Claimed on the Frontier (4 page)

Aaron coughed, covering his mouth, and I started. Was he laughing at me? But no, the man seemed incapable of such a thing as laughter.

His tone took on a scolding edge when he spoke to me. “Now, Pearl, it ain’t proper to speak ill of the dead.”

I thought of that for a moment, and it made no sense.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Are you backtalkin’, young lady?” he asked. His tone was more curious than corrective.

I shook my head with a frown.

“No, sir,” I said. “I just don’t understand what’s so wrong about speaking ill of the dead. They won’t hear you.”

He coughed again, and this time I wondered if he had something caught in his throat. I eyed him curiously, but he sat straighter and got his bearings.

“It’s a form of respect,” he explained patiently. “And it’s proper to show respect for the dead.” He frowned. “Even if those who have gone before us were ill-mannered and mean, it takes greater strength to speak politely than it does not to.”

I did not reply but merely dwelt on his words. He did not discount or belittle my question. He listened patiently and sought to teach me the way to behave.

“Did
you
ever know someone who died who treated you poorly?” At first, he did not respond, merely flicking the reins and keeping his eyes on the dusty road ahead of us. After a moment, I regretted having asked him anything, and wondered at his silence.

Maybe it wasn’t proper for me to address him. I felt frustrated at my lack of knowledge regarding behavior that was fitting and proper for a young lady. I sighed, but as I turned away from him, he spoke.

“My pa died near a decade ago. He was good to me, good to my ma, and every day I pray to God I am half the man he was.” His voice was impassioned though his eyes never left the road, and I knew I’d struck a nerve. “And one year ago, I lost another who was dear to me.” He offered no more.

I wondered. He was older than I, old enough to have had a wife, or children. It wasn’t uncommon for a young man to be left widowed after an illness or accident had taken his young wife. But I did not probe.

“But no,” he continued. “The loved ones I’ve lost didn’t treat me poorly.”

Well, then
, I thought to myself. He was speaking from a place of admonition, not personal experience.

“Let me ask you a question, Pearl,” he said, and again, I loved the way he said my name. It sounded nice when he said it. I nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“What takes greater strength? To speak ill of the dead and harbor hatred in your heart, or treat the dead with reverence?”

I thought on the answer before I spoke. It was easy to spout off the anger I felt at the Fitzgeralds. I’d lived under their roof and been treated no better than a slave for as long as I could remember. But how
did
it make me feel when I slandered them? I did not feel peace inside. Rather, my anger increased, fanning the flames of the hatred I felt in my heart.

“I wouldn’t know,” I replied honestly. “I’ve never tried the second option.”

Though he didn’t smile, I could’ve sworn his eyes smiled, just a little.

“Then why don’t you try both options and see what’s most fitting,” he suggested.

“If you say so,” I said with a sniff and toss of my head. The man was an interesting sort.

It was the last word spoken until the sun rose high in the sky above us. I could hear Matthew walking beside us, occasionally singing a little ditty I didn’t know, and again I wished to be where the younger, more jovial boy walked.

What made this man so sober? Was it merely his personality, or something else? I would not let it bother me, though, as I continued to enjoy the quiet of our journey. I wondered at what lay ahead. A new homestead… his mother, the mere mention of her making Aaron’s eyes warm and soften. What would his sister-in-law and brother be like?

Would they like me?

My throat ached with thirst and my stomach growled, but I said nothing as we continued our journey.

“You’re hungry,” he stated, and I nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

And without further ado, he stopped the horses, drew up the reins, and leapt down. Oh, it felt good to stretch. I turned to leap down myself when his voice stopped me.

“You stay right there until I get you,” he ordered, so curtly I jumped.

“I can get down from the wagon just fine, Mr. Stanley,” I protested. “I’m hardly a wilting daisy.” I was fully capable of leaping down from the seat of a wagon without injury.

He turned a sardonic eye to me as his eyes narrowed.

“Believe you me, I well know it,” he muttered wryly. “Now take my hand.”

I frowned and took his hand, seeing no other choice, and for one brief minute, as I stepped down, I felt his second hand grasp my waist as he lowered me to the ground. His touch felt nice, despite my protest, his grip strong and protective, if brief. He released me and stalked off to the back of the wagon.

