Chapter 5

Gathering her full skirt to the side in one hand, Mary wearily stepped down from the stagecoach for the last time. She gratefully accepted the hand the drummer offered her. A quick look at the very small town of Tehachapi was all the energy she could spare at the moment. When no one immediately approached her, the tension of expectation eased somewhat. Perhaps, she speculated, Mr. Burgstone was delayed in arriving.

As unlady like as she knew it to be, she put her hands to her waist and twisted first one way and then the next. Still stiff, she pressed her hands to the small of her back. The four day coach ride was over but the stiffness seemed determined to stay with her for a while longer. Mary could hear the exhaustion in her own voice when she asked the driver about her trunk.

"We'll unload it in a little while little lady. Why don't you busy yourself fer a spell. It'll be stacked right there on the boardwalk soon as I've got the mail cared fer."

Nodding her head, Mary was satisfied that her baggage would be taken care of. She set her hand valise on the ground at her side. Everything she owned was right here. Now, where was that man she'd agreed to marry, she wondered. She swept a glance up, then down the street, looking for the gentleman she'd imagined from his letter. There was a fellow standing in the street in front of the Butterfield Stage office. Although it looked as if he were waiting on someone, she could not begin to consider him. The man she had agreed to marry was not a man who's clothing would be so stiff with dirt that its cloth appeared about to crack. One tail of his red shirt stuck out the side of his denim coveralls while the other was tucked inside. He wore ages old, heel worn shoes and his face was covered with a thick, ill trimmed and matted beard. She could see sweat running from him, even from here. This could not be Patrick Burgstone. The trouble with that thought was, there was no one else who appeared to be watching the stagecoach. Surely Mr. Burgstone would arrive shortly.

Mary looked again, checking to make sure she had not missed seeing her husband to be. There was no one paying any attention to the coach besides the dust covered man whose mouth hung open and whose eyes were practically undressing her in the street. With a rush of red to her cheeks, she turned her back to him. Tehachapi, it seemed, had its share of ruffians.

Moments later Mary heard a gravely throat being cleared from behind her. In excited anticipation she whirled around, her skirts flaring out in a swish of material. Mary brought a hand to her mouth. Oh my Heavens, she mouthed silently.

"Excuse me, miss. Are ya Mary Tobin, the gal I'm suppose ta marry up with today?" the man asked eagerly.

"I... oh..." Mary swallowed hard. She willed herself not to give in to the weakness threatening to cause a swoon. It took a moment or two, but she finally got her voice back.

"Well, I suppose we should gather my bags." Her knees were shaking beneath her skirts, the reality of her situation sitting like a stone in her stomach. "The driver said it would be stacked on the porch there shortly."

Mentally reckoning the change in her purse, Mary sighed. She did not have the money to get home. For a moment she worked at pushing down the feelings caught in her throat. Miss Hamish would not welcome her returning to the orphanage, even if she could go back to Los Angeles. She had no home. For the briefest moment Mary's eyes glistened. Then, without further hesitation, she bit her lip and stiffened her back. Hadn't Mamma told her, 'A fine suit of clothes does not guarantee a gentleman is wearing them'.

The driver stood on his seat in the boot and yanked her black leather trunk over the rail atop of the stage and down onto the street in one easy motion, raising a cloud of fine dust. Mary walked the few steps to stand beside it, pausing for Mr. Burgstone to fetch her belongings so they could depart for the ranch. No such thing seemed to be in his mind, however. Mr. Burgstone, scratching at his underarm, untied a mangy looking mule from a nearby hitching rail and ambled slowly back to the stage. He pulled the animal up close, but then stood stock still in front of her. From this distance the man's many layered odor was unmistakable. Sweat, dirt, grease, and heaven knew what else mixed together on his clothes and body. Still, Mary struggled to believe her impression was founded on the worst of circumstances. Let them arrive at his ranch, give him a chance to clean up and shave. He would prove to be respectable, kind and gentle.

"Where is the wagon?" Mary asked, determined not to show her growing doubt to this man who had taken a greater risk than she by opening his home and putting out the cash to send for her.

"Ain't got one." Patrick scratched at the underside of his arm again, then made a quick exam of the dirt beneath his ragged fingernails. He wiped the offending hand across the seat of his denim overalls, giving her a look of impatience. "Are ya gonna stand there all day? Get that trunk over here. We're gonna be tomorrow before we can get to my place, what with all the trappings yer toting." With that, he bit a ragged hang nail, before he looked up again. "Well?"

