Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (20 page)

"Back in Kenville."

"Do you have a—a stepfather?"

Rebecca in turn looked shocked. Of course she didn't have a stepfather. "No," she said firmly and turned away. She didn't like all the questions.

"What does your mother do?" Peony was not to be deterred.

"Do?" echoed Rebecca, wheeling around to face her.

"Yeah—if you don't have a stepfather, who cares for your mother?"

"She cares for herself," stated Rebecca simply.

"What does she do?"

Rebecca tried to think. What did her mother do? She had such vague recollections. She remembered far more about Aunt Min and Uncle Boyd—and even Mr. Galvan—than she did of her mother. Who was her mother? The lady who wrote letters—who sent money for her necessities. But who was her mother? Rebecca thought hard about the question. Slowly, little bits of memories took fuzzy shape.

Her mother. The lady who used to rush to meet her at the end of the day, almost breathless as she scurried up the board sidewalk to the Galvans. They used to play games. They used to sing together. Her mother taught her songs, told her stories, and heard her prayers. That was her mother. She was a smiling lady. A pretty lady with long dark hair that she used to unpin when they were alone and let tumble down her back and over her shoulders in soft curls. Rebecca could almost, almost see her face. Her eyes. But not quite. She couldn't quite remember. But she had loved her. She remembered that. They'd had fun together.

"What does she do?" the new roommate insisted.

"She—she—ah—" Rebecca thought hard. "She-drives horses—I think."

"Drives horses?" The new girl seemed horrified. "A lady?"

Rebecca jerked to attention at her own words. Her own admission. She had never thought of it before. It did seem strange. A mother who drove horses. She felt her cheeks begin to burn. She did turn her back on the girl now.

"Well—maybe she doesn't," she said, flinging her curls as she tossed her head. "I really don't remember much—it was all so long ago."

She turned to Annabelle. "Come on," she said impatiently. "It's time for choir rehearsal." And Rebecca stalked from the room, troubled deeply by her own thoughts. Was it really true? Did her mother drive horses? Rebecca resolved never to mention the fact again.

***

"You look tired," Boyd commented as they walked the short distance from the little church to the Galvan home, where Sarah was to join them for Sunday dinner.

"I am," Sarah said. It was the first time that she had admitted that fact to Boyd or anyone else.

"You're pushing yourself too hard." There was concern in his voice.

Sarah turned to him and a weary smile played across her face. "I've paid off the note at the bank," she announced with some enthusiasm.

"That's great!" His tone indicated genuine joy.

"It is so good to be free of debt," she told him.

"Now maybe you can slow down. Catch yer breath," he pressed on.

Sarah shook her head. "There seems to be more freight coming in all the time," she acknowledged. "On both runs. I hardly have time to fit it all into the day."

"I've been thinking about that," he said, reaching for her elbow to guide her across a muddy spot in the road. "Have you ever thought of hiring someone for that second run?"

Sarah looked at him. "Hiring someone?" she repeated, surprise in her voice.

"As driver. You'd still get the profit from the run— but only have to make one trip a day."

Sarah thought about his words.

"I don't know," she responded at last. "Rebecca only has a little more than a year left. But the older she gets—the more she needs. You know? Church functions and parties and—"

"I wish you would let me—"

"No. No," said Sarah firmly, waving a gloved hand. "She's my daughter. I'll—do the caring of her. I've managed fine—and now—now things are—are much better. There's even a little to spare now. I'm already laying aside the money for her fare home."

"I still think you could use a driver," Boyd tried again, but there was a resigned note in his words.

"I'll think about it," said Sarah, dipping her head to one side. "I'll do a little figuring and see what I can come up with."

"That new family. The Olivers. They have a grown son. He seems like a nice young fellow. Hear he's looking for work."

Sarah had seen him at church. Though she'd had no occasion to introduce herself to the young man, she had met his mother. A fine woman. Sarah found herself wishing she had time to develop a friendship with her.

"I'll think on it," Sarah promised Boyd again. It sure would be a relief not to have to take both freight runs each day.

Sarah lifted her simple skirt to step over a small puddle. She was so used to trousers now, she hardly remembered how to handle skirts in a ladylike fashion. She only wore a skirt on Sundays, and then she found herself choosing the plainest ones from her closet. She did not have time or energy to fuss with ribbons and frills. Besides, there seemed to be no good reason to do so.

Hired Hand

"I understand you're looking for a job."

Sarah spoke softly and matter-of-factly. She had learned to take a direct approach in all of her dealings with people. It saved her time and gave her a bit more confidence in living and working in a man's world.

"Yes, ma'am," the young man before her nodded.

Sarah found herself studying him. Tall and rather stocky, he certainly was big enough to not only drive the team but to load and unload his own deliveries as well. Sarah liked that. It would save her hiring a lad to help with the lifting and sorting. But after quickly noting his size and approving, Sarah's eyes returned to the young man's face. Something about it seemed to draw her.

He wasn't handsome—though he was appealing in his own way. He didn't seem cocky or overly daring or adventurous. Yet he did not look as if he would avoid a confrontation if presented with one. But there was something else about him. At first Sarah found herself puzzling over what it might be, and then she looked into his deep brown eyes and saw quiet strength looking back at her.

He's so
—
so
—
confident
—
for one so young,
she mused to herself. It would have been easier to understand if it had been youthful brashness. What about him made him seem so serene—so at peace with a difficult world? Sarah hoped he would understand that the drayage business required a lot of hard work. That one had to be prompt and dependable—no matter the weather—no matter the circumstance—no matter how one was feeling.

