River Bend Page 13

  Fabric was practically nonexistent and at a premium. Except for homespun, which was used for everything from clothing to window coverings, but it was heavy and coarse, making it too hard to quilt. It could break a woman’s few remaining needles, another treasured commodity on the frontier. Because of Eli Whitney’s cotton gin, the English refused to ship fabric of any kind to this country. States in the deep south had fabric, and Belle had few problems getting it when she lived in the Carolinas, but they didn’t seem to have enough to freight out to remote outposts.

  But this fabric is of excellent quality. Whitney’s Gin improved its calico over the last few years but not to these standards. Whitney does not make these. But where are they coming from?

  Enchanted by the lush colors, she caressed the fine fabrics, wishing she could express her appreciation for the gift. She decided to start a new quilt right away, using this remaining packet. Glad to have her hoop, she could quilt a large bedcover with it if she had to.

  Maybe, I can pay someone to make me a new quilt frame before long with the small amount of money I have left from the sale of my last quilts to the hotel. She put the fabric packet away, delighted it had not been in the dugout which was now a mass of dirt clods.

  The next morning, Belle woke to a beautiful Texas sunrise, the horizon glowing with shades of peach, amber, and mauve. As the light spilled through the windowpanes of the magnificent house, roosters crowed to signal the start of a new day. She, too, felt aglow with a radiance greeting her when she looked into a mirror.

  Hearing the clatter of a horse’s hooves on the natural red sandstone that bordered the house and separated it from lush, green lawns, Belle looked out the window in time to see Stephen headed toward the settlement. She wished she could have told him how wonderful and alive she was feeling, but he never looked toward her window.

  Johnathan’s loud cries alerted her to his immediate needs. She hurried to the nursery to change his wet clothing, cooing and telling him how fast he was growing while picking him up and carrying him to the rocking chair that had once belonged to his great-grandmother. When they were seated, Belle held him to her full breast to suckle, covering them both against the early morning chill with a corner of the bride’s quilt from the back of the rocker.

  With Johnathan nursing and content, she studied the quilting stitches and found no broken threads. According to superstition, nothing terrible should have happened to the married couple, but it had. Michael’s gone. Though they had never experienced a true love, they had cared for one another for a brief period of time. Perhaps, she cared more because she continued to hold onto a part of Michael—their sweet babe.

  Brushing copper tendrils away from her face, she sighed, wishing she could brush away the pain of the past and the uncertainties of the future. She transferred Johnathan to her other breast and held him snugly.

  “Little one,” she whispered, “you won’t get to know your father when you grow up. Life deals us harsh and strange blows sometimes. I’m saddened he won’t get to see you when you are big and strong, but remember, your name is Strong. How can you be anything else?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Stephen ignored Belle when he returned home that evening and took his meal in the library, locking the beveled doors from the inside. He sought privacy to aid in the search for peace, his confused thoughts and disjointed feelings threatening to overpower him. Whispering, he hoped the effort of forming the words might make sense.

  “Belle is a lovely person, but I almost took her into my arms last night to kiss her.” He chastised himself. “Have you no soul, man, and no honor for the dead?” Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his hair.

  “If only Michael were here, things would be different.” He leaned back in his leather desk chair and remembered the time he and Michael had argued in this very room over the young man’s future. He had offered a business proposal to Michael to dissuade him from clearing land so close to one of the summer camps used by the Indians. Michael Strong could have chosen to share in the operation of the plantation, become part owner of the trading post, or set up a new business in Horseshoe Bend. Why Michael had wanted to clear stone and timber all by himself in a futile attempt to scratch out a tiny homestead seemed alien to the successful plantation owner.

  Releasing some of his grief and hostility, Stephen doubled up his fist and said in a cold, hoarse whisper, “That damned land is what killed him—that damned piece of land. And it almost killed his wife and child, too. Damn. Why couldn’t things have been different?”

  He filled a shot glass of the finest Kentucky bourbon from its cut-glass decanter and downed the fiery contents in a single gulp. Maybe I shouldn’t have read her journal.

