Brides of Kentucky

by Lynn A. Coleman

It was no longer a question. “Any way. I like them the way you’re serving them.”

  Mary nodded her head, grabbed two more eggs from a bowl, and cracked them open over a flat grill. This was a working farm. Pamela had never been on a farm early in the morning. Some friends back East had told her how much work they would have to do before they ate breakfast and before they left for school. She’d always thought they were exaggerating. Perhaps not, she mused.

  Pamela sat down, then realized they probably had an order. “Is there a particular place I should be sitting?”

  “Nope, first come, first served here. It’s my job to fix the morning meal. Lunch, every man, woman, and child fends for themselves. At dinner, each of us women takes a night. Whoever cooks doesn’t clean.”

  Pamela chuckled. “Sounds wonderful.”

  “You need order when blending four families under one roof. We’re hoping to build a new house next spring. Will Jr. and his family will stay in this house, and the rest of us will move into the large farmhouse. Eventually each of the boys wants to build their own homes. We’ll apply for a tavern license then and hope to use the rooms for travelers like yourself.”

  “Seems like a lot of work.”

  “Always is when you’re trying to build a community. The Cumberland Ford settlement just up the road is doing well. But it’s taken them a few years. Most folks don’t stop here at Yellow Creek. They just head on up to Cumberland Ford. Of course, most folks aren’t hauling a wagon like yourself.”

  “It’s not the most comfortable road.”

  “Ain’t built for wagons. You shouldn’t have too much trouble crossing at Flatlick. I heard they moved the tollgate down there in 1830. You could try crossing other places to avoid the tolls. Depends on how low the river is and how mucky the shoreline.”

  “Great,” Pamela mumbled.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you taking to Creelsboro?”

  “Mostly things for the store. There were a few pieces I left up on the gap—some lamps, small furniture pieces. Most of those were in the large trunk.”

  “Will said he and the boys were going to fetch your trunks today.”

  Why? she wondered.

  “Mac said you ran into Jasper, and he told Jasper he was going to go back for ’em. So he and Will figured the best thing was to fetch ’em.”

  “Well, you and your family can keep whatever you want from the trunks. Quinton’s clothing was left behind. Didn’t figure I’d be needing that.” Pamela bowed her head.

  “Speaking of Quinton, the boys ought to have his grave dug before breakfast.”

  “I was going to do that. I don’t want to impose.”

  Mary came beside her with a platter full of fried eggs and placed her hand on Pam’s shoulder. “Now, dear, a woman shouldn’t have to dig her husband’s grave. It’s been done, but my boys are strong, hardy men. They can do it in no time. You just rest. You’ve had quite a heap of trouble for one so young.”

  Pamela sighed. Mary didn’t know the half of it.

  The door flew open, and a team of people bustled into the room. Each grabbed a plate, filled it, and sat down. Pamela sat watching, holding her fork in midair. They weren’t pushing or shoving, but they worked in pace with each other. A dance of sorts. A breakfast waltz. She shook her head. She’d been away from civilization too long, and it had only been five days.

  The morning meal went by as quickly as it started. Pamela found herself alone at the table, the three other women standing at the sink, one washing, one drying, and one putting the dishes away. Talk about an organized household. The women chatted on and on about their plans for the day.

  Mary came in from her private room with a clean housedress on. “Takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?” she asked as she sat down beside Pamela.

  Pamela stared down at her half-full plate. “I’ve never seen a meal eaten so quickly yet orderly at the same time.”

  Mary roared. “A couple hours of hard work drives a person to not waste time.” She placed her hand on Pamela’s. “When you’re ready, we’ll bury your husband. Will thought it’d be fittin’ to read the Twenty-third Psalm.”

  How’d they know that psalm has been running through my head for days? On the other hand, it was the standard scripture to read at funerals. Even the preacher back home had read it at her parents’ grave. Pamela cleared her throat. “That’ll be fine.”

  “God’s got big shoulders, dear. He understands our tears and our anger.”

