Dan took off his hat and poked into the upstairs room of Ellen Stewart’s home. Ellen’s daughter, Effie, did not speak. Her eyes were pained and angry. She fixed her look on Dan. He could not meet her gaze. The baby, Lela, one day old, named by Effie without Dan, was a beauty, but girls are pretty to their fathers, which begged the question: Was this child his? Effie said she was. Dan wasn’t sure. The county knew that Effie’s only son, La Doan, was the bastard of Hiette Morrell, who refused to marry, claiming the boy wasn’t his. Hiette lied. One look at Doan and any fool could pick the father. Since Doan’s birth, the gossip went around and round—in church, the streets, tavern, fields. One oaf ran his mouth too close to Dan, called Effie a slut. Dan beat him senseless. The boys pulled Dan away before the beating turned to murder. No one spoke that way again, not where Dan could hear, nor where his friends might bring the words to his ears. Still, the rumors stung and the gossip passed from a woman’s face to eyes to mouth to ear to the way that neighbors looked at Dan and looked away.
When Effie’s monthly time was missed, Dan had promised marriage. Then his excuses to delay were made: He didn’t have a house. He didn’t own a horse or plow. He would not have his wife and child live on Stewart alms. Effie knew the truth: Doubt ate Dan’s heart. Effie had taken Hiette Morrell to bed all one loving summer. After Hiette, she gave to Dan so quickly. Who else? Could another be the father, as the ugly rumors claimed? So, Dan delayed till Effie bore her second bastard, till after she was shunned again by Mormon sisters, cut off again by Mormon bishop, crushed for loving Dan, who stumbled from his promise.
Now Dan was there, the day after Lela’s birth, to search the baby’s face. Dan nodded toward the child. She was lifted to his arms. Holding her in the cradle of one elbow, Dan ran fingers through his hair, sniffed his palm, pulled the baby close and breathed deep the smell of her sweaty head.
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