A Lantern in the Window (6 page)

At least she knew why he’d
pulled back like that. Again, Elinora had explained. "You know
about babies, pet, and how they’re made. A clever girl like you
doesn’t work with a hundred others and not come by that
information,” she’d begun, going on to explain to an astonished
Annie how men and women prevented them.

She’d described the
technique Noah had just used, but she’d advised Annie not to rely
on her husband in this matter.

"Out in that wilderness,
he's likely to want a passel of young 'uns, so don’t count on him
being any help,” she’d warned Annie. "Farmers need a big family to
help with the work. But a woman don’t last long when she carries a
baby every year. You have to take care of yourself in such things,
my girl. There are female preventatives you can use to make sure
one child’s well grown before another’s planted, and if you’re
clever, he don’t ever need to know.”

Annie had cringed at the
thought of still another deception. She’d already told so many lies
that she could hardly remember all of them, and preventing babies
seemed so unnecessary.

"I
want
babies, Elinora,” she’d protested. "I
want lots of babies.”

“More fool you,” Elinora
had snorted. "Wait until you know for certain what sort of man he
really is.” And so, in Annie's trunk, hidden among her petticoats,
was the device Elinora had given her, a sponge with a string
attached, and directions for a vinegar solution.

It didn’t look as if she’d
need to make use of it, however. If tonight was any indication, it
seemed that Noah and Elinora were of one mind, whether they
realized it or not. He wasn't taking any chance that she’d get with
child, and it made her feel empty, diminished in some unexplainable
fashion.

Gradually, Annie’s weary
body began to relax in the strange bed, beside the man who was now
her husband in more than name.

Careful not to disturb
him, she turned on her side and curled into a ball, sorely missing
Bets’s warm body close against her back.

A log fell in the heater,
and outside the dog barked in response to a far-off, unearthly
howling. Annie shivered, thinking of the miles of wilderness that
surrounded this place, and how totally dependent she and Bets were
on the strong man sleeping beside her.

She hated being dependent
on anyone. She’d never felt as lonely in her entire life as she did
at this moment, not even when her mother had died.

But she would get used to
it, Annie told herself fiercely, trying to ignore the tears that
trickled down her face and soaked the pillow. It was a chance for a
different sort of life, the only chance she and her sister might
ever have.

She’d gotten used to the
factory, and she’d been only a little girl when she started there.
She’d gotten used to taking care of her sick mother, to being
solely responsible for Bets. She fished for her handkerchief,
tucked under the pillow, and softly blew her nose.

She’d get used to this
man. She’d get used to being his second wife, chosen not by love,
but by necessity.

All she needed was
time.

March 26, 1886

Medicine Hat, Northwest
Territories

Dear, dear
Elinora,

Your first letter just
reached me, and I’m so glad to have it, and am answering forthwith
because I have many things to tell you and twice as many other
troublesome matters for which I long for your
assistance.

First, I shall try to
answer your questions.

Yes, Bets is over
the grippe, and although she still coughs a lot, she is much
improved. As to the weather, there is still a great deal of snow on
the ground, but some days are quite tolerable
—
one can now visit the outhouse
without frostbite!

You ask about the view,
and I have to smile. There’s a great deal of nothing at all, empty,
rolling plains and vast sky and precious few trees. As I’m sure I
mentioned in my first letter, the ranch is situated only a short
distance from the South Saskatchewan River, and Noah says there are
willows along it which turn quite green in summer, but for now,
everything is white, although sunrise and sunset are quite
wonderful on days when the sky is clear.

As
for me, my
health is good, as always, but oh, my dear Elinora, sometimes (at
least a dozen times each day) I fear I’m not suited to this
ranching life at all.

My first week here, Noah
took me outside to show me what "chores’’ would be mine, and for
the first time in my entire life, I encountered cows and chickens
and pigs and horses. I was, and am still, utterly terrified of all
of them, although I do my best not to appear so to Noah. He seems
to find my ignorance amusing, at least outdoors, and the surprising
thing is that Bets doesn’t share any of my concerns. She is quite
at home around the animals in the barnyard. Noah has even promised
to teach her to ride a horse when spring comes, and he’s given her
a kitten whom she’s named Tar.

With me, it's quite a
different story. He’s trying to teach me to milk, but the cow hates
me and either slaps me across the face with her tail or
deliberately puts her filthy foot in the pail.

One rooster with a
terrible disposition lies in wait to chase me, jumping on my back
and pecking every time I step out the door, and I now carry an
empty pail so that I can drop it over him, putting a heavy stone on
top, thereby trapping him until Noah comes and sets him
loose again. If only I had the stomach for it,
I’d serve the beast up as Sunday dinner! (The rooster, not
Noah.)

As
for
horses, I had no idea how large they are up close. And pigs—dear
Elinora, is it true they have a tendency to
eat
their young, or is Noah having a joke at my
expense? Jake, the old dog, is the only animal with whom I feel a
true kinship.

Inside the house,
things are not a whole lot better. Because you took such fine care
of us and I worked so many years in the factory, there’s a great
deal I don’t know about housewifery. I feel the ghost of Noah's
first wife watching me with disapproval as I dust her house and
scrub her floors and try to cook on her stove. (That reminds
me,
do
you have a reliable recipe
for making bread? I’ve tried, but the results of my efforts are not
edible, to say the least. Even the chickens refused the last
attempt, and as you probably know, chickens eat anything at
all.)

I know all too well that
Noah compares me to that other wife and finds me wanting. Last
week, I rearranged some small items on the sideboard, and although
he didn’t say anything, he soon put them all back just the way she
must have had them.

