She rode until her eyelids felt frozen open and her exposed skin, afire. Until her lips felt cracked and her legs, hot and cramped. Only when the horse reared and whinnied at the crest of a knoll did Emily realize she was abusing the animal. Sagebrush tossed his head till lather flew and Emily reined in at last, slumping, letting her eyes close, feeling despair overwhelm her. She sat for minutes, listening to the animal pant, then slid from the saddle and stood at his jaw, still fighting her own emotions. Sage's hide was warm and damp and pungent with horse smell, but she needed something familiar right now. She dropped her forehead against his great powerful neck, clamping her jaw, gulping back sobs.
I need somebody. God … somebody…
Hot from his run. Sagebrush shook his head, forcing Emily to retreat; not even the horse cared, she thought unreasonably.
Flatfooted, she dropped to a squat, arms extended over her knees like a sheepherder rolling a cigarette, stubbornly determined not to cry. Her face burned. Her eyes burned. Her lungs burned. Everything burned—her father's betrayal, Fannie's betrayal, her mother's ceaseless suffering, her own betrayal to Charles. Life was one big burning hell.
She dropped her face between her knees and doubled her arms across the back of her head while she wept.
God, I'm no better than my father.
* * *
She returned to the stable for lack of choice. Sagebrush was sheeny, patchy with sweat, like the surface of a pond in an intermittent wind. He was thirsty and tired and hungry and eager for his familiar stall. Where else could she go but to her father's livery stable?
Edwin was there alone, applying a fresh coat of parsley-green paint to a doublebox wagon. The paintbrush paused in midair when Emily led Sagebrush inside and continued toward the stalls without a glance in Edwin's direction.
She watered the horse, removed and wiped down the saddle, brushed his warm chestnut hide until it cooled, caparisoned and stabled him. Passing her father again on her way to mix feed she felt his eyes follow, though he uttered not a word. She stared at the far end of the corridor as if Edwin no longer existed, striding mannishly with a wad of misery in her throat.
God, how she'd loved him.
Returning with a half bucket of grain, she blamed her stinging eyes on the paint fumes, which were thick in the closed building. Again Edward's gaze followed. Again she stared straight on, sensing his remorse and hurt, unwilling to accept it.
When Sage was fed she headed back toward the office, passing her father a fourth time, maintaining the same silent defiance as before.
"Emily!"
Her feet stopped but her eyes remained riveted on the great rolling door twenty feet away.
"I'm sorry," Edwin offered quietly.
She compressed her lips to keep them from trembling.
"Go to hell," she said, stone-faced, and walked on in a cocoon of pain.
* * *
She moved through that day with as much life as a door swung by the whim of the wind. She crossed paths with her father—it was inevitable—and spoke to him when necessary. But her voice was glacial and her eyes relentlessly evasive. When he asked if she wanted to go home for noon dinner first she replied, "I'm not eating." When he returned from his own dinner and set a plate of sausage and fried potatoes at her elbow, she cast it a disparaging glance and returned her attention to her needle and whipcord without offering so much as a thank-you. When he saw her leaving shortly after 2:00 P.M. he called, "Emily, are you going home?" His voice sounded lonely, echoing down the shaft of the long building. With grim satisfaction she answered him with only the roll and thump of the closing door.
Outside, ten feet from the building, she met Tom Jeffcoat, heading in.
"Emily, could I—"
"Leave me alone," she ordered heartlessly and left him staring at her back.
At home there was Fannie to face. Emily gave her the same treatment she'd given her father—gazed through her as if she were of no more substance than a cloud. Minutes later Fannie came to the doorway of their shared bedroom and said, "I'll be washing some bedding in the morning. If you have anything that needs doing up, just leave it in the hall."
For the first time Emily met Fannie's eyes—a fierce glare. "I'll do Mother's bedding!" she spat, shouldering past the older woman without touching her, crossing the hall to her mother's room where she closed Fannie out with a firm click of the latch.
She spent the afternoon at a task she detested: crocheting. She was wholly inept with a hook and thread, but worked on a doily as penance and atonement, staying at her mother's bedside until Papa came home from work and looked in.
