Crazy Woman Creek (32 page)

Regarding your petition to Judge Stillman for a death certificate for your husband, I am sorry to tell you that I missed an audience with the judge by only 48 hours. Sheriff Clarke tells me that the judge left for Douglas Settlement August 14. Sheriff Clarke has kindly offered to assist me by telegraphing the Settlement ahead of the judge’s arrival. To this end I have begun a letter to Judge Stillman in which I shall outline persuasive reasons why he should rule in your favor, lacking the body. I shall keep you informed of any developments in this regard.

I understand from Sheriff Clarke that Sam Wright will be brought before Judge Stillman at the end of September when he arrives in Buffalo.

Sheriff Clarke lost no time in pressing me into service. My days are long, filled with organizing men into teams and planning strategies based on each rancher’s location, the fort being the center of everything that matters. My desire is to finish here what I was drafted to accomplish and be relieved of my duties within a month, time enough to return to Buffalo to speak to Judge Stillman on  your behalf face to face.

Before I left town I secured from Mrs. Marietta Nolan her promise that she would keep company with you until my return. I trust that in her presence you are comforted in your loss and enjoying the benefit of help with your burden of ranch chores.

You are in my thoughts and frequent prayers. I assure you that, as God grants me strength, I will do all within my power to secure the document you need to preserve a legacy for you and your child.

In your service,

Deputy Luke Davies

“Well,” said Etta Nolan as she sat beside Lenora on the Rose Ranch front porch bench on a warm August afternoon, embroidering in a small hoop frame, “for a man who doesn’t talk much he writes well enough.”

“Hmm,” murmured Lenora, her mind elsewhere. She sat motionless, the letter in her hands on her lap.

“Despite everything, you have much to be thankful for in the way of the deputy’s help.”

Lenora nodded.

“Thank you for reading his letter aloud to me.”

“You’re welcome,” said Lenora, breaking her reverie. She folded Luke’s letter and returned it to its envelope, set it on her lap, and rested her hands on it as she gazed outward, beyond her barn and property to the dry, sun parched prairie that stretched to the Big Horn Mountains under an unbroken blue sky. In the distance shimmering waves of heat rose from the ground. Only a rare bird dotted the heavenly canopy, and most of the ranch animals lay out of sight, resting quietly in the shade of the barn. The low buzz of crickets and an occasional dance of grasses excited by a hot breeze provided a lullaby to the sleepy afternoon stillness. The two women sat in silence a long while,
listening to their private thoughts. Finally Etta Nolan spoke.

“It’s not like you to sit so long idle, Lenora. What is on your mind?”

Lenora thought a while before answering. “Lemonade,” she finally said, still staring out into the nothingness of the prairie. “With lots and lots of ice.”

Mrs. Nolan chuckled. “Lemonade and what else?”

Lenora sighed gustily and returned to the moment. “I’m going to lose this ranch, Etta. I’ve thought about it from every angle. There is no hope.”

“Those are mighty gloomy words from one such as yourself. What makes you speak in such dire terms?” Mrs. Nolan tied a knot on the reverse side of her white-on-white spring bouquet, clipped the excess floss with small brass scissors, pulled a fresh length of embroidery floss from the basket at her feet, wet one end of the floss between her lips, and began to thread her needle once more.

Meanwhile Lenora just sat, motionless, her wide indigo cotton skirt spread around her like a queen. Between her yards of billowing blue and Mrs. Nolan’s pool of dove-gray cambric, the narrow wooden bench they sat on was hidden from view.

“I can’t help it. Everything I’ve done or tried to do to hang onto my property has turned to ashes. Sometimes I think I’m fighting an invisible foe.
Perhaps it is best if I move back to New York now and spare myself this heartache. I have the baby to think of.”

“Deputy Davies is still working on your behalf.” Mrs. Nolan placed the hoop on her lap and began winding the embroidery floss around the tip of the needle, round and round, to create a French knot.

“You heard what he said in his letter, Etta. He missed the judge by only forty-eight hours. If the good Lord wanted me to keep this land, He would have arranged to get Deputy Davies to Fort Laramie in time to speak to Judge Stillman.” Her tone was more than a little peppered with pique.

