The Captain Takes a Wife

The weather was changing, and about time, too. It had been a hot summer. Today had the feel of fall. The bright morning sky darkened as a chill breeze brought a spattering of rain. “You fellows better get out of here before you get soaked,” said Harry, looking up at the gathering clouds. He paused and then added with some emotion, “I won’t forget you.”

“You won’t be able to, try as you might,” said Walt.

Calling “Good-bye,” and “Godspeed!” and “Good luck, Harry!” the young men departed. Harry watched them drive the wagon away. Then he picked up his bags and started toward the depot, feeling unexpectedly lonely, missing his friends already, and ruefully remembering his aunt’s recent advice.

“You need to find yourself a wife, Henry,” she had written. She was the only person who still insisted on calling him by his given name. “You’ll be lonely up here with just your horse for company. And people expect the preacher to have a wife. Her job is as important as his, you know.” Aunt Winifred had gone on at some length, as if the notion of finding a wife had never occurred to him, as if it were a simple matter to find one person he could love—or even tolerate—forever. “I’m praying that God will send you the right woman,” she had written righteously. He frowned at the memory and muttered to himself, “While you’re at it, better pray that I’ll recognize her when she shows up.” He was glad he had received the lecture on paper instead of in person. That made it much easier to ignore.

The train station was unusually busy that day. A political rally was in progress beyond the platform. Several advocates of women’s suffrage were marching with placards. Some hardworking entrepreneur had taken advantage of the crowd by setting up a catering tent beyond the rally, and the smell of fried chicken and pies filled the air. A little farther down, a farmer was selling apples and kegs of cider off the back of a wagon, and a man was playing an accordion for tips, which people tossed into a hat at his feet.

Unnoticed by Harry, his friends had turned the wagon around and driven back into the station when they realized they had forgotten to give him his going-away present. It was a pocket knife in a small, wrapped box, and it was still in Walt’s pocket. They parked at a place some distance down the track and hurried to catch up with him.

Just then a buggy whirled into the station, going far too fast, and Harry jumped back to avoid being hit as the wheels skidded on the gravel. As the vehicle slid to a stop, he hurried to see if something was wrong or if he needed to give the reckless driver a piece of his mind. A young woman in a white dress and a dark blue shawl was climbing down from the driver’s seat, while an old black couple hurriedly took the reins and handed down two large suitcases. Harry offered a hand to help the girl gain her footing and then reached for the luggage.

“There’s no hurry,” he assured them. “The train isn’t leaving yet.”

The girl looked around, saw that people were watching, and then met his gaze. Harry recognized her immediately. She was the girl who had sat at the back of the crowd at the revival meeting—the one whose name he had never learned. Her black hair was windblown, and she looked frightened. She had been crying and seemed to be in a desperate hurry. Harry realized she wasn’t running to catch the train; she was running away from something—or someone.

“Captain Richardson?” she asked, surprised to see him.

“What can I do?” he asked, looking concerned. “How can I help?”

Suddenly she was hugging him and speaking urgently into his ear. “There’s someone following me. I need to make him think I’m not alone—that I have help. Pretend you were looking for me. Be glad to see me.”

“All right.” He hugged her briefly and then held her at arm’s length, admiring her beautiful satin wedding dress that was only partially hidden by the knitted shawl, her lovely, vulnerable expression, and her earnest blue eyes. “I think I have been looking for you,” he said with a bemused smile. “And I’m so glad you came.” He pulled her close again, hugged her, and then kissed her cheek politely. In a way, he wanted to laugh. He was gaining a whole new sense of appreciation for Aunt Winifred’s power of prayer.

“Not like a brother—like a lover,” she said, embarrassed, but holding onto him when he would have released her. “Please. He’ll be watching.”

“All right.” Harry took off his hat and dropped it to the ground beside him, gathered her into his arms, and, leaning over her, kissed her again, more thoroughly this time. Although the kiss started as a sort of game, when her lips responded to his, all pretense was gone. He found himself kissing her as if she belonged to him, with an urgency born of loneliness, need, and the joy he felt at seeing her again. Afterward, he held her tightly in his arms, not because he was pretending to love her, but because it felt right to hold her; because he was strong, and she was afraid; and because this time he didn’t want to let her slip away.

“Sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m not good at pretending.”

The girl, undone by Harry’s response, lingered for a moment in his embrace, and Harry realized she was crying again. He patted her back and said, “Come now. I’ll help you. It will be all right.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Maybe it will, at that.”