Julianne MacLean Read online

  When he looked at the golden biscuits arranged with care on a plate, the table set with an unlit candle in the center and some fresh wildflowers in a cup, a stone of regret weighed heavily in his gut. Sarah was trying hard to make a cheerful adjustment. Why couldn’t he?

  Briggs moved to the stove and uncovered the pot to find a thick stew simmering with salt pork and potatoes. Just the smell was enough to buckle his knees. Still holding the lid, he turned to check on Sarah, who was still sleeping quietly. He looked around for a couple of tin bowls, served stew for the both of them and set Sarah’s down first.

  “Sarah,” he whispered, gently shaking her shoulder. “Are you hungry?”

  She did not respond, so he knelt beside her chair to study her face. Her chin was cradled in her arms, her full lips puckered, her long lashes swept down. She looked innocent. Childlike. The sight of her reminded him of happier days when June, his youngest sister, would fall asleep where she sat, usually in the middle of some game after a valiant battle to stay awake. He closed his eyes, trying to see her again. His heart at first warmed with the memory, then it flooded with sadness and longing. June would have had her fifth birthday this Christmas.

  He pushed those thoughts away and looked again at Sarah. When was her birthday? he wondered.

  She whimpered sweetly, and he found himself wondering what in the world she was dreaming about that she would not awaken at his touch. He wondered if she was dreaming of her lover.

  He felt a sudden jolt of irritation.

  He rose to his feet and shook Sarah again. “Sarah, wake up. You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

  She stirred, finally, and raised her chin as if in a daze. “Oh,” she murmured. “I must have fallen asleep. It’s time for supper.”

  She made a move to push her chair back, but stopped when Briggs said, “I’ve already taken it up.”

  She leaned back, blinking. Then she noticed the bowl in front of her. “Thank you, but I could have gotten it.”

  He gathered his bowl of stew from the stove and sat across from her. “I know.”

  Sarah cupped her hands together, pausing before lifting her spoon. Feeling ill at ease, Briggs realized that prayer was something he’d forgotten over the past three months, ever since he’d stopped being thankful.

  He cleared his throat. “Would you like to say a few words?”

  “I thought you might like to.” She stared at him silently until he had no choice but to comply.

  Closing his eyes, he thanked the Good Lord for the meal, the sunny day and the roof over their heads. He quickly said “Amen,” then opened his eyes to find Sarah still staring at him. “Pass the biscuits,” he said gruffly, even though he could easily reach them himself.

  She handed the plate across the small table, then jumped as if something bit her. “Water!” She rose from her chair and filled two cups from the pail next to the stove. “I walked all the way to the creek for this and forgot to serve it up.” She set the tin cup in front of him and sat down.

  “You know,” he said, “if you knew how to drive the wagon, you could fill the barrels. I’d help you set them down outside, and the rain would top them up every once in a while. It would save you walking to the creek ten times a day.”

  Sarah paused with her spoon in midair. “That would be very kind of you.”

  They dug into their meals, but a second later, Briggs couldn’t help adding, “In fact, maybe I’ll do it for you in the morning before I head out to the field.”

  Why was he offering to do that? he asked himself. He had work to do and he was behind as it was. The harvester would arrive in only a week.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, then continued eating her stew.

  Chairs squeaked, the lantern hissed, but neither of them spoke a word. Briggs leaned into his plate, savoring each bite, believing this had to be the best meal this little house had ever seen. The only decent meals he’d eaten were over at his neighbor’s place. Martha, Howard’s wife, could make a meal out of sod if she had to.

  When he emptied his bowl, Sarah stood immediately, as if she’d been measuring his progress. “Can I refill that for you?”

  “Please.” She set another helping of steaming stew in front of him.

  He ate his supper quietly, thinking. Maybe one day of anger was enough. Not that he’d forgiven her for lying to him and for being fixed on some other man, but he’d brought her here for a reason and there was work to be done before winter. She had a lot to learn, and in all honesty, he couldn’t teach her. How Martha managed to run that household with the few resources available out here had always astounded him.

  He swallowed another bite and looked up. “It might be a good idea for you to visit the Whitikers tomorrow.”

  Sarah’s eyebrows lifted. “The Whitikers? You mean we have neighbors?”

  “About a mile past the creek.”

  “But I thought we were the only settlers around. I didn’t see any homes on the way out here.”

  “That’s because most of them are living in dugouts. Unless you know where they are, they’re easy to miss. The Whitikers live in a sod house, above the ground. You shouldn’t have a problem finding them. You might want to talk to Martha about surviving out here.”

  He could feel Sarah’s steady gaze upon him and suspected she was a little surprised he’d bothered to suggest it, but there was no time for ignorance during harvest season. “I told her about you. I reckon she’s expecting you to come by tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? That sounds wonderful.” He could hear the excitement in her voice, even though she had tried to hide it.

  “Don’t expect me to come with you for a formal introduction, though. I’m too busy. Quite frankly, things out here won’t always be as proper as you’re used to. Necessity and survival come first. In a bad storm, whole families will share their house with the chickens if it means saving the flock. So be prepared for a different kind of—”

  “I get your point,” she interrupted, shoving her chair back. She began to clear the table and abruptly changed the subject. “I was thinking that butter might be nice, but I didn’t see a churn.”

