“No. I—I take care of her little boy.”
Dr. Gleason bit his lip, then said, “Her family should be told.”
“She has no one.” Rebekah’s heart filled with fear. “Is she going to die, Dr. Gleason?” she whispered.
He turned to look at the sick woman, who seemed to have dozed off into a fitful sleep. “She’s very bad—very bad! I’ve seen worse cases recover—but it would take a miracle.” He turned to leave, but paused. “I’ll see that the boy gets a place to stay.”
“The orphanage?”
“It’s not a bad place,” Gleason assured her. “Maybe it won’t come to that. Give her the medicine. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
He left and as soon as the door closed, Mary’s voice caused Rebekah to move at once to her bedside. “What is it, Mary?”
“What was it he said—about Timmy?” Mary’s face was a skull, the flesh stripped so quickly by the virulent fever, and her eyes were unnaturally bright. “He said the orphanage, didn’t he?”
Rebekah picked up a damp cloth and wiped the perspiration from the sick woman’s brow. “You’re going to be all right, Mary. Don’t worry—”
“No! Don’t let them take him there, Rebekah!” Mary sat up and grabbed at Rebekah with frantic strength. “I was brought up in an orphanage! Let him die, God—but don’t let him go to that place!”
It was all Rebekah could do to hold Mary in the bed, for fear had given the sick woman strength. Her voice rose, and she fought wildly—but it didn’t last long. She fell back, pleading with Rebekah. “Don’t let them take him—please don’t let them!”
“I won’t!” Rebekah took her friend’s hand tightly in her own. “They won’t take him, Mary! I swear it!”
Both of them were weeping, and finally Mary fell into a feverish sleep. Rebekah rose from the bedside and went to the basin, washing her face and hands. She was trembling all over, her heart beating wildly. Sitting down at the table, she rested her arms and hid her face on them, trying to get control. She tried to pray, but her mind whirled and it seemed to do no good.
All afternoon she cared for the sick woman, leaving only once to go see that Timmy was all right. The long day passed, and night came on. She lay on her bed, exhausted from lack of sleep. It was totally dark when she heard Mary call out. She got up from the bed at once, and found Mary awake, trying to speak through lips that were parched and dry. Rebekah quickly lifted the sick woman and gave her a drink, then lowered her.
“Get Timmy,” Mary whispered.
“Mary, do you think—?”
“Quick—quick! I must—see my baby!”
Rebekah took a quick breath. “I’ll be right back, Mary!”
She ran to the Satterfields and knocked on the door. Amy Satterfield opened the door and knew at once. “She’s goin’, Rebekah?”
“Yes—she wants to see Timmy.” She took the child and ran back to put him in Mary’s arms, knowing no harm would come to the baby because cholera was caught by drinking contaminated water. Mary’s dull eyes brightened as she pulled the cover back from the baby’s face. With a trembling finger she traced his tiny lips, his smooth cheeks. Tears ran down her face as she whispered so quietly that Rebekah had to lean forward to hear:
“I’ll not be here to see you grow up—but you’ll have a fine mother, Timmy. God has promised me . . . she’ll take care of you—and she’ll never let you forget me. . . .” Her voice faltered, and she turned her head to look at Rebekah.
“Becky—my Becky!” Her voice was weak, but her worn face was transformed by a look of utter peace. She reached out one thin hand to wipe away the tears that flowed down Rebekah’s cheeks. “Don’t you cry, dearie! Our Father has promised us, don’t you remember?”
“Mary!” Rebekah cried. “What will I do without you?”
Mary’s wonderful smile made her look years younger. “The Lord came to me just now—while you was goin’ for Timmy. He said it was time for me to come and be with Him—but He said that you’d be a mother to both our babies—and that He’d never leave you.”
Her eyes fluttered, and she settled back in her pillow. She gave Timmy’s face one more caress, kissed him, and she said with her last breath: “So good of God . . . to care for . . . our babies . . . !”
And then she was still.
Rebekah bent down and kissed the hollow cheek, then picked up the baby. Holding him tightly, she whispered, “I’m your mother now, Timmy!”
