Smoke River Bride (11 page)

T
he next morning Leah was so stiff and sore she could not leave her bed. Thad brought her a boiled egg and some toast for breakfast, and for supper a bowl of beans and two of Teddy’s odd-shaped biscuits.

Thad confessed he’d spent the night in the barn and hadn’t slept much.

“You do not need to sleep in the barn,” she had protested.

“I do. I…well, I don’t want to disturb you when you’re hurting.”

She could tell by his voice there was something he was not telling her, but she kept quiet. She thanked God for this steady, caring man; he seemed to like her well enough. She had
thought he even liked kissing her, but perhaps she was wrong?

The memory of his mouth moving over hers brought an odd ache below her belly. She wanted him back, lying next to her at night.

Around noon, Teddy poked his head into the bedroom. “Pa ’n’ me are goin’ fishing. Kin I dig up some worms in your garden?”

“Pa and I,” Leah said gently. “Yes, there are lots of worms in the garden. Take a tin can.”

The two were gone all afternoon, and when they returned Teddy showed off his string of five brown trout. “Betcha don’t know how to clean the innards out of a fish, huh, Leah?”

But I do know
, she thought. She refrained from challenging the boy; it was progress enough for him to ask politely for the worms.

That evening, Thad rubbed more liniment on her sore back and legs, and in spite of her resolve to stay awake, she drifted off to sleep, smiling into the pillow.

Thad MacAllister was a good man.

That night Thad again decided he couldn’t disturb her. Hell, he
wanted
to disturb her. He wanted to do more than just lie quietly beside her, but he didn’t feel right about it. Once again, he tramped out to the barn and rolled himself up in worn, musty-smelling blankets.

But he couldn’t sleep for the thoughts roiling in his brain. Physically, it felt right to claim her. But, God help him, emotionally, he felt himself holding back.

He appreciated Leah’s efforts to learn to cook. She kept the house neat and she cared for Teddy. Some days Thad could scarcely believe his good fortune. It didn’t matter to him one whit that she was half Chinese or if she was not as tough and work-hardened as other farm wives. Thad liked Leah for herself alone.

He would try like hell to be worthy of her, to wait until he could commit his whole self to her with no twinge of regret or guilt about Hattie. His conscience would not allow him to make love to Leah and think of Hattie; it wasn’t fair to Leah. He knew in his gut it wouldn’t be right.

In the morning, Teddy plopped down beside him on a hay bale. “Is Leah gonna be okay, Pa?”

Thad jerked. “What? Oh, sure she is.”

The boy’s head drooped. “You weren’t even listening.”

“You’re right, I wasn’t.” Thad touched his son’s shoulder. “Think it’s about time you learned to rope a horse, don’t you?”

The boy bolted to his feet. “Yeah, Pa! You
won’t forget, will ya? Like last time? I guess you musta got mad at me or somethin’.”

Thad winced. “No, son. I won’t forget. And I’m not mad at you, I’m just, well…I’ve got things on my mind.”

“’Bout Leah, I bet, huh? He didn’t answer.

Teddy shot him a look of disgust and busied himself with his shoelaces.

The next morning Leah rose at dawn with renewed determination to carve out a place for herself in Smoke River. All her life she had yearned to belong somewhere, really belong. Growing up in China she had never felt accepted by the villagers where she had been taunted and excluded because she was
“yang guizi,”
a foreign devil. She had never been accepted as the daughter of Franklin Cameron and Ming Sa.

Here in Thad’s world, on the Oregon frontier, she longed to feel welcome. She hungered to belong, not just as Thad MacAllister’s wife, but as herself. As Leah MacAllister.

After breakfast, a preoccupied Thad tramped off, then reversed direction and came back for Teddy.

“Gosh, Pa, I thought you forgot me, again.”

Thad ruffled the boy’s hair and together they went to inspect the fields.

Leah knew the alfalfa and wheat seedlings were struggling through the winter storms, and that the wheat especially worried him. There was so much to do on a farm besides grow things—caring for the horses and the milk cow, now heavy with a calf; rebuilding damaged fences; repairing the chicken house, where the wind had torn off slats. Thad had even found time to turn over the soil for the kitchen garden she planned for spring.

