by Janette Oke
And then he thought of the many changes and the long miles of travel. “She’s just played out,” he reasoned. “Give her a few days and she’ll get things in shape the way she wants them.”
Donnigan forced himself to whistle as he headed for the cabin with the fresh pail of well water in his hand.
Chapter Twelve
Settling In
The next morning dawned warm and bright, and Donnigan asked rather shyly if Kathleen would care to see the rest of the farm. She could hardly hide her enthusiasm but kept her face straight while she answered him that she would.
“Do you ride?” he surprised her.
She shook her head slowly.
“I have a mare that I’ve been working on for you,” he went on, “but I don’t think she’s quite ready if you’re not used to riding.”
Kathleen wished to protest, but she bit her tongue.
“How do you check the farm?” she asked him.
“I ride Black,” he answered.
“Black?”
“My stallion.” He waited, watching her face, but she was giving him no hints whatever. “He rides double,” he said at last.
Kathleen’s head came up and for one unguarded moment her eyes flashed excitement.
“Would you mind?” asked Donnigan.
“No. No, I wouldn’t mind,” she said simply, hanging the dishcloth over the pan on the wall.
Kathleen may have become an expert at hiding her feelings, but even she slipped when she saw the black. He was magnificent. He was also a bit scary. Could they both really ride him? she wondered as the black horse raced around the corral, tossing his head and snorting.
At one whistle from Donnigan, the black dipped his head, snorted, and trotted obediently toward his owner. Kathleen longed to reach a hand out to the silky side of the animal, but she dared not do so without permission, and she refused to ask.
The black was soon bridled and saddled and Donnigan swung himself easily up. He reached down a hand for her. Black stomped impatiently, anxious to be off, but at a word from Donnigan he stopped his dancing.
“Give me your hand,” said Donnigan. “Now, step up on my foot. When I lift, up you come behind me.”
Kathleen reached up her hand, stepped on his foot and was lifted swiftly and easily from the ground to the back of the black horse. Never had she been up so high. It almost took her breath away.
“Put your arms around my waist and clasp your hands together,” invited Donnigan.
Kathleen complied. She was glad that Donnigan could not see her flushed face.
“There’s not much to see in the fields this time of year,” Donnigan informed her. “The hay and crops are all in.”
Donnigan held the black to a walk. The horse snorted his impatience and tossed his head, working the bit between his teeth. They traveled down a long lane, over the brow of a hill and past fields now empty of their summer’s crops. The whole way the black sidestepped and danced and chomped at the bit.
“Does he always walk like this?” asked Kathleen innocently.
“He wants to run,” said Donnigan.
Kathleen was silent for a few moments.
“Do you usually run?” she asked him.
“Usually,” said Donnigan.
“Then—let him run,” said Kathleen simply.
Donnigan half-turned in the saddle. “Are you sure?” he asked her. Kathleen nodded. Donnigan still looked doubtful. “You’ll have to hang on,” he told her.
In answer she tightened her arms around him. He reached down with one hand to hold both of hers tightly and gave the black his head.
The horse answered immediately with a giant spring forward, and then they were rushing over the prairie grasses, the wind whipping at Kathleen’s hair and fluttering her skirts. She had never experienced such an exhilarating sensation. On they went, covering the distance to the horse pasture in long strides, the muscles beneath her seeming to ripple with each forward lunge. Kathleen thought of the gentle roll of the sea.
They came to a fence and Donnigan pulled up the black with a soft “Whoa-a.” Just on the other side of the fence a herd of horses was feeding. The black greeted them with an excited whinny, and many of the mares answered him. The herd began to stir, shifting, whirling, kicking up heels and playfully nipping one another.
The stallion stomped and pranced, eager to be back with his band.
“They’re beautiful!” breathed Kathleen before she could check herself. “Whose are they?”
“Mine,” replied Donnigan, pride coloring his voice. Then he blushed and corrected himself. “Ours.” It was going to take some getting used to—this sharing of property, of their lives.
“Here, let me help you down,” said Donnigan and reached his arm around to circle her waist. Kathleen felt herself being lifted up and out and lowered to the ground to stand beside the black. With one swift movement, Donnigan swung his leg over the black and joined her.
“We usually have to ride in to find them,” Donnigan was explaining. “We were lucky today.”
They stood for a moment watching the horses mill about. A few had approached the fence and extended their noses. The black moved eagerly forward to greet them. Others still ran and kicked and chased one another.
“Do they always act like that?” asked Kathleen.
“Only when the black comes around,” replied Donnigan with a grin. “Then they show off a bit.”
Kathleen would have liked to ask more questions but she held her tongue.
They watched the horses until the herd gradually settled. A few even went back to feeding.
“Ready?” asked Donnigan and Kathleen nodded. He gathered the reins and wheeled the reluctant stallion around, then mounted in one smooth motion and reached his hand for Kathleen. This time she did not need to be invited to place her arms around his waist. Firmly she clasped her hands together, hoping fervently that he would let the black run again. She could not hide her smile when he did. But Donnigan could not see it.