The funeral was the next day. Rebekah was surprised at the crowd that came to bid her friend farewell. Amy Satterfield and another neighbor had prepared the body, and several of the men made the rough pine coffin. A minister from the church preached the funeral sermon, and many of the members of the church ringed the grave as the coffin was lowered into the earth.
Somehow Rebekah survived. She took the words of comfort that many stopped to give her, but it was caring for Timmy that kept her from breaking down. She did not leave him for one minute, and as Mary’s body was lowered into the ground, she made a promise to God: God, I’ll keep my word to Mary. I’ll be a mother to Timmy—and you must take care of us both!
Three days after the funeral, a large man came by the house. “I’m Mr. Simmons, from the orphanage,” he said. “Dr. Gleason has told us about the boy.”
“I’m going to take care of him,” Rebekah assured him.
He regarded her a moment, then asked, “Are you a relative?”
“No, but—”
“Are you able to take care of him? Do you have work?”
“Well, not right now, but I can find a job.”
He considered her uncertainly. “I know how you feel, miss—but we have to think of the boy.”
“I can take care of him!” she insisted, but she saw by the man’s expression that she was not going to win.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to give him up,” Simmons said. “You can take him in to the orphanage yourself—or we can send somebody by for him.”
The shock was too much for Rebekah, and she leaned against the wall for support. “When do I have to take him?”
“As soon as possible. By the end of the week at the latest.”
There was no use arguing. “All right.” When he was gone, she knelt beside her bed. There was nothing to do, no one to turn to, and a bleak fear gripped her heart. She stayed there for a long time, praying for wisdom. At last she rose, fed Timmy, played with him for a time, then began to gather Mary’s few things together. The rent was paid for a month, but that was no comfort. All she could think of was some means of keeping the baby.
She took all Mary’s clothes and put them in a bag, but put Mary’s Bible and a few tracts with her own things. She found a stack of papers and magazines on Mary’s table and began to sort them out, throwing most of them in a waste box. Near the bottom of the pile, her hand fell on a sheet of newsprint, and her eyes fell on the message, capturing her attention.
Attention—ladies of the East! If you are seeking a new life, Oregon is your answer . . . men outnumber ladies fifteen to one. . . . Any woman interested in this venture can apply on March 15 at the State Hotel. . . . Ask for Mr. Winslow. . . .
For a long time she sat and read the words over and over—and then she closed her eyes and remained still. The silence ran on unbroken, so she opened her eyes and rose.
She walked across the room and looked at a calendar with a picture of a farmhouse on it. Putting her finger on the date, she gave a determined smile and said aloud, “March, the thirteenth.” Then she turned and her face was pale, but her lips were set.
“Mr. Winslow,” she announced to the air, “you have a new volunteer for your association!” Then she ran and picked up the baby. Throwing him high in the air and listening to his delighted squeal, she cried out, “Timmy—how’d you like to go to Oregon?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
PICK OF THE LITTER
A violent southwest wind rolled ragged black clouds over Oregon City as a wagon pulled up in front of Moore’s Liv
ery on Walnut Street. Swollen drops of cold rain formed a silver screen in front of the man and boy as they sat inside the protecting cover of the wagon, waiting. A short fat man appeared from behind the double doors of the livery. “Howdy, Sky. You want me to grain these horses?”
“Hello, Harvey.” Sky drove the wagon inside and handed over the reins to the stableman. “Birdwell will want the furs moved to his warehouse tomorrow, I expect,” he called over his shoulder as he and his companion left the stable.
The plank walkways across the street intersections were half afloat and sank beneath the weight of the two as they crossed over, turning right at the sidewalk. At two o’clock in the afternoon the kerosene lights were sparkling through the drenched windowpanes, and the saloons they passed exuded a rich blend of tobacco, whiskey, and men’s soaked woolen clothes.
Five sailing ships lay at the levee, their bare spars showing above the row of frame buildings on Front. Beyond Seventh, in the other direction, the great fir forest was a black semicircle that crowded Oregon City’s thousand people hard against the river. The raw, wild odor of massive timbered hills and valleys turned sweet in the rain and lay over the town like a blanket.
“Be good to get out of this rain, Joe,” the man said. “Soon as we see Sam, let’s eat.”
