Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (10 page)

"No. No—I'd never do that. But I wondered—if she—if she were to sleep here at your house—then you wouldn't need to rise so early—and then I'd—I'd get to spend more time with her in her waking hours."

"But—" began Mrs. Galvan. "I mean—we'd love to have Rebecca. But you—will you ever get any sleep?

You can't keep driving yerself so hard, child. You are most worn out now."

"I'll be—I'm fine. Really, all the fresh air and—and exercise. You know they say that's good for one."

"Fresh air and exercise, humph," snorted Mrs. Gal-van. "Slave labor, you mean. Really, Sarah, I don't think you realize what you're asking of your body. Women weren't made for such—"

"I'm fine," Sarah interrupted again. "It's just— just—it seems I have so little time with my baby. I—"

She was near tears. Mrs. Galvan looked as if she wished to draw the tired mother into her arms and hold her close. Sarah was so independent in her struggle to look after her baby Rebecca. And the baby was quickly growing up.

"I know. I know. It's hard," Mrs. Galvan soothed. "And if that will help—if in any way—sure, Rebecca can sleep here. We'd love to have her."

Sarah nodded. "I—do appreciate it. I'll bring her over at bedtime."

The tired mother stood to go, calling Rebecca to find her kitty so they could go home.

Mrs. Galvan rose from her chair too. "Sarah," she said as the younger woman reached for Rebecca's hand, "why don't you just bring along your wash for me to put through with mine? I need to git out the scrubboard and washtubs anyway. A few more things won't even be noticed."

"Oh, I couldn't," said Sarah softly. "I—I just couldn't. You are already doing so much."

"I'd be glad to—"

"No. No—I couldn't. I—I'll manage—just fine."

Going On

Along with her intentions to spend more time with Rebecca, Sarah was finding that the lack of competition was a mixed blessing—the freight deliveries took a major portion of her day no matter how early she arose each morning and headed for the train depot.

Because of the complaint she had received about unloading their own freight, Sarah arranged for the young lad she had hired during the time of intense competition to continue to help her unload. Sarah's back and arms had strengthened over the months, but she still needed assistance with the heavier crates and barrels. Sometimes she and Newton had to lift the heaviest items together.

"They sure don't pack with women in mind," Sarah quipped, and the boy grinned his agreement.

At Galvan's hardware and Alex Murray's grocery, Sarah always had additional help with the unloading, even though she tried to convince the men who operated the two places of business that Newton had been hired for the task and they would manage fine.

Alex Murray replied that he had a fresh pot of tea sitting on his table and that she should just take a minute to refresh herself. He always had more than tea prepared. Store biscuits or cookies or slices of bread often waited for her near the pot.

Boyd Galvan did not produce tea—a rather difficult feat for a hardware store. But he never failed to have a comfortable chair handy, and while he and Newton unloaded the freight, he entertained Sarah with the latest little anecdotes concerning Becky. He seemed to relate to Rebecca in an unusual way, though Sarah never felt resentment or concern. He was still the only one to refer to the child as Becky, and the little girl in turn called him Unca Boy—the same as her kitten.

For some reason that Sarah could not have explained, the combination of late afternoon tea and little stories about Rebecca were what kept her going.

As soon as the last box had been unloaded, she gathered the reins and quickly turned her wagon toward home. She did not have to urge the team. They seemed in as much of a hurry to return to their feed troughs and rest as Sarah was to clean herself up and rush over to gather her little girl back to her bosom. This was what she lived for. This was why she went on. Sarah dedicated those few, fast-fleeing hours to Rebecca. Then before she knew it, before she was even prepared to give her up, she had to bundle her up again and walk the short distance to the Galvans, where Rebecca spent the night. Sarah then returned home to the homemaker duties of laundry tubs and mending needle. She often worked long into the night even though she was up before dawn to harness the team for another freight run.

Sarah knew that the kind folks at the little community church worried and prayed for her and tried to find ways they could ease her load. There wasn't much they could do. She was aware of their own family responsibilities—and Sarah was stiff-backed in her independence.

