A Lantern in the Window (4 page)

Once there, he tended to
the horses in the bam, threw hay down for the livestock and,
finally, headed for the house. For the first time, he didn’t feel
his usual pleasure and anticipation about coming home. He was
troubled more than he cared to admit about the forthcoming scene
with the woman inside.

As he climbed the porch
steps and opened the door, he remembered something a friend had
said about a neighbor’s marital trouble: “Marry in haste, repent at
leisure.”

Noah’s mouth twisted in a
bitter smile as he opened the door. It seemed there was a lot of
truth to the old saw after all.

He wasn't sure exactly
what he expected, but to his immense relief, all was quiet,
peaceful, and blessedly warm inside. The room was tidy, and the
table was set for his meal.

There was silence from his
father’s room and no sign of the younger girl. Annie was curled in
a ball on the sofa, sound asleep.

The door banged when he
closed it. She let out a small cry of alarm and sat bolt upright,
sleepy green eyes wide and startled.

She was wearing a clean
but rumpled blue checked dress, and her hair was even wilder than
before, curling in fiery disarray around her face and neck. She
reached up to tidy it, and he couldn’t help but notice the slight,
delicate curves of her body.

She wasn’t wearing shoes
or slippers; all she had on her narrow, long feet were white cotton
stockings that seemed more mends than fabric. There was a fragility
about her that threatened to soften the hardness in his heart if he
weren’t careful.

“Hello.” He bent to remove
his boots. He hung his coat and hat up and made his way to the
washstand, rolling up shirt and underwear sleeves and lathering his
face, neck, and arms thoroughly. He tugged a comb through his
thick, tangled hair without so much as a glance in the wavy mirror
on the wall above the basin.

He didn’t give a damn what
she thought about the way he looked, he told himself
sternly.

“I put Bets to bed in the
room at the top of the

stairs. I hope that’s all
right,” she said.

He nodded. “It was my
father’s room. I had to move him down when the first housekeeper
came. Her legs were bad and she couldn’t climb up and down the
steps.” He didn't add that the little room his father now occupied
had once belonged to his baby son. He’d packed the cradle and the
tiny clothing, along with Molly's things, up to the attic and never
set foot there again.

"You have a lovely house,”
she said shyly, and added, “Your dinner’s waiting.”

She’d set a place for him
at the table, and now she filled a bowl with hot soup and put
sliced bread in front of him. “You want coffee?”

"Yes, please.” He’d grown
accustomed to serving himself. It was pleasant to have her see to
his needs.

She filled a cup from the
enamel pot on the back of the stove and set it before him along
with a pitcher of milk. When his needs were tended to, she poured
herself coffee as well and took the chair opposite him at the
table.

"The storm’s stopped,” she
said in a conversational tone.

"Yes, it’s died down.
Temperature’s dropping, though. It’ll be a cold night.”

Obviously, she’d decided
to postpone serious discussion until after he’d eaten, and he was
grateful. He was as hungry as a wolf. He spooned in the delicious
soup, sopping up the juice with thick slabs of bread. She sipped
her coffee and refilled his soup bowl before he could ask, and once
she got up and restocked the heater. In spite of himself, he
noticed how quick she was, lithe and light on her feet.

When at last he was
comfortably full, he sat back with a second mug of coffee,
wondering just where to begin, and while he pondered, she bested
him.

"I made your father’s
acquaintance,” she said in a quiet tone. "He wanted water, and when
I brought it, he spilled it and threw the glass at me. I didn’t
clean up the splinters. I was afraid he might take it in his head
to hit me with that cane if I ventured back in there. He’s not very
easy to get on with.”

So instead of accusing her
the way he’d planned, Noah somehow found himself on the defensive.
"My father had a stroke just before Christmas. Before that, he was
a strong and independent man.”

He’d also been Noah’s best
friend. “He finds it hard to be bedridden and helpless.”

She gave him a level look.
"I can understand that. It’s a terrible thing to depend on other
people for everything. But you didn’t tell me how sick he really
was, in your letters. You said he was in ill health, but I took
that to mean he’d get better. Is he going to?”

He blew out his breath and
shook his head, holding her gaze. It was hard to put into words,
hard to believe even after all these months, that his father had
become the pitiful, angry man in the bed in the other room. The
agony in Noah's heart made it hard to speak. “No. This is pretty
much how it’s going to be, according to Doc
Witherspoon.”

She nodded slowly, a frown
creasing her brow. "And he needs a whole lot of caring for.” It
wasn’t a question.

A muscle in Noah’s jaw
twitched as he saw the direction this was taking. "Yes, he does.”
His voice was dangerously quiet. She wasn't about to have this her
own way. He took control again, his voice harsh. “And I don't
suppose you know any more about taking care of sick folks than you
do about farming,” he said.

“Matter
of fact, I do.” She lifted her chin and looked him square in the
eye. "My mama was sick for two years before she died, and between
us Bets and I cared for her as well as we knew. The last few
months, she couldn’t get out of bed
either.”

“And where was your
father?” He watched her closely, wondering how he’d even know if
she was lying again.

She met his eyes, honest
and forthright, and her full lips tightened. Her expression made
her look much older suddenly. "He was drunk, mostly. He wasn’t
mean, like some who drink, just sad and useless. He never could
keep a job very long.”

Noah knew of men who
drank. He enjoyed a whisky now and then, but along with all the
other things Zach had taught him was a respect for spirits and what
they could do to a man.

"How did you
live?”

“My mama was a seamstress,
a good one. She managed to feed us and pay the rent until she got
sick,” Annie said. “Then I got the job in the factory, and that
helped. But after Mama died, I couldn’t manage any more to feed us
and pay the rent, so Bets had to start working too.” A haunted look
came and went on her face. "Bets isn't as strong as me. The air’s
bad in a factory, and she coughed a lot.”

