A Western Heart

by Liz Harris

  The shapes took on features and became buildings. She guessed which one was the main house from a faint amber glow that came from within one of the structures. She couldn’t see the house clearly, though, half hidden as it was by a large barn which stood a little way back from it between the track and the house, but she could see enough to know that it was made of sawn wood, not logs, and that beyond the house there was another large barn, and a few smaller buildings behind that.

  They reached the low fence that encircled the yard and the buildings, and Connor pulled back on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt in front of a wide, cross-beamed gate.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said. He turned slightly and nodded towards the grey-hazed fields to their right. ‘You can’t see it now as the light’s almost gone, but Liberty Creek flows across our land. Even when the water level is low, as it is now, we still have water, and that makes us better off than a lot of our neighbours.’

  She heard his love for his land in his voice.

  ‘You have a good position,’ she said, and she ventured a smile in his direction.

  ‘I’ve got my folks to thank for that.’ He jumped down, went up to the gate, pulled up the iron bar and swung the gate open. Returning to the wagon, he climbed back up and urged the horses forward. ‘Yup,’ he said. ‘Back in ’65, two years after the law had said they could, my folks staked their claim here. Five years later, it became theirs in the eyes of the law, one of the first of the homesteads in the Territory of Wyoming, and we Maguires have been here ever since. They’re gone now, my ma and pa, but the land that they claimed has served the family well, and will continue to do so long after we’ve gone.’

  They pulled up in front of the house. Through the window, Ellen could see that the light was coming from a lamp. Her heart missed a beat. She put her hand to her bonnet. ‘Will I meet your daughter tonight?’

  ‘Nope,’ he said, getting down and going around to her side. ‘She’s with my neighbour, Peggy Thomas. She and her husband, William, live further up the creek. Bridget will not be back till after sunup tomorrow. And Aaron and the men will be in the bunkhouse by now. Aaron’s my foreman. He’ll have done the animals and lit the lamp for us before finishing for the day. So you’ll not meet anyone tonight.’

  He offered her his hand. She took it and started to climb down, her joints stiff in the cooling air. When she reached the ground, he let her hand go and moved to the back of the wagon.

  ‘Will I cook us dinner?’ she asked as he lifted out their travel bags.

  ‘There’s no need. Peggy will have left a meal when she collected Bridget. She’s a mighty fine neighbour. So, no, you’ve no chores to do tonight. I’ll fill you a tub of water as I expect you’ll want to wash, and then we’ll eat. When I’ve filled the tub, I’ll come out here, rub down the horses and feed them. And I’ll check on the rest of the animals. Aaron’s a good foreman, but …’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

  He nodded. ‘You’re welcome, ma’am.’ He picked up the bags and led the way into the house.

  The kerosene lamps that stood on the shelf and on the wood table in the centre of the room threw out a warm glow as they ate the meat loaf that Peggy had left them. Neither spoke to the other. Ellen finished first, and she sat quietly, waiting for Connor to come to the end of his meal. The moment he did so, she pushed her plate away from her, moved the lamp to one side and stared at him across the table.

  ‘We’ve had our food and you’ve still not spoken to me. You didn’t speak on the journey. I can understand that it would have been difficult to have been heard above the noise of the wagon, but you didn’t speak to me at lunch, and that would not have been difficult, and now not at dinner. Are we never to talk?’

  He sat back in his chair and looked at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Tell you?’ she echoed.

  ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  She paused a moment. ‘You’re right, I do,’ she said. ‘And I’ll answer that – of course I will, you’re entitled to an answer. But first of all, I’d like to ask you something.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sure, if it helps.’

  ‘Why did you advertise for a wife?’

  ‘Because my daughter needs a woman in the house, someone who can tell her a woman’s things. And I need someone to do a woman’s work around the place. Bridget is eight now and she’ll be going to school. She’s helped me a deal since her ma died last year, but now that she’s gonna to be gone for much of the time, I need someone to do what she’s been doing. I’ve got men to help with the men’s work, but the men wouldn’t do a woman’s work. A man wouldn’t.’

