A Guardian’s Oath to the Widow (Preview)

Chapter One

Red Creek, Wisconsin, 1860

It was a long ride into town. To get there and back before dark, at her tortoise-slow speed of driving, Lillian had to get up with the sun. Harnessing up the horse and cart and driving around had always been Roy’s job, and she still wasn’t entirely at ease. The harnesses were complicated, and she hadn’t got the hang of them yet. 

Their cart was an old, heavy one, and the horse was a proper carthorse, a large      creature with rippling muscles. His name was Joshua, and although Lillian had been a little nervous of him when she first arrived, she knew now that he was a docile, pleasant creature.

That was fortunate, because getting him in and out of the harness was an ordeal in itself, and a less good-tempered horse might have objected to being pushed and pulled around so much. One time, he’d been put into the harness the wrong way by accident. Poor thing. He didn’t deserve it. 

She could have asked Caleb to go and get the groceries, of course, but his arthritis was so bad these days. Mornings were difficult for him. Besides, what was she meant to do—sit around all day with her feet up until the baby came? 

No, thank you. If I can get out of the house for a while, so much the better; I’m going stir-crazy in there. 

The ranch house seemed bigger and quieter now that Roy was gone. It was already bigger than the house she’d lived in with her family at home, but she’d soon grown used to the space. Now, with him gone, the house was back to the cavernous, echoing place, with endless corners and shadows and mysterious creaking sounds in the dead of night. 

Sleeping alone in an empty house was not to Lillian’s liking, either. Not one bit. There was nothing she could do about it, and lying awake would scare off the terrors and creaks, anyway. She generally got tired enough to fall straight asleep and not worry about ghosts or monsters under the bed. 

Lillian eased herself down the stairs, trying to ignore the twinges in her back. Already, a list of chores was running in her head. 

The work never ended, and tomorrow it would all start again, albeit with the jobs she hadn’t managed to get done today added to the list. She never got everything done.

You couldn’t have picked a worse time to leave me, Roy. I know you didn’t mean to, but really, your sense of timing is truly awful. 

It was a bitter thought, and not for the first time. Lillian swallowed it down and tried not to think about it. That was how she was getting through each day: by compiling a list of bad things, and then resolutely not thinking about them, as hard as she could. 

It probably wasn’t going to work for much longer. She wasn’t thinking about that, either.

The kitchen was tidy, ready for the day’s work. Leftover bread from yesterday served as breakfast, along with some butter and the last of the jam. The kitchen table was roughly built, one of Roy’s early projects. There were only two chairs at the lopsided table. 

We only need two for now, Roy had said once, grinning and winking at her. Until our family starts to grow, that is. 

Lillian closed her eyes, feeling a familiar surge of nausea. She put down her slice of bread and waited for it to pass. She had to eat, or else she’d get faint by the time she got to town. 

A tap on the door jerked her out of her reverie. 

“Just me,” came Caleb’s muffled voice. 

“Door’s open. Come in.”

Caleb was about fifty-four but seemed older than that. His skin was lined and weathered from a long life of working outdoors. When Lillian had first come to Red Creek and the Adler Ranch, she’d thought that Caleb was an absolute giant of a man. The past year, however, had worn him down. He stooped more than he used to, and those massive, spade-like hands of his were starting to twist with arthritis. He coughed a little more than usual in the cold weather, and his movements were slower and less fluid than before. 

“Made you some coffee,” Lillian said, pushing a steaming cup towards him. “Take a load off your feet.”

“Thanks, Lil. First frost of the season out there, you know?”

Lillian’s heart sank. “Winter’s coming, I guess. There’s nothing any of us can do about it.”

“Sure isn’t. I wanted to talk to you about a new chicken coop, by the way. Wolves and foxes will get bolder as the winter wears on, and I’d like a better coop. We ought to watch out for the Indians, too. They’ll steal chickens and cattle and never think twice about it. Maybe some more guard dogs?”

