Scrubbed clean every evening, it was a large space with tall windows, and while utilitarian in nature, it had nice green paint on the cupboards, and was the warmest room in the house. Not to mention that the pantry adjacent to it hid treasures that never failed to improve Ned’s mood.
Aunt Muriel looked up from the spice grinder and met his gaze in silence. Ned’s newly washed skin covered in sweat again. He’d lived under her roof for the past ten years but still didn’t feel as though he belonged. His late father’s family never outright expressed such sentiment, but the undercurrent of alienation was there. Aunt Muriel always had a warm word for her sons, but Ned she regarded with a pinch of caution, as if he were a cuckoo chick that might shove her own young out of the nest while she faced away.
The stew simmered on the fire nearby, and as he approached her workspace, a spicy aroma penetrated his nose.
“What is it?” she asked, wiping brown dust on her stained apron, her stern features red from the effort of grinding down the spices. Some of the intact cloves were still waiting for their turn in a bowl, and she was annoyed that he was disturbing her routine. Then again, there was hardly anything beyond prayer and chores in Aunt Muriel’s life.
Ned cleared his throat and told her about the stagecoach attack, without the grisly details.
“I see,” she said and wiped her strong, rough hands on the apron. Her thin lips went even paler as she considered what she’d just heard, but said nothing of being afraid or taking precautions against the bandits targeting the ranch.
She was a tough woman, tempered by the frontier, a lifetime of work, and bearing many children, but providing safety wasn’t her concern. Uncle Liam and her sons would take care of such things.
“What is it that you’re holding?” she asked, as if glad for the distraction.
Ned’s mouth dried, but he presented the little bundle. I’m sorry, but my button snapped. Could you repair it, please?”
“Oh Ned, you oughta be more careful. Everything costs money,” she complained but stepped away from a rough wooden table and took the pants from him, heading for the corner cupboard.
He was about to go back to his work when she stopped him with a gesture. “Don’t you run off on me, Ned O’Leary. Those spices won’t grind themselves,” she said, and placed the colorful tin containing sewing supplies on a side table.
“Yes, Aunt Muriel,” he said and walked right back while she dragged a chair to the window and sat in it, eager to be done with the unexpected work.
She spoke as soon as he put his fingers around the handle of the metal grinder. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a special woman in your life to help you with such things?”
It was as if the stage robbery had never happened.
Ned tensed as if she’d stabbed him with a knitting needle. Not this discussion again. At times like these, he wished he were much smaller, not the ox of a man he’d grown to be through working around the ranch. Or, better yet, invisible. “Would be, sure. Too bad Beaver Springs isn’t teeming with prospective brides.”
“Cody got himself one through a marriage broker. You know I had my doubts about her being from back east, but now she’s like my very own daughter. There’s no shame in seeking companionship elsewhere when you have no prospects with the local girls,” she said, pulling the thread through a needle with frightening ease. Ned’s thick fingers could’ve never managed such a feat.
He milled the cloves faster in hopes of escaping this conversation. As he got older, the topic of women and marriage became increasingly difficult to avoid. Now that he was a man, the other ranch hands would often speak of things that happened behind the doors of brothels or loudly dreamt about the ladies they desired in his presence, and Ned had nothing to add. He used to blame his lack of drive for female attention on his tough upbringing, but it became more shameful and alienating as time passed. At twenty-three years of age, he was still immune to womanly charms, and stopped hoping for that to ever change.
“God always finds a way,” he said with a smile, even though he’d lost his faith long ago. He’d never spoken of it to anyone and attended church like any other God-fearing O’Leary, but just like lust for women, the spark of love for Jesus and the saints was nowhere to be found in Ned’s heart. On some days he figured the mountains had already taken his soul, and that was why he was so empty.
Aunt Muriel smiled. “Who knows? Your uncle tells me a new family moved to that deserted ranch on the other side of Beaver Springs. Maybe you’ll take a liking to one of their daughters? I hear they’re of the right age and character. There’ll be a little gathering to welcome them in town after church on Sunday, and I could introduce you as the man who ground up all the spices for my cake. Women value such things.”