Oklahoma Sweetheart

Her duties completed, she went to the chicken coop, opening the door to find two hens squatting in the confines of their nests. A barrel of feed had been tipped over, most likely by the owners, who probably felt guilty at leaving the creatures behind. Bits and pieces of feed lay about on the ground, liberally mixed with the chicken’s leavings, and Loris felt a surge of nausea at the odor of the pungent manure.

The two hens squawked at Loris’s appearance in their domain, and one of them fluttered to perch on a dowel rod apparently placed there for their comfort. In the nest, Loris found four eggs and she gathered them, aware that they might not be fit to eat. It would be easy enough to find out, she knew and given the temperature of the henhouse, they might yet be edible.

Leaving the second hen to cover her clutch of eggs, Loris left the henhouse, spying the rooster as he scurried in through the tiny door leading into the fenced-in yard. He halted before her and cocked his head, perhaps deciding if she were worth his attention.

Before he could lunge in her direction, which the rooster at home tended to do if disturbed, she left, closing the door tightly behind herself, carrying her find to the house. There, she entered the kitchen, appreciating the warmth of the stove, and found a bowl in the cupboard.

Next, she searched for a skillet and came up with one in the depths of the oven. With it were two kettles and she pulled them out, using her mittens as potholders, and put her treasures on the stove burners.

“Things are looking up,” she sighed, heading for the sink in the corner, although she doubted that water would be available, given the cold temperature. A small pan sat in the wash basin, its surface icy, and she rapped on it sharply, pleased when a hole appeared and water welled up.

Dumping the scant cup or so of liquid into the pump to prime it, she worked the handle vigorously and was rewarded by a gush of water.

She rinsed and filled the wash basin and carried it to the stove. Opening the reservoir attached to the side of the black appliance, she tipped the clean water inside, knowing it would warm up soon and provide her with a bit of comfort. She filled the basin again, and after filling the reservoir to the top, she set about washing the skillet and kettles, placing them in the basin and allowing the whole collection to heat on top of the stove.

Beneath the sink was a jar of soap, and she carried it back to the stove, not surprised to find the container behind the faded curtain some poor soul had hung to hide the assortment of odds and ends she’d tucked beneath her sink board. It was the same place her own mother kept a supply, and Loris was familiar with the ins and outs of a kitchen.

A glob of the slimy stuff would soon form bubbles in the basin and would give her a semblance of cleanliness when she began washing the utensils and dishes she planned to use. So she settled to wait for the fire to do its work, pulling a chair closer to the warmth and seeking the bundle of food her mother had given her.

The loaf of bread was cold, but she tore off a piece and bit into it. If the meat were warm, it would be more inviting, she decided, and, ignoring the fact that the skillet, by any measure of cleanliness, should be scrubbed first, she pulled it from the basin and rinsed it beneath the pump. With a quick swipe of her mother’s dish towel, she placed it on the top of the stove and put her piece of roast beef in it.

Bits and pieces of silverware were stored in one of the dresser drawers, a motley assortment, to be sure, but Loris found that necessity made her overlook much, and she found a knife to cut up the meat, allowing it to cook faster. Adding a bit of water assured it would not burn, and she waited patiently for her makeshift meal to be ready. Apparently the former tenants had headed for greener pastures and left here empty-handed.

A thin layer of gravy formed from the meat and water, and Loris cut her piece of bread in half and placed it to steam atop the slices of roast beef. A fork from the drawer was wiped on her towel, and when the meat had warmed through she placed the skillet on the table, then sat down to eat her breakfast.

The eggs would wait till dinnertime, she decided, and perhaps, if all of them were fit to eat, she’d poach them and eat them with another piece of her bread.

In the meantime, she’d do well to scout up a source of wood for the stove, since she’d already used up almost half of the supply left in the kitchen. Maybe there would be a woodpile outside, or hopefully, an ax in the barn, allowing her to cut her own. Not that she’d ever done such a thing, but it certainly couldn’t be all that difficult.

Her stomach reacted well to the food and she took the skillet to the sink, rinsing it with the flowing water from the pump. Filling the container she’d used to prime it earlier, she assured that the pump would be usable, and then set about washing the contents of the basin. Leaving them to dry, she decided to explore the pantry, the doorway of that small room beckoning her from across the kitchen.

It was dark, windowless, and she was delighted to find a candle on one of the shelves, awaiting a match. Within moments, she’d lit it and saw she’d stumbled on a storehouse of sustenance. The owners must have taken only what they could carry and left the rest, for jars of produce lined the top shelf, and partially filled bins of flour and sugar met her gaze. Even a smaller crock of coffee was there, and she smiled with pleasure as she considered the warmth it would elicit.

A dusty coffeepot was there, too, and she carried it to the sink, washed it quickly and then filled it with fresh water. Dumping in a handful of coffee, she settled it on the warmest spot on the stove, and found herself silently urging the fire to do its best to bring the coffee to a boil. An additional log added to the glowing coals insured its performance, and she set off for the back yard, hoping to find enough wood to keep herself in comfort for the remainder of the day and the night to come.

