A Bride for Donnigan

by Janette Oke

  Then Peg’s words returned to her thinking. “You have a pretty face. They’d be right glad to have you sign up.”

  But Peg had not known of her limp.

  Just as quickly, the words of Madam came to mind. “But a pretty face won’t be enough. They’ll turn away when they see her take the first step.”

  It was true—even a frontier man would never accept the likes of her as a “wedded partner.”

  At the end of the long, difficult day, Kathleen made her way home through the gray streets, the gray buildings now enshrouded with gray fog. The gray gutters were almost hidden by the deeper gray shadows. Her shoulders drooped with weariness. Her steps dragged, accenting her limp.

  Undoubtedly the week’s washing was still to be rubbed out on the scrubboard. There was supper to prepare. She did hope that young Bridget had been sent to the shops for meat and vegetables. When the days were damp and chill with fog, the younger girl often refused to go.

  Kathleen loved Bridget in spite of her willfulness. There was no way that she could have withheld her love. The girl looked like their father. Kathleen, he had told her over and over before his untimely death, was the picture of her mother. So Kathleen mothered Bridget, even as Madam spoiled her. Kathleen did so want the young girl to grow up to be a credit to their father. To that end, she pleaded and scolded and fussed at her young half sister, teaching her manners, letters, and sums. For the most part the girls got along well—unless Madam interfered and chided Kathleen for “demanding” too much of one “so young and delicate.”

  Kathleen reached the small cottage and pushed open the heavy iron gate with her shoulder. The gate growled and whined on its rusty hinges.

  “And if Father were here, he would use some oil,” Kathleen said to herself. “It won’t be long until it’ll refuse to budge.”

  A deep sigh escaped her as she moved toward the crumbling concrete step. She dreaded to enter the room and deposit her few small coins on the kitchen table. The house, always dark with gloom since her father had died, represented so much work to be done. She wished that she could just—What? She didn’t really know. All she knew was that she wished she didn’t have to lift the latch and cross the threshold into the dank kitchen chamber, the gloom, and Madam. But enter she must.

  She put her hand on the door latch and dragged her reluctant foot up to the last step.

  With a flurry that was totally unexpected, the door jerked inward out of her grasp. There stood Bridget, hair tossed, cheeks flushed, hands clapping to her breast. “Kathleen!” she shrieked. “You’ll never guess what has just happened! Mama is marrying again!”

  Chapter Two

  Donnigan

  “Whoa.”

  The man shifted slightly to draw back on the reins he held firmly in a large, calloused hand. The big black he was riding immediately responded to the command, though he tossed his head and champed on the bit. The man smiled and reached out his other hand to stroke the wind-swept mane. The horse’s neck was warm and damp with sweat beneath his touch. They had both enjoyed the run.

  He swung one long leg over the horse’s back and stepped down from the saddle. As he moved away, the horse followed, still working on the bit and tossing his head.

  “Don’t be so impatient,” the man said, but the tone was gentle and his voice was low and deep, touched softly with the drawl of the south.

  His eyes swept the fields before him. It was his first crop—and the grain he had planted already stood tall on sturdy stocks. He couldn’t hide the sparkle in his eyes, but the big stallion who rubbed his nose impatiently on his master’s shirt sleeve did not seem to notice.

  “Look at it, Black,” he said to the horse, for he had to speak to someone. “Best crop I’ve ever seen.”

  The black just snorted.

  He stood for several more minutes surveying his fields, then turned back to the horse. “Don’t know why you’re always in such a hurry,” he scolded. “We’ve got all day.”

  But the black blew and lifted his head. As he felt the reins being gathered once again, he tossed his head at this signal that they were about to resume their journey.

  The horse was big, but the man was in direct proportion. He was tall, being six foot two, his shoulders broad, his arms tight with muscles built by hard work on the land. Thick blond hair above a ruddy complexion and a pleasant expression completed the picture.

  He swung up into the saddle easily and lifted the reins. The black jerked around eagerly and sprang to a gallop back across the ridge the moment he felt the touch of heel to his side.

  When they reached the fork in the trail, the man turned the horse eastward instead of toward the building site, and the stallion did not hesitate. He knew every trail of the farm almost as well as his master, and this direction took them to the pastures where cattle and horses fed lazily on plentiful prairie grass.

  They had to stop to open a gate. The horse stomped and snorted his impatience, but the man was slow and deliberate in each movement. “Easy, Black. Easy,” he drawled softly as the large animal tugged on the reins.

  They entered the pastures together, and the man turned back to lift into position the wooden post that supported the gate wires, slipping the loop of wire over the top to fasten it securely. Then he remounted and they were off again.

  By now the sides of the black were shiny with sweat, but the man still had to hold the horse in check.

  The man’s closest neighbor, Wallis Tremont, had once observed, “I think thet horse’d run ’til he dropped.” His voice had conveyed his admiration as he looked at the animal.

  Donnigan smiled now at the thought and had to admit that Wallis likely was right. The black sure did love to run.

