Crazy Woman Creek (17 page)

“You’re not going anywhere or hiring anyone. You’re going to do nothing but rest today. Do you want to lose this baby?”

Baby. Was there
really
a baby? Lenora struggled to grasp this new, frightening yet exciting idea. When she had missed her monthlies it had given her no cause for alarm. She had never been regular. And she had heard from other women that seasons of mourning or great stress could cause the monthly flow to cease altogether. But in her case did it really mean a baby? It didn’t seem real. She must be dreaming.

“When? When is the baby coming, Dr. Biggerstaff?”

Dr. Biggerstaff pushed his glasses up his nose and creased his forehead in thought. With his other hand he held onto one of Lenora’s shoulders to ensure that she didn’t fall off the chair.

“By my calculations, you’re about twelve to fourteen weeks along. I reckon you’ll be rocking a little bundle right about Christmastime.”

Twelve to fourteen weeks. That meant she conceived right about the time James went missing. The awesome timing of the two events was exquisitely painful yet exquisitely sweet. She might not ever see the face of her beloved James again, yet forever she would be reminded of his image when she gazed into the face of their son or daughter. With a stabbing pain that brought tears to her eyes, it occurred to her that James might not ever see or hold his own child. What robbery! She alone would savor that joy. How strange that so much pain could mingle simultaneously in her heart with so much comfort. She opened her bag and pulled out a hanky to absorb the tears before they ran down her face and embarrassed her even more.

“I feel better now, Dr. Biggerstaff. I must return to my ranch.”

“You’re staying here.”

“I can’t!” Lenora stopped dabbing and bolted upright in her chair, turning around to face the doctor, who had returned to standing over her, gripping her shoulder to make sure she didn’t hit the floor.

“Jostling in a wagon is dangerous,” he warned. “You risk more hemorrhaging. You should be in bed. Bleeding at this early stage is not a good sign.”

“If I can just get back to my ranch, I promise to stay abed a whole week.”

“Uh uh,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “Too risky. You’ll need someone to be there with you during the day. Otherwise you’ll be on your feet trying to take care of yourself the minute you get home. You move about too much and you will lose that baby.”

Dr. Biggerstaff sounded unusually stern. Lenora knew he was only doing his best to perform his duty as a caring physician, but right now she felt like a little girl again, trying to wrest approval from her papa for a bigger, faster pony. But somewhere in the bottom of her consciousness, like a prairie dog peeping out from its hidden dark hole, a little thought raised its head. She didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to return to her ranch. She was a woman on her own now. No one had the authority to make her stay or go. It frightened her. She could easily make a wrong decision and suffer for it. Her baby might suffer too. Now there was a sobering thought. But she wasn’t going to lose her ranch. Likely she had already lost James. And even if she stayed in town a week to rest, she still might lose this baby. If she had any say in the matter, any power at all, she was not going to lose the ranch that she and James had worked so hard to build.

“Dr. Biggerstaff, I know you mean well. But I
am
going back to my ranch.” She turned and looked him directly in the eye, intent on making her point very clear.

Dr. Biggerstaff looked stunned at her bold declaration but had no time to respond.

“Today,” said Lenora, not removing her gaze. Then, plaintively, “Will you help me?”

Dr. Biggerstaff removed his hand from her shoulder, walked around his desk, and sat down in his high-backed oak chair. For a minute he regarded Lenora, his lips pursed, annoyance evident in his eyes. Then the tautness in his face softened. He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned forward over the desk. His shoulders sagged in resignation. His mouth was set in a straight line.

“I’ll help you, yes, if you insist on going home.”

“I insist.”

Dr. Biggerstaff sighed. “Fine. But you have to get other help besides a ranch hand. Immediately. You’ll need a driver for your wagon. You can’t drive yourself back to your ranch. You need to lay down—and stay down! I can’t emphasize how serious this is. You need to lay down in the wagon all the way to your ranch. And your driver needs to go slowly so you’re not bounced around the prairie like tumbleweed. Once you get home you need to stay in bed till the bleeding stops and for several days thereafter.”

