Gift of Grace

by Shanna Hatfield

  J.B. glanced at Nora and took a step back, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Gibson, this is my wife, Nora.”

  Nora forced a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Gibson. Thank you for doing our laundry.”

  The woman straightened from her hunched over position of ironing and gave Nora a long look. “It’s what I do.”

  “Can I fasten the tarp back over the roof?” J.B. asked. He pointed to a piece of thick canvas as it draped from the hole in the roof, dangling in the middle of the room.

  “I’d appreciate it,” Mrs. Gibson said, then resumed ironing.

  With half the room open to the elements, the shack was cold, even with the heat pouring out of the stove. Nora felt pity for the children hanging on their mother’s worn skirts. She studied a little girl who couldn’t have been more than a year and a boy who looked about two.

  A soft mewling noise drew Nora’s gaze to an old apple box lined with a ragged blanket. When the mewling turned to a wail, Nora strode over to the box and stared down at the red, crying face of a baby.

  “May I?” she asked, giving Mrs. Gibson a quick glimpse.

  “If you like.” The woman didn’t even look up from her ironing.

  Nora lifted the baby, who couldn’t have been more than a month old, and cradled her to her chest.

  While she heard J.B. clomping around overhead, Nora softly hummed to the baby and rocked her in her arms. “What’s her name?”

  “Bess. The other two are Violet and John.”

  “Good, strong names,” Nora said, tenderly patting the baby on the back. Bess seemed so tiny and frail. Nora couldn’t help but wonder if the children got enough to eat. Mrs. Gibson was thin, even if she looked strong enough.

  Although she had no idea what to expect of a woman who took in laundry, this hopeless, hardscrabble existence wasn’t it. A hundred questions flew through her thoughts, but she held her tongue.

  The tarp suddenly whipped upward and Nora tipped her head back. She watched as J.B. flicked it and the canvas settled into place, covering the open portion of the shack. How could this woman possibly keep the children from catching a chill through the winter in such unacceptable conditions? At least the children were dressed warmly, but the floor, such as it was, had to be cold.

  Why would anyone subject their children to such a place? Where was Mr. Gibson? What kind of man left his wife and young ones to freeze in a half-finished house?

  About to blurt out the thoughts running through her head, Nora turned away from watching Mrs. Gibson iron and noticed stacks of neatly folded laundry on a table draped with a white sheet. A roll of brown paper and a ball of twine made her think the stacks would be wrapped before the clothes were returned to their owners.

  “That should hold it for a while, Mrs. Gibson,” J.B. said as he returned inside. “Are you sure you don’t want us to put a roof on for you?”

  The woman set down the iron and looked at J.B. “I’m sure. I won’t take charity from anyone. We’ll make do.” She walked over to the table, heedless to the toddlers trying to hold onto her skirts.

  Violet fell and started to cry. Mrs. Gibson didn’t even slant a look her way as she wiped her hands on her apron. She proceeded to wrap a stack of clean laundry in paper, tied it with string, then handed it to J.B.

  He took coins from his pocket and dropped them in Mrs. Gibson’s hand, but when she looked at it, she picked up a dime and handed it back to him. “You overpaid.”

  “But, Mrs. Gibson, I’m sure…”

  “No.” The woman’s tone was gruff as she placed the coins in an old cigar box on a shelf barely hanging on the wall by the table.

  Unable to stand the pain of watching this poverty-stricken family, Nora wanted to take all three children home with her where they’d be warm, well-fed, and cared for with love.

  “We better go, Nora. It looks like it’s going to snow,” J.B. said, cupping her elbow in his hand. He glanced down and rubbed his gloved finger over the baby’s cheek, then nudged Nora toward Mrs. Gibson.

  Reluctant to turn loose of the baby, Nora didn’t have much choice when Mrs. Gibson nearly yanked Bess out of her arms.

  Bereft, Nora hurried toward the door, forcing herself not to look back.

  “Thanks for doing the laundry, Mrs. Gibson.” J.B. tipped his hat to the woman then guided Nora outside.

