In the Face of Danger (10 page)

Mr. Haskill looked even more miserable than before. “It’s not right to take it.”

“What are neighbors for?” Emma said. “Of course you’ll take it to Ada, if it will make her happy.” She shook her head. “But I don’t own a down quilt. I can give you a pieced quilt, though, that should be good and warm.”

“I can’t see that any of these things will make her happy,” Mr. Haskill blurted out. “She thought we’d have a real house. I should have told her most folks out here start with a dugout. But Ada didn’t know that. It’s my fault. I guess it never occurred to me that it would matter so much to her. She’s—well, she’s been crying ever since I took her home.”

Megan felt another brief pang of guilt for anticipating Mrs. Haskill’s discomfort and laughing about it.

Emma patted Mr. Haskill’s arm. “We’ll help Ada to feel at home,” she said. “Everything’s strange to her now, but she’ll come around.”

“She wants a real house,” Farley said. “She wants one built of lumber, and I can’t afford to buy the logs yet.”

“Tell you what, Farley,” Ben said. “Why don’t I help you cut sod bricks and build you a house up away from the river?”

Mr. Haskill brightened. “Do you think Ada would settle for a sod house?”

“It’s better than a dugout,” Ben said. “It would have more than one window. We could make two rooms in it, and Ada would feel like she had a real house.”

“That’s a kind offer. I can’t thank you enough,” Mr. Haskill said, and his eyes glistened in the lamplight.

“I’ll put together as many of the things on this list as I’ve got on hand,” Emma said, “and you stop worrying about Ada.”

As Emma set to work, Megan sat on the footstool and studied Mr. Haskill. He took a long sip of his coffee, cradling the cup in his hands, and said, “I guess she’s lonely for home.”

“It’s only natural for now,” Ben said. “She’ll get over it.”

“I s’pose. I wonder how long it will take. Maybe a couple of weeks or so?”

“No,” Megan told them. “Much longer than that.”

Ben and Mr. Haskill looked at her with surprise. “The loneliness is inside,” Megan said, pressing her hands against her stomach, “and sometimes you forget that it’s there. But other times it makes a picture in your mind of the people you love—the people you left behind—and your stomach aches with the hurt of it all.”

“Sounds like this is familiar to you,” Mr. Haskill murmured, and Megan nodded.

“Even when we’re laughing and talking sometimes the loneliness comes. I never know when it will happen.”

“I think I understand,” Mr. Haskill said.

“I think I do, too,” Megan said. “About Mrs. Haskill, I mean.”

The expression in Ben’s eyes, as he looked at her, changed from concern to pride, and Megan smiled at him, no longer caring what Mrs. Haskill had said.

F
OUR DAYS LATER
Ben left before dawn, taking his wagon to the nearest town to get the iron strips on two of the wheels repaired. Soon after he had gone, Mr. Haskill arrived at the Browders’ house, hallooing and shouting even before he reached the front door.

“It’s Ada!” he cried in terror to Emma and Megan, who had rushed outside to meet him. “She’s down sick with the fever!”

“It’s too cold for the mosquitoes to be out, carrying the ague,” Emma said, thinking aloud. “It’s more likely that she’s taken a chill. Does she have a cough?”

Mr. Haskill frowned. “Not exactly. More of a roughening of the voice.”

“Good,” Emma said. “I don’t think it’s serious. I’ll give you something for her to drink that will help her sleep and some mustard seed to make a poultice, in case the roughness develops into a chest cough.” She glanced toward the iron stove. “It won’t take long to pluck a chicken and cook up a strong broth. I’ll see that Ada gets it as soon as it’s ready.”

“I’ll help,” Megan offered.

“Thanks to you both,” Mr. Haskill said. He looked greatly relieved, although there were such deep circles under his eyes that Megan wondered if he could be getting ill himself.

“For goodness’ sakes, Farley, she’ll be all right,” Emma said. “We all take to our beds now and then. It’s the way life is.”

“It’s because the house is damp,” Farley said. “Ada said so.”

“Damp? With a drought that has lasted more than a year?” Emma paused, and when she spoke again her voice was low and gentle. “Ada just isn’t used to our ways yet, Farley. Be patient, and stop blaming yourself for everything she doesn’t like. Soon she’ll be blooming just like one of the prairie roses.”

