South of Wisdom

By Edith Webster

Abigail Hastings, Lora Fitzgerald, and David Houston are orphans, two now in their late teens, having been taken as children to the Dearling Ranch, in Eastern Oregon, in different seasons, by attorney Mason Kile.

When one of the kitchen hel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writers Branding LLC
• Release date: Aug 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954341814

Edith Webster

Edith Webster lives and writes in Salome. Arizona in the middle of the Sonoran Desert.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Th e long valley surrounded by slopes of pine and mesquite with mountains seen in the distance, lay quiet in the predawn, with only a slight breeze to rustle the spring grass. The eastern sky showed signs of a new day beginning in the eastern Oregon territory.

With a worn quilt wrapped around her tall, slender frame, Abigail Hastings stepped back across the small room to her own bed. She moved her hand to touch her gown, still damp from Lora’s tears. Weariness crept through her as she relived the past few hours. The room was still filled with the night, but she knew dawn would be here soon, bringing in a new day.

Earlier Lora moaned in the darkness and gasped through tears from her cot across the space between the two narrow beds. Abigail, startled from sleep, slipped from her bed to Lora’s. Lora flung her arms in the darkness, striking out at images, before waking from the violence filling her mind. Another bad episode ripped her from sleep, relentless evil dreams tormented. The night terrors were coming more often to Lora.

Wrapping them both in the worn quilt, Abby soothed the young girl back to sleep. Nothing will hurt you or your dog as long as I am close.

But he was after us, me and Sandy, and there was blood, so much blood! Oh, Abby! Lora’s breath caught, and she coughed.

Who? Abby whispered, but she knew the answer. Abby was familiar with the fear filling their small, dark room. Harry Hitze was the who. Lora’s young mind felt the foreman’s corrosive strength and saw his cold, empty eyes in her dreams. Lora tried to describe in detail her memories and night terrors to Abigail in the past few weeks.

The older girl would soothe. Go back to sleep. It was just another bad dream. Abby ran her hand over the distraught younger girl’s back and shoulders until she felt Lora gradually relax. Both girls finally closed their eyes and Lora slept.

Abby moved back to her own bed, where she tried to regain a measure of calm. The small upstairs room slowly became bathed in the early morning light, exposing again their dusk-to-dawn world: two narrow beds separated by an oval braided rug, two four-drawer chests, one holding an oil lamp and the other a wash basin and pitcher, and one straight-backed chair. A few hooks in the wall by the door where wraps were hung. One large woven basket stood in the corner for laundry.

This room was a sanctuary for both girls. A safe refuge where they could laugh, feel free - until lately. The tall double windows that let the world in each morning brought balance.

Abby curled into the quilt on her own bed and recalled her earliest days with Lora. Sharing her room was Abby’s idea, her choice from Lora’s very first day in the Dearling Valley. When the attorney, Mason Kile, arrived in his buggy at the ranch late one evening with a sad, weary little Lora, he was met at the door by Mrs. Wilkins, the housekeeper. After Mr. Mason and Mrs. Wilkins put the child to bed in an upstairs room down the hall from Abby’s, the two returned downstairs to the main floor. Abby heard them leave before she slipped quietly from her room and padded barefoot down the hallway.

Soft sobs came from the small bundle under the comforter. Abby, stepping near the cot, knelt by the bed speaking softly. She pulled back the quilt and gently stroked the child’s head. Still making gasping sounds, the young girl fell into an exhausted sleep. Not wanting her to wake up alone and frightened, Abby found a wrap and spent the night in a chair near the cot.

The next morning, Abby asked to have Lora’s cot moved into her room. There’s plenty of space.

Abby believed Mrs. Wilkins to be a good woman but prone to complaining out of the hearing of her employer, Mr. Simon Dearling, about being overworked. Abby thought it a good solution for Mrs. Wilkins, whom Abby was sure would not welcome a sickly child’s care added to her daily chores. The youngster, Lora Fitzgerald, seemed more than happy to share Abby’s room, so everyone appeared satisfied with the new arrangement.

Dawn slowly broke into the upstairs room as Abby sighed knowing it was time to wake Lora and get dressed for the new day. The ranch crew would be in soon from the bunkhouse for their first hot meal of the day. Lora grumbled something about wanting to sleep, but she slowly stood and walked to the basin and pitcher of water. She washed and slipped into a clean cotton dress and starched apron. She still looked disheveled but was awake. Lora watched Abby, who was having her usual morning bout with her mass of dark hair, pinning it into submission before plaiting Lora’s.

