The babies began to scream in earnest, and at an ever-rising pitch. The tiny blue veins showed at their temples, and their round faces were bright red. Desperately Jessica grabbed up one furious niece in each arm and bounced them fitfully on her hips. “Hush, now,” she pleaded, as though they were amenable to reason. “Hush.”
Alma appeared at last in the doorway, just cinching the belt of her wrapper. “What a ruckus,” she said with a pleased smile.
“What do they want?” Jessica asked reasonably.
Alma shook her head a couple of times, with an accompanying tsk-tsk sound, then came briskly over and commandeered one of the infants. “Why, they’re hungry, the little rascals, and no doubt you could wring out their knickers like a dishrag.”
Jessica only grew more unnerved. She had changed diapers before—yesterday, as a matter of fact—but she was temporarily stymied by the intricacies of feeding these small and wretchedly unhappy creatures.
“There’s a bit of milk left,” Alma said. “I’ve got it in a crock outside the kitchen window, but you can be sure it won’t be enough to satisfy Mary Catherine and Eleanor. They have hearty appetites, little pioneers that they are.”
Hearty lungs, too, Jessica thought, with a mixture of frustration and pride. Helplessly, she bounced the remaining twin—whoever it was—in a vain effort to lend comfort. “What are we going to do?”
“I,” said Alma, “am going to put dry diapers on these babies and then give them what’s left of the milk. You, meanwhile, had better get yourself dressed and see if you can’t borrow a bucketful from the McCaffreys. They keep a cow, you know, since they have to feed all those people who pass through on the stage.”
Jessica laid the infant on the bed—as far as she could tell, neither of the twins had taken a breath since they’d commenced to raising the roof—and groped her way somewhat awkwardly into yesterday’s clothes. She had not as yet had a chance to unpack her trunks, let alone launder her well-worn travel garments. “Borrow from the McCaffreys? I was sure I saw a general store—”
Alma sniffed. “You did, but That Woman who runs the place is no better than she should be, if you know what I mean. Essie Farham says That Woman’s set her cap for Essie’s own husband.”
Jessica sighed. She meant to reserve judgment where That Woman was concerned, since she’d almost certainly been accused of such indiscretions herself after she fled the Covington house in disgrace, and wrongfully so.
For the moment, however, it seemed easier to comply with Alma’s wishes and approach the McCaffreys for help. Michael had said, many times, that God never put a kinder pair of souls on this earth than those two.
Matters at hand were far too pressing to allow for further reflection. Hastily Jessica pinned up her hair, splashed her face with water cold enough to sting, donned her blue woolen cloak, and went out, making her way cautiously down the ice-covered stairs to the sidewalk.
The snow had stopped, and the sun was shining brightly, but the wind was bitterly cold and it was hard going, trudging through the drifts that hid the road from view.
Jessica paused, looking one way and then the other. The Springwater station, if she remembered correctly, was beyond the Brimstone Saloon and the doctor’s office, at the far end of the road. She had arrived there by coach—could it have been just the day before?—but so much had happened since then. She’d expected to be greeted by Michael, ail too recently widowed; instead, she’d been met by one Jacob McCaffrey, who had told her quietly that her brother was gone, that they’d buried him just a week before, beside his young wife.
She supposed she’d gone into a state of shock then—she didn’t remember being escorted to the humble quarters over the Gazette, where Alma had been doing her best to care for two orphaned infants who seemed somehow to know that they’d been left behind.
Like Michael and I, she thought, as she marched through the deep snow. She didn’t often think about her childhood, but the memories had a tendency to creep in when her guard was down. She didn’t remember her mother or her father—she’d been so young when they died—but on rainy days, when they were both small, Michael had told her long and complicated stories about them. Even then she’d known they were mostly made up, those tales, but they’d been a great comfort all the same.
Samuel Barnes, their uncle and guardian, had run a small newspaper, and he’d expected Michael to follow in his footsteps and take over the business when the time came. Instead, Michael had decided to head west, and a breach had opened between the two men that was never to be mended. Uncle Samuel had died of a heart ailment only a month after Michael’s departure.
