by Sierra Rose
Delighted, Camellia sniffed at the air that seemed drunk with bee balm and floral display, like wine and honey stirred together into one fascinating concoction.
“It’s so lovely here; no wonder you’ve made the place your home. Your parents are still living somewhere in Tennessee, I believe you mentioned?” she asked, out of the blue.
“Yes, ma’am. Outside Memphis.”
“That’s a few miles away. Quite a few. Do you get home to visit them very often?”
“Naw. I ain’t been back after I come here. Must be—what, six years or so now.”
“Only six years?” A small reflective frown creased her brows. “Oh. For some reason, I thought you’d been here longer.”
His voice was completely without expression when he replied, “Prob’ly because I look like a town fixture. Good ol’ dependable, steady Ben Forrester, just part of the scenery, like onea them there pines you see. Anything else you wanna know?”
“Well—don’t you worry about your father and mother? I mean, they are most likely of an advancing age, and might need help. And if you’re the only child left, and you’re so—distant...?”
Ben was leaning slightly forward, elbows resting on thighs in a comfortable position to handle the reins. Whistling soundlessly for a minute, he pushed back his hat and stared at the horizon as if he were planning to memorize the angle of every flimsy cloud.
She waited. She was learning to be patient while the words for a complicated response tumbled through his brain before arranging themselves into coherence. His tongue might not offer a lightning-swift back-and-forth, but she had no doubt his thought process did.
“We parted in anger,” he finally told her, quietly. “Things were said that couldn’t be unsaid, and I cleared out. Haven’t spoken to ’em since.”
Everyone thinks the craziness involved in their own family tree is completely abnormal, that they are the only ones suffering from what seems to be insanity. Once out in the world, however, and in contact with multiple other human beings, it’s easy to learn that all family trees are cock-a-loop, and it’s not abnormal but entirely normal.
Camellia, coming from her own twisted background that had left her and her sisters practically on the doorstep of the poor house, could well comprehend a situation that might have driven a giant, possibly permanent, wedge in between the son and what was left of his lineage. She wondered if she might be able to pry the details from him, in order to better understand this occasionally difficult man.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said quietly, laying a gentle gloved hand on his corded forearm. She spoke with a wisdom and maturity beyond her years. “It must be hard for you to deal with. Do you miss them?”
“Not partic’larly. They have their way of doin’ things, and I have mine.”
How sad. How sad that family dynamics could be so confusing, and so troubling, all wrenched up by hurt feelings. Unfortunately, holding grudges could prevent kith and kin from reconciling for years, all the way to one’s deathbed. And how much time and energy was then lost, and how many questions went unanswered!
“That’s really too bad, Ben, and I mean that sincerely. Was there some one thing that drove you apart?”
“You might say. My brother Jackson wore a gray uniform. I wore blue.”
Her throat closed up, almost in protest. With the terrible, bloody Civil War (or, as many in her native city had named it, The War Between the States), ended just a few years ago, emotions still ran high and deep on both sides. It might take generations before some sort of cooling-off period was achieved, and an honest truce between the participants could be enjoyed.
Missouri, inhabited by both Confederate and Union sympathizers, became a fiercely contested border state. Not only did it maintain dual governments, but it held a star on the flags of both North and South. Each side in the War also received supplies, armies, and generals from this place that was fighting neighbor against neighbor within its own borders, besides fighting in every battle of every front on all sides.
Camellia was old enough to remember some of the history, and what had gone on around her in a frenzy of excitement, fear, and hatred.
The War. That insane, horrific, gory, life-shattering War.
“And that’s the brother who fell at Gettysburg?”
“Yeah.” His jaw, seen in profile, had set hard, and a muscle was clenching and unclenching so that the words seemed as clipped as the bullets that had brought him down. “The oldest son. The favorite. Hard on everybody, especially with me bein’ on the other side. The enemy.”
