by Dorothy Love
Caleb reached for the coin. “Deal.”
“Not so fast.” Nate’s fingers closed over the coin. “How do I know you’ll keep your promise?”
“You’ll just have to trust me, I guess.”
“Ah.” Nate straightened. “The way you must trust your Aunt Carrie to do her best by you. See how it works?”
Caleb kicked at a dirt clod. “I reckon so.”
Joe tugged on Nate’s leg. “It’s not fair. I want a dime too.”
Carrie sent Nate a helpless look and massaged the throbbing at her temples.
“Well, sir,” Nate said thoughtfully. “I’m not in the habit of giving out free money. The way I see it, a man ought to earn his pay.”
“I can earn it,” Joe said. “What do I have to do?”
Nate looked around. “Let me see. First off, I reckon you could help your aunt tote that valise up to her room.”
“All right.”
“And after that, maybe you could fetch a bucket of water from the well. And bring in some stove wood so she can fix supper.”
The little boy frowned. “That seems like a powerful lot of work for only a dime.”
“Times are hard,” Nate told him. “Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it, I reckon.”
“Good lad.” Nate tossed both the boys a coin and climbed onto the wagon. “We’ll see you, Carrie.”
“’Bye, Carrie,” Rosaleen trilled. “Good luck.”
Joe ran to the porch and grabbed Carrie’s valise. “Mama said you can have your old room back, on account of me and Caleb are used to this place now, and we growed up and we ain’t afeared of robbers no more.”
Despite herself, Carrie smiled. “I’m glad you aren’t afraid anymore.” She picked up the box of books Nate had given her. “Can you hold the door open for me?”
“All right.” Joe held the door, then dragged her valise into the front hallway and peered into the box. “What’s in there?”
“Some books from Mr. Chastain’s shop.”
“Anything good?”
“I suppose that depends upon what you like to read.”
“Oh, I ain’t learnt to read yet, on account of there’s no school here anymore. But I know my letters and everything. And I’m real good at listening to stories. Mama used to read to me, but now she’s too sick.” He bumped the valise up the stairs and opened the door to Carrie’s old room. Joe shook his head. “I swear to you, Carrie Daly, I ain’t never seen so much puking in all my born days. Why, some days she—”
“That’s enough, Joe. I can well imagine.” Carrie set the books on the floor beside the bed and opened the window. Her prized morning glories had died. Wispy brown vines drooped from the trellis in the yard.
Joe joined her at the window. “I told her she shoulda watered ’em, but she was too sad when Pa first left, and then she got sick.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” She turned from the window. “Let’s see what we can find for supper.”
Griff led Majestic into his stall and removed the tack. The horse nickered and nuzzled his trainer, looking for the sugar cubes Griff kept in his pocket.
Griff grinned and gave Majestic his reward. “Good boy.”
He took his time brushing the horse, enjoying the cool quiet of the autumn evening and the companionship of the magnificent animal. He ran his hands over every inch of the horse’s flesh, teaching Majestic to trust his touch, feeling for anything that might cause discomfort. He checked each hoof for signs of abscesses. They could form fast if foreign matter became lodged in the horse’s shoe.
Majestic quivered and jerked and Griff found the culprit—a small stone that had worked its way beneath the curve of the shoe. Griff dug it out with a hoof pick and made a mental note to check the hoof again before tomorrow’s ride. With only three weeks to go until Race Day, he didn’t want to risk even the slightest injury that might hamper the colt’s chances.
He bent to retrieve his brush, and the telegram he’d received earlier in the day fell from his pocket. There was still room aboard the California Queen, the ship’s agent in San Francisco had wired, leaving for Australia on the first of November. A ticket would be held for him until mid-October.
He stuffed the wire back into his pocket and filled Majestic’s feedbag with oats. Amazing how quickly a man’s priorities could change. He’d come here intending to collect a debt and move on, but now he felt strangely connected to Hickory Ridge. He wanted to win the race not for the thousand dollars in prize money, but because the people here needed something to cheer about. Something to hope for.
