Dorothy Garlock (23 page)

When Harry began to whimper, drawing Owen’s attention to the baby, Ana took a long breath and released it slowly. Soren’s voice came to her ears as from a great distance. She caught only words and phrases as he talked about visiting the Martin Flynn farm, the largest and most completely appointed farm in Polk county, where Flynn was breeding a strain of short-horn cattle.

Glad for an excuse to leave the kitchen, Ana went to the bedroom with a stack of clean napkins for the baby. As soon as she lit the lamp she saw the copy of
Common Sense Medical Advisor
on the bedside table. When had he put it there? Did he plan to move in here with her? Tonight?

The spring rain had brought a chill to the rest of the house. When she returned to the kitchen, she filled the hod with small clumps of coal for the small round stove in the bedroom. Owen stood and took it from her hand as she started to leave the room.

“I’ll start a fire. I forgot that it will be too cold in there for the boy.”

“Thank you.”

Gus pushed himself away from the table and stood. “Looks like the rain’s set in for the night.”

“Mr. Halverson—”

“What’s this Mr. Halverson stuff? Pa’s your Uncle Gus now,” Soren said teasingly.

“Leave the lassie be, son. She can call me whatever she wants.”

“I’ve never had an uncle. At least not one that I knew,” Ana said somberly.

“You got one now, and a cousin too.” Soren drained his coffee cup and stood.

Ana’s eyes swung from Soren to his father. “There’s no need for you to go out in the rain. There are beds upstairs.”

“Thanks, lass. But these old bones are used to their own bed.” The old man took a slicker from the peg beside the door and went out.

Ana glanced at Soren, unaware of the panic in her eyes. He came to her, slipped an arm about her shoulders and gave her a brief hug.

“Good night, Cousin Ana,” he said to the top of her head. “See you in the morning.”

Ana stood looking at the screen door after it slammed shut behind Soren. She had a home, an uncle, a cousin and a
husband.
By and by, perhaps she and Owen would have a child to be brother or sister to Harry. It was strange, she thought painfully, Harriet’s passing had left her standing on the threshold of a new life that included everything she had ever dreamed of having except for one thing—love.

The baby had almost finished the bottle when Owen came into the room. He set the coal hod beside the stove and took a drink from the water bucket before he spoke to her.

“I’ll take the cradle to the bedroom. A carriage would be more useful than this heavy thing,” he said picking it up. “I never thought of that when I was making it.”

“It’s a beautiful cradle,” Ana said when Owen came back into the room.

“We’ll get a carriage so you won’t have to carry him all the time.”

“There’s one in the house in Dubuque. It was Harriet’s.”

“What do you want to do about the things you have there? Will they be all right for a while? It will be three or four weeks before I’ll be free to go fetch them for you.” He leaned against the work counter, his booted feet crossed at the ankles, his arms crossed over his chest.

“There isn’t an awful lot there that I want other than my personal things and a few of Harriet’s to keep for Harry. I’ll sell the furniture with the house. My neighbor, Mr. Leonard, is looking after it for me.”

“I know a banker in Dubuque who will take care of it for you. Would you like for me to write him and ask him to sell your house? If you make a list of what you want, he’ll pack it and send it up on a freight wagon.”

“Well—” She avoided his eyes, and lifted a hand to tuck stray strands of hair into the bun on the back of her neck.

“Would you rather go down there and do it yourself? I’ll take you in a few weeks.”

“No. I don’t think I want to go back there. I’d just as soon your friend took care of it for me. I’ll make a list, but I’d like a few days to think about it.”

He nodded but said nothing. Ana looked down at the sleeping child in her arms. She could feel Owen’s eyes on her face, and the tightness in her chest increased with alarming intensity.

“I’ll go take a look at my mare. She could foal any time. Her bag is already full of milk.” Owen felt suffocated, there wasn’t enough air in the room. His restricted lungs struggled in an effort to drag enough air into his body. He took his slicker from the peg beside the door. “I hope she doesn’t decide to have it tonight.”