  Man and horse crossed a small creek, wound their way up a hill, and topped the crest to look out over a sweeping valley. There beneath them grazed fifty-odd head of prime stock. The sparkle returned to Donnigan’s eyes, and a slow smile turned up the corners of his mouth and crinkled the tanned skin around his eyes.

  “Spring calves sure do look good,” he told the horse.

  The black pawed the ground.

  “I know, I know,” he said with a chuckle. “You want to see the horses.”

  But he did not give the horse permission to move on. Not just yet. He loved to look out at the herd as it grazed peacefully in the valley. He had long dreamed of just such a scene before him. His. Yet even now he could scarcely believe that the dream had actually come true.

  Oh, not all of it. He still had a ways to go. Still had fences to build and buildings to raise. And there were the payments to make. His crops were still in the fields. His herds were not the size he hoped to make them. But the crops looked good. The herds would take care of their own growth. He had good stock. That was what counted. And time would take care of the line of annual payments that stretched out before him. He felt good. Blessed. Happy. He was right where he wanted to be—and still young enough to enjoy many years of being there.

  Donnigan’s body shifted as the big black beneath him pawed the ground again and snorted his annoyance at being kept in check.

  “All right. All right,” said the man, for the first time just a hint of impatience in his voice.

  He lifted the reins and urged the horse forward. “So where do you think they’ll be feeding?”

  The black did not wait for a second invitation. With a toss of his head he headed south, taking the rise in long, powerful strides, the foam on his broad chest flecking the man who sat in the saddle.

  “Easy. Easy,” Donnigan chided gently, his hand slightly tightening the reins.

  They topped the rise, and there they were—three geldings, seven mares, and six foals. At the sound of the approaching hooves all heads lifted and excited whinnies welcomed the black. One mare left the herd and trotted toward them, her head held high, her nostrils distended. Other mares joined her, trotting a few paces, stopping, snorting, tossing heads and swishing tails. The geldings shifted about, seeming uneasy at the appea
rance of the black stallion. Only the younger foals seemed unaffected. They fed or gambolled or chased after dams just as though the big black was not quickly covering the distance between them.

  Donnigan rode right up to the shifting herd. They swirled and bolted around him, and though his demeanor seemed just as relaxed, his eyes were ever alert for the playful kick that could mean a bad bruise or even a broken leg should it strike a rider.

  “Look at that young colt,” he said to his black. “You ought to be plenty proud of him. He looks just like you.”

  The colt was playfully nipping another foal and dancing and kicking in mock battle.

  The black paid no more attention to the colt than to the rest of the milling herd.

  Donnigan studied each of his horses carefully. For the most part he was more than pleased with what he saw, but his eyes did narrow when he saw Sergeant, one of his work geldings, appear to move forward with a very slight limp. He seemed to be favoring his right front leg. Donnigan watched the horse take a few more steps, his eyes squinted against the harsh afternoon sun, and then he lifted his rope from the saddle horn and moved the black into closer proximity.

  With one quick flick of his wrist the rope snaked out and encircled the neck of the surprised roan. He did not fight the noose about his neck, but his head lifted and he snorted his complaint.

  Donnigan moved the black to a hold position and swung down from the saddle.

  “Whoa, boy. Whoa, Sarg,” he soothed as he moved along the rope to the gelding.

  Gently his hands began to rub the nose, caress the neck, and then slide down toward the right front foot. The horse responded by lifting the foot when the hand reached the hoof. Donnigan was relieved at what he found. No serious problem, simply a small stone lodged against the frog.

  Holding the hoof with one hand against his bent knee, he reached into his pants pocket and withdrew his knife. After opening the blade with his teeth, he began to gently nudge the stone from its wedged position, all the while talking soothingly to the horse.

  When the stone was gone, Donnigan ran a practiced finger over the entire area. There seemed to be no damage—no swelling. The horse should be fine.

  Patting the gelding again, he released the leg and slipped the noose from the roan’s neck. The horse did not step back but reached instead to rub his nose against the tall man’s shoulder.

  “Go on with you. Get outta here,” said Donnigan affectionately with another slap on the animal’s neck. “You won’t be needed in the hay field for a few days yet.”

  The roan flung his head and moved slowly away, and Donnigan made his way back to the black, coiling his rope as he moved.

  He replaced the rope on the saddle horn and reached for the reins. His eyes passed over the herd that had gradually stopped its shifting and returned to grazing.

  “See that, Black. They’re ignoring you already,” Donnigan chuckled and rubbed the horse’s nose. Then his eyes lifted to the sky. It was a clear, sunny day. A perfect day for—something. But Donnigan wasn’t sure just what he would do with it.

  It would be another week before the hay was ready. The crops were well on the way but far from harvest. The fences were mended, the barn cleaned and strawed. With plenty of water and feed, the cattle needed no care in the summer months. The horses had just been checked. The roan was now moving about with little trace of his former limp.

  “Guess we aren’t needed here,” he said to the stallion. “Might as well head on home.”

  He gathered up the reins and stepped up into the saddle again. The black shifted and snorted. Donnigan knew that the horse would prefer staying with the herd. But it was almost two miles back to the house, and Donnigan had never enjoyed walking for no good reason. And he certainly had no intention of walking that afternoon in the hot sun with a saddle on his shoulder.

