Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (5 page)

She glanced down at herself and felt ready to weep. But there was no time for weeping. She brushed at her clothing the best she could, pinned her hair more securely, then led the big team over to the wagon. She felt so small in comparison to Gyp and Ginger and feared that they might suddenly bolt for some reason and run over her, leaving her bruised and tattered, perhaps even dead. She couldn't die. Not now. Rebecca needed her.

At length Sarah managed to get the team lined up properly along the tongue of the wagon and bent to lift the heavy pole. It was all she could do to snap the yoke to the harness breast strap while hoisting the tongue into the air. She was panting and sweaty by the time she was done. The final task was to get the tugs hooked to the singletrees.

At long last the team was hitched to the wagon, but it had taken her much longer than it should have. It meant a late start in getting off. She wouldn't have as much time with Rebecca as she had hoped. She bit her lip as she climbed up over the high wagon wheel, took up the reins, and spoke to the horses.

Both Gyp and Ginger leaned into the harness at her command. The wagon seemed to sit and tremble. The horses appeared as confused as Sarah felt. She saw them lean forward again, straining at the tugs, strong muscles rippling as they threw their weight against the resisting force.

The wagon began to slide forward. Sarah noted that the front wheels were not rolling as wheels should. She looked about her, perplexed. She would never make any time if the wagon refused to cooperate. And then with a flush of her cheeks and a prayer of thankfulness that nobody was watching her, she reached down and released the hand brake.

The wheels began to roll, and Sarah was finally on her way. Already she felt that she had put in a day's hard work, and she had just begun.

***

Sarah's thoughts turned to her sleeping child. How she prayed that when the little one awoke, she would not feel afraid to find Mrs. Galvan with her rather than her own mother.
She has even stopped asking for Papa,
her thoughts continued, and a tear slid down her cheek and splashed on the hands that held the reins. Then she gave her full attention back to the team.

It had looked so easy when Sarah had watched Big John, as everyone called Mr. Curtis, drive the team of muscled bays. The horses were responsive to the reins, well-trained and obedient. But Sarah found the task far more difficult than she would have imagined.

The constant jarring and rumbling of the wagon soon had every muscle in her body aching, and the constant pull of the horses against the reins made her arms hurt all the way to her shoulders.

"Relax," Big John had instructed her. "Don't fight agin the reins. Just hold 'em light like and guide the team. They won't bolt. But you gotta be firm. Horses are smart. They sense things. They like to know you have everythin' under control."

Everything under control!
Sarah almost laughed as she repeated the thought. Then she felt like crying. Nothing was under control. The horses were the least of it. Her whole world had gone spinning off in some foreign direction, totally beyond her wishes or sense of Tightness. Would things ever be controlled again?

Sarah stopped herself with the thought that God was in control. He had not lost His grip on her world. Though her way looked dark and clouded at the moment, He knew exactly what lay ahead. All she had to do was to trust Him. Trust Him in all things. Sarah decided that the long, slow rides to and from the Jackson train depot would be wonderful opportunities to talk to her heavenly Father. Forgetting that she was in charge of a team of horses, she bowed her head and closed her eyes.

A sharp jolt made her eyes fly open. She could not believe how far she had drifted from the proper track. She was indeed fortunate it was only a large stone that had passed under the wagon wheel. A few more feet and she could have found herself in great difficulty. From there on, Sarah decided to do her talking to God with her eyes wide open.

***

Sarah was glad she had traveled with Big John on a few trips so she knew the daily procedure. By the time she eased her team up to the hitching rail at the depot, the sun was high in the sky.

"A little late this mornin'," a man called out, but he spoke cheerily. Sarah nodded her head ruefully and wrapped the reins around the upright rein pole.

The man looked more carefully toward the wagon seat. He saw Sarah as she stiffly lifted herself from the hard board seat and attempted to shake the road dust from her skirts.

His eyes opened, his jaw dropped, exposing his chewing tobacco. Then he reached upward as he jerked off his hat, and his head lowered slightly. "Ma'am," he said to her as he had been taught to greet a woman.

Sarah responded with a nod of her head and moved to climb down over the high wheel with as much decorum as she could muster.

The man was still staring. Slowly he replaced his hat, and as Sarah brushed past him to tie her team, he seemed to finally find his tongue.

"Something wrong with the mister this mornin'?" he asked.

Sarah did not even turn to look at him. "Meaning?" she flung over her shoulder. She knew he had heard what had happened to Michael. He had seen Big John and the other volunteer drivers since that time. He had even seen Sarah as she accompanied Big John. Perhaps he gathered that she was Big John Curtis's wife. Well, he was wrong. Sarah had not stopped to explain to the stationmaster the future plans for her business. It was her right to run things as she saw fit.

He acted totally flustered. "Well—I—I was—I mean I heerd thet Mike was—well—I know other men been drivin' since—I jest—jest thought—thet—well, I didn't suppose—I mean—"

Sarah finished tying her horses and stepped back to look at the man. "I am Michael's widow," she said as evenly as she could. "I will be hauling the freight from now on. You must be Mr. Parker."

The man nodded his head, though his eyes still showed disbelief. Sarah saw him swallow, and then his face turned reddish purple. She wondered if she had caused him to lose his chewing tobacco. He leaned over slightly and spit on the ground. He looked further embarrassed.

"Best we git her loaded," he said without looking at her. "Got a full load this mornin'."

Sarah hiked up her drooping hem and moved to follow.

"Just back thet there wagon up to the platform here," he went on hurriedly, as though in a great rush to get the job done.

Sarah stopped mid-stride, her skirts still in her hands. She looked first at the man and then to the platform he had indicated with a casual wave of his big, gnarled hand.

