Who would be writing to her?
“Thank you.” She took the letter and stared at the return address. An answer to her letter of nearly a month ago. She’d given up on receiving a reply, placating her father with the old adage, “No news is good news.” Although, as he’d pointed out, along with several comments about her stupidity, that didn’t seem to apply here.
Rather than spending the time reading under the man’s watchful eye, she placed the letter in her reticule and continued her shopping. Once behind the laden shelves, she reached up and reset her hatpins, hoping to restrict the swirl of russet hair. She had enough cash on hand to pay her past-due bill and for the supplies she’d purchased, but if she bought dress goods, she’d have nothing to hide away in case of an emergency. Her father had raided the last hoard, as he had earlier ones.
Sometimes she wished he’d go back to making moonshine. They’d had extra cash then. But even that had proved too laborious for him, so now he just reminisced about those days. The heart had indeed gone out of him when Patrick died, not that he’d ever been what one would call a hard worker.
With a shake of her head and a grimace at the hat shifting again, she left the dress goods section and returned to the counter to pay for her purchases.
“You want I should load these in the wagon for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“You have any of your goods between now and next market day, you know I would be happy to sell them here.”
“Well, thank you.” In the past she had traded butter and eggs for the things she needed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She thanked him again when the staples of flour, sugar, coffee, and other things she couldn’t produce on the farm were loaded into the wagon. Glancing up the street to the saloon, she hoped to see her father waiting on the front porch. No such luck.
Muttering under her breath, she untied the team, backed them up, and drove around the block so she could stop with the seat of the wagon in direct line with the steps from the saloon. Then, proper or not, she climbed out of the wagon, using the spokes of the wheel for steps, tied the nearest horse to the hitching rail, and mounted the stairs. Stopping at the door, she peered inside. Lord above, how I hate going in here.
“Could you please bring him out, Mr. Peters?” When there was no response, she raised her voice and repeated her request. No answer. Couldn’t you have a bit of mercy on me? She glanced skyward. “Sorry for any disrespect.” Blowing out a heavy sigh, she pushed open the door and stood blinking in the dim light, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
Her father even had his own table. And right now he lay cheek down, snoring loud enough to scare the rats that sometimes scavenged for bits of food dropped from the tables. The thought of seeing one again made her shudder. But they weren’t as prevalent in the daylight hours, so she sucked in a restorative breath, coughed on the fumes that permeated the place, and crossed the room. How would she get him out to the wagon if he was passed out?
“Father.” She tapped his shoulder. No response. Just like from the owner of this place, wherever he was. She shook her father, none too gently.
“Go ’way.” His mutter sent the alcohol fumes right up her nose.
Her eyes watered and she fought the urge to gag. Why did men do this to themselves? “Pa, either you come with me now, or you’ll be finding your own way home. I am finished here for the day.” And I have enough work to do at home to fill two days with some left over.
“Minute.”
She had to lean over to understand him because his lips and cheek were mashing the wood of the tabletop. Colleen took a step back with a finger to her hat. Never before had she had the courage to leave him. But the thought of sitting under a shade tree and waiting for him to stagger out gave her the desire to pick up the bottle sitting on his table and tap him on the head with it.
Aghast at the thought, she shook him again, more firmly this time. “Pa, it is time to go home. You said you would meet me at the mercantile.” Why even talk? He wasn’t listening.
The back door opened, and the proprietor pushed his way in, dragging a dolly loaded with crates. “Sorry, Miss O’Shaunasy, I had to pick up my freight or someone might have lightened my load, if you get my drift. I’ll haul his carcass out to the wagon for you. Don’t know what you’ll do when you get home though.”
“I’ll let him sleep it off in the wagon, that’s what. How can you allow him to drink this much?”
“Man pays his money, I ain’t his keeper.”
“What if he has no money?” She addressed his back as he slung the old man over his shoulders like a sack of wheat and hauled him out to the back of the wagon, where he dumped him on the goods already loaded.
“I use ta run a tab, but not no longer. Not for him.”
“Thank God for small favors.”
Peters dusted his hands off. “If I was you, I’d hide my money real good.”
“Thank you for the advice.” She mounted the wheel, eyed the line to the hitching rail, and sighed, a shoulder-drooping, toenailcurling sigh.
“I’ll get that for ya.”
“Thank you so very much.” When he knotted the line back to the harness, she picked up the reins and slapped the team lightly along with a “giddup.” The horses, long used to finding their own way home, ignored her orders and, nodding, each picked up one hoof at a time, making sure it was set again before picking up another.
Feeling Mr. Peters staring at her from the doorway, she slapped the reins again, with considerably more force, along with a sharp “giddup” to match. The shock made both horses throw their heads up and jerk forward. Her hat skewed toward the back of her head, and her posterior slid to the rear of the seat, making her grateful for the backboard so that she didn’t go head over teakettle into the wagon bed. Now, that would have caused some stir.
