Heart of the Sandhills (5 page)

The two men ambled off toward 14th and Pennsylvania streets. When the Willard Hotel came into view, Elliot asked Big Amos, ‘Are you hungry? We could get some lunch.”

Big Amos forced a smile. “What I would really like at this moment is a chance to rip open a fresh kill and—” he stopped abruptly. Looking down at Elliot, whose blue-gray eyes were filled with empathy, Big Amos smiled. “But I will settle for beef steak instead of buffalo liver. And a cherry pie.” He turned to go inside. Elliot followed, smiling to himself at the memory of the first time Big Amos had tasted pie. Since that moment, whenever pie was on a menu, Big Amos ordered—and ate—pie. Usually an entire pie. Men like Avery Lance had meant to impress the Dakota with military displays. What Big Amos would remember most about Washington was the taste of the Willard Hotel’s cherry pie.

“I thought it might help,” Nancy said, blushing furiously as she held the oddly shaped cushion between Violet and the hard-backed chair. Violet leaned back stiffly.

“Wait,” Nancy said. “Lean forward.” She shifted the cushion. “Now try.”

Violet leaned back, surprised at how comfortable Nancy’s creation made the chair. Reaching behind her, she examined the cushion to see how Nancy had adjusted the thickness of the filling to allow for Violet’s crooked spine, creating channels in the fabric and then varying the amount of stuffing in each channel. There was just a slight cushion in the center and then successively more and more until, at the outer rim, the cushion was nearly as fat as a down bed pillow. Violet leaned back with a sigh. “It’s—it’s wonderful,” she whispered, squeezing Nancy’s hand. “Thank you.”

Violet’s sister Lydia looked up at Nancy. “No one’s ever done anything so nice for my sister, Nancy. God bless you.”

Nancy shrugged. “It’s only chicken feathers.” She lifted her eyes to where Marjorie was standing at the stove frying chicken. “Marjorie says if we could find someone with geese, the down would be even softer.”

“I’m hoping to get some geese brought in in the spring,” Sally Marsh offered. “If the wolves don’t get ‘em before they’re growed, you can have all the down you want.”

“Oh, hush, Earl,” Harriet Baxter snapped impatiently. “I don’t want to hear another word of that ‘Sioux Uprising’ nonsense.” She snapped her dish towel for emphasis.

From where he sat smoking his pipe beside the fireplace, Earl Baxter shot his wife of nearly thirty years a look of surprise.

“I mean it,” Harriet said, drying out her mixing bowl. “That trouble was years ago. Long before we came to Minnesota. And that Fetterman thing happened halfway across the continent from us. It’s got nothing to do with us, and I won’t have you stir-ring up more trouble for everyone just because Abner Marsh has a bee in his bonnet about a stolen horse that came home the same day it was stolen. That man’s got a temper that’s going to get him in trouble someday. There’s no reason for you to be part of it.”

“Now, listen here, Harriet—” Earl made the mistake of pausing to draw through the pipe.

“—No,
you
listen, Earl Baxter. You’re all riled up and the fact is you don’t know beans about Daniel Two Stars or Robert Lawrence. I don’t know ‘em either, but I know their wives and I can tell you there’s no two nicer women in the county.”

Earl stopped rocking. He leaned forward. “And just how would you know that?”

Harriet felt the blush coming up the back of her neck, and so she turned away so Earl wouldn’t see. She hadn’t intended for Earl to know Marjorie Grant’s quilting bees included the Indians. Not yet. But, Harriet thought, what was done was done. Harriet always recovered quickly. So now, she turned to face her husband, red-faced and defensive. “They been comin’ to Marjorie’s for quilting.”

Earl snorted and sat back.

