First Dawn (19 page)

“These are a poor excuse for floors—there’s not one room where they’re not completely warped. A person can’t walk through this house without tripping.”

Betsy nodded. “Cottonwood. Ain’t no way to keep it from warping. Doc Smith’s widow was gonna put down pine floors, but when he died, she changed her mind and decided to get rid of the place and move back east to be near her family.”

“Little wonder,” Macia muttered, keeping her back to the intruders. She wished they’d move on and leave her to her thoughts.

“You want me to help you unpack those trunks?”

Macia directed a pleading look at her father. “No. I’m fine. Perhaps my mother could use some assistance in the kitchen.”

“Indeed,” Samuel said, taking his daughter’s cue, “let’s step into the kitchen.”

Macia sighed as she listened to introductions and then heard her mother offer the visitors a cup of tea. Of course, the Turnbulls eagerly accepted. Above the sounds of her mother preparing tea, Macia heard her father inquiring about the young boy with a skunk bite. A strange curiosity caused Macia to rise and move closer to the doorway.

“A sad thing to watch,” Levi Turnbull said. “The boy was out in the woods hunting and got hisself bit by a skunk a while back. His folks was terrible worried—even took him on the train to see a doctor in Kansas City. The doc said he’d be fine, but a few hours after they got home, he commenced to having spasms. No need to go into all the horror of what that boy and his folks went through, but that’s sure enough a terrible way to die. We buried the boy last evening.”

“A mad stone would have done him more good than a trip to some Kansas City doctor. He’d probably be right as rain if they woulda jest bought a stone instead of spendin’ good money on them doctors. No offense, Dr. Boyle,” Betsy quickly added.

“
Whatever
is a mad stone, my dear?” Macia’s mother asked.

Macia peeked around the corner just enough to see that Betsy appeared astonished by the question. “It’s a hard clump of matted hair and mucus—comes from the belly of an animal,” Betsy explained. “Only thing is, the stone’s gotta be big enough to cover the whole wound. When you get one that’s the right size, they work real good— least most of the time. Right, Levi?”

Levi glanced at Mrs. Boyle, whose complexion had faded to the shade of pie dough. “Ain’t no need saying what shoulda been, Betsy. They lost their boy, and they’re suffering hard for it.”

Macia didn’t hear Betsy’s reply. She couldn’t bear listening to any more of the fearsome tale. Her mind roiled with thoughts of the lad thrashing about uncontrollably as seizures slowly conquered his body and mind. She wished the Turnbulls would quit talking—better yet, she wished they would go home.

Macia finished unpacking a crate of china and had begun to empty one of the many trunks deposited in the parlor when her parents, along with Harvey and the Turnbulls, besieged her.

Her father called from the dining room. “Come along, Macia. Levi and Betsy have graciously agreed to take us through town and introduce us to all of our neighbors.”

She continued unpacking the trunk, her gaze fixed upon the blankets and tablecloths as though they were spun of gold. “You go on without me. I prefer to remain here.”

Her father approached her and touched her shoulder. Macia twisted her head and saw the determination in his eyes when he said, “I insist.”

She knew that look and tone of voice. It would do no good to argue. She grabbed her bonnet from a peg in the hallway, once again tripping before she reached the front door. How had the rest of them managed to avoid that irksome floorboard?

Macia hiked her skirt off the ground and marched down the dusty street behind the others. How long had it been since rain had fallen in this desolate place? Each time she opened her mouth, the unremitting wind coated her tongue with a layer of grit. She tugged at the brim of her bonnet, caring little that the hat was now tilted at an unseemly angle. In fact, her chapeau more closely resembled a mask than a hat, but so long as it protected her eyes, she cared little. She suddenly wondered if this need to survive the elements had caused the demise of what Betsy Turnbull had once been. Worse yet, was it a precursor of what she would soon become? Macia shivered at the thought.

Harvey took her arm. “Are you cold?”

She tipped the brim of her hat just enough to meet his inquiring gaze. “My trembling has nothing to do with cold weather; it’s this place. What is Father thinking?”

“We can only hope Mother will convince him that he’s made a mistake,” he said, bending his head against the wind. “I’d even be willing to live up north. Anything other than remaining here.”

