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Index
Title page
The Widow’s Ferry by Dorothy A. Bell
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
His mustache couldn’t hide the smile on his lips, his sharp, brown eyes giving her the once-over from head to foot, he said “Hey, you’re younger than I’d thought. Here all this time I thought you the same age as your husband.”
She didn’t know if he was talking to her or to himself, but it unnerved her. She wished him gone. She wished she’d never said anything to Mr. Reason-damn him for breaking his promise, for telling Mr. Hayes, of all people.
“Ma’am,” he said, “don’t be scared. I brought the calendar you wanted. My name is Hayes, Paxton Hayes, Hank Reason’s brother-in-law. Much obliged for the eggs and butter. I put you down for a store credit too.”
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
On the front porch, Anora carefully strained the milk through the cheesecloth to separate the cream from the milk. A thin steam of milk trickled from the bottom of the bag into the milk can. A cool breeze teased the errant tendrils of hair that had escaped the braid across her shoulder. The sun felt good on her back. She smiled to herself. The sleeves of her faded denim dress rolled up past her elbows, the top two buttons at her throat undone, she started to hum, something she hadn’t done in a very long time. He’d been gone a long time. She wanted to believe he’d left for good this time.
The floodwater had come up to the first step of the cabin. She’d spent two nights in the barn. But now, after a couple days of good weather, everything had started to dry out. Everywhere you looked, there were signs of spring-new grass coming up out in the yard, trees beginning to bud, the pussy willows along the river were showing signs of bursting open.
The gig came down the lane past the barn and pulled up before the porch. Stopping her work, Anora shaded her eyes with one hand, the other hand going to her hip.
The carriage held her attention, very smart, not something you saw every day in this part of the world. A black leather bonnet over the cab protected the occupants from the weather, leather doors kept the mud and dust from the passengers. And the proud, glossy, high-stepping bay horse in harness sported blinders to preserve its high-strung nerves. The driver of the elegant equipage stepped down, turned to the fashionably dressed redhead inside the gig, putting his head down, and inside the door he said, “This won’t take long, Minna. I’d rather deal with her myself. I’m gonna apologize now for any violence or obscenities you might be subjected to.”
Now clean-shaven, but for the long sideburns that came down both sides of his jaw, at first glance, Anora hadn’t recognized him. He’d lost at least twenty pounds. Dressed in his fine coat of black wool and matching trousers, a snowy white shirt with pearl buttons, a black bow tie, a black felt, bowler hat, and new, freshly polished, black knee-high leather boots, she couldn’t believe her eyes. His hands were clean, his eyes completely devoid of red, taking at least five years of debauchery from his face. Now the lines were sharper, finer somehow, the skin tightened under his chin and jaw. But his voice, the voice remained the same, a calculating purr accompanied the evil gleam lurking behind his smiling, black eyes.
His gentlemanly demeanor, Anora recognized as a façade he projected for the benefit of the woman in the gig. The look he trained on her delivered the familiar heavy dose of loathing. The lines around his smiling mouth pursed into a mean scowl, his hard eyes narrowed to satanic slits, even the color of his skin faded from a healthy tan to a sallow gray beneath the shadow of his black hat when he turned his full attention to her.
Ignoring her without speaking, he entered the cabin. Moving beyond the reach of the sunlight from the doorway, he cast his menacing aura about the room like a vile, putrid odor.
Anora flattened herself against the cabin door, afraid to breathe, unable to take her eyes off him. He stood before her dresser, gazing down upon her sacred toilet set of comb, brush, and mirror. His fingers stroked the smooth, orange tortoiseshell of the mirror. He bent his head, turning his gaze upon her, an evil sneer on his lips, thick black brows arched. Anora shivered, imagining those fingers, cold and cruel, sliding around her throat.
Malicious glee twitching at his lips, he picked up the mirror, then the brush and the comb, one thing at a time, examining each piece slowly, taunting her before placing them into his coat pocket.
“You’re lookin’ good for a dead woman,” he said, his voice a dark whisper. In two strides he glided over to her, coming close enough for her to smell the tobacco on his breath when he spoke.
He jerked his head toward the wooden table in the middle of the room, where his pocketknife remained jabbed into the heart of the table. Each day she forced herself to defiantly sit before that knife and eat her meals.
“I see you still got my knife. I should’ve helped you get on with it, given you a little push. But I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind. Makes it all the more interestin’. Well, if you didn’t take the hint, then I reckon I’ll just take my knife back. You should’a done it yourself, Norie girl, but you always was stupid. Too stupid I guess to slit your own wrists. You won’t need to know how to do nothin’ now, not where you’re goin’. Old Ruben’s gonna give you all the help you need. I’ll get you started on your way to the sweet beyond this time. I’ll get you started real good.”
He moved to the table, and with one hand pulled the knife out of the tabletop, flicked the blade back into the bone handle and stuffed it into his trouser pocket.
Anora flinched, her breath catching in her throat, associating the tug of the knife blade from the wood, to her heart. He meant to kill her for certain this time.
Her voice a high-pitched screech, the woman retaliated. “You little slut. Those belong to Rudy’s dear mother.” Shoving the carriage door open, she reached out in an attempt to snatch back the mirror. Anora gave her a hard crack on her head with the hairbrush for her trouble, which knocked the woman’s fancy green bonnet to the floor of the conveyance.