"It's not an easy job I'm offering," she said almost abruptly. "One has to get the freight to the customer without fail."

He nodded. Sarah could see respect in his stance, but not subservience.

"There'll be days that you'd rather stay in out of the weather," Sarah warned.

He nodded again. His eyes were serious, but Sarah had the impression that they could sparkle with laughter were the occasion appropriate.

"I'll expect you to take both runs with me for a couple days, and then we'll decide which delivery run will be yours and which will be mine."

"Thank you, Miz Perry," said the young man; then he did smile, revealing even teeth and a slight dimple in one cheek. His eyes seemed to shine, and Sarah thought for one moment that he might explode into infectious whooping.

"You've just answered one of my prayers, ma'am," he said in explanation. "I told Ma this morning that God would see to it in His own time."

Sarah looked at him in surprise for one minute and then could not resist returning the full smile. She nodded silently, but inwardly she wondered if after several hard days on the rutted, difficult roads, loading freight until one's back ached and spirits sagged, if the young man would still thank God for the job she had just given him.

***

Rebecca stretched one dainty foot toward the luxurious mat beside her bed and stifled another yawn. It was much too early to be getting up after the party that wasn't over until almost two o'clock in the morning. But she still had classes to attend. Across the room, her three roommates still slept, covers pulled up close to their ears, soft breathing indicating that they had no intention of leaving warm beds to face the responsibilities of the morning.

Rebecca yawned again and crossed to where
Annabelle lay sleeping. "Annabelle. Annabelle," she said, shaking the girl's blanketed shoulder slightly. "It's time to be up. We'll be late for breakfast if we don't hurry."

Annabelle groaned and would have turned over and gone back to sleep had not Rebecca shook her again.

"Now!" she said firmly. "We don't have much time."

Annabelle moaned again, but her eyes did open reluctantly. "You spoiler," she said sleepily. "I was having the most wonderful dream."

"Get up," scolded Rebecca, "or your dream might turn into a nightmare. You know we've been told we've used up all excuses for being late for breakfast."

Annabelle grumbled but threw back the bed clothes and stumbled from her bed while Rebecca moved on to waken the two remaining girls in the room.

"What was the party like?" Peony asked as the girls hurried into robes and toward the shared bath facility in the dorm.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Annabelle dreamily. "William Sheffler was my partner for almost every game. And we won two of them. He's so—so—"

"Romantic," squealed Peony.

Rebecca and Annabelle exchanged glances. To Peony everything was romantic.

"But it was Rebecca who was the belle of the ball," went on Annabelle knowingly.

Peony looked puzzled. "I didn't know you went to a ball. I thought it was just a home party. You said—"

Both girls groaned. "Oh, Peony," said Annabelle. "That was just an expression of speech. We did go to a home party."

Silence fell as the girls scurried to get on with their morning ablutions. They had to make it to breakfast on time or they would be in for more demerits—and more demerits would cost them. They would either need to pay a fine—money which they did not have and which neither wished to ask for from parents who might not understand the importance of parties—or else take a cut in grades. Annabelle could not afford that. She was just barely passing as it was. Rebecca would never have agreed to a grade cut. She was leading her class and intended to keep it that way. She wished the honor of being the class valedictorian at term end.

They managed breakfast. Even stayed awake during early morning classes. Even managed through the entire day without seeming to be too exhausted. It was not until they met back in their shared room that evening that the four were able to discuss at length the party of the night before.

"I don't know how you do it," said Peony. "It is all I can do to keep up, with eight hours of sleep a night." Annabelle nodded and yawned.

"This was a special party," she said. "We wouldn't have been able to go either if Dr. Jeggers from the Academy hadn't requested some young ladies to attend the honor party for ten of the young men."

"Honor party?"

"They are all graduating—with top honors. The Academy has this party each year. They always invite discrete young ladies from the Dean's list at Tall Elms. They feel it's most important that the young men know how to properly conduct themselves in society— though that 'proper conducting' is done under strict supervision, of course."

"And you were selected?"

"Actually," said Annabelle honestly, "Rebecca was selected. Then when one of the other girls got the grippe at the last minute, Rebecca suggested me."

"And you had a good time?"

Rebecca and Annabelle exchanged glances. It was Annabelle who answered, falling backward upon her bed in unladylike fashion and throwing her arms wide. "It was wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Simply wonderful."

"Oh-h," squealed Peony. "How—"

"Romantic," put in the other three girls in chorus.

"But it was," said Annabelle in sudden agreement, sitting back up with her skirts still akimbo. "I mean— just think—we were in the company of the ten most promising young men in—in the country. Think of it!"

"Oh-h—" said Peony, "I would have just swooned."

Annabelle grew serious. "Well," she said, "Rebecca didn't. I mean here she was with all of these—these— possibilities, and she just—just acted like—like they were boys from home or—or brothers—or something."

Three pairs of eyes turned on Rebecca. She felt herself coloring faintly. "Brothers," Annabelle had said. Rebecca knew that Annabelle had no idea what was in Rebecca's heart concerning Stanley. She had not admitted her feelings to anyone. Certainly not to Stanley. But things had been so different the last time they were together in the Foster home. Stanley had seemed so—attentive. Rebecca had often felt his eyes on her, and when she would turn toward him, he would flush and pretend to be looking elsewhere. Rebecca had enjoyed the attention, yet been uncomfortable too.

The Foster family encouraged correspondence among all of their scattered offspring. "It is so important to keep up communication among family members," Mrs. Foster said often. And as Rebecca was considered to be one of the family, she had been included in the weekly correspondence of family members. And Rebecca and Stanley continued to exchange letters.