Rush

by Jayme Mansfield

  He grinned beneath his silver-tinged mustache, inviting a solid punch if I were a man. I leaned within inches of his face. “And how dare you nearly kill my son and me in that fire.”

  He sat back and looked as though I had punched him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What fire?”

  “The brushfire that would have burned us alive in the middle of the night had I not known what to do to squelch it.” A lump filled my throat as I willed myself not to scream in anger or pummel him with my fists.

  He pushed away from the table and stood. We locked eyes for a moment, each of us trying to make sense of the other’s words.

  “I’m not responsible for any fire. I’d never do that kind of harm, especially to a child and his mother.” He shook his head as if disgusted with the thought.

  “Your boys already admitted they did it.”

  His eyes widened and the color drained from his face. Without warning, he threw the drinking glass across the kitchen where it hit the wall and shattered into hundreds of tiny shards. “I’m gonna have a piece of those two when they get home.” He laid a firm fist on the table. “We’re a proud family, but not ignorant. And certainly not violent.”

  My heart raced as I backed away, intent on getting far away from this place. It wasn’t worth restating that Anna wasn’t welcome anymore. Who knew how he might react. Wesley’s note was tucked in my pocket. It could easily be torn into tiny pieces and carried away on the wind during my walk back home. But lying to my son when he asked if the note was delivered simply wasn’t an option. The innocence of children. How wonderful for them to see the world through different eyes—at least for a while.

  I pulled the note from my pocket and set it on the table. “It’s for Anna. A note from my son. Promised him it would be delivered.”

  He stared at the paper for a moment and then unfolded it, one crease at a time. It would have been an appropriate time to slip out the front door, but I found myself trapped in the moment—captivated by the sight of a rough and hardened man on the exterior who seemed to be a soft and caring person on the inside. At least that’s what my intuition told me.

  He was silent after he read the note, refolding it along the same lines as though retracing steps through the forest. His shoulders slumped in tandem with the ends of his mustache. I stared at him for a minute, unsure what to say or do. The rage that filled him moments before disappeared like a child’s balloon deflated and lifeless.

  I started for the door when he called out, “Mrs. Roberts. Allow me to show you something.”

  Common sense told me to keep walking, but curiosity made me stop. “I only have a few minutes.”

  “Then come with me.” He started out the back door.

  I hesitated, then followed when he waved for me to join him. We walked across the yard past a small garden and a chicken coop, then into the barn. It was dim inside as my eyes gradually adjusted and made out the line of horse stalls.

  A horse’s whinny rang out at the far end. “Quit complaining, Dusty. Your friends will be back shortly.” He turned to me. “The boys took Anna and rode out to fix fences this morning. Left her little pony behind so they could cover more ground. Should be home before lunchtime.”

  The walls were lined with bridles, saddles, branding irons, and every imaginable ranching tool. A mountain of hay occupied the far end, and the sweet smell of barley filled the air.

  “Good thing Jim hasn’t seen this barn,” I mumbled.

  “Who’s Jim? Thought your boy is Wesley.” Stanley stopped in front of the last stall.

  “Jim’s our mule. Poor thing, he’s been outside all winter.”

  “Jim, huh?” Stanley grinned. “That’s a good name for a mule.” He lifted the latch and swung open the half door.

  Expecting a pony or some other animal to emerge from the stall, I was surprised when Stanley motioned me inside. He pulled back a tarp in the far corner. Underneath was a wooden trunk. A lock dangled from the side.

  “A treasure chest? Wesley’s favorite story is Treasure Island.”

  “It’s a treasure, but not that kind.” He knelt next to the chest and ran his hand along its top. “Haven’t looked in here since I tucked her things away.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife. I lost my husband nearly a year ago.”

  “My condolences.” He spoke softly, maybe from reverence for being near what must have been her personal items. “Wondered why you were here alone with your boy.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “Rushed on your own, did ya?” His eyes widened. “Ain’t that something?”

