The Bridal Veil (19 page)

Chester hailed him with a wave and a
call. “Hey, Luke!”

“
Whoa, there, whoa.” Luke
pulled up the wagon next to Chester’s barbed wire fence.

The rawboned man walked along the
fence to catch up to him. He still limped a little—the break had
been a bad one. When he came abreast of Luke, he turned up his sad,
weather-seamed face to Luke’s and shaded his eyes. He was only a
couple of years older than Luke, but he had the look of a man who’d
spent forty years in the outdoors. After the two exchanged the
usual talk about weather, crops, and feed store prices, Chester
said, “We heard about your new wife. Congratulations, Luke. Jennie
is meaning to come by and say how-do to her one of these days. You
know, make her feel welcome.”

Luke smiled. Chester didn’t ask a lot
of nosy questions about how the marriage had come about, or comment
that it was high time he took another to wife. He merely wished him
well, and Luke appreciated it. “Thanks, Chester. Emily would like
that. She hasn’t had a chance to meet many people yet.”

The other man nodded. “I ain’t forgot
how you helped us out last year, so I have a little wedding present
for you.” He turned and gestured at his flock of sheep. “You pick
yourself out a ewe and a lamb. Whichever ones you want.”

“
Oh, hell, Chester, you
don’t have do that. I wasn’t the only one who came. A lot of folks
worked to—”

“
Now, now, it ain’t a matter
of
have
to. I want
to do this. Yes, everyone pitched in, and I’m grateful to each but
I know that you were the one who organized ’em.” His expression was
naked and earnest. “God, Luke, I’d have gone bust if you all hadn’t
helped out.”

Luke knew he couldn’t offend the man’s
pride by declining his offer, but he didn’t want a damned sheep.
“It’s too much—you can’t be giving your flock away like
that.”

In the end, though, Luke drove home
with a gift he wasn’t certain he should have bought, and one he
didn’t want baaing behind him in the wagon bed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Emily sat at the kitchen
table looking at a book of dress patterns for Rose. Not knowing
what might be available in Fairdale, she’d brought with her from
Chicago the latest copy of
Metropolitan
Fashions
which featured Butterick patterns.
As she studied the pages, she starred with a pencil those dresses
she thought the girl might like. Here were several nice ones, with
simple lines and pretty aprons to wear over them. Some of the
dresses had a single edge of pleats or one ruffle, but they
wouldn’t smother Rose. And they would be reasonably easy projects
for her, if Emily helped. She could order them directly from the
catalog, and even buy fabric too, if she wanted to avoid going back
to the general store. Or maybe she could take Rose on a shopping
trip to Portland.

Oh, that was a grand idea. She gazed
at the stove, imagining the adventure. They could catch the boat
early one Saturday morning, go to one of the big department stores
there—she’d overheard a pair of women talking about them on the
trip from The Dalles. They’d been going all the way into Portland,
and they made it sound like such a busy, cosmopolitan place. One of
them mentioned a particular store, Meier and Frank, in almost
reverent tones. She and Rose could have lunch in a nice café or
even a tearoom, perhaps, and she could show Rose that knowing how
to have proper tea wasn’t the complete nonsense that Cora had
implied. It would be even nicer if Luke came too—they could stay
for dinner and take a late boat back to Fairdale. It would be a
wonderful day, the three of them together.

Emily’s reverie came to an abrupt end
when she realized how expensive such a trip would probably be. The
boat fare and the spending money they’d need were probably a lot
more than Luke could afford right now.

Sighing, she rested her hand on her
chin and looked at the Butterick illustrations again. Well, she
could still order the patterns and even the fabric by mail, and
avoid a trip to the general store. But she knew that eventually,
she’d have to deal with Fran Eakins again. She would simply have to
rise above the woman’s hostility. And, for all she knew, she might
have actually put Fran in her place the last time she talked to
her. Probably not, though.

