“Yeah. I didn’t see Talbot anywhere. I thought I could take her across myself.”
“Talbot ain’t here. I’ll get you across,” the boy said, going to the head of the team of mules. Taking their harness, he led them up the wooden tongue of the ferry.
“Where’s Talbot?’ Hank asked, tying off the reins to the brake.
“Don’t know,” said the boy.
Hank studied the lad as he settled the team and wagon into position. Hank thought the boy about twelve or thirteen; freckles dusted his nose, auburn hair fringed his face, big pink ears poked out on each side of the face beneath a dirty, felt hat. The boy’s trousers were too short, as were the sleeves of his canvas coat. His eyes of brown were bright and eager. Perfectly at home and confident, the boy rang the bell twice, setting the ferry in motion.
Hank jumped down off the wagon. “You do this a lot, looks like.” Hank smiled, stroking the velvet nose of the mule at his shoulder. The boy ignored his question. Hank wasn’t easily discouraged. He asked, “Talbot gone a lot?”
“You’re new here, ain’t you?” asked the boy, a keen look in his eye, relaxing a bit, maneuvering the rudder in the hard current, settling it into the flow of the winter-high water of mid-river.
“Yeah,” said Hank, pleased to give as good as he got. He waited a few poignant moments to tease the boy, then put out his hand to shake. “Name’s Hank Reason. Going to homestead above the Talbot place.”
The boy hesitated, then firmly shook hands and grinned. “Ambrose, Barney Ambrose. We live above the landing on the Takenah side, me and my ma and pa and my little brother, Chester.”
Barney had to give all his attention to the ferry, swinging it against the current just enough to turn it inward to pull up against the bank at the rocky landing. He pulled the bell, the oxen stopped in their styles, and the ferry crunched into the shore. Barney let down the tongue and then started to help Hank move his mules and wagon.
“Reckon you’ll be seeing me some then?” said Barney. “When Ben’s gone, I pretty much run the ferry for him. He’s been gone a lot this winter. He’s kind of a queer one. Pa says to keep him on your good side ‘cause behind his smile is trouble.”
“Hope to meet your pa someday. He sounds like a smart man,” Hank said. He climbed up onto the seat of the wagon. Before he set the mules in motion, he looked down into the boy’s upturned eyes of brown and asked, “How do you know when Talbot’s gone?”
“Oh, Nuttie Norie tries to run off once in a while, so he boards his horses with us. I heard him come over last night after supper. He rode off at a high gallop like he always does.”
Hank smiled thoughtfully, turning his gaze up toward the cabin. “See you later this afternoon, Barney.” The boy waved, turned, and made his way over to the oxen. Hank heard him talking to the beasts while giving them each a pitchfork of clover hay.
Once on the rise, Hank pulled up the team before the cabin; it looked abandoned. He saw no smoke coming from the chimney; the door stood ajar, the interior of the cabin dark. He shivered in the rain. The air felt heavy with the smell of oak and earth, the ground slick with mud the color of rich chocolate. He walked to the door. The cabin was quiet inside.
“Norie? Mrs. Talbot?” he said, but no one answered. He noted the bed was stripped down to the mattress, dark bloodstains standing out against the light gray ticking.
The drawers of the bureau gaped open, contents upside down and inside out. Spilled about the floor were underclothes, scraps of cloth, and a pair of lady’s gloves. A platter of baked red potatoes sat on the table, a pocketknife jabbed into the center of the biggest potato.
Hank stood on the porch for a moment, looking toward the barn. “It’s none of my business,” he said to himself. “He’s gone. She’s milking the goats. Check on her on the way back,” he said aloud, leading the wagon and team up the track to the barn.
He called, “Mrs. Talbot,” opening the barn door, peering into the darkness. When he entered the barn, a couple of chickens scurried, clucking indignantly, moving out of his way.
At the far end of the aisle, he could see a dim light from a lantern. There sat Norie Talbot, wrapped in the comforter from the bed, a leather-bound book in her hand.
∙•∙
Anora couldn’t see the man’s face with the light of day behind him. He was tall and broad, his voice deep. Unreasonably, she thought of her father, and answered by calling out, “Daddy?”
