Reaching Home

Homesteaders in 1874 arrive at their destination.

We weary travelers have tears in our eyes as the small town comes into sight. It has taken so many more weeks than we expected to reach our new home. We knew homesteading would be a challenge, but we were optimistic, even hopeful. No one expected the first months to take such a toll. The wagons creak and the horses chuff as the road becomes more welcoming and the sight of a small crowd gathering greets our eyes.

We see two familiar faces in the crowd and wave to them. They wave back, the wife jumping up and down on her tiptoes as she waits for us, her dress dancing around her legs in joy.

It takes too long to finally reach her, and when we do there are still chores to do. "You made it! We expected you weeks ago." Elizabeth says as she approaches the slowing wagon.

Owen throws a look over his shoulder with a scowl at a ragged sad looking man throwing bags off the top of the first wagon. "We would have been, but for the cowboy who thought he could guide us here. I warn you both, if that man lays a foot near me, I will likely kill him."

Knowing my husband, he just might. I have never seen him so mad as when the guide explained that he had not brought medicine on the journey. There were so many sick people, and the weak were not going to survive without it. There were still people in the wagons recovering. A few had been left behind in shallow graves. He hadn’t spoken to the so-called guide for the last few days. And, very little to anyone else. I was beginning to worry for him, but now that we are here, perhaps his depression will abate.

Patrick puts his hand on Owen's arm and leads him away from the wagons, where in quiet conversation Patrick begins to explain that the guide had never actually been here before - or anywhere west of Kansas. They continue the conversation in low angry voices as they walk towards town.

Elizabeth stays with me, watching the bags get unloaded and listening with a look of sad commiseration as I tell her of the trip. "We started out fine, but the horses were not as strong as we had been led to believe and we had to start leaving things behind at the first river crossing. Dressers and whole trunks of clothing were left at the riverbank. That's when we realized the guide wasn't as good as we had been led to believe. He tried to cover his mistakes, but they were too glaring to ignore after the horses started to get sick, or exhausted or something."
"How terrible!" Elizabeth moans, her eyes still following the other passengers as they go about their business. I have seen enough of these people and look at the wooden buildings, freshly built and clean.

"Soon after that the food was turning, and we had to start eating what we could save. The hunters were not able to get as much game as we had been told to expect, then the people started getting angry with him. We almost turned him out, but he talked his way into a reduced rate when we arrived, and we let him stay. He was very good at riding ahead and finding us the best way to avoid the roughest spots. But, we had to backtrack a few times when he led us into canyons that had no exits. That was scary. We thought there would be Indian attacks every time - you've read the dime novels, too - but there were no attacks by Indians."

Elizabeth had been holding her breath as I spoke and now let it out. "Thank goodness."

"There were rattlesnakes, though. They attacked much too often." I go on to tell her of all the dangers we encountered and overcame until Patrick returns.

"I put him in the saloon with some whiskey and some food. Not a good place for ladies, so we'll get some food at home. Why don't you go ahead and I will take care of collecting the things."

Elizabeth and I agree this sounded like a great plan. We start walking home, "Sarah, I've missed you so much!" she says, her face turned down, as if embarrassed.

"Me, too! It's been years since we were together. You missed my wedding! But, I can see why now. I won't be making any trips back home until they have a better route laid out. It was beautiful. There were all the flowers we could pick, and the food was wonderful! Your mom made the cake, of course. I'm sure she wrote to you all about it."

Elizabeth smiles in acknowledgement as we continue to walk and chat.

When we reach her house she walks to the guest room, plumps the pillows and turns down the coverlet. "A little nap, then I will make dinner."
Now that I have arrived at our new home - or what will be once we find some land and build our house - I am not feeling the least bit tired. Elizabeth looks exhausted, though, so I say nothing about this and watch her go to her room to rest.

A while later the men arrive. Their covered wagon is piled high with our belongings, our wagon having been damaged along the way and scavenged for parts. "We can leave that chore for tomorrow. You need some rest. We have everything you need in the house, but first some sleep." Owen’s head is down, and his legs are unsteady, but he eventually makes it to the second bedroom, where he collapses into it and is almost immediately asleep.

"Thank you for bringing him back, and for gathering our things." I say to Patrick. "Though, I'm not sure the whiskey was the best idea."
Leaning on the door frame, Patrick frowns down at Owen, his head tilting slightly, "Sometimes, passing out is the best one can hope for after awful things happen." He pushes himself away from the door and steps back, closing it behind him, leaving us alone in the unlit room, the sun setting.

I climb into bed - fully clothed, as we are now used to - and curl up against his back. My head rests against the base of his neck, "I love you."

"I love you, too," he says in a slurred voice, "I'm so sorry."

