Hauling the celebration seekers over three wagons at a time, Anora grew weary of hearing the same phrases over and over. “Gonna have a full moon. Yup, gonna be a real wing ding.”
“Hey,” shouted someone in the crowd, “She’s here. The Willa Jane, she’s comin’.”
Paxton and Melinda had arrived at the river an hour ago. In fascination and disgust, Anora observed the crowd of townspeople part, give way for the fancy buggy to pull up closer to the dock. Melinda, holding a lacy, yellow sunshade above her head, nodded to her subjects.
Refusing to stare at the woman, Anora didn’t give herself time to take in the details of Melinda’s yellow dress. But she couldn’t miss the woman’s over-sized, chip-straw hat with the big orange, black-eyed-Susan tucked into the hat band.
Anora didn’t doubt for a minute Melinda knew very well she had the envy of every woman there. Not one of the ladies present could ever hope to own, let alone have the daring to wear, anything so dashing.
In Anora’s opinion—and she’d kept her opinion under her hat, not that anyone would gave a tinker’s damn what she thought—but it would’ve been better had Paxton’s new bride tried to blend in, keep her fancy gowns, bonnets, and neat little parasols for trips to Oregon City or entertaining in her own home.
Suppressing the urge to spit over the rail as the bitter burst of jealousy bubbled up into her throat, she looked away and down river. From what she could observe, the other ladies in town—far from being put off by Mrs. Hayes’s insensitive display of finery—hustled forward, more determined than ever to get in the young woman’s good graces. Anora chalked up their behavior to ambition rather than a genuine fondness for Paxton’s bride.
The Willa Jane churned around the bend, skirting the gravel bar, fighting the current to stay in the deeper main channel. The water level in the river had dropped considerably in the last couple of weeks. The Willa Jane would go no farther than Takenah for the rest of the summer. The Molalla, a slightly bigger side wheeler, had made one trip upriver to Takenah, but sat upstream, out of the way, awaiting the fall rains and high water to resume regular runs.
Paxton caught her eye before she cast off and tipped his hat to her, and she returned the salute with a nod.
Melinda, who’d been chatting with Mrs. Gregson, Mrs. Ambrose, and Mrs. Price, caught her husband’s acknowledgment. Shading her eyes with a white laced, gloved hand, she waggled her fingers at her.
Standing a little aside of Paxton and his wife, Mrs. Pooley, Maybel, and her excited brood, all waved to her. Today, the big-boned, broad-of-beam woman had dressed in her finest, wearing a crisp, clean dress of light blue cotton, a simple red bandanna tied at her throat, and a straw hat on her head of light brown hair. The big smile on Maybel’s plain face took years off her appearance. Anora liked Maybel’s straightforward manner very much.
Mrs. Gregson’s thin-lipped smile and stiff nod put Anora in mind of the way one might look upon a one-eyed dog with three legs—poor thing, I can’t stand to look at you, go away.
Curious, Anora wanted to stay and get a glimpse of the new reverend, but she had a line of wagons and a throng of people and riders waiting for her on the other side and didn’t dare dawdle.
Pointing the ferry into the current, she gave the river her full attention. They had a good breeze today, the water choppy with whitecaps, causing the raft to bounce across the water. The dropping water line made her landings more difficult, the raft plowing into soft silt at the shore, as opposed to deposits of river gravel.
At the landing, she hadn’t taken the time to find Hank and Isabell in the crowd. She’d taken them across earlier in the morning, along with a covered wagon carrying a family of four.
By the time she had the ferry loaded, heading back to the Takenah side, Paxton, the Reverend John Archer and his daughter, Melinda, in the buggy, had turned toward town, going up the lane. Hank and Isabell, on horseback, followed beside the conveyance. The cheering townspeople hurried to keep up.
Big oaks and cottonwoods shaded the river, but the unrelenting August heat seeped through the shade. By early afternoon, everyone had crossed and gone to town. Anora stood on the rise, looking down at the river and the Willa Jane moored on the other side. There were no hands on her deck or on the dock moving freight, they too had gone to the celebration.
Tugging off her gloves, she lamented the state of her hands, rough and dry, fingernails chipped and caked with grime. Removing her hat, she ran her dirty fingers through her dusty hair. She needed a bath. The cool river water looked inviting, and for a second, she considered wading in. The breeze caught her skirt, blowing her hair into her eyes. She heard the water gurgle and snicker. It had almost tricked her into trusting its cool depths. Wrapping her arms across her chest, she turned her head toward the barn, her ears straining to hear the jangle of harness or the sounds of plodding horse’s hooves, but she neither saw nor heard anyone or anything.