Lillian sipped her coffee. The nausea was receding, at last. She was relieved. It was hardly a pleasant start to the day to have her insides turning out. “The natives won’t bother us, Caleb. If we leave them alone, they’ll leave us alone.”

Caleb grimaced. “I wouldn’t be so sure. We’re isolated out here.”

“We’ve managed so far,” Lillian pointed out, venturing a smile. After all, they had already been so unlucky. It hardly seemed fair to end up with more misfortune. “Want some bread? There’s no jam, but there’s butter left.”

“I already ate. Look, are you still going into town today?”

“We need supplies,” she responded. “If you’re going to offer to go instead of me, don’t bother. I know how sitting in that cart for hours hurts your back.”

He snorted. “What about your back?”

“I’ll be fine. I’d better get going, anyway.” Lillian rose to her feet, collecting the dishes. She could wash up once she got home. 

Caleb sighed, running a heavy hand through his thinning gray hair. “How are you, Lil?”

She kept her back turned. I don’t want this conversation. I don’t want to think about it. So long as I don’t think about it, it’s not real. Not yet.

 “I’m fine.”

“And how’s… how’s the little one?” 

Lillian’s hand drifted to her stomach. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could already feel weight there, a sense of something growing inside her. Her clothes fit a little tighter than before, and would soon need letting out and adjusting further. And, of course, there was the nausea, and her newfound hatred for apples—sight, smell, and taste—not to mention an overpowering desire to eat as much cornbread as she could get her hands on. 

“Fine,” she responded, voice a little clipped. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“Boy or girl, do you think?”

“Too soon to tell. I’d better get going, Caleb. See you tonight.”

     ***

Later, Lillian felt guilty over snapping at Caleb. He was only trying to help. He was doing the work of three men—or trying to, at least—because she could only afford one ranch hand. 

The huge carthorse, Joshua, eyed her with large brown eyes as she prepared the cart, harnessing him up. 

“Let’s see if we can’t make our credit at the mercantile stretch a little further, huh, Joshua?” Lillian murmured, smoothing her palm down the horse’s nose. 

He huffed, pushing against her. He was clearly hoping for his favorite apple snacks, but really, Lillian could not handle even the smell of those fruits at the moment. It would make her trip to the mercantile difficult, on account of the barrels of apples which were always kept by the doorway. She’d just have to hold her breath. 

At last, preparations were done. Lillian hauled herself into the hard seat of the cart, picked up the reins, and clicked to Joshua to walk on. 

The horse was a well-trained one, ponderous and dutiful, and she didn’t have to worry much about guiding him. He already knew where he was going, and she was relieved to be able to sit back and not worry about staying in control. 

All of Lillian’s attempts to take control in her life had seemed to backfire, every time. Starting, of course, with her reply to an advertisement for a correspondence bride up in Red Creek. 

That’s not fair. Roy was a good husband. I liked him, and he liked me. It worked. And it would have kept working, if we hadn’t been so unlucky. 

The road from Adler Ranch into the main part of town snaked through the hills, a few scrubby trees clinging to the steep slopes. The wind was getting up, bringing the promise of winter and ice along with it. Lillian shivered, pulling her thin shawl a little tighter around herself. 

They passed Roy’s hill, as she’d taken to calling it. She could see the shape of the plain wooden cross marking his grave, silhouetted against the livid sky. He’d been there for three months, now. It was Caleb who insisted that he be buried there. 

“Before you came up to marry him, Roy was a lonely man,” Caleb had said once, his voice gruff in the way it got when he was trying to hold back emotion. “I’d see him sitting up there, watching the sun go down, and I just knew he felt so alone, so miserable. He thought it would never end. 

“It was after he’d been sitting up there for an hour or two, one evening, when he came back down and said to me, ‘Caleb, I’m going to write away for a lady to come marry me. I’m going to put an ad in the paper and see what sort of replies I get.’ I thought he was crazy, of course. I guess I was wrong.”

Lillian smiled faintly at the memory. She hoped Roy was happy with his resting place. He deserved a little rest. 

