know it’s Sunday, but after last night, I don’t think I’ll be going to church. Unless you want me to hitch up the buggy for you.” He said the last on a yawn.
“Don’t bother. The church has been without a preacher for months. Folks in town have a prayer meeting that moves from house to house, but I don’t know who is hosting it this week.”
She felt herself drifting toward sleep and forced herself to open her eyes. “I’m going to try putting him in the basket again. Hopefully he’ll sleep long enough for me to dress and start breakfast.”
Thomas let out a snore.
Esther smiled. In the words of her Kentucky grandma, he was worn slap out.
Carefully, holding her breath, she eased Johnny into the blanket-lined basket. He stirred and relaxed, staying asleep, and she exhaled.
She gently closed her bedroom door, glancing in the mirror on her bureau. With a gasp, she reached for her hairbrush. She looked like she’d been dragged through a knothole backward. Her mop of curly hair had bushed out like a sagebrush, and dark smudges circled her eyes. Working to tidy her hair, she gazed out her bedroom window. Standing on tiptoe and angling her head, she could just see the porch floor where Thomas’s blankets lay, half tossed aside from where he’d jumped out of them.
His rifle lay on the boards, and his pistol at one end of the bedroll, the cartridge belt wrapped around the holster.
A chill chased up her back at the sight of the pistol. She hated guns, but pistols especially.
Her hands went slack on her half-fashioned braid as she remembered back to that horrible day. Thomas had been gone from the ranch for almost a week, and at that time Esther still hadn’t given up hope that he would return. She’d been fixing her hair then, too, hoping to look pretty just in case Thomas came back.
Carlita had called to her from the front room, and her heart had skipped a beat as she finished pinning up her braid.
Bark Getty had stood in the doorway, his hat in his hand, shifting his weight from boot to boot. The ranch foreman hadn’t come to the house often.
“Good morning, Mr. Getty. My father isn’t here. He was up at first light and out of the house. I’m not sure if he went to town or if he is out on the range.” She rolled down her sleeve and buttoned her cuff.
“That’s why I’m here, Miss Esther.” He looked at the floor, out the window and over her shoulder, but not in her eyes.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” She tried to ignore the skitter of unease that brushed her skin.
“No, thank you.” He twisted his hat brim. “Miss Esther, I don’t want to have to tell you this, but your pa...”
“What?” Her hand went to her throat and unease turned to panic.
“He’s dead, ma’am.” Mr. Getty finally met her eyes, his troubled under their heavy brows. He brushed his hand down his long, dark whiskers.
“Did he fall from his horse?”
“No, ma’am. It wasn’t an accident. He...” He took a deep breath. “Your pa shot himself.”
She would never forget the shock, the pain, the bewilderment. Nor the sense of betrayal. How could he leave her that way? On purpose and so finally?
Esther didn’t remember much of the following days, except for the overwhelming grief. Others had prepared her father’s body for the funeral. Others had prepared the meal, the service, the gravesite. She hadn’t wanted him buried at the cemetery in town, and no one had objected to having him buried on the Double J. In fact, she surmised that some folks were glad not to have a suicide victim buried on church grounds.
His suicide was just one in a cascade of shocking events for her. The foreman had come to her to tell her that the bulk of her father’s cattle had been rustled, and the banker had informed her that there were considerable outstanding debts in her father’s name. She had no choice but to order the last of the cattle rounded up and all the horses, too. With the exception of the buckboard team, every animal on the place had been sold, along with most everything else of value. Within a month, the ranch hands had departed, and Carlita and Maria sought work elsewhere.
A week after the funeral, she’d mustered the courage to go into her father’s room. That’s where she’d found his note. The one that apologized for leaving her, for his lack of courage, for not seeing what was happening right under his nose. And he’d begged her to do everything she could to hold on to the ranch.
For the first time in her life, Esther had to fend for herself. Her few friends had urged her to sell her home and move into town, but she had stubbornly hung on, vowing to fulfill her father’s wishes. And each year, it had gotten harder. This year she might have to admit defeat. The taxes were due in about six weeks, and at the rate she was earning, she would be short the total amount.
She finished braiding and pinning up her hair. Thankfully, the baby slept on, and so did Thomas. They might’ve had a rough night, but somehow, as it always did, the sun came up, lifting Esther’s spirits. She could always cope better when the sun was up. It was at night that her cares and problems pressed in and swelled. The Bible verse about God’s mercies being new every morning came back to her.
“I could use some mercy right now, Lord. Thank You for the sunshine.”
And with sunup came chores. She wouldn’t worry about breakfast now, not with Thomas and Johnny finally asleep. Easing from the house, she paused for a moment to breathe in the fresh morning air. As quietly as she could, she rolled Thomas’s blankets and tied them, leaving them propped up against the side of the house. She couldn’t make herself touch the pistol.
Eight trips to the pump saw the washtubs and kettle filled, and she unpacked the bundles of laundry Danny Newton and his men had brought yesterday. If she could get a couple tubs of wash done first thing, she could use her afternoon to sew for Johnny. She smiled at how quickly the name had stuck.
Having kindled the fire under the kettle, she dumped Danny’s shirts into the water. Her woodpile was shrinking at a depressing rate. Soon she would have to head out into the mesquite thickets with her hatchet and lay in another supply, doing even more backbreaking work than bending over a scrub board. It was something she put off for as long as possible. She shaved a few slivers of homemade lye soap into her washtub, dipped some hot water from the iron kettle and got to work.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
She jumped and whirled, her hand to her chest. Thomas stood there, looking still half-asleep.
“You scared me, sneaking up like that.” Her heart raced. “Is the baby still asleep?”
“Yeah, though he’s getting restless like he’s going to wake up any minute.” Thomas yawned and stretched. “I wanted to be up at first light.” He frowned, and she smothered a smile. Lack of sleep obviously made him as cranky as a little boy.
“You needed some rest. It’s only been an hour or so since you dropped off.”
“You need sleep, too, but here you are scrubbing clothes and looking way too fresh and prettier than you’ve a right to, considering the night you just went through.” He rasped his whiskers, making a sandpapery sound so
