River Bend Page 3

  Seeing her mother’s pain and knowing her plight, Belle wanted to scream like a panther prior to his attack. Why should my mother have to die now? Why can’t she live a longer time? Why? Why? Belle seethed in silent rage, her eyes downcast, not wanting to reveal anger and frustration to her poor mother.

  “Belle?”

  “But, Mother, I don’t love Mr. Strong.” Belle continued to deal with her anger, not at the man, but anger at the unfairness of it all and at her helplessness to make her mother well. Unable to release the full force of that anger, she continued testily, “And besides, he’s an old man.”

  “Mr. Strong is not old, my dear.”

  “Yes, he is. He’s almost thirty years old!”

  “My dear, thirty isn’t old. Gracious sakes, he is a young man.”

  “Oh, I know. But, Mother, why must I marry now? Isn’t there something else to choose from besides marriage?” She turned to look out the window.

  Even though Elizabeth spoke softly, her words jolted Belle from her quiet thoughts. “Are you frightened of marriage, dear?”

  “Oh, no, Mother! Not at all. I’m quite sure that I’m not. I mean, it can’t be that bad. I mean, oh, I don’t know what I mean.”

  “It’s all right, dear. It’s perfectly natural to be a little frightened and maybe confused.” Elizabeth tried to assure her. “I remember, when I was your age, how I wondered about such things. I knew that I could do all the cooking and sewing, as well as the cleaning. And I could work out in the fields as well as any man from sunup to sundown, if need be. I had garnered so much experience on the rub-board that I vowed my family would wear the cleanest clothes in the county.” Elizabeth paused to laugh but coughed before she could continue.

  “What truly concerned me so long ago was how it would feel being with your father at night. You know, when it was just the two of us. I was unsure as to what I should do when the time came for that first night.”

  “What did you do?” Belle asked, her tone quiet and shy.

  “Dear, I did what came naturally. Your father, God rest his soul, was very patient and understanding of my fears. He led me lovingly each step of the way, and your husband will do the same. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Mother, you make it sound almost romantic,” Belle responded in disbelief.

  “It was romantic. Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “I know it’s a woman’s duty to do this, but I do dread it so,” Belle said.

  “Belle, I am breaking tradition to tell you all this, but I won’t be alive to see you when you have your own little family. And I would probably be tarred and feathered if any of the other ladies heard me say this, but I never felt a sense of duty. I enjoyed my bedroom time as much as your father did. I think it is wrong to dread it and feel ashamed. If two people love one another, they should love everything about each other. Even after all this time, I can still remember your father’s touch, how he smelled, and how I loved to be in his arms. It gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.”

  As mother and daughter hugged each other, Belle said, “I hope and pray that I will be as happy as you have been. I love you so, Mother.”

  Before Elizabeth could respond, she started another coughing spasm.

  Belle held her, hoping to comfort her. When the coughing subsided, Belle spread a colorful lily quilt over her mother. They had cut out the red calico blooms and green stems all in one day. The next day, they appliqued them on a muslin background, using the North Carolina Lily pattern, and spent weeks quilting it in tiny, even stitches. Belle was proud of this particular quilt, because it represented the first time her stitches were so exact that no one could determine if Elizabeth had helped in quilting it. The quilt won first place at the Grange in the fall of ’29 and they loved sharing the honor.

  Looking into her mother’s weak eyes, Belle’s tears came. She turned to go. “Just rest, Mother dear,” she whispered.

  ****

  Hot tears, spilling down her cheeks, brought Belle back to the present. It had been weeks since she buried her mother, but it seemed like only yesterday. How I miss her. There will never be another Elizabeth.

  Belle examined the hotel room’s bedcovering, made of the popular linsey-woolsey, a heavy fabric woven of linen and wool. Crewel-embroidered flowers and birds once adorned the coverlet in a medallion design but were now only a tangle of faded stitches. The coverlet still provided warmth, but the once-bright turquoise fabric was now a dullish, darkened-blue and worn on all edges. Such a contrast to the Cooper’s prized quilts.

