Jubilee Trail (77 page)

She was not in love with him. She could not pretend to herself that she was. Garnet had never had any talent for believing what she knew was not so. But on that first day when he had asked her to marry him, she had thought of the old comparison of the storm-tossed sailor who saw a safe harbor at last. She had felt just like that.

As they talked to each other, that day and again and again in the days that followed, her sense of safety with him increased. He loved her, and what he felt was no boyish infatuation. He was thirty-five years old, and he was not light-minded. He was not an exciting man nor a brilliant man, but he was a good man. He was kind, he was generous, he had clear principles of right and wrong and he did his best to live up to them. And Garnet reflected that while these might not be romantic qualities, they were mighty fine traits to be sure of in the man who wanted you to live with him for the rest of your life. After tumbling around among so many nerve-racking uncertainties, she did so yearn for something firm and secure.

And he would give her, not only safety, but safety among the dear familiar things that she missed so much. New York was his home, as it was hers, and he meant to go back there when the war was over. He was a man of her own world. He knew a good many of the families she knew, they had the whole background of their lives in common. He told her frankly how she could expect to live as his wife. They would not be rich, but he could give her all the comforts and a good many of the luxuries of living. She would have a home like the one she had left; she would shop again at Stewart’s and go to plays at the Park Theater and concerts at Castle Garden; she would have love and dignity and leisure, and uneventful peace.

She had plenty of time to think, for he had told her not to go back to the bar for a month. He thought it wise for her to stay out of the saloon until the talk about Charles’ death had had time to quiet down. That was what he said. But she knew that in less than a month he hoped she would have promised to marry him, so he would have the right to tell her never to work at the bar again.

But the more she thought of Captain Brown, the more the mischievous imp of her spirit would make her think of John.

She thought of both men, and thought and thought, until she was worn out with thinking. Here was Roger Brown, who loved her, and there was John Ives, who said, “We’re both grown up. So let’s be honest. You know as well as I do that ‘love’ is a lot of moonshine.”

But she did not love Roger Brown. She had found out what it meant to love a man. And she did love John. In spite of her conviction that he would get tired of her and break her heart if she gave him a chance, she loved him and she wanted him. It was worse because she did not know if he still wanted her. She had not heard from him since Pablo brought her that note from him four months ago, the note in answer to which she had angrily scribbled, “I won’t have any lukewarm milktoast kind of marriage and I won’t have that kind of man.” Remembering her letter, she could not be surprised that she had not heard from him again. As she thought of it she let her sewing fall into her lap. She was in the kitchen, alone but for Stephen playing on the floor. She rested her arm on the table and put her head down into the bend of her elbow, whispering, “Oh God in heaven, Roger Brown does love me, and he can give me everything I want. Can’t You please, please make me love him just a little?”

Later that day, during the time for siesta, she had a talk with Florinda. Florinda could not advise her and would not try. But she listened with sympathy. Garnet told her all the reasons why she wanted to marry Captain Brown and the one reason why she did not. Talking out the problem made it clearer to herself. She thought now that she would be wise to marry him. She had often heard people say that if there had to be a difference of affection between a husband and wife, it was better that the man feel the greater love at the start. A woman’s life nearly always centered around her home and family, and if she had a devoted husband her love for him was sure to increase as time went on.

It seemed to Garnet that people were right when they said this. It would be romantic foolishness on her part not to take so fine a man while she had the chance.

In the evening she put on a fresh dress and took her sewing down to the kitchen. It was nearly time for supper. Mickey stirred up the fire and put on the beef and the pot of beans, and leaving them to cook he went to collect the used cups and glasses from the bar. Garnet gave Stephen his porridge and sat down to play with him until he got sleepy.

Mickey came in from the bar, carrying a tray. Setting it on the table, he came over to her, his hands tucked into his sleeves and his pigtail bobbing. “Miss Golnet.”

She smiled back at him. “Yes, Mickey?”

Mickey beamed. “Miss Flinda say Blute.”

“Blute?” Garnet repeated. “The Handsome Brute?” She dropped Stephen’s hand and sprang up. “Did she say anything else, Mickey?”

Mickey smiled placidly. “She say damfool,” he returned.

“Stephen, do be quiet,” Garnet exclaimed. She caught herself and smiled at him remorsefully, patting his head. “Is the Brute here, Mickey?”

Mickey did not need to answer, for the door from the bar opened again and in walked the Handsome Brute, his coat covered with dust and his chin aglow with a stubble of bright golden beard. In his fist was a bottle of wine. Putting it on the table the Brute strode over to her, lifted her by the waist till her face was level with his, and kissed her cheek. “You are much too thin,” he remarked as he set her down, “but I love you just the same.”

Garnet had not thought about getting thin, but she realized that in the past few weeks she probably had. The Brute spoke to Stephen, gave him a toy bird made of bright-colored feathers, and returned his attention to Garnet.

“I am tired and thirsty and hungry,” he announced. “I have ridden all the way from Santa Barbara. That is ninety miles. Have you got something to eat?”

“In a few minutes, it’s on the fire now. Oh Brute, I’m so glad to see you! Here’s your wine, drink it while the meat cooks.”

The Brute went toward the fireplace. “I have brought you a letter from John,” he said over his shoulder, as calmly as though he were observing that it had been a warm day.

