Calico Christmas at Dry Creek

Then he spoke. “There must be some mistake. She doesn’t look like a widow—just look at her.”

Elizabeth had expected his voice to be harsh, but it wasn’t. It sounded kind and, if she was hearing right, a little discouraged. Although why the man would be feeling that way was beyond her. If he was worried about the way anyone around here looked, he should be worrying about himself instead of her. The soldiers here dressed better than he did. And that wasn’t saying much.

She’d noticed right off that the dye in the men’s uniforms was poor and some patches of wool were a darker blue than others. The buttonholes were fraying, too. That’s what came of using indigo for dye; everyone knew it ate away at the cloth. She would have used dyer’s woad if she’d been charged with making the garments, although the leaves of the plant did take longer to prepare.

Even with all of that, though, none of the soldiers wore buckskin the way this man did. One army man she’d talked to said he’d gladly wear a buffalo coat in winter if he had one, but he’d rather wear the blanket from his bed than dress like an Indian.

Elizabeth looked at the man in buckskin. The furs the man wore over his shoulder formed a pack of some sort that he kept close to his chest.

Elizabeth let the blanket she wore as a shawl slip away from her. The air chilled her skin, but she didn’t want to feel she was hiding anything. In her childhood, she had learned that a soft answer would smooth away most unpleasantness and that she was the one always expected to give it.

“Please, don’t let my appearance concern you. I normally do better,” she said.

The wind blew a strand of brown hair across her cheek and Elizabeth knew what the men saw. The mosquito bites on her face had faded, but the freckles she’d gotten from neglecting to wear her sunbonnet on the dreadful journey here were still plain. By now, the icy wind would have drawn all of the other color from her face, as well, so the freckles would stand out like tiny pebbles scattered on a bank of fresh snow.

And she still wasn’t wearing a hat; the only one she owned was that worn-out yellow sunbonnet and she refused to wear it ever again. She might even burn it in the fire one night before she died. Everything about it reminded her of the journey here and she wanted no part of those memories.

Elizabeth lifted her head high. She’d grown weary of trying to please others. She’d been orphaned young and spent her childhood being passed from household to household whenever extra help was needed. She’d never been asked to sit at the family table in any of these places where she worked, but she’d earned a measure of respect with her cooking and with her clever ways of dyeing cloth.

She was wearing her best dress, even if there was dirt on her skirt after crawling to the opening in her tent. Her hands brushed at the folds of the gray silk garment that she’d been given by the last family she had worked for. It had been damaged when they had given it to her, of course, but it was still the only silk dress she was likely to ever own. And it was twilled silk. Elizabeth had put the dress on last week when she realized she could hardly expect Mr. Miller to change her clothes for her burial.

“I never said there was anything wrong with the way you look.” The man’s eyes softened. “I just expected someone older. And not so pretty.”

Elizabeth watched in horror as the man reached out and touched her chin as through she was a child to be consoled.

“I’m hardly pretty,” Elizabeth said, a little more sharply than she intended. She moved her face slightly to discourage him, although his touch on her chin had been gentle and, surprisingly, pleasant.

She’d heard enough warnings in her life to know handsome men couldn’t always be trusted, especially not when they were talking to females who had no protectors. And this man was certainly trying to turn her up sweet for some purpose of his own. Matthew once said she looked nice, but that wasn’t the same as saying she was pretty. No one ever called her pretty and Elizabeth was sensible enough to know not to expect it. It wasn’t true.

She wondered for a moment if the man was delusional and then she remembered the fever. She always did look better when her cheeks had some color in them. Maybe the fever was already on her and she just hadn’t noticed it. She put her hand to her forehead.

“Well, I can’t expect you to help me.” The buckskin man finally said before turning to the sergeant as though he hadn’t just been smiling at her. “There’s got to be someone else.”

Elizabeth was ready to leave when the sergeant spoke urgently. “There’s nobody else. You’ve got to ask her—for the baby’s sake.”

“What—” Elizabeth looked around. Her hand dropped away from her forehead. There was no fever heat unless, of course, she was the one who was delusional. “What baby?”

There were no babies at the fort. She had asked. Mr. Miller thought she wanted to save herself the pain of seeing a living baby, but that wasn’t it. Babies were so innocent. If there was a baby around she would have asked to look at it, from a distance, of course, so as not to risk giving the fever to the little one.

She saw the buckskin man’s hand go to the bundle he wore across his chest.

“This baby,” the man said.

“Ohhh. Can I see it?”

The man started to turn the bundle toward her.

“I’ll keep back so you won’t have to worry about it getting sick.”

The man stopped his turning and looked up at the soldier. “I thought you said she didn’t have the fever.”

“That’s right,” Sergeant Rawlings said and then looked at Elizabeth. “The doctor said you’d be dead by now if you were going to get it. I was just coming over to tell you that when I ran into Jake here.”

“We can’t always time our deaths perfectly,” Elizabeth said. It wasn’t up to the doctor when she died. “I’m sure I’ll die soon enough.”

“But you don’t have the fever now?” the buckskin man asked.

“No, not yet, Mr…. ah…Mr….”

“It’s just Jake,” the man said.

Elizabeth frowned. After he had touched her chin, she should have known he had no manners. If she could be courteous when she was dying, the man could at least be polite when he stood there in vigorous health. He might dress like a heathen, but he didn’t need to act like one. A full name was not too much of an introduction to ask.

“How long do you plan to wait for this fever?” Jake asked.

Elizabeth lifted her chin. If he wasn’t going to show her the baby, he could just say so. And he could keep his hands to himself. “I’m sure I don’t know Mr….”

She didn’t know why she bothered with the man’s manners. She just wanted him to relent and show her the baby. She’d love to see a baby.

Jake was looking at her impatiently. “If you need the full name to feel better, it’s Jake Hargrove.”

“Well, Mr. Hargrove.” Elizabeth nodded her head in acknowledgment. There. That had made her feel better. “I’m Elizabeth O’Brian and I plan to be here as long as it takes to die. Did you need this land for something?”

It wasn’t only the preserves that might interest the men, Elizabeth had realized. They could also want the very ground under her feet. God might not even leave her with that.

Except for the lone cottonwood tree, the piece of ground where she had her tent didn’t have anything on it, not after she’d pulled up the few scraggly thistles that had managed to survive the scorching heat of this past summer. There were more cottonwood trees farther up the ravine, but she doubted even a jackrabbit wanted the barren piece of land that was now her camp. Although she did know there were men who would lay claim to something just because someone else had their tent pitched on it already. Maybe this buckskin man was one of them.

“No, no, it’s not that,” Jake said and then he hesitated. “It’s you. Women are scarce out here and it’s hard for a man to find one when he needs her.”

Elizabeth blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

Sergeant Rawlings spoke up. “It’s not what you think, ma’am. It’s on account of the baby being hungry is all.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth breathed out in wonder. She knew in that moment she was going to see the baby.

Jake hesitated and then finished unwinding the furs from his shoulders.

The baby was so tiny and its eyes were shut. Elizabeth thought it must be sleeping until the baby opened its mouth and yawned. Her Rose used to yawn like that.

“There’s no one to feed her,” Jake said. “I asked all around Miles City before I came out to the fort.”

“Miller thought he might be able to milk one of your oxen,” Sergeant Rawlings said. “But it didn’t seem like it would work.”

“I should think not,” Elizabeth said as she stepped closer to the baby. She left enough room so that she wouldn’t pass on any sickness just in case. “It’s a little girl then, is it? If I could, I would feed her.”

The baby started to give a weak wail.

Elizabeth felt her breasts grow heavy with milk. “Where’s her mother?”