  Moments later, he rose from his chair, so intent on his purpose that he never heard the creaking sound of leather emitted by the expensive chair. Removing Belle’s journal from the locked drawer of his desk, he carried it to the fireplace. “I love these warm days and cool evenings.” He tore pages from the bound book and tossed them into the fire. He watched flames singe each page, scorching corners of the fine-quality paper, curling the pages until the young woman’s journal was consumed. All the while, he was recalling what he had read the evening before after the widow had retired for the night.

  The journal began on the day Belle started her journey west to Texas and included the young bride’s hopes and dreams, her anger and frustrations during the journey, along with her simple joys and questions about life—all recorded in the most personal of books. He returned to his desk to pour and gulp down another shot of bourbon.

  “I and the Campbell clan are mentioned in the journal as well as those Indian friends of hers, and of course, the babe Johnathan. But then,” his voice became loud, his anger spewing forth. “Michael and my brother, Jacob, are in there too, but Jake is mentioned even more than Michael, her own husband.”

  With all the pages burned, Stephen threw the book’s cover into the flames. “I miss Michael so,” he said, his voice now melancholy. Filling another glass, he spoke again, but his anger returned. “And Jake is still a burr in my side.” Grimacing, he downed more of the fiery liquid.

  “Not the way a gentleman imbibes fine bourbon.” He eyed the shot glass in his hand and the decanter in the other. Holding it by the neck as if it were nothing more than a cheap bottle of rot-gut whiskey, he poured yet another shot and downed it.

  “But tonight,” he said with a sneer, “I am no gentleman.”

  After that night, he stayed busy in town and in the fields while avoiding his houseguest.

  One evening, Stephen sat, staring into space and fingering a sheet of heavy parchment, the words of the document on his desk almost forgotten. He had written the proper legal terms on it, his Last Will and Testament, in his own legible hand many years before, back when he had begun to taste success and at a time he thought he would have hardy sons to carry on his dynasty. Leaving everything he owned to his yet unnamed sons, but in the event no sons survived him, he wanted his young brother, Jacob Owens, to take control of his holdings and bring his investments to fruition, to keep or to dispose of as he should see fit.

  Although Jacob was merely a half-brother, he was the only sibling Stephen had. Jacob, nicknamed Jake by their father, was a strapping, industrious fifteen-year-old when the will was written but had a good head on his shoulders and showed all signs of becoming a master decision-maker.

  Stephen had penned the beginning of another will more recently, leaving some of his holdings to Michael Strong but had neither designated other heirs in the event of Michael’s death nor fully decided to cut his half-brother completely out of his estate. The undated document was neither finished nor signed, so it remained a worthless piece of paper.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “What did I do wrong?” Belle kept asking herself. It had been two weeks since Stephen shut her out of his life. On the rare occasions they chanced to meet in the wide hallways of the magnificent River Bend, he averted his eyes,
making her feel as though she did not exist.

  Belle missed his company, and even though the servants were kind and attended to all her needs and those of Johnathan’s, she experienced loneliness in the massive house. Friendship, acceptance, and love were what she wanted. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips.

  “Perhaps,” she said to her child. “Yes, perhaps, I want too much.” Caressing him, she said, “But, Johnathan, I know there’s more to life than this.”

  Pensive, she searched for an answer to correct the situation. “I shall confront him,” she stated and released some of the tension she carried. Her lip quivered when she wondered what she might say to Stephen.

  Later that afternoon, she blocked his way as he started up the horseshoe-shaped staircase. “Stephen Owens, I must speak with you.”

  When he stopped and faced her, she was several steps above him. He did not look into her eyes, and he did not respond.

  “If I have offended you,” she said, “I am genuinely sorry, and I wish to apologize.”

  “No,” he muttered and brushed her aside.

  “No,” she exclaimed at his retreating figure. “No, you won’t accept my apology or no, there’s been no offense?”

