Bridget was still outside, moving around in the night with the hideous dark birds and sinister trees. Why wasn’t she afraid? What sort of pagan kinship with feral nature kept her from being terrified?
Stars hung overhead and Bridget imagined they buzzed like bees around the full moon. She tied Nell to the large tree in back. The tree stood only twenty steps from the cabin—she counted them. The river had cut in and washed away soil, leaving many of its roots exposed and creating a thick and watery basket of tawny ropes. She’d call him Wilcox for the old man she’d loved in their New York tenement.
She stroked Nell’s long, soft neck, and kissed her cheek. “We’re here. You can rest now.”
The back of the lodge didn’t have steps but a ramp that led up to the narrow landing and the door. Full of excitement, she ran up and inside. Effie had thrown the empty ticking over the ropes and knelt on the floor in front of the bed, her pretty face lowered and half hidden in her steepled hands. Bridget sighed. Her praying, which Rev. Jackdaw liked, and her hiding beneath the black cloth, which he didn’t, were Effie’s only ways of being alone.
While Effie prayed, Rev. Jackdaw sat at the table, his pen scratching across a page of his journal. Neither of them were concerned with her. She turned and went back out, stopping to stroke Nell’s long nose again, and then hurrying on to the river’s edge. Along the shore, small watery indentations—each harboring a moon—wandered off in both directions. A woman’s footprints? A selkie’s? Had Mum already been there?
She thought of the day Rowan explained all about selkies. She’d stood in the yard with him and Grandma Teegan, watching Pappy and Mum leave. Pappy sat up tall in the small wagon he’d hired to carry them and looked forward. Mum looked back at Bridget, her eyes full of tears as they rolled away. Grandma Teegan took up the hoe Great-grandpa Seamus had used throughout his life—stains from his hands still on the handle. She walked toward the village cemetery. When Ogan went loping after her, his ears flapping, Rowan let the dog go, but he grabbed Bridget and held her back.
“Leave her,” he said. “She’s wanting to be alone.”
“Why?” Bridget cried. “Why do they all need to be alone of me?”
Rowan held her hand as Grandma Teegan walked away. She moved slow, her back bent, and she used the hoe like a walking stick. Every few steps the metal blade landed with a click on some small rock half buried in the turf.
Rowan headed for the rocky path leading down to the sea. “Come on.”
They moved around waist-high boulders and stepped over rocks pot-sized. At the sea, waves crashed and threw sprays of water. To Bridget, the whole world was crying, and for good reason. Sitting on a flat rock, paying no attention to the spray turning their clothes damp, they watched the waves turn gold and violet beneath the setting sun.
“I want Mum,” Bridget said.
He squinted at her. “What ye doing there?”
She shrugged.
“Ye been licking an hour.”
“Mum’s tears taste like salt.”
“Ye like the taste of tears?”
“No. I love Mum.”
He pulled her close. “Ye keep crying like that, it’ll turn ye into an old woman. Don’t look at me so. Grandma Teegan cried herself that age. Crying over all the people she’s lost, believing ye mum be lost, too.”
Sea birds dove out of the air and then leveled just above the water’s surface, flying straight as sticks for several yards before lifting again. “Ye know about selkies?” Rowan asked.
Bridget nodded. Everyone knew selkies came ashore and took off their sealskins and were beautiful people who never got old. Men could be selkies, but Bridget only liked the stories of girl selkies. They married fishermen and had fishermen’s babies and were happy. But the sea was their real home, and they could put on their sealskin whenever they wanted and return to the water for an hour or a day or forever.
“Ye haven’t been told,” Rowan said. With calloused hands, he wiped tears off her cheeks. “Yer mum,” he made a show of looking around, being sure they were alone, and then he leaned down to her ear, “she hasn’t really left you. She be a selkie.”
Bridget sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “She went to America to get a farm with Pappy. Someday, we’re going, too.”
“That be true.” He made a diving motion with one hand, a swoop up and then down. “But one fine day, sitting right here on this rock, I saw her out there in her sealskin.”
