“Far from it,” Paxton said. “I told her I want to make her life easy, give her things. She can’t run the ferry. Hell, she can’t even look at the river, let alone cross it several times a day. If she’d see reason, I’d run it like it should be run. Build a boarding house or hotel, either over there or maybe put it on the Takenah side, where it belongs.”
Hank sat in silence; eyes narrowed, tongue in cheek, he asked, “So, you asked her to stay here, marry you, and you take over her property…the ferry?”
Paxton crossed an ankle over his thigh, tipping his head to the side. He had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “Well…yeah…I asked her to stay. I never mentioned marriage. I never gave her any idea I’d ever marry her.” He looked up then to meet Hanks gaze. “I simply pointed out to her, she’s married. Even if I wanted to marry her, I couldn’t.”
Leaning forward, Hank got in his face. “You don’t want to marry her, even if you could.”
“That’s neither here nor there. Anora is married, Hank, that’s a fact. I can’t change that.”
Hank sat back in his chair and spoke to the steam rising off his cup of coffee. “Yes, she’s married, married to a lying piece of scum, who took everything she had—her virtue, her good name, her future.” Lifting his gaze to look into Paxton’s righteous visage, he said, “She’s been abandoned on a parcel of prime real-estate she doesn’t own but with a ferry she’s expected to maintain and run. And now, because you covet her body, the property, and the business, you thought you could maneuver her, bribe her with some pretty dresses and a roof over her head, and force her to do what you want. Is that about right?”
Paxton pressed his lips together and blinked and adjusted his butt in the chair.
“She told you to go to blazes, I hope.”
Paxton sat up straight, bristling, and said, “She didn’t tell me to go to blazes. She said she was leaving in the morning. I’m betting she can’t get across the river. And even if she does manage to get across, she won’t be able to work the ferry by herself. I give her a week. She’ll come back here, begging for my help. Even if she doesn’t, I still say she’ll never be able to work the ferry. If she can’t do it, then I’ll get the city council to incorporate it into the town limits and we’ll take it over.”
Lurching out of his chair, nearly tipping it over, Hank marched over to the slop pail under the counter and poured out his coffee. For a few moments, he stood at the counter, looking out the window above the dishpan, arms straight, gripping the counter. Putting his thoughts together, he turned to face his erstwhile brother-in-law. “You’re a bastard, Paxton. A bigger bastard than I ever thought you could be. I’m glad Lydia isn’t here.”
Paxton grew red in the face, coming to his feet. “Look here, you can’t talk to me like that. I’m a visionary, a realist, Hank. It’s better than being a big lummox. And Lydia knew exactly how I felt about Anora, she knew I couldn’t marry her. Anora’s not the kind of woman a man like me, a man with big plans, could have as his wife.
“And besides you know, and I know, I’d be doing her a favor taking the ferry over. I’d share the profits with her. I’m not a crook. She can’t do it by herself. She probably won’t even leave this house. If you weren’t such a big-hearted fool, you’d go to her, help me convince her to stay.”
“No,” Hank said, pushing himself away from the counter. “I’d rather be a big lummox.” He started for the back porch and stopped, turning to say, “If I can, I’ll help her, if she’ll let me. I’m not going to build the big house up on the hill. I’ve changed my mind. You’ve helped me come to a decision. I’ll get up a one-room cabin as fast as I can for Isabell and me. I think we can be out of here in a month, sooner if I get some help.”
“Hank,” Paxton said, on his heels, following him out to the porch and down the back steps. “Come on, Hank. You’re making a mistake.”
Paxton’s words echoed out into the chilly night. Entering the barn, Hank prayed he’d made the right decision.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Molly Mae Pooley, age thirteen, the youngest of four children, big for her age, raw-boned, fully developed, exclaimed she’d always wanted a baby sister the second she clapped her eyes on the glossy brown ringlets, big, shoe-button orbs of Isabell Reason. Anora suspected not a lot of housework or cooking would get done, but Isabell would be well looked after, fed, bathed, clothed, and entertained.
