The Castaways' care package helped get me through that first week after Fort Laramie: The Week of Waiting.
I kept busy with other, useful things of course. I milked Sundae twice a day, then strained the warm milk through cheesecloth and paid close attention to how Schmidty used it for cream and butter. I mended clothes, and I wrote letters for the boys, and I helped with the dish washing and the mule currying. As we left the North Platte behind, I resumed my duties collecting buffalo chips for fuel. I reassured Clayton, the nighthawk who feared he'd seen something in the moonlight, that even if there was such a thing as ghosts, they couldn't hurt him. And I stole little moments with my husband, when he checked on me at lunch, or when we sometimes ate dinner at the same time, and of course in our little tent on the prairie.
Surely we didn't just have sex. We made love. He put his trust in me, every time he let himself need me. My nights in Jacob's arms, even as he slept, worked like my own personal recharging station. He was so wholly and effortlessly strong that mere physical contact with him strengthened me too.
But the bulk of this journey remained about driving cattle, something I had to stay separate from--as much as was possible, when the cows, wagons, horses, and I all sometimes had to use the same stretch of less-rocky-than-the-rest ground. We were passing the Laramie Mountains, which made up in dry ruggedness what they lost in dramatic height, so passage became something of a challenge, here and there.
All of that left me with time to fill, time that I devoted to writing and to my pre-packed surprises.
I used previously unknown powers of self-control to only open one gift per day. Maybe I should have parceled them out at one per week, considering that they might have to last a lifetime, but the farther I walked away from everyone and everything I had previously known, one day at a time, the more I needed the distraction.
Day one had given me the photographs. Day two, I chose one of the book-sized parcels and unwrapped a red hard-cover of Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There by Lewis Carroll.
Opposite the title page, Mitch had written, For someone who stepped into another world--and in your case, willingly stayed! Prof. Mitch, aka Team Leader J
When I read some of the book to Amos, he proclaimed to enjoy it, but not to understand it. I admitted that I didn't understand all of it, either, and wondered if that mattered. With the help of Amos's afternoon serenade, I didn't dream of modern times. Instead I dreamed of mirrors and chessboards.
Umm... thank you, Mitch?
Day three, I opened a small paper package and found a clear bottle labeled "FINE Sweet Oil." Inside its paper wrap, Maddie had written, Kind of like olive oil. Good for ear aches, with brief instructions on how to use it.
This might prove especially good for the baby. Thanks, Maddie!
Day four, I chose another book: Beeton's Book of Household Management, edited by Mrs. Isabella Beeton. Ted had inscribed that one: Iz-Bee is the Martha Stewart of her day--without the rap sheet. Hope it helps! Loves and kissies, Thurston Howell III.
That last part was a Gilligan's Island joke.
The huge book's contents were as old-fashioned as you might expect. It began by saying, "AS WITH THE COMMANDER OF AN ARMY, or the leader of any enterprise, so it is with the mistress of a house." Then Iz-Bee started dispensing advice, complete with Bible quotes, about getting up early, receiving "morning calls," and how to hold a fancy dinner party. She offered a whole chapter on the housekeeper, after reviewing the hiring of domestics and the duties of a scullery maid. Her suggested wages for those servants were listed in pounds sterling, revealing that this was a British book.
You know. Standard frontier-living stuff.
I came close to feeling downright ungrateful about this one--until I got to the many, many recipes. Beeton broke down the most accessible meats and fruits by month, and included illustrations of kitchen implements. She explained how to make beef stock in such a way that I actually thought, I could do that! Even some of the soups looked do-able.
Oh sure. I was less likely to pursue her suggestions for, say, stewed eels. And I would need an oven for many of her recipes. But especially when I skimmed to the end, and found her advice on child rearing was all about what to feed infants and how to cure childhood ailments, without what I'd imagined would be a lot of spare-the-rod crap, I began to believe that Mrs. Beeton might prove invaluable.
Thanks, Ted!
Day five, I got quite a treat: My own watch! It hung on a pendant, gold and enamel, the prettiest manmade thing I'd seen around here. The pink, scalloped enamel boasted a bright bunch of roses and pansies and violets painted on one side, and a vine of little roses encircling the numbers on the other side, with a small window revealing the hands of the watch itself. Tiffany & Co., it read in small letters, inside the case.
Now that was a company I should probably invest in.
After Jacob patiently showed me how to set and wind it, I found myself taking a lot of comfort in the watch, feeling its tick-tick-ticking against my fingertips or--when wearing it--against my breastbone. Holding it against my ear for minutes at a time, my eyes closed, I enjoyed the mechanical certainty of it in this world with so few mechanics.
Tick tick tick. Time was still passing, but now I got to see how much.
Without bothering Jacob every time.
On the sixth day, I unwrapped a cardboard box that said George's Paragon Sheaths and found one of the promised condoms. The yellowish rubber resembled those thumb covers people who work with paper use, but understandably larger. Sturdy. It was meant to be reused, after all.
