by Joyce Wright
“Gideon, I can’t marry you. If you send this woman back, she can marry one of her own.”
“Bible says in the Lord there’s no East or West. Reckon that means that in the Lord, there’s no Indian or white.”
“Gideon, I don’t think you want to debate Holy Scripture with me.”
“No, sir, I don’t. But the Good Book I know preaches love. Now, I aim to love this woman if she’ll still have me. And if you won’t wed us, I reckon we’ll have to just live in sin, and that will be on your soul.”
Rev. Hale’s quandary made him nervous. “I can’t countenance a marriage, Gideon,” he said. “
“I’m not asking for your blessing, Reverend. I reckon God will give us that. I’m asking for you to make us man and wife.”
Gideon was a powerfully built man; Rev. Hale was lean and spare. No one had ever seen Gideon in a rage and he was accounted a peaceable man. But Rev. Hale chose not to risk it. In the end, he agreed to marry them, but only to prevent sin from taking place and bringing eternal damnation on Gideon’s soul.
“I think we’ll be going to Sunday services with the Methodists over in Settler’s Ridge,” Gideon told the minister after he had pronounced them, grudgingly, man and wife.
“You’ll get no welcome there,” Rev. Hale snapped. “The Methodists feel the same.”
“Maybe so. We won’t know until we try.”
Gideon lifted his wife into the buckboard and clipped the reins lightly against Lucky’s back.
“Heading home now, Catherine. I’m sorry I wasn’t here in time to welcome you straight off the stage. I had a run-in with a cow.”
She was laughing by the time he’d finished telling her about Lucy. Gideon laughed, too, but inside he could feel rage boiling within. What kind of Christian people could treat a stranger so? Especially one who was promised to one of their own? He’d lived here for over a decade; he’d grown from a boy soldier to a man rancher here. He’d danced at their family weddings, mourned at their funerals; he’d helped out when it was needed and received help in return. He had a herd as fine as anyone’s, he paid fair wages to his hands, he read a chapter from the Good Book every night and he was in church every Sunday. He didn’t get drunk, he didn’t cheat at cards, he didn’t carouse on Saturday nights. To be treated this way was beyond understanding.
When they reached the cabin, Gideon stopped for a minute. The sight of his land never failed to lift his spirits. Every time he remembered the bloody battlefields of the war, he replaced that image in his mind with this one of his home, his land, his stable, his barn, his herds. Sometimes even that damned Lucy showed up in the image, just because, in her own cussed way, she was a part of his life, she and Mrs. Jacobs. Would Mrs. Jacobs recant her offer of supper?
He decided to put it to the test.
“There’s someone I want you to meet, Catherine,” he said. “She’s a good neighbor, and it’s she who owns Lucy that I told you of.”
Catherine’s brown eyes were steady. “If you wish,” she said, her words telling him that she was ready to be shunned anew and prepared for it, but that she would do as he wished.
He steered the buckboard out of the lane and drove over to Mrs. Jacobs’ home. There was Lucy in the front yard, blandly chewing grass, her halter securely fastened. She gave him a contemplative look as he led Catherine up the stairs.
“I think she knows you,” Catherine said.
“Oh, she knows me all right. Hates me, too, I reckon.”
“I don’t think so.”
Gideon knocked on the door. Mrs. Jacobs opened it and, seeing him, beamed.
“Gideon, it’s a pleasure to see you. I didn’t expect to see you today. Have you brought your bride to meet me?”
“Mrs. Jacobs, please meet Catherine—Catherine Mathieson.”
Mrs. Jacobs turned to Catherine. Gideon felt himself tense as he waited.
“Gideon has a beautiful wife. Please come in, Mrs. Mathieson. It’s a pleasure to meet my new neighbor.”
As they followed her inside, Gideon wondered if Mrs. Jacobs, with her poor eyesight and the thick lenses of her eyeglasses, had really been able to see Catherine.
She ushered them into her parlor, a cheerful room with a large window that emitted the sunlight. “Sit down, please. I have cake.”
“We didn’t mean to put you out, Mrs. Jacobs,” Gideon said.
“I baked it yesterday, and it would please me if you would help me eat it.” She left the parlor and came back shortly with three plates, each bearing a generous slice of her raisin cake.
“When I married, many years ago, there was wedding cake,” she reminisced. “We were very poor, Josef and I, and coming here took all the money we had saved. But we knew it was the right thing to do. It was very hard. But here I am. This was a good home for us.” She pointed to the photograph on the wooden table next to a Bible and a sewing basket. “That’s my Josef. He was young then. As you are young now. I hope you will grow old and happy together as we did. Now tell me about yourself, Mrs. Mathieson.”
“I grew up at the mission in Della Ray,” Catherine said
“The mission. The friars and sisters run the mission, I believe?”
Catherine nodded.
“Are you Roman?”
“I was baptized Roman Catholic,” Catherine replied.
“She’s a Christian,” Gideon said. Was Mrs. Jacobs going to disappoint him too?
Mrs. Jacobs smiled at him. “Yes, but I am Jewish.”
His jaw dropped. “I never knew,” he said.
