by Sharon Ryan
“Yes, you will, lass. Let’s get this over with,” he said gently as his hand began the last spanks in anything but a gentle manner.
Willa’s breath became heavy; Shamus could hear it, her pants, her tiny whimpers. “Good,” he thought, “that will teach her; she won’t be riding that wild stallion ever again.”
Shamus looked down at the moaning Willa and said, “I only want you to take care of yourself, to be safe. I want to see if the feelings between us will grow. I’m not sorry I spanked you. You deserved every swat. Just settle here and think about what a danger you are to yourself.”
After a bit, he got up without saying a word to Willa, putting her back on her feet. Noticing that she was still crying, he gave her a gentle hug before he walked out of the house, feeling satisfied.
Willa, too, was pleased but also confused by her interaction with Shamus because no man had ever been so stern with her before.
Chapter 3
Willa, unlike Mr. Shamus Harding, was anything but happy with yesterday’s encounter. He had the nerve to interfere in her work again! Willa’s pride and dignity stung just like her bottom.
“How dare he?” she muttered to the Wyandotte chickens as she scattered the chicken scratch and raided the nesting boxes for eggs.
A particularly curious hen came up to Willa and pecked at her shoe before looking up and meeting Willa’s eyes.
“How dare he!” Willa repeated. The hen cocked her head and then began to peck at the meal Willa had thrown on the ground.
“I think I understand what you girls go through,” she said, addressing the hens. “Those cockerels, those roosters, are absolutely insufferable! I pity you poor things.”
Willa stormed out of the hen house slamming the door behind her. She heard the flapping wings of the unsettled hens but didn’t stop to comfort them. Instead, she moved toward the pasture to fetch Buttercup, the Jersey cow. It was milking time.
Buttercup waited by the fencepost Willa used to hold the cow for milking. Willa had a bucket of corn that rested inside the milking pail in one hand along with a halter and milking stool in the other. Willa opened the gate as she greeted the steady, quiet creature.
The cow’s udder was swollen and ready to be stripped of her milk. Willa would take what she needed and leave the rest for Buttercup’s month-old calf. Buttercup saw the grain bucket and moved toward Willa. The cow, always obedient, always contented, allowed herself to be haltered and tied.
“Buttercup, I have a problem,” Willa announced as she sat the milking stool alongside the cow’s back end. Buttercup looked at Willa with her sympathetic black eyes, like a friend who can sense one’s woes.
“You see, Buttercup, there’s this fella, and he thinks he is gonna buffalo me into liking him and who knows what else!”
The cow munched oats contentedly as Willa pulled her nimble fingers over the cow’s teats, aiming the milk into the bucket.
“He had the nerve,” Willa continued, “to not only overpower me, but to chastise me for my wardrobe choices, even after I learned not to work with the stallion while I wore a skirt. And then he had the audacity to give me a lickin’! He swatted my rear, Buttercup! He put his bare hand on my bare bottom and swatted me! But that wasn’t all!”
Buttercup turned and regarded Willa with baleful eyes.
“He told me I deserved it!”
The cow swished her tail.
“Who does that? A madman, that’s who, and I don’t need any madmen in this homestead.”
Willa leaned back and simply sat next to the cow as she pondered her own question. Things were hard enough out here with Clay, and they were proving to be almost too much without him.
Willa stood up, gathered the milk pail, grain bucket, and stool. She set them by the gate and began to loosen the halter.
“Maybe I should go back to Iowa,” Willa muttered. Buttercup regarded Willa and turned to plod back to the prairie grass and her resting calf. The encounter with Shamus played in her mind as Willa closed the gate. “I should go back to Iowa,” she said to herself, “but there’s nothing there for me now.”
With the livestock fed, Willa set her mind to figuring out how to fix the latch on the door. She needed to know that Mr. Harding could not gain entry whenever he felt like it. She flushed as she thought of him and immediately steeled her resolve to keep him out and away.