  ‘And Peggy Thomas? Couldn’t she help?’

  ‘I rely on her too much already. She’s a good woman, and a true neighbour, but she lives half an hour away. When the snow melts and the rains come, the track’s all but impassable because of the mud. And no one can leave their home in the winter. We get snow several feet deep and blizzards that last for days. Besides, Peggy has her own house to look after. I can’t expect her to look after mine, too.’

  ‘You could have got a housekeeper; you didn’t need to take a wife. A housekeeper would have lived here and looked after the house. And she’d have helped with your daughter.’

  He glanced across to the window. ‘A man has needs,’ he said bluntly. ‘And going to the rooms at the back of the roadhouse in town is not for me.’ He turned back to her. ‘Having a woman in the house, doing all the things a wife would do – exceptin’ one – it wouldn’t be easy. I wouldn’t want to be in that position and I wouldn’t want to put any woman in that position either. And there’s Bridget to think of … Taking the woman who was gonna live in my house for a wife seemed the right thing to do.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘And I want a son,’ he added. ‘I want a boy. I love my daughter, but she’ll never be able to run the place. A boy would. A son would take over from me, just like I took over from my pa.’ He leaned forward, his forearms on the table. ‘I’ve answered your question, so now will you answer mine? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I will in a minute, I promise. But first, did you get many replies to your advertisement?’

  ‘A fair number. Why?’

  ‘And why did you choose me out of all of them?’

  ‘I guess I wanted a woman who knew about farming, but she also had to be a woman with some education. Bridget’s education is important. It was for my wife, Alice, rest her soul, and it is for me. You had education so you’d be able to help her with her lessons, and you knew farming. And you’ve been married before, so you’ll know what a woman needs to know – about the house and everything.’ His face broke out in a sudden smile. ‘And I picked you for your name.’

  ‘My name!’ she exclaimed, sitting back and staring at him, puzzled. ‘You mean Ellen?’

  ‘No, I mean O’Sullivan. I come from Irish stock, and I want Bridget and my son, if God gives me one, to know their heritage. I thought they might learn it through you. I figured your husband was Irish, and Irish men marry Irish girls so I thought you would be, too. And I was right – you told me your family originally came from Ulster, just like mine.’ His smile faded. ‘Well, do I get my answer now?’

  ‘You wanted someone educated, who knew about farming. And as you said, I am educated and I do know a bit about farming. I’m a widow so I know what to expect from a man and how to keep house. I’m of childbearing age and might give you a son, and I have an Irish background. So in me you got what you wanted, and that’s all that really matters.’ Her voice shook on her last few words, and she bit her lip.

  ‘But it’s not, is it, ma’am? I saw the way that folks in Baggs looked at you. You can pull your bonnet across your face as much as you like, but it’s not enough. I saw their faces when you got off the stagecoach and I saw them when I collected you this morning. And my daughter will see those looks of distaste, too. She’ll see them every
time she goes into town with you, every time that her friends come to the house, if her friends still want to visit. I have to think of Bridget as well as me. You should have told me before you came and let me decide.’

  ‘If I had, you’d never have given me the job.’ He opened his mouth to speak. ‘No, don’t try to deny it; you know it’s true. You’ve as good as said so yourself. If I’d written to you that I had the mark of a horse’s hoof on the side of my face, that it covered the whole of my cheek, you’d never have picked me – you’d have taken one of the other educated women with an Irish heritage, who can farm and look after a house. That’s why I didn’t tell you. Just because I’m marked by an accident, it doesn’t stop me from being everything you wanted in your wife.’

  He looked her squarely in the face. ‘And you really believe that? Truthfully?’

