“That poor girl had a fever, I’d stake my best bonnet on it,” Lydia said, saying out loud what he’d been thinking. “I have to wonder how she injured herself.”
“She ’crampled my eggs just like I like ’em, and put honey on ’em for me,” said Isabell. She licked her sticky lips, reaching the corner where a crumb remained.
“I told her I’d buy some of her butter and eggs,” Lydia said.
On edge, Hank jerked the lines. “When did you tell her that?” He hadn’t meant to sound cross, but damn, Lydia didn’t know what she was doing. He had to stop her.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked, her brows knit together, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “The poor girl could use the money. I asked her while you and Mr. Talbot were hitching up the mules. She was clearing away breakfast. I tried to help again, but she looked so…so…frightened, and something else…I don’t know…I thought I saw shame, the way she kept her head down, unable to look me in the eye. She has nothing to be ashamed of. But that brute of a husband, that man, should be shot.”
Hank focused on the rumps of his mules for fear Lydia would see too much—see how frightened he was, how unnerved. “What did she say?” he asked, unable to stop himself.
“Well, she didn’t say anything. She backed away from me as if I were contagious, shaking her head, eyes wide…but…”
Hank glanced to the side, cringed, and flicked the reins. “No buts, Lydie. She’s given you her answer. Norie Talbot’s got enough on her plate without you coming in and causing her more grief.”
Lydia bristled. “Hank Reason, I have no intention of causing her grief. I want to help her, poor thing. I’ll buy some eggs and butter from her. Where’s the harm in that?”
He snorted derisively. All manner of memories came floating to the top of his mind, memories he’d thought he’d buried. “The harm…” he started to say, then stopped, checking himself, because Isabell was following the conversation. “The harm lies with Ben Talbot. Something tells me he wouldn’t approve of his wife setting herself up in business. I’d wager he rules his house with a big fist. You think on that for a minute, and you’ll see we can’t be giving Norie Talbot any money of her own. He wouldn’t like it. And he wouldn’t like her taking charity either. We’ll have to find a way that won’t cause Ben Talbot to be any crueler toward her than he is already. I think he’s capable of…being extremely vicious. If we put him in a bad light, he’d take it out on Norie, don’t you see?”
Hank couldn’t help but think of his daughter. What would he do if someone tried to hurt her the way Talbot was hurting Norie? He’d kill ’em.
Lydia followed his gaze down to their daughter’s curly head. “You think he beats her? You think that’s how she got all those bruises? Why she’s so…so…cowed?”
Hank nodded, satisfied she understood. God. On the other hand, he hoped she didn’t understand the depth of depravity poor Norie Talbot had to endure. But at least Lydia understood enough to be cautious.
“I don’t want you going to the Talbot place, Lydia. I’m talking to you too, Miss Isabell. Neither of you is to go near the place without me. I’m serious about this. You may not visit, or talk, to Norie Talbot unless I am with you.”
Isabell looked up at him, her face puckered in consternation. “What’s charity, Papa?”
Hank looked to Lydia for help but could see by the sparkle in her eye she wasn’t going to bail him out. He cleared his throat, stalling to get his thoughts in order. “Folks that have more than they need…ah…charity is any way a person can help those who are sick or poor to feel better and to give them hope.”
Lydia smiled her approval. Isabell nodded.
Out on the open meadow, the road turned away from the river, and Hank relaxed his shoulders. A thicket of brush, cottonwoods, and oak bordered the riverbank. From the wagon, they could see the frontier settlement of Takenah laid out before them. It looked as most of the new settlements did in the Oregon Territory, a single row of one story, box-like buildings standing like frail sentries on both sides of a wide, muddy street. Other wagons loaded with cargo, sacks of grain, wooden crates and barrels and equipment, some pulled by oxen, some with mules, laboriously lumbered by as they entered town. Hank took this as a sign of prosperity. Pedestrians, mostly men, their hats snug on their heads, coats buttoned, collars up around their ears, slogged through the mire of mud that coated the main thoroughfare thick as pudding.
