by Dana Alden
First, J.B. walked around the yard, looking for any clues as to who did this. He couldn’t see any boot prints that stood out. There were lots of men coming and going every day, to drop off and pick up laundry. He’d seen them assaying Delia when she wasn’t looking. A few of the bold ones did it when she was looking. He’d even seen that greasy Freddy out along the road here a little too often.
The ropes had been cut by a knife, but everyone carried one. The only thing he saw to note was that another rock had been dug up and put to the side of the walking area, this one near the door to the shack. He didn’t like seeing that anyone had been so close to the door to Delia in the night. He gave a bang on the door and then didn’t wait. He tried to open the door but realized she had barred it.
He shouted as he banged again on the door. “Delia! Are you alright in there?”
“J.B.? Is that you? Hold on, I’ll be right there.” After a long moment, she opened the door in her nightdress. She was wrapping a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her hair was in a plait which hung over her shoulder down to her elbow. She rubbed her eyes and tried to stifle a yawn. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m glad you’re safe.” Relief flooded through him…and something else. Her natural beauty struck him and for a moment he couldn’t remember why he was at her door so early. She looked inquiringly at him, and he knew she trusted him not to wake her for no good reason. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Someone vandalized your laundry.”
That woke her up. She quickly stepped past him to see the cut lines and clothes crumpled on the ground. “Oh!” She let out a gasp and brought her hands to her mouth.
After a moment, she started looking in every direction, as though the perpetrator would be standing by, waiting to be caught out. “There’s no one about, Delia. I’ve looked around.”
“I…I’ve got to get dressed.” She turned to go back inside, her shoulders hunched and her hands gripping the shawl like she was very cold. She stopped when she saw a stone that had been pried out of the packed dirt yard and left next to its former home, staring at it silently.
J.B.’s hands automatically started reaching out to comfort Delia, but she stepped away. It wasn’t his place, it seemed.
“I’m going to go get help. I’ll be back soon.”
He wanted to comfort her, or see her flamed up with anger, but her silence was discomfiting.
Chapter Nineteen
It took Delia three tries to lace up her shoes. She kept tangling the laces and missing hooks. Every rustle, crackle, and knock had her on edge. She was scared.
She’d been through this before. The rocks. Bad things happening. It would only get worse.
She had nowhere else to run. No ideas, little money.
Her hands shook as she reached behind her back to tie her apron. One step at a time. She carefully opened the door and looked around. No one.
She found an empty tub and set it on the ground. One by one, she unpinned each item of clothing, placing the clothespin into her pocket, shook it out, and inspected it for dirt or tears. The clothes were dry and seemed to have dropped down with little extra movement. Some shirts she could brush off, fold and put in her finished stacks. Some had smudges and streaks that meant she would have to wash them again. Those, she tossed into the tub. Nothing so far had rips or tears that hadn’t been there already. Her ash hopper had not been tipped over, for which she was grateful. What a mess that would have been.
She had just finished the first row when J.B. returned with Reg Smith. She didn’t stop to greet them but simply gave them a nod. Reg started walking the yard, staring at the ground. He fingered the ropes and checked her shelves and tubs. She hadn’t even thought to inspect what didn’t appear damaged.
J.B. stood by her side, also watching Reg. He moved close, a hovering guardian angel. She stepped farther, in the guise of wrapping up the cut rope. He reached out to take it from her. As though oblivious, she laid the ring of rope on the edge of the fire pit. She could tell he wanted to help her, but it was best to keep her distance.
“He runs the mercantile. Why is he here?” she asked, gesturing to Reg.
“He used to be a lawman. Doesn’t advertise it, given the behavior of our recent lawmen,” said J.B., referring to the local sheriff who’d been hanged the year before for running a gang of road agents. J.B. hung his thumbs in his belt, as if daring her to challenge him.
