Читать книгу The Borrowed Bride - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 9

May 19, 1899

Dear Quint…

Hannah chewed on the stubby pencil to bite away the wood and expose more of the meager lead. If she went for a knife to sharpen it, one of her parents was bound to see her and give her some chore to do. Most days she wouldn’t have minded. But this letter couldn’t wait. She had to finish it and get it to town before the westbound train picked up the mail.

The shade of new-leafed aspens dappled her skirts as she shifted her knees beneath the notebook. Below the bank, the creek flowed high with mountain snow melt. The rushing water laughed and whispered. A magpie scolded from the crest of a yellow pine.

Steeling her resolve, she pressed the blunted lead against the paper, forced it to form letters, then words.

It’s springtime here. Violets are blooming in the pasture. Bessie has a new calf. Papa let me help with the birthing of it…

Hannah paused, chewing her lower lip in frustration. She was wasting precious time and paper. There was no way to soften the blow of what she had to tell Quint. Best to just write it out plain and be done.

But at a time like this, even plain words were as hard to come by as gold coins in a pauper’s graveyard.

In the months Quint had been gone, Hannah had yet to receive a single letter from him. But Alaska was far away—so remote that he might as well be on the moon. And Quint had told her that he might be prospecting in remote areas with no postal service. Surely there was no cause to worry. But Hannah did worry. Anxiety had become a constant companion, a parasite that gnawed at her insides day and night.

Especially now.

Only the memory of Edna Seavers’s wintry eyes and Judd’s indifferent manner kept her from crossing the open pastureland to rap on the door of their big, bleak house. In any case, it would be a wasted trip, Hannah told herself. Since she hadn’t heard from Quint, it wasn’t likely his mother and brother had heard from him, either.

As for her own letters, the ones she’d written faithfully and carried into town every week, they could be anywhere, lost between here and the frozen North. She could only pray that this one letter would find him and bring him home.

The first month, when her menstrual flow hadn’t come, she’d dismissed it from her mind. Her periods had always been irregular. But after the second month the secret dread had sprouted and begun to root. Last week, when she’d started throwing up in the morning, all doubt had vanished. After seeing her mother through six pregnancies, Hannah knew the signs all too well.

So far she’d managed to hide her condition from her family. But her mother had eyes like a hawk. She was bound to notice before long. Another couple of months, and the whole town would know about the secret thing she and Quint had done in that shadowed hayloft.

Ripping the page out of the notebook, Hannah crumpled it in her fist and began again.

Dear Quint,

I have something important to tell you…

The knot in Hannah’s stomach tightened. Quint had been so excited about his great adventure. Her news would devastate him. He might even blame her for allowing this to happen. Surely he would consider it his duty to come home and marry her. But he wouldn’t be happy about it. Quint had chafed under the burden of caring for the ranch and his ailing mother. Much as he’d professed to love her, Hannah could only imagine how he’d feel about being saddled with a wife and child.

But in the larger scheme of things Quint’s feelings, and hers, didn’t matter. A baby was coming—an innocent little spirit who deserved a mother and a father and an honorable name. She would do the right thing. So would Quint. It wasn’t the best beginning for a marriage, but they’d loved each other for years. God willing, they would be happy.

If only she could get word to him.

Gripping the pencil, she hunched over the notebook.

There’s no easy way to say this. We’re going to have a child, my dearest. It should be born in December. I know how much you want to find your fortune in Alaska. But we have to think of the baby now. You need to come home so we can get married, the sooner the better.

By the time she finished the letter, Hannah’s eyes were blurry with tears. She folded the sheet of cheap, ruled notepaper and tucked it into her apron pocket. Her fingers fumbled for the pennies she’d scrimped to buy an envelope and a postage stamp.

All her hopes and prayers would be riding with this letter. Somehow it had to reach Alaska and find its way to Quint.

It just had to.

June 6, 1899

Judd had been riding fence since dawn, checking for weak spots where a cow could push its way through or tangle its head in a loose strand of barbed wire. Now the midday sun blazed down with the heat of a black-smith’s forge. He was sore and sweaty, and his mouth was as dry as alkali dust. But he had to admit that he relished the work. Anything was better than lying in that god-awful excuse for a hospital, listening to the groans and whimpers of men who would never go home again except in a pine box.

At the watering trough, he dismounted. While the horse drank, he scooped the mossy water in his Stetson and emptied it over his head. The wetness streamed off his hair to soak into his sweat-encrusted shirt. Judd sluiced his arms, savoring the coolness. At rare moments like this he almost felt alive again. But the feeling never lasted. His body might be healing, but the blackness in his soul lurked like a pool of quicksand, waiting to suck him down.