Mrs. Nolan waved her hand to disperse one of the flies buzzing around the porch. She didn’t take her eyes off her embroidery hoop. “I think you’re seeing an awful lot in something that is merely a coincidence.”

“I’m tired of believing.”

Mrs. Nolan stopped stitching a moment, needle in the air, to look at Lenora straight on. “Things aren’t always as they seem.”

“No, most times they’re worse.”

Mrs. Nolan shook her head and returned to stitching. “You were a very little girl during the Great Rebellion, weren’t you Lenora? How old?”

Lenora cocked her head, thinking. “I was three when it started.”

“Have you ever heard of General Irvin McDowell?”

“He’s a Union officer. I studied him in school but I don’t remember which battle he fought.”

“He led the Union Army at the First Battle of Bull Run in Virginia, a battle he lost. Around 3,000 Union men died. That was in 1861, our first major battle of the war. Lenora, we thought that number was horrific. We had no idea how much more bloody it would get. President Lincoln lost faith in General McDowell after that terrible loss and replaced him with General George McClellan, which of course humiliated McDowell.”

Lenora listened yet never broke her doleful gaze across the prairie.

“A year later in the Second Battle at Bull Run, General John Pope was put in charge, and General McDowell was put under General Pope. They lost that battle too, and thousands more Union soldiers died in the second battle than had been lost in the first. I’m sure General McDowell felt like you do right now when he looked across the battlefield a second time and saw all those wounded and dying boys of his.” Mrs. Nolan removed her spectacles, wiped them briskly with her skirt, put them back on, and resumed stitching.

Lenora continued to stare, eyes fixed, seeing nothing but gloomy images of death and loss behind her eyes.

“And then there was Antietam in September 1862.
Neither side could claim victory, and both suffered heavy losses. Twenty-three thousand men died on the battlefield in one day. And Lenora, that bloodiest of battles was fought in Pennsylvania. Northern soil. 

“In May ’63 we lost at Chancellorsville, also in Virginia. We lost again in ’63, in September, at Chickamauga in Georgia. In ’64 more than 18,000 Union soldiers died in Spotsylvania, Virginia. The Union lost that battle too. The Union had some wins throughout our long ordeal, but most of the time our cause looked hopeless. Much like yours.”

Lenora hardened her jaw. She didn’t want to take umbrage with Etta. The woman meant well. She was just sick of sacrifice and tired of waiting for ... what? James to ride up to their front door? His body? A letter from some faraway place telling her he had filed for divorce? She felt frozen in time and place, like that woman in the Bible who had turned into a pillar of salt. A woman and a wife, but not. Lenora looked down at her hands. She couldn’t meet Etta’s eyes. She was ashamed of her angry, black thoughts, but mostly, she was just angry.

“Not only that, no one in America, North or South, had ever seen such unspeakable bloodshed. You were too little then to understand how devastating it was, but Lenora, our hearts bled for four years.”

Lenora nodded glumly to show she was listening.

“You know how it ended. The Union won the war, but for a long time victory looked impossible.” Mrs. Nolan stopped stitching. “Lenora,” she said in a tone that demanded attention.

Lenora broke from her melancholy long enough to turn toward her friend. Her eyes were dulled by the heaviness in her heart.

“Just because we suffer losses doesn’t mean we are without hope or that we’ve been abandoned.”

“But I have suffered a great loss,” said Lenora, becoming animated, “and I feel cruelly abandoned.” Just then a particularly unrelenting fly zoomed in toward her face. She poured out her cup of indignation without reserve, swatting madly at the pest with both hands. “And I don’t even know what I’m waiting for!”

“I know how you feel, Lenora,” said Mrs. Nolan, placing one hand over Lenora’s after she had stopped swiping the air. “I’m a widow too, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Etta. I’m thinking only of myself. Please forgive me.” Lenora lifted Etta’s work roughened hand to her lips and lightly kissed it.

Mrs. Nolan leaned into Lenora, gave her a quick squeeze, and returned to her stitching. “There’s no need to apologize. That was long ago. My pain is gone. I just want you to know that I understand how angry and abandoned you feel. You are not alone. I’m here.”

Lenora nodded dejectedly.

“But child, just because you’ve lost some battles doesn’t mean you’ll lose this war. Circumstances can turn to your favor in a single day.”

