Home, John thought, an emptiness rising up in his chest. I’ll never have a home.
Instead of answering, he grimaced at the thought, shaking his head and stepping down the porch steps to the yard below. He brushed his fingertips against the brim of his hat in reply, then wandered to where his horse was grazing in the paddock.
“Night,” he called out as he rode past the house. “Morning comes early, ya know.”
“Goodnight, Uncle John,” Matthew answered, obviously wondering what was paining the older man so deeply.
John rode the familiar path to his cabin as if in a dream. His horse knew the way, leaving him to think on things that only the darkness could churn up. More and more, though, his somber moods would creep up on him and take hold, choking the air out of him until he couldn’t think of anything but his own misery.
By the time he made his way into his small cabin, John’s mood had taken a sour turn. Worse than the feeling of loss and anger roiling in his stomach was the thought that there was nothing to be done about it. He’d missed his chance at luck and would spend the rest of his life working land that he’d never own. The notion chilled him to the bone.
Chapter Six
“Now Lucy, there’s something I want to talk to you about,” Mrs. Mayhew began in a serious voice as the sky began to darken the following evening. “I will wrap those little angels in prayer until the end of my days, and I’ve got some things that I can pack up for them to carry them on their way, food and clothes and whatnot. But, sweet girl, what about you?”
Lucy shook her head. “I haven’t even had a chance to think about my own circumstances. I have a little money for a train or maybe a coach, but I wouldn’t even know where to go. I’ve lived in Shortcrag ever since my parents died of the measles. I just… I don’t even know where to begin!”
“Well, I want you to think on something, and I don’t want you to say anything just yet.” Mrs. Mayhew produced a folded newspaper and opened it to a broad page filled with type. “Have you thought about marryin’ someone in these parts?”
“Marrying? Who would I possibly marry… Mr. Popwell?” Lucy asked with a surprised laugh before casting a glance at the darkened mercantile. She hoped Mr. Popwell hadn’t heard her, but the shock of Mrs. Mayhew’s suggestion had gotten the better of her.
“No, no. Here, take a look.” Mrs. Mayhew held out the newspaper and pointed to several places she’d circled in broad, coarse pencil. “You see, a number of men have come west to stake a claim on a homestead. They’re not fortune hunters, dearie, but rather solid, hard-working, sensible men who’ve built their homes, fenced their new property, and planted their crops, or brought out their livestock. Now that they’re settled and prospering, they’re ready to think about a wife and a family. It’s rather common, you see.”
“Common, indeed!” Lucy said, aghast. “Common, as in going to the market to buy a pig, a goat, and a wife as well?”
“But it’s not like that!” the woman said, smiling reassuringly. “I meant to say that it happens with such frequency that there are even agencies in the east who will match suitable young ladies like yourself with qualified men who’ve been selected and approved. These men would have done well to find a wife back home, but out here, what are their prospects? Where would they even begin to look for a young lady of marriageable age?”
With shaking hands, Lucy took the newspaper and began scanning the advertisements. Her eyes swam with tears as she read some of the statements.
“All alone, have 500 acres… my wife passed with the fever, our six little ones have no mother… brought in my third harvest now and have all but paid off the note on my land… I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayhew, but these are not men seeking a bride, they’re farmers and ranchers who are tired of cooking their own suppers and… and… and warming their own beds!”
Lucy thrust the paper back towards the older woman, but Mrs. Mayhew refused to take it. She sat back in her rocking chair and smiled.
“Let me ask you this: what harm can there be in simply writing to one of these men?”
“Why, the waste of my time, the postage, and the scrap of paper would be unthinkable!” Lucy replied, feeling indignant. “I’m rather surprised you think I would be better off with one of these… these… I don’t even know what to say!”
“Lucy, you’re not thinking clearly,” she chided gently. “You’re still hindered by the life you wanted instead of the life that you now must go forge for yourself. My dear, the school is closing. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. So don’t let that disappointment cause you even more heartache by leading you to a bad decision.”
“And you don’t think corresponding with a stranger and marrying a man who seeks a cook and a housemaid is a bad decision?” Lucy asked, tears choking her words.
“Truth be told, no. I don’t. I met Mr. Mayhew through a cousin who spoke on his behalf. Before marrying him and becoming his wife, I’d met him twice… and the second day was the morning he came to fetch me in the wagon and take me to the church!” Mrs. Mayhew laughed lightly, then added, “And I suppose we had our good days and our bad, but at the end of each day, I never once doubted that he was a good man and a good provider.”
Lucy was quiet when Mrs. Mayhew stopped talking to dab at her eyes with the edge of her apron. The woman cleared her throat and said, “When he took ill, I was tormented with the fear of losing him. Did I love him? Well, of course. Was it the kind of love you read about in the magazine serials? I’m sure it was not! But my life with him was a happy one, and I never wanted for anything I needed. That is all I can ask of a husband, and all that you can ask as well.”