He was at the fireplace now, and had taken his knife out of its sheath. The beef was still nearly raw, a fact that troubled the Brute not at all. He cut off a chunk, whistled as it burnt his fingers, and wrapping one of his beautiful handkerchiefs around the end of the chunk, proceeded to tear off red pieces with his teeth. Garnet’s knees had gone weak under her. Holding herself up with one hand on the table, she demanded,

“Brute, give me my letter!”

His mouth was too full for speech. With his left elbow, he made a gesture that she did not understand. She cried,

“You big lout, don’t you ever think about anything but eating? Did you say you had a letter for me? Where is John?”

By this time the Brute could speak. “I am sorry, Garnet. I was so hungry I did not think. John is in Santa Barbara. He had a fall, riding.”

“A fall? John rides like an Indian!”

“Yes, but the gully was too wide for the horse to jump. John was coming down here to punch you in the face.”

“Brute, what are you talking about?”

The Brute was eating again. “He said he was coming to punch you in the face. It is in my left-hand pocket. Not your face, the letter. You get it out, my hands are all dripping with beef-juice.”

He gestured with his elbow again and she began to rummage in his pocket. She found another handkerchief, and a bow of red ribbon from a girl’s hair and a string of beads from her neck, and another knife in a case, and a package of salt, and two papers. One paper was a receipt for hides. The other was the one she wanted.

It was folded, and worn from being carried in the Brute’s pocket with all his other trash. Garnet’s hands shook as she unfolded it. The writing looked all strange and lop-sided. For a moment she thought her eyes were not focusing right, then she realized that what she was seeing was the fault of the letter itself. The words were printed, and they straggled all over the page like the exercise of a child just learning to write.

Garnet dropped on the bench. Her breaths were short and fast as though she had been running. Her hands were shaky, and her eyes were not behaving themselves. Nothing outside her was clear. But within her it was all as plain and bright as noon. John wanted her. That was all she needed to know. She felt such a bubbling up of joy that she thought she had never known what it meant to be happy till now.

Then the things around her began to come back into their normal places and she could see and hear again. The Brute, having finished his beef, was scrubbing his face and hands at the basin on the shelf. Mickey was washing the cups. Stephen was pulling at her skirt, trying to get her to notice the new toy the Brute had brought him. She admired the bird, laughing at it so blithely that Stephen laughed too, as though a toy bird was the funniest thing on earth. Isabel came in with some mended clothes, and Garnet told her to play with him. The Brute, having dried his hands, stood back from the mirror and surveyed himself with disapproval.

“I do not look nice at all,” he observed sadly. “I need a shave and a bath and some fresh clothes.”

“Brute!” she ordered. “Come here at once.”

He turned from the glass.

“Tell me about John,” said Garnet. “Is he badly hurt? Why does he write like this?”

The Brute came and sat by her. “He wrote it with his left hand. His right arm is all bundled up and hanging in a sling.”

“Go on! Is he hurt anywhere besides his arm?”

“His right leg is bundled up too. He hurt his hip and he cannot walk. Oh no, no, you must not turn white like that. He will be well.” The Brute took up the bottle of wine he had set on the table when he came in. He poured some into a cup for her. “Drink this, and I will tell you all about him. They are taking care of him. There is a good bone-setting man in Santa Barbara.” The Brute smiled at her. “You must not be mad with him. Please do not be mad with him, Garnet.”

Garnet caught her breath in a quick little sob. “But isn’t he mad with me?”

“Oh yes,” said the Brute. “But please understand him, Garnet,” he begged, and he spoke as though they were two grown people who must understand and forgive a naughty child. “I know John, and you should know him too by now. John is so afraid of his own heart.”

She whispered, “Brute, I don’t understand him. But I love him so.”

“I know you do,” said the Brute.

He took the empty cup out of her hand. As he set it on the table, he said,

“You must go to him, because he cannot come here now. You will go to Santa Barbara with me?”

“Oh yes!”

“That is good,” said the Brute.

“Did he tell you to bring me?” Garnet asked hopefully.

“No,” said the Brute smiling, “but he would be very mad with me if I did not.”

“Oh Brute,” she exclaimed with an exasperated little laugh, “why did I have to fall in love with such a blockhead?”

“Why, I don’t know,” the Brute said gravely.

Garnet did not know there were tears on her cheeks until the Brute took out his handkerchief and wiped them away. She thought she had never known till now how much she wanted John. When she saw that piece of paper with his words shambling across it, a flame had leaped up within her that burnt up all her consciousness of anything else. She wanted John, and he wanted her. She was going to him, and she would not make any more demands of him. John could say he loved her, or he could omit saying it; he could promise her lifelong devotion or he could refuse to promise anything past tomorrow; either way it was all right. If she could have him now she would let the future take care of itself. In these lonely frightening months just past she had learned the value of Florinda’s advice: Take what you can get and make it do.

She raised her head. “Brute, tell me what happened to him.”

“I will tell you.” He filled her cup again. “Take this. It is good for you.”

“Yes, now go ahead.”

“John sent you a letter by Pablo. I do not know what was in it. You gave Pablo an answer, but Pablo did not go back to the rancho right away. Pablo is most of the time a good boy, but this time he was not a good boy. He stopped on the way to visit some friends of his who had a beautiful daughter. This time the young lady looked more beautiful than ever so Pablo got married. They made a big fiesta for the wedding and Pablo stayed and feasted and drank wine. At last he brought his new wife up to Torosa, but it was a long time and John was mad. John thought you had not written to him at all.”