  I took his question as rhetorical and, perhaps, even as a side-handed compliment.

  He fumbled with the lock and then raised the lid. Neatly folded and spread across the top was what appeared to be a wedding dress. Its white satin and laced sleeves contrasted with the darkness of the stall and the dark wood of the chest. As if it would break with his touch, he gently folded the gown to the side and slid his hand underneath.

  I had no idea what he planned to show me or why he felt it necessary to share such a private part of his life. When he pulled a wooden box and a small, framed painting from the chest, my confusion mounted.

  He sat back on his heels and held the box in his lap. “Flora was an artist.” He flipped opened the lid. Brushes and paints lay side by side like they had been tucked into bed for an eternal slumber. “When the ranch house burned to the ground, I was able to run in and save this box, one painting, and a few of her other precious items. Everything else was consumed by the fire.”

  The thought of a fire destroying an entire home was devastating. “I’m sure she was happy you retrieved some things so special to her.”

  He breathed hard through his nose and took his time answering. “My wife passed away a year before the fire.” His eyes were damp. “This is all I have left of her.” He turned over the frame and showed a painting of a woman sitting in a rocking chair with a child on her lap.

  His reaction when the chair on the porch was knocked ajar now made perfect sense. My fingers ran over the edges of the gilded frame as my eyes studied the faces, probably painted from a photograph. Both Flora and Anna had dark hair. Anna’s hair tumbled around her face with the unmistakable curls that caught my attention when she first hid in our field. Flora’s hair must have been the same when she released it from the fashionable twist at bedtime—reserved only for her husband’s eyes.

  Mother and daughter were smiling—unusual for photographs of the day. I understood why she chose to paint them happy, content as they held one another.

  “Anna hasn’t spoken since her mother died.” He took the painting from my hands and returned it to the chest. The wooden box followed and then the dress, spread evenly across the top. He closed the lid and secured the lock.

  “Why did you show me those things?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose as if pushing back painful memories, and I wondered if he knew the reason. “Because I need to get my Anna back.”

  “But—”

  “She trusts you and, especially, your boy.”

  “Mr. Cooley, I’m sorry for what’s happened but I don’t see—”

  “You have to let her attend your school. She’s smart as a whip. Comes home each time and practices everything you’ve taught her. There’s a spark in her again.” He stood and brushed the dirt from his pants. “For the longest time, she wouldn’t leave my side. The two of us holed up in the house. Needed to be miserable together, I suppose. At least that way, we’d have each other.”

  We walked into the sunlight and both shielded our eyes. “But once she started sneaking off to your property, the boys and I knew something was changing for her. It’s been hard to let her go on her own, but we agreed we had to let her do this.”

  “But why all the trouble? Your boys haven’t exactly been gentlemen.”

  He ran calloused fingers through his ruffled hair, and it was easy to see where Nate got his likeness. “There’s no excuse, and I take
the blame for most of it. Been hard on the boys not to have me be the father they once knew. They’re good young men, although they’re in a heap of trouble for setting that fire.” He extended his hand. “I promise my family will make it up to you somehow.”

  I wasn’t ready to let the Cooley family off so easily and hesitated shaking his hand. But now the situation involved a child—one who desperately needed to be loved and accepted.

  “How can I teach her if she won’t speak?” As soon as the question left my lips, shame flowed through me. Anna was still learning—in her own way.

  Stanley only smiled—that knowing smile of his that I would soon come to appreciate—and walked back toward the house.

  CHAPTER 36

  Mary ~ Calm, June 1, 1894

  Late spring showers bathed the land. Once-barren fields were painted with far-reaching blankets of yellow coneflowers and black-eyed Susan, brilliant orange butterfly milkweed, and purple prairie clover. I pinched a pink blossom of horse mint and breathed the aroma.

  Even though our school gatherings would end as soon as summer began, the children pleaded to continue story time.