“You think so?”

“Why doubt it? She’s strong and has a great deal more purpose to her than many women I’ve met. There’s no reason she can’t put those attributes to good use. Just you be patient.”

Mr. Haskill looked considerably cheered as he left with the package Emma had prepared for him. The front door had no sooner shut behind him than Emma, snugly wrapped in one of Ben’s heavy coats, was out the back door. Megan soon heard a loud squawking in the henhouse, and shortly Emma returned, an onion from the root cellar in one hand, a limp, gutted chicken in the other. Most of the large feathers had been plucked, but Megan set to work to pull the others, saving them carefully to add to Emma’s hoard. As soon as the bag was full there’d be enough soft feathers to fill the small quilt Emma was making for the baby.

When Megan had finished her chore, Emma singed the
skin with a hot coal, washed the carcass in boiling water, and dropped it with the peeled and sliced onion into a large pot of water. She added some salt and two dried bay leaves and nodded with satisfaction. “This soup will be even better than medicine for her.”

Megan noticed that Emma was moving more slowly than usual, stopping to rub her back with one hand. She knew what she could do to help. “I’ll take the soup to Mrs. Haskill,” she said.

Emma shook her head. “I don’t want you exposed to her illness.”

“I can get to the Haskills’ house better and faster than you can, and I rarely come down ill. I was very good at nursing the others in my family.”

Emma smiled. “I’m sure you were.”

“I’d like to do something for Mrs. Haskill,” Megan added.

“Because you feel guilty?” When Megan nodded in surprise, Emma said, “I do, too.” She took the lid from the pot over the fire, stirred the contents, and replaced the lid with a satisfied smile. “Guilt is not the best reason for doing things, I must admit, but sometimes it does get the job done.” She put her hands on Megan’s shoulders. “We had reason to be angry at what she said, but the poor woman spoke out of ignorance.”

Megan nodded. She hoped that Emma wouldn’t begin to talk about forgiving. Ma had done that the day Megan came home in tears because two big girls had knocked her into the street and stolen the grocery money she was carrying. She hadn’t been able to forgive those girls as her own stomach churned with hunger, and she didn’t want to forgive Mrs. Haskill too quickly, not when her hard words about the Irish still burned in Megan’s mind. Fortunately Emma gave Megan a quick kiss on the forehead and set about other household tasks.

Megan struggled into the heavy coat Emma had cut down for her and braved the chilly north winds in order to take care of chores in the barn.

When Emma called, Megan ran to get the pot of soup, well bundled to stay warm. She hurried down the road and across the plank bridge over the barely trickling river to the Haskill house.

Except for the underground root cellar, she had never been inside a dugout before. The one window let in very little light and, although the room was larger than she had imagined, the air was thick and stale. In a far corner of the room was a double bed, and in the bed lay Mrs. Haskill, her eyes and nose red—more from weeping than from chilblains, Megan decided.

Mr. Haskill fumbled with the soup pot as he took it from Megan, almost dropping it. “You have your farm chores to do, Mr. Haskill,” she said. “I’ll take good care of your wife.”

He looked so relieved that it was hard for Megan not to smile as he rushed from the room. She spooned some of the steaming, fragrant soup into a bowl and carried it to Mrs. Haskill.

“I don’t feel like eating,” Mrs. Haskill said and turned her face to the hard-packed dirt wall. Her dark hair clung in damp strings to her face, and there were deep shadows under her eyes.

In spite of her dislike, Megan felt a pang of pity for the woman. “You’ll feel better for having something this good in your stomach,” she said. She put down the bowl and pulled a ladder-back chair next to the bed. Before Mrs. Haskill realized what was happening, Megan had hoisted her to a sitting position and plumped up Emma’s down pillow behind her, adding an extra one, tightly stuffed with chicken feathers, to support her shoulders.

Megan had often helped to make Da comfortable in this same way during his illness. She thought of his gentle smile and the love in his eyes as she had carefully brought each spoonful of soup to his lips.

Megan would have done anything for Da because she loved him, but there was no way in the world that she could love Mrs. Haskill. Still, the woman needed caring for, and Megan was determined to do a good job of it.

