Rush

by Jayme Mansfield

My jaw dropped, and before I could respond, Ben spoke. “Anna Cooley. Figured she didn’t tell you that.”

  “No, she … uh … didn’t. In fact, she hasn’t talked at all.” I glanced at the girl as she drew a picture on a slate board. “Your sister? Really? Did you know she’s been coming here since back in the fall?”

  “We figured as much,” Nate said. “Ben and I weren’t too happy about it, but our pa said to let her go see you. Thought a woman’s influence might help her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The brothers looked at each other as if deciding how much to tell, and then Ben spoke. “Anna’s mother, Pa’s second wife, passed two years ago.”

  “The girl hasn’t spoken a word since,” Nate added.

  Another child losing a mother. Life isn’t supposed to be that way when you’re so young. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  None of us spoke for a long moment.

  “Anyhow, our pa sent us here to make you a proposition,” Ben finally said. Though we still know this land you call yours should rightly be under our family name, we’ll agree to leave you be and not press any charges as long as you continue to educate little Anna.”

  “Charges?” My blood started a slow boil, shocked at the nerve of the Cooley family. “You still think you have a claim to my land? I have the legal deed.” Anger continued to rise as I chose my next words. “I should be the one pressing charges against you for setting my field on fire and nearly burning down my home with my son and me inside.”

  “We thought nobody was here,” Nate blurted.

  “Dang it, Nate.” Ben threw his hat at his brother. “Pa’s gonna kill you.”

  “I had a hunch it was you but couldn’t imagine how anyone could be so evil.” The words spewed from my mouth, and my stomach rolled. “You could have killed us.”

  “That was never our intention.” Ben softened his voice. “The fire got away from us when the wind kicked up.” He picked up his hat. “For all it’s worth, none of us in my family would have been able to live with ourselves if someone got hurt.”

  My arms hung limply at my sides as I looked at Anna and the other children. They shared their lunches in what little shade was available on the north side of the house, peaceful in one another’s presence—unlike the cruelty that coursed through the hearts of others.

  “Tell your father I can’t help his daughter.” My next words were forced. “She isn’t welcome here anymore.”

  Again, no one spoke. Ben approached Anna and whispered something in her ear. He took her by the hand and led her back to the horse. After he placed her on the saddle, he gave me a slight nod and hoisted himself behind her.

  Anna turned and buried her face into her big brother’s chest.

  As the horses trotted away, Wesley jogged after them a short distance into the field. “Where ya taking my friend?” he called out, but there was no reply.

  I sent the other children home after they finished lunch. For the remainder of the afternoon, I lay on the bed. My head pounded. But more than anything, my heart ached.

  CHAPTER 34

  Daniel ~ Memory, May 9, 1894

  Several times over the last few months, I painted her in my memory. Today, she would be captured on canvas, allowing us to be together again—if only in my dreams.

  The palette rested on the table—ochre, burnt sienna, raw umber, cadmium yellow, red, and sap green—ready to bring her hair, skin, and eyes to life. Before dipping my brush into the paint, my eyes followed the lines drawn earlier when I took her likeness from my favorite photograph by Finn.

  Upon my return to the Globe, he had developed a handful of posed photos of Mary taken at her campsite. But my decision was easy. I picked the one in which she was unaware of being photographed—a natural and abandoned moment where her hair fell loosely, her eyes cast slightly down. Unbuttoned and rolled sleeves showed her forearms. Released from the heat, her collar draped open around her delicate neck. She wore a slight and somewhat mischievous smile—a hint of her adventurous spirit, ready for the challenges ahead.

  Lifting my still-dry brush, I ran the soft bristles along the lines of her body. The curves of her skirt led to a narrow waist. Too many years had passed since holding a woman in my arms. I continued down her arms to the tips of long, slender fingers. My brush traced along her neck and chin and where long hair tucked behind an ear. Escaped strands swept across her cheek as if a gentle breeze blew into my room.

  I followed the curves of her eyes and tried to recall their exact color when the sun warmed her face. I traced her lips, then set my brush in the tray and ran my fingers down the length of her hair—imagining we were together.

  *****

  Without knocking, Finn bounded through the door. “She said aye! Elizabeth’s going to be me wife.”

  I set my brush and palette on the side table. “Congratulations, my friend.” I pulled him in and gave him a hug. “So, Arthur gave you his blessing. Good man.”

  “He did.” Finn scratched his head. “But on the condition that I keep me job and work toward a promotion. He made it clear I’m to support his daughter and be a respectable and honest husband and father.”

  “Finn, I think you’re blushing.” I smiled at my friend, who in many ways still seemed like a boy, yet was ready to become a man. “His requests sound fair, don’t you think?”

  “Agreed. I plan to do all that and more for me bride.” He cocked his head and questioned me with his eyes. “You understand then why I can’t go with you this time.”

  “Go where?”

  “Back to the territory.” Finn cocked his head. “Didn’t ye know?”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “I figured McKelvey popped the news the other day before he mentioned it to me.” Finn was so full of life he seemed to lift off the ground. “Everyone knows you’ve had your head in the clouds since ye came back.”

