When Henry Came Home (20 page)

             
"Who owns all this land, way out here?" wondered Mary.

             
Henry was a long time in answering. "No one—God, I guess, and maybe a few thousand cattle who come through once a year."

             
"What about Indians?"

             
"Gone, mostly."

             
"Oh." She shifted a little and sat up. "Look." She put a hand into the grass and scooped a fat little moth onto the middle of the blanket. It fluttered around frantically but got nowhere, as one of its wings had been torn in half. Henry rolled onto his side and sat up on one elbow. "Poor thing," said Mary. "Shall I kill it?"

             
Henry watched it a moment as it struggled in vain. "We have some honey," he said.

             
"That's right!" Mary opened the picnic basket and dipped a little honey out of a jar. She held out her finger to the little insect for a while. "Poor thing," she said again. "It's so upset it doesn't know enough to eat." She held her finger out a little longer without result, then stuck it in her mouth and sucked away the honey. She smiled. "Well, at least it didn't have to go to waste."

             
Henry watched the creature a little longer, beating fervently against the ground, then reached out a hand and flipped it back into the grass, away and gone. Mary looked after it, then lay down with her head under his, looking up. "Now I feel sorry," she said. "It'll just die."

             
Henry brushed her hair with his fingers, looking down at her. "There's only so much you can do to help folks," he said. "After that, it's up to them to see what's wrong and fix it."

             
Mary studied his face. He was looking out into the grass now. "I reckon so," she said. After a moment, she reached up and touched the line of his jaw. "But—you don't know how old I am," she teased lightly, as if their conversation of some hours earlier had never left off.

             
It didn't matter—Henry picked up. He looked a little uneasy, troubled about the fact. "No," he admitted.

             
"Well, we're even then, because I don't know how old
you
are."

             
"I'm—"

             
Mary put her fingers over his lips, silencing him. "No," she said, "let's not say. We'll never know and then we can feel young when we're old because I'll think, 'Maybe Hen's only so old,' and you'll think the same about me, and then it'll stay like this forever."

             
He seemed to mull that over for a minute or two. "I think I'd like to grow old with you," he concluded, his voice quiet.

             
She smiled and passed over the deeper meaning in his words, for if it couldn't be helped it didn't much matter now. "The trick," she said, "to being old is thinking you're young!" She paused, and sobered herself. "No, I don't mind getting old, either. There's something nice about living with someone all that time, almost getting to be the same person." Henry was looking out again. Mary sighed, content, and closed her eyes, feeling the shaded outline of his body falling over her face.

             
After a while he looked back down and saw that she had fallen asleep. Even in slumber she seemed vibrant and whole, fully alive and somehow like the stark wilderness around them. He watched her, the small movements as she breathed in and out, and saw in his mind the children they would have, swayback little girls running like wild ponies through the tall grass.

             
Mary heard the noises of the men, out in the dark, and curled her legs up under the blankets. They were good sounds, out of barrel chests and thick beards, reassuring sounds. They called goodnights to one another, and there was an echoing laugh down the empty street outside. She waited, watching the door in the flicker of lamplight, and in a minute or so it opened and Henry came in, laying his coat over the side of a chair as he came to the bed.

             
He stopped short of a greeting, looking into her eyes. "You—you aren't happy," he said, knowing all at once and feeling his heart sink inside. "What's the matter?" Slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed and put his cane aside.

             
Her lower lip came out a little, scarcely trembling. She shook her head, mute, then sniffed and gave in. "I'm lonely, Hen. All—all day you've been gone, morning ’til night, two weeks now, ex-except Sundays." She sniffed again and moved suddenly closer, unsnapping his suspenders and reaching around to unbutton his shirt, as if hungry to get at him. "All—all I ever see you is at night."

             
"But other men—"

             
She let go of him and sat back, her hands splayed out, open. "I don't care how long other husbands are gone, and I know it's for the house, and I know I'm being selfish and silly and I know all that—and I never used to mind being alone, Hen, I promise I didn't, but you're always here now, or you were, and now that you're gone so much I can't stand it!" She took a deep breath, her eyes pleading. She was trying not to cry.

             
Henry turned, scooting up a little on the bed to face her, looking slightly puzzled after the rush of words. Then he smiled a little and reached out and held her in his arms, patting her back gently. "It's all right," he said, soft. He pulled back a little, to face her. "How about—well, there's only maybe a week or two left. What if I only went out every other day?"

             
She nodded. "Okay," she said. "And—then it would be over?"

             
He smiled and hugged her again, a little pale. "Yes. And I wish—you had said something, before. I—I missed you, too."

             
Mary laughed. "Well," she said, "we're a couple of ninnies, aren't we! See what we get for not saying things?" She pulled of his shirt and tugged the rest of him onto the bed. "We oughta know better."

              Two weeks later, Henry got up early and was gone before Mary could dress. He returned about an hour later and called her outside. She came out, pulling on her white ladies' gloves, and kissed him.

             
"Well," he said. He nodded to the buckboard and horses waiting for them.

