Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (3 page)

He's anxious to sell,
thought Sarah. /
can see it in his eyes. He already has a buyer, eager to get his hands on Michael's hard-won business
—
his team and wagon. I can sense it.

She stood shakily. What recourse did she, a young, slight, unskilled woman have? It seemed that the banker had won. She would need to put Michael's business assets up for sale at a despicably low price, take the few dollars and try to find some other way to provide a living for herself and her baby girl. She could not take advantage of her friends forever. Nor could she accept the offer of credit at the local grocer's— kind as it had been. No, she had to figure some way to provide for Michael's daughter. Her daughter. Little Rebecca needed her mother's strength. Her provision.

She stood, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin slightly, hoping that it was not trembling.

"I—I will be back tomorrow with—with my decision," she said evenly.

Did she see a slight glint in the eyes of the man before he lowered them and reached to shift and straighten the pile of papers for one last time?

***

Mrs. Galvan brought Rebecca home around four o'clock.

"My, she is a bright little thing," she said as Sarah reached out for the comfort of her baby girl. "Kept us entertained the whole time. We haven't had so much fun since I don't know when."

Sarah managed a smile.

"Even Boyd was taken with her. But then, Boyd likes young'uns. He can hardly wait for his brother to get him a niece or nephew. Hammers on about it all the time. Ralph says, 'Why don't ya marry and get your own?' but Boyd, he says he still hasn't found him the right girl."

Sarah could not help but smile in spite of the heaviness of her heart.

"Did you get some sleep?" asked the older woman with concern as she moved to place the little bag of Rebecca's belongings on a nearby chair.

"I did," admitted Sarah. "I could not believe how late I slept. It was nearing noon. I've never—"

"You needed it," spoke the woman softly. "You were beginning to look like a ghost."

"Let me put on the teakettle," said Sarah in answer. She did not wish to discuss what she had begun to look like—nor how she felt about it.

The woman eased herself into a kitchen chair, and Sarah placed Rebecca in the high chair and offered her a cookie from the tin on the cupboard counter.

"I went to see the banker again today," Sarah began slowly.

The woman lifted her eyes and they mirrored the young, pale face before her. "I'm guessing he didn't have good news for you, did he?" she commented.

"He says that there isn't much money...." Sarah hesitated. She did hope she wouldn't have to explain the whole story.

"You'll need something—" began Mrs. Galvan.

Sarah nodded as she sliced from the loaf of cinnamon bread sent in by one of her thoughtful neighbors.

"Have you any ideas?" spoke the woman as she reached to retrieve the cookie that Rebecca had dropped and was scrambling around for among the folds of her full pinafore.

Sarah shook her head. "I'm not much at sewing," she admitted. "And I don't think this town would be interested in baking. All the women do their own. I've never—never been anything but—but a—Michael's wife. I—" She couldn't go on. All afternoon she had been sorting through her life—her accomplishments, her abilities. It seemed that she had no skills with which to care for herself and her baby girl.

"Is there any way to—any place to go back to?" Mrs. Galvan asked.

Sarah shook her head. After her mother had passed away, her father had moved back to live with her aunt and uncle. It was enough to crowd him into the small home. She couldn't ask for refuge for herself and Rebecca as well.

Sarah lifted the teapot from the shelf. She dreaded the woman's next question. She hated to admit out loud that she really had no way out of her predicament.

But rather than a harsh question, a soft chuckle reached her ears. She looked up quickly to see Mrs. Galvan bent over Rebecca. "That's right. You show Mama what Boyd taught you."

Sarah looked at her daughter. She was sitting in her chair, her hand tightly clutching the crumbling cookie. Sarah found herself wondering what was so smart about that and then her eyes lifted to Rebecca's face. The child was sticking out her little tongue. Sarah was about to rebuke her, then watched as the tiny tongue reached upward toward the little pug nose. Then Rebecca reached up one pudgy hand and pressed the little nose downward to meet the tongue.