“What color was she? Brown? Or black?”
“Silver. Shiny.”
“I don’t want her to be a fish.”
“Only now and again, just for visiting a little girl who won’t stop licking her face.” He kept his arm around Bridget, his gaze out over the sea. “All the water in the world is connected: rivers, streams, underground paths, even root-ways through trees. Clouds too. If ye be by water anywhere, yer mum can sneak away from yer pappy, put on her silver skin, and visit ye.”
Bridget turned her face to the sea. “Mum?”
“She can’t hear that pip o’ noise. If ye haven’t got a tune for calling, shout.”
“Mum!”
“There!” Rowan pointed. He jumped up so quick the surprise nearly knocked Bridget from the rock. He raced into the water, not bothering to remove his only shoes, only stopping when the sea reached his knees.
She scrambled after him, splashing to her ankles and scanning the water for Mum. Though she couldn’t see anything, now she knew Mum hadn’t really left her.
Sitting along the Missouri, Bridget couldn’t see any shapes swimming in the river, and no selkie lifted out and walked up to the shore to her. “Mum!” She waited. An hour passed and exhaustion made her finally rise and head back for the lodge. She stopped again to pet Nell’s neck. “Watch for Mum,” she said. “Sing or yell really loud. If she comes, tell her to visit the croft and see if Grandma Teegan got home.”
Rev. Jackdaw still wrote at the table. “Two thousand five hundred prostitutes,” he was saying as Bridget entered. Effie had risen to sit pale and frightened on the bed ropes. “No way to get a real count of the sinners,” Rev. Jackdaw said. “That’s just an estimate.”
Bridget had heard him say before that prostitutes were evil, yet the number in Omaha clearly thrilled him. She couldn’t imagine two thousand five hundred. If they all stretched out holding hands, how long would the line be? Was the number so many it included all the unmarried and all the poor women in the West? If something had happened to Pappy, would Mum have to be a prostitute? Nera, Nera, Bridget chanted for courage. “Are some of the women Irish?”
Rev. Jackdaw looked up, his face pinched. “They swarm to America. Dirty, infected whores.”
Bridget was confused. Mum wasn’t a bad woman, no matter what name Rev. Jackdaw called her. And she and Grandma Teegan hadn’t been dirty. They washed every day. She and Effie were dirty now, but they’d been traveling in dust for days. Rev. Jackdaw was dirty too.
“How do they get so dirty and infected?”
His twitching eye focused on her. “Come here.”
She went to stand close; he had an answer she needed to know.
He grabbed her arm, shook her. “Ain’t you had a biscuit to eat?” A long finger pointed around at the lodge. “Ain’t you got a roof over your head? What makes you think whores are any of your business?”
Despite his grip, she wished she could ask him to look for Mum in Omaha. She has hair the color of mine. But she couldn’t sic him on Mum. One day, she’d find a way to get to Omaha and look herself. She’d walk up and down the streets yelling, “Mum, Mum.”
Two hours later, Bridget woke to the sound of knocking. She lay on the table top, and the noise came from across the dark room. Rev. Jackdaw and Effie were in the bed. Moonlight threaded through the branches of Wilcox, and though she couldn’t see all they’d spread out for a mattress—was it every stitch of their clothing?—she could see Rev. Jackdaw on top of Effie. The Never Forget quilt covered his backside, but moonglow s
pread across his white shoulders and over his beard hanging down and swaying. Effie’s face was turned sharply away so that his beard drug across her cheek and ear. She stared into the room.
Rev. Jackdaw panted and grunted and the ropes under the empty bed ticking winced and squeaked. The four bedposts shuffled on the floor making whomp, whomp sounds. During their long trip down from Minnesota, Bridget had seen him take Effie off a few yards from the campfire and grunt on her while she lay still as the dead. Just like now.
The bed on its narrow legs bounced and Rev. Jackdaw’s breathing increased. When he rolled off, Effie’s face in shadow didn’t move. Only a tear, its shine caught, rolled across the bridge of her nose.