Harriet put her hands on her ample hips and stalked toward her husband. “Marjorie just up and invited ‘em. What was I sup-posed to do? Make Jeb hitch up the sleigh and bring me back home?” She smoothed her graying hair nervously and walked back to the sink to retrieve the towel. While she dried dishes, she talked. “I didn’t like it at first. None of us wanted ‘em. But they’re good quilters, and it just made sense to get our work done faster.” Harriet whirled around, blustering defensively. “You got no idea what it takes to make enough bedding to keep a family warm, Earl Baxter. If you won’t get me a sewing machine like Jeb got his wife—”

“Now, Harriet, I told you,” Earl said, raising his hands in the air, “I just can’t justify spending nearly twenty dollars on a machine that does little more than help a woman with her house-keeping.” The minute he said the words, Earl Baxter knew he was in trouble. He saw the tears gathering in Harriet’s eyes and knew he had stepped over her line of tolerance. Knowing he was in for it, anyway, he decided to try to avert disaster and get back on the topic of Indians. “But if I would have known going to a
quiltin’ bee
would turn my wife into a gol-durned
Injun lover
, I’d have ordered one right up!”

If he expected a fight, Earl Baxter was disappointed. Harriet glared at him for a moment and then she turned away and returned to drying her dishes. While Earl sat beside the fireplace, she worked. When she finished with the dishes, she disappeared into the bedroom. She emerged with a threadbare blanket and one pillow, which she tossed at her husband. “Genevieve Two Stars and Nancy Lawrence are my friends, Mr. Baxter. And if you do anything to harm them or their husbands, you will be sleeping alone for a very, very long time.” At the doorway to the bedroom she paused. “And the next time you want breakfast, or dinner, or supper, or a shirt mended, or a warm bed, or a clean house, or fried chicken, or greens, or gooseberry pie, or the garden weeded, or a new pair of pants—” she paused and bit her lip to keep from bursting into tears. “I been a good wife to you, Earl Baxter. I worked side by side with you for nearly thirty years. Now I guess I know exactly what all that was worth. Maybe you should’ve hired someone to do what I done for free. Then you wouldn’t have some fool woman thinking she earned the right to a little easing of her burden.”

After a nearly sleepless night stretched out on the kitchen table, Earl Baxter rose early and saddled his old mare and headed for New Ulm. On the way, he rode by Abner Marsh’s place where he found Abner in the barn feeding his three dogs. With a deep breath and a gulp, he told Marsh he didn’t want to stir up any more trouble with the neighbors and he guessed Jeb Grant had a right to hire whoever he wanted to work his place. And then Earl rode on into New Ulm to Ludlow’s Variety Store, searched a catalog, and paid the ridiculous sum of twenty-three dollars for a sewing machine to be delivered as a surprise from her beloved husband to Mrs. Harriet Baxter.

“I don’t
care
what Abner Marsh thinks, Thomas.” Lydia Quinn raised up on her right elbow and looked across the bed at where her husband lay staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t want you involved in any trouble.” She swallowed hard and lay back down. “There’s something I haven’t told you.” She paused, drew a deep breath, and plunged ahead. “Marjorie Grant invited those Indian women to quilting a few weeks ago. At first I didn’t want to say anything because—well, Violet gets so little chance to socialize, what with her feeling so conscious about her hump and all. I just didn’t want to disappoint her and she seems to enjoy Marjorie’s boys so.” ‘When her husband did not speak, Lydia dared a sideways glance. “Now, Thomas, I know what you’re thinking and I’m sorry. But I just couldn’t tell Violet we couldn’t go back. I didn’t think it would do any harm. We never saw their husbands at all. It was just the women. At first we hardly even talked.”

Thomas snorted, but said nothing.

“It’s true. We just weren’t comfortable. But even Harriet Baxter stayed. And Marjorie would read the Scriptures.” Lydia stopped again, trying to collect her thoughts. “I don’t know how to tell you, Thomas. But something just happened over that quilt. I don’t expect you to understand what it means to a woman here on the frontier to have friendship—to work together to make something beautiful. Men don’t seem to need that kind of thing. But women do, and it just feeds our souls to work together like that.” Lydia paused. “Don’t you laugh at me, Thomas.”

“I’m not laughing, Lydia,” Thomas said gently. “I know you and Violet have been lonely. Especially this winter, being cooped up in the cabin so much.” He cleared his throat. “And I know how hard life has been for Violet. I don’t say much, but I’m not as thickheaded as I act sometimes.”

