As if he didn’t know how to dress, for God’s sake. He’d known damn well he was coming to a ranch—of course he wore the appropriate garb. Granted, it wasn’t the sweat-stained chambray and worn denim Murdock had on—Roger hadn’t lost all sense of propriety. But if his shirt and pants weren’t anything he would be caught dead wearing in town, they were certainly heavy-duty enough for tramping around a barnyard.
He looked down at his boots. He’d had them polished up by the servants, for a man had to maintain some standards. It didn’t mean he felt the need to watch his every step as he tramped after Murdock. What difference did it make if shit got on his boots? Or even if he tracked some into his rig or his house? That was precisely what servants were for. The help was there to take care of the unpleasant aspects of life. It was their job to deal with it.
As Roger stroked a hand down one of the horse’s shoulders, he looked over the animal’s withers at Jake. Roger prided himself on his knowledge of horseflesh, and the dappled grays were prime animals. “You’re an unusual man,” he stated coolly. And a fool, he privately tacked on, but kept the thought to himself. “First, you give up your lucrative law practice to breed horses. That was almost understandable—it is at least a gentlemanly pursuit. But to give up breeding these fine animals to enlarge your herd of cattle—?” Incomprehensible. But he bit back the word and managed not to shake his head.
Jake had no difficulty reading Roger. And why the other man thought Jake owed him an explanation baffled the hell out of him. But aloud he merely said, “Automobiles.”
Roger turned to him with eyebrows raised. “I beg your pardon?”
“If automobiles keep gaining in popularity at the rate they’ve been doing, horse breeding won’t remain as viable an enterprise.”
“Rubbish,” Roger snapped. “Those noisy contraptions are nothing but an abomination!” He looked down his nose at Jake. “I’m surprised at you. You don’t strike me as a man who would disrupt his entire financial structure for the sake of a passing fad.”
“You may be right,” Jake agreed easily, stroking the velvety nose of the gray poking its head over the corral railings. The horse blew down the front of his shirt, making his lips quirk. “There aren’t many here in Mattawa. And the ones that are seem to be constantly breaking down or in need of tire changes. They’re a rich man’s toy.”
He moved the horse’s head aside and met Roger’s contempt with a level gaze. “But damned if I’ll risk my entire fortune on the assumption that’s what they’ll remain. I met a judge over at the county seat who showed me his Peerless. He had a catalog from a New York store called Saks & Company. The thing was two hundred and seventy pages long and devoted exclusively to motoring garb. Two hundred and seventy pages, Roger. Can you imagine a catalog of that size selling nothing but clothing for a person to wear motoring? There is something about automobiles that’s catching everyone’s fancy. And you can’t discount American ingenuity when it comes to overcoming obstacles. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone finds a way to improve the quality of these machines. At this point motorists also have to be mechanics. But if enough vehicles are sold, repair stations may eventually be set up along the main roads to service them. Or,” he said with an indifferent shrug, “you may prove correct and the rage will die a natural death. In which case I can always build up my breeding operation again.”
Roger knew Jake to be an idiot. A gentleman to his fingertips, however, he refrained from saying so. The talk turned once again to the finer points of the two carriage horses he seriously considered purchasing.
Hattie picked her way carefully past steaming mementoes left by the cattle and halted a few feet from the men, waiting for a break in their conversation. Roger Lord noticed her first and she experienced a frisson of unease at his unblinking regard. Criminy, he was a chilly man. Feeling foolish for the uneasiness he inspired, she was still relieved when Jake looked up.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But Doc is here, and he’d like to speak to you.”
Jane-Ellen had been feeling under the weather for several days, and this morning she’d complained of a stiff neck, tight jaw, and some difficulty swallowing. Jake insisted, against his wife’s weak-voiced protests, on calling her father to examine her.
He turned to Roger. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said quietly. “My wife has been ill. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Certainly,” Roger agreed urbanely. He eyed Hattie thoughtfully. “I have a few more questions. Perhaps Miss Taylor can answer them for me.”