The woman brought her knee out of the carriage door, catching Anora in the abdomen, knocking the wind out of her for a second, but long enough for the woman to take back the mirror, and grab for the hairbrush.
Anora, recovering sooner than the woman anticipated, came up suddenly, catching the woman on the chin with her head. The woman screamed. Blood oozed over her bottom lip from the bite she’d given herself. Succumbing to out and out blind rage, the woman grabbed a fist full of Anora’s hair and shoved her to the ground. Leaping out of the gig, she pounced on Anora with all her weight. Soon both of them were on the ground, rolling from side to side, screaming, scratching, and clawing at one another.
Anora heard him laughing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his black boots shuffling aside to give them room to scuffle. Anora managed to straddle the kicking, biting woman.
He reached down and pulled back hard, twisting one of her arms around until her fist was knotted up into her spine. With his other hand, he pulled the hair at the front of her head back until she was looking directly up into the sun. The woman, still doing combat, managed a couple of good blows to Anora’s right ear before he dragged her off to the side.
The woman, hissing and snarling like a bobcat, scrambled to her feet. “Oh, oh, you little bitch. What’cha gonna do with her, Rudy? You hold her, and I’ll strangle her myself.”
Her words, filtered through clenched teeth, swirled around Anora’s dusty, sweaty upturned face.
All the while the woman fussed, huffing and puffing, making threats, she fumbled with her hair, dusting off her clothes.
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Watching Whit ride down the hill to the ferry from the barn, hot tears spilling down her cheeks, Anora whispered to the chickens pecking the ground around her feet, “Well, that’s that. Say goodbye to Whit, ladies. Tell him Anora Claire will remember him always. I pray he’ll remember Anora Claire as the silly, laughing girl he liked to twirl around the campfire and not the stupid lump of scarred flesh he found yesterday.”
Sobbing, she said, “I love you, Whit Comstock. God speed. You go, this is how it has to be.”
A cold, dank shroud of loneliness settled on her shoulders. She shuddered and wrapped her arms over her chest. Hugging herself, she stood shivering and alone, looking toward the river and the moving ferry.
Squaring her shoulders, she sniffed back her tears and wiped her face with the skirt of her dress. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, Whit, for your tenderness.”
Putting her mind to the practical things, she checked the stores of feed for the animals. The goats had less than half a barrel of cracked corn, and the same of oats. The chickens were down to their last sack of corn mash. Roscoe and Pete and the milk cow had less than half a stack of clover hay. They were out of grain feed altogether. Ruben took care of the supplies, making deals, conniving, making promises he didn’t intend to keep. She couldn’t do that. She could never do that.
Eyes to the sky, low and gray, the ground beneath her feet soggy, Arona slogged through the muddy puddles dotting the track to the cabin. A nagging voice of doom whispered a dire warning. Everyone knows you’re alone over here. You don’t dare talk to anyone. You can’t do what Ruben did, you can’t barter…or trade. The jackals will come to rip the flesh from your bones. They’ll pick you dry, as Ruben predicted.
Responding to the voice in her head, she said aloud, “I’ll fight them off. This is my land. Ruben bought it with Papa’s money. It’s mine.”
The voice, Ruben’s voice, taunted her. Roscoe and Pete are gonna get mighty hungry. They won’t last long workin’ those ferry lines on empty bellies, then where will you be? Who’s gonna work the ferry? The boy? I don’t think so.
She answered the voice, “There’s new grass. Roscoe and Pete and the cow can forage on that for a while. I’ll turn the goats out on the slope behind the cabin. “The chickens…the chickens can scratch for…worms…bugs.”
Reaching the porch, she decided what she would do. I’ll make soup for the folks when the Willa Jane comes in. Maybe some bread too. I might sell it, or trade for sugar or flour. Maybe sell my butter and eggs too. Ruben won’t be here to double the price of ferry passage. I wonder, can I do it?” Giving herself no time to quibble, she told herself, I have to.
A wagon rattled into the yard coming up from the ferry. She stopped in the doorway. On board sat a man, his facial features surrounded, nearly obliterated, by bushy salt and pepper hair. From his temples to chin, a bushy beard sprouted in undisciplined, tight coils, a carpet of hair lay on his chest over his long canvas coat. Predatory, beady eyes shone like hematite, snapping and sparkling.
“Your man owes me seventeen dollars and six bits. You got the cash?” he asked, his beard barely moving as he spoke.
Anora, mouth agape, couldn’t think, her thoughts had been for her own survival, her sacrifices, her thriftiness, and the welfare of her animals. The word cash never entered her mind.
“I didn’t think so,” the man answered for her. She heard him mutter under his beard, “Stupid skirt, probably don’t understand a word. Looks to be as dumb as old Ben said.”
He started to turn the wagon up the track toward the barn and told her over his shoulder, “I’m gonna have me some chickens, maybe a goat to square the bill,” he said.
Anora plopped down on the milk can, all the starch gone out of her. From the porch she watched the man climb down from his wagon and begin to unload the crates from the back.
“Well, I guess I don’t have to worry about running out of feed now,” she said to herself. “And so much for selling or trading. I probably couldn’t have screwed up enough courage to do it anyway. He’s right, I am a stupid skirt. I wonder how many other people Ruben owes money to?”
