"Hello, pal," he said to Jonathan, who still looked peaked.
"I'm feeling a little better today, Ross," he said, but looked as though he wished he felt a whole lot better. A sudden coughing spasm gripped him.
Winnie jumped to his aid, as did Lydia. When he was comfortable again, he smiled weakly at everyone.
"Well, I've been thinking," Ross began, "maybe when the weather warms up and you're feeling like your old self, we could take a picnic out to a little rocky creek just east of here. What do you say?"
With drooping eyes, he nodded. "I'd like that." Then he closed his eyes, thinking about how nice it would be when the sun warmed everything up and he could spend some time at the river. A picnic would be nice; then everyone could go and have fun. Even Mrs. Barrett.
Chapter Nineteen
On an unusually warm late-March day, Ross rested with his weight braced against the handle of the axe he'd been swinging all morning. Mopping his brow, he squinted across the now-open barnyard. Gone was the brush that had crowded the barn, as well as several good-sized trees that had threatened its stone foundation.
An immeasurable amount of satisfaction filled him as he surveyed the work he'd accomplished over the last two months. He didn't know whether to attribute it to being on the farm where he'd spent the best years of his youth or whether it was simply the freedom.
The freedom to do as he pleased when he pleased and how he pleased. The freedom to feel the warm sun on his back doing work he enjoyedand he did enjoy it, more than he'd ever expected he might. All the years he'd spent living the life of a rover, gambler, and miner, had been wasted. He could see that now. Actually, he'd seen that during those years in prison, when he'd had all the time in the world to reflect on his past, the good and the bad.
But he'd never expected to return to his roots like this and feel this kind of exhilaration. Now more than ever, he was glad he'd made the deal with Howard.
He scanned the surrounding area, where several cords of dead wood stood neatly stacked between trees not too distant from the cabin. The green wood was stacked separately so it could season for next year. The barn stood solid once more, with a good tin roof that should last a lifetime, thanks to Howard's and Ben's help. Sometime during the coming summer he planned to add a coat of red paint.
In the meantime, he needed to build a new chicken house, since the old one had long since fallen to decay with the help of small woodland critters. It wouldn't take long, nor would it take much lumber, although he wasn't exactly ready to fill it with hens. He had little need for that many eggs.
And then there was the old cabin.
He'd given that the least attention, thinking it would be replaced by the end of the year with a large frame house, once he sold his share of the mine. But then, he didn't exactly need a house that big for just himself, so maybe the cabin should be repaired to make do until he was ready for the house. And with the time for field work approaching fast, it seemed inappropriate to spend time on anything else.
Laying aside the axe, he walked toward the cabin, eyeing the roof critically and checking the exterior for soundness. It seemed plenty stable; no shifting had taken place. Minor repairs should have it livable in a relatively short time. It would be good enough for him; he'd certainly lived in far worse. And even though Howard seemed in no hurry to take over the saloon, he knew he would eventually need a place to live.
Pushing the hanging door aside, it nearly fell beneath his weight. Stepping inside reminded him of the day in early winter when he'd brought Irene and the kids out for a picnic. She had seemed as eager as Jonathan and Lydia to be free of the confines of her house. He'd seen the anticipation in her eyes each time the wagon had turned a bend in the road and especially when they'd entered the clearing where the cabin stood. There was little doubt in his mind that she'd never ventured this far from town before.
Leaving the cabin, he walked into the sunshine once more. He picked up the axe and returned to the work at hand. With each swing and jarring thud as the axe bit into the trunk of the tree, he felt a notch closer to being a new person, or maybe just the person he'd always been but didn't know how to find. Time after time, he swung the axe, feeling the rhythm as his hand slid down the handle and swung again. Perspiration popped, cleansing away the old as he prepared for the new. At last the tree gave way and slowly crashed through nearby branches until it hit the ground accompanied by various snaps and crunches.
He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. No longer did this sort of strenuous work cause his muscles to ache as they had at first. Now it just felt good.
Propping his boot up on the fallen tree, he wondered what Irene would think of the changes. Perhaps he'd ask her and the kids out again, maybe when they took their picnic to the creek as they'd promised Jonathan.
With that pleasant thought in mind, he went back to work.
Irene stood in the empty classroom, summoning the courage to do what she'd said she would, but it was one thing to say it and another to go through with it. Clara could be a formidable opponent when she set her mind to it, and there was little doubt how her mind would be set on this issue.
She'd sent Lydia and Jonathan on ahead so she could approach Clara alone, since there was no telling what might be said after she stated her position. It was best if she dealt with this by herself.
Taking a deep breath, she crossed the hall and waited outside Clara's door, assuming that neutral territory would be the wiser choice.
She didn't have to wait long.
"Hello, Irene. Are you waiting to see me?" Clara asked, closing the classroom door behind her. She was an imposing figure in her black-as-night dress, hat, and coat.
"Yes, I am." But the rest of the words stuck in her mouth. Actually, she was having a hard time forming them in her head.
"Well, go ahead." Then, becoming aware that Irene was extremely uncomfortable, she asked, "Is something wrong?"