"How is she?" he inquired, entering the room.
Emily leaned forward and touched Josephine's hand, ignoring Edwin. "It's nearly suppertime. I'll bring your tray up soon, all right, Mother?"
Josephine opened her eyes and nodded weakly. Emily slipped from the room without waiting to observe her mother's pathetic smile shift to Edwin.
When supper was ready Emily ordered in a tone that would brook no refusal, "Frankie, come. You've scarcely seen mother in over two weeks. Bring your plate up while I feed her. She'll be so happy to see you."
Frankie dutifully followed but sat on Papa's cot, picking at his food, staring at his knees instead of at the skeleton on the master bed. When he asked to be excused, looking pale and guilty, Emily let him go, but ordered him to help with dishes because she was going to stay and read to Mother.
A half hour later Edwin's footsteps sounded on the stairs and Emily quickly shut the book and kissed her mother, escaping to her own room, leaving Edwin standing in the upstairs hall, following her with baleful eyes.
By mid-evening she had reached a major decision, the correct one, she was sure. No matter what Papa and Fannie did to Mama, she would send her to her grave happy about one thing.
Emily donned a clean lavender dress, coiled her hair in a perfect ladylike figure eight, and went to Charles's house to announce that she was ready to set the date for their wedding.
Charles's smile was the full sun after an eclipse. "Oh, Em…" With a joyous lunge he picked her up and spun her, giving a whoop of laughter. His ecstatic reaction reaffirmed that Emily was doing the correct thing. Swinging around in his arms, she swallowed the lump in her throat and thought, I won't be like Papa, I won't!
Beaming, Charles set her down. "When?"
She smiled because she'd made him happy at last, and he deserved so much happiness. "Next week?"
"Next week!"
"Or as soon as Reverend Vasseler can perform the service. I want us to be married before Mother dies. It will make her very happy."
Charles's smile faded. "But what about your veterinary certificate?"
"I've decided to give it up. What will I ever do with it anyway? I'll be your wife, taking care of your house and your children. I was crazy to think I could go gallivanting around the country pulling calves anyway. I'll have all I can do to keep the socks white."
Charles frowned. "Emily, what's wrong?"
"Wrong? Why, nothing. I've just come to my senses, that's all."
"No…" He backed off, holding her gingerly by the elbows, studying her minutely. Something's wrong."
"The only thing that's wrong is that time is moving too quickly, and Mother is nearly … She swallowed hard. "I want this very badly, Charles, before Mother dies."
"But it takes time to plan a wedding."
"Not this one. We'll be married in Mother's bedroom so she can hear us exchange vows. Would that be all right with you?"
"You don't want a church wedding?"
"I'm not exactly the lacy kind, am I?" Tom Jeffcoat had never ceased calling her tomboy. "Besides, it would save work and trouble. I … I really don't want to ask Fannie to prepare all that food and … and … well, you know how much fussing weddings can be if you let them."
"And how many guests were you intending to have then, none?"
"Just … well, just Tarsy for my attendant."
"And just Tom for mine?"
"Tom…" She could not meet Charles's eyes while speaking of Tom Jeffcoat. "Well … yes, if that's who you choose."
"Who else would I choose?"
"Nobody. I mean, Tarsy and Tom are … are fine. The ceremony will only be a few minutes long anyway."
"Have you talked to Fannie about this?"
"Fannie's got nothing to do with it. It's my decision!"
"Have you talked to your father?"
"Charles!" She bristled. "For somebody who's been lathering at the bit to get a date set you certainly don't act too excited."
"I would if I hadn't known you since you were cutting teeth. You're upset about something and I want to know what it is."
She stood before him with the answer burning deep, compelled to lie to keep from hurting him as she'd been hurt. "If you love me, Charles, please do what I ask. I want this for Mother and I don't think we have much time "
He studied her gravely for a full fifteen seconds before dropping his hands and stepping back. "Very well. If you'll answer me one question."
"Ask it."
