by Merry Farmer
“My pleasure.” He wasn’t a handsome man, but when he smiled there was something decidedly attractive about him. Fine lines formed at the corners of his eyes, as though he had once smiled a lot. His teeth were white and straight as well. All in all, he was pleasant to look at with a smile in his eyes. If she could just tickle that smile more, bring him out of himself.
“So how did you end up being named Callysta?” he asked as she slipped back to check on the water for her tea. The camp was abuzz with people taking care of Sunday chores, but there seemed to be a bubble of calm around their wagons.
“It’s from the myth of Callisto,” Callie explained. The water was steaming, but not quite at a boil. She turned to John while she waited. “My father’s idea.”
“Ah,” John nodded. He dropped the washcloth back in the bucket, then got up to add a few more buffalo chips to the fire. “Nymph of Artemis, seduced by Zeus, turned into a bear, slain by her own son.”
She blinked in surprise. “You know mythology?”
“I went to Latin and Greek school.”
“Really? And you ended up working in a shop? I mean, no offense.”
“None taken.” A spark of mischief flashed in his eyes. Handsome, blue eyes. “My father’s store wasn’t exactly a ‘shop.’ It was more of an empire. At least it was in his eyes. Richard and I were sent to one of the finest schools in Boston.”
“Harvard?” She ventured.
“No,” he laughed, “Not quite. There wasn’t time to go to Harvard. I always had so much work to do.”
“And you take your responsibilities very seriously.”
“You remembered.”
“I don’t have to remember.” She smiled, feeling uncommonly comfortable in that moment. John was at ease. She was getting somewhere. “You’re very good at demonstrating that fact on a daily basis.”
“Why thank you.” His smile grew.
She wanted to say more. Words were on the tip of her tongue, ready to continue the conversation. She could ask him about his odd look after church. She could prompt him to talk about Shannon. She could share her own experiences and feelings about her brother.
“Do we have enough sugar left to put in the tea?” she said instead. Disappointment pressed down on her straight away. He was her husband. She should be able to talk to him.
“I’ll take a look,” he answered, and turned to stride to the back of his wagon.
Callie sighed. She’d let an opportunity go. Then again, he was smiling now. John, who rarely smiled, who still wore black and got lost in his thoughts. Maybe that was enough for now.
He returned with the sugar and helped her to make the new batch of tea. He helped her cook a pot of the monotonous trail stew that she was getting so tired of eating. It kept well, though, and the ingredients were easy to transport. When it was finished, the two of them sat together, eating and watching the rest of the camp. Together, but in their own worlds.
Groups of children played together—the girls with dolls and the boys with slingshots or whatever hapless creatures they found in the brush—throughout the train. A few of the farmers had formed a circle around one campfire and were engaged in a loud discussion about the latest farming techniques. The miners had struck up another poker game. Lynne and Cade were having some sort of discussion, which involved Cade grinning and Lynne becoming exasperated with him. Emma sat on a stool, sewing and nodding as her mother lectured her. On the surface, everything was as peaceful and social as any town center.
Elton sat with his family and Reverend Joseph, several wagons over from where John and Callie were parked. When Callie’s wandering gaze fell on him, he was staring at her. He smiled when their eyes met. Her eyes fluttered away. A part of her wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Mrs. Weingarten seemed to think he was just trying to be helpful—and to hedge his bets in case illness or Indians or something else did away with John. It was hard for Callie not to let her imagination take over and wonder if Elton would be the accident that did away with John.
“Is he bothering you?” John’s quiet voice felt like a bucket of ice water down her back, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
She squirmed before answering the question. “I think it’s a little too bold of him to treat another man’s wife the way he does.”
“You think of yourself as my wife?”
Her glance snapped to meet his. He had made the statement with only the barest hint of a question to it.
“Of course I do,” she answered. “I took a vow. Reverend Joseph might not be much, but he has God’s authority to join us together.”
John nodded. She couldn’t tell if he approved of the idea or if he was offended by it. What if he didn’t see it the same way? A thousand insecurities jumped to her mind. Obviously, he still thought of Shannon as his wife. So what did that make her? If it came down to it, if Elton tried something, would John try to stop him? Was she nothing more than a responsibility to him?
She took a breath and chewed her lip. Harrying herself with questions wouldn’t solve anything.
She was on the verge of apologizing for her forwardness when John said, “I’ll tell Finch to stop pestering you.” He set down the cup he’d been sipping warm tea from and moved to stand.
“No, don’t.” She reached out to stop him. He raised an eyebrow above his glasses. “His attention does bother me, but I don’t want to make a scene about it.”
John blinked, then sat down again. She’d been a little bit honest with him. She might as well be completely honest.
“I don’t like confrontation,” she confessed.
“Neither do I.” His face softened. Callie had the distinct impression that he was relieved he didn’t have to start something that could be unpleasant.
“Thanks though,” she finished.
He smiled, saying nothing, but reaching out for her hand, giving it a squeeze. Her heart leapt at the touch.
