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Hurricane Utah Territory, November 1870
It felt to Hertha as though she’d swallowed nails instead of her morning Arbuckle’s. Her throat stung, especially eating breakfast. She turned, coughing into her sleeve. She’d been feeling poorly for almost a week, but it hadn’t been much of a problem until that morning.
“I think you should stay here and rest.” Raswell’s voice was stern, his eyes compassionate. It was obvious he wouldn’t let her out of the house.
“Don’t say that. I’m fine. It’s just a cough.” She sniffed and rubbed her eyes, trying to make them focus. She heard the squeal of a chair sliding on the floor, then felt her husband’s hands on her shoulders.
“You’re going to bed.” Nodding, she stood and allowed herself to be led into her room. Raswell pulled the covers back and she laid down, the motion making her head pound.
“What if something happens while you’re gone?” There hadn’t been another note or anything else from Mr. Walden in weeks. Even so, the fear was still there. After thinking for a moment, Raswell removed his revolver from the holster from his hip and placed it on the bedside table.
“If someone comes in, don’t hesitate to use this.” Hertha nodded and he crouched beside the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “You’ll be fine.”
She nodded and he kissed her head, setting her heart to a wild beat. When he turned to go, she grabbed his hand, stopping him. He waited patiently while she contemplated her words.
“I just think you should know,” she said, her voice distorted by her stuffed nose. “I love you, Raswell.” The grin on his face was the most wonderful thing she’d ever seen. He bent to kiss her, this time on the mouth. She thought it was perfect, despite her headache.
“I love you, too,” he whispered.
“You’re not supposed to kiss someone when they’re ill, you know.” He laughed.
“Of course. But there’s no rule that says I can’t.”
Smiling she said, “Maybe I should make one?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. “I have to go, but I’ll be back by noon, alright? You get some rest.” Then he was gone, leaving her to look forward to his return.
Raswell spent his morning feeling anxious. Despite his insistence that Hertha would be fine, he was still worried about her. Any number of things could happen while he was gone, beyond his father.
“God, protect her. Please.”
The cattle stared at him like he had grown another head or two. He pulled a face at them, sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. While his wife always managed to snort with laughter when he did such things, the heifers just turned away.
Well, now he was making the cows uncomfortable. He sighed and told himself to pay attention to what he was doing, Hertha would be fine. Even so, his prayers and worry persisted.
As Hertha slept, she dreamed of a shadow lurking through the house. She followed it, moving from the kitchen to her bedroom and the lean-to off the back of the house. Every time she got close enough that she might be able to see who the shadow was, it disappeared, finding another wall to wrap around.
The dream set her tossing and turning in her sleep, sweat pouring down her face, her breaths coming quickly. The shadow took a final turn into her bedroom, stopping at last. It had the same smile she’d seen through her window.
“Wake up,” the shadow said, its voice harsh. Hertha felt something cool against her forehead though she didn’t see anything. “Wake up.”
Her eyes snapped open, and she realized the cold on her forehead was real. And so was the voice.
“Hello, darling.” Cold fear rushed through her as she took in the face of Mr. Walden. The sneer on his face instilled even more fear than the gun in his hand. The barrel pressed into her skin.
“Please don’t hurt anyone,” she whispered. What time was it? Raswell would be back at any moment. Would he walk into his death?
“Oh, daughter, I see my boy has been poisoning you against me.” He chuckled, pulling the gun back. He gestured towards the kitchen. “You and I are gonna have a talk. He’s the one at fault, not me.”
Hertha made the mistake of glancing at the revolver on the bedside table. Mr. Walden laughed and snatched it up, then shoved her towards the door into the kitchen. Whispering prayers, she did as asked.
“We wouldn’t want a shootout now, would we, darling?” Mr. Isaac pushed her into a chair at the table. Hertha’s headache resumed, worse than it had been before.
Pressing her fingers to her temples, she said, “Why are you here?” Mr. Walden sighed, sitting across from her and aiming the gun at her.
“You see, girl, a man has to keep a hold on his young’uns and his wife. My woman . . . She left. She was a rebellious, disobedient fool.” His expression darkened. “And that treacherous brother of mine got what he deserved. Convince my boy that I’m some monster? I don’t think so.”
With the way he spoke, Hertha was sure the man was insane. He waved the gun at her, as he reached forward with his free hand to grab her chin.
“And that boy?” Mr. Walden chuckled again, more darkly than before. “He left, just like she did. He betrayed me, just like my brother. And he needs punishing, just like they did.”
He let go of Hertha to caress his revolver, his eyes full of fiery hatred. Prayers raced through her mind, one after another until they became one long trail of words even she couldn’t decipher.
“Now, the only thing a man can trust is himself and his guns. This revolver has never let me down, never left me.” He pressed the muzzle to Hertha's forehead again, smiling. “I could do this, you know. He’d feel what I felt when she left.” Withdrawing the gun, he whispered, “But I won’t, not yet.”
There was a horse standing freely outside of his house when Raswell reached it. He didn’t recognize the animal, but he looked ragged.
“Oh, God, please, no. Not my wife.” He dismounted and was about to run inside, reaching for his revolver. It wasn’t there. He stopped, thinking. What could he do without a way to defend himself? What if he walked in and died?
He pictured Hertha, fear written in her eyes, just like when he was a boy. He remembered his mother, how she’d been afraid. He’d never been able to help her. He’d never been strong enough.