“Hank…Hank Reason, ma’am. I didn’t see any smoke from your fire. Ah…ah… Lydia, my wife…we sure enjoyed your butter and eggs. We…wondered if you would…do some trading?”
Anora blinked. Mr. Reason came closer. Looking up through the dust motes and the unfiltered light, the man appeared as an apparition of her fuzzy mind. She’d been reading the journal. That was daylight out there. She’d been reading all night. She could hear the rain now, and shivered, cold and stiff.
Anora Claire Sennett that was her name this morning. Ben Talbot was Ruben Tillery. He’d murdered her Aunt Carrie, drowned her. And possibly, he’d murdered her mother and father. Their illnesses had come on so suddenly, too suddenly. This morning, she wouldn’t put anything beyond his capability.
They’d been with the wagon train, Whit Comstock and his grandfather, Joe. The cowboy in the long black duster—could’ve been Whit? Yes, yes. She mewed in distress to think how close he’d come to discovering her. Just as well, he’d gone on his way, Rueben would’ve killed him.
Uncle Ruben had deliberately lagged behind at Umatilla station, claiming one of the goats had taken sick. After that entry, the diary ended at The Dalles, the night before they were to go downriver. The memory of a pair of black eyes shining like two glittering coals, a set of teeth bared in a broad, hungry grin, flashed before her mind’s eye and she began to quake uncontrollably.
∙•∙
“Mrs. Talbot? Mrs. Talbot, are you all right?” Taking a step closer, Hank wondered if she’d heard or comprehended what he’d said.
“Let me help you into the cabin…make a fire, coffee would help warm your blood. You must be half froze…how long have you been sitting in here?”
He came closer, bending over to help her to her feet.
She pulled back, huddling against the goats’ feed barrel, the book clutched to her bosom, eyes round, filled with terror.
“You remember me, Mrs. Talbot? Hank Reason. We came by day before yesterday, my wife, Lydia, my daughter, Isabell.”
Something he’d said got through to her. He thought her shoulders relaxed a little, and the flat, silver-button look to her eyes changed when she blinked and blinked again, focusing on his face, her pupils less dilated.
She pulled in a deep breath and told him, “He’s gone… He’s gone. Go away, Mr. Reason. Go away…don’t come around here. Never come around here,” she said, her voice a whisper.
“I’d feel better if you’d allow me to see you to the house,” he said, offering her his hand.
She shook her head, her fingers turning white, clutching the book. “Go away,” she said, this time more power behind her words. “If it’s butter and eggs you want, I won’t trade. I want cash.”
Hank straightened and pulled back. Norie’s eyes flashed like hard steel in the lamplight. The bruises on her jaw and chin made him think of a man with a shadow of a two-day stubble. He thought he saw a streak of dried blood at the side of her mouth, but he couldn’t be sure in this light. Her hair was full of straw, tousled, all in all, she should’ve looked totally unappealing, but to Hank, she looked like an abused kitten.
∙•∙
Taking a deep breath, reentering her body, Anora took firm control of her thoughts and coldly decided there would be no more cowering in the corners today. At great cost, she straightened, shooting pains splintered down her spine like lightning. “Don’t call me Norie, my name is Anora Claire.” She willed herself to stop shaking and took a deep breath, or tried to, and started to cough.
Gathering her dignity about
her, she struggled to her feet, refusing Mr. Reason’s outstretched hand, leaning against the support beam of the stall behind her. With a grimace, she said, “I’ll have butter ready when you come back.”
She reasoned aloud, saying, “I guess you’re on your way up to your place?”
Mr. Reason moved back, giving her room to pass. The pain in her shoulders, neck, and chest wouldn’t allow her to breathe too deeply. Her feet, her toes, were cold, half-asleep. For Mr. Reason’s benefit, she tried to walk as normal as possible, but her huffing and puffing probably gave her away. She hoped he’d go along with her bluff.
“The chickens are a little off,” she said and shooed the hens aside with a wave of her hand. “The weather’s too cold, but you can have a dozen eggs. I want a dollar,” she heard herself say, hardly knowing why.
