The Passionate and the Proud

by Vanessa Royall

  Emmalee waited.

  “Oh, Em. I feel so awful about what’s happened,” he said at last.

  She went to him and they held each other for a long moment.

  “I didn’t mean for it to be this way,” he said. “I just felt betrayed at first, and then when Delilah came along every Sunday…”

  What was this? “Betrayed?” Emmalee asked.

  “I wish you would have told me why, Em. Then maybe Delilah wouldn’t have begun to mean so much to me.”

  “Told you why? You wish I’d told you why what? I don’t understand.”

  He looked directly into her eyes. “You and Garn Landar. On Christmas night outside the hotel. If you’d just explained it to me, told me why…”

  Randy had seen her kissing Garn Landar that night, and it had preyed on his mind ever since.

  “I couldn’t help it…” she started to say.

  “Don’t, Em.”

  “Garn Landar means nothing to me…”

  “I don’t think that’s true, Em. Whatever you might think you feel. All I know is that Delilah is beginning to mean something to me. It’s tearing me apart inside, because I gave you my promise…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Randy,” said Emmalee slowly, quietly, her face pressed into his chest, “I want you to be happy. And I’ve seen how much you respond to Delilah. She makes you happy. There isn’t much more to say. You’re free.”

  It was a difficult moment for them both, a time of tears and regrets on the windy hill. But after the moment was over, Randy walked upon the earth as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

  Emmalee strode—and plowed—her fields alone.

  Feeling guilty about resting when there was so much work to be done, Emmalee got up off the grass and returned to her plow. She had better get to work, what with the problems she faced. Foremost among them was the fact that she owed four hundred dollars to Vestor Tell, the first payment of which fell due in September, only six months hence. If she defaulted, her land would be lost. She did have the cabin, a domicile, but there were all those acres to plow and plant and she and Ned were having trouble enough gouging a couple of furrows out of the sod. She had purchased the plow from Festus Bent for a dozen eggs and half a gallon of milk. It was a rickety old thing, brought out all the way from Arkansas. He hadn’t been able to claim land and now worked for Horace Torquist as a hired hand; he didn’t need the plow. In spite of its age, it did have an iron blade. Some plows were made entirely of wood, blade and mold-board alike. These were quickly ground to pieces in the age-old sod.

  Emmalee urged Ned forward, bent to the handles of the plow, and began another furrow. Suddenly the plow lurched in her grasp and a grinding metallic crack of rending metal sounded from the earth, Ned stopped of his own accord. Emmalee leaned down to see what had happened.

  The plow had struck a rock buried in the sod; the precious iron blade had cracked jaggedly in two. Emmalee felt like crying. But she compromised and cursed instead. She ought to have ordered a new plow from Salt Lake for twelve dollars, but she’d wanted to save the money. And now look! She would have to buy a new plow anyway, and it would take at least two weeks to arrive. Two invaluable weeks during which she might have gotten at least a portion of her corn crop planted. (Emmalee was putting in com; across the way, Randy had opted for rye.)

  There was nothing else to do but go into Arcady and place an order for a new plow with Hester. She was thinking that maybe she could borrow someone else’s plow and work at night when she rode by Torquist’s big new farm on the river. He and several hired men were out putting up a fence. She saw the posts driven out across the prairie, and the spools of barbwire waiting to be unstrung and nailed to the posts. She also saw horsemen in the distance watching the proceedings. They were ranchers and that meant trouble.

  Myrtle Higgins was out spading her big garden when Emmalee rode by the old woman’s cabin. Catching sight of Emmalee, Myrtle gestured vigorously. Emmalee went over and stopped. Myrtle stroked Ned affectionately and gave him a once-over.

  “He don’t look like he’s being overworked.”

  “That’s because not much work has been done.”

  “How come, honey?”

  Disconsolately, Emmalee explained about the plow.

  “Too bad. Shows to go you, never beg, borrow, or buy anything off an unlucky man, an’ Fes is that, in spades. Get on down from Ned and join me in a cup of tea. You look plumb tuckered.