Her confusion must have been obvious, for he repeated again in the same hurried manner, "Jest back 'er up agin the platform."

This time Sarah did speak, and her voice showed her total alarm. "Back up? How?"

Her eyes traveled back to the team that was now hitched to the rail. She knew how to go ahead. She could even turn corners reasonably well, but how on earth did one ever reverse horses
and
a wagon?

The man stopped and gave Sarah a head-to-toe study. He seemed to draw some conclusions. She was a woman. She was a small woman. She really had no business trying to take over a job meant for a man. Here was trouble—and he was the one who was going to suffer for it.

He gave a sigh that looked like it came from his toes up, shook his head as though to accept his unwanted, undeserved burden, and took on the tone of one speaking to a small child or to a dog that needed training.

"Just take the reins, tug back and say—say..." He hesitated. Each driver had his own way of speaking to his team. "Say whatever ya like," he finished lamely, "but ya gotta git 'em from here over to there." He jerked his head at the platform where the formidable stack of freight stood waiting.

Sarah already was aching all over, and the sight of the huge pile of boxes and bags was enough to bring tears to her eyes. But she blinked them away, took a deep breath, and moved toward the waiting team and wagon.

Carefully and slowly she untied the horses, her head busy with the thought of what she must do and trying to quickly devise a plan for the doing.

She had seen Michael back the horses with no difficulty. She had seen Big John back the horses with the same ease. How had they done it? Why hadn't she watched more closely? What did one do?

She climbed stiffly over the wheel rim and settled herself on the board seat. What did she say? She lifted the reins and opened her mouth, still without formulated words when, miraculously, the horses began to reverse.

Sarah blinked. Apparently the horses were smarter than she was. When up against the hitching rail, they seemed to know that the only way to go was backward. At once Sarah felt both tremendously relieved and just a mite smug.

But the feeling did not last long.

"Now jest back 'em up to the platform here," the man behind her called.

The platform was not in the right place, Sarah quickly concluded. There was no way she could simply keep backing straight back and arrive at the proper destination. How did one do that? She would have to maneuver the wagon this way, then that way, then over there. She couldn't do that. She knew she couldn't.

Well—she could try. Bottom lip secured between her teeth, she determinedly began to work with the reins and the horses. "This way, Gyp. No—no. Over there. Here, Ginger. Easy, girl. No, this way. Gyp— turn. Hi-ya. Gyp. Gyp. You're cutting too sharp. Easy."

It was soon apparent Sarah would never be able to get the team properly positioned at the platform, and at that moment she did have sense enough to ask for help.

Turning to the stationmaster, she said as simply and straightforward as a woman on the verge of frustrated tears was able, "Could you back them please, Mr. Parker?"

The man nodded grimly, clambered up over the wheel, and took the reins Sarah extended.

Sarah realized very quickly that backing was not such an easy thing. Even the man had to do some shifting and repositioning and inching forward, then swinging back before he had the team properly in place. Sarah watched closely to see how it was done. She studied the team, the wagon wheels as they moved this way, then that, and the movement of the team and wagon. She would not find herself in this embarrassing situation again, she purposed, and made a mental note to practice backing when she got back to the stables with her team. She would work at it until no man could fault her. She would keep on until she could get it perfectly right—every time.

Once the team had been brought to a halt at the platform, Sarah stood up and again climbed down over the wheel, watching her skirts so they would not trip her up.

What a huge pile of freight faced her. What a discouragement with her already sore muscles. But it must be loaded. That was part of the task. Sarah forced herself toward the smallest crate of the lot. She would load it all—somehow.

The man flushed, then stepped forward and hoisted the largest crate with a grunt and a straining of muscles. "Best to load the biggest stuff first, ma'am," he said around his new tobacco nip.

Now it was Sarah's turn to flush. She placed the small box back on the wooden boards of the platform and reached for a larger one.

"I'll git thet, ma'am," said a voice behind her, and a broad shoulder brushed past her. Soon two burly men were loading her freight. The red in Sarah's cheeks deepened. This was to have been her job. If the men had to load the boxes and barrels each time she came for pickup, they would soon be complaining and she might lose the route.

"Really—I—I will do the loading," she managed to say. "I'm—I'm sure that you have your own work to be tending to."

The nearest man just grunted and lifted another heavy drum, and the man from the depot did not even look her way.

Sarah stepped back and brushed her sweat-sticky hands against her skirt. Already they felt burned and blistered from the rough leather of the reins. How would she ever continue to drive? Had the banker been right? Was she incapable of keeping Michael's run going? Maybe she would lose it after all—her livelihood, her only means of caring for baby Rebecca.

No. She would not. She refused to let it go. She would manage on her own. She would find a way. She would work it through. And she would not be beholden to strange men. If she could not load the freight herself, then obviously she would need to find help. But she had to be in charge—herself.

She flicked her dusty skirt and squared her shoulders. She would talk to the stationmaster. She would make the proper arrangement. Perhaps he knew of a boy—strong and willing to load her freight each day. She would pay him. She cringed at the thought. It would bite harshly into the little bit she and Rebecca would have to live on. But if it had to be done—then it had to be done. She would still make her payments to the banker each month. She would. And with stubbornness lifting her chin and determination causing her blue eyes to intensify, Sarah grabbed up her skirt, ignoring the sagging hemline, and made her way to the little shed marked "Office."

She—and Rebecca—were not to be defeated.

***

It was later than Sarah would have liked when she finally pulled up in front of the Kenville hardware and began the difficult task of sorting through crates and drums and bundles to select the ones to be delivered there.

The door slammed in front of her, and she looked up to see Mr. Galvan looking at her strangely.