Sixty Acres and a Bride (6 page)

“Would you like to serve the beans? Just a scoop each, half a scoop for the young ones, and be careful with the handles. That just came off the cook fire.”

Rosa nodded to Aunt Mary, eager to make herself useful. She needed to do something besides guessing who’d condemned her. She wanted the newness to end. She wanted to be treated the same as all the other residents of Prairie Lea.

She had to admit, the ladies hid their feelings to her face. The women came by to meet the Mexican daughter-in-law of their friend, to present a slight dip of the head and a word of condolence, which left her uncertain who was being snake-faced. Several even took the time to share a memory of Mack—whether it was his spelling-bee performance, a rodeo trick he’d learned, or a kind word he’d shared.

Easy to remember the good. Rosa had adored Mack from the first day he’d ridden the shaggy burro into Ciauhtlaz, and she’d hoped he would someday care for her, right up until the end.

Seconds before the end.

Was it really love? Surely, for how could it hurt so much otherwise? But widows were allowed to relish the sweet memories and toss the pits on the burn pile. No one would guess that the lone pit from their brief marriage would burn her night and day.

She swirled the beans and watched the steam rise. There were too many concerns for today to dig through yesterday’s waste. These women, for example—Rosa wanted to believe they were sincere, but it was impossible to discern who wasn’t. She sighed. Maybe over time they’d give her another chance. If she could be “respectable,” like Louise insisted, they’d forget the wagon incident sooner or later. That is, if Weston didn’t tell them about her wrestling the ewe. Or about the two of them hiding in the closet together.

The ladle clanged against the pot. Poor Louise. Rosa was sure she would disappoint her.

The church lawn blurred and was replaced by scenes of a fifteen-year-old
señorita
, the toast of the village, celebrating her
quinceañera.
She heard again the hearty cheers that erupted from the townspeople as she left her doll at the altar, symbolizing the transition from childhood to young womanhood. Then her father led her in the promenade around the square—his cherished daughter. Adored by her mother.

And in a few years she was forgotten.

Louise, Louise’s family, and Louise’s God represented her only salvation. They hadn’t forgotten her. Not yet. But if the family that gave her birth and the town that celebrated her could cast her out, how precarious was her position here as a penniless stranger? She didn’t want to know.

She wouldn’t leech off another’s labor. The spoiled darling of the mountains would work from first light to full darkness to earn her bread. No time to play her flute, no time to dance, because no one could pay the price for her.

She dipped beans onto the waiting plates. Music and dancing weren’t necessities. A home was.

Just a few more weeks of uncertainty. If they could pay their taxes, they’d have a measure of security. Until then, she’d serve these people in any way she could in the hope that they would appreciate her enough to let her stay.

Among the strange faces in her line appeared one familiar, Deacon Bradford, the store owner and Louise’s old friend.

“Looks like you made good use of that black fabric.” Mr. Bradford held his plate away from his melon-shaped belly.

“I can’t wait to start on the linens.”

“Already? I’m surprised you’re ready for that job.”

She folded back a sleeve to keep it from the messy edge of the kettle. Ready or not, they needed the money. “The wool is spun. I still have to dye it.”

“That sounds fine, but there’s no hurry. Don’t feel rushed.” He picked up a yeast roll. “It’s a great comfort to your mother-in-law having you by her side. That Louise, she’s always inspired fierce loyalty in those who love her.”

“What?” Yes, Rosa loved her mother-in-law, but—

“Nothing.” He dropped the roll back in the basket. “I do need to find her, though. There’s a shipment at the store that will interest her.”

Rosa watched the oddly behaved storekeeper hurry away. Was every man in this town addled? She started to push her hair behind her ear but couldn’t with her sticky hands. Thinking that no one was looking, she stuck a finger in her mouth and cleaned it of the sweet sauce.

“Taste good?”

Rosa didn’t place the man immediately, but then she remembered the walk with Molly.

“Mr. Tillerton, I should have expected you here. It seems everyone I’ve met in Prairie Lea attends.” Goodness, but his eyelashes were pale. They almost made his eyes look watery.

“I’m pleased I didn’t disappoint you. To be honest, this is my first Sunday here. Fie on me.” He laughed, not the least bit ashamed. “I know what you’re thinking, but who wants to listen to people tell them what to do all the time?”

“I guess I can understand,” she allowed. “Learning how to behave here has been a challenge. I’m constantly embarrassing my mother-in-law.”

“You, my fair lady? An embarrassment? How so?”

“If I told you, then I’d be breaking a rule, no? Some subjects are not discussed between men and women. Ask Louise.” She took the ladle and stirred the beans again, wishing that he’d never started this conversation.