  “When your chores are finished,” I said, trying to keep a serious face, “and your parents give you permission, you are more than welcome here.”

  “I want to hear Heidi again,” Emily said. “She’s my favorite.”

  “Me too, dear.”

  Luke’s face told me he would rather read another boy’s adventure.

  “Next trip to town, I’ll ask about other books. Ours are excellent, but it’s always good to read something new.”

  Though her smiles and nods were more frequent, Anna clung to Wesley like his little shadow. The others developed unique ways of communicating with her. During playtime, Anna was brought into the fold and chosen on a team for Ox in the Ditch, Leap Frog, and Ante Over. It was food for my soul to watch the children play. Abandon and innocence was as much nourishment for their minds and bodies as schooling and supper.

  The children didn’t know they would eventually attend a state school—home during planting and harvesting seasons and in session from May to August, then November to April. Our small and informal school—inside the soddy on cold days and outside on warm—would someday be only a memory of their first years in the territory.

  Selfishly, my heart sank when Thomas informed me the first bond had recently passed, and a school was under construction in Oklahoma City. Like wildflowers bringing the fields to life, a love for teaching and helping the children learn blossomed in me.

  Late one evening, after Wesley was asleep and my thoughts had time to meander, I asked God if this new passion had anything to do with Him. Could there be another purpose hidden in my travels so far from what I once knew? A reason beyond my determination to prove I needed only my independence to provide for myself and my son?

  Have I been running after something … or only running away?

  The rocking chair, my precious gift from William, cradled me outside the door as my eyes gazed at the star-speckled sky. The vastness was captivating. And as though I felt His touch, God held my hand.

  I breathed in deeply and then let the air flow from my lungs, along with the stubbornness, pride, and fears from my past. In the darkness and calm of the night, allowing myself to be still with Him, peace washed over me. It seemed like another lifetime when I was caught in the river searching for Wesley, at first terrified, but then covered in utter tranquility and peacefulness as I totally surrendered.

  Another deep breath brought newfound clarity. The words trust … trust … trust … bathed me like gently lapping water at the river’s edge. If I would trust, He was ready to lead me into His endless world of possibilities.

  “Father …” I whispered into the darkness and realized I had never referred to or thought of God in that way. For some reason, it felt right after all these years. The only father I had ever known was never around enough to make an imprint upon my memory.

  “Please reveal Your plan for me.” Silence hovered until a gentle breeze brushed my hair. But the Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him. The verse played across my mind before more words were spoken into the darkness. “For the first time in my life, more than anything, I trust You.”

  Moonlight caressed my face as I leaned back and rocked. Then my eyes closed to the night sky. In its place, a familiar, yet distant face appeared—one that often visited my dreams both day and night.

  Daniel McKenzie.

  CHAPTER 37

  Mary ~ Restitution, June 20, 1894

  The pounding of hammers awakened me the next morning. Across the grass, some hundred feet away, Nate and Ben hammered in unison on the framework of what looked like a barn.

  “Mama, Jim’s gonna have a house too!” Wesley pulled on his trousers—clearly too short after a winter’s growth spurt—and ran out the door.

  My eyes ached, partly after a poor night’s sleep from mosquitoes buzzing in my ears, but also from worrying about Lucy and Thomas’ baby. Sweet Lila arrived in early May, healthy and pink. But over the last week, she’d been unusually fussy. I planned to head there shortly to see if I could lend a hand with meals and cleaning.

  Gathering my hair into a tight knot and securing the buttons on my shirtwaist felt tedious this morning. At least I didn’t have to wear the fussy and obtrusive leg o’ mutton sleeves sported by some of the wealthier women back home. A brief glance into the small hand mirror confirmed my plain white blouse would suffice in this part of the country.

  Before leaving, I lit the stove and filled a small pot of water. It looked like the Cooley boys had a long day ahead of them. A pot of coffee would do them good. An unexpected giggle escaped my mouth, knowing this job wasn’t their idea.

