Hard Journeys to Love

By Doreen Milstead

Emma Travels to Her Arizona Rancher, Malory, By Oxcart - A woman from an upper-class English family decides to become a mail order bride to an Arizona rancher, but is shocked when she realizes the potentially harsh life ahead on the days-long journey to his remote ranch by oxcart. Finding Work in America - A woman from Liverpool moves to America & to a pre-arranged job. The thing is – she doesn’t find out what the true purpose of the place where she works is until later, when an accident will change her life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Hart
• Release date: Jan 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463018040

Book preview

Hard Journeys to Love

by

Doreen Milstead

Copyright 2020 Susan Hart

Table of Contents

Emma Travels to Her Arizona Rancher, Malory, By Oxcart

Finding Work in America

Emma Travels to Her Arizona Rancher, Malory, By Oxcart

Synopsis: Emma Travels to Her Arizona Rancher, Malory, By Oxcart - A woman from an upper-class English family decides to become a mail order bride to an Arizona rancher, but is shocked when she realizes the potentially harsh life ahead on the days-long journey to his remote ranch by oxcart; and it’s a lonely one – accompanied by his silent Native American ranch hand.

Emma stood, smoothed down her skirts and made her way up the short incline, kicking dust as she went. At the top she turned and looked back over the valley and muttered, This is what Hell looks like. She nodded to herself, as if she might have expected it. The valley responded with hard, empty silence.

The canvas cover of the wagon stood white against a featureless, blue sky and the Indian sat motionless beneath his black hat. At the back of the wagon an arm grabbed her elbow and yanked her up.

Emma resumed her place on the bench, looking out the rear to avoid the gaze of the man opposite. The Indian called out and the oxen lumbered forward. The wheels turned over the stony surface, the dust rose and the rocking began. The man and woman involuntarily shook their heads at one another.

How do you like our bathroom facilities? he asked.

He said it flatly, with neither humor nor malice. It occurred to Emma that spite would have been preferable, for spite would come and go.

It's nice to be so close to nature, she replied without looking at him.

My advice is to keep a distance between you and the scorpions.

I don't believe they paid me any attention.

You would know it if they did.

They continued along the hard bedrock, the landscape bare and unrelenting, as if scorched clean of all affections other than occasional, scraggly weeds. They were going back to somewhere before civilization, before even grass and trees. Back to a place of primordial rock, with nothing more than petrified trees and whitened bones, the serpent and the lizard.

He loosened the lid from the barrel, squeezed out the towel and handed it to her. He removed his neckerchief, dunked it and put it back on.

She wiped the grit from her arms and face and said, The water is not as cool as it was.

He grunted to indicate the observation did not merit a reply.

They had been in the wagon since the early morning. Two days before he had met her at the station in Albuquerque. Said his name was Malory and took her to a hotel. He had business in town and she didn't see him until the next day. They married, she posted a letter to her solicitor and they continued to Flagstaff. There they disembarked and the Indian loaded her possessions on to the wagon. They wound their way out of the small shantytown and back down towards the hot, dry plain.

How far to the farm? she had asked.

Two days, he said and pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was only then she cried, bitter, angry tears.

Around noon they pulled into a dry gully. The Indian watered the oxen and let them find shade as best they could. He cooked beans and potatoes then crawled under the wagon to sleep.

Emma scraped the beans from her tin plate then washed it. Outside the rocks in the gully looked almost white in the noonday sun. Malory washed his plate also then fell asleep sitting upright, adopting the position he had spent almost all of their time together. Then there was nothing but the sound of the Indian snoring. She cleared a space on the bench for her shoulder and willed herself to sleep.

She thought of Larchwood and how it would look now in October. The morning mist low on the lawn and clinging to the oaks and elders. The rooks cawing in the highest branches and Henry sweeping up the wet leaves. She would take the chestnut bay out along the lanes, up through the wood and out onto the top fields, chasing the game birds out from the hedgerows.

She would feel the autumnal air upon her face ‘til both she and the horse were warm. She would pause to take in the view, down the newly furrowed fields and out across the downs. The village curled snugly against the foot of the hill, like a cat at her feet; the church tower poking above the yew trees.

She would go brambling, filling the saddles bags and then going down the ride back to the front of the house. There she would see him, coming back from his morning walk, head lowered, the familiar gait, as he conducted some obscure interior monologue. So engrossed would he be that she would be almost upon him before he turned and smiled. She would dismount and walk along with him and he would inquire after her ride and quiz her gently about all she could remember and say, yes, that was most in keeping with the season. She would tell him about the brambles, his eyes would light up with childish delight, and he would say, ‘Excellent, then bramble pie for dinner’.

She heard the Indian calling to the oxen and bringing them back into the harness. The bench shuddered beneath her and the light pressed harshly on her eyelids, and she knew that sleep would not come and sweep her back where