Just as she marked another page in the
catalog, she heard the horses drive past the house and the wagon’s
iron wheels crunching on the gravel drive. Her heart did a little
flip, giving her a fluttery sensation in her chest that nearly took
her breath. She told herself it was simply because Luke was back
with her black dye, and she could do something about the deplorable
state of her own dress. But that was silly, and she knew it wasn’t
true.

She wanted to see
him
again, to talk to
him, even though he sometimes made her feel as tongue-tied as a
girl Rose’s age. She didn’t like that part. That she should even be
attracted to him was a mystery. He was not the kind of man she’d
envisioned for herself, when she’d had the temerity—or hopeless
hopefulness—to imagine a husband. She’d pictured a pale, slim,
middle-class man who wore a suit every day to his job as a bank
teller, or a maybe even a secretary or senior clerk. He would have
dexterous hands to play a musical instrument, such as the violin,
he’d like to read, and he would be well-informed about current
events. Getting him to church would not be a struggle, he might
serve on a social welfare committee or two, and they would lead
respectable, proper lives.

None of these descriptions fit Luke
Becker. He was big through the chest and shoulders, and his arms
were roped with muscle and tendon that moved in a fascinating
concert when he worked. He had a farmer’s hands, large, callused,
and rough, but she’d seen him tend the horses with the gentleness
of a physician. He probably had no musical ability, he’d grown up
in questionable circumstances, had a reputation for being wild when
he was young, and he drank whiskey at the kitchen table. He wore
rough work clothes, had a job that got him dirty and sweaty, didn’t
like going to church, and he rarely wore a suit, although he looked
very nice when he did. No, he was not the man she’d pictured for
herself. Circumstances and her impulsive decision had brought her
to him.

Sometimes, though, a raw flicker
flashed behind his weary eyes—she’d seen it this morning in her
bedroom. When the “snake” had rattled in her wall again, she’d
turned to Luke to point out the location, and had caught him
looking at her in a way that no man ever had. It was so brief, she
almost thought she’d imagined it. After all, what did she know
about how men looked at women? And why should she, Emily Cannon,
believe for even one second that she could evoke that flicker she’d
seen in his eyes? But she was intrigued by the very possibility,
even as she feared it.

She waited now, expecting to see him
walk through the back door. But the minutes ticked on, and he
didn’t come in. Cora thumped into the kitchen to start cooking
lunch, clanking her pots and pans, and still he didn’t
come.

All right, then. Emily would go to
him.

She closed the catalog and said to
Cora, “I’m going to talk to Luke.” She told her as a matter of
courtesy, a habit she couldn’t seem to break, and wasn’t sure she
should.

“
Tell him I’m getting ready
to put the noon meal on the table and we’ll be setting down in a
few minutes.” The reminder was unnecessary. The whole family had
been trained to Cora’s schedule. Rose told Emily that Cora had
followed the same routine for the three years she’d been here, and
from what Emily could tell, nothing ever varied.

Still holding the catalog, she opened
the door and went down the back porch steps. The morning had turned
overcast and the sky looked threatening, with heavy clouds pushing
in from the southwest.

She approached the barn with some
uncertainty. It felt as though she was entering Luke’s domain, a
place where females might not be welcome. It rather reminded her of
the private gentlemen’s clubs in Chicago, where, it was said, men
gathered to play cards, smoke cigars with impunity (often not the
case in their own homes), discuss business, and put deals together.
It was also rumored that some of the establishments had bars with
paintings of nude women hanging on the back walls. Emily knew that
to even wonder about those places was indecorous, but that
rebellious part of her heart, the one that asked more questions
than it should, had made her try to sneak a glimpse whenever she
passed one and saw men coming or going through the door. It was all
so deliciously forbidden.

As she stood in front of the barn, the
atmosphere was dramatically different, but the feeling persisted.
She took a step closer and heard a distinct bleating sound. As far
as she knew, Luke didn’t keep goats or sheep. She came around the
corner and peeked inside. A warm draft of animal scents and clean
hay wafted over her. Inside she saw all sorts of equipment and
tools hanging on the walls—hoes, scythes, shovels, harness, horse
collars—as tidy and well-kept as the rest of the property. The
structure was built with heavy timbers, and gray light filtered in
through the high, filmy windows.