  Pamela eyed Mary cautiously.

  “It’s been a few years, but I remember crying out to the Lord over the loss of my young ones.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It still hurts when their birthdays come around, but I remind myself of all the hard times we’ve gone through and relax in knowin’ they never knew pain, hardship, and anguish. They’ve only been held in the Lord’s bosom.”

  Pamela noticed the chatter of the three other women had ceased. She looked up, realizing each of them had their own losses to bear as well. Why, oh why, do people willingly want to live in such wilderness?

  “Black Hawk, what are you doing here?” Mac opened the door wider and let his old Indian friend in.

  “I am old. I wish to die with my ancestors.” Black Hawk sat down on the bench by the table.

  “But, if they catch you …”

  “They will not catch me. See, I wear white man’s clothes, and my hair is hidden under my cap.”

  Mac had never known Black Hawk to wear anything but his tribal clothing. He’d taken a risk to come back East. His people had been forced to move to Indian Territory years ago. But Black Hawk had always defied the “white man laws” and lived as he felt he should.

  “My home is your home. I’m going to bed to rest. I’ll be packing tomorrow, then heading west for a few weeks.”

  “What is this I hear about a woman?”

  “You met up with Jasper?”

  “No, I overheard them. Beware, my friend. His eyes are on you and your bride’s wagon.”

  “She is not my bride.” Mac’s voice rose.

  Black Hawk’s eyebrows did likewise.

  “Sorry. Jasper assumed she was my wife. She is a widow. Her husband died at Indian Rock two days ago.”

  “Ah, I saw the blood.”

  Mac had thought he’d cleaned the rock well enough. But for someone like Black Hawk, obviously not. “I promised her husband I would take her to Creelsboro before he died.”

  Black Hawk nodded. “Do as you must, but beware.”

  “I will, and before I leave I wish to have words with you.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Swift Deer.” His leathery smile accented the deep wrinkles in his face. Black Hawk had taught Mac to hunt, to live off the land, and to identify plants that were helpful for medicine. He owed the man a debt of gratitude and a heap of prayers. As of yet, Black Hawk had not seen the white man’s God as the answer. If he’s dying, this might be my last chance, Lord. Help me.

  “Good night,” Mac said and smiled.

  “You mean, ‘good morning.’” Black Hawk chuckled under his breath.

  “Yeah, nothing like being up most of the night. Let’s get some rest, and we’ll talk later.”

  “Swift Deer, your heart is still pure. It’s your faith, I see it now.”

  Mac halted in his steps. He glanced back at Black Hawk. Unspoken words proclaimed the glory of eternity in the simple wink of an eye. Black Hawk had come to terms with the white man’s God. Thank You, Lord.

  After a gentle nod from Mac, Black Hawk laid a bedroll down in front of the woodstove, his movements stiff, his frame thin, thinner than it had been several years ago after he’d returned from Indian Territory. “Black Hawk, sleep in my bed tonight, please,” Mac pleaded.

  The old man looked down at the bedroll. “Thank you, my friend. My brother.”

  Mac swallowed a lump in his throat the size of a chestnut. He pulled a small pillow from the bench in the living room. His mother had mad
e it for him last year. He stripped to the waist, removed his boots, and lay down on the hard floor. Black Hawk was a wise man and knew he was dying. Father in heaven, forgive me. I don’t want to fulfill a dying man’s request. I’d rather stay by the side of my friend and help him exit his earthly home.

  Chapter 5

  Quinton’s wrapped body lay silent and still in the bottom of a filled pit. The last bit of hope that all of this had been some strange nightmare took flight. Oh, how Pamela prayed to wake up in her old bed. Mary’s warm embrace helped, a little. Tears streamed down her face. Will’s kind words gave little solace. Quinton was dead. She was alone and condemned to live a dream that others had created.

  Pamela gripped her sides as she held back some of her emotions. These godly people would not take too kindly to her spitting words of anger out to God. Granted, Mary had mentioned that God could handle it. But it slammed into everything she’d been taught. In church you learned to respect God and accept what He gave in life, whether it be good or bad. Her slaves told her not to anger the gods, to tread lightly.

