A Sweetness to the Soul (31 page)

“ ‘Apologies!’ your papa grunted. ‘Plenty room for them from your mouth I’d say.’ I just agreed with him, gave him no new fuel to add to embers he’d been burning with my name on ’em all this time. Told him I understood that some folks did not approve of dogs inside saloons or parlors and that he must have thought me pretty inconsiderate, tired though I was. Told him a man has the right to decide who comes inside or out his home, too. He just kept on chewing. Told him he was right, too, about the deposit. That a man’s word was his only calling card and when I left mine and then did not return, there was no reason for him to think other than he did, that I’d changed my mind and would not be back for mules.”

I could picture my father standing there, jaws set, getting ready to dab at his bad eye with that ball of a napkin.

“And then I risked the big one,” Joseph said, taking a deep breath. “I said I felt differently than him, too, about the Indios, the Mexicans. His eyebrows shot up but I added quick that I could see he was not a man to discount all who were different or he’d not let his daughter share time with Warm Springs folks nor set himself up to run for office like he had. An elected official had to see a passel of points of view, pour water on different kinds of flames, and I could see he knew how to do that, knew how to settle disputes in ways to keep a man’s face.”

“Papa heard you say that?” I asked.

“Seemed to. He let me keep talking. I just held my hat and looked up at him, hoping he’d hear. He seemed to be thinking. Said I expected voters could respect a man big enough to change, that only that kind of man could really lead a changing country. He grunted then and said, ‘Getting hot here on the porch. Why don’t
you come inside where we can talk in comfort.’ And then I knew I’d opened the door to this day.”

“But about me,” I said. “How did you ask him about me?”

“That was delicate. Took some time getting around to. Had to talk about the packing and gold fields and how I’d managed my business while being laid up. But eventually I told him that J. W. and I had spoken about you, and that J. W. knew too that your father was a man who felt kindly about his daughter, wouldn’t want her to be unhappy if there was a way around it. He didn’t protest that comment, so I ventured that it was the trend back East, where women weren’t so scarce, to let them choose their own. That in these times only a strong man, solid and wise could afford to let his daughter make her own marriage bed and learn to sleep in it. ‘If a girl’s prepared well with a good head, she ought to be able to,’ he said. Pretty progressive for here, I told him. He sat awhile and then he said, ‘Will she have you?’ And I had to tell him that I did not know, but that like him, I was willing to risk her choice. And so I did,” he said and reached across the space between our mounts to brush some wispy hair from my cheeks.

So only my mother’s absence to the deed let apprehension share the saddle with me as we passed through the gate at Fifteen Mile Crossing.

When Mama joined us—Papa, Joseph, and me—and learned of the plans already made without her having taken part, she protested. Joseph had plowed the courting field quickly, he and Papa made it ready for planting. Mama had been caught unawares, wasn’t ready with her seeds.

“It seems there’s no need for me to partake of this discussion,” she said, her voice like nails scraping on the school slate. To Papa she said, “What chip has Mr. Sherar called in that makes you so easily alter your agreement with J. W?” She sat erect on the cane chair, hands and jaw clasped tightly while she waited for Papa to speak.

“Now, ’Lizbeth,” he said, his voice a patting hand on her head. He chuckled, awkwardly making light. “Wasn’t anything like that.
The man truly cares for our Janie. Came all this way. No,” he said, “no deal. J. W. seemed fine to let the girl choose. Would have myself if I had known of another suitor. Takes a good man to let a daughter make her own way. Shows she’s been well-raised—”

“There was a promised transaction,” she said. “And you have simply let that by?” She spoke to Papa but glared at me, as though once again I had distressed her well-planned life.

Her question raised the wonder, though: had there been some bet lost and now I was the pay?

“Just a change, Lizzie,” Papa smoothed.

I wondered what kind of change.

Papa stood behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, to calm her. We could all see her agitation rising like day-old sour dough starter.

“So there is to be no exchange, then?” She searched for something.

“No chips, Mrs. Herbert,” Joseph told her. “I’d not bargain for your daughter as I did the mules. Nor let a bad winter keep me from either if I had known then I’d left my heart here, too.”

She paused, staring at him. “Fancy words will not win me over as they did my husband,” she told him. “Honeyed-tongues have left their stickiness with me before.” She smoothed the folds in her skirt draped over her plump knees, pulled abruptly at the seam threads as though they were the most important detail in her life. She frowned watching Baby George who played with the kelpie near the window, on the floor next to the Sheraton.

“Then hear the truth,” Joseph told her. He stood above her, all of us, in fact, and walked closer to her, leaning casually, his elbow against the desk. His shadow caused her to leave her seam and Baby George and look up at him. His words were clear, precise, nonnegotiable, and it struck me as I watched him that he stood before me with both strength and flexibility, both tenderness and steel. Mama gave him one of her looks, but I noticed Joseph did not back down as J. W. had those months before.

“J. W. has withdrawn his offer,” he said quietly. “Your husband
and your daughter have consented to mine which is to make a good life with her. There’s no win in it for you to intervene.”

I could tell that she considered that. Like all of us, she liked to win.

“It’s complete except to set the date,” Joseph said, “and await some friends’ arrivals.”

“I suppose you’ll take her far away,” Mama said, changing her tactic. I heard a whining in her voice, noticed the scent of her perfume grow stronger.
Why should it matter?

“A mother needs help—”

“We didn’t discuss that, Lizzie,” Papa said. “But I’m sure Mr. Sherar means to remain in the region.” To Joseph, “You still have your place along Fifteen Mile, don’t you? Wouldn’t take our only daughter far from us?”