Mr. Tillerton stroked his moustache. “Very wise, but what do you do if a man is so ill bred as to speak of improper subjects?”

Rosa understood this part of her instructions. Propriety had a lot of gray areas. Punishment did not. “If I can ignore the comment, that’s best, but if the man talks to me directly, I must slap his face, or he won’t think I’m a lady.”

Mr. Tillerton’s eyebrows went up, as if this was new information to him. “I see. That’s good advice, but I have a question.” He leaned across the pot. “If a woman confesses that she’s been insulted, won’t people assume she encouraged the man? Isn’t she somewhat to blame for the recklessness?”

“No. How could she—”

“But she’ll be judged, regardless. The truth might seem unpleasant, but you’ll learn the rules. If you need to slap a man, then go ahead, but never ever tell someone you were compromised, or you’ll never be considered respectable again.”

Rosa narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

“Men stare at a woman, and no one blames them. The woman is at fault, even if all she was doing was shifting a wagonload, right?”

She faltered and stirred the beans again. He was right. Why hadn’t the women been mad at their husbands for standing in an alley watching her? Why hadn’t Louise scolded the men instead of her? While it didn’t seem fair, it did sound accurate.

Holding his half empty plate out to her, Mr. Tillerton motioned to the beans. She slopped a mess where he indicated. “I just want to protect you from disgracing yourself. It’s only a kind of game we play, to be honest.” He grinned. “A pinch here, a kiss there. There’s no harm done, unless someone protests publically. That’s being a poor sport.”

“I don’t see how—” she started, but he only laughed at her and walked away.

Rosa watched his lanky form, disturbed by the rules as he interpreted them. Louise hadn’t explained the situation as clearly, but Rosa had noticed that no matter the situation, it was the woman in the wrong. A lady shouldn’t swear. A lady shouldn’t draw attention to herself. A lady shouldn’t show her ankles, or too much of her neck. Women couldn’t even feed their babies if there was a man around.

And the men? They got away with murder.

F
ROM WHERE HE SAT
atop Pandora, Weston’s nose filled with the soot still bellowing out of the smokestack. His brother-in-law, Jake England, had left him to keep an eye on the buggy while he fetched Eliza and her trunk from the train. Whatever he could do to help. Slowly but surely he was getting involved again.

Take the Tillertons, for example. He’d gone directly after church to check on Mrs. Tillerton, and the tales were true—she wasn’t the least bit friendly.

She didn’t seem hurt, either. At the first, when he’d heard the gunshots, all sorts of terrible suspicions assailed him, but then he saw her striding across her field, arms full of quail, and he could only reckon nothing was amiss. Decent shot, if nothing else. ’Course, she was a bit jumpy. When she saw him she dropped the birds, and before he could blink he’d found himself in the sights of her shotgun. Not a lot of conversation to be had looking up the business end of a double barrel, which was what she evidently preferred.

She was younger than he’d imagined and curt, but her terse greeting had relieved his suspicions. Whatever crimes he’d blamed Tillerton for hadn’t occurred. Maybe they hadn’t been in Round Rock. Or maybe the barber was right—Tillerton had exaggerated.

Oh, that all his concerns were so easily dismissed. He strained for a glance of his sister. He owed Eliza much more than a train-station greeting and luggage toting.

Although motherless since a typhoid outbreak when she was a child and orphaned in adolescence, Eliza had worked with him to maneuver the estate through the perils of war, reconstruction, and the depression that followed until it was again harbored in the safe bay of prosperity. When they were young, Weston could do no wrong in his adoring sister’s eyes, and how she saw him was how he viewed himself—infallible. As she matured, Eliza became the person most likely to hold him accountable when he strayed and the most likely to influence him for the good.

How hard the last few years must have been for her. Not only did Eliza suffer the loss of her best friend, she’d also endured Wes’s detachment. Yep, he’d pretty much been poor company since his wife, Cora, had died, but now he wanted to make amends.

He flicked a horsefly off his pant leg. Eliza didn’t seem to hold a grudge. Her sanity had been preserved by the arrival of a smart-mouthed cowhand named Jake, a powder keg of optimism ready to blow away any darkness that threatened their happiness. He was as essential to Eliza’s well-being as the cheering sunshine and the inspiring poetry she enjoyed, and Wes was grateful to him.

At breakfast that morning over sausage and eggs Jake had reminded Wes that they were going to Luling to meet Eliza at the train station. As if he could forget! The day he’d been dreading—dreading and anticipating—but he needed to be there. Hiding was getting him nowhere.

