The Reluctant Bridegroom (9 page)

All afternoon she cared for the sick woman, leaving only
once to go see that Timmy was all right. The long day passed, and night came on. She lay on her bed, exhausted from lack of sleep. It was totally dark when she heard Mary call out. She got up from the bed at once, and found Mary awake, trying to speak through lips that were parched and dry. Rebekah quickly lifted the sick woman and gave her a drink, then lowered her.

“Get Timmy,” Mary whispered.

“Mary, do you think—?”

“Quick—quick! I must—see my baby!”

Rebekah took a quick breath. “I’ll be right back, Mary!”

She ran to the Satterfields and knocked on the door. Amy Satterfield opened the door and knew at once. “She’s goin’, Rebekah?”

“Yes—she wants to see Timmy.” She took the child and ran back to put him in Mary’s arms, knowing no harm would come to the baby because cholera was caught by drinking contaminated water. Mary’s dull eyes brightened as she pulled the cover back from the baby’s face. With a trembling finger she traced his tiny lips, his smooth cheeks. Tears ran down her face as she whispered so quietly that Rebekah had to lean forward to hear:

“I’ll not be here to see you grow up—but you’ll have a fine mother, Timmy. God has promised me . . . she’ll take care of you—and she’ll never let you forget me. . . .” Her voice faltered, and she turned her head to look at Rebekah.

“Becky—my Becky!” Her voice was weak, but her worn face was transformed by a look of utter peace. She reached out one thin hand to wipe away the tears that flowed down Rebekah’s cheeks. “Don’t you cry, dearie! Our Father has promised us, don’t you remember?”

“Mary!” Rebekah cried. “What will I do without you?”

Mary’s wonderful smile made her look years younger. “The Lord came to me just now—while you was goin’ for Timmy. He said it was time for me to come and be with Him—but
He said that you’d be a mother to both our babies—and that He’d never leave you.”

Her eyes fluttered, and she settled back in her pillow. She gave Timmy’s face one more caress, kissed him, and she said with her last breath: “So good of God . . . to care for . . . our babies . . . !”

And then she was still.

Rebekah bent down and kissed the hollow cheek, then picked up the baby. Holding him tightly, she whispered, “I’m your mother now, Timmy!”

The funeral was the next day. Rebekah was surprised at the crowd that came to bid her friend farewell. Amy Satterfield and another neighbor had prepared the body, and several of the men made the rough pine coffin. A minister from the church preached the funeral sermon, and many of the members of the church ringed the grave as the coffin was lowered into the earth.

Somehow Rebekah survived. She took the words of comfort that many stopped to give her, but it was caring for Timmy that kept her from breaking down. She did not leave him for one minute, and as Mary’s body was lowered into the ground, she made a promise to God:
God, I’ll keep my word to Mary. I’ll be a mother to Timmy—and you must take care of us both!

Three days after the funeral, a large man came by the house. “I’m Mr. Simmons, from the orphanage,” he said. “Dr. Gleason has told us about the boy.”

“I’m going to take care of him,” Rebekah assured him.

He regarded her a moment, then asked, “Are you a relative?”

“No, but—”

“Are you able to take care of him? Do you have work?”

“Well, not right now, but I can find a job.”

He considered her uncertainly. “I know how you feel, miss—but we have to think of the boy.”

“I can take care of him!” she insisted, but she saw by the man’s expression that she was not going to win.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to give him up,” Simmons said. “You can take him in to the orphanage yourself—or we can send somebody by for him.”

The shock was too much for Rebekah, and she leaned against the wall for support. “When do I have to take him?”

“As soon as possible. By the end of the week at the latest.”

There was no use arguing. “All right.” When he was gone, she knelt beside her bed. There was nothing to do, no one to turn to, and a bleak fear gripped her heart. She stayed there for a long time, praying for wisdom. At last she rose, fed Timmy, played with him for a time, then began to gather Mary’s few things together. The rent was paid for a month, but that was no comfort. All she could think of was some means of keeping the baby.

