Sweet Annie

by Cheryl St. John

  "It's still me, Burdy," she said. "Still the same Annie. But I've been able to grow up and live—really live for the first time. Why can't Mother accept that?"

  "I don't know. Maybe she thinks you don't need her any more. Maybe she's jealous of your new life without her. You were her whole life for a lot of years."

  "Maybe," she said. "But why can't she see that I don't want a life without her? She's the one closing me out."

  "I don't know," he said again, and Luke under­stood his inadequacy to come up with an answer for Annie when she asked those questions that ripped into a man's heart. Annie was still the apple of this fam­ily's eye.

  Burdell got up, meeting Luke's eyes in a brief exchange, then left the room.

  Eldon and Mort had taken seats at the checkerboard, and Will napped on the divan.

  "I want to go now," Annie said, turning to face Luke.

  He gave her his most encouraging smile. "You okay?"

  She nodded. "I just want to go home."

  "I'll go get the buggy. I'll need to feed and water the horses, so it will take me a while. You'll be all right?"

  "I'll watch their game until you come back. They never call a draw."

  Mildred had gone to her room without returning, so Annie hugged and kissed and thanked the rest of her family. Her father put on his coat and carried her out to the buggy and Luke, understanding his need to take care of his daughter once in a while, trudged behind.

  "Thank you for the shirt, Annie," he told her, wav­ing from the curb.

  "Thank you for the mirror, Daddy!" she called.

  Luke prodded the horse forward.

  She snuggled against his side, and he wrapped his arm around her for warmth and security. "You sure impressed them with your sewing," he said.

  "Yeah. I did, didn't I?"

  "Their little Annie can make shirts and pies...and a baby. No wonder they need some time to get used to things."

  She chuckled. "Let's stop by your Uncle Gil's. I hope his shirt fits him."

  Gil's ranch house was obviously a man's domain, furnished for practicality alone. Annie had saved a pie for him, and he thanked her. His astonishment over the shirt she'd made him was a pleasure, and he con­gratulated them on the news about the baby.

  "I don't have any children, so some little Carpen­ters are mighty welcome around here," he told Annie.

  Annie was glad they'd stopped, but eager to get home, so she was grateful when Luke made their goodbyes and helped her into the buggy.

  He carried her into the house, brought in all their new gifts and took the rig to the barn. When he re­turned, Annie had started a fire and placed the round horse picture on the mantel beside the satin box her jewelry had come in. Luke hung his coat and hat and glanced at the plain tree sadly lacking glass balls or candles or beads, thinking again of the material things he hadn't been able to supply.

  Annie sat in her chair watching the firelight dance on the tree. "Isn't it beautiful?" she asked.

  "It's just a tree," he said. "Your family's is nicer."

  "Fancier, maybe, but not nicer," she disagreed. "Glenda probably decorated it as part of the house­hold chores. But nobody loved it. Not like we love this one."

  He couldn't help but be amazed by her joy in simple things, her pleasure in doing routine tasks and owning the barest minimum of possessions. Annie made all things new and lovely by her pure childlike enjoyment of life and its simple pleasures.

  And now with a baby on the way, life would only get better. They had withstood the tests of her family thus far, weathered their disapproval by showing them that their love was greater than the obstacles. Gradu­ally her family was being won over by Annie's enthu­siasm and obvious joy. Eldon had softened, and today even Burdell had shown his support.

  Nothing could get in the way of their happiness now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Luke had lost weight over the winter, she noticed, though she fed him well. He was always working— always cutting wood or shoeing horses or breaking ice from the stock tanks—between the livery and the house he barely rested. Part of his labors was to make things easier for her, and she worried that she was a burden. He grew leaner and more muscled and Annie grew fatter and lazier.

  Sometimes she was so tired, she would try to sew and wake up an hour later, the fabric wrinkled in her lap. Other times she'd make up her mind to complete a task and end up beneath her quilt in front of the fire. Luke had made her a thick pallet and instructed her to rest whenever she felt the least bit weary. And that was always. Or so it seemed for most of the winter months.