They surveyed the entire farm with its horses, cattle, fields, pastures, and woodlots before Donnigan turned the black toward home. They had been out for some hours. The day had grown hot, the hour past noon; still Kathleen was reluctant to relinquish the freedom she had felt when skimming across the prairie on the back of the big horse. She felt that she would just like to ride and ride—forever.
“I’ll be in as soon as I take care of Black,” Donnigan informed her as he eased her to the ground. Kathleen reached up a trembling hand to try to get her hair in order. The wind had wrenched the pins from their place.
She nodded her head slowly. She knew that Donnigan was saying that he would soon be in for his dinner.
Kathleen had never minded kitchen duties, so she washed her hands at the corner basin and began her search through the shelves. She found enough to fix them a proper dinner, but she realized that the American cupboard stock was different than what she had been used to.
Donnigan must have recognized the fact also, for as he washed at the basin later, he spoke without turning.
“We’ll need to get into town soon and let you pick your own fixin’s. I haven’t been in the habit of keeping much on hand.”
Kathleen nodded, forgetting his back was to her.
He stood up straight to run the rough towel over his hands and face. “You can get the other things you’ll want, too,” he told her.
Her face must have registered her surprise. “What things?” she dared to ask.
“For the house. Whatever it is you need.”
Kathleen let her gaze travel around the room. Oh, it was tempting. But she would not be demanding. Besides, Kathleen had never been given opportunity to “make a home” before. She didn’t really know how one went about it—and she was afraid that she would make some terrible blunders if she attempted it. She did not want to risk the displeasure of the big man who stood opposite her in the cabin kitchen.
“The house is fine,” she said, turning back to t
he stove. She missed seeing Donnigan’s look of disappointment.
They were sitting on the porch enjoying the coolness of the fall evening. Kathleen had placed her shawl about her shoulders as the evenings could become chilly. They had shared this quiet time for almost four full weeks. It seemed a long time to Kathleen—and she still knew little more about Donnigan than she had the day she had entered his home. She longed to know—but remembered that he might resent her prodding. If there was one thing that Madam had stressed over and over, it was that a man didn’t like being quizzed or nagged at.
Things had settled to a bit of a routine. Kathleen got the meals, did the laundry, kept the house clean. Donnigan cared for the animals, brought in the fresh pails of water and hauled the firewood. It seemed a good arrangement. In fact, Kathleen felt that she really should feel quite happy and contented. But she didn’t. Deep down inside was a loneliness that hadn’t been touched. In a way, she wondered if it really would have been that much different being a housemaid at Madam’s new country home. She stole a glance at Donnigan, wondering if he could read her thoughts.
What bothered her the most was Donnigan’s attitude. He still seemed to see her as a little girl. “Don’t you lift that heavy pail.” “Here, let me empty the wash water.” “I’ll build the fire.” “I don’t think the brown mare is ready for a young rider yet.”
It galled Kathleen. She who had not just been independent but able to care for herself on the rough streets of London, and had also been responsible for others since she had been ten, was now being treated as if she were six.
At times it was all she could do to hold her temper in check. She was not a child. She was not without wits or ability. She was much stronger than he credited her with being. She was committed to this marriage—as strange as it was—but she longed to be an accepted partner, even if not an equal.
And she did long to ride the brown mare. The feeling that she had experienced on the black stallion with Donnigan holding the reins was only a taste of what it would be like to be in control of her own mount, she was sure. She couldn’t wait to put her heels to the sides of the mare and sail over the brown hills and greened valleys.
Donnigan was sitting on the step whittling on a piece of wood. He couldn’t have told why he had taken up whittling—except that it had helped to fill some of the lonely hours when he had been by himself in the house. He had rather hoped that he could put away his whittling knife with the coming of Kathleen. He knew that he would rather talk than whittle. But there didn’t seem to be much talking done. He had looked forward to a winter of companionship—and here he was facing a winter of silence.
He had nothing against Kathleen—but she had not turned out to be what he had expected in a wife. He had wanted a woman who would come into his bare little cabin and fashion it into a home—warm and inviting and cozy. He had wanted a true companion—not just a maid in his kitchen. He had hoped for intimate chats about thoughts and feelings and dreams for the future. He had wanted someone to share every part of his life—and to let him be a part of hers. But Kathleen shut her thoughts and feelings away from him.
“It’s her age,” Donnigan told himself again. “When she matures—ages a bit—she’ll open up more. I mustn’t rush her. Give her time. Let her get the feeling that she belongs here.”
Donnigan was pleased to see that the girl looked a bit healthier. She had been so pale, so weary, so frail, the first time he had set eyes on her. Already she seemed to be feeling much better, breathing in the fresh prairie air more deeply. Donnigan was glad for that. But he would be so glad when they were really partners. When Kathleen would look to him for companionship. For support. With all his heart he longed to give her more than a roof over her head, food at his table, the sharing of his bed at night.
His knife took a deeper cut than he had intended. His frustrations were showing in the work of his hands.
Donnigan hoped that his sigh did not reach the ears of Kathleen. Or if it did, that she wouldn’t understand its meaning.