She took all Mary’s clothes and put them in a bag, but put Mary’s Bible and a few tracts with her own things. She found a stack of papers and magazines on Mary’s table and began to sort them out, throwing most of them in a waste box. Near the bottom of the pile, her hand fell on a sheet of newsprint, and her eyes fell on the message, capturing her attention.

For a long time she sat and read the words over and over—and then she closed her eyes and remained still. The silence ran on unbroken, so she opened her eyes and rose.

She walked across the room and looked at a calendar with a picture of a farmhouse on it. Putting her finger on the date, she gave a determined smile and said aloud, “March,
the thirteenth.” Then she turned and her face was pale, but her lips were set.

“Mr. Winslow,” she announced to the air, “you have a new volunteer for your association!” Then she ran and picked up the baby. Throwing him high in the air and listening to his delighted squeal, she cried out, “Timmy—how’d you like to go to Oregon?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

PICK OF THE LITTER

A violent southwest wind rolled ragged black clouds over Oregon City as a wagon pulled up in front of Moore’s Livery on Walnut Street. Swollen drops of cold rain formed a silver screen in front of the man and boy as they sat inside the protecting cover of the wagon, waiting. A short fat man appeared from behind the double doors of the livery. “Howdy, Sky. You want me to grain these horses?”

“Hello, Harvey.” Sky drove the wagon inside and handed over the reins to the stableman. “Birdwell will want the furs moved to his warehouse tomorrow, I expect,” he called over his shoulder as he and his companion left the stable.

The plank walkways across the street intersections were half afloat and sank beneath the weight of the two as they crossed over, turning right at the sidewalk. At two o’clock in the afternoon the kerosene lights were sparkling through the drenched windowpanes, and the saloons they passed exuded a rich blend of tobacco, whiskey, and men’s soaked woolen clothes.

Five sailing ships lay at the levee, their bare spars showing above the row of frame buildings on Front. Beyond Seventh, in the other direction, the great fir forest was a black semicircle that crowded Oregon City’s thousand people hard against the river. The raw, wild odor of massive timbered hills and valleys turned sweet in the rain and lay over the town like a blanket.

“Be good to get out of this rain, Joe,” the man said. “Soon as we see Sam, let’s eat.”

“All right.” The boy was bundled in a thick coat, and a fur cap was pulled low over his eyes. He looked across the street and said, “The pie is best at Holland’s. Can we go there?”

“Your choice, Joey. I could eat my saddle!”

They hurried across another street as the rain dimpled the watery mud. Reaching a large frame building with a sign reading BIRDWELL’S GENERAL MERCHANDISE over the door, the two entered. It was warm inside, and Sam Birdwell came from behind the counter to greet them.

“Come in and thaw out!” He was of average appearance in most respects—neither tall nor heavy, though his balding head made him look older than his thirty-seven years. “Get up close to the stove, Joe. Cold as an Eskimo’s nose out there! Coffee, Sky?”

“Won’t say no, Sam.” Birdwell poured the coffee—thick and black—then produced a can of milk and a bowl of sugar to lighten Joe’s cup. As his visitors drank the steaming brew, Sam carried on the conversation, studying the pair unobtrusively.

Sky Winslow, standing with one shoulder tipped against the wall, looked rough, yet durable. At thirty-seven, there was no fineness or smoothness about him; his black hair had a trace of chestnut and lay in long rough-cut layers, framing high cheekbones and a pair of startling blue eyes well-bedded in deep sockets. A scar ran from the outside of his left eyebrow along his hairline, down to his ear, the relic of a youthful brawl. His expression was a mixture of sadness and strong temper. He stood a little under six feet, his body lean, like a distance runner; but there was a rounded quality to his muscle, a hardness that was not obvious at a casual glance. In fact, he seemed almost skinny until one took in the rounded neck that flowed smoothly to a torso that was thick rather than wide.

“Got your lessons all done, Joe?” Birdwell asked.