Macia grasped her brother’s arm. “Perhaps
that’s
his plan. He’s brought us out here so that we’ll be pleased to move to Massachusetts or Pennsylvania or one of those other northern states. Oh, I do hope I’m right, Harvey, for even if Northerners are inhospitable and lacking in gentility, we could adjust. I fear we will perish out here. Even God has forsaken this desolate land.”

“Here we are,” Betsy said as they came to a halt in front of a small frame building. “We have only a few businesses, but each one is constructed of either wood or stone.”

She made the statement with obvious pride as she led them into the general store operated by Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. The shelves held few supplies, though Mrs. Johnson was quick to advise another shipment would soon arrive. Macia certainly hoped so. There was little on any of the shelves, and certainly nothing she would ever purchase.

“And this was Mr. Jacoby’s newspaper office. But he died and his widow returned to Ohio. And this here’s the Kramer place,” Betsy said as they started toward the next establishment. “As you can see, it’s a soddy. They live here, too. Mrs. Kramer’s a seamstress and he’s a tailor, but they mostly farm.” She rattled off the information as though she’d been charged with leading them on a tour of genuine significance.

Harvey raised an eyebrow. “Appears he’d starve to death if he had to depend upon his tailoring to support himself.”

“That’s true for everyone living here,” Levi said. “I’m a cooper, but I spend more time out in the fields than anywhere. But once the town gets bigger, me and Jeb Malone are gonna throw in together. Jeb’s a blacksmith, and we’re going to start our own business. Jeb’s single.”

Harvey poked Macia in the side. “Sounds as though you’re going to have a beau come calling on you before you ever have a chance to miss Jackson Kincaid.”

“Maybe Jeb has a sister that would enjoy meeting you,” she hissed as they drew near the Kramers’ sod house.

Mrs. Boyle stepped between her children and gave them a disapproving frown. “Please stop whispering. It’s impolite.”

Mrs. Kramer greeted the group and explained that her husband had gone to deliver a new wool suit to the president of the Stockton bank. “He says my Virgil does better tailoring than anyone else in these parts—and he’s right. If you ever need a new suit, Dr. Boyle, you come and talk to Virgil. There’s no one any better, not even in St. Joe or Kansas City. And I’ve availed myself of the latest catalogs from
Godey’s
Lady’s Book
and can imitate almost any gown they offer.” Her voice was filled with pride.

“We’ll bear that in mind. I’m certain my wife and daughter will be availing themselves of your services in the future. Mrs. Turnbull tells us that you’re quite a seamstress.”

Macia was agape. What had her father said? In the
future
she might need Mrs. Kramer’s services? Macia moved closer to Harvey and grasped his arm. “It sounds as though he’s planning on staying.”

“He’s merely being polite.”

Before Macia could refute his comment, her mother stepped between them. “I believe I asked you two to refrain from whispering. Must I treat you as children and keep you separated?”

Macia shook her head. “Sorry, Mother.”

Macia knew what was expected of her. After all, southern civility had been daily ingrained in her upbringing. Yet she could not engage in these meaningless exchanges, for she truly did not care whether grasshoppers might eat next year’s crops or that the lack of rain this year could affect next year’s growth. Quite frankly, Macia cared little if the water level in the river was up or down, or if these people had sufficient food or fuel stored for winter. She toyed with her bonnet ribbons and absently gazed about, wishing they’d return to their house—for even that seemed more appealing than being subjected to this endless drivel.

Levi led them to a small outbuilding that appeared more a shed than a barn or livery. “This here is where Jeb’s doing his smithy work— at least for the time being.”

“You folks chose a poor time to be settlin’ in,” Jeb Malone commented after his introduction to the family.

His eyes lingered on Macia, and she hastily turned her attention toward Harvey, who smirked and cocked one eyebrow while their father hastened to explain they had purchased provisions enough for the winter.

Macia waited patiently until her father had completed his reply and then turned to Jeb Malone. “Have you a sister, Mr. Malone?”

“How did you know? Betsy told you, didn’t she?” Jeb grinned at his neighbor.

Macia beamed a satisfied grin at her brother. “No, she didn’t mention your sister, but I believe one of my brother’s greatest concerns regarding our move to Hill City was the possible absence of single young ladies. Thankfully, you’ve set our minds at ease.”

