A Gift of Love

by Judith O'Brien

  Just below the clothing in the trunk were a brush and a tin box of hairpins. They were lethal-looking spiked things with a light crust of rust, as if they, too, had not been used in a long time. Emma did the best she could with her hair and was quite pleased when she shook her head and only a handful of pins tinkled to the floor.

  Stepping through the doorway and into the next room, Emma was surprised at how tidy the husband had managed to keep the place.

  The primitive room contained yet another fireplace—this one was cold—with a kettle on a large hook hanging from the chimney. There was a plank table and a stone sink.

  Along one wall was a bench with folded bedding on the seat.

  This was where he had been sleeping/

  Next to the bench was a spindly pine table with a clay pipe, a pottery jar that read "tobacco," and a stack of heavy-looking books. She picked them up and examined the titles, The Columbian Orator and Blackstone's Commentaries. They seemed to be legal volumes. Although there was no paper, there was a small bottle of ink, corked and frozen and a bedraggled quill pen stained at the tip with indigo ink.

  Clothing and hats hung from a peg by the door. Once she had taken her students to a period room at the Brooklyn Museum, and there had been a similar beg with carefully preserved clothes. She had explained to the children that people had no closets back then. The kids pressed their noses against the acrylic barrier, and someone pronounced it "weird." Standing now before the strange clothing, rough to the touch, she was inclined to agree with her student,

  This was all very weird.

  There did not seem to be any women's coats, but there was a weighty shawl. Emma assumed it was what she was supposed to wear and drew it around her shoulders.

  "I'm hungry," she announced to herself, and stepped over to the sink. There was no food there. Dishes were soaking, a think layer of ice having formed over them. A red-levered hand pump was stationed over the sink. Emma gave it a few yanks but nothing happened. Using both hands she tried again. A drop of icy water sputtered out and nothing more.

  Rewrapping her shawl, she was about to leave when something caught her eye,

  Under the table was a wooden crib.

  "Oh, no," she whispered. In the crib was a tiny quilt and a small infant's smock. Instinctively, she picked up the smock and held it to her face.

  His smell was still there, the sweet fragrance of a baby. She knew it was the smell of her own child, a child she would never know. Her child, and the child of the man with the marvelous eyes.

  Her knees buckled and she sank to the ground, the little shirt still pressed to her face. A feeling of loss encompassed her, such pain as to make living almost unimaginable. It came like a physical blow, as if she had been struck in the middle by a tree trunk.

  A moan escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes, savoring the fresh perfume of a baby.

  Emma didn't hear the door open or feel the cold blast of air from outside.

  "Em."

  She looked up. Her husband stood on the threshold. He wore a wide-brimmed hat dusted with snow, a large dark brown overcoat that seemed to tailored and fine for their new life in Indiana.

  "Em," he repeated. He took a step toward her and stopped. "You are out of bed."

  She nodded and smiled., embarrassed, and refolded the smock and placed it back in the crib.

  Her husband's expression remained blank as he closed the door and fastened the large wooden latch.

  "Why are you wearing the horse blanket?"

  She began to stand and he reached out a cold hand to assist her.

  His hand, large and callused, was perfect. It wasn't the hand of a sedentary man. It was the hand of a man who would fight for what he believed in, fight for what he loved.

  Part of her wanted to cry again; the other part wanted to laugh with sheer joy. This was him. This was who she had been waiting for.

  Her own hand grasped his, and he looked at her with mild surprised. "You are wearing the horse blanket."

  "I am?" She beamed, placing her other hand on top of his. She could feel the strength there, the warmth returning. There was a tracing of veins on the back of his hand, and she ran her thumb along the ridges.

  She stopped and looked up at him.

  Their faces were only a few inches apart. Although his face was unlined, he was lean, his cheekbones prominent beneath those astonishing eyes.

  His skin was slightly dark, yet it was too late in the year for the color to be from the sun. In spite of his overwhelmingly masculine stance, his rugged build, his facial features were almost delicate. There was a fine patrician quality to him, a nobility she had never before seen in a man.