Looking in the small mirror over her dresser, the tall, thin young woman saw a nose a little too long and a mouth too wide, especially when she smiled. Abby considered her hazel eyes her one redeeming asset, and she was resigned to never being a beauty.

Oh, how am I supposed to keep this wiry mass out of my face? The outburst brought a giggle from the shadow standing behind her. It was not the first time the young one heard such rants.

Wiry mess! Oh, how you talk, Abby!

Abby turned. Well, I’m happy you’re happy! It is not your mess to anchor down each morning.

Lora grinned her pixie grin, Why don’t you just tie it back? I think it is beautiful falling all over the place, but nobody ever sees it like that but me.

Abby scowled at Lora. I can just see Cook’s face. Me with this hair everywhere! Finally satisfied that the pins and small combs would hold, she took a brush to Lora’s silky, fine, hair pulling the braids as tight as she dared knowing it was an exercise in futility. The ribbons would be slipping before the first meal of the day was finished.

Making one last inspection of Lora, Abigail said, Well, thank goodness for hairpins and ribbons. I can see Cook’s face the first time a loose hair fell anywhere near the soup. Bending over from laughing, Lora coughed. Concern flashed in Abby’s eyes. Forcing a smile, the older girl hugged her young friend. Let’s go see if Cook and Sandy are up yet. They laughed. They knew that Cook was always in the kitchen first and the little dog would be nowhere in sight. Especially not in the kitchen.

As she stepped into the hall, Abby remembered the past hours. She took a deep breath and felt herself shudder. She would find a way for them to leave this ranch, and soon. Lora was so dear, so fragile. As winter turned to spring, Abigail would watch for any opportunity. There must be a way, she tried to think.

The two cook’s helpers ran down the stairs at the back of the massive home and crossed the breezeway to enter the kitchen. Cook was up to her elbows in flour, pinching out buttermilk biscuits and filling baking pans with the fluffy, round balls of dough soon to be gobbled up by hungry ranch hands.

Abby glanced at the cook, thinking the woman seemed timeless. How old must she be? Cook was a stocky woman who wrapped herself each morning in a long, white apron. By evening after clearing from the last meal of the day, the apron was no longer clean, the starch mostly gone.

Cook used her wide, rough hands throughout the day to smooth her hair, unconsciously checking the pins that held a tightly braided bun in place at the base of her skull. The coil of hair sat low on the back of her head, barely off her rounded shoulders, looking a good deal like a gray bird’s nest. Abby knew Cook was committed to a tight coil of hair she tried to keep under control. Abby smiled, thinking, she is successful most days.

Cook’s timetable started each day with the two young helpers presenting themselves in clean, starched aprons in the crew’s cook hall at sunup. Even after all the time they spent together, Cook and Abby could not be called friends, but they enjoyed a measure of respect for each other, which made their long hours in the kitchen and dining halls bearable, at times even pleasant.

Both Mrs. Wilkins, (long ago widowed), and the woman called Cook preferred keeping the girls together. Abby’s apparent affection for the younger girl from the beginning was seen as a positive. From the very first day after Lora’s arrival, the frail youngster became a constant in Abby’s quiet, disciplined life.

Chapter 2

Wi th no extended family to come to their aid, the orphans could surely not ask for more than the two girls were given. Both received basic care with little affection except what they gained from each other. Abby knew not everyone in the rough, restless, growing west could lay claim to such decent living conditions. Folks passed by the ranch begging for what she and Lora enjoyed daily. Her prayers often followed the weary souls out of sight.

Several days after Lora’s latest wrenching dream, Abby felt her emotions surging in all directions. Leaving was no longer a hope or a dream. As she worked with Cook, her thoughts were on how and when to go from this valley. Weary from stress and tension during the past weeks, the girl closed her eyes.

She felt a jolt, could feel herself running. She felt her heart pounding against her ribs so hard she thought they might break. Darkness swirled and shifted in waves around her; the fear of unknown dangers was paralyzing. Sharp, cold wind buffeted her and took her breath. Near-freezing rain, like shards of ice, pelted her face, mixing with her tears. She felt the cold to the marrow of her bones. Brittle branches relentlessly whipped by the wind along the dark trail, clawed at her cloak, and her boots were so heavy! It became harder and harder to pull her feet out of the mud on the rain-soaked track. It was all there to be endured. So real. She wanted to scream.

In an instant, in the blink of an eye, the darkness fell away completely, dissolving into mist. The rain, the dark, the cold, all of it evaporated.

Abigail Hastings leaned against the old, worn counter in the cookhouse and glanced around the plain, almost homey dining hall, eyeing the plank tables, the worn plank floor. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. She took a moment to regain her balance. What just happened? It seemed so vivid, so real. Was she finally giving in to the anxiety she felt building for days? Feeling a tug on her apron, Abby was pulled back to the present, back to Lora.