For the hundredth time today, she changed her mind about going with Hank to town. She had no place over there. No one wanted to see her; no one cared to get to know her. Hank needed to reconcile himself to that fact. She’d never fit in, and she didn’t want to try. So far, she hadn’t found any need to go into town. For the most part, she traded for everything she needed. If she wanted something she couldn’t trade for, Hank took her list into the mercantile, filled it, and delivered it to her.
At the cabin, stripped down naked, she poured out a wash pan of water and stepped into it, sighing, wiggling her toes. Soaping herself with a wet sponge, she bathed her hot, tired body. She filled a pitcher with clean water to wash her hair and soaped and rinsed it twice. She dried herself, and put on her one clean chemise and petticoat, and sat on the bed.
Combing her hair, she remembered Hank had accused her of cutting off her nose to spite her face.
Is that what I’m doing? she asked herself.
No, I don’t think so. I haven’t been unhappy these last few months staying to myself. I’ve had Hank and Isabell and Molly. Without them it probably would’ve been intolerable.
All right, yes, I want to go to town, but not Takenah where everyone knows me. To those people, I’m Nutty Norie, that unstable, strange woman who growls and grunts and runs the ferry like a man. That woman who probably murdered poor Mrs. Reason, ate gravel, and poisoned people. That woman who is now after poor Mr. Reason—the poor innocent dupe is snared in her tangled web of libidinous insanity. Oh yes, I’m certain my presence will simply fan the fires of more unspeakable speculation.
Closing her eyes, she lay back on the bed, stretching out, quieting her thoughts. She could see herself locked within Hank’s arms, dancing. She could feel the warmth of his hand on her back. Looking into his eyes, captivated by his big sideways grin, she’d be content to dance forever.
Rolling over onto her stomach, she groaned. All a dream, a cruel dream, a foolish fantasy. Sitting up, she slapped her hairbrush down on top of her bureau. Stupid to argue with herself, of course she’d go to the dang celebration. She’d have to, Hank would accept no excuses. Every day, twice a day, he reminded her—once in the morning and again in the evening—that she’d promised to go with him. He listened patiently to her protests, but in the end, she always came around to agreeing to go.
Resigned, she put on her lavender dress and clean stockings, then wiped the dust off her old, scuffed-up shoes. She wished she had a mirror. The dusty glass in the window would have to do. Selecting a coil of damp hair at her temple, she wove a French braid on either side of her head to the crown and tied the ends of the braids with a leather lacing to hold it in place. The unbraided ends mingled with the mane of hair that fell loose down her back to her waist.
If her face wasn’t so brown from being outdoors all the time, she’d have said she looked almost presentable. Shaded by the brim of her hat, the skin on her forehead had remained chalk white. From her eyes down to where her neck disappeared inside her white collar, her skin had weathered to a deep tan. Her gray eyes, nearly opaque from looking into the sun, plus the whiteness of her teeth standing out against the brown color of her skin, had a grotesque, mask-like effect. Looking around her, she sought a remedy, something she could put on her face to soften the brown tone of her skin or at least shade it a little. Looking through her stores of kitchen supplies, she found flour and cornstarch. She considered the flour, but discarded the idea, thinking of the paste it would make when mixed with her perspiration.
Cornstarch might work, just a little over her cheekbones. Getting her face real close to the windowpane, she smoothed the powder under her eyes and over her jaw with her fingertips. Standing back, tipping her head this way and that, she couldn’t see any difference one way or the other.
She’d consult with Isabell. She could trust Isabell to be brutally honest.
The night before, she and Hank had baked two loaves of summer squash bread for the potluck. She almost left the cabin without them. Wrapping the bread in a clean flour sack, tucking them into a basket, she remembered the crock of goat cheese for the bread. Isabell and Hank loved her goat cheese.
Opening the cabin door, a blast of heat slapped her in the face. She’d thought the inside of her cabin airless, but out there on the porch, the heat of the day had turned the ground to a cooktop.
Takenah lay across the river, but it wasn’t the place she dreaded. The jaundice attitude of Takenah’s residents, that’s what made her sick and uncertain.
In the last few months, she’d found her footing. She didn’t want to slide back into being that girl so full of fear she could disappear into herself, hide away and stay detached from the world around her. She had to do this. Like learning how to manage the ferry, she had to face down her fears and take hold of her life.