"Do you love me, Emily?"
His question seemed to resound in the pit of her stomach. And if her answer revealed only the partial truth, her motives were purely honorable.
"Yes," she answered, and caught the nearly imperceptible relaxing of his shoulders.
She did love him, she did! As she'd said to his best friend, who could help but love Charles?
Her reassurance had brought back his enthusiasm. "Should we go tell them?"
"I already did … at supper," Emily lied.
"Oh." The flat word reflected his disappointment and she felt guilty for depriving him of the joy of making the announcement. But if the two of them went now to break the news together her displeasure with Papa and Fannie would be clearly evident, not only to Charles but to Mother. "Things aren't exactly bright and cheerful around our house, Charles, with Mother being so bad. I thought … well, I thought it might be easier if I simply told them."
"That's … that's fine," Charles said doubtfully. "I just thought maybe…" His words trailed off.
She took his hand. "I'm sorry, Charles. The whole thing should have been more festive, shouldn't it?"
He shrugged off his disappointment and forced a grin. "Aw, what the heck—it's our lives together that count, not what kind of wedding ceremony we have. And anyway, your parents have known this was coming for years, haven't they? I made sure they did."
He kissed her happily, his bride-to-be, and lightly caressed her breasts, conveying wordlessly how he would treasure and love her. She felt his tongue in her mouth and answered with her own, putting last night from her mind, assuring herself. You'll get used to the beard in time. You'll get used to his hands on you.
But she was the first to break away. "Should we talk to Reverend Vasseler tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Morning or afternoon?"
"Morning. Then I can talk to Tom and you can talk to Tarsy in the afternoon. Oh, Emily…" He clasped her close. "I'm so happy."
"So am I … but Charles, I have to go now."
She walked home feeling despondent. Where was the sense of eagerness she had expected after making the commitment? At home the emptiness seemed to expand as she hung up her coat and walked through the silent rooms downstairs. This is not how it should feel. This moment should be splendid, a sharing of the news, a falling into arms, a rejoicing with those you love and who love you.
She plodded upstairs and stopped in the light shining into the hall from her parents' bedroom, glanced inside, and paused in distaste. All three of them were there. Mother on the bed. Papa on the cot, and Fannie in a side chair. It twisted Emily's vitals, the hypocrisy of the scene. Not even for Mother's benefit could she smile at the other two as she entered the room.
She sat beside Josephine, turning her back on Edwin and Fannie, and took her mother's hand.
"I thought you'd like to know—Charles and I are going to talk to Reverend Vasseler tomorrow morning. We'll be getting married as soon as he can perform the service … right here in your room. Would you like that, Mother?"
"Why, Emily…" Josie's voice was a weak whisper, but her eyes showed a faint spark of approval.
"I knew you'd be pleased."
"But…"
"No questions now. They only make you cough. It's what I want, and what Charles wants, too. We'll talk more about it tomorrow."
Rising from the bed, Emily caught a furtive exchange of glances between Fannie and her father. When their glances lifted to her, nobody moved. Papa, Papa. I wanted this moment to be so different. I had always pictured it with smiles and hugs. But Emily held herself aloof, heart-sore.
Fannie alone recovered and rose quickly to act out the expected felicitations for Joey's benefit. "Congratulations, dearling…" When she put her arms around Emily and touched the girl's cheek with her own, Emily stiffened. Fannie stepped back and chided with false blitheness, "Edwin, for heaven's sake, have you nothing to say?"
Emily forced herself to stand in place while he rose from the cot and moved toward her with his contrite eyes asking forgiveness and permission. Waiting, her heart pounded with love and remorse. His lips touched her cheek with enough genuine affection to melt the hardest of hearts. "Congratulations, honey."
She stood like a newel post, resisting his endearment, his touch, the awful love she could not help feeling for him.
"I have to go tell Frankie," she mumbled, and escaped, leaving a roaring silence in the room behind her.
Frankie was fast asleep. She sat on his bed and jostled him. "Hey, brub, wake up, huh?" Somehow tonight she needed to use the childish nickname from her youth.
