Amethyst (3 page)

November

“There’s a letter for you.”

Colleen turned at the announcement from the man behind the counter, her hat not quite following. Between hat and hair, remaining properly attired was often a test of her persistence. Because it was market day, when all the farmers brought their goods to Smithville to sell, her father had driven the wagon, filled with her wares, to town. Renowned for her cottage cheese that always sold out first, Colleen had also brought freshly churned butter, buttermilk, and eggs, not to mention her piccalilli. She’d made extra jars because people liked it so much. At the end of the day, with a tidy sum in her reticule and her father at his favorite hangout, she’d gone into the mercantile, giving the owner her list of needed supplies and taking time to peruse the calicos and woolens. She needed a new winter skirt and a dress without holes. No matter that she could mend with the best of them, patches on patches it was. She pushed at her hat, knowing she needed to reset the hatpins, but that was not something a woman did in public. Raising her arms above her head that way was just not seemly.

Who would be writing to her?

“Thank you.” She took the letter and stared at the return address. An answer to her letter of nearly a month ago. She’d given up on receiving a reply, placating her father with the old adage, “No news is good news.” Although, as he’d pointed out, along with several comments about her stupidity, that didn’t seem to apply here.

Rather than spending the time reading under the man’s watchful eye, she placed the letter in her reticule and continued her shopping. Once behind the laden shelves, she reached up and reset her hatpins, hoping to restrict the swirl of russet hair. She had enough cash on hand to pay her past-due bill and for the supplies she’d purchased, but if she bought dress goods, she’d have nothing to hide away in case of an emergency. Her father had raided the last hoard, as he had earlier ones.

Sometimes she wished he’d go back to making moonshine. They’d had extra cash then. But even that had proved too laborious for him, so now he just reminisced about those days. The heart had indeed gone out of him when Patrick died, not that he’d ever been what one would call a hard worker.

With a shake of her head and a grimace at the hat shifting again, she left the dress goods section and returned to the counter to pay for her purchases.

“You want I should load these in the wagon for you?”

“Yes, please.”

“You have any of your goods between now and next market day, you know I would be happy to sell them here.”

“Well, thank you.” In the past she had traded butter and eggs for the things she needed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She thanked him again when the staples of flour, sugar, coffee, and other things she couldn’t produce on the farm were loaded into the wagon. Glancing up the street to the saloon, she hoped to see her father waiting on the front porch. No such luck.

Muttering under her breath, she untied the team, backed them up, and drove around the block so she could stop with the seat of the wagon in direct line with the steps from the saloon. Then, proper or not, she climbed out of the wagon, using the spokes of the wheel for steps, tied the nearest horse to the hitching rail, and mounted the stairs. Stopping at the door, she peered inside.
Lord above, how I hate going in here
.

“Could you please bring him out, Mr. Peters?” When there was no response, she raised her voice and repeated her request. No answer.
Couldn’t you have a bit of mercy on me?
She glanced skyward. “Sorry for any disrespect.” Blowing out a heavy sigh, she pushed open the door and stood blinking in the dim light, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

Her father even had his own table. And right now he lay cheek down, snoring loud enough to scare the rats that sometimes scavenged for bits of food dropped from the tables. The thought of seeing one again made her shudder. But they weren’t as prevalent in the daylight hours, so she sucked in a restorative breath, coughed on the fumes that permeated the place, and crossed the room. How would she get him out to the wagon if he was passed out?

“Father.” She tapped his shoulder. No response. Just like from the owner of this place, wherever he was. She shook her father, none too gently.

“Go ’way.” His mutter sent the alcohol fumes right up her nose.

Her eyes watered and she fought the urge to gag. Why did men do this to themselves? “Pa, either you come with me now, or you’ll be finding your own way home. I am finished here for the day.”
And I have enough work to do at home to fill two days with some left over
.

“Minute.”

