Marcia Preston - The Wind Comes Sweeping

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

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

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Author Note

Discussion Questions

THE LEGEND OF SILK MOUNTAIN

Oklahoma Territory, 1895.

This is the way the story came down to me. The way it might have been.

Even before daylight, Leasie awoke to the yawling wind. It rang across the flat plains and scoured the shale rocks on Silk Mountain. It whistled through cracks in the cabin walls so fiercely that she could feel it on her cold cheeks where she lay in bed, cocooned in three quilts. Nothing was safe from the long, prying fingers of the wind. Day and night, it never ceased.

Jacob was already up, dressing on the other side of the curtain that served as their bedroom wall. She heard one boot clunk on the wood floor after he’d laced it, then the other, and the rustle of his coat as he pulled it on. The cabin door opened and sucked the curtain outward, the cry of the wind suddenly close and loud until he shut the door again.

She ought to get up. Jacob would need a hot breakfast when his chores were finished. She lay for a moment longer inside the warm quilts. The cracks of sky in the log walls were getting lighter; the sun would be up soon, but inside the cabin it was still hazy dark. She pictured Jacob forking prairie hay into the pen for their horse, Brownie, and for the mule and the milk cow. Grain was scarce, but he rationed one cup a day for the mash of milk and table scraps he fed the hog. The scrawny pig would become bacon and ham and chops and fatback, meat to last through the next arduous winter.

The last thing Jacob would do before coming in for breakfast was to break ice on the half barrel where the animals drank, and bring a bucket of the water inside. She would have to boil it to make it safe for cooking or drinking or washing dishes. Every two days he hauled water from the river. Come spring, he would try again to dig a well. When they had a well with a windmill, Jacob said, the days would be easier for them both. She pictured the paddles of the windmill spinning in the endless wind.

Leasie rolled to the edge of the bed and stuck her stockinged feet out from under the covers. Jacob had lit the fire in the cookstove before he went out, but its heat never reached the floorboards or the corners. She pulled yesterday’s clothes from the chair next to the bed and dressed herself under the quilts. Three petticoats, for warmth. Her camisole, then the coarse muslin dress, and her apron on top of that. She couldn’t face going out in the cold to the outhouse before breakfast, so she used the chamber pot in the corner and covered it with a square board. Then she laced up her brown boots and ran a brush through her hair, twisting it up behind her head in a vertical roll. It had grown so long that the ends sprouted like a turkey’s tail at the crown of her head. She secured it with the four hairpins she’d laid on an upturned bucket beside the chair.

She ducked past the curtain, leaving the bed to air out before she made it, and set about making breakfast. All the while, the frenzied wind licked around the cabin walls, through the cracks at the window. It curled up from the floor-boards and snaked beneath her skirts. Her feet were already cold inside her boots. She made bacon and biscuits. With yesterday’s boiled water she made coffee. Lots of strong coffee.

Before the biscuits were ready, Jacob came in, riding a gust of wind into the house. Whatever heat had accumulated inside the cabin was sucked out the door. He didn’t even say good-morning, just stood beside the stove and warmed his backside.

Jacob was thirteen years older than Leasie, and sometimes he acted more like a father than a husband. A strict father, at that. She was nearly nineteen; she didn’t need a father. She needed a husband who was soft sometimes, especially in the bed they shared. A husband who would talk to her about something besides the plowing and the crops. Most days he disappeared into the fields after breakfast and she didn’t see him again until supper. She was by herself all day in the tiny cabin, no bigger than one room of the house in Kansas City where she’d grown up. When he came home and she asked him about his day, he would talk about the work that still needed doing, and complain about the lack of rain. Once he’d seen Indians in the distance, on horseback. She questioned him about that, but he didn’t know what tribe they were, or where they were going. Then he’d fall silent, concentrating on his food. He never asked what she’d done all day. Maybe he knew how lonely she was and didn’t want to hear about it.

In warm weather she could spend her time outdoors. She tended a garden, spindly though it was, and washed their clothes in a big iron pot. Sometimes she walked out across the prairie until the cabin was no more than a dot in the distance, then turned around and walked back. If she went too far and lost sight of the cabin, she might lose her bearings and never find it again.

Once, though, she had kept going. She walked all the way to Silk Mountain. Jacob said people called it Silk Mountain because after a rainstorm, if the sunlight broke through the clouds just right, the mountain’s flat top turned silver and shiny. She’d watched for that the first spring, and the second, but she never saw it happen.

There was no way to judge the distance out here, and the mountain looked closer than it really was. It took a long time to get there, and when she stood at the foot of the rocky outcropping that rose so unexpectedly from the grassy prairie, she was disappointed. Up close, Silk Mountain didn’t look like a mountain at all, just a big upheaval of boulders. Still, she would have liked to climb up and look off from its top. But she was already going to be late getting home to start supper.

Jacob never said a word while he waited on his meal that evening, and she didn’t tell him she had walked miles across the prairie and thought of never coming back.

She crossed off days on the Montgomery Ward & Co. calendar Jacob brought home from the mercantile store. The nearest settlement lay a full day’s ride to the east, and when he went for supplies, he was gone two nights and three days. She couldn’t go along because somebody had to stay and tend the animals.

On the first week of spring weather in 1895, Jacob put on his cleanest clothes and hitched the horse to the wagon. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, meeting her eyes briefly before he climbed onto the wagon seat. His eyes were lake blue and always seemed to be looking at something she couldn’t see. He had loaded the rifle and hung it beside the door within her reach. “Don’t shoot nothing you don’t have to,” he said.

That year the weather went from winter to summer with only a week of spring in between. The day Jacob left turned hot and windy. At first she enjoyed being on her own, not having to cook big meals. She worked in her garden, fed the livestock and milked the cow. But that night, lying alone in the drafty cabin with the wind huffing at the door, she heard coyotes nearby, their howling lonesome and eerie. Finally she drifted into frightening dreams and was awakened by the echo of a scream on the wind. She sat up straight in the bed, her heart pounding.