Is this the place? Isaac frowned as he reached the broken fence surrounding his cousin’s farm. He scanned the small wheat field ripe for harvest, the scrawny chickens pecking in the yard. A cow bellowed from the barn, but no sign of human life did he see, though the sun told him it was nigh on noon.
“Matilda?” Carrying his army haversack slung over his shoulder and a bedroll, which had made the main sum of his belongings since the war, he stepped up his pace toward the farmhouse. It stood a lonely sentinel, windows blank, paint peeling. He mounted the steps and nearly fell through a rotten board. His gut tightening, he took care in crossing the porch and knocked on the weathered door.
“Matilda? It’s Cousin Isaac.”
Nothing. Isaac rubbed his bearded jaw and glanced around. Could she and the children be in the barn? Not with the way that cow kept bellowing. He rapped again, harder.
A squeak, and the door cracked open to show a small pale face. The barefoot boy staring up at him couldn’t be more than eight.
“Ma’s too sick to come to the door.”
Sick? Lord above, what was he walking into? Isaac crouched to the child’s level. “Are you Earl? Your pa wrote me about you. I’m your cousin Isaac.”
“Yessir, but my pa died.” The boy bit his lower lip.
“I know. And I’m sorry as I can be about that.” Isaac straightened. “Might I come in and speak to your ma, Earl?”
The boy stared up at him another moment, then creaked the door open about a foot. Isaac took that as an invitation and stepped inside the farmhouse.
A sour smell pinched his nostrils. He glanced about the cramped space, a kitchen on one side, sitting room on the other. He stepped into the kitchen, where flies buzzed about a few crusts of stale bread on the table and a pitcher of—he stepped over and sniffed—what used to be milk. There lay the source of the odor. Isaac grimaced. How long had it been since the children ate properly? Or since that poor cow got milked?
At a young child’s cry, Isaac crossed over to the sitting room. Earl squatted on the rug to comfort a small girl. The toddler clung to him and looked over her brother’s shoulder at Isaac with round eyes. Her shift was stained and her diaper in dire need of a change by the new odor wafting toward him.
“This here’s Julia.” Earl stood, lifting his sister in his arms. “Ma’s upstairs.”
“I’ll head on up, then.” Isaac smiled despite the renewed clench in his gut. How long had these children been living like this? And was their mother rightly ill or leaving everything at sixes and sevens from grief? “Earl, when I come down might be you and I could tend to the stock.”
The boy nodded.
Isaac mounted the narrow stairs two at a time, though mindful of his footing. Lord above, help me know how to handle whatever I find up here.
He found Matilda in bed as Earl had said, her light brown hair matted on the pillow, but she turned her head when he came in.
“Oh, Isaac.” Tears brimmed and spilled down her cheeks as if ever present, waiting for an opportunity. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and took her outstretched hand, cold in his despite the warmth trapped upstairs. “Came as soon as I got your letter. Earl says you’ve taken ill?”
“I haven’t any fever, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. I just . . . can’t seem to get out of bed. Not since Ambrose . . .” She closed her eyes and sobbed, face puckering.
“I’m so sorry.” Grief gripping his own chest, Isaac tightened his hold on her hand till she calmed some, then dug out his handkerchief and offered it.
She took it with a sigh. “Fool man. Always thinkin’ he could save the world.” Matilda swiped under her eyes, the shadows stark against her pale face. “I m-miss him s-so much.”
Isaac cleared his throat. “What can I do?”
She shrugged her thin shoulders on the pillow. “I’m so weak can’t hardly think straight.” She glanced about vacantly, voice trailing off. “Ambrose . . . he always knew what to do. Now he’s gone, and I . . . haven’t any idea.”
Didn’t sound like his cousin always knew what to do if their finances were in the straits Ambrose had written about. But Isaac kept his thoughts to himself, as matters more urgent lay to hand. “Do you have food in the house? Looks like the children could use a good meal.”
“I—I don’t know.” At the look on his face, she had the grace to flinch, color rising in her pale cheeks. “I’ve been so weak, I hardly know one day from another.”
“And the animals?”
“Earl has been caring for them, I think. He’s a good boy.”
But an eight-year-old couldn’t carry the weight of a whole farm. Isaac pushed himself to his feet and blew out a breath. He made himself speak gently. “Matilda, you’ve gone through a heavy loss, no mistake. But your children need you. I’m here now, but you’re going to have to ask the Lord for strength to pull yourself together. Best I can tell, there’s barely a decent scrap of food in this place, nor rag of clean clothing on young Julia. Once I tend to your stock, I’m takin’ the children into town with me for some vittles. And I hope to heaven by the time we get back, you’ll be downstairs waitin’ for us.”
