by Dana Alden
She thought about J.B. and Cal. She was letting J.B. think that she was hoping Cal would change his mind. But she knew he wouldn’t. She could tell by the way Cal had talked about the woman he was helping. He was smitten and that woman would be three kinds of foolish if she didn’t respond in kind.
Delia shook her head and pushed the shirt down into the water. The warm water lapped around her wrists. But she let J.B. think she was still hoping for Cal because it kept him, and others, from hoping for more. After the gold panning lesson, though, she wondered if her wall was crumbling.
She’d been willing to take a risk with Cal, before she’d seen him, when he wasn’t a real man, but a boy from her memories. But now he was a real person. And so were J.B. and Chatty and all the men she’d met. How could she tell them, and especially J.B., the truth – that she wasn’t sure she was a widow?
Chapter Thirteen
September 1865
J.B. trudged down the road through town, glad to be headed home. The sun was just kissing the tops of the mountains but it was still nice and warm out. It was nicer than that morning, when a frost had covered the ground and nipped at his ears. He was pushing himself hard, trying to get as much out of his mine as he could before the cold weather set in. While he wouldn’t be halted by ice like the placer miners that worked the creeks, even hard rock mining became unbearably hard when the ground froze.
He looked up at the sun again. It was September, and already the sun was setting earlier and rising later. He had till November or so before things ground to a halt. He’d seen wagons and stagecoaches taking men down to Utah already. Men who had spent the summer living under wagons and bushes, or with sheets hung off tree branches instead of even a tent. Men who couldn’t survive the winter that way.
He wondered what the winter would bring for Delia. Laundry still needed to be done, but even that would slow down. Even the army had cut the frequency of clothes washing down in the winter to only twice a week. He had grown to appreciate her presence, a brief balm of femininity in the masculine barrens of the mining town. She didn’t discuss Cal, except to claim he’d be along as soon he was able and then they’d be married. Sometimes, J.B. wondered if she really believed that, but he couldn’t imagine why she’d bother with the claim if she didn’t. Sometimes, he felt she liked him too, but always she had her wall up against J.B.
J.B. looked up, knowing he’d see the intersection that led to his road as he walked round the bend. As usual, more fellows than usual in a regular town were walking by or standing and chatting in the street. It took a moment for J.B. to realize they were all gathered in front of the blacksmith and wagon shop and all facing in the same direction.
As he came up on the crowd, he saw what they were looking at. It seemed more than a few men thought watching Delia do just about anything was the best view around. In this case, she was standing over by the anvil, just past the post and rail fence of the small corral, with her back to the road, conversing with the blacksmith. She was making motions with her hands and J.B. figured she was describing something for the blacksmith to make.
He looked back at the gawkers.
There were short guys and tall ones, skinny ones and even one heavyset one. And—that damn Freddy hanging out. He was talking with the heavy fellow, but both were looking into the yard at Delia. J.B. quickened his pace, ignoring the ache in his bad foot, but as soon as he was noticed, the men scattered, all of them. A few passed J.B., tipping their hats to him, but the rest turned tail and walked away. One fellow only walked five feet and then paused. At J.B.’s glare, the man pointed over his shoulder at a little cabin. “I…I live here.”
Freddy tried to swagger past him, but J.B. reached out and grabbed him by the collar. He backed the roughneck up against the side of stick and canvas shack, pushing the whole wall inward. “You’ve got no call to be pestering Mrs. Watson. I don’t want to see you near her again.”
Freddy smirked. “I was just thinking of asking her to do my laundry.”
“Don’t.” J.B. twisted his fist, tightening the collar around Freddy’s neck. “Or you’ll be messing with me.” He pulled around and shoved Freddy down the road, away from Delia’s direction. “You better make tracks.”
Delia might claim Cal as her fiancé, but most of the men around here recognized her as under J.B.’s protection. If Freddy hadn’t figured that out on his own, he knew it now.
J.B. had known this would happen when Cal asked for his help, but he hadn’t expected it to drag on this long. J.B. got all the responsibilities of a fiancée, without the benefits. Sure, they’d found a rhythm, living and working next to each other, which he enjoyed. But he worried…
He felt a tap on his shoulder. “J.B.?” It was Delia. J.B. was stunned by how lovely she looked. Once again, her bonnet was pushed back off her head, hanging down her back. Her face was sun-kissed and the hair around her face retained the curl it got from being around the steamy water all the time. Her green eyes sparkled and her smile was genuine.
He glared at her. She looked at him askance, but he wasn’t going to explain his mood.
“Ah…I am having some strong hooks made so that I can hang some heavier things along the side of the cabin.”
“I’ll walk you home,” he said brusquely. They turned off the main road and walked side by side up the hill toward the road that led them the short distance home.
When they arrived at his cabin, Delia paused to glance at him for only a moment before heading up the path toward the backyard. J.B. followed. He had nothing to say, or nothing he was willing to say, but he still didn’t like leaving her presence. They entered the yard between the two buildings and saw, sitting on Delia’s wash bench, a bushel basket filled with fresh-cut pine branches.