  Carefully closing the door behind him, he set the parcel of laundry in the back of the wagon, then helped Nora up to the seat. Once she was settled, he tucked the heavy buffalo robe around her and snapped the reins.

  It wasn’t until they were far enough from Pendleton they could no longer see the buildings that Nora turned to him with a questioning look.

  “I’m sure you’re burning up with curiosity.” J.B. gave her a knowing glance. “Mrs. Gibson’s husband got himself killed in a fight at one of the saloons a while back. The baby was born about a month after that. I believe they moved to Pendleton at the end of August. Mr. Gibson worked for one of the blacksmith shops and used old boards he found here and there to build that shack. I don’t think he was sober when he was hammering anything together. And the idiot ran out of boards before he finished the roof.”

  “It’s horrid. How could he expect his family to live there?” Nora asked. It was beyond her ability to comprehend how a husband and father could put so little effort into providing for his family.

  “I don’t think he cared a whole lot about them. From what I’ve heard, any money he made he either lost playing cards or spent on booze.” J.B. sighed. “The pastor mentioned Mrs. Gibson is trying to survive by taking in laundry. Since you weren’t… you know… well, anyway, I’ve taken laundry to her a few times. The last time I was there, I tried to get her to let me bring enough lumber to at least finish the roof, but she refused. Pastor Whitting is trying to find a fit place for her to live, but there aren’t any empty houses in town and I think she’s just stubborn enough she’d rather live like that than accept what she views as charity.”

  “But the children,” Nora said as her voice caught and emotion swelled in her throat.

  “I knew it wouldn’t do you any good to see those poor babies.” The look he gave her held reproof. “Didn’t I tell you to wait in the wagon?”

  “You did. As a matter of fact, you’ve been quite high-handed and full of commands today. I don’t appreciate the way you treated me at the store. It’s positively…” Nora searched for the appropriate word and found it, “indecent for me not to wear mourning. How could you refuse me that?”

  “The last time you had to spend a year wearing those morose mourning clothes it about did you in. I won’t stand for it, Nora. It’s a ridiculous custom, one that should be abolished. I never did understand why women were expected to dress in black and hide at home until a proper time of mourning passed. Who’s to decide what’s a proper time? Grief is a hard burden to bear without spending every day dressed like a specter of death. I won’t watch you go through it again, Nora. I lost our daughter, but I can’t lose you, too. I just can’t!”

  Taken aback by J.B.’s outburst, Nora didn’t know what to say so she remained silent on the rest of the trip home. Perhaps J.B. was more affected by the loss of Grace than she realized, more than she cared to admit.

  Chapter Six

  Arms loaded with firewood, J.B. toed the kitchen door closed and hurried across the room, dumping the wood into the box behind the stove.

  After adding a chunk of wood to the stove, he brushed off his gloves and sniffed appreciatively. Thick beef stew bubbled on the stove while the yeasty aroma of baking bread came from the oven, filling the kitchen with mouthwatering scents. He removed his gloves, tucked them in the pockets of his coat, then hung it with his hat on the peg near the door.

  At the sink, he pumped water over his hands, washing and drying them, wondering if Nora had any ointment that might help the chapped state of his skin. The cold air only made it worse.

  A slam from the spare bedroom alerted him to Nora’s wher
eabouts. He headed that direction, grabbing two cookies out of a large jar on the counter on his way past. Cinnamon teased his tongue as he bit into the nut-laden cookie. Nora could bake the best cookies, when she was of a mind to.

  Thankfully, after the day he tossed her into the bathtub and told her she smelled like a decaying varmint, she’d been more like herself. She’d resumed cooking, cleaning, and managing the house. He hadn’t wanted her to jump right back into the routine of work. He’d only wanted her to return to those still living.

  He’d been desperate to draw her out of the darkness that consumed her after Grace’s death before she entirely gave up the will to live. J.B. had been every bit as devastated as Nora, especially when he knew she blamed him for their daughter dying. Unlike his wife, he had to stay strong and focused to keep not just the ranch going, but Nora, too. He blessed the day they moved to Nash’s Folly where they had such good neighbors and hired help. If it hadn’t been for Anna Erickson, he had no idea what he would have done when Nora refused to get out of bed or eat. Anna could somehow coax her into eating, even if nothing would get her out of bed.