He turned away from the stricken look on Matilda’s face and headed downstairs, guilt pricking. Perhaps he’d been too harsh, the woman had just lost her husband. But he couldn’t abide children and creatures bein’ neglected like this.
“Now then, young sir.” Isaac bent his hands on his knees to meet Earl’s gaze. “Might you show me how to tend to your stock? You bein’ the man of the house now.”
Was that a shine of relief in the boy’s eyes?
Earl nodded. “I been tryin’ to do the milkin’ and all. But my hands aren’t strong enough to get all the milk out.” He stretched out his scrawny fingers. “Bessie’s been bellowin’ more each day.”
“Well, we’ll just go see about Bessie. What other animals do you keep?”
“We got three horses, used ta be four but one died. An’ pigs an’ chickens.” Earl took his sister’s hand and led them barefoot out the door. “I’ll show you, Cousin Isaac.”
Isaac followed the children to the barn, where he found the cow with an inflamed udder and sores on her teats. Setting his jaw, Isaac settled Julia in an empty stall with some clean straw to play in, then set Earl to tossing hay for the hungry animals. Meanwhile, Isaac scrounged up the cleanest rags he could find. With a bucket of fresh well water and some lye soap, he cleaned Bessie’s udder and sores the best he could, murmuring reassurances all the while, then milked her gently and thoroughly.
“Take a gander at this, young Earl.” He motioned the boy over and showed him the milk in the pail.
“It’s been kinda stringy the last few days.” Earl peered in, then looked up at him, small brow furrowed under the hanks of unwashed hair. “Is that bad?”
“Means she’s got an infection in her udder. You shouldn’t drink milk like this.” No wonder the milk in the kitchen had smelled so foul. Isaac emptied the bucket into a pan for the chickens. Later he needed to muck out the entire barn. The stench made his eyes water. “Let’s put the animals out to pasture, then we’re goin’ to town.” At least the sunshine and fresh air would be good for the stock, especially Bessie.
Inside the farmhouse, Earl dug out a moderately unsoiled frock for Julia. Isaac cleaned and changed the little girl as best he could, the motions coming back clearer than he’d reckoned from his years of caring for and dressing his younger siblings—even if his fingers fumbled with the diaper pins.
“There you are, young lady.” Isaac set her on her feet on the bed he’d used for changing her and straightened the calico shift. “Purty as a picture.” He’d even managed to comb some of the snarls from her brown curls.
Julia gazed at him, blue eyes solemn, then flung her chubby arms around his neck so suddenly Isaac nearly lost his balance.
“There now. That’s a good girl.” He patted her back, feeling out of his element, yet something warmed and expanded in his chest. He hoisted Julia onto his shoulder and winked at Earl. “Right, then. What do you say we head into town for some dinner?”
The boy’s eyes lit, then he whirled and dashed outside so fast Isaac’s own stomach pinched. Just how hungry were these kids?
The wagon wasn’t in the best repair but sound enough far as Isaac could tell. Earl told him which horses to hitch up, a chestnut gelding named Fall and a gray mare named Winter.
“The filly, Summer, ain’t broke to harness yet. And Spring died.” Earl’s eyes blinked solemnly. “I named ’em.”
Isaac nodded, grateful for the boy’s insight once again. He hitched up the team and set the children beside him on the wagon seat so he could keep a close watch on them, Julia in between him and Earl. Thankful town was only a mile away, he fought to keep his mind on his task and not wrassling through all the how-nows and what-fors of his predicament.
Lord in heaven, how did I go from thinkin’ on courting Larkspur in Salton to flounderin’ about trying to rescue a widow and her young’uns in Arkansas? Sure am glad you know what you’re doing, for I don’t and that’s the truth.
Something burned low in his gut when he thought of Matilda, lying abed these weeks while her children ran hungry and unwashed. Grief could knock a soul down at the knees, he knew that well. But how could a mother neglect her own son and daughter? She couldn’t let one loss derail her whole life.
Like you let it derail yours? He flinched at the inner voice, which was growing more pointed of late for certain.
