Too Long a Stranger (Women of the West) (8 page)

"I am? I am home?"

Sarah could not believe it. She turned her head to look about her. The team of bays had stopped in front of their own barn door.

For reasons Sarah could not have explained, she buried her head on the heavy rug and wept.

***

Boyd took the wagon for the rest of the week. Sarah was not prepared to argue. Mrs. Galvan sided with her son and insisted that Sarah stay put until she fully recuperated from the ordeal. There was concern about frostbite, but after some miserable, painful days, Sarah seemed to have fared quite well.

"I'll never know how you ever made it through," said the kind neighbor woman. "I prayed all day."

"I guess that's how I made it," replied Sarah. "I was doing a good deal of praying myself."

Sarah had almost forgotten about the threatening man who had appeared as though out of the storm. Now and then his words came back to haunt her. She still puzzled over their meaning. But with Boyd driving the wagon until she was again able to resume the run, Sarah pushed the matter from her mind.

The next week the weather had settled down to being just cold and bleak, and Sarah picked up the reins again to take back the freight route. But by then she was willing to lay aside her pride. She rummaged through the drawer still filled with Michael's clothes and came up with heavy woollen trousers. She pulled the sturdy pair of pants over her woollen stockings and refused to look at herself in the hall mirror. She did not wish to see the unsightly, unladylike figure she had become. Instead, she turned her back on her own reflection, pulled one of Michael's bulky sweaters over her own, and looked down at her heavily stockinged feet.

"It will only be until the weather turns warm again," she promised herself. "Then I can go back to being a lady."

She stepped into the small nursery room and pressed a kiss on Rebecca's soft head. She was glad the child was still sleeping. Surely she would have found it difficult to recognize her own mother in such a getup.

***

"Have you heard the news?" Mrs. Galvan asked when Sarah went to reclaim Rebecca at the end of an early spring day.

Sarah lifted her eyes to the older woman's face to judge if the news forthcoming would be good or bad.

"What news?" she asked, though from the look on the woman's face she knew it was not to be good news.

"You're to have some competition."

"Competition?"

The woman nodded her head. Sarah could hear the irritation in Mrs. Galvan's voice when she spoke.

"Some fella is runnin' around town tryin' to git folks to hire him to haul their freight."

Sarah could not believe her ears.

"Stopped by the store. Guess Boyd let 'im know where he stood on the matter."

"But—who—?" began Sarah.

"Some fella by the name of Williams or Wilson or somethin'. He's fairly new in town—though Boyd says he's seen him hangin' around some."

Sarah's mind flew back to the stranger who had presented himself in the storm. Over the months that had followed she had had only fleeting thoughts about his challenge.

"Been makin' all sorts of wild promises. Promises earlier delivery—lower rates—free unloadin'."

"Folks don't pay for the unloading now," cut in Sarah.

"No—but most of them do their own," rejoined Mrs. Galvan.

Sarah had to admit it was true. When Michael had done the hauling, he had also done the unloading. Since Sarah had taken over the route, folks had just started out giving her a hand. Now she thought nothing of it as they unloaded their own freight.

"I should be doing the unloading myself," she murmured quietly.

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Galvan. "No one in this here town minds lendin' a hand."

Sarah felt her shoulders slump. She had made it through her first winter. She had never missed a payment at the bank. She had thought they were over the worst hurdle. Even though she was always exhausted when she arrived home at the end of a long day, yet she was gradually getting used to the wearisome grind.

And Rebecca seemed to be doing fine. She babbled and chatted and showed her mother all the new tricks she learned at the Galvan household. Rebecca did not seem to be suffering at all in spite of her disjointed home life. For that, Sarah was the most thankful.

"Do you think—? Do you think it is a real— threat?" Sarah managed to ask, her voice a bit husky. She didn't know what she would do if she lost her customers.

"Boyd—Boyd thinks it's a matter for concern," Mrs. Galvan said honestly.

Sarah allowed herself the support of a nearby kitchen chair.

"What can I do?" she asked wearily.

"Well—you will never lose some of your customers. In fact, I would suspect a good number of the folks will stand behind you. But—well—it could be harder to meet those bank payments each month."

Sarah nodded. She had taken great pride in being able to meet the payments—even over the tough winter months. But there had been very little to spare for their other needs. On two occasions she had been afraid she might have to accept the credit at Alex Murray's store.

"I—I can't afford to lose
any,"
she managed. "I—I just barely make it now."

"I don't know how important it is to get the freight in earlier," Mrs. Galvan went on.

"I can always leave earlier in the morning," answered Sarah.

"You don't get enough sleep now," interposed Mrs. Galvan.

"Rebecca has been a bit fussy the last two nights. She's had a bit of a tummy upset. She'll soon be sleeping fine again."

"It's more than one or two nights of lost sleep. You've been pushing too hard, Sarah. We are all worried about you. Look at you. You're near skin and bones."

Sarah looked down at her loosely hanging garments. "It's just these big clothes of Michael's," she argued. "If I were in my own things, I wouldn't look like this."

"You wear your own things on Sunday, Sarah. The folks at church are really worried. You look thinner every week."

Sarah had to admit that she had lost weight. But she didn't think she looked so bad that the entire congregation should be fretting over her.

She attempted to change the subject. "What do you think I can do about this new—this competition?"

"Can you afford to take a cut in your hauling rates?" the older woman asked.

Sarah thought about it. "I am operating on a narrow margin now," she admitted. "I don't know how I'd ever manage to make it on any less."

"Then I guess we've got some real prayin' to do," Mrs. Galvan said seriously.