And Lord help him, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the widow Daly. The news that she had decamped from her hotel and returned to the Bell farm left him feeling lonesome. Until she left, he hadn’t realized how much he’d come to count on seeing her leave the Verandah each morning with her basket of fresh bread for the church charity, her reddish curls shining in the morning light. She was a sight for sore eyes, all right, lovely in a quiet, refined kind of way. The polar opposite of the brash and beautiful Rosaleen.
He frowned. What on earth had the new Mrs. Chastain come here to find?
She was up to something. He could feel it in the same way he could feel when an opponent was holding a winning poker hand. But Rosaleen never did have an ounce of patience. She’d tire of life in Hickory Ridge before too long, and then she’d be gone.
The bookseller wouldn’t know what hit him. Poor devil.
NINETEEN
Carrie rifled through her box of books and handed Joe the book of fairy tales.
“I must see to your mother for a while. Pick out your favorite picture, and after supper I’ll read you the story.”
The child’s eyes lit up, and he favored her with an impish grin. “How about two stories?”
“Just one, Joe. I’m very tired.”
He took the book and settled himself on the stairs outside Carrie’s room. Relieved that he hadn’t made a fuss, she watched him thumbing through the pages. Perhaps he would turn out all right after all. Caleb, however, so angry and defiant, seemed destined for Eli McCracken’s jail.
Carrie went downstairs and knocked on Mary’s door.
“Come in.”
She entered the room and was nearly overcome by the stench sour smells of urine and vomit. Piles of dirty laundry lay in the corners and beneath the grimy, cobwebbed window. Mary was in bed, a pale blue coverlet pulled up to her chin.
“I heard you arrive,” Mary said, “but I didn’t feel like getting up.”
Carrie scooped a pile of dirty laundry off the chair and sat down. “There’s no sense in asking how you feel. It’s obvious.”
“I don’t understand it. I was never this sick with either of the boys.”
“Does Henry know?”
“I wrote to him a couple of weeks ago, but I haven’t had a reply. Your brother is not much of a correspondent.”
“But he is all right? He’s found work?”
“At the rail yard. He says the pay is pretty good, but the work is worse than farming.” Mary managed a wan smile. “And that’s saying something. Farming must surely be the most difficult job on earth.”
“At least you have the hired man to do the heavy chores.”
Mary looked away.
“Mary?” A wave of uneasiness moved through Carrie. “Henry did find someone? Before he left, he told me he intended to.”
“Oh yes, he found someone, all right. But the man was utterly useless, and bad tempered as well. He got angry with me because I asked him to do a few simple things here in the house.”
“Like what?”
Mary waved one hand. “Well, once I asked him to sweep the floors, and once to do the washing. But he said that wasn’t what Henry hired him for, and he refused to do it. I put up with his nonsense as long as I could, but last week I fired him.”
“You what?”
“I let him go.”
Hot tears built behind Carrie’s eyes. “You let him go. Wi
th winter coming on.”
“I knew you’d come back, and the ten dollars a month Henry was paying him can be used for better things.”
“What if I had said no?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.” Mary’s pale gaze held Carrie’s. “You may hate me, but you love your brother.”
“I don’t hate you. And I do love him. But I can’t run this place alone. Even when Henry was here, we hired help from time to time.”
“Oh. Well, how was I to know that? If you had stayed to help me instead of running off with that Charleston gambler—”
Carrie ground her teeth. “I did not run off with him. I decided to leave this house, and he helped me move.”
“I heard you were seen at the Gilmans’ place riding horseback with him, and not sidesaddle either. And that every time he sees you on the street he makes a beeline for you.”
“We enjoy each other’s company, what little there has been of it.” A fly buzzed about Carrie’s head. She waved it away and fought a bout of nausea. “How can you live in this filth?”
“It isn’t my fault that I’m sick.”
Carrie stood. “Tomorrow I’ll start cleaning up around here. For now, the boys need to wash up and have supper.”
