Prairie Wife (3 page)

"Appreciate it." He closed the drawer and left.

Back outside, he went to the spring house and raised a bucket
containing jugs and jars from the cold water, found a jar of buttermilk and
drank it slowly, hoping to calm his stomach and quench his thirst.

Feeling better, he headed back to the stable to finish preparing for
the next stage.

***

The kitchen table was filled with travelers that evening—two
businessmen, a young couple, a woman with a son about the age of eight and two
elderly sisters. Sam participated in a conversation about the Wells Fargo lines
with one of the bankers.

Mrs. Barnes, Adele and the laundress usually ate before the
guests, along with Hermie and the other hands. Often Sam joined the other
workers, but occasionally, he dined with the guests to stay current with news
and happenings on the road.

Catching Amy by surprise, Jesse arrived and seated himself beside
one of the older women.

Amy served the meal, and then, while Mrs. Barnes filled cups, she
sliced more roast and cut a thick molasses cake into wedges. Jesse ate
breakfast with the guests, but he always waited until they were gone and in
their rooms before he came in to share a private supper with her. This change
of schedule was an unsettling surprise.

She went about her tasks, and one by one, the diners left, until
only Jesse and her father remained. They discussed a mare ready to foal, and as
Amy picked up the last dish, Jesse followed Sam out the door without a backward
glance.

A sinking shred of disappointment almost made its way into her
chest, but she stifled it immediately and, taking her place beside Mrs. Barnes,
dug into the stack of dishes.

Eventually, everything was washed and dried and Mrs. Barnes left.
She rode in about five miles every day from her son and daughter-in-law's
homestead to the west. Her job here was her contribution to their struggle to
keep the place going.

Amy picked up the plate on which she'd saved a portion of food for
herself and ate a few bites without bothering to sit. She wasn't being fair to
Jesse, but she couldn't talk to him. She didn't have anything to say, and she
refused to open wounds best left scarred over.

Taking out her patterns and material, she finished cutting two
dresses and started pinning the seams together. With little time to devote to
herself, this project would take months, but it kept her hands busy this evening.
Night had fallen full upon the station and there was no sign of Jesse's return.

She wanted to ignore this problem, too, but maybe she had better
go see where he was. After putting away her sewing, she lit a lantern and
carried it to the stable.

The lamps were still lit, and that was one of Jesse's last chores,
so she searched the building, walking past stalls where horses stood placidly.
An occasional nicker prompted her to reach through the gate and rub her
knuckles on a bony forehead.

She found Jesse in a large stall toward the back doors, which were
closed and barred. He sat on a bushel of hay, a sorrel mare with swollen sides
placidly blinking at him.

The swiveling light from Amy's lantern caught his attention and he
glanced up. "Hey."

"What are you doing out here?"

"Just keeping her company." Though his words were
carefully enunciated, she heard the liquor that laced them.

Spotting the bottle between his boots, swift anger warmed her face
and neck. Anger... disappointment... or guilt?

"And
drinking whiskey," she said, her tone flat.

He plucked up the bottle by the neck. "Yeah."

"You've been doing too much of that lately."

He turned his head to look up at her. "What the hell do you
care, Amy?"

"It's not an answer for anything—" she began.

"And what needs answering, huh? What's the question? D'you
have a question?"

"I mean a solution," she corrected. "It's not a
solution."

"Maybe not." He squinted and stared at the nearly empty
bottle. "But it's a helluva lot better'n the choices. I'm not hurting
anybody out here."

She stood, keeping her silence, hating what she was seeing Jesse
become.

"Maybe you ought to try it, Amy." He raised the bottle
toward her. "Go ahead. Maybe it'd loosen you up a bit."

"If you're an example of loose, I don't need it."

Pushing unsteadily to his feet, he caught his balance and stepped
toward her. "Come on, maybe you'd feel better. Maybe you'd
feel,
period."

She took a step back. "This isn't you talking, Jesse."

"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked, anger
in his tone. "You can't stand to have me around. I'm giving you what you
want, so don't suddenly act... concerned. I know you don't give a damn what I
do or where I am. I'm surprised you even—even knew I was out here."

His words found their mark, but she refused to let them wound. If
she felt them—like he wanted her to— she wouldn't be able to cope. She turned
to leave. "I'm sorry I came."

A crash sounded. Jumping in alarm, she spun to see the broken
whiskey bottle lying at the base of the gate frame, amber liquid soaking into
the wood and scattered straw. The scent rose and burned her nostrils.

She turned to see Jesse facing away from her, scrubbing a hand
down his face. He'd thrown it, but not at her.

"Shit," he said, turning and coming toward her,
awkwardly kneeling and reaching for the broken glass.

"No, let me," she said.

He grabbed for the pieces, and Amy watched with dulled senses as a
crimson rivulet ran across his thumb and dripped to the hard-packed earth.

"Jesse, what have you done?" She grabbed his wrist.

She turned over his hand and he opened it, revealing a shard of
the bottle protruding from a deep gash in his palm.

"I can't even feel it," he commented, staring at the
oozing cut.

Amy reacted quickly, gently plucking the glass from his hand and
pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. She pressed the clean white fabric
against the wound. "Do you have any more of that whiskey?"

He nodded. "Y' want a slug after all?"

"No, you fool, I want to pour some over this cut before I
stitch it."

"There's a wooden crate in the tack room. Look under my
s-saddle."

"Sit and don't move," she ordered.