  “Good morning.” My long strides toward the soon-to-be barn were in sync with the grinding of the saw.

  “Mrs. Roberts.” Ben tipped his hat. “Good morning to you as well.”

  “Ma’am.” Nate wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The day was already proving to be a scorcher. “Sorry we woke y’all so early. Pa said we needed to have this barn done for you in a day.”

  Ben took ten or so long steps, turned to the right, and proceeded the same distance. “Good thing it’s not going to be a big one.” He nodded at Jim, who seemed to be enjoying the activity in the yard. Big ears pricked forward, and pieces of grass poked from his mouth. “Pa said it needs to hold your mule, a cow or two, feed, and supplies.”

  “That’s very generous,” I said. “A lean-to for our mule would be sufficient. As you can see, we don’t have any cows of our own, but we did have several visitors at one point.” I winked at Nate. “Isn’t that right, young man?”

  “Yes, ma’am. If my memory serves me right.” He rubbed his face roughly with the heel of his hand. “Speaking of that—”

  “We also came to formally apologize,” Ben added. “My brother and I accept responsibility for the trouble we’ve caused.” He poked Nate in the arm. “Ain’t that right?”

  Nate mumbled something, and Ben gave him a harder jab.

  “We’re especially sorry for the brushfire.” Nate looked at Wesley, who was practicing hammering nails into a piece of wood. “Honestly, like we told you before, it was an accident. It was my idea to set the fire so you’d smell the smoke and get scared.”

  “We didn’t expect the wind to catch like it did.” Ben shifted his weight from boot to boot as if recalling the dreadful event put him on edge. “We never would have forgiven ourselves if something happened to you and the boy.”

  “Then why didn’t you warn us?” A shiver flew up my spine at the memory of that night.

  Both boys were silent for a few moments until Nate spoke. “We got scared. Pa would’ve whopped us good if he knew what we’d done.”

  Wesley sidled up next to me. “I’m glad your pa didn’t whop you, even though the fire almost scared me and Mama to death.” He scrunched his nose. “But my mama beat th
at fire and smoke right up.”

  “Your ma’s a tough lady,” Nate said, then moved his gaze to mine. “That’s meant in the best way, ma’am.”

  The full-grown bodies, awkward patches of facial hair, and gruff voices of Ben and Nate couldn’t disguise that they were still young, ignorant, and, in some regard, innocent from serious ill intent. There was no sense continuing the battle with the Cooleys. Anna was welcomed in long ago, and she and Wesley were inseparable. Now that she was allowed to ride her pony to our property, her almost daily presence made her part of my own family.

  “I … we accept your apology.” My stern look was a reminder for them to behave. “And I’ll take your comment as a compliment.” My hand extended toward Nate. “And never forget that I’m, as you say, tough. It wouldn’t be wise to cross me.”

  He smiled and shook my hand. Ben did the same before cutting another piece of wood. “By the way, Pa’s having us bring the milking cow tomorrow if that’s all right with you.”

  “Cow? My goodness. He doesn’t need—”

  “That’s the least we can do.” Nate positioned himself behind the saw and set to work.

  At the thought of fresh milk and cream to churn butter, my mouth watered. That’s what good neighbors do. They help each other. With that thought, I remembered the boiling water and quickly ran inside to brew a pot of coffee for the boys.

  Before setting out for the Andersons, I secured the flour sack containing at least a dozen biscuits baked fresh for them last night. A few extras were set aside for the Cooley boys. At the pace they were instructed to work, they’d be starving before lunchtime.

  *****

  At the edge of the trodden pathway leading to Lucy and Thomas’ door, a piercing cry cut through the air. I ran onto the porch, pushing the door open without knocking.

  Lucy held Lila in her arms the best she could. The baby arched her back and screeched, her face contorting and reddening with each wail. With every burst of tears, her little fists tightened and shook.