Lydia and Paxton Hayes were the products of a prominent family from Albany, New York. They’d grown up happy, educated, and handsome. They’d been protected from the ugly side of life, encouraged to socialize and perform good works for their community. For Hank Reason, a nobody from nowhere, he’d thought it a miracle to be called friend by the Hayes family, looked upon as a man with a future, worthy of Lydia’s hand.
From what Hank could discern, his brother-in-law had become, in a short period of time, an entrepreneur of Takenah—in partnership with Theodore Gregson, the owner of the only mercantile and planing mill, and owner of a saloon and hostelry. Paxton had written he’d placed an advertisement for a school teacher in several papers. And he had a plan for a schoolhouse and church.
Lydia had mentioned her brother had ambitions to make a name for himself, become one of the wealthiest men in the new territory and go into politics. Approaching Paxton’s house—a whitewashed, clapboard, two-story home with a wrap-around verandah and separate carriage house—Hank decided his brother-in-law hadn’t exaggerated.
Paxton Hayes stood on his porch dressed in a charcoal-gray, wool suit coat and trousers, wearing a white shirt, black tie, and stiff cellulose collar that came up under his chin. He was not a tall man, but sturdily built with the physique of a pugilist. Muttonchops carpeted his strong jaws, and a handlebar mustache bloomed across his upper lip, the hair on his face compensating for the lack of hair on his head.
His sharp brown eyes crinkled up at the corners. His thick, black brows shot up and the mustache over his grin curled into the dimples in his tanned cheeks. He took off his black felt bowler hat and waved it in the air as they drew closer.
“Lydy. Izzy. Hank. Welcome, welcome. I’ve been looking for you to arrive. I was going to give you five more days, then start searching the trail between here and Oregon City.”
“Sorry, Paxton,” Hank said setting the brake on the wagon. Lydia swung her feet over the side. Hank steadied her, his hand to her elbow as she dropped into her brother’s embrace. “We could’ve been here yesterday, but we stopped and spent the afternoon on our homestead.”
Hank didn’t know if Paxton heard what he’d said. Isabell flung herself off the bench before he could stop her. Paxton caught her, and it was all he could do to keep from going over backward. Laughing and crying, Lydia steadied him with her arm around his waist. Isabell, giggling, tugged her uncle’s mustache. In return, Paxton pulled her ringlets. They both nuzzled and tickled each other like old friends, not strangers.
Hank climbed down from the wagon and looked around. They’d traveled the full length of town; Paxton’s house sat on the border of the town limits. The road dwindled off into the distance and disappeared in a grove of oak trees. Surrounding the woods lay an expanse of open meadow on either side—he found the view breathtaking. He could see the densely forested foothills of the Cascades through a blue, watered-down haze to the east, and the Coast Range Mountains to the west. Straight ahead, to the south, stretching out as far as the eye could see, lay the Willamette Valley. What the eye could not see, Hank’s imagination provided; open grassy meadows, small rivulets and creeks, the forks of the Willamette, groves of oak, cottonwood, birch, alder, and fir; so much abundance, he found it overwhelming.
“My, my, Lydy, you are a sight,” Paxton said.
Hank turned his attention back to the present.
Paxton, holding Isabell in one arm and pulling his sister into his side, said, “You have no idea what a treat you are to this man’s eyes.”
“Can I be a treat
too, Uncle Paston?” asked Isabell.
“You…you are the most delicious treat I’ve ever seen. As a matter of fact, I can’t wait another minute. I’m going to eat you up right now.”
Letting his sister go, Paxton started to nibble away at his nieces’ nape, much to the child’s delight.
Hank came around his team and stood at his wife’s side. “Hmm, looks like my best girl has found herself a new conquest,” he said, a little jealous watching his daughter squirm, thoroughly enjoying herself.
Lydia leaned into him and put her head on his shoulder. “You still have me,” she said, her arms going around his waist.
Hank kissed her cheek. “I have the best.”
Paxton broke free of Isabell’s embrace and set the little girl on her feet. “Well, come in, come in. Have you had breakfast? I’ve got coffee…or maybe tea? We don’t get much of either, but I had some brought down from Oregon City a few months ago.”