The little town didn’t boast much in the way of eating establishments, but it did have a new boardinghouse, so Isaac pulled up in front of the roughhewn building and stopped the horses. While Earl tied the team, he lifted Julia down and soon had them seated beside him at a long table crowded with travelers and peddlers. Not the crowd he’d guess Matilda would cotton to around her children, but they needed to eat and eat now. And when he saw their eyes go round at the huge bowls of beef stew the hostess plunked down before them, he knew he’d done right.
Isaac opened his mouth to say a grace, but both children had already reached for spoons and dug in. He covered a chuckle and reached to help Julia before she splattered stew from here to kingdom come.
“We thank you, Lord, for this food and thy provision,” he murmured, blowing on a spoonful of beef and carrots before feeding it into Julia’s open mouth. Good thing he knew the Almighty cared a sight more for hungry children than meal niceties.
Isaac fed Julia half her bowlful before snatching a bite from his own. Not bad, though nothing like Climie’s cookin’ back in Salton. Now, that woman could cook, much like the Nielsen sisters. Even Miss Larkspur, as much as she held a yen for work in the good outdoors. He’d tasted her sourdough biscuits with raspberry jam and thought he’d flown straight up to heaven.
“Cousin Isaac, may I have some more?” Earl held up an empty bowl.
Isaac signaled the hostess, who bustled over with the pot.
“Got yourself a hungry boy here, sir. You from around these parts?”
“No, ma’am, came down from Nebraska. These are son and daughter to my cousin, Ambrose McTavish.”
“Ah, I heard about that. Terrible thing. Someone’s got to get a hold of this James-Younger Gang, is what I say.” She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “So we’ll be seein’ more of you around here, then?”
A mercy she didn’t stay to hear his reply. Since he had none.
With the children finally sated, Isaac herded them to the general store, where he loaded up enough provisions to last a couple of months easy. Dug deep into his last pay from George Hoffman to do it, but these were his kin, his responsibility.
He drove back to the farm through the falling dusk, the children nodding off on the wagon seat against him. Poor mites, their bellies full for the first time in who knew how long. He’d want to sleep too.
He pulled the team up to the front porch, then lifted the children down. Earl roused enough to climb down the steps, while Isaac carried Julia slumbering on his shoulder.
The door opened before they reached it. Matilda stood shadowed in lamplight, then stepped back to let them in.
“I was worried you were gone so long.”
Isaac felt his brows lift as he looked at his cousin’s wife. She had put on a plain black dress, twisted her hair back from her face. Despite his strong words before they left, he truly hadn’t thought they’d hit home. Mayhap he’d been mistaken, and glad he was if so.
“Let me lay her down.” He inclined his head at Julia, and her mother nodded.
Isaac made his way down the shadowy hallway to the children’s room by feel and laid the little girl in her cot. Next he helped Earl pull off his boots before the boy fell onto his own bed, clothes and all. Isaac drew the quilt over him. It would need washin’ soon, that and the children too. But for now, he let them sleep.
He found Matilda sitting at the kitchen table, hands folded in a circle of lamplight. He hesitated, then eased himself down in the chair across from her.
“I beg pardon for worryin’ you.” He rested his hands on his knees. “I fetched the children some dinner at the boardinghouse, then took the liberty of pickin’ up provisions.” Which he still needed to unload from the wagon, along with tending the stock. Were the animals out to pasture still? “I didn’t intend so long an absence, but I give you my word I kept careful watch over them every minute.”
“I wasn’t worried about that.” She glanced away, her eyes unreadable in the dim light. “Ambrose always said he’d trust you with his life, so I knew I could with my children. I was afraid that—that you might not bring them back.” She drew a long, quavering breath. “And that you’d be right not to. That you thought me unfit t-to care for them. And that you were, again, right.”
Isaac swallowed. She wasn’t wrong, not entirely. But seeing how she’d pulled herself together this evening . . . maybe there was hope yet. The kitchen was even cleared, and cleaned, by the improved aroma of things.
“I’d never take them without a word and not bring them back, on my honor, ma’am. I’m truly sorry you thought so.”
“No, I’m sorry.” She drew another breath, a bit stronger this time. “And ashamed of how I let myself just . . . give up. I knew it was wrong, knew my children needed me. But I just couldn’t get myself out of bed. Not until you came, Isaac.” She looked at him then, clasping her hands tighter. “Will you stay with us? Please? You can turn this farm around for better. I know you can. You’ve made such a difference in merely a day. Please stay and help us, Isaac. For Ambrose’s sake and the children’s.”