“Boys, let’s get some dinner before we continue,” he said, and I felt nerves rise as he went to the back where they kept their pots and plates. Dinner was typically the largest meal of the day, and I wondered what he would serve. Matthew and Samuel tumbled out of the back, Samuel carrying a flask under his arm, and Matthew a small tin of coffee.

“We ain’t got much left,” Matthew said apologetically. “We’ve been eatin’ beans and cornbread, and there’s naught more than that.” I nodded.

I had provisions in the bag in the back, but I hadn’t told him I’d taken them. In my rucksack I had two loaves of bread I’d baked just the day before, and a large bundle of salt pork. There was the jam, and I’d even managed to grab a large wheel of cheese from the pantry. I waited until Aaron came out of the back before I got up the nerve to fetch my food.

He’d be a fool to allow good food to go to waste. But maybe I’d been a fool to sneak and take them.

I cleared my throat as Aaron built a fire.

“I brought food,” I said.

He froze over the flames, leaning back on his haunches and fixing me with one of his long stares.

“Did you now,” he said in a deadly calm voice. I thrust my chin high and met his piercing gaze but my voice wavered as I spoke.

“Yes, sir. The meat would go to waste and the bread was baked just yesterday. Would seem a shame to let the meat rot and bread grow moldy when all you boys’ve had to eat’s been beans and cornbread.”

A long minute passed before Aaron spoke.

“Fetch your bag and bring it here, girl,” he finally ordered. I ran to obey on shaking legs.

When I came back, Matthew was watching with eyes as wide as saucers, and even Samuel swallowed and licked his lips.

“You said you have meat?” he asked. I nodded as I removed the bacon.

“Best save the salt pork,” I said. “It’ll keep longer and flavor the beans. We can use the fat for our cornbread, and we can—”

“When did you get these?” Aaron interrupted.

I swallowed. “This morning,” I replied in a small voice.

“Before you promised to obey me?” he probed. I twisted the toe of my boot in the ground.

“Yes, sir,” I said. He sighed and shook his head.

“What am I gonna do with you, girl?” he murmured. It was a question I wondered myself.

“Then we can eat it?” Matthew said gleefully as he practically jumped up and down and Samuel chuckled.

“It ain’t candy,” Samuel said, but still, Matthew’s enthusiasm was contagious—at least for me. Aaron’s face remained stoically flinty as he put the cast-iron pan over the open flame and unwrapped the oilcloth on the slab of bacon. My stomach growled as the fragrant smell of the sizzling meat rose. I’d been too nervous to eat more than a few bites earlier that morning. As Aaron fried the meat, I opened the bag and removed a loaf of bread.

I turned to Matthew. “Fetch us a knife, Matthew?” I asked placidly, and Matthew ran to obey. I spread my apron on the soft grass near the fire, and laid the loaf of bread next to the small package of butter I’d also managed to sneak. I was so hungry, I could’ve eaten the whole loaf myself.

It was a meal fit for a king, and as I watched Aaron eat large bites of crisp bacon and sop up the grease with thick slices of bread, I wondered if having feasted on a large meal would improve his mood.

“We continue as soon as the dishes are washed,” he growled, standing to his feet and pointing one stern finger at me. “
You
come with me.”

It seemed my theory was proven wrong.

I followed behind him as he stalked to the back of the wagon. Nerves trailed up my spine. Would this be when he would punish me? Would he see my taking the provisions as disobedient? I trotted to keep up with him as he turned to the back of the wagon and lifted the flap. He reached into the wagon and my heart pounded so loudly I felt I’d be sick. Was he reaching for his quirt, or a strap? He turned to face me and to my shock, he held a man’s shirt in his hand.

“You know how to mend, girl?” he asked. I noticed he held a button in one hand and a spool of thread with a needle in the other. Relief rushed through me.

“Yes, sir,” I stammered, still shaking from fear. I smiled at him. “Of course, Mr. Stanley.” I took the proffered thread and button, and held the shirt in my hand. “I’ll get this done as soon as I do the washing up.”

“Matthew and Samuel will clean the plates.” He gestured to a tree stump a short distance away. “You sit there.”

I obeyed quickly, still relieved I’d managed to avoid incurring his wrath.

“And Pearl?” he said, as I licked the end of the thread and pushed it through the eye of the needle.

