by Joyce Wright
The community of Santa Teresa was a collection of people who had known tragedy in their lives even before the flood. The young Mexican and Indian children, many of them orphans, would have been branded as half-breeds outside Santa Teresa, despised for the ancestry which had been part of Texas long before the Yankees came to conquer. Inside the community, they were taught to read and write, but they also learned a brand of tolerance that Father Diego taught from his knowledge of the gospels and his kindly heart.
Salome had come here ten years ago after her parents were killed making their way across the prairie. She had been twelve years old; a silent, haunted girl for whom the mission settlement was her refuge from the bloody death that had struck the wagon train caravan. She grew to womanhood here, taught in the school here and eventually, when she was sixteen, had fallen in love here with John Cloud Feather Gascoigne, the Indian schoolmaster. Father Diego had married the young couple and baptized their daughter a year later. The events of their lives were a familiar tally of life in East Texas, where grief and joy were never far apart: five years of married harmony that ended in widowhood; one child thriving, another buried in the parish graveyard.
Father Diego had comforted his people as best he could, moved by their numb acceptance of loss. Salome would not leave East Texas; the souls of her dead child and her dead husband tied her to this rapacious land. A widowed woman whose husband was half-Caddo Indian, half French, with a beautiful daughter whose lineage was plainly visible in her bone structure and coloring, had choices to make.
Father Diego agreed to perform the ceremony provided that Kenyon Larkin came here for her and that they left as man and wife. Larkin had agreed, although he’d made it clear in his letter that he was no Roman Catholic, adding, “I’m not much of anything. I haven’t seen much of God lately.” That admission of battered faith had done more to win Father Diego’s trust than any false profession of religious belief could have done.
Salome’s few belongings were already packed. Her wedding ring was packed away as well; removing it from her finger had brought her to tears, a torrent of grief as she felt her husband leave her a second time. Feather was not so bereft; the wooden animals that her father had carved for her had turned up after the flood waters receded, safe in the metal box where they had been stored. She had been just two when her father died, but she seemed to remember him. The carved toys were her inheritance from the kind, wise, loving man who had adored his daughter and his wife and the community in which he had lived.
Salome was not marrying for love this time; the laconic letters from the man who sought a wife were a comfort to her because they clearly expected nothing in the way of passion. I am about to turn 30, he had written. I lost my wife in the flood. I am alone, he had written, and I no longer wish to be.
There had been a clarity in his communication which had helped her to decide. To marry a man who was no stranger to the loss of life from the flooding would not be a betrayal of her love for John Cloud Feather Gascoigne. It was an acknowledgment that life went on although the love she had known was not gone. But Feather would have a home; she was a girl child and no threat to a man who would want sons. Feather would need a husband one day, and that would be for Salome to arrange somehow. Marriage was not the answer to all of her problems but it was a solution to the immediate one.
Chapter Two
On his wedding day to Lorna, Kenyon Larkin had been dressed in his Union blues, his sword at his side and the War Between the States behind him. Lorna Cale was a Texas girl who’d gone to Georgia to stay with members of her family during the fighting. It was an odd courtship, to fall in love with a Confederate girl while serving with Sherman, but it had happened. Her family had been wary and her surviving brothers, all Confederate veterans, were cool to the marriage, but Larkin was a soldier and he’d fought because that was his profession. Politics was all talk and he wasn’t much of a talking man. He’d promised Lorna that when he left the army, they’d settle in her hometown, Beulah Land, in East Texas. Where he lived didn’t matter to him as long as Lorna was with him. He had no family living; he’d enlisted in the army at the age of sixteen after cholera killed his parents.
After the war, they’d ended up in northern Texas, where he’d continued his service to the army, keeping the settlers safe from the hostile Indians. When they returned to Lorna’s hometown, his neighbors took his Union blue past in their stride; Kenyon didn’t talk of the war and he shipped lumber and cattle just like everyone else. He wasn’t a Texan, but he was no longer a Yankee in Beulah Land either.
Larkin was a man who by nature kept to himself; it was Lorna who was a regular sunbeam and who knew everyone in town by name and by family. The townspeople had welcomed her husband into their midst with a cordial spirit that allowed him to be private. Even in his grief, when the bodies of the drowning victims turned up after the waters receded and he stood over her grave while the preacher sent her to heaven, he’d been undemonstrative. No tears. He wasn’t a crying man.
Since her passing, he only went into town once a season for supplies, filling the wagon according to the needs of the calendar and buying in profusion so that he would not have to venture into town again and face the sympathetic eyes of the people who had known Lorna, mourned her passing and pitied him for his solitude. But he couldn’t farm coffee and fence posts needed nails. He had most of what he needed and he didn’t want much.
He should have been accustomed to death. His parents and the war had indoctrinated him into the frailty of human flesh. But Lorna’s death had been the true lesson that life was fleeting, and death ravenous. He was not a fanciful man but he hated death as if it were a lover who had stolen his wife away against her will. Sometimes he felt like East Texas had taken her from him and as he gazed out upon his land, he always watched for signs that the rivers and creeks were going on the rampage again. All East Texans did; it was a natural instinct for a region afflicted by wild weather. But for Larkin, East Texas had taken his beloved from him.
