Caroline

by Sarah Miller

  “A sound investment,” Charles said, so gravely that Caroline could hear a joke coming behind it. “Whatever your stock doesn’t eat, you can likely sell as roofing.”

  Wilson laughed. “That’s a fact. The Indians call it Hay House Town.” Chuckling, the two men headed together through the doorway. Their boots were ringing on the board floor before Wilson turned and asked, “Will you come in, ma’am?”

  There was nothing she wanted more just then than to go into that store. The reflection of the wagon cover had filled its windows so that from where she sat Caroline could only just see the shelf tops. Since the wagon stopped her mind had been fleshing them out with neat rows of provisions in their sacks and cans and jars, polished tools, bright bolts of cloth. Her eyes would be so grateful for such plenty—not only the quantity, but the color and variety. Even the crisp black words printed on the labels would be a treat. Most of all, she wanted to stand inside those square board walls with a straight, solid roof over her head. Caroline grasped the wagon bow, this time to offset the way her balance shifted now when she stood, and realized just in time.

  It was no longer seemly for her to be in public. How many weeks had passed since any man but Charles had seen her? Three, and Mr. Jacobs had likely suspected even then. She glanced up and down the street. There was no other woman abroad, much less one in her condition. Sitting still up on the spring seat it was not so plain, but if she stepped from under the wagon’s cover, the outline of her dress would make her instantly, doubly conspicuous.

  Still, she hated to say no. There was a thin, wheedling feeling taking hold of her throat that would not let the word pass. It was such a rough place, she argued with herself, and men would not show their disapproval with the same sidelong glances as women. No, men would self-consciously look away, not knowing how to speak to her—or whether to speak to her at all—and that would be every bit as bad. Worse. Wilson himself might blush to the collar if she stood.

  Caroline let go of the wagon bow and the spring seat gave a tiny sigh, as though disappointment had made her heavier. It was no business of hers to diminish whatever propriety this fledgling town had managed to accumulate by indulging herself, so she said, “Thank you, no. The children and I will wait in the wagon.”

  The only sounds that drifted out to her were footsteps, and the indistinct back-and-forth of two voices. Then Charles, louder and clearer: “A dollar a pound for white sugar? Haven’t you heard, the war’s over?”

  Had she heard right? They had never seen the like of such prices in Wisconsin. Caroline held her breath for Wilson’s response.

  Wilson’s voice rose slightly to meet Charles’s, but his tone stayed level. “You’ll find there’s not tremendous call for white sugar out here, friend.”

  “Wouldn’t think so at those rates,” Charles said. “I’d rather preempt an acre of land than twenty ounces of sugar.”

  A dollar a pound. It staggered the mind to think of anyone in these hay shanties paying that kind of money for such a small luxury. President Grant himself would have to come calling before she would put white sugar on her table at that price. And what of the things they did need—the brown sugar, cornmeal, and flour? The arithmetic was numbing, the swelling figures painful as bruises to contemplate. If all Wilson’s prices were so steep, by fall there would be nothing but green felt lining the fiddle box.

  “A man can’t expect Mississippi River prices on the Verdigris,” Wilson’s voice went on. A flare of anger blurred Caroline’s mental arithmetic at that. Of course they had expected prices to rise as they approached the frontier, but three and four times more? That was something else altogether. From the way Wilson was talking now, Caroline could guess that Charles had reacted no better. The storekeeper’s voice sounded as though it were backing away from what he had just said. She slid across the spring seat to listen more closely.

  “It’s not so much the goods as the hauling,” Wilson explained. “Look, the southern branch of the Union Pacific line runs only as near as the other side of Labette County. I’m paying them top dollar to get it that far, plus another $2.25 per hundredweight on overland freight to Independence. I promise you, these are the fairest rates I can afford. If you want anything like back East prices, you’re welcome to make the drive out to Oswego or Fontana yourself, and no hard feelings.”