She’d sold the stallion that had thrown him. It was a valuable horse; one Roy was sure would make their fortunes in horse-breeding. He’d had to break it in first. After his death, a few of the locals had suggested more vengeful ends, including butchering the horse for mince. 

That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the stallion’s fault, after all. He was wild, and a prey animal. The weight on his back meant an enemy, and he wanted it gone. Horses didn’t know how easy it was for humans to break their necks. 

Besides, the horse had gone for a good price, and Heaven knew Lillian needed the money more than ever now. 

The morning was well along, inching towards noon, by the time she saw the familiar eaves of the main street. 

It was an odd quirk about the town, the fact that it had two names. The outskirts of the town kept the old Indian name of Red Creek, whereas the center of town called itself Redstone. More respectable, people said, whatever that was supposed to mean. 

Lillian tied up Joshua and the cart safely, tucked a basket into the crook of her arm, and headed to the mercantile. 

The mercantile owner, Mrs. Green, eyed her sullenly when she walked in. “Good morning, Mrs. Adler. You’re looking a little tired today.”

Lillian suppressed a wry look. “Thanks.”

It seemed only a short while ago that everybody had been complimenting her on her looks when she’d first arrived in town. 

Lillian had never considered herself as exceptionally pretty. That and her poverty meant that she’d struggled to find a decent man to marry back home, in the east, where there weren’t enough men to go around.

She looked much the same for now—slim, which meant that she would start showing soon enough. Thick brown hair was becoming glossier as her pregnancy advanced. She’d overheard some of the ladies in town murmuring that her eyes were more gray than usual, and her pale skin was spotting with freckles. 

“Just a few things today,” she said, sliding the list across the counter. 

Mrs. Green eyed the list but made no move to take it. “We’ve got to talk about your account, Mrs. Adler. You need to settle it.”

Lillian’s heart sank. “I know, Mrs. Green. I know. As soon as I have the money, I’ll pay it all off.”

The woman bit her lip, glancing away. “I know you’ll try. In the meantime, though, I can’t give you any more credit.”

Lillian’s heart sank. No credit. No credit, no groceries. No groceries, no food. No food… best not to think too much about that.

“Oh. I see. Well, I guess that’s fair. I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble.”

“No trouble,” Mrs. Green murmured. It sounded insincere. “You got money for this?”

“A little, yes.” Lillian dug in her pocket, coming up with a handful of coins. She knew at a glance that it wouldn’t cover all the items on the list. There was a stub of a pencil in her pocket, too, and she used it to cross off several items, then pushed the list and the coins towards Mrs. Green. “Will this cover it?”

“More or less,” Mrs. Green said, scooping the money off the counter. “I’ll get all this together for you. Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t just sell off that ranch. You’d get the money for a fresh start, at the very least.”

Mrs. Green sounded a little apologetic, almost regretful. Not regretful enough to let Lillian’s credit stretch further, of course.

Lillian bit the inside of her cheek. She’d heard variations of this advice from just about everybody in town, at some point. It must baffle them, her stubbornness about staying in Red Creek. 

“I promised Roy I’d make something of this place,” she answered, trying to keep her voice steady and neutral. “I’ve got to keep my promise. He’s dead, so it’s not like I can argue with him.”

That was meant to be a joke, but Mrs. Green shot a horrified look over her shoulder. “I’m sure he wouldn’t hold it against you. He’d forgive you.”

“Maybe, but I’m not sure I’d forgive myself.”

Lillian swallowed hard, forcing down the image of herself placing a for-sale sign in front of the ranch, guilt weighing her down.

I want to leave. I want to stay. I want Roy back. 

There was a brief silence after that, broken only by the shuffling and thumps of Mrs. Green collecting the few groceries Lillian could afford. 

“If I were you,” Mrs. Green said, after an uncomfortable pause, “I’d take myself back East. This isn’t a place for a widow. Don’t you have family back there?”

“I do, but I don’t want to bother them.”