Enough of this
whining. There is also good news. Elinora, I can hardly believe it
myself. You remember my last letter was filled with the
difficulties of caring for Noah’s father? Well, a near miracle has
occurred, and it's thanks to Bets. She’s befriended the old man and
is teaching him her sign language, and his disposition is improved
beyond belief now that he can communicate. The two of them have
endless games of
checkers, and Bets is
always able to understand what he needs and
wants.

Taken altogether, my dear
friend, I have been more than fortunate with this “adventure,” as
you label it. Noah is the most generous of husbands. He took me to
town last week and insisted I buy warmer clothing for Bets and for
myself, and he eats whatever I prepare without complaint and thanks
me politely for my attentions to his father. If at times lonely
tears drip into the dishwater and I long for the kind of romance I
used to moon over in my beloved dime novels, I remind myself that
Noah could have been fat and ugly, with warts on his chin, a
bulbous nose, and a mean nature.

Instead, as I told you, he
actually resembles those mythical old-fashioned heroes, tall and
strong and handsome. And, unfortunately, silent most of the time.
He’s not a talker, and I needn’t remind you, Elinora, that I am.
He’s kind, he’s unfailingly polite, and he’s unnaturally quiet. At
times I even wish he’d lose his temper and rage at me, but he’s far
too controlled for such excess of emotion.

I can hear you telling me
to count my blessings, and you’re right, of course.

And now, enough of me. Are
you well? Are the new girls behaving themselves? Is Fanny still
with you? I know she doesn’t read, or I would write to her. Give
her my regards, and tell her that although I don’t miss the
factory, I do miss her.

I miss you too, dear
Elinora, more than I can ever say. I feel so far away from you. I
wonder, shall we ever again share a cup of tea and a wicked
gossip?

Write soon. I love
you.

Your old friend with a new
name, Annie Ferguson.

April arrived.

The weather improved, and
one windy day in midmonth, Annie awoke with laundry on her mind.
Blankets, sheets, curtains, clothing; she suddenly wanted
everything clean for spring.

"After breakfast I’ll need
your help in getting your father up, Noah,” she announced as soon
as she opened her eyes. “So I can change those filthy sheets on his
bed. I need to do a big wash. Could you help me bring water in from
the well to fill the copper washtubs and set them to heating?"
Inspired, she added, "Also, Mr. Ferguson sorely needs a bath, and
he could also do with a haircut and a shave.”

It was the beginning of a
long, hard, satisfying day.

Alone in the bedroom late
that night, Annie sank deeper into the old tin tub, letting the
hot, soapy water soothe the ache in her arms and shoulders and ease
the tension in her back from bending over a washboard hour after
hour.

Ooohhh, this was
heaven.

Her hands were raw from
scrubbing, and the entire house smelled of soap powder and garments
fresh from the clothesline.

Weary as she was, there
was an enormous sense of accomplishment in what she’d done today.
For once, everything had gone perfectly.

Every sheet, every towel,
every sock in the house was clean and dry and folded. Next door,
Zachary Ferguson slept in a fresh and sweet-smelling bed. He was
bathed, shaved, trimmed, and wearing a fresh nightshirt, and he
looked a different man.

She’d said as much to Noah
and gotten a quiet nod in return.

There was a tap at the door, and she
jerked upright in the tub and then hurriedly ducked beneath the
suds again as Noah came into the room, carrying a kettle. The
candle on the dresser flickered as the door closed behind him,
sending long shadows up the walls. He towered over her, and
instinctively she folded her arms across her naked breasts. She was
still shy about having him see her unclothed.

"I thought you could do with some more
hot water,” he said matter of factly. "Pull your feet back and I'll
pour it in.”

She’d never felt as exposed in her
life. She could feel her whole upper body flushing as she curled
her legs up and he slowly poured the steaming water into the
tub.

“
Thank you," she said
weakly, waiting for him to go back into the other room.

But he stayed, looking down at her
with such raw, kindling passion in his dark eyes that her heart
began to hammer against her ribs and her breath caught in her
throat. Slowly, daringly, she let her arms fall into the water,
leaving her pink-tipped breasts exposed to his view.

"I thought maybe you’d let me wash
your back," he said, and now there was no coolness in his voice.
Indeed, its rough warmth seemed to stroke over Annie's bare skin,
leaving a tingling trail of anticipation in its wake.

She gave a tremulous nod, and
deliberately, never taking his eyes from her, he rolled his sleeves
up past the elbow and knelt on the braided rug.

Noah lathered the cloth. He started
slowly, at her neck, where tendrils of curly red hair were escaping
the untidy bun on the top of her head. Her skin was gold-tinged in
the candlelight, the back of her neck as fragile as a flower
stalk.

Damn it all. He’d struggled with
himself, trying to resist her these past weeks. He didn’t want to
desire her the way he did; he didn’t want the thought of her to
haunt him every waking moment. She wasn't the woman he loved, but
he was forced to admit she was a woman he desired, a woman who
intrigued and amused him with her quick-witted remarks, her
contagious giggle, her endless energy and enthusiasm.

Why couldn't she have been older,
colder, fatter, less appealing? Why couldn’t she be more like the
stolid person he’d envisioned when he wrote that confounded
advertisement and mailed it to the paper?

He drew the washrag down, his eyes
registering the slender curve of shoulder, waist, hip, his body
reacting with fierce need, against his will, to the look and smell
and feel of her.

She smelled of soap and of some other
essence that was singularly her own, that he’d come to recognize, a
musky, warm odor that inflamed his senses.