A Bride for Donnigan

Chapter Seventeen

Understanding

It was true. Risa had left Wallis. She had gone to town to shop—she said—and not returned. Wallis went to look for her and was told that she had caught the two-o’clock stage heading east. Risa had talked to no one but the ticket agent. “She said she was going to Raeford to catch the train,” said the man. “Thet’s all I know.”

“But why?” wailed Wallis. “Why?”

Donnigan spent some time with his old friend, letting him talk, hearing him out, offering his help.

“Shore, we had our times,” admitted Wallis, wiping at unashamed tears. “All couples do I guess. But they weren’t of much importance—an’ they didn’t last fer long.”

Donnigan nodded. He and Kathleen had experienced their “times” as well. It took a good deal of adjusting to get things worked out in a marriage. There were still occasions when they seemed to look at the same situation with two different sets of eyes.

“She came from a big city. Didn’t care much fer the farm. She called it dirty an’ a weed patch,” went on Wallis. He sniffed forlornly. “I thought we was gettin’ things whipped into pretty good shape.”

Wallis stopped to look around his little cabin and Donnigan’s eyes followed his. The room bore the marks of a woman’s hands. An edge of lace curtain hung at the sparkling window. The cupboard shelves were covered with a ruffle of blue gingham. Woven rugs were scattered across the floor, and the crude table’s cracks were hidden by an oil cloth with sprays of bright yellow flowers. It certainly didn’t look like the cabin Donnigan remembered. With a wry grin he noticed that there were no bridles or pieces of harness anywhere. Not on the pegs by the door—not on the chairs. Not even on the floor in the corner.

It was Donnigan who put on the coffeepot. Wallis didn’t seem to be thinking too well. He hadn’t eaten since he’d had the news.

Donnigan wished he could say, “She’ll be back,” but he wasn’t sure if it was true.

Instead he said, “We’ll see what we can find out. Surely there is some way to trace her. Find out just why—what it was that—” He didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to go on with his thoughts. Wallis didn’t seem to even notice.

Wallis looked up at the smell of the boiling coffee. Donnigan went to the cupboard and found some bread and jam. It wasn’t much but it might get the man through the day.

But Wallis just looked at the bread and his face crumpled again. “She sure could bake good bread,” he said to Donnigan and the tears were running down his cheeks again.

Donnigan supposed that the next days would hold many memories for Wallis. It seemed that everywhere he looked there were reminders of Risa’s presence in the home.

At length Donnigan faced the fact that there was really nothing more he could do for the grieving man, and he had a pack of chores waiting for him at home. He bid Wallis good-night with the promise that he’d be back the next day.

“How is he?” asked Kathleen.

Donnigan’s shoulders slumped in discouragement. He took off his broad hat and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s pretty badly shaken up,” he said wearily.

“I know—I know it must have been hard for her. But how could she do that to him?” said Kathleen, anger edging her voice.

“I don’t think Risa was ever happy there—and you must admit that Wallis wouldn’t be an easy man to live with.”

“No man is easy to live with,” said Kathleen.

“Even me?” he quipped.

But she was in no mood for teasing. He knew that her anger had to have vent. He only smiled to himself. Kathleen still had trouble with her temper.

“That doesn’t give one call to—to just pack up and leave,” Kathleen went on.

“No. No,” agreed Donnigan, “it wasn’t fair for her to just leave—without—without giving the man a chance—without saying her piece—or even saying goodbye. It wasn’t a good way to be doing it.”

He pushed his fingers through his hair again. “I need to get to the chores,” he said, weariness tinging his voice again.

“I slopped the pigs and fed the hens,” said Kathleen.

His eyes dropped to her waistline and Kathleen could read his thinking. “Kathleen—I wish you wouldn’t—” He was trying to shelter her again.

“I didn’t fill the pails to the top,” she argued. “And the pigs were squealing for their supper. And I had to go to the chicken pen to gather the eggs anyway.”

Donnigan nodded, but his thoughts were still heavy as he left the house. He ached for Wallis. The poor man was grieving as if he had faced a death. And maybe he had. How could a man lose what was a part of him and not feel that something—something real and important had died? And what on earth would he ever do if something happened to his Kathleen?

“Sure now, and that boy’s not an Irishman,” Kathleen commented as she and Donnigan watched their small son playing on the floor. “He’s even fairer than his father.”

Sean squealed as he batted at the new red ball that Donnigan had brought home from town.

“Well, he doesn’t have an Irish temper—and that’s the pure truth,” teased Donnigan and got the response that he had expected as a towel Kathleen was folding came flying through the air.

He caught it and tossed it back, grinning in playfulness.

Kathleen sobered. “You’re right,” she admitted. “He’s never had a temper fit.”

“Well, he is all of nine months old,” Donnigan reminded her.

“Sure—and a good Irish baby can be mighty good at screaming by nine months,” responded Kathleen, and they both laughed.

“I wonder what this new one will be like?” Kathleen wondered softly.

“You expect it to be different?”

The ball rolled away and Sean chased it across the floor and caught up to it under a kitchen chair. Donnigan watched as the small boy maneuvered his way between the legs and rungs to retrieve what he was after.

