by Mercy Levy
“I got the milk, Laurel. I’ll bring in some more wood, too.” He tucked the rolled papers into his breast pocket and headed toward the door.
“Papa, you’ve worked hard all day. Have yourself a seat and I’ll take care of the milking.” Laurel’s voice was cheerful, but her father had seen the hurt and betrayal in her eyes as soon as she’d come down the ladder from the loft.
“No, Laurel, you have a seat. Most days I think you work harder than anyone. I thought by now you’d have some help, but your sister hasn’t picked up much in the way of homemaking skills.” He shook his head at Laurel, whose mouth had fallen open in surprise. “I can’t imagine how she’s going to be a proper wife to anyone, not knowing the first thing about how to care for a family.”
Laurel shut her mouth and stirred the stew, pleased with the fragrance of carrots and beets mixed with the beef. She’d haggled Mr. Brown into a low price for the stew beef that could only be explained by the shy, furtive glances he’d cast towards the window and Priscilla who’d been waiting outside. The meat was tough and fibrous, but through hours of slow cooking she’d coaxed a flavorful, tender stew out of it.
She set the table and put the corn bread in the oven. Honey and fresh cream were set to one side, in case Priscilla decided that she couldn’t eat ‘poor’ food and refused the stew. Personally, Laurel would be happy to see the spoiled child starve, but the racket she put up was too much for even her to bear, and she’d learned to just give in. Sometimes Laurel wished her father would just give in to her and let her have the art supplies she so dearly craved, or the better cuts of meat to feed to her family. But, it all went to the ravenous appetite of Priscilla Callahan, and Laurel was left cleaning up the mess her sister left behind.
“Where are you today, Laurel?” asked Priscilla as she sashayed into the kitchen, still wearing the party dress.
“Real life, Prissy, where people take off fancy clothes for special occasions before they ruin them. I don’t care how much you scream, or how red your face gets, there’s no money left for another one if you ruin what you’re wearing before the church social. Now go get changed.”
“Well, what on earth are you trying to feed me, if I have to worry about getting it on me?” Priscilla pouted and sat down, flouncing her skirt around her. “Why can’t you just stop being jealous for once and be happy for me?”
Laurel turned to face her sister with tears in her eyes.
“Why can’t you be more like Momma, and care about Daddy and me?” She asked. Priscilla’s face blanched, and Laurel turned back to the stew without another word. When she looked back to the table, Priscilla was gone. Just as well, Laurel thought to herself. The less time she spent in the kitchen, the less chance that darn dress would get dirty. She sniffled back her unshed tears and tidied up the dishes she could so that after they ate, she might have time to disappear into the woods and remember a time when her heart wasn’t so heavy, and her burdens seemed light.
2.
If there was anyone in town that wasn’t at the church picnic, Laurel couldn’t tell. Even Mr. Baxter, the bartender, had put up a sign directing any customers to Parker’s field to attend the spring social. Clinton was a tightknit community. Every spring and every autumn, the citizens of Clinton and any visitors they might have, gathered together for potluck dinners, dancing, and children’s games. Laurel shook the crumbs of a fresh baked cookie off her skirt and asked her father if she might go for a walk without him.
“I think I’ll just go pay Jacob Baxter a visit while you go off with your friends.”
Laurel arched and eyebrow at him.
“Just make sure there’s something left in the flask when we go, Papa. Priscilla will be useless, and I don’t want to have to carry you home by myself.”
His eyes widened in shock, then he threw his head back in laughter as she flashed him a quick grin. He watched his lovely daughter walk off toward the quiet of the woods that ran along the edge of the Parkers’ stream.
She was so much like him, and he couldn’t seem to stop failing her. Even her walk, so confident, sure that her foot would always land on solid ground, was like his. He longed to protect her from the world, but she’d already experienced the worst it had to offer her. Laurel should have been in her own home, cooking meals for her husband and caring for her children.
But, when her fiancé, Tom Dunn, had fallen from his spooked horse and bled internally until he died from his injuries, her plans had abruptly ended. He knew she felt that he loved Priscilla more, but in truth, Laurel would always be his favorite, so much stronger and more genuine than her pretty little sister. He could see that everything he’d given Priscilla out of shame for not loving her as much, had only made her sister’s life more difficult.
Oh, Maura, if only you had been here to temper my judgments and raise the girls to both be their best, he thought to himself. He had talked to Maura many times since she’d passed, and always gotten comfort, but never the direction he’d needed to be a good only parent to two girls who were so different.
Laurel was barely visible in the distance, visiting the site where Tom’s shifty bay stallion had been startled by the O’Connor boys and thrown his rider. Mr. Callahan knew that at every chance, she went back to that spot; the place where love and a happy future had slipped away with the life blood of her beloved.
The sound of high pitched squeals turned his head, and Callahan watched as his younger daughter made a spectacle of herself in front of the entire picnic, running like a child away from Duke Haslam, as he chased after her with a predatory grin. His jaw set, the patriarch of the family strode toward the group of young adults who were disrupting the church social with their antics.
“Duke Haslam! I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you and your ilk best move along before you trample the picnic,” he called out in his gravelly bass.
