I Dream Of Health Wealth And A Long Life
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My dreams were interrupted by a loud knocking. I sat up and glanced at my pocket watch, which was an old-fashioned affair that had been passed down to me from my great-grandmother who lived in Maine. “It’s early.”
“Yes it is,” said the voice of Mrs. Tulliver. She knocked again with more urgency. I hurriedly pulled on my robe, which was made of thick flannel, and walked to the door. The sun was barely up and the air outside was cool and crisp.
Mrs. Tulliver opened her mouth and then closed it as she stared at my disheveled appearance. “You’ve slept late, my dear.”
“I guess so.” I stepped aside and let her into the parlor. She wore her hair in its usual tight bun and her gray dress looked like it had been pressed only this morning. She carried a large basket filled with fresh vegetables from the kitchen garden.
As we passed through the open doorway onto the porch, she set the basket on the floor and removed her bonnet. Then she began picking up the tomatoes that fell out during our walk.
I picked them up myself and put them back in the basket while I watched Mrs. Tulliver pick up other items that had fallen out of the basket. “Is everything all right?”
She gave me a quick glance but didn’t answer. Instead, she returned to the house without saying another word.
We both turned back toward the kitchen garden where we had just come from. It would be hours before the first of us started for town, and there wasn’t much work to do today since most of the chores were done yesterday when we harvested the crops. But if I waited until after lunch to start for town, I’d have to wait at least two or three days before I could buy a newspaper.
“Do you want help carrying the baskets inside?” I asked.
She shook her head no as she bent to retrieve a tomato. “No, I’ll bring them in later.” She straightened and took off along the path, leaving me alone in the garden. We hadn’t been here long enough for any of the plants to grow tall, but they already reached above our heads and provided shade from the sun. They also served as a reminder of what lay ahead: hard physical labor, hot weather, and little privacy.
I thought about how different life was on the ranch than in New York City, where I’d lived most of my adult years. There I worked as a writer for a publishing company, writing articles for women’s magazines and books on health and beauty.
But now I was on a farm, working alongside others, sweating and eating raw vegetables—not to mention being expected to take care of myself and my family. My mother had died giving birth to my sister, who was now married and had children.
So my father raised both his daughters by himself, which meant he couldn’t afford to hire servants. Now that I’d inherited the ranch from my grandfather, I was responsible for hiring people to help with the day-to-day operations. But money was scarce, so even though I needed help, I’d hired only one person: Missus Jones, who was the cook and housekeeper.
I walked down the path and stopped near the garden fence where I picked up some stray vegetables and tossed them into a nearby barrel. The smell of freshly turned soil filled my nostrils with pleasant memories of my childhood. It was strange how such simple things brought back vivid images of days gone by and times past.
I looked across the field toward the barn, which stood on the far side of the pasture. Horses grazed peacefully in the distance, their eyes watching us as we moved about. I imagined that one day when I grew up, I might own horses too. But right now, with my limited funds, I couldn’t even afford to feed and board one. I sighed sadly. What kind of life had I gotten myself into?
When I reached the kitchen door, I heard Missus Jones speaking to someone on the phone. “Yes, that’s right. Yes. No, sir, it’s not yet nine o’clock.” Missus Jones hung up the receiver. “It’s time for breakfast and I’m sure everyone will be hungry.”
As I entered the kitchen, I saw Missus Jones setting a platter of bacon and eggs on the table. “Good morning, dear.”
“Hello,” I replied politely as I placed the tomatoes in the sink.
Missus Jones smiled at me. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, very well.” I hesitated, unsure if I should say anything else.
“That’s good.” She turned away and started preparing biscuits and gravy. “Everyone will be here soon,” she added as she poured a pitcher of milk. “Then we’ll eat together.”
I nodded and went over to the sink where I washed the vegetables I’d gathered earlier.
The front door opened and Missus Jones called out, “Come in, come in!” Her voice was loud and cheerful. A group of men followed behind her and she closed the door, locking it. When she turned around, I noticed she wore a wide smile. “Here you are, Mr. Covington. Welcome to our home.”
He gave her a brief nod. “Thank you, ma’am. You’re very kind.” He looked at me then. “You must be Mrs. Tulliver.”
