by Deeanne Gist
She toyed with her watch pin. The fact that he wanted to visit the House of the Lord before he left town boded well. And it would also give her an opportunity to seek the preacher’s counsel.
She placed a foot on the foothold. He took a step closer, his enormous frame blocking out the sun. Suppressing the urge to jerk away from him, she prayed for God’s protection, then held her breath while he assisted her into the wagon.
CHAPTER
SIX
Anna hadn’t been in a wagon since she’d left New York. The rocking of the vehicle combined with the rumbling of hooves, the jiggling of harnesses, and the creaking of wheels all blended together in a soothing lullaby.
An Indian woman swaddled in what looked like a blanket of woven bark moved down the boardwalk. Looking up, she waved at Mr. Denton, the brass rings on her fingers catching the sunlight, while the ones in her ears swayed.
Tugging on his hat, Mr. Denton smiled, his entire face transformed with the gesture. His eyes turned sky blue while a double set of deep grooves dimpled each cheek. Anna knew she stared, but never had she seen such straight, white teeth.
Quelling the impulse to crane around for another look at the woman who evoked such a response from him, she instead scanned the streets. There wasn’t a single beggar. Or pauper. Or tramp. In New York, they’d lined every major thoroughfare. She wondered, briefly, how long it would have been before she’d have become one of them had she stayed at home.
Mr. Denton clicked his tongue, gently tugging on the right rein and turning them north toward Mr. Mercer’s grand university at the top of the hill. They passed cottage-style homes sitting in the middle of treeless lots a block wide, white picket fences marking their sparse perimeters. For all the trees that grew in this land, the residences had nothing but flat, dirt-filled lots with few shade trees or ornamental shrubs.
Two tiny birds with rich vocal repertoires flickered by tee-tee-teeing in an impossibly high register, then suddenly dropped their voices to turr-turr-turr in a lower tone. This time she did twist around in the wagon seat.
And completely forgot about the birds as she again faced Mount Rainier. Huge, majestic, awe-inspiring. And it would be hers to look at for the rest of her days.
The wagon dipped into a sag, bumping her backside clear up off the bench. Squealing, she flailed her arms.
An iron grip clasped her leg through her skirts and hauled her back down. “Careful.”
She sucked in a breath, then steadied herself. “Forgive me. I was . . .”
But he’d already removed his hand and turned his focus to something up ahead.
She smoothed her skirts and looked to see what held his attention. A little white church crowned with a pretty steeple and large wooden cross had come into view.
Her pulse began to hammer. They’d be there in a few minutes and she’d yet to raise her concerns with Mr. Denton.
Tapping the V between each gloved finger, she took a surreptitious glance at him. As anxious as he’d been to have the privacy of the wagon, he’d not initiated any conversation.
She bit her lip. Perhaps she should just wait and speak with the preacher. She’d heard things in the West were done differently, but she couldn’t imagine the preacher allowing her to live alone with a single man. Surely things weren’t that different.
On the other hand, in a territory that held a dearth of chaperones, there might not be any alternatives. She simply didn’t know.
But the preacher would. So she’d wait and see.
A sweet, delicate fragrance filled the air.
“What’s that smell?” she asked.
“Twinflower. It’s that white wild flower creeping up the fence right there.”
She scanned the fence and caught a flash of white hugging one of the posts. “Smells like honeysuckle, only more vanilla-like.”
“Looks like them, too. You’ll see them all over for the rest of the summer and on into the fall.”
She studied the tiny blooms bedded in a patch of green until they’d completely passed them by.
A few blocks later, Mr. Denton slowed the wagon and pulled it off the road next to a burying ground with a smattering of markers. After securing the horse, he came round to her side and offered assistance.
As soon as her feet touched the ground, she turned her attention to the church. It held a number of holes in the woodwork and windows, all the size of bullets.
“You ready?” Mr. Denton asked, extending his elbow.
Shaking off her thoughts, she took his arm and headed up the steps. “What’s the name of your church?”
“The White Church.”
She blinked. “The White Church?”
“Yes. As opposed to the Brown Church over on Madison and Second.”
“The Indians here have their own church?”
A ghost of a smile touched his face. “No. This one is painted white; that one is painted brown.”
Before she had time to digest his explanation, they entered the sanctuary. A tall ceiling with exposed joists sheltered two walls of windows and several rows of oak pews split down the middle by an aisle. A hint of lemon oil tickled her nose.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
The heels of his boots echoed off the walls as he skirted the pews and headed toward a door to the right of the pulpit.
“David?” he asked, tapping a knuckle against the wood.
A muffled sound issued forth and Mr. Denton entered the room, closing the door behind him.
Silence enveloped Anna.
Hello, God.
Removing her gloves, she glided down the aisle, absorbing the quiet, the draped cross at the front of the room, the feeling of peace.
I think I’m going to love it here.
She reached out a hand, touching the back of each pew as she passed, its smooth, varnished surface caressing her fingers.