             
"What is this?" she asked, grinning.

             
"This," he said, holding out a hand for her to take as she got up, "is the wagon and pair of horses that we never needed in town."

             
"Oh, Hen!" she cried, pulling him up after her. "Today?"

             
He nodded, snapping the reins gently.

             
"Oh, Hen!" she said again, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I am going to kiss you all the way out there—wherever it is!" And to prove it, she put one hand on his face and turned it to get the best angle, releasing him only when she needed another breath.

             
He paled at the prospect, but could not help but smile. He glanced out of the corners of his eyes, and saw faces turning their way. "At least," he said quietly, "wait 'til we get to the edge of town, or we'll never hear the end."

             
She giggled. "Well, I'll try, but I can't promise for sure."

              She did manage, for the most part, but they got to their destination a little later than Henry had estimated, as twice he had turned the horses the wrong way. Mary saw the house from a distance, and exclaimed appropriately.

             
"And a barn, too!" she cried, when they got closer, and kissed him again.

             
He nodded towards the house. "I thought to paint it white, but I didn't know—so we left it."

             
She considered, examining the rough, unfinished exterior. "No," she said at last, tilting her head. "I—yes, I like it better this way. It fits. White would seem like town, too much."

             
A moment or two later, he pulled up out in front, right up to the porch. Mary hopped down and ran inside, and from outside he could hear her delighted squeals. Carefully, he got down and waited at the bottom of the porch steps.

             
"Hen—where are—Hen?" she poked her head out the door. "Oh!" she cried, hurrying down the steps. "I'm sorry, Hen, I got so excited, I—I'm so sorry!"

             
He flashed a brief grin. "That's all right," he said, amiable as she helped him up. "I'm—well, I'm glad you like it."

             
"Oh, it's perfect," she sighed. "When do we get to move in?"

             
"Well, your pa and two or three men are coming tomorrow to move furniture—"

             
"Tomorrow! Oh, goodness!"

             
"Is—is that all right?"

             
She couldn't help but kiss him again. "Perfect, Hen, perfect."

             
He gave a lopsided smile. "Have you tried the sink yet?"

             
"The sink—she glanced out a window. "But there's no tower--"

             
"Go try it."

             
She left him, and in a moment he heard running water from the kitchen. "Hen!" she cried, running back. "How did you do it?"

             
"Mary darling—I thought you believed in magic," he said.

             
"Oh, yes," she said, curling into his arms. "I didn't know
you
did, though."

             
"I—I have to. I have you." He smiled timidly at his joke.

             
She laughed again. "I want to stay here forever," she said, sighing happily.

             
"We should have brought the bed—to stay here tonight," he said.

             
This brought an elvish grin, and she wrapped her arms around his, pulling him down the hall. "We can, though," she said. "There's some old blankets in the bedroom—magic, I guess."

             
"Some—some of the men were staying here, so they wouldn't have to travel."

             
"Ah. Well, still magic. There ought to be hay in the barn—is there?"

             
"Yes."

             
She looked at him, pleadingly. "What do you say, Hen?"

             
"I'd do anything you asked me to," he said, and this time it was he who kissed her, passionate and tenderly.

              When he returned to the kitchen, he stopped in the doorway, leaning against the trim and feeling the warmth of the clean shirt against his skin. He stood still, watching her in secret. She was standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes with her bare hands. She was humming a little as she worked, swaying back and forth to a tune of her own making and smiling to herself. Her presence filled the room, and a small, chill breeze funneled through the bottom of the window over the sink, and he breathed in her sweet scent as it came to him on the slip of air.

             
After a moment, as he watched, her hands slowed and became idle, resting in the soapy dishwater. She gazed out the window, almost vacantly, although he knew what she was thinking of.

             
He pushed away from the doorpost and came up behind her, slipping his arm around her waist and sharing the view out the window. Her hands remained lifeless; she did not attempt to cover up her pensive mood. "Let's go visit, tomorrow," he said at length, quietly.

             
She turned to him, and both relief and worry crowded her face. "Oh... Henry," she said, her eyes softening. "Are—are you sure you're up to it?" Moving had been hard on Henry, she knew—he had been ill three times in the past two months, and her obligation and joy was to serve him first above all—but except a few short trips she had made to the general store they had not been to town, and she had not seen Sarah. Still, she was torn. Henry had been so ill, and yet she could not forget her sister's need. "Are you sure?" she asked again, uncertainly.

             
He smiled gently; although weak, he felt much better—and a risk of his health was a relatively small price to pay for her smile. "I'll be fine," he said, caressing her hair.

             
She bit her lip, wanting him to understand. "It's not that I love her more—" she began, uncertain of how to word her thoughts.

             
"It's all right," he assured her. "With John—it was the same thing."

             
She hugged him tightly, burying her face between his neck and shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered.

             
He patted her on the back, and then held her at arm's length. "Don't--" he said, "don't—slow down—for me. Don't think you have to bottle anything away, or hold back, or don't want to tell me, so I won't be hurt. I love you because you are free."