The girl’s voice was a soft whine. Abby, you alright? You look pasty white. Abby became acutely aware of the slender youngster’s blue eyes searching her face, beautiful eyes filled with confusion. Tears threatened to cascade down her small, heart-shaped face. Since Lora Fitzgerald’s arrival at the Dearling Ranch two years earlier, the small, fragile girl clung to Abigail, always as close as a shadow, settling quickly under the older girl’s care. Over time a strong bond of trust formed between the two. The tall, plain girl with the heavy coil of dark hair often felt lonely until Lora’s arrival.

Now, trying to smile, giving her troubled young friend’s braid a tug, she said, I’m as fine as a fritter. She paused for a second. One of Cook’s, not mine! Abby chuckled at the image.

Lora could not hold back her smile. You might be good at soap makin’ and helpin’ Miz Wilkins with the mending, but you’re probably right about the fritters. They both visibly relaxed and returned to their work.

Lora was as close to family as Abigail could lay claim to. How welcome a friend would have been in the beginning when she herself first arrived in Dearling Valley, orphaned and alone. As far as Abby knew, she was the first youngster ever to be brought to this eastern Oregon ranch. Before David Houston became a part of the ranch, long before the arrival of Lora Fitzgerald. For months and months, Abby was the only young person living here and she slowly adjusted to her new world.

Now after so many months in this valley, the only two people she felt any connection with were the tall dark-headed blacksmith-apprentice and the small fragile blonde girl.

Now and again, Abby entertained passing thoughts of the apprentice smithy. Through the months, Abby occasional enjoyed a bit of free time midafternoons to be out of the confines of the kitchen and would see David at work when passing the blacksmith shop. Other times she was sent to fetch the blacksmith, Dutch, to the ranch house. On these short trips, she could not help noticing the changes in the smithy’s apprentice as he learned his trade. Working the bellows, moving quickly from task to task, the young man seldom spoke. Dutch appeared to be a good teacher. David’s shoulders gradually broadened, and muscles formed. She watched him pound hot metal into horseshoes and harness fittings with the heavy sledge on anvil. His dark-blue eyes were still the most striking thing about him. When he happened to raise his glance, she quickly looked away.

Abigail could accept her life as an orphan in a foreign place with little angst or fanfare partly because she understood there was no going back; there was nothing to go back to. Even when she first arrived at age eleven, Abigail understood her life was completely in God’s hands.

Chapter 3

Au nt Clara and the solid cottage by the sea were Abby’s life for as long as she could remember until brought here against her will. She loved Aunt Clara and would never have left her if not forced. Of that, Abby was most positive. Aunt Clara was her only living relative. Exactly how they were related Abby could not say. In quiet moments, Aunt Clara would often say, Abigail, your ways are your mother’s, but I declare if you don’t have features like your Grandma Wien. Who was Gra ndma Wien?

Aunt Clara would revisit the past, drawing small mental pictures but without the depth Abby longed for. Clara’s married name—she was a widow—was Hastings; the girl’s name was Hastings. Abby felt the answers would come in time, but now time slipped out of her hands. She would leave this valley without answers. If only Aunt Clara would have shared more with me while we were together.

Mr. Kile, the attorney in Aiden Forks, the nearest town to the Dearling Ranch, had authority over Abigail’s life. Aunt Clara hinted as much and asked the girl to accept the changes and to trust her and trust God. Abby tried to abide by her aunt’s wishes as much as any child could. There was a lingering hope that Mr. Kile would share with Abby what he knew of her family. Perhaps someday there would be the opportunity to ask the attorney her questions. Today that seemed unlikely.

One moment months earlier, Cook sent Abby to Mr. Dearling’s study with a tray. She entered quietly and felt an unusual anguish in the room. The air seemed too thick to breathe. The rancher stood as still as death, gazing out of the large front window, staring at nothing. Or perhaps seeing his herd of beautiful colts in the near pasture. He slowly turned and noticed the young woman’s presence, his gaze intense. He seemed to take in her being from head to toe without speaking, a look of profound sorrow in his eyes. Abby wanted nothing more than to slip out, but he spoke before she could make her escape.

There had been talk in recent years of changes in the rancher. In the past months Simon Dearling, a solitary man, began to suffer attacks of melancholy. Spending the calm, predawn hours in his office each day was one of the man’s few pleasures, according to Mrs. Wilkins. Abby found this easy to believe when she was in the man’s presence.

Thank you, Abigail. The rancher spoke softly as she set the tray down on a small table.