Raking back his damp hair, he gazed out across the open pasture that separated the Seavers ranch from the Gustavson farm. In the distance someone was moving—a dot of blue seen through the shimmering air, coming closer. Judd’s throat tightened as he remembered the Gustavson girl—Quint’s girl—racing down the platform after the departing train. He could still see her losing ground, faltering, then turning back with stricken cornflower eyes, as if her whole world had been crushed beneath the iron wheels.

Judd hadn’t seen her since that dismal morning. Nor had he heard from Quint. Maybe she’d received some news of him and was coming to share it.

He watched and waited. A bead of water trickled down his cheek to lose itself in the stubble of his unshaven chin. As the figure grew closer, Judd’s spirits sank. It wasn’t the girl after all. It was a woman, fairhaired and stoutly built. He recognized her as the mother of the Gustavson brood. She moved wearily, leaning forward as if harnessed to an invisible boulder that she was dragging behind her.

By the time Judd had unsaddled the horse and loosed it in the corral, Mrs. Gustavson had reached the front gate. Remembering his long-forgotten manners, he started down the road to greet her and escort her to the house. Even from a distance he could see that she was distraught. She walked with a dejected slump, dabbing at her eyes and nose with a wadded rag that served as a handkerchief.

At the sight of Judd, she straightened her posture, lifted her chin and jammed the rag into the pocket of her faded chambray dress. In her youth, she might have been as pretty as her daughter. But two decades of poverty, backbreaking labor and constant childbearing had taken their toll. Any beauty she’d possessed had worn away, exposing a core of toughness and raw Norwegian pride. Poor as she was, Mary Gustavson was a woman to be reckoned with.

Partway down the long, straight approach to the house, they met. Judd lifted the damp Stetson he’d replaced on his head. “Good day, Mrs. Gustavson.”

“Judd.” She nodded curtly. She had the kind of ruddy Nordic skin that stretched tight over the bones of her face. Her tearstained eyes were several shades lighter than her daughter’s. “I trust your mother is at home.”

“Yes.” Judd glanced at the sun, calculating the time. “She usually takes tea in the parlor at this hour. I’ll walk you to the door.” He offered his arm but she ignored the gesture. Her eyes were fixed on the well-built two-story house with its shuttered windows and gingerbread porch. Judd’s father had built the place fifteen years ago. The summer after his family moved in, Tom Seavers had been trampled to death in a cattle stampede. On hearing the news, his wife had suffered a disabling stroke.

In the intervening years, Edna Seavers had transformed the place into a mausoleum for the living. Judd couldn’t blame Quint for wanting to strike out on his own. He might have considered leaving himself. But this was home. He was needed here, especially now. And he had no other refuge when the nightmares came.

“Has your daughter heard anything from Quint?” he asked, making awkward conversation as they mounted the porch steps. Mary Gustavson did not reply. Her posture had gone rigid. Her face had taken on the stoic expression of a soldier marching into battle.

Judd reached out to open the door for her, but she brushed his hand aside, seized the heavy brass knocker and gave three sharp raps as if to announce her presence. The wooden floor on the other side creaked under the weight of heavy footsteps. The door swung inward.

The woman standing in the entry was built like a brick wall, her face so devoid of expression that it might have been cast in concrete. Gretel Schmidt had cared for Edna since the days following her stroke. She had also taken on the cooking, washing and housekeeping duties. What she lacked in beauty she made up in competence. Judd valued her service and paid her enough to keep her from seeking other work.

“Gretel, Mrs. Gustavson has come to see my mother,” he said. “I presume she’s in the parlor.”

“This way.” Gretel lumbered back down the paneled hallway toward the sitting room. Judd turned to go back outside, then hesitated. Mary Gustavson wouldn’t have come here on a social call. Something was wrong. If it concerned his family, he’d be well-advised to stay and listen. Tossing his hat onto a rack behind the door, he followed the two women down the hall.

The parlor’s tall windows faced east, offering morning sun and a fine view of the mountains. Edna Seavers had covered them with heavy drapes, which she kept drawn against the light. The well-furnished chamber was as gloomy as the inside of a funeral home.

Edna sat in her customary rocking chair, reading the Bible by the light of a small table lamp. Her ebony cane was propped against one arm of the chair. The stroke had weakened her left side. She could hobble around the house with the cane, but for ventures out she preferred the dignity of a wheelchair.

Was she any worse today? Judd studied her now, remembering what he’d learned from her doctor last month. His mother was more fragile than even she realized. But her will seemed as strong as ever.

She glanced up as Gretel entered to announce the visitor. Her bony little fingers laid the black marker ribbon across the page before closing the Bible. “Two cups of hot chamomile tea, Gretel,” she said. “Please have a seat, Mrs. Gustavson.”

Mary Gustavson lowered her ample frame onto the edge of a needlepoint chair. After her long trek in the sun, she would surely have preferred cold lemonade, or even water, to hot tea. But she sat in awkward silence, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Judd found a seat in a shadowed corner. He had no wish to be part of the drama, only to listen and observe.