Delia spun back to him. “Oh, I almost forgot to thank you. I didn’t even realize you were paying attention the other day, when I said I needed something to make a better-smelling soap. Thank you.” She offered him a big smile.
“I didn’t give you those branches.” His mood was getting darker.
Delia looked startled. “A fellow brought them by earlier. He said ‘my man’ asked him to deliver them. I…I told him you weren’t my man, but he just shrugged and left.” She looked over at the basket. Was there a hint of disappointment in her face? He couldn’t tell. Then she added, “I don’t know who sent them, but I suppose I’ve discussed making a scented soap with several folk.”
Delia walked to her hanging lines and began inspecting the clothes to see how dry they were. But J.B. was rooted in his spot. He was surprised by how much he resented some other man sending Delia flowers. Or at least, pine branches. He realized that he’d accepted Cal could come back and claim her after all, but J.B. wasn’t sure he was willing to let anyone else do so.
Chapter Fourteen
J.B. opened the shutter and looked out at the morning sky. The sun was just coming up. The sky was dark above, and even though the sun could not be seen beyond the mountains, the strong golden glow promised a warm day. This late in the season, the grasses were dormant, turned straw-colored, so he saw only yellows and shades of blue-gray in the world outside. A few stars still shone above.
J.B. stood there in his bare feet, buttoning his shirt, and inhaled deeply. He caught the scent of smoke, the many stove and campfires burning throughout the town. He saw a wisp of smoke drifting from behind his cabin across the path that ran under the window. Delia had just started a fire in her fire pit. Her pattern was to stoke the fire under the boiling pot she’d filled with water the night before. Then in the early morning light, after a quick sweep of her work area for tumbleweeds and anything else that might easily catch fire, she began hauling buckets of water from the creek to her rinse tub.
Just then, Delia emerged into view, holding two empty buckets and walking up the path to the spring. She was stronger, assuredly steadier and more confident with her loads than when she’d first arrived in Virginia City. She had no trouble carrying two full buckets of water now. B
ack in September, in the first few days when she’d struggled with one full bucket, he’d offered to help her haul them, but she had declined. “You have your mining. That’s work enough for you. I have to do this on my own, to make this work.” He’d seen the reason in this. After all, she couldn’t depend on him to hang around all day scooping water.
He watched her skirts sway. He noticed she’d raised them a little. He caught glimpses of her ankles sometimes. He wasn’t the only man who liked to watch her. Quite a few men were having her wash their laundry, and for some—he was quite sure—it was only an excuse to meet her. Some of these fellows hadn’t cared to wash their clothes all summer until Delia arrived. At most, they’d gone and jumped in the river while still wearing them. And those fellows, they liked to hang around her.
Many a time, he’d seen her hand over the buckets to some lollygagger. She didn’t seem to mind putting those men to work. So far as he could tell, heading off to their jobs became more appealing after she stopped talking. She wasn’t rude, just focused on her own job. She did a good job, too. He’d come back at the end of the day to find the lines sagging under the weight of so many pants, long undergarments, shirts and socks.
Today, though, no one had yet arrived. J.B. ran his fingers through his hair, just starting to turn away from the window when he saw Delia trip and fall to the ground. He raced out of the log house and around the corner, bounding up the path at an awkward run-hop. “Are you alright, Delia?” He crouched down on one knee.
She brushed off her hands. “Oh, yes, I’m fine.” She smiled that lovely smile at him, that genuine smile that reached her eyes and made him feel…well, something. She suddenly turned shy, looking down and brushing at her skirt. He stood up and held put his hand, preparing to help her rise.
“You ran out in your bare feet, just because I’m clumsy.” She hesitated, looking at his scarred foot. J.B., not normally self-conscious, realized he didn’t want Delia to think less of him. She didn’t say anything but took his hand and rose to her feet. She shook out her skirt, the bottom of which was damp on one side from the spilled water. Luckily, most had spilled to the side, off the path. “You’d think I’ve walked this trail enough in the past week to know it by now.”
He agreed with her. He scanned the ground to see what might have tripped her. He wanted to make sure she didn’t fall again. There was a divot in the path, with sharp edges of dried dirt to indicate a rock had been removed recently. To the side of the path, he saw the matching rock, sharp-edged and aligned with the side of the path.
“Did you kick this rock loose? You must have stubbed your toe.”
She was squeezing out the hem of her skirt. He caught a glimpse of her booted ankle.
“No, my toes are fine.”
The rock had clearly been removed or knocked free very recently. J.B. leaned more heavily on his good foot. He looked along the path and saw several other divots, with the rocks moved carefully to create a border. “Well, it looks like one of your admirers wanted a smoother track for when he’s hauling your water,” said J.B., his eyes on the track. “He should have filled the holes.”
It was then that he looked up from the ground and realized that Delia, in the process of smoothing out her skirt, had frozen. Her expression was…guarded, but something in her eyes, in her unmoving stance, expressed a deep fear.
“Delia? Delia?”
He reached forward to touch her shoulder, to wake her from her trance. She jerked backward, so his hand was left grasping at air. “I should get back to work. Thank you.” She grabbed her buckets and continued on to the spring. He could see her scanning the ground for more holes, but also glancing up, wary of something, or someone.