Jessica peered through the snowy dazzle; best she keep her mind on fetching milk for the twins. The station was in sight now, and even though the sun was shining fit to blind a person, there were still lamps glowing in some of the windows.
Jessica was careful not to glance toward the churchyard and Michael’s grave. In the frigid, bluegold light of that mid-January moment, the loss seemed even greater than the day before, when she’d stood beside his marker, the pain even more ferocious.
She lifted her chin, and each breath she drew burned her nostrils, throat, and lungs like an inhalation of dry fire. She would not give up the babies, no matter what—but perhaps she had been too quick to turn down Mr. Calloway’s offer to buy the newspaper. With the proceeds of the sale, she could have set up a modest household, telling people she was a widow, and would have made a proper home for the children.
Jessica sighed. If she’d had only herself to think about, she would have gone to Denver or San Francisco and found herself another position as a companion, for she was well-qualified and had a fine letter of recommendation from the late Mrs. Covington, despite the problems with that woman’s son. Finding work with infant twins in tow, however, was quite another matter.
She’d learned, to her sorrow, that people often favored gossip over truth, and even if she’d been able to find employers who would accept the babies, too, there would inevitably be speculation, whatever her story. Better just to stay in Springwater, where folks knew what had happened, and might be expected to look kindly on a young woman trying to keep what remained of her family together.
Before she’d reached the steps of the station’s narrow porch, the door swung open and a smiling woman appeared in the chasm. The scents of fresh coffee, bacon, and burning firewood waited out to beckon Jessica inside, and her stomach rumbled audibly.
“You must be June-bug,” she said, attempting to respond with a smile that kept slipping off her lips.
“I am at that,” June-bug replied. “And you would be Miss Jessica Barnes of St. Louis, Missouri. Come on in and set a spell. I could do with a good visit. Rachel’s so busy these days, with all those young’uns, and Savannah helps her husband most days. He’s the doc, you know. Miranda lives way out of town, and so does Evangeline, and I get right lonesome for female company.”
Jessica longed to accept the invitation, and she was eager to hear more about each of the women Mrs. McCaffrey had mentioned, but she had her hungry nieces to think about. Indeed, she’d have little time for visiting, most likely, between them and the newspaper, before the twins grew up and got married.
“I’ve come to buy milk,” she blurted. “The babies are screaming like banshees.”
That announcement was enough to set all the wheels and cogs of Springwater station in motion. Toby and Jacob, June-bug informed her, had ridden out to meet the stagecoach, since it was overdue, and she had her hands full with the baking, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t help a neighbor, no sir.
Before she knew precisely what had happened, Jessica found herself leading a borrowed cow down the middle of Center Street.
Alma stood pop-eyed on the wooden sidewalk while the babies’ wails of discontent spilled down the stairs like stones toppled from a bucket. “Why,” she gasped, as fresh snowflakes began to fall, “it’s a cow.”
Jessica gazed forlornly back at the beast, which
was now bawling as piteously as the babies. Between that and those unceasing shrieks from upstairs, Jessica was hard put to keep from dropping the lead rope and pressing both hands to her ears. Instead, she squared her shoulders and asked, “Have you any idea how to milk this creature?”
Alma’s mouth twitched—she was a rancher’s wife, after all—but she laid one hand to her bosom in the profoundest alarm. “My, no!” she cried, and even though Jessica knew it was a lie, there wasn’t much she could do. Alma was, in fact, gazing past Jessica and the cow, toward the telegraph office across the street.
“Well,” replied Jessica, after a distracted glance in that direction, in which she glimpsed a shadow at the window, “we’d best reason it out, hadn’t we?” She walked around the animal’s steaming, twitching bulk. “Do fetch me a bucket,” she said, in a tone that sounded as decisive as it was false. “And then go inside and shut the door before those poor children catch their deaths!” She was sorry for this thoughtless reference the moment she’d uttered it; certainly, death was not a subject to be spoken of lightly.
Alma nodded resolutely, and hurried back inside. Shortly she appeared with the bucket that had contained their drinking water.