  “There’s one in the barn. I’ll get it after supper.”

  “That would be kind of you. Shall I make coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Sarah walked toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To get some more…I have to light the fire again. It went out when I fell asleep.”

  He saw the look of failure in her eyes and realized how desperately she wanted everything to be perfect. “You know,” he said, rising and moving toward her. “I didn’t really want coffee. It’s usually a morning beverage for me. Keeps me up at night, otherwise. I was just being polite.”

  They stood face-to-face, perhaps a little too close, staring curiously at one another. “I see.”

  At that moment, Briggs realized with some discomfort they were about to spend their first night together. In their home. Alone.

  He glanced at the narrow bed, imagining how crowded it would be. Their bodies would be pressed together all night long, whether or not he wanted it that way. And despite her pretty face, despite her alluring figure, the thought of touching her made something inside him squirm. How could he lay his hands on a woman who was probably dreaming about someone else? How could he make love to her, knowing another man had possessed her heart—and her body—only weeks before?

  Briggs felt his cheeks flush with fiery irritation. None of this should matter to him, he knew, but he could not fight the irrational urge to find this man, wherever he was, and show him what the muddy ground looked like up close. What had he been up to, robbing a woman of her innocence, then leaving her so desperate she had to answer an ad to become another man’s wife?

  Angry at himself for becoming so troubled by this—he did not even know what truly happened between Sarah and this man—Briggs needed to leave the house.

  “I’ll go get that butter churn.” He bree
zed by Sarah and made a dash for the door.

  As he walked across the yard feeling the coolness of evening touch his skin, he thought of her, only seconds ago, standing uncomfortably at the bottom of the steps, dreading the necessity of lighting another fire, but doing her best to hide it. If he had wanted coffee, he reckoned she would have prepared it with a smile, and something about that made him wish she could be a little less conscientious. At least then, it would be easier to tell her that he intended to sleep in the barn tonight.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning when Sarah woke, it seemed as if the sun had taken a holiday. The tiny house was as black as a preacher’s Sunday cloak. She sat up and looked around, relieved to see some sign of the world—a narrow ribbon of light sneaking in through a clean patch on the dust-covered window and illuminating a single sod in the far corner just above the toppling mound of cow chips.

  What time was it? she wondered sleepily, stretching her arms over her head. She glanced over the one-room house, wishing there was a clock ticking somewhere. Anything to disturb the perpetual silence.

  Sluggishly, she tossed the blanket aside, swung her legs off the edge of the bed, and laid her bare feet on the cold dirt floor. She yawned and touched the pearls around her neck, wondering why in the world she was still wearing them, and to bed, no less. As she considered it further, she knew she wore them because they were a piece of her old life. The life before Garrison.

  Forcing that unpleasantness from her mind, she reached for her gold timepiece. Holding it up to the dim light and focusing on the fine black hands against the white background, she felt her insides twist like a corkscrew. Ten o’clock!

  She leaped to her feet and ripped off her nightgown, then quickly donned the same dress she’d worn yesterday. While she hurriedly laced her boots, she prayed that Briggs had not come in here expecting breakfast before tending to his crops. Surely he would have awakened her. Oh, heaven forbid he should find out how late she had slept!

  She splashed some cold water onto her face and pinched her cheeks. She reached for a biscuit, took it with her and ran up the stairs into the daylight. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the wheat field was flapping and hissing beneath the incessant breeze. Briggs was nowhere to be seen, so she started off for the Whitikers’ place, thinking a visit there would be a good excuse to explain her lack of productivity that morning.

  As soon as she rounded the corner of the house, she stopped, noticing two barrels standing at attention, both filled to the brim with fresh water. “Oh, dear,” she said aloud, fully aware she was talking to herself. He had been there.

  There was still a chance he had not gone into the house, she told herself, trying to be optimistic. Surely, he would have awakened her.

  When she passed the barrels, she found herself feeling a flicker of encouragement. It was kind of him to haul the water for her even though he had his own work to do in the field. Perhaps there was a chance for civility, if nothing more. It had been clear to her last night, when he’d announced he would sleep in the barn, that he couldn’t endure the idea of touching her.

  Well, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, she thought, picking her way through the barnyard and past the snorting pig in the pen. Touching her would only remind him of the thing that had scarred their marriage on the very first day.

  A few minutes later, Sarah reached the creek. Looking in both directions and knowing enough not to expect a bridge anywhere close by, she decided there was no other option but to wade across. She removed her boots and hoisted her skirts up to her waist, then waded through the cool, resistant water, carrying her boots in one hand over her head. She climbed the creek bank on the other side, and while she sat in the grass retying her boots, she saw chimney smoke against the blue sky in the distance. With her drawers wet and sticking to her legs beneath her skirts, she started off in that direction, soon discovering that the mile Briggs had described was an understatement. By the time she walked into the Whitikers’ yard, Sarah was certain she’d walked three or four miles at least.