Through Eliza, he’d returned Cora’s mementos and heirlooms to St. Louis. Small comfort for her parents when they’d lost their daughter. Did they know how he’d grieved—was still grieving? Would they acknowledge his penance or require more?

Weston watched as the passengers took their first shaky steps off the train. Some flew into the arms of loved ones. Others strode away, business waiting elsewhere. Finally Eliza appeared in the opening. She paused at the bottom step, waiting for Jake to reach her and offer his hand.

Even from his position off the platform, Weston could tell she looked tired. Her burgundy gown was crumpled, and the smile she had for her husband couldn’t disguise the weariness lurking around her eyes.

He had to smile at their embrace. Like him, his sister had inherited their father’s height. Even in her stockinged feet she stood eye to eye with her husband. With her boots on, they made quite the pair.

Eliza spotted Weston in the crowd and strolled over, arm laced through Jake’s. Weston swung out of the saddle to receive her welcoming hug and peck on the cheek.

“Well, get a look at you.” She stood back, hands on her hips. “Jake says you’ve been on the trail, driving cattle like one of the boys.”

“Tattletale.”

Jake waved him away. “Forget Wes. You have some explaining to do. Something’s different.” He stepped back and held her at arm’s length. “Did you have a growth spurt or something? Take a new tonic?”

Before Weston could figure out what he was talking about, Eliza hushed him. “Jake England! Keep your thoughts to yourself, please. I’ll tell you about it when we get home.”

“Tell me what?” He dropped her arm and fixed her with a penetrating stare. “Don’t make me wait. I ain’t a patient man.”

“Let’s go, Jake.” She picked up her satchel and held it out to Weston, who dutifully placed it in the buggy, but Jake didn’t move. He perused her slowly with a more critical eye.

“Good gravy!” she exclaimed. “You aren’t going to be satisfied until you publicly embarrass me, are you?”

Jake pushed his hat back for a better view. “Come to think of it, you’re looking a little thicker all around. Now, either you found some grub that you really cottoned to, or . . .” He finally met her eyes.

“Or?”

Jake squinted. “You ain’t joshin’ me, are you?”

Weston choked on air and started coughing. He’d expected news when Eliza returned, but not of this nature. Sometimes it was good to be wrong.

“I might be teasing. You’ll just have to wait until September to see if I’m telling the truth or not.”

“September?” Jake counted back on his fingers as a silly grin spread across his face. “You were with me in December, right?”

Grimacing at Jake’s rowdy “yee-haws,” Weston made his way to the growing pile of luggage to give them all the privacy available at a train station—privacy that Jake didn’t need, obviously. Weston hoisted the trunk onto his shoulder. It was their mother’s old trunk, the brass studs aged and rubbed shiny once again.

How he wished his parents could have lived to see their first grandchild. It was hard to believe this baby would never know Davy and Dorothea Garner. Now he’d be playing the role of both uncle and grandparents. Of course, Mary and George would do their part, too.

By the time Weston had the buggy loaded, he had already decided what type of pony the child would ride.

As they reached the road home, the dread he’d been carrying returned. Eliza’s joyful news wouldn’t spare him from the painful memories her trip would dredge up. He was ready to get it over with, but Eliza hadn’t broached the subject. She was still filling her husband in on the news of their new young’un.

“I feel strong for the most part. My stomach gets sour if I don’t eat enough—or if I eat too much—or if I smell something foul—but I feel healthy in between times.” She shrugged. “I’ve found the best thing to do is to keep food nearby.”

“You knew before you left, didn’t you?” Jake accused.

“I hid it as long as I could, but you were bound to figure it out sooner or later.”

“And then I wouldn’t let you go?”

“Would you?”

“We better change the subject,” Jake huffed, “before I get riled. So the trip wasn’t too hard?”

Eliza paused, her forehead creased. “It was tiring physically, but I have a fondness for St. Louis. After spending two years at the Academy, I have many memories there. I enjoyed visiting my former classmates and had an extended stay with Aunt Clarice, who I understand sings as well as Mother did.” She looked at Weston. “I wish you’d been there to tell me if it was so.”

Weston lifted his chin. He wasn’t proud of his decision to send her alone, but it was too late to change it now. “Sisters often favor each other.”

Eliza strummed her fingers on Jake’s leg. “Well, you’re not going to rest easy until I tell you about Cora’s parents, so let’s take the bitter pill first. Seeing them was more painful than I’d expected. They’re still torn up over her death. Naturally they would be. I can’t imagine how they must feel. . . .” She instinctively covered her child, as if to protect it from the dangers of the world. “They weren’t prepared to see me.”

