The Hunger(95)

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THE TIN ROOF on the Donners’ farmhouse gleamed silver in the morning sun. George Donner owned a big house, twice as big as Jory’s. Unlike Jory’s, it was freshly whitewashed, scrubbed, and well-tended. A stoneware jug filled with a great clutch of wild asters stood by the front steps, a welcoming note. This lifted Tamsen’s spirits somewhat, as did the way the guests all glanced sideways at her, admiration and envy in their eyes.

Jory helped the children down from the wagon while Tamsen stood to the side, suddenly hesitant. Sounds drifted through the open windows, men’s and women’s voices, muffled knocks and bangs as chairs were being set up in the front parlor for the ceremony. George’s cook would be preparing the wedding breakfast, frying up bacon and eggs, putting a pan of biscuits into the oven to bake. Plump apple pies, George’s favorite, would be cooling in the larder.

The door opened suddenly and out stepped George Donner. Such a big man, he looked constrained in some way by his somber black suit. His eyes blinked in surprise or amazement as he looked in her direction. He had a kind face and kind eyes. She reminded herself that she had made the right choice.

“My dear—you are a vision.” Donner’s words were just like what Jory had said to her earlier, and yet they seemed to fall, lifeless, through the air. His lips trembled as he kissed her hand. “How have I been so blessed, that you have agreed to be my wife?”

His young daughters Elitha and Leanne stood behind him. They had been babies when their mother died and now Tamsen was to be not even their first stepmother but their second. No wonder their eyes were guarded; mothers were transitory creatures. It didn’t pay to become too attached.

Elitha, the oldest, stepped forward and held out a clutch of flowers, stems tied together with a broad satin ribbon. “For you, ma’am,” she said, her voice as faint as a whisper. It was an odd assortment; flowers, yes, but a bit of everything else, too: herbs, grasses, even weeds. A strange offering for a wedding day.

“They gathered it themselves,” George said when he saw the confused look on Tamsen’s face. “Because of your interest in botany. Remember, you told me that you wanted to write a book one day about the flora in this area, on medicinal plants? When Elitha and Leanne heard this, they gathered an example of every kind of plant they could find on the property and made this bouquet for you.”

Tamsen had forgotten that she’d told him that. He hadn’t laughed at the idea of a woman writing a scientific book like some of the men she’d told back in Cullowhee. George had remembered and what’s more, he had shared the idea with his daughters. That meant more to her than the offer to buy her a fancy dress.

Suddenly, his kindness made her want to cry. Instead, she bit it back and smiled at him first, then at his daughters. “Thank you, girls. I’m touched by your thoughtfulness.” She took the arm George had extended to her. It was solid and strong, and still, she felt like she was floating on air—or becoming air. Disappearing.

She risked a glance toward Jory, but he was looking after the children and did not catch her eye. At that moment, something within her shattered. It was a kind of knowing.

Love was not meant for everyone.

She held on to George’s arm to steady herself and took a deep breath. “Shall we go in, Mr. Donner? I believe it’s time to start the ceremony.”





JANUARY 1847





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE





They had all gone. She’d agreed to it—safety in numbers, they figured. In daylight, they had packed only what they could carry and made in the direction of Truckee Lake.

George, of course, would not make it.

So Tamsen had stayed behind. It hadn’t been a thought, so much as an instinct, a need.

Tamsen laid out the last of the dried beef. Three strips, each the size of her index finger. Was there a way to make it stretch, last a bit longer? Perhaps boil it, make broth with it?

She sat next to her husband and dabbed his forehead with a wet cloth. He was unconscious most of the time now and she was under no illusions that he would recover. She thought of the irony: how his injury and subsequent infection had protected him from having to witness the worst. His foolish, bumbling pride had, in a way, sheltered the softness of his character.

Still, she wouldn’t quit. She knew now that this was not a weakness but a form of compassion, and though any hope of affection had long since fled her, Tamsen felt that perhaps, when it came down to it, it had been her life’s calling all along to witness his slow decline, and to feel the gradual, resilient loss of a person she had not allowed herself to love, or even to know.

She had the idea that George’s death would mean something—that he would hold out for her sake a little longer—and that his last act of kindness, though not at all intentional, had been to give her a purpose, a reason to keep living.

Outside, the bonfires, blazing in broad daylight, deformed the sun behind a veil of smoke. Even now she could hear the whisper of soft footfalls: Walt Herron, one of the teamsters, had died last week and, perhaps sensing her defenselessness, the pack had grown bolder.

She’d used a blanket to drag Herron’s body into the woods for them. It would, she hoped, buy her a little time. She envied George his unconsciousness. She had had to listen through the night as they feasted on Herron’s body: the crack of bones, the wet smack of their hideous tongues, the animal grunts of their pleasure.