It was more than that, of course. Lillian’s family were pleasant enough, but there was no home for her there. 

She was an only child, and after her mother’s death, her father had remarried. Wasting no time, her father and stepmother had produced child after child. She had about seven or eight half-siblings when she left, and it was pretty plain that they were all relieved to see her go. 

There was no place for her back East. No doubt her father and stepmother wouldn’t turn her out onto the streets, but they wouldn’t be pleased to see her, either. They would put her to work in the house, minding the children, until she could be pressured into marrying again. 

She could only imagine their reaction if she told them she was pregnant, widowed, and only had a little money left over from selling a ranch riddled with debt. 

No. 

“I’ll make it here, I’m sure,” she said, not sure whether she was trying to convince herself or Mrs. Green more. 

Mrs. Green stared at her, sliding the wrapped packages across the counter. “You’re very confident,” she said at last. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mrs. Adler. I really, really hope that you do.”

Chapter Two

A knock on the door made Lillian jump. It couldn’t be Caleb. He always worked until sunset, which was an hour or two off. Besides, he rarely called in to share supper for her. He had his own wife, Joan, and since their children were grown up and gone by now, they were keen to spend as much time with each other as possible. 

“Only me,” came a familiar female voice, muffled through the screen door. 

Mae Whittaker.

Lillian wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. Winter was coming, to be sure, but for now the days were still getting hot in the early afternoons, and her chores tired her out more easily these days. She’d barely finished unpacking the groceries she’d bought that morning. 

Mae Whittaker stood at the door, clutching a basket in a pair of work-roughened hands. She smiled at Lillian. “Good to see you, Lil. I was just passing by, and so…”

“Passing by? Mae, you came out of your way to come here,” Lillian sighed reproachfully, shaking her head. “I wish you wouldn’t. You’ll have to walk back in the dark, now. I worry about you, you know.”

Mae sniffed, stepping inside. “I’ve been a midwife for close to thirty years now. Do you think a little walk in the dark scares me? Besides, I happen to know that you have good coffee.”

Lillian chuckled, shaking her head. Mae was the town midwife, clever and stubborn enough to argue with the big-city doctors who occasionally came to stay here. She was forty-five, short but stocky, with strong arms and hands, and hair liberally streaked with gray. 

She was Lillian’s closest neighbor and had taken it upon herself to visit as often as possible after Roy’s death. Once she knew about the baby, she started visiting just about every day. Her visits gave Lillian more comfort than she dared to admit. 

Mae set her basket down on the table, gesturing carelessly at it. “Brought you a few things. Now, how about that coffee?”

Lillian drew back the cloth covering the basket and sucked in a breath. Inside the basket were all of the supplies she hadn’t been able to afford at Mrs. Green’s. “Mae! I can’t accept this. How did you…”

“Mrs. Green told me you couldn’t get a few things,” Mae responded briskly. “You know how that woman remembers everything. It’s just a gift, so don’t make a fuss. You’d do the same if it were me.”

Lillian swallowed hard, letting the blanket fall back into place. Gratitude and embarrassment tangled together, tightening in her chest. Accepting charity was never easy, even when it came from a friend as good as Mae. “You’re so kind, Mae. I wish you wouldn’t do much. I can’t repay you.”

“Well, what would life be if we went around tallying up who owed what to whom, and whether they’d get repaid?” Mae scoffed. “Don’t be silly.”

Lillian drew in a breath, steeling herself. She couldn’t afford to refuse Mae’s kindness. It was as simple as that. “Thank you,” she said simply. “Sit down, I’ll make you some coffee. So, Mrs. Green has been gossiping about me, has she? I imagine that the whole town knows I’m out of credit.”

Mae took a seat, wincing. “You imagine right. Mrs. Green is telling everybody who’ll listen that you’ve got some ulterior motive for keeping the ranch. If Caleb wasn’t old and married, she’d be telling everybody the two of you were having some kind of affair.”