  “You also look like you lost your last friend on earth,” Myrtle added, when she and Emmalee were seated with teacups in the shade of a cottonwood behind Myrtle’s cabin. “Having some of those before-marriage doubts, or what? How’s Randy making it?”

  “Randy’s doing fine. It’s me I’m concerned about.”

  Surprising herself—she thought it rather unseemly to dump problems on somebody else—Emmalee poured out the whole tale: Garn on Christmas night at the hotel, Delilah Quinn, everything. She felt like crying, felt a need to let go. But a girl who crossed the Great Plains wasn’t about to shed tears over bad luck or a man!

  “Sounds like you and Randy might not have made it work anyway,” Myrtle said, after Emmalee had finished her recital.

  Emmalee was a little hurt. When a casual observer seems able to interpret your life easily, you’re bound to feel dumber than a cootie in heat.

  “Oh, I had my hopes for you there for a while,” Myrtle continued. “You gave it your best shot, I know. But I guess the fit just wasn’t right.”

  “You mentioned the ‘fit’ once before.”

  “Shore did. It’s mighty important. Mighty important. Guess you and Randy just didn’t have it. Wrong kind of signals. Wrong kind of responses.”

  “And Randy fits with Delilah?” Emmalee felt wronged in an obscure way, although she realized that she had no right to feel that way.

  “I don’t know. That’s something the two of them got to find out for themselves. Just like you do.”

  “Me? With whom? How?”

  “Full of questions today, ain’t cha? I don’t know who with. That’s your problem. But I do know how. By taking a chance on somebody. By taking a risk. Can’t think of it like you’re surrendering your soul. It’s more on the order of gambling a piece of yourself to win a hunk of happiness down the road. And if it don’t work out, well, it hurts but you live.”

  Emmalee sipped some tea. She smiled in spite of herself. “Myrtle, are you trying to make me feel brave, or what?”

  “Hell, no.” The old woman laughed. “You’re brave enough for the both of us, and then some. It’s just that I can tell you where I think your heart is tending, but that won’t do no good. You’re just going to have to admit it on your own. You’ve come a long way. Be a shame if you was askeerd to go the final mile.”

  When Emmalee entered the general store to see Hester about ordering the plow, Burt Pennington was angrily addressing Vestor Tell. Otis looked on.

  “Damn it, Tell, them sodbusters are out there stringing that unholy wire all over God’s earth. Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

  Tell shrugged and showed his palms. “What would you have me do? It’s not against the law to build a fence.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Pennington sneered. “You’re a real stickler when it comes to the law. We all know that, don’t we?”

  Tell just grinned. Pennington stalked furiously out of the store.

  “How you makin’ out, Em?” asked Otis, touching his hatbrim gallantly. “How about I buy you a cold beer?”

  They sat down at a table with two large mugs of brew.

  “Well, how’s everythin’, Em?”

  “Not so good. My plow broke and I have to order a new one. I’ll lose a lot of time waiting for it to arrive.”

  “In fact”—he leaned toward her and began to whisper—“in fact, you need more than time, you need help.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  “No. Listen. Are you planning on
stringing that there barbwire?”

  “Mr. Torquist has been after me to do it.”

  “Well, don’t you do it. Burt is serious. If those fences go up, there’s gonna be trouble.”

  “If he attacks farmers, Burt is the one who’s going to be in trouble.”

  Otis took a long swallow of beer and looked carefully away. “Lots of things can happen at night,” he said significantly, “can’t they?”

  He wanted to buy her a second beer, but she demurred.

  “Gettin’ advice from Oats Chandler?” asked Hester, after Pennington’s foreman had left.

  “Yes, but I need more than that.” She told Hester of her latest misfortune, and the storekeeper agreed to order a new plow and even extend the twelve dollars’ worth of credit, to be paid by Emmalee’s customary deliveries of eggs and milk.

  “You’re a good risk, honey,” Hester said, “and besides, everybody seems to think this is going to be a good growing season. Weather’s been perfect so far. Besides, I can manage twelve bucks.”