  Spring arrived, and with it a new burst of energy and a renewed vitality. In April, the snow melted and rushed down the mountains, spilling over the creek beds and the riverbanks and turning grass and trees green. Mares foaled and Luke seemed to always be with the horses.

  Annie had sewn an entire wardrobe of tiny gowns, hats, blankets and flannels for their baby, lovingly pressed each item and packed all between dried rose petals in a trunk.

  Luke bought a cradle and brought it home to her one evening. She sat down in her chair and cried.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, concern etching his lean features. He knelt in front of her.

  "You're so tired," she said, touching his face. "And I'm so—fat."

  He chuckled. "You're not fat. You're carrying a baby, there's a difference."

  "But I'm clumsier than ever. You must see that."

  "No, I don't," he denied. "You're beautiful."

  She smiled at him through her nonsensical tears. "It's been a hard winter, hasn't it?"

  He shrugged. "We've paid our bank notes each month. We haven't lost an animal, and we're going to have stock to sell this summer. I knew it wouldn't be easy at first. We both did."

  She sighed. "I know. I'm just being a silly woman."

  He kissed her. "I need a bath, you silly woman. How about helping me heat some water?''

  She did, pouring warm water over him as he sat in the copper tub in the kitchen. She took the soap and cloth and caressed him with the premise of getting him clean. She ended up without her clothes on, shivering as he dried her in front of the fire, his touch creating an internal blaze.

  "You're beautiful, Annie," he said, and kissed her round belly, her tender breasts, caressed her with his hands and his tongue and loved her well and splen­didly until she had no doubts about his thoughts of her beauty.

  She made a simple supper of sliced beef and bread and cheese, and they ate it before the fire, her in her chair, Luke at her feet. He surprised her with oranges a customer had given him that day. No dessert had ever tasted as sweet or as good.

  They slept wrapped in each other's arms, the world at bay outside their home.

  Spring rains came, pelting the already green and muddy land, and one afternoon the sky grew so dark that Annie lit lanterns and stoked the fire. She had a cookbook open on the table, and worked at rolling noodles as thin as the directions instructed. On some level of consciousness, she noticed that the horses in the corral had been restless for a time. Luke always left the sliding door open so that they could get in out of the weather during the day, so she didn't give the disturbance much thought.

  An earsplitting cracking noise startled her so badly she dropped the rolling pin and grabbed the back of a chair for support. Horses whinnied in high-pitched shrieks.

  Grabbing a jacket from a peg, Annie opened the door to peer out through the gray rain. One corner of the corral smoldered, dark smoke curling into the heavy air. The horses milled and reared in fright.

  Lightning struck again, an enormous jagged arc that hit a tree on the hillside with a crack and disappeared into the heavens in a split second. Annie's heart raced painfully. The terrified horses shied and knocked to­gether, and one of the colts fell and struggled to its feet, covered with mud.

  Annie sloshed toward the corral, trying to hurry, but needing to watch her balance in the mud. She reached the gate and let herself in, closing it securely behind
her and inching her way along the fence toward the building. If she rolled the door open wider, maybe they'd ran into the building instead of trampling each other.

  The mud inside the corral was slicker, churned by the animal's hooves and it took all the strength in her legs to pull her feet out with each step. She reached the doorway and balanced herself on the door, then strained against the wood to roll it open wider.

  She stood panting, staring at the horses, that still reared and whinnied in panic. From the comer of her eye, Annie caught movement at the edge of the woods, and she squinted at the skinny doglike creatures slink­ing back and forth in a predatory fashion. Wolves!

  If she could get one of the horses inside, perhaps the others would follow. Clinging to the fence for sup­port as well as safety, she slowly edged her way, knowing she should be hurrying. "Here, boy," she said to Wrangler, reaching a hand toward him. His ears pricked back, but he remained where he stood, his flanks trembling.

  Wrangler was used to her, and she knew he was docile and would easily follow her lead if she reached him.