“Ah.” She wondered what memories must be hovering always in the back of his mind, and how many nightmares from that hellish ordeal pursued him. Or had he served far removed from the hue and cry of battle, safely behind the lines? Perhaps someday she would be able to pry loose more details from his reluctant lips. “And your other brother—Cole, I believe?”
A cloud lifted from his face. “Youngest. Thankfully, he escaped the war. But then he was considered a coward for not joinin’ up.”
Aghast, Camellia sucked in a hurtful breath. “A coward? You mean—by your parents?”
“Indeed. Another bone of contention. It ain’t no wonder he got away as fast and as far as he could. California, last I heard.”
“I at least have my sisters with me,” she murmured, thinking that he could be considered as much a war victim as his older brother.
He moved his shoulders restlessly, as if batting away some insect on a rampage. Or recollections that did not—would never—rest easily in his consciousness. “Well, I reckon we all got our cross to bear in life. There, see that track jogging off to the right? Takes you right next to the river, and a tiny settlement of just a few people, downstream a ways.”
Nodding, she acknowledged his comment. And his adroit change of subject. He seemed to be quite adept at skittering away from any topic he didn’t want to discuss, especially if it honed too closely to the bare bone.
“Do you often take drives like this?” she finally asked curiously, as their horse had slowed from a trot to a walk.
“No. No point, y’ know.”
“No young ladies you wanted to squire about the countryside?” she teased.
He snorted, a typical male response. “Hardly. Toldja, not a one in or around town I been interested in. Either too young, or too silly, or too fulla themselves, or already taken.”
“So what do you do with your leisure on Sundays off?”
“Hmmm.” He considered a minute or two, then suddenly jerked to attention and flapped the reins. “Hey, Balaam, we may be out for a morning stroll, but you don’t gotta take the word literally. Move along there, fellah. Leisure. Free time, you mean. Well, to tell you the truth, I ain’t got much leisure.”
“But, surely—”
“Today, now—a fellah don’t get married very often, y’ know. I figured we’d oughta do somethin’ together. Enjoy the weather. Get some fresh air.” He aimed a sweet smile in her direction.
“So this is like—a honeymoon.”
“A short one, anyway. Maybe later on we can take a trip somewhere, if you like.”
His nimble skipping about, always one jump ahead of her, was growing tiresome. And irritating.
“Well, just what is it you do when you have nothing else to do?” she demanded.
“Ooohhh, sit at the kitchen table and figure out my cash ledgers. Sometimes meet some of the boys down to the Prairie Lot and shoot the breeze. Once in a while,” glancing her way, he raised a brow and added that sweet smile again, “I even open a book and try to remember how to read one or two printed pages.”
The lout. He was deliberately leading her astray, making himself out to be a yokel of some standing in the town, he and his compadres. Camellia wished she had brought along her little ivory fan, all neatly folded, so she could smack him on the wrist. Especially since he didn’t know that she was well aware of the Prairie Lot’s type of business.
“So your store is clos
ed on Sunday?” She tried to pin him down to at least one fact.
“Yep. Turn your muzzle straight, Balaam, if you would be so kind. We ain’t headin’ off into the grasslands yet today.”
“And the name?”
“Why, I thought you heard me say. Balaam. He’s prob’ly about the best that—”
“The name of your general store,” she informed him between her teeth. “It does have a name, does it not?”
He chuckled. “Well, now, there you have me. When I first started out, I tried to come up with some high-falutin’ moniker that would show my grand dreams. The Texas Emporium. The Establishment Par Excellence. The Store of A Thousand Necessities. The—”
Camellia rudely interrupted with a burst of laughter. “The Store of a Thousand Necessities? Forgive me, but that’s—that’s—” Unable to finish, she was off on another gale of laughter.
Fortunately, he didn’t take offense. Apparently agreeing with the humor of the situation, he merely grinned in response. “Yeah, kinda what I figured, too. So now it’s just Forrester’s.”
“Good. I like that. Simple, honest, and easy to remember.”
“Glad to know I have your approval.”
