by Joyce Wright
CHAPTER TWO
Having arrived in Jackson to his aunt’s ranch, Owen made himself useful as soon as he arrived. Ranching was more than just his labor, it was his birthright and he took to it with good will and energy. That night, when the work was over, Rebecca’s son Nels joined his cousin on the wide porch of the ranch house.
“Hell of a shiner,” Nels commented.
“It’s gonna make me a hell of a husband.”
Nels knew that his formidable Aunt Armeda was on her way to procure a wife for her son but Armeda had not shared the details inspiring her quest. Owen filled him in.
“She’s making you get married because you got in a fight?” Nels couldn’t believe it. His mother, like Armeda a widow, had raised her brood with love and a wooden spoon frequently applied to their backsides, but she regarded town infractions as something which belonged to men. “What were you fighting over?”
“Nothin’ I hadn’t fought over before. Reckon it was one time too many. She said I marry the woman she picks out for me or I leave the Circle W.”
“She doesn't’ mean it!” Nels declared. He knew how much the ranch meant to his cousin, who had been in a saddle, the family joked, before he’d been out of diapers. Owen relished the tiring, backbreaking labor and tolerated the tedium that was as much a part of raising cattle as calloused hands, sun-weathered skin and squint lines around the eyes before a man was 30. Wyoming sun wasn’t nearly as merciless as the rays of Texas and the desert regions, but days spent outdoors gave the sunshine victory over flesh. Women who never complained about their lives in the unbroken land out West endured much, but they tried to protect their skin as best they could. Apple barley water mixed with balm of Gilead, or honey combined with a mashed apple; oatmeal and honey to make a paste that could ease the ravages of the sun were part of a woman’s beauty arsenal. Nels and his brother had teased their mother for her vanity when their father was alive, but Beckie had had the last word. “Can you imagine snuggling up and kissing a gal with skin like a saddle that’s been left in the sun?” she’d retorted. “Don’t mock what a woman does to make herself pretty for her man or she’ll stop doing it, and then there’s no difference between kissing her or some old buffalo skinner.”
Ranching was all Nels knew, so whether he liked it or not, it was his fate. But Owen was different. Owen didn’t want anything but ranching.
“She means it,” Owen said. “And she’ll probably marry me off to some cow-faced nag who’s cussed-natured enough to geld me but fertile enough to bear baby Winchesters. She knows I’ll never leave the Circle W. I reckon that she sees too much of Pa in me and she’s bound and determined to wring it out of me before the ranch belongs to me.”
“Uncle was a trial for a woman; that’s what Ma says.”
Owen didn’t dispute this. “Pa was rowdy. But I never gamble more than I can lose, and a single man can share a woman’s bed without breaking any vows. Circle W is my home.” He didn’t add that the Circle W was also who he was; he wouldn’t have known how to express a thought that sounded too poetic for a Western man. But he knew that he would do whatever Armeda Winchester required if the alternative meant being forced to leave the Circle W.
CHAPTER THREE
Willovene smoothed her skirts and studied her reflection in the mirror. She knew why she was summoned to the parlor. There was a prospect. That was what Mrs. Locksley termed it when a matrimonial opportunity arrived. The Rev. and Mrs. Locksley ran a home for decent girls whose marital expectations were less than pristine. Whether they were orphans abandoned by mothers who had fallen into sin or fathers who were moving on and could not be encumbered by a girlchild, the females of the Locksley Home had one thing in common: they were for marrying. The Locksley's’ were part of a discreet but effective network of marriage brokers who provided wives for those who could not expect to woo a woman on their own.
Willovene Harvester just hoped that this man wasn’t fat and piggy-eyed like the last one who’d shown up at the parlor. He’d cast a greedy gaze upon her, noticing the curves of her bosom and the swell of her hips as she walked into the parlor. Then he noticed Eli at her side, toddling on unsteady feet, half-concealed in his mother’s skirts. He wanted no babies, he’d roared. He wanted a pure girl. In vain did Rev. Lockley explain that Willovene had been tragically widowed when her young soldier husband was slain by a Blackfeet arrow, leaving her in the family way with no means of returning to the Indiana home she came from.
