Silas Merriweather

The morning sun was burning the last of the fog from the low places in the oat field, leaving the air heavy and warm. Silas Merriweather walked the fence line, his big, calloused fingers testing the tension of the wire. The post at the corner groaned under his push.

“This one’s rotten below the ground,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Knew it by the give. White pine. Should’ve used cedar.”

Jedediah Corbin, neighbor and close friend, crouched down, squinting at the base. “Ah, it’s got a season or two left in her yet.”

“A season is all it takes for a bull to find a weakness. Then you’ve got a day’s work and a mile of trouble instead of an hour with a new post.” Silas stood, wiping his hands on his patched trousers. “Your south fence is the same. Saw it Tuesday. You’re using pine, too.”

Jed grinned, standing up. “Maybe I like a bit of trouble. Keeps things interesting.”

“Trouble isn’t interesting. It’s inefficient.” Silas turned and started toward the barn, his boots making soft impressions in the damp soil. “Your father would’ve had the post swapped before the dew was off the grass.”

“My father didn’t have seven children pulling on his boots every morning before the sun was up,” Jed shot back, falling into step beside him. “I’ll get to it.”

“You’ll get to it when your heifer is in my buckwheat,” Silas said, not unkindly. It was a simple statement of fact. “Then you’ll be patching my fence as well as your own.”

They reached the shade of the barn. A swallow darted out from its nest in the eaves. Silas watched it go.

“Clara says you’re patching your north pasture,” Jed said, changing the subject. “By hand.”

“Stoneboat’s axle is cracked. No need to fix it for a dozen stones.”

“Stubborn,” Jed said, shaking his head. “You’d rather break your own back than admit a task is too big for one man.”

Silas turned his steady gaze on his friend. “It’s not too big. It’s just slow. There’s a difference. One’s a fact. The other’s an excuse.” He picked up a hammer from an anvil by the door, hefting its familiar weight. “Your fence post. I’ve got a cedar log behind the barn. We can have it set before noon.”

It wasn’t an offer. It was a statement. The only question was which fence they’d start with.

Jed sighed, a mock sound of defeat. “Fine. But I’m not hauling that log. That’s what your damned draft horse is for.”

A grunt. That was the closest Silas Merriweather ever came to a laugh. “Brindle’s smarter than that. She’s for pulling. The lifting is still on us. That’s what’s the matter with you.”

The summer morning came clear and gold over the Merriweather farm, burning the last ribbons of mist from the hollows between the fields. The oats stood high and pale along the eastern fence, their heads bending softly whenever the breeze moved through them. Beyond the pasture, the woods still held the deep green of June, and the air carried the mingled scents of turned earth, clover, and warm pine boards baking in the sun.

Silas Merriweather noticed such things.

He noticed when a cow favored one leg before a limp showed itself. He noticed when clouds gathered too quickly over the western hills and when the chickens went quiet before a storm. He noticed the slight sag of a fence rail, the first yellowing leaf in a row of otherwise healthy plants, the sound a wagon wheel made when the grease was beginning to fail.

People were more difficult.

A fence told you where it stood. A horse told you when it was displeased. A field told you exactly what you had given it and exactly what it would return.

People had a habit of keeping things hidden.

Which was why, three weeks earlier, Silas Merriweather had placed an advertisement in the newspaper.

It had seemed a reasonable solution.

He was thirty-five years old. He owned a good farm, a sound house, a barn, livestock, and enough cleared land to support a family. The matter of finding a wife was simply a difficulty he had not yet solved.

The advertisement had read:

"I am thirty-five years old, have a good set of teeth, and believe in the star-spangled banner. I have taken up a State lot, cleared up eighteen acres, and seeded ten of it down. My buckwheat looks first-rate, and the oats and potatoes are bully. I have got nine sheep, a two-year-old bull, and two heifers, besides a house and barn. I want to get married... But I don't know how to do it."

