There were two thousand, seven hundred, forty-eight and one half flowers on the wall of the shabby hotel room Buck Cross had rented -- paying in advance – for a week. He’d counted every one of them the first night he’d been in the room waiting for someone to bring him the whiskey he’d paid for. The one half flower was at the top right corner of the door. Someone had torn a piece of the wallpaper away revealing the slats behind it leaving the lonely one half flower there is all its imperfect perfection.
He’d used pretty much the last of his money in the transaction – and the bribe – to get the room, keeping back only enough for a few bottles of liquid forgetfulness. Finding someone to buy the whiskey for him had taken over half of the rest. No one would sell directly to an Indian – not even a half-breed – anymore, he’d discovered. Not since Fetterman. He’d been lucky to find a hotel that would rent to him but, as usual, he’d managed to find someone to whom money meant more than propriety.
The room he’d been “lucky” to get was the smallest in the building. It sat as far away from the front desk as he could get. But the size of the room and the less than stable bed didn’t really matter to him. Gave him less flowers to count.
Breaking open the first of the bottles, Buck took a long pull. He didn’t bother with a glass – that would take too long. The fiery liquid coursed down his throat to an empty stomach. Early on he’d learned that eating first slowed down the reaction of the whiskey so, especially when the memories were haunting him as they did tonight, food was the last thing on his mind.
The effects were almost immediate – just not immediate enough. He wondered how many drinks it would take for him to end up in the stupor that let him sleep – or at the very least be able to ignore the voices that chastised him for drinking in the first place. Maybe tonight would be the night when he’d be able to sleep without the nightmares. Another long swig of whiskey sped him on his way.
~~~~
“I do.”
With those two words he became the Mister part of Mr. and Mrs. Buck Cross. Looking into the eyes of the woman he loved more than life itself, he saw a shining love so bright it was almost blinding. Darcy McKenna – now Darcy Cross – was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. Who’d have thought, just six months ago, he’d be marrying her.
After the Pony Express had shut down and the remaining members of his “family” had gone their separate ways, he’d fumbled around for a while. He was alone – totally alone for the first time in a long time. With Ike gone and now the others moving on with their lives, he’d been left to fend for himself.
He’d considered following Teaspoon and Polly back to Texas but ultimately had decided that their war wasn’t his.
He’d wandered around the countryside for quite a while, doing odd jobs mostly, until he’d happened to be in the right place at the right time.
Riding into Fort Bridger, he’d discovered a wagon train looking for a guide up Oregon way. Their original guide had had an unfortunate accident and would be laid up until well past the last possible date they could leave to beat the winter. Rather than take the most popular roads, which by that date had been full of tolls that many could ill afford, this train was looking for someone to take them across the mountains to Oregon by one of the older, less traveled routes.
They were offering more money than he’d made in the two years since the Pony Express had disbanded. Being from back East, these people seemed to have little or no prejudices against half-breeds, so he’d accepted their offer. In the months that it took them to get to their destination he’d come to know each of them quite well – and Darcy McKenna best of all of them.
Leading settlers west had gone against Buck’s grain. He couldn’t help but feel he was betraying his Indian heritage by adding to the number of white men who were spreading into what to that point had been Indian lands. But the McKenna party had been different.
Their leader, Darcy’s father, had made it pointedly clear that the rest of the troop would remain respectful of Indian grounds – even if it meant taking them extra time to go around. Buck had been instructed to meet with the tribal elders in each new area and garner their permission before even one oxen hoof set foot on the ground. Word had spread quickly of this group of white men and they had been allowed passage by all but a few small groups.
The destination Mr. McKenna had chosen had also been carefully arranged. They simply wanted land enough to establish a small community and had made provisions with several local chiefs to purchase tracts from each. Payments of food, cloth and other durable goods – along with guarantees of shares of future produce – had been enough to gain them several acres for each of the five families traveling with the train.
Buck had been impressed too. These people seemed to have an honest respect for the land and its original inhabitants. When Mr. McKenna had asked him to remain with them through the winter, he’d jumped at the opportunity.
He’d worked hard for his keep. The group had concentrated on building the common buildings first. Something to keep them warm and dry in the long winter months. Come Spring, they would all move to their own land and begin their new life.
Feeling more a part of a family than he had since Rock Creek, Buck put his skills as a tracker to use. Before long the smoke house was full of venison, fish and rabbit. Enough to last them when fresh game became scarce. The settlers had just enough time to plant a few food crops and harvest enough of the prairie grasses to keep the cattle and oxen alive till spring.
Winter that year had been brutal. Snowfalls of two to three feet were not uncommon but the settlers were prepared for even that eventuality. The roofs of the common buildings were cleared of snow as quickly as possible to prevent destructive build up and paths from the buildings to the outbuildings were kept clear.
