From the Dust

Chapter One

Late May 1935

Qu’Appelle District, Saskatchewan

He died with liquor on his breath and poison in his soul. Doc MacPherson claimed that between the alcohol and the arsenic there were enough chemicals in his body to keep him pickled to the second coming.

 It was a terrible way to die. Eva wouldn’t wish that on anyone, even him. She shivered. The last twelve hours had been awful. She pulled a bobby pin from her hair, rearranged a stray piece and secured it again. She hadn’t reacted well. She knew that. She regretted snapping at the child. She regretted a lot of things. None of them could be undone. Like Mr. Edwards, the time was gone, over. The damage had been done.

“He went sudden. That’s a blessing,” Hans said abruptly like he could read her thoughts.

Her sigh was short as the wagon took that moment to bounce in a rut. The coffin slammed against the wagon rails. Her hand tightened on the rough wooden seat while the other gripped the child’s thin arm. The coffin slid across the wagon box and banged against the other side. The wagon rocked. She jarred against Hans.

“Gee up!” Hans flipped the reins and nudged her over on the wooden seat with his elbow.

She glanced over at her old friend and closest neighbor.

“Hans, I can’t thank you—”

“Don’t be thanking me, girl. This is the least I can do. Should have been me who hammered that coffin together. You shouldn’t have—”

 She laid gentle fingers over his large knuckled hand. “You’ve got enough to do without worrying about me, too.”

Hans looked skyward. Tension etched his worn face. “You shouldn’t have hammered his coffin together.” He clucked at the team. “Unseemly.”

She swayed as the wagon rocked. The future looked grim. Fear knotted and twisted in her gut. She’d forgotten to look at the sore on the cow’s leg. The thought rose unbidden and battled a litany of other chore-related thoughts building in her sleep-deprived mind. She had spent the early morning hours hammering scrap wood into a coffin for Mr. Edwards. Married for four years—in all that time, she had never called him by his first name.

She glanced to the child beside her, reaching over she stroked the child’s tangled, baby fine hair. A frayed ribbon snagged her finger. Maggie jerked.

“Sorry, love,” she soothed as she rearranged the ribbon and un­snarled the child’s hair as best she could with her fingers. “Mag­gie?”

The child averted her eyes, and shrank into herself.

Eva sighed. She longed for home, for the farm, for the safety she knew was there. Once home, they could get back into the rou­tine. Then everything would return to normal.

Hans clucked at the horses. The harness bells jangled as the two plow horses plodded through the cemetery’s gates. Only a few years ago it had been a beautiful spot, a meadow filled with monuments to the dead overlooking a valley with clear lakes and lush hills. Today, scorched hills framed two lakes that were whipped gray by the wind. To the west, a black cloud slowly spread a dense shadow over the prairie, a dust dome that threat­ened to blot the horizon.

“Looks like a dust storm coming in. We’ll have to head home quickly.”

Hans grunted. He lifted Maggie down and held up a hand to Eva.

Reverend Cameron hurried over. His florid face glistened with nervous excitement and perpetual goodwill. He squinted over his glasses that had slid a good distance down his nose’s shiny slope.

“Sky’s not looking good, Eva. It will have to be short. Hans and I will come back tomorrow. We aren’t going to have time to cover him proper. Dust storm and all.”

She chewed her lower lip and glanced at the sky where dark clouds did an ominous dance. He was right. Except there would be no need for anyone to return. It was likely the storm would blow dust in deep drifts that would fill the fresh grave.

“A few short prayers will be fine,” she said. She clasped the man’s hand between hers. “Thanks, Reverend—for everything.”

At the recently dug grave, wind blasted, snapped her dress, wrapping it around her legs. The backs of her knees stung as fine dust like sharp pellets drove into the sensitive skin. Her eyes start­ed to tear.

Her good friends closed ranks around her. Nearby, the two lo­cal gossips were whispering together. A stage whisper carried to her. “They’re taking this hard Dorothy, don’t you know? Never thought I’d see the day, crying for that man.”

She reached for Maggie’s hand and squeezed. The child pulled her hand away but shifted a step closer.

Agnes and Ben Williams came over. Eva bit her lip. She wasn’t ready for their sympathy. She didn’t deserve it. She wasn’t un­happy he had died, not really. Tears stung her eyes. Guilt washed over her as the tears came, tears for what never was.

“Oh, Eva,” Agnes folded her into a tight hug.

She couldn’t reciprocate, yet she wanted to, wanted to so very much.

Agnes released her but took her hands. This time Eva squeezed back.

“I’m sorry, Eva. I really am, but maybe next time you’ll find someone who will really appreciate you.”

“Agnes!” Ben said before he turned his attention to Eva. “I’m sorry you had to go through this.”

She nodded knowing his words meant so much more, that they weren’t about either Mr. Edward’s death or his funeral.

“If you need anything, let us know.”

“Thanks,” Eva replied, squeezing Agnes hands before releas­ing them. She knew she wouldn’t ask. The two lived over fifteen miles away. Too far for them to be any help and too far for their friendship to be anything but casual. She watched as the two moved away, as Agnes slipped her hand into Ben’s and the pain she felt was sharp, poignant, regretful. She had never felt that kind of love, she never would. She would never marry again.

“Too bad she had to marry Elmer Edwards. If her father had been any type of farmer he wouldn’t have had to use her to save his farm … fool lost the farm anyway,” Dorothy Smythe said to her companion.

Eva chewed her lip.

“Don’t we all know it, but a disgrace all the same. Surely she deserved better than Mr. Edwards. He was well over forty and a poor provider. God rest his sodden soul.” Mildred Harkin’s voice was pitched low.

“I heard she’s going back to England.” Dorothy’s strident voice carried easily.

Dang her anyway! She’s read my mail again.

“England, you say.”

“Poison …” the wind snagged the remaining words.

Gopher poison. A jug full. Enough poison to kill a man and a dozen gophers besides. Mr. Edwards had drunk from the jug containing gopher poison rather than the one that held water. If he hadn’t been into the whiskey that day, things would have been different.

She shuddered. Poison was not a pleasant way to die.