Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (2 page)

Sarah nodded, her eyes filling with long-resisted tears. Rebecca was grinning back at her, one chubby hand waving a cheerful goodbye just as she had waved to her papa as he left the home on his last morning run with the freight wagon.

Sarah felt the sobs working their way into her throat, nearly choking her. She pressed her fingers over her mouth and turned from the door, closing it firmly behind her. She leaned against it, trying hard to get control of her overwhelming emotions.

"Why? Why?" she cried into the emptiness of the little house. "Why,
Michael?
Why?"

She leaned more heavily against the door and let the sobs shake her body. She had not let herself grieve so freely before. She'd had to be strong for Rebecca. Now Rebecca was in the care of another, and Sarah found that she could no longer be strong. She allowed herself to slowly slide down the door's surface until she crumbled on the floor. Her sobs shook her whole being. "Why?" she cried again and this time there was anger in her voice. "Why? Why take Michael? You know we need him. You know. How can I go on? Why should I go on? What is there to live for? Answer me.
Answer me!"

The last words were flung toward the ceiling. Sarah lifted a face filled with agony and streaked with tears.

"Answer me," she cried again. "What is there to live for with Michael gone?"

Through tear-blurred eyes Sarah saw the open doorway that led to the nursery. Rebecca's cradle, the one Michael had brought home on his freight wagon, stood near the window, the blanket she had stitched tossed carelessly over the side. The little toy top Michael had purchased on one of his many trips to the neighboring town lay lopsidedly on the floor beside the rag doll Granny Whitcomb had sent. Sarah could not see the simple chest that held the tiny garments'—but she was conscious of its presence. She knew every drawer and exactly what each one held. She knew the picture on the wall. The pair of tiny shoes that sat on the window ledge. The rocker in the corner with the multi-color cushion on the hard-polished oak. Sarah's breath caught in her throat. She pushed back her tumbled hair and turned her face toward the ceiling. He had answered. She knew He had. It was Rebecca. Rebecca was her reason for living. Rebecca was the reason she must somehow put her life back together and go on. Rebecca—a very real and very living part of Michael.

Sarah lowered her face into her hands and sobbed, but her crying was now controlled. She had a right to grieve. She had lost much. She had to grieve. Her loss had to be expressed. She would suffer. There would be many days when the hurt would be there—real and painful and so big she would wonder if she would be able to bear it. But she had to go on. For Rebecca.

Sorting It Through

Somehow Sarah managed to get herself to her bed, fall upon it, and allowed herself to cry until she was completely drained of all tears—all emotion. Exhausted, she at last fell asleep, her last thought being a little prayer, "Oh, God. Help me. I—I need you like I never have before."

She was shocked when she awakened to find the sun already high in the sky. Her bedside clock indicated that it was twenty minutes past ten. She could not believe it. She scrambled up with a pounding heart. Why hadn't Rebecca cried? Had she cried and not been heard? Sarah was about to dash for the door when she remembered that Rebecca was safely cared for at the Galvan home. With a sigh she laid her head back on the pillow and rubbed a hand over her eyes. She wondered if they were red and swollen from her night before.

"I must make some plans," she said aloud as she lifted herself from her bed.

To her surprise she felt prepared to think. Was it the long sleep—or was it the fact that she had finally accepted Michael's death? She did not know. She only knew that she had Rebecca to care for and she did not intend to let her down.

She left the comfort of her bed, washed her puffy face in cold, clear water, forced herself to eat some breakfast, then carefully pinned her hair as she had done each morning in what now seemed the distant past. Then drawing her only black dress from the closet, she slipped it over her head, blinking back the tears that wished to come.

She pinned her hat securely in place, took up her gloves and handbag, and proceeded out to face her difficult day of decisions.

***

"Have you made any plans?"

There was genuine kindness in the eyes and voice of the man as he leaned slightly toward Sarah over the counter between them. He spoke softly, seeming to will her some of his own strength for her ordeal.

Sarah managed a wobbly smile and shook her head slowly. "I am going to see the banker again this morning. Mrs. Galvan has little Rebecca. I—I need to use this time to—to work things through."

The man nodded solemnly. "If there is anything I can—" He seemed to choke up. His gaze dropped and he did not go on. Sarah noticed that the hands that clasped on to the counter top were trembling. She was deeply touched by his obvious concern.

Mr. Murray, whom the whole town, except for Sarah, called Alex, was also 'a member of the local church congregation. He was a cheerful young fellow, always polite and eager to serve. Michael had wondered why the man was still a bachelor. "Surely some woman should realize his worth," Sarah recalled Michael saying. "It may be true that he's not striking in appearance," her husband had admitted, "but he is not unpleasant to look at."

Sarah had never troubled herself with the affairs of others, so she had given little thought to the matter. "Perhaps he does not wish to marry," she had responded casually and pushed the matter aside.

Michael had laughed at that and pulled Sarah into his arms. "Then he doesn't know what he's missing," he teased and plucked the pins from her hair, sending it tumbling down over her shoulders.

At the memory of the conversation, Sarah felt her face grow warm.
Would every little thing that happened in life trigger some memory of her deceased husband?
she wondered. She dropped her gaze and stirred restlessly as she toyed with the white hanky in her hands and shifted her slight weight to her other foot. Mr. Murray cleared his throat. Sarah lifted her eyes again.

"I wish I could help," he said hesitantly, and Sarah recognized the sincerity in his voice.

She tried another smile and managed quite admirably. "Thank you. People have—everyone has been— most kind. I really don't know how I would manage without—friends."

She turned her eyes to the floor again and swallowed. The tears were threatening to come. J
must not give in to them. I must not!
She had thought she had used up all her tears the night before.

