Lynda Trent - The Rancher's Wife

Brice gave her a long look. “At the time you were eager to come here and get away from your mother’s interference. And I was under the impression that I was a ‘loved one.’”

“That’s right! Twist my words about. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about anything.” Her lower lip protruded petulantly. She hated being stuck here on this ranch, away from her family and the stores she had taken for granted when they were accessible. She particularly cared that she was eight months pregnant; she was tired of being fat and awkward. “No matter what you say, I’m never having another child,” she snapped.

He glanced up from the ranch records he was completing. “What does that have to do with it? We would have had children if we stayed in Saxon. I miss Texas, too, but you aren’t giving Oklahoma Territory a chance.”

“It doesn’t deserve one.” She looked around the beautifully furnished parlor as if it were a squalid hut. “This place is ugly. Not at all like Mother’s parlor. A man has no idea how to decorate a house.”

“You liked it well enough at first. I recall you gloating and saying you couldn’t wait for your mother to see it because she would be so jealous.”

She hated it when he threw her words back at her. Brice never forgot anything. “That’s nonsense. I’ve never gloated in my life. And to accuse Mother of being jealous!”

Celia hoisted her swollen body out of the chair and glared accusingly at Brice. It was all his fault she had lost her tiny waist—probably forever—and that her hands and feet were swollen and her insides sore from the baby’s kicks. She detested children and she couldn’t wait to have this ordeal behind her.

She waddled to the carved oak desk and dropped down into the chair. Even crossing the room had been an odious chore. She took out pink stationery and dipped her pen in the inkwell. Dear Mother and Father, she wrote.

For the next half hour she poured out all her hatred of Brice and a lengthy description of all the faults of the ranch. That she wasn’t accurate didn’t bother her in the least. She was unhappy and that was all that mattered.

The mellow voice of the mantel clock sounded the hour. Celia suspiciously checked the time with the gold watch she wore on a chain about her neck. The mantel clock was one of Brice’s purchases and she was waiting to discover it in error.

She ended the letter, put it in an envelope and sealed it. Awkwardly she stood and crossed the room to the door. Her house slippers made no sound on the Oriental rug.

In the central hallway Celia stopped and called out, “Consuela!”

A dark-haired woman several years older than Celia hurried to her.

Celia handed her the envelope. “Have Manuel post this tomorrow.”

Consuela glanced at the front door, which rattled beneath the storm’s assault. “There is much snow, Señora Graham. He might not be able to get to Glory tomorrow.”

Celia gave her a cold stare. “You heard my orders, Consuela. A bit of snow won’t hurt your husband.”

“Sí, señora.”

“I’m ready to go to bed now.” She turned and started up the stairs. She didn’t tell Brice good-night, nor did he call out to her, though he probably heard the entire exchange. She had left the door to the parlor open so the room’s heat would be stolen by the near-freezing hall.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Celia was exhausted. She did as little as possible these days; any exercise at all made her heart race and caused a headache to pound in her temples. She passed Brice’s bedroom and went into her own room with Consuela close behind.

She waited impatiently for Consuela to take out her warmest nightgown and turn down the bed’s cover. Although the brazier had been lit, the room was still uncomfortably cold.

As Consuela undressed her, Celia said, “I hate being so fat and ugly. I hate it!”

“No, no, señora. A woman with child is beautiful,” Consuela said quickly,

“Your hands are so cold. Can’t you hurry? As for me being beautiful—that’s horsefeathers!” She thought for a moment “What do your people do to hurry a birth? I’m sure you must have some way.”

Consuela’s hands paused, then she continued unlacing Celia’s dress. “There is no safe way. And you are still a month or more away from your time.”

“I don’t see how a few weeks could matter to the baby and they matter a great deal to me.” She pouted thoughtfully. “There must be some way to hurry this birth along.” Celia was still pondering when she went to bed.

By morning the storm had passed, moving quickly south and east up and over the Ouachita Mountains. Through her window on the south side of the hut, Elizabeth could see that a few muddy clouds straggling behind the fierce storm were just making their way up the foothills. To her immense relief, the sky overhead was making an effort to brighten.

Using her dishpan, Elizabeth scooped most of the snow away from her door and began cutting a path toward the barn. Her progress was slow but relentless. She finally made her way to the barn and was able to tug open the doors.

At first the tiny, dark room was cold and still, and a lump formed in her throat with the thought that she was the only living thing that had survived the night. But then a shuffling sound pierced the darkness and hope rose in her. As her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. she saw her mule in the far corner of the barn still on his feet. When she stepped toward him, the mule saw her and began making a raucous noise of welcome.

She hurried to him and patted his furry brown neck. “I’m so glad to see that you’re all right. I’ve been worried about you.” He snorted and flicked his tail. Beneath her palm she could feel him shivering. “I’m sorry you’re so cold. This barn has cracks in the walls I could put my hand through.” She should have been more insistent that Robert repair the barn before winter came, but how was she to know he would leave and not come back for so long?

“I can’t leave you out here to freeze,” she said firmly. Desperate conditions called for desperate measures. She tipped over the water tub and kicked it until the ice inside fell out.

Carrying the tub with the bag of feed inside and leading the mule, she went back to the hut. The mule balked at going into the house but she tugged on his halter until he reluctantly stepped over the threshold. The hut had been small to start with. With the mule inside it was more crowded that she had thought possible.

“I hope I’m not making a big mistake with this,” she muttered to herself as she tied him to the back wall. “At least he won’t freeze.”

She filled the mule’s tub with snow and put it within his reach. He would have water to drink as soon as it melted. The mule made a poor companion and a smelly one, but she was no longer alone or worried that he was freezing to death in the barn. She put another log on the fire and took up the quilt she was making out of her oldest dress and Robert’s worn shirts. When Robert came home, he would most likely be angry at her having the mule in the house, but Elizabeth didn’t care. She would do whatever she had to do in order to survive.

Another three days went by and Robert still wasn’t home. The snow had partially melted and, with the warming trend, the mule had gone back to his former lodgings. Elizabeth’s entire store of food consisted of two handfuls of commeal, twice that much flour, two strips of dried venison and a handful of beans. Her lamp oil would be gone after another night, maybe two, and she would be left in the dark. She could wait no longer for Robert to return; she had to find food.

She went to the barn and put the bridle on the mule. There was no saddle; the only one they owned was on the horse Robert had ridden to town, but Elizabeth didn’t mind that. She had learned to ride bareback soon after their arrival. With one of Robert’s sheathed hunting knives tucked into the pocket of her woolen cloak and his rifle in hand, she led the mule to the stump she used as a mounting block. The only problem with riding bareback was that if she got off the mule away from the house, she couldn’t always get back on him. But that was just something she would have to deal with.