  “What’s that supposed to …”

  Finn walked toward the canvas and stopped. He studied the composition, his head turning to the side like a puppy dog. I forced myself to stand tall, embarrassed for painting her likeness—especially unlike other traditional and modest portraits.

  Maybe I’ve gone mad.

  As if Finn read my mind, he shook his head. “No, yer in love with her.”

  I remained silent, but it was true. And the friend who knew me best saw right through my attempts to stay consumed with work and professional conversation at the Globe. Most likely, others had seen it too.

  “And what exactly is McKelvey’s plan?” I asked.

  “The paper’s ready for a follow-up story. It’s been nine months since the Rush, and the paper wants to report on what’s happening out West. The country is changing before our eyes, and that event had plenty to do with it. I believe his exact words were, he wants you to ‘paint the changing landscape.’” Finn swirled my brush in the air. “Plus, he probably wants another one of your paintings to keep his wife happy.”

  “I don’t know about his wife, but true enough, the city readers were fascinated with the lives of those people—two different worlds within one country.” I tried to remain calm, but the idea of seeing Mary again sent a surge of excitement through me that couldn’t be ignored. “But what about you? We’re a team, remember?”

  “Sure we be. But he’s having me stay and cover the Pullman strikes. George Hardy’s assigned to go with you this time.”

  “Hardy? He’s not as good as you.”

  “Aye, good point.” Finn pointed his finger at me. “But things are heating up, and the Feds in Washington aren’t too happy about what the workers are threatening. Word is, well over a hundred thousand rail and factory workers are refusing to make or even maintain the passenger cars. Could bring the nation’s rail system to a halt. Imagine that.”

  “Maybe old man Pullman should have cut the worker’s rental rates as much as he cut their salaries.” Without thinking, I had taken my travel bag from behind the easel and began stuffing it with brushes and
paint. “Like you said, the country is changing.”

  “Indeed. Besides, Elizabeth doesn’t want to wait much longer, and we’re planning for a late-summer wedding. It’s her favorite season.”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” I gave him a soft punch on the arm.

  Finn winked. “I’ll find out soon enough.” He positioned his hat and started for the door. “You’d better talk with McKelvey soon before he changes his mind. And I’m planning on you to be the best man. Best if yer back before the wedding.”

  “I’m honored.” I offered a theatrical bow before closing the door.

  A ray of sunshine invited itself through the window and bathed the unfinished painting. You are enchanting, Mary Roberts. I breathed deeply and played her through my memory one more time. I think of you often.

  I hope you think of me as well.

  CHAPTER 35

  Mary ~ Confrontation, May 10, 1894

  My decision to march straight to the Cooley ranch first thing in the morning hadn’t changed when I awoke. When Wesley refused to eat his breakfast and hardly talked to me, my resolve to meet senior Mr. Cooley and let him have a piece of my mind intensified.

  How did I end up the bad guy in all of this?

  “I’ll be back shortly, and you need to do your schoolwork while I’m gone.” My hair was secured into a low knot. No time to fuss with my appearance with urgent business to attend to. I considered riding Jim but decided the walk would let me gather my thoughts about what to say to the mysterious and powerful man. How dare he think he could tell me what to do after all the trouble his family has caused. And to think he’s never had the nerve to talk to me himself.

  Halfway across our field and heading for the rise, Wesley caught up.

  “I told you to stay home. This is important business that is not yours, young man.”

  He lifted a folded piece of paper, unevenly creased several times. “Give this to Anna, please.”

  I bent down and looked him in the eye. “It’s obvious why you’re angry. You want her welcome at our house.” Anna’s sweet face flashed across my mind. “That’s my wish too if circumstances were different. But her family can’t …”

  Wesley looked like he was about to cry.

  “I can’t expect you to understand, but you have to trust that this is the best thing for us. Maybe for her as well. Something’s not right that she won’t even talk. How am I supposed to teach her if she won’t make a sound?”

  His lips trembled. “But she’s my best friend. She doesn’t have to talk. I know what she’s thinking.” He kicked the dirt. “Now she won’t have a friend at all because of you.”

  “Wesley Roberts, that is not—”

  “It’s not fair, and you’re mean!” He turned and ran back to the house.

  Like brittle tumbleweed, I felt lifeless in the middle of the field, stunned and at a loss from Wesley’s words. Was I really that awful? No, Stanley Cooley was to blame for all of this. My intentions were to settle here and be a good neighbor.

  My hands trembled as I unfolded the paper and read his note. Now my heart ached even more. Wesley had written in his best penmanship and spelling for a young boy.

  Dear Ana. I like your name. I hope you

  come back soon becuz your my best frend.

  I like how you draw picshurs to.

  Your frend Wesley

  Underneath the words, he included two faces, side by side. Both wore frowns and dots of pencil marks fell from the eyes.

  My pace quickened. The sooner I told this man how I felt about his family, the better.

  *****

  Over the past few months, I intentionally hadn’t traveled north onto the Cooley property. The town sites were situated in the opposite direction, and the Andersons’ claim bordered mine to the east. Besides, it was best to keep my distance from their land. No sense in aggravating the situation even more.

