Wed To The Montana Cowboy. Carol Arens

made Mama weep because she was not pretty enough to make Papa stay.

      It had been the dolls that made her think that. Mama carried a collection of blue-eyed princesses to whichever place they happened to be living. Papa had bought them for her, Mama liked to say, because they reminded him of her. Back then, they reminded Rebecca of angels. Later on when she thought of those pretty porcelain gifts, it hurt dreadfully.

      In all their travels, Mama had never left a doll behind. She’d left Rebecca behind without a backward glance.

      “I have accepted the fact that I will, in all likelihood, remain unmarried.” It stung that her aunt continued to fear that she would suddenly become promiscuous. “But I am nothing like my mother and have gone to great pains to show that I am not.”

      “As this evening would attest? Really, Rebecca, I’ve done my best with you but sometimes I fear that no matter how strict I am, you rebel... You are my sister all over again.”

      Whether that was true or not, she couldn’t say. Mama had become a distant memory, buried so deep that trying to recall her face was like painting with mist.

      “Aunt Eunice, the mother I remember is you.” A woman who hid rare, tender feelings behind a starchy demeanor. She could only recall one instance when her aunt had showed her unguarded affection. When she was six years old, Rebecca had been seriously ill with a fever and her aunt had sat up with her for two days and nights, wiping her brow and crooning lullabies. During the worst of it she had even called her Becca.

      “I regret that I shamed you, but Randall was behaving like a lewd goat. I merely defended myself.”

      “And as usual, you dragged my Melinda into the mess.”

      Anyone acquainted with her cousin for more than ten minutes knew that there was no dragging Melinda. She dove into life headlong, laughing while she did so.

      The clock on the fireplace mantel ticked off long silent seconds while her aunt stared up at her.

      “You need a husband,” she declared at last. “I hoped it would be Randall since you are of an age. But after tonight that is unlikely. But mark my words, Rebecca Louise, you will marry and marry soon.”

      Aunt Eunice sighed loudly, glanced at the clock then back up at her.

      “Mr. Fielding, the butcher, has asked for you. He believes that with your size, you will be helpful in the shop. Count your blessings, young lady, that the man wants a hefty girl.”

      Hefty? Why, she was no such thing. She was slender, and if not delicate, exactly, she was by no means strapping.

      “You may go to your room now.”

      There were many things that she would do to keep peace with her aunt. After all, she did owe her a great deal. A widow after only five years of marriage, she had managed to raise four girls all on her own. She truly did deserve respect for that.

      But showing her aunt respect stopped a good deal short of marrying the butcher.

      “Rebecca.” Her aunt’s voice caught her just as she made the turn from the parlor to the hall. “As horrified as I am at how you behaved tonight, I’m glad that you did not let that pitiful Randall make improper advances. Once you are under the butcher’s care, you’ll be safe from that sort of conduct.”

      “Yes, Aunt Eunice,” she said, but it was the last thing she meant.

      * * *

      A footpath crossed the backyard then sloped downhill toward the creek behind the house. Rebecca followed the trail of daffodils growing beside it, watching them nod their pretty yellow heads in the glow of the low-hung moon.

      It was dark in the wee hours, but that didn’t mean the flowers did not continue to flash their color. She decided to be like those bold little beauties...shine even during the dark hours.

      Sitting on a bench that she had placed beside the creek three years ago, she drew her violin from its case and began to play.

      As the sound filtered through the cottonwoods, her nerves began to settle. With each draw of the bow across the strings, despair melted...hope took its place.

      After a few moments she was smiling. The instrument always had this effect upon her. Learning to play it had come naturally.

      “Do not, under any circumstances, marry the butcher.” Melinda plopped down beside her, out of breath. She must have run all the way from the house. “I’m certain his first two wives were perfectly miserable.”

      Melinda, her fair hair loose and tumbling, her nightshift a soft white glow in the dark, was everything lovely. Her lively, engaging spirit had a way of drawing people to her. If she decided to postpone marriage for years, she would still be snatched up in a heartbeat. Her cousin might live to be a hundred years old and still not be considered an old maid.

      “Your mother can be very determined.”

      “But not as determined as us... You wouldn’t consider it? Please say you wouldn’t!”

      Rebecca placed her violin in its case then cradled it across her knees.

      “I would not, not in a million years.”

      What was she going to do, though? Become a lifelong burden to her aunt? Eventually, when they were both old, become her caregiver?

      A few hours ago, any slim hope of finding a decent man had slid across the floor of the social room with Randall Pile. No doubt the gentlemen of Kansas City were shaking their heads in astonishment. Perhaps even the butcher was having second thoughts.

      “But there is something I’ve been considering for some time now.” She paused and drew a breath. “I’ll go to my grandfather.”

      “You can’t do that, Becca! He lives in the wilderness with bears and wolves! Your home is here with us.”

      “I only live here. This is your home, your sisters’ and your mother’s. There’s no future for me here.”

      “When I marry, you’ll live with me. My home will be your home.”

      “I won’t be any better off then than I am now. I’ll still be a burden.”

      “I won’t treat you like Mama does. You know I would never.”

      “I know, but, Melinda, don’t you see? I’ve got to go. If I don’t I’ll just shrivel up.”

      “I’ll shrivel without you. My sisters and Mama will stifle me as sure as I’m breathing.”

      “You are not the stifling kind. You’ll do fine without me.”

      “You can’t go, Becca. Your grandfather lives in Montana. Not to mention that he’s a... I hate to say so, but he’s a Moreland, and a stranger.”

      “We can’t judge all Morelands by my father. In his letters, Grandfather sounds congenial. I believe he is just a sweet, little old man who wants to meet his only grandchild. No doubt at his age he’s helpless and feeble. I’m sure he needs me.”

      “But Montana is so far away! How will you even get there?”

      How indeed? She’d spent countless hours lying awake, or playing her violin, thinking it over.

      “By paddleboat. It leaves here and goes right to Coulson. That’s not far from my grandfather in Big Timber.”

      “What’s not far?”

      “Only about eighty miles.” She shrugged and stared down at her violin case.

      “Of wilderness!”

      “It’s not as though it’s uninhabited.”

      “Mama will forbid it.” Melinda tapped her finger to her lips. “Paddleboats are dangerous. It will involve months of travel. Then there’s the Morelands. Demons and that side of your family are one and the same to her.”

      “Whether they