Mrs. Locksley had been philosophical at the man’s departure. Not all men, she advised Willovene, were designed to tolerate another man’s offspring. “Some men must be the first to set foot on the land,” she said obliquely. But Mrs. Locksley was optimistic. Willovene was an excellent cook and she made the best marmalade of all the girls at the Home. She could read and she wrote a fair hand. She was pleasing to look at, with those gentle blue eyes and red-brown hair that reminded Mrs. Locksley of the color of the canyon rocks when the sunlight struck. Some men would be gratified to know that she was fertile, too, and, having borne a healthy, sturdy babe, would bear more. Men needed children in this demanding land and a barren woman was of no use to them. Yes, Mrs. Locksley was optimistic.
Willovene knocked on the parlor door before entering. The protocol was well established. But she was surprised to see no man in the parlor except for Rev. Locksley. There was a woman sitting by the fireplace, a woman whose straight back did not touch the chair’s back. She had an upright chin, a straightforward glance, and she was not smiling.
“Willovene, dear, this is Mrs. Armeda Winchester from Cheyanne. She has come to you with a matrimonial prospect on behalf of her son.”
Dear God, what mother would do such a thing unless she were the parent of an imbecile, or someone so defective in looks, bearing and character that no woman would willingly marry him.
“Sit down, dear,” Mrs. Locksley said. “Mrs. Winchester has some questions for you.”
“Mrs. Harvester,” the guest began, “you have a son.”
Mrs. Locksley had instructed her not to bring Eli with her to this first meeting and reluctantly, Willovene had obeyed. She drew comfort from her year-old son’s red curls and rosy-cheeked smile. He reminded her so much of his father, the father who had never seen him and would never know him. She was not wearing black for Elijah Harvester; Mrs. Locksley advised against it. Black was not an encouraging color for marriage prospects, she explained. So Willovene wore a soft dove-gray that was as much mourning as she was permitted. The color emphasized her demure appearance and womanly grace, Mrs. Locksley noted. It made her look biddable and compliant and that was what a man wanted in a wife. It was also, Willovene realized, what a mother-in-law was likely to want.
“Yes,” she said, raising her head and not realizing that her chin was just as determined and resolute as that of the woman sitting opposite her. “My son’s name is Eli.”
“He is in good health?”
“Excellent health.”
“He is full-witted? No marks or deformities?”
Before Willovene could respond with the heat that was showing in those gentle blue eyes, Mrs. Locksley intervened. “Eli is an enchanting little boy with great promise. He has begun to walk and is already forming some words, and he’s a most well-behaved child.”
“I must see him,” the woman said, standing up so that her intention could be complied with.
“He’s taking his nap,” Willovene said, her tone as emphatic a refusal as if she’d barricaded the door to prevent Mrs. Winchester from leaving the room.
The two women measured one another, one mother to another. A very faint smile flickered on Armeda Winchester’s lips. “You’ll do,” she said.
