The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [105]
Then one night at bedtime, the wind gusting from the north-west, Isaac held each child to him and kissed their cheeks. One by one he told them, even Emma, that he was going to the mine, just for the winter, doing what he had to do to keep the ranch. “Remember that,” he said to them, not allowing them to cry. “This land’s worth sacrificing for.”
I listened outside the children’s bedrooms. It took everything I had to hold myself together. Isaac was going to do this thing, but even still, I held on to hope. He could change his mind during the night; he hadn’t left yet.
Without a word between us, we got up the next morning well before first dawn. With a lantern on the counter, I made Isaac’s breakfast while he gathered up his things. When I let Rounder out, I saw that it was snowing. Numb to it all, I packed Isaac a lunch while he ate his biscuits and gravy. When he finished, ready to leave, he didn’t kiss my cheek good-bye. Instead, he put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “I’m counting on you,” he said. “We all are.”
My hand found the counter behind me. “Isaac,” I said. “Please. Don’t—”
“You’re strong,” he said. “More than you know.” At that, a cry rose up inside of me, and all at once, I was in his arms, a place where I hadn’t been in months.
My ear to his chest, I heard his heartbeat. Isaac bent some, just enough to rest his chin on top of my head. He thought I was strong. I pulled in his smell; I put my arms around him, feeling the strength of his back. Isaac was wrong; I wasn’t strong, not anymore. His hands pressed me close; through my heavy nightdress his fingers kneaded my backbone.
I knew what he was doing. He was working me, getting me to go along with what he was about to do. Don’t let him, a voice in my head said. Don’t. But all the same his hands felt so good on my back. I had missed his touch. His hands were broad and strong; they were hands that knew every part of me. Ridges of calluses, I knew, ran across his palms. I wanted to run my finger over them, I wanted to put his hand to my cheek and feel those calluses.
“Yes,” I said, and suddenly I believed that Isaac was right. I was strong; I could run the ranch. But just as fast, I saw the short supplies on the cupboard shelf, I pictured our children’s faces, pinched from the cold, their eyes flat from hunger. I saw my boys’ markers in the cemetery. By winter’s end there could be more. I couldn’t let that happen. And then there was my promise to Mary. There will be dances, I had told her the night Jerseybell died. There will be a dab of sweetness to carry her—to carry all of our children—through the hard times sure to come.
I lifted my head from Isaac’s chest, and pulling in some air, I pushed myself away. He didn’t try to stop me. “That’s right,” I said.
Isaac cocked his head, not seeing my meaning. I said, “I’m stronger than I know.”
“I’ve never doubted that. You’ll be all right.”
“You will be too.”
He gave me a quick smile, his eyes not meeting mine. He took his coat from the wall peg. He worked it into place, shrugging his shoulders, buttoning up. He pulled his hat on low, covering his ears, and tightened his stampede strings. Tears came to me; I could hardly see past them. Isaac picked up his knapsack and then he stopped. “Rachel,” he said.
Hope caught at my heart. I put my hand out to him. Isaac didn’t seem to see it; he looked past me. I waited, wanting him to put his knapsack down, wanting him to say, Why are you crying? I’m just seeing to the cattle. I’ll be back for noon dinner.
Isaac said, “I’m counting on you.”
My hand dropped to my side. He shouldered his knapsack and he left me then, stepping out onto the porch in the snow. I knew that Isaac was walking