“And you truly did not know him before then?” Lucy asked, astonished.
“I couldn’t have pointed him out in a church service!” she answered, breaking into laughter. “Although once I did know that he had a head of shocking red hair, it was easy to spot him in any crowded market!”
Lucy had to laugh, and she was much relieved by the older woman’s recollection. But she frowned again, and asked, “But what would I do if this man is not a kind, gentle person like Mr. Mayhew, or a good provider? What would I do if he took to drinking or left me at home with no food for our children and no cloth to sew our clothes? I’ve heard that happens to some women upon marriage, you know.”
“My dear, writing to a man is not a promise of your eternal devotion! You’ll also be permitted to meet him and to get to know him before you’re expected to wed. When he placed the advertisement, he is agreeing to take on the responsibility for your passage and your room and board while you make your decision.”
“I suppose that is a good thing,” Lucy said quietly, slowly warming to the notion of meeting someone with the purpose of deciding if they were a compatible match.
“Of course it is. It’s not like there’s a stampede of eligible men with good prospects coming over that hillside there,” Mrs. Mayhew said, pointing to the horizon behind Lucy. “But my dear, you know full well that I’ll be right here. If somethin’ goes wrong, just high-tail yourself right back here, and I’ll take you in. I’d offer to let you stay on with me, but you need to get outta Shortcrag and get yourself a life of your own.”
It cheered Lucy’s sore heart some to know that she had a place at the old boarding house if she wanted it… but did she want it? Or did she want to have one of the very things she’d missed out on her whole life: a family of her own?
“I’ll think on it, Mrs. Mayhew. But regardless of what I decide, thank you for telling me about it. You’ve been the most wonderful neighbor—not just to me, but to the children as well—and even at a time like this, you’re looking out for my best interest. I’m grateful to you, I hope you know that.”
The old woman smiled and clapped her hands together before folding them in her lap. “I’m glad to hear ya say you’ll give it some thought. And you don’t have to decide a thing right now. Just look those over, listen to what your heart is tellin’ you to do. Then send a letter or tw
o and see where the Lord leads you.”
Lucy bade her goodnight for the second evening in a row and walked back across the square to the old school. Even in the darkness, the only light coming from the windows that dotted the town with their faint glow, she could see that the school was in disrepair. No one had truly cared about it in years, no one but her, and she knew the sooner those in charge could wash their hands of her, the happier they’d be.
She looked through the window before opening the door and smiled to see that only Forten was still awake, concentrating intently on the pages and turning them as he read faster now that he wasn’t having to read aloud. The girls must have gone upstairs already, and the two other boys were asleep in the threadbare rug below Forten’s chair.
“All tuckered out, are they?” she asked in a whisper as she closed the front door behind her. Forten looked up and smiled.
“I guess being apprenticed to a coffin maker isn’t as interesting to them as it is to me,” he answered, peering down at them. “I’ll carry Jeremiah if you can tote Samuel.”
“Oh no, it’s no trouble. You go on and get yourself ready for bed; I’ll bring them up myself. And Forten, thank you for reading to them. It gave me a chance to… well, to think about some things.”
The boy nodded and said goodnight, then left to crawl into his own bed. Lucy gently shook Samuel awake and tousled Jeremiah’s hair gently, smiling when they both moaned at being awakened.
Once all of the household was in bed where they belonged, Lucy had a moment to look over the newspapers again. Now, in the light of the schoolhouse’s kitchen, they seemed ominous, unwelcoming. She wondered at what kind of trap she might be setting for herself by even considering corresponding with—and perhaps marrying—a stranger.
In the stark light of the bedside candle, the advertisements were no more appealing than they had been before. Lucy pushed aside the papers as she prepared the children’s clothes for the following day, but her mind kept returning to some of the ads she’d read over. She did have to admit that some of the men who’d posted them sounded sincere, honest to a fault, or even caring.
It was the idea of the whole thing that was so troublesome.
* * *
Matthew had lain awake for two nights now, struggling to make heads or tails of his mother’s plea. Marry a girl he’d never met? It didn’t sit well with him. It would feel like picking a bride at the cattle market, and Matthew knew that wasn’t the kind of man he was.
But she’d been right about one thing: there weren’t many options in Tuckerrise. Any hope of a family of his own would mean meeting someone from far outside the area, and how would he do such a thing? Leave his ranch in someone else’s care while he… what, went prowling for a woman?
Now, as he set about his morning chores, Matthew’s mind began to revolve around the idea. Maybe there’d be no harm in at least sending in an advertisement. The cost wasn’t too much and it’s not as if he even had to answer anyone who responded. It would at least give him time to make peace with the notion, and it would certainly put his mother’s mind at ease.
Matthew entered the barn to retrieve some tools. He’d already sent several men to get to work on rebuilding some of the fence that had come down when a sudden rain last month had softened the dry, cracked ground too quickly. He aimed to join them, then maybe check some more of his fence line for anything that needed repair.