  He continued to mount the stairs, never turning back to look in her direction. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  Belle didn’t know what to say. He would soon reach the top of the stairs and disappear from her sight, offering her no opportunity to approach him again in his private rooms. In a moment of panic, she shouted, “We’re leaving here.”

  Trembling while she waited for him to face her, she hoped he would explain what was in his mind, but he did nothing of the kind. Without turning around, he simply waved his arm as if to dismiss her. “As you wish,” he said, with no emotion in his voice.

  Stunned, Belle sat on the nearest step, her thoughts and feelings in a jumble. Dejected, she placed her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands while she pondered what to do next.

  At daybreak, cold drizzle fell from a dreary, overcast sky which dampened further Belle’s plummeting spirits. Her worn, leather shoes squished in the wet grass of manicured grounds while she loaded her few possessions into a borrowed wagon and fought the urge to leave later. Tempting odors of baked Virginia ham, beaten biscuits, and potatoes, fried crisp in hog lard, wafted out to her even through the dismal gray atmosphere.

  Going back inside River Bend to wake the innocent Johnathan for their departure, she looked up at the imposing structure and wondered why she hadn’t been happy there. Upon arrival, she had held high hopes that this might be a warm haven for them and a chance to restart their lives. But as she entered the mansion for the last time, she felt a fierce coldness. She hurried up the stairs. The massive horseshoe had once welcomed and impressed her but now held no meaning for her, no warmth.

  With her child snug in her arm and bundled up to guard against the cold rain, she took one last look at their temporary home. Exquisite furnishings in elegant surroundings, yet there was unhappiness in this home. She wondered why.

  Curious eyes in dark-skinned and caring faces looked up at her as she descended the stairs. She had hoped to leave before the servants came into the main house to serve breakfast.

  Lizzie stepped forward with a woven basket filled with mouth-watering temptations. Belle lifted the checkered cloth covering the basket and spied servings of the breakfast fare that assailed her senses earlier. Additional treats like cooked jellies and chow-chows, Johnathan’s favorite syrup for his tiny bites of pancakes, and other surprises that would keep for weeks nestled into the loving gift.

  Although she had said her farewells the night before, Belle hugged each person in line with her unencumbered arm. In a short while, these dear people had become her friends and made her life easier than she believed possible.

  “We don’t want you to go,” they all chorused, most with glistening eyes.

  Belle wanted to leave without spilling the tears that welled up in her eyes, ready to overflow at any moment. “I must go. Thank you for everything.” She rushed out the door without looking back.

  Old Bailey appeared out of nowhere and helped her into the wagon. He found the perfect niche to lay Johnathan and loaded the food basket, covering Belle’s few possessions with a tarred canvas to guard against the rain. He reached up to take her hand.

  “I would have loaded your things for you if only you would have allowed me,” he said, sadness clouding his old eyes. “Come back, missy.”

  Shaking his weathered hand, she marveled at his clear and perfect speech. Although she had never heard him say a word, she knew these words came from his heart. Unable to answer him without crying, she nodded to acknowledge his kindness.

  He released her hand, giving it a gentle pat of farewell, before she slapped the reins on the horse’s saturated rump. The cold sound carried loud into the distance on such a gloomy morning.

  When Belle reached the end of the long drive, she turned to wave farewell to the line of servants who had become like a family to her. Somehow, she knew they would stand on the veranda until she drove out of sight. They waved back while she turned the horse in the direction of the settlement. She let the horse walk at its own pace on the deserted path for there was no hurry to reach her destination. Protected from the drizzle, Johnathan slept. With nothing to look forward to, she didn’t care if she were caught in a downpour.

  The settlement looked small each time Belle came in alone, but then, maybe that was the reason. Times when she accompanied the Campbell family, she was in the midst of a small crowd who provided its own merriment, each member excited at the prospect of coming into Horseshoe Bend, the only northern town on the sparsely-populated frontier. The thought of the Campbells brought a smile to her cold, chapped lips.