Jessica thanked her without conviction, holding the empty pail in both arms while she pondered the bovine dilemma. She heard the door close behind Alma, heard through it the continuing angry complaints of the twins. She did not notice that she had drawn an audience—early revelers from the saloon—until she’d seated herself somewhat awkwardly on the high edge of the sidewalk and set the bucket beneath the cow’s swollen udder.
Tentatively she reached out, gripped a wrinkled teat, and just as quickly withdrew. This raised raucous howls of delight from the seedy spectators.
Jessica stood up, hands resting on her hips, and glowered at the men over the cow’s shuddering back. “If there was a gentleman among you,” she said forcefully, “he would offer to help!”
“We herd cows, ma’am,” one of the wasters called back. “We don’t milk ’em.” Another round of merriment followed, as though the man had said something uproariously funny.
“Idiots,” Jessica murmured.
It was then that the door of the telegraph office opened behind the little crowd of drovers, and Mr. Calloway pushed his way through, albeit good-naturedly. He was dressed in a most dapper fashion, considering that this was early morning in a frontier town, and he grinned at Jessica just as if they’d gotten off to an auspicious beginning. Tugging at the brim of his fancy black hat, he crossed the road to face her over the broad expanse of the McCaffrey milk cow. “Allow me, ma’am,” he said, and came around to take up Jessica’s former seat on the plank walkway.
“Thank you,” Jessica said, though stiffly. She wasn’t sure what to make of Mr. Calloway and his admittedly chivalrous gesture, not after all Michael had written about him, both in his letters and in the Gazette. She did not often revise her opinions once they were set, but in the case of this man it seemed an exception might be called for—however temporary it might be.
The milk began to squirt noisily into the bucket, foaming and warmly fragrant, and Jessica wanted to weep, she was so relieved. She merely sniffled, as it happened, watching the milking process carefully for future reference. The cowboys, evidently bored, mounted their horses and rode off, spoiling the pristine ribbon of snow that was Center Street.
All around, the town began to come to life—the general store was opened for business, and the bell in the tower of the little brick schoolhouse—a recent addition to the town, according to Michael’s letters—began to chime. A wagon made its way past, driven by a smiling man with his collar pulled up around his neck. The woman at his side smiled, too, and waved as the rig paused. Two gangly, red-haired boys, tall as men, leaped out of the wagon bed and immediately began pelting each other with hastily constructed snowballs.
“Mornin’, Gage,” the man called affably, showing no apparent surprise to see his friend milking a cow in the center of town. He ignored the boys, clearly used to their rough-and-tumble ways.
“Landry,” Gage called back in greeting, as the other man got down and lifted a smaller boy from the seat. Until then, the child had been hidden between the two adults. He was a chubby little bundle, with red cheeks and fair curly hair peeking out from beneath his stocking cap. “Hello, Miranda. That you, Isaiah? Lord, you’ve gotten so big, I hardly recognized you.”
The child beamed in response to Gage’s remark. Isaiah. Such a big name, Jessica thought fondly, for such a little boy.
The woman waved, but her gaze was fixed on Jessica now, betraying an intense but not unfriendly curiosity. Miranda. Hadn’t June-bug mentioned her, just that morning, when she had gone to the station for milk?
Still broken inside over the loss of her brother, but equally determined not to make a public display of her sorrow, Jessica summoned up what she hoped was a polite expression and waggled the fingers of her right hand in reply to the other woman’s greeting.
Miranda’s husband hiked Isaiah up onto his sturdy shoulders with an exaggerated grunt of effort, and started toward the school, whistling happily. Miranda turned on the seat and Jessica saw that she was not only holding a blanketed bundle that must surely have contained a small child, she was hugely pregnant, as well.
Jessica felt a deep and fearfully elemental stirring inside, sudden and sharp-edged, and realized with a start that it was simple envy. Why this should be she could not fathom—she had two infant nieces to raise, albeit without the help of a husband, and no need of more responsibility. And yet, for the first time in a long while, she let herself feel the old longing for a home, a mate, a family of her own.