Willovene didn’t have much in the way of belongings, and she’d learned to pack sparingly when she’d left Indiana to accompany Elijah to his posting out West. The family Bible that her mother had given her before passing away; a cameo brooch that had belonged to her great-grandmother in Germany; a book of medical inf
ormation for children’s ailments; her clothing and the clothes she’d sewn for Eli. She placed her wedding ring in an embroidered pouch and stowed it with her personal items. No matter what her future held, she was Elijah Harvester’s wife and someday Eli would give this wedding ring to his betrothed. In the meantime, she stewarded it carefully, along with the few photographs that she had: Elijah looking proud and ready to burst into a smile as he posed in his regimental uniform; her mother and father in their Sunday best, staring into the camera as if they were not quite sure what was staring back at them. They all seemed to come from a long-ago time, but the years were not many. It was the distance she’d traveled that made the years lengthened. Married, widowed, and a mother all before her 20th birthday. She had nothing to return to Indiana for; her parents were gone and the family farm belonged to her brother and his wife and family. Her sister-in-law had been circumspect but definitive when she had encouraged Willovene to find her place in the West. After ‘Lige’s death, Willovene had felt helpless until the wife of one of the officers told her about the Locksley’s and their crusade to help women such as herself who were in a bind. Mail order brides were not uncommon in the West where women were scarce, but as a widow and mother of a young child, Willovene knew that her marital appeal could be limited. And what else was there? She had no fortune, nothing but the son who depended upon her.
As she waited for the stage coach to arrive, with her trunks at her side and Eli’s hand firmly gripped in hers, she pondered the woman, Armeda Winchester, who had been searching for a wife for her son. She didn’t have to marry him, Willovene told herself. If he were given to vice, or in some way unsuitable for marriage, if there were any indication that he would not accept Eli, she would leave. She would not bind herself to a man simply because she had no other options. There would be something. Dear God, surely there was something for her and for Eli.
Mrs. Winchester was already on board the stage coach. The driver helped Willovene enter, and loaded her trunk. They were the only passengers aboard. Beside her, Eli watched everything with fascination. He was an amiable boy, little given to temper. But she hoped that he would sleep most of the journey.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Winchester, her hands busy with yarn and needles, greeted Willovene.
‘Good morning.”
“We are driving to my sister’s ranch in Jackson. My son is waiting there. You will be married there. Then we will return to the Circle W tomorrow.”
There was nothing to add, and Mrs. Winchester’s attention returned to her knitting. Eli watched, speechless, until his eyelids grew heavy and, leaning against his mother’s side, he fell asleep. Willovene wished that she had taken out her own knitting before boarding the stage coach. As the journey went on, she marveled at Mrs. Winchester’s ability to maintain even stitches when the coach jostled them on rough pathways.
They stopped for lunch and the use of the facilities at noon. Willovene was relieved to move, and drink. She wondered how much longer the journey would last but to ask would indicate that she could not endure the demands of the traveling and she was loathe concede weariness. Mrs. Winchester was not a woman to whom one would reveal one’s weaknesses.
Eli awoke, yawned, and looked at his mother with bright, questioning eyes. She took him onto her lap and began to play Pat-A-Cake with him. Eli chortled each time the cake went into the oven for baby and me, repeating “ba” each time. Patiently, Willovene repeated “baby” but two syllables were beyond his understanding when, to him, “ba” conveyed the word just as efficiently. Mrs. Winchester gave no notice that the diversion bothered her, which surprised Willovene; even a tolerant adult would have been bored before long by a child’s game.
Finally, the stage coach horses halted and the driver alighted, raising his hand so that he could help her descend. His assistant driver did the same for Mrs. Winchester.
“My son will be here,” Mrs. Winchester announced. “He will take us to my sister’s.”
Nervously Willovene scanned the people at their business along the dusty street. She saw no one whose looks were so reprehensible that he could not make his own case to woo a wife. They were the only passengers, so whoever was waiting would surely be kin to Mrs. Winchester. She saw women chatting in front of the general store, and several men in cowhand gear lounging in front of the saloon. Then the saloon doors swung open and a tall man in a flat-brimmed hat strode out, his eyes sighting the stage coach. With no change in his visage, he moved in their direction, his pace measured and without haste. There was no indication of anticipation in his gait or in his expression.
He was not an imbecile. Nor was he unfavored. When he neared them, he raised his hat, revealing bright gold hair the color of new coins. “Ma’am,” he greeted her. “Ma,” he said to Mrs. Winchester. “Aunt Beckie sent for the par―well, who’s this young buckaroo?” Spying Eli leaning into his mother’s full skirts, the man bent down. “Howdy,” he said. Eli considered him soberly, and then smiled. The man smiled in return and held out his arms.