The storeowner joined them. “I was a deputy sheriff back before the war, in New England, and then did some intelligence work during it. I’ve had enough of that, but you can’t unlearn what you know.” He turned with his palm uplifted, like he had a platter with evidence on it. Or not. “Nothing here that’ll tell us who did this.”
Now he turned his intense eyes on Delia. “Do you have any ideas?”
She didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t want to tell the truth, either. That could backfire, especially if this man was used to upholding the law. And J.B., he might not want her to stay either.
She looked back at Reg. “No. No idea.” No idea how to get out of this mess.
It was J.B.’s turn. “Delia, have any of your customers been giving you trouble? Hanging around?”
This she could answer truthfully. “No, no trouble. I’ve seen that Freddy hanging around a few times. He makes my skin crawl, but he keeps his distance.”
Just then, a man walked into the yard. He was one of her customers, but looking straight at J.B. “You need help, sir? I see you had some trouble. After all you done for me in the War, it’s the least I can do.”
Delia wanted to feel grateful, but she resented how this man went to J.B. It was her laundry. Her life. Things were turning bad. Again. It started with the rocks, and then vandalism. How long until someone got hurt?
She turned away and started collecting the clothes from the next row. She needed more rope. She needed a big knife.
Chapter Twenty
Delia wouldn’t take his help cleaning up. The more J.B. tried, the more agitated she became. She didn’t want his help picking up the clothes. She didn’t want him stoking the fire for the new wash she’d have to do. He was just returning with buckets full of water when she turned to him abruptly and said, “Just go.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger.”
She glared at him.
But instead of J.B., it was Delia who left, gone to walk to the mercantile to buy more rope. The shop routinely ran out of flour and other basics, but rope was in good supply, usually. J.B. hadn’t liked her walking alone, but she’d glared at him something fierce, and said, “I’m perfectly safe.”
For the life of him, the more he studied mining, the more success he had discovering gold. But the more he studied the fairer sex, the less success he had. Pretty soon, he wouldn’t know a damn thing about women.
Since she wasn’t here to say no, J.B. tied a few of the shorter ropes together and then hung them from the nails in the exterior walls. Delia might not like his help when she returned, but she was going to need someone’s help and he’d rather it be his.
One thing J.B. knew from his time in the mining camp was that this turn of events wasn’t good. Mining didn’t discriminate; both good and bad men were attracted to the promise of something better. The war had turned good men bad and bad men into something that wasn’t even human.
He hadn’t seen anyone acting troublesome. Nor had he heard of any other vandals in the area. There was thievery, brawling, drunkenness, even murder, but most men didn’t destroy things for no reason. This was personal. It was about Delia. J.B. didn’t know what was worse: a total unknown character, watching and harassing Delia; or one of the men he did know, acting friendly and fine while plotting terrible things. The thing that bothered him the most…Delia was upset, angry, even confused…but not shocked. Not surprised enough.
J.B. thought of how they’d walked home in the near dark. He’d left Delia at her door, waiting until she’d lit her lantern and barred the door. He had walked across the
yard to his cabin, so lost in thought he hadn’t looked around at all. He was certain the lines were still hung then; he’d have noticed if they were down. But was the culprit there, watching them in the dark? Had he walked right by the vandal? Had Delia?
Chapter Twenty-One
J.B. was hovering again. Delia could sense him behind her, two benches back, wanting to ensure her safety even though she was perfectly safe at a church service. She’d come here for comfort, as always, but hadn’t found as much as she’d hoped for. Today was no different. It was hard to accept the friendship of others, or even God’s grace, when you felt like a fraud.
The church women, among the few in town not affiliated with Big Bertha, had been welcoming to Delia. But she was presenting herself as a jilted fiancée—when that had been a tenuous hope at best since before she’d arrived in Virginia City—and as a widow, also a questionable role.
