only met Uncle Fletcher twice in the entire span of his life, but the memories he had of him were fond, to say the least.
“Oh, Lord,” David said with a dejected expression. “How?”
“Heart attack,” his mother chimed in.
“A heart attack?” David said. “Uncle Fletcher was a healthy man.”
“He was,” David’s father said. “I was just as shocked to hear about it as you are. But he was six years older than me. It was bound to happen, sooner or later. He wasn’t a drunkard, but the man sure did enjoy his evening whiskey.”
David opened the letter, skimming the contents and noting condolences from the lawyer, as well as something about a property that his uncle had held. “So,” David said, holding up the letter, “what does this mean?”
David’s father pulled out a chair from the table and sat beside his son. “Well,” he began, “it’s actually quite simple, David. You see, your uncle didn’t have any next of kin, beside me, and it turns out that he owned a sprawling property in Clarendon. Do you remember g
oing there when you were younger?”
“I do,” David said, recalling the memories he had of teeming horses with his father when he was all of ten years of age. “I very much remember.”
“Your uncle left you that property, son. You and you alone.”
David’s heart began to race as he clutched the letter, saying nothing for a moment as he looked up as his mother and father who looked back at him lovingly.
“I … I don’t—” David stammered, struggling to find the words. “I don’t know what to say.”
His mother approached, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Son,” she said, “this is a sign, a sign that the time has come for you to live your own life.”
“I do, mother—with you. The both of you. I’m happy here, and I know how much my help means to you.”
“And you have no idea how proud of you we are. But, son, we are fine. Your father and I have enough business coming in from the horses that we sell that we don’t have to struggle, and you were a big help in making that happen. But you don’t need to worry about us. You are a grown man, and it pains me to see you stuck here as you have been for so long.”
“I don’t see it as being stuck, mother,” David said. “Again, I love it here.”
“And we love having you here,” his father said before pointing to the letter. “But this is a sign—a sign from above—and the moment your mother and I read the letter we knew that this property was meant for you.”
David shook his head. No. I cannot accept this, he thought. Father always dreamed of having a ranch like Uncle Fletcher’s, and Uncle Fletcher gifted it to him. I cannot take it!
Holding up the letter, David said, “I cannot accept this. You should take the ranch. I mean, what if we all moved there? It would be—”
“No, son,” his father said. “Your mother and I have made our decision. But we cannot force you to go. Should you decide to stay, which you can, we’ll be forced to sell the property, and to be quite honest, I do not like the idea of the ranch falling into some stranger’s hands. It would delight us if you made the trek to Clarendon, David. We want you to have that ranch more than you can ever know. This is a fresh start, a chance to find happiness outside of Arkansas.” He laughed. “And, like your mother said, perhaps you will find a young woman along the way who can share that ranch with you.”
David smiled, the prospect of finding a wife made his heart skip a beat.
“Do it, son,” his mother encouraged. “There’s no other choice…”
David held the letter in his hand for a long moment, reading it over a few times before seeing the address for the lawyer at the bottom of the page. Folding it over, he stuffed it in his pocket, stood up from the table, and said, “Well … it looks like I’m taking a trip to Clarendon.”
Chapter Three
Two weeks had felt like two days for Sarah by the time she reached Batesville, Arkansas. Mr. and Mrs. Blythe had taken it upon themselves to secure her a train ticket that took her all the way from Beaufort to Arkansas, as well as packing her a small basket of foods and treats to indulge in during the ride. After securing a suitcase from Mr. Blythe, a leather bag meant more for male travelers, based on the design, Sarah packed the two dresses she still had in her possession, and said a tearful goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Blythe at the train station before her departure.
“I’ll never forget you,” Sarah said. “And I can’t thank you enough for all you have done for me.”
Grabbing her by the hand, and blinking away tears, Mrs. Blythe said, “Be sure to write us, my dear Sarah. I trust that you will find happiness with that fine young man, Michael.”