  He was waiting for her to respond.

  "I'm wearing a horse blanket because I was cold."

  He did not blink. The snow on his hat remained white and fluffy. The room was cold enough for it to stay, unaltered on the brim forever.

  Then he did something wondrous. He smiled. It was not an all-out guffaw grin, nor was it a flash of white teeth.

  Instead, his mouth curved up slightly, and a luminous sparkle came briefly into his eyes. Then it was gone.

  "Well, Em. That sure makes sense."

  With that he took off the hat. Clumps of snow fell to the floor, and she stared at his hair. There was something fascinating about a man so young, perhaps in his early thirties, with so much gray in his hair. It wasn't just at the temples, where one would always imagine a young man with dark hair to gray. It was all over, silvery and thick and unrepentant.

  "I'll fetch you something to eat." He shrugged off the coat and hung it on the peg. He was wearing the same white shirt and trousers he had worn earlier, only now he wore a dark slender tie, limply knotted into a bow, and a narrow lapelled coat.

  She was about to comment on how nice he looked, when she realized two strange facts. One was that he, the husband, was making her a meal. Wasn't that the job of the wife?

  The second fact was more disturbing. As he spoke she had been trying to place his peculiar accent. Bit it wasn't his speech, the way he formed the words, that was so odd. He seemed to have a typical eastern accent, a little more pronounced but not unusual. The odd thing was the way he spoke, the flat manner. He spoke every word without a shade of emotion. No passion, no warmth, no anger—just straightforward, methodical words.

  And there was something similarly peculiar about his eyes. Other than the swift glint of humor she had seen a few moments before, they, too, were completely devoid of feeling.

  There had to be a reason for his strained manner, the hesitant, precise formality. What on earth could have happened to him?

  The meal passed in complete silence.

  Emma was actually relieved. There was so much she wanted to ask, yet clearly she was supposed to know all the answers. There were everyday details she hadn't the faintest clue how to ascertain.

  "Did you have a good day at the office?" Her voice sounded unnaturally cheerful. His head snapped up, eyes wary.

  "I will most likely ride out the circuit come spring, Em. It will be the usual three-month tour, same as the one I would have ridden in autumn if… well if things had been different. Until then, we will continue to barter for all we need."

  "Oh—that's not what I meant!" She swallowed the dry corn bread and took a sip of the tepid coffee. "No, I really want to know, Michael. Are you enjoying the work?"

  Michael. She just called him Michael. Oh, God. Was that his name? Or had she just blurted out the most common name she could think of?

  He had been about to take a bite of bread when those deep brown eyes of his leveled at hers. Slowly deliberately he placed the bread back on the pottery place.

  "Why thank you kindly, Em, for your concern." There was no sarcasm in his voice, nothing at all. "I believe I will enjoy it once I start riding the circuit. Now I am beginning to prepare some small cases. Squabbles between neighbors, boundary disputes, that sort of thing."

  He bent his head again and continued eating.
/>
  But was that his name? She had to know.

  "That sounds great." She cleared her throat. "Michael"

  He did not react. Instead, he picked up his empty plate and mug and began to carry them to the sink.

  "Oh, I'll get those. Michael."

  He paused, his back stiff as he took a deep breath. Then he continued on to the sink and stacked them on to the side.

  "Thank you." He then walked to the peg, where he had slipped his coat and hat. Snow was still on both.

  "Good-bye. Michael." She waved uncertainly from the table.

  At last he looked at her, and that strange almost-smile again played on his lips.

  "Good-bye to you, Emma."

  And with that he left.

  She sat motionless, staring at the closed door.

  Michael. Her husband's name was Michael.

  Three

  HER HANDS STILL STINGING FROM the harsh soap and cold water she had used to wash the dishes, Emma decided to explore the town of Overton Falls.

  She stepped from the cabin, fumbling with the large wooden latch, still wrapped in the horse blanket that Michael found so amusing. The brightness outside, the sun reflecting off the silvery snow, made her wince, as if she had not been out-of-doors for a very long time.

