Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
T he next Sunday, on the way down the mountain, Hank encountered the Swensen family, who lived a ways up from the men of Three Bend Lake. The Swensens were a Swedish couple with six girls and one baby son. The family was poor, but loving, and too proud to accept handouts or help in any form, unless Hank found a way to slide assistance under the guise of something else that wouldn’t seem like charity.
Today, Mr. Swensen carried his youngest daughter Maria on his shoulders, while his wife held their baby, a bulging burlap bag slung over her shoulder. Inga, the oldest girl, strolled hand in hand with the second youngest, Marta. Elsabe, the next biggest girl, carried a basket.
Lunch, Hank suspected. But if Elsabe could carry the basket all the way down the mountain, the contents couldn’t be very much. He tried to think of a way to add to their meal without offending them but couldn’t come up with any ideas.
The girls walked barefoot, carrying their shoes with stockings stuffed inside. For poor folk, shoes were too expensive to don in the warmer months, lest the soles wear out or the uppers scuff and crack. Many children, and sometimes their parents, mostly went barefoot unless in school or church.
Inga turned and caught sight of him, her face lighting up. “Mr. Canfield. We’re going to church today.”
“So, I see.” He knew the oldest girls made the long trek to school and back whenever the weather was decent. But the hike was difficult with the little ones, so venturing out on a Sunday was a treat for the whole family, no matter their difficulties in trudging down and back up a mountain.
Inga gave Hank a bright smile. “Ma packed a picnic, so we can eat under the oak tree after church.”
“Well, that just goes to show you how minds think alike.” He leaned to pat a saddlebag. “I have some food right here. I’ll just have to join you.”
“We have squirrel and watercress sandwiches,” Inga volunteered with pride.
“Sounds mighty tasty.” Hank stretched the truth. “Maybe we can share.” He dismounted, looping Chipper’s reins over his head. “Swensen, you’re just the person I wanted to talk to,” he fibbed again as an excuse to join them and allow Chipper to carry some riders. He quickly tried to improvise a discussion topic, hoping one would come to him. “While we walk and confer, Mrs. Swensen can ride with the baby, and—” he lifted his chin toward the child on the man’s shoulders “—Maria can hitch along behind her mother.”
The man shot Hank a skeptical glance. But then he looked at his wife and son, and his gaze softened. “A ride for a short time would be appreciated,” he said with a thick Swedish accent.
Hank, still scrambling to think of a conversational topic, resolved to make their talk last as long as possible. He took the baby from Mrs. Swensen, aided her in mounting, and gave the boy a grin and a few bounces before handing him back.
Maybe by next year, I’ll have one of my own. This time, though, Hank refused to get excited by the idea. Envisioning his own babe, loving that imaginary child, would be too hard on his heart if his dreams didn’t come to pass.
Mr. Swensen lifted Maria from her perch on his shoulders and seated her astride behind her mother, where she clung like a happy limpet. The girl’s dress kilted up, exposing thin, but sturdy legs.
Mr. Swensen shot him an expectant glance.
“Um…” Hank thought fast. “A bearskin. Ah, not to go out of your way or anything. But if a bear crosses your path, I’d like a rug.” He held up a hand in a stopping motion. “Not to put yourself in any danger, of course.”
Hopefully, the man didn’t know Hank was an experienced hunter. He and Brian tended to hunt down the mountainside rather than up, to keep from thinning out the game that the Swensens desperately relied on to survive.
The man gave a slow nod. “And the meat?”
“Can’t say I wouldn’t mind a few steaks. But you keep the rest.” Will my future wife like bear meat, or will she turn up her nose at wild game?
Hank shifted to a more conversational tone and started asking a few questions about how Swensen’s hunting had been lately. Although talking to the man was a mite like the proverbial pulling of teeth, Hank managed to keep their stilted dialogue going until they reached the outskirts of town.
Mr. Swensen stopped abruptly. “I’m sure you have to make your way to the livery to leave your horse.” He reached for Maria and swung her to the ground. Then he took the baby from Mrs. Swensen. The boy started to squirm. Apparently realizing he couldn’t hold his son and safely help his wife dismount, he shot Hank a helpless look.
Hiding a smile, Hank reached for the baby, who’d been surprisingly placid until now. The boy smiled up at him and then let out a powerful spout of smelly gas, followed by a toothless grin. Trying not to breathe, he held the baby away from him and then gratefully handed him over to his mother.
“Someone needs a diaper change,” she said in an apologetic tone.
Hank tried to keep a straight face.
But from Swensen’s laugh, he hadn’t succeeded.
“With the babes comes the….” The man made an exaggerated sniff. “You get used to it, ah, ja, you’ll see.”
Hank wasn’t sure he wanted to get used to that odor, much less ever having to change messy diapers. Somehow, forking straw-filled horse manure from a stall into a wheelbarrow wasn’t nearly as bad.
Maybe there are some benefits to remaining a bachelor.
After the church service was over, Hank stood outside, covertly examining the lingering crowd for potential wives, while impatiently waiting for Mrs. Norton to be free from what seemed like interminable conversations.
About twenty minutes passed before she was able to wind her way through the dissipating crowd and walk over to him.
Extending her hands, Mrs. Norton took his in hers and squeezed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Canfield. I did try to make my way over here sooner, but—” She released his hands.
“I understand. Everyone wants to talk to you.”
A flush pinked her wrinkled cheeks. “Perhaps not everyone .”
“Almost everyone,” he teased.
“I’ve discussed your situation with Reverend Norton. He suggested a few places where there are available women who don’t usually attend church. That is if you’re of a mind to go visiting farther afield. Or, at least, he’s presuming they’re available.”
“Presuming?”
