Oklahoma Sweetheart

“Connor isn’t the father?” Alger’s eyes widened as if he’d been observer to an unbelievable sight. “What are you talking about? Of course he’s the father. He’s responsible for it.”

“No, Daddy,” she repeated. “He’s not.”

“Well then, who is?” her mother asked. Silent up until now, Minnie Peterson was nonetheless a woman who always managed to speak her mind. “Whoever it is, he’d better march over to the parsonage and take you along. There won’t be a church wedding, young lady, but there will be a wedding.”

“You’re both wrong,” Loris said quietly. “I’m no longer engaged to Connor, and it will be official when I give him back his ring. The other person in this situation has already left town, and I won’t be marrying him either.”

“Left town?” Her father blustered loudly as he marched around the table and gripped her shoulders. Dragging her to her feet, he shook her, then apparently decided that action was not sufficient to express his anger and so delivered two ringing slaps to her face.

Loris stood silently before him, her eyes closed. She could not bear to look on his face, could not abide the disdain he showered on her. Her cheeks stung from his blows, but compared to the painful disgrace she had brought upon her family, the pain was of little importance.

“You can pack your things and move out,” her father said bluntly. “You are no longer our daughter.”

“Mama?” Loris turned to Minnie and spoke the title as if it were an entreaty for mercy. As indeed it was.

“Your father is the head of this house,” Minnie said primly. Even if she’d wanted to side with her daughter, Loris knew that her mother shared Alger’s views on such things as family honor.

“All right. I’ve got my things packed in the tapestry valise, Mama. I knew this would happen. When I’m settled somewhere, I’ll send it back to you.”

“You can keep it,” Minnie said. “I couldn’t look at it again.”

Loris left the dining room, walked up the stairs slowly and entered her room. She was cold, not due to the weather outdoors, but instead to a chill that seemed to emanate from deep inside her body.

Her warmest clothing was on the bed, a pair of men’s long red underwear she’d been given by her father when they shrank in the wash, becoming too small for him. Before this, she’d only worn them when she went to the river to ice skate in the winter time. Tonight, they would keep her from freezing to death. She didn’t plan on forcing her parents to buy a coffin for her, so it would behoove her to start out walking with enough clothing on to keep warm.

By the time she’d found her heaviest woolen shirt, donning it over her dress, and then pulling her heavy leather boots on her feet, she was breathless from the exertion of preparing to leave. Or maybe it was just the prelude to a fit of crying that seemed to be imminent.

Valise in her hand, she walked down the stairs and saw her mother awaiting her in the wide hallway. “Here are your mittens and a warm scarf,” Minnie said. “I have no use for them. You may as well take them with you.”

It was a backhanded gesture of kindness, and though hurt by her mother’s words, Loris offered her thanks.

“Let us know where you are,” Minnie said.

“Will you really care?” Loris asked, and then bit at her lip. There was no point in estranging her mother from her any more than she already had with her announcement.

“Yes, I’ll care, Loris,” her mother said righteously, pressing a bundle into her hands. “Here’s enough food to keep you going for a day or so.” Minnie touched her daughter’s shoulder as a gesture of farewell and spoke again. “Just wait until your child is grown and you are hurt by that child beyond measure. You’ll find that you still care.”

“Maybe.” Loris pulled her mittens on, knowing she would be thankful for their warmth, and wrapped the scarf around her neck. The front door opened and she stepped out onto the porch. The sun had set, the moon had risen, and the night was clear and cold. Stars glittered in profusion across the sky, but they blurred as she walked down the steps and made her way toward the street, her falling tears blinding her.

Yet, she cried but little, for she forced herself to blink them away, knowing she didn’t have enough energy to waste on feeling sorry for herself. She struck off for the western edge of town, since it was closer to the shelter she sought than walking through the business district. Taking that route raised her chances of meeting someone she knew.

The road was rutted, so she chose instead to walk on the grass at the side, now overlaid with a light covering of new snow. At least her boots would keep her feet from freezing, she thought, shifting the valise to her other hand. It was heavy, but she’d brought everything warm she owned. And then topped off the contents with a quilt that seemed to be an intelligent addition to her collection. It would keep the wind from her, should she decide to wrap it around herself.

For a moment, she wondered just where she would be when she unfolded the quilt and curled in its folds. Maybe in someone’s barn. Although the scent of fresh hay in a barn turned her stomach these days. Had, in fact, for three months, ever since the evening James Webster had pressed her deeply into a bed of the fragrant stuff in her father’s extra stall. As if it had never happened, James had ignored her for weeks, while her own guilt had nagged at her, as she continued her discreet courtship with Connor.

She’d been a fool. And not for the first time, she cursed the dance she’d shared with James, the kisses he’d offered, the bedding he’d instigated with her full cooperation.

She passed the edge of town and paced steadily beside the road. Trees met overhead, their branches bare of leaves, the faint noise of their rubbing together in the wind contributing an eerie sound to the quiet of the evening. Ahead was a farmhouse, one belonging to Joe Benson, a friend of her father’s.

She skirted it, walking on the other side of the road as she passed by the lane leading to the big house. Being seen would be bad enough. Being recognized would be worse. The valise was heavy and she shifted it again, feeling the muscles in her arm cramp.

