“Regardless, we wanted to let Mary know. She doesn’t seem to be the kind to want to hear this, but we’re worried about her being alone.” Thomas furrowed his brows.
“And with only her boy.” Lucy lowered her voice, as though not wanting anyone else to know of Mary’s vulnerability.
I can’t leave her out here alone. This house will only protect her from the rain and cold—not that kind of danger.
“Will you be staying on … with Mary?” Thomas stammered. “I mean … she’s not … you’re not her husband.”
“No, my job is waiting for me back East.” I picked up the saw. “My plan is to finish this soddy before she returns and be on my way.” I’m not even sure we’re friends, let alone married. “I’ll leave her a note explaining the situation and ask her to check in with the two of you often.”
“Oh, one more thing.” Lucy climbed over the bench to the back of the wagon. “Tom, how could we forget?”
“I didn’t forget, girl. We had more important things to talk about.”
“More important than a cooking stove?” Lucy pulled back a tarp and patted the black object. “Nothing’s more special to a woman than a place to prepare the meals—even if you’re not married.”
“It’s an extra one Roy held for us. It fell off the back of someone’s wagon in the race, and a customer brought it in to trade for some tools.” Thomas swung his leg over the bench and eyed the piece. “It has some good-sized dents and a crooked leg, but it should work fine.”
“We thought Mary could use it. We don’t need two.”
The thought of Mary keeping a fire outside in the cold months was difficult. Wood was sparse, and once the snows came and the ground was either wet or frozen, it would be nearly impossible to cook.
“That’s kind of you.” A sense of relief that there were some kind-hearted people nearby for Mary made me smile. “I’m sure she wouldn’t argue with your offer.”
After Thomas and I unloaded the stove and placed it in a corner of the unfinished house, I shook his hand and thanked both of them for being good neighbors. Hopefully, the danger they spoke of would stay far away from this area.
As soon as I finish here, I need to check on Bart. All the more reason to get to work.
*****
Driving pegs into the last of the sod bricks would hold them securely in place. The house, measuring fourteen by sixteen feet with two glass windows and a heavy door, only needed a roof. Tomorrow, I would be up with the sun to lay the two-by-sixes for ridge posts and two by fours for rafters. Tar paper would be tacked down before a final layer of sod, grass side up, was positioned on top. Then the house would be complete, and Mary would return to find she had a home—whether she liked it or not.
I was exhausted, but sleep would not come. The night sky darkened, and stars emerged as though layers of paint were being added to a giant canvas. If only in my mind, I was being pulled into another world as the layers of space deepened—far from the open plains, and even further from the lights and sounds of Boston. It was a peaceful sensation, and for the first time in many years, I wanted to talk with God. Not just a recited prayer learned as a child or a plea for something, but simply to talk with Him.
Although it wasn’t audible, He responded as we talked about many things—the responsibilities of my job, the lack of time spent with my own art, going back to Boston, the boy in the stables, and the relentless guilt associated with that memory. We talked about the new Oklahoma—its trials and dangers—and Mary. I prayed for her, then for Wesley, the boy I hadn’t met.
Just before drifting off to sleep, I wiped a tear and smiled. It felt good to be alive.
*****
It was time to step back and admire my work. The roof drooped on one end, but it was solid. Extra grass and dirt filled gaps in the walls and roof, enough to keep the wind and rain at bay. From a distance, the stove’s pipe looked like a prairie dog poking its head out of a hole.
“Almost done, Crimson.”
I ducked into the house. All that remained was tacking the oilcloth to the ceiling to catch any falling dirt, then trying it out for the night to get a feel for sleeping in a soddy.
*****
My cup of coffee was a welcome friend the next morning after a restless night. The scurrying of a field mouse had awakened me a few times, especially when it ran along my leg. If a mouse was that eager to make the soddy its home, all sorts of insects—and even snakes—would find it welcoming too.
It would delay me even more, but there was enough extra lumber to make Mary and Wesley a simple bed frame. That was the least I could do. And maybe a small table.
Though it would be snug, the bed was big enough for both of them. She would need bedding and pillows, but those were things she would be able to buy in town. The table was placed in the corner of the room. It looked lonely without any chairs, but there was no more lumber. With no vase filled with flowers to welcome her home, I placed three cans of food in the middle of the table that were purchased from the grocer—tomatoes, green beans, and peaches.
I loaded the plow and a few other rented tools into the wagon. Generously, the Contolinis had given Mary their ax and shovel. She would need those for cutting wood for the stove and getting a small crop of turnips started before winter. The few trees wouldn’t supply enough fuel for long. But sometimes good things come from bad. I picked up the shovel and got to work scooping the manure chips into a mound behind the house—the unintended gift left by the Cooley’s cattle.
Again, the day waned, reminding me it was time to head back—first to return the supplies and horse, then check on Bart and say good-bye. And then board the train toward reality.
While harnessing Crimson to the wagon, I remembered the promise to leave a note for Mary. “Just a minute longer, ol’ girl.”
Crimson whinnied in response, or maybe she was simply eager to return to her barn. I took a piece of paper and pen from my bag and jogged into the house.