“All right.” The boy was bundled in a thick coat, and a fur cap was pulled low over his eyes. He looked across the street and said, “The pie is best at Holland’s. Can we go there?”
“Your choice, Joey. I could eat my saddle!”
They hurried across another street as the rain dimpled the watery mud. Reaching a large frame building with a sign reading BIRDWELL’S GENERAL MERCHANDISE over the door, the two entered. It was warm inside, and Sam Birdwell came from behind the counter to greet them.
“Come in and thaw out!” He was of average appearance in most respects—neither tall nor heavy, though his balding head made him look older than his thirty-seven years. “Get up close to the stove, Joe. Cold as an Eskimo’s nose out there! Coffee, Sky?”
“Won’t say no, Sam.” Birdwell poured the coffee—thick and black—then produced a can of milk and a bowl of sugar to lighten Joe’s cup. As his visitors drank the steaming brew, Sam carried on the conversation, studying the pair unobtrusively.
Sky Winslow, standing with one shoulder tipped against the wall, looked rough, yet durable. At thirty-seven, there was no fineness or smoothness about him; his black hair had a trace of chestnut and lay in long rough-cut layers, framing high cheekbones and a pair of startling blue eyes well-bedded in deep sockets. A scar ran from the outside of his left eyebrow along his hairline, down to his ear, the relic of a youthful brawl. His expression was a mixture of sadness and strong temper. He stood a little under six feet, his body lean, like a distance runner; but there was a rounded quality to his muscle, a hardness that was not obvious at a casual glance. In fact, he seemed almost skinny until one took in the rounded neck that flowed smoothly to a torso that was thick rather than wide.
“Got your lessons all done, Joe?” Birdwell asked.
“Good enough, I guess, Mr. Birdwell.” Joe Winslow was ten, and there was something of his father in this thin, wiry frame. He had blue eyes, dark skin, and his hair was brown. His face was sensitive, with features that were finer cut than his father’s. “Don’t see no need of all that arithmetic,” he muttered. He had obviously inherited his father’s temperament.
Sky laughed and dropped a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “We’ve been through that, Joe. Can’t get by much nowadays without knowing how to do sums.”
“Ah, Pa, I can shoot a buck, skin him out, and dress him. Don’t take no figurin’ for that!”
“More to life than skinning a buck, Joe,” Sky said lightly; then to his host he added, “We’re goin’ to get supper, Sam. Too early for you?”
“I missed dinner,” Birdwell admitted, taking off his apron and putting it behind the counter. He pulled on a heavy coat and called out to the young man who was stacking cans on a shelf, “Al—I’m goin’ to eat. Be back when I get full.”
“All right, Mr. Birdwell.”
The trio left the store, heading directly for Holland’s Restaurant. Like every other building in Oregon City, Holland’s was built of rough lumber; the dozen tables inside were hand-built of pine slabs, as were the chairs. A potbelly stove in the center of the long room glowed with heat. The place was almost empty; two big men sat at a table against a wall, and one logger was wolfing down a steak at the far end of the room.
Mack Holland came bustling over to them. “What’ll it be, gents?” Holland’s stocky build was such that some would have considered him fat, but in reality his body was solid muscle. He had a huge handlebar mustache, and a pair of steady black eyes. And he was a fine cook. “Got some fresh beef, Sky—or maybe you’d like some chicken livers?”
“Livers for me, Mack,” Sky said. “What about you, Joe?”
“Can I have one of your omelets, Mr. Holland—and what kind of pie you got?”
Holland smiled at the boy. “Omelet comin’ up, Joe, and I got some apple pie I just took out of the oven.” He turned and asked, “What’ll you have, Sam?”
“Steak and potatoes, Mack.” He looked around the room and asked, “Where’s Stella?”
Holland frowned. “Got married.” He slapped his side with a meaty hand and grumbled, “Paid that woman’s fare all the way from San Francisco, Sam. She promised to work for a year, and the first logger that give her the eye—she runs off with him and leaves me with no help!”
Birdwell shook his head. “She was no beauty, Mack. And pretty long in the tooth at that!”
Holland sighed and headed for the kitchen. “Reckon most women would rather wait on one man than be a waitress and wait on a hundred of ’em!”