“Hey, Anora,” Whit called to her, galloping into the yard, “what’s he doing up there?”
“God, Whit, I thought you were gone.”
Anora moaned and put her hands over her face. Of course, he’s back, maybe he never left, and he’s back to witness my humiliation. That’s why God sent him in the first place. Things weren’t bad enough before, apparently there is a never-ending supply of shame to be endured. “Why did you come back?”
Whit smiled that crooked, disarming smile of his and leaned over, handing down a package to her. “I had to go to town. I wanted to do a little shopping.”
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Always thinking of ways to escape, Anora left the cabin door open. Mr. Reason followed her inside. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him scanning the room, looking for evidence of depravity no doubt, and proof she’d taken the cowboy as her lover. Sno coats, no boots, even the pillows on the bed were stacked on top of each other. Only one person slept in that bed, and that person was herself.
Nervous, she stumbled over her words, “You said you needed a favor? I can’t imagine what I could do for you, but I’ll try.”
Making himself at home, Mr. Reason took a chair at her table and sat. She rushed to retrieve the coffee pot from the hearth and a cup. The table had a few crumbs of cornbread on it. Beginning to perspire, blushing, she swiped the table top with her skirt before she set his cup down. “Sorry, I don’t worry about housework much now Ruben’s gone.”
He shook his head at her and gave her a smile. His smile, those kind, gentle, brown eyes, they stopped her heart. Giving herself a mental shake, she hurried to the hearth to stir the pot of beans. They didn’t need stirring, but she needed time to compose herself. Buying a little more time, she added water to the pot.
On her way back to the sideboard to add more flour and water to the sourdough starter, Mr. Reason reached out to briefly touch her wrist. Stopped, she closed her eyes and sat at the table, folding her trembling hands in her lap to keep them still.
“Let’s get this over with and out of the way. You needed somebody. Whit came along. You knew him before, and you were close. I think he’s been good for you. You look rested. As your friend, I’m grateful to him. I think his being here has given you a sense of safety.”
Cheeks on fire, temples throbbing, she heaped another shovel load of shame upon her putrid soul. Head down, she said, “I know there’s a lot of talk in town. I heard some of the talk when the Willa Jane sat at the landing on the other side. The men snicker and make nasty remarks and the women, the women sneer and tsk, tsk. Whit doesn’t seem to notice. Really, there’s no use in me announcing to all and sundry that he sleeps in the barn. He takes his meals here in the cabin, but that’s all. Really…that’s all. No matter what I do or say I’ll always be Nuttie Norie.”
She brought up her head to meet his gaze. “Mr. Hayes? He didn’t come with you because of Whit? He thinks Whit is in my bed, doesn’t he? Now he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Quietly, soundlessly, the cabin door slowly opened. The light of the moon, filtered through the dense fog, enveloped the yard outside in an opaque silver-blue veil. A silhouette of a stocky built man appeared in the doorway. The fog clung to him, swirling around him. Ominously and stealthily, he floated over the threshold.
Lying in bed, body cold, still as stone, Anora lay helpless. The dark figure suspended on the milky-blue vapor, drifting closer, growing larger and larger. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The fog, permeated with the smell of stale beer and chewing tobacco, burned her nostrils. Slobbering, snarling threats and curses, the black figure loomed above her.
With a herculean effort, she tore her gaze from the horrible specter, turning her face into her pillow. The room went black, and the evil disappeared. Released from the spell, heart pounding, body drenched in sweat, she sat up. Eyes wide, she searched the dark corners of the room, looking for Ruben.
If she were brave, she told herself, she’d get up, check the door to be sure she’d thrown the bolt, but instead she lay rolled up in a ball of fear. If she dared move, he’d pounce. She could smell him, feel him there in the room, waiting for her in the deep, dark shadows to the side of the window. Or he could be there in the dark corner by the fireplace, waiting and watching.
Ears straining to hear the slightest creak, she remained very still, the sound of her heart thudding in her ears until she could stand it no longer-she had to go to the window, make sure no one lurked outside the door.
Peering through the window pane, she could see nothing but fog. It fed off the river, and as usual, had wrapped in, around, and over the trees, surrounding, smothering the cabin, growing taller, thickening with each passing hour.
The coals in the grate snapped and popped. She squeaked and slapped her hand over her lips to hold herself quiet. Darting back to her bed, she pulled the quilt up under her chin. A draft whistled mournfully down the flue. An animal skittered across her porch. Eyes wide, burning with fatigue, she waited, the hours ticking by at a snail’s pace.
Tired of listening, she faded unintentionally into an uneasy slumber.
Ruben’s voice whispered into her ear, Slut. Not fit company for good folks. She heard his laugh, sensed his girth and power next to her in the bed. She could feel his rough, dirty hands on her arm, his fingers in her hair. When his big hand moved to her stomach, she woke, sat up in bed, gasping for air.
Dawn arrived at last; a weak sun struggled to break through the heavy fog to loosen its grip. When it became light enough to see well into the corners of the room, she swung her feet over the side of the bed. Taking deep, steading breaths, she stretched her neck, rocking her head from side to side, telling herself it had all been a dream.
Sure this would be the day she’d die, she proceeded to don her faded red dress and old stockings. She carefully folded her lavender dress, new stockings, and old dress of blue denim into a freshly washed cloth flour sack.