Outside the barn, the rain coming down, she drew the comforter up over her head. Looking up, she pinned Mr. Reason down with a cold stare. “You can’t tell anybody. He can’t know. Nobody can know. He’ll find out. He always finds out. But you, I’m going to trust you. You’re different. God help me if I’m wrong. This has to be between you and me. You can’t tell your wife or that cocky brother-in-law of yours. Deal?” Her voice cracked. She hadn’t used it in such a long time, the effort of forming words used up all the saliva in her mouth.
She marveled at how her mind worked, swinging from the present to the past, sloshing back and forth—she felt dizzy. Mr. Reason had a pretty wife, Lydia, and a sweet-faced little girl. She couldn’t recall her name. But she did remember Paxton Hayes and Mrs. Reason were brother and sister. That much had stuck. Anora congratulated herself, her brain was functioning today.
She wiped her hand on the comforter and held it out toward Mr. Reason. She thought he smiled, at least his eyes smiled. He took her hand to shake on the transaction, his touch careful but firm.
She hated for him to touch her. She’d contaminate him. She needed to get clean, get to the house. She’d wash everything. He was gone for a few days, maybe a week. She’d wash and scrub, and heal and get strong. She didn’t know what would happen now, now that she was awake. Come what may, she would have to be very, very strong to survive.
∙•∙
Hank walked away from her without a word, got up on the wagon, and pulled out of the yard without looking back. He didn’t want her to see the tears in his eyes. He swallowed hard the cold lump in his throat. He’d give her a hundred dollars an egg if she asked. He wouldn’t tell Lydia anything, let her think he’d traded. The less said, the better. The fewer lies the better. He’d never lied to Lydia before, but he told himself this was for a good reason.
Up on the hill, Hank pulled the wagon under a canopy of oak. There were still a lot of brown leaves clinging to the black branches of the trees, and the ground lay matted with those that had lost their grip during the wind and rain. The smell of the woods was rich and strong, slightly bitter. He got down, pulled two feedbags out from under the board seat, and went to the head of the team, draped the bags over the mules’ heads, then anchored the harness before looking around.
He and Lydia had discussed where the house would sit, but today he walked over to the side of the hill that faced southwest. From there, he could look out on the river above the ferry landing. Farther off, he could make out the rooftops of the houses and businesses in the town of Takenah. But more importantly, he could see the smoke curling from the Talbot cabin. He knew she was there, safe, today. From his porch, he wanted to see her cabin first thing every morning. And besides, he justified to himself, the view was finer on this side of the hill, and they’d get the afternoon sun.
Chapter Seven
After taking care of the milk, Anora began to wash dresses, stockings, her petticoat, and the bedding. She turned the mattress over, and around, so the fresh bloodstains didn’t show. There were stains on the underside too, but she refused to dwell on how they’d gotten there.
Preparing herself a hash from the baked potatoes, she made herself eat, and felt better for it. With a full stomach, her eyelids began to droop. Giving in, she lay down on the bed, the quilt doubled over her body. Around the room hung the clothes and bedding on a line of hemp, strung beam to beam to dry. With the smell of soap permeating the air, she slept a dreamless, deep sleep throughout the afternoon.
“Mrs. Talbot. Norie. Are you all right? It’s Hank Reason, Mrs. Talbot. Answer the door.”
Anora pulled the quilt about her ears to muffle the voice and stop the pounding. Sleep, good, sound, fear-free sleep was rare, and she fought to hang on to it. The pounding became more insistent and the voice rose to a shout.
Her eyes, they wouldn’t open. She made herself listen. For a few seconds, nothing, then more knocking at her door, and Mr. Reason calling her name. “Mr…Mr. Reason?” she answered, her voice hoarse, drowsy.
She heard him say, “Thank God.” And silence. Quickly, she yanked the denim dress and her still damp petticoat off the line and then dressed. With the quilt wrapped around her, dragging on the floor, she padded barefoot across the room. Pausing a moment before the threshold, she tried to smooth back her hair. Fingers getting stuck in the snarls, she sighed with the futility of the effort.
Opening the door, she found, to her wonderment, it had started to snow great huge flakes, the ground covered with a couple of inches, daylight fading.