He burrowed into his pillow and grunted.
"Hey, come on, Frankie, wake up, huh? I've got something to tell you." Please wake up. I need somebody so badly.
"Get lost…"
She leaned close and whispered, "I'm going to marry Charles, probably before the week is out. Just thought you'd want to know.
He raised his face from the pillow and squinted over one shoulder. "Well, why couldn't you tell me tomorrow! Criminy, did you have to wake me up!" Face first he hit the mattress and pulled the pillow over his tousled head.
Frankie, I needed you, to hug, to get excited with. Don't you understand? Of course, he didn't. He was simply a disgruntled little boy disturbed from his sleep. He knew nothing of the turmoil within his sister. Dejected, she went to her own room to find Fannie already there, preparing for bed.
When the door opened Fannie looked up from her seat at the dressing table where she sat removing hairpins from her hair. It was easier for Emily to remain frigid to Fannie than to Papa: she had not loved her an entire lifetime. Too, Fannie was the intruder, doubtless the one most to blame. In that tense moment while their eyes clashed, she saw the caring in Fannie's, but turned, rebuffing it, closing the door, going about her bedtime routine with insular disregard.
It was unsettling, undressing in the same room with someone for whom you felt such enmity. Neither of them spoke as they donned their nighties, turned back the coverlets, extinguished the lantern, and crawled beneath the covers, back to back, hugging their edges of the bed.
Through Emily's mind glimmered memories of the times she had confided in Fannie, times like this when they'd lain in the dark, friends growing dearer to one another with each passing day. But Fannie no longer felt dear. She had abused the hospitality of this house and had proven herself a two-faced friend to Mama, and for that Emily despised her.
Emily had been lying carefully motionless for a full ten minutes before Fannie spoke quietly into the darkness.
"Emily, you're wrong."
"Shut up! I don't want to hear your excuses any more than I want to share my bed with you!"
Fannie closed her eyes and felt tears burn inside. She crossed her wrists beneath her breasts and pressed hard, cradling the hurt tightly, as a mother might cradle a found child. Emily had misunderstood her meaning; she
had not meant, Emily, you're wrong about your father and me, but, you're wrong to jump into marriage this way.
Oh, Emily … dearling … can't you see you're marrying Charles for all the wrong reasons?
But faced with Emily's cold rejection, Fannie let the earnest warning wither in her throat.
* * *
Chapter 14
«^»
It had been a frustrating thirty-six hours for Tom Jeffcoat. If he had it to do over again he'd use his head and keep no less than two axe handles between himself and Emily Walcott.
At his anvil he beat a piece of hot metal as if it were his own head, which, he conceded, was about as dense as iron and needed some sense whupped into it.
You had to kiss her, didn't you, Jeffcoat? You had to go groping around in that damned dark closet and putting your hands where they didn't belong. You had to find out. Well, now you did, and what did it get you but miserable? Walking around here feeling like a cat gagging on a hairball. It's that woman who's stuck in your throat, and you can't swallow her and you can't cough her up. So just what in almighty hell are you going to do about it?
He beat the iron until the percussions rippled up his arms and jarred his joints. The iron grew too cool to shape but he kept beating anyway.
Emily Walcott. What was a man supposed to make of her? There were times when he wanted to throttle her. That temper—Christ, where did she get it? She seemed to stride through life in a perpetual state of defiance. Over what? She had nothing to defy!
But he admired her guts and her drive. She had more of both than most men.
He tried to imagine taking her back to Springfield and introducing her as his wife—his wife?—the one in the boy's cap and britches, the one who didn't want babies but would rather treat sick animals for a while. Wouldn't his mother pop her sockets? Especially after Julia, the perfect, proper, pregnant Julia. And his father would pull him aside by one arm and say. Son, are you sure you know what you're doing?
The answer was no. Ever since he'd laid lips on her in that closet he hadn't known what he was doing. Standing here beating a piece of cold iron like a fool. With a throaty curse he flung down his hammer and stood staring, brooding, missing her, wanting her.
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