Harlow looked at her and then down at his food. He ate his meal. The quiet was full of tension. When he was finished, he got up without saying anything, walked out the door, saddled up his horse and rode over the brow of the hill.
Belle stewed all day but not without working while she did. It was a solid little cottage. A long, wide table, big Majestic range and Hoosier cabinet filled the dismal little kitchen. A pantry connected the kitchen and parlor, with its red well-pump, sink and dish shelves hidden by faded gingham curtains. A homemade zinc-lined bathtub and a washstand occupied a small room behind the range.
Belle set bread to rise from the sourdough starter she found in the cellar where the stream ran under the corner of the house to keep things cool. Then, she took a look around the outbuildings and was amazed at the job Harlow had done. The smithy shed was really more than that--it was a woodworking shop as well. Tools were hung neatly on its walls with heavy penciled lines drawn around them to show where they belonged. Its dirt floor, swept clean, sloped with the terrain. The sharpening wheel resembled a bicycle with its big stone wheel, pedals and a seat.
A stone’s throw from it, Belle opened the heavy door of the icehouse, a low-roofed, thick-walled building with a pit inside where chunks of ice rested in a bed of wood shavings and the temperature felt as cold as January. A side of bacon swung freely from its rafters and a butcher knife, almost as big as a machete was stuck into the wall. Belle wandered down the hill and poked around in the unpainted barn where she discovered its plank floor and tack room, all spit-clean and tidy. Up in the generous hayloft she imagined making a nest for herself on a warm summer afternoon and reading a good book. She stopped and petted a sorrel gelding and noticed two Jersey milk cows and a calf that shared his pasture.
Across from the barn, a deserted pigpen was attached to a milking shed where a couple of three-legged stools stood waiting next to a galvanized bucket. Attached to it, a henhouse fitted with two layers of boxes was deserted, but more than thirty chickens were under the cherry trees scratching in the dirt. Mostly Rhode Island Reds but there were a half-dozen black and white Wyandottes like the ones her mother had prized.
Belle tossed them handfuls of grain out of a wooden bin, gathered the eggs in her apron and headed back to the kitchen. How could that Etta person not love this place?
It was almost dark before Belle saw Harlow by the barn as he took off the saddle, brushed down his gelding and then put him in the pasture.
He came up the hill and Belle rushed back to the range to busy herself over the pot of soup she was making. Harlow stood in the middle of the kitchen and waited for Belle to look at him. “Two dollars a week and your board and room,” he said. Turning on his heel, he went into his bedroom and closed the door.
Her prayers were answered. It was a miracle. She could stay. The next morning, as Belle came down from the outhouse, a train was trudging up river. The smoke from its engine fogged the sky; its horn blared. Belle waved at the engineer who waved back at her as he went around the bend and disappeared.
Back in the house she wasted no time unpacking now that Harlow said she could stay. Among her possessions was the little velvet pouch that held her mother’s lavaliere. “If the baby is a girl I will give this precious treasure to her some day,” she whispered to herself. She could hear her father’s voice: “Love will find you one day, lass, and that will be soon enough to put it about your neck.” This was no time to think about it. She tucked it in the back of the dresser drawer.
Chapter Seven
Harlow hitched the Clydesdales to a wagon and left early in the morning. Belle had packed enough food for three days including her fresh-baked bread. He had been pleasant yet distant before he left.
She’d heard him on the telephone asking Cal Riemers to milk the cows while he was gone. Although it had rained during the night, she was determined to plant the garden. With her long skirt tied up around her hips, she kicked off her shoes, pocketed her stockings, and went after her task in earnest. How she loved the energy that came out of the soil and into her being as she worked the black, loamy earth with both hands. Free and giddy and out of earshot, she belted “Scotland the Brave” at the top of her lungs: “I hear the drums a-drumming. I hear the pipes a-humming. My bonnie lassie’s waiting for me.” Life was good, and even the thought of having the baby that thrashed around in her belly seemed all right.
The black loamy soil was nothing like the tired rocky dirt in Scotland. Belle was careful with Harlow’s precious seeds. The Scots have an Eleventh Commandment: “Thou shalt not waste.” The musky smell of the freshly turned earth made her feel good all over. Grubbing in the dirt on her hands and knees, Belle didn’t see the hack carrying two women drive up the road until it was almost upon her. Without hats or gloves, looking disheveled from riding in the wind, they got out and stood there laughing.
Tall and willowy with their black hair glistening in the sunlight, a little raw-edged maybe, they were lovely to look at and Belle was anxious for some female company. She looked down at herself--her arms and legs caked with mud and the round ball of her baby poking out in front.
She laughed and waved. “Good morning to ye!” she called as she trudged, barefooted, through the mud to greet them.
“Good morning back at you. We enjoyed your singing. You’re in good voice this beautiful morning. I’m Colleen O’Donnell and this is my sister Gracie Roarke,” she said. “We had to come see for ourselves what Harlow Pruett did this time.” They seemed comfortable with themselves. Belle liked them straight away.