“When it comes to the horses, Hattie knows almost as much as I do,” Jake agreed, already moving away. As he strode past his ranch manager, however, he slowed down to direct the older man to stay close enough so Hattie and Roger didn’t appear alone together. No sense supplying something else for people to gossip about her. Once past the corral and across the drive bisecting the ranch, he broke into a lope.
Hattie watched his departure, then reluctantly turned to Roger Lord.
She didn’t like the way his gaze traveled over her whenever they met. It was never anything she could put a finger on or point out to others. But if another adult wasn’t present, he stared freely at her breasts and hips. Other men had been known to do that occasionally, of course. Yet there was something particularly unnerving about Lord’s appraisal.
Which sounded ridiculously melodramatic. Even so, she felt threatened, almost. She also resented the way he talked down to her, as though she couldn’t understand words longer than two syllables. But she answered his questions politely, then offered him refreshment in the house when he indicated an interest in purchasing the horses under discussion. She couldn’t repress a small smile, however, when he stepped in a fresh pile of horse droppings. She tried to not let him see her amusement as she watched him scrape it off on the grass at the side of the road but feared she was less than successful when he looked up suddenly to catch her watching. Still, if a fella doesn’t bother to take his nose out of the air long enough to watch where he’s stepping, he gets what he deserves.
Passing Jake’s office moments later, she glanced in and saw him in intense conversation with Doc Fielding. Their discussion looked so grimly serious she slowed down, hoping to overhear a bit of it. Jake glanced up as she went by with Roger in tow, and without a word he closed the door in her face.
Well, how rude. Stung, Hattie led Roger into the parlor and invited him to make himself comfortable while she ordered a pot of coffee and a platter of small cakes from the cook.
She was running out of things to say to Jake’s guest by the time Doc and Jake emerged from the office and joined them in the parlor. Jake’s face was set in grim lines and Doc seemed distracted, slopping his coffee and cussing a blue streak. He didn’t even bother excusing himself, which wasn’t like him. Usually, he took special effort to not swear in Hattie’s presence, and when he did slip he always followed his curse with a “Begging your pardon, missy.”
Hattie grew increasingly uneasy and excused herself as soon as she could, hurrying up to Jane-Ellen’s room. The men’s preoccupation was making her worry about the state of Jane-Ellen’s health. Alarmed to see the other woman looking worse than she had earlier, Hattie carefully schooled her expression to hide her dismay. She laid a cool hand on Jane-Ellen’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Not very well.” Jane-Ellen’s blue eyes appeared darker than usual in her too-pale face. “I hurt all over.” She licked her dry lips. “I thought perhaps I was having the baby early, but Father said no.” She passed her tongue over her lips again without noticeable satisfaction.
Hattie spied a tray containing a glass and pitcher on the dresser. “Want some water?”
“Please.”
Hattie poured her a glass and carried it back to the bed. Helping Jane-Ellen to half sit up, she held the glass to the other woman’s lips.
Jane-Ellen took three tiny si
ps and sagged back onto the pillows. “’S good,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
“I wish I could do more for you.”
“I’ll feel better tomorrow, I’m sure,” Jane-Ellen whispered, and her eyelids slid closed. “Know what I miss?” she murmured. “I miss hearing you play the piano.”
Hattie smiled at her. Her musical abilities had improved over the years. Playing the piano still wasn’t her favorite activity, but she’d gained expertise since she’d stopped resisting Augusta’s insistence on daily practice. “I’ll play for you tomorrow, if you feel well enough to come downstairs.”
“‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’?”
“Yes. And sheet music for a new one came in the mail yesterday—I meant to tell you earlier but forgot. Aunt Augusta sent it from San Francisco. It’s called ‘Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis.’ I haven’t tried it yet, but I’ve read the music and it’s quite lively. I think you’ll like it.”
A small disturbance of air, something not quite an actual sound, made Hattie glance at the doorway. Jake stood there, his hands clutching the doorframe with enough force to turn his fingertips white. The grief etching new lines in his face frightened Hattie, and she turned away, smoothing the counterpane over the large mound that was Jane-Ellen’s stomach. “Jake is here,” she whispered. “I’ll leave you now, but I’ll be back later to see how you’re feeling.”