»»•««
Hank, pacing the shore on the other side, hadn’t thought about this possibility—the ferry and Anora across the river, out of sight. For the last ten minutes, he’d been thinking he’d have to go down where the water narrowed at the gravel bar and set his horse to swim across.
He’d begun to imagine all kinds of reasons she wasn’t waiting at the ferry, the primary fear being Ruben’s return. He knew he’d always have that nightmare in his head. He was sure Anora did too.
Searching the river bank for the best way to cross, he spotted her lavender skirt whipping in the breeze as she came out from behind the cottonwood tree at the top of the rise. Laughing out loud, whipping his hat off his head, he waved to her and slapped his hat on his thigh. “By damn, Anora. That’s my girl,” he said aloud to himself.
He’d left Isabell watching the boys’ three-legged race with Molly and the Pooley’s. The girls, Molly, and her older sister, Carolyn, were next to enter. They’d left Mick at home locked in the cabin.
He wished Anora had been at the opening of the celebration. She would’ve enjoyed hearing Paxton’s speech. He’d presented the picture of the perfect politician up there on the back of the buckboard, his thumbs in his belt, shiny head turning pink in the midday sun. And Melinda beside him, straight and prim, gazing up at him as if he were a God. True to form, Paxton pompously spouted promises of prosperity and progress for one and all.
The Reverend Archer vowed to his new parishioners to be their pillar in good times and bad, ready to advise and guide them through the coming years of change and growth. He’d said he was prepared to make of himself, “an instrument of the people for the good of their souls.”
Anora set the ferry in motion. He noted she wasn’t wearing a hat. Her hair, braided at the temples, tied with a leather thong at the crown, joined the loose hair that fell long and straight down her back, reaching her waist. Caught in the breeze, her hair floated around her head like a veil. He stood spellbound at the sight of her—the goddess of summer, tan, youthful, strong—the aura of vitality about her stirred his blood.
“You are summer, full of heat and fire. Your hair, the color of golden grass waving before a warm breeze. Your eyes, clear and bright as the stars on a moonless night. Ahhh, but you would never believe me if I told you,” he said aloud to the river, waiting for the ferry queen to reach him.
“I was worried,” is what he said, holding out his hand to take the moor line from her and tie it off around the stump. “I’ve been waiting for almost a half-hour. I thought maybe you’d decided not to come, after all.”
Leaping gracefully off the tongue, she said, “Ah, you know me all too well. I’ve talked myself out of this at least a hundred times today. And, I’ve changed my mind a hundred times. Well, a hundred and one times, as you can see I’m here.”
“Yes…and you look beautiful.” He leaned forward and inhaled, “And you smell wonderful. Is it mint? Or is it lavender?”
“Both,” she said. “I rinsed my hair with mint and lavender water to cool my head.”
“Well, it’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.” He put his hand beneath her elbow.
She dismissed his compliment, as he knew she would. “Oh, save it for someone else. My hands are rough as tree bark. I look brown as dirt, and ragtag, and my hair is awful, all bleached out, dry, and straight as straw. I tried dusting my awful face with cornstarch, of all things. I must look like a burnt biscuit.”
Putting his finger under her chin, he tipped her face up so he could look into her wonderful eyes. “The only two women up there at that celebration who are not sunburned are Mrs. Gregson and Mrs. Hayes. Mrs. Gregson remains untouched by the sun simply because she works inside her store all day. You’ll be pleased to know that right now, at this moment, her perky little nose is turning hot pink and I suspect will blister before the day is done. Mrs. Hayes remains untouched by the sun for the simple fact she will not go outside without her parasol and a hat, dirty her delicate little hands by grubbing in the garden or raise a sweat for the love of God or money.
“This…” he started to say, his finger following the line of her cheekbone down the seductive curve of her throat, “this…lovely skin of yours, tan or lily white, could never detract from the shape and line of your lovely face, bright eyes, and spectacular hair. You are a marvel of God’s design.”
Eyes wide, lips parted, Anora stayed silent, gazing into his eyes. She swallowed and licked her lips. And he took pity on her. “As for the use of cornstarch,” he said, tipping her chin from side to side to the other to assess her attempt at camouflage, “you’ve managed to blend the tan line successfully, I think. We’ll ask Isabell and Molly, they’re the experts.”
Blushing, she dipped her head and stepped away from him. “That’s what I thought too. My, it’s hot isn’t it,” she said, smoothing her left eyebrow with her finger.