Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (13 page)

But you wouldn't have met Michael, and you wouldn't have Rebecca now,
her heart quickly answered.

But even with her enviable education, she was trained for very little that was of practical help when it came to supporting both her and Rebecca.

"Well—this school is different. I've read all about it. It does teach the girls much more than—than social graces. It teaches them practical things as well. They can even become a—a teacher or a—a seamstress. Lots of things. My school wasn't like that."

Mrs. Galvan nodded.

Silence hung in the room. Sarah found herself fidgeting uncomfortably.

Mrs. Galvan sat staring into her cup of steaming coffee. "It must be expensive," she said at last.

"Yes—yes, it is," Sarah admitted. "I did lots of figuring and I think I can make it."

"Can we help?"

The question caught Sarah totally by surprise.

"You? Why—why, I wouldn't think—I mean— you've already done so much. I—I couldn't ask—"

"I haven't heard you askin'. We've—discussed it— and we'd like to help."

Sarah stumbled for words. "I—I do appreciate the offer. Really—it is much more than—" She stopped. "But—no—I couldn't let you do that. She's my daughter. It's my notion. I—I'll manage—just fine."

Mrs. Galvan looked doubtful. "Well—if you ever find yerself—well—short—please, don't be afraid to ask."

Sarah felt chastened. Here she had been set to fight to send Rebecca away from the Galvans, knowing full well that they thought Sarah's notion a foolish one, and they were asking to help with the expense. They were very special people.

"I thank you. Sincerely," replied Sarah. "I really can't say how much. You have been so good. To Rebecca—and me. I thank God for you every day."

And with those words Sarah stood, smoothed her skirt, and prepared to take her daughter home.

***

The night was cold and very dark in spite of the winter snow that should have brightened the world. But Sarah felt as if she had never seen a more dismal winter evening.

"Looks like it plans to storm again," noted Boyd, who was walking her home after she had returned Rebecca to the Galvans for her overnight stay.

Sarah let her eyes lift to the sky. It certainly looked dark and gloomy. No stars showed in the dense curtain overhead. No Northern Lights danced on the northern stage. There was nothing but blackness. Deep and foreboding.

With her eyes on the sky overhead, Sarah tripped on the rutted road they were traversing. Boyd reached out a hand quickly to keep her from falling.

"Best take my arm," he offered when he released his hold of her.

"If I'd pay attention to where I was putting my foot instead of stargazing," said Sarah with a bit of a laugh at herself. But she accepted the offered arm.

They continued on in silence. In the distance a dog barked. Another answered from its own yard. It was the only sound in the silent world.

"Becky is quite excited about goin' away to school," remarked Boyd.

"Yes. Yes—she is—now," answered Sarah. It had taken a while for Rebecca to be convinced that it would be fun to go.

"Sure goin' to miss her," admitted Boyd slowly. "I can't imagine what yer feelin'," he said, looking at her through the darkness.

Sarah nodded. She didn't trust her voice to answer. Sarah still lived in dread of the day when Rebecca would actually be placed on the outgoing stage.

They continued in silence. Sarah could just make out her own gate in the darkness ahead.

"My—it seems so late when it gets so—so dark," she said, fumbling for something neutral to talk about. "It seems like—like another world from the one we see in the light."

Boyd nodded. Even at close range Sarah had difficulty catching the slight motion.

He opened the gate in the picket fence and they moved up the boarded walk together. It had been cleared of the snow from the last storm. Someone— Sarah guessed it to be Boyd—always cared for the snow.

When they reached the back door, Sarah moved to withdraw her hand from Boyd's arm, but he surprised her by reaching his other hand to clasp hers and hold it in place.

"Will you stay on here—once Becky goes?" he asked, seriousness deepening his voice.

Sarah had not even thought of leaving. "Of—course. Where would I go? I mean—I've no family left. I—"

"I thought you might settle somewhere in the East."

"But I have to pay for Rebecca's schooling."

"I know," he acknowledged. "I thought you might like to find—to find—work that is easier."

Sarah was ashamed. "I—I've been trained for—for nothing else," she admitted. "The fact is—" She lowered her head. Even in the darkness she did not feel safe from observant eyes. "I really know very little— about—about earning my way. I could teach piano, but even if I had the money to buy one, I wouldn't be able to support Rebecca and me on the little that piano lessons would bring in. I—I have thought about moving— closer to the school. Back East. Back to a—a city. But I—I haven't been able to come up with one skill that would help me to get a job—to—to see us through."

There was a pause. To Sarah the silence seemed as deep and as dark as the night around them.

"Have you—ever thought of remarrying?" Boyd asked her softly.

Sarah's head begin to whirl. What was he asking? Did he think she would look for someone to marry just so she wouldn't have the difficult task of providing for herself and her daughter?

Sarah pulled her hand free and stepped back.

"No," she said with a bit of emphasis. "No—I have not. I—I am quite willing to accept responsibility for me—and my daughter. I would not—marry—any man just to—to take advantage of—"

"I didn't mean that," Boyd stopped her gently. "I know you better than that."

He reached out and reclaimed her hand, trying to draw her closer. Sarah resisted.

"I just meant—you're young. You're very—attractive and—pleasant. You—you must get lonely. I wouldn't think—"

Sarah tried to pull her hand away again. She looked away from Boyd. Her shoulders shook slightly. Her chin lifted.

"I loved Michael—very much," she said, her voice trembling. "I—I miss him—more each day—in—in a different way than I did at first. I—I— But I would never remarry to—to fulfill my emotional needs any more than I would remarry just to fulfill my financial needs," she said with deep conviction.

Boyd nodded slowly and Sarah felt his hold gently release hers.