It wasn't long until the congregation sort of settled back and breathed a collective sigh. Sarah had lost weight and she always looked tired and drawn—but she seemed to be managing. She was made of good stuff. Perhaps they had been unduly concerned after all. And life went on.

***

"Is it time to go to Auntie Min's yet?" asked Rebecca innocently.

Sarah lifted her eyes to study the little girl before her. She still ran to meet her mother when Sarah returned after a long, tiring day, but she increasingly seemed impatient to get back to the Galvans' home at day's end. A strange little fear tugged at the heart of Sarah. Was she losing her little girl's affection? Was Rebecca becoming too attached to the Galvan family?

Quickly Sarah chastened herself.

Poor little tyke,
she mused inwardly.
With her life as strange as it has been, she needs all the love that any of us can give her.
She managed a smile and fought to control her voice. "Soon," she said, brushing at Rebecca's mass of curls. "Soon. Are you anxious?"

Rebecca shook her head but her words revealed the truth about her anticipation. "Unca Boy is goin' to make me a kite. He promised."

Sarah nodded. Uncle Boyd had become very important to Rebecca. Sarah was concerned that he might be spoiling her, but Mrs. Galvan assured her that Boyd did give her his undivided attention, but he also expected obedience and proper conduct. That helped to put Sarah's fears to rest. Rebecca was missing a father—though she had been too young to remember the death of Michael. Sarah grieved over that. It would have been some comfort to her to discuss the man they both had lost. Sarah's reminiscing had meant nothing to the child who looked at her with puzzled eyes. Sarah had at last dropped references to Michael. It just seemed to trouble the little girl. Now Sarah had to keep her thoughts and her feelings to herself. There was no one else with whom to share them.

"It will soon be dark," said Sarah now, her eyes lifting to the window. "We'll be seeing Auntie Min soon."

Another winter was moving toward them. Sarah dreaded the thought. Winters were so much more difficult. She hated the longer hours of darkness. It meant that she had to leave home long before the sun was there to light her way, almost requiring her team to feel their way over the country roads. And it was already dark by the time she returned home, no matter how she coaxed the horses to hurry. And the weather. Even the pelting rain did not present the same hazards as the steel-tipped driving snow.

But Sarah had no control over the seasons. She accepted them and worked with them—or against them—to the best of her abilities.

"Unca Boy said we can fly it in the mornin'," went on Rebecca. "He said he'd make it tonight an' we'd fly it tomorra. Him an' me. Together." She paused and looked at her mother to see if she was carefully following the words. Sarah was. Rebecca went on. "He said that. But he said I could see it tonight 'fore I go to bed."

Sarah nodded.

"Well—it's almost time to go to bed," went on Rebecca and pointed to the kitchen window and the shadows beyond. "See?"

Sarah nodded. She could not help but let her mind wander. She did wish that it was time for her own bed. How she longed for the comfort of the four-poster. How she ached for a good, long sleep.

She stirred herself. Her mind began to compose a long list of tasks waiting to be done before she would have the luxury of the clean sheets and fluffed pillow. And then the jarring of the alarm soon would have her on her feet again, struggling to meet the demands of a new day.

She forced her attention back to Rebecca, who was still talking. "... an' Unca Boy said that we should never talk like that—or even think like that. He said God doesn't like it when we be disre—disre—disre-what, Mama?"

"Disrespectful?" guessed Sarah.

"Yeah—disre—disre-that," agreed Rebecca, quite content to continue her story. "An' he said that Jimmy Sparrow should never talk like thet about anybody— ever."

Sarah made no comment. She knew now that she had missed much of Rebecca's tale.

"Isn't that right, Mama?" prompted Rebecca.

Sarah had not realized she would be expected to comment, but Rebecca was looking at her, studying her face and waiting for her response.