“Well, then, Thomas,” Lydia said, blurting the rest of it out. “Then I guess I can just go ahead and tell you that I kind of like Genevieve and Nancy. Yesterday at quiltin’ Nancy had a special cushion she made for Violet’s back, and you should have seen the look on Vi’s face when she leaned back against that chair and it—it—didn’t
hurt
her. All I could think was I should’a done something like that years ago. And here these women who were nothing but
savages
. . .” Much to her embarrassment, Lydia began to cry. She blinked rapidly and tried to wipe the tears away, but the dam was burst and she couldn’t hold the tears back.

“Why, Lyddi,” Thomas whispered. “Don’t cry, Lyddi . . . it’s all right.” He pulled her to him. “I won’t do anything to interfere. Not if it means that much to you. Please, Lyddi, please . . .”

Lydia looked up at her husband. “You—you haven’t called me Lyddi in a long time, Thomas.”

He kissed her forehead. “I haven’t made you cry in a long time.”

She smiled shyly. “I—I—like it when you call me Lyddi.” She kissed his cheek.

She kissed the place just next to his mouth where his beard didn’t quite fill in. And somewhere in the next few moments Thomas Quinn realized that he really didn’t care if four harmless Dakota Indians lived in his county in Minnesota. Not one bit.

Trust in the L
ORD
with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

—Proverbs 3:5-6

“But
why
do we have to go?” Hope protested, jumping onto the edge of Meg’s bed and bouncing up and down angrily.

In her most practiced grown-up-be-patient-with-the-children voice, from where she sat at her writing desk, Meg answered “We don’t
have
to go.” She arranged several preserved white roses on a plain sheet of paper. Some she lay in profile, their leaves intact. Two she snipped as close to the head of the blossom as possible and opened them full out. “We
want
to go,” she said, surveying the rose-filled shadowbox she was making for Genevieve Two Stars. “Gen has been our friend since Aaron and I were little. And she was our
mother
for nearly two years. We love her.”

Meg inhaled the faint aroma still clinging to the roses. Finally satisfied with her creation, she laid aside the glass top and went to sit down beside Hope. She caressed the child’s long blonde hair. “Don’t you remember her at all, Hope—not even a little? She’s only been gone a little more than a year. She taught you to walk. Your first word was when you called her
Ma
.”

Hope sighed. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face toward the ceiling, thinking. “I remember blue eyes,” she said slowly, “and something—something ugly.” Hope brushed her hands across both forearms and then hugged them to herself.

“Do you remember the story of how Genevieve got those scars on her arms?” Meg questioned, patting Hope’s shoulder.

“You told me a million times,” Hope said impatiently. “It was when you were with the bad Indians and they made you walk through the brambles and she put her arms like this,” Hope slapped her arms to her sides, “and covered you up so you wouldn’t get hurt. And she got all cut by the stickers.” She jumped down off the bed and peered at the shadowbox on Meg’s dresser. “But I
still
don’t want to go to Minnesota.”

“Well,” Meg said, standing up, “we’re going as soon as Uncle Elliot and Aaron get back from Washington.” She frowned and pressed her palm against her forehead, wishing the headache that had been plaguing her all day would subside. “It’ll be fun. An adventure.” She smiled at Hope. “Gen is going to be so surprised to hear how well you talk. I guess Aunt Jane was right. Being the baby in a house full of grown-ups makes a difference.”

“I’m not a baby!” Hope protested. “I’m all growed up.”

“You’re only four years old,” Meg said quickly. “Just because you can talk so well doesn’t mean you aren’t still my baby sister.”

“I’m not a baby!” Hope hollered.

Meg winced. “Don’t yell, Hope. You make my head hurt even worse. Only babies cry when they don’t get their way.”

“Amanda don’t want us to go either,” Hope said. “She cried about it. And she’s all growed up.”

Ignoring Hope’s reference to Amanda Whitrock, Meg said, “We’re going to camp. In a tent. And Two Stars will take us fishing. Maybe you’ll catch your own dinner!”

Hope made a face. “I don’t like fishing. You have to touch worms to fish.” She shuddered. “I wanna stay with Gran-ma.”

“Grandmother Leighton is too old to take care of a nearly-five-year-old troublemaker,” Meg teased, tousling Hope’s blonde hair. “Now go find Bess so she’ll be right here when we pack tomorrow.”