  Annie released the fence and slogged through the mud across the corral to reach the animal. She grabbed his halter and led him toward the barn. He followed as she knew he would. "Good boy, easy now. Let's get the others inside where it's safe, all right?"

  As she neared the doorway, she heard the sucking sounds as the other animals' hooves moved in the mud behind her. A horse shot ahead into the barn. Relieved,

  Annie hoped the others would follow now. She would get them into stalls and stay in the barn until she was sure the wolves were gone. She had no idea what kind of a threat they were to humans, but she wasn't taking any chances.

  A crack of lightning split the air, her surroundings flashed blindingly white, and Annie's ears popped. Horses screamed and bolted. Wrangler sidestepped, and she lost her hold on his halter. In a split second she was smashed painfully against the doorway, and instinctively rolled into a ball.

  Hooves flashed and mud flew. Annie covered her head and endured the whirlwind of legs and hooves. Dimly, she noted that the corral was empty, and dragged herself up to roll the heavy door closed, shut­ting the horses safely inside, closing out the dim light of day. How long would it be before Luke came home?

  Pain wracked her abdomen and she bent over with a cry, falling to her knees on the wet straw-covered earth in the darkness. The smell of horse and straw and blood was strong. She closed her eyes and suc­cumbed to darkness.

  Luke would never be sure if he'd done the right thing. Perhaps if he'd carried her to the house and warmed her first, the baby would have made it. But when he'd found her there inside the barn in a brackish puddle of blood, his first thought had been to get her to help—to get her to town and to the doctor. He'd hitched a horse to the buggy, laid her gently on a pile of horse blankets on the floor and driven like the devil was on his backside.

  "I'm sorry," Dr. Martin said, his glasses on his head, his sleeves rolled back and his face drawn. “The baby didn't make it."

  "Annie?" Luke asked first, ignoring his breaking heart to find out about his wife. "How's Annie?"

  "She's fine. The bleeding has stopped. She's pretty bruised, but nothing is broken."

  "Should I have not moved her?" he asked. "Maybe I should have taken her to the house and tried to stop the bleedin' myself." He jammed his fingers into his scalp painfully.

  "We can't know what would've made a differ­ence," the doctor replied. "You saved her life by bringing her here. That much I know. Whatever hap­pened to her, I don't think the baby had much of a chance."

  In agony, Luke dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "Can I see her now?"

  The doctor nodded. "I've given her something for pain, so she's not too alert. That's for the best, right now."

  Luke entered the small room where his wife lay against white sheets, her hair loose and tangled, her face as pale as death. His heart ached at the sight. "Annie," he said, sitting beside her and taking her hand.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. She recognized him and a ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Luke," she whis­pered.

  "I'm here." He brought her hand to his mouth, pressed his tear-streaked cheek to the back while re­gret and heartache seeped through his bones. He wanted to scream and rage aloud at the injustice. His throat ached with unshed tears. He imagined Annie's fear, her pain, and he wondered repeatedly what had happened. He'd seen the singed corral and knew the horses must have been terrified of the storm.

  He'd ridden home to check on them, thank good­ness, for that's when he'd seen the corral and the closed door and found her inside on the floor.

  Annie slept and he thanked God for that small mercy. At least she didn't have to face their loss while her body was weak and bruised.

  Annie awoke and stared at the ceiling, unwilling to move because of the pain that shot through her body. Something was different. Something was wrong. She moved her hand to her belly and found only soft flesh beneath the blanket. She knew immediately. Her phys­ical pain was only a degree of the torturous agony slicing through the inside of her—like someone had taken a rusty knife and cut out her heart.

  "O-oh!" she wailed aloud, and Luke leaped from a chair beside her to kneel at her side and take her hand away from her belly. He pressed the back against his lips.

  Tears coursed down his cheeks and everything in­side her went numb in self-preservation. She couldn't look into his red-rimmed eyes. She couldn't endure his pain and hers, too. She couldn't bear to know she'd failed him and brought such suffering and anguish to a man who deserved better.

