Prairie Hearts

by J. B. Marsden

  “I’m sorry I used up the honey. I reckon I’ll have to use the maple sugar for my tea.”

  “I know about that sweet tooth of yours,” Emma teased. “Moose and Dixson have begun tapping maple trees.”

  “Oh.” Carrie brightened. “I hope it’s a good year for the sap.”

  “With God’s grace, the children should be about run their measles course next week.”

  Carrie sighed.

  Emma still fretted about her paleness. “You need your rest, still, sweeting. I’m getting you to bed right after supper.”

  “Yes’m.” Carrie blinked with exhaustion. “I miss our nightly touches though, honey.”

  Carrie had to be very down to agree to an early bedtime.

  “Me too. All will be well soon.”

  Three days later, Conner arrived.

  “Dolly.” He stood before them, haggard.

  They put together a bag of yarrow and the last of the turmeric and sent him with a prayer for her.

  On the day after Conner left, Carrie finished dawn chores.

  At breakfast, using their dwindling oats for porridge, Carrie hardly touched her steaming bowl.

  “What bothers ye, sweeting?”

  “I have a bad feeling about Dolly. Going to ride over.”

  “Must you?”

  “I best check on her. I can’t shake a black cloud in my heart.”

  “Will you at the least finish your breakfast?”

  “Can’t. My stomach tosses about so, and it won’t settle until I know how it goes for her.”

  Emma reluctantly helped Carrie with her coat, wishing she would see reason and stay home. “Stubborn as a mule, you are at times.”

  “Aye, that I am. It runs in my family. Once Pa had a notion in his head, nothing would stop him.”

  Conner met her at the cabin door. “She’s in the privy. Walked out there a while ago, doubled with pain in her stomach. I…don’t know what to do for her.”

  Her heart in her throat, Carrie ran to the outhouse and yelled, “Dolly, it’s me, Carrie. How do ye fare?”

  The door opened after some moments. Dolly’s ashen face greeted her and she wobbled. Carrie caught her before she crumpled to the ground.

  “Conner!”

  They carried Dolly back to bed. She came to her senses, blinking and sweating, and coughed weakly.

  Blood spread on the bed between her legs. Carrie ordered Conner, “Get her some water to drink and set the kettle for tea. I brought turmeric and Lady’s Mantle, which is good to stop bleeding.”

  “Did she lose the babe?”

  “Don’t rightly know. Mayhap.”

  Carrie dosed her with strong turmeric and watched the blood continue to drain into the bed, leaving Dolly white. She staunched the blood with rags, Dolly unaware of her ministrations.

  Conner paced the cabin. “What can I do?”

  “Keep your patience. Nothing we can do now except watch over her. Sit ye down and calm yourself. If you pray, now’s the time.”

  “Oh, Lord ’a mighty.” Conner slumped in the chair and hid his face in his hands.

  Carrie sat beside Dolly’s bed, changing rags when they became soaked. She dosed her again with the very last of the turmeric. Her heart raced, hoping this last dose would be enough and feeling helpless.

  Dolly came around after midday, moaning. She looked at Carrie from hooded eyes. “I done lost the babe. He was just a peanut. Blue. I knew he was dead.”

  A small cry came from Conner. He ran to her side and embraced her.

  Carrie, embarrassed, turned away and looked in Dolly’s pantry for anything to feed her. “I found some broth here. Do you think you could take it?”

  Dolly whispered, “I reckon.”

  After a few sips of heated broth, Dolly fell into a deep sleep.

  That afternoon, still asleep, her face lost some its paleness but was a long way from healthy. Carrie checked the rags. Smaller amounts of blood. She blew out her cheeks. “I think she’ll live.”

  Conner, still at her side, looked up. “Thank the Lord.”

  Dolly woke at candle-lighting, her face healthy pink.

  Carrie probed her stomach. “Dolly, I fear your childbearing days are over. Your womb may not recover from this.”

  Dolly nodded. “I reckoned as much. Felt like something tore up inside. I lost other babes, but this one…” She shook her head as Carrie continued her exam. She was still covered in measles, but she had no fever. Carrie prayed a silent thanks. “Throat is mighty sore.”

  “We ran out of honey,” Conner said to Carrie.