  She held his gaze, then dropped her eyes and slowly shook her head. ‘Of course I don’t. I know that the way that I look matters, but I wanted a home and a family very much, and I knew that this was my only chance.’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘I know I should have told you, and I’m truly sorry that I didn’t for your sake, but not for mine.’

  ‘So you—’

  ‘Please, Mr Maguire,’ she went on quickly, trying to keep from her voice the desperation that she felt growing within her. ‘Please, let me show you that I can be a good wife to you. After all, you married me after you’d seen my face. You went ahead with the wedding, and you brought me all the way here to your home. You could have said no. You could have walked away the moment you saw me, but you didn’t. So please, give me a chance.’ She stopped abruptly. Her forehead creased in a frown. She put her hand to her cheek and stared at him in puzzlement. ‘If my appearance was so important, why did you marry me?’

  He held up his hands. ‘I don’t know; I really don’t know. I spent last night asking myself the same question and I couldn’t come up with an answer. Maybe it’s like I said in Baggs, it’s being true to my word. We made an agreement and you left Omaha to come here because of that agreement. Maybe it’s because I’m running out of time – Bridget starts school in about four weeks. Maybe it’s just that I didn’t want to write any more letters to women. Maybe it’s that I’m not looking to have again what I had with Alice – no one could ever find that a second time – and you’d do the chores as good as anyone else. I guess it’s one of those, or a bit of them all.’ He paused and stared at her. ‘Well, I reckon that means that you get the chance you want.’

  She looked him steadily in the eyes. ‘You won’t be sorry that you married me, Mr Maguire. I promise you.’

  ‘That’s as may be.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘You must be tired.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said, and she stood up.

  He got up, picked up the lamp from the table and handed it to her. ‘I’ll be in shortly. You go ahead.’ She took the lamp from his hands, and he turned away. As she went through to the bedroom, she heard the front door close behind him.

  Connor stood with his back to his house and stared ahead of him at Liberty Creek. Moonlight stroked the flowing water, which gleamed with ebony lustre in the black of night.

  Behind him, he could hear the sound of someone moving around inside the bedroom, the someone he’d taken to be his wife.

  He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans and strolled forward.

  Why hadn’t he walked away the moment he’d seen her face, seen the red rawness of her cheek, the garish, mottled folds of skin which starkly ridged the side of her face where her wound had ill healed? He could have turned and left her there, and no man alive would have blamed him. But he hadn’t. Why hadn’t he? He’d been asking himself that question since the moment that the Justice of the Peace had said the words that made them man and wife.

  He’d certainly been furious enough to walk away.

  It had been all he could do to keep his voice steady as he’d talked about honourable behaviour and then to lead the way to the roadhouse and the Justice of the Peace.

  He’d wanted to shout at her, to show her how let down he felt, and how angry he was that his daughter would have to suffer the cruel taunts made by those around them. He’d wanted her to feel the weight of his frustration at knowing that he didn’t have time to start his search all over again, not with the distances involved, not with Bridget being about to go to school – yet he’d kept silent.

  Why?

  He stared ahead into the darkness. Was it that, if he was being truly honest with himself, he had felt another emotion, too, an emotion that he didn’t want to admit to himself, didn’t like himself for feeling? Was it that he’d felt an overwhelming sense of relief when he’d seen her face?

  Was that was the real reason why he hadn’t turned away from her?

  If the woman he took for his wife had been a beautiful woman, there was a risk – only a slight risk, but a risk nonetheless – that he might have begun to feel about her in a way that he didn’t want to feel.

  He would never love another woman the way he’d loved Alice. His heart would belong to Alice until the day he died, and that was only right. In truth, the moment that he’d looked on Ellen O’Sullivan’s face, an anxiety that he hadn’t even realised he’d felt had lifted. It would be so much easier to remain true to Alice’s memory if he were living with someone who looked like Ellen. And he’d felt a tremendous relief.

  He had loved Alice since he was nine years old and she’d walked into the schoolhouse on her first morning there, an eight-year-old carrying in one hand a small tin pail with a cloth over the top, and a slab of grey slate in the other.