  Looking around, she found the Whitikers’ homestead far more established than her own. A large vegetable garden grew just beyond the wood fence—a wood fence!—and the sturdy sod house stood square and straight, topped with a plank roof. Ah, what a luxury, she thought, recalling how she’d had to keep the stew covered last night while it was cooking, just to prevent dirt from dropping into the pot.

  Warm and perspiring from the long walk in the sun, Sarah approached the front door. She noticed with interest a birdcage hanging by the front window, the songbird making cheerful music. Below the window, potted flowers turned their pink and purple faces to the sky and seemed to giggle in the wind. Sarah wished she’d had the forethought to bring along some of her biscuits. Too late now, she said to herself, as she raised her fist to knock.

  Almost immediately, a plump, brown-haired woman opened the door. Her face beamed with a smile. “Why, hello there! You must be Sarah. Come in, come in.”

  Right away, Sarah felt more welcome and thankful than she could ever have expected. She hadn’t realized how the idea of being isolated had gnawed at her since she and Briggs had left Dodge City. “How do you do?” she greeted.

  “I’m Martha Whitiker.” The woman ushered Sarah into the kitchen. “I’ve been waiting every day for you to come. Ever since Briggy placed that ad.”

  Briggy? “You knew, then?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s like a brother to both Howard and me. In fact, it was our idea. Though I don’t know how we’ll get along without his company so often. But as Howard says, we’re not losing a friend, we’re gaining one, and poor Briggy was in desperate need of your arrival.”

  Overwhelmed by this news she found hard to believe, Sarah accepted the chair Martha offered and sat at the table, admiring the bright red-checkered tablecloth.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Martha asked.

  “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

  “Not at all! I slipped the bread into the oven only five minutes ago and I started a pot then.”

  How easy Martha made it seem. Sarah watched her fill two china cups full of rich-smelling coffee. Compared to Sarah’s new home, this place was decidedly lavish.

  Just then, the door flew open and a little girl blew into the house, her blond curls frazzled and wind-strewn. “Mama!” she shouted, overflowing with excitement. “Papa caught a prairie chicken! It walked right past him and he threw the hammer at it, struck it stiff!”

  Martha scooped the child into her arms. “That’s wonderful. What a feast we’ll have tonight.” She set the girl down but held her hand. “Mollie, this is our new neighbor, Sarah Brigman.” The little girl shyly stepped forward.

  Sarah leaned down to greet the child at eye level. “Hello, Mollie. What a pretty dress you have on.”

  “Mama made it. She made my other one, too.”

  “You’re a very lucky girl. How old are you?”

  Mollie held up three fingers, then buried her face in her mother’s skirt.

  “She’s pretending to be bashful today,” Martha whispered. “We don’t get many visitors.”

  Sarah smiled warmly, then heard footsteps tapping over the ground outside. Mollie suddenly forgot her shyness and darted to the door. “Look! Frank’s got the chicken!”

  Sarah swiveled in her chair to see a young boy step into the doorway. Blond like Mollie, he stood barefoot, proudly displaying a dead chicken he held upside down by its spindly legs. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old. “You got some pluckin’ to do, Ma.”

  Martha smiled, her hands resting on her wide hips. “I can see that. Come in and meet our new neighbor, Mrs. Brigman.”

  He lowered the lifeless chicken to his side, wiped one hand on his trousers and held it out. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Brigman. I’m Frank.” Sarah shook his proffered hand. “Will you tell Briggs I saw the chicken first?”

  Sarah looked up at Martha, questioningly.

 
; Martha said, “Frank thinks very highly of Briggs.”

  “He’s going to let me help him dig his well.”

  “A well?” Sarah repeated, hoping she’d heard him correctly.

  “Yes, ma’am. I was too little to help Pa when he dug ours. And Briggs said I oughta know how to do it if I’m gonna be a farmer like him someday.”

  Martha stepped forward and ushered the children toward the door. “All right, all right. Back to your chores. Thank you for bringing the chicken.”

  Frank dropped the dead hen with a plop onto the table in front of Sarah, who quickly leaned back in her chair. The feathers shivered, then went still. Frank and Mollie bolted out the door.

  Martha picked the bird up by its claws and plopped it on the counter, much to Sarah’s relief. “Our children…” she remarked, smiling. “I don’t know how we’d get along without them. It would be dreadfully quiet around here.” She sat across from Sarah and sipped her coffee. “So, how are you making out?”

  Sarah raised her cup to her lips, considering that question. A part of her wanted nothing more than to spill all her woes onto the table in front of this woman, but wasn’t it enough that Briggs thought she couldn’t manage out here? She didn’t want Martha to agree with him. “Well, I…”

  Martha began nodding before Sarah could finish. “I felt the same way when I first came. In fact, I burst into tears the moment Howard stopped the wagon in front of the dugout.”

  Sarah raised her eyebrows. “You lived in a dugout, too?”

  “Oh, yes. What a time that was. I thought I’d go out of my mind. I was used to life in town with the mercantile down the street. You can’t imagine how I suffered that first year.”

  Sarah glanced with hope around the tidy, well-stocked kitchen. “It seems like you have everything you need now.”

  “Yes, we put a lot into this place. Most of the big improvements came when Briggs arrived, though.”