Mary's eyes widened. Even Jenkins, low and lewd as he was, knew well enough that ladies should be shown more courtesy than this country rogue seemed capable of. A flush spread rapidly across her cheeks. Her eyes sparked fire. Mr. Burgstone, however, simply stood waiting for her to gather her things. She continued standing a moment longer, one foot tapping the planks under foot as she considered her options. There seemed to be nothing for it but to give in. Bending over, Mary got one end of the trunk raised into the air and drug the heavy chest over to where the mule waited. "There is simply no way that I can lift this entirely alone, Mr. Burgstone." She dropped the end of the trunk and folded her arms.

Patrick spat the hangnail he'd been chewing on. He took up one end of the leather trunk and waited. Mary's pursed mouth seemed to have no affect on the man. With an exaggerated sigh, she grasped the wooden handle on the end of the trunk and, stooping to keep from lifting with her back muscles, together they hoisted the trunk onto the mule's back.

Caught on a corner of the trunk as they lifted it, Mary's dress sleeve hung torn at her elbow. Hair dangled in her eyes, pulled from the neat coiffeur she had left Los Angeles with. Even the hem of her dress was dusted by the street, having had to drag it in the dirt in order to lift her trunk. She looked questioningly at the load atop the mule. "Will it be alright, do you think?"

"Hell woman, I carried a whole building up there. Ain't no way it's gonna fall." He puffed up his chest, checking the tautness of the rope he had just finished tying across Mary's trunk and securing to the mule. "Not once I've tied her into place."

Without any further conversation, the man slapped the mule's hind quarter and got her moving. Mary stood fixed to the spot. He'd said he had no wagon but the fact that he was expecting her to walk hadn't registered. Until now.

"Mr. Burgstone," she demanded. When he either hadn't heard, or chose to ignore her and continued leading the mule away, Mary raised her voice. "Mr. Burgstone. I have been traveling for four days. I am tired and sore and hungry. Now you expect me to walk the final leg of my trip without so much as a chance to refresh myself?"

Patrick stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at her.

"I've not eaten since this morning early. Does this... , " Mary looked around at the scant number of buildings, trying to settle on whether this was anything more than a stage stop with the addition of a saloon and a general store. "Does this town have a dining room, by chance?"

Patrick slapped Jenny on the hind quarter once more and simply started walking away, without response. Seeing no other way to deal with the situation, Mary pushed a hair pin back into place, hiked her skirt and proceeded to follow. She batted at flies. She side stepped horse dung. She ached from head to toe. She was exhausted. How ever much she might rue the rashness that had brought her to be walking down the middle of a one street town in the middle of California's God forsaken desert, Mary had made her own bed. Who knew? Maybe she would still find that beneath Mr. Burgstone's rough exterior lurked the fine gentleman farmer she had thought to find here.

They had passed the last structure of the small town when Mary again called a halt to their leaving. She could not imagine anything lived beyond this last outpost of civilized man. Surely Mr. Burgstone remembered their agreement was founded on a promise of a proper marriage. "Are you going to marry me?" she asked abruptly.

Stopping his slow plodding walk out toward the desert, Patrick pulled his mule up. Mary did not feel comforted by the blank expression he turned on her.

"Are you going to marry me, Mr. Burgstone," she repeated slowly.

"Is it all that important to ya?"

Mary dropped the sides of her skirt and placed both hands on her hips. "Mr. Burgstone. I did not come all this way to be walking off into the desert, heaven knows how many miles from civilization, just to cook your meals and tend your goats. You advertised for a wife. You can either turn around and pay my way back to Los Angeles or find a preacher. One or the other, Mr. Burgstone. I'm a proper lady and aim to be treated like one."

Patrick threw down the mule's lead. "Shit, anyway."

Mary stood her ground. Beneath her and from all sides, the warmth of the sun radiated. The tight weave and fit of her dress held in the heat her body tried to release. Sweat clung to the fabric and pooled in the folds of her bodice. Her stomach rumbled as well. With all her discomforts, Mary was at the least determined to hold her dignity. She waited, watching the man who's advertisement had brought her to this pass.

"Shit anyway," he said again, spitting into the dust. "There's that preacher fella out north of town some. I suppose he'd be willing to hitch us proper, seein' as its so all fired important."