  She reined in the mud-splashed horse in front of the hotel, the building’s fresh coat of whitewash making it the brightest thing she had seen on the dreary day. “Perhaps, this is a good sign.”

  Burcham sent out a young boy, Absalom, to see to her horse and belongings and welcomed her inside. “Come by the fire and warm yourselves,” Burcham said. “Allow me to help you remove this soggy wrap.” He ushered the young widow and her babe to a glowing fireplace.

  Timber crackled and popped while insatiable red and yellow flames licked around the logs, sending bright sparks flying in all directions. Belle laid the sleeping babe close by, uncovering him so he wouldn’t overheat. She sat in an oversized, worn but comfortable, chair next to the rock fireplace to dry out wet shoes and warm her chilled bones.

  Burcham placed a steaming mug of coffee in the widow’s trembling hands, reddened by the cold. “Drink up and tell me what in the blazes you and this wee babe are doing out in this foul weather.”

  Preparing to speak, she raised tear-filled eyes to look at him but paused when he put his weathered hand on her shoulder and patted it.

  “Warm first. Take time to dry out.” Calming her with his fatherly tone and kind smile, he continued to pat her shoulder. “Get your thoughts in order while you rest.”

  “Thank you,” was all she could say, so near to releasing a cascade of tears down her cheeks.

  “Looks like you’ve got something weighing mighty heavy on those young shoulders of yours.” He stooped over to remove her sopping shoes and disappeared into the next room. “Let me know if you need anything,” he called out behind him. “Anything at all.”

  Sipping the hot, black liquid, the to-o-pac as the Comanche taught her to say, gave Belle something to do with her shaking hands, and it soothed her quaking insides as well. Cold and desolate inside and out, she felt alone except for Johnathan, Burcham, and the Campbells.

  Have I made the right decision? She glanced over to check on her sleeping child. If it weren’t for him, I’d give up now. Tired, she heaved a loud sigh.

  “Oh, I am so weary. So weary.”

  Settling deeper into the soft cushions of the chair, she stared into the flames, concentrating on nothing. />
  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Keeping the hotel within sight, Belle enjoyed walking in the open where she could appreciate the sky, a pale cobalt blue surrounding puffy white clouds, looking almost placed there. Unseasonably warm for a late day in February, the sun appeared almost blinding after so many gray, mist-shrouded days.

  The wind possessed a sound all its own as it blew through a multitude of leafless trees, their spiny branches swaying to an unsung melody. Weeds and buffalo grass bent over in the wind, their hollow red stems highlighted by a color not unlike new buckskin.

  Not so long ago, she came to the hotel from the plantation. Since that time, she mended and cooked for the hotel in anticipation of the arrival of Mr. Burcham’s family from Wales. Happy to see the gentle man so excited, she was relieved her work bartered for room and board. Frowning, she mulled over her uncertain future. Although in demand now, her services would not be needed once Mrs. Burcham arrived. Belle continued to deliberate her fate, hoping she would make the best decision for Johnathan and herself.

  She missed having her journal, not only to write in but to read back over some of the happier times recorded in it. Admitting it was only a book tempered the loss, but to her, it had been a link to the past and a lifeline to the future. In it, she documented memories of her family, especially her mother, so her unborn children could know about their ancestors. More than just a genealogical tree, this lineage included her ancestors’ hopes and dreams, successes and failures, and more importantly, their beliefs.

  Trivial, daily accomplishments had also been noted to keep track of the long days she spent alone in a frontier wilderness, and those entries had been written like talking to a friend in order to bridge the gap from present to future. This inanimate object had been both comfort and company to a frightened and lonely girl who realized each coming day could bring forth either delight or terror. Sometimes, just reading about a time or an event in the journal lightened her step and brightened her day—simple things like quilting on her large frame under shade trees in summer or hearing Johnathan’s first babbling in an attempt to form words only his mother could understand. At other times, she read through an entry of a tragic time she had witnessed and endured, and it would buoy her up and give her strength to face new challenges.