Duke sneered at him and the young men with him snickered from their places behind the ringleader.
“Oh, calm down, Cole, we’re just having fun. That’s what a picnic is for, isn’t it?”
Callahan’s face darkened and he closed the distance between himself and the lanky cowpoke.
“To you, Son, I’m Mr. Callahan. You best remember that. I’m fairly certain the good church-going folk here would like to eat their potluck without your big boots trampling through here like the cows you punch for a living.”
“Papa, you’re embarrassing me!” Cried Priscilla shrilly. “Leave them alone. Just because you don’t remember how to have fun, doesn’t mean nobody else should.” She stomped her foot and put her hands on her hips. “Maybe you should go find Laurel, so you can be sad and lonely together. The rest of us want to have a good time.”
He turned to his daughter and she tilted her chin up, braver in the company she was keeping than she would’ve been alone.
“Well, I guess it’s a real disappointment then, for everyone you were helping to have so much fun,” he said, and his tone made her confidence waver and slid the smug sneer from her face. “It’s time to go, Priscilla. Say goodbye to your friends.” His lip curled at the last. Duke Haslam was nog good, and nothing good came out of anything the ranch hand did.
Priscilla knew better than to argue with her father with the whole congregation looking on. She set her jaw and stormed toward the carriage without looking back, dashing tears from her face with the heels of her hands. Cole looked out toward the trees, but couldn’t see Laurel anymore. He turned to old Mrs. Parker and asked her to let his elder daughter know he’d be back for her, and followed the unrepentant Priscilla to the carriage.
When Laurel had finished paying her respects to Tommy, she returned to the picnic to an uneasy quiet. Her heart leaped into her throat as she glanced around, searching for her father and sister.
“Mr. Parker, have you seen my Pa or my sister? Everyone’s so quiet, did something happen?” Mr. Parker clasped her shoulder and smiled kindly.
“No Miss Callahan, nothing happened to your pa, �
�cept that young Haslam fella. He’s set his sights on your sister, and your pa didn’t take too kindly to his ungentlemanly overtures.”
Laurel groaned and hid her face in her hands.
“I apologize for any embarrassment my family caused the congregation today, Mr. Parker. Is there anything I can do to make things right?”
The grandfatherly farmer chuckled and shook his head. “Now young lady, you know that we are a community, not just a congregation. We know you and your pa mean well, and Miss Priscilla, well, she’ll grow up eventually, it can’t be helped.” Laurel sighed and Mr. Parker laughed again. “Go have some pie. Enjoy the peace and quiet away from your sister for a little while.
Laurel’s eyes widened in shock and Mr. Parker grinned at her.
“Mr. Parker, I would never say anything ill…” she began, but he cut her off.
“Did Mrs. Parker ever tell you about the family I come from?” Laurel shook her head and he nodded. “Six younger brothers, Laurel. Six. I understand the value of being alone sometimes, even in a crowd.” He winked at her and limped away, leaning heavily on his cane.
Seeing him reminded her of what a good man her father really was. He’d take care of their farm, then move along to the Parker’s then the Holloway’s, helping with chores wherever the man of the house was hurt or sick. Mama had done the same, taking care of the families around her, helping to deliver babies, and growing herbs that would heal sicknesses or keep wounds from festering while they healed. Duke was the opposite of what she wanted for her sister, and for her father’s reputation. She veered away from the food tables, where Duke and his gang were hanging out, flirting with girls young enough that it was shameful.
Instead, she turned her feet toward home. As Mr. Parker had said, sometimes being alone was more valuable than anything. If her father remembered to come back for her, it would make her walk shorter. But she already knew if Priscilla had been making a spectacle of herself, they’d probably still be yelling at each other when she got home. She glanced down at her plain brown homespun dress and sighed heavily. “At least I don’t have to worry about this old thing when I’m milking and feeding the cows,” she murmured to herself. “And a good thing I have nowhere else to go, or they’d kill each other,” she added as she turned the bend and home came into view.
Sure enough, the tantrum Prissy was throwing could be heard from down the lane, and as he beat a retreat from his headstrong daughter’s venom, Cole saw Laurel heading toward the safety and relative quiet of the barn. Hanging his head, he made his way out toward the field to bring in the cattle. It seemed no matter what he did, he would always fall short of what Laurel deserved, even though she made him so proud. “Maura, Laurel needs you. Please send her your love and show her a new path, away from here, and to a place to call her own,” he muttered as he swung a thin willow switch behind the spring steers. That was what his gentle artist deserved, a love and a life of her own, away from the shadows of pain and neglect. Somehow, that was what he would find for her.
3.
It had been three weeks since the picnic, and Cole Callahan was in a foul mood, as he sat in front of the general goods store watching young men walk by. He’d vowed to himself to find Laurel a husband, but not a single young man in town was worth any salt. There were still farmers and ranchers he could speak with, but he didn’t want the life he’d raised her in to be her future.
Laurel had once been adventurous and free-spirited. She had loved nothing more than to go to the woods with her paper and pencils and return with pictures of wildlife she’d seen, or fairies she’d imagined out of the books her mother read her.