I’d heard it rained a lot. But the last two days have been beautiful. And everything is so pretty. So green. And the mountains. Oh, Lord, they’re—
The door to the preacher’s office opened. Mr. Denton stood on its threshold, the light from behind him making it impossible to see his features.
“They’re ready,” he said, his voice loud within the quiet of the church. “If you are, that is.”
She tilted her head. They? Ready for what? But she moved toward him, anxious now to meet her new preacher and to ask him for his counsel.
As she approached, Mr. Denton stepped toward her, pulling the door behind him but not quite closing it. “Anna?”
She stopped.
“I left the ring at home.”
A picture of the Indian woman and her brass rings flashed through her mind. Was he supposed to trade with the Indians? And why was he telling her?
Then she realized, he’d used her Christian name. She pulled down the corners of her mouth. She’d speak to the preacher about that, too.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded. “Well, you mustn’t let it happen again.”
He hesitated, then opened the door.
A man of medium build with kind brown eyes and a receding hairline stepped from behind a desk. He’d shaved his beard so that it ran from one ear, down under his chin, and back up the other side like a bonnet strap. “Miss Ivey? I’m Reverend Blaine and this is my wife, Rebecca.”
A lovely woman with mountains of black hair and a dress that looked more suited to New York City than the Washington Territory stepped forward.
She took Anna in her embrace. “Klahawya.” She pulled back and smiled. “That’s how the natives say hello.”
Anna returned her smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for a simple ‘How do you do’ from me, Mrs. Blaine. I don’t know any Indian words.”
“Oh, you must call me Rebecca.”
“Thank you. And, please, call me Anna.”
Rebecca swept Anna with her gaze but gave no indication of her thoughts. Yet Anna felt warmth crawl into her cheeks. This pas
t year she’d had to wash out one dress while wearing the other. Over and over and over. They weren’t exactly rags yet but were perilously close to becoming so.
Fingering her skirt, she hid her hand within its folds, then lifted her chin. There was no shame in being poor. Only in doing nothing about it. But she’d answered an ad and come clear around the Horn to start a new life. A new life as a cook. Once she’d worked off her debt to Mr. Denton, fabric for a new gown would be her very first purchase.
She swallowed, hoping the bachelor status of her employer didn’t jeopardize that ambition.
“She’s lovely, Joe,” Rebecca said, glancing at Mr. Denton.
He immediately cast his gaze to the floor, refusing to meet her eye.
Discomfited, Anna didn’t know what to say. She turned to Reverend Blaine, trying to decide how best to broach the dilemma she found herself in.
Judging him to be in his forties, she noted he had the marks of a man whose wife fed him well. Before she could gather her wits, he slipped a jacket over his vest, picked up a Bible, and tucked it to his chest.
“I cannot tell you how long we have anticipated the arrival of Mercer’s girls,” he said.
“It’s certainly been an adventure,” she responded.
“I can imagine.” He cleared his throat. “How, um, old are you, my dear?”
She blinked. “Nineteen.”
“Perfect.” Smiling, he looked at Mr. Denton. “Well, Joe. You ready?”
Mr. Denton stepped up beside her, taking her elbow.
The reverend looked at Anna. “Rebecca will act as witness.”
Witness?
He opened his Bible. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God, and in the presence of this witness . . .”
Anna looked in confusion around the room. She glanced up at Mr. Denton. He was completely focused on the words being said, his expression serious.
“Wait!” She jerked her arm from his hold.
He tensed. The preacher stopped.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Reverend Blaine looked first at Mr. Denton and then at her. “I’m performing the wedding ceremony.”
“Whose wedding ceremony?”
He frowned. “Your wedding ceremony.”
She took a step back. “What song in a million Sundays gave you the idea I wanted to marry Mr. Denton?”
The reverend opened, then closed his mouth. “Well, it was, it was in the contract.”
“What contract?”
He looked at Mr. Denton. “Joe? Did you not discuss this with her?”
“Of course I did,” he said, his face flaming.
She whirled toward him. “I beg your pardon? You most certainly did not. Exactly when did you ask me to marry you?”
“I didn’t expect to have to say the actual words, Anna. It was understood in the terms of the contract.”
“You do not, sir, have permission to use my Christian name. Furthermore, I have no idea what contract you are referring to.”
His exasperation was clear. “Mercer’s contract. What do you think we’ve been talking about all morning? All last night? What do you think we’re doing at the church?”
“I thought you had an appointment with the preacher!”
“I did. I had an appointment to get married. To you.”
She closed her eyes, prayed for patience, then opened them again. “I am aware, sir, that most wives cook for their husbands. But to assume I would agree to be your spouse simply because I said I’d cook for you goes beyond—”
“I assumed nothing,” he barked, his eyes dark.
She took an involuntary step back. He really was a very large man.
“You signed a contract with Mercer, right?”
She nodded.
“Well, so did I.” He removed a worn piece of parchment from his jacket, unfolded it, and handed it to her.
She began to skim it, then slowed down to read it more thoroughly.
I, A.S. Mercer, of Seattle, W.T., hereby agree to bring a suitable wife of good moral character and reputation, from the East to Seattle, on or before October, 1865, for Joseph Denton, whose signature is hereunto attached, he first paying me the sum of three hundred dollars—
She gasped.
