by Leona Grace
He held the mare still, aware of the wagon going past him, Duane whistling as he kept the mules to a steady walk, the men – more relaxed without Mason’s dark presence – cheerful and laughing, shirts dark with sweat, pants and boots thick with dust. A ragged herd of spare horses followed by Ray, all of them eager for hay and a rest. Somewhere below the dinner bell rang out, signalling their return and he leaned forward and tugged on Meg’s ear. “Let’s go home.”
A single flick of the rein and they were following the others, down towards the distant valley. Tomorrow they would set off for town and the Summer Dance.
Chapter 4
The trip to Harville was easy, no heavy supply wagon hauled by a team of draught horses, just Faith and him, riding together. Cooper and the others had set off earlier in the morning with plans to visit the barbers and then put in a few hours drinking before the night’s festivities, leaving the two of them to make their own way. The weather showed no sign of cooling and they took it slow, breaking from the trail at midday to follow a small watercourse, now little more than a trickle.
A hundred yards further on they came upon a pool and a cluster of trees and the sturdy timbers of an old cabin, walls and roof still standing and the structure sound enough if a little neglected. The sturdy door had kept wind and rain at bay and they ventured a look inside. Dust covered the floor but no creatures had taken up residence other than a few spiders. It had a good feel to it, the timbers cut with care, the chimney standing proud, the hearthstone chiselled into shape. This had been someone’s home once.
“I wonder who lived here?” He ran his hand over the carved lintel above the fireplace.
Faith ran one finger through the dust on the window. “I can’t tell you their names, but Nathan did mention this place once. The owners sold the land to the Bishops and moved west in ’58, I think. This is the first time I’ve seen it. It’s a shame to leave it empty; it’d make a good home for a young family just starting out.”
She clung to his arm, pointing out tiny details: the pegs on one wall for hanging coats and hats, the hand-carved brackets on the chimney breast for a rifle, the remains of a faded curtain at the single window. Outside they found a lean-to large enough for two horses, with a ring of rotting fence posts marking out what had once been a corral. He unsaddled the horses and let them drink while he laid one of the blankets on the ground close to the pool. Tiny fish darted into the shadows and he heard birds in the trees, the scurry of some small animal, the thud of a jackrabbit leaping for cover.
Faith soaked her feet in the cold water and he did the same, they shared the morning’s fresh bread and slices of ham, drank root beer in the absence of coffee. The horses were beginning to wander and he tethered them near the stand of trees where it was shady and left them with hay to eat and then, as he turned to make his way back, he saw what the wild growth had concealed. A tiny orchard: a cluster of apple trees with laden branches, a couple of pears with unripe fruits. He walked around, wondering who had planted this orchard and if he – or she – had lived long enough to see the trees mature and to pick the harvest. He was about to turn back when something caught his eye.
Three cherry trees stood half-hidden in the midst of the tangle of overgrown wood, creaking branches festooned with dark ripe fruit, stark dead twigs at the end of each limb. They would not live through winter without pruning. He filled his bandana with as many of the delicacies he could carry and took his treasure back to where Faith was relaxing in the shade.
She was asleep, or as close to it as made no difference, and although the sun was hot and his eyes heavy, he was content to lean back against his saddle and eat his share of fruits, the taste bringing back childhood memories of sitting at the kitchen table while his mother cut slices of hot cherry pie. His brother’s favourite: crisp golden pastry sparkling with sugar, dark crimson cherries crammed into the dish, steam rising as the knife cut into the crust. That first taste of tart sweetness and thick syrupy juice. He’d forgotten how good cherries tasted.
He spat a stone into the palm of his hand and looked at it. Such a small thing. Crimson juice stained his fingers and he sucked them clean then put the stone in his pocket to plant when they got back. A tree for William. An orchard of cherry trees. He should have thought of it earlier. Should have done something for his parents and his brother, but there’d been other things on his mind, and not just getting married and moving his few things into the house.
Since their wedding he’d spent most of his days working: out first thing at dawn if not earlier, getting back in time for supper, working on the ranch books in the evenings. Days spent moving cattle to lower pastures, checking the herd for sick animals and ones who were injured, rounding up the colts. Other tasks neglected over the past years while men fought for one side or another only to return home broken. More than a few ex-soldiers had appeared at the ranch, wanting work or food and he hadn’t refused anyone, even men who’d fought for the other side. He fed them all, took in all those who wanted work – even if it was only to haul wood or water, or lead a hay cart. No man went away hungry or hopeless or in need.
He finished the last cherry and he dug a small hole in the soft earth, pushing the stone down and covering it again. It had little chance of growing, but who knew what the future held. With luck, there might be a new cherry tree here in the years to come. Perhaps children would come here and pick fruits and sit by the pool to eat them. Their children.
Faith was stirring when he turned from his simple task and he brushed soil from his fingers and told her what he had found. “We should grow more fruit. Not just apples and pears and plums – cherries and peaches.” He picked a broken twig and scratched patterns in the soil, marking out the buildings on the ranch and the site of their orchard. “Here. See? There’s plenty of room if we push outwards and it’s sheltered from the worst of the weather. It’d be a while before we’d get a decent harvest, but in a few years…” He threw the twig into the stream where the small current swirled it round and carried it away.