  Indeed, the weather was one of the marvels of that spring. All through April and May, the days were bright and sunny. Gentle rain fell at night, two or three times a week. Pastor Runde attributed this fortuity to the prayers he offered up in the church each week, but whatever the reason, grass grew tall for the cattle to graze upon, wheat, clover, corn, and rye all thrived. The rain softened the sod, too, and when Emmalee’s new plow arrived from Salt Lake, she went to work and managed to plant an entire section of her land with com. It took root quickly and deeply in the marvelously rich soil, and by the first of June the stalks were growing green and high.

  Behind their new fences of barbwire, the other farmers prospered, too, and in Arcady on any afternoon, the sense of exuberance could not be missed. Torquist’s farmers, who had spent weeks carefully watching to make sure Pennington would not make good his promise to retaliate, let down their guard a little. Patrols no longer rode the fencelines every night; it no longer seemed necessary to be so determinedly vigilant.

  Behind his own string of barbwire, Randy’s rye grew thick and green. Emmalee had warned him about the fence, telling him what Otis had said, but he was unconcerned. “Em, it’s all talk,” he told her expansively. “It’s ‘fate accomplished,’ or whatever it was that Mr. Torquist said at our last meeting.”

  Torquist still met with a small group of farmers each week, to keep track of the situation and to make plans for the future. Emmalee was never invited but Randy, in an attempt to be friendly and to keep her informed, usually told her the gist of what had occurred at the meetings. Tell had been heard to say that the inspection team from Washington was not going to show up at all this year, so the excess claims made by Virgil Water, Lambert Strep, and the others certainly wouldn’t cause any problems. It seemed that the white-haired leader had succeeded—so far, at least—in his clever ruse.

  Hearing these things, Emmalee felt again as she had a long time ago: Something had gone seriously wrong in Torquist’s plans for a perfect community. Something had gone voluntarily, willfully wrong, and there would be retribution.

  One day in early June, when Emmalee was out in the field hoeing weeds from her corn, Randy came out of his new house and sauntered over to the fence that separated their two farms. He carried a tin pail and in it was glorious lemonade. She was soaking wet with perspiration and only too aware that the dampness made her dress cling to her body, but it could not be helped. He crawled carefully through the strands of barbwire and offered her the pail. She sat down, leaning against a fencepost, and took long, long swallows of the cold drink, finally breaking off to gasp her gratitude.

  “Hester got the lemons in from California,” said Randy. He seemed nervous. “Came on the last supply train.”

  “Nice. Thank you. They must be very expensive, though.”

  Now he seemed even more nervous.

  “Good crop of corn you got there,” he said. “What are you planning to do with it once the harvest is in?”

  “I’ll keep what I need for flour and for my own animals and sell the rest to whoever wants it. Pennington’s cattle can’t graze in winter. They’re going to have to eat something.”

  Randy didn’t reply. He and Emmalee continued to disagree on how farmers and ranchers ought to deal with each other. Like Torquist, Randy wanted an absolute barrier between the groups. Emmalee thought that idea was silly, and impossible to boot.

  Randy cleared his throat a couple of times. Emmalee perceived that he wanted to tell her something but was having a little trouble getting it out. Since the March Sunday on which they’d decided to end their engagement, they hadn’t spoken about personal things. The closer a relationship has been, the greater the tendency to avoid any hint of intimacy after the relationship ends.

  At length, Randy found his nerve. “I hope you’ll attend the wedding, Em,” he said. “Delilah and I would both feel badly if you didn’t.”

  It was the unexpectedness of the announcement, rather than the news itself, that shocked Emmalee. Naturally, she had thought that at some future time Randy would marry, just as she figured she, too, would wed one day. She had even considered the possibility that Randy would marry Delilah Quinn. Someday. Maybe. But this suddenly? Already? Right now?

  “On the Fourth of July,” Randy was saying. “In the church in Arcady. I’ve already made the arrangements with Pastor Runde.”

