Jane had appreciated this great deal of effort on Wyatt’s part, and she had especially appreciated the care and respect that the cowboy showed for her virtue. He didn’t assume that she would stay in his home before they were married, and she appreciated that.
Even though Jane had entertained the attention of a man before, it had still been a long time since one had paid her so much respect and courtesy. The patrons of Bosko’s Restaurant were proof enough of that fact.
That was all the more reason why Wyatt felt like a breath of fresh air, a striking example of kindness and gentlemanly decorum to contrast the rugged behavior that Jane was regrettably accustomed to seeing in Chicago.
Of course she had been slightly put-off that Mr. Larson himself hadn’t arranged to meet her at the station. For all of the effort and accommodations that he had made in anticipation of her arrival, it seemed odd to her that he would now spare the most important moment of all: their first meeting.
And if she was being completely honest, part of Jane’s dismay was over the fact that they would be meeting for the first time at Mr. Larson’s home. She would have preferred to meet at the station, to meet in public, where she might find some semblance of security or confidence in being surrounded by other people, lest she discover that Mr. Larson had misrepresented himself in his letters.
But Jane tried to push this lack of confidence from her mind as she traveled by wagon through the modest town of Silver City. She was sure, she reasoned with herself, that there was a reasonable explanation for why Mr. Larson hadn’t been able to meet her himself.
Perhaps it was a pressing matter on the ranch. His work as a cowboy must keep him terribly busy, Jane reasoned with herself.
She admired the quaint town of Silver City as they passed. Compared to Chicago, the brick and wooden shop fronts and houses were stark and humble… plain, unadorned, built for necessity rather than style. But what the architecture might lack in detail, it more than made up for with ambiance. The air and sky were clear and undiluted, free from the heavy smog of black exhaust that hung over the industrial corners of Chicago. And the backdrop of mountains behind the town, silver and somehow wise, was far prettier than the drab gray cityscape that Jane was used to.
And then, in the blink of an eye, the town was gone. Almost as quickly as they had entered it, they were outside of it. The wagon carried on for several minutes, and Jane fixed her eyes on the expanse of nothingness that surrounded her in all directions. Suddenly a new reality presented itself, the reality that, however charming the town might be, Silver City also represented something inherently scary. This world was much smaller than Chicago, and if things didn’t work out with Mr. Larson as she hoped… Well, it’d be very hard to avoid the man in a town so small.
Jane pushed the thought from her mind, almost feeling guilty for thinking it in the first place. Though she was too proud to admit it, Jane had, on more than one occasion, found her mind slipping to dangerous thoughts. What if Mr. Larson wasn’t the man in the photograph? What if he had stolen the photograph of another man and used it to misrepresent himself? Jane had heard of this happening before—it was well known that responding to mail-order-bride advertisements came with a certain level of risk. No matter how many letters you exchanged, no matter how many promises you made, you couldn’t be entirely certain of who you were speaking to until you found yourself standing face to face.
Of course Jane usually silenced these thoughts by assuring herself that things would work out with Mr. Larson regardless of what he looked like. She had fallen in love with the man who wrote the letters and, well, she supposed that even if he wasn’t quite what she expected—even if he wasn’t that strikingly handsome man in the photograph after all—well, he’d still be the man with the sharp wit and keen sense of compassion who had written loyally to her, and she supposed that she’d still love him regardless.
But what she couldn’t quite rectify—at least not yet—was the sense of betrayal she might feel if she discovered that Mr. Larson had lied to her. Honesty was crucial to Jane, a virtue every bit as important as leading a life of integrity and obeying the Lord. If she discovered that Mr. Larson had lied to her… well, that, in her eyes, might be even more disconcerting than the lie itself.
The wagon came to a jolt as it stopped suddenly, and Jane lifted her gaze to look upon a simple wooden home. The building was humble, but well looked after. The paint was fresh, the glass in the windows clean, the silvery pad of grass outside well groomed.
Jane felt a flutter of optimism—hope that she was indeed meeting the man from the photograph, that Mr. Larson was indeed all the things she hoped he’d be, and then some.
She stepped out of the wagon and approached the house, her heart already pounding with such great intensity that it was practically threatening to burst from her chest and tear through the cloth of her dress.
The door to the house opened slowly, and for a moment Jane gazed in and saw nothing but the shadowy darkness inside.
She froze on the spot, her eyes fixed to the door, and her entire body rattling with the combination of anticipation and nerves.
And then she saw a face appear through the sliver in the door, a face that she recognized at once from the photograph. Only… he was better in person, his face somehow even more exquisite now that she could see with her own eyes the details and curves of his high cheekbones and heavy brow. And best of all were his eyes… the photograph had captured the warmth, but had failed to depict the color, the smooth, almost turquoise green color that they took as they glittered in the sun, bright yet warm, and both out of place yet stunning against his warm brown complexion.
All at once Jane felt her last breath flutter away as she stood, transfixed, admiring the man before her. In that instant, all of her anxiety washed away, replaced with hope and joy, as she became certain that she had made the right decision… certain that God had delivered her at last to the man that she was meant to marry.