The women spent a great deal of time that winter making quilts. It never ceased to fascinate Buck as to how the tiny scraps of material could become a warm blanket in just a few weeks. Darcy had presented him with the first of the finished quilts on Christmas morning.
He couldn’t exactly say when he’d first noticed the young woman. Shy and reclusive, she’d been the oldest of the children who’d accompanied the group – and the only single person near to his own age. Once her father had gotten to know their guide and had deemed him to be an honorable man – the older man had discretely managed to make sure the pair was spending time together.
Darcy was just about everything a man could want. Not so beautiful that a husband would have to be worried about other men and their intentions but not plain either. A hard worker who willingly toiled side by side with the men to accomplish a task, she still had the feminine quality that every man looked for in a wife.
While he couldn’t remember when he’d first noticed her, Buck could and did remember the day he’d fallen in love with her. The day had been particularly rainy turning the as yet unpaved paths to the barns from dirt to ankle deep mud. He and Darcy had been sent down to bring in the eggs and she’d slipped in the mud.
Try as he might he couldn’t keep himself from laughing as she tried valiantly to get to her feet only to have her feet slide out from under her time and again. Finally she’d just sat there and joined him in his laughter – right before she threw a handful of mud at him catching him full in the face. By the time the resulting mud fight ended they were both coated with the muck.
The older women had refused to allow them back into the main house until they gone to the horse trough and washed. He could still remember how icy cold the water had been and how warm his heart had felt for the first time in a very long time. He’d asked Mr. McKenna for her hand just before the new year started.
Their wedding had taken place on the first day of Spring. He’d ridden to the nearest town – three days farther west – to bring back the pastor – and a ring. He could still remember the look on her face when she’d seen the golden band. Her eyes had sparkled like the stars on a moonless night.
He hadn’t thought the world could get any more perfect.
~~~~
The families in the settlement had worked hard that spring. Every one had contributed a small portion of their own land as a wedding present for Buck and Darcy so they were now landowners in their own right. Working as one team, the settlers had cleared the land to plant the crops. As soon as they completed that task, they set about building homesteads for each family.
Lots had been drawn early on to determine who would occupy the first of the cabins but, after some discussion, it was decided that Buck and Darcy would have that honor. The older married couples smiled secretively as the man carried his bride across the threshold.
In no time the rest of the houses were finished and the big house was turned into a meeting hall. The barns were full of newborn animals, the fields were beginning to green out with the various crops and the gardens behind each house became full of flowering plants both edible and decorative.
One night Buck came in from the fields to see a smiling Darcy holding up a small pair of knitted booties. “Who are those for?” he asked, hoping against hope.
“Oh, I thought our daughter might be wearing them this winter,” she responded.
“Our dau . . . daughter?” Buck repeated.
“Or maybe our son, it’s hard to say at this point,” his wife said laughing at his response. “You’d better sit down – Daddy.”
“Daddy . . . “ Buck whispered. His face split in a wide grin. “I don’t want to sit down, I want to dance!” he exclaimed pulling her to her feet. The couple twirled around the small room dancing to music only they could hear.
They were both out of breath when they finally stopped. A look of concern replaced Buck’s grin. “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you did I?”
“Buck, I’m pregnant not sick!” Darcy replied.
“Sit down!” Buck ordered. “You shouldn’t be on your feet.”
“Buck, I’m FINE,” she argued.
“And I want you to stay that way,” he countered.
He started pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. “We don’t even have a doctor.”
“Mary Danvers is a trained midwife and my Ma and Mrs. Perkins have had enough children to know what to do,” Darcy reminded him.
“I know. But they’re not doctors,” he told her. “We need to be somewhere where you’ll have proper medical care.”
“Buck, I AM FINE!” she repeated. “Women have been having babies without doctors for centuries. I will do just fine!”
“I sure hope so,” her husband told her. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
~~~~
The day his son was born had started off normally enough. A much bigger Darcy had finally agreed to take it easy while Buck worked in the fields. He’d argued repeatedly over the months that they should move to the town where they could be near a doctor – just in case – but Darcy adamantly refused. Finally, he’d grudgingly accepted that they would be staying in their home although, despite her protests, he’d arranged for one of the Danvers children to stay with her. The youngster was under strict orders to get her mother first and then him if anything started to happen.
He’d just finished a section and was preparing to go back to the house for lunch when he’d seen Mary Danvers running from her house to his, her bag in her hand. By the time he reached the house Darcy’s ma and the other women were already there.
Darcy’s ma stopped him before he could enter the house. “You don’t need to be in there,” she told him.
“I want to be with her,” he’d argued. “Is she all right?”
Ma hesitated just long enough that he stopped trying to push past her and looked into her eyes. He saw something there that scared him. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“The baby is really big,” Ma explained. “And it’s breach.”