He dropped onto the bale and gripped the handkerchief against the
cut.

Looking where he'd instructed, she found the case of whiskey, six
bottles already missing. She took one out, then ran to the house for her sewing
basket and returned with hot water and supplies.

Placing both her lantern and his on either side of where he sat,
she knelt before him and guided his hand into the water. While the needle and
thread soaked in a saucer of whiskey, she poured more on the cut, then held a
clean rag against it.

"Maybe I ought to take a drink of that before you start
stitching."

She refused to look up. "You already said you couldn't even
feel the cut."

"I can see it."

Finally, she looked at him. His eyes were reddened and his hair
mussed. "Don't look."

She turned back and, with a deep breath, steeled herself for the
task she had to do. The wound was in the center of his palm, making her chore
more difficult, but she had wisely chosen the smallest needle she could find.
It took several minutes to neatly sew the cut closed and tie off the thread.
She'd performed this unpleasant duty for a few of the stable hands and more
than once for her father, but it never got any easier to pierce someone's flesh
and draw it closed. By the time she was finished, her stomach felt queasy and
her head was light.

"I'll make you some coffee," she said, pouring the water
out onto the ground in the corner of the stall. "I don't want any."

She gathered up the supplies. "You should get some sleep,
then." From the corner of her eye, she saw him stand. She took a few steps
and paused. "Will you be coming in soon?"

She waited for his reply.

"No."

Her heart stammered, but she collected herself. Well, there it
was. Just another situation to ignore. She was good at that.

She crossed the distance to the house and steadied herself with a
hand on the porch rail before entering the kitchen. She put away the bandages
and ointment, banked the fire in the stove and picked up the lantern and a pail
of water.

At this time of night Jesse was usually just behind her, or
finishing chores and would be joining her shortly. Not this night, so her
footsteps echoed alone on the stairs.

She set the lantern on the washstand and poured the water into the
basin.

Slowly, with numb fingers, Amy removed her shirtwaist and skirt
and set her shoes aside. In her chemise and drawers, she crossed the room and
opened the top drawer of the bureau.

It was empty, except for the velvet box in which Jesse had kept
his father's watch. The second drawer held only a packet of letters and the
white shirt he'd worn the day they were married.

Amy opened the wardrobe to find only her clothing remaining. She
closed it. At the basin she removed her chemise and washed, then pulled on her
nightdress and blew out the lantern.

Jesse wasn't coming to bed. He wasn't coming back to this room.
From the window, light could be seen shining from the rear of the barn where
Hermie slept. A few windows at the boardinghouse were illuminated. Jesse was in
one of those rooms.

Amy pulled the curtains closed, turned back the covers and climbed
into bed. The mattress dipped and swallowed her into its softness. She lay on
her side with her eyes closed against the darkness... against the emptiness.

Tomorrow morning she would rise early to bake bread. There was a
social on Sunday after church, so a cake and pies were called for. Mentally
going over the list of supplies, she checked that she had everything.

For a brief time after her mother's death, she'd handled all the
meals, but then Jesse had hired Mrs. Barnes. Since the woman had been with
them, Amy's kitchen chores were less hectic and she had more time to prepare
ahead. Adele cleaned rooms and changed linens at the boardinghouse, and Maggie
Townsend, whom Jesse had hired last year, did the laundry and helped in the
garden.

There had been a time when Amy had done the laundry herself, her
son toddling in the yard while she hung sheets to dry. She had spent more time
chasing him than she had at her task, but somehow she'd managed to do
everything she needed to and look after him, as well.

More than once Jesse had come upon them outdoors and run up to
sweep the little boy off his feet and toss him in the air. She could still hear
the toddler's infectious giggles and see his fair hair glistening in the
sunshine. And the smile on Jesse's face... she hadn't seen that smile since.

Amy clamped down hard on the unwanted thoughts. She willed herself
to be strong.
Don't think about it. Don't remember.

She hadn't realized she'd reached for it, but somehow Jesse's
pillow had become clutched to her breast. She curled herself around it and
ignored the unoccupied space in the bed. Everybody made their choices and Jesse
had made his. He couldn't move on, and she wouldn't go back. She wouldn't lose
sleep over things she couldn't control.

He'd been as good as gone for a long time anyway. For months
they'd lain side by side with a mile of hurt separating them. That was just the
way things were.

***

Jesse made a new habit of eating with the hands before the guest
meal. Amy adjusted to the change without comment. She saw him at breakfast with
her father, half a dozen hands, and the women present. He came in at noon with
the others, and then she saw him at supper. The two of them hadn't spent a
minute alone since the night he'd cut his hand.

She noticed the bandage had been changed and was clean, so she
said nothing.

Finally, when he stepped to the stove for more coffee after Saturday
supper, she asked, "Do you need those stitches out?"

"I'll do it myself," he replied. "Thanks."

He carried his cup back to the table.

"Church social tomorrow afternoon," Mrs. Barnes reminded
them. "Might be the last one we can hold out of doors before cold
weather."

Sam leaned across the table and secured himself another slice of
molasses cake. "I'd better practice, in case there's a cake-eating
contest."

Hermie laughed. "You're always practicin' for that contest
and it's never happened yet."

Sam ate his cake, then stood and glanced at his daughter. He often
wore a look that said he wondered what was going on inside of her, but
everyone—including her own father—had learned to stay at arm's length and keep
their advice to themselves. But she saw it there—the loss. And she looked away.