Willa and the Trapper

by Sharon Ryan

  Although it was Christmas Day, the temperature was mild despite the snow remaining from the storm that rolled over the plains three days prior. This morning provided a cloud cover, but the Christmas sky wasn’t gray, dark or threatening. Willa was grateful the morning sky hadn’t cleared as the clouds helped keep the temperatures warmer.

  Once in town, Willa left her mule in Joe’s care at his insistence. It had become her practice now that Shamus was in service for the townsfolk.

  A cheery Joe greeted her at his door and piped out, “A Merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Harding. Come in! Come in!”

  “And a Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Joe,” Willa said as she extended a little bundle of sugar cookies to the gentle blacksmith.

  “Oh, boy! Home-baked goods! I am going to enjoy this,” Joe chirped.

  “See that you do,” Willa replied as she watched Sandy pad over to an old blanket Joe had set before the happy flames. Sandy turned two circles, flopped down and immediately closed her eyes.

  Joe looked at Willa. “If you don’t mind, I’d like for her to stay here to keep this old man company,” Joe said.

  “We all need a bit of companionship from time to time,” Willa agreed as a feeling of sadness tugged at her heart. She missed Shamus terribly.

  “Don’t worry about your mule or your pup, Mrs. Harding. They are in good hands here. You have a wonderful time at the Wilsons’,” Joe said as Willa turned to leave.

  It was difficult to remain unhappy once Willa entered the Wilson home; in fact, she could feel her spirit lift and her loneliness melt away as Lucy ran to greet Willa at the door.

  “Willa! Oh, Willa! Merry Christmas!” Lucy cried.

  Willa smiled warmly as Lucy hugged her. Willa handed the fresh bread and jarred jam to her friend.

  “The embroidered tea towels wrapped around the bread are for you and your mother. I’m afraid you’ll have to work out who gets the violets and who gets the cherry blossoms,” Willa said as she followed her friend to the kitchen where Mrs. Wilson was just finishing up a sweet apple cinnamon relish for the meal.

  The Wilson dining room looked lovely with Mrs. Wilson’s good china set upon the fancy, handmade lace tablecloth. A broad red ribbon with large bows at each end graced the fireplace mantle, and a large fire danced in the fireplace. The long, tapered candles were, indeed, a luxury, and when lit, the dancing flames lent both elegance and felicity to the occasion. Those in attendance looked as lovely as the parlor. Everyone, including Willa, was dressed in his or her Sunday best. Joy was dancing in each person’s eyes.

  The feast was comprised of a tender beef roast, rich brown gravy, mashed potatoes, and Mrs. Wilson’s preserved green beans and fresh apple cinnamon relish. Willa’s fresh bread and jam looked lavish. The hearty aroma from the beef beckoned all to the table, and after a recognition of the blessing of good friends, good food, and good lives, all ate heartily and with relish. There was little conversation at first, but small talk began in earnest as the celebrants began to push their empty plates away and lean back in their chairs.

  “I’m so sorry that Shamus can’t be here with us today. I, for one, certainly appreciate the sacrifices that both of you are making,” Mr. Wilson said.

  “Yes, it would have been lovely to have the newlyweds together for this celebration,” Mrs. Wilson agreed.

  Willa sighed.

  “Perhaps the new year will bring him home,” Lucy piped in, happily looking at her friend. “I bet he will be here to start the New Year with you, Willa. After all, it is a whole week away. Surely he will be home by then.”

  “This next year is chock full of promise,” Mr. Wilson agreed. “I am confident that Shamus will be here to help you welcome your first full year together.”

  “He loves you so, Willa. I’m sure this is difficult for him as well,” Lucy said, giving Willa a cheerful smile.

  “And, speaking of promise,” Mr. Wilson continued, “I have an announcement about another young man with plenty of potential. I’ve saved the surprise for this special day, my dears.”

  Willa, Lucy, her sister Rachel and Mrs. Wilson all leaned forward, eager to hear the news.