“He’s smart,” he boasted to the child’s mother.

“Sure now—and that’s Irish,” laughed Kathleen.

Donnigan turned back to his wife. “You really expect the next one to be different?”

“Well …” said Kathleen slowly as she lifted the laundry basket. “I’ve never met two people exactly alike yet. And from what I’m knowing—they mostly start out like they are going to be from the very beginning.”

Donnigan nodded.

Kathleen let her eyes return to her infant son, love and pride glowing in them. “If the good Lord sent another one just like him—I wouldn’t be complaining,” she said and she started toward the bedroom with her clean laundry.

There were clouds in the afternoon sky. Kathleen wondered if Donnigan might get rained on. He was working the far field and was a long ways from the shelter of the house.

“I think it’s going to rain,” she said to the small boy who had pulled himself up to a kitchen chair and was playing with a ball of Kathleen’s mending yarn. “Your father might get wet.”

Sean gurgled and grinned.

“You’re not worried?” Kathleen gently scolded. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t worry either. He is a big man—he can take care of himself.”

But in spite of her words, Kathleen found her eyes kept going back to the window and the approaching storm.

Then the thunder began to roll in the distance and sheets of lightning danced across the darkened sky.

“It’s going to rain for sure,” said Kathleen to her son. “I wish he would come in.”

But Kathleen knew that Donnigan would likely stay in the field for as long as he could—fighting to beat the rain.

The storm moved in rapidly. The thunder now cracked and crackled overhead. The lightning zigzagged across the sky, ripping open the dark, tumbling clouds. Kathleen waited for the sound of rain, but there was only the angry thunder and the slashing, rending light.

An unusually loud crash of thunder shook the little cabin and Sean looked bewildered, then frightened, and his lip curled and he began to cry. Kathleen crossed quickly to him and scooped him into her arms.

“That was a close one and that’s for sure,” she said as she rocked the wee babe in her arms and tried to soothe him. Inside, her own stomach was churning with fright. She had never been in a storm that had struck so close. She did wish that Donnigan would hurry.

She crossed back to the window to peer out and see if he might be coming, but a frightening sight met her eyes. The nearby haystack was in flames.

“Oh, merciful God!” cried Kathleen, “we’ve been hit.”

She wasn’t sure what to do. She was thankful that the stack was far enough away from the barn and corrals that it shouldn’t be a concern.

“Oh, Donnigan,” she cried as she clutched Sean. “Hurry!”

And then, to Kathleen’s horror she saw the little fingers of hungry flames that were reaching out from the stack and igniting grass as it moved from the stack to the ground around. The rivulets of flame were moving directly toward the house. Kathleen clutched Sean closer. What should she do? Flee—or fight?

Without time for more thought, Kathleen hurriedly placed her son on the floor and ran from the cabin. She stopped only long enough to grab a gunny sack from the nearby root cellar and dip it in the trough, then hurried toward the flames. Each time that she beat one back, another seemed to stream toward her. The heat from the burning stack was almost more than she could bear. But she had to save her home. She had to save her son.

Tears streamed down her face as she fought on. They were the only moisture with which she fought—for the rains had still not come.

“Oh, God!” cried Kathleen. “God help me. Help me.”

But even as she cried she feared that it was a losing battle. The flames that reached toward the cabin seemed to be stronger than the frail woman who fought against them.

Just as she was about to faint from her exertion, the heavens opened and the rain came pouring down. Kathleen lifted her eyes to the darkened skies and cried a thank you, then returned to her fight with renewed determination. With the help of the rain, she should be able to win her war.

“Kathleen. Kathleen!”

Kathleen heard his call but she didn’t answer. She didn’t stop beating at the flames that were now slowly retreating.

“Kathleen,” he said and he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her toward him.

Kathleen’s face was white except for the streaks of dirty gray from the soot that floated around her. Her hair was dishevelled, her dress torn at the hem. She was drenched from head to toe with the rain she had prayed for, and her eyes were so filled with terror that she looked like a wounded thing—caught in a trap from which she could not flee.

Donnigan pulled her close for one brief minute and held her. “It’s all right,” he tried to comfort her but his own body was shaking. “The rain will stop it. It’s all right.”

He smoothed her hair back from her face and then moved his hands to hold her head, touching the dirty cheeks with his thumbs.

“It’s all right now,” he comforted again.

Kathleen nodded dumbly, the tears mixing freely with the rain on her face.

“You go in,” he said. “See to Sean. I’ll watch this.”

Kathleen noticed that he was soaked through. Near the barn the team stood—in harness and untethered. Donnigan never left the horses like that.

Then Kathleen thought of her young son. He had been terrified by the storm. What would he be feeling now, being dumped quickly on the floor while his mother fled the house? He must be frightened half to death being left alone in the cabin.

Kathleen took one more look at Donnigan then moved from his arms.

She found her son halfway between the house and the burning stack. He had been crying. His eyes were still red and puffy, but now he sat, playing quite happily in a puddle of muddy water. The rain still washed over him, soaking his clothing, running over his blond hair, and dripping from his chin. From time to time he stuck out his tongue to try to catch the drops; then he returned to splashing the dirty water from the puddle up and over his clothes—over his face.