My future husband nodded. “No wish to cut into your family,” Joseph said. “Just add to it, in time.”

They talked around me as though I wasn’t even present, my life being tossed about like cottonwood fluff. I knew he kept his mules at a nearby ranch. I hadn’t known he owned it! Nor had I thought to ask that question yet about where we’d live, so much had happened in less than a day.

“So where do you plan to make our home, Mr. Sherar?” I asked.

“Someplace you’ll be happy in,” he said, turning to face me fully as I stood behind the divan, my hands gripping the mahogany frame. “Not decided yet, of course.” He had a twinkle in his eyes as he added, “Wouldn’t confirm anything so important until you and I talked.”

He was quick. I gave him that. And he could read me like one of his books, knew when I was close to spitting fire, had cool water ready to pour on it.

Mama was silent and into that space Papa finished expansively. “It’s agreed, then!” He walked to the wooden box that held his best cigars, pulled two out, lit one, inhaled deeply, and handed one to Joseph.

Mama stopped him for a moment. “Yes. Well. For now,” Mama said, “It’s agreed for now.” And I knew then we would marry, but that her argument against my happiness, for whatever reason, wasn’t over.

Despite Mama’s protest, our marriage did take place in the parlor five days later on the 26th of April 1863. I carried a fresh bouquet of white lilacs mixed with wild yellow roses, both blooming early, just for me. We’d had little time to plan and so I wore a dress Lodenma loaned me, taken in at the waist with a long satin bow added to the white lace. Lodenma May stood as my witness; Philamon for Joseph. The justice of the peace spoke the words, the minister of the Methodist church being on the circuit. Later, the few guests and several of Joseph’s packers, including Benito and his wife and A. H. Brayman, charivaried us. Fish Man and some Warm Springs friends joined them too. French Louie led the procession with their noisy calls, banged pans, whistles, and gun fire, arousing us from our quarters at the Umatilla House, not leaving until we invited them in for drinks and entertainment.

Pulling the frightened kelpie from beneath the bed, we partied late into our wedding night, singing and laughing, listening to bawdy comments I only half understood made by the men. It was like being allowed to stay up late with grownups, not being sent early to bed.

Joseph eventually rid the room of them.

I have often chuckled through the years about what follows, wedding night stories being shared only among close friends. But this one was different. For when the bridegroom returned from escorting the well-wishers off to the saloon and returned to greet his bride, he found her—and the kelpie—on the freshly laundered sheets of our four poster, already quite soundly asleep.

That night, I dreamed again of the stranger who would share his life with me. This time he wore the face of Joseph Sherar.

P
ART
II
D
REAM
C
ATCHING

B
EGINNINGS

I
’ve looked it over. It’s a fine site.”

“I’m not disagreeing,” I said.

“Hard to tell.”

“Just want to make up my own mind,” I added, always wanting the last word.

We had ridden out from The Dalles to the donation land claim Joseph had acquired, a 640-acre detail he had not shared with Mama. At various stops along the way—Three Mile Creek, Five Mile Creek, Eight Mile Creek, and others—he had consulted his sketch book, gotten off his horse, walked here and there, his hands moving as though he were talking. He spoke mostly to himself.

Elmer Wilson’s house at Five Mile was already a stage stop for people traveling south to Tygh Valley, Wapinitia, and Nix’s bridge not far from the mouth of the Deschutes. At Wilson’s, at least, he spoke out loud to me: “It all fits in,” he said.

Riding on down Tygh’s Ridge, we skirted a steep trail that twisted like a snake to the Deschutes and instead followed a hollow that dipped and rose until we reached a small, year-round stream. He noted where he believed our claim began. The surrounding land had a gentle slope to recommend it.

“No need to build right at this spot, but there’s water and an openness I like. Can see the mountains on a cloudless day. No trees to break the view. And there’ll be less wind down here.” We rode farther around the sidehill of the gentle ravine following the gurgle of the fast-flowing stream. “Over there, see those stones?” He pointed to a marker pile in the distance. “Meeker graves. Still don’t see how they could’ve gotten so lost,” he said, recalling the fateful wagon train where so many died on their way to The Dalles. “Twenty years too soon, I guess.”

I looked around at the sparse sage popping up through spears of grass. The hills and hollows looked the same in spring, all soft shadows and green. I could well imagine how hungry, exhausted people from the Meeker’s train could have become confused and taken the turn away from both the White River and the Deschutes, ending up here, on the crest of a ravine, discouraged, starving, barely able to bury their dead.

“There’s water on the other side of the hollow, too.” Joseph moved his arms expansively, directing my attention. “Comes into this one and where they join is the perfect rise for the house I think. Not far from that trail. With a little upgrading, we’ll bring more packers through here. And it’ll be just the beginning, Janie,” he said. “There’ll be roads and people and settlers all coming our way ’cause of what we lay out, get ready for them.” He was enthusiastic about his puzzle pieces, letting me in on bits and pieces of his dream that still seemed foggy and wispy to me.

As we sat on the horses looking across the horizon to the stream before us, I realized the site was familiar. Sunmiet and I had sat on this ground having followed the little stream up from the Deschutes the summer Joseph entered my life. At this “Y” in the stream, Sunmiet and I had talked of Standing Tall; here we’d picked choke cherries and carried them back into the chaos of Koosh swinging by a rope from the scaffolding. “Don’t the Sahaptins and the Wascos own this?” I asked. “Isn’t it theirs?”