“At least once a year, my husband tries to make pastoral visits to everyone who doesn’t usually attend church for various reasons—distance, ill health, a reclusive nature, shame for not having nice clothing, feeling they must labor on the Lord’s Day, or those just ornery enough to turn their backs on God. But they do not, thank goodness, turn their backs on Reverend Norton. Maybe because he always brings some of my oatmeal cookies, or we do, if I’m able to go along.”
Reverend Norton had never paid a pastoral visit to Torin, probably because the minister didn’t know he and Jewel existed. Once again, he wished his friend didn’t feel the need to keep his daughter a secret. But the wounds cause by his wife and parents’ rejection of Jewel and their minister’s support of that decision had penetrated too deep.
Mrs. Norton gave him her gentle smile. “As you can imagine, these people are fairly far-flung, which is why most years Reverend Norton can only manage one visit.”
Hank listened to her flow of words, unsure how he could court a wife who fit into any of the categories she described. “I could hardly drop in on these people, being a stranger and all.”
“Reverend Norton and I have decided that the best place to find several available ladies is the Driscoll ranch.” She gestured to the street, which eventually led out of town.
Hank raised his eyebrows, never having heard of the place. “The Driscoll daughters? Sisters?” he ventured.
“I believe Cai Driscoll’s sister, Aurelia…” She tapped her chin. “She’s around seventeen, which may be a bit too young. Although, I guess that depends on your patience in allowing her to grow up before marrying her. I do believe it’s better if girls aren’t married too soon. But young people, and often their parents, don’t always agree.”
“I’m impatient.”
Mrs. Norton laughed, crinkling the wrinkles of her face. “The right woman will be worth waiting for, Mr. Canfield,” she chided.
He shrugged, not convinced. “Then, I’ll set my sights on a woman who’s older.”
“A clan of Swedes—the Andersons—work the Driscoll ranch. Their daughters tend to go east to school, and many marry and remain there. But surely, some must return home. I don’t know any more information, because the Driscoll and Anderson women don’t tend to frequent town much, and they hold their own Sunday services.”
Hank pictured choosing from several pretty, blonde, blue-eyed ladies. “Sounds like a place worth exploring. But I could hardly ride out there and say, ‘Show me your women.’ The guns would come out for sure.”
“I have a much better plan.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’m going to pay a call on the ladies of Driscoll Ranch, and you’ll be my driver. How about on Wednesday? The almanac predicts good weather.”
Hank’s smile grew. “Mrs. Norton, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Later that day, with his supplies from shopping in town stowed in his house, Hank took the remaining saddlebag and set off for Torin’s place, choosing to stroll along the lake path. Today, no wind rippled the lake, making the sky and a few puffy clouds reflect on the surface. He inhaled a deep breath, smelling the pine and lake water, relieved to be home and away from town.
The clearing to Torin’s house opened up. Unlike he and Brian, with their one-room log cabins, Torin’s log house was three times the size of theirs, with a shed out back that opened on to a small meadow for a cow and calf. The cow supplied plenty of milk, cream, and butter for Torin and Jewel with some left over for Hank and Brian.
Torin and Brian sat in two of the three rockers on the broad front porch. They smiled a greeting at Hank, but both of their expressions seemed strained.
Hank hefted up the saddlebag. “Delivery service.” He looked around. “Where’s Jewel?”
“Napping.” Torin poked a thumb at the house behind them. “She played hard today and was plumb tuckered out.”
“Surprised to see you here,” Hank said to Brian. “Isn’t this your…?” He moved his fingers mimicking using a pen.
Red-headed, craggy-faced Brian wrote dime novels. He was up to ten by now. Torin and Hank tended to tease him mercilessly about his stories, while also admiring his ability to write novels. But they sometimes helped him plot, and, secretly, both devoured the new books as soon as they could be obtained.
Brian scowled. “My mind is as blank as a wiped slate. No. That’s not true. My mind is filled with everything but a storyline.” For a second, uncertainty flashed in his eyes, before his face settled into the familiar dour lines.
Torin gave him a sharp look. “You didn’t mention struggling. Do you need help plotting?”
“I don’t even have any viable ideas.” His grim expression warned them not to comment further.
With a deliberate glance at Hank to change the subject, Torin made a tell us hand motion. “We’ve been waiting to hear about your second week of wife hunting.”
Brian’s scowl deepened. “Bringing a woman here will cut up our peace.”
“Not necessarily,” Hank said in a mild tone.
Brian was a good neighbor, always willing to lend a hand, and as enthralled with Jewel as Hank was. But his curmudgeonly manner could sometimes be off-putting. Hank had learned to pay no mind to his neighbor’s grumpiness. He knew Brian hid a soft heart deep inside.
Hank took a seat in the third rocking chair, setting down the saddlebags and stretching out his legs. “I’m not going to choose a woman who would—” he changed his voice to mimic Brian’s “—cut up our peace.”
“That’s what you think.” Brian crossed his arms over his chest. “She’ll be so sweet and pretty, batting her eyelashes at ya. That’s until there’s a ring on her finger. Then the termagant comes out.”
Torin nodded in obvious agreement.
“Not all ladies are that way.” Hank felt the need to defend womanhood. “My sister certainly isn’t. And given the plethora of my nieces and nephews running about her place, if anyone has the right to be a shrew, she does.”
“I’m not saying all women are shrews,” Brian said gruffly. “Just that you won’t know for sure if she is or isn’t until the ring’s on her finger, and it’s too late.”
“Do you speak from experience?” Hank asked in a mild tone.
Brian tended to be closed-mouthed about his past and usually clammed up when asked a question. Hank and Torin had learned to let him be. Their friend would share if and when he wanted.
“More than I’d like,” was all Brian said, really telling them nothing.
Hank met Torin’s gaze and shrugged, indicating that they shouldn’t bother to dig for more information until Brian was good and ready to share. Which might be never.