Free Prairie Widow by Harold Bakst Page A

burial. Only now did she start feeling safe. Even so, before stepping down, she looked about to see if the wolves were stalking her. She saw mostly the night, except where the soddy’s light was illuminating the ground, the horses, and the elm’s rough trunk.
    But Jennifer was still reluctant to get off the wagon. She listened. She heard the murmuring voices inside the soddy and the wind blowing across the unseen expanse. And still she couldn’t help but feel that the wolves were hunkering down in the grass just waiting for her to come within reach. She was angry that no one had heard her wagon pull up, and she was tempted to call out. But then she’d feel like the hysterical fool. So, summoning her courage, she lowered herself from the wagon, tied the ox to the hitching post alongside another wagon, and hurried in, carrying the lantern with her.
    â€œJennifer, we were about to send out a search party for you,” scolded Lucy, hurrying over to the door.
    Jennifer, her body trembling, craned her neck and surveyed the dimly lit room, which was hardly bigger than her own dugout and just as cramped, especially with all the guests. The low ceiling, made of brush, was kept up by long pole beams. A section in the middle was covered by cheese cloth, perhaps to decorate the ceiling, or perhaps to keep dirt from sprinkling onto the table. The windows were hung with red calico curtains, the walls were plastered, and there was a fireplace, which was constructed like the rest of the house, from blocks of sod. “Peter and Emma,” said Jennifer, “where are they?”
    Lucy had barely pointed to them in a comer, talking with her own three children, when Jennifer dashed to them, her eyes overflowing with tears. She crouched, putting the lantern on the hard floor, and she embraced and rocked them while the Baker children and the adults watched. One of the neighbors stepped up behind her.
    â€œMy wife, Hattie, sends her sympathies,” he said in a deep, hoarse voice. “She’s laid up and couldn’t come.”
    Jennifer rose to her feet and wiped her cheek with her fingers. Standing before her was the square-built, older man with short, white hair she had first seen in Franz Hoffmann’s store.
    â€œThere were wolves,” she began. “So many wolves…”
    The square-built man raised his white eyebrows. “Did they bother you?”
    â€œI’ve never imagined there could be so many at once…” “
    They are unnerving,” agreed Lucy, stepping forward. “But you’re all right now.” She led Jennifer to the rough-hewn table in the center of the room. “You just sit and eat something. We’ve got fresh prairie chicken and plenty of combread.”
    Nancy’s lanky husband, Will, quickly rose from his seat at the table and offered it to Jennifer. “Excuse me,” he said, his prominent Adam’s apple rising and falling along his slender throat.
    Jennifer sat, but was distracted. “Have the children?…”
    â€œThey ate a while ago,” said Lucy, hurrying to the fireplace. “Tend to yourself now.”
    â€œAwfully sorry about your husband,” said Will, backing awkwardly out of Lucy’s way.
    â€œThey were all around me,” continued Jennifer. “I thought surely they were going to attack. I felt so—vulnerable.”
    â€œYeah, there are no trees to climb, and you can’t outrun them,” said the square-built man, trying to find a place to sit. “By the way, my name’s Aaron. Aaron Whittaker.”
    â€œStill, I prefer wolves to a certain person,” said Seth Baker, straddling a chair.
    â€œUh-huh, getting back to that,” said Aaron Whittaker, “like I was saying, I talked to a few people, and they agree with me…”
    Jennifer wondered what they were all suddenly referring to. It seemed as if her presence had interrupted some discussion even though,