I smiled as I offered him my hand. “Yes, I am. And this is Missus Jones. She’s our cook and housekeeper. Everyone calls her ‘missus.'”
Mr. Covington shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, Missus Jones.”
“And the rest of you,” she said as she pointed to each man in turn. “This is Mr. O’Neill, our foreman; this is Mr. Brown, who does the mending and repairs around the house; and this is Mr. Roper, who works in the fields.”
“Welcome,” said Mr. Covington as he bowed his head to Missus Jones. “I thank you all for welcoming us to your home.”
She nodded back to him. “We were happy to have you.”
The other men left the room and Missus Jones sat down at the table. “Now let’s eat!”
***
The food was delicious. For lunch, we ate sandwiches made from ham, lettuce, and tomato between crusty slices of bread. We also enjoyed fried potatoes and green beans with fresh butter and salt. Afterward, I helped Missus Jones clean up the dishes while the men talked about cattle prices.
“What do you think?” asked Mr. Covington as he sipped coffee from his cup. “Are we going to make it through this drought?”
“It’s too early to tell,” said Mr. O’Neill. “But if there’s no rain before harvest time, we might lose half or more of our crop.”
“If that happens, we may have trouble getting enough money to pay our bills,” said Mr. Brown. “Then what will happen?”
No one answered. They just stared into their cups.
After everyone had eaten, they moved into the living room where they sat on sofas and chairs. I found a place near the window on an old wooden chair. As we waited for the meeting to begin, I glanced around the room. There wasn’t much furniture except for several bookshelves full of leather-bound volumes and two large pieces of artwork hanging on the wall.
I recognized one painting as a copy of Rembrandt’s The Night Watch. It showed a dozen men standing in a line against a gray sky. Some held torches but others carried pitchforks and axes. In the background, buildings burned in the distance, as if the men stood in a city devastated by fire.
I thought of the real night watch of New Orleans and how they patrolled the city streets at night to keep them safe. I wondered if these men were like those officers, protecting the people under their care. Then I realized that if they didn’t have protection themselves, the citizens wouldn’t have any hope of safety either.
I turned my attention to the other painting. This one had caught my eye since I arrived because I’d never seen work done in such vibrant colors. A red bird perched on a branch and flew off to another tree.
A young girl leaned against a fence, looking up at the bird with her arms folded across her chest. She wore a simple dress and her dark hair framed her face. Her skin was pale but her eyes were bright and lively as she watched the bird fly away.
“What do you think of our paintings?” Missus Jones asked as she walked over to stand beside me.
I looked at her. “They’re very pretty.”
“You’re not afraid of the red one?”
I shook my head. “Why would I be? That’s a lovely picture.” I paused. “How did you get it?”
“My husband brought it back from Texas during his business trip.”
The other men joined us and I listened to them talk about cattle prices as we waited for Mr. Covington to take his seat at the head of the table. Missus Jones handed him a piece of paper and he started reading.
When he finished, he folded the sheet of paper and set it on the table. “That’s all we need to know, Missus Jones.”
I felt my heart beat faster as I stared at him. His features were strong and square, with high cheekbones, deep blue eyes and thick eyebrows that formed perfect arches above his nose. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and wore his brown hair short and parted down the middle.
Missus Jones cleared her throat and spoke first. “Our ranch has been in my family for generations. My grandfather settled here long ago and my father inherited the land. When he died, it went to me and my brother. Now I’m handing it over to my daughter.”
A few of the men chuckled.
“But we’ve always tried to run a respectable operation,” she added quickly as she glanced at Mr. Covington. “And we intend to continue doing so.”
He nodded. “As you say.”
Mr. Brown raised his hand to stop Missus Jones from speaking again. “Let’s hear what the man wants.”
I couldn’t help staring at the floor as Mr. Covington continued talking. “I’m here today because I’m concerned about the cattle market and believe that you are in danger.”
“What kind of danger?” asked Mrs. O’Neill.
“Well, there’s no telling exactly what’s happened until we get a look at your books.”
“We don’t have any books,” said Mr. O’Neill.
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I’ll go over everything with you once I return home.”
I glanced at Missus Jones and saw that she was holding tight to the table edge as if afraid to let go.
“You can trust him,” she whispered. “He won’t hurt us.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Mr. Brown. “What does this fellow want?”