Or perhaps he’d invite his mother along later that evening. He could hitch up the wagon team and make an evening of it. She used to love going for a ride when the sun started to go down and the land began to come alive. He could check on some of the fencing, dote on her a little, and maybe speak some more about these advertisements she’d mentioned.
“Miller! Look out!” one of the men shouted behind him, and Matthew—lost in thought—turned around just in time to take a step backwards as a bale of hay came sailing out of the hayloft overhead. It came crashing down on his shoulder, causing him to wrench his back painfully. The twisted end of the baling wire that wrapped around it sliced his temple nearly to the bone as the bale thudded to the ground.
Chapter Seven
John rushed to his side while the other ranch hands gathered around. “Matthew? Are you all right?”
Dazed, Matthew tried to sit up but John pushed him down again. “Whoa, that was close. But… it sure does sting to beat the band. What happened?”
“You took a walloping to the head, that’s what!” John answered, reaching into his pocket for a cloth and holding it to the blood pooling on the side of Matthew’s face. “Seaborn! Best go tell them in the house to start some water heating and get some poultice ready, and maybe get out some clean sewing needles in case this bleeding don’t stop.”
The ranch hand ran to obey and Matthew grimaced. “Surely it’s not all that bad. I mean, it’s just a bit of a scratch, isn’t it?”
“You can’t be too careful with it now,” John answered, shaking his head. “That metal wire’s been up in that hayloft for months. Could be something nasty about it, and you don’t wanna go catching lockjaw!”
“No, that won’t do!” Matthew agreed, woozy now from the sharp pain in his shoulder. He flexed his hand and bent his elbow without much difficulty, but when he tried to raise his arm, a sudden burning flared up in his shoulder until he thought he might lose his eyesight.
“Careful now,” one of the ranch hands called out from behind him. “That looks like your shoulder’s done gone all outta place!”
“What?” Matthew asked, looking down at his joint fearfully. Sure enough, there was an odd-shaped bulge in the seam where the cloth met the sleeve of his shirt, one that certainly didn’t belong there.
“I think he may be right, son. It looks like it’s come out of the joint,” John said, frowning. “We can get it back in place, but it’s not a pleasant thing to do or to witness!”
“I know,” Matthew said numbly. “I remember when one of you fell off his horse last year.”
“Come on, let’s get you to the house and get you washed up. If you’re not averse to some whiskey at this time of day, that’ll make it go back in easier.”
John moved to lift Matthew to his feet while the younger man cradled his arm close to his side. Someone else replaced the cloth at the side of his head as the bleeding had started afresh. Together they formed a huddle and half-dragged, half-carried Matthew to the house.
“You run on ahead and tell Gertie to keep Mrs. Miller busy with something,” John said softly over his shoulder. “I’ll come outside and let her know what’s happened once he’s in the house.”
Someone out of Matthew’s field of vision scurried away, then he continued towards the house. He settled in the rocker on the front porch while John went to see if it was safe to go in, then he followed the crew inside and into the kitchen.
“Lawwwwd, Mister Miller! What have you don’ to yourself!” Gertie exclaimed before remembering to keep her voice down. “Don’t you worry none, your ma’s out back shelling peas. She can’t hear us no ways.”
“I’m all right, Gertie,” Matthew replied, “just banged up some. Uncle John said he can put my shoulder back in, but I think this cut on my head could use some washing.”
Gertie crossed the kitchen and peeled the cloth back slowly. “You’re right about that, but I don’t think it needs no sewin’ up. It’s already slowin’ down, but it’ll bleed all over again when I scrub it good and put some liniment on it. We’ll have to keep a bandage on it for today, and if you’re doin’ any dirty work tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s good news! I don’t know which one I was dreading more, the shoulder or the stitches!” Matthew said, looking up from under the cloth with a smile.
“Here you go, son. Bottom’s up!” John said, bringing over a jelly jar full of whiskey.
“At this hour of the day? It’s not proper!” Matthew argued, but John shook his head.
“It’s not about proper, and it’s not even about it hurting too much. The l
ooser you feel from this poison, the easier your shoulder bone will settle right. The muscles all around it won’t be fighting any. Be a good boy and drink it all.”
Matthew grimaced and smelled the whiskey. They kept it on hand for emergencies such as this—and for the occasional Christmas toast—but he was never one for drinking, at least nothing stronger than a sample of cherry cordial when he kept his mother company some evenings. He closed his eyes and threw back the foul-smelling amber liquid, then coughed and sputtered as it burned his throat.
“There, I did it,” he said, gasping and gesturing for a mug of water.
“That wasn’t even half of it!” John teased, laughing a little. “You’re gonna need the rest of it, I promise you.”
Matthew cringed again and took a deep breath before downing the rest of the small glass. He shook his head wildly to clear the sting out of his throat, then shuddered painfully.
A Love Defying The Odds (Historical Western Romance) Page 5