“Nathan said he was going to plant a bigger orchard but then the war came and there was never time afterwards.” Faith picked out a cherry and took a bite, the juice reddening her lips and he watched her. “What about apricots as well? We used to have them when I was young, but when my mother died there was no one to look after them.”
“Apricots and cherries and peaches it is, ma’am.” He touched his forehead in a salute. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone has any saplings and I’ll make a start on getting the ground ready when we get back. He gave her a quick grin. “The men’ll be expecting fresh peach cobbler you know. None of those canned ones.”
“Damsons as well. I used to make damson jam.” She turned to him, smiling. “What about you, Mr Archer. Do you like apricots or damsons?”
“I like cherries, Mrs Archer.” He snagged one of her cherries and bit it in half. Juice spilled over his lip and he dabbed at his chin and licked his finger. “And I love you, and that’s all that matters. But I’ll eat most anything. There wasn’t much choice in the army. You ate what you were given or what you could find, or else you went hungry.”
Bear had been left behind at the ranch in the cool comfort of the bunkhouse and it was just the two of them, alone. Her hand was warm in his, her lips dark with cherry juice and he leaned closer to taste them, aware of her welcome response. They might be late arriving at Harville, but he didn’t care, and he suspected Faith didn’t either.
***
It was late afternoon when they deposited their bags at the hotel. The town was bustling with noise and colour, bunting fluttering from windows, bright signs tempting casual passers-by into stores; all the signs of a town readying itself for a celebration. Wagons lined the main street, buckboards queued behind the stables, tents festooned any patch of clear ground.
Faith was eager to look for patterns and material for dresses and curtains while she had the chance and he escorted her to the General Store carrying two letters for posting. O
ne for George and Martha Carpenter to fill the couple in on his marriage and the ranch and asking after both of them, the other for Daniel, inviting him to visit when he had the chance. The clerk was busy and he waited at the back of the queue, letters in hand and grateful for the dim coolness. He’d written to the Carpenters shortly after Nathan Bishop’s death, telling them he was safe and settled, but there’d been no reply, not that he’d expected one. Better for everyone to keep believing Sam Archer died on Copperhead Bluff last year along with the three Dalton brothers.
From his place in the line he watched his wife selecting bolts of cloth and fingering the material: a length of crimson, some white muslin, a roll of dark blue satin. She put the satin back with a sigh and he determined to buy some for her later. The store owner would know what he would need. The woman in front of him finished at the counter and he stepped forward to hand over his two letters and the payment.
The clerk stared at him. “Samuel Edward Archer?”
He glanced over at Faith but she was talking to a couple of women. “Yes.” A surge of fear that one of the Daltons might have survived, that someone might have put out a warning for him.
“Thought so. Wasn’t sure if I’d got the face right. Anyway, I’ve a letter waiting for you. Hobbs at the hotel said you’d be here today so I was going to bring it after we closed. Saved me a walk.” The man rifled through a box of envelopes before plucking one out with a smile. “Here you are. Came the end of last month and I was hoping someone might’ve come out sooner. But, you’re here now.”
A crumpled envelope, name and address in a neat and unfamiliar script. Faith was picking through threads and sewing notions and he stepped away from the counter and opened the envelope. A single sheet of paper, Martha’s name at the bottom, but the words on the page were enough to disquiet him: both the Dalton ranch and Archer land now owned by a distant relative of the Daltons who was laying claim to their farm despite the legal papers, but they were hopeful it would all be settled soon.
There was no plea for help, just those few terse words to let him know the situation and that they’d seen to a decent stone on his pa’s grave and some rose bushes as well and there was no need to worry about anything. It was typical of her; Martha had never been one to want a fuss or to put people out, and neither had George, but it was clear something was wrong.
It could not have come at a worse time. He had planned to take Faith on a quiet honeymoon trip once they were back at the ranch; nothing special, just a few nights alone without anyone disturbing them and no responsibilities other than deciding which direction to take or where to camp for the night. But the letter had thrown all his plans into disarray.
There would be no honeymoon now, not until he was back from seeing the Carpenters, and by then the ranch would be readying for the fall drive to Vancross with five hundred prime steers for the army. It would take him a full week or more to ride to Dalton’s Gap, and he’d have to be wary of being recognised which meant taking the lesser-used trails; the Daltons might be dead, but that didn’t mean he could relax. He glanced at the letter, working through the problems of being away from home for longer than he’d intended.
A few days honeymoon was one thing, his absence for over a fortnight was something else. And then he shook his head. Faith would be at home and she was as capable of running the ranch as anyone, including him. He folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket; he had other business in the town so he took Faith back to the hotel and left her to sort through her purchases while he went to the bank and then to the livery to check on Meg and the other horses before getting himself ready for the evening’s festivities.