“Oh, any time. Now tell me all about this emporium of yours. What do you sell there, and to whom do you cater, and how is business?”
He looked surprised, “Why, I cater to anyone and everyone. Got three full floors of merchandise, just waitin’ for the right buyer. Hi, there, Balaam, let’s be turnin’ your lazy hindquarters. Time to head on back now.”
“That means, for the gentlemen, you have—”
“Minin’ tools and farmin’ tools and smithy tools, all on half of the first floor. Got a corner cut out with some clothes, boots, suspenders, wool socks, and so on. The other half has foodstuffs—gunny sacks of flour and sugar and salt, home-cured bacon, canned goods, fresh fruits and vegetables bought in season from some of the gardeners, spices, you name it. Per your good friend, the doctor, I keep a decent stock of medicines and herbs in a corner cabinet.”
The horse, his ears pricked forward resentfully, had obeyed orders and made a wide circle in the dirt road. Since he wasn’t ready to return from this happy outing, he made sure to snatch a few mouthfuls of luscious rye grass as he slowly complied. Camellia, noticing, hid a smile. The animal might as well get his own bit of enjoyment out of the day, since he was doing all the work.
“Then, on the second floor,” continued Ben, as if there had been no interruption, “I got stuff for the ladies. More privacy there, y’ see. Lotsa fancy clothes and hats, some shoes and stockin’s, some—uh—well, some unmentionables...gewgaws they might be interested in, bits of jewelry and bath items. Also, I set up space for kids, with some shirts and pants, toys, that sort.”
“Books?”
“Well, some, sure. But I ain’t about to compete with the library. Top floor right now is mostly for storage, movin’ things around as needed.”
The gas-flame blue of Camellia’s eyes deepened while she pondered. “It sounds a fascinating enterprise, Ben. And have you help, for when you’re—um—off getting married or something similar?”
“Yep. Got me a terrific assistant, named Jimmy Dunlap, been with me almost from the start. Then there’s Miss Elvira Gotham, who handles the female stuff. Also two strong young clerks that pitch in to load and unload, ring up sales. Kinda general.”
Silent, she pondered. The small frown between her brows that always appeared in consideration of some new situation now showed itself. “And shall I, as your wife, be able to take part in these business activities?”
He had, she was beginning to notice, the art of looking surprised by her words down to a science. Or was it just because he wasn’t used to having a woman, determined upon her own agenda, in his life?
“Well, I can certainly take you down and show you around,” her husband hemmed and hawed, clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea. “You’d oughta know what’s there, and what’s goin’ on anyway, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t I know about where and when to order items, and what to order?” Camellia persisted. “And the cost of each, and how long delivery might take?”
Ben shifted on his seat and pulled the hat lower on his forehead. Which was showing signs of dampness. “I got people to do that.”
Ah. The light was dawning. It all came down to a matter of control. Ben was used to controlling his little empire in its entirety, and he wasn’t about to relinquish any authority to anyone, not even a newly acquired wife.
Very well, she would not demand more information or knowledge now. A good wife knows when to push forward, and when to draw back; and certainly she was determined to be a good wife.
Instead, she spoke of the past, and the recent past, following his shuttered gaze to the horizon and beyond. “I miss my mother dreadfully. And I miss the man my father used to be. It’s a difficult thing to be an orphan, and have no one to look out for you.”
“You do. You got me.” Ben turned his head suddenly to look at her, his hazel eyes colored blue with intensity, his voice sounding gruff for absolutely no reason.
The moment became fraught with an indescribable emotion neither was prepared to deal with. So, for safety’s sake, both pulled away from the brink.
“Thank you,” she said primly. “That means a lot, and I appreciate it.”
“Ain’t that what marriage is all about? It’s what I was hopin’ to find, anyway.”
Camellia carefully cleared her throat. “And do you—do you think—you have—?”