Watching Mr. Covington in action had caused her to vow never to leave herself open to the sort of pain and humiliation so many women suffered at the hands of their men, but seeing such happiness as Landry and Miranda enjoyed made her want to start over, with all new thoughts and beliefs and attitudes.
“We are really sorry about Michael and Victoria,” Miranda said, holding the bundle close against her and draping the edge of her cloak over it. “They were nice folks.”
Jessica’s gaze strayed involuntarily in the direction of the churchyard, where Michael and his pretty bride were buried, side by side, beneath rocks and dirt and drifts of glittering snow. “Thank you,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she’d spoken loudly enough for Miranda to hear.
Gage went on milking, humming happily to himself, his hat pushed to the back of his head. The milk made sweet steam in the cold, crisp air.
Chattering children began to converge on the schoolhouse from every direction—the big house down the road, just across the way from the stagecoach station, the row of more modest places beyond the church, the surrounding countryside. The man Gage called Landry—whether that was his first name or his last Jessica could not guess—came out of the school without the little boy and crossed the street to slap the McCaffrey cow affectionately on one flank. Up close, Jessica could see that he was very good-looking, with a mischievous curve to his mouth. His hazel eyes sobered, though, as he regarded her.
“That was a shame, your brother and sister-in-law passing on the way they did. We’re real sorry, and if there’s anything you need, you just speak up. Folks around Springwater surely do like to be helpful whenever they can.”
“Thank you,” Jessica murmured, head bowed.
Gage had finished his task at last; he rose and handed the bucket to Jessica. She hoped he could see her gratitude in her eyes, for she was incapable of speaking. Her losses were still so fresh that any reference to them threatened her composure. She did, however, manage a nod.
Mr. Calloway spoke with a gentleness that was quite nearly her undoing. “I’ll see that Tilly here gets back to her stall down at the station. You’d best tend to those hungry babies.”
Jessica nodded again and fled.
CHAPTER
3
CLASPING THE BUCKET handle with the bare and cold-stiffe
ned fingers of both hands, Jessica turned and hurried toward the relative solace of the upstairs apartments. The babies, all cried out, had settled into sorrowful hiccups, while Alma sat in the chair by the window, rocking them both with a sort of wry desperation. “I gave them what milk there was, and they howled for more,” she said.
“Here,” Jessica said, indicating the heavy bucket she carried. “We can give them all they want.”
When the milk had been strained through a clean dishtowel—it barely required heating, being still warm from the cow—Jessica refilled the two glass bottles and settled down to feeding Mary Catherine, while Alma did the same with little Eleanor.
Or was it the other way around? No matter. Jessica’s life as a mother had well and truly begun, and while she was overwhelmed, the fact was not without its compensations. As she held that baby, a certain special warmth stole into her heart and set up residence forever; in that odd, transcendent instant, both children became her own, as surely as if she’d carried them in her womb.
She began to weep, making no sound at all, and Alma, without a word, laid little Eleanor, bottle and all, in the crook of Jessica’s right arm, that she might hold them both. From that moment on, there was never any question: Jessica would do virtually anything for those babies.
*
Jacob extended one time-and work-gnarled hand to accept the lead rope when Gage brought home the cow. A grin flickered in the old man’s dark eyes. “I hear you’ve taken to doin’ the milkin’ of a mornin’, Gage,” he said in his unmistakable baritone. “I reckon June-bug should’ve figured Miss Barnes didn’t know how to manage a chore like that and sent Trey or somebody on over there. Toby and I went out to meet the stage.”
Gage chuckled and rubbed his chin—his beard was coming in and he’d forgotten to shave that morning, for thinking about Jessica Barnes and what ought to be done about her. He’d watched her slowly trudging down the road toward the station, and seen her return soon after leading the cow. He’d enjoyed watching her futile efforts for a while, but in the end simple chivalry—not to mention the fact that he could hear those children hollering with hunger from all the way across the street—had forced him to go out and help. “You suppose she knows any more about running a newspaper than she does about milking a cow?”
Springwater Seasons Page 36