by Ann Shorey
He let his breath out in a heavy sigh. That being the case, why did Elder Meecham send him to Tylerville? “I’m thankful for your help. It was good of you, considering you suspected how things would turn out.” He stood. “I’ll help you get your storeroom rearranged, then I’ll be on my way.”
“Where to?”
“Arcadia Mills.”
“Go see your pa first, you hear?”
23
Ellie tiptoed down the stairs into the cool kitchen, hoping not to disturb Uncle Arthur asleep in the parlor. Daylight was still a promise. The room was dark enough that she lit the lamp. After rolling the wooden churn next to the table, she poured in several days’ collection of cream and set the dasher in place, then commenced the rhythmic churning that would result in fresh butter to last them for the week. Still sleepy, she yawned, her mind already on the overwhelming list of daily tasks awaiting her attention.
“Ellie? That you?” Uncle Arthur’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Yes.”
“Can you come sit with me a bit?”
Sighing, she released the dasher and stood, knowing she’d have to start all over again after she’d seen to his needs. “How are you today?” she asked when she entered the parlor.
Uncle Arthur had pulled himself to a sitting position on the divan. He grunted. “Leg hurts.”
He said the same thing every morning. “I need to get back to churning. Can you lean on me and come out to the kitchen?”
“I’m too heavy for you.” Self-pity crept into his voice. “I’ll just sit here and wait for the twins to help me.”
Dawn lightened the eastern sky, the sun a glowing fist on the horizon. Ellie perched on the edge of the divan, flexing her shoulders to ease the tension that never quite went away. “You’re not too heavy if you use the crutches Karl made for you. Now come on, I’ve got to work up the butter before the house gets too hot.” She slipped an arm around him and stood, pulling him to his feet. With her free hand, she grabbed the crutches and handed them to him. “Let’s go.”
Once the butter was salted and stored in a crock of cold water, Ellie and Maria started the baking. The twins had walked Uncle Arthur outside so he could sit in the shade and look at the cornfields through the morning glory vines that twined along the porch supports.
Ellie stared out the kitchen window at the corn that seemed to grow as she watched. The cornstalks were taller than the boys’ heads, and tasseling. She turned when she heard Maria open the oven door and slide browned pans of bread out onto the tabletop. Heat from the stove radiated against the kitchen walls.
Instead of seeing a row of browned loaves, Ellie pictured the near-empty flour bin in the storeroom. It had been close to a month since Matthew left, and no support had come from the church conference. She didn’t dare add more to what they owed Mr. Wolcott. They’d have to eat pan bread made with Indian meal once the flour was gone.
Her face flushed with heat, Maria placed the last risen loaves into the oven and gently closed the door.
Ellie walked over and hugged her. “You’re doing this so well, pretty soon you’ll be teaching me.”
Maria giggled. “Thank you.”
Ellie fanned herself with her hand. “Let’s go sit out on the porch while the bread bakes. It’s too hot to breathe in here.”
Uncle Arthur’s face lit up when he saw them emerge from the kitchen. “I can smell that bread.” He looked at Maria. “How about bringing me a piece?”
“Slice up a plateful,” Ellie said. “Might as well enjoy it while we have it.”
When her daughter went back inside, Ellie sank onto the top step, loosening the neckline of her dress to cool off. Since Uncle Arthur’s accident, she’d been busy from daylight until well past dark and still wasn’t able to keep up with all the chores.
She massaged her temples in an attempt to stave off a headache. Beneath her feet, a freshly hewn hickory stair tread gleamed in the sunlight. The new step lacked Matthew’s woodworking skills, but the twins had done the best they could.
Uncle Arthur’s voice brought her back to the present. “You’re working too hard. Why don’t you visit Molly this afternoon? It’s Thursday. Isn’t this the day you get together for a quilting session?”
Ellie leaned back on one hand and looked up at him. “It’s too hot to walk all that way. I’d rather just stay here.”
“I don’t mean for you to walk. Have one of the boys hitch King George to my buggy. You haven’t been to town since I fell—it’ll be good for you.”
