Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Extract
Central Kansas, 1877
“Those damn cowboys!”
Bridgette Banks tightened every muscle against the way she’d flinched at Cecil Chaney’s outburst and how he slammed the door. Neither was unusual, she just hadn’t expected him to be home so soon. He’d barely been gone an hour, probably less. Which should not have surprised her. He had to be the laziest man she’d ever encountered.
“I’ll shoot the lot of them if a single one steps foot on my property!”
She dried her hands with her apron before turning away from the boards nailed to the wall to form the crude counter barely large enough to hold the dishpan. “A cattle drive is near?”
“Of course a cattle drive is near,” Cecil barked. “I just said as much, didn’t I?”
“No, you said you’d shoot every cowboy.” She didn’t point out there wasn’t a reason anyone would want to step on his property.
The chair creaked as Cecil dropped his heavy frame on the seat. “Same thing.”
“No, it’s not,” Bridgette insisted. Arguing, especially with Cecil, got her nowhere, but she’d quit caring about that. His constant complaining had frazzled her nerves since the moment she’d arrived. He complained when it was hot. Complained when it was cold. Complained when it rained. Complained when it didn’t. His attitude was exhausting. As had been living in his house the past six weeks. Keeping her voice hushed, she said, “You may want to see if they have a cow you can buy. One nursing a calf. The milk is needed, as is the butter and cream.”
“Where am I supposed to get the money to buy a cow?” he snarled.
She bit her tongue to keep from saying he could forgo a few bottles of the hooch he bought from Graham Linkletter and kept stashed behind the barn. Turning around, she picked up the water basin. “Perhaps you could make some sort of bargain with them.” Walking to the door, she added, “Emma Sue could use the nourishment, even more once the baby arrives.”
“I’ve used up all my bargaining on you.”
Bridgette ignored the disgust lacing his words. Telling him she could leave at any moment would be the most wonderful thing ever. Except for Emma Sue. Goodness, what that woman saw in Cecil, how she’d ever lain with him, become pregnant, took more imagination than Bridgette had. She’d rather bed down in a den of snakes than next to Cecil Chaney. His breath alone was enough to make her eyes water.
“That’s what you’re here for.” Cecil’s shout followed her out of the door. “To make sure Emma Sue has nourishment. Meals and rest so she can pop out that baby alive this time. Doctor’s orders.”
The desire to slap him made Bridgette’s hands shake. The fool had no idea how lucky he was to be married with a baby on the way. To have a family. Knowing she couldn’t slap him, at least shouldn’t, she pitched the water out of the basin with such force dirt splattered across the bottom of her skirt. That increased her ire. There was more than enough to do around here and washing clothes more often than necessary was not a welcomed chore. Reminders of her duties were not necessary, either. Being farmed out to women nearing their delivery time had been her job for over six years. Ever since she’d turned twelve. Others on the Orphan Train had said she was lucky to be adopted by a doctor and his wife. They wouldn’t think so now.
“Where is she?”
Containing her thoughts, Bridgette held her attention on wiping the inside of the basin with her apron as she walked back into the two-room shanty made of square blocks of sod. She’d seen many houses just like this one since being taken in by Dr. Rodgers and his wife. Those who lived in homes made out of wood usually had their own help, or other family members, when someone was ailing. That’s what she’d have someday, a house made of wood, not dirt. And a family all of her own.
“Your wife is resting,” Bridgette said. Emphasizing exactly who she was here to help was a waste of breath, but so would telling him to be quiet. It wouldn’t have done any good when he’d stormed into the house and it wouldn’t now.
“Already? We just ate breakfast.” He harrumphed. “She slept all night. Better than me.”
His pouting increased Bridgette’s ire. He was big and homely with black hair so greasy lice couldn’t catch enough footing to live in it. And no one had gotten any sleep last night except him. Half the town of Hosford probably heard his snoring, and that was four miles away.
Keeping those thoughts to herself, she removed her apron and switched it out for the other one hanging on the nail. “Creating a new life is hard work on a woman’s body.”
“It’s been happening since the beginning of time, girlie.”
“And women have been dying from it for just as long,” she answered, walking out the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Someone needs to water the garden,” she shouted over her shoulder. Then for her own ears only, muttered, “Lord knows those weeds won’t grow on their own.” There were pitiful gardens, and then there were pathetic gardens. To call this one merely pathetic would have been a compliment.
The entire acreage of the Chaney place could be described as pathetic. It didn’t have to be that way, but Cecil had the ambition of a slug. Emma Sue didn’t, which could explain why she’d lost two babies already. Last year and the year before. Both times Cecil had refused Dr. Rodgers’s suggestion of help so Emma Sue could rest. Bridgette wondered if Emma Sue’s father, who managed the land office in town, had been the one to pony up the extra cost of her staying at the Chaney place. There was no love lost between Douglas Phalen and Cecil, but Douglas must still love his daughter.
Love. Bridgette sighed heavily. Sometimes, the older a person got, the more love they needed. She fully understood that, and hoped someone loved Emma Sue. She was sweet and kind. Quiet and gentle. The exact opposite of her husband in every way. While Emma Sue was tiny and delicate, Cecil had the shape and coordination of a drunken bull.
Bridgette smiled at her own wit. Of course bulls didn’t drink, but if one did, it would look exactly like Cecil. Smell about the same, too.
Stopping as she rounded the corner of the house, Bridgette lifted her face to the sky. The summer sun blazed down enough arid heat to make plants curl their leaves. She didn’t mind. It was hot, but the brightness and fresh air were a wonderful reprieve from dark and gloomy dankness inside the sod shanty.
She closed her eyes and let the sunshine fill her. Cleanse her. A thud inside the house made her open her eyes and sigh.