"I—I see," he whispered into the darkness.

Sarah stirred herself.

"Well—I must get in. I have laundry to do and—"

Boyd turned to go. "Good-night then," he said.

Sarah watched as he walked back down her sidewalk, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold of the night. For some reason it was hard for her to see him go. She felt troubled, uneasy.

"Boyd," she called after a moment of hesitation.

He turned. She could just make out his outline in the blackness.

"Thanks," she said, and hoped that her voice, soft with emotion, would reach him in the darkness. "Thanks."

"Anytime," came his reply. That was all, just, "Anytime."

Sarah waited until his form disappeared from her sight; then she pushed her door open and went in to refuel the fire and get started on her evening tasks.

She was still troubled by the exchange with Boyd. Just what had he meant? Just what did he feel? What did she, Sarah, feel? Her emotions had been so raw— so vulnerable—for what seemed forever. Sarah wondered if she honestly felt anything anymore. Anything but love and devotion to Rebecca—Michael's child.

She hoped that Boyd understood her simple thanks. She felt so inadequate in expressing her gratitude for all he did on her behalf. How could she show him that she appreciated the many things he did to make her life and Rebecca's easier?

Thanks. It sounded so—so empty—so sterile—so void of all the true gratitude she felt.

"Anytime."

Sarah knew that the one word conveyed so much as it had come to her through the darkness of the night. Anytime. Boyd would be there. For her. For Rebecca. Assisting. Supporting. Perhaps—perhaps even loving—Sarah wasn't sure.

But suddenly she knew just how much she had been depending on Boyd. Even leaning on him. For Rebecca. Maybe even for herself, without realizing it.

From past experience Sarah had learned that with dependence, one was vulnerable. With dependence could come the pain of loss. The chill of fear crept through her body, making her tremble.

"I—I must—must learn to be more independent," she scolded herself. "I mustn't—"

Sarah stopped. She tried to get control of her troubled feelings.

"That is another reason Rebecca must go away for school," she told herself. "If—if she doesn't need Boyd Galvan anymore—then—then I won't need him either. I—I won't even see him—much."

And the thought brought both pain and relief. She was going to miss the Galvans. All of them. They had become like family. But with Rebecca gone, there would be no reason for her to visit their house each day. There would be no reason to keep such close company with the family that had given so much of themselves to meet the needs of the young woman and her small child.

"I'm sure they will miss Rebecca," Sarah said to herself, "but it—it may be a great relief to them too. They—they have been raising her for—for four years already. They need to—to have things back to—to normal again."

But Sarah still felt troubled as she went to gather up the laundry.

***

Sarah spent her last summer with Rebecca, crowding in all the "together times" she could make fit. She sometimes wondered if her business would suffer because of it, but things seemed to continue on as before. She needed that business. She needed it more than ever if she were to keep up with the stiff school tuition.

But Sarah wanted to store all the memories of Rebecca's childhood that she could. Both for her sake and for the sake of Rebecca. There would be so many months, many years when they would be apart.

As the summer lazily rolled toward its end, Sarah felt almost panicky. Rebecca would soon be gone and she would be alone. Was Rebecca prepared? Was
she
prepared?

Was Sarah really making the right choice? Would she live to regret her decision? Did the child need the love and stability of herself and the Galvans more than she needed the training of the special school?

Sarah fretted even more and prayed harder. She worked with agitated fury. She lost even more weight.

"Can you come to school with me?" Rebecca asked one day.

Sarah caught her breath and then looked at her daughter with longing.

"Oh—I wish I could," she replied with honesty. "I—I hate to see you go. I hate to have you travel all alone. But I—I—Mama just doesn't have the money to buy a second ticket." She paused and then went on with as much reassurance as she could muster. "The stage driver will look out for you. He promised me. I talked with him. He will see that you are properly settled on the train. He will talk to the conductor—he told me. The conductor will be with you all the way to the station where you will be met by someone from the school. I wrote them. They promised. And—I'll bring you home—for summer—maybe even for Christmas— whenever—whenever I can. I'll start to save money for your ticket and—and it won't seem long."

Rebecca still looked doubtful.

Sarah crossed the room to gather the child into her arms and held her for a long, long time. Rebecca finally squirmed. Sarah released her. Oh, she was going to miss her. There just wouldn't seem to be a reason to come home at night.

***

Rebecca came hippity-hopping into the yard where Sarah was unhitching the team. Another long, hot day of hauling freight had ended, and Sarah had been anxious to get cleaned up and hurry off to pick up her daughter. Instead, Rebecca was already home.

"Aunt Min said I could walk home by myself," she informed her mother.

Sarah felt a pang of apprehension. She knew that neighbor children ran about the town freely, but she had never allowed Rebecca to do so.

"Aunt Min said if I am to travel halfway around the world on my own, then I'd best learn how to walk down my own street."

Sarah shivered with the reminder that she was sending her small daughter off all alone.

But Rebecca interrupted her thoughts.

"It's okay that you can't come with me, Mama," Rebecca assured her. "I'm not scared anymore. I won't be alone."

Sarah felt relief wash over her. Maybe Rebecca was finally understanding their little talks when Sarah tried to reassure her over and over that as a child of God, she would never be alone. God would be with her wherever she went.

Sarah smiled. "Jesus will be with you," she said again to her daughter.

"I won't need Him, either," said Rebecca with quiet confidence. "Uncle Boyd's going with me."

Sarah dropped her currycomb and stared with open mouth.

"What?"

"Uncle Boyd is coming. He showed me his ticket. He says he's goin' to make good and sure that I git there 'safe an' sound.' That's what he said."