The Four Winds

What kind of goodbye was it? Would he want to see her again?

Look at him. Of course not.

Besides, he lived in Lonesome Tree. That was thirty miles away. And if she did happen to see him in Dalhart, it wouldn’t matter.

He was Italian. Catholic. Young. Nothing about him was acceptable to her family.

She opened the gate and entered her mother’s fragrant world. From now on, blooming night jasmine would always make Elsa think of him …

At the house, she opened the front door and stepped into the shadowy parlor.

As she closed the door, she heard a creaking sound and she stopped. Moonlight bled through the window. She saw her father standing by the Victrola.

“Who are you?” he said, coming toward her.

Elsa’s beaded silver headband slipped down; she pushed it back up. “Y-your daughter.”

“Damn right. My father fought to make Texas a part of the United States. He joined the Rangers and fought in Laredo and was shot and nearly died. Our blood is in this ground.”

“Y-yes. I know, but—”

Elsa didn’t see his hand come up until it was too close to duck. He cracked her across the jaw so hard she lost her balance and fell to the floor.

She scrambled back into the corner to get away. “Papa—”

“You shame us. Get out of my sight.”

Elsa lurched to her feet, ran up the stairs, and slammed her bedroom door shut.

With shaking hands, she lit the lamp by her bed and undressed.

There was a red mark above her breast. (Had Rafe done that?) A bruise was already discoloring her jaw, and her hair was a mess from lovemaking, if that was what it could be called.

Even so, she would do it again if she could. She would let her father hit her, yell at her, slander her, or disinherit her.

She knew now what she hadn’t known before, hadn’t even suspected: she would do anything, suffer anything, to be loved, even if it was just for a night.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, ELSA woke to sunlight streaming through the open window. The red dress hung over the closet door. The ache in her jaw reminded her of last night, as did the pain that lingered after Rafe’s loving. One she wanted to forget; one she wanted to remember.

Her iron bed was piled with quilts she had made, often sewing by candlelight during the cold winter months. At the foot of her bed stood her hope chest, lovingly filled with embroidered linens and a fine white lawn nightdress and the wedding quilt Elsa had begun when she was twelve years old, before her unattractiveness had been revealed to be not a phase but a permanence. By the time Elsa started her monthlies, Mama had quietly stopped talking about Elsa’s wedding and stopped beading scraps of Alençon lace. Enough for half a dress lay folded between pieces of tissue.

There was a knock at the door.

Elsa sat up. “Come in.”

Mama entered the room, her fashionable day shoes making no sound on the rag rug that covered most of the wooden floor. She was a tall woman, with broad shoulders and a no-nonsense demeanor; she lived a life above reproach, chaired church committees, ran the

Beautification League, and kept her voice low even when she was angry. Nothing and no one could ruffle Minerva Wolcott. She claimed it was a family trait, inherited from ancestors who had come to Texas when no other white face could be seen for a six-day horse ride.

Mama sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hair, dyed black, was drawn back into a chignon that heightened the severity of her sharp features. She reached out and touched the tender bruise on Elsa’s jaw. “My father would have done much worse to me.”

“But—”

“No buts, Elsinore.” She leaned forward, tucked a ragged lock of Elsa’s shorn blond hair behind her ear. “I suspect I will hear gossip today in town. Gossip. About one of my daughters.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “Did you get into trouble?”

“No, Mama.”