  Nora needed time to work through her grief. She still deeply grieved Grace. J.B. did, too. He just channeled his grief through hard work and staying too busy to think about the loss of their beloved little girl.

  Taking another bite of the cookie in his hand, he pushed open the door to the spare bedroom to find Nora down on her hands and knees, looking under the bed.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as he leaned his shoulder against the door.

  Nora yelped in surprise and banged her head on the bed frame. She sat up and rubbed her head, glaring at him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  A chuckle rolled out of him as he pushed away from the door and went to his wife. He bent down and kissed the top of her head then pulled her to her feet. “I just dumped a whole load of wood in the box behind the stove. How could you possibly miss hearing that?”

  “I’m busy,” she said, jerking her arm from his grasp and looking around the room, like she’d lost something.

  “What is it you are so intent on finding?” he questioned as she opened then closed drawers in the dresser. He knew the drawers were empty and she did too, but it didn’t keep her from slamming them all a second time.

  “Grace’s things. I can’t find any of her things, J.B. What did you do with them?” She stopped banging drawers to glare at him. “Don’t tell me you gave them to Mrs. Gibson. I feel sorry for her children, but she is a cold, hard woman. I can’t bear the thought of her touching Grace’s things.”

  “I put them away,” J.B. said, turning and leaving the room. In the kitchen he poured a cup of coffee from the pot Nora kept warm on the back of the stove. He took a long sip and shoved the last bite of cookie in his mouth.

  Nora grabbed his arm, nearly making him spill his coffee. He scowled at her and shifted the cup into his other hand.

  The pleading, desperate look on her face tore at his heart. “Please, I need her things, J.B. I need them.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get her things back out, Nora.” J.B. set down the cup when Nora gripped his arms with more strength than he would have thought she could possess.

  “Please, J.B. Please?” She trembled as she tightened her grip. “I’ll beg. Please, please? Let me have Grace’s things. Please?”

  Tears coursed over Nora’s cheeks and she had a wild, lost look in her silvery-gray eyes. He’d been afraid if he left anything that had been Grace’s around, it would only cause Nora more problems. At the moment, though, he sensed if he didn’t give her what she wanted she’d soon slip into hysteria.

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Not bothering with his coat, J.B. opened the door and jogged across the yard to the barn. He’d built a small storage space in the loft where he’d left empty trunks and items they wanted to keep but weren’t using. He opened the door and pulled out a steamer trunk with a domed lid and brass fittings. Quickly, he carried it down the ladder then back to the house.

  Nora stood in the open doorway, waiting for him.

  As soon as he set the trunk in the parlor, she dropped to her knees in front of it, unfastened the latches, and pushed open the lid. A sob tore from her throat as she picked up a blanket made of soft pink yarn and held it to her face.

  J.B. didn’t know whether to leave her alone or offer her comfort. His heart ached at the sight of the baby’s blankets and clothes. When Nora lifted one of Gracie’s curls Mrs. Erickson had clipped and tied with a pink ribbon, he couldn’t swallow back the anguish ripping through him.

  He fell to his knees beside his wife and wrapped her in his arms.

  “I don’t want her to be gone, J.B. I want her back,” Nora cried, turning to him and burying her face in his chest. He held her, gently rubbing her back as tears leaked from his eyes. How could he comfort Nora when he was mired so completely in his own grief?

  The deep breath he drew in, hoping to calm his frayed emotions, only made the pain slice deeper into his heart as he inhaled Grace’s sweet baby scent that clung to her clothes and blankets. Anna Erickson and Mrs. Tooley had been the ones who’d washed everything then carefully packed the trunk, but the unmistakable scent of his daughter clung to every fiber.

  Oh, how he missed her. Missed her tiny fingers wrapped around his. Missed the sound of her soft cooing. He even missed the way she’d cry and wave her little fists in the air when she lost her temper.

