Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (7 page)

But she forced herself out of the warmth of the heavy comforter and pushed her feet into the depth of the wool rug by her bed. She shivered as she struck a match and held it to the wick of the kerosene lamp, the cold globe in her left hand.

Hurriedly she dressed in her warmest skirt and pulled a sweater over her shirtwaist.

"I'll need every shred of warmth I can find today, I'm thinking," she said under her breath as she ran a comb through her hair and wound it securely at the nape of her neck.

Quietly she left her room and tiptoed past the bed where Rebecca slept. "Poor Mrs. Galvan," she said to herself. "I do hate getting her up and out into this."

As often in the past, Sarah again thanked God for the good neighbor. "I sure don't know what I would ever have done without her," she murmured and hurried to light the fire.

But it was Boyd who stood at the back step when she answered the door a few moments later.

"Ma has a bit of rheumatism this mornin'," he informed her gently. "Didn't think it wise to go out in the weather. I'll wait for Rebecca to wake up and take her on over home."

Sarah felt a frown wrinkling her brow. He seemed to notice it.

"Ma'll be fine," he quickly informed her. "Jest didn't think it wise to come out."

"But—but you need to—to get to work," Sarah managed.

"Rebecca doesn't sleep late. Pa will mind the store until I get there. No one'll be stirrin' in this weather anyway."

Sarah cast a glance out the window and nodded in mute agreement.

"Fact is," Boyd went on, his tone casual, "I sorta figured that I might—that you might let me take the run this mornin'. I mean with Ma sorta down, maybe you should jest stay on home with Rebecca yerself."

Sarah looked at him. Was Mrs. Galvan really sick?

" 'Course Ma'll be fine," he added quickly at her concerned look. "Jest didn't think it wise to come out. So it would work fine for you to stay on home with the little one and I'll jest take—"

"But your father will need you at the store," Sarah reminded him.

"Well—like I said, not much chance anyone'll be stirrin' about today—in this weather."

"Then you really don't mind staying until Rebecca wakens?"

"Not a'tall. If thet's what you're wantin'."

"It is," said Sarah simply and moved to get her coat. He seemed to know that he had lost.

"Maybe you should show me Becky's clothes," he said to her retreating back. Sarah turned and looked at him in surprise. She had never heard her little girl called Becky before.

"They are all laid out," she answered him. She always prepared the child's clothes for the next day before they retired at night.

He watched as she shrugged into her heavy long coat.

"Got anything better for your feet?" he asked solicitously, his gaze moving to her shoes.

Sarah shook her head.

"They're likely to freeze in those—those flimsy little things. At least pull some heavy socks over them."

"I—I don't have any," Sarah responded.

"Hasn't Michael—?" He stopped. It had been some months since anyone had spoken of Michael in Sarah's presence. It brought her up short. When she managed to breathe again she spoke, trying to keep her voice controlled, even. "There are likely some in his drawer."

"Best use them," he responded, and she noted that his voice had a quiver.

She turned to go for the heavy socks.

"Be a good idea to pull on a heavy pair of pants, too," he added quietly so as not to awaken Rebecca.

Sarah half turned to look at him to see if he was serious. A woman—in a man's pants. Hardly. But he was serious. She could tell it by the look on his face. "Never!" she muttered softly to herself.

"I'll take a heavy robe," she said to the man, and he seemed to know that it would have to do.

"Take two robes," he replied. "One to throw over the seat and hang down to protect the back of your legs and one to throw over you."

It sounded sensible to Sarah. She determined to take two heavy robes from those stacked in the back closet.

***

The wind was even more fierce than Sarah had thought. She struggled to make her way against it, fighting to secure her long coat about her and hold tightly to the heavy robes in her arms. She dreaded the thought of harnessing the team and hitching them to the wagon, but as she arrived at the barn, she was surprised to find them already hitched and tied to the hitching post.

"Boyd shouldn't do that," she mumbled to herself. "He shouldn't pamper me. I can quite look after myself."

But she quickly chided herself. "He is a good neighbor. His mother has brought him up to be mannerly. Proper. No—more than proper.
Christian,"
she admitted. "I don't know how I ever would manage without her. She likely was the one who sent Boyd out to care for me."

Tears overflowed onto Sarah's cheeks. She did not know if they had been caused by emotions or the biting wind.

***

"Mornin', ma'am."

The voice behind her caused Sarah to whirl around. She had not expected someone to be standing near her team, especially on such a cold, stormy morning. She drew in her breath sharply.

"Didn't mean to startle you, ma'am," the low voice continued but there was really no apology in the tone.

"What do you—?" began Sarah, clutching the robes tightly in her arms.

"Nasty mornin'," the voice drawled slowly, and the man in the deep shadows stepped forward.

Sarah found herself wishing to retreat but she held her ground.

"I don't believe I know you," she managed to say and was surprised at the control of her own voice.

"I been around," the man answered carelessly.

"Heerd you been takin' the freight run."

Sarah nodded, even though she knew the morning darkness likely hid the motion.

"Hardly a job fer a little lady," the voice went on. "I was jest thinkin' thet I'd be glad to take yer line off yer hands. Even willin' to buy up yer team and wagon—at a fair price."

"I've no intention to sell," responded Sarah quickly and moved forward to deposit the heavy lap robes on the wagon seat.

"I could even start this mornin'," the voice went on. "No need fer you to go out in this storm."

"I'm prepared," said Sarah simply, nodding her head toward the heavy blankets.