Now, as he made his preparations to marry his second wife, Larkin thought back on his blessed first marriage. That promise that he’d made had killed her. They’d enjoyed three years together in East Texas. Good years. Now the good years were gone, washed away in the torrents of water that ravaged East Texas without warning,
Kenyon Larkin didn’t want a wife because he needed someone to cook his meals, wash his clothes, or warm his bed. He’d been a widower since Lorna’s death and he’d managed the practical tasks well enough. If he couldn’t learn to cook his meals, then he deserved to starve. If he didn’t know how to clean his soiled clothes with a basin of water and soap, then he deserved to be naked. If his clothes wore out, he wasn’t so poor of pocket that he couldn’t buy new shirts and britches. Larkin’s ten years in the army taught him how to take care of himself. He could do most things on his own or else do without.
Kenyon Larkin didn’t want a wife for any of the expected reasons and he wasn’t telling anyone why he’d advertised for a wife now. For one thing, he was a plain-speaking man and he didn’t feel up to courting any of the women in Beulah Land, Texas. He didn’t have pretty words or fancy thoughts, but that had been good enough for the finest woman God ever saw fit to put on the Earth. A mail-order bride was going into marriage with her eyes wide open and she wasn’t expecting romance; at least that was his understanding of the deal.
Which was how he wanted it because he had no romance in him. Still, he wanted a wife because there was a difference in a house with a woman living in it, and Kenyon Larkin missed that. A woman thought of things like weaving red rag rugs for the floor because they brightened a room, or fancying up a front yard with flowers planted where no one would expect flowers to bloom. Lorna’s talent for bringing life out of nothing was little short of a plumb miracle, but the flowers were there, growing back every year, a reminder of her presence. A wife knew how tired a man was at the end of the day, tired from work and the hot sun. But somehow, after a hearty meal, a woman
could bring out two glasses of lemonade to the front porch, sit down in the rocking chair beside him, and the aches of the day faded to nothing, just because she was sitting there next to him.
He wanted a wife because there were differences between a man and a woman and he missed that. He was not from this wild, raw land and he blamed it for what it had done to his life when the rains took Lorna from him. But he couldn’t leave because this was where Lorna had been born, where she lived, and where her body waited in the ground until he was ready to join her in death.
Seeking a mail-order bride was not an easy decision, but he was twenty-nine years old and he wasn’t dead yet. Before a Texas flood carried him off too, he wanted to feel the peace of a front porch with a woman at his side.
However, it seemed only fitting that a man intending to be married should dress with respect for the vows, so he’d bought himself a new shirt and new britches. Lorna would have expected him to do what was right and he wasn’t going to let her down.
Chapter Three
Larkin hitched up Grant and Lee to the wagon and set out on his journey to Santa Teresa, stopping midway in the town of Claire Hancy, where he spent the night in the hotel. Before leaving for the last leg of the trip, he made a stop at the general store to buy supplies that a woman might want. The storekeeper didn’t know him and wouldn’t be curious about a stranger presenting him with a list for bolts of gingham, calico, and cotton; seeds; lengths of ribbon in assorted colors; several pounds of horehound candy; a new skillet; a blanket; and needles, thread, pins, and scissors.
Lorna’s sewing basket was packed away, not to be used ever again by anyone; his memories of Lorna’s hands flying briskly across a length of cloth were too vivid for him to allow another woman to take her place. He wavered for a moment as he considered the toys; a four-year-old girl might want a doll, he supposed, so he told the storekeeper to add one to the other purchases.
He paid for his purchases and turned to leave. As he did, he saw the candy jar. “A bag of peppermint sticks,” he said. He knew even less about children than he knew about women; he and Lorna hadn’t been blessed. Peppermint sticks might make the child feel a little more at home.
As his wagon methodically marked away the miles, until Santa Teresa was in sight, Kenyon reined the horses in and stopped. Grant and Lee tossed their heads, awaiting the signal to move on. It was Lorna who had named the horses after the famous generals who had led the opposing forces, not because she thought the conflict that split the Union was a trivial matter, but because she was glad it was over.
Larkin gave the reins a light slap and the horses began to move forward. At least there was some consolation in this marriage, he reasoned as the buildings of Santa Teresa came into view. If something did happen to this wife, he wouldn’t be wrenched in two again. He’d never feel that deeply for anyone else again.
The morning was passing quickly. The distance between Beulah Land and Santa Teresa seemed to be diminishing, both for the lanky Texas and for the subdued widow, each awaiting and dreading the arrival of the other.
Feather looked up at her mother. “You look pretty, mama,” she said again.
Salome placed her hand on her daughter’s braids. “Thank you,” she responded soberly, accepting the girl’s praise for the tribute that it was. It had been a long time since Salome had taken note of her appearance and Feather was used to seeing her mother with an ever-present apron over a faded dress.
