risk. Her family doctor in Virginia hadn’t told her until she was through the first paroxysms of the attack, and on the road to recovery, that he thought it possible that she might yet contract the fatal “blackwater fever.” And, as well, he said, the paroxysmal fever would surely recur unpredictably over a period of years, perhaps for as long as she lived.
Nora’s vague dreams of a home and family died. She had never found men very attractive physically, but she had wanted children. Now that seemed impossible. How could she raise a child when she was subject to a recurring fever that might one day prove fatal?
Her dreams of adventure died as well. She had wanted to go down the Amazon River in South America, and to see the pyramids in Egypt. But faced with recurrences and the terrible fever, she was afraid to take the risk. As much as she craved travel and adventure, she valued her health more. So she led a remarkably placid life for the next year and contented herself with recalling her African adventure for her friends, who were impressed by her courage and daring. Inevitably her exploits were exaggerated and she became known as an adventuress. At times she enjoyed the reputation it gave her for daring, even if it wasn’t quite accurate.
She was lauded as a prime example of the modern woman. She was asked to speak at women’s suffrage rallies and afternoon charity teas. She rested on her laurels.
Now she was being invited out West, to a fabled land she’d read about and always dreamed of seeing, a region that was as potentially wild as Africa. Her fever had not recurred for several months. Surely there would be no risks out West, and hopefully she would remain healthy for the duration of her visit. She could see something of the Wild West, and perhaps there would be an opportunity to shoot a buffalo or meet a desperado or a real Indian.
She stood with brimming excitement at the lace curtains of the family parlor in Virginia, looking out at the pretty late-summer landscape while she fingered the letter from her aunt Helen with delight. There were four Tremaynes of East Texas: her uncle Chester, her aunt Helen, and her cousins, Colter and Melissa. Colter was on an expedition to the North Pole. Melissa was desperately lonely since her best friend had married and moved away. Aunt Helen wanted Nora to come and spend a few weeks on the ranch in East Texas and help cheer Melly a little.
Nora had once taken the train to California and had seen the rugged country between the Atlantic and Pacific through the window. She had read about ranches and Texans. They both sounded romantic. Dashing cowboys fighting Indians and one another, rescuing women and children, and making all sorts of heroic sacrifices paraded through her mind as she recalled the old Beadle dime novels that she’d been reading of late. She would meet a real cowboy if she went to visit her kinfolks on the ranch. And it would be an adventure, even if it didn’t involve lions and hunters. It would be a great adventure and she would have a second chance to test her courage, to prove to herself that she wasn’t crippled by the African fever that had kept her confined so long.
“What have you decided, dear?” Cynthia Marlowe asked her daughter as she scanned the latest issue of Collier’s magazine.
Nora turned, the soft material of her lacy blue dress swirling gracefully around her trim ankles. She touched the fashionable big tulle bow at her throat with fingers that almost shook with excitement. “Aunt Helen is very persuasive,” she said. “Yes, I should like to go! I look forward to seeing the majestic knights of the range that my novels describe.”
Cynthia was amused. She hadn’t seen Nora so enthusiastic about anything since her disastrous trip to Africa. Her daughter’s chestnut-brown hair in its elegant high coiffure caught the light from the window and took on the sheen of copper. Cynthia’s hair had been that color when she was younger, before it went silver. But Nora also had the deep blue eyes of the Marlowes, and the high cheekbones of a French ancestor. She was taller than her mother, but not unusually tall. She had elegance and grace and manners, and a gift for conversation. Cynthia was deeply proud of her.
Nora was peculiarly cool with men, especially after the fright Summerville had given her and the dreadful illness that had plagued her. She would really have thrived on the adventurous life, Cynthia thought sadly, but the African fever had clipped her wings. Now, at twenty-four, she had settled down to spinsterhood with resignation.
“Among other things, this visit would at least give you respite from your father’s attempts to bring socially acceptable young men home for you,” Cynthia murmured, thinking out loud. Her husband had, in fact, made himself painfully obvious of late, and he tended to be overbearing and a little insensitive.
Nora laughed, without real humor. A man in her life was the very last complication she needed. “Indeed it would. I shall have Angelina pack for me.”
“And I shall have my social secretary make the necessary reservations at the train station,” Cynthia agreed. “I’m sure that you will find the trip enlightening.”
“Of that,” her daughter replied with sparkling humor, “I have no doubt. It has been a long time since I traveled so far alone.” Her face went taut with the memory of Africa. “But after all, Texas is not Africa.”
Cynthia stood up. “My dear, it is unlikely that the fever will recur so often. It has been several months since your last bout. Try not to worry. Remember that Chester and Helen are family, won’t you? They’ll take care of you.”
Nora smiled. “Of course they will. It will be a delightful adventure.”
NORA WAS TO REMEMBER those words when she stood on the deserted depot platform at Tyler Junction, Texas, waiting to be met by her aunt and uncle. The train ride had been comfortable enough, but it was long and she was very tired. So tired, in fact, that her enthusiasm had dimmed, just a little. And she had to admit that this dusty railroad terminal did not live up to her expectations. There were no gloriously attired Indians, no masked desperadoes, no prancing stallions with gallant and colorful cowboys riding them. In fact, it looked like a small eastern town. She became aware of mild disappointment and vicious heat as the Texas sun beat down on her pretty hat.
She looked around again for her relatives. The train had been late, so perhaps they had gone to get something to eat or drink at the restaurant she could see in the distance. She glanced around her at her elegant leather cases and trunk, wondering how she was going to get them out to the ranch if no one came for her. Late summer was going to be even more uncomfortable in southeastern Texas than in Virginia, she decided. She was dressed in one of her stylish traveling suits. The garb that had felt so comfortable when she left Virginia was suffocating her now.
Aunt Helen had written her about this place. Tyler Junction was small and rural, a southeastern Texas town not too far from Beaumont. Here most of the local gossip was passed around at the post office and the drugstore soda fountain, although the daily Beaumont Journal gave all the national news as well as social notes and local-interest stories. There were two of Henry Ford’s little black automobiles on the dusty streets, driven by founding-family members, and the rest of society made do with buggies and surreys and buckboards and horses. That ranching was still an important local occupation was not difficult to see. In the distance Nora’s eyes spotted several men wearing boots and jeans and those wide-brimmed Stetson hats. But they weren’t young, dashing men. Most of them, in fact, seemed stooped and bent and old.
Uncle Chester had told her once when he and Helen visited the family home in Virginia that most of the ranches in Texas these days were owned by corporations, held by big businesses. Even Chester’s ranch was owned by a big West Texas conglomerate, and he was paid a salary for managing it. The old days of ranching empire builders like Richard King, who had founded the famous King Ranch in southeast Texas, and the equally famous ranching giant Brant Culhane out in West Texas, were gone forever.
These days the money was in oil and steel. Rockefeller and
