Seasons of Glory

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  She smoothed a hand over her hair, knotted back in its usual bun, and then ran it down her skirt. A clean skirt. A different skirt than the piemaking and paddling skirt of that afternoon.

  Her determination thus restored, she knocked on the door and waited, listening. Riley’s whistling and bustling about continued. Glory pursed her lips and knocked again … a little harder. Again she waited and listened. Again, in vain. Shaking her head, the least bit angry now—was he ignoring her?—Glory knocked hard enough to make her knuckles hurt. And listened.

  Now the man was singing … after a fashion. She listened another moment and then frowned. What awful, lilting lyrics he belted out.

  “… Old Jake rode his mule to the valley town./It’d been a while since he’d come down, uh-huh./A rich man now from his gold-mining claim/He hunted some fun without no blame, uh-huh./He looked forward to spending all his money/And getting him a taste of Miss Bawdy’s honey. Uh-huh, uh-huh…”

  Miss Bawdy’s honey? Certain now that Riley had heard her knocking and meant to embarrass her with such language, Glory pressed her lips into a peevish line, grabbed the knob, twisted it, and burst into his bedroom. Her pointing finger raised, her words already tipped against her tongue, Glory didn’t realize—in that first instant—exactly what it was that … faced her.

  But then, it registered. Her breath—and her words—sucked right back down her throat. Every instinct implored her to turn away, to run. To cover her eyes, at least. But shocked beyond measure, Glory posed as she was—frozen, numb, blank. Staring.

  A towel over his head, his … front facing her, and wearing only his boots, Riley was drying his hair. Perhaps sensing a draft or her presence or the thickened air—or all three—his hands stilled and he straightened up. Slowly he dragged the towel off his head. And stared openmouthed at her. “Glory.”

  Then, he looked down at himself and whipped the towel around his waist. Holding it secure with one hand, he dragged his Stetson off the bureau and plopped it on his head. Red-faced, frowning his eyebrows into a V, he griped, “Don’t you ever knock? And close your mouth before you catch a fly.”

  Glory closed her mouth so abruptly her teeth clacked together. She realized she was still pointing at his … at him. And jerked her arm down to her side. Words came and went, all unspoken. Finally she managed, “I did knock. I’m sorry.” Her hand still on the knob, she began backing up.

  Riley reached out to her. “Wait. You’re here now. What’d you want?”

  Still backing up in a hot-faced, lead-limbed retreat, Glory assured him, “It can wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” There was no need to finish her sentence as she finally stood in the hall and pulled the door closed.

  Safe now on the other side of the wood barrier, she put her shaking hands to her face. How could she ever face him again? It just wasn’t possible. The door opened. Glory sucked in a breath and jerked back one clumsy step. And held her breath, since it, and certainly not her spine, was the only thing keeping her erect.

  Still attired only in his towel and hat, Riley asked, “What can wait until tomorrow?”

  Even though the man loomed large in her vision, Glory tried her best not to … see him. In sheer desperation, she cast her gaze both ways down the darkened hall, but found no help, no escape. Giving up, she finally settled her gaze on his chest—his face. Look at his face. “M-men,” she stammered. “The men. They can wait until tomorrow.”

  Riley cocked his head. His Stetson’s brim shaded his face, made him appear sinister. “What men?”

  Glory took another step back, only to conk her head against the wall behind her. Almost grateful for the physical jarring, she flattened her hands against the wall and began sidling down the hallway as she hedged, “The ones you hired. You can’t hire them. But they can wait. They’re alseep now. I should be, too. And you. Asleep. Both of us. But not together—I mean, in the same room. No. Umm, good night, Riley.”

  Having edged her way down to her room’s door, Glory flung herself inside and slammed it closed. Wide-eyed and unblinking in the smoky light of the kerosene lamp on her dresser, she stared at her familiar surroundings as if she’d never seen them before. Mortified reaction set in. She clapped a hand over her mouth and doubled over, the better to trap her embarrassment inside. But it erupted. Glory stood straight up with her next gulping breath and burst out laughing.

  Weak-kneed, she made her way to her bed, collapsing on it in a knees-drawn-to-her-chest heap. She groped for a pillow, found one, and stuffed it over her head. Oh, dear heavens, I saw Riley as God made him. I cannot ever come out of my room again. How will I face him? I just can’t. Never again can I look him in the eye after seeing his … him.