I hid that one at the bottom of the trunk and knotted the ribbon around it. That was not a conversation I anticipated with any pleasure, and I didn't plan on even attempting it until Baby Garrison was born. If I died in childbirth--a better chance nowadays than in my former world, you have to admit--I would remind myself of that silver lining. At least I escaped talking to Jacob about birth control.
And on the seventh day...?
On the seventh day, Benj returned with news.
"Looky there," said Amos, by way of a heads up.
I "lookied," from where I'd been walking alongside the wife cart he drove. Often, I just kept my head down, watching for snakes, rocks, cactus, poop, the occasional bird's or rabbit's nest, and other western props that fell into the category of Don't Step on This. Sure enough, when I lifted my head and squinted in the heat, here came two of my favorite, mounted men from the direction of the herd.
Benj rode Lady Billie Holliday. And Jacob had taken a break from everything that was pure and good in the world, eg. the drive, to accompany him.
This struck me as kind of odd. Not that Jacob had come along; my husband would want to know the news, and it would go against his sense of thrift to have Benj tell the story twice. But... they approached me from the west / northwest.
Fort Laramie, Cheyenne, and Julesburg lay south / southeast of this enormous outdoors through which we traveled.
Had Benj deliberately circled me, to get Jacob first? And if so....
But as soon as I saw the men's expressions, I got a pretty good idea about the solemnity of their news.
I looked to Jacob first, of course. As ever, he was harder to read. Someone who didn't know him would see that grim line of his beard-framed mouth, and the narrowed eyes gleaming from the shadow of his dusty black hat, and might assume he was furious. Heck, maybe he was. But we'd been married a month now, and I was starting to recognize his default expressions. This went well beyond resting grump face. This was more of his really-intense-feelings glower.
If Jacob seriously worried? He glowered.
If Jacob mourned, like for Murphy? He glowered.
If Jacob experienced the throes of passion? Okay, apologies for oversharing. But with the moon's return, I could better see my husband in our tent, and at times you might have thought the man meant to murder me. Murder me with passion, mind you, but still--if it weren't for his kisses, caresses, and careful tenderness, in our shared bedroll, he might have even frightened me. Instead, I'd begun to associate his angriest expressions with lovemaking and, like Pavlov's dogs, didn't mind them.
But I did pay attention to them. Even before I shifted my attention to Benj's dusty, tired face, Jacob's dark, craggy glower warned me to brace myself. And Benj....
God, my usually handsome friend looked wrecked. I don't think he'd shaved all week. I'm not sure he'd eaten much, either. He struck me as gaunt, stretched to his limit.
This was going to be bad.
Thank goodness Amos whoa'ed Lulu, because I found myself groping blindly sideways for the support of the calf cart. Jacob kicked his gelding into higher gear, reached me first, and swung down to my own level for once.
"Lizabeth," he offered, as soon as his boots thunked to the ground, and he caught me by the arm.
I let go of the cart to grab onto the far better support of him, grasping a handful of his shirt. I leaned thankfully into his offered, easy strength. He smelled of sunshine, and cow manure, and leather, and Jacob. But I didn't stop looking at Benj, trying to find in his aching blue eyes some hint that I'd imagined the bad news.
Maybe he was just tired from his long ride.
Maybe he was pretending to be upset, so he could then yell Psyche! They're just fine. I would punch his shoulder, and then we would laugh....
But he shook his head, at which point he started going blurry because my eyes filled with tears. My friends....
"Maddie too?" I asked, my voice a warble. I dug my fingers into Jacob's arm, and he didn't protest. In fact, he raised his grip to my shoulders, standing behind and against me.
Benj dismounted and dragged a dirty sleeve across his lower face before he managed words. "All three of 'em, darlin'. It wasn't the day we was at the fort, but the day after. So it weren't you provoked it. You understand me?"
The day after? "But how? I mean--was it Slade? Ed? Whoever he is?"
"It was." He took a deep, unsteady breath through his open mouth. Despite that he'd had several days to process this, I suspected that telling me made everything worse for him, too. And he'd liked the Castaways. "He kilt 'em dead."
Then he raised his grim--if blurry--gaze to Jacob. "Got clean away, too."
Jacob nodded, as if that meant something important. Me, I couldn't see past the wash of grief that weakened my knees. Maddie... Ted... Mitch...
They'd taken me in. Befriended me. They were my kind. If I was an ugly duckling around here--a duckling who couldn't cook or herd cattle--they were the other swans, reminding me of my glorious reality.
Dead...?
I shook my head, as if my body refused to believe that such a thing could happen. I'm told I did the same thing, on hearing that my parents were gone. No. No, you're lying.
Even now, older and wiser, I wanted desperately to believe that the world didn't work that way. They'd been with me all week, in the form of their gifts, and now...?