As Willa began to size up the latch problem, she discovered that the latch wasn’t broken. The heavy door was not aligned correctly, and the latch was not hitting the strike plate properly. The only solution was to lift the door up higher so that the hardware engaged properly. Willa momentarily thought of Shamus and the hardness she felt in his arms and back as he grabbed her and flung her over his shoulder when she tried to run. She felt a flutter in her belly and another even lower. A smile tugged on the corners of her mouth.
“My God! I am losing my mind!” she yelped as she realized what she’d been pondering. “Well,” she muttered, “there’s nothing to be done for it except that I figure out the repair myself. Perhaps I can use a brick and a board to gain some leverage to lift the door up and then secure it.”
She was doubtful, but she knew she had to try.
Shamus Harding was thanking his good fortune for a trade he made a while back for a spyglass. At the time, it cost him five beaver pelts, but he just couldn’t let the shiny brass instrument get away from him. He felt it had called to him and wanted to lead him on new adventures. Now he was glad he had listened to its song, for it allowed him to spy on Miss Freeman and anticipate his next course of action. He saw Willa sizing up the door. Thank goodness she wasn’t on the horse. His method worked; she was safe for now.
He watched as she examined the door to the sod house; he watched, too, as Willa rubbed her sore buttocks. “Gonna fix that latch I’m thinkin’,” he said to himself. “Well, she will have a helluva time because that door is heavy.”
He’d no sooner said that then he saw her move away from the house and come back with a branch and a brick. As Willa situated her leaver, Shamus had to admit to himself that Miss Freeman was stubborn, determined and smart.
He lifted the telescope back to his eye and peered through to see her lifting the door with her primitive tools. “Impressive,” he muttered as he noticed her stopping her task to look toward the east and what was the proper entrance to her property. He saw her grab the Remington she had set by the door. She started moving away from the soddie with hostile determination. Shamus swept the glass ahead of Willa’s trajectory to find a most unwelcome sight.
Willa heard a male voice calling her name, and it wasn’t the voice of Mr. Harding.
“Willa! Oh, Willa!”
She heard a singsong rendition of her name as she came around the corner of the house. There stood a man from town. Andy Sorensen approached her confidently, a bunch of sunflowers in his hand. He extended the bouquet in front of himself like he was offering a carrot to a mule.
“Sorensen!” Willa hollered, “Get off my land right now, or else you are going to meet the business end of this rifle!” She lifted the rifle over her head, so he could clearly see she was packin’.
“Now, Willa, don’t be that way,” he crooned. “Look at what I brought you.” He extended his arm even further.
Willa noticed that Mr. Sorensen was dressed up. She despised those dandy fellas. They only liked a girl if they thought the girl could somehow make the dandy look better.
“Sorensen,” she growled, “I do believe I made it quite clear in town how uninvited visitors—especially men—would be welcomed,” Willa spoke slowly as she raised the rifle. “Now,” she continued with Andy in her sights, “I don’t want to shoot you, and you don’t want the folks in town to know that a girl shot you. So why don’t you just turn around and walk off in the direction from which you came?”
“But, Willa,” he argued, “look at me. I’m a catch! I have a successful business in town, and I’d be sure to give you a discount on your feed bill wheneve
r you needed to stock up!”
Willa noticed the dress boots, the string tie… Yes, Mr. Sorensen had scrubbed up, and his blue eyes were certainly full of hope.
“Andy, I mean it. Go home! One step closer, and I’m a gonna shoot,” she warned.
Willa saw his blond head tip as Sorensen looked down at his feet; then, he extended his leg to take one more step.
Willa pulled the trigger and as the rapport echoed off into the distance and the dust settled, she heard a shriek followed by hysterical babbling. Andy was hopping around on one foot as the haze cleared.
“My God! You crazy whore! You just shot the toe of my good boot! Do you know how much they cost me?”
Willa was stunned. She really hadn’t meant to get that close. The shot was intended to be a warning.
“Well, Andy, it’s gonna get worse if you persist,” she replied shakily. “Now go on back to town. Let them know what happened. Tell ‘em I’m not kidding.”