"You best believe it is. I'm quite serious, Mr. Burgstone." Mary pushed another strand of hair back into place, the other hand still firmly planted on her hip.

"Well, alright. The preacher's place is supposed to be about a mile out that a way." He gave Mary a good look, top to bottom, lingering on her snugly fit bodice. "I guess I did promised ya that one." Finally lifting his gaze to her face, he turned the mule. Before long the broken down shack north of town that was the home and church of the new preacher was in sight. The man they found bent over the horse trough, heaving out the contents of his stomach was not what Mary envisioned as a man of God. He was unshaven and clearly in need of a bath as much as Mr. Burgstone.

"Sure, I'll marry you. Just wait 'til I get my breath back," the man answered Patrick's question, "and we'll get right to it." The Reverend Bridgewater took a bucket of clean water sitting next to the trough and turned it upside down over his head. With a shake and a rub he cleared his face of excess water and wiped his dripping hair back out of his way. He straightened up, water running down the chest of his well-worn preacher's black frock coat. "Well, let's do it then."

The reek of alcohol covered the man, even after dousing himself. Mary was coming to believe that those who lived outside of civilized cities were ignorant of the existence of soap and hot water. She held her breath as long as she could, then as unobtrusively as possible, took her next breath quickly. Remembering the hanky tucked into the cuff of her dress, she gratefully held its clean scent to her face. It definitely helped.

Mercifully, the ceremony was short. The man did seem to know what words to say. Least wise, they sounded both biblical and appropriate to Mary. She steeled herself against the pronouncement of man and wife. Wasn't the preacher supposed to say, "You may kiss the bride"? But he didn't. Mary audibly released her breath. The preacher had Patrick and herself sign a bible, which he closed and handed to Mary, and that was that.

The reverend, perhaps attempting to 'warm the spirit of the blushing bride' offered both of them a swig from his clay jug. Mary declined as gracefully as she could manage. If she'd known what lay ahead of her out in the desert, she might have changed her mind. Patrick had himself a healthy slug of the rot-gut and thanked the man, promising to bring him a goat cheese on his next trip to town in payment for the ceremony. That seemed to be fine as far as the Reverend Bridgewater was concerned.

Mary was glad Patrick was not inclined to stay and talk with the man. He seemed to want to get to his farm as quickly as he could. He urged his mule to quicken its pace. As mile after mile of dusty desert dropped behind them, Mary was left with her own thoughts, conjuring acceptable reasons for Patrick's behavior. The day was hot and apt to make the best of men cantankerous. Hadn't she herself been impatiently sharp with him? Patrick had traveled half a day on foot, without a chance to clean up before meeting her. He was undoubtedly tired, between the heat and the walking, and had no energy to spare for conversation. She could imagine he wanted to get home to rest and clean up so he could put his best foot forward. Yes, that was undoubtedly it. He most probably was in a hurry to get home to his goats, to make sure they had water, what with the miserable heat of the day. Mary could understand that sort of concern of one's possessions. With that she determined to foster more favorable thoughts towards her new husband.

And so began Mary's married life, walking off into the desert, the chaparral and mesquite quickly surrounding them, the preacher's shack lost beyond the horizon of brush. As they marched across the desert the mule continually kicked dust into the air and into Mary's eyes. Sweat soon dripped in streams from her back and beneath her breasts. Her traveling dress hung so heavily from her frame it dragged at her shoulders. She no longer attempted to keep her skirts held up off the desert floor. The mule following Patrick, Mary following the mule, she soon stumbled into a fresh, warm pile of dung. She gathered her skirts out of the way and lifted her foot, cocking her leg to inspect her shoe. With a resigned sigh, she rubbed as much of the offal off as she could, running the edge of the shoe's sole against the desert floor. Between the dust and dirt, the latest insult to cleanliness added only a portion to her overall desire for a long hot bath and a full night's rest in a good clean bed.

She had come to this willingly she reminded herself. She was away from Jenkins, she was married, and there was a goat farm waiting for her somewhere in all this wilderness. Most importantly, she pointed out to herself, she didn't have to worry about that craved man back at the orphanage throwing her to the ground any longer. Everything would be better once they arrived at their farm.

Suddenly she bumped into the rear end of the mule. Why were they stopping, she wondered, futily brushing at her skirts and looking at their surroundings. They certainly had not reached Patrick's farm. They were still in the middle of nothing more than sand and brush. She couldn't see anything at all that warranted stopping.