“
Well, I don’t know what the
hell I’m going to do with you,” Luke said. He stood with his thumbs
hooked into the waist of his pants and spoke to a pair of woolly
ovines, one grown, the other just a lamb. They eyed him too, from
their spot just inside the barn doorway. The lamb baahed back at
him.

“
Oh! Isn’t it precious?”
Emily blurted, utterly charmed by the baby. She stepped forward
into the dark cavern of the barn.

He looked at her and rubbed the back
of his neck. “Yeah, Precious might end up as a good Sunday
dinner.”

“
Not if Cora does the
cooking.” The words popped out before Emily had the chance to even
think of squelching them. Horrified, she clapped her free hand over
her mouth and stared at Luke with wide eyes. “I beg your pardon!
That was very rude of me!”

But he only laughed. “Well, Emily. So
you do have a sense of humor under there. I wasn’t
sure.”

“
Oh, no!” She was genuinely
distressed. “It’s not right to gain amusement at someone else’s
expense. Especially if the person isn’t here to defend herself!
It’s shameful, like, well, like gossip.”

He laughed again, this time with a
conspiratorial gleam in his dark gray eyes. The broad grin lit up
his face. What straight, white teeth he had, she noticed
irrelevantly. “The only shame is that we have to eat what she puts
on the table. Besides, it’s true—Cora is a lousy cook.”

She dropped her hand to her
side. “Perhaps
lousy
is too strong a word—” she proposed.

Almost simultaneously, they both shook
their heads and grinned at each other. This time Emily didn’t even
blush.

“
I’ve offered to help out in
the kitchen, but Mrs. Hayward won’t let me. She said she doesn’t
need help. And anyway,” she gestured at the sheep, “you aren’t
really going to butcher this little thing for dinner, are
you?”

He gestured at the lamb. “I’m no sheep
rancher—I don’t know what to do with them.” He told her the story
about Chester Manning. “I really tried to discourage him, but I
couldn’t turn him down without insulting him.”

“
Well, why don’t you give
them to Rose?”

“
To Rose! These aren’t cats
or puppies that she can feed table scraps and take to her room.
They have to be grazed and watched. A coyote could come down from
the hills some night and snatch the lamb, carry him back to her
pups for dinner. I’d rather have him on our own table than let a
damned coyote get him.”

“
But Rose seems to like
animals, and it would give you something to work on together. It
might bring you closer.”

That stopped him. He glanced at the
ewe and her lamb again. “Do you think so?” The sudden hopefulness
she saw in his eyes made her heart ache.

Actually, Emily was just guessing.
None of her students’s fathers had cared about spending time with
their daughters or sharing an interest with them. Luke was
different. “It’s certainly worth a try.” She nodded at the catalog
tucked in her arm. “I’ve been looking at dress patterns for her. I
thought I’d have her choose one or two, and order them and the
fabric. Is that all right with you?”

“
Whatever you think is
best.”

She nodded, then added, “I don’t want
to keep you from your work. I just came out to get the black dye so
I can fix this dress.”

“
Oh, yeah, um—I have it
right here.” He walked over to a hay bale and reached behind it to
pull out a large, brown-paper-wrapped package tied with twine. A
long blade of hay trailed from it.

She had to tuck the catalog under her
arm to take the heavy parcel with both hands. “This is the
dye?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and
shrugged, looking as self-conscious as a boy giving his teacher an
apple. “No, well, yeah, it is, but there’s a little something else
in there. I saw it and thought you might like it.”

A gift? She put the catalog on the top
rail of a stall, and pulled away the string and paper. A package of
dye laid on top of the loveliest material Emily had ever seen. Teal
silk grosgrain, yards and yards of it.