Their Frontier Family

Sweat trickling down his back, he began to chop away the branches so he could roll the first fresh log aside and start on the next tree, a maple. Then he heard something unexpected. He stopped, checking to see if he’d actually heard it.

In the distance came the sound of another ax. And another.

Irritation prickled through him.

“Do you hear that?” Sunny asked from behind him. “Sounds like someone else is felling trees. Maybe they’re building a cabin not too far away.”

Hoping she was dead wrong, he glanced over his shoulder and glimpsed her smile as she listened intently. She’d obviously just walked back from the creek, a dishpan of washed breakfast dishes in her arms.

“Might be loggers. Or someone cutting wood for winter so it has time to cure before then.” He turned back to the maple. “You need to keep back from me. When I take a swing, I don’t want to hit you.”

“I’ll stay back. I’m setting up my outdoor kitchen and such,” she said, moving away.

The sound of the other axes on the clean spring air echoed around his own swings, making it harder to concentrate and keep his own rhythm. He fumed. I chose this site because it was miles from town and any other homestead. Whoever you are, go away.

As if the logger had heard his thoughts, the distant chopping stopped.

He shook his arms and shoulders, loosening them. With renewed purpose, he swung his ax, eating into the corn-hued wood pulp, sending chips and bark flying.

In between swings he overheard Sunny singing to Dawn. He’d made the right decision. Sunny always kept cheerful, never complained and worked hard. They’d make do.

Noah was sizing up the third tree when something startled him.

“Hello, the wagon!” called a cheerful male voice.

Noah was puzzled for a second, then realized the greeting was a twist on the usual frontier salute of “Hello, the house,” which people often said to let the inhabitants of a house know someone was approaching, giving them time to prepare to welcome rare visitors.

Just what Noah didn’t need—clever company.

“Hello!” Sunny called in return. “Welcome!”

Her buoyant voice grated Noah’s nerves. He lowered his ax, trying to prepare himself to meet whoever had intruded. With one swift downward stroke he sunk the ax into a nearby stump.

Two men, both near his age, were advancing on him, smiles on their faces and their right hands outstretched. He didn’t smile, but he did shake their hands in turn.

He wanted to be left alone, but he didn’t want people talking behind his back, thinking him odd. He’d had enough of that in the army and in Pennsylvania. In the army his Quaker plain speech had marked him as odd and back home, he was a Quaker who’d gone to war. He hadn’t fitted in either place. And he’d given up trying.

“We heard your ax,” the taller of the two said. “I’m Charles Fitzhugh and this is Martin Steward. We’re your closest neighbors.”

“I’m Noah Whitmore.” Then he introduced the men to Sunny and Dawn, his wife and child. “Your claims must not be very far away.” He clenched his jaw. He’d checked every direction but one—northeast—since he’d been told that no claim lay in those rolling hills.

“Mine’s a little over a mile away on the other side of a hill—” Charles pointed northeast “—and Martin’s another half mile farther from mine.” The man grinned affably. “I’ve a wife and two daughters, and Martin’s building his cabin to bring his bride to.”

Martin’s cheeks reddened at this announcement. He had a round face and brown hair in a bowl cut. “She lives south near Galena, Illinois.”

“What’s her name?” Sunny asked, waving the men toward the fire. She soon was pouring them cups of coffee.

Noah ground his teeth. Maybe it was time he made things clear to Sunny about not being overly friendly. He hadn’t thought it necessary, based on her difficult past. He’d assumed she’d want to keep to herself as much as he did. Clearly he had much to learn about his wife.

Charles complimented Sunny on the coffee and then turned to Noah. “I’m helping Martin get his cabin up. Why don’t we join forces and work together? Three men can get a cabin up in days. Since you’ve a wife and child, we’ll come and help you first and then we can help Martin out. Get him married off sooner than later.”

Martin face turned a darker red.

Noah nearly choked, his reluctance shooting up into his throat. “I—”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Sunny crowed. “So neighborly.” And she wrung each man’s hands in turn. “Isn’t that wonderful, Noah?” She turned, beaming toward him.

Noah wanted to object, to tell them he didn’t want their help. But the words wouldn’t come. Quakers—not even his father—wouldn’t rudely rebuff any offer of help.

He nodded and folded his arms over his chest.

“I already told my wife that we were coming down to stay the day and get a load of work done.” Charles grinned, apparently oblivious to Noah’s reluctance. He and Martin handed Sunny their empty cups.

“I’ll have lunch enough for all of us,” Sunny promised. She quickly glanced at Noah. “I’ll warn you though, I’m not much of a cook.”

Noah turned away and the men followed him, discussing which tree to cut down next. Martin said he was good at squaring off and produced his adze, stripping bark from the already-downed trees.

Soon Noah and Charles were chopping the maple as a team. With each stroke of the his ax, Noah swallowed down his annoyance. Why couldn’t people leave him alone?

Sunny must be made to understand exactly how he wanted the two of them to live. He needed to make that clear. Once and for all.

* * *

By the cook fire Sunny and Noah sat on logs across from each other. Supper eaten, she eyed him in the lowering sunlight, her nerves tightening by the moment. The instant their neighbors had appeared, she’d noted her husband withdrawing. No one else had noticed. But it had been obvious to her. Now he was clenching and unclenching his hands around his last cup of coffee, frowning into the fire. Why didn’t he like such kind neighbors coming to help?

Rattled, she didn’t know what to do in the face of his displeasure—whether to speak or keep silent. She couldn’t imagine Noah lifting a hand to her but in the past men had. One—in a drunk rage—had broken her hand.

Fighting the old fear, she nursed Dawn and then put her down for the night in the little hammock in the wagon. Then she stood in the lengthening shadows by the wagon, unable to stop chafing her poor thumb. As she watched her angry husband, she felt her nerves give way to aggravation. Nothing had happened that should make any man upset.

Finally she recalled one of Constance Gabriel’s few words of advice: “Do not let the sun go down upon your wrath.” These words from the Bible must be right. But could she do it? Could she confront this man who’d only been her husband for a period of weeks?

A memory slipped into her thoughts. Constance and Adam Gabriel had been alone in the kitchen, talking in undertones. She’d overheard Constance say, “Adam, this must be decided.”

So wives did confront husbands. Sunny took a deep breath.

“Noah,” she said, “what’s wrong?”

“I don’t want people hanging around,” he muttered darkly.

“Why not?” she insisted, leaning forward to hear him.

He sat silent, his chest heaving and his face a mask of troubled emotions.

“What is wrong, Noah? The men just came to help us.”

“I don’t want their help. I want to be left alone. I don’t want us getting thick with people hereabout. I picked this homesite far from town to steer clear of people. I’ve had enough of people to last me a lifetime. In the future, we will keep to ourselves.”

His words were hammers. “Keep to ourselves?” she gasped. The happy image of Dawn in her white pinafore shifted to a shy, downcast Dawn hanging back from the other children who looked at her, their expressions jeering as tears fell down her cheeks.