"No, not wrong, it's just that . . ." Telling herself that a promise was a promise, she forged ahead. "I won't be participating in the meetings or the saloon sittings anymore, Clara."
Taken aback by the statement, almost as though it had been a physical blow, Clara felt sure she must have misunderstood. Certainly she hadn't said she would no longer participate . . . had she?
"Would you repeat yourself, please?" Clara demanded, pulling herself up to her full height.
Refusing to cower, Irene said, "I won't be at the meetings or the saloon anymore, Clara."
Eyeing her speculatively, Clara wondered where this decision had come from.
"And pray tell, why not?" She challenged.
"I have to think about the children"
"Children who are not yours," she reprimanded.
"Nevertheless, they are under my care and therefore I must consider their feelings."
"Feelings? Feelings! Really, Irene, what do feelings have to do with the health and well-being of the families of our town? You seem to. have forgotten the very reason for our meetings. The children. All children. As a teacher, it is your bounden duty to care for all children, not just a selected few."
"I'm not so sure that what we do as a group has a positive effect on any children," Irene stated in a clear tone.
Shocked, Clara sucked in her breath. "How can you say that?"
"Dressing like men and causing destruction to another's property is hardly a good example to set."
"It is when you're defeating those who sell drink!" Then realization dawned as Clara suddenly became aware of who it was that had undoubtedly put Irene up to this refusal. Ross Hollister.
"I believe I understand," Clara went on; a new hardness in her eyes. "I'm sure you wouldn't be so quick to defend saloons if left to make your own decisions."
"This is my decision."
"I think not. It's very plain to see that you have been swayed against your better judgment. And in spite of my warnings, you did not guard yourself against the persuasiveness of Mr. Hollister." In a lower voice, she a
dded, "I told you this would happen."
Forcing herself not to blush at the memory of being in Ross's arms and therefore look the part of a guilty person, Irene lifted her chin and stared Clara directly in the eye. "I'm sorry you don't believe me."
"Oh, I believe you think this is your idea. And I believe your intentions are the best. But I also know that you're making a mistake. Not one, but two."
"I'm also sorry you feel that way. I had thought that if I were honest, you would at least try to be understanding of my feelings."
"There's that word again! Feelings!" Nearly irate, Clara glared at her. "What have feelings got to do with the condition of the soul?"
Irene had never witnessed Clara like this before. She wished now that she had stated her piece, then turned and left. But it was too late to undo what had already been done.
"I'm not changing my mind, Clara, no matter how hard you lecture me. I'm a grown woman capable of making up my own mind. I think it's high time everyone knew it." With that said, she pulled on her coat and turned to go.
"You'll rue the day you made this choice," Clara said to her retreating back. When the big front doors had closed behind Irene, Clara said again, sadly, "You'll rue the day."
With a deep-felt sigh, she walked the length of the hall. Her age had somehow crept up on her, and she felt it now more than ever. She reached for the door, but before her hand touched the coldness of it, the familiar pain, dull and heavy, gripped her chest, and she gasped for breath. Slowly she inhaled, while she carefully clung to each little bit of air that she was able to draw into her lungs. With her eyes closed and perspiration accumulating on every part of her body, she leaned heavily against the door, waiting for the frightening moment to pass. Then gradually, the grip of pain lessened and she could at last breathe more normally.
Time was wasting, and she had so much to do. She would need to give herself a little better care so she would live long enough to carry out all her plans. Not for herselfno never for herselfbut for the good of others, and somehow for Thaddeus, whom she'd failed.
With her gait a little slower, she walked the short distance home.
"Did you tell her?" Winnie prodded the moment Irene walked through the door.
"Yes." She pulled off her coat and gloves.
"And?"
"She didn't like it."
"Well, I figured that much," Winnie said with a huff and poured a cup of tea for each of them. "What I want to know is her reply."
"I'm tired, Mother. Do we have to go over it right now?"
"Irene," she said, putting the teapot down with a gentle clink, "that woman has been an irritation to me and to you for a number of years. Are you going to deny me the details of her comeuppance?"
"I'm afraid so. At least for now." She sipped the aromatic brew. "Thank you for the tea, Mother. It's just what I need."
Relenting a little in the face of her daughter's apparent tiredness, she changed the subject. Somewhat.
"Have you seen Mr. Hollister lately?"
"You know very well when the last time was that I saw him." Irene remembered two evenings ago when he'd stopped just to visit, as had become his habit since Jonathan's illness, and they sat in the kitchen talking of spring picnics and fishing.
"Well, I just thought maybe he'd stopped by the school or . . . something."
"You can rest easy. There's no 'or something' to wonder about."
As much as she hated to admit it, Winnie didn't totally disagree with Clara. Even though they would never see eye to eye on the saloon situation, they both were on the same track when it came to Ross Hollister. How could she not be? After all, who wanted her daughter spending any time with a saloon owner-gambler-gold-miner? He was hardly the catch of the day and certainly nothing to write to her other daughters about. But first things first, and getting Irene out of the saloon definitely came first. She could at least be happy for that much. For now.
"It certainly was a beautiful day," Winnie went on, hoping to turn the conversation to a lighter note.