∙•∙
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Talbot. I woke you, I’m sorry. You had me worried…I…I thought you might be ill.”
She looked like a sleepy child bundled up in her blanket. Her eyes wide, shining, followed the drifting, lacy flakes fluttering to the ground.
While she looked up, he looked down to her toes and watched them wriggle against the cold of the threshold. He gave himself a mental shake.
She shook her head and tugged the quilt around her. “I…I have your butter here.” When she faced him, she finished, saying, “And the eggs.”
He had the silver dollar ready to give her. Of a sudden anticipating the touch of her skin to his, he held it out to her. She looked at it, her brows drawn together, her teeth clamped down on her lower lip. He waited, watching her face, fascinated as her lips parted then pressed together.
“I…I don’t think I want your dollar, Mr. Reason. I’ve thought of something, something I want more.” Tipping her head to the side, a heavy coil of flaxen hair slipping over her shoulder, she gazed up at him through thick, blonde lashes. “I’d like a calendar. Could you get me a calendar?”
She must’ve seen the pity in his eyes. She tucked in her chin and pressed her lips together. He’d meant to hide it. With a little shake, she straightened her shoulders, her fingers clenching and unclenching the quilt at her throat. Stammering, she said, “I don’t have a calendar, but if it’s too much trouble, I’ll take the dollar.”
“It’s no trouble. But your butter and eggs are worth more than the price of a calendar.”
“Not to me, Mr. Reason, not to me. I want one with the year on it.”
He held out the silver dollar, and she shook her head. “I don’t have need of money.”
“You could buy a calendar, anything else you need. I’d take you over to Takenah.”
Stepping back from the door, eyes wide, she started to tremble, work-worn fingers clenching and unclenching. “No, no, I can’t…I can’t.”
He didn’t understand why she backed away…faded into the darkness of the cabin. But if going into Takenah sent her into a panic, then he had to ease up.
“A calendar is what you want, and that’s what you’ll get.”
It was too late; she’d gone into her shell, retreating to a corner, her forehead against the wall, shivering.
He wished he could take it back, go back to when she’d first seen the snow, and he’d seen the light in her eyes. He wanted to watch her face and smell the smell of fresh laundry that clung in the air about her. But the moment had passed. Without looking at him, she pointed to the ball of butter wrapped in cheesecloth and the bas
ket of eggs on the floor by the door and then waved him away. He picked up the basket before he closed the door. He heard her sobs and ached to hold her.
Wet, cold, and dejected, he drove his empty wagon down to the ferry. Barney sat huddled on the riverbank, waiting for him. They crossed in silence. Before he disembarked, Barney predicted, “Gonna snow all night, I bet.”
Hank muttered his agreement; his eyes never leaving the riverbank on the far side. Anora, in her oversized coat, crossed the track to the oxen. She unyoked the cattle and then led them away, with not a glance in his direction.
After tying the ferry to a pylon, Barney said, “Guess Ben ain’t gonna be back tonight. He don’t travel in bad weather. Old Ben likes his comforts. If he’s found some place warm and dry, that’s where he’ll stay.”
Hank nodded, said good night, and urged the mules homeward.
“You gonna be here in the morning?” Barney asked after him.
Hank answered the boy over his shoulder, “No, got to get to work tomorrow at my new job.”
“Where you gonna work?” asked the boy.
“Gregson’s going to put me to work. I won’t be going back over until Sunday, I guess.”
“Right,” Barney said, and waved good night. Hank waved back but the boy didn’t see him, he was scrambling up the slippery bank, headed for his home.
Hank urged the mules through the quagmire that functioned as the main street of Takenah. The sound of the harness echoed in the cold, crisp air. The stores were dark, the street abandoned, fresh snow lay undisturbed in the ruts, and he surmised that everyone had gone home to sit out the snowstorm by a warm fire.
Turning into the lane beside Paxton’s house, Hank put one hand on the basket of eggs beside him to keep them from falling off the board seat. He saw a flash of yellow up on the veranda and knew Isabell had been watching for him. She ran to the back steps. She wasn’t wearing a coat. He shook his head; the scamp was hopeless.
The Widow's Ferry Page 6