  Glory sat up in the tangled heap of her clothing and stared blindly at the opposite wall. She’d seen Riley naked. Immediately, she flopped back onto the feather comfort of her bed, and lay there sprawled and again seeing Riley in all his glory. Then she rolled over onto her tummy and settled her head on her pillow, thinking My, he is magnificent.

  Absently focusing on her lady’s vanity perched against the room’s opposite wall, Glory declared Riley’s physique perfect. Like one of those statues in the art books Mama included in their lessons. He was muscles everywhere. Long-limbed. Solid. And that hair on his chest. It had a most interesting pattern, thinning as it did down to a line below his waist that widened out into a—

  A knocking on her door, accompanied by a husky drawl of “Glory?” sat her straight up. “Go away,” she called out, using the same childhood intensity she had when shooing scary monsters from the armoire on dark nights.

  Only this monster was real. And apparently it didn’t shoo very well. “I’m not going away,” it said. “Now open this door, please.”

  Her wary gaze trained on the door in question, Glory shook her head. “No,” she called out. “Go away. I’m sleeping.”

  An exhalation from out in the hallway preceded, “No you’re not. You’re talking to me.”

  Darn. He had her there. Glory swung her legs over the side of her bed and sat there, hands folded in her lap. “What do you want?”

  Silence. Then, “I don’t rightly know. But here I am.”

  Glory frowned. “Go to bed. You’re already undressed for it.” Her hand clamped itself over her mouth as her eyes widened and hot blooms burst upon her cheeks.

  Silence. Then, “I suppose you’re right. Are you okay?”

  Glory considered the door a moment, tried to see Riley on the other side of it. She gained an instant image of him … bare-chested, Stetson on, towel-wrapped hips. And bit her lip to keep from giggling again. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Silence. Then, “No reason, I guess. Umm, good night, Glory.”

  Glory’s lips twitched, but finally she blurted a respectable, “Good night, Riley.”

  * * *

  “Biddy, something happened last night.”

  Biddy frowned at Glory’s words as she watched the girl butter a flaky biscuit. Perched on the side of Biddy’s bed, and sharing her breakfast tray, Glory took a big bite and turned those grass-green eyes on her as she chewed.

  Frowning, Biddy absently brushed a wispy gray hair back under her mobcap. She next lowered her china teacup and saucer onto the silver tray atop her lap. “Well, child, are ye going to tell me what, or must I guess?”

  Glory shrugged, handed Biddy the other half of the biscuit. “Here. Eat this. Sourdough sent in a plate of them. The ones I baked … or tried to … could bring a jackrabbit down, if you hit him just right.” Satisfied only when Biddy accepted the treat and bit into it, Glory continued, “I saw Riley naked.”

  The biscuit would go neither up nor down, neither in nor out. Biddy could get no air. She pitched forward, jerked her knees up, and knocked the tray in a slanting slide over the edge of the bed. Gasping, Glory jumped up and caught it at the last moment, saving most of the spill for the tray. She quickly sat it aside.

  Hands clawing at her throat, lungs screaming fo
r air, Biddy couldn’t even protest when Glory grabbed her arm up over her mobcapped head and shook it while she pounded on her hunched shoulders with her other.

  “My word, Biddy, are you all right? Your face is absolutely purple.”

  Biddy wrenched her arm out of Glory’s grasp and flapped her hand, wanting Glory to leave her be. Glory stepped back and stared wide-eyed, her hands clutching at her skirt. Just then, Biddy felt the biscuit dislodge. She swallowed in sheer relief, cleared her throat, and then waved at the tray. “Water,” she gurgled out, barely, recognizing the raspy voice as her own.

  As Glory hopped to, scampered to the porcelain pitcher and cup on the nightstand, and poured out a measure of water, Biddy decided that today was the day she got out of bed … if she lived past this conversation, that was. And all these years, she’d thought for sure it would be Jacey who’d be the death of her. Breathing shallowly, Biddy accepted the water and drank it down as if it were a stiff tot of whiskey.

  Sitting the glass back on the nightstand, she took a deep breath, testing her capabilities, and exhaled in relief. She’d live. Hand to her chest, wheezing, still coughing, she lay her head back against her pillows and stared up at the ceiling. Blessedly, her breathing slowly became normal.