Weston looked straight ahead, bracing himself for what was to come. Did they rail at him, curse him, threaten him? He’d entertained all those scenarios over the weeks she’d been gone but knew they couldn’t blame him any more than he blamed himself.

“In a way, they didn’t act as I anticipated. When I got there, Mrs. Smock greeted me warmly, just as she used to when Cora and I were at the academy. We visited about my journey, took tea. Mr. Smock was there also, but I could tell they were troubled. They didn’t know what to say. When I handed Mrs. Smock the valise, she began to weep, and Mr. Smock thanked me for coming all that way.” Eliza dared a glance at her brother.

“Go on,” Weston said.

“Then the conversation grew very puzzling. I don’t think they meant to be hurtful, I really don’t. They just had questions. And you can’t blame them. They must have agonized all this time, wondering but afraid to ask.”

Eliza looked to Jake. He nodded, and she continued.

“They wanted to know her state of mind, naturally. I assured them you’d done everything you could. You’d consulted a doctor, a parson. You’d tried medicine and prayer. I thought it important for them to know that Cora wasn’t alone in her struggle.”

Weston shifted in the saddle. “And?”

“I’m sorry, Wes. I wish it were otherwise. I wish . . . I wish I didn’t have to tell you. . . . They asked about you, if you’d been cruel or unfaithful, if you’d started drinking.” Eliza blinked up at him. “And then they asked if you had any reason to want her dead.”

Weston closed his eyes, one hand gripping the saddle horn. He wanted to put the spurs to his horse and race to the horizon. He wanted to run to a land where no one knew his awful tragedy, but he’d already tried that, both figuratively and literally, and it had brought him no peace. He was staying to see this through. God had placed him there. Until He told him to leave, he would stand his ground. Eliza had spent the last three months setting things right so that he could heal. He would hear her out.

He looked at her worried face, already filling out because of the new life she carried. She’d done this for him.

“Please don’t despise them, Wes. If you could’ve seen them . . . They didn’t want to ask, but they needed a resolution. My answers satisfied them, relieved them even. They never wanted to think poorly of you.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m not guilty of what they accuse me of, but I’m responsible nonetheless.”

“And that’s the problem,” she said. “They told me about your letters. You placed all the blame on your shoulders. What were they supposed to think? It’s no wonder they’ve had suspicions. You’ve acted like her blood was on your hands. Why would you tell them that, Wes? You don’t really believe it, do you?”

Weston removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Would Eliza and Jake despise him for his weakness? He had never let them see behind his mask before. During Cora’s sickness he took care of every detail. He supervised her meals, threw brave soirees to entertain her, even when she showed no interest, planned daily outings—all the while refusing to show anyone, even Eliza, how worried he was. He’d kept up that act until the day he stoically chose the songs for Cora’s funeral, and from then on the mask of indifference never slipped. Only to Cora’s parents did he share his fears over his culpability.

“I guess I do. She relied on me, and I let her down. I’d hoped her folks might offer me forgiveness.”

“You don’t need forgiveness for her death, but you might for the way you’ve been carrying on since then. Just think of Mr. and Mrs. Smock. How were they supposed to heal, thinking they’d allowed their daughter to marry a beast?” She fanned herself with her handkerchief. “At least they know the truth now. As far as I can tell, they were relieved to hear that you might be suffering from misplaced guilt. It’s just like my brother to think he’s omnipotent—capable of controlling every emotion and action of those around him.”

No, Weston wasn’t all powerful, but he knew who was. Where had He been? Was he even allowed to ask that question?

He rode in silence as Jake and Eliza’s little buggy jostled across the prairie and through the sloughs that threatened to mire it down.

Jake grunted to his wife. “You did all you could for her folks. Sounds like it ain’t your problem no more.”

“It never was Eliza’s problem, Jake. It was mine. I’ve been so consumed with my own grief that I haven’t stopped to think how my behavior has affected everyone else. I thought my misery was accomplishing something.”

About time he was honest with them, and with himself.

“I still don’t know . . .” he continued, “I still don’t know how this all works out, but I’m going to try. I’ve been miserable, and I’ve done my best to make y’all miserable, too. I’m sorry, Eliza.”

She waved the apology away and folded the delicate handkerchief. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“No, but you were right to force my hand. It hurts. I hurt, but I can’t keep pretending that nothing matters. It’s just . . . I’d hoped it would get easier.”

“We’re here for you, partner. We’ll always be here, and things will change. You won’t always feel like this,” Jake said.

Eliza’s smile shone bright through her unshed tears. “And don’t be afraid of change. Changes are coming.”