“You can’t pack Bess. She won’t be able to breathe!” Hope retorted.

“She’s a doll, Hope. She doesn’t need to breathe.” Meg pressed her palm against her forehead again.

“I’m carrying her.”

“You won’t want to carry her all the way to Minnesota.”

“Then I’ll put her in the bag when she needs to sleep,” Hope insisted. “But until then, I’ll carry her.”

“Oh, all right,” Meg blustered. “Have it your way. But don’t be asking me to hold your doll when you don’t want to be bothered. And don’t be thinking Aunt Jane will do it for you, either.”

“Will we see lots of Indians?” Hope wanted to know. “Amanda says Indians aren’t nice. She says—”

“Amanda Whitrock doesn’t know the first thing about Indians,” Meg snapped. “When did she say that, anyway?”

“When Aaron said he wanted to be a soldier and go West and help the Indians.”

Meg sat down on the edge of her bed. “Were you eavesdropping on Amanda and Aaron?”

Hope frowned and shook her head. “I was in the kitchen and Betsy gave me some cocoa and then we heard Amanda and Aaron arguing on the back porch.”

“You shouldn’t repeat what others say when they don’t know you are listening.”

“I won’t tell anyone else,” Hope murmured. “But Amanda said—”

“You let Aaron worry about Amanda Whitrock and her notions about the West,” Meg said firmly, “and you worry about finding Bess.”

Hope started for the door, pausing just outside in the hallway. “She’s on the swing in the garden.”

“Then go get her,” Meg said. She lay down on her back and closed her eyes.

“What’s the matter, Meg?” Hope hesitated at the doorway.

“Nothing. I’m just going to lie here a minute while you get Bess and see if my headache won’t go away.”

When Hope didn’t come right back inside, Meg got up and went downstairs. She made some tea to settle her stomach and then went outside, where Hope sat in the garden swing, cradling Bess. When Meg approached, Hope looked up and demanded the rose story again. Meg sat down beside her. “I don’t feel like telling a story right now, Hope. How about you tell me the rose story?”

Hope hopped down and went to the corner of the garden. Stepping carefully over the rock border, she smoothed her pink calico dress and took on the role of instructor and center of attention. She gestured dramatically toward the smallest rose bush in the L-shaped flowerbed. “This one’s for your Mama named Ellen, the one I didn’t know. It’s red ‘cause that was her favorite. I got her name in the middle and that’s why I’m Hope
Ellen
.” She pointed to another bush with red blossoms. “And this one is for Papa Simon Dane. And all the pink ones are for you an’ me and Aaron,” Hope said, twirling around as she spoke.

“That’s right,” Meg said. She took a deep breath, wishing her stomach would settle. “Do you remember helping us put the rocks around the edge?”

“I was too little,” Hope protested, shaking her head.

Meg agreed. “You could hardly talk at all. And you carried off more rocks than you put in place.” She smiled weakly. “When we see Gen, you’ll be able to tell her how big her white rosebush is, and how every time we see it we think of her.”

“Why don’t we have a rosebush for Daniel?” Hope asked abruptly.

“Because we made this rose garden to remember our family,” Meg explained for the hundredth time. ‘And when we planted the bushes we thought our friend Daniel was dead.”

“He’s the one that founded me,” Hope said as she fingered a pink rose.

“He did,” Meg replied.

“Tell me,” Hope said.

“I’ll tell you when we’re on the train,” Meg said. She stood up abruptly. “I’m going to go lie down.” Suddenly, she covered her mouth with her hand and ran for the house.

Elliot Leighton and Aaron Dane stood, carpetbags in hand, staring in disbelief at the sign on Leighton Hall’s front door.

QUARANTINE. MEASLES.

“
Measles?
” Aaron could barely pronounce the dreaded word. He knew all about measles. The disease had struck an Indian village near the mission when he was a little boy. He could still hear the women keening their losses as tepee after tepee were emptied of their dead.