Silas had considered the wording carefully.

It was truthful.

It was clear.

He could see no reason it should not succeed.

The rest of the household had not shared his confidence.

His mother had called it "a most unusual way for a man to announce he has misplaced his common sense."

His sister Miriam had laughed until she had to sit down.

Even his father, Abner, a man who could work beside another person for half a day without speaking a dozen words, had looked up from repairing a harness and said, "No."

Silas had asked him what that meant.

Abner had replied, "Exactly what it sounds like."

And so life had continued.

The advertisement had gone into the paper.

Neighbors had teased him.

Jedediah Corbin had been unbearable for nearly a week.

Then, when no immediate disaster occurred, everyone had returned to their work.

Including Silas.

He was repairing the hinge on the north pasture gate when Miriam appeared at the edge of the field.

She carried something in her hand.

Silas looked up from his work.

"If that is another bill, put it on the table in the house."

"It is not a bill."

"Then what is it?"

Miriam held out the envelope.

"A letter."

Silas took it, turning it over once before breaking the seal.

"From whom?"

His sister gave him a look.

"Read it and tell me."

Silas unfolded the paper.

The handwriting was neat. The page smelled faintly of lavender.

His eyes moved slowly across the words.

Miriam watched his face.

She knew her brother well enough to understand that a change in expression from him was a rare event, like a bird appearing after a long winter.

"Well?" she asked.

Silas folded the letter.

"It is from a woman."

Miriam looked toward the heavens as if seeking patience there.

"Naturally."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Silas, that you placed an advertisement in a newspaper specifically requesting a wife. I had hoped the answer would not come as a surprise."

"I knew an answer might come."

"But you did not expect one."

"I expected a possibility."

Miriam smiled despite herself.

This was the trouble with Silas. He was not foolish. He was a very intelligent man.

He simply applied the same reasoning to courtship that he applied to livestock.

Miriam reached for the letter.

"I should like to see what sort of woman has read that advertisement and decided you were the one she wished to meet."

"That seems unnecessary."

"It is very necessary."

Before Silas could object, she had already begun walking toward the house.

"Miriam."

But she was laughing now, and there was no stopping her.

By the time they reached the porch, their mother had appeared from the kitchen doorway, wiping flour from her hands.

"What has happened?"

"Silas has received an answer."

Hester Merriweather went still.

Not because she was surprised a woman had answered.

Because she was surprised one had answered so quickly.

"Give it here."

Silas handed it over.

Hester read the letter in silence.

Then she looked at her son.

"Well."

Silas waited.

"Well what?"

Her mouth twitched.

"Your father spent thirty years building this farm and never once thought to advertise for assistance."

"I do not require assistance."

"No," Miriam said. "You require a wife."

Silas considered correcting her.

He decided against it.

From beneath the maple tree, Abner looked over.

"She coming?"

Everyone turned.

His father had not moved from his work.

Silas blinked.

"You knew?"

"I have ears."

Abner returned to sharpening the blade.

"Folks have been talking."

That was as close as Abner Merriweather came to admitting he had been listening for news.

The matter might have remained there, discussed and teased and eventually forgotten, if not for the sound that came a short while later.

Brindle, Silas's old mare, lifted her head from the pasture.

She looked toward the road.

Silas noticed.

Brindle was not easily impressed.

A moment later, a woman appeared at the end of the lane.

She walked steadily beneath the summer sun, one hand holding a small carpetbag, the other gathering her skirt slightly above the dust of the road.

She had come a long way.

And judging by the purpose in her step, she had not come merely to inquire.

Miriam looked from the woman to her brother.

For once, she had no teasing remark ready.

Silas stood beside the gate, his weathered hand resting on the post he had repaired that morning.

The woman drew nearer.

Three weeks after writing that he wanted to marry but did not know how, Silas Merriweather was about to discover that finding a wife was not the difficult part.

Knowing what to do afterward might prove harder.

.