But Andy was too afraid to do that and began sobbing. Willa turned to walk away until she heard crooning and turned to see Mr. Shamus Harding comforting the whimpering Andy Sorensen. Shaken by her brashness, Willa turned away and walked to the sod house with the rifle at her side.
Shamus calmed Andy enough to have the terrified man follow him to where Sorensen’s bay horse was tied.
“She’s crazy!” Andy spouted. “She’s gone mad! Who shoots a suitor anyway?” Sorensen looked at Shamus and searched for answers.
“Well,” Shamus began, “you got me there, Andy. But what kind of fella calls a lady a whore? You better watch that tongue, sir. The gal’s been a grieven’, and I suspect she is under some strain tryin’ to keep up out here.” Shamus went on, “Don’t worry. I’m trapping in some slow back waters not all that far from here. I’ll keep an eye on her for you for the time being.”
Shamus held the reins to Andy’s horse while Sorensen mounted up.
“Better tell those folks in town how things went out here,” Shamus advised as he handed Sorensen the reins.
“Yeah, best folks stay away for a while, I guess,” Andy mumbled as he nudged his horse into motion. But Andy, sore and embarrassed, knew something had to be done about this woman who had just threatened his masculinity.
“Make that clear as day,” Shamus shouted as he watched Sorensen’s horse plod across the prairie. He then turned his eyes toward the sod house. Willa was nowhere in sight and heavy blankets were pulled over the windows even though it was only four o’clock in the afternoon. Shamus looked after Sorensen again. The competition was temporarily out of the picture, Shamus thought, but Shamus also knew that the townsfolk would be back and most likely in greater number. The situation was getting out of hand, and Shamus knew it. He’d heard stories of women on the frontier and how some stepped into the rugged demands and flourished. Others, however, took leave of their senses and had to be transported back home to live with family or die in asylums.
Shamus could see the fire in Willa, and he knew the events of the afternoon were just meant as a warning. He also knew Miss Freeman was determined and resourceful. Nevertheless, after working in the mines and living in the camps, Shamus also knew how people could turn—especially if they were in groups. Willa ran the risk of losing all that she was working for if she didn’t quell her temper, and Shamus was determined not to let that happen.
He decided that at supper in the next couple days, Miss Willa Freeman was going to be sitting at his campfire and enjoying a satisfying meal to help her get strong. He would try to talk to her about the implications of today’s events. She is smart, and reasonable. “I’ll love her up and hope she listens,” he thought. “If not, I guess I will have to be much more convincing.”
Chapter 4
“Sorensen’s mad as hell, Shamus, and he’s getting the townsfolk all riled up,” said Joe, while drinking his coffee as dusk settled. “He keeps going on about the crazy woman, says she almost blew his head right off his shoulders.”
Shamus laughed. “Nothing but a little scratch. I was there, Joe. She warned him to back off, and now, because he didn’t get his way, he’s crying like a sissy.”
“A sissy he may be,” Joe insisted, “nonetheless, Sorensen’s got all the men and women afraid of Miss Freeman. Just this morning, I heard Mrs. Frank say, ‘I don’t want my kids around that insane woman who shoots that awful Remington. She’s dangerous’. They think she’s a liability to our community.”
“Miss Freeman is a liability only to herself.”
“That may be your opinion, Shamus, but people have got to keep their kids safe.”
“This is madness; their kids are safer here than anywhere else.”
“Look, I like Miss Freeman. She’s got sass. She’s different. You like her, too, I gather—more than you might even want to admit to me, or to her. Lots of folks want to ride her out of town or lock her up.”
“Madness,” Shamus repeated, disgusted. “This fearful frenzy will pass.”
“The hell it will!” said Joe, sipping from his tin cup. “The next man to approach Miss Freeman with affection in his eyes might lose more than just a boot. They’re giving her an ultimatum.”
“What kind of ultimatum?”
“You heard about that doctor from New York, Sneed?”
“I sure didn’t hear anything about some fancy New York doctor.”
