Without Words (15 page)

Once inside, Hassie and Belle both studiously ignored the single lavender dress in the store. Hassie held a conservative dress in soft blue up, considering.

“That would be perfect,” Belle said. “Perfect for church, not the dance.”

“Then buy it for church,” Bret said from the other side of a table covered with men’s clothing. “Two dresses won’t break the bank.”

It might break her bank, Hassie thought, and he hadn’t handed over a penny directly to her yet. Then again if some husband she didn’t want was going to get all her money anyway.... Her hand reached for a cool, minty green dress with twice as much skirt as any of the others.

“That needs a hoop under it—or several petticoats,” Belle said disapprovingly.

“We don’t have hoops, but we have lots of petticoats,” the storekeeper said, pointing.

Hassie bought the blue dress, the green dress, and three petticoats. Back at the hotel, decked out in her new finery, she whirled around her room. The skirt of the green dress swirled around in an almost embarrassing feminine way. The new corset emphasized her bosom.

An hour’s work added a stand-up lace collar that covered the scar. Trying the dress on again, Hassie had an urge to rip out everything she’d done. A lower collar would be more comfortable, and sight of the scar might scare off some of the men Belle was determined to introduce.

What would Bret say? He’d seen the scar. Would he say cover that ugly thing up or tell her to be comfortable and not worry about it?

Stop that, she scolded herself. He wants rid of you. No matter what you do, no matter what you look like, he wants rid of you. Stop worrying about what he thinks.

Hassie slumped on the bed, her pleasure in the new dresses gone. Soon a knock would sound on the door, and it would be time, time to go to the dance like a piglet to market.

B
Y THE LIGHT
of a dozen or more lanterns, bits of hay and straw shone on the hard-packed dirt of the barn floor. None of the crowd gathered for the dance gave any sign of noticing, much less caring. The women were dressed in everything from calico to silk, and Hassie abandoned visions of the imaginary mustard and gray dress, glad to fit in after all.

She half-expected all those other women to flock toward Bret. He looked beyond fine in a dark gray suit, maroon vest, and white shirt, his boots polished to a high gloss, but he disappeared into a shadowy corner mere moments after they arrived. Belle’s firm grip on Hassie’s arm kept her from following him.

Belle guided Hassie around the room, repeating introductions over and over. “This is Mrs. Cyrus Petty from Missouri. Mrs. Petty is a widow staying with Gabe and me. An accident some years ago damaged her throat to where she doesn’t speak, but we’ve had wonderful conversations with her writing out her thoughts for me.”

Heat rose up the back of Hassie’s neck and spread to her ears and face as Belle went on to describe how helpful the Widow Petty was with the children, cooking, and laundry.
This little piglet is pink and chubby and eats anything you have to give it.

Hassie forgot the names of the people Belle introduced her to a second after hearing them. She lost track of which of the men who approached were bachelors and which were widowers. She smiled and nodded at each one who asked her dance and held the smile through awkward silence or nervous babbling.

The exception was Ehren Kulp. While other men danced with her once, Mr. Kulp returned a second time, then a third, delighting Belle if not Hassie.

“You have a conquest in Mr. Kulp,” Belle whispered. “He really likes you.”

So far as Hassie could tell, Mr. Kulp would like any female he could acquire as a stepmother for his five children. During their three dances, in his ponderous, heavily accented voice, he told her all about them and about the wife who had died trying to give him a sixth child.

Memories of how Ned Grimes’ motherless children had greeted Mama rose in Hassie’s mind unbidden. Mama had been able to use a strict, no-nonsense voice to at least curb the worst of their hateful plots, and the first year had still been awful. Five little Kulps would be daunting. More than that. Dreadful.

Avoiding Mr. Kulp’s watery blue eyes, Hassie concentrated on the unfamiliar feel of the corset tight on her ribs, petticoats swirling airily around her legs.

After the third dance, Mr. Kulp kept her hand in his too long. “May I call on you next week at the Chapmans’?”

Hassie bobbed her head, forced a smile, and blinked away unwanted extra moisture in her eyes as he guided her back to Belle’s side. She turned away as soon as she politely could.

