Her father’s jaw set, a finality in his tone that brooked no argument. “I wash my hands of you. You’re no daughter of mine anymore.”
Tears welled in Barbara’s eyes, but she forced them back. She couldn’t let her father see her crumble.
“I’ll just get my things and go,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Harvey nodded, his brown eyes meeting hers with a sorrowful understanding. Without a word, he helped her out of the wagon and followed her inside, where they put all of her belongings into a trunk.
Her mother caught her arm as she was leaving. “I’ll be at the school at lunchtime tomorrow, and we’ll talk,” she whispered.
Barbara nodded, hurrying outside to climb back into the wagon while Harvey carried her trunk and put it in the back. Her trunk was filled with so many things that she’d collected over the years, and her very own book of receipts she’d received from her sister-in-law, Henri, and even some from Fiona. She was ready to be a wife, but she would miss being her father’s daughter.
As they moved away from the homestead, Barbara felt the brunt of her decision weighing on her. She was married to Harvey now, bound to him by heart and law, yet a part of her remained tethered to the family she left behind.
“Are you all right?” Harvey asked, his voice laced with concern.
Barbara turned to him, her smile bittersweet. “I am. Just…my heart’s heavy, is all. I want them to be a part of our lives, Harvey, no matter how hard Pa makes it.”
“I know, Barbara. I know,” Harvey replied, reaching over to squeeze her hand.
But as Harvey’s arm slipped around her waist, drawing her close, Barbara found strength in their unity. She loved this man beside her, and she knew she was doing the right thing for her future. He was not his father. He hadn’t made the same mistakes his father had, and she would cherish her life with him.
The wagon groaned to a halt before the modest wooden structure that Harvey called home. With hands rough from the leads, he jumped down and offered his to Barbara. Her boots met the earth with a soft thud, her gaze immediately sweeping over the tiny cabin.
“Here we are, Mrs. Bedwell,” Harvey said.
Barbara’s eyes traced the lines of the cabin, noting its need for repair. The shutters hung askew, the door slightly ajar creaking in the wind. She could fix those things herself, but they’d have to wait until after school the following day. She had a month left of her teaching assignment.
“Looks like it’s seen some seasons,” she said, her tone light.
Harvey chuckled. “That it has. But with you here, it’ll be the best home this side of the Mississippi.”
Stepping inside, the one-room abode was simple. It held a bed, a table, a couple of chairs, and a hearth. Dust motes danced in the slanting light, and cobwebs clung to corners like stubborn memories. A potbelly stove stood silent, waiting to be stoked. She couldn’t believe how excited she was to see a stove. It was so much easier to cook over a stove than an open fire.
“First things first,” Barbara said, rolling up her sleeves. Her fingers undid the buttons at her cuffs with efficient ease, revealing wrists accustomed to labor. “We can’t have our first night as man and wife on old bedding.”
She stripped the bed with quick movements, folding the worn linen with care. The fabric was coarse, smelling faintly of earth and sweat—the scent of Harvey’s days in the fields. From her trunk, she retrieved fresh bedding, sheets and quilts she and her mother had pieced together after her sisters had moved out, and spread them across the mattress.
“Supper won’t cook itself,” she said to herself, moving to the humble kitchen area. Her hands found the rhythm of domestic tasks, peeling potatoes and carrots with a deftness born of necessity. The knife moved in her hand like a familiar friend as she hummed a tune her mother used to sing while cooking. While she copied the tune, she said a silent prayer that her mother’s horrible cooking hadn’t come from the song. She didn’t want to scare Harvey away on their first night together.
While Harvey milked the cows, she created a meal from the meager provisions at his house. She would have to talk to her ma about getting some of the vegetables they’d grown and put up together. It would make their lives so much better, and she knew Ma would share. She’d done half the work, after all.
“Supper’s nearly ready!” Barbara called through the open window. In the distance, she could see another house, and she had no doubt it belonged to his father and stepmother and their family. She genuinely liked his stepmother, and she hoped to develop a close relationship with her.
“Be right there,” Harvey answered.
Barbara set the table. Two plates, two cups, two sets of cutlery—symbols of their shared life. She lit a candle, its flame casting a warm glow over the small space.
They would face hardships, of course. But Barbara felt a quiet strength settle within her. Together, they would turn this rugged patch of wilderness into a home, come what may.
Harvey strode into the cabin, his boots thudding against the wooden floor as he carried in a pail brimming with fresh milk. Barbara watched him, her stomach fluttering more with each step he took. The aroma of stewed rabbit and fresh bread filled the air.
“Smells like heaven in here,” Harvey said.
“Only the best for my husband on our wedding night,” she replied, the word ‘husband’ feeling foreign yet thrilling on her tongue.
They sat across from each other at the small table, knees almost touching in the cozy space. As they ate, their conversation weaved between the taste of the meal and their dreams for the land.
Barbara’s heart raced as she cleared the plates. She poured them each a cup of water, her mind awhirl with her mother’s frank talks about what was to come. Yet, no amount of knowledge could quell the nervous energy that buzzed within her.