While sitting at the table to braid her hair, a sharp pain raced through her bowels. Cold and shoeless, she sprinted out the door and made for the outhouse in back of the cabin. The evacuation of her bowels arrived swift and ruthless, taking only seconds. She exited weak and shaky and tiptoed back to the porch. About to go inside to the warmth of the fire, she doubled over, nearly brought to her knees by the gut-churning alarm. Breaking out in a cold sweat, she once again raced for the privy.
Sitting in the cold, dank outhouse, knees shaking, teeth chattering, palms sweaty, eyes looking through the slats of the flimsy door, she knew she would never see the other side of the river. She would die. The river would take her.
Isabell needed her, but she couldn’t do it. The stink of nausea swamped her, coming in through her nostrils with every breath she took. Wrapping her arms about her, she rocked back and forth on the hole in the rough boards of the privy seat and wept, surrendering to her fate.
Tired of her sniveling and quaking, chilled, nearly frozen, she made herself leave the outhouse. Once again she tiptoed quickly to her porch, this time finding Whit waiting for her, looking tousled, rumpled, blue eyes still full of sleep. “Need coffee,” he said and entered the cabin scrubbing his head.
“You left the door open, fog comin’ in. Cold,” he said. “I see you got your gear packed up. I s’pose Hayes and Reason will be waiting for you, sun’s almost up.”
“Yes,” she whispered, turning her back on him to get water in the coffeepot.
“They’ll be waiting,” she said aloud to the room, “Hank, Isabell, poor Lydia, waiting, counting on me.”
Whit talked, commenting on the thickness of the fog, the new buds on the willows, the robins in the yard, and Anora went about preparing him a bowl of hot oatmeal and a piece of her dark bread fried up with an egg. The nausea came and went. She held the diarrhea at bay long enough to get breakfast on the table. She couldn’t watch him eat; she had to go back out to the privy for another round of self-castigation, and unstoppable evacuation.
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The smell of the water, the willow’s tender, fuzzy, silver-yellow blossoms filled her senses. The breeze ruffled her skirt and tossed the hood of her cape from her head.
Feet slipping in the red clay, Anora carefully chose her steps on her march toward the now docking ferry.
A few yards below her, the crude craft scraped into shore. Leading a team and wagon down the ramp, Whit waved to her, a big grin encompassing his face. Handing off the team to its owner he reached for her hand. Ignoring it, she sidestepped him and headed for the rickety rail. Grabbing hold, she stepped up the ramp.
Hand over hand, Anora worked her way along the rail, leaving the safety of dry land, and safe refuge, behind her. Hovering over her, Whit said, “I’d started to think you wasn’t comin’.”
Bracing herself, her back against the rail, she lurched for the thick, rough-hewn rudder. Folding her upper body over the pole, feet apart, braced to do battle, her bundle dropped to the wet floor of the craft.
“I’ll take it out, if you want?” Whit said.
He stood right beside her, but to let go, take the easy way out at this point, would surely be her downfall. Teeth clenched, eyes focusing on the far bank, she said, “Just tell me what to do.”
“Huh…yeah, sure…huh, goin’ back seems easier to me, I guess ‘cause we do the hard part first, we don’t have to wait for it.”
He got around her, coming about he bent down to get in front of her face. Pointing upstream, he said, “The water’s runnin’ high this mornin’.”
Anora couldn’t look.
“There’s been a lot of trees and roots coming down, so I been checkin’ upstream before I start across to make sure I don’t see nothin’ coming at me. Even then, stuff can sneak up on you.”
Nodding, she made a quick survey of the water coming at them for any suspicious ripples or dark water. Shaking her head, she said, “I don’t see one thing any worse or better, the river looks horrible, terrifying…murderous to me.”
His derisive chuckle had her grinding her back molars. He went on to say, “Yeah, well, take a good hard look; really study it, ‘cause, yeah, it could get you.” Heeding his advice, she straightened, but didn’t let go of the pole and really looked out into the current.
“Going back, the current’s strongest right in front of us on this bend. As soon as you get out, away from shore, you gotta set the rudder. You got to see the rudder there under the water. I don’t mean really see it, I just mean in your head, you gotta see it, imagine it sort’a, and point it right at Roscoe and Pete. Pull the pole all the way to your right, swing it hard. The ferry’ll start to turn, feel like it’s gonna break loose, head backward downstream, but it won’t. As soon as you’re out of the eddy, if you ease up, Roscoe and Pete will bring you on in.”
With his hands on his hips, Whit fell silent a moment before saying, “Oh yeah, I almost forgot, you gotta pull the bell twice when you cast off so the oxen can start pulling you across. Almost forgot.”
If she waited any longer, she’d lose her nerve, so Anora tugged twice on the leather thong to ring the bell signal.
Whit chuckled and sprinted to the end of the ferry at the landing. “That’s good, nice and loud, but you forgot to cast off the line and crank up the tongue.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“How is she? Did she say anything?” Paxton asked.
“Far as I could tell, she’s doing fine. And no,” Hank answered, for the third time since returning from a day working on the cabin. “No, she didn’t give me so much as a word. I said, ‘Good morning.’ Isabell and Molly said, ‘Hello Anora.’ And that’s that. With her hat pulled down so low, I couldn’t even see her face.