  As she’d turned to push the door shut behind her, she’d knocked over the water pail that stood on the bench next to the door. The other children had burst out laughing, and she’d gone red. But he hadn’t laughed. He had jumped up as fast as he could, run over to her and picked up the water pail. As he’d straightened up, the pail in his hand, he’d looked into glistening green eyes that were shining at him with gratitude, and he’d fallen in love at that moment.

  Long before their school years had ended, they’d known that they would stay together forever. Only it hadn’t been forever – he’d been nineteen when they’d wed and they’d been married for less than nine years – and his grief at losing her a year ago was still every bit as intense, every bit as painful, as it had been on the day when she’d slipped away from him.

  He’d waited as long as he could before bringing another woman into the house, but now that the time had come that he must do so, he was glad – yes, glad – that it was someone who looked like Ellen, someone who could never touch his heart, someone who’d never threaten his daughter’s memory of her mother.

  He felt guilty for finding a benefit to himself in another person’s great misfortune, but that was the way he felt, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  He turned to look back at the house. It was silent. She’d stopped moving around; she’d be in the bedroom, waiting.

  He took a deep breath and went towards the house.

  Ellen sat on the edge of the bed in her flannel nightdress, just beyond the reach of the pale glow which spread out from the lamp that she’d set down next to a large china bowl on the table in the far corner of the room. Her long brown hair fell over her scarred left cheek; her right cheek faced the door.

  The door opened. She felt herself stiffen, and she made a conscious effort to relax.

  Connor came into the room, closed the door behind him, hesitated and then walked over to her. Standing square in front of her, he looked down at her. ‘This be all right with you?’ he asked, his voice tinged with awkwardness.

  She pulled her hair further across her cheek, glanced up at him, her hand against her hair, and tried to smile. ‘Of course. It’s part of our bargain, isn’t it? You’ve kept to your word, and I’ll keep to mine.’

  He nodded, and went across to the table, pulling his braces down over his shoulders as he walked and tugging his shirt free from his jeans
. She glanced at him just as he started to undo his shirt, and she caught sight of a lean, sun-browned chest. A lump came to her throat, and to her dismay, her eyes filled with tears. She put her hands to her eyes and tried to push them back.

  He slipped off his shirt, dropped it on to the table and started to unbutton his denims. Then he looked across at her, and stopped. His hands fell to his sides and he took a step towards her.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been married before so you know what to expect. I won’t hurt you. Is that why you’re afeared?’

  She pulled her hair further across her cheek and turned away from him.

  ‘I’m being stupid,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Please, don’t pay any attention to me.’

  He didn’t move, and she felt his eyes on the side of her head.

  ‘Is this too soon for you?’ he asked. ‘We’ve had a long day, and I can sleep in Bridget’s room tonight, if you wish.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t wish. I want to begin our life as man and wife tonight. I’d like you to lie beside me. Please, Mr Maguire.’

  He gestured helplessly. ‘Then why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m not really.’ She paused. ‘It’s just that I wish … I wish …’ She stopped.

  He waited a moment, then sat on the bed next to her, leaving a small space between them. She turned her face further away from him.

  ‘What is it you wish? Tell me, will you?’

  She took a deep breath, turned around and looked into his face, her hand holding her hair in place. ‘I wish I didn’t look as I do now. I know you wouldn’t have chosen me if you’d had the chance to see me before I got here, and I wish that my face was as before the accident. If it was, I think you would not feel such distaste for me. For this.’

  He met her eyes.

  ‘No, I would not have chosen you, ma’am … Ellen … That’s true. But as you said yourself earlier this evening, I agreed to marry you after I’d seen you. I needn’t have. And I told you that I would like to have a son.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘As far as I know, there’s only one way to bring this about. So my distaste, as you put it, cannot have been so very great. Wouldn’t you agree?’