“Most people don’t. Did you think I do not go to church because I like to sleep in on Sunday mornings?”
“I---I guess I thought you had your own reasons for not going.”
Mrs. Jacobs smiled. “I do have my own reasons. I am a Jew and our Sabbath is not on Sunday.”
“There are no other Jews nearby?” Catherine asked.
Mrs. Jacobs shook her head. “No synagogue either, of course. The synagogue, that is our church,” she explained. “There are some Catholics in town, I believe.”
“I will worship with my husband,” Catherine said. “Where he goes, I will go.”
Gideon’s heart swelled. My husband. That was something to hear. He wasn’t just a cowboy anymore. He was a husband.
Mrs. Jacobs said that she would be over to visit in a couple of days, after Catherine had had time to settle in. “You’re going to want some time to settle in and make things your own,” she said, walking them to the door. “It’s the nature of a woman to make things over.”
“I won’t change anything,” Catherine said quickly.
“Men expect change,” Mrs. Jacobs. “They don’t notice things, so they count on their womenfolk to do it.”
In the buckboard once again, Catherine was silent. Was she regretting her decision, he wondered? A welcome like what had taken place in town would have made him head on back home where he didn’t have to face angry people who seemed to think they had a right to tell someone she didn’t belong. He hoped they all felt ashamed of themselves.
“She’s very kind,” Catherine said unexpectedly, as if she’d been weighing the things Mrs. Jacobs had said.
“She is that. She and Mr. Jacobs were here when I got here. I never knew they were Jewish. Imagine that; all these years, and she never told me. You show up and she tells me. Funny, that is. She sold off a lot of the spread after Mr. Jacobs died. Too much work. But she manages.”
“You help her?”
“She’s a good neighbor.”
A couple of the hands were lounging around the front of the cabin. Gideon wondered if they’d heard what had happened in town and were going to react. He got along well with the men, and he knew that he paid better than the other ranchers. He made a good income and he didn’t have much else to spend it on, so wages seemed like a smart option.
“Hey, Boss,” Rip came forward, tipped his hat to Catherine. “Just wanted to welcome your Mrs. home.” Rip was good people; he’d been a hand
all his life and had no ambition to be more than that, but he worked hard and he was steady as the mountains.
Gideon made introductions. He noticed a couple of missing faces, and from the look on Rip’s face, he guessed why. But the men who were there made a point of being polite to Catherine, welcoming her in their diffident, awkward way. She returned their greetings with the same grave dignity that she’d displayed when the townspeople had accosted her with slurs. Gideon helped her down from the buckboard and started up the stairs.
The men began to protest. “You gotta carry her over the threshold, Boss,” called out Rip. The joshing continued until Gideon lifted her in his arms and took her inside. She was tall, but slender and no weight at all. Rip and Cal followed with her trunks.
“Thank you,” she told them.
“Pleasure, ma’am,” Cal answered.
“Boss, you got any special orders for tomorrow?”
“I’ll be right out. Catherine, I’ll be back soon; you take a look around. I want this to feel like home for you.”
She nodded, her dark brown eyes watchful. Was she afraid? He couldn’t tell.
Outside, he led the way to the barn.
“They heard and bolted,” he said to Rip.
“Mason said he wasn’t staying. Denton went with him. The rest stayed. Don’t seem like there’s a reason to leave, just because your wife is part Injun. Just wanted to let you know. Me and the others will keep our eyes out in case there’s trouble.”
“People in town weren’t friendly.”
Rip looked out at the horizon where the sun was beginning to set, leaving a bright orange path across the sky.
“Maybe they expected somethin’ else. Easy for them, they got wives.”
Rip understood. The loneliness, the overwhelming ruggedness of life in the West made a man crave his concept of a woman: soft, pretty, gentle, someone who could give him a purpose beyond his day’s work.
“Thanks, Rip.”
“Just wanted to say that if you want to have a honeymoon day, me and the boys can take care of things.”
“Appreciate that, but there’s too much work, especially if we’re short-handed.”
Rip acknowledged the truth of this. “I’ll put the word out that we’re taking on good hands for good pay.”
“Appreciate that.”
Gideon returned to the cabin. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Would his wife feel the same way? Would she be served when she rode to the general store for supplies, or would the hands have to do the household shopping? If she ended up a prisoner on the ranch, she wasn’t likely to think the marriage worth it. He didn’t know anything about her beyond what he’d learned from the mission correspondence when he’d written to them with his request for a bride. He had a lot to learn.
Inside the house, the lamps were lighted. She was standing on top of one of the kitchen chairs, examining the contents of the pantry. “You’re hungry?” she asked.
He was hungry, but it wasn’t food he needed. Something in his eyes must have answered her because she immediately stepped down from the chair, her actions deft and nimble.
“I will try to be a good wife,” she said to him.
“We’ll both try to be good to each other,” he replied. His throat was dry, and his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Catherine—“
He took her hand. There wasn’t any way to put what he felt into words, so he led her to the bedroom. It wasn’t dark out yet, and he supposed if he were a true gentleman, he’d wait until dark, but it had been so long since he’d been with a woman. He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t taken his pleasure at the saloon, where the girls were pretty enough and willing. But it shamed him to pay for something that was only right between a man and a woman who had bound themselves to one another before God, and in recent years, he’d done without.