The next two houses were small, lived in by hired help, men and their families hired by the Bensons to help them on the farm. She walked as quickly as she could without stumbling and falling. She couldn’t afford to turn her ankle or twist her knee. It was difficult enough keeping a steady pace while her legs were sound. Making her way in the dark with pain as her companion would be unthinkable.

An hour passed slowly, and Loris walked on, knowing that she had barely begun her trip. Clouds began to appear in the sky, lowering clouds that made her think they might contain snow. The stars disappeared in another hour or so, and the wind came up, its cold fingers cutting through her clothing as if she were barely clad.

To her right, just ahead, she caught sight of a building. It looked to be an abandoned farm, left by a family who’d moved onward and left their house to the elements.

If that were true, she might be able to get inside and build a fire, she thought. Maybe sleep for the night before she walked on in the morning. Turning up the lane that led to the small structure, her heart beat faster, and she peered at the shuttered windows as she rounded the side to where a small back porch offered shelter.

She climbed the steps slowly, fearful of encountering a locked door. But the knob turned readily and she pushed the door open. Darkness met her, but with an innate sense, she knew the house was empty.

In the depths of the room, she spotted the looming bulk of a cookstove and her hopes rose. Taking her mittens off, she approached the black form and felt across the top of the warming oven, hoping for a box of matches. Her search was rewarded by the discovery of just such a find, and she opened the box, finding it over half full.

Lighting a match, she blinked and then lifted one of the stove’s burner lids and peered inside. Ashes met her gaze, but on the floor to one side of where she stood was a woodbox, holding a good supply of short pieces, apparently cut to size for burning.

A bit of brown paper was crumpled beneath the first two chunks of wood and she placed it in the stove, then added pieces of wood and a bit of kindling she found scattered on the floor. Lighting another match, she set the paper ablaze, then watched hopefully as it caught the kindling in its path, flaring up around the larger pieces of wood.

With care, she settled the lid in place and hovered over the stove, waiting for some small bit of warmth to reach her fingers. It took but five minutes or so for the fire to penetrate the iron and reach her. She shivered, held her hands over the stove lid and closed her eyes.

Maybe she could sleep right here in the kitchen, she thought. It would be the warmest place in the house, and though sleeping on the floor lacked comfort, she could not be fussy. She looked around the room, her eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. The shape of a lamp hanging over the table on the other side of the room was encouraging, and she carried the box of matches there, lighting one as she lifted the globe from the lamp and sought to light the wick.

It caught, flared, and then softened a bit as she dropped the globe in place. Now the room was clearly visible, and her heart lifted as she saw the kitchen dresser across the room, the doors protecting an assortment of dishes behind the wavy glass.

The bundle of food her mother had pressed on her was in the pocket of her coat, and she brought it forth into the light. Half a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese and a generous portion of roast beef lay wrapped inside a dish towel. Enough food for at least a day, perhaps longer if she rationed it out.

The floor did not seem overly dirty, she decided, and was certainly warmer than any other room in the house. Tomorrow was soon enough to go exploring. For now she eyed the bare floor and found it welcoming.

Another chunk or two of wood in the stove would warm her for a few hours, and she could replenish the fire during the night if need be. The stove lid clunked dully into place as she fortified the stove, and then herself, for the rest of the night.

Her quilt was warm, and for that she was grateful, pulling it around herself as she curled on the floor, her head cushioned by the valise. From beneath the stove, glittering in the reflection of the lamp, two tiny eyes watched her, and even the thought of a stray mouse could not stir her from the cozy cocoon of her quilt.

“I’ll worry about you in the morning, Mr. Mouse,” she said softly. “Just stay out of my food,” she warned the tiny creature, thankful that she’d tucked the package into her valise.

And then her eyes closed as weariness overcame her. Even the desolation of her shelter was not enough to keep her awake, and she basked in the heat of the stove, her hands tucked between her thighs for warmth.

Chapter Two

The crowing of a rooster woke her, and Loris sat up from her makeshift bed, groaning aloud as she felt the pull of muscles strained by the hard floor. If there was one chicken out there, there might be more, she thought hopefully. And if one was a hen, there might even be an egg or two available.

She rose slowly, aware now of the chill of the kitchen around her. The fire had apparently gone out, and she’d been too tired earlier to replenish it. Lifting the stove lid, she caught sight of glowing ashes and was cheered by their presence.

More wood was placed with care, lest she suffocate the promise of flames, and then as the bits of bark on the sides of the wood caught fire, she smiled and gently put the lid in place.

Shaking out her quilt, she folded it, depositing it over the back of a chair, and then set out to explore her shelter. The house was small, a parlor and two bedrooms occupying the rest of the downstairs. Furniture had been left behind, the owners apparently not considering it worth transporting. But upstairs there were two more bedrooms, complete with beds.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers, she reminded herself as she viewed the sparse furnishings throughout the house. At least there were dishes, and perhaps kettles, though what she would find to cook was another thing entirely.

First on her list of the day’s tasks was finding an outhouse, she decided. Stepping outside, she saw the small structure standing near what appeared to be the chicken coop. Loris made her way there, walking carefully across the yard, lest she slip on the covering of fresh snow. Only an inch or so whitened the ground, and she was thankful there wasn’t any more than that.