“I guess there’s talk. I’m Isabelle Mackay, call me Belle. I’m Harlow’s hired help.” She smiled. These women were friendly. This was not the chilly reception she’d thought she’d get.
“We ranch out near New Jerusalem; we’re not canyon women. We’re Irish and Catholic and proud of it,” Colleen said.
“Could ye drink a spot of tea?” Belle asked.
“Sure, we could, but we don’t like taking you from your garden,” Grace said.
“It will be there waiting when I get back to it. I’d shake your hand, but ye wouldn’t like it,” Belle said awkwardly holding out her muddy hands. She wiped a tickle on her face away with the back of her sleeve.
“It’s good honest dirt. You can’t work in a garden and look like you stepped out of a bandbox, now can you?” Colleen said.
Belle led the way into the house. She seated the ladies in the parlor and went about cleaning herself up and fixing tea. When she brought the teapot and cups on a tray with bread and peach preserves, they were still laughing and joking. It made her homesick for Meg. The two of them used to get into it as these sisters were doing.
“I need to explain,” Belle said, patting her belly.
“We’re interested, of course, but we’re not here to judge you. We just came to make your acquaintance and say hello. Whatever it is that you have done, girl, is your own business, not ours. It’s hard enough to keep our own lives straight without messing in things that don’t concern us.” Colleen took Belle’s hand. “When is this baby due, love?”
“July Fourth, Independence Day as close as I can figure.”
‘‘A firecracker,” Gracie said as she ran her fingers through her gorgeous flowing hair. “Don’t count on Doc Bumguard in Horseshoe Bend when your time comes. He’s three sheets to the wind most of the time. Lord knows he shouldn’t be practicing medicine.” Belle took the cozy off the teapot and filled their cups.
“You’d be better off with a midwife. We’ve had a lot of practice. Just ring us on the line and we’ll be here to help,” Colleen said.
“Colleen, what did ye mean about Harlow when ye first came? Ye know, about what he’d done this time?” Belle asked.
“Oh, that. Well, you’ll find out soon enough anyway.” Colleen seemed hesitant. “Harlow is a little erratic. He gets bizarre at times--like trading off the best mule team in the State of Idaho for those Clydesdales. My husband, Harold, says he can’t imagine anyone trying to
dig in the hillside with those big horses.”
“Then, no sooner had he finished that dandy pigpen, he lost all his pigs in a poker game,” Gracie said over her teacup.
“One night the men were drinking and playing poker and Harlow got mad at Roddie Biggers for cheating and tipped over the outhouse with old Rod in it.”
Belle laughed as she pictured the scene in her mind.
“He spent most of his time in those mines of his and never was a real husband to Etta,” Gracie said licking preserves off her fingers.
“She got lonesome and wanted Harlow to go back to Utah. The winters can be pretty long up here. It almost became a sickness with her. Good peach preserves - really delicious.” Colleen smacked her lips.
“I found the jar in the pantry. Guess you should be thanking Etta,” Belle said.
“And that Harlow’s a moody one,” Gracie said. “He pulls the cork too often like a lot of the men do.”
“But her leaving wasn’t all his fault. Etta just wasn’t cut out for ranching. She worried too much about the sun ruining her complexion so she wouldn’t do the outside chores once it got hot in the summer. That was hardly fair to Harlow. When he came back from the mines, he had it all to do,” Colleen said.
“Between the ranch and the mines, he didn’t have much time for Etta. She was forever talking about going down to the flatland and staying at a hotel and do what city folks do, but Harlow didn’t have the time or mind for that.”
“Could never understand why Etta came up here in the first place. She hated getting her fingernails dirty.”
“Wonder why they ever married,” Colleen said as she spread preserves on a piece of bread. “Praise the Lord they didn’t have children. I think Etta thought it would ruin her figure. She was vain, that one. Harlow’s always been driven to get ahead like he has to prove something. His ambition likely cost him his wife. That man is all work.”
“I don’t mind hard work,” Belle said. “That’s what it takes to ever amount to anything. I’m beholden to Harlow Pruett. He went out of his way for me. He’s a kind man.”
“Of course, dear. Colleen didn’t mean to suggest he isn’t. He’s just bent on striking it rich, and there’s no sin in that.” Gracie put her arm around Belle’s shoulder.
“I fear we’ve said too much.”
“Oh, no. It helped me understand the man. I want to do the best I can by him. He’s a man that’s got a dream and I like that. I’ll tell you this, I’m glad ye came to call. Do it again and soon.”
Colleen pulled a jar of apple sauce from her satchel and handed it to Belle as they went to leave and Belle gave them a loaf of bread still warm from the oven.
“Don’t worry about the canyon women, Belle. They’re gossips and uppity; only the Lord knows why. I don’t give them the time of day,” Colleen said.
Gracie sashayed out the door. Colleen waved as she turned the horse around. Snapping its haunches smartly with her buggy whip, she yelled, “Gee haw.” The horse reared and bolted down the road, the hack bouncing from one puddle to the next, muddy water spewing everywhere; Gracie giggled hysterically, holding on for dear life as she waved to Belle with her free hand.