Word of her cut laundry lines had spread quickly. It was four days since the incident and Delia was tired of saying, “No, I have no idea who did this!” and “I’m afraid someone too far gone with drink just wasn’t thinking clearly.” She felt rather stupid saying it, in fact, but couldn’t bear to discuss it over and over.
As the hymn ended, Delia glanced over her shoulder. J.B. was looking right at her with a questioning, hesitant expression.
Hesitant, because she had snapped at him yesterday and the day before, and the day before that. Every day since the incident, in fact. He prowled the camp every morning and every evening, looking for clues of a trespasser. He prowled the neighborhood, looking for strangers. Since new men were pouring in on a near daily basis, Delia wasn’t sure how fruitful that activity was.
He meant well, and that was why she felt bad for what she was about to do. If she couldn’t get him to back off, she was going to have to leave. Her staying only put his life in danger.
Back in Missouri, folks had been kind to her when Steven went missing in action. She hadn’t known if he had been captured by the enemy, killed, or was in a hospital, injured and unable to identify himself. She hadn’t been sure which predicament she was hoping for.
But she had wondered. Steven had come to town, nephew of a local shopkeeper. He’d said he was looking for new opportunities, and since his uncle had no offspring of his own, this made sense to everyone. Not long after he’d arrived, his aunt had passed away. The two men, the younger and the older, had been as close as bark to the tree. It was Uncle Geoffrey who had encouraged his nephew to settle down and start his own family.
Steven had been handsome and charming, and swept her off her feet. He’d changed very quickly after they’d married. He was sweet at times, and angry at others. She learned he’d left his home for other reasons, darker reasons. She learned it was very difficult to be married to a man whose behavior changed with the wind.
Delia remembered how he insisted on the most precise housekeeping. His handkerchiefs had to be folded and ironed in perfect quarters. The dishes needed to be stacked precisely on the shelf. Plates on the left, bowls on the right. The mugs, hung underneath the shelf on their little hooks, all had to face the same direction. She was to wear a crisp, clean apron at all times; she’d become an expert at tying a perfect bow behind her back.
Her relief when her husband had left to go to war was palpable. At last, she no longer had to walk on eggshells. One day, for no other reason than that she could, she rearranged the plates and bowls. She hung the mugs in different directions. She ripped off her apron and tossed it over the back of a chair. She wore a dress she hadn’t ironed. Who would see it? Who would care? She felt a lightness in her heart that she hadn’t felt since she moved out of her parents’ house.
And there she was, leaning over a mixing bowl with cookie dough – with extra sugar and cinnamon as she liked it and as Steven never did – when her husband’s uncle arrived.
“Delia.” He always did that; said her name thunderously and waited until she stopped what she was doing and gave him her full attention. “You are denigrating your marriage. You have an obligation to your husband. To obey him.”
She’d been so startled that she actually looked around the kitchen for Steven. “He’s not here.”
“But.” There was that thunder again. “You know his wishes. Do you think they don’t count because he’s not here? Because he’s off at war? What if he were to walk through that door this instant?” He waited, glaring at her, until she picked up her apron. She tied it on, with its perfect bow. He waited until she walked over to the shelves, until the plates and bowls and mugs were all arranged. She tried not to look at the bowl of cookie dough, afraid that Geoffrey would somehow notice the extra sugar already mixed in and chastise her for wastefulness.
And then. Then, he had smiled, his tense posture relaxing. He’d walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, heavy. He’d stared into her eyes. “You are lucky to be married to our Steven. He is a fine, upstanding young man. If I’d had my own son, I could not have hoped for more.” He’d gone on in that vein for a while. He was, effectively, her father-in-law. And, in Steven’s absence, she was dependent on him for so much. She had stood there and listened.
She heard about this day again, in a letter from Steven. Her husband’s letters were all that a new husband’s letters should be, except that each contained a response to a report from his uncle. You mustn’t spend so much time engaging the pastor’s wife after Church. You should not have spent so much on your new dress. You are not maintaining the garden properly. Worst of all, Steven feared she’d take up with another man, and her uncle’s reports did nothing to diminish the fear. I hear you are flirting with Ian MacDonald. I told you I didn’t want you to hire that Scotsman. Get rid of him. Or, there may be an accident.