  As I followed the same stream that ran through my property—only a trickle a month ago but now a width that would be a stretch for me to jump across—I was taken aback by the house in the distance.

  Thomas had mentioned the Cooley home was more than any other in the area, but my imagination could never have conceived the extent of it. A wood-sided two-story house perched like a queen in the middle of an open field, white with green trim detailed around several windows. On one end, a limestone chimney rose into the sky like a scepter. Behind the house, a line of cottonwoods painted a lovely backdrop.

  To the west of the house, a barn loomed over a zigzag of pens and corrals, dotted with at least a hundred head of cattle. How the Cooleys built all of this since last fall proved they were undoubtedly an established, wealthy family. Behind the barn, a towering windmill spun in the breeze.

  I had seen one of these contraptions through the train window upon my return from Missouri. An Aeromotor windmill was what another passenger informed me—powerful enough to pump water from a creek, or even a well if the Cooleys were lucky enough to drill down and strike precious water.

  That’s probably why they wanted my claim. The river widened even more on my property, providing a decent underground supply of water. Even though I’d welcome the shade and protection from their grove of trees, my property captured more wind power than theirs. Besides the rise behind my soddy, there wasn’t much of anything to stop the constant gusts.

  Still, their plot was more than sufficient, causing me to suspect our conflict had more to do with me being a woman than the actual site. Perhaps they wanted to bully me off my property so they’d have double the land. Many homesteaders had already expanded their acreage as neighboring claimants sold out for a decent profit—often deciding the reality of prairie life was none too glamorous and more difficult than they had imagined.

  With chin raised, my feet followed the carved path leading to the house. Two rocking chairs paralleled one another on the front porch. The porch spanned the length of the house and wrapped around the eastern corner. A large wooden door, adorned with an iron horseshoe knocker, made me feel small.

  Retreating down the steps and forgetting the entire conversation was a welcome option. I summoned my courage and lifted the knocker.

  After a minute, I tried the knocker again. When no one opened the door, I stepped behind the chairs and looked in the window.

  “What do ya think you’re doing nosing around here?”

  The gruff voice made me jump, sending me stumbling into one of the chairs. It lunged back and forth before my outstretched hand tried to stop its motion.

  “Don’t touch it!” A light-haired man with flecks of gray at his temples gripped the arm of the chair and brought it to a stop as if it were a spooked colt. He muttered something to himself and then turned to me with a scowl. The man was no taller than me.

  “I’m … I’m sorry. You surprised me. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t surprise me. Been watching you all the way up the road.” He took a kerchief from his back pocket and wiped his nose. “Figured you’d show up someday.”

  “Really?” I studied his light-blue eyes that contrasted with tan skin that wrinkled near his eyes and across his forehead. “Why is that?”

  “My boys said you’re a tough one. Not easy to break, like a wild horse.” He squinted his left eye as if trying to confirm their description of me.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” I extended my hand. “Mary Roberts. Stanley Cooley, I presume.” My mind had pictured him much taller, older, and intimidating.

  He ignored my hand, only to nod and then stuff his kerchief in his pocket before heading toward the front door. There was no formal invitation, but my gut said to follow him.

  Surprisingly, the inside of the house was stark and silent. The walls were blank and the wooden floors bare. A wall hook held a limp coat, and a pair of boots sat underneath. It in no way resembled a home where four people resided.

  In the room to the left, a small sofa faced an unused fireplace. An empty, rough-hewn ma
ntel perched above it. There was no evidence of any family photos or decorations—unusual for the exterior grandeur of the house. Maybe it was the absence of his wife, Anna’s mother. With her loss, a void had taken up residence.

  On the other side of the entryway, a door remained closed. Up the staircase, I assumed there were bedrooms.

  I followed him through the living room—a contradiction of terms—and into the kitchen. Not quite as lifeless as the other room, it had a round table with four chairs, a butcher block, and an overhead rack with a few pots and a large skillet. An icebox huddled in the corner, and wooden crates filled with food staples were stacked along the wall.

  “Anna has been practicing her lessons.” I pointed to the neat pile of papers and an elementary primer book on the table.

  “She has.” He pulled a glass from the cupboard. “Thirsty?”

  I gave a curt nod, admittedly parched from the walk but wanting to remain completely capable and self-sufficient. “About your daughter. She’s a dear little girl, and my son has become quite fond of her. However, I—”

  “I expect you to keep teaching her.” His response was abrupt, void of any desire for discussion regarding the matter.

  “Excuse me?” My emotions refused to stay in check. “I don’t owe you anything. In fact, it’s the other way around. It’s you and those boys of yours who owe me an apology. And quite frankly, restitution for all the hardship you’ve caused.”

  My hands automatically flew to my hips as my anger built. “First, you accuse me of being a Sooner, of all things, then threaten to send the law after me. Then your cattle destroyed almost everything I owned.”

  “Big clumsy animals. They got away from the men that day. Have a mind of their own sometimes.” His tone softened, and as if it were another casual conversation, he settled into a chair and gestured for me to pull out another one and join him at the table.

  Refusing to sit, I paced back and forth and continued to speak my mind. “Cows wouldn’t know how to shoot a bullet through my water barrel.”