Colleen and Gracie were right about Harlow being all work. He came home for provisions and then left the next morning. He’d bought an abandoned mine on Shafer Creek, a long stretch from the ranch. There were his mines along the Payette and Dry Buck as well and there was only Harlow to work them.
Belle found her skirts impractical so she resorted to wearing an old pair of Harlow’s britches. She cut off the extra length and used that material to sew a gusset in the front to fit her ungainly shape. Sitting on the chicken coop roof with her legs hanging over the edge, she tried to mend a leak in it. From her vantage point she could see Harlow riding into the ranch on his buckskin. There was an ease in the way he sat his horse, like a man who felt good about himself.
“What in hell are you doing up there?” he hollered at her.
“I’m Humpty Dumpty sitting on a wall.”
“Get down from there before you fall. You gotta stay on the ground, you hear?”
She was surprised that he cared what she did. He was in a good mood and she wondered what brought it on. As she made her way down, he steadied the ladder. Once she was on the ground, he didn’t take his arms away. She turned to see an impish smile on his face. They stood there, neither of them trying to move away. She was glad he was home.
“I’ve found a vein, and this could be the big one,” he said, grinning.
“Where?” Belle asked.
“Shafer Creek. I think it’s going to be the best find I’ve had for a couple of years.” Harlow took her hands in his. “Belle, I just may be rich!"
“That’s wonderful, Harlow.” She liked his arms around her and she wished that he would hold her again.
“I’ve had time to think, Belle.” He looked intent as their eyes met.
Was this a proposal? Belle was on edge waiting for what he was trying to say.
“Hear you hit a vein,” Cal shouted at Harlow as he rode into the barnyard. “I had to come and get the straight of it from you.”
Damn Cal. Now she’d never know. Well, at least not until Cal left and Harlow could build up his nerve again. If he ever did. In disappointment Belle excused herself and left them to talk. She was in a nesting mood and she had things to do. It was important at that moment, to put a bouquet of flowers on a lace doily on the outhouse shelf. She was thinking about painting flowers on the rough boards inside the milking shed. She’d baked the bread, washed the clothes, even ironed Harlow’s underwear, and her garden was weedless. What drove her to work so hard? She had a notion. What a good person Harlow was. What would have happened to her if he’d left her in the valley that day?
The garden grew, and the days grew longer. For the first time, she allowed herself to really think about this little one that was about to enter her life.
Du Cartier was an ongoing nightmare; she knew she had to set all thoughts of him aside if the child was to have a chance. It wasn’t the poor ween’s fault. What purpose would it serve to carry ugly feelings anymore? She thought about Charley Hemphill and how he’d told that her she could choose to be happy or choose to be miserable. Yes, she chose to be happy. This was her baby and she would mold it, from the day it was born, to be a gentle, kind person. She was going to be a mother--a good mother. She would make the best of it.
Harlow didn’t go back to the mines as usual. He mended fences, cleaned outbuildings and Belle wondered if he was deliberately staying there just to be with her. It was almost June and the Fourth of July wasn’t far off.
Joe Aldecoa, a stocky Basque sheepherder with blue-black hair drove his flock through the ranch that morning. He had a little covered wagon pulled by an old dray horse. A smokestack rose above its cloth cover and bent in an obtuse angle. It was the sheepherder’s home on wheels. The sheep reminded Belle of Scotland and the man did, too. She knew his people came from the Pyrenees Mountains between France and Spain--she’d read about that--yet he looked like a Scot, a lowlander, and even wore a tam-o’-shanter. Harlow helped him drive his flock through the gates and then Joe took his dinner with them. He brought a letter for Harlow from the post office in Gardena; Edna Darnelle sent it up. When he left, he gave Belle a wide-toothed grin and handed her a bum lamb that he said needed her care. Belle felt it was his way of thanking her for the hospitality.
Harlow’s lips grew thin as he read the letter from Etta. She sent him a Decree of Divorce. All he had to do was sign it. He sat looking at it while he drank his coffee. The crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes deepened. Belle knew he was troubled and poured him another cup of coffee.
“Is there something I can do to help?” she asked.
“No. This makes it final. Eight years of my life shot to hell.”
‘‘Are ye having second thoughts?”
He acted as if he didn’t hear her and sat staring at the letter and the document. Finally,
he said, “No. No second thoughts,” as he signed the paper and sealed the envelope.
“Do ye still love her, Harlow?”
His mind was somewhere else. He hesitated before he said, “I did once--a long time ago. In all our years together, she never made me feel she cared about me like you have in a couple of months.”
“Have I done that?” Belle asked, a little surprised. Come to think of it, maybe she had.
“Belle, have you thought about staying here? I don’t want you to leave.”
“I’m glad of that. Don’t know where I’d go just now.”
“I don’t mean just now. I mean I want you to stay, permanent like."
“Harlow, are you proposing marriage?”
“If I told you I was, what would you say?” He wrinkled his forehead and smiled.
Out of Innocence Page 11