The tone of the voice seemed to change. "Heerd ya was a mite hardheaded. I been patient long enough. If one can't hear good reason," the voice went on, and Sarah noted a threat in the words. She felt a finger of fear trace all the way down her spine.

She spun on her heel and faced the man still shrouded in darkness. "What are you meaning, mister?" she demanded, her own voice deepened with emotion.

"Nothin' a'tall, ma'am. Jest seems a little lady like yerself might take a bit of good advice and give in to reason. Never know what could happen."

"Meaning?"

"Well—" he drawled. "Banker says it jest keeps you scrapin' to meet those payments. Seems more sense to sell—and git somethin'—then lose the route and git nothin'." His voice sounded like a smirk in the darkness. Sarah shivered.

So that was it. The banker was somehow involved with this vile man and his threats.

"I've no plans to lose the route," she said firmly.

"Perhaps the banker also told you that I have never been late with a payment."

"So far," he responded easily. "So far."

Was he seriously threatening her or was he just talking idly to try to frighten her? She chose to believe the later and moved past him to untie her team.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, her head high, "I have a run to make."

The man chuckled softly. His laugh brought the fear to her soul more than his words had. She tried to still the rapid pounding of her heart as she climbed up into her wagon and eased the team away from the hitching rail. In the blackness of the winter morning with its sweeping storm of white, Sarah could see the outline of the man, dark against the darkness of her barn. Who was he? Why was he speaking to her as he had? Who was behind all this? Why had he mentioned the banker? She was making the payments. What more could the banker gain from the freight business than what he was already realizing? Sarah felt very unnerved. Should she tell someone about the threats? Or should she keep them to herself? And if she shared her fears, to whom should she talk? It was all so disturbing.

Difficulties

Sarah was glad her team knew the road even better than she did. For much of the trip to the train depot, she simply slackened the reins and let the horses find their way through the storm. The wind whipped around her, threatening to tear the heavy rug from off her. She was forced to warm her hands under the robe, one at a time, in order to keep them from freezing; and she feared that her face might freeze even though her back was to the wind.

"How will we ever get home to Kenville in this storm?" she asked herself. "It's bad enough traveling with it at our back." The horses' broad backs and plodding gait were some comfort.

When they finally reached the depot, the station-master looked up sharply when Sarah forced her way into the small office. The snow swirled about her long skirts as she leaned back heavily to push the door shut against the force of the wind.

"You out in this storm?" he asked incredulously.

Sarah looked blank.

"Don't you have freight to be delivered?" she asked through stiff lips. She was so cold she no longer shivered.

If I have driven all the way through this storm and there is no freight to haul
—she began her mental protest.

" 'Course there's freight. But it coulda waited. Weather out there's not fit fer man nor beast. Coulda made the haul tomorra."

"I'm here now," said Sarah weakly. "Is Hank around?"

"He was hangin' around for part of the mornin'. Think he mighta gone on home now."

Sarah's shoulders slumped. She had freight to load and no lad for the loading.

"I'll give ya a hand this mornin'. Not as much to load up as some days."

Wordlessly he pulled on his heavy mackinaw and then grabbed his fur-lined mitts.

"Never seen such a storm to start the winter," he yelled as the two of them left the warmth of the little building and struggled against the force of the wind.

It was impossible to converse further. The storm took their words—and almost their breath—away on its angry blast. They were both exhausted and breathing heavily by the time the freight was loaded.

At least I've warmed up a bit,
Sarah thought as she went to gather the reins.

"Sure you shouldn't be stayin' here till this lessens up?" the man yelled almost in her ear.

"I can't," Sarah shouted back at him. "I have to get the freight out."

"It'll wait," he said loudly. "Nobody will be out lookin' fer it today anyway. Leave the deliveries till tomorrow and stay here till the storm dies down."

"I've got a baby girl waiting for me," Sarah yelled again.

"She'll be taken care of," the man replied.

Yes. Rebecca would be quite safe with Mrs. Galvan. Still, Sarah's mother-heart felt compelled to get back home. She gave the man one last look, hoping that he would understand her stubbornness, then gathered the reins and climbed aboard.

The trip home was even worse than she would have dared to think. She could not see the team in front of her through the driving snow. Perhaps the man had been right. The storm seemed to have worsened. She should have stayed where she was safe until the height of the fury had passed. Now she was halfway between nothing and nowhere. There were not even any shacks in which to take shelter as far as she knew.

At length she wrapped the reins around the rein pole, letting the team forge ahead on their own, curled up in a ball in the bottom of the wagon, her feet tucked firmly beneath her, and bundled herself as securely as she could in the heavy robes.

It seemed that the trip would never end. At times Sarah felt as if she had lost all control of her senses. She knew she had lost track of time. Sometimes she even wondered if they were still moving, but then another jolt of the wagon would assure her that the team was steadily plodding on.

"I wonder where we're going?" she whispered to herself through frozen lips. "Where will we end up when this is over? If it ever ends. Oh, God, please— please—if I don't make it—take care of Rebecca. Take care of my little girl."

Sarah dozed off, then awoke with a start and stirred slightly. Her whole body felt numb. "I must stay awake. I must try to move," she told herself. But she was beyond moving.

Suddenly she realized that the team was no longer trudging through the storm. The wagon was no longer rumbling its way over the rutted road. They had come to a standstill.

"Thank God you're home," a familiar voice spoke through the still-whirling snow. It was Boyd.