  “Your cousin Arthur wrote me late last week. He wants me to tell you all that not only has he finished college back in Ohio, but he also intends to move out here to join us. He has been offered a position with the newspaper and has a chance to work as a relief telegraph operator.”

  “Oh, Father! That’s wonderful!” Lucy exclaimed. “Willa, you will enjoy my favorite cousin. He is smart and kind and mischievous. Oh, he is also very lucky with cards, so make sure you have a strong strategy if he convinces you to play Bridge.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” Willa replied, realizing that she was looking forward to an enjoyable gathering where she could sit at a table to play a game. She hadn’t had time for games or any other pleasing diversions since she had taken over all the chores upon Shamus’ departure.

  “I told Arthur about the Harding venture with the Morgan horses,” Mr. Wilson continued. “Willa, he’d like to inquire about arranging an advanced purchase of a foal. I told him about how much of yourself you have invested into continuing your brother’s vision, so he wants to talk to you directly. In addition to his being a scholar and a card shark, Arthur is astute judge of horseflesh.”

  Willa was both surprised and elated that Mr. Wilson saw her as the executor for Clay’s dream, and she had never thought about managing the horses exclusively. Once she and Shamus wed, she assumed the horse breeding would be a joint venture. Willa liked the possibility of having her own business.

  The afternoon was filled with happy conversation and light-hearted bantering as the group enjoyed fresh apple pie and coffee for dessert. Willa looked outside the parlor windows and watched the light in the sky begin to wane just a bit. Although she was enjoying herself, she knew she would need to head back home within a few hours so that she could care for the stock before dark. Mr. Wilson noticed as Willa began to fidget. She was waiting for an appropriate time to excuse herself to go home. Still, she felt torn since she didn’t want to leave the company of her good friends.

  “Willa,” Mr. Wilson began, “I know you need to start for home soon and I hate to bring this up on a celebratory day. However, I need to let you know that Sorensen is stirring up trouble again.”

  “What now?” Willa said, suddenly looking weary. The stress of the previous year and her new husband’s absence was wearing her down. She didn’t think she could possibly stand up to Sorensen without Shamus at her side.

  “Well, you know that Sorensen wants Shamus’ position. The talk is that Sorensen is trying to revive the rumors that you are not well, Willa. He’s also telling folks that you ran Shamus off, that your marriage is in peril. But it doesn’t stop there. He is also trying to convince people that he is concerned about you and will be magnanimous enough to take you once your marriage fails.”

  Willa’s sharp gaze held Mr. Wilson’s. She felt both disbelief and fury.

  “I’ve heard, too, that Sorensen has come into some money although no one knows where he gets it. He is greasing the palms of men who are connected, politically. They have their eager hands out for his bribes, and he is bending their ears to his purposes.”

  “If that’s the case, why isn’t someone trying to stop him?” Willa asked.

  “Folks are trying, but Sorensen is slick, and he’s not leaving any clues to follow for those who are investigating. There must be something more to it, or someone is advising or assisting him. Sorensen couldn’t possibly be getting this kind of money by legitimate means.”

  “No,” Willa agreed. “That mollycoddled momma’s boy has to have a workaround. Why, I have half a mind to…”

  “To what?” Mr. Wilson demanded, raising an eyebrow.

  Willa looked at him, fire shining in her eyes, but she remained silent.

  “Don’t be hasty, Mrs. Harding,” he continued. “When Shamus returns, Joe and I, along with the upstanding citizens in town
, will get to the bottom of this.”

  “Of course,” Willa answered demurely, “I would be most grateful.” All the while, Willa was imagining holding the cold steel of her Remington in her hands.

  Along the entire trail home, Willa fed the fire that was raging in her breast. She was working out a plan to save all that she had worked and hoped for, and moreover, all that she loved. No one, absolutely no one, was going to discredit her husband and her marriage to him. She, Mrs. Willa Harding, would see to that personally.

  Chapter 15

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Joe,” said Willa, as she entered the old man’s shop; a week had passed since Christmas, and now Willa looked ahead to a new year—one without her husband, one full of inane gossip about her marriage and her temperament. “I brought you some homemade cornbread because I figured you might be hungry. You sure seemed to enjoy those Christmas cookies.”