I lifted my eyes to his and nodded. “Yes, sir?”

He gave me one long, sobering look. “You listen well, girl.” His honey-colored eyes smoldered. “Disobey me again, and I’ll wear you out.”

I nodded as he turned on his heel and left, my heart hammering in my throat once again.

Chapter Three: A Force to be Reckoned With

The remainder of the week passed much the same as the first day. We traveled from dawn to dusk, along the dusty roads, Aaron quiet beside me, though occasionally he engaged me in conversation. I did not feel lonely. I enjoyed the peace. I felt calmer than I’d ever been and grateful I was welcome to keep my own counsel. My thoughts were free to roam and explore, and I marveled at the beauty around us. Autumn had begun to descend, and the leaves on some of the maples and oaks had begun to turn to shades of rust, auburn, and chestnut. The sun filtered through the leaves, dancing as I watched the rhythmic prancing of the horses’ feet. When the ground was smooth enough, I worked my needlepoint or knitting, and enjoyed the colored thread or yarn between my fingers.

But as the days wore on and I had no idea how long our journey would be, I began to grow a bit restless. I never had been one who liked to sit meekly all day with her knitting in her lap. I wanted to walk by the water, and I dearly missed riding atop Lovely alone, the wind whipping through my hair, as her hooves pounded on the grassy terrain. I wanted to strip off my scorching hot leather boots and dip my toes in icy cold water, for though the nights were cooling, the days were still warm and sitting atop the rickety seat of the wagon for hour upon hour left me perspiring, my back throbbing, and my head aching. It was far too bumpy to work on my needlepoint or drawing for large stretches of time. Aaron told me those who had a milk cow with them found the travel so bumpy, their cream had often churned to butter along the way, simply from the jolts of the wagon on the trail. I was ready for the journey to be done, but also determined to remain as stoic and unmoved as my companion.

“What might that be you’re workin’ on?” Aaron asked one day. It was hours after we’d had breakfast and my stomach growled with hunger. I’d been fingering my needlepoint, just looking at it and planning what to do next, so as to keep my mind off how uncomfortable and hungry I was. It was a cardinal, stark red against the vibrant white fabric, perched on the bare limb of a snow-laden tree.

“It’s a cardinal,” I said, surprised he didn’t recognize it. I thought my work was good, and that it was clear. It certainly wasn’t an owl or a hawk.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I know a cardinal when I see one,” he said. “I meant what do you call the handiwork?”

I flushed. “Well, you could’ve said that,” I said, embarrassed that I hadn’t understood his meaning.

He turned to look at me curiously, as if contemplating my reaction before he spoke.

“Well, now, no need to be embarrassed,” he said, surprisingly gentle.

“I am not embarrassed!” I lied.

After a quiet moment, he merely cleared his throat. “You gonna jaw at me about what you did or didn’t know I was askin’, or are you gonna tell me what it is?”

“Needlepoint,” I muttered.

“Now we’re getting’ somewhere,” he muttered. “Needlepoint. I think my ma does somethin’ like that.”

“It’s very common among women,” I said shortly.

“Is that right,” he muttered to himself, giving me a sideways glance, and I was ashamed at myself for being so short-tempered with him over such a trivial incident. But I wanted him to see me as a woman, not a child, and I didn’t like the idea of him thinking I was silly or foolish.

“I think it’s time we get you fed,” he said low, and he pulled to a clearing ahead. His words irked me further, as if I were an animal in need of feed and water, and before the wagon had come to a complete halt, I’d shoved my handiwork back in the basket, lifted my skirts, and heaved myself off the wagon.

I didn’t know exactly what had gotten into me, but I did know that I was fit to be tied. I’d scorched the porridge we’d had at breakfast, and though the others had eaten every bit without complaint (I’d begun to think they’d eat a straw tick if there was nothing else available) I couldn’t stomach the stuff, and when Aaron’s back was turned, dumped it behind a tree stump. Aaron did not like me getting down from the wagon alone, so before he could gripe I stormed away and to the back of the wagon. I felt petty and foolish, like a cross child, but could not seem to calm my temper. I wanted to exercise, run along the banks of the creek and feel my heart pumping, my limbs moving freely, and not sitting cramped on a hard, unyielding bench.