  The names of the towns were not familiar to her. Perhaps they were not on the map. How far, then? Caroline wondered. And how much cash did they have, how long would it last? Always the same questions, since she was a child: How much? How far? How long? The stack of bills had seemed almost too much when they left Pepin—enough to stock the wagon and secure just over one hundred acres besides. Still, she had never expected all of it to last as far as Kansas, not with paying upward of forty cents a bushel to keep Ben and Beth warm and hale until the snow broke. That constant nibbling had taken a greater toll than the bridges and ferries, Caroline realized. If only she’d paid more attention, kept better count.

  Her mouth was open now, the breath coming in spurts. Silently, Caroline brought her lips together. She pulled an unbroken stream of air through her nose and held it. One small crack and the old fears came tumbling in. Quickly, methodically, she sealed off her mind with calm thoughts. They had made it safely to Montgomery County. Right this minute there was food and money in the wagon. She could go and touch the crates and sacks if she wanted to, slip her fingers under the lid of the fiddle box and feel the crisp edges of the bills. She had her seeds, and Charles his gun. They did not owe a cent to a soul in all the world, and the government would not require payment on a preemption for nearly three years. And there was Gustafson, she remembered. That was enough to let her breath out smooth and warm. The Swede owed five hundred and six dollars. The fiddle box had only to hold out until Gustafson’s next payment. There could be a letter waiting now.

  Caroline half stood to peer through the doorway for any sign of a postal cabinet behind Wilson’s counter. Beneath her, Jack rumbled again. Another man, this one with a scythe, was approaching the store. Caroline sat down again and moved back to her side of the spring seat for good measure. The fellow skirted the wagon, too preoccupied by Jack to truly notice her, tipping his hat on the way past.

  Inside, the men’s voices rose convivially in greeting and introduction. Caroline permitted herself the tiniest of sighs. Charles would be longer now, with men to talk to. For all that he loved to revel in the feel of open space around him, there was a part of him that came alive only in a crowd. As he cast about for land prospects, Caroline could make out that extra flourish of liveliness in his voice. She had not heard it once in all these weeks. It was good to hear.

  “Is it true what the paper says about immigration? Twenty claims a day being filed?”

  “Some days it sure feels like it,” the new voice said. “Other days Wilson and I could mow an acre of hay without missing a customer.”

  “Figured I’d better check in at the land office, see where the most open country is. Which of these sheds is it?”

  “There isn’t one.”

  Charles’s voice spluttered, “No land office? I’ve got a handbill right here says Montgomery County.”

  “That may be so, but there wasn’t any printing press in this town until just over a month ago. Any advertising you’ve seen’ll have come out of Oswego, same as any newspaper prior to March.”

  Before Caroline had time to absorb this, the bulldog stalked out from under the wagon, pointed his face south, and growled. She had never heard such a growl from a tame creature. It was a low, savage sound that prickled all down the back of her neck. Gingerly, she leaned out around the canvas to see what had provoked him. Across the street, a trio of Indians were eyeing the mustangs from their own ponies. Long black scalp locks striped their heads and brushed the shoulders of their ribbon work vests. Tufts of hair trimmed the seams of their leggings.

  Caroline flattened her back against the spring seat. Her skin felt strangely light, as though every hair on
her body were lifting to reach out, whisker-like, in anticipation of danger. Something about them frightened her, something deeper than Jack’s ire. She did not want them to see her looking at them again, so she closed her eyes and waited for their image to flash against the darkness of her eyelids.

  Three sleek black scalp locks glinted in her memory. That was all, and it was enough. She remembered now, and understood: in Wisconsin, the Potawatomis dressed their hair that way only in preparation for war.

  “What’s Jack growling at?” Laura asked. She was starting to climb over the seat.

  “Stay back, Laura.” There was no tone in her voice. Caroline did not hear how loudly or softly she spoke and did not care so long as Laura obeyed. Her ears had room only for her own racing thoughts.

  How near to let them come before calling for Charles? If they meant no harm and she created a scene there would be trouble, worse trouble maybe than if they had some kind of malice in mind. It was broad daylight, in the center of town, such as it was. All they had done was turn their heads.