"No, you have nothing to be sorry for. It was a hard journey, but we made it."

"I should never have brought you here." His voice cracked and I heard that he was crying.

I rubbed his hair, "Shhh, no. I want to be here."

"It was a fool's pride that made me think it would be easy. What was I thinking? It was too hard, it was too hard..." he went on, talking to himself. Nothing I said seemed to lighten his burden. He fell asleep apologizing to me over and over.

* * * * *

The morning is full of bright sunshine and birds singing. Light filters through the slats of the shudders, warming the bed. Elizabeth opens the door, "Breakfast is almost ready," she tells us. Although he snorts and groans a bit he does not wake. I leave Owen sleeping, his deep breathing mostly undisturbed as I gently get off the bed and follow Elizabeth out of the room.

As I enter the kitchen a floorboard squeaks under my foot. Elizabeth starts talking without taking her eyes off the food she is preparing. "Patrick is out back. There is a beautiful spot out there we thought you might like. He's already started. Would you call him in for breakfast?"
"Sure," I say and head to the back door. Elizabeth had blocked it open with a familiar iron weight to let air in as she cooks. What a wonderful reminder of home. Her family owned a bakery back East and the heavy molded steel doorstop was from her fathers kitchen.

I wander out to the porch and see that Patrick is atop a small hill just about yelling distance away. "Patrick!" I shout but he is hard at work and doesn't hear me. I walk closer and try again, "Patrick! Elizabeth says to come in for breakfast." The warm morning wind steals my words away as I speak them.

Now that I have made it this far I might as well go see what he is working on so far from their house. He has a shovel and is digging up the ground. Perhaps, he is laying stones for our new house. It would have been polite for us to have agreed to the spot before he started digging, but understand. I am excited to start, too.

"Patrick, what are you doing?" I asked in a loud voice when I got nearby.

He continues to dig, and I hear him humming to himself as I top the rise. He has a powerful and deep voice that comes out in words here and there as he continues to hum. "That's lovely. What song is that?" It sounds familiar, a hymn, I think, but which one.

The humming cuts off as he stops working for a moment and looks towards his house. A deep breath escapes him and then he bends his back to the task once more. I open my mouth to ask him to breakfast, trying to ignore the rudeness of not answering my question, when a piece of wood catches my attention. A cross lays at the far side of the hole. Into it is carved my name, "Sarah Jameson 1854-1874"

Cold runs through my body. I run back to the house. Owen will know what was going on. As I get nearer the house, I see the wagon had been pulled to the side and now sits in the shade. The back is towards me. I expect to see all our belongings inside, but it is empty. Empty, except for a single box. A coffin.

Panicked, I enter the house and searched for Owen. He is still sleeping. I try to wake him, but he will not budge.

Elizabeth is still in the kitchen. "Elizabeth, what is happening?" I demand.

Again, the floorboards creak slightly as I walk into the room. This time Elizabeth turns around, a plate of food in her hand. "Owen?" she asks.
She looks right at me, but seems to see through me, "Owen?" she said again. She sets the plates on the table and walks past me to the bedroom. She sees Owen sleeping, "Owen, wake up. It's almost time." He mumbles and rolls over. His eyes open slightly.

She goes to the back door and looks out to the hill where Patrick is working, "Patrick!" she yells. He stops working and looks at her. She waves him back to the house, he nods and sets the shovel down.

Owen comes out of the bedroom, hair disheveled and eyes squinting. "I slept too long."

"You needed it," she says, putting a hand on his arm and squeezing. "but, Patrick is going to need your help to get this done before the preacher gets here. Breakfast is ready, come eat."

Owen goes to the water closet to wash up and I watch mutely as Elizabeth dishes food onto the three places set at the table. Only three.
The men arrived at the table together, silently.

They sit, all three, and take each other's hands, a small triangle around the food.

"Dear God," Elizabeth speaks as they all bow their heads, "thank you for bringing Owen to us. We are grateful that he is here. Please watch over the many souls who didn't make it to their final destination, especially his new wife, Sarah. We don't know your plans, but we trust in you, always. Please, give Owen the strength he needs to get through what will likely be the hardest day of his life. We pray that they both find peace. In your name we pray. Amen."

I feel the truth of the last few days seep through me. The warmth of their love embraces me and I know that my life is over, but that it mattered. To each of them, to those I loved. They are each saying goodbye in that prayer and I am overcome with a freedom unlike anything I have ever dreamed possible.

They continue to hold each other's hands in shared grief and my heart is in the circle with them. My grief is distant, though. The warmth is greater than my sadness, or my fear.

I say a final farewell to them before allowing myself to let go of this world.


- - -

Thank you for reading.

Could you please tell me when you caught on to the 'twist'.

And, was it surprising at all, or cliche?