  Instead of retreating back into the cottage, she straightened her spine and hugged the blanket closer.

  "I live in Brooklyn," she muttered between clenched teeth. "I'm not afraid of Indiana."

  With that, she was slammed into the ground by something large and strong that had walloped the back of her knees.

  The wind was knocked fro her, as she gasped, she came face-to-face with the most horrible visage she had ever seen. Tiny piercing eyes rendered her motionless. Fetid breath engulfed her, pungent and hot.

  "Jasper! You come on and join the rest!" A young man pulled the creature away from Emma.

  It was a pig. Perhaps a hog. Whatever it was, it was something monstrous and unshaven from the porcine family.

  "Sorry, ma'am. Jasper's just a little excited about his walk."

  The boy could not have been more than twelve or thirteen. He helped her up with a bony, cold hand. Then he was gone—chasing Jasper and a half-dozen other pigs down the street.

  She regained her limited composure while her eyes adjusted to the blinding white. The view before her caused her to take a step back.

  It was a small village, with wagons and dogs wandering through the street, a bustle of activity within yards of the cabin. Apparently no one had noticed her run-in with Jasper the perambulating pig. Or if they had noticed it, no one seemed to think it out of the ordinary in this strange little town.

  Each of the dozen or so buildings had smoke puffing from its chimneys. Some were clearly homes, and one, set back in suburban splendor was surrounded by a grand whit-washed fence. The other structures were close to the unpaved road. There were tradesmen's signs on a few, painted boards, squeaking as they dangled on their hinges. All seemed to have been rendered by the same hand—clear and neat, free of any artistic pretenses. On one sign a letter had been omitted. Instead of painting the entire sign over, the missing letter had been squeezed above the word, a tiny arrow pointing to the correction.

  An open door just yards away revealed a blacksmith's shop; the constant clanking and pinging of the two workers was inescapable as it echoed through the streets. She walked slowly, trying not to draw attention to herself, yet mesmerized by all she saw.

  A pair of children ran through the streets, laughing and pulling a smaller child on a sled. Why weren't they in school?

  The wind whistled between the buildings, unhindered, as if on the open prairie. There were no tall buildings to buffer her from the cold, no smoky car exhausts of steaming manholes. The feeling of frigid, unheated air could not be forgotten. There was no escape from winter—not even a temporary reprieve—until spring.

  She walked toward the center of the town, a fork in the road where horses were tethered and wagons were being loaded.

  The other pedestrians were beginning to stare at her. The women huddled closer to each other, bonnet brims concealing their expressions as they spoke in hissing urgency, pausing only when they passed Emma. The men offered nods and hesitantly tipped their hats, fancy hats and plain, fur-trimmed and knit.

  A clapboard building had a sign in golden lettering, Zollers' Fine Dry Merchandise, and Emma entered. She felt warm inside, warmer than she had been since waking up in the cottage.

  For a few moments she saw dancing spots, then gradually the interior of the store became clear.

  It was a large single room. In the center was an iron stove, the source of the glorious heat. The walls were painted as a gently blue-gray, and every inch of space contained shelves or barrels or open burlap bags.

  The shelves were packed with pottery and china. Although the blue and white china was lovely—delicate and translucent—the pottery was fantastic, rough but imaginative. A glazed candlestick doubled as a ring holder, and a jug was covered with paintings of elves and wood creatures.

  Emma reached out a finger to touch the jug.

  "Ah-em," rasped a male voice.

  She jumped. An older gentleman in a canvas apron gave her a courtly bow.

  "Good morning, ma'am. I am so pleased to find you up and about at last."

  Emma gave him what she realized must have been a blank stare, and he continued.

  "I am Hans Zoller, proprietor of this establishment. I am well acquainted with your husband, ma'am, and I believe I can speak for all of Overton Falls when I say how proud we are to have a man of his ability among our citizens.