Last night, as he was rubbing liniment on her sore muscles, he had talked about his wheat. She knew he had borrowed money on the ranch to finance the experimental venture. It meant everything to him, and she was beginning to understand why. Not just because it was a challenge and a far-seeing experiment, but because it was something concrete Thad felt he could control in an uncertain world. A world where a runaway train could kill a man’s wife.

He told her again about watching his Scottish family struggle against starvation when he was a boy. Thad had been scarred by that. He tried to hide it, even from himself, but his fear still lived deep inside him. Whole days
went by when he stared into the fire and ignored both her and Teddy.

She tried not to let his withdrawal bother her, but her heart ached for Teddy. Thad’s young son could not understand his father’s bone-deep concern for something as simple as a field of sprouting wheat. At times she wondered if Thad himself understood it completely.

Whether or not he did, she had her own challenges to face. she could not bother Thad when he was working long, long hours in the fields; today, she resolved, she must saddle up Lady on her own and ride into town to visit the mercantile.

The minute she’d made the decision she suppressed a shudder. Could she really do it? Could she once again haul the heavy saddle up on top of that huge animal?

Very carefully, Leah drew rein near the hitching rail in front of the mercantile and let out a breath of relief. She had done it! Saddled the mare and ridden all the way into town on her own without falling off.

The barber, Whitey Poletti, was sweeping the board walkway in front of his shop. Last week Ellie had told her about the daily sweeping
contest between Whitey and Carl Ness, the mercantile owner. It had continued for years, and this morning it seemed the barber was beating Carl in the race to finish first.

She bunched up the long gray melton skirt she wore, kicked her foot free of the stirrups and dismounted. Before leaving the barn this morning, she had practiced it four times, but she still had to think out every move.

Mr. Poletti planted his broom in front of her and leaned one white-coated arm against it.

Leah nodded at him. “Good morning, Mr. Poletti.”

“No, t’aint,” he snapped. “Yer standin’ right where I was sweepin’.”

“I am sor—”

“Nah, you ain’t. Don’t know our customs, can’t talk our language, ner nuthin’,” he muttered under his breath. “Damned foreigners.”

“—rry,” Leah finished. The broom bristles poked at her boots.

She drew her frame up as straight as she could. “You will notice, Mr. Poletti, that I speak perfect English.” She struggled to keep her voice even. “My father was an American. A teacher.”

“Move!” he ordered. “Yer in my way.”

“Oh, I had not noticed.” She enunciated
each syllable with extra care. “I beg your pardon.” She turned toward the mercantile entry.

“Huh!” the barber snorted at her back. “Damned Celest—”

The bell over the mercantile door covered the barber’s last word. Carl Ness glanced up from the newspaper spread on his counter; without the faintest glimmer of a smile or even a nod of recognition, he immediately looked down again.

“Good morning, Mr. Ness.”

The store owner kept on reading. Leah shifted from one foot to the other. Twice. Still he did not speak; he did not even look at her. Instead he kept his sharp, narrow face bent so low she could see the bald spot under the wisps of sandy hair on his head.

“Mr. Ness?”

The shopkeeper slammed the flat of his hand onto the newspaper. “What do you want?”

All at once she remembered her first visit to the mercantile. Carl Ness hated Celestials. The scowl on his face said it all. He hated her because she looked Chinese.

“Mr. Ness,” she persisted, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard throughout the
store. “I came to purchase some fabric. For a skirt I intend to sew.”

“So?”

“You carry bolts of fabric, do you not?”

“Yep.” Leah gritted her teeth. “May I see some?”

The mercantile owner glared at her without speaking, and her pulse began to throb at her temple. The man was being deliberately rude. Well, she could be just as deliberate.

“Never mind, Mr. Ness.” She swept her gaze over the empty aisles. “I can see how busy you are this morning. I will find the bolts myself.”

She pivoted away from the counter and marched up and down the aisles of shovels and skillets and lanterns until she found what she wanted. Bolts of wool, blue denim, and a variety of calico prints were stacked high on one shelf. Denim, she decided. And the red calico for a shirtwaist.

She muscled the heavy bolts off the shelf, returned to the counter, where Mr. Ness was still bent over his newspaper, and dumped the load next to the black iron cash register.

“Five yards of the denim, please. And three of the calico.”