With her little flour-sack of belongings under her arm, Anora left the house by way of the back door at nine thirty a.m. Molly and Isabell, playing jacks on the kitchen floor, acknowledged her leave-taking with a wave of their hands.
The night before, Isabell, unable to bear another separation, and Anora, steeped in guilt, wept a copious amount of tears; they fell asleep wrapped in an embrace.
She didn’t belong there. Paxton had confirmed that. Unless she could make her own way with the hand she’d been dealt, Anora figured she’d end up right where Mrs. Gregson thought she belonged—in the gutter.
Anora, chin high, determined to win her independence kept hold of her resolve until she reached the road and the end of the drive. Two boys, walking her way, caused her to draw back, hide behind a hedge rose. They looked familiar, perhaps they were among the boys who’d harassed her down at the ferry. Doubts assailed her, she should swallow her pride, turn back to the lovely, two-story house—accept Paxton’s offer of stability with no hope of respectability, survive in style.
Undecided, a quick glance toward town told her the boys had gone into the tannery; they probably hadn’t even seen her. Feeling foolish, exposed, and vulnerable, she pulled the hood of her cape up over her head. Setting off at a brisk pace, fearing she’d change her mind if she didn’t put some distance between her and Paxton’s lovely big house, she headed for the big oak tree to the side of the livery. If she could get that far unnoticed, she could dart behind the stable, go around the stockyard, and behind the businesses the full length of Takenah, well out of sight.
The safety of the big tree lay ten yards away, it’s big, bare branches reaching out to her like a mother’s open arms. A wagon, the sound of pounding hooves moving fast, sent her racing over the rutted road. Glancing over her shoulder, the flared nostrils of the beasts, dust rising to their chins, sent her into a panic. The driver of the wagon, a large, broad, and dark figure, wearing a big, dark leather hat, a hat like Ruben’s, struck fear in her heart.
Ruben? He’d found her and meant to run her to ground.
Heart in her throat, Anora scrambled up the bank to get off the road and closer to the rail fence. The rumble of the fast approaching wagon hammered like thunder in her ears. The screeching jangle of harness and the turning of the wheels drowned out the shouts of the driver to stop.
Tripping on her skirt, she went down onto her knees. The driver of the wagon pulled his team up and jumped down, landing beside her; he crouched over her, a hand to her back. “Anora. It’s Hank. Why are you running? Where are you going?”
Arms over her head, fists doubled up in a tight ball, trembling and babbling, making no sense, she curled against him. Reason told her she had nothing to fear, but the demons in her head assured her Ruben had returned to torture her.
“Anora, look at me. Look up, you’re safe.” Brushing the hood of her cape off her head, he moved a lock of her hair out of her eyes. “Was it the wagon? I’m sorry. I wanted to catch up with you. I’ll give you a ride to the ferry.”
She peeked through the gap between her arms, meeting his warm brown eyes and blinked, grateful to see his face, feel his hand on her shoulder.
“There, now,” he said, placing a hand on her tear-stained cheek. “It’s me. I rushed home and found Isabell and Molly on the kitchen floor, playing with Charity. They said you’d gone already. You shouldn’t have to walk through town alone. Paxton and I brought you here, I’ll see you home.”
“You don’t have to.” Embarrassed, disgusted with herself, she pulled away from his touch. She closed her eyes and straigh
tened her shoulders. “Foolish of me to be scared of a wagon and some horses. I, I have to manage on my own now. No need for you to take me down to the ferry. Thank you for the offer.”
Looking around her—her flour sack?—she’d dropped it.
Hank held it out to her, a grin on his face, eyes twinkling. “Oh, now, refusing a ride home, that is foolish of you. I’ve got the wagon right here. I’m headed that way.” Not giving her a chance to give him any more protests, he picked her up and swung her down off the bank. In one leap, he jumped down beside her, his hands going around her waist, he hoisted her up to the wagon bench.