By reflex she jerked back on the reins, the horses stopped, and there she was. Lord, let me hide myself in thee. She glanced back over her shoulder to make certain she still had her father in the wagon but wasn’t sure if she was grateful that he’d slept through it all or not. Feet braced against the footboard, she slapped the reins again, this time holding them firmly to make sure the horses would walk not leap. They seemed to get the idea, as they walked out with quick feet. After she ripped the hat from her head and tucked it under her skirt so it wouldn’t blow away, she slapped the reins again, and they picked up an easy trot.
Lowering clouds in the west, the direction they were headed, made her groan. All she needed to do was let the bags of flour and sugar get wet. She clucked the horses faster and drove them into the barn just as the errant sprinkles turned into a downpour.
Obeying her father’s orders to never leave the team in harness, even though he often did it himself, she unhooked the traces from the doubletree and, after leading the horses into their stall, unharnessed them. “You ungrateful wretches,” she muttered as the darker of the two bays swung his haunches out enough to pin her against the sideboards. “Get over.” She slapped him on the rump with one of the leathers. “You kick me and, so help me, I’ll shoot you myself. Horsemeat must not be much different than beef.” He straightened out and let her pass, his twitching tail saying that he’d just as soon plant a hoof on her foot as not.
She hung the harnesses on the wall pegs, dumped a small amount of oats in each feedbox, gathered the smaller packages, and made her way to the house. By the time she stopped on the porch to catch her breath, her hair was drenched, her clothes were soaked through to her skin, and her felt hat was squashed beyond rehabilitating.
Lord, what did I do to deserve this? She dropped the packages on the table, wishing for a cup of hot coffee and knowing that she’d have to start the stove first. Which to do? Change clothes so she didn’t catch her death, or start the fire so she could warm up both body and coffeepot?
The gray-and-white-striped cat with the white bib and paws rubbed against her skirt, then sat down to lick the moisture off her fur.
“If you’re hungry, go catch a mouse. It’s a long time till supper.” Colleen, against all she knew to be proper, dropped her skirt and petticoat by the stove so she could hang them up to dry. Her blouse joined the skirt in a heap, and she debated about her chemise and bloomers. But fearing the arrival of her father or some passing stranger, she hauled herself upstairs to her room, where she stripped down to bare skin and rubbed her body with a coarse towel until she felt warmer. If only she could crawl in bed to warm up. Were her mother here, she would have had the stove lighted and something hot forthwith. She might have even brought a cup up to her daughter’s room, not that Colleen could remember such a time, other than when she’d had the measles.
Colleen sank down on the edge of the bed, feeling as if the roof of the house were pressing down on her. That and the black sky. How can I bear this? Yet how can I not? I mean, what choices do I have? Crawl in bed and let the animals suffer? You could crawl in bed to get warm. But if I fall asleep, then what? She shivered in the draft from the window, even though the sash was down. Wrapping the towel around her wet hair, she drew dry underthings from the drawers, her working shift from its peg on the low side of the steeply roofed room, and finished dressing. She added a sweater and warm woolen stockings her mother had knit for good measure.
Downstairs she fetched a pot of chicken soup from the larder and, after adding wood to the coals in the firebox, set the pot on the front burner. Because she’d not eaten since breakfast, she sliced bread and buttered it on both sides before laying it in one of the cast-iron frying pans that hung from a rack behind the stove. She set it right behind the soup kettle to speed the toasting.
Looking out the window, she saw the barn door was still closed. Rain pummeled the ground. The cow would most likely be in her stanchion, waiting for grain and milking. Colleen stirred the soup and turned the two slices of bread, pushing the frying pan back off the hottest part. Dark as the day had become, she lit a kerosene lamp and set it in the middle of the table.
“My letter.” She dug it from her reticule, only slightly damp, and laid it on the table. Whenever mail came to the house, her father always read it first—slowly, since reading wasn’t one of his strong suits. Today she would slice open the envelope, pull out the paper, unfold it, and read it—all by herself and first.
To prolong the pleasure she flipped the bread out onto a plate, dished up her soup and slid the kettle back, poured herself a cup of coffee, and set her things on the table. The pure pleasure of the quiet room, the hiss and crackle of the fire, the steaming coffeepot, and the purring cat made her sigh. If only her mother were here to enjoy this special moment with her. What more could she ask?
She salted her soup, staring at the envelope lying on the table. Good news or bad news. She ate a bite of bread, followed by a spoon of soup. The heat radiated from the stove, warming her back. She rotated her shoulders in delight.
Picking up the envelope, she slid the blade of the knife under the flap and popped open the blob of wax seal. Appreciating each move she made, she finally had the letter free and ready to read. Another slurp and bite prolonged the pleasure.
Dear Miss O’Shaunasy,
I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I was to read your letter of October 7. Yes, the loss of our daughter has been a trial, but as ill as she was, we were not surprised to hear of her passing. What surprised and shocked us was the inference that she may have taken her own life. I will never believe that. There must have been an accident or some nefarious event, but that we will never know.