“Now,” Megan said firmly as she seated herself and picked up the bowl and spoon, “you’ll have some of this fine soup that Emma Browder made for you.”

She filled the spoon and held it out. Obediently Mrs. Haskill opened her mouth and swallowed the soup. By the third spoonful, a little color began to come into her cheeks. When the spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, Megan asked, “Do you want more?”

Mrs. Haskill rubbed her nose with a damp cotton handkerchief and sniffed. “Perhaps a little more, although it’s lacking a bit in flavor. I don’t suppose Mrs. Browder thought of seasoning the broth with celery tops.”

“At this time of the year there is no celery to be had,” Megan answered. She filled the bowl again and spoonfed Mrs. Haskill, who just lay there and allowed herself to be fed.

“When you plant your vegetable garden in the spring,” Megan said, “maybe you could plant some celery seed in it. We’re going to plant cucumbers, and Emma promised to show me how to make pickles.”

Mrs. Haskill shuddered. She pushed the empty bowl away and dabbed at her lips with the handkerchief.

Megan tried to think of something to cheer her up. “Did Mr. Haskill tell you that he and Mr. Browder are going to build you a new house?” she asked.

Mrs. Haskill’s eyes flashed, and she snapped, “A house built of earth!”

“What kind of house did you live in when you were in Boston?”

“A lovely brick house!”

“Well then,” Megan said, “you lived in an earth house. That’s what bricks are made of. I know, because my father helped to build brick houses.”

“It’s not the same,” Mrs. Haskill said and sighed. “I don’t expect anyone to understand.” She shivered. “This dreadful house is so dark and cold.”

Megan nodded. “Especially over here in the corner. Hop up, and we’ll move the bed closer to the stove.”

Mrs. Haskill tugged the quilt up to her neck. “Why, I’ll do no such thing!” she complained. “Why should I let a little slip of a girl order me about?”

“Very well. Then I’ll just pull my chair closer to the stove,” Megan said. She did so and let out a long, contented sigh. If Mike had been, there, he would have groaned and told her she was overdoing it, but Megan could think of no reasonable way to deal with Mrs. Haskill. The easiest solution would be to let her remain cold, but Megan had taken on Mrs. Haskill as a responsibility, and she was determined to help the poor woman, whether she wanted help or not. “Ah, yes,” Megan said loudly. “It’s much more comfortable over here.”

Mrs. Haskill watched Megan for only a few moments before she said, “I suppose that together we could manage to move the bed.” She slipped from under the quilt, her long flannel gown flapping around her legs, and tugged at the head of the bed. With Megan pulling at the foot, they slid the bed across the hard-packed floor until it was near the stove.

Megan moved the soup to the back of the small stove to stay warm. Then she took some dried cow chips from the basket, dropped them onto the coals, and replaced the heavy iron lid.

Mrs. Haskill shuddered, closing her eyes, and Megan saw a tear run down her cheek. “Would you like some of the medicine to help you sleep?” she asked.

“No,” Mrs. Haskill snapped. “I’m not sleepy.”

“Would you like me to tell you a story?” Emma was still delighted each time Megan told her one of the Irish legends that had been Da’s favorites.

“I am not in the mood for childish stories.”

“How about one of Mr. Aesop’s fables? They each have a lesson to think about, although that’s the best I can say for them.”

“No!”

Megan frantically groped for a topic of conversation. There must be something they could talk about. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Megan asked.

Mrs. Haskill frowned. “You couldn’t possibly understand, and even if you did, it would be of no interest to you.” She rolled her head back and forth on the pillow. “I was sure that Mrs. Browder would come. Why did she send a child in her place?”

“I asked to come,” Megan answered. “I wanted to help you. I also wanted to keep Emma—Mrs. Browder—from having to make the long walk. She’s uncomfortable and awkward with the child she’s carrying.” Megan sat upright as a thought occurred to her. “Sure, it’s grand that you’re so close at hand! She plans to have another woman with her when the baby is born, but the woman lives far off. I’ve worried what would happen if there’s snow and the travel is slow. But now that you’re here, everything will be fine.”