"There—you did it!" cried Mrs. Galvan and clapped her hands together at the accomplishment. "You touched your nose with your tongue." Mrs. Galvan laughed joyously. "Or your tongue with your nose—I'm not quite sure which."

Rebecca beamed, turning her gaze from one woman to the other. She giggled and chortled and did the trick again.

Sarah had no desire to have her daughter learning that sticking out her tongue was acceptable—even admired—no matter for what reason. But Mrs. Galvan was thoroughly enjoying the baby's new game, and Rebecca seemed so very pleased with herself. Sarah could resist no longer. She put the teapot down and smiled at her daughter.

"Did Boyd teach you that?" she asked half teas-ingly. She wished to add, "Naughty Boyd," but the words couldn't pass her lips. It was likely that her own beloved Michael would have taught Rebecca the trick—had he thought of it.

Sarah watched as Rebecca performed the little stunt again.

"I do hope she won't do that in church!" she exclaimed in alarm, and Mrs. Galvan laughed heartily.

Sarah poured the tea. For some reason she couldn't explain, a little of the heavy weight had lifted from her slumping shoulders.

"She is such a dear," enthused Mrs. Galvan. "I had quite forgotten how wonderful it is to have a baby in the house."

Sarah glanced in her neighbor's direction.

"We were talking about it last night," went on Mrs. Galvan as she accepted the cup of tea. "All of us—think that—well—we were wondering if it would—be of any help to you if we sorta helped with the care of Rebecca. I mean, when you find whatever way you need to care for the two of you. Like—well—I was wondering if someone might need a clerk in their store or something. It wouldn't be much but it might get you by until— Anyway, Rebecca would be more than welcome at our house. We wouldn't expect pay. We'd be glad to do it as a neighbor. As a part of the church family. And for the enjoyment of it. We'd—"

Sarah stopped pouring her cup of tea and looked at the kind woman at her table. She hated to lose even a moment with the growing Rebecca, but—but this might be the way. The "out." Maybe with Mrs. Galvan caring for Rebecca for part of the day the two of them could make it. Maybe she would be able to get enough work to keep body and soul together. She felt her head spinning again. There was so much to think about. So many tough decisions. But maybe—just maybe there'd be a way.

She blinked back tears and reached out to wipe cookie crumbs from the face of her baby girl. "Thank you," she managed to say to Mrs. Galvan. "Thank you. I'll—I'll give it careful thought."

The Solution

Sarah worked at her laundry the next day. In spite of what she was going through, she and Rebecca needed clean clothes. It took her all morning bending over the scrubboard before she had the lines filled with fluttering garments. It was early afternoon when she delivered a sleepy Rebecca to Mrs. Galvan, then hurried home to prepare for another trip to the banker. She had spent much of the previous night working through her problem and finally, near dawn, she had come to a conclusion. She felt she knew what had to be done.

But she dreaded what lay ahead. She blinked back tears and determinedly straightened her shoulders as she cast one last glance in the mirror. Her blue eyes looked strangely dark, rimmed with fatigue and sorrow. Her cheeks looked gaunt and pale. In spite of her resolve, she still looked fragile and vulnerable, but her hair was put carefully in place and her chin was set decisively.

"I expect some opposition," she announced to her reflection. "However, I have quite made up my mind."

She drew on her gloves, picked up her parasol to protect herself from the shimmering sun, and stepped out into the hazy afternoon.

"It will surely bring a thunderstorm," she murmured, lifting her eyes to the sky. "Such intense heat. I do hope it doesn't hail."

Sarah cast a quick glance toward her vegetable garden. She had fussed over it and pampered it all spring and now was about to reap the benefits on her dinner table. "We will soon have all the fresh vegetables we can eat and plenty for the root cellar," she had confidently announced to Michael just two short weeks earlier. Now as she let her gaze travel over the rows of growing vegetables, a little stab of guilt passed through her. She had given no thought to her garden in the last ten days. Ever since—ever since the morning of Michael's tragic and untimely death.