“He’s been here a month, maybe. He’s interested in the head—talking to people like. Well, some of the women feel bad for Miss Freeman; the kind of losses she’s suffered have to take a toll on a woman’s fragile head. They want Dr. Sneed to talk to Willa.”
“No.” Joe easily read the anger in Shamus’ voice. “No,” said Shamus again. “I will not have some New York doctor putting nonsense in Miss Freeman’s head. What’s some fancy east coast doctor doing here in Colorado anyway?”
“Well, that’s not for you to decide. It’s either that, or she’s forced back to Iowa—or worse. Someone’s got to talk some sense into that woman. And who knows why he’s here, Shamus. Lots of folks come here from out east.”
“Lots of poor folks come here from out east, not well-to-do doctors. I’m sure there’s something not reputable about this quack, and Miss Freeman will have none of his fancy talk.”
Shamus understood that it would take more than talking to set Willa Freeman straight.
Two days after Willa’s scuffle with Andy Sorensen, hours after his conversation with Joe, Shamus approached the sod house under the cover of darkness, moving slowly so as not to disturb the sleeping Willa inside. Shamus knew, as if by instinct, that he couldn’t talk to Willa directly, so he had written her a letter:
Dear Miss Freeman,
Your actions a few days ago regarding Mr. Sorensen were beyond acceptable. You could kill a man with that anger and your recklessness. The townsfolk are after you, and we can’t have that. Please accept my invitation to supper tomorrow night or the night thereafter. Come to my campsite, and I’ll make us a nice meal.
Respectfully,
S. Harding
This was simple, direct. Shamus knew that if he were to reform Willa, he must take small steps, in the way in which one cannot force a bear to perform tricks outright; training will be essential.
Shamus slipped the note under Willa’s door and returned to his campsite hopeful.
Willa was drinking her morning coffee when she noticed the folded paper on the floor just inside the door. She opened and read it.
“Dear goodness,” she thought to herself. “Who do these men think they are?” Her mind was made up; she would not, of course, join Mr. Harding for supper—no, thank you, sir!
Angrily, Willa changed into a pair of Clay’s worn trousers and work boots. A long, arduous day of attending to her chickens and Buttercup awaited her. Plus, as winter was just a few months away, Willa needed to start building her woodpiles or else she wouldn’t be able to keep herself warm and properly fed. Firewood—that was the only thing on her mind. Indeed, her very survival depen
ded on that woodpile
As she opened the front door, she noticed the figure of a man dressed in a gray suit.
“Miss Freeman, I presume,” the man said.
“Yes,” said Willa, “and I assume you’re here to fix my latch or break my horse? I’m very fine by myself, sir. Now, kindly leave. I suppose you’ve heard about the last fellow who tried to come here?”
“I have, indeed. That’s why I’m here.” The stranger smirked, glee in his piercing brown eyes. “My, they were right. I’ve never seen a woman in a man’s clothes. This is something—interesting.”
“They get the job done. I’m not out here to look pretty for you.”
“Miss Freeman, I’m Simon Sneed—Dr. Sneed. Several of the townspeople, including Mr. Sorensen’s mother, have insisted I pay you a visit. You nearly killed her boy, ma’am.”
“I don’t need a doctor, and Mrs. Sorensen’s son is not a boy; he’s a grown man who should be minding his own business. I can assure you he wasn’t in any real peril at all.”
“Well, you can either talk to me, or the townspeople might run you out of town, take this pretty little sod house—or have you committed to an institution. I know several good asylums.”
Willa rarely felt fear, but since her encounter with Andy Sorensen, she began to wonder if she was indeed going insane. She questioned if she could kill a man. The thought of more death—especially after Clay’s—filled her with a distaste and melancholy she could not describe. And, if she had killed Andy, what would become of her? What kind of revenge would these simple-minded townsfolk enact? Maybe—just maybe—they would have her hanged publicly. Such events were uncommon but not unheard of. She knew that one Remington could only go so far in terms of protection from an angry mob. She intuitively feared Dr. Sneed and his words.