Mary nodded. “All of a sudden, I’m hungry too.”
“At least we won’t starve. Henry said the garden did well this year. What all did you put up?”
“Put up?”
Carrie rolled her eyes. Lord, but the woman was dense. “The vegetables. Corn, peas, tomatoes, beans. You preserved them, right?”
“Well, I didn’t know I was supposed to. Besides, I thought Henry would be back for me by now. I thought that we’d move to Chicago and live in a decent house and the boys could go to school. I didn’t plan on getting a baby so soon and being sick.” Her bottom lip trembled. “Everything has gone wrong, and you’re blaming me.”
She covered her face and sobbed.
Carrie felt the last of her patience waning. “For goodness’ sake, Mary, stop bawling. It won’t solve anything.”
“See? You’re mad at me. And so hateful.”
What was the point of arguing? Carrie turned on her heel. “I’m going to make supper.”
In the kitchen, every plate, pot, and pan was caked with dried food. Flies buzzed about the table. The water bucket and the wood box were empty. Truly, it was a wonder they weren’t all dead from living this way. Had anyone been feeding the animals and milking the cow?
She went to the foot of stairs and called, “Joe Stanhope.”
“Yes’m?”
“Time to earn that dime Mr. Chastain gave you. I need wood and water.”
“In a minute. I ain’t picked out my story yet.”
“If you’re interested in supper, you’ll do it now.”
He clattered down the stairs and grabbed the water bucket.
Carrie started clearing the table. “Where’s Caleb?”
“I dunno. He don’t stay around here much these days. Mama has to yell and yell to get him to come in at night.”
“Well, I’m not going to yell for him. If he wants to sleep in the woods, I don’t care. But if you happen to see him, tell him I need a lot of firewood. Tomorrow is wash day.”
“Yes’m.”
When Joe returned with wood and water, Carrie lit the stove, heated water, and washed and dried the dishes. In the icebox she found a few eggs and a blob of rancid butter. She rummaged for lard, salt, and pepper, and cobbled together a supper of fried eggs, fried potatoes, and coffee. She made a tray for Mary and sent Caleb to deliver it.
In a moment he was back. “Mama says anything made with lard makes her stomach hurt worse.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but until I can churn some fresh butter, lard is all there is. This place is a disaster.”
“You were supposed to stay and help us. But you ran away.”
Carrie suppressed an angry retort. What good would it do to argue with an eleven-year-old? “Sit down, Caleb.”
She joined the two boys at the table. “Now, can either of you say a blessing for our food?”
Joe shook his head, but Caleb said, “I learnt one at school ’fore it shut down.”
“Excellent. Let’s bow our heads.”
Caleb bowed his head and cleared his throat. “Past the teeth and past the gums, look out stummick, here it comes.”
Joe giggled.
Caleb poured himself a cup of coffee and sent Carrie a defiant look.
She returned his hard gaze. “I doubt very much that you learned that from your teacher.”
“Never said I did.” He stabbed a forkful of potatoes from the serving platter and shoveled them into his mouth. “I said I learnt it at school. Jimmy D. Washburn taught it to me.”
“Well, it’s not the sort of blessing we say in our home. Now put your fork down and bow your head. You too, Joe.”
She offered a quick blessing and passed the food around the table. Both children ate as if it was to be their last meal on earth. Joe wolfed down his eggs and potatoes and ran his finger around the rim of his plate, scooping up the last bite.
Carrie’s heart twisted. The poor child was half starved. In the morning she’d see about baking some bread. The massive washing awaited, but somehow she must find time for a trip to the mercantile too.
Caleb shoved his plate away and stood. “I’m going outside.”
“Please clear your plate first, Caleb.”
“That’s woman’s work.”
“Very well. But if you leave it there you will not get any breakfast in the morning.”
He went still and she held his gaze, regretting the need to threaten hunger to make him obey. But something had to be done. The boy was too stubborn to listen to reason.
Wordlessly he picked up his plate and with exaggerated slowness and dropped it into the sink. Then he walked out the back door.