  “Aye, I kenned as much. Use some maple syrup if you have it. These raspberry leaves and chamomile I’ll leave for ye. Dolly, you’re gonna be fine. Conner has all he needs and he’ll do his best to give you comfort. The measles will fade away in a couple of days and you should be right as rain.” Carrie took Conner’s arm and led him away from the bed. “She’ll be weak for three or four days. Give her as much broth as she can take, beef broth if you’ve got it. Don’t let her get up from the bed until she gains back her strength.”

  “Yes’m.”

  They both sighed.

  “Thank ye kindly for saving my Dolly, Miss Fletcher. You done a Christian duty this day. I wished like heck we could pay ye. We’re down to the bottom of the barrel on most of our vittles. The new chicks I got from Moose’ll be laying. We can get some eggs to ye then.”

  “Don’t fret over paying me, Conner, but I am grateful for you thinking on it.”

  “I take care of my debts now. Not like the old days. I know my duty to my wife and to you and Emma. I plan to make it up. You can count on getting those eggs at Sabbath meeting in a month.”

  “I understand.”

  Carrie rode home wearily. The poor Conners lost another babe and there would be no others. But, instead of his ranting, Conner took it like a doting husband. He’d changed from a fearsome, raging man to an obliging one in the short time she knew him. Looked like he really turned around while shackled in that shed. Instead of blaming her, he thanked her for her help. Mayhap he would never be as kind as James, but he had a family feeling about him now. A miracle, for certain. A welcome one for Dolly, too.

  The emotional day spent her energies, despite being happy about Conner’s change. Dolly escaped bleeding to death, and Carrie whispered a prayer to Mabel Good for all she taught her about women’s bleeding. The turmeric used up now, she fretted lest more families need it. It didn’t cure measles but helped with fever and comfort. Did God plan the dwindling of it just as the measles ran its course through the cabins?

  Emma grabbed her as soon as she set foot indoors, helping with coat and boots. Carrie let herself be led to the bed, where she dropped and nodded into sleep before she could tell Emma about Dolly.

  As February ran its course, so did the measles among the pioneer families. Carrie felt proud that no one had died, even though two women carrying babes had caught it.

  Of course, news of Dolly’s stillbirth made the rounds of the women, who traipsed in the muddy ruts of late winter to the Conners’, sharing what they could of broth or grain. Dolly’s motherly help with other babes recommended her. The other wives began to turn their minds about her and Conner and, with their doting on her, she recovered her strength.

  Cold winds blew still, and Emma or she rode to other sickbeds in the neighborhood. Nothing more than colds or ague called them out to dose and tut about those who ailed. School resumed.

  Maple-tapping ended when the days lengthened. Moose and Dixson traded maple syrup and sugar. Carrie’s heart sang. She traded rabbit furs from her traps and brought home a full keg of sap, sure she could boil it down if the weather cooperated.

  Hearing birds in the trees again and seeing the sun up for longer days pleased her. She stirred the pot of sap on the fire she’d built outside the cabin door. Carrie chuckled at Juniper, who jumped around her hoping for food to drop her way. The long stretch of being cooped up in the stuffy cabin through the cold
darkness of January and February made working outdoors now a real treat.

  Emma grew larger every week, causing her tongue to turn ever sharper at the slightest provocation—another good reason to be out of the cabin on this windy, chilly but not cold March day.

  The chickens laid eggs again, bringing relief from their dwindling stores of salted pork, beans, oats, wheat, and cornmeal. Rain clouds threatened, and Carrie expected a shower by candle-lighting.

  Charles Winters stopped by. “Good morrow, Miss Fletcher. How do ye fare?”

  Glad to see another body, she greeted him jauntily and asked after his two-month-old babe.

  “She’s growing like a weed. Giggles and laughs now.” He grinned shyly. “God blessed us, for certain.”

  “And Anne?”

  “She fares well, even if a might tetchy at times with lack of sleep. Hope’s night feedings have slacked off, but the babe has yet to sleep through. We both feel it.”

  Carrie chuckled. “I reckon so. Are ye here to check the fields?”

  “Aye, that I am. I’ll be about my business. Looks like you’ll have a goodly plenty maple syrup anon.”

  The pot boiled. She constantly added more sap, but the six gallons would make only one and a half quarts of syrup. No wonder Moose’s syrup was pricey.