Then, he knew. Gun or no, death or life, he wouldn’t leave his wife in there to deal with his ghosts. As he reached out to open the door, he prayed that, this time, he’d be strong enough.
“Ah,” Mr. Walden said, hearing the door creak as it began to open. “Here’s the fool now.”
Hertha’s blood ran cold. No. He couldn’t. Raswell wasn’t armed, he couldn’t defend himself, he’d die.
“Come on in, son. There’s no need to be afraid, it’s only Pa.” Mr. Walden readied the revolver to shoot, holding it in steady hands. She knew he wouldn’t miss.
“Lord, help us.”
The door swung open, and as Raswell appeared, the cold grin on his father’s face widened. The man laughed twistedly, anticipating the blood of his son, the death he would cause.
As Mr. Walden pulled the trigger, time slowed down for Hertha. She lunged out of her seat, colliding with his ankles. It seemed like an eternity went by as they fell, the crack of the gunshot ringing in her ears.
When they did hit the ground, Mr. Walden grunted, his head smacking into the floor with a thud. The fall knocked the breath out of Hertha, but she managed to wrestle both Mr. Walden gun and the one Raswell had left from him.
Standing, she turned to her husband, praying he wasn’t hurt. A sob rose out of her when she saw him, his face pale, eyes wide, staring at her.
He stood, unharmed, besides a fist-sized hole in the front door. The relief was so strong, it nearly hurt. Raswell moved forward, about to wrap his arms around her, but Mr. Walden stood and flew at him.
A smack sounded, then Mr. Walden fell to the floor, clutching the side of his head. Raswell seemed satisfied with the blow he’d landed to the man who’d hurt so many.
Crouching beside his father, he whispered, “That was for Ma.”
Hertha ran to the barn to find a rope at Raswell’s request. When Mr. Walden’s wrists and ankles were tied, he was dragged to his horse by his son. Hertha followed, listening to the curses of her father in law.
When the man was draped over the back of his own horse, Raswell turned to his wife, taking her hand.
“Are you alright?” he asked, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. She smiled.
“Of course. A miraculously avoiding death does tend to lift one’s spirits.” Raswell chuckled and wrapped her in a hug.
“I have to take him to town. While we don’t have a sheriff, we do have a small Calaboose. Next week, we’ll find a permanent place for him. For now, though, he can stay in town. You’ll be safe while I’m gone.”
Hertha nodded, and he kissed her forehead, then left, taking his shouting father with him.
When Raswell returned, the sun was setting. Hertha went to the barn to meet him, taking his hand as he headed towards the house.
“God really has been good to us,” she said, walking as close to her husband as possible. She could hardly believe he wasn’t hurt. Raswell gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“I think he’s been far better to me, though.” They stopped then, still outside.
“I don’t see how that’s possible.” He chuckled, pulling her close and kissing her.
“Well, to start, I’m not dead, and I really should be. According to some friends in town, I’m no longer wanted for a murder I didn’t commit.” He sighed, a smile curving his lips. “And then, there’s the fact that I’m married to the most beautiful woman God has ever created. Oh, and unrealistic though it is, I hear that she loves me.”
Hertha cupped his face in her hands, losing herself in the joy of the moment. She brushed the wisps of hair off his forehead, thinking he needed it cut.
“I do love you, more than I would have ever believed that I could.” She smiled. “I’m pretty blessed myself. I have a wonderfully brave husband that does the most foolish things.”
“Hmm. I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended.” Continuing towards the house, he said, “And I love you, too, by the way. More than any other person I’ve known.”
When they got in the house, Hertha cooked an ordinary meal, which they ate while conversing ordinarily, their joined hands resting on the table.
When she’d first come to Utah Territory, she had been looking for love and adventure. She’d found love, the best she could have hoped for, simply because God was good enough to lead her. And Lord knew she’d found adventure, more than she’d wanted.
And Hertha, realizing the adventure had just begun, smiled. Their life together would likely be remarkable only in its unremarkability. They’d have children, perhaps a dog, and they’d grow old together.
Things would become ordinary. But then, isn’t that the best sort of adventure? The ordinary kind? The small adventures, like first kisses, children, and lifetimes. Those are the ones we live for, in the end, the ones she’d strive for.
“What are you thinking of?” Hertha kissed her husband’s cheek.
“Adventures, past, present, and future.” She took a sip from her glass. “I’m excited about the ones yet to come. And even more excited to have every last adventure with you.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, because you are never going to get rid of me unless I die.” He winked and turned back to his food.
There had already been a lot of struggle for the young couple. They’d fought so hard in the months they’d been together. Through it all, though it wasn’t obvious at first, they’d learned that, sometimes, when you love someone, you have to fight. You have to keep working and trying because it’s worth it.
Love, whether known or unknown, makes us strong, even as the ones we love become our weakness. It’s worth the risk of being hurt or losing them. Not everyone falls in love. Not everyone is so privileged as to be afraid of losing someone.
Hertha promised herself that she’d fight for those she loved every day. She answered the question we all have to ask; who do I fight for? And the answer is obvious: Love. Because Love never fails.
***End of Story 2***
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We hope you enjoyed this story and want to let you know that story 2 in this series is about Anastacia’s adventure: The Cowboy's Arrogant Beautiful Bride. Until next time: God Bless You!