—with which to pay the passage of said lady from the East and to compensate me for my trouble. If she is a proficient cook, a bonus of fifty dollars will be awarded to A.S. Mercer.
It was signed by both Mercer and Mr. Denton in April of 1865.
She slowly raised her eyes to his. “You paid that scoundrel three hundred dollars?”
He shook his head. “Four hundred. I had to wire him fifty because you’re a cook and fifty more to get you from San Francisco to here.”
A tightness seized her chest. “My contract reads much differently.”
“Where is it?” he asked, his features taut.
“In my carpetbag.”
He nodded. “I’ll go get it.”
The preacher and his wife said nothing while Mr. Denton went to fetch her bag and she carefully avoided their gazes. An old rug covered the wooden floor and had a worn path from the reverend’s chair to the window and back again.
Instead of a secretary against the wall, a large gateleg table as old as time served as his desk. Pilgrim’s Progress and The Imitation of Christ lay stacked in one corner. Numerous papers were strewn across its scarred, well-used surface. His quill lay carelessly atop a half-written document as if he’d been using it just prior to their arrival.
Mr. Denton returned, handing her the bag. No one said a word.
She rummaged through it, dug out a folded piece of paper, then slowly handed it to him.
One passage on the good steamship Continental bound for Seattle in the Washington Territory is awarded to Miss Anna Ivey of Granby, Massachusetts.
On the completion of the voyage, it is hereby agreed that Mr. Joseph Denton will pay the sum of fifty dollars to Mr. A.S. Mercer in consideration that Miss Ivey shall act as a cook for his lumber company until said monies have been earned back in labor.
Signed and sealed by me this twentieth day of December one thousand eight hundred and sixty-five in the presence of Miss Anna Ivey.
Mr. Denton gave the preacher a pointed look, then passed the document to him.
“Mercer never said anything to you about being a bride?” Denton asked.
“Once. In the middle of the voyage, he tried to extract more money from all us girls. When it was my turn to be called into his stateroom, he said he was confident I’d find a husband who’d be willing to pay whatever I agreed to.”
Mr. Denton rubbed his forehead. “Please don’t tell me you agreed to more.”
“I did not. I also made it clear I had no intention of marrying.”
He ceased his rubbing and looked at her over his hand. “What did he say to that?”
“He was rather troubled, now that I think on it. But I credited it to the fact that I wouldn’t commit to more money. Not that I wouldn’t commit to marriage.”
“I need a wife, Miss Ivey. I paid for a wife.”
She swallowed. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” She looked to the preacher and his wife for a show of support, but their stern visages clearly indicated they sided with Mr. Denton.
“Well,” she said, “for one thing, I don’t know you. Secondly, I . . . I want to make my own way.”
“Make your own way? You’re a suffragist?” He curled his lip. “Mercer brought me a suffragist?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Mercer brought you a cook. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Well, I paid for a bride.”
“And I’m truly sorry about that, but as you can see, there is no mention of that in my contract.”
He glanced at the preacher. “We’ll be right back.”
Grabbing her elbow, he pulled her out the door of the office. The slamming of it echoed in the
quiet of the church. She all but ran beside him as he propelled her to the front pew. Before she could protest, he forced her to sit.
“Listen,” he said, joining her. “I’m going to lose my land if I don’t get married.”
“Lose your land?”
“That’s right. I participated in the Land Grant Act and was awarded six hundred forty acres, but my wife died before she could join me. That demoted me to bachelor status, making me eligible for only three hundred twenty acres. So if I want to keep the full six hundred forty I’ve already developed, I have to have a wife and I have to have her today.”
She blinked, trying to follow the thread of conversation. “Today? Why today?”
“Because I was given a year to secure a bride, but it took Mercer fifteen months to get you here. So I’m out of time. If you refuse me, the judge will certainly rule in favor of the man suing me for half my land.”
“Did you tell the judge your wife died?”
“I did, but the courthouse that held her death certificate burned down, destroying all its records.”
“Surely the judge would take your word.”
“One would think, but he did not. Most likely because the man suing me is a relation of his.” Dropping to his knee, he clasped her hand. “It will be a marriage in name only. I won’t press you for, for . . .” Pink touched his cheeks. “I won’t press you for conjugal rights. I have a large home. You’ll have your own room. I’m well off and can afford to clothe you and keep you in warmth and comfort. So,” he took a deep breath, “would you please do me the honor of becoming my wife, Miss Anna Ivey?” He squeezed her hand, his eyes turning from blue to green and back to blue. “Please?”
Her heart softened at his plea, but she caught herself. This was no injured dog who needed nursing back to health. This was a huge, strapping man who wanted her to enter into a lifetime commitment with him.
Beyond his kind treatment of Mrs. Wrenne, she didn’t know anything about him or his character. Nor did he know anything about her. He didn’t know about her father. Her brother. Her mother. He didn’t know she’d been responsible for them. He didn’t know that because of her they were now all dead.