He squealed when he saw Kathleen coming and his hand slapped more excitedly in the puddle, making the muddied water fly even faster.

Kathleen began to cry. Then to laugh. “Look at you!” she exclaimed. “How did you get here?”

She picked up her rain-drenched son and looked toward the house. The door was wide open. Sean could not open doors. Donnigan had not been to the house. That meant only one thing. In her hurry, she had left the door open.

Kathleen hugged Sean close. “You could have been hurt,” she murmured. “You could have been burned. I wouldn’t even have seen you in my concern for the fire.”

Again Kathleen lifted her head heavenward. She had something more for which to be thankful.

The next day she lost the baby she was carrying. The pains had started during the night. There was really nothing they could do to stop it from happening. When it was all over, Kathleen turned her face to the wall and cried uncontrollable tears. She had wanted the baby. Another little Sean. She had already learned to love him. Had been counting the months.

“We have Sean,” Donnigan whispered, wiping away her tears.

But suddenly that didn’t seem to be enough. She had wanted them both. Had wanted both of her babies to love and care for. One couldn’t make up for the loss of the other. It wasn’t that simple.

For the first time, Kathleen felt she truly understood Erma’s pain. No wonder the woman had grieved. It wasn’t just “hope” that she had lost. It was a child. A child she had carried, had loved. Kathleen sobbed for the baby she would never know.

It was a long time until she could fall asleep.

“Kathleen?” The voice was low and gentle. It was Donnigan. Kathleen waited until the voice came again. “Kathleen?”

She stirred to let him know she had heard him.

“How are you?” he asked and dropped beside her on the bed, smoothing back her hair, letting his fingers trace her cheek.

“Where’s Sean?” she asked, rather than answering his question.

“Sleeping. He’s fine.”

He continued to brush back her long dark hair.

“Would you like some supper?”

Kathleen shook her head. She had no desire for something to eat.

“Tea? You should take something.”

“Not tonight,” said Kathleen, and Donnigan did not push further.

There was heavy silence in the room. Donnigan seemed to be battling with his thoughts—or how to say his words.

“Would—would you like to see—see your daughter?” he finally managed, his voice choked.

Kathleen’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought about the baby’s gender—nor the possibility of seeing her miscarried child.

She tried to swallow—but her throat didn’t work well. She felt the tears sting her eyes. She wanted to answer Donnigan but the words would not come. So she just nodded her head, mutely.

Donnigan brushed at one of the tears on her cheek. “You—you must remember that it—it won’t be like seeing Sean—for the first time,” Donnigan said softly and Kathleen knew he was trying to prepare her. Shelter her again. Love swelled her heart. She felt that Donnigan would go through life trying to shelter her. She was glad.

“She’s very small,” continued Donnigan. “And she isn’t—isn’t like a newborn—exactly. But she’s all there. Even her little fingers. Her toes.”

Kathleen knew now without a doubt that she wanted to see her baby. Had to see her baby. “Bring her to me,” she whispered.

Donnigan let his fingers trail across her cheek, rub her hair, and then he rose from the bed and left the room.

He carried the little bundle to its mother in the palm of one of his big hands. He had bathed the tiny body and wrapped her in a soft face cloth. She was far too tiny to dress in any of the small baby garments.

He did not lay her in Kathleen’s arms as he had done with Sean, but lowered his hand so that Kathleen could look at her child. And yes, she was all there. Even those tiny little fingers that Donnigan had spoken of.

“There must be a God in heaven,” Kathleen breathed as she reached a finger out to gently touch the tiny hand, and the tears began to flow again, unchecked.

“Put her in my hands,” said Kathleen when she could speak, and Donnigan gently eased the little body into the hands of the sobbing mother. “I—I would have called her Taryn,” said Kathleen through her tears.

“Taryn,” repeated Donnigan. “I like it. Taryn.”

And both of them knew that Taryn she would always be.

“I’ve made a little—little casket,” said Donnigan, his voice deep with emotion. “I used that cedar handkerchief box from the dresser. I lined it with some of the flannel from your sewing basket.”

“Oh, Donnigan,” wailed Kathleen as she suddenly leaned against him. “I wanted her so much. So much.”

Donnigan held her and they wept together. Then Donnigan gently retrieved the small burden from Kathleen’s hands.

“I thought—under the tree at the end of the garden,” he said softly. “She’ll always be with us then.”

Kathleen was weeping into her pillow.

“I’ll bring her in before I go.”

As promised, Donnigan brought the baby in for her mother to see one last time. She looked like a tiny sleeping doll arranged on the white flannel, the folds gently tucked about her elfin face. The cedar hankie box was plenty big enough. Kathleen was glad that Donnigan had thought of it.

In the morning, the tree at the end of the garden sheltered a small mound of freshly dug earth. Later Donnigan made a small wooden cross, and on it, with his whittling knife, he carved a tiny rosebud. “For our little bud that never became a flower,” he told Kathleen, and brought the tears to her eyes again.