Lillian snorted. “She must be bored. And poor Caleb!”

“They don’t believe it’s natural for a woman to run a ranch alone,” Mae said, shaking her head in disappointment. “I’m not saying it’s right, mind you, but I know how tough it is for a woman alone. You’re a widow. You’re going to be a mother, soon enough, and I’m not sure you realize just how difficult it will be.”

Lillian’s hand drifted to her stomach, fear spiking in her throat. She wanted to tell Mae that of course she could guess how difficult it would be. Her imagination was constantly running wild, keeping her up at night, threatening all of the worst possible situations. Sometimes it felt as though the simplest solution would be for her and her unfortunate baby to just die in childbirth. 

But that idea brought on such a spasm of panic that Lillian went dizzy, clutching at the sides of the counter to steady herself. 

In a moment, Mae was there, hands firmly on Lillian’s elbows. “Sit down,” she said, and it was not a suggestion but an order.

Lillian found herself guided, not to the hard chair at the kitchen table, but to the single threadbare armchair before the fire. She sank into the softer seat gratefully, and the room gradually stopped spinning. 

Mae stood over her, hands on her hips. “You need coffee, a long drink of water, and something to eat,” she said, half to herself. “Any food in the house?”

“Bread,” Lillian said, voice wobbly. “Oh, and a bit of rabbit stew. Caleb brought the rabbit.”

“Good, good. I’ll start heating that up. You sit there and rest, hear?”

Lillian thought it wise to obey. She sat still, staring at the jumping flames. “Rory and I used to take turns sitting here,” she said abruptly. “When it was just him, he only needed one armchair, and when I moved in, we realized we didn’t have enough chairs. He offered to let me have it, but I said it was fair that we should take turns, until we got another armchair. We never got around to it.”

“Roy was a good man,” Mae answered gently. “He was a decent husband, and I reckon he’d have made a good father. You know, you’ll start showing soon. The locals will gossip even more once they know you’re pregnant.”

Lillian closed her eyes, tilting back her head. “Don’t I know it.”

“The winter’s going to be a hard one, and you’ll be heavily pregnant through it. You’ve got to think of the future, Lillian.”

Lillian opened her eyes. “And what is that supposed to mean?” She asked sharply.

Mae sighed. “I don’t want to tell you what to do. I know how stubborn you are, anyway. Have you thought about getting married again? I don’t mean to pry, but I’m not a fool. You and Roy weren’t in love. You were a correspondence bride, and he was lonely. I’m not saying you weren’t happy with him, but I know what heartbreak looks like, and this isn’t it. Roy would want you to take care of yourself, and to move on.”

Lillian chewed her lower lip. She’d thought of that, of course. Her greatest chance at security was in marriage. She’d known, long before she wrote to one Roy Adler in Wisconsin, that her life would not be worth much if she couldn’t get a home of her own. Without being rich by birth, the only chance of financial stability was to get a husband of her own. 

“I got lucky, with Roy,” she heard herself say. “Maybe I didn’t realize just how lucky, at first. I know I didn’t love him properly, but with time, I think maybe I could have.”      She sighed and glanced at the kitchen behind her. “Who, exactly, do you think I could marry, Mae? Who’d marry a widow with a baby on the way, running a ranch by the skin of her teeth? 

“And what if I make a mistake? I could marry a cruel man, or be duped into marriage by a con man who’ll take what money I have and then run off and leave me. I don’t want to risk it, Mae. Not now, when I have the ranch and a little independence. I can make this work. I know it!”

“I know, I know,” Mae soothed, handing a steaming cup of coffee to Lillian. Already, the smell of the rabbit stew heating on the stove filled the kitchen with a rich, savory smell. Lillian’s stomach rumbled. Her unborn child, it seemed, liked rabbit well enough, at least. 

There was a little silence after that, while Mae pottered around the kitchen. Soon enough, the stew was ready, and Mae poured out two bowlfuls. Lillian noticed that Mae’s bowl barely contained a spoonful, whereas hers was full to the brim. 