  Belle imagined how bright and cheery the room could look just by inserting a new bedcovering. Pleased that she had been able to bring quilts with her, she had packed all thirteen of them—the baker’s dozen of quilts from her dower chest. As her mother had taught her to quilt, Belle had planned the first twelve, each one unique and a more difficult pattern to complete than the one before it. It was vital to have a sufficient number of bed coverings when one married, so they would last until the bride had daughters old enough to quilt.

  Michael had loaded the first ten of her quilts in his wagon after the wedding, along with her grandmother’s old rocking chair. They had wrapped everything with care for the long and arduous journey from the Carolinas to the land called Texas. Michael mastered the journey alone quite well, or so he had written in his two letters. After completing a pioneer home for them to live in, he had sent for her.

  After Elizabeth passed away, Belle had nothing left to do except join her new husband. Needing to put the past and sadness behind her, she relished the adventure. After packing the last two quilts she and her mother had made together in one of her large trunks, she added dishes and pans.

  In a second trunk, she packed her Bride’s Quilt—number thirteen in her dowry and the most elaborate of all, as was the custom. She had planned the design but could not begin the quilt until she was pledged to marry.

  When Belle accepted Michael’s proposal, she began cutting hearts and flowers from gorgeous red and orange chintzes. She appliqued them on a spread of muslin, bleached almost white. Although wanting to use a heart motif for other quilts, she dared not. Considered unlucky to use the heart in any other quilt until sewing the Bride’s Quilt, she would run the risk of a broken engagement.

  Her neighbors arrived to help quilt this one, which was always the way women gifted the bride. They also went over all the quilts in her dowry with excess scrutiny, searching for broken threads or twisted lines of stitching in the border patterns. These were omens of bad luck or trouble to come.

  Belle had helped her friends when they married by quilting part of their thirteenth quilts. In fact, some only made quilt tops to put in their dower chests, no need for linings and waddings until they were ready to use them. Then, neighbors would help quilt all thirteen. Yes, Belle had had much practice in quilting over the years and loved every minute of it.

  She had packed her father’s Bible, her clothing, and personal items in with the Bride’s Quilt until the second trunk could hold no more. At the last moment, she removed a favorite blue dress from the trunk and laid it aside to make room for a bolt of muslin and a stack of bright-colored scraps of chintz and dark-hued calicoes.

  “I brought the best memories with me and left the sadness behind.” Belle dried her eyes before sitting up in bed to survey her situation. After a short pondering time, she decided to freshen up, shake out her dress, and put it back on. Hearing the rumblings of her stomach, she acknowledged her hunger and admonished herself for not having more consideration for her unborn child. He, or she, was a precious gift to cherish, and Belle looked forward to the day when she would hold that gift in her arms.

  Not sure yet how her husband might accept the revelation of her pregnancy, Belle recalled their two weeks together and making love only twice. She frowned, remembering how awkward it had seemed for them, not at all what she had hoped for, and blamed her inexperience. Pushing unpleasant thoughts aside, she forced a smile and envisioned Michael hold
ing his newborn babe soon and hoped he would be pleased.

  The door to Belle’s room burst open. She screamed and clutched at the bedcovers, attempting to pull them up to cover herself.

  “Well, lookee here,” Trader Jake drawled. “The girl with the flashing green eyes. Where’s your green feather, my lady?” He bowed in mock respect, almost falling over the short, stubby woman at his side. His left arm encircled her stout frame, while his right hand dangled a near-empty, whiskey bottle.

  Belle followed his gaze to her breasts that strained against her chemise, threatening to spill over the top of her bodice. She watched him lick his full, sensuous lips while his sparkling, gray eyes remained fixed on her breasts. She pulled harder on the frayed covers until she could hide her bosom. Holding the bedding in a tight grip at her neck, she yelled at her intruders.

  “Get out of here. You’re drunk.”

  He laughed a loud, coarse laugh and raised the bottle to his lips for another swig, raring back to empty the last of the intoxicating contents down a throat encased in his muscular and deeply-tanned neck.