  But those scalp locks. Everything in her told her not to ignore them as the sound of unshod hooves striking hard-packed dirt came steadily nearer.

  Jack growled again, so long this time Caroline thought he must be scraping his lungs raw with the sound. Then he snorted and strutted back under the wagon. Caroline sat quite still a moment, then leaned out from under the canvas. On one side, the Indians were riding away up the street, and on the other was Charles, heading out of the store with Wilson just behind him.

  “I’d head into the southern or western townships if I were you,” Wilson was advising. “There’s still good land open in Rutland, Caney, and Fawn Creek. Just don’t be surprised if the Osages come calling.” He paused to give a wave to the departing Indians. Two of the three riders raised an arm in response. “They’ve got in the habit of collecting five dollars from each settler. Rent, as they see it.”

  Five dollars. Four acres’ worth. “Do they always—” Caroline faltered, knowing how the question would sound coming from a woman fresh from the East. “Do they always dress their hair that way?”

  Wilson gave her the wry glance she expected. “More often than not. They mostly save the horse hair roaches for special occasions.”

  Caroline did not concern herself with the tenor of the storekeeper’s reply. The reaching, listening sensation had vanished from her skin, and her senses seemed to retreat back into her body. In its place there was a vague unease that came from knowing the signals she relied upon to interpret the woodlands tribes had no currency among the Osages.

  Charles handed up twenty-five pound sacks of meal and brown sugar and unbolted flour while Wilson and Irwin brought out two bushels of oats and one of shelled corn for the feedbox. No meat.

  “I couldn’t do it,” Charles said quietly, “not at these prices. I can hunt us plenty of game, but I can’t shoot feed for Pet and Patty. Feed’s sold by the pound here, not the bushel. Would have bought myself some nails, but I couldn’t afford them and lead for shot. The heavier the goods are, the more they cost. That reminds me—I treated us to roasted coffee beans instead of green. With what they add on for freight, green coffee isn’t any bargain here.”

  No great loss without some small gain, Caroline thought, though at times the gain was so trifling as to seem almost spiteful. That was not his fault, though, so Caroline raised her lips into the shape of a smile. “That will be nice.” And then, tentatively, “No letters?”

  Charles shook his head. “Not even any post office yet. Letters come in with riders from Oswego, one county over. Costs ten cents apiece to collect them.” He unfolded the map and frowned. “Fontana’s over a hundred miles northeast, up beyond Fort Scott. Oswego’s not marked. But if it’s the other side of the Union Pacific’s south branch, it’s got to be a good thirty miles east.” He took up the reins and turned the mustangs westward.

  His plans had not changed, then. Caroline folded her hands and pointed her bonnet brim straight ahead.

  For the first time since Wisconsin, Caroline felt a pull from behind. Every mile that spread between them and Independence tugged at Caroline as though her corset strings were looped over the hitching posts. It was not so much the town itself calling to her, Caroline reckoned, but the notion of a town—a link to the society of others, however rudimentary it might be. The farther Charles drove, the more tenuous that join became.

  So Caroline was not as startled as Charles when they found themselves suddenly at the edge of the wide cut in the earth. The feeling of an approaching rim had held her poised, leaning slightly backward these last ten miles. And now there was the very break she had sensed, inches from the mustangs’ noses. Perhaps it was not the line between Kansas and the Territory—perhaps they had already passed that boundary—but this cleft in the prairie’s flesh, with the slender vein of creek flowing through its bare red bluffs, spoke to her as the Missouri had spoken to Charles. Life on the opposing shore would be measurably different. How many more wagons must follow them across that creek, Caroline wondered as Charles frowned at his map, before the seam it embodied drew tight and disappeared?

  Down into the bottomlands the mustangs went, not pulling now, but pushing to hold the wagon from skidding down the steep grade. Caroline held her spine rigid as the brake lever and angled herself backward, and still she could not fully resist the steady downward momentum. This land was uncanny, she thought as the wagon slid lower and lower, the way it managed to make her body enact the shapes of her emotions.