Ana got to her feet as soon as Owen went out the door. What did he mean by that? He didn’t want the mare to foal tonight because it was raining or because it was his wedding night? She hurried across the hall to the front bedroom where the lamp cast a soft glow on the already warm room. In a small part of her mind she was sure Owen would not come to her room tonight even though it was his right, and she had admitted to him her willingness to have children. In a larger part of her mind she was not absolutely sure.

After settling Harry in the cradle, she quickly undressed, washed her face and arms with a wet cloth, and slipped into her nightdress. The absolute necessity was to use the chamber pot before Owen returned. The tinkling sound of letting water could easily be heard through the thin walls. Ana let down her hair, placed her precious supply of hairpins on the bureau and crawled into bed.

She lay with her hands tucked beneath her cheeks, her eyes fastened to the darkened door. Her new husband was not a man like Ezra Fairfax who ignored all women including his daughter and herself. All Ezra had cared about was his tailor shop. He gave far more attention to his young male apprentice than he did to his daughter and his wife.

Owen Jamison was a young, strong, earthy man. Sooner or later he would be possessed with the unresistable biological urge that God gave to all males to assure the continuation of their species. He would come to her with
that
and only
that
on his mind. It would have nothing to do with his feelings for her—she would be merely a convenience, a means to slake his lust. He would no longer have to go to Dubuque or Prairie du Chien to seek out a young girl.

Oh, how could she bear his touch knowing he had been so intimate with Harriet?
This was the price she was paying for security, for having the privilege of raising Harriet’s son.

After what seemed an eternity, she heard the back door close. The house was quiet except for the splattering sound of rain against the window panes. Ana curled herself in a tight ball, her ears straining for the sound of footsteps approaching the bedroom door. Long silent minutes passed.

Finally, Ana flopped over on her stomach and buried her face in the pillow, but she couldn’t block from her mind the image of deep blue eyes, soft wavy hair and a dimple in the middle of a square chin. Nor could she stop thinking about large, work-roughened hands that had held her bare feet so gently as he washed the molasses from between her toes.

*    *    *

Owen was up and building a fire in the cookstove when the rooster flew up onto the fence post and announced the new day. After putting the coffeepot on to boil, he had gone to the barn to check on the mare and the nanny goat. The mare whinnied softly as soon as the light from the lantern reached her. She seemed no nearer to coming to foal than she had the night before. Owen spoke to her, caressed her velvety nose and put a measure of oats in her feedbox.

The goat had rubbed her neck raw trying to get loose from the rope holding her. She was resentful and tried to butt him with her head. He scowled at her and swore. She needed milking, but he would leave that to Gus. The less he had to do with that creature the better.

The rain had stopped sometime during the night, and a warm gentle breeze blew from the south. Owen leaned against the porch post and looked toward the east where a rosy glow was lighting a cloudless sky. The promise of a fine day was in the making. As the ground was too wet for field work, he arranged in his mind the work for the day: fix the hog house, move the sow and her litter out of the barn and make it ready for another sow, build a pen for the goat, grease the windmill, go to the Knutson’s and talk with Esther. The last was a must. He had been relieved of the chore last night because of the rain.

Slipping out of his muddy boots and leaving them on the porch, Owen went silently into the kitchen and paused just inside the door. By the light of the lamp he had left on the kitchen table, he saw Ana the same instant that she saw him. Startled, she stared at him, her mouth forming a silent O. Barefoot, her loose hair hanging down to her hips like a golden waterfall, she stood beside the cookstove in her nightdress, her face flaming.

“I . . . need a bottle for . . . Harry,” she mumbled in confusion.

It was the first time Owen had heard her stammer. She was usually so pale and composed and sure of herself.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I had to see about the mare.”

“Is the mare all right?” Ana poured water into the milk from the teakettle, snapped the rubber nipple in place, and headed for the door.

“So far.”

“I’ll feed Harry and be back to fix your breakfast.”

Owen sank down on a chair and propped his elbows on the table. Big stupid lummox, he chided himself. Why hadn’t he looked before he came barging in. Catching her in her night clothes had embarrassed the hell out of her. Worst of all he had not been able to look away. His eyes had feasted on the slender form beneath the gown, the glorious hair hanging down her back, and her soft, quivering mouth. She was becoming an obsession with him, depriving him of common sense. Ana was the only woman he had ever met that he wanted so violently that he couldn’t even think straight when he was around her.