I pivoted into Jacob's dusty chest, to muffle my wail of grief, and my knees gave way.
He encircled me with his heavy, hard arms, holding me and holding me up.
My people, gone. All of them.
Except the killer.
No matter what Benj said, this might well be my fault for outing Ed as Slade Callahan. When I'd gone to them, I'd brought trouble with me....
Jacob gathered me up into his arms, easy as he might lift a calf, and carried me to some low rocks. There, he sat and held me, something he could do without words. I ended up in his lap, my head on his shoulder, his chin protecting me from facing this terrible world for as long as I needed to avoid it. I don't know how long we sat like that, how many manly trail-bossing duties he ignored to stay with me. But I loved him for it, and my love kept me from wishing I was dead, too. My love reminded me that I still lived.
Despite my grief, my lungs continued to draw in and expel air. My throat continued to make low-moaning noises. I did exist. Against all odds, I existed in August, in Wyoming, in 1878, but I existed. Finally, exhausted into wet, sticky gasps and occasional shudders, I was ready to face that and all the responsibilities it entailed.
"What happened?" I asked, grim, and immediately caught the partners exchanging looks. "No secrets, remember? I'm okay. I am. But you have to tell me everything."
So Benj sank into an easy cowboy crouch and did just that.
Between the two horses, Benj Cooper made good time to Cheyenne.
"Ain't good time if you ruin yer horse." Apparently my beloved husband--who eventually sat beside me instead of beneath me--was an equal-opportunity nag.
"I stabled them horses at Abney's Livery afore catchin' my train. You remember JC and Heck, from Denver? They're in Wyomin' now. I paid 'em for double rations and special care."
Like I gave a damn about the livery stable or old friends from Denver... but it was Benj's story.
When he paid his train fare for Julesburg, the ticket agent asked, "You hear 'bout the fire?"
"Fire," repeated Jacob slowly. His heavy accent made it sound like "far."
I latched onto the idea with renewed hope. "You think they died in a fire?"
"I'm getting' to that. When I reached Julesburg, the fire at the Haywood Lodge was all anyone could talk about. So I borrowed me a horse and rode out to where that fine house once stood and is no more."
It had been a beautiful estate, and my sanctuary. "It's completely gone?"
"Just about. The back walls were brick, so they stand, but the window glass melted even there. The cupola, the inside walls, the stairs... everythin' collapsed into charred beams and a mess of sooty rubble."
"Waste," spat Jacob, beside me. House fires apparently sat high on the very long list of things he condemned, and rightly so.
"Now the townsfolk--" Benj took a deep breath, as if to recover from the ugly memory. "A good two-dozen menfolk were workin' with shovels to clear out what was left of the insides. Maybe to find treasure, maybe to find answers, it weren't seemly to ask. They'd come quick enough when they saw the smoke. Saved the barn, the carriage house, and the icehouse, so I wouldn't begrudge them any curiosity.
"That's where I found Patrick O'Malley and his son Mike, both of 'em workin' off their misery by haulin' debris."
I'd forgotten about the Castaways' live-in help. How could I have forgotten them?! Fiona. Brigid.... "The O'Malleys? Oh, Benj...!"
"All unhurt and accounted for, accordin' to Paddy. He'd left the womenfolk in town with the youngest boy, so as not to distress them further."
Thank God! And yet... how had the O'Malleys all survived, while the Castaways all died?
Supposedly died.
Vanished, anyway, whispered that thread of hope....
I asked, "Did anyone find bodies?" and both of my men tensed. Apparently, this wasn't the kind of question demure Victorian ladies asked. But most demure Victorian ladies hadn't watched multiple seasons of CSI or Bones.
If I could trust TV--which I realize was questionable--there should've been skeletal remains, fire or no fire. And if there weren't....
What if the fire had been set to hide the fact that my time-traveling friends had vanished into thin air, by which I mean, vanished back to the 21st century? They might have gone home! Sure, burning the house would be an uncharacteristic waste, to use Jacob's word. If they meant to send further volunteers back to the Old West, they'd have valued a ready-made headquarters. But still....
I didn't want to suggest it, for fear of jinxing myself, but the thought was too wonderful to resist. "Did they find bones?" I repeated. "Any proof the Castaways were actually in the house when it burned?"
"No, but they ain't likely too until folks dig up the cellar," Benj warned me. "Yer friends likely had the first floor burn out from under 'em, and got buried by what's left of the second floor and the roof."
I had to risk voicing my hope out loud. "If they were even in there!"
Jacob sighed, audibly.
Benj reached out his hand, his gaze insistent, so I gave him mine, even as Jacob kept his arm around me.
Benj said, "You're forgettin' their friend Ed, darlin'. The one you think is Slade Callahan. We know yer scientist friends were in the house because Fiona O'Malley saw them.
"That bastard Ed shot 'em afore he set the fire."
om/52K'K