Her face flushed. Perhaps it could have been because she was eating for two…but then again, she could barely afford to feed herself, let alone a guest, and Mae knew that, of course. 

Either way, she felt a twinge of humiliation as she accepted her full bowl, and two generous hunks of bread to go with it. This wasn’t the freedom I dreamed of. 

She swallowed back the thought with her first mouthful of stew. Wishing that things were otherwise was pointless. She’d learned that long ago. 

“There’s a lot of talk about you in the village,” Mae said, breaking the long, comfortable silence which had sprung up between them. 

“I wish they’d mind their own business.”

Mae gave a huff of amusement. “You can tell that you’re from a big city, girl. Nobody minds their own business around here. It would be different if you’d been here for years, long enough to settle in and be considered one of us. But you’ve barely been here a year, and the locals haven’t warmed up to you yet.”

“Don’t I know it,” Lillian remarked bitterly. “I thought they all knew Roy from when he was a child. Don’t they care about his wife?”

Mae stirred her stew thoughtfully. “They do. It’s complicated. Folks have small lives around here, so small things seem big. They gave you advice—get married, sell the ranch, get yourself more help—and you didn’t take it. They’re offended, and they’re turning that against you.”

Lillian gave an impatient sigh. “They can’t just dole out advice like that: get married, sell the ranch, like it’s a simple decision! And then expect me to hop to it.”

“Well, they do, because you’re a young woman and a young widow. Everybody thinks they know what’s best for you.” Mae paused, narrowing her eyes and folding her arms tight across her chest. “In all seriousness, Lillian, I am concerned about you.”

Lillian pursed her lips mulishly. “You don’t think I can take care of myself?”

The midwife smiled sadly. She leaned forward, taking Lillian’s hand. “I know you can. You’re clever, and capable, and when this baby arrives, you’ll take care of him or her, too. I just wish you had someone who could come and help you. A sister or a friend, or somebody to help share the burden.”

Lillian took a gulp of coffee. It was too hot, burning her tongue, but she kept drinking until there was none left. “I wish that, too,” she responded crisply. “But I haven’t got anybody like that. I don’t even have any friends in town, except for you, Mae.”

“You know I’ll be here, as much as you need me. But have you thought about finding a husband?”

Lillian had, of course, in the detached sort of way that somebody might consider hiring a new ranch hand. 

She’d decided against it. There were no men in town she even remotely liked, and anyway, the risk was too great. The wrong man could destroy her, rather than building her up. No, she was on her own. 

Lillian said nothing, and Mae didn’t push the issue. 

They finished their meal in silence. Lillian was hungrier than she had expected, wiping the bread around her bowl to soak up all of the gravy. 

“There’s more, if you want seconds,” Mae said, nodding towards Lillian’s empty bowl. 

“No, thank you. I’ll save it for tomorrow.”

Mae nodded, leaning forward to take the bowl. “Alright. I need to get home now, but I’ve brought some herbal teas for you. The mint and ginger should help with the sickness and give you a little more energy. Don’t drink too much or it’ll send you running to the privy. You’ll have enough of that once the baby starts to get bigger, believe me.”

Lillian forced a smile. “Don’t worry, I do believe you.”

Mae eyed her. “Has your sickness gotten worse?”

“No, not more than I can handle.”

“Any other symptoms? Does the baby move oddly? Stomach pains, bleeding, headaches?”

Lillian shook her head to each one, and Mae looked faintly relieved. “Good. That’s good. So far, it seems like a healthy pregnancy, and we can only pray for a healthy birth, too.”

Then she gathered her things, kissed Lillian goodbye, and headed out into the night, admonishing her not to stand out on the porch in the cold. 

Lillian stood there anyway, staring after her disappearing friend. Just like that, she was alone again. 

Familiar fear gripped her. Fear of failure, of being alone, of being lonely. 

She closed the door, dropping the latches and turning the locks. Once the door was closed, she sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands. 

I can’t do this.