Lenora nodded.

“You have to have a woman in to help you, too.”

“I can ask the Widow Nolan. She might come.”

“Good. I’ll arrange for someone to get her a message right away. Meanwhile I’ll ask around town to see who’s available to drive you home.”

“Please start by asking Reverend and Mrs. Thomas. They’ll probably be willing.” Betsy had been out to the ranch twice already to encourage Lenora. It would be good to see her again, if only briefly.

“Yes, of course.”

“And Sam Wright? Can you get a message to him to come out tomorrow morning?” said Lenora.

“Yes, that too.”

“Thank you, Dr. Biggerstaff. This means a lot to me.”

Dr. Biggerstaff shook his head, his mouth drawn up in a doubtful frown. “You know this is crazy, don’t you? I don’t agree at all with what you’re doing. You’re not thinking about your baby. You should spend at least a week in town convalescing at the hotel. Two weeks would be better.” Dr. Biggerstaff slapped his desk to emphasize his words.

Lenora was unmoved. “It is imperative that I return to my ranch, Doctor Biggerstaff.” She had his word that he would help, and that’s all that mattered. That little bit of encouragement strengthened her to stand her ground. She would stay on her property. Deep down, however, she hoped she wasn’t being foolish when it came to her baby’s welfare. She didn’t feel foolish. She felt desperate.

“Why? Why is it so important to be on your ranch? I would think you’d be lonely out there.”

“I am at times.”

“Then why won’t you stay in town? There’s good people here. They’ll help you.”

Lenora knew why, but it was hard to find the words to explain. Her world was upside down and inside out. Not only did she fear she’d lose the ranch if she vacated it, even temporarily, but being on the ranch was her only remaining semblance of normal living. If she woke up tomorrow to spend the day, and the next and the next, staring at four gray walls in a strange hotel instead of the familiar surroundings of her tidy ranch bedroom, then life truly would be too bizarre to cope. She had to hang on to the routine of the ranch. She had to eat, sleep, and think at home—while she still could. Doctor Biggerstaff genuinely cared about her and the baby, and she was grateful for his concern. But she didn’t care to share with him her poignant need for normalcy, for the comfort of routine. She feared it would sound like she was running from the truth, as if she were striving to create a dream world for herself because the real world she lived in was too painful. She knew that wasn’t true. When the evening shadows crept upon the close of another day on the ranch without James, her doubts of seeing him alive again were strengthened, cord upon cord. She knew the odds. James was probably dead. She wasn’t creating an imaginary world into which her lost husband would inexplicably,
miraculously ride. She was trying to preserve a small portion of a real world without him.

“I’m more comfortable at the ranch,” she said. At least it was the truth.

“This goes against my better judgment,” groused the doctor, “but let’s not dally.” He rose from his chair. “There’s much to be done before we get you home.”

Out of habit Lenora started to stand up.

“
You
stay right there!”

She sat down quickly.

“I’ll get Emmaline to get you comfortable in the spare bedroom while I get everything in order.”

Just then a soft scurrying sound erupted from behind the door to the doctor’s office, where Emmaline Biggerstaff had spent a goodly amount of time eavesdropping. Doctor and patient turned toward the sound.

“That gluttonous cat,” said Doctor Biggerstaff, grimacing in disgust. “Won’t touch mice,” he added, reaching for the doorknob. “Not rich enough for her majesty’s rarefied appetite.”

#

“You doing alright back there?” asked Betsy, turning herself around on the buckboard seat to check on Lenora. The slightly rounded, thirtyish parson’s wife was well shaded from the sun in a plain tan poke bonnet and a long-sleeve, faded gray dress. “I can have the Reverend stop the wagon for a while if you need a rest from all the bouncing.”

“It’s no problem, Mrs. Rose. I can stop now if you want,” chimed Reverend Thomas, continuing to face forward, raising his voice above the racket of the wagon wheels and hooves.

“No, I’m fine. Please don’t stop. I want to get home. The sooner I’m in my own bed the better.”