"Yes. I believe winter is finally fading." Irene sipped her tea, not wholly relaxed, waiting for the real reason behind this apparently benign maneuver.
"It won't be long before things begin to turn green and the flowers start to sprout. I suppose back in Cincinnati that's already happening.''
"I suppose it is."
"The gardener has undoubtedly started pruning some of the shrubs around the east side of the house. The girlsthat is Mary Ellen and Rosiesaid they would look after things."
"Mother," Irene said, setting down her cup. "I can tell you're getting homesick. You've been here for five months, and with Janie's baby due in a few months, maybe you should be considering going back home."
Releasing a sigh, Winnie admitted, "I do miss everything a little bit."
"Everything here is fine. There's nothing to worry about. Jonathan is as good as ever, and I've made a firm decision not to go to any temperance meetings. Doesn't that put your mind more at ease?" she asked.
"Well, yes, it does."
"You've been away from home too long. The girls are undoubtedly wondering if I'm going to keep you up here forever," she said with a smile. "And your first grandchild will be born soon. Then you can fuss over him and spoil him for a change."
Winnie sent a sharp look toward Irene. "I never spoiled you. Or the girls."
"And what about the fussed-over part?" she teased.
"That's what mothers do best. It's part of the job."
Irene held back her normal response: since Jonathan's illness she understood more than she had before. To a point.
"I'm old enough to take care of myself, Mother," she said. "Or bear the consequences if need be."
Winnie understood what her daughter was telling her, although she didn't completely agree. Some consequences could be impossible to bear, and she only wanted to spare Irene those. In that sense, she and Clara were definitely in agreement.
"Well, at least think about it."
After a moment of thought, Winnie replied, "I will."
Irene rose from her seat, glad that the idea had been planted. It would be much easier to get on with her life if her mother would return to her own. Not that things hadn't improved lately. They had. But two women under the same roof with different viewpoints were bound to clash again and again.
"Where are Jonathan and Lydia?" she asked over her shoulder as she went into the pantry to retrieve the coffee grinder and some beans.
"You can guess where Jonathan isat the river with his little friend, what's-his-name. And Lydia is up in her room."
Frowning, Irene placed the beans in the grinder. "Is she feeling all right?"
"She's very quiet, but other than that she seems fine."
"I thought she appeared a little distant today, but I thought she was just bored. I'd better check on her later."
Winnie eyed the ground coffee. "Expecting company?"
"Oh, not really. I just thought I'd have some ready in case Ross dropped by after supper. And besides, I sort of like the smell when it's freshly ground. Don't you?" she asked, smiling.
"Hmph. Your father drank it sometimes, but I never took a liking to it, smell or taste." She went to the stove, where a pot of noodles simmered in beef broth. Removing a pan of biscuits from the oven, she tried to ignore the aroma of the coffee.
When Irene finished her small chore and stored everything away, she decided to look in on Lydia. She didn't like to see her so listless and inattentative when she was usually so vibrant. Something was bothering her.
The door was open and Irene could see that Lydia, curled up warmly in a ball, was staring intently at an object across the room.
Tapping lightly against the door frame, she asked, "May I come in?"
"Sure." Lydia looked up and forced a smile.
Entering the room, she said, "You look sort of sad. Is everything all right?"
"I guess I'm just tired."
"Of what?"
She shrugged. "Wai
ting for spring, I guess."
Irene sat on the edge of the bed. "Well, it won't be long now. I saw a robin on my way home from school, and you know what that means, don't you?"
She nodded. "But I'll bet he was alone. All the smart ones stayed behind."
Irene smiled and gently smoothed the curls back from Lydia's face. "Before long we'll be able to open the windows and put the parlor stove back in storage."
"I can't wait." But she sounded as if she didn't believe it would ever happen.
Still smiling, Irene remembered the impatience of youth. How hard it was to wait for everythingsummertime, wearing longer dresses, putting up one's hair like a young woman, and hoping for the attentions of a favorite boy.
"Irene!" her mother called up the stairway. "You've got company. I'll get the coffeepot out."
"Ross is here," Lydia said, smiling genuinely now. "I could've told just by her voice, even if she hadn't mentioned the coffeepot."
"You're right. Me, too." Rising from the bed, Irene asked, "You'll come down, won't you? Just so he'll know that not everyone disapproves of his visits."
Sitting up, she asked with a wide-eyed, almost worried look, "You don't mind that he comes, do you, Miss Barrett?"
"Of course not. Are you coming?"
"In a little bit."
After hesitating a moment, Irene nodded, then left the room.
Lydia brushed a strand of hair over her shoulder. When spring finally arrived, would she and Jonathan still be there? Would they get to go on the picnics that Miss Barrett and Ross talked about? Would they take more adventures into the woods, looking for arrowheads and rabbit holes, then stretch out in the sun just enjoying the day as well as each other's company?
Scooting off the bed, she couldn't rid herself of the fear and worry that maybe her Aunt Sarah would still come for them even though she'd destroyed nearly every letter she was supposed to mail. What if that one had gotten through? What if Miss Barrett had mailed some herself? Or even Mrs. Barrett?
She could hardly bear to think about it. Yet with spring getting closer, it was all she could think about.
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