She wrote back, trying to reassure him, but his threat had shocked her. She let Ian go. She read the casualty lists in the newspapers and tried very hard not to admit she was perhaps hoping to see his name. She felt a terrible guilt.
After he’d been missing for two months, she felt certain he had perished, and been buried in a mass grave with so many other soldiers. Her husband’s uncle had refused to consider this. He would not allow her to hold a service, or wear widow’s weeds. The neighbors prodded her gently, considering her a naïve but loving wife who was too hopeful. Mrs. Albertson sent her second oldest son to help her. Jimmy, only seventeen, would stop by a few times a week to chop wood, do repairs, or whatnot. She would laugh with the boy and his friendly smile gave her something to look forward to. There was no romance, but a friendship between two young people. Even so, Geoffrey had glowered when he stopped by, telling her Steven wouldn’t approve.
And then one day, when she was in town shopping, she had a visitor. Someone chopped her a big stack of wood. No one admitted to being her helper, but they stacked it like Steven used to do, in precise formation. It was, she thought, a coincidence. Then there were stones upturned from her paths, along the road she walked, around the house. Just like Steven used to do.
It was soon after this that she received a note from Mrs. Albertson, delivered by the youngest son. Jimmy had been in an accident and had two broken legs. She could not spare another son at this time. The boy told her that Jimmy had been thrown from his horse, that his girdle had broken. It was an unusual accident, and made her think of Steven’s threat about the hired man.
Could Steven be back? This did not make any sense. But it was enough for Delia to write to Steven’s commanding officer, asking if there was any news. There wasn’t. Her husband was missing after a battle. Some men had gone running, cowards, and officially they couldn’t be sure Steven wasn’t one of them. This officer felt certain Steven was dead, but it wasn’t official with no body or anyone who had seen his death.
So, she was alone, close to penniless. Unable to hire help. Afraid to accept the kindness of her neighbors, for their own safety. She could not even don widow’s weeds and seek a new husband in town. She didn’t like Steven’s uncle and didn’t want to be reli
ant on him, forced to pretend she was waiting for her husband to return.
That was why she had agreed to come out West. She would claim her widowhood, but also a new husband, and start over. It hadn’t worked exactly as she’d planned, but it had seemed to be working. Until these recent events.
Steven was dead.
But what if he wasn’t?
But if he wasn’t, why didn’t he come back to her? In Missouri or here?
If Steven wasn’t dead and had followed her here, maybe...maybe it didn’t matter. She couldn’t let J.B. get hurt. His hovering, his attention – she had to stop it.
She left church. She smiled and nodded to others, but all along she was aware of J.B. hovering nearby. She waited until they were away from the other churchgoers, halfway home, before she turned to him.
“Must you follow me everywhere?” she said through gritted teeth.
A look of surprise and hurt flashed across his face. “I came to ask if you’d seen anyone in church that was making you uncomfortable?”
“No! You’ve asked me every day, and the answer is no! Not at home. Not at the store. Not at church.” Her low, angry voice cut between them. “The prankster is gone and only you won’t let it go. You go back to your mine and leave me to my work. You’re protecting me from nothing and just won’t leave me in peace.”
J.B.’s eyebrows drew. His voice was low and intense. “You don’t fool me. I see how easily you startle. I see you looking around, always looking around. I see how you walk wider turns around corners, so that someone lurking there can’t surprise you. I see the knife you have in your apron pocket.”
This startled her. She knew he’d been looking around, but she hadn’t known he’d been looking at her. He held his hand out, a gesture of peacemaking. “Look, Delia—"
She cut him off.
“Must I leave? I found it convenient to work and live here, but if this doesn’t work for you—"