***
The barn on the edge of town – the only structure large enough for the dance – was festive with lanterns and flags, straw bales provided seating, trestle tables down one side held the supper. The music was loud and lively, accompanied by the stamp of boots on dry earth or enthusiastic shouts and cheers when each dance ended and another began. The room was crowded and noisy and had Faith not been on his arm he might have turned round and left, but after the first few hesitant excursions into the square marked out for dancing, he enjoyed it more than he could have imagined. He focused on the moves, losing himself in the music and the rhythm of quadrilles and polkas and reels until they were both breathless and laughing and thirsty and, bowing, he escorted her to the supper table.
An array of food and drinks: meat pies, roast turkey and hams, cider and wine and beer, milk and root beer for the youngsters. More cakes and pastries than he had ever seen before, apples and peaches and strawberries. Bowls of thick cream. His mother used to make pies and cakes for the local dances and Faith had been busy as well – several of her cakes were on the table and was he was quietly pleased to see people taking generous slices.
And so the evening continued. Cooper introduced them to Mrs Sharpe, the widow of one of the local butchers – a small woman, smiling and cheerful and clinging to the foreman’s arm. Duane had his own admirers, a cluster of young girls who watched every move he made and blushed and giggled whenever he came near. Ganlet danced with a young woman in a rich crimson dress and brought her a glass of cider and sat with her for supper. A good evening, friends and families together. And then it was the last tune and he took Faith out onto the crowded floor and held her close.
They were back in their room, getting ready for bed when he saw the letter lying on the floor. It had fallen out of his pocket when he changed into his best pair of pants and he hadn’t noticed.
Faith picked it up, unfolded it, scanned the words in silence. “Martha wrote and you didn’t tell me?”
“It was at the Post Office and…” He folded his shirt and laid it on the end of the bed. “I didn’t want to spoil the evening for you. It’s bad timing, but I think they need me. I could put off going for a month or so, if you don’t want to delay....”
“Our trip? Don’t be silly. They need help now, not sometime next month.” He saw her take a deep breath. “These are your friends, the nearest thing to family you have left and you think taking me away is more important? First thing tomorrow you go and get whatever’s needed.” She handed the paper back to him. “I’m your wife, Sam, not one of your soldiers, and you should have told me straight away. We’re supposed to share things.”
A stupid idea, trying to keep it from her, and she was right; George and Martha deserved more than a cursory thought and a vague plan, but he was still learning what being a husband involved and he had thought to prove how much he loved her. He shook his head. “It’s our honeymoon. We haven’t had much chance until now, and with the ways things are going, there won’t be much time later on. Not that it’s much of a break – making camp each night and sleeping on the ground? Next year we’ll go somewhere with hotels and theatres and galleries. Places to visit.”
She sighed and shook her head. “You know me better than that. I don’t want four poster beds and fancy meals. I want you, Sam Archer, the man who helped save my ranch from failing and who took care of Nathan as if he was his own brother.” She turned to hang up her blouse. “As for the honeymoon, I told you – a few days alone together. That’s all I ask.”
It was still not enough. “I wanted you to have something better.”
She spun round. “Take a look at me, Sam; I’ve got calloused hands and a sunburned face. I’m not a simpering girl who going to sulk because a friend needs your help. I’m a rancher’s wife. Your wife, for better, for worse. And if that means putting off our honeymoon until you’ve done what needs doing, then that’s what we’ll do and I won’t ever complain. Trust me.” She pulled back the sheets. “You look tired. Come to bed.”
A welcome invite. He joined her and they lay together, listening to the distant sounds of laughter and singing from one of the saloons. She curled against him, but tired as he was he could not stop thinking about the land now lost to him. Martha’s letter had woken in him the urge to go home one last time, to see his family’s graves and talk to th
e elderly couple and tell them about Faith and his life now. But there was also the knowledge that, although the letter said little, he knew the truth behind the simple words.
George and Martha were in trouble. They would not admit as much, but the mere fact that Martha had written such a brief letter had been enough to alert him to the wrongness of her words. If everything had been well, she would have chatted on about the farm, asked after Meg and Bear, told him about her roses. George would have written as well, telling him about the farm, the price of grain, the cost of a new plough and which cows were in calf.
He turned over, the pillow beneath his head hard and uncomfortable, his mind racing with thoughts of what might have happened and why they had not asked for his help and how he might make things better.
Faith’s hand reached out to lie on his chest. “Stop thinking about it and go to sleep. You can worry tomorrow.” And, comforted, he closed his eyes.
Chapter 5
The creak of floorboards outside was enough to rouse him from sleep. Half-awake from his last nightmare, he reached under the pillow – but no, this was their hotel room and the door was locked and his gun in the armoire with the rest of his things. A hell of a night, his sleep restless and unsatisfying, full of dark dreams leaving him more tired than if he had done a full night’s watch.
Faith was asleep beside him, and he lay there watching the slight flutter of her eyelids, the tiny movements of her lips as with each breath. His legs ached, his head thick, the former from dancing until midnight, the latter from his nightmares. The past come to visit him again: long-dead ghosts from his time in the prison camp, the Dalton brothers leering over him as he lay helpless, Nathan Bishop – skeletal and dying and accusing him of abandoning George and Martha. Was it too late, even now?