Mr. Kulp was much younger than Cyrus, probably not much past forty. He didn’t reek of liquor but of something sweetly unpleasant he must have rubbed in his thinning blond hair. If they married, he wouldn’t grab at her the way he had tonight. A man who could touch anything he wanted any time he wanted didn’t have to grab at a dance.

She had no excuse to be fighting tears and an insane urge to lift the hem of the green dress and run into the night. Run until she dropped from exhaustion and then run some more. She had already accepted someone like Mr. Kulp was her future. At least now she had memories of the globes on fancy lamps shattering as gunshots cracked, Mr. Reston squealing from under the hotel desk, Pinto Man flying over the ferry rail into the Missouri River.

And Bret Sterling. She would always have memories of Bret Sterling.

B
RET LEANED AGAINST
the wall in a dark corner of the barn and watched Mrs. Petty. In many ways she didn’t resemble the often scruffy-looking woman who had followed him across hundreds of miles of Missouri, Nebraska, and Kansas in the last weeks.

Her hair was pinned high in that magical way women had and gleamed like polished ebony whenever lamplight played over her. In spite of the high collar she had added to the dress to hide her scar, the sleek arrangement emphasized the elegant length of her neck. The green dress clung to modest but definite female curves. Her breasts had reappeared.

The swirling skirt and petticoats hid the one thing the rough trail clothes never could—that distinctive heart-shaped rump. He needn’t have worried about her ability to dance. She danced just fine, moving with more grace than any other woman out there.

Bret controlled the urge to yank her away from the man now dancing with her for a third time by speculating as to whether the dress and imagination or trousers and an eyeful were more provocative.

He forced his balled fists open. She needed to meet eligible men. He’d brought her to Gabe and Belle for this. He wanted this for her.

Except he didn’t. He wanted better for her. She had already danced with at least half a dozen potential suitors, and she had smiled at them all with that too bright smile he didn’t want to recognize but did.

He had tried hard not to get to know her. When had he come to know the difference between her real smile and the way she was smiling now? And what it meant. He knew what that forced smile meant.

Gabe had been wrong. There were enough men for a list. Too Old, Too Short, Too Fat, Never Stopped Talking, Barely Said a Word, and Squint Eye. The list already sported a thick black line right through Too Old. She’d already had one of those.

Barely Said a Word had a tentative black line. Maybe he was shy and would get over it if he got to know her. If not, the last thing Mrs. Petty needed was a man who didn’t talk any more than she did.

And if Too Fat kept monopolizing her and letting his hands wander while he did it, he was going to get crossed off more than an imaginary list.

Gabe joined Bret in the corner. “You’re glowering like an overprotective father.”

“What do you know about that fellow who seems so keen?”

“Ehren Kulp? His homestead is about an hour north of ours. He was here before we were, so he’s proved up. Widower, several kids. Good farmer, doing well so far as I’ve ever heard.”

Bret grunted. “Hands all over the place.”

“Looks like he’s pretty taken with her.” Gabe examined Bret with narrowed eyes. “You know if he’s really interested, we’ll check him out, visit his place, talk to anyone who knows him. I’d say you should stick around a while longer and see for yourself, but with you hanging over her shoulder and that look on your face, the devil himself wouldn’t have the courage to come courting.”

Bret watched the green dress swirl. “She deserves better.”

“And I deserve less than I have, and you deserve more than you have. How many people get what they deserve, the outlaws you haul in to prison or to a hangman’s rope?”

Bret shook his head, trying to ignore the feeling of sadness. Mrs. Petty deserved better than she had ever had or was ever going to have, and Gabe was right that what she deserved didn’t figure in the reckoning.

He watched her until the musicians packed their fiddles away, and he escorted her back to the hotel in silence. Afterward he slipped out to the nearest saloon by himself. A few drinks didn’t chase the bleakness out of his head, but then they never did.

Sunday morning was a quiet affair, with everyone still a little tired after staying at the dance until almost midnight. Bret appreciated the blue dress Mrs. Petty wore to church services. Nothing swirled.