Her heart swelled, this time with happiness rather than unease, and she thought that this might be the single most joyous moment of her entire life.
And then the door to the house creaked open the rest of the way, and Mr. Wyatt Larson wedged his body through the doorframe, stepping outside onto the front porch. Except… well, it wasn’t a foot that stepped over the threshold. Rather, it was the blunt end of a wooden cane, and then his other foot, and then… the cane.
As Jane looked on, it took every bit of tact and decorum to prevent her jaw from dropping as Mr. Larson stepped fully onto the porch and revealed himself to her.
He was even taller than Jane had expected… so tall that she almost shrunk back, intimidated. But it wasn’t his height that caught her most off guard. It was the fact that he stood on one leg instead of two.
FOUR
Jane’s mother had always taught her not to stare, not to study curiosities or strange things, no matter how much they perplexed her, no matter how much they riled her interest.
And though Jane had always been carefully obedient of this rule, she found herself now simply incapable of tearing her eyes away from the sight of Mr. Larson’s missing leg. It was gone at the knee, and the fabric of his pants was joined up in a knot where the shin of his leg should extend downward. His weight was balanced between his remaining leg and the support of his wooden cane.
Once Jane had come to terms with everything—once she had assured herself that this was no trick of the eye, no illusion, no mistake of her own quick judgment—she blinked several times and looked back up to Mr. Larson’s face.
His eyes were colder now, glassed over with an understanding that seemed to reflect the conflict that Jane knew was playing out across her own face.
And upon seeing the deep shades of sadness fill the shadows of Mr. Larson’s face, Jane suddenly felt something worse than curiosity or disappointment—she felt shame. Her cheeks colored and burned, and she felt suddenly ashamed that her reaction had embarrassed Mr. Larson.
“Mr. Larson,
” she said as she curtseyed diplomatically. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I’ve long anticipated this moment.”
The greeting was overly polite, and even to her own ears it rang out as disingenuous. She had meant it to be kind and cheerful, but she saw now that her words had only succeeded at making Mr. Larson’s face further crumble and darken as he swallowed heavily and cast his eyes away, his face coloring with his own brand of private shame.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, feigning decorum. “I’m honored to have your company, and I hope that your journey has been pleasant.”
“It certainly has,” Jane confirmed. She wondered how long they would maintain this ruse of friendly, formal conversation.
“Please, come inside,” Mr. Larson said. “I’ve prepared tea for your arrival.”
Tea, Jane was pleasantly surprised. He truly was a gentleman, a refined man. Even in Chicago, she wouldn’t have expected such formality from a suitor.
“That would be lovely,” Jane smiled politely, and she followed Mr. Larson into the house as the wagon disappeared behind them, headed back toward town. In that fleeting second, Jane wished suddenly that she was still on the wagon, being whisked away from this uncomfortable new reality, but she quickly dismissed this thought. It just made her feel even more guilty.
As she watched Wyatt hobble back over the threshold and into the house on his cane, she found her eyes again drawn downward to his injury.
“You have a lovely home,” Jane said warmly as she followed Mr. Larson inside. This much was true. From the long wooden floorboards that were polished to the point of practically gleaming, to the walls adorned with pristine pale blue wallpaper, the small home was immaculately well kept.
“Thank you,” Wyatt said, glancing back at her over his shoulder as he pressed his weight onto the cane. “Though I must say, it’s hardly an impressive feat, keeping a clean home when one lives alone.”
“I understand completely,” Jane said, and the muscles in her face softened slightly as she broke into an easy grin. “I’ve lived on my own ever since my mother passed, and I suppose one advantage is that I’ve grown to appreciate my own tidiness.”
Things had been significantly less tidy when Jane had still dwelled with Mrs. Brooks. Her mother, driven mainly by the illness that reduced her faculties and stole her sensibilities, had been at times tedious to live with. Of course, acknowledging this fact was not to say that Jane preferred the serenity of solitude over the chaos of companionship. To the contrary, Jane would gladly sacrifice every bit of calm tidiness if, in exchange, she could have her mother back.
“You mentioned that in your letters,” Wyatt said. They were in the kitchen now, and he stood over the stove where a kettle was squealing plumes of steam.
“That’s right,” Jane blushed. Being reminded of the letters felt strange, almost as if she had revealed the entire essence of herself in the carefully penned notes that she had exchanged with Wyatt, and now this man—this stranger—was overly acquainted with her. It was an unnerving sensation, realizing that Wyatt wasn’t exactly what she had expected, but only making this realization after sharing so much of her heart through their correspondence.
“Please,” Wyatt said, gesturing to the table, which was already dressed with a plate of bread and cheese. “Have a seat. I’m sure you’re hungry after the journey.”
“I am,” Jane admitted, eyeing the bread eagerly.
“Help yourself,” Wyatt said, but Jane’s manners were too good to indulge in the treats until her host was seated. So instead, she watched as he stood over the stove. He leaned his cane against the wall and balanced on one leg—a sight that made her draw in her breath, suddenly nervous that he would fall over.