Chapter Seven
It was a godsend when Mr. Evans informed them that the wagon train would remain stopped for the entire Sunday. Callie said a small prayer of thanks for just one day where she didn’t have to constantly be on the move, jostling in her wagon’s seat. It had become increasingly uncomfortable as the journey wore on, and when Mrs. Weingarten wasn’t there to keep her company, it was lonely. With everything bubbling right under the surface and the expressions that continued to cross John’s face, making her more curious than a child on Christmas, she was glad to be able to spend the whole day face-to-face with him, even if they talked very little.
“I’m going to take our clothes down to the stream for a wash,” she told him after the new batch of tea had been brewed and stored and she had finished sewing up a tear in a pair of John’s trousers. “Would you help me carry everything?”
He looked up from the supplies he’d brought to clean his revolver. “I don’t see why not. I can do this down there.”
Callie smiled. It would be nice to spend an afternoon with him down by the stream, away from all of the fuss and crowd of the wagon train. Perhaps it made her strange, but sometimes she needed to be alone. The miners were up to their usual mischief. Barney was still wandering around in search of his missing deed. Lynne was bustling through her camp, attempting to do every little task herself while Cade kept one step behind her. Emma was off with her mother, overdressed and visibly overheated as her mother pushed her at Dr. Meyers. Reverend Joseph was wandering from wagon to wagon, his Bible clutched against his chest, looking confused. It was a relief for Callie to leave all that behind for a few moments of peace with John.
She set herself and the washing up at the edge of the river while John sat on the grassy incline that slanted away from the water. While she scrubbed stains out of clothes that had seen better days, he arrayed his gun-cleaning supplies in front of him and went to work on his revolver.
“It’s a pretty day when all is said and done.” Callie scrambled for something to talk about. If she could just coax John out of h
is thoughts, maybe she could soothe whatever was bothering him.
John looked up and around at the prairie. “It is.” He smiled, still carrying some of their earlier silliness with him, but with a growing tightness.
Callie chewed her lips and scrambled for some way to keep him from falling into his grief again. “It’s not at all like home.”
John narrowed his eyes as he stared across the vastness of the plain. “The wind blowing through the grass reminds me of the waves of the ocean.”
A thrill of victory flittered through Callie’s stomach. She was getting somewhere. She paused from her washing and pulled the brim of Greg’s hat lower over her eyes to block out the sun as she looked where he was looking. “It does, doesn’t it?”
John turned to her in surprise. “You’ve been to the ocean?”
Callie nodded, smiled, and returned to her laundry. “Once, about eight or nine years ago. Mother’s health was suffering, as usual, and Papa took us all for an adventure by the sea because he heard that sea air was good for you.”
“Where did you go?”
“To New Jersey, a tiny little town on the beach near Monmouth.” He nodded but didn’t add anything. “Greg and I had so much fun playing in the waves, although I wasn’t technically allowed to go in the water.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t have the proper bathing attire.” She laughed at the memory. “Of course that didn’t stop Greg from throwing me in. He picked me up, in full dress and all, and carried me out into the waves. Plopped me right in just as a wave was breaking. I didn’t know whether to be furious with Greg or thrilled at the sensation of riding the wave to shore. I gave him a piece of my mind, then ran right back out into the arms of the sea.”
John was silent for several long seconds before saying, “You were close to your brother, weren’t you?”
Callie glanced up at him, smile wistful with memory and loss. “Very close. It was just the two of us in a lot of ways. He was my rock.”
John’s expression clouded, pinched with pain. “How can you talk about him and smile when he’s gone?”
In a heartbeat, Callie’s throat squeezed tight. He was sincere in the way he asked the question, as if he needed to know, as if everything depended on it.
“Greg was full of life,” she answered as gently as she could. “He would want me to remember him that way, not sick or dead. He would want me to go on and live my life. He—” The final words Greg had spoken to her came back as bright and vivid as if he were standing beside her, saying them with a smile. “He told me to find hope, to find love.”
The memory swirled through her with bittersweet intensity. She smiled in spite of the tears that came to her eyes. As daunting as it was to think of her life without Greg, she knew a part of him would always be there. And she had John now.
John, who had gone pale, his eyes glassy. He stared at the revolver in his hands. A twist of panic invaded Callie’s chest, pulling her firmly back to the present.
“Of course, as far as hope goes, I always hoped I’d see the ocean again someday,” she said to draw his attention. She watched for his reaction, ready to shake him out of the thoughts that were causing his grief-stricken expression if she had to. “But I guess we’re heading in the wrong direction for that.”
He was still for a long time before finally sucking in a breath and adjusting his posture. Callie dripped with relief when he went back to cleaning his gun. Her heart raced as if she’d run the length of the wagon train.
“You could travel on to California someday,” John suggested. “See the Pacific Ocean. I hear it’s spectacular.”
The thought of John taking her to see the Pacific sent warm excitement through her. “I think I’d like that.”
He didn’t reply. They fell back into silence. While usually Callie didn’t mind just being around him without speaking, this time the lack of conversation made her nervous. They were on the edge of some kind of precipice. Something had to be done.