“Mack should have known better,” Sky said as they waited for the food. “Scarce as women are in Oregon, he’s not going to hang on to one for long—not even if she’s ugly as a pan of worms.”
Sam started to answer, then looked at Joe and changed his mind. He said instead, “How’s things out on your place?”
“All right.” There was a dissatisfied note in the words that made Birdwell look at him curiously. Sky shrugged and added, “Furs were good this year. They’re at Moore’s.”
“Price is up some from last year,” Birdwell murmured. “I’ll have them moved tomorrow.” He traced a pattern on the table with an air of concentration that caught Sky’s attention.
“What’s goin’ on in that mind of yours, Sam?”
“Oh, just an idea. Tell you later.”
Sky Winslow watched Birdwell carefully. The storekeeper was not impressive to the eye, but underneath that balding head lay one of the keenest brains in the territory. He was blessed—or cursed, as he himself complained at times—with a fertile imagination. Several times he had plunged into wild schemes that soon ran aground, but that same ability to see opportunities had made him a wealthy man. Besides the store in Oregon City, he owned controlling interests in stores in Olympia and Seattle, and had his hand in logging and furs. He was always looking for new ventures.
Sky grinned at him as Holland brought the food, and as they ate he tried to pry the secret out of the merchant.
Halfway through the meal, the two big men at the other table got up and started for the door. The taller of the two nodded at Sky and said, “Winslow—how are you?”
Sky held the big man’s gaze steadily, then nodded. “All right, Poole.”
“Don’t see you much. Maybe we can have a drink later.” Matthew Poole, the mayor of Oregon City, was an easterner who had made a place for himself in the wilds of Oregon. He had come to Oregon City ten years earlier and gone into business, turning later to politics. His long frame was raw-boned and had a cadaverous face and a shock of rough salt-and-pepper hair.
“A little later, maybe,” Sky murmured, looking at the other man who had silently fixed his eyes on Winslow. “Hello, Rolfe.”
Rolfe Ingerson wa
s a burly man with a star on his vest. He was sheriff of Oregon City, but like Poole, he had a hand in other pies as well. He had curly red hair, and his powerful neck flowed into a massive torso. He carried a gun, but his fists were enough for most trouble; his small eyes were fixed on Sky with a steady dislike.
“Winslow, you got off easy last time. Walk soft when you’re in my town.”
He walked out, and Poole smiled ominously and spread his hands. “Rolfe is an unmannerly brute, Sky. Steer clear of him.” With a final nod to the others at the table, he left the cafe.
“Fine pair of crooks!” Birdwell snorted. “But Poole’s right about one thing; you’d better steer clear of Ingerson, Sky. He’s been like a bear with a sore toe ever since you faced him down last month—he’ll be looking for an excuse to bust you up.”
“I’ll try to oblige.” Sky looked over at Joe, who had been taking it all in. “Finish up that pie, Son, then scoot off for your lessons. I’ll be checking with Mr. Wilson to see how you’ve done.” Bob Wilson had been a logger, but an accident in the woods had crippled him. Fortunately, he had some education, so he made his living clerking. He worked at his house, which was just off Main; Joe schooled with him as long as Sky was in town. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Watch out for that pretty little daughter of his, Joe,” Sam grinned. “Mr. Wilson says she’s got her eye on you.”
Giving Birdwell an offended glance, Joe shot up out of his chair, grabbed his stack of books, and bolted from the restaurant.
“Musta hurt his feelin’s,” Sam observed, adding, “Boy don’t get to spend much time with folks, Sky. Wish you’d leave him with me sometimes. I’m no teacher, but I could give him some pointers on business—and he’d be company.”
“I’ll ask him,” Sky said shortly. Picking up his coffee, he took a swallow, then set the cup down with more force than necessary. He stared into his coffee, his lips tight. After a while he raised his head and gave Sam a bleak look. “I’m sick of the way we’re living, Sam! Like hermits! Never see anybody, the place is never clean—and my cooking is worse than you’d believe!” He shook his head sadly. “It’s makin’ Joe into something I don’t like, Sam. I’ve even thought of going back to the Mission.”
The Reluctant Bridegroom Page 7