Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] Read Free Page B

to her first child. He lurked in the corners of the room, and at one point hovered over the bed, expecting to see Ellen’s soul depart her body. But another Spirit won that night. Another Spirit seen not by Ellen and not by the doctor, and certainly not by Ian who, home on temporary leave, knelt by the bed and watched his wife’s pale face and prayed. But Death heard that Spirit’s voice.
The days are written. Today is not that day. Begone!
And so Death slithered away, leaving behind not only an exhausted woman, but also a redheaded baby girl they named for Ellen’s mother.
    Ellen expected things to settle down once Ian had fulfilled his duty to President Lincoln by serving in the Fourth Missouri Volunteer Cavalry. It was not to be. Only six months after their baby girl survived the battle to be born, she succumbed to a high fever brought on by only the Lord knew what. Ellen grieved alone while Ian was off riding into the face of the good Lord only knew what. In 1862, grief and a longing for her husband’s arms occupied Ellen’s mind far more than either the Free Homestead Act or the Pacific Railway Act. Until, that was, the war ended, and Ian came home.
    He was still the love of her life, but he, too, was forever changed by the things he’d endured. “I can’t be a farmer,” he said. “I just can’t. It’s too—” He broke off. Shook his head. He didn’t have words for a lot of things these days.
    Ellen put her hand on his arm. “What is it you want to do, darlin’?”
    They packed up and headed west, and Ellen’s only regret in the matter was leaving the little grave in the churchyard. If her father’s threat to disown her and a visitation from Death had not separated Ellen from the love of her life, then neither would Indians or rattlesnakes or any of the myriad horrors she had heard talk of among the other women whose husbands had caught the same fever as Ian.
    As it happened, however, Ian McKenna’s westward fever was less about land and more about helping good people bring law and a semblance of order to Brownville, Nebraska, a bustling river city upon which dozens of riverboats a day spilled their contents and through which hundreds of wagons a week departed on their way to live their respective dreams farther west. Not long after the McKennas arrived in Brownville, Ian was elected sheriff. And Ellen gave birth again, to another redheaded child, this one born squalling, and flailing strong arms and pudgy legs. They named him Jack.
    To her great surprise, Ellen loved Nebraska. She loved the sound of the whistles that announced the arrival of yet another boat; she loved the never-changing scenery that rolled by the front door of their modest home every day, and after nearly twenty years, Ellen loved her husband more than ever. So as she stood at the window, looking out on the place where she’d planned to plant her garden that spring, she envisioned scraping a bit of earth into her palm and then turning it over and letting it go. Much as a woman releases the earth over the grave of a loved one, Ellen released the dream of planting her garden in Brownville. She would not, however, give over her Brownville garden for a square of untamed prairie—at least not without a question or two. “Why can’t we get something in Lincoln right away?”
    Ian moved to stand behind her. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close and nuzzled her neck before whispering in her ear. “Well, I suppose we could. But I promised myself that if I survived the war, I’d never waste one more minute of my life than I absolutely had to waiting to see you again. Lincoln is nearly three miles away, and I’m selfish.” He nuzzled her neck again. “I want you closer.” Caressing one of the auburn tendrils curling at her neck, he traced the line of her bare shoulder along her décolletage toward—“Stop that!” She batted his hand away and turned around. As she looked up at him, she felt her cheeks warm.
    “I love