She interpreted the look
on his face and added defensively, "She isn’t an invalid, honest.
All she needs is some fresh air and good food, and she’ll be fine
again. She hasn’t got consumption, or anything bad like
that.”

He didn’t comment, because
he had his doubts. Instead, he went doggedly on. “You said in one
letter that your father was dead. Is that true?” What if her sop of
a n’er-do-well father turned up, looking to Noah to support him? He
shuddered. There were aspects to this proxy marriage that Noah had
never thought about till now.

But she answered promptly,
and unless she was an accomplished actress, Noah was convinced she
was being honest.

“Papa’s been dead four
years now. He fell and hit his head one night coming from the
tavern, and he died the next day.”

It was a relief to hear
it, although naturally Noah didn’t say so.

“Who taught you to read and
write?” He’d been impressed by her letter-writing ability, and he
found himself liking the proper way she talked. She sounded
educated, a rare thing in a woman of her background.

“My mama taught both my
sister and me,” she said proudly. "Her father was a schoolteacher.
He taught her. We had books.”

“Reading’s fine, but do you
know how to cook?” He was plain fed up with the meals he was forced
to throw together. They’d given him a new respect for good
food.

She hesitated. “Some. A
little. Plain food, mostly. We never had money for anything fancy.
Bets is real good at making soup.”

“You said you grew up on a
farm,” he went on relentlessly. “You talked of making butter, of
milking cows, of growing a garden.” More lies, he reminded himself
again. “How’d you know what to say about those things?”

She looked down at the
table, her finger circling a mark on the cloth. “I have a good
friend, our landlady, Elinora Potts. Elinora grew up on a farm. She
helped me.” She raised her eyes and met his accusing gaze with
rebellious courage. “See, I’d answered three other advertisements
before yours, and I was truthful in them, and not one man wrote
back to me.”

So he’d been the bottom of
the barrel. It wasn't exactly flattering, but somehow it amused
him.

"Don’t you see, Mr.
Ferguson, I just had to get Bets out of there?” she went on, her
voice trembling. "She’d have
died
."
She leaned her arms on the table and bent towards him, intent
on making him understand. “Have you ever been inside a cotton
factory, Mr. Ferguson?”

He shook his head no. He
was intrigued by the fierce passion in her voice, the fire
smoldering in her green eyes. Against his will, he was drawn to
her. Whatever else she was, she was wholly alive and very female,
this Annie.

She didn’t seem to notice
that he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Cotton factories aren’t
healthy. The air's full of lint, it’s hot all the time; a shift’s
twelve hours with only a few minutes for lunch, and you’ve got to
pay close attention every second. Many girls are injured or killed
at the machines. Wintertime, you never see daylight at all.” She
tapped a forefinger against her chest. “Me, I’m tough.”

The assertion made Noah
want to smile. She sat there, in her washed-out blue dress, her
body so thin it seemed a good wind would blow her away.

“I got used to it. But
Bets—” her eyes welled with sudden tears and she brushed them away
with her palm. “She’s my baby sister, Mr. Ferguson. I promised Mama
I’d take care of her." There was a desperate plea in her voice, and
Noah couldn’t help the flood of sympathy her words
aroused.

"When I saw your
advertisement, it felt like a last chance to save her. I—I was
scared. She was coughing all the time. She’s all I have for family.
So I”— the rest of the sentence burst out in a flurry of
words—“well, that’s why I wasn't honest in most of what I told
you.”

In spite of himself, her
story touched him, but he didn’t let any of what he felt show on
his face. A great deal depended on the next few moments, and he
didn’t want to make a mistake that would be hard to
rectify.

He narrowed his eyes at
her, and his voice was deliberately harsh. "The last thing I need
is another invalid in this house. Life out here in the West is
tough. It takes able-bodied people all their time just to survive.
Far as I can see, you didn’t give much thought to that when you
brought your sister here. There’s drought and frost and pestilence,
hail storms that can level a man’s crops. There’s wild animals and
Indians that can kill him and his family. There’s no one to call on
for help. It’s a half-day’s drive into town and an hour and a half
just to get to the Hopkins place. Ranching is backbreaking hard
work for everybody. Come spring, I’ll be in the fields from sunup
to sundown."

"I told you I was a good
worker,” she pleaded. "I’ll prove it if you give me a chance. Just
tell me what you need done, and I’ll do my best."

“I don’t want any
misunderstandings about how hard it will be.” Noah drew in a breath
and let it out again. "You’ve seen how my father is,” he said
deliberately. "I’d expect you to take good care of him in spite of
his temper. You’d have to tend to all the household chores, the
chickens, the garden, the pigs. If I can’t get a hired hand, I’ll
need you to help with haying in the fall. My advice would be to
take your sister and hightail it back to the city.”

She stared at him, waiting
for him to go on. When he didn’t she said in a hesitant tone,
"You’re trying to scare me off, aren’t you? You’re leaving it for
me to decide whether we should stay or go.”

Noah nodded. "I am. And
now that you know exactly how it would be, seems to me you should
give some serious thought to leaving.”

She eyed him warily, as if
there were a trap here somewhere. “But you’re not sending us
back?”

He shook his head. “I
can’t say I’m entirely happy with the way things turned out, but
the simple fact is, I need help. I need a wife.” It was the raw,
honest truth.

She looked into his face,
her wide-spaced eyes somber. After a moment she lifted her chin and
said firmly, “Then we’re staying. I'm used to hard work, like I
said. Besides,” she added as her eyes dropped to the oilcloth and
her voice became suddenly less certain than before, "we—we’re
married, you and I, before God.”

He nodded. “We are that.”
Something inside him eased, relieved at her words.