  “Come on,” he urged the black as he laid the rein against his neck to swing him around. “You’ll be with the herd soon enough.”

  Then he added softly as though to himself, “At least you got a herd to go to. Me? I have to content myself with having conversations with critters.”

  And suddenly the joy seemed gone from the day. It was wonderful to have a dream fulfilled—but he sure was lonely.

  By the time Donnigan had reached the farm buildings, the cloud of discontent had settled firmly about him. Not one to be given to brooding, he tried hard to shake the feeling. Surely, he reasoned, when he reached home and looked at the snug frame cabin that was his, the sturdy log buildings that were his barn and outbuildings, the strong, upright fences and corrals that he had spent days laboring over, the mood would leave him.

  But even as he reined Black in before the corral gate and prepared to dismount, he realized he still felt discomfited.

  He wanted to shake himself. To rid himself of his morose thoughts. To chide himself for feeling “down” when he had just surveyed so much that should make him feel “up.”

  “What’s gone wrong?” he said aloud and realized that he was not talking to the black but to himself.

  He had no answer. He just felt—yes, lonely. But surely a man who lived alone had a right to his lonely times. It seemed natural enough.

  But as Donnigan moved to give the stallion his rubdown and return him to the corral, to the trough filled with clear spring water and to the manger filled with sweet hay, his thoughts were not easy to shake.

  He was even more troubled when the black moved away from the water and hay and straight to the corral fence that was the closest he could get to the distant herd. He pushed his large body against the rails and lifted his head in a long, plaintive whinny.

  The lonely call of the stallion seemed to shake Donnigan to his very soul. For a moment he regretted that he hadn’t left the horse in the pasture with the herd and walked home through the heat. It seemed cruel to separate him from his kind.

  In the next moment Donnigan lifted the saddle from the rail where he had placed it, then whistled to the horse. The black swung around, tossing his head and trotting obediently toward Donnigan.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Donnigan warned him gently. “We’re not going back to the herd. But I gotta talk with someone before I go stir crazy. We’re gonna go see Wallis.”

  As expected, the stallion had wanted to take the trail back toward the pasture, but with a gentle nudge on the rein, Donnigan urged him toward the rough tract that was the country road. Black didn’t argue, being too well trained to fight the command. Soon they were loping easily in the direction of the neighbor bachelor’s place.

  Donnigan wondered if they would find Wallis at home, but as they swung down the lane, Donnigan saw the man come to his door and peer out into the bright sun. Then the door swung fully open and Wallis squinted out at them.

  “Tie yer horse and come in,” he invited. “I was just gettin’ myself some grub.”

  It seemed too late for dinner and too early for supper in Donnigan’s thinking, but he only smiled. Wallis was not known to keep another man’s time schedule.

  He tied Black and followed the man into his shack, beating the road dust from his chaps with his Stetson as he walked.

  The one room of the small cabin was in its usual disarray.

  “Pull up a chair,” invited Wallis.

  Donnigan picked up a broken bridle and tossed it on the floor in the corner as he took the chair Wallis indicated.

  “I’ve had my dinner,” Donnigan informed him as he moved toward the stove. “Just a cup of coffee.”

  Wallis lifted a coffee cup from the bit of cupboard and swished a dirty piece of dish towel around its interior. Then he reached for the heavy enamel pot and poured a cup of the black, steamy liquid. Without comment Donnigan accepted the cup and took a sip. It was strong as tar and as hot as shoeing tongs. He put it down on the table and licked his lips to cool them.

  “So what brings you out?” said Wallis around a bite of bread and gravy. “You’re usually too busy fer neighboring in broad daylight.”
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br />   Donnigan smiled. “In between chores,” he said without rancor. “Hay’s not quite ready yet. Thought I might just get a little visit in.”

  Donnigan dared another guarded sip of coffee, looking at Wallis over the cup’s rim. His eyes had taken on a certain knowing glint.

  “Went to town the other day,” Wallis said slowly, as though wanting to check his tongue but unable to keep his news to himself. “Got myself a paper.”

  Donnigan didn’t see anything too extraordinary about that.

  “Had me a talk with Lucas, too.”

  Donnigan knew Lucas well. He was the man who ran the local livery, stagecoach, and hotel. He had done right well for himself, folks said. In fact, he might be one who would become rich in the new West.

  Donnigan sipped the coffee and nodded, waiting for Wallis to go on with his story about Lucas—or the paper—whatever it was that was making Wallis’s eyes take on the shine.

  But Wallis jumped right into the matter, his expression bright.

  “Did ya know thet a man can order hisself a wife?” asked Wallis.

  Donnigan suddenly swallowed more coffee than he had intended. He sucked in air quickly to try to cool his scalded throat.

  “Can what?” he exclaimed in disbelief.

  “Can order a bride,” declared Wallis.

  Donnigan replaced the cup to the table slowly, frowning as he tried to comprehend the statement. “Go on!” he said at length. “You’re funnin’.”

  “Ain’t neither,” declared Wallis, sounding just a bit put out. “Saw it with my own eyes. Right there in black and white.”