  "Annie, I'm so sorry," he said, his voice ravaged.

  She sobbed until her chest hurt and her tears were exhausted. Dr. Martin came and forced her to drink a powder he'd dissolved in tepid water. She slept again and when she awoke, Luke hadn't moved from her side.

  "I saw the corral where lightning struck," he said.

  "There were wolves," she told him, her voice oddly calm.

  "Wolves, too?"

  "I got Wrangler almost inside, but lightning struck again and spooked the herd. I think one of them must have pushed him into me."

  "I'm sorry, Annie," he said, his voice raw. "Sorry I wasn't there for you."

  "What day is this?"

  "The same day," he answered. "You've only slept a few hours."

  She wanted to tell him she was sorry, but she was a bigger coward than he was. Admitting her failure was too difficult right now. "What was our baby, Luke?" she had to ask. "Did you see him?"

  He nodded. Swallowed. "A boy."

  "Where is he?"

  "I buried him on our land while you were resting. I wrapped him in one of the blankets you made. I called him John when I said a prayer, is that okay?''

  Tears rolled from her eyes and fell back into her hair. "Yes."

  "I love you, Annie."

  She closed her eyes and heard him breathe.

  After what seemed like hours later, voices sounded outside the room. Luke raised his head from the bed and listened.

  The door opened and Annie's mother and father en­tered the room. Her mother covered her mouth with a handkerchief and wept when she saw her. They rushed forward and Luke stood and backed away. Her father took her hand. "Annie," he said hoarsely. "I'm so sorry."

  "We're here, darling," her mother said, and stroked her forehead with a soft cool hand.

  From the corner of her eye, Annie noticed when Luke left the room. Her gaze went to her mother, found her eyes. "You were right, Mother. I did dis­appoint him."

  After their visit, Annie instructed the doctor that she didn't want to see her husband.

  "But he wants to be with you," the man said.

  "I don't want to see him."

  "He needs you," he told her. "Shutting people out won't do you any good."

  "I don't want to see him!" she said, more emphat­ically.

  He studied her for a moment. "All right." He turned and left the room.


  She rested listlessly for days, showing no interest in the books her mother brought, only eating because she didn't have the strength to resist. She had never been worthy of Luke's lofty expectations and his idea of her. Losing his baby had proven it.

  It was easy to fall back into the familiar routine of being an invalid, of not having to make decisions and letting her mother direct her days. Mildred was kinder and more attentive than ever, seemingly glad to have Annie in her charge, but occasionally Annie caught her looking at her with a sad strange expression.

  She didn't want to face Luke. Didn't want to see his disappointment in her or the regret she knew he must feel.

  When she was able to be moved, she said to her mother, "I want to go home with you."

  Her father came for them in one of Luke's buggies, and Burdell left work to assist him.

  Burdell carried her into the Sweetwater house, to her old bedroom and placed her in the bed her mother had prepared. "What are you doing, Annie?" he asked.

  "I'm grieving."

  "What about Luke?"

  "What about him?"

  "He needs you. You have us to comfort you, but he has no one."

  "Fine thing for you to be thinking about Luke Car­penter's feelings all of a sudden," she stated flatly. "He'll do just fine without me. He's better off without me. I've been a burden to him since the day we met. Just look at him if you don't think so. He's thin and tired and worked half to death because I never carried my share. And now he's lost his son because of me."

  "That's not true."

  "It is true. I'm tired, please let me rest."

  Burdell walked from the room slowly, exchanging a look with his mother at the doorway.

  A heavy sense of loss and self-blame wrapped around her like a shroud. Annie glanced at the gaily dressed porcelain dolls lining the window seat, al­lowed her gaze to find her wheelchair, then closed her eyes against the sting of tears. She was back where she'd started—where she belonged.

  Eldon returned the buggy, his face pulled and drawn. "She asked to be taken to our home. She's settled into her bed and quite comfortable."