The two women looked at each other for a long moment. That seemed to be the only answer.

Sarah called to Rebecca, who was playing with a kitten and a spool of thread.

"Come, love. Time to go home now."

For the first time ever Rebecca did not instantly run to her mother, anxious to go home.

"Rebecca," called Sarah to the busy little figure. "It's time to go home."

Rebecca lifted her head long enough to look squarely at her mother. "Wanna play," she said plainly. "Wanna stay with Auntie Min. You go."

She waved a tiny hand toward the door, her eyes still on her mother's face. "You go," she said again.

Sarah could not have described the pain that pierced her heart. This was worse then losing the freight route. Her own daughter—the child she loved with all her heart was calmly dismissing her in favor of Auntie Min. She was no longer the most important person in Rebecca's world. It hurt so badly that it took her breath away.

"Come on, Rebecca," Mrs. Galvan called, seeming to sense Sarah's deep pain. "Yer mama is ready to go home now. You can play with Tiger in the morning."

She did not wait for the child to respond favorably but crossed the room and lifted her up in her arms.

"Remember what you have to take home? Remember the cookies that we baked especially for your supper?"

Rebecca immediately became excited. "We baked cookie for you," she said to Sarah. "Me can carry. Me."

The fact that the small child had been placated and agreed to accompany her mother home did very little to ease the hurt in Sarah's heart.

***

It had not been a false rumor. The next day as Sarah pulled into the station to pick up her load, she spotted another wagon there ahead of her, the team already tied and a man loading barrels. Sarah was nearly positive it was the man who had spoken to her through the darkness. She was sure if he were to speak now, she would recognize his voice.

Her manner was cool as she approached the depot office.

"Miz Perry," Mr. Parker said, as though surprised to see her there or embarrassed to be discovered giving business to another in her place. "Didn't know iffen you'd be in today."

"I am in every day, Mr. Parker," Sarah reminded him evenly.

"Well—er—of course. 'Cept we heerd ya might be turning over yer route."

"I've no idea who started that rumor," Sarah replied, her back straight, her chin up. "It certainly didn't come from me."

"Well, I wouldn't be faultin' ya for it none, ma'am. Mighty tough job fer a woman."

"I think I've been doing the job," Sarah said in a rather loud voice. She hoped with all her heart that her words carried to the man hoisting the barrels. "I've heard no complaints from my customers. No complaints at all. Have you, Mr. Parker?"

"No—no, none at all," the man was quick to assure her.

"Then I am assuming that you have some freight for me to haul today," Sarah went on.

" 'Course. 'Course," replied the man. "Thet there pile right there," and he pointed to the stack to her left. Sarah noticed that it was smaller than normal. That meant that the competition had already managed to weasel away some of her business.

"Where is Hank?" she asked the depot manager.

"I—I believe he's gone on home, ma'am," said the man at the barrels.

Sarah did recognize his voice. It most certainly was the man who had accosted her during the severe winter storm. She was sure that he was responsible for sending the boy home when there was indeed freight to be loaded. Her eyes went back to the pile. Perhaps it was better that the lad was not there. At least she would not have to pay him this time.

"Fine," she said, giving the unwelcome stranger a straight look and setting about to load her own pile.

Even though the crates and bundles were not as numerous as usual, and even though the man had managed to take all the barrels she normally hauled, Sarah's back was ready to break by the time she wrestled the last crate on board. By then the other team had already pulled out and was making dust on the track that ran from the north side of the town.

He'll beat me back to town, and that's for sure,
Sarah said angrily to herself.
He's got lighter, faster horses.
For the first time since she had taken on her job, Sarah felt dissatisfaction with her team. They were steady and reliable—but they were anything but fast. They plodded along in spite of her urging them to hurry.

"I might have to get some faster horses," she said to herself. "Faster horses and a lighter wagon."

But she thought of all of the rough miles of traveling and knew instinctively that she was much better off with the outfit she had. Hadn't she heard Michael say many times in the past that for hauling freight one needed a good strong, steady team and a wagon that could take the road and the weather? Had Michael been wrong? Was she about to lose her dray business to a man who seemed bent on running a race?

Sarah's eyes stung with unshed tears as she urged the horses forward. After all her hard struggles, it looked as if she might lose, after all.

Making It

"I hope you do not see it as interference, but I— I've talked to some of the men in town—about the freight line."

Sarah looked evenly at Alex Murray. He held her gaze.

"I've been concerned about you—Mrs. Perry. I thought—well, I thought it was one way that I might be—of help."

Sarah nodded slowly. Just what had Alex Murray said to the town men?

"Most of them are—are quite solid in their commitment to you—just as long as your service stays— stays acceptable. But—I'm ashamed to say—there were one or two who—who rather resent unloading their own freight. And they—they say—"

"If that is the case," put in Sarah quickly, "I'll hire a boy to help with the unloading."

"Can you afford that?" the man asked in straightforward manner.

"No—no, I really can't," Sarah said just as honestly. "But I cannot afford to lose the business either."

Alex Murray nodded his head. "Perhaps—perhaps it won't be for long. You are looking fatigued, Mrs. Perry. I do hope—"

Again Sarah cut in. "Life is a contest, Mr. Murray. My grandfather used to say that. The strong survive and the weak— I cannot beat the man in speed. I cannot meet his prices. I'm already just—just managing the loan payments. I cannot unload those heavy crates and barrels myself—not that I have any barrels to unload now—he has already taken that from me. But I can continue to give solid, dependable service. That is all that I can do and—if—if he outwits me—outlasts me—then I have done my best. I don't know what more I can do."