“It’s the same every time I go over there. It’s been two weeks since she left. I must’ve crossed the ferry a half dozen times, and she won’t speak to me. She talks to Molly and Isabell. The girls asked me, not Anora, if it would be okay if they stayed to help her plant a garden.”
“Those mean boys comed over there today,” Isabell said, skipping into the kitchen and scrambling onto her father’s lap. “Anora shot ’em.”
“What? Anora shot somebody?” On his feet, Paxton reached for his hat and coat. “You didn’t tell me about this. Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he said, swooping down on Hank while donning his coat.
Turning his back, shielding Isabell with his body, Hank said into her ear, “I asked you to let me tell your uncle.”
Adjusting Isabell on his thigh, Hank said before Paxton could leave, “Sit down. Stop acting like an ass and I’ll tell you what happened.”
With his hand on the doorknob of the back porch door, Paxton said, “Sit down? You want me to sit down? Anora shot someone and I’m supposed to sit down?”
Hank huffed, removing his daughter from his lap, transplanting her in the chair next to him, he passed her a piece of Mrs. Pooly’s spice cake. “You don’t want to go off half-cocked, Paxton. You better sit down. I’ll give you the details.”
Paxton, with his coat on, removed his hat and sat on the edge of his chair. “All right, I’m sitting.”
Hank nodded. “I asked Bill to send up some strong backs to help me set logs. He sent me the two Hemphill boys, and Homer Bowdin. The boys went up with me but left before I did. When they got to the ferry, from what Molly told me, they started fooling around and wouldn’t pay the fare. By Molly’s account, they wanted a kiss from her and a bit more from Anora. Things got a little rough. Anora disappeared inside the cabin and returned brandishing this big old double-barrel shotgun.”
Paxton opened his mouth to speak, Hank shook his head at him and said, “I don’t know where she got it. Anyway, from the porch, she aimed it between Homer’s legs. Gravel jumped up and hit him in the crotch.” Hank grinned. “Probably still burns. And the long and the short of it is, the boys paid their fare.
“I heard the shotgun blast, but by the time I arrived, she’d ferried the boys across, and started back. Molly, who admired Anora’s pluck, declared herself disappointed because, until today, she’d had a crush on Lyle Hemphill.”
Paxton leaned his elbows on the table and ran his hand over his smooth pate. Hank sat back and put his hands behind his head to say, “She’s not talking, Paxton, but she’s telling us a lot. She can handle it. When and if she needs our help, she’ll ask for it.”
“The Willa Jane, will be here in the morning.” Paxton said, shaking his head. “She better be ready. There’s talk the Willa Jane isn’t the only flat bottom, side-wheeler that will be making runs up here. This talk of gold in California, and the settlers coming here, there’s bound to be more river traffic. She better be ready.
“And that reminds me, what are you going to do with all the lumber you bought for the house?”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’ll be using some of it, but now I’m not going to build a big house, I can’t use all of it. I thought I’d put it up in a lot and sell it off as best I could. Might have to take some of it in trade.”
“Sell it to me?” Paxton asked, an eager gleam in his eyes.
“That depends on what you’re planning to do with it.”
“I’m going to build a hotel at the ferry landing.”
Hank picked up Isabell’s empty glass and marched across the room to pull down a clean coffee cup from a cupboard. He started to pick up the coffeepot, growled and slammed the pot down on the stove. The bang echoed throughout the room. “You want to use my lumber, the lumber I was going to use to build…your…sister a home, to grind Anora Claire Sennett into the ground.”
Chapter Thirty
Within a week of Paxton’s leaving, Hank and Isabell moved into their new home. A rock foundation, three feet tall, supported the log walls and the puncheon log floor. Log beams spanned the ceiling above the open room and the mammoth-sized, stone hearth. On the other end of the dwelling, Hank had created a loft where Isabell would sleep, and below, a sleeping alcove for himself.
The day they moved in, Hank slept solidly throughout the entire night-the first night of good sleep since Lydia’s death. He’d made the table, chairs, rocker, and the settee that sat before the fire. With the money from the sale of the wood, he’d bought pots, pans, food, lamps, and put in a well.
This would be his and Isabell’s home, not the home of the good folks who’d taken him in, or his brother-in-law’s home, but his home, the home he’d built with his own two hands.
Isabell put on a brave front, even smiling and laughing, excited to find she had to climb a ladder to get to her bed. He’d allowed her to bring her pink comforter and her feather pillow, assuring her that her uncle wouldn’t mind at all, he’d want her to have them. He promised he’d ask Paxton about the vanity; Isabell would need that as she grew older.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Willa Jane, her side-wheel slapping the water, pulled into Takenah before noon. The ferry, from the other side of the river, waited for the side-wheeler to dock before departing with a full load-a covered wagon, a team of oxen, and two milk cows, accompanied by a large pioneer family.
Hauling a heavy burden, the ferry sat low in the water. Hank arrived at the landing in time to greet Paxton and welcome his new bride.
In the middle of the river, Anora maneuvered the ferry through the current, and her skill filled him with pride. She’d come a long way from the cowering, whimpering, beaten young woman of only a few months ago. Looking right at him, she brought the rickety raft, laughingly referred to as a ferry, alongside the side-wheeler.
Paxton, standing beside him, said to no one in particular, “Well, it’s clear she doesn’t need us anymore, Hank.”