  When she could speak, she raised her head and patted the bed next to her. “Sit yerself right back down here, young lady. And tell me exactly how it was ye saw Riley without a stitch on.”

  Settling herself atop the covers, Glory chirped, “Oh, he wasn’t completely naked, Biddy. Don’t be silly. He had his hat on. And then a towel.”

  Biddy shrank against her plumped pillows and folded her hands together. “Well, in that case, the man was fully clothed.” She glared at Glory to let her know she didn’t mean that at all.

  The child tried to smile, but it wouldn’t hold. She immediately found reason to jump up and begin straightening the large, sunny room. And apparently felt she should start as far away from the bed as possible. “Now, Biddy,” she chided, rearranging a silverbacked comb and brush set on the oak vanity across the room, “it’s not like you’re thinking.”

  “Ha. Tell me what I’m thinkin’.”

  Glory spun around, a hand over her heart. The girl at least had the decency to blush. “You’re thinking that we—? I think not. Riley was toweling off after his bath, and I heard him singing this awful tune. I merely went to his door and—Why, Biddy Jensen, shame on you for thinking we’d—”

  Biddy stiffened. “Shame on me, is it? Let me remind ye, young lady, yer the one talking about seeing Riley as God made him.” Then, like a hen sitting on its roost, she settled into her covers and focused on Glory, shaking her head. “’Tis better I’m feelin’. I believe I’ll be up and on me feet by this afternoon.” Then she muttered, “Before I’m a grandmother and right under me own nose.”

  “What?”

  Biddy huffed out her breath. “Never ye mind. Just take the tray, child. I can eat no more. I said I’d be up and around today.”

  “I don’t know, Biddy. It’s only been a few days.”

  “And I’m much stronger for the rest. Now, go on. Be off with ye.”

  Glory stayed where she was and looked consideringly at her. Biddy raised an eyebrow, daring her to challenge her word. Finally, Glory huffed out her breath and flounced over to the nightstand. Picking up the tray, she turned to Biddy and said, “Well, I’m glad you feel like getting up. The Good Lord knows I can use the help. But I want you to be careful because I can’t be inside with you, watching your every step, since I have to go out to the bunkhouse and—”

  Biddy grabbed Glory’s wrist, rattling the tray precariously. Glory divided her attention between balancing her load and peering wide-eyed at Biddy. “Yer not hopin’ to see the rest of the men in their altogether, are ye?”

  Glory’s jaw dropped. “Biddy! What a scandalous notion! I hardly think I’d—” She stopped, huffed out her breath and added, “I’ll be out at the bunkhouse—but having a few words with two new hands Riley hired yesterday. And that’s all.”

  Biddy released her wrist, sat back. “I should hope so.” Then she frowned. “‘Riley hired,’ is it?”

  “Yes. I intend to find him and remind him he’s not a Lawless. Then, because Smiley and some of the men are still out looking for strays, I also—”

  “Oh? Smiley—umm, Mr. Rankin, I mean—is … away?” Biddy looked down, fiddled with her quilted spread, and then sought Glory’s gaze.

  The shameless girl chuckled. “When are you going to tell him you’re sweet on him?”

  Biddy puffed up in indignation. “I’m no such thing. Ye mind yer tongue, young lady.”

  Glory’s green eyes lit with humor. “Of course, you’re not. And he didn’t come to see about you yesterday.”

  Biddy ignored the heat on her cheeks and managed a tone of voice as blustery as the day outside her window. “’Twas about business, his call was. Nothing more. Now, go on with yer list of chores. The day’s gettin’ no younger.”

  Glory grinned before wisely—to Biddy’s way of thinking—changing the subject. “Yes, ma’am. After I greet the new hands, I need to go check on the repairs to the corral fence. And then I’ll get an accounting from Sourdough on what he’ll need to outfit the chuck wagon for the spring drive up to Kansas.”

  Biddy sat still, suddenly content just to listen to the doll-like, auburn-haired girl chatter on. She didn’t know what was stranger—having a conversation with Glory about seeing a man naked or one about the workings of the ranch. Up until the last few days, the girl hadn’t cared about either. Her baby was growing up.