We, my husband and I, would love to be certain of the whereabouts of our grandson, Joel. Were we able, we would go searching ourselves. As far as we know, Joel has gone west with a man named Jacob Chandler. He and Melody were childhood friends. Not long ago we received a letter from his parents and understand that he and Joel are living on a ranch in the badlands of Dakotah Territory, near a town called Medora. While we could not locate the town on any maps, we have learned there is a train station there. It is near the western edge of the territory.
We are pleased to know that Joel has a place to come back to and a purpose. Perhaps Mr. Chandler, whom I believe is a reverend, or was, will be willing to bring Joel back. The Chandlers have a farm not far from our own.
Please keep in contact with us, and we wish you God’s blessing and speed in your mission.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Alma Fisher
Colleen read the letter again. Surely there was some kind of mystery going on here. Why had Melody left Joel with a man not a relative? What had happened to her in those last moments of her life? She had not been well for a long time, but after an attack of the influenza last year and the death of her husband, she had really gone downhill.
How can I leave the farm and go searching for the boy? Who would care for the livestock—and my father? Winter would be the best time to go because there was no fieldwork and the cow would be drying up around Christmas. But the heifer was due in January.
Colleen finished her soup and bread, poured herself another cup of coffee to sip while she put things away, and wiped off the crumbs. She cradled the hot mug in her hands as she stared out the window. The rain clouds looked to have taken up residency right over the farm. She should have thrown a horse blanket over her father. All she needed was to have him down with the grippe or worse.
Fetching a wool blanket from the linen shelf, she donned her chores coat and a broad-brimmed hat, took the milk pail from the springhouse, and headed for the barn. The cow wouldn’t mind being milked a bit early, and if she waited longer, she’d have to light a lantern. One more thing to fuss with.
She finished the chores and tried to wake her father, who was snoring under the blanket she’d spread over him, but when that effort failed, she let the horses out to pasture and headed for the springhouse. She carried the milk bucket in one hand, eggs nested in straw in a basket in the other. As soon as it turned cold enough, they needed to butcher the two hogs she’d kept for fattening. How could she leave before then?
Lord above, if I am to go, who will do the work around here?
CHAPTER THREE
“You left me in the barn!”
Colleen jerked upright in bed. “What? Who?” She put her hand to her chest to still her thundering heart. The wraith in the doorway staggered slightly. “Pa?”
“Who else would you go leaving in the barn? Like to catch my death out there.”
“I tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t wake. I almost left you at the saloon.”
“You left me out there in the cold.”
“I put a blanket over you. You were hot enough to set the hay on fire anyway.”
“You goin’ ter fix me supper?”
She felt her jaw drop. The nerve of him. “If you are hungry, there is bread and cheese. Help yourself.” I am not getting up now to fix a meal you were too drunk to eat before.
“Yer mother—”
Colleen closed her eyes. “I am not my mother. I am not your wife. I am your daughter, and I am not getting up.” Where she found the courage to make such a statement was beyond her. “I had to go into that place looking for you. Thankfully, Mr. Peters had the decency to haul you out to the wagon, rather than just throwing you out the door when it came closing time. You are too heavy for me to lift—there’s no way I could have dragged you into the house.”
He turned from the doorway and muttered his way back down the stairs. She waited to hear if he went to the kitchen, but the bedsprings creaked, and she knew he’d gone to bed.
You shouldn’t treat your father that way. The Good Book says to show respect to your parents. That is a sign of godliness.
Had I gone down, he’d have fallen asleep in the chair before the food was ready. Lord, you know I have honored him all these years. I can honor the man but not his drinking. Great God, what do I do?
Let me.
She lay still, waiting for more. Two words. Let me. “But how? I can pray for him. I have. Is that what you mean?” Sh
e slipped back into sleep, the puzzlement still there when she woke in the darkest dark, before the line of dawn penciled the horizon or brightened the sky to cobalt. The rooster called up the sun and her. Dressing quickly in the chill, she looked outside for her first of the day checks. All appeared as she’d left it, albeit considerably wetter. Was it still raining when her father woke her? She didn’t remember the song of the eaves, when water cascaded down the roof and dripped to the line of gravel below.
She checked on him, though his snoring had announced his presence when she was still upstairs. At least he’d had the sense to crawl under the covers, even though he’d not undressed—one sleeved arm testified to that.
Let me. She thought again to the words. Now, let it be she understood. And let it lie or let it down—what she often had to do with her dresses when one hem wore to tatters. She’d let out the hem, trim off the raggedy threads, sew a seam around the bottom, and then hem it back up. One could make a dress appear almost new again with such doings. Her mother had many tricks like that for stretching and reusing everything. “Waste not, want not” had been another of her favorite sayings.
While she pondered, Colleen started the fire, set the coffeepot to cooking, stirred cornmeal into cold water so it wouldn’t go lumpy, and set it on the back of the stove to heat, giving it a good stir every once in a while. By the time she finished milking the cow, the mush would be ready to eat.
When she picked up the bucket out in the springhouse, she checked the pans from the night’s milking. A thick layer of cream floated on top. She’d bring some in with her. Her father loved cream on his mush. And brown sugar. Far as he was concerned, skim milk was good only for hog slop.
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