Courtship was slower in the 1800s. Readers must venture halfway through this account to arrive at the horizontal refreshment.
McKee heard the steam train's approach through the western desert valley where the juniper trees started. It was fairly on time, which was surprising. He stood by his team of horses to keep them calm. With a whistle, clanging and steam chugging, the engine slowly came to a stop at the platform. It had only the coal tender, a few baggage cars and a few sparsely occupied passenger cars. The small town had no station. They were in the vast New Mexico Territory in 1878.
For springtime, the day was getting hot. Two passengers alighted: a man in a suit who picked up his case from the conductor and walked away. And a veiled woman in dark mourning. She was carrying a large basket of produce and a small valise. "Mrs., er, Pullman?" He asked, tipping his cowboy hat.
"Pulliam."
"Yes, sorry Ma'am. I'm Mark McKee. Your sister Mrs. Holt sent me. Is that your trunk?"
"Yes." What an agreeable, deep voice he had, she thought.
He saw a neighbor from the south pick up crates and the mailbag from the train, and they nodded to each other.
McKee easily put the trunk on his shoulder and motioned to his wagon rig. "I hope you don't mind riding on this."
"Not at all. Thank you very much, sir."
And as he put all the luggage onboard, he was surprised to see her pull off the long lace veil, revealing her face under man's light brown straw hat, broad-brimmed and low crowned, and dark, rather untidy hair piled under it. Her face showed strength and determination with her chin ending in a soft V-shape. She was definitely younger than her sister and perhaps 25 or 30 years old.
I'd wager she has wonderful breasts, Mark thought, letting his eyes wander quickly past her small waist and skirt to ladies' black boots. Then he reset his thoughts to their usual orderly state.
Bright, inquisitive eyes, brown like his. A smudge of soot on her cheek. Independent and graceful. He couldn't find any words for a moment, but that wasn't unusual for him.
It is funny that a traveler, arriving at her destination tired and dusty, will sometimes feel a burst of renewed energy. She will see her face reflected in a window and think, is that me? I actually look decent; a little pale but healthy and hopeful.
Mrs. Pulliam came toward him and was ready to climb onto the buckboard, so he extended his hand. She took it in her gloved one for the few seconds it took her to jump up. Veil in lap -- it was dark blue in the sun -- he saw that the plain, well-made peplum jacket and skirt, dark brown and blue striped. She didn't need or have jewelry, ribbons, bustle, apron swag, nor bonnet.
He jumped on the seat next to her and she explained.
"I wear imitation mourning when I travel, so people won't bother me."
He nodded, understanding why a good-looking woman would do that.
"But I actually am in mourning -- I mean -- I lost my husband." She brushed a loose wave back under her hat to cover what he thought was embarrassment.
McKee sensed there was more to the story, but he was silent as they started driving along the dirt road. He stole a look at her. They sat very close together and she smelled faintly of flowers. He wanted to take his handkerchief and wipe the coal dust off her cheek but did not. She smiled at him. She was looking at his boots to see how long his feet were.
The week had started Monday when he and 18-year-old Josh drove by going the oppsite direction and Josh had exclaimed, "Pa, there's the violet ribbon on the tree at the Holt's place!"
"Good eye, son," replied Mark. He had also seen their neighbors' request to come. "We'll visit on our way back from town." He urged the two horses on; it was yet a mile.
Their town was new. However, it already had a dozen stores along the main street and about twice as many families in the area.
Mark easily reached the ground in my one step; he was the tallest man for miles around. Josh, a little shorter, climbed down quickly. They both had light brown hair, but the skin around Mark's eyes had creases from being in the sun most of his 38 years, and his jaw was square. He wore his hair short.
As usual, they went to Bates' General Store for supplies: coffee, candles, and butter and new shirts made by Miss Theresa. He had a barrel of flour (and one of cornmeal) at home for biscuits for his cowhands; plenty of beans and salted sowbelly. And whisky, or no one would stay on.
Bob Bates and his daughter were both there, as well as some friends and townspeople socializing or getting mail. Josh saw a friend who showed him a new fishing pole and asked if he was engaged to Flora yet. Mark greeted people and turned to greet Bob. Theresa spoke first.
"Why Mr. McKee, we've been 'specting you all week. I have your shirts done -- blue, brown and white -- and anything else you may need." They were old friends but he always sensed Theresa wanted more from him. He didn't change his expression. He was expert at stoically deflecting women and protecting his son from a young age.
"Go get 'em, girl," said Bob, and then he and his customer could chat. "Plant your beans yet?"
"Yep. Puttin' in a little corn too."
But the McKees didn't stay long; they had plenty to do with just two of them on a ranch plus some extra hands. Mark thanked both father and daughter, the latter who mentioned the short visit. He kindly gave her an extra nickel and she was agreeable.
Mark was sometimes called up as a Deputy Marshal, so he and his son stopped by the jail. Marshal Jones wasn't in. "Tell him I was here," Mark said to the only orderly, Carter, who was a harsh man, and who might or might not relay the message. Jail was a miserable place and the orderly grunted as he threw a bucket of water into the empty cage inside.
A little bit later they were back on the road, still just a track through the oak, locust and ponderosa pine that began to the west, and then they were turning into the Holts' long tree-lined drive. Josh retrieved the ribbon. Mrs. Holt came out from the large house, and she waved. They waved back.
Madeleine was a nice middle-aged woman, but she had spent years of looking after a wounded husband. Henry had lost both legs at the second Bull Run years earlier. He stayed cheerful and was quite a scholar.
Mark had thought they were wealthy gentlemen farmers. They had a lot of help on their cattle ranch, extra cabins, many outbuildings besides the smokehouse and even an icehouse, but they were very down to earth and had an excellent relationship with their neighbors. They were generous to Mark and Josh, when Mark's pride permitted. He had helped them with branding and butchering for ten years now. Henry must be in his study or in the garden.
After greetings, Madeleine asked her favor. "Mark," (she was one of the few women who used his given name) "my sister from San Francisco is coming in on the 11:00 train Sunday and I wondered if you could take your wagon to the platform to fetch her? And it's Leon's day off."
"Of course, Maddy." Mark was not much of a church-goer on Sunday. He'd heard many Indian narratives of other gods and natural forces. There was a Spanish Catholic church nearby, which was open for Protestant services certain days. But he and Josh often were working on their own ranch together where, for years, he could educate his son on character, good will and respect.
"And It's just her, no companion. She's staying for the summer. And please, you stay to our midday dinner," Madeleine smiled at Josh. "Both of you."