  Between the hot red cliffs the bottomlands spread out still and smooth as the first page of Genesis. Across the creek grazing deer stood and wondered at them, utterly unconcerned by their presence. The place seemed a little world unto itself, unreached even by the wind. Not a breath of air rumpled the grass as Charles stopped the horses to drink. Caroline, too, felt suddenly untouched once the wagon leveled. Down here no unseen currents pulled or pushed at her. In this sheltered place there was nothing to feel but herself. She opened her hands and brought them to her sides, gauging herself from without and within.

  The heat of her palms warmed the dusty blue calico and then slowly reached through corset and chemise to greet her skin. Across the gentle stretch of her belly the pulse of each fingertip drummed softly. Somewhere between them, Caroline hoped, the still and silent little creature inside could feel that same calm throbbing and know it signaled welcome. She did not know how much longer she could await the answering telegraph of elbows, knees, and heels before admitting something must be wrong.

  Charles leaned toward her, drawing a small breath as if to speak, then closed his mouth and looked back to the creek. Caroline fitted her hands into their accustomed knot and waited. “Creek’s pretty high,” he said. “But I guess we can make it all right.” He pointed out the old wheel ruts that marked a fording place—two deep grooves butting up neatly to the water’s edge. “What do you say, Caroline?”

  Her stomach gave off an unexpected shimmer of unease. Close behind, Caroline felt her awareness rising of its own accord, as it had at the sight of the Osages on the street.

  Strange. Nothing before her had changed. She had not felt the least bit wary until he asked. Puzzled, she studied the creek up and down, searching for whatever it was that might have put her senses on guard. The water was high and deep, as Charles had said. But she had known that before he’d said so. The swath of darker silver streaking its middle was perfectly plain. She looked at the ruts Charles had pointed out. If they were unlike any of the other ruts she had seen in the last seven hundred miles, she could not say how.

  Caroline closed her eyes as she had done on the street in Independence. This time nothing leapt out at her in warning. The creek flowed no differently, no more menacingly in her mind. She opened her eyes. Charles was looking at her, waiting. Still she did not speak. The cold liquid feeling remained lodged in her middle, though there was not one thing in the scene before her that she could blame for it. It was as placid a spot a
s could be, with the soft green willow boughs swaying lazily above the surface of the creek.

  Caroline thought again of the Indians and their scalp locks. She had not been fully right about them, but neither had she been fully wrong. In Wisconsin the flutter of apprehension they had triggered might well have saved her life. Here it had only made her look foolish and fearful. She squirmed inside, remembering how Mr. Wilson had looked at her when she asked about the Indians’ hair. The storekeeper could think her a silly woman if he liked, but Caroline could not abide the thought of her husband giving her that same look. She wished Charles had not asked.

  There.

  The little swell of recognition momentarily pushed her fear aside. That was it—not the creek at all, but the question itself. It was not like Charles to ask such a thing. Always he consulted her before deciding when and where to camp, but the roads with their forks and fords and bridges, those were his business. If the route confounded him somehow, he muttered only to himself over the map.

  There was no mistaking his wariness now. It wafted from him like a scent. He was not just taking in the scenery as Pet and Patty drank, but scrutinizing it. Caroline watched him look at the horses, then at Jack, searching for a reaction to link with his own. Something, some tiny thing, must have whispered at him not to cross, so faintly he could not make it out.

  Did you hear that, too? That was the question buried under what he had asked. She had not, and so she did not know what to say. She could not say yes and did not want to say no. All she could think to do was give him permission to do as he thought best.

  Caroline spoke low and firm. The words alone would sound flippant if she were not careful. He must hear the trust embedded in them. “Whatever you say, Charles.”

  Such a long pause. Even Pet and Patty stopped drinking to listen. Caroline heard the water dripping from their noses, the lapping of Jack’s tongue as it poked in and out of the creek.