“We had breakfast,” Hank said, following Lydia and Paxton, with Isabell skipping up the steps and rushing into the house, her head pivoting this way and that, taking everything in at once.
“What I would really love is a room where Isabell and I could freshen up,” Lydia asked, her gaze following the line of steps up the stairwell.
“I anticipated you would,” Paxton said. “I have a tub in your room and several buckets of water waiting for you. You have a wood stove in your room. I’ve put a fire in it for the last four or five days, thinking you might show up at any time. You and Hank will be at the front of the house,” he said, leading the way up the stairs. “It’s the door at the far end. Isabell will be in the room next to yours. I have the room up here at the head of the stairs.
“Well, Hank,” he called down, “I guess we’ll go back out to the wagon and bring in your trunks.”
Isabell bounced up the hall toward her room. Hank and Paxton turned around to go outside. Hank looked back, he smiled to himself. Lydia was peering into doorways, her hands gliding along the wall, touching the green and gold embossed wallpaper. She stopped before the hall table to smell the pink hydrangeas in the vase.
»»•««
The first two trunks went into Isabell’s room. His daughter’s oohing and aahing echoed throughout the house.
“Pink, Mommy, my favoritest color in all the world. Feel dis comforter, so smooth, and the lacey canned-opy, like in a fairies-tale. The dolly, I love’s dis dolly. Look at her shoes, Mommy, black like my best Sunday shoes. She has blonde hair. I wish I had blonde hair and blue eyes like dis dolly.”
“Paxton, this will never do. Isabell will be spoiled beyond redemption if you persist in these kinds of extravagances,” Lydia said before her brother could untangle his tongue.
“Lydy, indulge me?” Paxton asked, his eyes misting over, a stupid smile on his face, as Isabell stroked and kissed the doll. “I’ve longed for this day. I’ve planned for it. And maybe I’ve gone a little beyond what’s reasonable, but you have no idea what it means to me to have you here. We don’t get many ladies in these parts. A man comes to realize what a precious commodity you are. And I, for one, have vowed to spoil the ladies of my family most thoroughly.” Tenderly he kissed Lydia’s cheek, then advised her, “You may as well get used to it.”
From the doorway, Hank shook his head. He whistled with appreciation, his eyes taking in the princess-like accommodations. No way could he compete with Lydia’s brother, or win an argument. “Two more trunks, then we’re done,” he said to the room.
“Who’s your new friend?” Hank asked his daughter, crossing the room and kneeling before her.
“Dis is Charity,” Isabell said, after a thoughtful pause.
“Charity? Why have you named her Charity?” Lydia asked, coming to her knees beside Hank.
“Because…I have needed her and wished for her a long time. Uncle Paston gibbed her to me because he knew.”
“That’s a very pretty name for a very pretty dolly,” Lydia agreed. “Come. Come to Mommy’s room, and we’ll wash the travel dirt from your hair. Bring Charity with you. She can watch.”
Hank stood aside, allowing the ladies to withdraw.
Paxton waited until they had disappeared before speaking. “I feel like I’ve missed something. What was all that about?” he asked, following Hank down the stairs.
“Well, as I said we were up at the homestead all afternoon yesterday. We were too late to catch the ferry. We got to the ferry landing…the Talbot place…at supper time and Mr. Talbot insisted we join him and his wife for supper.”
Stopping short on the first step of the veranda, Paxton nearly toppled forward, but caught himself on the handrail. “Wait. You wait right there. You actually went inside that…place and broke bread with Nutty Norie Talbot?”
Hank let go of the leather handles of the traveling trunk that sat in the bed of the wagon. He muttered to himself and shook his head. “She’s not nutty, Paxton. And yes, we ate supper with the Talbot’s…and breakfast. Mrs. Talbot’s a mighty fine cook.”
“Oh, ho, yes, I’ve sampled her coffee. I ate some of her venison stew and cornbread. I’d have to say it’s more than passable. But she nearly poisoned us with her dessert.”
Hank waited for Paxton to take the handles on one side of the trunk before lowering it out of the wagon. “And how did she do that? Did you get sick? How do you know you were nearly poisoned?”