  She flicked her attentive nanny’s gaze over Glory’s person, from her neatly coiffed hair—still in that blasted bun—to her tucked white blouse and tan pocket-skirt, which met at her tiny, belted waist. Gone was the stringy hair and the pallor and indifference about her appearance of only a few days ago. Gone was the moping spirit, too. What had caused this rapid change in her? Not what, but who, Biddy realized. Riley Thorne. Her secret smile found its way to her face.

  “Oh, and the good news is Skeeter came to the—Biddy, what on earth are you smiling about? I’m telling you all the troubles around here and you’re smiling at me as if I’ve just successfully baked a cake.”

  Her heart full, Biddy’s smile became tremulous. “Will ye listen to yerself? Yer quite the strong one, Glory Bea, taking charge like ye have. Ye remind me of Hannah. I’m right proud of you. And yer sisters will be, too.”

  Glory blinked at her and then her mouth worked, her eyes shone. She looked down at the spilled mess that was the breakfast tray, and then back up at Biddy. “That means a lot to me. I just want to do a good job and be the best darned Lawless that I can.”

  * * *

  Glory grabbed Papa’s big old sheepskin coat off its peg by the kitchen door. Looking back at the messy room—not at all the way Biddy usually kept it—she renewed her efforts to be nowhere around when her doting nanny dressed and found what awaited her. The sight could end her doting era.

  Slinging the heavy garment across her shoulders, feeling its hem hit her behind her knees, Glory poked her hands through the armholes, already rolled up to thick cuffs from her new habit of wearing it. She nestled down into its woolly folds, pulling its comforting weight and memories around herself. She had other, better coats, certainly ones more suited to her size, but Papa’s was … well, Papa’s.

  Looking down at herself as she pushed the big leather buttons through their corresponding holes, Glory marveled anew at how close she felt to Papa when engulfed in his favorite coat. Perhaps she was being superstitious, but she believed her judgment and decisions about the ranch were sharper when she had it on. For sure, the men recognized it as J. C. Lawless’s. They didn’t say anything, but they eyed it and then her, and called her Miss Lawless. Some of these men had known her since she was a baby, had always called her Miss Glory. But now she was Miss Lawless, boss lady.

  Smiling at the thought, still flushed with Biddy’s hi
gh praise of her, Glory stepped outside. And caught her breath. A cold blast of air, laden with choking dust, brought tears to her eyes and nearly blew her off the landing. Coughing, blinking, she grabbed the heavy kitchen door and held on when the wind threatened to wrench it free of its hinges and send it spiraling about the yard.

  Barely able to see, her watery eyes scratchy with dust, Glory suddenly realized she was no longer alone on the narrow clapboard landing. Someone—a strong someone—helped her slam the uncooperative door closed. Wrenching around, tugging the coat’s collar up around her neck, Glory found herself pressed up against a stranger’s body.

  His head ducked, his broad, pockmarked face turned in profile to hers as he too fought the wind, the man held her pinioned between his strong arms as he forced the door into its frame. Even though he was helping her, and his actions were the most innocent, Glory felt her heartbeat thud, as if in warning. This man had to be one of the drifters that Riley’d hired yesterday. She knew all the other men.

  “You all right, ma’am?” came his yelled question.

  Glory nodded. “I had no idea the wind was this strong. Thank you.”

  “Glad to help. Where you headed?”

  She managed to get him to move one of his hands away from her by pointing toward the bunkhouse. “Out there.”

  Hatless, his dark hair whipped up onto its ends, adding to his sinister appearance. Suddenly, the man clutched her elbow. Glory caught her breath. And couldn’t really say why her heart pounded as she looked up into his face. “You’d best allow me to escort you. A little thing like you is liable to get blown all the way to Texas.”

  Another gale-force gust rocked them, held them in place, robbed Glory of a chance to respond. Huddled in Papa’s coat, her eyes squeezed shut against the pinprick sting of the blowing grit, she stiffened when the man hunched over her and put an arm around her. A protective gesture to anchor her against the wind. Nothing more. But Glory resisted. She didn’t like him. It was that simple, that gut-deep. Opening her eyes to narrow, watering slits, she stiffened against him and pushed back. Raising her voice to be heard above the wind’s howl, she called out, “I can make my own way.”