A pause, filled with the quiet clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the dirt road, and a rustle of pecan leaves overhead, and distant birdsong. An errant breeze lifted the scarf loosely knotted around his throat, and tugged playfully upon a curl twining at her cheek. The cloudless sky couldn’t have been a more perfect azure.
“Dunno yet. Reckon I’ll find out soon enough. And maybe you will, too.”
I think I may have, she thought, in a flash of perspective. At least I’m not alone any more.
Another few moments passed by, while he tended to managing the horse (who, intelligent as Balaam was, needed very little tending) and she took in the scenery. Now that Ben was taking her home again, it was through very pretty country. Quiet, peaceful, serene. After the fuss and noise of St. Louis streets, she could get used to such a sense of harmony, very quickly.
“I heard you cryin’ last night,” he abruptly confessed, in a low tone that implied something secretive.
Her fingers clutched more tightly around her reticule, in surprise. “Oh.”
“Yeah. After the first time I—after I had—I’m sorry, Camellia.” This from a proud man who, she was discovering, did not easily apologize. “I didn’t mean to do you harm.”
“It’s—it’s all right.” She didn’t dare look at him; her cheeks were stained scarlet, and the weak tears were already forming, beyond her control. Remembrance could be a painful thing, and her—might she call it unusual?—experience at his hands was of but a few hours’ duration.
“No. For a little bit, there, I forgot you’re a gentlewoman, and I shouldn’t be treatin’ you like a dox—like someone who ain’t. Mayhap you’ll be able to forgive me someday.”
Balaam’s magnificently muscled rump, with its silky black tail flashing back and forth, had seemingly become quite interesting, for all that Ben was staring straight ahead. Camellia stole a glance at him from under her lashes and saw that he must have been ashamed of something—either his words, or his enthusiastic reception of her, or his conscience that would not let the matter lie—for a dull red had colored what was visible of his face.
“Oh—no,” she protested faintly. “No, you shouldn’t—I can’t be—”
Beyond that neither could go. They returned home in silence, both sitting on the padded seat like two miserable lumps of suet. Despite the mere few physical inches between them, in truth, husband and wife could not have been farther apart than the Poles.
I
t wasn’t until they had nearly reached their street, all shady and quiet and blessedly cool in the heat of the day, that Ben mumbled something about leaving early tomorrow morning.
“What?” Shocked, Camellia turned sideways. “You’re what?”
“Leavin’. As I said.”
“But—why? What’s going on?”
Under attack—and rightfully so—Ben had stiffened like a bullock suffering from colic. “I’ve been wantin’ to set up a second store at Manifest, about forty miles from here. A partic’lar place I’m interested in. Just got word that the owner is willin’ to talk with me, so I need to go see him.”
“And are you planning to take me with you?”
“Ain’t no reason for you to go. It’s just business, Camellia.”
“I see.” Ice floes from the North Atlantic could have been no colder than her tone, her expression, or her attitude. “One day after we were married, you now plan on deserting me.”
“No such thing, so stop fussin’. I’ll prob’ly only be gone about a week—plentya time for you to settle in here, make some friends, get to feelin’ comfortable with things. The house might not be to your design, so you can make whatever changes you want. Some new—”
“Do not, I beg you, try to fob me off with petty little things that ought to occupy my time!”
“Sssshhh!” As the tenor of her voice had heightened, he glanced furtively around. Hard telling which neighbor might be eavesdropping on a conversation that should be kept private! Clearly disclosing his plan now, at this precise moment, had been a great mistake. “We can talk some—”
“Benjamin,” she hissed in rising anger, as he hauled on the reins to halt their horse. “Do you realize how that will look? Do you realize the gossip I will have to face? Do you realize what you are leaving me to deal with, on my own?”
Given the tightening of mouth and narrowing of eyes, his temper was sparking to match hers. “You’re makin’ a mountain out of a molehill, ma’am. This is business, nothin’ more, and I’m used to takin’ care of it myself, without no woman trailin’ along. The timin’ may be off a bit, but—”