Dear Mary,
Your kind neighbors, Thomas and Lucy, paid a visit. They brought news there has been a group of bandits in the area—been some trouble in town already. The Andersons are anxious for you to visit often and let them know you and Wesley are safe. I promised to share their concern.
I reread the letter several times, trying to decide what else to say.
I hope you find the house and its contents suitable (the Andersons provided the stove). I know you intended to provide this on your own and surely you will make revisions and additions that fit your needs. My apologies if I interfered with your plans. However, extra time before catching the train out of town left me with nothing else to do. A change in the weather could happen any time. Hopefully, what’s been done gives you a head start on your home. I wish you happiness and prosperity.
Sincerely,
Daniel
My throat felt parched as my eyes scanned the letter once more. The realization that I would never see her again hit like a blow to the gut. The room spun as I laid the paper on the table and staggered to the doorway. The fresh air attempted to clear my mind, but even the brisk winds sweeping over the prairie couldn’t push her from my thoughts … or my heart.
Idiot. I chastised myself for allowing my emotions to betray me. But there was one more thing to leave her.
After grabbing my bag from the wagon, I dashed back into the house. On the small table, the canvas unrolled from its loosened constraint from the rawhide tie, obediently lying flat by the placement of three cans and my elbow at its opposite corners. Then I shuffled through the small tubes of paint and selected my favorite brush. I planned to paint her the sunset she would watch in the evening from her doorway—the same spectacular view that had greeted me each day since my arrival.
It wasn’t my best work, but the finished painting was tacked on the small ledge built into the wall. Lifting my brush one more time, I stroked my name across the bottom corner, then ran my eyes over the painting, noticing the mixture of warm tones matched the color of he
r hair.
Before leaving the house for the final time, I scrawled a postscript on the letter.
P.S. When you look at the sunset, remember me.
CHAPTER 29
Mary ~ Return, September 30, 1893
For the last part of our train ride, Wesley pressed his forehead against the glass and watched the countryside whiz by. My hunch was that he secretly wished to see a band of Indians chasing buffalo alongside the train. Before we left Missouri, I tried to describe to him the actual setting, but for a child, imagination and dreams take precedence, as they should.
“One, two, three, four … forty-four, fifty-six …” He counted the telegraph poles until his numbers jumbled out of sequence. “Mama, how much longer?”
“We’re almost there.” I closed my eyes and pictured the land, wondering what he would think. Good thing he’s a little boy. Camping out should feel like an adventure. I replayed the list of items we needed to get in town once we arrived. Hopefully, the livery stable would have an available hired hand who could take us home before dark. We’d need a horse or mule soon. I made a mental note to move the necessity higher on the list.
*****
Luck was with us when we approached the barn in town. The stalls and corrals overflowed with horses, mules, and even some smaller donkeys that kept a safe distance from the others and stood in the corner of the enclosure.
“Too many mouths to feed.” The livery manager propped his elbows on top of the fence surrounding the enclosure. “Give you a good price on that one over there.” He pointed to a horse with a sway back and protruding ribs.
“Wish I could take that one in, give him some food.” I wrinkled my nose as I looked around, hoping to convey my disgust with the condition of some of the animals. “But I’ll need one stronger and younger.”
“You’ll pay more.” He cleared his throat, followed by a raspy cough.
“That’s to be expected, as long as it’s fair.”
“Sixty bucks.”
I pointed to a black saddle mule. “What about that one?”
“Looks sturdy enough.” The man coughed again.
“Has he been ridden? My son and I have to travel to and from our claim.”
“Not sure.” The man sounded as sickly as some of his animals looked. “What’s your husband riding?”
I almost corrected him, but something inside told me it was none of his business. The encounters with the Cooleys reminded me that men still had the upper hand, especially in this frontier.
“A fine gelding.” I pressed my lips together when Wesley gave me a questioning look. “Like I said, we need a strong animal to carry supplies and plow.”
The man scratched his head, and I was sure some bugs took flight like flies on a pile of manure. “Here.” I pulled fifty dollars from my bag. “The black mule will be fine.”
He flipped through the bills. I waited for him to argue, but he called out to one of the stable hands to halter the mule. “A bridle and saddle? That will cost you more.”
“Not today. I’ll speak with my husband about what we need.” I forced a pleasant smile. “A halter and lead come with the price of the mule, right?”
He grumbled under his breath.
“Much obliged.” I extended my hand.
*****
It was a long walk home leading the mule with Wesley straddling bareback. My next large purchase would be a cart and harness to use my time and resources efficiently.
“His name’s Jim,” Wesley said.
“Who?”
“Our mule.”
I giggled. “That’s an interesting name for a mule. Sounds more like a person.”
“He sorta is. Jim’s my new best friend.”
I kept walking, my sights focused ahead, hoping it was the right decision to bring him here. He had to leave everything behind—his friends and school. Even his grandmother.
“Jim likes his new name. Don’t you, boy?”
We both laughed when the mule let out an odd combination of a whinny and bray.
