She laughed, a breathless sound of pure joy. Somehow she didn’t think the good doctor and his wife would be surprised to hear how things had turned out.
LINDA FORD draws on her own experiences living on the Canadian prairie and in the Rockies to paint wonderful adventures of romance and faith. She lives in Alberta, Canada, with her family, writing as much as her full-time job of taking care of a paraplegic and four kids at home will allow. Linda says, “I thank God that he has given me a full, productive life and that I’m not bored. I thank Him for placing a little bit of the creative energy revealed in His creation into me, and I pray I might use my writing for His honor and glory.” www.lindaford.org
The Barefoot Bride
by Linda Goodnight
Chapter 1
Goodhope, Kansas, 1883
HUSBAND WANTED. MUST BE GOD-FEARING, HARDWORKING, AND CLEAN.
Dr. Matthew Tolivar frowned as he read the carefully lettered sign hanging inside the door of O’Dell’s General Store. Removing his battered hat, he swiped a hand through his dark hair, a shaggy reminder of the weeks spent on the road. A second swipe, this one over his square jaw, grated against several days’ growth of whiskers.
“What kind of woman would advertise for a husband?” he muttered, half to himself.
A crazy one.
Matthew turned slowly toward the speaker. The little man stood behind a long, rough-hewn counter, surrounded by an odd assortment of horse tack, yard goods, and canned foods. Crazy. His crude answer echoed in Matt’s head. Yes, he thought, or desperate. And Matt Tolivar knew about desperate.
“Name’s O’Dell. Jimmy O’Dell. I’m the proprietor here.” The storekeeper’s woolly tufts of red hair circled his balding head like a fuzzy horseshoe. “You’d be new in town, I’m guessing. Most folks from these parts know all about Emma Russell and her crazy ways.”
“So this quest for a husband is just part of her dementia?” Matt let his hat dangle in one hand as he surveyed the store. It reminded him of a hundred other stores he’d visited in his wanderings.
He stifled a weary sigh. He was tired of running. Tired of always being a stranger. Tired of being alone. A situation like his made even a crazy woman’s offer sound good.
“No. No,” O’ Dell answered, “Emma’s after a man, all right. That big old farm won’t run itself, and she’s just a little bit of a woman. Can’t do it alone. But her sign’s hung there for a year or more, and only the new folks pay it any mind. I just leave it up for conversation. Once in a while some fella takes a notion to head out that direction. Six sections of prime grazing land is a mighty big temptation, you know?”
“Why doesn’t she just hire someone?”
“She’s touched, I tell you. Young Dan Barton worked for her a bit, and she nearly scared the poor boy to death. ‘Possessed,’ he said. She was dancing with brooms and talking to the air.” He shook his head, foreboding in his expression. “I saw Dan myself, come running into town one day, white as St. Patty’s ghost. Since then, the townsfolk keep their distance. No telling what that woman might do.”
“Dancing and talking never hurt anyone. Is she dangerous?” Matt was curious. In his days as a physician, the insane had stirred his heart to compassion. Though the common practice was to put them away, Matt had remembered the compassion of Jesus toward the sick in soul and mind. How could a physician do less than try to help them? Sometimes treatments worked; sometimes they didn’t. But Matt had always tried.
“You wouldn’t be thinking of going out there, would you?”
Was he? Matt didn’t know for certain. While he considered the question, a curtain behind the counter parted and a copper-haired woman stepped out, sea- green eyes flashing. “Da, are you talking about Emma again?”
“Now, Maureen…” O’Dell grinned at Matt. “This avenging angel is my daughter, Maureen. Always she’s fighting for those she pities.”
Maureen laughed. “An angel, he’s calling me. And the two of us always quarreling over something.” She came around the counter, pink skirts swaying. “And who might you be, Mr…?”
“Tolivar,” he said. “Matthew Tolivar.”
Maureen snitched a peppermint stick from a jar on the counter and aimed it at him. “Well, Mr. Tolivar, don’t you go listening to this da of mine. Emma Russell is a gentle woman who’s had more suffering than the Lord should allow, and this town has turned its back on her instead of helping out.”