“Have you heard from your boy Quint, Mrs. Seavers?” Mary spoke good English but with a thick Norwegian accent.

Judd could almost read the thoughts behind his mother’s disapproving frown. The tea had yet to arrive, and this uncouth woman had already brushed aside the social pleasantries and cut to the reason for her visit.

Judd stifled a groan as he realized what that reason must be. Only one thing would have brought Mary Gustavson to this house.

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t heard a thing,” Edna sniffed. “But why should my son be any concern of yours?”

Mary’s reply confirmed Judd’s guess. “Our Hannah is with child. I’ve no doubt that your son is the father.”

“How can you be sure?” Edna’s voice dripped acid. “For all you know, your daughter could have spread her legs for half the boys in the county. Just because we’ve got money, and because Quint isn’t here to defend himself—”

“Hannah is a good girl!” Mary was on her feet, pale and quivering. “If she lost her virtue, it was because she loved your son, and he took advantage of her.”

“My son is a gentleman. He would never take advantage of any girl.” Edna took a moment to pour a cup of the tea that Gretel had placed on the table. Her face was a mask of propriety but her hands were shaking. Tea sloshed onto the tabletop, staining the lace doily that covered it. “In any case, you’ve no proof of your accusation. Until Quint appears to answer for himself, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Then write him a letter! Tell him he has to come home!”

Edna set the teacup back on its silver tray, its contents untasted. “Nobody wants Quint home more than I do. I’ve written to him every week, begging him to abandon this silly adventure. But he hasn’t replied. I don’t know if my letters have even reached him. So you see, Mrs. Gustavson, whether I believe you or not, my hands are tied.”

“But this is your grandchild, your own flesh and blood!” Mary’s work-roughened hands twisted in anguish. “My Hannah and your Quint, they were sweethearts. There was nobody else for her. You know that. Soon the whole town will see the scandal. Do you want that for Quint’s child? To be born without a father? To be called always by that ugly word?”

Edna’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Really, Mrs. Gustavson, I don’t see—”

“You must get Quint home! My daughter needs a husband! Her baby needs a name!”

Edna had shrunk into her chair like a threatened animal. “But that isn’t possible. We don’t know how to reach him.”

“Then who is going to marry my Hannah?” Mary demanded. “Who is going to be a father to your son’s baby?”

“I will.”

Judd rose as he spoke the words. Shocked into silence, the two women stared at him.

“You?” Edna choked out the word. “But that’s preposterous!”

“Do you have a better idea?” Judd’s mind raced, the plan falling into place as he spoke. “The marriage would be in name only, of course. We could have the divorce papers drawn up ahead of time. When Quint gets home, all we’d have to do is sign them. Then he and Hannah would be free to marry.”

Mary Gustavson was gazing at him as if he’d just saved her family from a burning house. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Judd forced himself to meet her tearful gaze. He’d offered his help out of genuine concern. But what was he getting that poor girl into? Even on a temporary basis, he was no bargain for any woman. And no bride deserved a mother-in-law like Edna Seavers.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “I’m willing to marry your daughter, Mrs. Gustavson, but Hannah needs to be willing, too. She needs to understand the conditions and agree to them.”

“She will. I’ll make sure of that.”

Judd glanced at his mother. Edna’s face was white with suppressed anger. Her lips were pressed into a rigid line. None of this was going to be easy. But he had to do the right thing for his brother’s child—and for that child’s grandmother. He turned back to Mary.

“If you don’t mind I’d like to ask Hannah myself. The least the poor girl deserves is a proper proposal.”

Mary looked hesitant. Her mouth tightened.

“I’ll come calling tonight, after supper. You can tell her to expect me.”

“Should I tell her the rest?”

“How much does she already know?”

“About this? Nothing. I told her I was going to visit a friend across the creek. But she’ll find out soon enough.”

“Then I’ll leave it in your hands. You know Hannah better than I do.” Actually he scarcely knew Hannah at all, Judd realized as he spoke. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“I’ll be going then.” Mary turned back to Edna. “I thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Seavers.”

Edna’s only reply was a nod to Gretel, who’d appeared in the doorway to usher the visitor outside.

No sooner had the front door closed than the storm broke inside the parlor. “How dare you, Judd? The idea, marrying that wretched girl! Think of the scandal! What will people say?”

Judd faced his mother calmly. “What will they say if I don’t marry her? Once she starts to show, the whole town will be counting backward. They’ll know it’s Quint’s baby she’s carrying. For us to turn her away when we have the means to help—that would be heartless.”

“But why should we have to take her in? Give her some money! Send her away to some home where she can have the brat and place it for adoption!”

Judd willed himself to feel pity instead of outrage. “The brat, as you call it, is your grandchild—maybe the only one you’ll ever have. What if something happens to Quint? What if he doesn’t come home?”