“True,” said Betsy. She tucked a stray wisp of light brown hair under her bonnet. “Doctor Biggerstaff made me promise we’d take it easy.”

“You’ve kept your promise,” said Lenora, trying to sound cheerful to hide her discomfort and dismay. The Thomas’ sacrifice brought another topic to mind. “Who’s minding the children?” she wondered aloud. The Thomases had five, the oldest, Elizabeth, was just fourteen.

“Lizzie’s capable of keeping them out of trouble for one night. Though if I smell smoke around suppertime I’ll be on one of your horses in a minute and galloping back home,” laughed Betsy.

“I am truly beholden to you and the Reverend.”

“You’re a light load,” said Betsy. “You don’t need diapering, burping, or rocking. And I trust you sleep through the night without demanding to be fed. You are easy.”

Lenora smiled at Betsy’s effort to make her feel better about being a bother. Town folk—even people whom Lenora had never met—had been more than kind when Dr. Biggerstaff sent the word out that Mrs. James Rose was “ill” and needed tending. Various volunteers had prepared her wagon box to resemble a down-lined nest awaiting a clutch of eggs, with layers of borrowed quilts underneath her and several pillows besides. Reverend Thomas’ lone dappled gray followed behind, tethered to the back of the wagon. The Reverend would return to town after seeing Lenora safely home, leaving Betsy behind until Mrs. Nolan arrived.

From Lenora’s prone position on the wagon floor, she could see the large head of the Reverend’s horse bobbing ludicrously over the rear wall of the buckboard, seemingly supported only by thin air. Occasionally she would make eye contact with the animal, which seemed to be staring at her as though she were a circus freak. She laughed to herself. Her predicament was absurd.

But she laughed between groans. Regardless of the efforts of the well-meaning town folk, in the bouncing, creaking, mercilessly hard wagon bed Lenora felt less like an invalid and more like that little piggy that went wee wee all the way home. Her hips and back discerned every rock, every rut, every bump in the worn path from Buffalo to the outreaches of the Territory. She was terribly uncomfortable, and she couldn’t wait to slide between the sheets in her own feather bed.

Not only was she physically uncomfortable, her limited view from the bottom of the wagon box cut her off from geographical markers, which made the trip endless. All she could see was the wide blue sky of Wyoming directly above the wagon and any
bird or flock of birds that had the courtesy to fly directly over the wagon for her personal viewing. Once she saw a horned grebe, its haunting red eyes and black-and-cream striped face clearly identifiable against the pale blue panorama. And then in a rush of whooping wings, a crèche of tundra swans drew near. Lenora heard them before she saw them. And then there they were, directly over the wagon, their long, graceful white bodies soaring majestically, their jet black beaks sharp against the clear sky.

“I feel like a sow being hauled to market,” said Lenora, chuckling. “I’ve never ridden in the wagon bed before.”
And I never thought that I’d do it like this. If only James were here. What would he think of his well-turned out, city born and bred wife being conveyed like stinking farm stock in the back of his buckboard?
The notion was so funny that she forgot to feel sad at the thought of him.

“Well you don’t look like a sow ... yet,” teased Betsy.

Lenora had confided to her pastor’s wife the true nature of her condition. Both women laughed. Might as well laugh. A moment of merriment was all to be gained from her ridiculous situation.

“And we’re not taking you anywhere but back to your comfy pigpen,”
Betsy said, laughing. “Now try to relax. We’re not far.”

Betsy leaned in to her husband and said something, but Lenora couldn’t hear. Sleep was out of the question, so she resigned herself to waiting
for another bird to fly over the wagon, congratulating herself each time she identified one. After a while she sensed from her many trips to town that they must be nearing her property.

“Do you see our barn, Betsy?” she said.

“I think so. Another ten minutes or so. Hold on, dear.”

Ulysses would be sniffing the air by now, thought Lenora. The house, the barn, the out buildings, her dog. Knowing that she came so close to being separated from the sweet and simple trappings of home for a season made her appreciate them all the more. But as the minutes passed, it seemed awfully quiet to Lenora.