“Maureen.” Her father scowled at her from behind the cash register. “Don’t be getting none of your funny notions. That woman never belonged here in the first place. Old Jeremiah Russell had no business sending off for a mail-order bride. We all told him no good would come of it. Only the demented or desperate would consider such an offer.” O’Dell shifted his gaze to Matt. “She was an orphan, you see. And old Jeremiah needed someone to help him care for that big old place of his. Orphans got bad blood, we told him. And we was right.” He pursed his lips and gave a knowing jerk of his head. “Now that Jeremiah’s dead, we folks in Goodhope have to keep our eyes and ears open lest that crazy widow steal our children or murder us in our sleep.”
“Emma would never hurt a soul, Da.” Maureen tossed her head, and a red curl bounced down upon one shoulder.
“You’re the only one who believes that, girlie. Now you mind what I’ve told you and stay clear of her, or I’ll be tearing a strip off ya.”
The harsh warning brought a flush to Maureen’s pretty face. Rebellion burned in her eyes, but she gnawed silently on the candy stick.
A tiny seed of compassion sprouted in Matt’s chest, both for Maureen and for the Widow Russell. No one knew better than he did about being an outcast, about suffering the sly, speculative glances of his neighbors.
“Where does this widow live?” Matt asked, more curious than ever about the woman. “I could use a day or two of work.”
“Just like the sign says.” Maureen spoke quickly, casting a defiant glance at her glaring father. “Take the road north out of town about three miles and follow the creek to a stand of cottonwoods. ‘tis the only house for miles.”
“Maureen, this young feller can find work somewheres besides there. Now hush your jabbering and go help your ma with the little ‘uns. She’s feeling poorly this morning.”
From the attached rooms in the back came the noise of playing children. Maureen slanted a glance in that direction then gave a saucy shrug and disappeared around the curtain.
Shaking his head, O’Dell said, “That girl has a heart of gold but doesn’t know what’s good for her. I ‘spect she sneaks off to that crazy woman’s house, though I can’t catch her at it. Thank the good Lord she’s devoted to her mama, or there’s no telling what kind of nonsense she’d get into.”
“I’m sorry your wife’s feeling poorly. I hope her ailment isn’t serious.” He clamped his teeth together to keep from asking if the woman needed his services. Thankfully, the storekeeper didn’t notice.
“Nah, same as always when she’s expecting. Sick in the mornings, sleepy all day. After ten of the darlin’s, though, she’s an old hand at it. Be right as rain in a few months.”
A deep ache, worse than the grippe, pulled at Matthew’s belly. Visions of Martha rose to haunt him, her body round with his child. Martha, his own wife, the one patient his skilled medical hands couldn’t save. He gulped back the wave of guilt and sorrow that was never far away.
“I hope Mrs. O’Dell feels better soon, sir,” he said, shifting to safer ground. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like a tin of sardines and a few crackers to take along for my dinner.”
The Irishman scuttled around, his boots scraping on the wooden floor, as he gathered up the items and pushed them across the counter.
“Plan on staying in town long, Mr. Tolivar? ‘Tis a nice little settlement. Folks are friendly. Plenty of opportunity for a hard worker.” He took the coin Matt handed him, testing it between his teeth. Satisfied, he poked at the cash register until the drawer chinged open. “I supp
ose that Russell woman is the only blighton the whole county, and she knows better than to show her face in town too often. Stay clear of her, and you’ll get along fine around here.”
Matt didn’t appreciate the not-so-subtle warning. He was a man who took care of himself and made his own decisions. Whoever this Russell woman was, she led a hard, solitary life—an existence as lonely and empty as his. That fact alone won her his sympathy.
Matt looked over his shoulder at the faded paper. Suddenly it took on new meaning. The Widow Russell needed a husband and a ranch hand. Matt Tolivar needed a place to hide and a purpose in life. Maybe they could work out a deal.
With his lunch in one hand, he clapped on his hat and headed for his horse.