It wasn’t until suppertime that Hattie was informed of Doc’s diagnosis. It had been a grim and silent meal as the three of them moved food around their plates, arranging and rearranging it to disguise their lack of appetite. She didn’t know the nature of Jane-Ellen’s illness, but she knew from Doc and Jake’s actions all afternoon it was bad. Finally, she pushed back her plate and looked at them. “Jane-Ellen is very sick, isn’t she?” Is she going to die? She longed to ask the question aloud, but fear of the answer stopped her. Clenching her fists in her lap, she awaited a reply.
“She’s contracted tetanus,” Doc replied. “From the rose thorn that punctured her hand.”
“Tetanus? I’ve never heard of that.” Relief washed over Hattie. If it was only a little infection from a prick to her finger, it couldn’t be too serious. Thank goodness—
“Lockjaw, Hattie.”
“No!” Hattie’s chair screeched across the hardwood floor as she shoved back from the table. She stared at Doc pleadingly, woozy from the blood deserting her head. She tried not to show her horror, but her inability to dissemble likely played her every trepidation across her face. There wasn’t a person above the age of five who hadn’t heard of lockjaw—and knew it was deadly.
“But that was a week ago,” she argued. “And it wasn’t a rusty nail or anything. It was only a rose thorn and we washed it out really well—” She turned to stare beseechingly at Jake. “Tell him, Jake.”
“I told him, Hattie,” Jake replied impassively. “But Doc says the symptoms are unmistakable.”
Hattie stared at him and saw only his apparent lack of feeling. For a moment, she forgot the grimness she’d glimpsed earlier, the grief she had witnessed in Jane-Ellen’s room. All the rage she’d suppressed this summer abruptly boiled over. “It’s your fault,” she said in a flat voice and glared at him, her eyes no doubt full of the fury and fear icing her innards. She saw him recoil as if she’d struck him, saw by the look in his dark eyes he had already accepted the guilt in his own mind. Momentarily, it filled her with a savage sort of satisfaction. Then she remembered the rose. “No,” she contradicted herself. “Oh God, it’s mine. I encouraged her to come out while I gardened. She didn’t want to at first, but I talked her into it.”
“Stop it!” Doc roared, and he, too, pushed back from the table. He planted his fists on the highly polished surface. Amid abandoned china and silverware, he rested his full weight on his knuckles as he leaned over to glare at Hattie. “Goddammit to hell, just stop it this instant! The fault lies with no one, missy. Not Jake, not you, not even Jane-Ellen. It happened. It just happened.” Tears began to leak out of the corners of his eyes. “Blaming yourself or blaming Jake will not help my baby girl now. And it won’t help her child.”
“Dear God, the baby.” Hattie’s fingers trembled as she pressed them to her lips. Involuntarily, her eyes sought Jake’s. His were devastated. “Will the baby—?”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Doc said flatly and knuckled the tears from his leathery cheeks. “Except make Jane-Ellen as comfortable as we possibly can.”
Hattie turned and ran from the room. She slammed out of the house but stopped indecisively on the front porch. Leaning her forehead against one of the cool pillars supporting the porch roof, she whispered a litany, not quite a statement, nor exactly a prayer. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
She stayed out there for quite a while, hearing the nightly chorus of crickets and frogs but unable to derive her usual pleasure from it. Finally, she let herself quietly back into the house and walked over to the telephone. Picking up the receiver, she requested the Marks residence.
When Moses answered, Hattie clung tenaciously to her composure to prevent her distress from climbing through the lines to his ears. “Could you come out to the ranch for a while?”
“Hattie? It’s pretty late, girl.”
“Please?” Don’t cry, she told herself. Do. Not. Cry.
In his family parlor, Moses fought his private demons. She sounded a little desperate. And he was consumed with guilt for how he’d been avoiding her lately. Still, it really was for the best. He simply couldn’t act natural around her this summer. It seemed so easy, that day at the creek, tacitly agreeing they’d not attempt taking their relationship beyond friendship. And in that moment, he had meant it. She was his best friend and he didn’t want to mess with that.