“Where did a shopkeeper from Boston get such a fine revolver?” she asked as she scrubbed dirt and sweat out of one of John’s shirts. Anything to keep him talking.
“In a shop,” he said, unsmiling, focused on cleaning each piece of the gun meticulously.
Callie grinned. “Obviously.”
She expected him to go on, but he stayed silent. She continued to scrub, sleeves rolled to her biceps, soapy water up to her elbows. The longer John stayed quiet, the more worried Callie became. He wasn’t as expressionless as she had originally thought. She could see shards of memories flickering across John’s face. Difficult memories.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he beat her to it.
“I bought this gun the day after Shannon and Patrick died,” he said. Callie didn’t dare interrupt his memories. “I fired it only once… and I missed.” He didn’t go on.
Callie’s hands shook as she set the shirt she was washing aside. The expression in his eyes was the most hollow and haunted thing she’d ever seen. “What were you aiming at?” Her voice quivered and she dreaded the answer she already suspected.
He was quiet, his mouth working as though trying to find words. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. The tension around his eyes grew unbearable to watch, his grief palpable. But at the same time, it all seemed to bubble to the surface, desperate to get out, like the lid on a pot rattling because the water inside was boiling and ready. He met her eyes, and something new pierced through is expression. Trust.
He took a deep breath and admitted in a soft voice, “I was aiming at my head.” The color drained from his face.
It was the answer to the riddle she’d been waiting to solve all this time, but instead of being relieved, her heart broke for him. He stopped cleaning and stared at his revolver as if reliving his darkest hour. His grief was so powerful that Callie thought she might choke. Her eyes stung with tears. As sad as she’d been since Greg had died, she’d never reached that low.
She left the clothes in the washbasin and rushed to him. As she reached his side, she plopped down to the grass and put her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder, stifling a sob. Slowly, as if resisting some terrible force, he set his gun down and tilted his head toward hers. She could feel the tension of grief through his whole body. When he took in another breath, it was the sharp, uneven inhale of a broken man crying.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Cry if you need to.”
She held him tighter. His head dropped to her shoulder, and as he let his grief take him, he grew heavier still and sank lower. He balled a fist in her skirts as if it was the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the world. Callie found herself holding him as he tilted to lie on his side, resting his head in her lap as his tears flowed.
She swallowed a hard lump that had formed in her throat, smoothing her hand over his hair and cradling him. Her heart wasn’t sure if it wanted to expand to encompass him or contract to hide from his pain. No one had ever relied on her like that, come to her in such helplessness.
“Shh.” She hushed him, as if by instinct. “Everything will be okay.”
She paused in stroking his head to wipe away her own tears, then went back to petting him, like a mother comforting a child. She could feel John’s anguish palpably, his tension as he clutched her skirt. Then, bit by bit, she felt it drain away.
John went from being taut with despair to loose, limp. The space around him seemed warm, clean, as if he’d turned a corner. His breathing evened out, grew deeper. She held him closer, stroking his head and using her thumb to wipe the tears away from his eyes under his glasses.
“I’m glad you missed,” she whispered.
Those words shook him. He moved groggily, as if he would get up. “I’m sorry, I—”
Callie tightened her hold, refusing to let him go. “No, just stay here for a minute,” she told him, letting him roll to his back with his head still in her lap. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
Callie caught his hand as he went to put it down and held it. “No one is watching. Just take a second to rest here.”
He nodded, eyes closed. He wouldn’t look at her. She didn’t blame him. She would have hated breaking down like that in front of anyone. Her heart went out to him. She stroked the side of his head and brushed her fingers through his hair. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. His hand tightened in hers, fingers intertwined. It was his way of saying thank you.
John wasn’t sure how long they stayed there together. Too many emotions assailed him for him to grab hold and genuinely feel any one in particular. He should have been ashamed to the roots of his hair for collapsing in front of Callie. Should have, but her arms around him were what kept him from shattering. The soft whisper of her breath was what brought him back. She held him without a shred of judgment.
When he was ready, he gave her hand another squeeze, then sat up. He rubbed his eyes and looked for his glasses.
“Here they are.” She handed them to him. “Do you feel better?”
Did he? His eyes stung. His body felt as though it had been rolled by the ocean, as she’d described. His soul felt as though it had been turned inside out and he hadn’t quite gotten his bearings.
“I think I’ll be all right,” he said, surprised by how hoarse he was.
He stood and helped her to her feet, then walked down to the stream to wash his face. Callie followed, and went on with the washing. It was a blessing that she didn’t push him to talk about what had just happened. He wasn’t entirely certain himself. He’d experienced a major upheaval of everything he believed, and he wasn’t sure if the coast was clear yet.
As soon as his face felt cool again, he strode back up to the spot where he’d left his revolver and finished cleaning and loading it. An hour ago, the weapon had been the last step between him and a hard-won peace. Now it was a foreign object surrounded by menace. He left it sitting in the grass and went to help Callie rinse and wring their clothes.