A pile of neatly stacked logs at the side of the house brought a smile to her lips and she carried a load indoors, depositing the wood in the box behind the stove. “This is more like it,” she murmured to herself, basking in the heat and congratulating herself on her ability thus far to survive.

“Where is she?” Connor Webster spoke the words in a rush, his appearance on her front porch apparently having struck Minnie Peterson speechless. The woman groped for a reply and finally grasped Connor by the arm and brought him into her front hallway.

“I don’t know,” Minnie said, her voice breaking.

“She’s not here?” Connor asked, and Minnie shook her head.

“She left last evening, right after supper. Not willingly, but her father gave her no choice.”

“And what about you?” Connor asked. “Did you just let her go out in the cold without knowing where she could find shelter?” Connor’s heart ached as he recalled his own harsh words to Loris.

“I had no choice,” Minnie said weakly. “I gave her a bit of food, and she’d packed a valise. What more could I do, under the circumstances?”

“You gave her a bit of food?” Connor asked incredulously. “Just what does that mean?”

“Don’t get huffy with me, young man. I shouldn’t have offered her even a crust of bread, after she brought disgrace down on her family the way she has.”

“No? Not even the fact that she is your daughter made a difference?”

“Alger told her she’s no longer our daughter,” Minnie said.

“And you agreed with him?”

“I had no choice,” she said.

“You had a choice,” Connor told her, as did he. “Now, have you any idea which way she headed?” The urge to find Loris was overwhelming now. And his anger with her was banished by the memory of her vulnerability.

“I watched her,” Minnie said. “She walked away from town, toward the open country.”

“On the road?”

Minnie nodded. “On the side of the road. There was fresh snow, and she apparently didn’t want to walk in the wagon ruts.”

Connor was silent, his mind working furiously. If she’d left last evening, after dark, she wouldn’t haven’t gotten very far, unless she’d just kept walking until she dropped. And in that case she would have frozen to death. The temperatures were below freezing, and last night they’d dropped far lower.

“What are you going to do?” Loris’s mother asked as Connor turned away.

“Find her.” The words were terse and to the point, and Minnie only nodded as she closed the door.

Connor mounted his horse and rode from the yard, heading out of town at a slow pace, his gaze on the sparse covering of snow beside the road. Several sets of footprints marred the pristine surface, but most of them were heading to town, not in the other direction.

One small set was easy to follow, and he turned his horse to the grassy area, the better to track them. If it was, indeed, Loris’s tracks he followed, she’d slipped several times and he winced as he thought of the harsh wind blowing toward her as she walked. He’d heard it around the house all night, in those long hours when he’d found it impossible to sleep, not knowing what had happened to her. Those dark hours when he’d admitted to himself that his love for her had not died.

The fact that her father had turned her out of the house didn’t surprise Connor. Alger Peterson was a harsh man, a man dedicated to all that was right and proper, and the idea of his daughter bearing a child out of wedlock must have struck him a heavy blow.

Connor wondered why the man hadn’t tried to understand his daughter’s dilemma, at least long enough to provide her with a place to live, and someone to look after her. Instead he’d booted her out.

The footprints Connor followed wove back and forth a bit, as if their owner were uncertain as to the path she took, and well she might have been. Walking away from town would not have offered her much choice as to the shelter she sought.

He passed by the Benson place, saw Joe himself outside, walking toward the barn, and thought for a moment that it would have been a good place for Loris to seek a resting place. But the footprints beside the road told a different story.

She’d bypassed Benson’s barn and walked on. Farther than he’d thought she would, for the next two places had been bypassed too, and after that point, hers were the only tracks to be seen in the sparse covering of snow.

Connor blessed that snow, for without it, he’d never have seen her trail. He needed to find Loris. She’d been betrayed by parents who should have given her love and affection, setting aside the disgrace she might have brought to them. And he, himself, had turned his back on her.

He cursed himself for being so harsh with her, for denying her his aid. He’d offered her money, his help should she want to leave town, but not the helping hand she’d needed. But he’d been so angry at her betrayal, he hadn’t been thinking straight.

If he found her by the side of the road, it would be on his head, for he’d been the logical one she could have counted on to give her help. And he’d turned her away. Sleep had evaded him during the night, his memory bringing her desperate plight before him when he would have slept. While he’d been tucked into his bed, she’d been walking through the night, and he felt the pangs of regret strike his soul with harsh lashes of the whip of remorse. Upon awakening, he’d left home to find her.

A wisp of smoke rose from an abandoned house to the south and he touched his horse’s barrel with his heels, his heart lifting as he considered the possibility of Loris having found shelter there. The owners, a couple named Stewart, had left town months ago, taking little with them. But the house was still livable, to his knowledge.

His horse trotted up the lane and to his relief, he noted the footprints that went before him. She was here. He’d lay money on it. Somehow, she’d gotten into the house and lit a fire. The prospect of finding her at the side of the road had daunted his spirits, but now he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving as he realized his fears might have been in vain.