She thought of undone chores. “I really shouldn’t . . .”
“Yes, you should.” Uncle Arthur looked up when Maria returned carrying a plate of sliced bread and a bowl of fresh butter. “Soon’s I have some of this bread, you call Jimmy. He’s got a way with horses. I’ll need to talk him through the job—George can be touchy when he hasn’t been worked for a while.”
Uncle Arthur rested on a wooden bench inside the barn. Ellie and the children stood off to one side, watching as Jimmy worked with the temperamental chestnut roan. “Bring him out easy, boy. Stay away from his hooves.”
Inside King George’s stall, Jimmy wrapped his hand around the lead rope and tugged at the horse. “He’s not moving.”
“Give him a swat on the rump. He’s got lazy.”
Jimmy smacked the animal’s backside, but instead of moving forward King George sidestepped, jamming a hoof hard on Jimmy’s right foot. “He’s standing on me.” Tears sprang into the boy’s eyes. “Get him off!”
Ellie ran to the side of the stall. “Do something, Uncle.”
Uncle Arthur gestured to Harrison, who stood gaping at his big brother’s tears. “Help me up.” Once on his feet, he crutched over to the stall. “Sometimes this’ll get him moving.” He twisted his mouth to one side and emitted a running series of clicks.
Ears tilted toward his owner, King George moved to the front of the enclosure. As soon as Jimmy’s foot was free, he hobbled to the stall opening and escaped into Ellie’s arms.
After removing his boot, she stared in dismay at the already-purpling foot. His last three toes looked like stubby sausages.
Jimmy turned pale and trembled. His teeth chattered. “I’m c-c-cold.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Cold! It’s like an oven in here.”
Johnny pushed forward. “I’ll help him to the house.”
As the two boys left the barn, Ellie turned to her uncle. “Is it safe to let Harrison take the lead rope off? Doesn’t look like I’ll be going anywhere today.”
“Better wait ’til Johnny gets back.” He leaned on one crutch and held out an arm. “Come here. You look like someone kicked the slats out from under you.”
Ellie didn’t move. “I don’t need comforting. I need help.” She shook her head and watched the twins make their way across the farmyard. “It takes both Jimmy and Johnny to keep up with the chores. Johnny can’t do it alone.”
Harrison tugged at her hand. “You have me.”
“So I do.” She surveyed her son. He took his height from her side of the family and was smaller than the twins had been when they were his age. He couldn’t do Jimmy’s work, but she wouldn’t tell him so. “Can you help your uncle up to the house? I need to go see about your brother’s foot.”
He stretched himself taller. “You go ahead. I can do it.”
When Ellie turned, she noticed Maria hovering in the background. “Please take a basket down to the creek and fill it with plantain leaves. They’ll take the swelling down.”
Her daughter ran to obey, bare feet flying across the packed earth between barn and house.
Ellie caught up with Jimmy and Johnny as they attempted to climb the back steps. She put an arm under Jimmy’s shoulder and helped hoist him onto the shaded porch and into a chair. In spite of years of caring for her children when they were hurt, Ellie never lost her queasiness at the sight of wounds.
Swallowing hard, she touched her son’s swollen foot. “Can you
wiggle your toes?”
The bruised toes moved back and forth. Jimmy had controlled his tears, but couldn’t help whimpering at the effort.
She stroked the hair back from his sweaty forehead. “I’ll wrap your foot with plantain as soon as Maria brings it.” Bending, she kissed the top of his head. “You’re being very brave.”
Johnny sat beside his twin looking pained, as though the horse had stepped on him too. “Shall we put him to bed?”
“No, it’s too hot inside the house. He’ll be better off out here until sunset.” She turned to Uncle Arthur, who slowly took one step at a time to reach the shade of the porch. “You’ll be having a companion tonight, looks like. It’ll be easier to keep Jimmy downstairs until his foot’s better.”
Ellie gathered handfuls of long, veined leaves from the basket Maria placed at her side. She crushed them between the palms of her hands until the narrow green strips softened, then padded Jimmy’s swollen foot top and bottom with plantain. She bound the leaves in place with a strip of toweling and propped his foot up on the seat of an empty chair. “Don’t move about. Let the plantain do its work.”