“He thinks I should sell my herd of cattle and move somewhere else. But I’m not moving anywhere.”
Mrs. O’Neill spoke up. “Are you serious? You’re just going to turn the land over to someone else when you have more cattle than you could ever sell?”
“It’s not that easy.” She shrugged and took a breath before she continued. “For years, my brother and I have tried to make a profit but we haven’t been able to. We even borrowed money from the bank only to be forced to pay interest on top of what we owed. The cattle business is not for the faint of heart. It takes hard work and determination to succeed.”
“You’re right,” Mr. Covington said, “but I believe you’re selling yourself short by trying to manage your own cattle operations. There’s a lot of money to be made buying and selling cattle. And you need an experienced man to handle the sales. Someone who knows the market conditions and understands what buyers are willing to pay. That’s where I come in.”
“But you don’t live here.”
“No, I’m from Denver, Colorado.”
“Denver!” Several of the men laughed. “Now I see why you’re so confident.”
“All I’m saying is that I’m familiar with the cattle business and can put you in touch with the right people.”
“Like whom?” Mr. Brown asked.
“Well, I know a rancher named J. W. Smith in Wyoming.”
“Where’s that?”
“In the northwest corner of the state near the Idaho border.”
“Why would we deal with a rancher in Wyoming?” asked Mr. Brown. “There are plenty of cattlemen around here.”
“Yes, but J. W. Smith is known throughout the West. I’ve dealt with him for years and he’s helped me buy and sell cattle.”
“If you say so.” Mr. Brown turned to Missus Jones. “What do you think, Mary?”
She hesitated before shaking her head. “I’m not sure.”
“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to decline his offer.” He turned toward Missus Jones. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
The men stood and started to walk out of the house.
“Wait a minute!” Missus Jones called after them. “What did you mean by ‘we’ll have to decline?”
“You heard me,” Mr. Covington replied. “I told you that I wouldn’t harm you or your family, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t make things difficult for you.”
“That’s not fair,” snapped Mrs. O’Neill. “Just because you’re from another state doesn’t give you the right to tell us how to run our ranch.”
“Actually, it does,” said Mr. Covington. “I’ve spent years studying the cattle business and know a lot more about it than most ranchers. And I happen to believe that you’re selling yourselves short by trying to do everything on your own. What happens now is entirely up to you.”
Missus Jones glared at him. “I’m not worried about you.”
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we must be going.” He walked past me and opened the front door.
“Wait,” said Mrs. O’Neill. “What about the cattle market?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Mr. Covington said. “Have a pleasant day.”
I followed the men outside and watched as they rode away. I didn’t like the way Mr. Covington looked at me nor the fact that he knew so much about the cattle business. Why did he think I was so important?
***
After I returned home, I went upstairs and found Mr. O’Neill reading a book while Missus Jones prepared dinner.
“How was your interview?” I asked.
“Fine.” He nodded. “It will take some time to sort through all of the information I learned today.”
“Did you ask them to leave?”
Mr. O’Neill shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Do you want me to send the sheriff over there?”
“Let’s wait until tomorrow morning. Maybe they’ll realize that they can’t stay in this town anymore.”
“Maybe.” I glanced at Missus Jones as she stirred something in a large pot. “So, how did your visit go with Mrs. O’Neil?”
“Fine.”
“I thought you had trouble getting her to talk to you?”
“She wasn’t as hostile as I expected.” He shrugged and took a sip of coffee. “I guess she felt comfortable enough to open up.”
“And what did you learn?”
He sighed and closed the book. “Nothing very interesting, I’m afraid. The first thing Missus O’Neill mentioned was that she wants to get rid of her husband’s cattle and start running a legitimate business.”
“What kind of business?”
“She said she wanted to open a store, but I’m not sure what goods she might be selling. I also learned that the O’Neills were forced to sell their ranch to cover expenses. She said that her husband has been gambling in Denver and losing money. And when he loses, he gets mad and lashes out at everyone around him.”
“What else?”
“Mrs. O’Neill said that she’s considering closing down the ranch and selling off the livestock.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “She never really explained why except that it just seemed like a good idea. But then again, she could be talking about anything.”
“I hope not.”
The End