"I'm sure—I'm sure Uncle Boyd is right," she finally managed.
At least that is an honest answer,
she consoled herself. She had complete confidence in Uncle Boyd and his convictions concerning the right attitude and manner of children.

"Are you gonna marry Unca Boy?" Rebecca asked directly.

Sarah jerked to full attention and stared in unbelief. "Am I—? Where did you ever get an idea—?"

"He likes you," observed Rebecca with total honesty and openness.

Sarah found herself blushing in front of her infant child. The whole idea was absurd.

"I—I—don't know—where you ever got such a notion," she blurted out to the three-and-a-half-year-old who stared up at her. "Why, I have never—never even considered such a—such a thing." She stopped and brushed distractedly at the tumbling locks that had become dislodged as she and Rebecca had played with the now-grown kitten. "And I'm sure that—that Boyd has never—never given it thought either."

"Some people said—" began Rebecca and seemed to be thinking hard to remember the story. "Some ladies said that you shouldn't wait—'cause—'cause it's bound to happen someday—that Unca Boy should ask ya now and that—" She stopped and frowned more deeply as she sorted carefully through the unfamiliar phrases she was repeating. "—ya should marry Unca Boy an'—an' not drive the horses," said Rebecca, the frown creasing the smoothness of her small forehead.

Sarah, still in shock, bit her lip to fight back the retorts that wished to spill forth against the gossips. It would not do for her to vent her real feelings in front of her small daughter. She would be as bad as Jimmy Sparrow—whoever he was—in expressing disrespect—in whatever way he had done so—and bringing the displeasure of God. She swallowed and chose her words slowly, carefully.

"We must—must never pay attention to what other people say—about—about circumstances that they— they know nothing of. Those ladies—whoever they were—do not realize that I—I have no desire to marry. That I like—well, sort of like—driving the horses. It— it provides for our living. And—and Uncle Boyd has—has no intention of marrying me."

"Well," said Rebecca, still probing her memory for the overheard conversation, "they weren't sure."

"Of course not. They—"

"They thought maybe you might marry Mr. Murray instead."

Sarah gasped. It really had gone much too far. Who were these gossipers who were trying to match her up with one of the town's young bachelors? Along with surprise and embarrassment, she now felt anger. What right did people have to be speculating about her life? What right did they have to—to talk behind her back?

And then a new thought washed through Sarah's mind, making her flush again. She did hope with all her heart that this—this despicable gossiping did not find its way to either of the men mentioned. Would they be thinking that she had anything to do with the wagging tongues? Might they think that she was misconstruing their kindness to her since the death of Michael? Oh, she hoped not. She prayed not. How embarrassing and humiliating if they should think that she, Sarah, misunderstood the kind deeds—the thoughtful acts of Christian goodwill.

Sarah's cheeks flushed deeply. Would she ever feel at ease with the men again? Would she be able to relax at Alex Murray's little kitchen table and sip the re^ freshing hot tea and eat slices of buttered bread and bottled jam? Would she be able to easily chat with Boyd and laugh at the stories of "his Becky" that he shared with her at each day's end?

No—likely not. At least not in comfort.

At that moment Sarah put her guard firmly in place. She must never, never do anything to feed the gossip mill. She must be doubly careful not to create an embarrassment for her two dear friends. She must be cool—and reserved—and entirely proper. There must be no reason for the gossip to continue.

And the people—whoever they were, from town or church, young or adult—knew nothing of the deep wound they had inflicted on the young, struggling widow. Now she was bereft of even her small comforts. Now she had to withdraw even further into her protective cocoon.

***

Sarah's mind was deeply troubled. Rebecca was nearing another birthday and growing up quickly. Uncle Boyd was no longer Unca Boy but Uncle Boyd, though Mrs. Galvan remained Aunt Min. Rebecca had quite properly addressed "Mr. Galvan" even when she could barely say the words. He had always been kind and good to Rebecca, but he had never fussed over the child, or any child, and Rebecca had not seemed to form a special attachment to him. But that was not what troubled Sarah. The problem was concerning Rebecca herself.