He watched her a moment and then turned to limp back to his cabin. Was she concerned about one of the men hanging around? He’d have to think about how he could help her, especially since she didn’t seem to want his help. Did she think his foot made him incapable of helping her? He couldn’t think of any concessions he’d made to his foot that she could have seen.
That question that popped into his mind frequently was burning his brain again. Was she still hoping to marry Cal? He wasn’t sure of her plans, except that they didn’t seem to include him in any role except landlord and friend.
For now, he’d put on his boots and head to the mine. He sure wished Cal would hurry up and fix his problem with that other gal. He needed his help with the mine and with Delia. He hadn’t liked seeing her fall, more than he probably should care. But darn it all, he was concerned about her and didn’t want to be.
He’d told himself after the war, he wouldn’t take on that responsibility again. He just wanted to work his mine.
Chapter Fifteen
Delia thought the clothes would never get as clean as they were getting today. She scrubbed a blue shirt along the washboard, over and over. She had such tension in her body that she felt only running or screaming might release it. And that was what she wanted to do, run and scream. The lye burned her skin, leaving it raw and chapped. She hated the soap, she thought, punctuating her angry thought with a slap of the shirt hitting the water.
She exchanged the blue shirt for a formerly cream-colored shirt and continued to hunch over the washboard. It was possible, as J.B. had said, that one of her bucket brigade had dug out those rocks in order to create a smoother path. It shouldn’t upset her. It shouldn’t.
But after what happened this morning, she couldn’t help but think of her dead husband Steven, back in Missouri. This was something he’d done. He wanted the paths along their farm to be perfectly manicured. Any rocks or roots were clawed out. He’d place the rocks to the side of the path, making a border. He’d fill in the holes though. That was different.
She took a deep breath, recognizing her foolish fears. But now the memories were back, she couldn’t stop them. Steven’s uncle Geoffrey had told him that man’s greatest achievement was to take control over nature. To run your farm with the precision of an army general was the ideal. Command your farm, your household, your family. “Let him have dominion…” Geoffrey would quote about a husband’s role.
Steven took all of his uncle’s exhortations to heart. Since his aunt, Geoffrey’s wife, had passed away not long after Steven came to live with them, it had been just the two of them until she and Steven had married. She hadn’t seen it when he courted her, but once married she saw how controlling both men were. They were two peas in a pod.
She remembered how angry he’d gotten at her when Uncle Geoffrey had said to him, “Is this how you run things?” at the sight of her kitchen garden, a bit weedier than it should have been. She knew he wouldn’t defend her, telling his uncle she’d been under the weather with a cold. Instead, he’d pulled her aside, gripping her arm so hard she’d later found bruises.
“You’re embarrassing me in front of Uncle!” Then he’d shoved her into the garden, where she weeded until the sun went down.
She’d worried about Steven’s behavior, and their marriage. And then she’d worried in a different way, when he went off to war.
“Pardon me, Mrs. Watson?” She was startled to find a man close by. She was so lost in her thoughts, she couldn’t seem to respond. She’d been so intent in her scrubbing and her memories that she hadn’t noticed him. “J.B. told me you do a good job, but now I really believe. That shirt must be clean as new.”
She looked down and wondered how long she’d been scrubbing this one shirt. But the tension was broken. She was being silly, all over some rocks.
She focused on the man. It was Reg Smith, owner of the mercantile where she did her shopping. He was a handsome man, made to look older than he likely was by his salt-and-pepper hair. She had met him when J.B. had taken her to the store when she first arrived in town and seen him on subsequent shopping trips. He held a bundle under his arm. “How do you do, Mr. Smith? Do you have washing for me?”
“Call me Reg,” he said as he handed over his bundle of washing, and then peered around the camp. “Eve
rything O.K. here?”
She was startled anew. And then she remembered he was J.B.’s friend. “Did J.B. ask you to look in on me?” she asked as she placed his clothes in a basket.
“Well, yes. I think he’ll feel better knowing that you know there’s a friend nearby, just in case.” His accent said he was a Yankee, which Delia found interesting, since he was J.B.’s friend yet J.B. had fought for the Confederacy. Reg casually walked over to her little path that ran up to the spring, and she could see him studying the rocks that lined the trail, and the tamped-down dirt with which she’d filled the divots last night.
Reg completed his survey and faced Delia, a small smile playing on his lips. He studied her for a moment, and she steeled herself against the questions she anticipated. She knew J.B. was concerned about her, but if she wouldn’t discuss it with him, she certainly wouldn’t with Reg Smith. He studied her a moment longer, and then said, “I hear you don’t like the soap you bought from me.”
That wasn’t what she expected. She tried to relax her shoulders, even as she marveled at the gossip that traveled even in a town full of men. “Too much lye. It’s terribly rough on my hands.” She fluttered her hands in front of her. Reg nodded. She continued, “I’m going to make my own. I have nearly enough ashes to make my own lye, and I’ve been saving my cooking grease and fat for tallow. I’m going to put some pine oil in it, too, to make it smell pleasant.”
Reg nodded again, and then tipped his head toward the laundry basket. “When should I return?”