“Do I get my story now?” Joe scooped up his plate and took it to the sink.
“As soon as I wash up these dishes.”
His grin warmed her heart. He stuck around while she heated water on the stove and washed and dried the dishes. Clearly Joe missed his mother’s companionship. He kept up a constant stream of chatter and questions until she felt her head would explode. But at last, after she’d read the story of Jack and the beanstalk, he staggered up the stairs to the attic bedroom.
Darkness fell. Carrie lit the lamp in the parlor and went to check on Mary, who had fallen asleep, one leg protruding from the coverlet. Mary looked so thin and sick that Carrie couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She closed the window against the cool night air and went up to her own room. She lit the lamp and looked around. Someone, Joe most likely, had made an attempt to tidy things up. The pillows had been fluffed. A single daisy in a glass of water rested on the night table.
Overwhelmed with conflicting emotions and the sheer enormity of the job in front of her, Carrie dug her Bible from her bag and opened it at random, but it was impossible to concentrate. Closing her eyes, she prayed the simple prayer Granny Bell had taught her, the one that never failed to bring comfort when she was facing a difficult task. Father, have mercy. Grant me the grace to do what I must do.
The front door crashed open, and Caleb pounded up the stairs.
Lord, help me deal with this child. And please keep Henry safe.
She washed up, changed into her nightgown, and slipped into bed, exhausted but determined. Somehow, she would hold this farm and this family together until Henry could come for them. She closed her eyes.
Then she smelled smoke.
TWENTY
Shoving down a rise of panic, Carrie threw her shawl over her nightdress and ran barefoot down the stairs. Through the kitchen window she spotted a faint glow near the toolshed. Something was definitely burning. Water bucket in hand, she rushed out the back door and across the yard. Smoke rolled from the roof of the shed. Flames licked at the eaves. A narrow trail of fire snaked across the weedy grass.
Sh
e tossed the bucket of water onto the smoldering wall of the shed, sending a cloud of acrid smoke curling into the sharp night air. But the grass still burned. She ran to the watering trough beside the barn, scooped out a bucket of water. Heat scorched her face as she doused the flames. Sparks glittered and went out. Only when the last of them smoldered and died did she realize the bottoms of her feet were blistered. She hobbled back to the house.
The lamp in Mary’s bedroom flickered and then Mary herself appeared in the darkened hallway, her hair disheveled, her eyes wide and questioning. “What are you doing up? What happened?”
The fear and anger Carrie had kept at bay while she doused the fire came roaring back. She dropped the bucket onto the floor and sank onto the bottom stair. She fought to control her quaking voice. “What happened, Mary, was that your son tried to burn the place down.”
“My . . . you mean Caleb?”
“I heard him running up the stairs just before I smelled smoke. One wall of the toolshed was already on fire when I got out there. Another ten minutes and it would have been lost, and the fire might have spread to the house.” She got to her feet, wincing as pain shot through her.
“Where are you going?” Mary pushed her unruly hair off her face.
“To get Caleb, of course, and make him answer for this dangerous and irresponsible behavior.”
“He’s my son. He’ll answer to me.”
“Then discipline him.”
“I will, if he’s to blame.” Mary leaned against the door frame. “You’ve never liked him, and now you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“What other explanation could there be?”
Mary shrugged. “Maybe it was some stranger off the train.”
“A complete stranger who, for no reason, decided to come all the way out here to start a fire?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was Jimmy Washburn. He and Caleb are always getting into scrapes. Maybe they had a fight and Jimmy wanted to get even.”
Carrie clenched her teeth to stop a torrent of furious words. How could Mary be so naïve? Couldn’t she see that Caleb was headed for big trouble? It was almost as if she loved Caleb more because of his willful nature. But maybe that was what mothers did—defended their young in the face of irrefutable evidence. Even in the midst of her outrage and exhaustion, Carrie envied Mary the unconditional love she felt for her child. A kind of love she herself might never know.