Bridget closed her eyes. She wished she could tell Effie a story. Living with her, she’d have to remember Grandma Teegan’s happiest ones because Effie had also brought along stories. Unhappy stories.
When Mum and Pappy find me, Bridget promised herself, we’ll bring Effie away too.
In the crisp morning air, Rev. Jackdaw brought Nell around to the front of the lodge. The trees were full of waking birds, the undersides of clouds pink, and he was at last ready to begin his commission.
The lodge door opened and Effie stepped out wrapped in her granny’s quilt, her thin, white slip beneath ending at her ankles. She rushed down the steps. “Please, you can’t leave us here.”
Her young flesh was a temptation to stay. Being his wife had awakened her beauty, but he didn’t have the luxury of young men, able to lie around bedding young wives. It was time to be about his Father’s business in Omaha. The desires of the flesh are against the Spirit and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh. He’d planted plenty of his seed already—he wasn’t young, but able enough. Hopefully, last night’s hadn’t fallen yet again on barren ground.
“Don’t leave us here,” Effie cried a second time. Her golden hair flowed over her white shoulders. “Not after one night!”
He stretched his stiff back. He’d endured the long trip down with her shaking every time she needed to step ten paces away to relieve herself, her gasping every time a buggy wheel bogged, and her constant nightmares. How could she accuse him of leaving her after one night? It wasn’t even him she wanted. She was scared of Indians. Maybe his being away for a spell would knock some sense in her, remind her she was lucky to have a husband.
He lined Nell up in front of the buggy. “Back, back,” he coaxed and pushed, getting the horse between the two shafts and ignoring the frightened way Effie’s eyes raked the trees. When she stepped forward and grabbed his arm, he stuck out an elbow and forced her to take a step back. “Give me room.”
He’d put the shafts in the loops of the traces and hooked the tugs before the door opened again and Rooster stood watching them. “Hey, you,” he called. “Get my valise and journal.” No need for him to walk back inside; he had a free girl. “Be careful now with that book.”
When she returned, he motioned for her to put his bag in the buggy boot, but he took the journal and laid it on the seat. Rev. Jackdaw. The name tooled into the leather helped soothe his growing irritation with Effie. It also made him think of Mister. If his father were alive—not burning in hell—what would he think now of the son he’d put in a dress and referred to as “the girl”? What would Mister think if he read the repeated accounts in the journal?
Effie sniffled, and he considered the fear twisting her face. It wasn’t likely a female could understand a man’s deep communion with God. Heaven’s gates opened for men; wives as needed. Nor could a woman understand a man’s need for breathing space, but Effie’s lack of understanding would not be the thing to stop him. He checked the rub of the bit in Nell’s tired mouth and ran a hand along the reins, feeling the severity of the cracks. He wouldn’t check Nell’s sore foot. No matter what sort of swelling she had, he couldn’t afford to lose a full day or two letting her rest. Limp or no, Nell could make it back to Omaha. Then he’d see a blacksmith, have her foot tended, even rest her up a few weeks before he put her back in harness. He’d make Omaha.
Omaha. The name was a promised land. One day he’d stand over his congregation, look out from the pulpit of his stone church, three sons flanking each side.
“Will you be back tomorrow? Or the day after?”
Was she such a fool? “I’ll set up credit for you at the mercantile. Now stand back, I tell you. Leave me to my commission and building a house.”
“How long?”
Before she caught sight of his firing eye, he turned and climbed into the buggy. “I won’t tolerate a wife telling me what to do. You understand that?”
“What if Injuns come?”
He looked down at her. “Ain’t I told you soldiers took care of ’em.” She opened her mouth, but he raised his hand to stop her. “None of your claptrap about Lincoln sending redskins to Nebraska.”
Rooster stood, gawking as though their business was hers. “Find that ox. Goes by Jake. Has a Flying D brand. You know what a D looks like? Do that quick.” He gripped his hat brim, tugged it down tighter, and seized the reins. Hopefully wolves hadn’t already moved into the trees and taken the animal. Would Deet hold him responsible? Or suppose the ox had gone wild over the months of not being handled and Rooster was no match. Once again, doubt threatened to make him a non-believer. “Mr. Deet will be here trapping soon as pelts are ripe. He’ll expect the ox here. You best find it. Carry a big stick and take the rope. I tied you a good noose knot.”