You’re welcome, sir. She turned to leave when she heard him mutter something. She waited.

Stay a moment. I am sure Cook won’t mind. How are you and the little one, Lora, getting on? Simon stood by the huge desk, pouring coffee, looking morose, speaking softly but made no move to pick up the cup, his eyes resting on her. A thought passed – he would be a handsome man if he smiled.

Abby paused before speaking. She could not pretend all was wonderful in her world. Lora’s cough is about the same. She wondered if Mr. Dearing even knew Lora lived with a worrisome cough. Changing the subject, Abby asked, Will Mr. Kile be coming again soon?

I don’t know. Why do you ask? The rancher’s eyebrows rose. Abby did not want to share with Mr. Dearling her reasons for wanting to see Mr. Kile, but since he had asked, she said, I was hoping to speak to him about Aunt Clara, about my family.

There was a minute change, a flash. Simon looked as though he was about to speak but then changed his mind. Abby was sure there was pain in his eyes, across his brow. Why? Maybe he knows of a connection between me and Mr. Kile. Had he known Aunt Clara? Abby felt sure that the rancher knew more, but she was not in a position today to press him.

I need to leave. But the girl found herself rooted to the carpet, listening to the sadness in the rancher’s voice. Before she knew what she was doing, she spoke of the foreman, Harry Hitze, and his savage manner. Do you know Rose? Our friend Rose. She used to work in the kitchen during harvest and other busy times. Lora saw something that frightened her a few weeks ago. She has bad dreams.

Simon looked at the girl, a strange distance building between them. I’m sorry for the little one’s upset. The rancher turned away. His voice was cool. Why do you ask about the other girl? The one called Rose?

Abby shrugged, feeling hopeless. She turned to go. No reason. He seemed to want to speak but said nothing. When Abby looked back his haunted look had returned. The man did not speak as she quietly left. She felt his gaze of sorrow follow her as she closed the door to his office.

In the days following, Abby relived the entire strange episode, unable to understand but realizing there was much she did not know, perhaps would never know.

Chapter 4

Ab by felt Lora’s story similar too her own. Lora’s parents died at sea when Lora was an infant. After their deaths, a doctor and his wife cared for the child until she was hustled here to this valley. The attorney, Mr. Mason Kile, was legally in charge in some way of both th eir lives.

Mr. Kile, the tall, square-jawed attorney with a pile of tousled, white hair, bushy brows, and kind eyes most of the time must know something of both girls. He had many clients and was well traveled. At least that was the general talk Abby heard in the kitchen. She accepted that he held influence over her world, and things might have continued as they were, time moving her gently through the days into adulthood, if not for the recent fears. She and Lora could not stay.

Abby felt her body changing; she knew she was growing into a woman. Eventually, she could and would make her own decisions about her future. She felt confident that a way would open for her in time. But recent events were forcing change before she was ready. The danger felt here pressed the girls to flee. Abby could not idly wait in hopes that she was wrong about the foreman. Harry was dangerous. How dangerous she had no way of knowing, but they would flee before the peril surrounding the strange man could destroy their lives. His behavior and actions had already hurt them. Lora’s restless nights could be traced directly to the hated foreman’s actions. And Lora’s cough could grew harsher.

Buck Ridding, when asked about Hitze, said, He just showed up one day, some said clear from back east.

That when did you quit ram-roddin’? Dutch asked but the smithy already knew the answer. The blacksmith was here when Hitze rode in.

Sure didn’t see no need for two foremen around here to muddy the waters! But I didn’t see no need in leavin’ neither. I figured in time things would come right. Buck stood to leave, tipping his worn Stetson to Dutch as he walked away.

No one could confirm or deny the stories that passed among the men. Harry was hated and feared, but little was known of his past. Everyone at the ranch had at one time or another seen Harry in action; heard him curse and roar. The old-timers knew somewhere, someway, there had been a shift in power with no solid reason for the changes or for Harry’s obvious cruelty. He enjoyed inflicting pain; that was clear. Maybe there didn’t need to be a reason.

Harry Hitzi’s most recent bad act was the beating of a wrangler, a new hand at the ranch. After the beating the new hire gathered his gear and left cursing the whole lot of them for letting it happen. Then soon after came the beating of the mare.

Is that animal going to make it? David sought out Buck as the old foreman and Dutch, the blacksmith worked to save the animal. Buck, a man who knew and loved horses, could hardly speak. I think we can save her but don’t know if she’ll ever be worth a darn. She’s a prize mare, such a shame.

David nodded, watching the mare, eyes wide with terror, tremble as the men tried to sooth her. Buck continued to