He wished he wasn’t so big and so clumsy. He didn’t know what to say, and she simply stood there, silent and still, waiting for him to tell her what to do.
“Did you find the privy?” he blurted out. “It’s in the back, by the tree. That keeps it cool in—“
She was smiling. “I found it.”
“I’m not much good at this. You’re so pretty and I’m just a cowboy.”
Catherine placed her hand over his heart. “When you came forward today, I expected you to be disappointed.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I’m half Indian. My father was a white buffalo hunter, my mother was Comanche. When she died birthing me, the tribe took me to the mission. I was raised white, but I’m not.”
“Catherine,” he said, his hands on her buttons, “I’m no prize but I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you now. If you’re willing . . . “
CHAPTER THREE
His days were busy with the back-breaking work of a rancher. He accepted good-naturedly the bridegroom teasing from his hands; they would be respectful in the company of his wife, but it was no-holds-barred when a woman wasn’t present. Men were men and men desired women, and when that was the topic, white or Indian didn’t matter. For two weeks, he didn’t leave the ranch, taking care of the work that had to be done and then at day’s end, returning to the cabin and Catherine’s sweet homecoming. He mentioned that they’d need to be heading into town soon for supplies, but her expression showed apprehension and he left the subject drop.
Catherine knew her housewifely duties; the mission had made certain that the Indian girls who had been left there learned how to make themselves useful. She was neat and tidy; meals were prepared and served precisely when he said he would be home to eat. He found that the missing buttons on his shirts had all been sewn back on. The house was unfailingly clean. Laundry was done on Mondays. She learned his preferences for meals and the next time she cooked, the salt and pepper were just right, the chicken was moist, the biscuits fluffy. What he disliked never showed up again on the dinner table.
One night after a fulfilling dinner, cudled up together he held her in his arms, spent from the day’s work. “Catherine . . . “
She looked up at him. “I did something wrong?”
“You never do something wrong. But I want to know more about you. You work all day, I work all day, and at night we do this, and we sleep. Tell me about yourself.”
She curled up against him. “There’s nothing to tell. I want to be a good wife. I want to please you.”
“You do please me-,” he said. “ Let’s talk now.’
“Is something the matter?”
“No, nothing at all.” He felt momentary irritation. He just wanted to have a conversation with his wife. She was pretty and desirable, but she was more than that. “You’re perfect. But I don’t know much.”
“I told you. My father was---“
“You told me that your father was a buffalo hunter and your mother a Comanche. What about Catherine? Was that the name you were given when you were born? What was your Indian name?”
She hid her face against his chest. “My name is Catherine.”
“I know that. But I want to know more about you. What’s your born name? Catherine, why won’t you talk to me?”
“If I’ve done something wrong, please tell me.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong! What’s all this about? Has someone said something?”
She shook her head.
“Then why won’t you talk to me?”
“I want to please you.”
“Talking to me will please me. Catherine, I got married because I want a wife. I don’t want a servant or a pleasure girl, I want a wife.”
She reacted as if he had slapped her, recoiling from his words. “I want to be your wife,” she said. She didn’t cry, but he had the feeling she was ready to give way to tears.
“You are my wife. Just—Catherine . . . look, I’ll go first. I was born in Virginia, my mother was older when I was born and my pa died when I was eight years old. Ma died when I was 16. We didn’t have much, and I didn’t have much educatio
n. I joined up to fight for the Union; my folks never owned slaves. After the war, I came West like a lot of other soldiers. I worked and saved, bought this place. But I was alone. I wanted a wife. Then I wrote to the mission, and when I saw you that day, I just couldn’t believe that a woman so pretty and—elegant looking, a woman like you, would be willing to live on a ranch with a big, dumb cowboy like me.”
“You’re not dumb,” she disagreed.
“But I am big,” he joked. “You can’t deny that.” He was well over six feet, and years of ranching had layered his chest, arms, and legs with sinews. His hair was too thick to be tamed and by the time evening came, his beard was already darkening his skin. “I hope our children look like you.”
“I hope they look like you.”
“That would be one homely daughter.”
“Catherine---just talk to me.”
She didn’t say another word. He took her in his arms and fell into deep sleep. Tomorrow would be another day. Conversation was not necessary now.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mrs. Jacobs hailed him as he and the men were heading home. “I need you, Gideon, come in here. You too,” she said to the men.
“Has something happened to Lucy?” Gideon asked warily, wondering if the damned cow had managed to make its way into the house.
“No, no, not Lucy. I have something for you to take home.”
Gideon and the men, mystified, followed Mrs. Jacobs into her house. “I want you to take the piano,” she said, pointing to the instrument in her parlor.
“The piano? Mrs. Jacobs, I’m mighty grateful, but I don’t know what I’d do with a piano.”
“Not for you! For Catherine. She plays beautifully and with these old hands, I can’t make the keys sound right anymore.” Mrs. Jacobs held up her hands, curved with arthritis. “Better for the piano to be where it can be played. I can come over and listen.”