“Daddy, look, look, the angels are having a pillow fight,” she said, squealing, twirling around and around under the drifting snowflakes close to where he’d pulled up.
“Feather’s huh? Coldest feathers I ever saw. And you know you shouldn’t be out here without a coat and hat—Mommy’s going to warm your backside.”
Isabell stopped in mid-spin to look properly contrite. She smiled beguilingly up at him through her long, dark lashes. “If I go gets my coat and hat, can I play in the snow for a while?”
“No, you may not,” said Lydia from the kitchen doorway, her hands on her hips over her white pinafore apron, a definite scowl on her beautiful face. “You march in here and help me with supper. You catch cold, and I’ll put the most vile, smelly, ugly poultice I can cook on your chest.”
Isabell wrinkled her nose and, with her head down, started to go inside, but Hank stopped her. “Here, take these eggs and butter, carefully now, don’t break them, and go slow so you won’t fall. You can tell Mommy I asked you to come out here to carry them inside. Maybe she’ll soften up a little.” Isabell grinned up at him and giggled, taking the basket of eggs, with the ball of butter nested in the middle, holding on to it with childish hands.
At the barn, Hank unhitched the mules from the wagon and then led them inside. Once in their stalls, he took them out of harness before he began to rub them down with dry straw. He didn’t bother lighting a lantern, there was enough light coming across the yard from the house. Besides, at the moment, he preferred the dark. It matched his thoughts.
He didn’t understand what he was doing, or why he felt so guilty. He had a lovely, warm woman to come home to. He had a beautiful little daughter, and yet he felt hollow inside, consumed with thoughts of Anora Claire. He could see her eyes looking up at him, and he smiled remembering her pink toes, cold and wriggling on the threshold. He shook his head and scrubbed harder. “You’re a damned fool,” he muttered aloud.
“What’s he done?” Paxton asked from the barn door, leading his chestnut gelding.
Startled, Hank jerked, eyes flying open, looking over the mule’s rump. Caught thinking guilty thoughts, he laughed, grateful for the poor light in the barn. “Talking to myself,” he said too quickly.
“Ever do you any good? Never does with me. I talk and talk and I never listen,” Paxton said and shrugged. He proceeded to unsaddle Big Red.
After a few moments of silence, Hank asked, “Paxton, you got any calendars at that mercantile of yours?” He tried to sound casual, moving on to the other mule.
“I suppose we do. Can’t say for certain. You have a calendar in your bedroom. I think it’s on the wall beside the Chiffonier.”
Hank had hoped he wouldn’t have to explain. “I want to trade Mrs. Talbot a calendar for her eggs and butter. I’d like to take her one as soon as I can, but I…I told Gregson I’d start work tomorrow at the planer.”
“Why did you go and accept Gregson’s offer of a job?” Paxton asked, coming around the end of the stall, the better to get in his face.
“I want to go to work right away, keep busy, you know?”
“Now see here, Hank, if you think you got to pay your way here, or some such prideful notion, I’m telling you right now I won’t take a dime from you—ever. You’ve always been there for me. Helping me out of scrapes and getting me through school. Lydia told me this morning, she didn’t think you slept much last night. If you’re worried about money…well…don’t…see.”
Hank smiled. “I feel like I haven’t put in a day’s work in a long, long time, and it’s past time I started to get back in harness. Besides, this snow is going to keep me from doing much up at the house.
“I’d like to get some river stone for the foundation. I suppose the water’s too high to get to a gravel bar right now,” he said.
Paxton muttered something unintelligible and put a horse blanket over Big Red’s back. With his head tipped to the side, he said, “It’s high, and liable to get damned high after it snows, then melts. Probably flood like it does every damn year. But I’ve got some river rock we hauled out last summer up behind the mill, enough for a foundation and some fireplaces. I’m sorry I didn’t think to mention it to you. We’ll start hauling it over tomorrow.”
“I don’t know what Gregson’s got in mind for me tomorrow,” Hank said. “Could be I’ll be busy. But we could haul some over on Sunday.”