She had to lean over to understand him because his lips and cheek were mashing the wood of the tabletop. Colleen took a step back with a finger to her hat. Never before had she had the courage to leave him. But the thought of sitting under a shade tree and waiting for him to stagger out gave her the desire to pick up the bottle sitting on his table and tap him on the head with it.

Aghast at the thought, she shook him again, more firmly this time. “Pa, it is time to go home. You said you would meet me at the mercantile.” Why even talk? He wasn’t listening.

The back door opened, and the proprietor pushed his way in, dragging a dolly loaded with crates. “Sorry, Miss O’Shaunasy, I had to pick up my freight or someone might have lightened my load, if you get my drift. I’ll haul his carcass out to the wagon for you. Don’t know what you’ll do when you get home though.”

“I’ll let him sleep it off in the wagon, that’s what. How can you allow him to drink this much?”

“Man pays his money, I ain’t his keeper.”

“What if he has no money?” She addressed his back as he slung the old man over his shoulders like a sack of wheat and hauled him out to the back of the wagon, where he dumped him on the goods already loaded.

“I use ta run a tab, but not no longer. Not for him.”

“Thank God for small favors.”

Peters dusted his hands off. “If I was you, I’d hide my money real good.”

“Thank you for the advice.” She mounted the wheel, eyed the line to the hitching rail, and sighed, a shoulder-drooping, toenailcurling sigh.

“I’ll get that for ya.”

“Thank you so very much.” When he knotted the line back to the harness, she picked up the reins and slapped the team lightly along with a “giddup.” The horses, long used to finding their own way home, ignored her orders and, nodding, each picked up one hoof at a time, making sure it was set again before picking up another.

Feeling Mr. Peters staring at her from the doorway, she slapped the reins again, with considerably more force, along with a sharp “giddup” to match. The shock made both horses throw their heads up and jerk forward. Her hat skewed toward the back of her head, and her posterior slid to the rear of the seat, making her grateful for the backboard so that she didn’t go head over teakettle into the wagon bed. Now, that would have caused some stir.

By reflex she jerked back on the reins, the horses stopped, and there she was.
Lord, let me hide myself in thee
. She glanced back over her shoulder to make certain she still had her father in the wagon but wasn’t sure if she was grateful that he’d slept through it all or not. Feet braced against the footboard, she slapped the reins again, this time holding them firmly to make sure the horses would walk not leap. They seemed to get the idea, as they walked out with quick feet. After she ripped the hat from her head and tucked it under her skirt so it wouldn’t blow away, she slapped the reins again, and they picked up an easy trot.

Lowering clouds in the west, the direction they were headed, made her groan. All she needed to do was let the bags of flour and sugar get wet. She clucked the horses faster and drove them into the barn just as the errant sprinkles turned into a downpour.

Obeying her father’s orders to never leave the team in harness, even though he often did it himself, she unhooked the traces from the doubletree and, after leading the horses into their stall, unharnessed them. “You ungrateful wretches,” she muttered as the darker of the two bays swung his haunches out enough to pin her against the sideboards. “Get over.” She slapped him on the rump with one of the leathers. “You kick me and, so help me, I’ll shoot you myself. Horsemeat must not be much different than beef.” He straightened out and let her pass, his twitching tail saying that he’d just as soon plant a hoof on her foot as not.

She hung the harnesses on the wall pegs, dumped a small amount of oats in each feedbox, gathered the smaller packages, and made her way to the house. By the time she stopped on the porch to catch her breath, her hair was drenched, her clothes were soaked through to her skin, and her felt hat was squashed beyond rehabilitating.

Lord, what did I do to deserve this?
She dropped the packages on the table, wishing for a cup of hot coffee and knowing that she’d have to start the stove first. Which to do? Change clothes so she didn’t catch her death, or start the fire so she could warm up both body and coffeepot?

The gray-and-white-striped cat with the white bib and paws rubbed against her skirt, then sat down to lick the moisture off her fur.