Prissy was also weighing heavily on his mind. He was certain he’d seen Duke Haslam’s chestnut gelding in the woods near the grain silo, but by the time he’d gotten close enough to investigate, the horse, and presumably, the man, were gone. He was worried that his daughter was putting flattery ahead of loyalty and trust, and he’d had more than one sleepless night worrying that his younger daughter was going to end up with child, but without the husband to go with it.
He laughed as Jacob Baxter dropped a tobacco pouch into his lap and offered him a slug from his personal flask.
“I’m not a beggar yet, Jacob. How goes the hotel?”
“This is a God-fearing town, Cole, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get more requests for women from those cowpokes every day.” The farmer shook his head and took another sip from the flask.
“So, I guess you can’t give me the name of a good, solid man who could marry my Laurel, Jacob?”
The barkeep laughed and wiped the sweat from his forehead with an aged, grey handkerchief.
“Not in this town. We seem to have a shortage of good young men. There’s a couple decent widowers, if you’re willing to lower your standards a little.”
Cole shook his head.
“No thank you, Mr. Baxter. Laurel has had more than her fair share of taking care of another woman’s husband and child, and that was before she was raised herself.”
Jacob nodded sympathetically and stood taller as he had an idea. He walked back into the dry goods store and returned with a pamphlet which he set before Cole.
“There’s always the Matrimonial Times, if the options here stay too slim. I can’t say but I’ve heard that there are a lot of good marriages that come from these letters.”
Cole shuddered, but accepted the folded newsletter with a nod.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Jacob. I feel like I’ve left her too much without my guidance. At least in this, I’d like to say I had a hand.” He held up the pouch and Baxter waved him off.
“No, that’s for you, a thank you for all the hauling you helped me with when my boys were sick. You’re a good man Cole, you should accept the reward sometimes.”
Cole nodded and held up the pouch, the fragrant smoking tobacco making his mouth water.
“Well then, thank you kindly, Jacob. You know I’ll help you any time you need, no payment required. That’s what neighbors are for.”
Jacob tipped his hat and stepped down to the dusty street.
“Don’t be a stranger, Cole. Truth be told, there are a lot more women available for a good man who needs a companion, then there are the young men you seek for your daughters. Maybe it’s time you looked for yourself, give Miss Laurel a break from taking care of you by getting yourself a wife.
The farmer laughed and shook his head as his friend strode back toward the hotel. He glanced down at the Matrimonial Times in his hand and stuffed it into his shirt pocket as he stood to head home. It had been nice to be away from the work of the farm for once, but if he didn’t get back, Laurel would worry, and the least he could do was not add to the reasons his daughter never smiled anymore.
Molly, his nag, was headstrong and lazy, but today she put her hose out and trotted down the familiar road without argument, bypassing even the tempting blooms that grew just off the road. He made it home faster than he expected, and he soon found, sooner than Priscilla had expected.
They were in the woods together, Priscilla and Duke Haslam. He recognized the latter from his tall, lanky build and easy slouch as he held the girl in his arms. Without thinking, he turned the carriage off the road and straight toward the couple. The racket from the rickety carriage bouncing over the uneven ground warned them he was coming, and Duke leaped up into the saddle of his gelding and rode off at a gallop.
“In the carriage, Priscilla, now.” her father intoned with a dark scowl, and she climbed up without a word. He took the carriage back out to the road silently giving thanks that the carriage hadn’t shaken apart on the bumpy tree roots and fallen branches they were bouncing over. The ride back to the farm was a silent one, though mercifully short. The angry farmer parked the buggy next to the barn and set the brake so Molly couldn’t wander off, then jerked his daughter down from the seat and dragged her into the farmhouse by the arm, as she wailed and kicked, trying to escape.
“Enough!” Cole bellowed
as he threw her down on the rug inside. He still had his willow switch in his hand, and he raised his arm above his head to strike the disobedient girl. Laurel had run in from the garden as soon as she saw her father dragging her younger sister across the ground into the house. She bent over her sister and screamed for him to stop as the switch came down, diverted from its course at the last second so that it whistled past her ear.
“What happened?” she asked, turning a pale face up to stare at her father. He’d never struck either of them in her memory, and staring up at his face, twisted as it was with rage, Laurel was afraid of her father for the first time in her life.
He didn’t answer her and lifted his arm above his head again and Laurel stood between him and his target, who was still wailing and screaming on the floor. She reached out and took the switch from him and asked again what her sister had done to deserve the beating.
“She is wanton!” Cole accused, shaking with rage. “She’s sneaking off with that Haslam boy and humiliating her family and her mother’s memory!”
Laurel’s face blanched, but she stepped away from her father and set the thin willow branch on the table.
“Pa, you go on now, go smoke and calm yourself. Let me talk with her before you punish her blindly.” She touched her father’s arm. “Like Mama always said, let the consequence fit the sin.” She bit her lip and watched her father stagger toward the door, the small pouch of tobacco sticking out of his pocket. When he left, she nudged the sobbing girl with the toe of her boot. “Stop Priscilla. No one wants to hear your tantrum right now.”
“How can you say that? He was going to beat me!”