Rooster wasn’t nodding or showing any sign she intended to stay put in his absence. He scowled, not wanting to climb down with his tired back and give her a taste of how disobeying felt. “Tending that ox is a small price for a roof over your head. You mind it, and I hear you been sniffing around that school, neglecting the reason I’m keeping you, I’ll make sure you don’t forget again.”
Effie crawled back into the sagging bed and tried to steady her breathing. The drifting away squeaks of the buggy whined in her ears. Rev. Jackdaw knew how much being alone in the wild scared her, but he didn’t care. His rejection was no different than Jury’s. She didn’t love him, though he’d rescued her and married her. She owed him for that, but he also had a duty to keep her safe. How could he do that from miles away? Pa had been only half a mile away when Injuns massacred his family.
She grabbed the black cloth. Only large enough to swathe a baby’s coffin, it covered just her head and shoulders. Beneath it, she bit her lip. Not even her body could keep a man, though she always submitted to Rev. Jackdaw. Having him work on top of her was worse than hoeing beans in August heat, but she always submitted. Why wasn’t she pregnant by now? If she were, Rev. Jackdaw wouldn’t leave her. He’d take her straightaway to Omaha.
She fisted her hands. She wouldn’t give up. Soon, there’d be a proper home and children. With those two things, she’d make a happy life. One day, maybe she and Rev. Jackdaw would find that over the years they’d grown fond of each other.
“Should I go find the ox now?”
Effie slapped the black cloth down. Bridget was at the table, Dr. Chase’s book in front of her. “No, you’re not leaving me too. Read that book.”
“He said find the ox.”
Effie sat up. She’d not slept the previous night, only listened to the wind tumble down the river and through the trees with a cruel, breathy nearness. Owls had hooted, and in the distance howling and yipping from what must have been a dozen coyotes. Any of the sounds might have been Injuns signaling one another. She’d listened hard for the whispered weight of moccasins at the door.
She forced herself to stand. What if she fell asleep and Bridget ran off after the ox and left her alone? She pulled yesterday’s dress from the bedpost and stepped into it. She was scaring herself with her thoughts about Injuns. Just as Granny had scared herself. She couldn’t let her mind run loose as a spooked horse. Without the distractions of little brothers and Homeplace chores, she had to find ways of harnessing her mind.
“I know what Rev. Jackdaw s
aid,” she pulled combs from her hair, ran her fingers back through it, and reinserted the combs. “I just can’t be left alone right now.”
“Mum and Pappy will find us,” Bridget said. Her eyes still on the world outside.
“They won’t.” Effie headed for the stove. A bit of cold coffee remained from the night before. “They aren’t even your parents now. Rev. Jackdaw is.” She saw Pa’s face beside the buggy, heard him say, This ain’t your home no more. “We’re stuck here, Bridget. Stuck.”
“Why did you marry him?”
“Life isn’t one of your fairytales. I had no choice.”
“You could have gotten away. A boy would get away. Nera would get away.”
Effie leaned on the cold stove. She felt no energy even for lighting kindling in the firebox, and she wasn’t going to ask who Nera was. “I never thought it would be like this.”
“What happened at your house?”
The coffee in the pot sloshed. Effie set it down and wiped her suddenly cold hands down her sides. “How do you know something happened?”
“When I was on your porch with the puppies, I could feel a bad story.”
The child was frightful, clutching now at dead hair wrapped in a red scarf around her waist. Claiming to know something she couldn’t possibly know. Effie pointed slowly to the stolen washtub Rev. Jackdaw had hung on the wall. “You should have left it there.”
“What happened?”
A walnut thumped on the roof and rolled down with a rattle. It struck the porch, making Effie jump a second time, and bounced off. “We don’t talk about it.”
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