"I will need that garden—now more than ever," she reminded herself. "At least Mr. Murray should not have to put vegetables on my account."

And Sarah determined to check her garden as soon as she returned from her trip up the dusty street.

At the entrance to the bank she paused to shake the powdery dirt from the hem of her skirts, took a deep breath, and stepped calmly inside.

Two gentlemen who were just leaving the premises lifted their hats and nodded a good morning. Sarah could see the sympathy in their eyes. Even though she scarcely knew either of them, she knew that they had heard the news of her widowhood.

She nodded acknowledgment and moved quickly past them. She did not want to give opportunity for them to express their condolences.

"Is Mr. Shuster in?" she asked the man who stood in the teller's cage.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered. "I'll tell him you're here."

"Never mind," responded Sarah quickly. "I'll announce myself."

The man nodded mutely, and Sarah moved toward the small office at the back of the bank.

"Mr. Shuster?" said Sarah in the open door and found herself tempted to smile, recalling the name Michael had called the man in private. "Shuster," Michael had said, "should be called Shyster." And thereafter, in the privacy of their own home, Michael had referred to the man as "Mr. Shyster at the bank."

The man behind the desk lifted his head and stumbled quickly to his feet. A false smile pulled stern, thin lips back in an
expression that looked more like a leer than a welcome. He waved his hand and motioned her to a chair. Sarah looked at his desk to assess the number of loose papers that he would be toying with while they had their little chat. For her part, she planned to say quickly what she had come to say and then make her departure. She had no wish for confrontation or argument. She had made her plans, chosen her path, and now determined to proceed as quickly as possible. The answer had suddenly presented itself as she had struggled and prayed for guidance in the long, empty hours of the night.

"Mr. Shuster," Sarah began even before she reached the chair that he had indicated, "I have come to inform you of my
decision."

He nodded, his eyes seemingly taking on that faint glow again.

"Please sit down," he invited, and the smile looked almost genuine.

"I—I really am not in need of a seat," said Sarah. "I must go pick up my daughter who is with the Galvans. It will not take me long to say what I have come to say."

Mr. Shuster looked perplexed, no doubt thinking that if Sarah were not to sit, he could not sit. He could not reach his papers that provided his hands with something to do. His hands fluttered this way, then that, reached toward a pocket, then reappeared. He really looked most uncomfortable.

He pointed toward the chair again and licked his lips.

"You will be more comfortable—ah—sitting to sign the forms," he advised her.

"Forms?"

"Authorizing me to make the sale."

"Oh, but I'll not be selling," replied Sarah evenly.

"I don't mean—ah—the house. Mr. Perry was quite determined to have the house paid for with clear title. You'll not need to concern yourself with that. Unless, of course, you—ah—desire to leave our area. But the—ah—business assets, they—ah—we'll need to have forms signed for them—even—ah—if the bank already has legal claim—ah—until the notes are repaid. I'll have Sawyers bring the papers. I've taken the liberty to—ah—have them prepared so that I wouldn't need to—ah—detain you unnecessarily."

He pasted on his smile again. Sarah felt annoyance.

"But I will not be signing
any
papers," she said evenly, still refusing the proffered chair.

"But you do not understand—ah—" he said in a voice that placed her in the same category as an uninformed child. "We do need forms to proceed with the sale."

"But I am not selling," she repeated firmly.

He looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face, and she held the gaze steadily. "Anything," she added emphatically. "I am not selling anything. Not the house—which I own. Not the wagon or the horses. Not my husband's business—nothing."

"But, Mrs. Perry," he said, and he seemed to strain for patience, his face at first pale, now slightly flushing with the effort. "I thought that you—ah—that we understood that the business would not make—ah—sufficient return to merit a paid driver—"