Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (30 page)

There was silence.

"And what I wish—what I long for—more than— even more than for you to—to accept me—is for you to—to learn to know—God—His will for your life— whatever that might be."

Rebecca heard the soft swish of Sarah's Sunday skirts and then her door closed softly. She was alone in her room.

***

"You've been keeping pretty much to yourself. Care to go for a walk?"

Rebecca smiled. She always enjoyed the company of Boyd. If there was a bright spot in having to spend some time in Kenville while her mother made arrangements for her return back to civilization, it was her self-adopted Uncle Boyd.

"Will I need my shawl?" she asked.

"I don't think so. It's a pleasant evening and we won't be gone long."

Rebecca stepped lightly down the stairs and joined him on the boardwalk.

For a time they walked along in silence; then Boyd spoke. "Must be rather—different for you livin' here— after bein' used to the Fosters. Thet big house—with servants. All the parties and outin's and nice places to wear your fancy dresses. You miss it?"

Rebecca nodded. There was no use denying it.

"The school? With all the girls yer own age—and the—the fancy doin's. Ya miss thet too?"

Rebecca hesitated on that. She wasn't too sure she'd like to go back to school with all its demands.

"Remember much about when you were a little tyke?" he continued.

Rebecca turned to him. "Not much," she said. "Little pieces here and there. I remember you—how you went with me on the stage and then the train."

He nodded.

"Remember anything about your pa?" he asked her.

Rebecca shook her head.

Boyd was slow in continuing. "He was tall—I s'pose women would've called him a good-looker. Clean cut, sort of mannish young fella. Little bit of a crook in his nose. Hardly noticeable, but we fellas his age teased him."

He paused.

"They made a real strikin' couple—yer ma and yer pa."

Rebecca's face showed a bit of surprise. Boyd did not even look her way.

"Several fellas in the area had their eyes on yer ma when her folks first moved in here. Yer pa—he was the lucky fella she chose." He shook his head and walked in silence as if remembering, as if seeing mind-pictures that captured his full attention.

"She had this beautiful hair—dark but with rich shades of—of—I don't even know what color you'd call it—and she always wore it up in this—this pretty fashion with just little bits of—of soft curls, sort of—flut-terin' down around her perky little face—an' her skin was so soft—so creamy—I don't know how a woman would describe it, but I—I used to wonder what it'd be like to just run my finger down her cheek. An' her eyes. Yer ma has always had the prettiest—most—most alive eyes of anyone I've ever seen. They used to dance and—and sparkle. And she was so tiny and dainty— with frills and bows and lacy hankies and pert little bonnets and frilly parasols. She looked like a—a— walkin' doll."

Rebecca was so startled at his words that she was tempted to stop and stare at the man. He certainly could not be describing her mother.

She was about to question him when he picked up again. "An' then—then she lost yer pa—and her whole world changed."

Rebecca heard his voice tighten. She chose the moment to interrupt the brief silence. "How—what happened—to—to—my father?"

Boyd looked at her, surprise showing in his face. "You don't know?"

Rebecca shook her head. "No one has ever told me."

"I thought your mama—"

"No—she never talked about it." Rebecca hesitated. "I don't think she wants to talk about it. Oh, she—she talks about my father—some—but she doesn't—" Rebecca stopped, then went on softly, "Maybe it's—too hard."

Boyd nodded. "Maybe," he said, but he did not lift his eyes to hers. Then he seemed to take a deep breath as though needing extra strength. "He was killed by lightning—in a freak storm. He was opening a gate for the team. They figured the bolt traveled the wire."

Rebecca's eyes widened in horror. "How—awful," she whispered through stiff lips. "How awful."

Boyd stopped talking. He seemed to be sorting through painful memories—perhaps wondering if more needed to be said. Rebecca wondered if he would go on. At length he did.

"She could have remarried—of course. It could have—have been so much easier for her—but she didn't. Chose not to. She was so—so set on caring fer her little girl. She wanted her little girl to have the— the best education—and she wouldn't saddle a man with those responsibilities, so she just concentrated on—on doing it all herself.

"Now you might argue that she chose the wrong way. I—I don't try to sort thet out anymore—but she chose her way. She has a right to thet. But in the—the doin'—and strugglin' and—and hard, backbreakin'
work—she had to put aside her frills and—and wornanly things—an'—an' live—differently. It cost her—it really cost her. Oh—not in the person she is. She's still the same—underneath, but outwardly—she changed with the years. Her—house changed. Every time she ran short of money—she found something more she could do without. Little by little she—she sold most of her 'homey' things. Her house was so—so pretty and refined at one time. It's—quite plain now."

Rebecca was trying hard to follow his words. She didn't really understand what he was saying. It all sounded so—so foreign and incomprehensible.

"But the house is—is still sound. She's seen to that. The foundation is strong—it's never been allowed to deteriorate. Always painted and kept in repair.

"An' yer ma. She's strong. I've never met a stronger woman. Nor one with so much—so much character. All of the—the important things—her faith in God—it's grown—I've seen it grow—her appreciation of neighbors—that's always there—her love—for her little girl—that's never wavered. Never. She's always wanted—the best for you, Rebecca."

He turned and looked at her for the first time.

"She loves you, Becky. She truly loves you."

Suddenly Rebecca thought she knew what he was trying to say. Her face flushed with resentment and anger. Uncle Boyd was on her mother's side.

"Did she tell you to talk to me?" she asked sharply.

He looked surprised.

"No. Why?"

"I suppose you're going to say that you don't know about our spat."

