He went through the ads. Then he came to the two letters. One was from Taraleean, and the other—His hand trembled and his heart was suddenly full. Prim had written at last! Prim had found courage to defy Big Mina. He laughed softly back in his throat. Did Big Mina really think Prim would forget him because an ocean lay between them?
It was only a small page of a letter, and very wrinkled. He smoothed it impatiently, thinking, Not long enough, my lassie—not nearly long enough, and I’ll be telling you about that when I write. Then he bent close to the blurred page, his breath quickening.
Words leaped up at him, smudged and shocking. “I may as well tell you before somebody else does. . . . I’m back from the highlands, and it’s as I feared all along. . . . It can’t be kept from the harbor folk any longer. . . .” He read on, a sickness growing in the pit of his stomach, a numbness creeping over his mind. And when he finished he put his head down on his arms and made a groaning sound in his throat.
“Kelsey—what is it, boy?” He felt Amie’s strong hand gripping his shoulder. “Bad news?”
“Yes,” he said stupidly, “bad news, Amie.”
She shouted at her husband, “Don’t sit there like a bump on a log! Get him a drink! He needs it.”
“No, Amie—no, I don’t want any whiskey.”
“Get it anyway, Harry. He can use it.”
Moments later Harry thrust the glass into his hand. Kelsey gulped the whiskey.
“Cut some wood, Harry,” Amie said. “We’re out, and it’s cold in here.”
Harry raised his voice in a bellow. “Andy! Jimmy! Dick!” But his three small sons continued their playing. He shoved back his chair. “For hell’s sake! Were they born deaf?” Muttering, he banged the kitchen door behind him.
“Is it a death in the family?” Amie asked.
Kelsey didn’t answer. He sat thinking. No, not a death, a life, a life beginning that’s my own—a wee one that’s mine and Prim’s. And me here in this far country, and the lassie with no husband to stand by her side and stop the wagging tongues.
Harry came in and dumped an armload of wood on the floor by the stove. He looked at Kelsey and at his wife. Then he put on an old jacket and went out into the wet day.
“Nothing’s ever bad as it seems,” Amie said. “Another drink, boy?”
He shook his head, and then, because the whole thing was too big and painful for him to hold in himself, he looked into Amie’s kind, plain face and blurted, “The lassie I have in the old country—she’s to have a child, and it’s mine.”
Amie Plunkett lifted her broad shoulders. She put her hand over his and said slowly, “Well, what about it? You love her, don’t you? It might be something to fret over if you didn’t love her. Listen, boy, lots of good people have started off in the world not marrying because they wanted to but because they had to. Take it easy, Kelsey. You can send for her. You can meet her outside—maybe in Denver—and get married, and who’s to ever know you didn’t marry her in Soctland?”
He got up and began to pace back and forth. “I’ve got to get the cow—today,” he said, talking to himself. “I’ve got to have more than wages to take care of Prim and the wee one. And I better write a letter—now.”
Amie found paper and pencil. “I’ll see it gets to town tomorrow,” she promised. “Harry’s got to buy groceries. We’re down to our last bean.”
For a time he just sat at the kitchen table, staring out at the fall landscape. There was a wet and muted sadness over the whole big country, the like of which lay in himself. Then he turned to the paper and began to write quickly and passionately. He loved her, and she surely knew that. She was his own before God, and there was nothing to be ashamed of. He couldn’t come for her, not now, but she must come to him. He’d send his check for this month’s work—it was all he had—and surely her brothers would let her have enough money to book passage. She must come quickly. . . . He glanced up, a mist before his eyes, wiping quickly at his nose. Again the pencil moved across the paper. “As long as I live, I’ll make it up to you, Prim. What a glory I’ll have in loving you, in making the world right for our bairn. You are my own, my dearly beloved, my wife.”
Early that afternoon, after eating the noon meal with Harry and Amie, he rode on toward Vic Lundgren’s ranch. Now that the cattle were all back on the meadows, he would get the cow that Vic was holding for him. He’d take her home to the Red Hill Ranch. Time enough later to worry about what Tommy or Monte Maguire might say.
He saw no sign of Vic around the corrals and went up the slope to the ranch house. Ellie Lundgren answered his knock. “Oh, come in, Mr. Cameron. Vic, he be here pretty soon. He go to town after wire. Starting to use wire on his fences, he says. When a thing is new Vic, he thinks he wants to try it, but he never likes anything new.”
Kelsey followed her into the kitchen and saw the table was set with linen and fine china. But there was only one place, and it was obvious that she had just finished eating. A bottle of wine was on the table with a fragile glass beside it.
“Sit down. I give you a drink of my wine, Mr. Cameron. I eat alone. Never with the hired men. I serve them, but I do not eat. It is my right to eat alone if I want.”
She got a small glass from the cupboard, filled it with wine, and handed it to him. “People talk because Ellie Lundgren, she eats alone and has a bedroom to herself. I don’t care. You think I have known only a man like Vic Lundgren? Well, I tell you something, Mr. Cameron. I was married before—handsome man who reads good books, takes me to hear the music in New York.”
She picked up her empty glass, stroked it, murmuring, “Yes, we eat out at places where there is fine dishes and glasses, like this.”
Kelsey shifted uncomfortably, wishing Vic would come in.
She looked up, and her faded eyes were sad. “Oh, he tires fast of me, this fine man in New York. It almost kills me when I have to leave him. But I’m not sorry, Mr. Cameron. He gave me so much! And what have I in this cold, lonesome country? Vic, he is clumsy and work with the cows so long he don’t know how to touch a woman—ach, it sickens me! But I give him a daughter, and she is like him exactly; they both care only for cows. It is that way with most men in this place. They forget a woman is not like the cows, not ready for love any time. They think she is like the animals.”
He was embarrassed and wanted to get away from her. Her voice grated on his nerves, for it was high and thin and sounded ready to break. He drank his wine in a quick gulp.
“I get along, I live,” Ellie went on, pushing back the graying strands of her hair. “I get all the papers from New York. I see what play is there, and the music. Maybe it is foolish that I sit here and pretend Ellie Lundgren sees the play and hears the music.”
Vic came in then, to Kelsey’s relief. “You come for the cow, eh?” Vic shoved his hat back, glanced at Ellie. “Nice, huh? Eat by yourself without me.” There was bitterness in his voice.
Ellie got up and began clearing the table.
“Come on to the corral, Kelsey,” Vic said. “I got that cow in. Figured you’d be along this week.”
The heavy feeling lifted from Kelsey’s heart when he saw the cow. She was beautiful; she was fat from summer range, and her reddish-brown hide had a richness to it, and the white on her was cleanly marked in the right places.
“Best damn cow in the country, yup, yup,” Vic said. “You like her, Scotty?”
“Like her! Man, she’s glorious!” Kelsey went forward, humming under his breath. The cow lifted her head, blew through her nose, and began swinging her tail from side to side.
“She is wild yet,” Vic explained. “She don’t want you close, not till she’s sure about you being her friend.”
“Bonnie Jean,” Kelsey