  “I’m happy for you both,” said Emmalee. Now she really felt alone. “I guess you decided to get married before harvest after all. Well, everybody says the crops can’t fail…”

  “That doesn’t really matter anymore.” Randy did not meet her eyes. “I never thought about it, of course, but, you see, Delilah has some money of her own. We’ll be all right, and there’s no need to wait.”

  “Some money of her own…” Emmalee repeated hollowly.

  “Yes. It’s a tragic story, really. Dee’s parents were lost at sea while on a trip to the Far East. Her father was a businessman. He wanted to establish regular trade with Hong Kong and Singapore. Her uncle Jacob has been her guardian ever since. He’s an engineer.”

  Emmalee put aside the matter of the wedding. She drank some more lemonade. No wonder Randy had seemed a bit nervous when she’d mentioned how expensive the lemons must have been. He could afford them now. He could afford a lot of things now. She couldn’t.

  “What’s an engineer doing at Landar’s Folly?” she asked.

  “Doing some building for Garn, I guess. Delilah told me she’s not supposed to talk about it. Will you come to the wedding, Em?” he asked again. “You haven’t said.”

  “Of course I will,” answered Emmalee, finding it hard to smile. “In fact, I’ll be right up at the front of the church.”

  Randy seemed relieved—he was not a man who endured disharmony readily—and leaned tentatively toward her, kissing Emmalee on the cheek.

  Somehow that made her feel worse than ever, and after he had crawled through the fence and gone back to his work, she sat there, glum and spiritless. In spite of all that had happened since she’d left Illinois, in spite of all her effort, struggle, and accomplishment, there she was, dismal and alone.

  It’s time to think some things over, she decided, returning to her hoe. Randy’s announcement had stunned her—yes, she admitted that—to a new degree of clarity, and her relationship with him, with Garn Landar, too, stood out in bold relief. What had happened, really? There had been, with Randy, the lack of something she needed, a lack that, unspoken though it might have been, had introduced a note of emptiness. Once she’d thought that she didn’t want to be possessed, body and soul, by a man: Yet, she discovered now, perhaps that was exactly what she wanted. And needed. The very brand of quicksilver passion Garn evoked in her, an undeniable exultation that fired her soul and shook her body with its power. But do I really want Garn? she wondered. Or do I think I do now because, having lost Randy, I realize how alone I am?

  “The fit’s got to be right,” Myrtle had sai
d.

  “You got to take a risk,” Myrtle had said.

  Emmalee went on hoeing, thinking, mulling things over and getting nowhere. I’ve always come through before, she told herself. I’ve always been strong. I’ve stuck to my guns. I’ve been brave.

  But these truths did not make her feel any better this time. Her earlier challenges had always come from other people, from situations or events, which she’d been able to meet by relying on her inner strength. This time the challenge, the problem, was coming from within herself. She was unhappy with the way her life was going, and she could not make up her mind what to do about it. She would not make a strong soldier, she realized, while at war with herself.

  Dark clouds rolled in over the mountains. A storm was coming, but Emmalee barely noticed. She went on hoeing, seeking in physical activity relief from her own torment and indecision. By late afternoon the temperature was falling fast. Emmalee looked up when the first drops of rain struck her. Utterly exhausted, she was faced with having to run back to her cabin to avoid getting soaked. All over Olympia, people had seen the approaching thunderhead and had found shelter. Only Emmalee was left out in the fields, in the rain, alone.

  The force of the storm struck when she was scarcely halfway home. Wind-driven sheets of rain soaked through to her skin. The sheer power of the deluge bent her over. She struggled to keep her footing on the slippery ground. It seemed as if she would never reach sanctuary, or know the slightest warmth or peace. It was suddenly all too much for her to bear Randy, Garn, Tell, her farm, money, the storm, everything. Tears filled her eyes, clouded her vision. She stumbled onward, sobbing in grief. Sorrow and loss were no strangers to her, yet never had she been stricken with such a desperate sense of her aloneness. Blinded by rain and tears, she slipped and fell into a deep furrow of mud and running water and lay there for long minutes, howling in helplessness and grief, feeling only half-alive, wondering what to do. She couldn’t think of a single thing.