Sarah smiled wryly. She was determined to see things through to meeting and seeing what the prospect of marrying Deputy Crane appeared to be, but her sole focus was on getting out of Beaufort, and nothing else was more important at the moment.
During the entire train ride, with several stops between states, Sarah read and re-read the letters from Michael Crane and spent the rest of the time knitting with the needlework materials Mrs. Blythe had gifted her to make a blanket. Sarah’s plan was not necessarily to craft the blanket for Michael. It was merely something to keep her occupied as she rode out the journey to Clarendon. Two weeks later, she had arrived, and stepped off at the station in Batesville, Arkansas. She breathed deeply and smoothed the wrinkles in her dress as she approached the ticket counter to ask for directions to the stagecoach that she was to meet in town, per Michael Crane’s instructions.
“Excuse me, sir,” Sarah said as she placed her bag down beside her.
The ticket agent, a wiry man with a black vest, spectacles, and a mustache, smiled pleasantly as he interlaced his fingers and looked up from his duties. “Yes, ma’am,” he said warmly, “how can I assist you today?”
“I’m from out of town, and I’m supposed to go to the Wells and Milford stagecoach station, but I’m afraid I don’t know where that is.”
“Of course,” the ticket taker said, pointing over his shoulder. “This is a small town, so it will be hard to miss. The Wells and Milford stagecoach station is a small office in the heart of town. If you walk past the station and go straight ahead, east, you’ll see a red and white sign designating the station in the middle of town, next to city hall.”
Sarah smiled politely. “Thank you, kindly,” she said as she picked up her bag. “I very much appreciate it.”
“Have a nice day, ma’am.”
Gathering her bags, Sarah began the journey toward the heart of town, taking deep breaths and feeling her anticipation rise as she struggled to focus her thoughts. Just relax, Sarah, she thought. Follow the deputy’s instructions. Go to the stagecoach station, give them your name, and the ticket will be waiting for you.
She walked slowly and timidly through the town, a quaint community with trees peppered throughout, dozens of brick buildings, and the resplendent hues of fall all around her. It was a stark contrast from the destruction and generally dire straits that Beaufort was when she left, so it was a welcome reprieve to take in the pristine sights of Batesville and the pleasant smiles of the townsfolk who greeted her as she began her trek through. She arrived at the stagecoach station ten minutes after she left the train station, placing her bag down as she lined up behind three people waiting for the ticket agent to begin letting people inside the one-story brownstone establishment with the red and white “Wells and Milford Stagecoach Company” sign adorning it on top. As Sarah waited patiently in line, she glanced around at the townsfolk moving to and fro through Batesville.
They seem so happy, so content. It is such a different feeling from that of Beaufort. Oh, I shall miss that town … but I can never, ever return.
Sarah checked the time by asking the gentleman in front of her, a man with a curled mustache and a top hat.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “It is nearly noon.”
“Thank you,” she said as she stepped back and clutched her luggage, feeling an air of anticipation as she looked eagerly to the ticket counter for the agent to arrive.
Just breathe, Sarah.
Just. Breathe.
***
David removed his Stetson and slapped it against his leg as the ticket taker at the train station in Batesville told him that the train had just departed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the ticket agent said. “The train departed at twelve-o-clock sharp.”
“Shoot,” David said under his breath. “How long until the next train?”
“The next train to Clarendon doesn’t depart for another two days, sir, I’m sorry to say.”
David closed his eyes. “I understand. I’m in quite a rush, though. I have an appointment to make in several days’ time.”
“Well,” the ticket agent said, “you might have some luck if you try the Wells and Milford Stagecoach Company. They are departing for Clarendon at twelve-thirty, I believe. If you go now, you might be able to secure a ticket.”
David mulled over the options. According to the letter he proc
ured from his Uncle Fletcher’s lawyer, he had to arrive within two weeks in order to take possession of the ranch. If he did not, it would default to the local bank, and David would be completely out of luck by that point.
