Read Online Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] by Lonesome River - Free Book Online Page B

shillin’. Work is all ya want to do. I ain’t been fishin’ fer so long I’ve plumb forgot how.”
    Farr led the horse back from the stream and staked him in the shadows of the huge trees so he could eat the tall grass. Grumbling, Elija followed.
    Liberty stood beside the stream after her father left her, her head bowed, her unseeing gaze on the rippling water. Tears of frustration filled her eyes. Her unruly hair had worked loose and its shining curls made a decorative frame for her strong, still, beautiful face. In her chest her heart pounded to the rhythm of the words that beat in her mind. It was not true! It was not true! She nagged because she had to, she cried silently, and she held the purse strings tight because otherwise it would all have been spent at the Bloody Red Ox.
    An owl hooted nearby, and an answer came from some distant place. Like a doe who sensed danger, she tensed, poised, and tilted her head in a listening position. Stories of Indian atrocities flooded her mind.
    “It
was
an owl.” Farr’s voice came out of the darkness and she turned to see him beside her.
    “How do you know?”
    “The crickets are still singing back in the woods. I’m reasonably sure we’re all right here for a while, but put your shawl over your head. That hair of yours shines like a candle in the moonlight.” He lay down on the rocks bordering the stream, removed his hat, and plunged his face into the water.
    Liberty draped the shawl over her head, held it together beneath her chin, and watched him. He was the most confident man she had ever known. There was something plain and honest and earthy in his manner, not at all like the men in Middlecrossing. It amazed her that Farrway Quill, a stranger, had stepped in and assumed responsibility for them. Farrway Quill. She liked his name, his face, his gentleness with the children, his quick decisions. He was the type of man who would tame this vast wilderness.
    She had yearned to be a part of the western movement, to build a home in a new land. She still wanted that despite all that had happened since they started the journey. She would have a house standing by itself in the center of her land, she mused. One that would withstand summer storms, give warmth in winter and protect her from wild things. Before the sun was up she would be hard at work growing vegetables, flax and corn, finding berries and greens and nuts in the woods. She would make hot breads and meat stews for her man when he came in from a hard day of labor. They would go to a bed spread with woolen sheets she had woven. . . .
    All these thoughts flashed through Liberty’s mind while she watched Farr wipe the water from his face with his two hands and slam his hat back on his head. She was grateful for the darkness that hid her flaming face when he looked at her and was ashamed that she could think of another man with her husband so newly laid to rest. But Jubal was not a
husband,
she reasoned, more like a dear friend. She had never lain in his arms, he had never lifted her and held her to his chest, or kissed her with passion. Jubal was not strong enough to take care of himself, much less a wife. He was not strong about anything. The main difference between him and her father was that Jubal didn’t complain.
    Farr stood looking down at her, his long body relaxed, a boneless grace that was neither anxious nor indifferent. While he waited for her to speak, time and space seemed to shrink to the small, rocky place where they stood beside the stream.
    “Liberty?” He said her name slowly.
    “You think it’s a silly name
    “No. It suits you.”
    “My mother’s people came from Philadelphia. When the Liberty Bell arrived from London in 1752, my great-grandfather helped to place it in Independence Hall. And twenty-four years later, my mother was allowed to tug on the rope when the bell rang on Independence Day. Because she was very proud of that, she named me Liberty.”
    She met his look with unsmiling