Paxton huffed and shook his head. “Let me explain,” Paxton said, coming over to him and putting his arm around Hank’s broad shoulders, herding him out of the barn. “Gregson is a boss. I’m a boss. And now you’re a boss. We, you and I, have people we pay wages to do hauling, cutting, and digging, so what we have to do is get a couple of men to haul some rock for us up to your place. In this kind of weather, there are a lot of men around who wouldn’t mind earning a few dollars for a couple days’ work.”
Hank looked up to the sky, snow hitting him in the eye, and laughed. “Paxton, you have come a long way.”
They started toward the house; Hank stopped short of the back porch, not wanting Lydia to overhear. “The calendar, Paxton? Take Mrs. Talbot the calendar for the eggs and butter? I kind of scolded Lydia to discourage her from trading with Mrs. Talbot, then I go and do it anyway. I’ll have to eat some crow, I guess.”
Paxton shook his head at him. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, Hank. Ever since you met up with the Talbots, you’re, well, you’re obsessed, I guess. I don’t know what else to think, but yes, I’ll take Nuttie Norie Talbot her calendar. I want to see for myself what has you all tied up in knots. I’ll take a chance, get a good look at her face and hope I don’t faint.”
»»•««
Are you sure you’re all right, not ill?” Lydia asked him, for probably the fourth time that evening. They sat alone in their bedroom—Lydia, sitting up in bed, brushing her hair, while he stood in his long nightshirt and stocking feet, warming his backside at the cast-iron woodstove.
“You’re so quiet tonight,” she said, putting down her brush on the side table.
Hank smiled at her and replied in his defense, “It’s a little hard to get a word in edgeways when there’s a jabbering, whirling dervish in the room.”
“Yes, Isabell had quite a day,” Lydia said. “She’s very excited because it’s snowing. She met some children her age at the store. She had too many sweets today, and you know how that works, sweets wind her up like a top. But you haven’t told me what’s on your mind. Is it the house…or money? You’re worried, I think. I don’t know…not exactly worried…occupied maybe is a better word.”
“I’m sorry. All I need is some sleep. I’m having trouble adjusting to, at last, being where we’ve been heading all these months. I don’t feel very useful yet.”
“Come to bed, Hank, and be useful,” Lydia said with womanly cunning. Hank couldn’t help but smile and oblige.
Lydia kissed away the creases on his furrowed brow, his temples. “I am determined to make you forget your troubles,” she whispered, bringing her lips to his jaw. “You’ll sleep tonight. We’re safe and warm, our new life just beginning.”
“Lydia.” Hank stopped her to look deep into her eyes. He wanted to tell her about his childhood. Then changed his mind as always—believing his past too ugly for Lydia—he couldn’t allow it to touch her.
“The baby, we should be careful,” he said instead.
“The baby and I are fine. I need you to want me, Hank. It’s been a very long time since we’ve been warm, comfortable, and alone.”
Agreeing, he said, “Yes, a very long time.” Satisfying his lovely Lydia would surely put his thoughts of Anora into perspective.
Satiated, they lay in the dark, watching the shadows of the snowflakes falling against the windowpane. Lydia had curved her naked body into his and, at last, he began to relax.
But Hank’s mind kept wandering across the river and over to that squatty cabin. He wondered if Anora had enough firewood. Did she have enough blankets
? He wondered when he’d see her again…should he see her again? He told himself to go to sleep, instead of allowing his fantasies to take him on a buggy ride.
“Hank,” Lydia said, “we haven’t thought of a name for the baby…if it’s a boy, I mean.”
“Mmm, I thought maybe Boyd after my mother’s family.”
Lydia lay quiet within his embrace. She turned her head up to his chin, her fingers making circles on his chest. “Boyd? I thought your mother was a Carter?”
Hank realized too late he’d given his stepmother’s maiden name. He closed his eyes; now would be the time to explain. Now would be the time to tell her what was giving him such misery. But he didn’t.
“Boyd…I guess, must’ve been somewhere in the family…but you’re right, Mama Reason’s maiden name was Carter. But I like Boyd better. What do you think about Carter Boyd Reason? I like the sound of it.”
“Hmm, yes, I like it very much. It has a good solid sound to it. And if it’s a girl, Isabell says we are to name her…”
“Let me guess…Charity?”