  "Oh?" Emma smiled uncertainly. "He is quite a guy, isn't he?"

  "Why, yes." Mr. Zoller nodded. "He has managed to stop an out-and-out war here, he has. I have not a doubt that had it not been for your husband, there would have been bloodshed on the fair streets of Overton Falls. You mark my words."

  She wanted to know more, to ask for details, names, anything that might help her understand Michael. Perhaps then she could understand why she was there.

  Instead, she turned her attention back to the shelf. "What lovely pottery." There. That seemed appropriate. No one in Overton Falls could fault her for being overly bold.

  Mr. Zoller made a strange face, one of sympathy. Emma did not see it. When he spoke, she had no idea that anything was amiss.

  "Yes, ma'am. That pottery was made right here in the Falls by the Larsons. They live just yonder past the Hungry Boar Tavern."

  "How nice," she replied, staring at more objects. There was a shelf holding a hideous tea set in a gruesome shade of greenish silver. Mr. Zoller followed her gaze and pointed with pride.

  "That is genuine lusterware, straight from St. Louis." He beamed. "It's pottery, but glazed to look like the finest silverware in the world. Fit for royalty, it is."

  Emma again smiled. There was no reason for her to be in the store. Just as she was about to leave, she turned to ask him a question. This was important. She had to make it good.

  "Thank you, Mr. Zoller. By the way, what is the easiest way to get to my husband's office? My sense of direction is terrible." She hoped the dazzling smile would make the question seem perfectly rational.

  Mr. Zoller's face remained impassive. "Why I reckon just walk outside, up Main Street a house or two, and you will see the shingle with Judge Hawkins's and your husband's names."

  "Thank you." She tightened the blanket around her. It was then that she spotted the blue spongeware bowl filled with old lemons. It was peculiar, a bowl of lemons that looked worse than anything she had ever discovered in her vegetable bin at home.

  Again, the experienced shopkeeper saw her curiosity. "Have you ever seen those before, ma'am? Real oranges! They're special, of course. Only get them on the holiday."

  "The holiday?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Christmas is just shy of a fortnight away."

  "Christmas," she repeated. "Oh, thank you."

  The moment she lef
t the store a gray-haired woman scurried into the room.

  "Well, Hans! Tell me—tell me all about her! Did you see what she was wearing? Been here well on a half year and she hadn't ever been out of her bed. That poor man does it all, man's work and woman's work. What did she say?"

  "Calm down, woman."

  For thirty years he had stood by her side, ever patient with her gossipy ways. She was a good woman, just given to idle chatter.

  His wife knew when to wait. She busied herself with rearranging the rock candy as Hans stared out the window. At last he spoke.

  "Poor woman," he whispered. "Don't know as I've ever seen a young lady so distraught over the death of her young one."

  "That's not all!" His wife fairly danced to his side, unable to keep her tidbit to herself for a moment longer. "They say the husband's a strange one as well. He's part savage—Delaware, I think. Did you know that? Old Emil Jenkins swears he heard him talking Delaware to a pack of Indians on their way to the reserved land."

  Mr. Zoller wasn't surprised. There was an intensity to the young man that set him apart. Although the storekeeper was interested in his wife's information, he refused to admit it. Should he express an ounce of curiosity, he would never be able to keep her quiet.

  "Hush, woman," he growled. She paused, and he gave her an affectionate wink. "What do you say we sample some of that new cider?"

  Emma wasn't feeling every well. Perhaps it was the cold, or the fact that she hadn't eaten since tat small bit of corn bread earlier in the day, or the unfortunate run-in with Jasper the pig.

  She saw the shingle. On top, in bold letters, it said Judge Isaiah Hawkins. In smaller letters it read Michael Graham, Attorney at Law.

  So her last name hadn't changed, She was Emma Graham in Brooklyn and she was Emma Graham in Overton Falls.

  This was too much, all too fast and too strange. She was standing in the middle of a prairie town in 1832, sporting a horse blanket and uncomfortable shoes, married to a stranger.