Kathleen sat on Erma’s green and gold brocaded sofa and sipped tea. They had made it a habit to take tea together whenever Kathleen had a few extra minutes while in town.
“You are looking stronger, Kathleen—more—more robust,” Erma observed.
Kathleen looked down at herself. Yes, she admitted, perhaps she was. Wasn’t that one thing that had brought her to town? All her old dresses were getting too tight.
“I certainly feel better, I have to admit. I guess it’s the fresh prairie air.” She smiled at Erma.
“Or Donnigan,” said Erma with a giggle.
Kathleen flushed. She had been Donnigan’s wife for three months but she still blushed. For some strange reason she still felt like an imposter. A housekeeper.
“Do you ever get lonesome for home?” Erma surprised Kathleen by asking, and there was just the hint of sadness in her voice.
Kathleen thought about her answer. How much should she share? At last she nodded her head briefly. “Perhaps—just a bit—at times,” she admitted, hoping that she wasn’t giving anything away. Then she quickly added, “I guess that’s natural enough.”
“I guess,” said Erma.
They both lifted their cups for another sip, then replaced them on the saucers.
“Do you?” asked Kathleen even though she felt she already knew the answer.
“A bit—at times,” replied Erma.
Another sip of their tea.
“I suppose it’s—it’s because Lucas is so dreadfully busy,” said Erma, then hastened as if to cover her confession. “I—mean—he is wonderful—just wonderful to me. I have everything—everything that I could possibly want. But he is so busy. He’s such an important man. Why, he owns most of the town and he is so careful that everything be run—properly. I can’t even imagine having so many things on my mind all at one time.”
Kathleen nodded her head in support of Erma’s claim. Everyone knew it for the truth.
“But he is so busy,” Erma went on, her tone rather downcast. “He leaves long before I am up and doesn’t come home some nights until I have fallen to sleep in my chair.”
“What do you do with all your time?” asked Kathleen. Then quickly amended, “Not that you have spare time the way you keep things so spotlessly clean and—”
“Oh, I don’t clean,” explained Erma quickly. “The maid cleans—and the kitchen sends up our meals. If Lucas is too late, he sometimes stops at the dining room so he won’t disturb me. He’s very thoughtful, Lucas is.” Erma gave Kathleen a forced smile.
“I would rather like to—to help out at the church or—or teach small children—or something—but Lucas says that wouldn’t really be fitting,” Erma went on thoughtfully.
She placed her cup and saucer on the delicate table by the sofa and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her skirts. Then she looked up brightly. “Lucas says that my days will be more than full—once we have family,” she said and color stained her cheeks.
“You are—are—?”
“I’m not sure—quite yet. But we do hope so. Lucas is so anxious for a son and I—well, I can hardly wait for a baby to—to help—” She stopped and toyed with the expensive looking rings on her fingers.
“I can hardly wait,” she repeated with a little laugh, then rang for a maid to remove the tea things.
Donnigan hardly recognized Wallis when he met him on the street. The man was trimmed and pressed and polished until he shone.
“Well, aren’t you looking fancy,” Donnigan could not help but tease.
Wallis responded with a broad grin.
“And look at this,” he invited showing his belt size. “I put on six pounds since she’s been here.”
“Must be a good cook,” observed Donnigan. It was a known fact that Wallis hadn’t been eating right for years.
“Good cook,” said Wallis, nodding his head to emphasize the words. “Mighty good cook. Good at everything, that woman is. And can she work! Hey, I tell you that I nev
er in my life seen anyone whip things into shape faster.”
Donnigan reached out a hand and slapped his neighbor on the back. It was wonderful to see the man so happy.
“Haven’t seen much of you lately,” Donnigan observed. “Why don’t you and Risa drop around for coffee?”
Wallis frowned slightly. “She ain’t much for visitin’,” he observed. “Oh, not thet she isn’t friendly or all thet—it’s just thet we got so much to do to catch up—to git the place in shape. We’ll have time fer visitin’ later on.”
Donnigan nodded.
“You really outta stop by and see fer yerself how she’s fixed up the place,” said Wallis. “Ya wouldn’t know it was the same cabin. Sure looks good. Sure does look good.”
Again Donnigan nodded. He secretly wished that Kathleen had shown a bit more interest in fixing up their place; but if she was content with it as it was, why shouldn’t he be?
A sharp whistle rent the air. Wallis spun on his heel and then turned back to Donnigan. “That’s Risa. She’s finished her shoppin’. She’ll be wantin’ to go.” He turned, then said back over his shoulder, “That’s the way she calls me.” He grinned as though it was awfully cute to be summoned in such a way.
Chapter Thirteen
The Tempest
Kathleen lifted her head in surprise.
“I think I could put a lift on your shoe,” Donnigan was saying.
The evenings were too cold now to sit out on the porch. Donnigan had brought his whittling indoors to the warm kitchen.
“A lift?” asked Kathleen.
“By building up the one shoe, the shorter leg would gain length. You wouldn’t need to limp.”
There, the truth was out. He was embarrassed about her limp.
“I worry about your spine,” he went on simply. “I’m afraid the limp is hard on it.”