“True.” Lenora didn’t sound convinced.

“You will find out what happened to James. The most important thing is to never give up.”

“I’ll try,” she said, though her tone of resignation belied any real commitment.

The ladies sat in silence, Lenora brooding and swatting, Mrs. Nolan absorbed in her embroidery. Finally Lenora had had enough.

“Let’s go in, Etta. These dreadful flies. Besides, the beans should be ready. We can have an early dinner and go to bed. I’m tired.”

#

“It’s called a hard bustle.”

The sound of the two ladies’ heels clumping on the wood planks of Main Street's boardwalk filled the pause that followed. Lenora clutched Mrs. Nolan’s arm for moral support, and each carried a shopping basket on their free arm. The street was dotted with a few late-morning shoppers, though town was predictably quiet today because it was harvest time. Lenora tried to discreetly search the faces of those few who approached before they were close enough to make eye contact. She wanted to determine if she’d be shunned or welcomed and respond accordingly. Despite Etta’s encouraging words that morning before they’d left for town, Lenora’s chest felt squeezed each time she saw another citizen of Buffalo walking toward her on the boardwalk.

“Is it like it sounds?” asked Mrs. Nolan.

“Yes
,” replied Lenora. “It’s not like the soft fabric bustles we’ve always worn. It holds up more dress folds because it's stiffer. My mother writes that it’s
de rigueur
in Paris and only the most fashionable women in New York wear them. I plan to get one as soon as I can.”

“With a bustle like that you will look as motherly in the back as you do in the front,” teased Mrs. Nolan with a chuckle.

Lenora glanced down at the soft bump in front of her, which she could feel but not see through the all-white calico day dress she wore. She hardly showed. “I’m not that big in front. And you know what I mean,” she said, “to wear after the baby is born.” Then, remembering her promise to herself to dress more like a ranch wife about town, she added, “For special occasions, of course.”

The women embraced and then parted in front of Aeschelman’s, each with
town errands to attend to before meeting again at Olathe’s for the ride back to Lenora’s ranch. But before they went to their separate business, Mrs. Nolan reminded Lenora to mail the letters in her basket. At Mrs. Nolan’s urging, Lenora had finally put pen to paper, informing her parents of the tragedy that had befallen her and the good news of her impending delivery. After some discussion, Lenora was forced to agree that it was sinful to procrastinate. She had dragged her feet in notifying family back East, hoping a miracle would occur and she wouldn’t have to distress them. But five months had passed and she still had no sign of James. Her parents, and especially her in-laws, deserved to know the state of her and James’ affairs. Her shopping basket carried a second letter addressed to the elder Mr. and Mrs. Rose, a missive enclosed bearing the same sweet and sad news.

Lenora pushed open the door to the mercantile. Mr. Aeschelman heard the tinkling bell and came through the brown curtains as he always did, greeting Lenora with a good morning before she reached the counter. His wide, friendly smile was as appealing in this prickly town as the lemonade Lenora had wished for weeks earlier. She returned the greeting and then, strangely, as she approached the counter, found herself reflexively sweeping her eyes over the displays around the store, searching for Deputy Davies, but she was the only shopper today. Feeling disappointed when she did not see his tall frame and warm eyes looking back at her, she walked toward the shop counter and set her reticule on it.
Of course he’s not here
.
Deputy Davies is at Fort Laramie. What’s wrong with you?

Lenora pulled her shopping list from her reticule and handed it to Mr. Aeschelman. Then she asked to see Buffalo’s one and only dress catalogue. As she suspected, after poring through pages of laced and beribboned women’s foundations promising to pull in, push out, and plump up, she found nothing akin to a hard bustle. She resigned to write her mother and ask her to have one shipped to
her in the Territory. She returned the catalogue to Mr. Aeschelman, thanked him, and told him she’d return for her purchases in thirty minutes or so. With her business complete at Aeschelman’s, Lenora wished she could hide there until this dreadful shopping trip was finished, but she couldn't. So feeling unsettled, and encouraging herself out the door with a bit of chin-up-and-carry-on, forthwith she set out for the milliner’s. She needed buckram for the bonnet to match her new daffodil silk dress. Only Buffalo's hat maker carried hat-making supplies.