A Home West of Nowhere

Chapter Two: In Absentia

Western New Mexico, Autumn, 1882

A cold front moved into Northern New Mexico and strong wind made its way to the McLaurin Ranch. It was early November, and the winter harvest was in danger of frost. The sheep and pigs were hunkered down, trying to escape the chill and brutal wind.
Juliette stoked the crackling fire inside the house, wrapped up in her blue knitted blanket. She shivered as she hurried to the stove to tend to the pot of venison stew. "Mama? It's almost ready, Mama. Come on, you've been sleepin' all day," Juliette called out. Having immigrant parents, she picked up many words in Gaelic and old Irish, but her birth in the West has lead her to speak with a more American dialect, with the intermitant mingling of Irish words throughout her speech. She untied the apron beneath the blanket and hung it over the ornate wooden dining chair. She wiped her forehead and took a deep breath. Juliette was twelve now, and grew taller, as well as more independent. She helped her mother with every aspect of the ranch. She fed the hogs, sheared sheep, tended the chickens and worked the soil. Her skin was more tanned and her fingernails were always dirty, but she never stopped helping her mother.

In the three years following Edmund Sorely's arrival to the McLaurin ranch, things were never quite the same. It seemed as though the sun never shone near as bright, and the crops never did grow as tall. Shannon buried her husband on the McLaurin ranch, beneath the oak tree that he would sit and read dime novels and the Bible. The McLaurin's were devout Irish protestants, having left Ireland in escape of persecution from the Catholics, in addition for their chance at the American dream.

Shannon McLaurin never fully recovered from her husband's murder, but she kept strong for her daughter, who was quickly becoming a woman. She hid her greif often, and focused her priorities on raising her daughter and keeping the ranch going. The ranch was a symbol of hope, for a young family of Irish immigrants to one day have stability and safety in America. In the years following Conor McLaurin's untimely death, Shannon grew thin and lethargic. Her eyes became sunken and her once vivacious smile was hardly ever to be seen. Her copper hair had tones of grey, at the age of only thirty-five. For many months Juliette noticed a change in her mother, and took care of her at times. Juliette was beginning to understand greif and exhaustion, and came to the understanding that her mother was always tired when she couldn't get out of bed. However, the empty gin bottles under Shannon's bed and in the barn told a different story. Shannon had a strong thirst on her, and did not know how to deal with her greif any other way. Much of the money from Conor McLaurin's investments was gone, and a good portion of it in the same bottles Shannon had emptied.

Mrs. McLaurin emerged from the bedroom, wrapped up in layers of warm furs. She pulled a chair out from the table and took a seat. Juliette carried the pot of stew carefully to the table, which was set beautifully, but for three, as it had always been. The bowl and plate there in front of the chair waited for Mr. McLaurin, and looked always as it did before his arrival back home to his family. It sat untouched, as if still waiting to be used by the man. Neither Juliette, nor her mother could bring themselves to place the dishes back into the cupboard. They sat on the table for three long years, as a reminder of better days and a once happy family. Juliette served the stew to her mother, and then to herself. "Thank you, darlin," Shannon said quietly. Juliette smiled gently, and began to eat. "It's cold. I wonder when this wind will let up," her mother said to her. "Hopefully soon. The frost will wipe out all the crops if it don't stop. I wonder if we can keep some of the hogs at the Fairfeild Ranch, they have a bigger barn and the pigs will be warmer," replied Juliette. The house was silent for a moment, with only the sounds of screeching wind and the bleating of sheep. Shannon gazed lovingly at her daughter. She admired the hopeful glimmer in her eyes, and how strong her child has been. How her future would look growing up without a father. She saw limitless potential in her daughter, and felt sad that a child had to work so hard. The McLaurin's had worked hard for their money, and were wealthy enough plan for their daughter to receive the best education possible. Shannon's head raced with dissaproving thoughts of how she has failed as a mother, and would never find happiness after her husband's death. After some time, Shannon reached out and touched her daughter's hand, stroking it gently with her fingers. Her grey-blue eyes fell heavy and began to fill with tears. "My darlin', my sweet child, I love you more than you could imagine. Your father..he would be so proud. He would. I..I miss him. I miss him terribly." she spoke softly. Juliette gently squeezed her mothers hand in hers. She felt her eyes grow heavy with tears, and swallowed the lump in her throat. "Oh, Mama. I love you too. I just help where I can, I don't want you to hurt. I want you to feel at peace", she replied. "Juliette, 'yer so strong in ways I can't imagine. I.. I wish I could be a better mum to ya. You deserve to be a kid, have friends and all that. Yer just a girl, after all," her mother responded. "Go to yer room and read a book, listen to the phonograph er sometin'. I'll clean this up. You deserve to be a kid," she continued. Juliette nodded, finishing her last bite of stew and getting up from the table. She wrapped her blanket tightly around her and walked to her bedroom. She lit the oil lamp on her desk, and blew out the match. As the flickering lamp light filled the bedroom, Juliette opened the ornate wooden chest between her desk and bed, and pulled out a bar of chocolate and a copy of her favorite book, Robinson Crusoe. She immersed herself in the book, as she had always done.