He met her gaze, then lowered his to the table. He rubbed a scratch in the wood with his thumb, as if he could smooth it out by sheer will like he wished he could the path of his life.
Lord, is this the way you have before me? And must I walk it with such a heavy heart?
He didn’t give Matilda his answer that day, yet in effect he followed her request. He set to turning the farm around as best he could, clearing barn and fields alike, tending the stock back to health, and setting Earl to helping him harvest the family’s wheat before it went to seed. Matilda slowly retook her duties, caring for Julia and the house a bit more day by day. She even smiled a bit at Earl’s animated tales at suppertime.
More than once he thought of writing to Larkspur, letting her know the state of things. But what would he say, when so much remained unknown?
At the end of a week, Isaac took himself into town to see the banker, the man Ambrose had been fixing to see when the robbery happened. And his murder. Isaac still shuddered to climb the building’s steps.
“So you’re Ambrose’s cousin.” The thin-lipped banker shook his head as he sat down across from Isaac. “That man never could sit back when he should. Lie low and let the storm pass by, I always say. But, no, he had to jump in and try to be a hero.”
“The way I hear it, weren’t nobody else willin’ to try and stop those thieves.” The back of Isaac’s neck heated.
The man looked at him over his spectacles. “That gang can’t be stopped, Mr. McTavish. Everyone around here knows that. Excepting, that is, your cousin. And you, it seems.”
Isaac inhaled through his nose and made himself sit back. “I’ve come to see about my cousin’s state of affairs. Or his wife’s, as now may be.”
The banker gave a dry laugh. “I do hope she isn’t trying to hold on to that farm at this point.”
“And why is that?” He kept his tone even.
“See for yourself.” The man pushed a document across the table to Isaac.
He scanned the papers, but he’d never had a noggin for numbers. “And this means?”
An eyebrow lifted. “The farm is seriously in arrears—has been for some time. You may know that was Ambrose’s reason for coming to the bank that day. Trying to plead for mercy yet again, no doubt.”
“Which you hold out none too freely, I’ll be bound. Nor provide any protection for your clients from murderin’ gangs.” Despite himself, Isaac felt his hands fist on his thighs.
The man sighed. “As I said, Mr. McTavish, there’s no stopping that James-Younger gang. Not till we get some real law enforcement in these parts. So are you here to discuss Mrs. McTavish’s sale of the farm?”
“I’m here to gather information. No more, no less.”
“Well, I can tell you it would take near a miracle to save that farm. Perhaps if a man put his whole heart and soul into it, morning and night for a year or two. But only perhaps.”
Isaac rubbed a hole budding in the worn trouser fabric over his knee. His whole heart and soul. “And if she did sell it?”
“She could get a tidy little sum. Not much after settling all their debts, mind. But enough to set her and her children up for a while.”
Isaac gave the man a peremptory thanks and left, mind awhirl.
So there lay the choice before him. Throw himself into saving his cousin’s farm and caring for his wife and children. Or convince Matilda to sell her home and start anew somewhere else—where? Back somewhere with her own kin? He thought he remembered she hailed from Kentucky. Or should he bring her and the children up to Salton as Ambrose had planned?
Though she’d asked him to stay, in her current state he’d a notion she’d bow to whatever way Isaac chose to lead her. Which made the burden on him all the heavier.
He untied the bridle of his borrowed horse from the bank’s hitching post. Lord, what do you want from me?
What do you want?
The thought came so strong, Isaac’s hands stilled. He lifted his head, staring at the street scattered with mud puddles and fallen leaves.
What did he want? ’Twasn’t a question he’d given much thought to for some time. More like let himself be blown from one place to another, like those dried-up leaves skittering away from his boots, gusted by a wind hearkening toward autumn.
Isaac swung up on the gelding and turned him down the street. Sortin’ out the muddle of his thoughts would take some time, might as well head toward home in the meanwhile.
No, not home. His heart rebelled against the thought with such ferocity he stayed his hand on the reins. Home wasn’t Ambrose’s farm, or Matilda and the children, dear as they were.
Home was . . .
And just like that, slick as a whistle, he knew what he wanted. He sure and certain, for the first time since having his whole heart carved out from the war, truly knew.
Home wasn’t here in Arkansas. Nor hardly anywhere else he’d traipsed to these past lonely years. Home was in Salton, Nebraska. With Larkspur Nielsen.
A sudden grin tugging beneath his beard, Isaac nudged his cousin’s horse into a lope.