But he hadn’t reckoned on the power of his dreams. He hadn’t suspected that day how he’d be tormented by visions of her on a near-nightly basis.
And what visions. He was haunted by resurrected memories of the way she’d looked barely clothed. He wasn’t an innocent boy anymore. He knew what pleasures could be found in a woman’s body. And, much as he tried banishing the memories of Hattie’s magnificent body in her wet chemise and boys’ swim trunks, in his nocturnal fantasies the images refused to be vanquished.
It was so damn confusing. Twice, he’d gone out to see her. And in the daylight hours, she was just the same old Hattie. Yet, shameful memories of those dreams had interfered with his ability to act natural in her presence. He’d felt on edge every minute they were together, anxious to be away, afraid she’d somehow read his mind and know about his dreams. It didn’t matter that she failed to inspire his lust when they were face-to-face. If she knew about his dreams, she’d be appalled.
Then the dreams had mercifully disappeared. He’d waited awhile, until he’d finally felt it would be safe to start seeing her again. And the last time he’d seen Hattie, it had been just like old times. But that very night, forbidden images of her paraded behind his eyes in even more explicit detail, jerking him awake, leaving his body one sweaty, pulsating ache.
Shit. Hattie was his friend. His mind knew it. Even his body knew it—as long as he was awake. He missed her. And it sounded like she needed him now. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to go. He just plain could not look her in the eyes these days. He thought it smarter altogether to avoid her the rest of this summer, after which she’d leave for teachers college. By the time she came home again, these fucking dreams were sure to have faded. Their relationship could regain its old, steady footing. Consumed with guilt but feeling it necessary, he invented an excuse to not go out to the ranch that evening. It sounded feeble, even to his own ears.
And before he finished, Hattie hung up on him.
15
Murdock Ranch
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 1906
Drizzle fell intermittently outside the open bedroom window as Hattie helped Doc lay out Jane-Ellen’s body. Al
though Hattie’s emotions were numbed by fatigue, she experienced a dull sense of relief that Jane-Ellen was finally at rest. Her death three hours ago had been a merciful release from an ordeal progressively more agonizing and ugly.
Within a day and a half of Doc’s diagnosis, Jane-Ellen developed difficulty opening her mouth, the symptom from which lockjaw got its name. It was followed by difficulty swallowing. Her muscles became rigid and subject to excruciating spasms. Convulsions followed, and Hattie feared she would relive Jane-Ellen’s ragged efforts to breathe in her dreams for a long time.
By the time Jake returned from the barn with a ranch hand and the plank to transport Jane-Ellen’s body to the icehouse, Doc and Hattie had finished washing and dressing it. Hattie looked away as the men transferred Jane-Ellen’s forever stilled body from the bed onto the board. She simply could not bear seeing the large mound of Jane-Ellen’s stomach where her unborn child still resided. Every time she glimpsed it, she was reminded of the day the baby abruptly stopped moving, all prior signs of life erased.
Jake’s reaction was the exact opposite. Compulsively, he stared at the shrouded mound. That was his child under there, forever barred from entering the world. He’d never know if it was a boy or a girl. He would probably wonder for the rest of his life.
He felt like he was bleeding to death, deep inside where no one could see. He’d dreamed sometimes of being free of this marriage in which his touch caused his wife to cringe. But not like this. Shit. Never like this. Jane-Ellen hadn’t been the right woman for him. But she’d been sweet and decent, undeserving of the inhuman agony she’d suffered from the first tetanus symptoms to her death. They’d both awaited the birth of their child eagerly. And, dammit, they would have made good parents. He felt it in his bones.
The icehouse door creaked when the ranch hand opened it. As they maneuvered the burdened plank through the opening and onto the sawdust-covered ice blocks, Jake thought it seemed a lonely place to leave Jane-Ellen’s body. But they didn’t have much choice in the matter.
The Ballad of Hattie Taylor Page 13