Taking his bride by her gloved hand, supporting her as she minced her way down the ramp of the Willa Jane and onto shore, Paxton said, “Melinda, come, I want you to meet someone.”
Uneasy, suspicious of Paxton’s motives, Hank trailed behind the newlyweds, sidestepping the passenger traffic. A large woman in a blousy, red and green tartan plaid dress, a faded green poke bonnet on her head shielding her face, created a delay in the introduction.
“Don’t you be telling me not to be scared, Levi,” the nervous pioneer mother said. “After the stories we heard about them poor Whitmans’, Christian folks ain’t safe. And none of them red devils is to be trusted. Sure, they’re over there, looking peaceful, with their fires and babies, but any moment they could turn on us and we’d be butchered or maybe taken captive to slave for them the rest of our days.”
“Mother,” the man said, hitching up his black canvas trousers, then setting his sweat-soaked hat more squarely on his head, “they didn’t even look at us. They were picking flowers, for Christ’s sake. They was minding their own business. Now they’re over there and we’re over here. We’re all safe and sound. Them Indians ain’t the first or the last Indians we’re gonna see. You’re gettin’ the little ones all scared with your talk.”
“Levi James Spinney, you’ll go to hell takin’ the blessed Lord’s name in vain that-a-way,” the wife said, which started a new quarrel between them as they set off up the track going toward Takenah.
Shielding his bride, Paxton, with his arm protectively about Melinda’s waist, stood aside to let them pass. When he turned to confront Anora, who had followed the couple to the tongue of the ferry to set the moor line, she looked him square in the eye, a smile twitching the corners of her lips. Hank had all he could do not to bust out laughing.
A scowl on his face, Paxton pressed forward, taking his bride with him.
Petite, blue-eyed, Melinda Sue Archer, now Mrs. Hayes, curly, sandy colored hair escaping from her straw bonnet, freckles on the bridge of her upturned nose, stood ram-rod straight, her gloved hands folded tightly to her corseted waist. The young woman, only seventeen, Paxton had said in his letter, announcing his nuptials, had been taking care of her father’s affairs of business and his home since the age of twelve. Still, Hank questioned Paxton’s choice.
Her pink lips pursed, nose pinched up in disapproval, Melinda approached Anora with all the enthusiasm of one about to shake hands with a pig. Hank took an instant dislike to her.
Paxton introduce the two females and stood back. Hank didn’t know what he expected, but he didn’t expect Melinda to go on the attack. Neither female extended a hand. Anora tucked in her chin, eyes unwavering from the young woman’s face.
Expelling her breath, at last the new Mrs. Hayes deigned to speak. “Mr. Hayes spoke well of you, Mrs. Talbot. However, when he told me of your decision to run this…this ferry by yourself, I had misgivings as to your character. To be truthful, I half expected to find you in men’s trousers and spitting tobacco.”
Drawing herself up to her full height of five-foot-two, the young matron continued on her theme. “This is no occupation for a lady, Mrs. Talbot. This is man’s work. Mr. Hayes has made you an offer, and I do hope, in time, you will reconsider. I understand you recently helped when dear Mr. Hayes lost his sister. That was very Christian of you. You have fine eyes, and beneath that atrocious costume, I’m sure there’s a fine figure. I’m here now, and you must allow me to guide you, Mrs. Talbot. I shall pray for you.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Isabel, exhausted from working, gathering, and playing with the other children, fell asleep in the middle of telling Anora about the pretty flowers she’d picked. After sleeping soundly for a couple of hours, wrapped in a blanket on the floor of the shack, she ran off to help gather more wood for the fires.
Traffic had slowed by the end of the day. Deserted, the Willa Jane bobbed beside the dock at the Takenah Landing.
Beside her shack, Anora sat mending the hem of her denim dress. Hands stuffed down deep into his pockets, Grandpa Joe sauntered over, squatted on the ground, folded his legs Indian style, and said, “I come over to talk a bit. Want to hear how you come to be here.”
Anticipating the question, dreading the moment he would ask, she set aside her sewing, deciding to tell him everything she could remember of what had happened to her aunt and herself. At the end of her tale, unlike Whit’s dismissive response, Joe Comstock wept with regret. “Should’a never left you there. Thought for sure Ruben set out right after we did. Guess he’d planned on gettin’ behind, that’a way there’d be no one to doubt his telling of the tragedy. Whit and me should’a loaded you and your aunt onto our raft, that’s what we should’a done. We talked about it…should’a done it.
“I knew Carrie was gettin’ a rough time from the bastard. I seen the bruises. Pretty little thing, your Aunt Carrie. I never saw him hit her. Ruben made sure of that. What I didn’t know for real certain, was he after you. Sometimes I saw him lookin’ your way like you was a piece of fresh meat, and he a starvin’ cat, but then he’d turn ‘round and call you clumsy, or plain as a rock, and I’d think he didn’t have no use for you.
“I sure never would’ve thought he’d murder anybody on purpose, maybe beat a body till they died, but not plot it out careful. Mean-hell, yes. But there were others on that wagon train…Mrs. Howard, now I saw with my own eyes her old man kick her teeth out, then he made her get up his supper right in front of a passel of folks. I wouldn’t put it past that son-of-a-bitch to kill, not for a second.”
Anora surprised herself by saying, hardly waiting for Joe to finish speaking, “I think Ruben murdered my mother and father too. I keep remembering things. Their illness came on right after supper. Ruben knew they liked cider. He never shared any of his lidid fool everyone.”