  “We’ll leave you be for a while, child,” Mary whispered into her ear. The family of strangers who had opened their home knew her pain. And they claimed God could handle her grief, her anger, her questions. Was it possible? Or was this a new brand of religion? Wilderness religion.

  She’d been told only a half dozen farmers lived in the region of Yellow Creek. Most folks were in Cumberland Ford, where they could find a traveling preacher some days. Will and his sons had offered to see if they could find one to do the service. But Pamela insisted they not extend themselves further.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. How can I ever repay this family for their kindness? she wondered.

  She turned and looked at the freshly dug grave. A single tear plopped on the soil below. Her face felt swollen. Grief shook loose any restraints holding back the tears from the strangers around her. She could expend all her emotions now. Later, she’d be expected to be grown and mature, to have put the matter behind her. Hadn’t that been what her father had always taught them with each death that overshadowed her family?

  “God, why have You cursed us? What did my ancestors do to allow You to punish us for generations? When does it stop? When I’m dead and buried? Take me now, Lord. I don’t want to go on. Why should I? It was never my dream. It was Yours … my parents … even Quinton’s. But maybe he just felt it or thought it the best way to go.

  “I know You don’t care for those who speak with the spirit world. But Angus and the others said trouble would happen if we left Virginia. I’m sorry, God, if I’m not supposed to believe in such nonsense, but You’ve left me no choice. They were right. My family and their beliefs about You, about Your direction, were wrong. Look at them, they’re all dead!”

  Pamela’s chest heaved. Her fist clenched, she raised it toward the sky. “Take me, God, take me now. I don’t want to live without them. I’m alone. No one cares for me, not even You.”

  Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

  A gentle breeze whispered across her heated flesh. A voice—no, the feeling of a Presence—swept over her, and the words from the Twenty-third Psalm passed through her mind. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

  “Where are You, God? Where?” She looked around the expanse of the meadow, the rugged foothills climbing up to the mountains. “Are You up there? Down in the valley? Where are You, Lord? I can’t see You. I can’t feel You. I can’t feel anything right now. I’m so empty, Lord. So completely empty.”

  Pamela crumpled to her knees, hunched over her brother’s grave. Evil is all around, Lord. Look at Jasper. And can I really trust that giant of a man, Mac?

  “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

  “Lord, I may not have paid attention as I should have in my church lessons, but isn’t the rod used for discipline? For spanking children? I’m not a child,” she huffed.

  A man coughed. “Do you think it might be that it’s because a parent loves his child that he disciplines him?”

  Tear-soaked eyes blurred her vision. Pamela tried to focus on the image of Calvin Turner leaning against a shovel.

  “Forgive me for overhearing, but if a young one keeps reaching for the hot stove, a parent needs to spank their hand to keep them from doing far worse damage to themselves. I know you’re hurting, and your loss is great, but I’ve always found new life springs from death.” He nodded and placed his molded woolen cap back on his head. “Fact is, bad things happen all the time. My young wife didn’t deserve to die in childbirth, but she did. It wasn’t God’s fault. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t even my child’s fault. Those things just happen from time to time. They hurt, they’re unfortunate, but from her death new life came—my boy, Jason.”

  He bent down on one knee and picked up a small pebble. “She’s still in my heart. I love her. I miss her. But God’s also given me a new wife and a new child on the way. I’m not saying this is easy. Lord knows, I cried out to Him like you are doing on more than one occasion. I’m just saying that as bad as it feels right now, there will be a time when it won’t ache as much. You might not understand all the reasons why, but you’ll be comfortable with the fact that it’s happened.

  “Ma thought I might be able to help you deal with your anger, seein’s how I’d been there, too.”

  Pamela swallowed hard. “I’m sorry for your loss.” What else could she say?

  He pointed to her left. “That’s Catherine’s grave.”