To Willovene’s amazement, Eli raised his own arms. The man swept her son into a one-armed hold with ease. “Ma’am, I’m Owen Winchester,” he introduced himself.
“I’m Willlovene Harvester,” she answered, her voice soft.
“Probably plumb tired and sore,” he guessed. “Over here.” With Eli firmly held in his one-armed embrace, he offered Willovene his assistance into the wagon seat in front, then handed Eli back to her. Behind her, she heard Mrs Winchester ascend to the seat with her son’s assistance. No greeting had passed between them.
As they rode, Owen Winchester whistled a lively tune. Eli turned in Willovene’s arms to contemplate the sounds that were emerging from the man’s pursed lips. When he saw that he was being observed, Owen Winchester aimed his tune in the little boy’s direction, and Eli laughed. Something tight and confining that had compressed Willovene’s ribcage began to ease as she listened to her son’s laughter. It was her favorite of all sounds, and a promising omen for their future with this unknown man and the forbidding woman who had brought them here.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I do.”
His voice was more assured than hers, his answer at least indicating that he was not averse to his mother’s choice. The ring was too big for her finger, but it went on easily and she gripped her hand into a fist so that she would not lose the ring. His Aunt Beckie was a smiling, round woman as genial as her sister was severe; she had prepared a hearty meal for the family. Willovene was hungry, but found it hard to eat. With Eli on her lap, she fed him potatoes and pieces of her biscuit, slathered in butter. Beside her, Owen Winchester, now her husband, had no such trouble; his plate was heaped with slices of ham, potatoes, sweet pickles and beans. Across the table, Mrs. Winchester ate sparingly, responding to her sister’s comments on one side, and a nephew’s comments on the other. Willovene resolved to remember these people, their names, and their relationship to Owen and thus to her and to Eli, but just as food seemed to turn dry and flavorless in her throat, her memory felt as though it had opened up gaps. Beckie she remembered because of her smile and because Owen seemed to speak to her easily and jocularly in a very different manner from the way he addressed his mother. The nephew, Beckie’s son, was near to Owen in age and the pair appeared to be friends as well as cousins. The nephew glanced her way several times and then looked at his cousin with a broad smile. She hoped the intimation was not unfavorable, but as the evening wore on, she became more aware of Owen’s body next to hers. They were seated on benches crowded with family and his thigh pressed against hers. She realized that he was unaware of the closeness, or perhaps it did not seem unnatural to him. He spoke to her and to Eli, including them in his conversation. He made no effort to bring his mother into the circle, however.
Eli, who had been a delightful child all day, began to reveal signs of sleepiness. Beckie rose. “I’ll show you to your room,” she said. “Poor boy, he must be weary. He’s been quite the little man.”
Holding him in her arms, Willovene followed Beckie down a long hallway. It was a large room, well furnished with heavy, dark wooden furniture that, Willovene guessed, came from other houses where it was no longer needed. It was clearly a room where guests with young children were housed. There was an off-the-floor infant bed in the corner of the room with a hinged panel so that a young child would not fall out or climb out. Dominating the room was an enormous-four poster bed covered with a quilt.
“Looks like that little one is going to sleep soundly,” she said. She showed Willovene where her belongings had been placed, and pointed out the pitcher and basin by the window. “Nights get cold out here once the sun’s gone down. It’s a good thing to have a man’s body to keep you warm.”
“I—“
“You’ve been married,” Beckie said plainly. “Owen hasn’t. He’s no stranger to women, but a wife is different. It might take some accommodating.”
Willovene’s face reddened. Her wedding night with Elijah had been private; he had inherited his parents’ home upon their death and when the ceremony ended, he brought her to the house where he had been raised. They had had eyes only for each other, and their joining had been sweet and tender.