Jeb rubbed the day’s growth of stubble that shadowed his jaw and frowned. “I’m afraid Lucy can’t improve that situation for your brother since she’s only ten years old, but if you harbor some of those same concerns for yourself, please set your mind at rest. I’d be honored to come calling on you.”

Her plan had gone awry. Harvey was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and Betsy Turnbull’s jubilant reaction was downright embarrassing. She acted as though they’d announced a wedding date. “Thank you, Mr. Malone, but I’ve given my heart to another.”

He looked disappointed. “You’re betrothed?”

“Now, Macia—tell the truth,” Harvey said as though instructing a young child to confess. “Jackson Kincaid hasn’t asked for your hand. In fact, he didn’t even say he’d write to you.”

Macia forced a smile and, tilting her head ever so slightly, twisted her heel back and forth with gusto atop Harvey’s shoe. “Mr. Kincaid has not asked for my hand, but I have deep feelings for him,” she stated while enjoying Harvey’s pained countenance.

The color heightened in Jeb’s cheeks, and he looked down at his dust-covered boots. “Well, if you ever decide you want to see some of the countryside, or maybe learn to fish, I’ll be happy to oblige. I know Lucy would enjoy your company, too. She gets lonely—misses having a woman around to teach her things.”

Macia’s mother stepped closer to Jeb. “Your parents? Where are
they
?”

He looked off toward the horizon. “Cholera. It’s just the two of us.”

“How sad for such a young girl to be without her mother’s influence. You must send her to our house so we can meet her.” Mrs. Boyle patted Jeb’s arm as she scanned the barn. Macia wondered if her mother expected young Lucy to suddenly appear from inside one of the stalls or perhaps drop from the hayloft.

“That’s kind of you, ma’am. I may do just that. There’s little I can teach her when it comes to cooking and sewing.”

There was a haunted look in his eyes, and Macia wondered if Jeb was still not over his own grief.

Her mother gave a consoling nod. “Macia enjoys young girls, though I doubt she’d be much help teaching Lucy to cook or sew. She’s done little enough of that herself.”

Jeb and the Turnbulls rotated toward Macia in unison, their faces filled with astonishment. Obviously they thought her an absolute oddity.

Betsy Turnbull was the first to speak. “You can’t cook or sew?”

Macia squared her shoulders like a soldier ready to meet the challenge of battle. “I don’t enjoy fancy work, and I’ve never had a need to cook. Though I imagine I could do so if required.”

Harvey doubled over in laughter, and Jeb Malone looked at her as though she were a pitiable excuse for a woman. The entire incident was more than Macia cared to endure. With a quick turn, she stormed outside.

“How
dare
they treat me in such a rude manner?” She stomped her foot on the dusty street and resolutely folded her arms across her chest.

“Who are you talking to?” a small voice inquired.

Macia turned toward the sound and was met by a pair of cornflower blue eyes. Nothing had gone well all day—why should it begin to do so now? There had been nobody in sight when she walked outside. Where had this girl come from?

Macia hesitated for a moment as she stared at the child. “I’m talking to myself. What ’s your name and where do you live?” she demanded.

“I’m Lucy Malone, and me and my brother live here.”

“My brother and
I
live here.”

Lucy’s eyebrows furrowed as she scowled. “No you don’t! This is
our
house.”

Macia laughed and nodded. “You’re right—it is your house. I was correcting your grammar.”

“Oh. Are you a schoolteacher? Jeb said maybe someone would be moving here before long to help me with my lessons. He’s not so good at school learning.” Wisps of hair had escaped the uneven braids that rested upon Lucy’s shoulders, and she tucked the loose strands behind her ears.

“You certainly have pretty hair, Lucy. You should let me help you braid it one day.” Before the child had an opportunity to respond, Macia censured herself. What was she thinking? She ought not encourage the child’s friendship. If Macia had her way, the entire Boyle family would be gone before winter.

“Oh, that would be lovely. I have some of my mama’s combs. Could you show me how to use them? She wore them when she married my pa.”

Lucy’s eyes were sparkling like precious gems. Denying her now would be impossible. Lifting one of the braids between her fingers, Macia nodded. “I’ll show you how to use hair combs, but let’s not use your mother’s good ones. You wouldn’t want to lose them. I have some you can practice with. Besides, you don’t need combs if we braid your hair.”