Pherne Pringle watched her mother make her way through the bladdernut trees with old Joey. She wondered why she’d harnessed the big old mule instead of walking. Maybe her foot bothered her this morning. Still, she insisted on doing such things herself. Perhaps she had news of Orus? Pherne’s brother Orus still ran the Brown and Pringle clan, though he’d been gone for two years. She’d enjoyed seeing the changes in her husband, Virgil, these past two years without Orus’s domination. Virgil had discovered how to linger, giving her a kiss before heading to the barn to tend the stock. His friendly teasing of Sarelia, Emma, and Virgilia and his congratulations to their sons, openly praising them, was something Orus dismissed as coddling whenever he heard an expression of appreciation.
Still, she missed her brother. It had been months since a stranger brought the last letter affirming that Orus was still alive last fall. If he came back and had inspiring words about the Oregon country, the question would then be, would they go west? Orus would, if he set his mind to it. Or he’d convince them all that what they had here was better. His wife, Lavina, would have no say. But she and Virgil, they had a choice, didn’t they?
And what if Orus didn’t come back? Could Virgil take over the running of two farms forever? It had been a hard two years, but they told each other it was only temporary. But what if it wasn’t?
She stopped herself from thinking of that awful possibility and concentrated on scrambling the eggs for the second breakfast, Virgil having eaten bacon, biscuits, and gravy before heading to their fields.
Her brother had a way of stifling those who disagreed with him or who didn’t see the world as he did. Orus’s older boys tended their father’s fields and helped their stepmother with the eleven children Orus left behind when he headed west. At least Lavina had a rest from being pregnant and nursing another infant. Childbearing took its toll on women, something men failed to understand. Orus’s boys had turned to Virgil for advice on planting and harvest, and Pherne had watched with pride how her husband spoke to the boys as young men, capable, and not just barking orders as Orus did.
“Aren’t you going?” Her mother hobbled into the house, having tied Joey to the post, and pulled herself up the steps with her walking stick.
“Going where? I’m fixing Virgil’s second breakfast. Sarelia, push your grandmother’s rocker here so she can rest.”
“I’m not resting. Orus is back.” Her mother’s voice was the strongest she’d heard in weeks. “Didn’t he stop by? He’s planning a gathering at Lavina’s. Well, I guess it’s his place too. I got in the habit of thinking of it as hers.”
“Maybe he stopped at the fields and told Virgil. I guess we better mix up some fixings. Blackberry biscuits would be good, don’t you think?”
Her mother nodded. “But I’m heading on over. I don’t want to miss a thing. He says we’re heading west.”
“Are we? Well, exciting things await then.” Pherne frowned. “Virgilia, run and tell your father to hurry along. We’ve a gathering to step up for, like it or not.”
Her oldest daughter helped her grandmother back into the buggy and saw her off before before pushing through the rows of hemp as tall as trees where her father and brothers worked. They were one of the few farming families in St. Charles without slave help, and Pherne was proud that it was so, even though it meant more work for her family.
Pherne turned back to her dough boy to begin blending flour and water for her biscuits, while Virgilia, now returned, finished up the breakfast. Her mother was so excited about undertaking another journey. Pherne wished she could share that enthusiasm. Already Orus’s presence disrupted her well-laid-out plans for the day, and here she was once again hopping to the fast music her brother played instead of waiting for the peaceful slow waltz of her husband’s.
And what about her children’s wishes? Would they want to go? Sarelia was her vocal child who had actually inspired her mother’s autobiography by asking so many questions. Emma rocked in the chair by the fireplace. She was Pherne’s baby now, Oliver having lived only nine months. Pherne shivered, busied herself, rushing over the memory ghost. Emma had been quiet as a snowfall most days since Oliver’s death. Could a child so young still grieve the death of her baby brother? Pherne swallowed, fingered the gold locket at her throat, tucked beneath her blouse. She let the grief still so fresh take her away. Then she took a deep breath and returned to her dough.
Yes, Sarelia was the verbal one; Emma her quietest child at seven. Albro, middle son, was her husbandry child, tending the sheep and cattle. He followed after his father as a dreamer. Octavius would want to go. Would Clark? Already fifteen, he was her studious boy, thoughtful, often engaging in philosophical discussions about the meaning of life and God’s relationship to man as he worked in the family boot-making shop. And then Virgilia, her firstborn, seventeen, who was her helpmate. In ways, Virgilia was more like a younger sister than a daughter. She’d hate to lose the girl’s baking, cleaning, and child-tending skills when the right young man took her fancy. But wasn’t that what life was about, raising children to give them confidence to make their own lives, separate from their parents, letting them fly off into the future, giving them courage to face the inevitable losses? What if some wanted to go to Oregon and some stay? Break up her family? She stopped mid-kneading. The crust would be tough if she didn’t calm down.
Virgil had come in from the fields, followed by his son. Was that a twinkle in his eye?
“Orus is back,” Virgil said.
“You already knew?”
“He stopped in the field after seeing Mrs. Brown. He looks fit. Slimmer but strong.” Her six living children moved around the log home as though in a dance, each knowing the steps that kept them from bumping into each other. That dance was all Pherne had ever hoped for as a young girl, to find the kind of love her parents had had, live a comfortable life surrounded by the things that brought her pleasure. Fine furniture. Jewelry. Books. And family, of course. She’d raise her children to be faithful and be kind to each other and their neighbors. Virgil had been the perfect choice. But now, disruption promised to raise its little head in the form of Orus Brown.
Virgil led the prayer after they’d swarmed around the breakfast table, and together they all said, “Amen.” Pherne stood up to bring coffee to her husband. She turned and surveyed the scene. All she loved sat around that mahogany table, high-back chairs with carved harp-back design and arms (to help her mother push up out of the chair when she ate with them). Virgil had spared no expense to bring those luxury items on board ship to their Missouri home. What more could she ask for? She hoped they’d stay here forever.
Her eye caught her husband’s as he passed the platter of biscuits. He winked at Pherne. She felt her face grow warm. She was pleased that Virgil had resisted Orus’s pressure to go west with him to explore two years previous. She needed to tell Virgil that and not let him ever wonder who she saw to be the head of her family: It was her husband and not her brother. Nor her mother, either. She meant to keep it that way.