  His companion glared at Belle. “Come on, big fella, let me show you the good time I promised you.”

  Jake gave a hearty laugh, and the two of them backed out of the doorway. They stumbled into the next room.

  Belle jumped out of bed, ran to the open door, and slammed it. Then she heard Jake’s raucous laugh coming from the adjoining room, as if making fun of her. She returned to her bed to sort out her thoughts. Loud noises from the next room interrupted her while she attempted to deal with her feelings. A constant thumping against the thin wall of the hastily-built hotel left little doubt in her mind what was happening between the trader and the woman from the saloon.

  Belle felt anger, the kind of burning anger that must find a way out or destroy. She searched through her reticule for pen and ink. Elizabeth had taught her to pray when she needed help and to write when she felt she might explode with rage. She located her journal and made a list of all the things that had made her angry. At the top of her list was Michael.

  Dear Michael. Why couldn’t he have met her and saved her an arduous journey on horseback with a man who could set every nerve in her body on fire by just touching her hand? Why did this have to happen? Why did Michael have to be injured? She paused in her self-exploration long enough to let her writing catch up with her thoughts before she continued. Would Michael ever be able to make her feel this way? She was so inexperienced that she really didn’t know what to expect or what to do. Michael had been so abrupt in their lovemaking that it seemed as if he were performing an unpleasant duty. She now carried his child and wondered if this would change things between them.

  Maybe they just needed more time together to know real love. Then she could forget all about the trader. She really didn’t like the brash and vulgar man anyway. She recalled how his glazed eyes had surveyed her body and how he seemed determined to make an enemy of her.

  “That’s just fine with me,” she said with conviction, touching the bruise on her cheek. “I can survive. I don’t need friends of his type anyway.” She looked out the hotel window toward the doctor’s office, wondering how Michael was by now, hoping he might be awake. She powdered her cheek to make the bruise less conspicuous and dressed to go out.

  As she descended the narrow staircase of the hotel, she met Owens.

  “Did you have a nice nap?” He squeezed her delicate hands in his large ones, masculine and strong but bearing no callouses.

  “What is it?” Owens asked her. “Is something troubling you?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, embarrassed. “I noticed how soft your hands are. Not at all what I expected out here in this rough country.”

  “Not all of us are clearing land like your Michael. I’m a planter, and slaves do the labor on my plantation. I have many responsibilities but none that require callouses.” He smiled, but something in his eyes alerted Belle. He had intriguing charcoal eyes, but they didn’t smile when his lips did.

  Belle’s thoughts went straight to Michael. She braced herself for the bad news and prayed for wonderful news instead. “Is Michael any better?”

  “No, he isn’t,” Owens answered, his eyes menacing, yet his tone of voice courteous. “He is the same. The doctor can’t tell us when, or if, he will recover. We just have to wait.” He pulled a heavy chair out for her at a small table and sat next to her.

  “How long a wait does he project?” Belle’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  “No way to tell, according to the doctor. But,” he added, “I’m afraid he doesn’t sound very hopeful.”

  Belle drew in her breath, contemplating this new turn of events, her thoughts a jumbled mix. What if Michael doesn’t recover? She longed to ask it aloud. What would I do out here alone, or how can I return home? She bit her lip to keep from crying when she recognized her limited options. I can’t go back where I came from. I have no home.

  A young voice broke the stillness. “Anybody named Strong in here?”

  The mention of her new name interrupted Belle’s inner turmoil.

  “Yes, over here,” Owens answered for her.

  A boy of about fifteen ambled over to their table, a matter-of-fact look on his young face. “The doc says better come. No need to hurry. Just come.”

  Owens thanked him, and the boy wandered off. “I’ll go with you.” He offered his arm. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  His chivalry and compassion comforted Belle, yet his dark eyes concerned her. Perhaps he knew something more than he was telling. She took his arm and crossed the narrow, dirt street with a sense of foreboding.