"I don't know what spat you are referring to. I do know that your ma is—troubled. I know her well enough to see when something is botherin' her—when she is—is feelin' down. She—she's counted on yer comin' home for—for years—but she doesn't look happy now that you're here. An'—it's easy to see thet—thet you're not happy. You've been—been fret-tin' and poutin' ever since you got home. I—I thought it might help you to understand if I—you knew how things used to be and—why they are as they are now."

Rebecca was caught by his description of her. "Fretting and pouting." Was that the way he saw her? Was that how everyone in the town saw her? Tears stung her eyes. That wasn't fair. No one understood. No one. She couldn't wait to leave this town. She couldn't wait.

"—she could hardly wait. She worked so hard—and she wants you to be a part of her life," Boyd was saying.

Rebecca's head jerked up, tears in her eyes. "Well—I can't," she said, trying to keep her voice controlled as she had been trained to do when angry at school. "I can't—be a part of—of this. You speak of a young—beautiful woman—a walking—doll. I see an— an unkempt—disgustingly clad—woman with—with snarled hair and—and dirty hands."

Boyd whirled to look at her. "Doesn't it mean anything to you that she dirtied those hands for
you?"

Rebecca stopped walking and looked at him. The tears were coursing down her cheeks. "Should it? Should it? Couldn't she have—have worked hard— someway other than—than becoming a—a freight hauler? And—and even if she went to hauling freight—did she have to forsake being a woman— dress in—in disgusting, dirty trousers?"

"Don't you understand—?"

"No! No, I don't understand! I've tried to understand but—but I am only—only embarrassed. Humiliated by the way we live—by—by the woman who is— is supposed to be my mother."

She was sobbing uncontrollably as she finished her torrent of words; then she spun away from him and ran down the boardwalk. She had to get away. She had to. She would insist that her mother borrow the money so she could leave now. She couldn't wait until her mother had saved enough from the hauling of freight.

***

"I want to leave," said Rebecca coolly to her mother that evening. "I want to leave soon."

She saw the hurt in her mother's eyes, and then a weariness seemed to take its place.

"I was hoping—"

"Hoping I'd decide to stay. No—no—it won't work."

Sarah nodded.

"I'll see what I can do about a loan—and I'll write to Mrs. Foster—right away," she said, her shoulders sagging. It seemed it was settled.

***

After Rebecca had retired for the night, she kept replaying over and over the words of Boyd. Was it true? Had her mother really changed so much because of her love and devotion to her only daughter? Had she sacrificed—her looks—her home—her very self?

It was all so hard to sort out. Rebecca had never loved anyone like that. She couldn't understand such love. Didn't a love like that ask for—deserve—some kind of response?

It was all so troubling. Rebecca tossed and turned even after she had finally managed to fall into a restless sleep.

Stubborn Will

Seth was in the yard harnessing the team. Rebecca ached to go out to talk with him. Her thoughts were so troubled—and Seth seemed so—so at peace. She wondered if he had ever battled with disturbing emotions and then dismissed the idea. She was quite sure that nothing had ever bothered Seth.

Rebecca paced back and forth in the kitchen. Now and then she cast a glance out the window. She knew that he would soon be leaving. She knew she would hate to see him go. But what excuse could she use to interrupt his work?

A knock sounded at the door. Rebecca reached a hand down to smooth her skirts, then quickly up to pat her hair. Could it possibly be—?

It was. Seth stood there, his hat in his hand, a calm, disarming smile on his face.

"We are havin' another youth gatherin' tonight," he said after greeting her. "Could you come along?"

Rebecca flushed. There was nothing she would enjoy more. She nodded her head and answered with a soft, "That would be nice."

"At the same time then," he said, gave her another smile, replaced his hat, and went whistling off to the team.

***

The meeting did much to lift Rebecca's spirits. She even enjoyed Seth's devotional—though she had to admit that his words troubled her. She had gone to church and to chapel services all her life and felt that she knew the Bible as well as anyone. But she had never thought that she was in any way responsible for what had happened so long ago on Golgotha. But Seth did. "He died because of my sins—because of your sin," Seth had said, and for the first time in her life Rebecca felt a pricking of her heart.

"We don't have to murder—or steal—or all of those big sins. Each of us has done something— enough to deserve to be condemned. Pride. Selfishness. Deceit. Arrogance. All of these—and more— make us sinful. We need a Savior just as much as the murderer. Christ's death was for us, too."

Rebecca had cast her eyes around the small circle, hoping to pick out one or two to whom this message might apply. But within, her own conscience told her that she was the one who needed the words. She pushed the thoughts aside.

She was able to forget about it while the young people shared the lunch and chatted merrily with one another. She could even put it out of her mind on the way home—with just Seth—as they talked of lighter topics. At one point he took her elbow to help her over a patch of uneven ground, and Rebecca's heart beat faster in the moonlight, very aware of his nearness.

"Thank you, Rebecca," he said sincerely as he bid her good-night at her door. "I—I've enjoyed the evening. I—I'm glad you came home—back to Kenville. I—I'll see you—maybe tomorrow."

Rebecca closed the door softly, feeling that he had really wished to say more but didn't know how to. She leaned back against the door and breathed deeply. There was something very special about Seth. She hadn't quite figured it out yet, but it was there. And then she thought of his words during his short devotional, and her thoughts became troubled again. She headed for her room, hoping that she could quickly go to sleep to shut out all the confusing thoughts.

***

"Hi!" He grinned at her as she walked slowly toward him. "I was hoping you might come out."

She flushed. Was it so obvious that she was being forward? She had tried to think of a good excuse for coming out to see him as he worked with the horses and had finally decided that she would ask him about his devotional the night before.

"Well—I—I just wanted to—I enjoyed your little talk last night to the—the group. I wondered—" She was flustered. "I wondered if anyone asked to—to talk to you later—like you said. You told them you'd be glad to talk to anyone."