“Don’t say such a terrible thing. Don’t even think it.” Edna pressed her fingertips to her forehead, then released her hands to flutter like wounded doves to her lap. “In any case, you’re here. Surely you’ll be wanting a proper marriage, with children of your own.”

“Not the way I am now.”

“What nonsense! Look at you! You’re perfectly fine! You’re getting stronger every day!”

Judd sighed. “Mother, sometimes I envy your ability to see only what you want to see. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get the men started on the new horse paddock.”

Without waiting for her response, he strode out of the parlor, down the hall and onto the covered porch that ran the width of the house. On the long train ride home, he’d had plenty of time to sort out the realities of his life. He wouldn’t have minded having a family of his own. But his black spells and nightmares were worse than he’d wish on any woman. He wasn’t fit to be a real husband—or a real father. But now he had a chance to rescue an awkward situation. What kind of man would he be if he walked away?

He would do his best to stand in for Quint, Judd vowed. He would treat Hannah as a sister, keeping her at a distance, avoiding any physical contact that might be misunderstood. When Quint returned, he would sign the divorce papers and hand her over to the father of her child, untouched.

His behavior would be above reproach.

Hannah washed the supper dishes, rinsing them in fresh water and handing them to her sister Annie to dry. An evening breeze fluttered the flour sack curtains at the window and freshened the torrid air that hung beneath the smoke-blackened rafters. Frogs and crickets chirped in the willow clumps that bordered the creek.

Annie, who was sixteen and pretty, chattered about the dress she was making over and the new boy she’d met in town. Hannah tried to listen, but her thoughts wheeled and scattered like a flock of blackbirds, too agitated to settle in any one place.

Three days ago her mother had broached the subject of her pregnancy. Their confrontation had begun in anger and ended in tears. Hannah knew how badly she’d let her family down. Unless Quint returned to marry her, there would be scandal, expense, and one more Gustavson mouth to feed. Worse, she’d be branded as a fallen woman. Her reputation would cast its shadow on her whole family, especially on her sisters.

Sweet heaven, she’d been so much in love. On that last night, she couldn’t have denied Quint anything—not even her willing, young body. But how many lives would be touched by her foolish mistake?

A snore rose from her father’s slack mouth, where he lay sprawled in his armchair. Affection tugged at Hannah’s heart. Soren Gustavson toiled from dawn to dark, tending the pigs he raised and coaxing potatoes, beets and carrots from the rocky Colorado soil. No doubt he’d been told about his daughter’s condition. But pregnancy was women’s business, and he was too worn-out to deal with it. He was a small man, his overtaxed body already showing signs of age. Hannah’s baby would add one more burden to his sagging shoulders.

Overhead, the floor of the loft where the children slept creaked under her mother’s footfalls. Mary Gustavson always made time to tuck her younger children into bed and listen to their prayers. Tonight, however, the calm cadence was missing from her steps. She seemed rushed and uncertain.

Over supper, she’d mentioned something about a visit from Judd Seavers. But a neighborly call was no reason to get her in a tizzy. Judd was probably coming to discuss the strip of grassland that bordered his ranch. The Seavers family had been trying to buy it from Soren for years. Soren had always refused. This time would be no different.

Mary came downstairs smoothing her hair. She’d taken off her rumpled apron and replaced it with a clean one. “Wash your face, Hannah,” she fussed. “You’ve got a smudge on your cheek. Then come here and let me comb out your hair. You’re getting too old for those pigtails!”

Annie giggled as Mary dragged Hannah toward the washstand. What was going on? Why should it matter how she looked to Judd? He’d certainly seen her in pigtails before—not that he’d ever given her a second glance.

She squirmed on the wooden stool, her thoughts flying even faster than her mother’s hands. How would Mary know Judd was coming unless she’d spoken with him? And what could he want, if his visit wasn’t about buying land?

Her heart dropped. What if something had happened to Quint? What if the family had gotten word, and Judd was coming to break the news?

She was working up the courage to ask when three light raps on the door galvanized everyone’s attention. The brush stilled in Hannah’s hair. Soren started from his nap.

It was Annie who flew across the floor to answer the knock. She flung the door open. Lamplight spilled onto the porch to reveal Judd standing on the threshold. He was dressed in a clean chambray shirt and a light woolen vest. His face was freshly shaved, his hair still wet from combing.

He had the look and manner of a prisoner facing execution.

“Good evening, Judd.” Annie spoke politely but with a hint of flirtation in her voice. “Have you come to see my parents? They’re both here, and they’re expecting you.”

Judd shifted his feet. His riding boots gleamed with fresh polish. “Good evening, Mr. Gustavson, Mrs. Gustavson. Actually it’s not you I’ve come to see. I’d like your permission to speak with Hannah—alone.”