The people of Goodhope were right. Emma Russell was crazy.
Barefoot, she danced in circles around the early stalks of green corn standing tall in her garden. Her laughter bubbled up and echoed over the vast grasslands surrounding her ranch.
“Thank you!” she called, her voice loud and joyous, though Matt knew for certain she wasn’t talking to him. “How can I ever thank you enough?”
As she whirled wildly, her plain calico skirts flapped against the cornstalks and made a whap, whap, whapping noise. “I do declare that’s the prettiest sound in all the world. Don’t you think so?”
She was turned sideways, talking to the corn or some unseen visitor.
Matt tied his horse to the rough-barked rail running along the front porch of her cabin and waited for her to notice him.
Watching her now, he wondered why he’d bothered to come out here. He’d been warned. But after six years of roaming the frontier, he was too weary to travel on. Besides, he’d long since discovered that a man couldn’t outrun his own conscience.
“Ah, would you look at that?” she said to the warm May breeze. “He’s back, the little rascal.”
For a moment, Matt thought she spoke of him. Then he saw the rabbit hopping toward the garden. To his surprise, instead of flapping her skirts to chase the varmint out of her corn, she pulled a young green stalk and laid it on the ground in the animal’s path.
“Now maybe you’ll leave the rest alone.”
With a smile as pretty as Maureen O’Dell’s, the crazy widow hefted the hoe and started toward the cabin, singing and chattering all the way. Halfway there she looked up, spotted him waiting in the cool shade, and stopped to appraise him.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” she asked simply, as though the sight of him standing in her shade was a common one.
“Yes, ma’am,” Matt answered in the same matter-of-fact manner; then he stepped forward, removing his hat. He had expected her to be old and ugly as a witch, but she was neither.
“Did you see Noah, then? He’s gathering in the animals, two by two.”
Her words brought Matt to a halt. He blinked in confusion. Didn’t seem to be anyone around but him and her. She was crazy. He had to be careful until he knew the extent of her dementia.
“Oh, you have to see him,” she insisted. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
As she crossed the yard, a beatific smile greeted Matthew from beneath honey-colored eyes that matched her hair. Back home in Virginia, women had creamy pale skin, carefully protected from the sun, and their hair was neatly groomed on top of their heads. Emma Russell’s skin was as golden brown as freshly baked bread, and she wore no bonnet on the wild, windblown hair that flowed freely over her shoulders and down her back. Her arms and neck were as bare as her feet. She was oddly beautiful in a wild, earthy manner that reminded him of the untamed mustangs he’d seen in his journey across the plains.
As she reached his side, bringing with her the fresh green scent of growing things, she took his hand as easily as if they’d grown up together. Too surprised to pull away, Matt let her lift his arm and point it toward a huge, fluffy configuration of white fair-weather clouds.
“Right there. See?” she said. “It’s Noah, I’m certain. See his staff? And that long, flowing beard?”
A chuckle worked its way up inside Matt’s chest, but he repressed it. Like a child, the Widow Russell was forming pictures in the clouds. Her insanity was most likely harmless, a return to childlike ways.
“Maybe it’s Moses, striking the rock,” Matt said, responding to her game. How many years had passed since he’d done such a silly, lighthearted thing?
“You could be right.” She dropped his arm and turned to face him with those pale gold eyes. “Are you a God-fearing man, then?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The remnants of his faith were all that kept him going, though he’d long since stopped bothering God with his day-to-day worries.
“Good. Good. He wouldn’t send any other kind, now, would He?”
Matt blinked at her, baffled. “Who?”
“Why, the Lord, of course.”
“Oh. I suppose not.” What is she talking about?
“He told me you were coming. I just didn’t know when.” She leaned the hoe against the side of the porch. “Come on in.”
“Who told you I was coming?” He followed her across the porch, ducking his head to miss the dangling onions hung in bunches from the rafters. “The Lord?”
Emma turned back, her gaze moving over him as softly as the breeze, which lifted the tendrils of hair from her forehead.