  “Mrs. Harding,” said Joe, clearly surprised and pleased. “Those cookies and Sandy made my Christmas. What might this old smithy be able to help you find today?”

  “I’m not looking for anything in particular. I was in town to check the mail and thought I’d stop by.”

  “That’s mighty nice.” A gleeful smile appeared across Joe’s face, making the wiry old man look a decade younger than his years. “Nonetheless, I doubt an old man like me would provide you, such a spirited young woman, with any useful or interesting conversations”

  “Mr. Joe, you’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “Nope. Just realistic, ma’am, always have been. I take it you’re waiting for a letter from Shamus, and I take it the mailbox was empty.” Joe winked at her, mischievously. “I gather, too, that you want to know if I’ve heard anything about Shamus.”

  “Well, have you?” The hope for Shamus’ speedy return appeared in Willa’s eyes. “Have you heard anything from my husband, anything about him at all?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Joe’s curt response cut Willa like a dull knife, and her eyes began to water.

  “Now, now, now,” said Joe. “I’ll have none of your worrying, not in my shop, you hear? Shamus is a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

  “He’s just been gone so long, Joe.” Willa’s voice cracked. “I miss him.”

  “That’s only natural, but he’s fine and busy.”

  “Too busy for me?”

  Joe read the burden on Willa’s face, the human toll of Shamus leaving. In a grandfatherly motion, Joe put his right arm around Willa’s shoulders

  “No, he loves you, Willa; you’re all he thinks on and talks about morning, noon, and night. Know that. Please know that.”

  “Okay, thank you. Are people still running their mouths, telling those bold lies Andy invented? Mr. Wilson told me on Christmas.” Willa knew Joe meant well, but she knew he was only trying to make her feel better.

  “Don’t you worry about what other people say. Your business ends at the tip of your nose.”

  “I wish Shamus were here to set things right.”

  “He will be, soon. Be patient, just for a bit more. Mr. Wilson tells me the governor is worried about that son of a bitch Andy being nominated, excuse my language, ma’am. Mrs. Sorensen, the proud mama with the gossiping, girly son, has a lot of money and cronies. Not to mention that Andy has his own…” Willa noticed how Joe paused to find the precise word. “Unsavory kind of voter. This creates more work for the governor and more work for Shamus.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Willa asked as she wiped her eyes.

  “Mrs. Harding, this town is far, far away from Eden; a brothel stands in town, and Mr. Sorensen is a regular there. The men who visit that place, well, they’ll support trash like Andy over a moral man like Shamus any day. Sad but true. Hell, Mr. Wilson and I have talked about going to that house of harlots ourselves and confronting Andy. God only knows what kinds of dirt go around at that kind of place. But Mr. Wilson and I would never dream of setting foot in that kind of place; we’d never get clean. And there’s no way we could ever disguise ourselves.”

  Willa wished that she could infiltrate the brothel herself to maybe find something—anything—that would ruin Sorensen’s prospects. Her mind, though, lingered on one word Joe had said: disguise.

  Joe’s eyes took on a quizzical expression as he said, “Now, you be careful getting home, Willa. Don’t do anything your husband wouldn’t approve of.”

  Disguise. The word clung to Willa’s mind for hours after she got home. She knew that without Shamus to silence Andy, she would have to stop his wild mouth herself. “I could disguise myself as a boy, go to the brothel, and get some dirt on Andy,” she thought to herself. “In trousers, I rather look like a boy, or so I’ve been told.”

  At that, she removed her skirt and climbed into a well-worn pair of Clay’s trousers, the only pair that had been spared being cut up for quilt fabric.

  As Willa looked at her reflection in the window, the reflection of her long legs especially, and she realized how she could purposefully alter her appearance. Without Shamus there to scold her, Willa fell into the pleasure of defiance, of going against expectations and rules. She wished beyond hope that Shamus had been there to correct her bad behavior, and her entire body went hot at the thought.