Before Elliot could say anything, Jane appeared at the parlor window. She opened the window, but when Elliot stepped for-ward she waved him away. “Stay back, dear. We can’t take any chances.” She took a deep breath. “It’s Meg. Only Meg for now, thank God. But we aren’t allowed out of the house. Dr. Voss’s assistant has been delivering food every day.” Jane laughed sadly. “I thought cabin fever was only something we experienced in the West when the snow piled up.” She forced a smile. “But it appears even mansions can breed cases of cabin fever. We’re rather at one another from time to time.” She passed a trembling hand over her forehead and blinked back tears.

“What about Meg?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jane said miserably. “Her fever has come down a bit and Dr. Voss says that’s a hopeful sign, but—” her voice cracked, “she’s very ill. We just don’t know.”

“We?” Elliot asked. “Who exactly is we?”

“Hope, Betsy, Mother Leighton, and I. That’s all. Cook was on holiday when Meg got sick.”

“So you and Betsy are caring for the entire household as well as nursing Meg around the clock?” Elliot frowned.

“Oh, we’re all right,” Jane protested. When she looked at Elliot, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so glad you’re home.” She wiped the tears away and sighed. “You’ll have to put up at the hotel. We can’t let you in. I seem to have some natural immunity to measles. Dr. Voss was quite amazed when I told him I’d nursed many patients back in my mission days.” She forced another smile. “So you see you don’t have to worry over me. And I really do think the worst is over. If we can just keep Mother Leighton and Betsy and Hope from catching it—” Jane sighed and closed her eyes. “I’m making them stay in their rooms. Hope wanders from one to the other. They all hate me.” She changed the subject. “You’ll have to wire Daniel and Gen. We can’t possibly go now.” Her voice wavered a little. ‘And I don’t quite know what to tell them about Meg.”

Hope appeared at an upstairs window. When Betsy opened the window, the child called down to her uncle, demanding to go with him. Jane told her she must stay inside and insisted that she could not go to Uncle Elliot or Aaron. Hope began to wail.

“I’m sorry, Captain Leighton,” Betsy said as she pulled Hope away from the window and pulled down the sash.

“I have to go, too” Jane said wearily. “I just wanted to—” she held in a sob, “I had to see you.”

“We’ll be back as soon as we’ve made arrangements,” Elliot said.

As the men made their way through the village, they noticed more quarantine signs in windows. At the hotel, they were questioned so vigorously about their health that Elliot stormed away.

“Where are we going?” Aaron asked.

“We are going home to Leighton Hall where we belong,” Elliot said firmly. “We’ll drag the old tent out of the carriage house and you can stay there. I’m going to help Jane. I don’t care what the doctor says.”

“But, Uncle Elliot, you could—”

“I cannot,” Elliot said. He pressed his lips into a fine line. “The disease hasn’t been created yet that can fell an old soldier like me. I’ve been exposed to everything there is, including a cannonball. And all that managed to do was blow my hand off. I’m too stubborn to let measles get me. And I’m not going to let my wife spend another day alone in that house.”

“Then I want to help, too,” Aaron said.

“And you shall,” Elliot said. “We’ll put the tent up in the garden before I go in. You can live there.”

And so he did. Aaron camped in the garden. He ran to the apothecary, ran for the doctor, and did the marketing. At the doctor’s behest he set up a huge iron pot near the carriage house, daily washing linen with lye soap and then dipping everything into boiling water before hanging it out to dry. He waved at Hope when she appeared at the window and did everything possible to make her laugh, including dancing and strutting like a rooster. Every morning he put a fresh white rose beside the back door to be taken up to Meg’s room, and on the day when Meg herself finally appeared at the window, Aaron shouted for joy.

Measles had finally left Leighton Hall. It took no one’s life and spared everyone but Meg. But for Meg, life would never be the same, for when measles left Leighton Hall, it took Margaret Marie Dane’s sight with it.

“I’ll write,” Aaron whispered, touching Amanda’s arm. “Will you—will you answer?” They were seated together on the swing in Leighton Hall’s garden, so close to one another Aaron could just catch the faint aroma of lavender that seemed to follow Amanda Whitrock everywhere she went.

Amanda snatched her arm away and studied the rose garden a few feet away. “I don’t imagine they will have mail delivery off in
Indian
territory,” she sulked.