Jimmy smiled through the lines of pain drawn across his face. “I’m not moving. Don’t worry.”
She stroked his hair again, then sank onto the top step and leaned back on her hands. A few thin clouds trailed high across the midday sky. Scarcely an hour had passed since Arthur had suggested taking the buggy to town, and in that short time things had gone from difficult to unmanageable. She swiped perspiration from her temples.
Beyond the tree line edging the creek, she noticed a column of dust rising from the road. Johnny ran past her down the steps. “Do you suppose it’s Papa?”
“Who else could it be?” Ellie stood, waiting for horse and rider to appear on the bridge over the creek. Lord, please let it be Matthew.
Mr. Beldon’s phaeton rolled over the planks and turned toward them. If he was surprised to see all of the Craig family gathered to watch his arrival, he didn’t show it. “Good afternoon.”
Ellie tried not to let disappointment overwhelm her. She knew she must look hot, rumpled, and leaf-stained, but after the day she’d had, she no longer cared. “Mr. Beldon. This is a surprise.”
He climbed from the buggy and wrapped the reins over the hitching rail. “You and your family haven’t been in church. I began to fear something was amiss out here.” His gaze traveled to the porch, where Uncle Arthur and Jimmy each sat with a leg propped up on a chair. “Appears I was right.” Mr. Beldon stood close enough that Ellie could have counted the links in his gold watch chain, had she wanted to. His dark-lashed eyes were filled with concern.
She waved a hand toward Arthur. “As you can see, travel to town has been out of the question. My uncle broke his leg two weeks ago Saturday.”
Mr. Beldon followed her onto the porch. “My sympathies, sir. And what happened to you, young man?”
Jimmy eyed him sullenly. “Horse stepped on my foot.”
Ellie shot him a “be polite” look. “He was harnessing Uncle Arthur’s horse so I could take the buggy to town.”
Mr. Beldon’s eyes lighted. “If you need conveyance, I’d be pleased to provide it.”
“No. I only planned to visit my sister-in-law. Nothing that can’t—”
“My dear, why don’t you go?” Uncle Arthur said. “Take Maria with you. We men can get along here for a couple of hours.”
Maria jumped to her feet. “Can I, Mama?”
Johnny moved next to Ellie. “I know I could hitch the buggy for you.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but we won’t risk it.” Ellie held out a hand to Maria, then looked at Mr. Beldon. “If you’ll wait until we freshen up, I’d be grateful for the ride.”
Headed toward Beldon Grove, Ellie luxuriated in the smoothness of the black leather upholstery inside the phaeton. Maria sat between her mother and Mr. Beldon, swinging her bare feet to the rhythm of the horses’ hooves. They rode for several moments without speaking. Ellie’s gaze landed on the dark hairs that covered the backs of his hands, a pang of loneliness for Matthew stabbing at her heart. Her husband’s hands were stronger than Mr. Beldon’s—tougher somehow.
She lifted her eyes to his face. “I’m afraid I’m putting you to a great deal of trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” Smiling, he raised an eyebrow. “It’s not often I’m privileged to escort such a charming woman . . . and a pretty little girl.”
Ellie knew it wasn’t right to take pleasure in his comment, but she couldn’t help herself. Mindful of Maria sitting with them, she said, “What have you learned about that matter in Texas that we spoke of earlier?”
Mr. Beldon glanced down at Maria, then turned to Ellie. “From what I know of Austin’s arrangements with Mexico, men with wives received more land. So you’re undoubtedly correct that he remarried. But you must realize that it may have taken place soon after he arrived, so any issue from that union would be grown and possibly with families of their own by now.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Also, inheritance rights could have reverted to the Colony in general, and it’s so far away it would be impractical to pursue a claim.”
Ellie gritted her teeth. “I told you. I’m not interested in an inheritance.” She checked to see if Maria was listening to them, but she seemed oblivious. “It’s the . . . issue I want to find out about.”