“I don’t understand,” Buck replied.
“The baby is turned around and is coming out feet first,” the older woman explained.
Mr. McKenna skidded to a stop next to the pair at that moment. Ma repeated what she’d said to Buck and then ordered both men to wait outside as she went back in.
It was almost more than Buck could stand to hear Darcy’s screams and do nothing. He wore a rut in the ground as he paced back and forth in front of the cabin.
Finally after what seemed like an eternity the screaming stopped to be replaced by a thin wailing that could only come from a new baby. The wailing stopped after just a few minutes and Buck heard Mary Danvers giving orders in a sharp voice.
A second eternity passed before Ma McKenna came to the door. One look at the woman’s face was all Buck needed to fill him with dread. He pushed past the woman ignoring her request for him to stop.
Darcy lay on the bed looking as pale as the sheets that surrounded her. Mary and one of the other women were silently gathering bloody sheets. Both women had tears streaming down their faces.
Buck fell to his knees beside the bed, taking Darcy’s hand in his own. She opened her eyes and, for a moment, was able to focus on his face.
“Have you seen your son?” she asked weakly. “Is he all right?”
He looked past her to see Mary gently wrapping the still form of his son in a blanket. She turned at the sound of Darcy’s voice and shook her head sadly.
“He’s fine,” Buck lied. The words caught in his throat as he added. “He’s perfect.”
“Just like his father,” Darcy whispered.
Her eyes closed then as her breathing became more labored.
“Mary!” Buck called anxiously.
Mary came to the bed and took Darcy’s wrist in her hand. After a few seconds, she lay the wrist back on the bed and gently squeezed Buck’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “The birth was just too much for both of them.”
“DO SOMETHING!” Buck commanded.
“There’s nothing I . . .” Mary started.
Buck surged to his feet. Grabbing the woman by the arm, he repeated, “DO SOMETHING!”
Darcy’s mother stepped in at that point. “Buck, there’s nothing Mary can do. It’s in God’s hands now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Buck cried.
Darcy’s eyes fluttered open again. “I love you, Buck,” she whispered as her spirit left her.
Darcy’s mother moved towards the bed, reaching for the quilt to cover her daughter one last time.
“Get out,” Buck ordered quietly.
“Buck, she needs . . . “
“GET OUT!” the man roared.
They left him alone then. He knelt by the bed holding his wife’s hand and gently stroking her hair until the body finally grew cold. Nightfall came before he allowed the other women back into the house to do what needed to be done.
~~~~
His wife and son were buried in a small piece of land the settlers had decided would be used for that purpose. None of them had ever anticipated that the cemetery would have its first residents so soon. When Mr. Danvers had asked about a name for the baby’s headstone, he’d given the name he and Darcy had decided upon months earlier. Isaac William Cross was laid to rest beside his mother.
That evening Mr. Danvers came to Buck’s house with a bottle of brown liquid. He’d poured a generous portion into two glasses and set one of them in front of his son-in-law.
“I don’t need that,” Buck protested. “I just need to be left alone.”
“Drink it!” the older man had ordered. “You’ve got a lot of time to be alone.”
“We should have gone to Canemah,” Buck lamented. “At least we could have had a doctor with her. Maybe she . . .”
“Son, there is nothing anyone could have done,” Mr. Danvers interrupted. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”
Buck glared at him with reddened eyes. Without another word he scooped up the glass of whiskey and downed it in a single gulp.
~~~~
Buck woke with a start. He’d fallen asleep slumped in a chair. The empty whiskey bottles were testament to his attempt to drown his memories one more time.
His dream flooded in with the return of conscious thought. That first drink had helped some. At least he’d been able to sleep that night.
He’d left the settlement just a few short days after the funeral. Mr. and Mrs. Danvers and the rest of the settlers had begged him to stay with them but he couldn’t. The pain was too strong. Watching the other families, seeing the children playing, had only driven home what he had lost. Early one morning, before the others were up and about, he’d ridden off leaving a note – and his life with them – behind.
The weeks that followed were now nothing more than a blur. He’d wandered again much as he had after the Express had shut down eventually crossing the Great Divide and returning to Wyoming. There was a difference this time though. While before he’d avoided towns except when necessary, this time he’d sought them out. His evenings ended more often than not in a saloon drinking. As time progressed one drink hadn’t been enough.
One drink had led him to another – and another – and another. Finally the whiskey had led him to this town – Rawlings he remembered vaguely – and to this room and its two thousand, seven hundred, forty-eight and one half flowers on the wall.
Realizing the bottles in front of him were both empty, Buck rose unsteadily to his feet. Maybe it was late enough for the saloon to be empty enough that the bartender would be willing to sell him one more drink.