“Good enough, I guess, Mr. Birdwell.” Joe Winslow was ten, and there was something of his father in this thin, wiry
frame. He had blue eyes, dark skin, and his hair was brown. His face was sensitive, with features that were finer cut than his father’s. “Don’t see no need of all that arithmetic,” he muttered. He had obviously inherited his father’s temperament.

Sky laughed and dropped a hand to the boy’s shoulder. “We’ve been through that, Joe. Can’t get by much nowadays without knowing how to do sums.”

“Ah, Pa, I can shoot a buck, skin him out, and dress him. Don’t take no figurin’ for
that!
”

“More to life than skinning a buck, Joe,” Sky said lightly; then to his host he added, “We’re goin’ to get supper, Sam. Too early for you?”

“I missed dinner,” Birdwell admitted, taking off his apron and putting it behind the counter. He pulled on a heavy coat and called out to the young man who was stacking cans on a shelf, “Al—I’m goin’ to eat. Be back when I get full.”

“All right, Mr. Birdwell.”

The trio left the store, heading directly for Holland’s Restaurant. Like every other building in Oregon City, Holland’s was built of rough lumber; the dozen tables inside were hand-built of pine slabs, as were the chairs. A potbelly stove in the center of the long room glowed with heat. The place was almost empty; two big men sat at a table against a wall, and one logger was wolfing down a steak at the far end of the room.

Mack Holland came bustling over to them. “What’ll it be, gents?” Holland’s stocky build was such that some would have considered him fat, but in reality his body was solid muscle. He had a huge handlebar mustache, and a pair of steady black eyes. And he was a fine cook. “Got some fresh beef, Sky—or maybe you’d like some chicken livers?”

“Livers for me, Mack,” Sky said. “What about you, Joe?”

“Can I have one of your omelets, Mr. Holland—and what kind of pie you got?”

Holland smiled at the boy. “Omelet comin’ up, Joe, and
I got some apple pie I just took out of the oven.” He turned and asked, “What’ll you have, Sam?”

“Steak and potatoes, Mack.” He looked around the room and asked, “Where’s Stella?”

Holland frowned. “Got married.” He slapped his side with a meaty hand and grumbled, “Paid that woman’s fare all the way from San Francisco, Sam. She promised to work for a year, and the first logger that give her the eye—she runs off with him and leaves me with no help!”

Birdwell shook his head. “She was no beauty, Mack. And pretty long in the tooth at that!”

Holland sighed and headed for the kitchen. “Reckon most women would rather wait on one man than be a waitress and wait on a hundred of ’em!”

“Mack should have known better,” Sky said as they waited for the food. “Scarce as women are in Oregon, he’s not going to hang on to one for long—not even if she’s ugly as a pan of worms.”

Sam started to answer, then looked at Joe and changed his mind. He said instead, “How’s things out on your place?”

“All right.” There was a dissatisfied note in the words that made Birdwell look at him curiously. Sky shrugged and added, “Furs were good this year. They’re at Moore’s.”

“Price is up some from last year,” Birdwell murmured. “I’ll have them moved tomorrow.” He traced a pattern on the table with an air of concentration that caught Sky’s attention.

“What’s goin’ on in that mind of yours, Sam?”

“Oh, just an idea. Tell you later.”

Sky Winslow watched Birdwell carefully. The storekeeper was not impressive to the eye, but underneath that balding head lay one of the keenest brains in the territory. He was blessed—or cursed, as he himself complained at times—with a fertile imagination. Several times he had plunged into wild schemes that soon ran aground, but that same ability to see opportunities had made him a wealthy man. Besides the store in Oregon City, he owned controlling interests in stores in
Olympia and Seattle, and had his hand in logging and furs. He was always looking for new ventures.

Sky grinned at him as Holland brought the food, and as they ate he tried to pry the secret out of the merchant.

Halfway through the meal, the two big men at the other table got up and started for the door. The taller of the two nodded at Sky and said, “Winslow—how are you?”