And she
despised
him.

The sky was lit with the eerie light of dawn when Owen cocked his ear toward the door. He had heard the jingle of harness and the snorting of a trotting horse. Getting to his feet, he went to the door and looked out. He said something violent under his breath when he saw Esther’s buggy pull to a stop in the yard. He went out the door and slipped his feet back into his muddied boots.

“Morning, Owen,” Esther called cheerfully and climbed down out of the buggy. “It’s a fine day for washing. You usually have the fire built under my washpot by now,” she scolded good-naturedly.

Owen cursed again under his breath and went out to meet her.

“I was coming over to see you this morning, Esther.”

“Whatever for? You know I always come here on Monday to do the wash.”

“It isn’t Monday. It’s Saturday.”

“Saturday? Ah . . . go on! You’re funnin’ me. It’s Monday and you know it.” She reached into the buggy and brought out a wicker basket. “I brought a few of our things to wash. I can’t depend on Lily and Hettie to do it. Lily is moonin’ around and Hettie’s so addle-brained she can’t do doodle-d-squat unless someone’s standing over her to tell her every move to make.”

Owen went to his sister, took the basket out of her hands and set it back in the buggy. My God! Didn’t she even know what day it was? And had she forgotten the mess she made here the other day? She was as bright and cheerful as a brandnew penny, acting as if nothing at all had happened.

“I told you that there was no need for you to come back over here. You don’t have to do my wash or cook or keep house for me any more.”

“Are you out of your mind? Of course, I do. Get on now and draw water for the washpot.”

“No, Esther. Go home and do your own work.”

“That’s sweet of you, brother. But I’ll take care of you as I’ve always done. Is that crock of hog grease still in the cellar? We’re going to need a batch of lye soap—”

“—Esther! I don’t need you to do my wash or make soap!”

“Well for crying out loud! Mama’s gone, brother. If I don’t do it, who will?”

“Ana will do it.”

“Ana? Who’s Ana?”

“Ana Fairfax. Harriet’s mother.”

“Oh, her. She’s gone, Owen. She left days ago.”

“No, she hasn’t gone. She’s here.”

Esther’s dark, feverish eyes darted toward the house then returned to his face.

“That slut’s not still here!”

“Ana is still here and she’s staying here. You must come to terms with that. She’ll keep house for me. You don’t need to come—”

“No! She’ll not keep house for you!”

“She’s staying,” Owen said firmly. “We were married yesterday by Reverend Larson. She’s my wife now and I don’t want to hear you call her a slut ever again. Do you understand me?” The only way Owen was able to control his anger was to admit to himself that Esther was not in her right mind.

Esther sucked in her breath, staring at him. “You . . . you married
her
!”

“Yes. The boy needs a mother—”

“—Owen! Brother! Did you say you . . . m-married t-that—” Esther’s screech trailed.

“Ana and I were married,” he said firmly. “She and the boy will live here with me, and she’ll take care of the house now.”

Esther bared her teeth and let out a howl of pure fury. She balled her fist and swung at his head. Owen caught her wrist and held it while she struggled.

“You’d . . . do that to me after . . . after all I’ve done for you? You’d throw me out of my Mama’s house and take in that city whore?”

“Calm down and be reasonable. You’re my sister. It isn’t a case of throwing you out!” Esther was too violently angry to listen. Her eyes flashed, her lips were drawn back in a vicious snarl, and she tried her best to rake his face with her fingernails.

“You . . . bastard! Son-of-a-bitch! Fornicator! You’re a Jamison all right. Just like Pa . . . and Grandpa. You . . . ruttin’ boar!” she shouted.

Owen grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Hush that talk,” he demanded, but Esther was wild with anger.

“Swine! He-goat! Tomcat!” Her eyes blazed furiously into his, and she struggled with a strength he didn’t know she possessed.

“Stop that! For God’s sake, get a hold of yourself,” he demanded gruffly, holding her away from him so that she couldn’t kick his shins.

“Let go of me! Shithead! Horny rooster! Filthy bounder! Dirty rotten son-of-a-bastard! Go plow your whore—”