“If you’re hungry, go catch a mouse. It’s a long time till supper.” Colleen, against all she knew to be proper, dropped her skirt and petticoat by the stove so she could hang them up to dry. Her blouse joined the skirt in a heap, and she debated about her chemise and bloomers. But fearing the arrival of her father or some passing stranger, she hauled herself upstairs to her room, where she stripped down to bare skin and rubbed her body with a coarse towel until she felt warmer. If only she could crawl in bed to warm up. Were her mother here, she would have had the stove lighted and something hot forthwith. She might have even brought a cup up to her daughter’s room, not that Colleen could remember such a time, other than when she’d had the measles.

Colleen sank down on the edge of the bed, feeling as if the roof of the house were pressing down on her. That and the black sky.
How can I bear this? Yet how can I not? I mean, what choices do I have?
Crawl in bed and let the animals suffer?
You could crawl in bed to get warm. But if I fall asleep, then what?
She shivered in the draft from the window, even though the sash was down. Wrapping the towel around her wet hair, she drew dry underthings from the drawers, her working shift from its peg on the low side of the steeply roofed room, and finished dressing. She added a sweater and warm woolen stockings her mother had knit for good measure.

Downstairs she fetched a pot of chicken soup from the larder and, after adding wood to the coals in the firebox, set the pot on the front burner. Because she’d not eaten since breakfast, she sliced bread and buttered it on both sides before laying it in one of the cast-iron frying pans that hung from a rack behind the stove. She set it right behind the soup kettle to speed the toasting.

Looking out the window, she saw the barn door was still closed. Rain pummeled the ground. The cow would most likely be in her stanchion, waiting for grain and milking. Colleen stirred the soup and turned the two slices of bread, pushing the frying pan back off the hottest part. Dark as the day had become, she lit a kerosene lamp and set it in the middle of the table.

“My letter.” She dug it from her reticule, only slightly damp, and laid it on the table. Whenever mail came to the house, her father always read it first—slowly, since reading wasn’t one of his strong suits. Today she would slice open the envelope, pull out the paper, unfold it, and read it—all by herself and first.

To prolong the pleasure she flipped the bread out onto a plate, dished up her soup and slid the kettle back, poured herself a cup of coffee, and set her things on the table. The pure pleasure of the quiet room, the hiss and crackle of the fire, the steaming coffeepot, and the purring cat made her sigh. If only her mother were here to enjoy this special moment with her. What more could she ask?

She salted her soup, staring at the envelope lying on the table. Good news or bad news. She ate a bite of bread, followed by a spoon of soup. The heat radiated from the stove, warming her back. She rotated her shoulders in delight.

Picking up the envelope, she slid the blade of the knife under the flap and popped open the blob of wax seal. Appreciating each move she made, she finally had the letter free and ready to read. Another slurp and bite prolonged the pleasure.

Dear Miss O’Shaunasy,

I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I was to read your letter of October 7. Yes, the loss of our daughter has been a trial, but as ill as she was, we were not surprised to hear of her passing. What surprised and shocked us was the inference that she may have taken her own life. I will never believe that. There must have been an accident or some nefarious event, but that we will never know.

We, my husband and I, would love to be certain of the whereabouts of our grandson, Joel. Were we able, we would go searching ourselves. As far as we know, Joel has gone west with a man named Jacob Chandler. He and Melody were childhood friends. Not long ago we received a letter from his parents and understand that he and Joel are living on a ranch in the badlands of Dakotah Territory, near a town called Medora. While we could not locate the town on any maps, we have learned there is a train station there. It is near the western edge of the territory.

We are pleased to know that Joel has a place to come back to and a purpose. Perhaps Mr. Chandler, whom I believe is a reverend, or was, will be willing to bring Joel back. The Chandlers have a farm not far from our own.

Please keep in contact with us, and we wish you God’s blessing and speed in your mission.

Sincerely,