  “There’s been no change.” The doctor drummed his long fingers on a crude desk in his office. “I really can’t do anything else for Strong ’til he wakes up. He should stay here ’til he wakes or passes on. But, Owens, as you know, we have serious accidents all the time, and I need that table he’s a-layin’ on.”

  “I know, Doc. What do you suggest we do?”

  “Well, he needs care. But it’s just nursin’ care. I can’t take time to nursemaid when I’m called on to be doctorin’. You could come get me if he wakes.”

  “You said if he wakes,” Belle said, her voice strained. “You surely mean when he wakes, don’t you?”

  “Well, ma’am,” the doctor drawled, “it could either be if or when. But I don’t want to get your hopes up. There’s just no way to tell.”

  “Hear any more about who might have shot him?” Owens asked.

  “Not a soul seems to know,” the doctor said. “Owens, your boy brought him to me yesterday. Said you’d be in town today after you met the ferry.”

  Belle needed answers. “How can a perfectly good man be shot down and no one know a thing? Someone must know something. They should have seen, should have heard…” Her voice trailed off as she pondered her next move. Appalling as the shooting was to her, it seemed less important than seeing to Michael’s welfare. “If someone will show me to my new home, I will rent a team and wagon to transport my husband and my belongings.”

  Both men chorused, “But you can’t go out there alone.”

  “Why not?”

  The doctor put his hands on his hips. “Because there’s Indians and wild animals, ma’am. A lady from the East can’t be placed out there alone.” His voice softened. “And, your husband needs care.”

  “I’m from the South,” Belle declared, not at all pleased with being told what not to do, especially now that her mind was made up. “My dear mother, God rest her soul, recently passed on, and I certainly tended to her needs with no outside help. I’m sure I can do the same for my husband. And I’m not afraid as long as I’ve got a gun that shoots.” She lied, knowing full well she was frightened to death at the prospect of being alone. She did know how to shoot, but she would be the first to admit she would never have any desire to enter a shooting match. To mask her fear, she demanded, “Michael does have a gun, does he not?”

  “He
has an old flintlock rifle in that damn dugout of his,” Owens said, his voice angry. “Don’t understand him wanting to be a sodbuster, clearing that awful piece of land he chose.” Owens looked away as he mumbled, “He could have done so much more with his life.”

  Belle couldn’t understand the anger in Owens’ voice and decided to ignore it for the moment. Now was the time for action, and she had made her decision. “Could someone direct me to the livery so I can hire transportation and a guide?”

  “No, Mrs. Strong, you can’t hire it,” Owens said, frowning. “I’ll gladly furnish both for you as soon as the crowd thins out a bit.”

  The clamor of loud, boisterous voices filtered up to the second-story doctor’s office. Belle walked over to the window and saw the dirt street full of men. She looked down on a sea of buckskin-clad men sending an overpowering stench upward of bear grease, sweat, and unwashed bodies. Her nose wrinkled, despite her attempts to resist, as she turned to Owens and the doctor.

  “What’s going on? There was no one in the street when we crossed it. Who are they, and where did they come from?”

  “Rendezvous,” the doctor and Owens both said. The doctor deferred to Owens.

  “They come down from the mountains and come in from the brakes, wherever the hunting is best,” Owens said. “They all show up at the same time each year to sell their furs and hides and stock up on supplies. We usually don’t see them again for a whole year.”

  “Be grateful you already have a hotel room, ma’am,” the doctor added. “These men want a good bath, and some want to sleep in a real bed while they’re in town. There are few feather beds in our one hotel. You’re lucky you came in when you did—while they were still setting up campsites along the river.”

  Owens frowned. “No, she’d have been better off if she had come in after the rendezvous,” he said, his voice full of contempt. “Now, someone will have to watch out for her welfare. Most all these men haven’t seen a woman in a whole year or more, ma’am. We’ve freighted in a few soiled doves, but most won’t make the trip to this outpost. It’s too far and dangerous. They don’t want to lose their pretty hair or wind up taken by the Indians and be made a white slave to some old lazy buck.” He looked toward the doctor. “If you had room, Doc, we’d just hide her here with you.”