But the women of Santa Teresa had insisted that she should be dressed properly for a wedding, and Father Diego had agreed with them. Santa Teresa needed to see that it was possible to begin again, he had told her. If she went to her wedding in her old, worn-out clothes, where would the others receive the inspiration to rise to new life? The women had sewn her dress for her; it was a simple blue-checked frock with a white collar and cuffs. She wore a straw bonnet that one of the women gave her; the bonnet has a blue ribbon around the crown that matched her dress. Her bare, ringless hand looked odd to her; all morning, as she waited for Larkin to arrive, she found herself rubbing the barren finger.
“I think he’s coming,” said Margarita excitedly. Margarita was only fifteen and any wedding was romantic to her. She had been skipping back and forth to the window all morning. “Shall I go and tell him to come in?”
“Father Diego is waiting for him,” Jeanne, one of the older women in the community, said. “But go ahead and welcome him.”
The women smiled as Margarita danced out of the room. Through the window, Salome could see the horse-drawn wagon entering through the gates. She saw a man step down from the wagon in a single, seamless leap to the ground. His hat concealed his features from view, but she could see that he was lean in that way that Texas men seemed to have, as if a life lived out of doors knitted their muscles to their bones and discarded any excess.
Father Diego approached. She saw Kenyon Larkin tip his hat to the priest, standing while Father Diego greeted him. Margarita, belatedly remembering her dignity, abruptly stopped running and went up to him and began to speak. Kenyon tipped his hat to her as well.
“He’s a gentleman,” Jeanne pronounced.
Salome felt nervous and wasn’t sure why. He could choose against her; they weren’t married yet. She didn’t know if she was pretty enough; John Cloud Feather always told her she was beautiful, but she hadn’t felt beautiful since losing him. But she hadn’t wanted to feel beautiful. On this second wedding day, she wanted to be whatever she needed to be in order for him to marry her and accept Feather into his home. In the end, that was why she’d consented to let the women make her new dress, and why she’d agreed to wear a borrowed bonnet. This wedding was for Feather.
Margarita raced back into the room. “He’s very handsome,” she said excitedly. “He’s tall. He has blue eyes. His hair is so blond that it almost looks white. But it’s not,” she corrected hurriedly, lest anyone misunderstand and assume that Salome was marrying an old man. “His eyes are so blue,” she repeated, determined to emphasize the point because for Margarita, the blueness of his eyes seemed important.
The women smiled, remembering in Margarita’s enthusiastic praise their own youth, when a handsome young man had caught their eye. Santa Teresa had little to offer a pretty young girl these days. In Salome’s marriage, the young girls dared to hope and the older women allowed themselves to reminisce.
“Salome?” Jeanne had taken on the role of bride’s mother during the time of preparation, doing everything she could to turn a mail order marriage into a courtship. “Are you ready?”
Tears welled up in Salome’s blue eyes. “I don’t—“
Margarita stared. “Why are you crying? He’s handsome. I thought he might be ugly.”
Jeanne started laughing and the mirth was infectious. The other women clustered in the small room also began to laugh until Salome was laughing with them, her sobs conquered by the happiness of her friends who were joyful for her. Father Diego was right about the wedding; the community needed it. Few towns had as much in common as this motley assortment of orphans, widows, and lost souls, and yet Salome doubted if any town had as much affection for its inhabitants as Santa Teresa’s people had for one another.
Now that he had arrived, there was an argument over whether Salome should see her future husband before the wedding. Several of the women said it was bad luck, but Jeanne scoffed. “It’d be worse luck to say your ‘I dos’ to a man you’ve never even said ‘howdy’ to. Tell him to come back here and meet his bride, and all of us mother hens will clear out and give them some privacy.” Jeanne squeezed Salome’s hand as Margarita rushed out to deliver the message. “You’re doing what you have to do for that little one and for John Cloud Feather. It’s not good to be alone, you mind me?”
Salome nodded in acquiescence. “John would want that,” Jeanne went on. “He was a good man. But this world doesn’t always let the good live. We keep on going. You build a home with this Mr. Larkin and you keep on going.”
“I w
ill.”
There was a movement at the door, and then the entrance was filled by a tall man who had to bend his head to enter the room. He had taken off his hat, holding it in his hands tightly. Margarita was correct in her description; his thick blond hair was so sun-bleached that a quick glance made his locks look white. But no old man had such a thick head of hair, curling slightly at the neck and forehead from the heat of the day. Margarita had been right as well about his eyes; they were jewel blue, lighter than sapphire, darker than turquoise, and they were all the more remarkable against the deep tan of his skin. He had a rangy build, his body tall and lean; he was the kind of man who was built out of bone and muscle with the flesh that covered it stretched taut. She couldn’t help herself as she thought of John Cloud Feather, who had been stocky, dark-haired and dark-eyed, a man who greeted the world with a smile on his lips and in his eyes.