  He had instructed her to stay by the pot until the sap looked boiled out, tending the fire to keep it boiling. She fidgeted as the afternoon wore on, adding wood to the fire, stirring, pouring in more sap, and regretting her boast to Moose that she could make her own syrup. Little did she know what she’d got herself into. Near setting sun, the rain pattered and then came down apace.

  Emma brought out an oilskin to cover her. “How much longer?”

  “I just added the last sap. Not long, I hope.”

  “You look like a drowned cat.”

  “Feel like one, too,” Carrie grumbled.

  It was well after candle-lighting when the sap no longer boiled with steam. Carrie scraped the syrup into a gallon crock that made the meager amount seem even smaller. She grunted and trudged to the cabin and laid the bucket on the step, then hefted two buckets of water from their water barrel into the syrup pot, hoping that would make it easier to clean, which she resigned to do on the morrow.

  Her back ached from standing, bending, and stirring. She moaned as she kicked off her boots and shook the rain off the oilskin.

  Emma clapped a filled trencher in front of her on the table. “I don’t know what got into you wanting to do this, when Moose sells ready-made syrup.”

  Carrie rubbed her gritty eyes. “I don’t rightly know. Wasn’t much maple sugaring down home, so I didn’t reckon there was much to it. I was wrong.”

  Emma harrumphed. “You reek of wood smoke. Don’t come to bed until you’ve washed it off you. I’m turning in.” She turned on her heel and closed the door to the bedroom.

  Carrie blew out a breath. The cut of Emma’s words hurt. Her gripes and grumbles gnawed at her. After she finished the salted pork and beans, she went out for water for washing up.

  By the time Carrie had finished getting the smoky smell from her skin and made her way into the bedroom, Emma snored softly. She looked angelic in sleep, making Carrie’s heart flutter with love. But in what mood might Emma be in on the morrow?

  Emma woke with another headache. She moaned, getting up from bed with a stiff back. She’d had a hard time finding a position for sleep again. If she slept on her back, her stomach hurt, her lower gut got all cramped, and her bladder felt compressed. She was never one to sleep on her side as it felt unnatural to her, but it was the only way she could find any comfort. She hadn’t slept in days, it seemed.

  After dressing, she noticed Carrie had not cleaned up her mess from last night, and a rage filled her. Carrie treated her like she was the maid of the house. Muddy breeches to wash. Torn shirts to mend. Salt pork and beans to cook and dishes to do. Eggs to gather. What would happen when a babe filled their cabin with more mess? It was unsupportable that she would bear the brunt of tidying all the clutter and dirt in the cabin.

  Carrie came in from morning milking. Emma had difficulty sitting on the low stool now.

  Emma had worked herself into a tizzy.

  Carrie opened the door wide, then picked up the two buckets of milk. The wind whipped the door around, hit her in the back, and knocked her forward.

  Emma watched in horror as both buckets upended, spilling milk across the puncheon floor.

  Emma screamed. “Look what you did. How can you be so clumsy? Now I have all this milk to clean and we’ll not have enough butter for Moose this week.”

  Carrie picked up the buckets. “I’m sorry—”

  “You’re sorry are ye? What about me? Sorry won’t clean this up. And look at the filth on your boots. You’ve tracked cow manure all over the floor.” Emma grabbed the broom and wielded like a lance. “Get out of this cabin right now. I can’t stand the sight of you.” She waved the broom in Carrie’s face.

  Carrie went pale. “What?”

  “I said, get out. I am sick of seeing your face. I’m sick of this dirty cabin. Of your constant messes. I’m sick of you, Caroline Fletcher. Get out. Get your things and go away from me.”

  “Honey—”

  “Don’t ‘honey’ me. Don’t look at me. Don’t speak to me.” Emma flung the broom onto the floor.

  Carrie flinched. She cast steely eyes to Emma for a moment.

  Emma huffed.

  She swept past Emma into the bedroom, then ran out with a small bundle and slammed the cabin door.

  Emma stood motionless, trying to get her breathing under control. Her heart beat painfully. She rubbed at her headache, collapsed onto the bench in front of the fire, and wept like a child.

  They’d never had such a fight. Sweet Emma, bothered by her large stomach, ailing, had turned into a witch. Mean-spirited. Tongue as sharp as nails stabbing into her. Was this the end of the warm touches, the pleasure, the kind words? If so, Carrie was well shut of her.