Feeling slightly giddy with the burden of many decisions still before her, Sarah calmly ordered sugar and flour, eggs and baking powder so she might replenish the supplies in her cupboards. Rebecca must eat, and life must go on.

"I know that—it must be hard—to sort things out, but if there is anything—anything at all that I can—" the man repeated.

"Thank you," said Sarah again. "I do appreciate your kindness."

She dropped the coins for the purchases on the counter and was about to leave when he spoke again.

"Are you sure—I mean—if you—"

Sarah turned back to him and saw the sympathy in the hazel eyes.

He flushed slightly, and Sarah knew he was embarrassed, though she could not imagine why. At last he took a deep breath and blurted out hurriedly, "I'm not good with words, Mrs. Perry. But I would—would like to offer you—credit here at the store until—until you get things under control."

Sarah was deeply touched and managed a sincere smile. "Thank you," she replied, her voice only a whisper. "Thank you very much. I—I do have funds on hand—at present."

"Well, if you ever—please, please don't hesitate to ask."

He sounded so sympathetic, so sincere. Sarah smiled again and nodded. It was a relief for her to know that she and Rebecca would not go hungry.

***

"As—ah—I said before, Mrs. Perry, I really—ah— don't know just how much—ah—could be realized from the sale of—ah—your husband's business."

The banker cleared his throat and shuffled some papers on his desk. It seemed to Sarah that he kept rearranging them from one stack to another. She distractedly wondered if he would need to sort through the whole pile after she left.

"Well—at least there should be something from— from the sale of the wagon and the horses," she dared to venture.

' "Well—ah—I'm afraid that—that the—ah— wagon and horses—ah—still belong in good part to the-—ah—bank."

"The bank?"

He refused to look at her as he shuffled the pages again.

"What do you mean?" asked Sarah, leaning forward, demanding by her very stance that the man stop his fumbling around and get to the heart of the matter.

"Well—ah—" He pushed his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose.

"Yes?" prompted Sarah. She finally seemed to have captured his attention.

"The bank—ah—holds a note—a loan," he managed to get out before he dropped his gaze again.

"How—how large a note?" asked Sarah directly.

"Well—ah—Mr. Perry was doing well in paying it off." The man stopped and went back to shifting piles of paper nervously again. Sarah was sorely tempted to reach out a hand to still the restless documents.

"How much?" she asked again.

"Well—ah—"

"How much did Michael still owe?" she said, and marveled at the steadiness of her own voice.

"Well—ah—if we could sell them—everything—at a reasonable price—then—ah—you would realize a sum of—ah—say—twenty-five or thirty dollars."

Sarah gasped. Twenty-five—even thirty dollars— would not care for her and Rebecca for any time at all.

"But—" she began but didn't know where to go with her exclamation. Her denial. Her protest.,

"I—I admit—ah—that it doesn't sound like much but—Michael was making the payments with—ah—no difficulty. He would have soon—"

Sarah did not let him finish. "You are saying that it is a solid business?"

He looked at her then. But he still did not speak.

"Are you?" she demanded.

"Well—ah—yes. Solid but not—not—ah—high paying."

"But sound?" She insisted that he give her a straightforward answer.

"Solid and sound," he admitted with a nod of his head.

"So I have a good business—that is worth—
nothing!"
she pushed further.

He shifted his feet and the papers.

"Is that it?" asked Sarah, trying hard to keep her voice under control.

"Well—ah—"

"Is it?" She had to guard herself. She did not want to become hysterical. She lowered her voice and spoke again. "Is it?"

"Well—ah—a man could—"

"A man?" demanded Sarah. She could feel her head spinning again. The whole world seemed to be going off into the distance. Nothing seemed real. Nothing seemed tangible. She clasped her handbag for something to make contact with, trying to bring things back into proper relationship. Then she reached out from somewhere within her and clutched onto a single thought that made sense.

"Then I'll hire a man," she said evenly. Her head seemed to clear. The world stopped spinning for just a minute.

The banker was shaking his head. "You'd have to pay wages," he told her plainly, without his customary pauses of speech.

Sarah's head went spinning again. "Wages?" she said dumbly.

"Wages—ah—to the driver," he went on, grabbing some pages. Sarah thought she would go mad with the rustling of the paper, the nervous gestures of the man.

"The—ah—bank payments—ah—plus the man's wages—ah—would leave you—ah—little—for your livelihood," the man said frankly. His words seemed brutal—wrenching apart the only shred of hope she had held.

She swallowed and tried to get her head working— understanding. "You're saying," she said slowly, "that the business is profitable—but not so profitable that it could—could handle a—a salaried man—as well as pay off the debt?" she repeated.

He nodded.

She lowered her gaze and twisted her gloved hands together.

"I—ah—see the freight wagon is—ah—still making the run," remarked the banker.

"Yes," breathed Sarah, her head coming up. "Through the kindness of the parson who has arranged for volunteers to take turns with the driving. But I have presumed on their kindness long enough. I must—must make other plans—soon."

"I—ah—see," said the banker and cleared his throat again.

"There is—is a matter of a—ah—payment due next—ah—week," he offered.

For one brief instance she was tempted to pick up the piles of shuffled papers and fling them in the face of the man who stolidly sat opposite her. Did he realize how vulnerable she was? Did he know the pain she was in? Was he really giving her straight answers? She had no way of knowing. She only knew that she was boxed in a tight corner and there seemed to be no way out.

"I—I may be able to find a buyer—ah—with luck," the man said calmly.

Sarah looked at him evenly. He squirmed slightly and reached out for the nearest sheet of paper. "Of course—ah—as I said—it wouldn't be much—but— ah—it should care for the—ah—bank loans."