On the wagon ride back to the farm, Belle’s chatter made it clear she considered Hassie as good as married to Ehren Kulp. Belle went so far as to speculate whether she should save Hassie’s shirts and trousers for Gabriel to wear someday or use the material for smaller garments now.

The false smile disappeared from Mrs. Petty’s face as Belle talked. Good. Her face muscles must ache from holding that expression by now.

He’d leave in the morning, Bret decided. Leave Mrs. Petty to her imperfect but inevitable fate and leave her in Belle’s determined, well-meaning hands.

W
HEN FACED WITH
the choice of marrying Cyrus or being left penniless and alone on the streets of Werver, a thick fog had descended over Hassie, letting her go through the necessary motions while feeling nothing. She wished that fog would return.

Instead she sat through the church service Sunday morning with images of the rest of her life sharp as knives in her mind. First she saw the angry faces of five Kulp children, all resentful of their mute stepmother. Then she saw Ehren Kulp’s face as it would be over her, flushed, watery eyes protruding with effort as he grunted....

She swallowed hard, fighting nausea, and glanced around. Such thoughts in church had to be a terrible sin, and everyone else was concentrating on the sermon, something about forgiveness.

Next to her, Bret shifted on the hard wooden seat. Cool gray eyes met hers, which was better than icy, but even so.... She dropped her gaze and studied her gloved hands against the blue dress. The dress brought to mind Bret’s reaction to the idea of a lavender—light purple—dress and banished thoughts of the Kulps, at least for a while.

How could he know it would be a long time, if ever, before she would willingly wear a dress in any shade of purple and not know how she felt about all the rest of his plan for her? Probably he did know. He just didn’t care.

Why should he care how hard she tried to be a help to him on the trail and in camps when she slowed him down and embarrassed him? After weeks of enough food, Brownie could keep up better now, but when men looked at Brownie and grinned, the look on Bret’s face would freeze water if he stared in the trough.

He didn’t like it when someone assumed she was his wife, and he didn’t like it when they assumed she was something other than his wife. Even though he once said she had a nice laugh, he had changed his mind. He disliked the sound of her laughter so much he walked away every time she forgot and laughed. He wanted rid of her, her horse, and her dog.

And who could blame him? Ned Grimes had complained constantly about how much money it cost him to support an extra female, and Ned hadn’t spent as much on her in all the years she’d lived with his family as Bret had spent in less than two months.

No matter what he said about giving her half that reward money, the money should be all his. Because he felt bad for her, he would give her some undeserved amount, ride away, and never look back. Why should he? He’d done all he could, more than anyone else she’d known would.

She caught him looking at her again and forced a smile. Smiling at a man in church was probably sinful too. The woman in the pew in front of Hassie wore a hat covered in tiny flowers. They swayed with every tiniest motion of her head. Hassie counted flowers, concentrating intently.

The wagon ride back to the farm provided no opportunity for private thoughts, whether melancholy or mutinous. Belle sat in the back of the wagon with Hassie, determined to share every tidbit she had gleaned about every one of the men who had showed so much as a sliver of interest at the dance. Hassie smiled, nodded in all the expected places, and didn’t listen to a word.

Bret and Gabe’s conversation about people they knew in Missouri and men they’d served with in the war was far more interesting. Even when the wagon creaked over a rough patch of the road and Hassie couldn’t catch their words, the low hum of masculine voices soothed her troubled mind.

Gabe stopped at the Browns’ farm for the children, and after that no one heard anything but Gabriel and Sarah’s excited stories about everything they’d seen and done at the Browns’. Hassie leaned back and listened to their happy babbling. Her new life would have good moments. Maybe she would even be blessed with a child of her own. Her mind skittered away from who would be the father of such a child and how that would happen.

When they finally reached the farm, Hassie climbed out of the wagon with relief. She tucked her old clothes out of sight under the small bed. Sooner or later Belle would get her hands on those clothes and turn them into something else. Later would be better.

After trading her new town shoes for boots and the small, ribbon-trimmed bit of fluff for her wide-brimmed slouch hat, Hassie approached Belle with the slate.
“I would like to go for a walk,”
she wrote.
“I will be back in time to help with supper.”