“I’ve waited two years for you to get here, and now that you’ve arrived, I can tell you’re the right one. God wouldn’t send anyone but the best.”
She talked crazy, and her behavior was unusual, but her calm, amber eyes looked as sane as any he’d ever held in his gaze.
“Come in. I’ll fix us a nice lemonade while we talk.”
Matt asked himself again why he didn’t just get back on his horse and ride away. But for some strange reason—most likely his medical curiosity—this woman fascinated him.
Or could it actually be the Lord’s doing, his being here? Could Emma be right? Did God work that way?
Somewhere from the past he remembered the saying, “God works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.”
Well, Emma Russell and this bizarre situation were certainly wonders.
He followed her inside, noting how large the cabin was compared to most he’d seen. She led him through a small parlor. A rocking chair and a cradle sat beside the fireplace, and colorful rag rugs covered the plank floor. The place was homey. Pleasant and cozy. The kind of home where a man could put up his feet and relax after a hard day’s work. The kind of home that Matt hadn’t had in a very long time. As he considered the cleanliness, he thought it unlikely that an insane mind could bring such order. Could the people of Goodhope be wrong about the Widow Russell?
Graceful as a deer, Emma moved about the kitchen, her hair catching the sunlight now streaking in between the yellow curtains. Matt settled at the round oak table to watch and found the experience much more pleasant than he could have imagined. She emanated a gentleness, a peace that stirred him in ways he’d long since forgotten. What was it about her?
“I’m Matthew Tolivar,” he said, breaking the silence and his own wayward thoughts. “I saw your sign at the store in town.”
“And?” She handed him a cool glass then took one for herself before sitting across from him, as calm and rational as he.
“Why do you want a husband?”
She sighed, a breathy sound that raised the hair on Matt’s arm and made him even more aware of Emma Russell’s peculiar loveliness. When she began to speak in a low, sweet voice, he set his glass aside and leaned forward, suddenly eager to be convinced, not only of her sanity, but of her need for a husband.
“Two years ago, a blizzard hit this part of Kansas and lasted for weeks.”
“The blizzard of ‘81.” Everyone knew about that terrible time when men froze in their saddles and cattle froze in the fields.
“We thought we were safe and snug here in the cabin—my husband, Jeremiah; Lily, our little girl; and me. Jeremiah wasn’t a young man, but day after day, he stumbled f
rom the house to the barn, taking care of the stock, bringing in wood. He was so good, so kind. He’d never let me go out there.” Absently, Emma drew circles on the table with her glass. “I wasn’t surprised when the fever struck him, just scared. Then, soon after, Lily took sick. The wind kept blowing and the snow piled higher.
I couldn’t go for help.” She glanced up. “Goodhope has no doctor, even if I could have gotten out. There was nothing I could do but pray and wait.”
A lump formed in Matt’s throat. He didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to be reminded of his own lost family. He sipped at the tart drink, washing down bitter memories. He’d asked. Now he had to listen.
“Lily was so small, she couldn’t fight the sickness. Her little chest closed up so tight that all the mustard plasters in the world couldn’t open it up again.”
“Pneumonia?” Matt asked quietly, recognizing the strangling symptoms.
Emma nodded, her voice small and distant. “One night I sat beside her bed, listening to the howling wind and counting every breath my baby took. Soon there was only the wind, blowing, blowing, blowing.”
The terrible story pulled at Matt. He knew just how hard the loss of a child could hit a parent.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Russell.” As he’d done many times with his patients, Matt reached out and laid his hand over hers. She didn’t pull away, and a warmth crept from her small, weathered hand upward to his icy heart.
“I know.” She ventured a sad smile. “So am I. Jeremiah died the next day, and there I was, all alone in a cabin with my dead family while the blizzard raged on.”
“How long before help came?”
“I don’t rightly know, Mr. Tolivar.” She shook her head and looked away. “You see, for a while, I lost myself. I know how that sounds. That’s why the townsfolk still think I’m crazy to this day. It’s hard to explain, and I don’t expect you to understand. But my whole world caved in when Jeremiah and Lily died.”
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