Ness shuffled a few feet to his left, lifted a
large pair of scissors tied to the counter with a grimy string, and measured out the fabric along a yardstick nailed to The counter edge. With a vicious twist of his bony arms he ripped off the measured yardage. The sound jarred her nerves almost to the breaking point.

“That’ll be seventy-five cents.”

“Please add it to the MacAllister account.”

“Thad MacAllister don’t have an account here,” Ness stated.

Stunned, Leah stared at him. “Why, of course he has an—”

“Not anymore, he doesn’t.” The mercantile owner shuffled back to his newspaper.

Leah slapped her palm down on the counter so hard it stung, but she got his attention. “My husband
does
have an account at the mercantile, Mr. Ness. And you will please add this purchase to it.”

She reached out, spun the wheel of brown wrapping paper next to the cash register, tore off a length and neatly bundled up her fabric. Ness stared at her, but she swept past him to the entrance.

The jangle of bells on the door mocked the words echoing in her brain. Her father’s words.
Turn the other cheek
.

No! This time she could not follow Father’s
teaching. This time she was here in Smoke River where she was fighting to belong, and this time she would fight back!

Furiously Leah pumped the sewing machine treadle up and down with her foot and struggled to tamp down her anger. When the blue denim gradually turned into a four-gore Western-style work skirt, her frown began to lift. By the time she cut out pieces for the red calico shirtwaist, using her old one as a pattern, she had calmed down enough to unclench her jaw and let herself cry it out. She basted and wept for an entire hour.

At dusk Thad tramped in, followed by Teddy, who had been out clearing weeds from her kitchen garden. Thad took one look at her reddened nose and swollen eyes and swore aloud.

“Carl Ness, is it?”

Leah nodded. “How did you know?”

“Heard about it from Whitey Poletti next door.” Thad laid his hand briefly on her hunched shoulder. “I let Carl know he won’t get away with insulting you.” He chuckled deep in his throat. “One was all it took.”

She blinked. “One what?” Thad looked up at the ceiling, down at the
plank floor, anywhere but at her. When he spoke she had to strain to hear him.

“One, um, punch. Straight to his gut.”

“Oh, Thad, you shouldn’t—”

“Yes, I should, Leah. I had to.” He chuckled again. “Sure felt good.”

By Christmas, Leah’s life had settled into a work schedule for cleaning the house, doing the farm chores that fell to her and helping Teddy with his homework. On Mondays she hauled the tin washtub into the side yard, built a fire in the pit Thad had dug and filled with bricks, and boiled the mud and grime out of their jeans and shirts and smallclothes and her own work skirts and aprons.

Tuesdays she heated the two sadirons on the stove and ironed everything except for her pink silk night robe. That she smoothed by hand and hung by the fireplace. Wednesdays she mended Teddy’s jean pockets and frayed knees and Thad’s split shoulder seams, and cut and sewed new striped-ticking skirts and lawn shirtwaists for the warm weather she prayed would come soon. the cold, dreary winter months were eating away at her spirits.

Thursday was baking day. By noon, eight fragrant loaves of bread crowded the kitchen
table, and by evening at least one apple pie or dried-peach cobbler was bubbling in the oven. On Fridays, Leah sewed and later sat hemming her new garments in the armchair by the fire. She was also knitting a muffler for Thad. Red, for good luck.

Each week was a repeat of the one before. She cooked and scrubbed floors and swept the kitchen and the porch, made up the beds with clean sheets, dusted and straightened Teddy’s loft, and put out clean towels.

She liked the work. She liked the house. And she especially liked her new family. Teddy was still resentful to the point of being rude, but every so often she caught him gazing at her with a puzzled look in his eyes. Perhaps he was inching toward accepting her.

She genuinely liked Thad’s young son. He was bright and curious, and deep down, she suspected he could be as kind and caring as his father. At least the boy’s gibes at her were now spread over days instead of hours.

Each chilly morning Thad tramped out to the barn before dawn to milk the cow and feed the horses, and Teddy dragged himself off to school. All day Thad worked in the fields and did not return until after dark. Leah sat by the fireplace, waiting for the sound of
her husband’s boots on the porch steps and thinking about her life, and about Thad—how his voice lapsed into a Scots burr when he was angry. How soft his mustache felt against her bare neck at night, and how his warm breath caressed her skin into shivers when they lay like two spoons, her back to his chest.