Unable to look anywhere but to her tightly folded hands, Anora declared herself insane. Hank put the team of mules into motion, and the voice inside her head listed the evidence. Squeezing her eyes shut, she laid out the unspoken charges against her. Lydia would still be alive if Nuttie Norie hadn’t interfered. Nuttie Norie killed her. Lydia might’ve lived if Nuttie Norie had allowed Mrs. Gregson to be called right away. They shouldn’t have listened to Nuttie Norie. Nuttie Norie is insane.
The wagon rolled through town. Without looking up, out of the corner of her eye she saw Hank tip his hat and nod in the direction of the mercantile and knew Mrs. Gregson had spotted them. She couldn’t look. Mrs. Gregson had correctlydiagnosed her infirmity right from the start.
Keenly aware they were attracting a good deal of notice, she squirmed on the seat. Head down and shoulders folded in, she looked neither right nor left. Outside town, out on the meadow, the river held her attention, the water racing along, keeping up with the wagon.
Hank spoke up to say, “Isabell and I will soon be your neighbor. I’m going to get up a cabin as soon as I can. It’s not good for us to live with Paxton.”
The river, down a slight embankment, teased her, drowning out her thoughts, and any response she could make.
“I thought I should build a big house for Lydia. I guess because that’s what I thought Lydia wanted.”
At the mention of Lydia, Anora turned her gaze away from the moving river, and concentrated on Hank’s profile.
“I don’t want Isabell to grow up believing she needs…things…to be happy. Not that Lydia was that way, not at all, but she did have things, nice things, all her life. I didn’t want her to have to go without the things she’d always had.
“We’ll be seeing quite a lot of you, going back and forth. You’ll probably get good and tired of Isabell. Molly too, I suppose. She’ll be with her, when I’m not around.”
Anora spotted a wagon coming toward them from the ferry landing. Soon they’d be at the river. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. She wanted to tell him she loved him…loved Isabell. She wanted to thank him and tell him how much she admired Lydia—Lydia exemplified what a real lady should be. It was her fault Lydia had died. She hadn’t wanted Lydia to die…she really hadn’t. She felt terrible that his beautiful Lydia was gone, and sorry he’d lost his son…that Michael had died all over again.
She wanted to tell him it felt as if she’d died too, faced with the prospect of a half-life, doomed to carry out her sentence in purgatory, run the ferry, live with the demons of the river day in and day out. She wanted to let him know she went willingly, knowing she’d see him and Isabell from time to time. After the wagon coming from the landing and its curious driver had passed, instead of saying all of that, Anora said, “Let me down. I’ll get off here.”
Hank shook his head. “I’ll take you across.”
“No. I have to do this on my own. I have to do it all on my own.”
The ferry had glided away from the landing, headed for the cabin across the river. “I wish you’d let me take you across.”
“I have to do this, if I don’t I could lose it.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I know. But I still want to help you if I can.” He stopped the wagon and started to get down to help her off the seat, Anora stayed him with her hand on his arm.
“You…you and Lydia were kind to me. You saved me. Thank you. Isabell is always welcome,” she said to him. Once her feet were on the ground, she didn’t look back, but started down the hill toward the river.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The smell of the water, the willow’s tender, fuzzy, silver-yellow blossoms filled her senses. The breeze ruffled her skirt and tossed the hood of her cape from her head.
Feet slipping in the red clay, Anora carefully chose her steps on her march toward the now docking ferry.
A few yards below her, the crude craft scraped into shore. Leading a team and wagon down the ramp, Whit waved to her, a big grin encompassing his face. Handing off the team to its owner he reached for her hand. Ignoring it, she sidestepped him and headed for the rickety rail. Grabbing hold, she stepped up the ramp.
Hand over hand, Anora worked her way along the rail, leaving the safety of dry land, and safe refuge, behind her. Hovering over her, Whit said, “I’d started to think you wasn’t comin’.”
Bracing herself, her back against the rail, she lurched for the thick, rough-hewn rudder. Folding her upper body over the pole, feet apart, braced to do battle, her bundle dropped to the wet floor of the craft.
“I’ll take it out, if you want?” Whit said.