“You must be right,” I said, “Jim it is.”
It took me a few more steps to place the name. Ah, Treasure Island—Jim Hawkins. Yes, a good name for Wesley’s new friend.
*****
My feet and legs welcomed the relief when we summited the small hill. Our journey to our new home was nearly complete. But when the house came into view—standing where only sticks and a flapping canvas were before—my legs nearly collapsed. Had someone stolen my land?
“Mama! You built a house!” Wesley slipped off Jim and ran down the hill.
My feet felt like cement. My arms hung at my sides, the lead rope loose in my hand.
Jim nudged me from behind, but all I could do was stare. Like a mirage in The Arabian Nights, perhaps the desert was playing tricks on my mind. My eyes studied the image in front of me. Sure enough, three walls of stacked sod joined with the embankment in the rear. There were two windows on either side of a door and a roof.
Wesley bounded out the door. “It’s got a big bed too. Is it mine or yours?”
The mule and I hurried toward the house. “What in the world?” My finger pointed to a black cylinder poking through the roof.
“You’re sneaky, Mama. You said we’d be cooking over a campfire, not on a stove.”
Before entering the house, I stopped and ran my hand over the piece of wood that formed the doorframe. Who did this? Lucy and Thomas had their own home to build. And it was surely not the Cooleys.
Wesley was right. A bed, large enough for both of us, filled the corner to the right. It was only a frame, but I already imagined a feather bed with fluffy pillows and the quilt I would make before winter set in. My clothes were stacked in a neat pile near the bed. The water barrel, now useless with a bullet hole in its side, sat upright as a nightstand. On its top, a kerosene lamp shared the space with my Bible and another familiar object, though not mine.
I picked up the small hand mirror and ran my fingers over the detailed silver design, then held it in front of my face. The woman looking back at me seemed a stranger in so many ways. Everything inside me wanted to smile at her and see her smile back with excitement and joy over having returned to the surprise of a solid and welcoming home. But she hid any hint of gratitude with a frown—not willing to betray her hard-fought independence. And expose her fears.
“Come see.” Wesley tugged my arm and led me through the door.
Behind the house, overturned dirt formed three parallel rows cut neatly into the earth. A piece of paper, poked through with a stick read, TURNIPS. The other rows were marked in the same manner—WHEAT.
“And there’s a big pile of cow pies. Phew!” Wesley pinched his nose and looked around. “Do we have cows too?”
“I’m afraid not.” I propped my hands on my hips and surveyed the area, still in disbelief at what had sprung up on my recently vacant property. “But someone’s cattle left that mess.”
How would I explain the house and garden to my son? I didn’t really know what to say to myself. Daniel McKenzie. It had to be him. He was the only one who would have done this, even though I told him I could take care of my son … and myself. I looked back at the soddy. Part of me was appreciative, thankful to return to a sturdy home. The other part wanted to scream and release the frustration and anger that surged each time someone doubted my abilities.
You didn’t think I could do it, so you had to do it for me.
But as the cobalt sky mingled with the remaining greens scattered among the wispy grasses, my memory painted a picture of Daniel’s turquoise eyes. They smiled when he laughed, assuring me I was safe with him. In those brief moments when we caught one another’s gaze, his eyes looked straight into my heart as though we knew each another from a different time, if only in dreams. My heart unexpectedly jumped at the thought of him. Did I truly miss him—secretly yearning for him to be part of my life?
“Where’s Jim gonna sleep?”
Wesley’s question knocked me fr
om my thoughts. “Certainly not with us. He’ll be fine tied up outside.”
Wesley dropped the stick he was using to draw an X in the dirt. “But he’ll get lonely. What if it rains or gets real cold?”
“I’ll build him a barn before winter.”
Wesley’s big, brown eyes looked up at me, reminding me how much he looked like Tuck. “You’re a good builder, Mama. I can help too.”
It was tempting to let him believe I was the one responsible for our new home, but my conscience bore down on me like a hammer—the one I didn’t use to set the door and window frames and construct the bed and table.
“Son, we have this wonderful home because of the kindness of a friend.” Go ahead. Tell him the truth. “He must have had extra time to do this before he had to go back to where he lives.”
Wesley picked up a small rock and threw it. “That’s too bad.”
“What do you mean? You should be thankful he offered his time and supplies,” I answered curtly, though my comment was directed at myself.
“I am thankful. It’s just too bad he isn’t here anymore.”
Wesley was right. It was a shame Daniel was gone. Why did I let my pride keep me from letting Daniel know my true feelings? It was obvious he wanted to stay.
How could I have become so hardened?
I ran my hand along my neck and over my ear as if a cruel intruder whispered the thoughts in my mind.
Wesley rubbed his eyes, a sure sign he was exhausted from our long journey. “Then we can’t build a barn for Jim.”
“And why would that be?”
His face reddened as his hands balled into fists—a side of my son I hadn’t seen since the morning he found out about Tuck’s death. “’Cause you don’t really know how to build one like you said.” He kicked at the dirt and shouted, “If it wasn’t for that man, we’d freeze to death!”
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