Lydia giggled and snuggled closer. “No, thank goodness, not Charity. She likes the name Ida. I told her my great grandmother’s name was Ida Jane. She thought because her name begins with an ‘I’ it would be nice if her sister’s name began with an ‘I’ too.”
Hank smiled in the dark and chuckled, tugging Lydia closer. “Ida Jane it is then. Ida Jane and Isabell, those entrancingly divine Reason beauties. Yes, I can see it now. The young men of the town, their tongues hanging out, led around by their noses by our girls.”
Lydia tapped him lightly on the chest. “Oh, Hank, I hope not. What a terrible duo you make them out to be.”
“Don’t worry, men are at their happiest when they’re suffering.”
An ironical grin on his face, he gave himself a scold to come to his senses.
Lydia smiled up at him. “You’re happy, then?”
“Very,” he said, and he meant it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and fell asleep.
Chapter Eight
Sounds, the jangle of harness, men shouting to their animals, whips cracking, brought Anora to attention. Using the barn door as a shield, she watched two brace of mules, pulling two wagons loaded down with river rock, clamor aboard the ferry across river.
She recognized Paxton Hayes, the man riding alongside the first wagon to make it across.Sitting proud and erect in the saddle on his big gelding, he shouted orders as the mighty horses struggled to plow up the lane through ten inches of fresh snow. She’d seen him before, listened to his big talk, knew him for a prominent citizen of Takenah.
Head down, she rushed to the safety of the cabin. Mr. Hayes charged up and leaped off his horse before she could close the door in his face. “Wait, Mrs. Talbot, wait, I have your calendar.”
She jerked to a halt. The calendar…she’d trusted Mr. Reason not to tell anyone. He’d told Mr. Hayes.
Shaking, teeth chattering, she attempted to close the door, but Mr. Hayes had his palm against it. He’d force his way past her if she resisted. Better to surrender, she’d learned that, and stepped back into the dark recesses, arms folded across her chest, eyes downcast.
Reaching inside his red and yellow wool Hudson Bay blanket coat, he withdrew a manila envelope and extended it to her. Behind him, clouds of vapor puffed out from the nostrils of the mules that plodded past the cabin, the men seated on the driver’s benches craning their necks to see Mr. Hayes confront Nutty Norie Talbot. At the hitching rail, his big gelding pawed the snow, digging through to the frozen mud beneath.
His mustache couldn’t hide the smile on his lips, his sharp, brown eyes giving her the once-over from head to foot, he said “Hey, you’re younger than I’d thought. Here all this time I thought you the same age as your husband.”
She didn’t know if he was talking to her or to himself, but it unnerved her. She wished him gone. She wished she’d never said anything to Mr. Reason—damn him for breaking his promise, for telling Mr. Hayes, of all people.
“Ma’am,” he said, “don’t be scared. I brought the calendar you wanted. My name is Hayes, Paxton Hayes, Hank Reason’s brother-in-law. Much obliged for the eggs and butter. I put you down for a store credit too.”
Anora blinked, fighting to stand her ground, not panic, crumple into a blubbering ball. “No,” she said before she could stop herself. “No, erase it. I don’t want it. He mustn’t find out I traded. I’ll hide the calendar. He can’t find out I talked to you. You shouldn’t be here. Go away, Mr. Hayes. No one must know you’ve been here. Those men, they saw you talking to me. He’ll find out. Go away.”
He shook the manila envelope. “I’ll go. Don’t worry, take the calendar. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”
Shaking, she reached for the envelope but her fingers wouldn’t allow her to touch it. She wanted it but couldn’t take it. She clasped her hands together at her waist, stomach cramping, palms sweating. She moved aside, allowing him to enter. “Please, Mr. Hayes, put the calendar on the table, then go. Thank you for bringing it to me.”
He shook his head at her and removed it from the envelope. “I found this one. I hope you like horses.” He held it out for her to see the picture on the front.
Unable to focus on the pretty horses, Anora squeezed her eyes shut. Lightheaded and dizzy, she teetered when the floor tipped to the side.
“Mrs. Talbot, are you all right? You better sit down.” He pulled out a chair for her. “I see you have some bruises there on your face. You should rest,” he said, his voice gentle, filtered through his mustache.