  And he missed his wife. In a time when they should have drawn closer to each other and shared their sorrows, Nora had first retreated inside herself then blamed him for Gracie’s death. She treated him like a hated stranger who’d snuck in and snatched her baby away.

  Burdened with gnawing guilt, he had no idea if he could have done something, noticed something that would have saved Grace. He’d gone over the list of what-ifs so many times, he couldn’t bear to think of them again.

  Lest Nora see he’d come completely undone, he closed his eyes and forced himself to pack his feelings back into the box where he’d been keeping them since Grace died.

  “It’ll be okay, Nora. I promise,” he said, giving her one more hug before he rose and went to the kitchen.

  He splashed his face with cold water, took the bread from the oven and lifted the stew off the top of the stove. After he sliced the bread and dished up the stew, he went back to the parlor where Nora sat in her rocking chair, holding one of Grace’s little gowns to her chest. She’d stopped crying, but she had that faraway look in her eye again, as though she was no longer with him. Terrified he’d lose her to the darkness of her mind, J.B. strode across the room and took the gown from her.

  “It’s time for supper,” he said, holding out a hand to Nora.

  When she ignored it and refused to look at him, he picked her up and carried her to the table. The fact she didn’t fight him had him more worried than if she’d pitched a fit. Once he sat her in her chair, he took his seat, offered a word of thanks for the meal, then picked up Nora’s spoon and put it in her hand.

  She ate but never said a word to him. When she finished, she rose from the table and went back to the parlor.

  J.B. sighed and cleaned up the kitchen. Maybe the thing to help Nora would be another child on whom she could focus her attention. With a plan forming in his mind, he decided to ride over to the Erickson farm first thing in the morning.

  Chapter Seven

  Nora listened for the kitchen door to open and shut, signaling J.B. had gone out to do the morning chores. Once she heard the door click and felt a cold draft blow into the house, she stretched in bed then hurried to dress in the chilly morning air.

  Pulling a sweater on over her dress, she glanced down at the dark blue fabric. She’d worn it so many times recently, the color was beginning to fade, but it was the closest thing she had to black. Since her stubborn husband wouldn’t budge on allowing her to wear black, she made do with the closest thing she could find.

  The p
ast two Sundays when she’d attended church, she half expected someone to comment on the fact she wasn’t dressed in mourning clothes, but no one said a word. In fact, the women had been just as friendly as ever, perhaps even more so. The doctor’s wife had invited her to tea and Mrs. Johnson had invited them to stay for lunch, which they did.

  Nora felt out of place in her light-colored gowns, but no one seemed to pay any mind. She supposed she should be grateful J.B. had insisted she wear any color except black. She’d been so depressed swathed in the somber color and scratchy, stiff fabric when she’d mourned her father and brother’s deaths. It had been hard to be cheerful when everything seemed dark and desolate.

  Maybe J.B. wasn’t trying to be difficult, but helpful. However, he sure went about it the wrong way. He’d been boorish and utterly high-handed. She was still upset about the scene he created at the mercantile when she was trying to purchase black fabric. At least no one else had been in the store at the time.

  Nora added more wood to the stove and set the kettle on to boil. She lit two more lamps to dispel the December darkness since it would be hours before the sun would rise.

  She knew J.B. wouldn’t be in for another hour, so Nora went into the spare bedroom where J.B. had moved Grace’s trunk. She took a tiny pair of red leather shoes with pink buttons from the trunk and held them on her hand. Grace hadn’t even gotten to wear them before she died. The shoes had been Nora’s when she was a baby. Her grandmother had shipped the shoes, along with several adorable little gowns and a beautiful blanket.

  She’d received several letters from Grandmother in recent weeks, but she had yet to write a reply.

  Aware of her tendency to get lost in maudlin thoughts if she lingered too long with Grace’s things, Nora set the shoes back in the trunk, closed the lid, and went to the writing desk in the parlor. She sat down and wrote her grandmother a lengthy letter. She stuffed it in an envelope then retrieved the scarf she’d knit for her grandmother and tucked it into a small box. She added the envelope to the box, wrapped it all in brown paper, and addressed it. The next time anyone headed to town, she’d have them mail the gift.