  No one treated her like dirt. No one scolded her like a young’un. She tracked into the cabin. Couldn’t be helped. She’d clean it. She always did.

  What got into that woman? Emma didn’t want to see her, so she’d go away.

  Riding down the trace, Carrie fussed in her mind not knowing where to rein Maisey, then thought of Laban and Red Fox’s old camp along down toward Moss Creek, next to James’s property. They’d built a rude, open-sided shelter, which was perfectly good enough for her. It struck her funny that last year at this time, she’d also slept outdoors.

  Mayhap God didn’t intend for her to have a mate. God was punishing her for her mannish ways, for farming and wearing breeches. For not getting hitched to Moose. For feeling secure with Emma and not wanting what a proper woman wanted. She’d kidded herself into believing Emma could be her mate, a lifelong friend, and more. Where’d she gone wrong and let herself be lured into love anyway? It was bound to hurt. She was bound to be rejected, just like God rejected her.

  Loneliness dogged her all the way to the camp. Her heart felt heavy and sadness weighed her down mightily.

  After walking Maisey toward the west, she found the camp, worse for having weathered the winter, the limbs on the top of the lean-to fallen over and trampled by wildlife. The firepit ringed with rocks still stood, which would do. She picked up woodfall from the nearby timber. The camp sat near to the fresh water of Moss Creek and was bounded by James’s timber on the north as a windbreak. It still frosted at night so the fire was essential, and she rued running off in a huff without axe, vittles, or anything to cook in. She carried shot and powder aplenty in her pouch, and her rifle. Looked like it would be gamey rabbit for supper.

  After two lonely, cold nights, Emma paced the cabin. Surely, Carrie knew Emma’s moods passed and she didn’t mean any of the words that had flown out of her mouth in her peevish state.

  Where in heaven’s name had Carrie gone? She must find her.

  Just as she ponder
ed how her bulky self could attempt to saddle Titan or hook up the small pony trap, Laura trotted into her clearing.

  Without other greetings, Laura took off her shawl and launched into questions. “What happened?”

  “I…Oh, Laura.” Emma burst into tears.

  Laura sat her down at the table and put the kettle on to boil. “I brung some corn cakes.”

  “Thank ye,” Emma said between sniffles.

  “Carrie showed up on our door last night. She was about froze. Nothing to eat for two days. We took her in, fed her, made her sleep. She moped around, making all of us crazy to watch her fiddle around the cabin. I couldn’t get a word out of her. Finally, she fell into her old bed, silent as the grave. She’s chopping wood with James and the boys now, so I left the girls with Josh and hightailed it here to see to you. She don’t know I’m here.” Laura poured the tea and sat next to Emma on the bench. She looked intensely at Emma. “Now drink your tea and tell me.” She handed Emma a rag to wipe her eyes.

  Emma snuffed, blew her nose, and looked forlornly at Laura’s kind eyes. “I said terrible things. Told her to go away, that I never wanted to see her face.”

  “What did she do? I know she can provoke a preacher at times.”

  “Noth…nothing.” Tears flowed again down Emma’s cheeks. “She…I…My back and head hurt. Sleep eludes me. She didn’t do a thing. She…got in the way. I felt sorry for myself and scolded her for nothing. I’ve never felt so tired.” Emma slumped on Laura’s shoulder.

  “’Course ye are, honey. You’re carrying a load. When I carry babes, my feet and back hurt something terrible. I get hot, then cold. I yell at the young’uns and James all the time. And losing sleep heaps on the misery. I liked to kill James afore Permelia popped out. Everything he did rubbed me wrong, like a burr in my saddle.”

  Emma wiped her nose again. “He did? What made you not kill him?” She smiled at the thought of a humbled James being scolded by a pregnant Laura.

  “I don’t remember, but soon after I lit into him for breaking a crock one day, he snuck off hunting, taking Josh and George out of my hair. When he come back home three days later, I was right as rain.” Laura sighed. “’Course, while he was out from under, Carrie took care of Gerta and Sam. You know Sam. Never gives no trouble. I calmed, what with all those messy heathens out from under me. I slept while Carrie took care of things. Like heaven, it was.”