  “How long?” She wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Four years this past August. I ain’t perfect. I still hurt. But as that psalm says, Thy rod and staff do comfort.”

  “What’s God’s staff?”

  “To me it’s like a staff a shepherd uses to tend the sheep. He’ll nudge a lamb here and there with the tip to keep it on the right way, so as not to get caught in the briars or other things on the path. He also uses it to help him continue on the long miles of the journey. You know, somethin’ to lean on. Just like this shovel.” A lopsided grin slid up the right side of his face. His rugged chin and wayward hair showed he was content with who he was. He had no need to impress anyone. He simply lived his life out to the fullest.

  Am I vain, Lord? she prayed. Have I been trying to do it all my own way?

  Mac woke to find Black Hawk reaching over him to the woodstove.

  “Sorry, Swift Deer, I did not mean to wake you, but my old belly was in need of something warm. The wind blows from the northwest. It will be a cold winter, lots of snow.”

  Black Hawk had never been wrong on his weather predictions. I’ll have to chop more wood for the winter, Mac mused. The window brought in the warm rays of sunshine. And for the first time, he noticed how the creases in his old friend’s forehead and cheeks were deeper, the luster of his eyes gone. Only dull orbs remained. Mac sat up.

  Black Hawk took a seat on the bench. “The time is close.”

  “I’ll stay with you.”

  “What of this young woman who needs you?”

  “I’ll send word, hire someone else to take her.”

  “Ah.” He leaned back and rested his elbows behind him on the table. “I do not want you to go back on your word, my friend. Not for an old man who’s lived too many days.”

  “Nonsense. You’re not that old.”

  Black Hawk roared with laughter that lapsed into a chest-rattling cough. “Older than you are aware, my son.”

  Mac clasped his hands in front of him, resting his elbows on his raised knees. “When did you make peace with the white man’s God?”

  “Six moons ago, when a preacher came to the reservation. You know how fired up I was about being there. Well, he spoke about God’s people, the, how you say, Jews, and how they were taken from their land, used as slaves, and one day their God rescued them and brought them back to their Promised Land. This is my land, my prom
ised land. Your God, my God, brought me back so I can die on my land. The land of my people. A gift, you might say.”

  Mac searched his memory to see if he’d ever told the story of Moses to Black Hawk. He thought perhaps he had, but found no definite recollection.

  “You, my friend, were an example of the life your God, my God—I have to learn to keep saying that—wants people to live. There is a lot of evil in this world. I see it in white man, red man, black man, every man I’ve come across. They lie, they cheat, they kill. But you, my friend, never, never in all my days of knowing you, did. Why? I’d ask myself. Then I’d remember your words about your God. When this preacher came, I chose to come and listen. Then it made sense.

  “I’m old. I’m tired of fighting. I want to have my spirit rest on the wings of God.”

  “This is why I should stay,” Mac protested. “I should be with you.”

  “No, my friend, you must keep your word. How shall I continue to believe if you do not?”

  Mac wasn’t too sure how he liked his life being an example that a man based his entire faith from. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then come with me. I could use a chaperone.”

  Black Hawk chuckled. “I said I understand your God. I did not say I understand your women. Why is she not married to you right now?”

  “Her husband just died.” Mac swallowed hard.

  “Exactly. A woman needs a new husband to feel complete, to feel loved. A warrior takes on a widow to keep her content, to give her children if she is without. This makes a woman happy.”

  “I do not understand women, either, so I’ll just let someone else make her feel loved and give her a child.”

  Black Hawk wagged his head. “Is she not pleasing to behold?”

  “She’s beautiful. But you know my past. I could never …”

  Black Hawk raised his hand and held it out toward Mac. “I once said I could never believe in the white man’s God. I do not think never is a good word. It isn’t true.”

  Mac opened his mouth, then closed it. How could he argue with that kind of logic?

  “Go, take this woman to Creelsboro or wherever you said she must go. And if she pleases you, make her your wife. Don’t think. Just do what your heart is telling you. Wonders are found in the arms of the woman you love.”