But his balance was firm. He was clearly experienced in making the best of his circumstances, and he demonstrated this as he lifted the kettle with ease and poured the steaming water into an orange clay teacup. He carried it to Jane and set it before her on the table, and she beamed up gratefully with a, “Thank you!”
“Certainly,” he said, pouring a second cup for himself, then taking a seat beside her at the table.
“This teacup is—” Jane meant to say interesting, but as she felt the weight of the word on her tongue, she determined that this might be more of an insult than a compliment, and the uncertainty rendered her suddenly speechless.
“They were an heirloom,” Wyatt said. “From…” and now it was his turn to hesitate, to mull over his words, before finally saying, “my mother’s side of the family.”
He revealed this detail with an air of mystery, with the hint that there was more to the story, or something left to be uncovered. Jane decided not to press for details. At that moment, everything about Wyatt Larson suddenly felt shrouded in mystery or half-truths. Admittedly, this was more due to omission rather than actual deceit, but the man might as well have lied to her outright, that’s how betrayed and stunned she felt.
“I suppose there’s no sense skirting around the topic with formalities,” Wyatt said.
“Pardon?”
“My leg,” he said bluntly. “I saw your eyes rest on it the moment you saw me. It was the first thing you noticed, perhaps the only thing you noticed.”
No, Jane wanted to correct him. The first thing that I noticed was your eyes… your wonderful, kind, warm, deep eyes.
“I did find it a bit odd,” Jane admitted reluctantly, “that you hadn’t mentioned it in any of your letters…”
It was a terribly blunt and direct thing to say, and Jane mused that if it hadn’t been for her time working at Bosko’s, she might have never found it within herself to be so forthcoming and blunt at all. The job had certainly brought out a bold side of her personality, had pruned her to be more direct and assertive.
“I understand,” Wyatt nodded. “I don’t blame you for finding it odd, as it was a significant omission.”
It certainly was, Jane thought, even though she realized that admitting her own shock and disappointment spoke of her own character, just as much as it spoke of Wyatt’s. He may have omitted this detail, but wasn’t she just as at fault for judging him for it now? Perhaps that was the reason he hadn’t told her… because he feared that she would lose interest in a man who was missing a leg.
She pressed herself, wondering would she have judged him? Would she have reacted differently? Would she still have traveled to New Mexico, if she had known the truth? She liked to believe that she would have been indifferent, that she would have judged Wyatt’s character, not his physicality. But the look on Wyatt’s face clearly suggested that he didn’t have the same level of confidence in her judgment.
“I assure you, it wasn’t my intention to establish our courtship on false pretenses or dishonesty,” Wyatt said.
“So why didn’t you just tell me?” Jane asked.
“I tried,” he said. “Many times… I wrote entire letters explaining, telling the story, over and over… but I always lost the nerve before I could send them. You see… I had been honest before. When other women responded to my advertisement, I told them the truth upfront, that I was damaged goods—”
Jane winced at the phrase “damaged goods,” and she felt a wave of pity come over her. It didn’t help that Wyatt kept his eyes locked on the wall behind her, that he was filled with too much shame to meet her eyes as he spoke.
“—and every one of them was repulsed,” he finished.
“Repulsed? They said that?” Jane was shocked.
“They didn’t need to,” Wyatt said. “They never responded to my letter. I understood exactly why. They didn’t want anything to do with a man like me.”
Jane felt her brow wrinkle as she pieced it all together. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining so many other women,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Was I a last resort, then?”
“What?” Wyatt looked up suddenly, his warm eyes ablaze with surprise and embarrassment. “Of course not! That’s not what I meant…”
She stood up suddenly from the table, leaving her tea untouched.
“Mr. Larson,” she said sharply. “I’m quite tired from my travels, and I’d like very much to have some privacy at this time. I think, given the circumstances, that the best place for me at this time is the hotel in town.”
“I… Of… But…” Mr. Larson stammered in protest, rising from the table but watching helplessly as Jane bolted for the door at the front of the house.
“At least let me hitch the wagon and take you myself,” Mr. Larson pleaded.
“No need,” Jane said firmly. “I am quite competent and can look after myself, thank you.”
And with that, she flung herself through the door and toward the beaten road that led back to town.
She made it several paces before the temptation to glance back became too great, and she turned her head over her shoulder to gaze back at the house. When she did, she was startled to see that Mr. Larson had crossed the grassy yard and made it to the road before finally giving up. He stood now in the center of the road, watching her as she walked away.
And for some reason that she couldn’t quite figure out—perhaps the shame, the embarrassment, the anger, the betrayal, the strange rush of happiness and disappointment all at once—Jane felt her eyes grow heavy with a flood of tears as she turned back to the empty road that stretched ahead.
FIVE
A night of sleep had done Jane good. She awoke with a clear head and a renewed sense of clarity on the matter of her courtship to Mr. Larson. She had prayed for exactly that the night before. And the Lord had certainly delivered.
New Beginnings Spring 20 Book Box Set Page 52