The old man looked around. “You said the skunk left…why are you still here? Ain’t you afraid of what he’ll do when he comes back? You best be gone, darlin’. You come on with us. We’ll be moving in a day or so. He won’t find you where we’re goin’.”
Uncoiling himself, Joe sprang to his feet and paced back and forth outside the shack door. Stopping to kick a stone he said, “I don’t see how that grandson of mine could up and leave you here to work that darn contraption. This ferrying business is a lot of work for a man; you’re a slip of a girl, gal-darn-it. I’m gonna give him what-for if I ever get the chance to clap my eyes on his good-for-nothing hide again.”
Rising from her stool, Anora said, “Don’t be too hard on him. I didn’t really want him to stay. It was good to see him, talk to him. I…I’d already started to get my memory back. Whit forced me to get back up on my own two feet and fight.”
Silence hung between them, unspoken regrets left unsaid. Anora took one of his rough, warm, veined hands in hers and looked him in the eyes. “I can’t leave. I believe Ruben bought this ferry and the land with my father’s money. He took my mother’s jewelry. Everything I have is here. We were going to have this together, Mama, Papa, and me. I’m going to hang on to it for them. I can’t, I won’t, let go of this. If Ruben comes back,” she closed her eyes and shook her head, “when…he comes, I’ll have to face him. I’ll never be free of him if I don’t.”
Their gazes locked, Joe patted her hand. “You’ve grown old too soon, your youth stolen from you. You’re in your prime, a fine-lookin’ girl. Hell, you should be kickin’ up your heels, breakin’ hearts, makin’ babies; instead you’ve chained yourself to this hard course. I know better than to try to talk you out of what you think you gotta do. But know this, you got a friend in me, and as long as I’m alive, if you need a place to run, I’ll take you in, no questions asked. We’ll be back this way in a few months. We’ll be down in the valley here for a time to stock up on game. I’m right glad to have caught up with you again. Keep in mind, I’m gonna be worried about you, how you are, what you’re doin’. You have a look out for yourself.”
“Oh, Grandpa Joe,” Anora said, falling into his arms. “It’s going to be hard when you’re gone. I know you don’t want to leave me here, but I’m going to be fine.”
After a moment, both shedding tears, Joe removed himself, saying, “No time to stand around blubbering, got to help with the wood gatherin’ and settin’ up for the celebration. I gotta tune up my fiddle and rosin up my bow. I haven’t played in a while. I hope my fingers remember what to do.”
Anora, keeping an eye out for Hank, walked down to the water’s edge. Isabell came running down to her. “Mary says to tell you the meat’s done.”
“Good, I’m hungry.”
“Me too. Where’s Papa?”
“I’m going to take the ferry across and wait for him. You go back, stay close to Grandpa Joe and Mary.”
Head down, Anora drew a line in the sandy bank with the toe of her shoe, thoughts of Hank on her mind. Afraid and frustrated, refusing to speak, she’d taken her anger out on him and Paxton. She hadn’t been mad at Hank, not really. She’d put distance between them to avoid heartache. But she reserved the right to stay irked with Paxton, pleased he’d never fully understand why.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hank wasted no time taking Anora up on her offer to teach him how to cook. Even with Grandpa Joe and his tribe in residence, Hank and Isabell showed up every evening in time for a cooking lesson. And sometimes they shared a meal with Joe and the others, but many evenings it was just the three of them sitting around Anora’s table, eating whatever he and Anora had put together. Those times, he cherished. After Grandpa Joe and his tribe departed, Anora told him to his face, she was glad they were neighbors. In no time, she let him know she anticipated his arrival, thinking up menus and dishes he could tackle. She’d relaxed considerably, but he limited the touching to a minimum. She still tensed if he put a hand on her shoulder or over her hand, but she no longer moved away.
At sunset, the evening of the Fourth of July, the sounds of gunfire and fireworks echoed up and down the river. Hank, with Isabell, had come down intending to act as Anora’s escort to the festivities.
“No, I’m too tired,” she said, turning him down flat. “I haven’t eaten since dawn. Folks kept coming by wagon and foot, I haven’t had a minute to myself. It’s a lovely, warm evening; all I want to do is sit here on the porch and enjoy my solitude.”
A loud boom rattled the cabin window behind her. Isabell tucked herself into his side, and the black and white pup that had followed them from home jumped around, barking in protest of the racket.
“We’ll join you, then. Isabell’s not fond of loud noises and neither is her pup. I’m sure they’d rather stay here and play in your yard.”
Leaning down, Hank ruffled the pup’s ears, one black and one white. “That sound okay with you, Mick?”
Anora held out her arms, and Isabell climbed onto her lap. “The noise makes me nervous too,” she said, her lips touching the top of little girl’s head.
Looking to Hank, she said, “If you want to go, Isabell and Mick can stay here with me. Take the ferry over. Roscoe and Pete are still yoked in the style. Just don’t let Paxton know you ran the ferry, and not me.”
Making himself comfortable on the edge of the porch, he threw a stick for Mick to fetch. The pup raced off to get it but didn’t bring it back, instead, laid down and started shredding it to bits. Isabell bounced off Anora’s lap and ran out to find another stick for the dog not to bring back. Hank shook his head at the silly pair. He put his arm around Anora, resting his hand not on her person but on the porch floor.