Paxton grunted, picked up his end, and started to back up so they could go up the walk. “She brought out a big pan of apple-pan-betty. Talbot had the first helping. I was in line to fill up my plate when Ben starts spitting and cussing. He reached over and chucked the whole pan into the fire pit. He said it tasted of lye.”
“What did Norie do?” Hank asked, keeping his head down, lips tight, and jaw clenched.
Paxton snorted. “Norie? I don’t know…she stood there, her head down, kind of limp, like she always does. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that woman’s face. Never wanted to.” Paxton shivered, head shaking.
“Let’s go inside,” Hank said, juggling the handle of the trunk for a better grip, his anger giving his body extra strength.
Behind him, Paxton cursed him for taking giant steps. “What’s the matter with you? What the devil did I say?”
Hank had no intention of giving any kind of explanation.
Behind him, Paxton juggled the trunk, taking it with both hands, and followed Hank up the stairs. Huffing and puffing, he said, “You mad ‘cause of what I said about Norie Talbot? Why?”
Out of breath, Hank dropped his end of the trunk at the head of the stairs. “Okay, tell me what you know. Tell me about Ben Talbot.”
Paxton set down his end of the trunk and scratched his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know much. I remember when Talbot first came to Takenah, about three years ago. He went straight for the land office. He wanted the rights to start a ferry service across the Willamette. At the time we had a cooperative, makeshift ferry at the dock. It was a rickety thing. Didn’t work half the time. It had a tendency to break loose and run away downstream, usually coming to a disastrous end on the gravel bar below, sometimes with passengers.
“Talbot proposed to moor his ferry on the opposite bank from the Takenah landing. This didn’t set well with the town council, of which I am a member. Ben explained if the ferry were across the river it wouldn’t interfere with the flat-bottom boat traffic that was sure to be on the increase as the territory opened up. The council gave him permission to proceed. He paid the sum of twenty-five dollars in gold for the rights to the ferry landing and six hundred dollars for the twenty acres above the landing.”
Paxton leaned against his bedroom door and crossed his arms. “He lived out of his covered wagon and an army tent for weeks, maybe a couple of months, before anyone realized he had a woman with him.
“He hired men to help him raise a barn and build a cabin. He saw to the cables, blocks, and carriages, and the construction of the ferry himself. During the construction, the woman stayed
close to the tent or in the wagon. Some said they thought she looked to be staked out by the ankle with a chain to the rear wheel. I never saw that myself, so I don’t know if that part of the story is true.
“Ben and his woman moved into their cabin. Spring came into summer, more homesteaders and river traffic began to use the ferry. Norie Talbot’s elusive presence became even more of a mystery, and the stories grew and grew more fantastical. She’s a joke around here. Nuttie Norie, we call her.”
Hank thought he might throw up.
Chapter Five
The Willa Jane had weighed anchor at noon. By late afternoon all traffic at the ferry had ceased. At twilight a small flock of pintail ducks flew downstream, their wing tips brushing the black water of the river.
To stay on his good side, Anora rushed to get the milking done. The ferry stood unmanned but not out of commission—it had one more trip to make across river. Roscoe and Pete, still in their yokes, chewed the clover hay she’d laid down in their styles.
Inside the cabin, she’d set the table as usual with a one-place setting. A fresh loaf of hot wheat bread, and a roasted chicken with red potatoes, sat as a centerpiece. But her tormentor wasn’t interested in food tonight. She knew his pockets were full of silver; he’d not waste time in this god-forsaken hovel. She’d be rid of him soon, the question—could she survive his leave-taking?
Impatient, bellowing curses, stomping through the cabin, tossing everything that came within arm’s reach, he roared like a violent storm, tossing the contents of the bureau drawers to the wind.
“Where’s them baubles? You found ’em and hid ’em somewhere, you sneaky slut. I been watchin’ you. You ain’t as dumb as you look.” His hard gaze swept the room. Finding their target, like a rabid dog, drooling, he snarled and snapped, closing in on her.
Cornered in the kitchen, the counter of rough, two-inch plank-boards at her back, Anora pressed herself into the shadows and found herself pinned against the side of the wardrobe.
The Widow's Ferry Page 4