He stood right beside her, but to let go, take the easy way out at this point, would surely be her downfall. Teeth clenched, eyes focusing on the far bank, she said, “Just tell me what to do.”
“Huh…yeah, sure…huh, goin’ back seems easier to me, I guess ‘cause we do the hard part first, we don’t have to wait for it.”
He got around her, coming about he bent down to get in front of her face. Pointing upstream, he said, “The water’s runnin’ high this mornin’.”
Anora couldn’t look.
“There’s been a lot of trees and roots coming down, so I been checkin’ upstream before I start across to make sure I don’t see nothin’ coming at me. Even then, stuff can sneak up on you.”
Nodding, she made a quick survey of the water coming at them for any suspicious ripples or dark water. Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t see one thing any worse or better, the river looks horrible, terrifying…murderous to me.”
His derisive chuckle had her grinding her back molars. He went on to say, “Yeah, well, take a good hard look; really study it, ‘cause, yeah, it could get you.” Heeding his advice, she straightened, but didn’t let go of the pole and really looked out into the current.
“Going back, the current’s strongest right in front of us on this bend. As soon as you get out, away from shore, you gotta set the rudder. You got to see the rudder there under the water. I don’t mean really see it, I just mean in your head, you gotta see it, imagine it sort’a, and point it right at Roscoe and Pete. Pull the pole all the way to your right, swing it hard. The ferry’ll start to turn, feel like it’s gonna break loose, head backward downstream, but it won’t. As soon as you’re out of the eddy, if you ease up, Roscoe and Pete will bring you on in.”
With his hands on his hips, Whit fell silent a moment before saying, “Oh yeah, I almost forgot, you gotta pull the bell twice when you cast off so the oxen can start pulling you across. Almost forgot.”
If she waited any longer, she’d lose her nerve, so Anora tugged twice on the leather thong to ring the bell signal.
Whit chuckled and sprinted to the end of the ferry at the landing. “That’s good, nice and loud, but you forgot to cast off the line and crank up the tongue.”
Anora pushed her body away from the security of the rudder, and before she could think about what she was doing, she skipped to the end of the ferry without holding on to anything. Stepping down off the tongue, she removed the loop of heavy, braided hemp rope that secured the raft to the pylon stump. Moving quickly, she hopped back on board, took hold of the crank that let out the cable for the tongue. Bent, feet set wide apart, using both hands, she put her whole body into it and the tongue came up and locked itself into the upright position.
Roscoe and Pete h
ad already started to go around within their style, which had set the ferry into motion. Shoving Whit aside, she rushed back to the rudder. Putting her full weight into it, she hauled back on the long beam—back, back, until she thought she’d tip over the side into the river. Hanging on with all her will, the raft swung into the current. She felt it being pulled downstream toward the gravel bar and the wide bend in the river. Caught in the eddy, a tree limb with spiky branches sailed past the bow, scraping the underside of the ferry.
Whit yelled out a warning, his arm pointing to a big tree root coming directly at them. Instinctively, Anora shoved the rudder hard to the left, the raft swung aside, righting itself. Leaving the strong current behind, they cruised out into the middle of the river. The tree root, caught up in the swift-moving rapid, waddled by giving them three feet of clearance.
“That was a close one.” Whit yelled, slapping her soundly on the back. “As close as I’ve ever seen. You handled her just fine. Just fine by-crackin’. Yeehah!”
Whit’s booming laughter echoed up and down the river. Anora let loose of a whoop of triumph in spite of herself.
Shaking, teeth about to snap off, jaw tightly clenched, she brought the ferry into shore. A strong surge of defiance hit her—she thrust herself from the rudder pole to let down the tongue. Taking up the heavy rope, she leaped into ankle deep water to moor the craft to the pylon. With that taken care of, she scurried up the bank with one purpose in mind—get as far away from the water as she could before her legs gave way.
Eyes closed, she stopped to catch her breath in front of Pete and Roscoe’s crib. Stroking Roscoe’s thick, white neck, she gave thanks to the beast for bringing her safely ashore.
The Widow's Ferry Page 24