  She also felt a pang of shame along with her arousal; she was suddenly reminded about having once been a crazed woman, but even when she had been that crazed woman, she had still managed to capture Shamus’ affections. A crazed woman could be an asset—she was indeed proof positive of that.

  She really did look like a young man while wearing the trousers; she could pass as a nineteen-year-old man, no doubt about it. She wondered how she could alter this effect further—her hair up, a shadowy mustache made from Sandy’s light brown fur, a nice hat. She could even wear a shirt too large for her to hide her breasts. Thankfully, Shamus hadn’t taken all of his clothing with him. Finally, she could use the heavy coat she wore for chores. It wasn’t tailored and had no feminine characteristics.

  Yes, she might be able to fool the townsfolk.

  “I am sorry, girl,” she told the pup before cutting some of her hair off with a pair of dull scissors. Sandy just looked at the new bald patch solemnly.

  She’d hastily tend to her chores, change her appearance and then head straight into town—right to that godforsaken brothel.

  Outside the brothel, Willa took a few deep breaths; she felt foolish, afraid.

  “Hey, boy, are you coming in or what?” asked an agitated voice.

  Willa nodded her head, and a well-dressed man held the door open for her. When Willa made eye contact with the man, even in the dark, she realized that he was none other than Andy Sorensen himself. He did not seem to recognize her, but she noticed the suspicion of seeing a stranger in his eyes.

  “Newbies. Not a thing in the world to be afraid of here, boy,” Sorensen said.

  Willa did not respond.

  “Well, come on in, mute boy.”

  Upon entry, Willa immediately noticed the smell: stale beer and human sweat. She wanted to vomit. She noticed, too, how the bar was sparsely populated with only men.

  Sorensen walked in front of her, brushing his shoulder, ever so slightly, against Willa. She shivered with disgust as she walked to the bar all while watching the object of her hatred slowly take his seat in a dark corner.

  She sat at the bar and waved the barman over.

  “Aren’t you a bit too young to be in here, son?” the barman, a broad, bald man, asked, while laughing. “Don’t you have to run some errands for your mama?”

  “Sir,” said Willa in the deepest voice she could muster, “I’d like a sarsaparilla.”

  “Mighty strange mustache you have there,” the barman said as he made Willa her drink. “Your daddy never taught you to shave right? Hell, I could give you some mighty good gin, that’ll set the hair on your face right, might even give you some hair on your chest.”

  Willa laughed with him amicably and then paid for her sarsapar
illa with the money Shamus had made from the fox furs. Willa felt a twinge of guilt at spending Shamus’ money at a place like this, a place so totally devoid of decency.

  “Hey, stranger,” said a breathy, feminine voice. A middle-aged woman loomed above Willa and flashed Willa a crooked smile. “I like ‘em young,” she continued, her voice slurred. “Name’s Suzie.”

  Suzie wore a tight red dress to which she had sown several feathers. Her white makeup was thick, but in the dark brothel, Suzie was passable, even slightly pretty. “That barman giving you a hard time?” Suzie giggled with a wink. “He’s just jealous that he’s not as handsome as you. Plus, his wife ran off with an Indian. That made him mean.”

  Suzie’s frank gossip surprised Willa.

  “Nice to meet you, Suzie,” said Willa as she held out her hand.

  “You shake hands. How odd!” Suzie grabbed ahold of Willa’s hand and shook it mightily, making Willa’s shoulder sore. “Such fine hands for a man. You must be as rich as that man over there.” She pointed toward Sorensen. “His hands are so soft because he’s never had to work a day in his life. Honey, I assume the same about you.”

  Willa caught her reflection in a mirror behind the bar, and for a brief second, she did not recognize herself; she was passing. Yes, she was fooling these people as best as she could.

  Suzie blurted out, sultrily, “So do you want to come upstairs with me?”

  Willa was flustered. A stunned, “No, no,” was all she could say. “I just want to drink my sarsaparilla.”

  “Ah, a time waster. I’ll be on my way then.”