Clearing her throat, she found a chair at the table, and dared a glance, encountering his warm brown eyes. Quickly, she bowed her head. “Mr. Hayes, before you go, would you open the calendar to the proper month. What month is it?”
She’d run out of breath, her chest caving in on her, the walls coming down on her head. She laid her arms across the table and held on.
“Mrs. Talbot, Norie, you’re ill?” He had his arms around her shoulders.
Flinching, she cried out in distress. “Don’t…don’t touch me.”
He stepped back and dropped his arms to his side. “Norrie, I’m sorry if I hurt you. Here,” he said fumbling with the calendar, flipping the cover to the month of January.
Jaw tight, fighting for control, she said, “My name is Anora Claire. I hate Norie. Don’t call me Norie. He calls me Norie.”
Uninvited, he pulled up a chair and sat across from her at the table. Shaking her head at him, she groaned in real distress. He slid the calendar toward her. The cabin door stood wide open. The cold surrounded her, stiffening her resolve. She had to know—she had to know.
“Mrs. Talbot, Anora, do you have coffee? I think it would do you good. I could use a cup. Mighty cold this morning. Didn’t expect this much snow.”
Anora shook her head, “Go, please. Go. I have coffee. Yes, maybe that would help. Coffee is by the fire, help yourself.” He hesitated, then rose from his chair and poured her a cup then a cup for himself and sat back down.
Her fingers traced the big black horse in the picture on the calendar page. Unable to face the truth, she splayed her hand across the numbers and date.
He sat looking around, paying her very little attention. She found that comforting, and her heart rate dropped a notch or two. “You keep a mighty tight ship, Mrs. Talbot. Everything is scrubbed clean. I bet you could eat off these floors. I can smell the soap. You make your own, I’d wager.”
Wrapping her cold hands around her cup of coffee, Anora closed her eyes. “What is today’s date Mr. Hayes?”
Opening her eyes, Anora focused on the brown, black, and gray prancing horses that decorated the top, and around the border of the calendar. All twelve months were displayed in small, three-inch by three-inch squares.
“This is the best calendar we have at the Gregson and Hayes Mercantile. I’m proud of it.” He spun it back around so she could see, his finger pointed to the year and the
month.
Anora sat staring at the calendar, her eyes flooded in tears, holding her breath, her entire body shaking so badly she had to hang on to the table or fall off her chair. “No, that’s not right…not right.” Sobbing, gasping for breath, the fingers of her right hand pressed against the numbers on the page. “It’s not right…my God…can’t be right. My God.”
She heard him mutter under his breath. “So, it’s true, Norie Talbot, you’re crazy as a loon…touched in the head…a half bubble off plum.” He shook his head. “Well, there’s nothing I can do for you. Nothing anyone can do.” He started to get up. She reached out, clawed his wrist, her fingernails digging into his arm.
Coming up out of her chair, she grabbed the front of his coat.
He patted her hand. “You just lay down for a bit and you’ll be fine. Would you like more coffee?”
He sounded scared of her. He had to stay. He knew the truth. She had to know the truth.
“No…please? What year is it? This…this is wrong,” she said, tapping the calendar page with her index finger. “This must be wrong. I’ve been lost…lost so long, but…but it was 1846…Mama and Papa…we came west in ‘46 you see and…and…It’s not 1849…not yet…tell me it isn’t.”
He pulled back and removed her hand from his coat. “You’re talking crazy. I’m sorry I got myself mixed up in this. Damn Hank.”
Willing her voice to be calm and steady, Anora closed her eyes and asked again, “Please, Mr. Hayes, what year is this? This is very important. What year…what month is this? Is this next year’s calendar? It has to be.” Pushing the chair back, she came to her feet and made herself look him in the eye.
He tucked in his chin and answered, “The calendar, ma’am, is correct. It is Friday, January 28th, 1849.”
The sound of the fire popping in the fireplace, now and then a plop of snow slid off the roof onto the ground outside by the porch, but Anora didn’t pay it any mind. She drew herself up, the tears hot and salty pooled in the crease of her lips. She pressed them together, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
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