“You need to be patient and not expect too much. Adults are not likely to want to leave their land in Texas to join you in Illinois.”
“I don’t expect them to.” Ellie snapped her response. She drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment. “What I’d like, when you find out where they are, is a letter from one or more of them telling me about their lives and something about our papa. I’d be content with that.”
“Then that’s what you shall have.” He moved the reins to his left hand and slid his arm over the back of the buggy seat, brushing her shoulder with his fingertips. “You can depend on me.”
24
The stern-wheeler Daniel Boone churned through the wide blue-green Ohio River on its approach to Oakport. Black smoke from twin stacks trailed behind like banners. As Matthew looked on, a bell rang and the paddle wheel stopped, then reversed and the boat swung toward the dock.
He backed Samson away a few paces when he saw lines being thrown from the boat to waiting dockhands. His palms were clammy. He could still change his mind. His pa would be there the next time he traveled the circuit. Matthew touched the scab on his lip. If there was a next time.
The stream of people and goods being unloaded ceased and folks nearby were making their way onto the steamboat. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be waiting on shore when the Daniel Boone turned back into the current and proceeded downriver.
Matthew touched the horse’s side with his heels. “All right, Samson. Let’s go see Pa.”
Once near the gangplank, he dismounted and led the horse toward the cargo hold, stroking the animal’s nose to calm him. The pungent odor of whiskey on its way to New Orleans escaped from barrels crowding the closed space. He slipped Samson’s lead through a ring attached to the bulkhead, then walked out onto the lower deck and leaned against the railing, watching the green banks of Illinois slip away. A breeze from the river ruffled his beard. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish once he reached Marysville. He shook his head. Carrie Boughten was one persuasive woman.
As Matthew traveled along the oak-lined lane leading to his father’s farm, he fought the impulse to turn around and wait for the next steamboat going upriver. Part of him felt like a naughty child going before an angry parent for punishment. The other part, one that had hidden at the back of his mind since leaving Tylerville, longed to see his brothers and father.
Purple shadows striped the road, reminding him that the long journey to his boyhood home was nearly at an end. The familiar two-story frame house, with its outsized stone chimneys at each end, loomed out of a clearing ahead. As h
e drew closer, he saw someone sitting in the shadows of the veranda near the front door.
When he stopped his horse at the cross-pole fence, a young black boy appeared through the dusk. “Take care of your horse, Massa?”
Matthew dismounted, handing the reins to the lad. “Thank you.” His voice sounded gruff in his ears. “No need to call me ‘Massa.’ I’m Matthew. What’s your name?”
“Henry, suh.”
“You lived here long, Henry?”
“Yes, suh. I was borned right down there.” He pointed at the row of slave cabins.
Matthew patted the boy’s head. “Thank you for taking care of my horse. I expect he’s tuckered.”
“You’re welcome, suh.”
A querulous voice called from the depths of the veranda. “Who’s out there palavering? Come up here.”
Matthew hesitated, trying to think of a way to announce himself. He couldn’t be sure whose voice called to him. In his memory, his father invariably spoke with a bass growl, not this peevish whine. “It’s Matthew,” he answered, mounting the veranda steps. “Is that you, Pa?”
“Who you calling Pa? I don’t have any son named Matthew.”
For a moment, as he studied the old man hunched in a chair that all but dwarfed him, Matthew could believe he’d made a mistake. Someone else could’ve bought the place since Carrie was last here. His first reaction was relief. He wouldn’t have to face the man whose harsh opinions had driven him away.
“Hattie!” the old man bellowed. “Bring a lamp.”
Matthew didn’t recognize the wrinkled black woman who appeared in answer to the peremptory summons. Hattie carried a lighted oil lamp, which she placed on a table next to the oversized chair. She dipped her head in acknowledgment of Matthew’s presence, then slipped silently back into the house. Once the pale, lined face was illuminated, there was no doubt in his mind that he faced Marsden Craig. His father’s once luxuriant black hair had disappeared, leaving his scalp shining in the lamplight. Wiry gray whiskers, too sparse to be called a beard, covered his cheeks.