“Let me be your friend, Anora? My arm is around you to give you comfort. I expect nothing. I’m not asking for anything from you. You’re all folded in, but you need to talk and I’m here to listen. Now, why would you think Paxton would object to my running the ferry for myself, especially after the long day you’ve put in?” She sighed and slumped, even going so far as to rest her head on his shoulder. He felt like crowing, instead he took a shallow breath and kept very still.
“I don’t want to give him, or the town council, an excuse to take the ferry away from me. I’m aware of the talk, Hank.” She straightened but didn’t pull away. Hands pleating the skirt of her dress, she continued. “They’re calling it the Widow’s Ferry now.I’ve been warned.”
“C’mon, food, that’ll fix you up. Did you have anything in mind for your supper? How’s your larder? I could make us some flapjacks and eggs? You’ve taught me well. I’ve mastered biscuits, pie crust, and flapjacks.”
Isabell, the dog at her heels, dashed forward, leaping up the steps. “I know how to ‘cramble eggs now. Papa lets me beat ’em up.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Riding in front of Hank, his arm around her waist, Anora sat sideways in the saddle. The church’s ten-foot steeple and bell tower could be seen from the rise above the ferry landing. Speared by the rays of the setting sun, the four arched, stained glass windows blazed a fiery gold.
Across the road from the Hayes’ house, in a small clearing surrounded on three sides by oak and maple trees, stood the newly erected Congregational Church and Takenah School.
The crowd had bunched up, hugging the shade. Paralyzed at the prospect of facing these people, Anora couldn’t stop staring. If it weren’t for Hank’s arm around her waist, she would’ve slid off the horse and hid behind the hedge.
“You should see the inside, if you think the outside is impressive,” Hank said, his lips brushing her ear. “They’ve built a double row of eight pews. The builder attached hinged desktops on the backs of the pews, enough for twenty-five children. With my own eyes, I saw two wooden crates full of hymnals and Bibles, two boxes of readers, two boxes of slate boards, and a full box of white chalk. I’ve never seen so many books in one place, except in a library.
“There’s a little cottage for our new spiritual leader on the other side of the church. The roof needs shakes, and the windows aren’t in place. The good reverend’s staying with Paxton and Melinda for the time being.
“Gregson donated the stained glass windows, and the leaded glass windows for the house. Paxton donated the lumber and shakes for the roof, and boards for the pews and alter. Charley Hemphill owned the land. He signed it off to the church and the city. Three whole acres, more than enough space for a cemetery.”
Isabell ran up to them before Hank could pull his horse up to the hitching post in front of Paxton’s house.
“Anora, your hair, you look like that girl in the picture book…Rapunzel,” said Isabell, darting back and forth in front of the horse, oohing and awing, admiring her hair.
“Papa, the boys are lining up for the log-chopping contest. You said you wanted to see that.
“Did you bring your bread, Anora? Your bread with the cheese?”
Hank stood with one foot in the stirrup and dismounted. With his hands going to Anora’s waist, he lowered her to the ground. Sliding down the length of him, inches from his body, heat rose from within her. Lightheaded, blushing, she put her hands on his chest to keep herself from falling against him. He dropped his hands from her waist but didn’t retreat an inch.
Self-conscious, she brushed her skirts down and said to Isabell, “I brought the bread and the cheese, it’s in the basket., but I need your opinion.” Squatting a little so Isabell had a good view of her face, she posed the question, “I put cornstarch on my face so I wouldn’t look so burnt, can you tell?”
Isabell stopped jumping around, getting very close, eyes narrowed she examined Anora’s face. “Wait ‘til I tell Molly,” she whispered. “She’s got bumps, red ones. She said she wished she could make them disappear. She wanted to buy some potion she saw in a magazine she found at Aunt Melinda’s, but her mama wouldn’t give her the money. Cornstarch works better.”
Anora put her hands on Isabell’s little shoulders and spoke to her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and kissed Isabell on the nose.
“I told you so,” Hank said, coming up behind her, his arm going around her waist.
“Molly and Carolyn won the three-legged race,” said Isabell. “They won me hair ribbons, Papa. See, they gave me the blue one.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The moon, directly overhead, big and orange, cast the meadow in a milky-blue light. The grass, cooling in the night air, created a heady, sweet fragrance. The sound of the crickets’ chorus followed them down the empty street. Nearing the river, four deer bounded across the open field, moonlight glancing off their white-tailed rumps.
Hank urged the horse down the track to the landing. At his side, Anora, with Isabell cradled on her lap, remained quiet and withdrawn.
Sitting up very straight, her body leaning into him, sounding shaky, her voice hoarse, Anora said, “The water’s very black. I’ve never crossed the river in the dark.”
He handed her the reins. “You can stay in the buggy with Isabell. I’ll get us across.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather get down. I’ll hold the horse.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“Hank?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you. I’ve never loved anyone before. I wish…I wish…I wish I was…I was untouched for you.”
Feeling her shame, he groaned. “As far as I’m concerned, I know I am the first man you’ve ever known, or will be, once we get all of this behind us. You’re mine, Anora. You’ve never been anyone else’s, and I am yours, all yours. Goodnight.”
“Good night, Hank.”
Chapter Forty
About the Author
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