A Patchwork Family

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Christine rose swiftly to her feet. “Do you know why the Monroes don’t have any children?” she demanded in a tense whisper. Her face remained only inches from his while she awaited his answer. “It’s because God doesn’t think they’re good enough, that’s why! Do you want to live with wicked people who’ll make you eat with slaves and work until you drop? Do you want to be around when God punishes Mercy and Judd for their sins?”

  “What about Mama’s sins?”

  “Shhhh! It’s not right to speak ill of Mama, Billy. She’s not herself.”

  “But you do! You’ve been accusin’ her of—”

  Christine grabbed both his bare shoulders and peered into his wide eyes. “I want to track her down to remind her of her responsibilities. To—to keep her from straying down the path of—unrighteousness—before it’s too late. It’s our duty to save her, Billy. We’re all she has.”

  As he considered this, his expression wavered between a disapproving scowl and utter dejection. “If she can’t be the same Mama we had before we lost Daddy, then there’s nothin’ left worth savin’.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Billy, that’s—”

  “It’s the truth, and you know it,” he insisted bitterly. Tears clung to his eyelashes, but he made no effort to wipe them away. “What kind of mother skedaddles down the street while her children use the privy? And never looks back! And what kind of woman don’t lift a finger to save the farm—the home our daddy worked all his life for?”

  Christine saw her own pain burning in Billy’s blue eyes and couldn’t respond. She’d never expected Mama’s favorite child to denounce their errant parent so soundly, in a tone that sounded so final.

  But as Billy ambled across the hall, she was more determined than ever to hear the answers they needed, from Mama herself. With or without her little brother.

  Chapter Four

  Billy padded down the wooden stairway barefoot so he wouldn’t waken his sister. At the bottom, the door opened to a summer morning that shimmered in the sunrise, revealing the dusty yard, Mercy’s garden, the stables and corrals, and an ocean of tall, green cornstalks beyond the trees that lined the river. Chickens pecked nearby, and low grunts told him Nathaniel was slopping some hogs. A milk cow, tethered beside the barn, absently chewed her cud as she glanced at him.

  Billy lingered in the doorway, drinking it all in. This separate entrance allowed the Monroes their privacy when travelers stayed over, but it would take more than an extra doorway to keep Christine from nosing around where she didn’t belong. Her behavior appalled him. Sometimes he wondered how much of her information she made up, just to string him along.

  The smell of bacon and fresh bread lured him to the open kitchen door, where he paused to watch the woman who’d taken them in. Her brown hair was pulled back into a neat knot, and she wore an apron made from a flour sack over her yellow checked dress. She sang as she bustled between the cookstove and her worktable, a vision of sunshine and cheer. Mama had rarely risen before ten, and even then, she pecked at everyone like a discontented hen until nearly noon.

  Mercy dribbled hot water from her kettle into a large crockery bowl, stirring its sweet-smelling contents. Intrigued by the lower voice that now harmonized with hers, Billy peered inside to see if Judd was helping her. He seemed too ruggedly masculine—just too big—to fit himself into a woman’s kitchen routine.

  When he saw Asa with his sleeves folded to his elbows, wielding a rolling pin, Billy gasped.

  Mercy and the colored man grinned at him. “So now you know the secret behind my pies!” she chirped. “Sit down for some breakfast, Billy. I hope you like bacon and mush with honey.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  Billy edged up onto the stool beside the table, where Asa trimmed excess dough from around a pie. “You made them pies we had yesterday?”

  “Yessir, I did.” The old fellow beamed as his knife flew around another pan. “Before the war, I was a chef at a sugar plantation, down ’round Atlanta. Made pies out of pee-cans and buttermilk custard, and biscuits that would please a queen.”

  Billy cut into his crusty square of cornmeal mush, his eyes wide. “But they let you go when Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves?”

  Asa smiled wistfully. “No, Mr. Billy. When General Sherman marched through, we got burned out. Like hell opened up and swallowed us whole, it was. The family moved in with a sister up the coast, but they didn’t have the wherewithal to keep the help. So we were on our own.”

  Billy nodded, wishing he hadn’t spoiled the fine mood with his question. Maybe Christine was right: this old man was best suited to household chores. But it seemed clear that the Monroes respected him as a friend and appreciated whatever work he could do.

  Glancing around the cramped kitchen, Billy noted half a dozen pies already on the windowsill. Huge bowls of dough rose on the back of the stove. The aroma of sugar and cinnamon mingled with the saltier scents of bacon and coffee, and he soaked up the homeyness of this room. He hadn’t been allowed in their kitchen while Beulah Mae was cooking, so it was a treat to watch this white woman and her chocolate-skinned assistant work together. Mercy poured the filling—thick, sweet cherry now—while Asa crimped the crusts and cut designs in the tops.

  “Stage comin’ through today?” Billy asked. “You got enough food here for an army.”

  Mercy laughed. “No, we’re making ready for our party tomorrow. Our nearest neighbors and folks who manage other way stations will be here for Sunday services, followed by a big picnic and some music. It’s an all-day event! Everyone brings food so we can visit until after supper.”

  “You pitch horseshoes, son?” Asa asked. “We menfolk generally get up a game while the ladies quilt.”

  “No, sir, I haven’t had much practice at it.” Delighted to be part of the menfolk, Billy didn’t admit that Mama hadn’t let him play after one of Wesley’s wildly tossed horseshoes hit him in the head.

  Asa crimped another pie crust. “Maybe this evening Mr. Judd and I can give you some pointers, after we get everything set up outside. Lots to do today. Work for every size hand we can find.”

  Billy nodded eagerly. As he savored his third strip of bacon, he wondered why Christine thought it was so awful to associate with Negroes. Asa’s wrinkles and gray-sprigged hair suggested advanced years, yet the sparkle in his coffee-brown eyes told of joy in work well done—an ageless quality that went beyond race and color.

  Billy turned to see his sister standing in the doorway. His enthusiasm withered. Christine’s peevish pucker suggested she’d been poking into Mama’s diary all night, and that she’d sour the pleasant talk he’d been sharing.

  “Good morning, Miss Christine!” the colored man greeted her.

  Mercy turned to smile at her, too. “Pull up a stool and I’ll fix you a plate, dear. We’re in the middle of party preparations, so the table’s a mess.”

  Billy felt her condescension as his sister took in the log-walled room that was so much smaller and darker than their own kitchen. They’d eaten in the dining room since they’d been old enough to behave properly, so he hoped Christine wouldn’t launch into an unflattering comparison between Mercy’s household and Mama’s.

  She looked at her mush with an exaggerated sigh.

  “Asa was sayin’ there’ll be games tomorrow—and quiltin’,” Billy added, hoping to lift her spirits. “There’ll be church, and everybody’s bringin’ food, and we’ll have music and singin’. Just like the lawn parties back home!”

  His sister scowled. “Sounds like a lot of bother. We won’t know a soul.”

  Mercy set the last four pies in the oven as Asa handed them to her. “Folks along the stage line gather here because our house is the largest, and we have a barn in case the weather takes a bad turn. You’ll meet a lot of new friends, Christine. People who’ve stood by each other through the hard times of homesteading.”

  “And with all of us helpin’, it won’t be much bother to get it all ready.” Billy grinned, even t
hough he knew that cheerfulness was wasted on the killjoy beside him. “And I’m gonna play horseshoes! Asa and Mr. Monroe are gonna help me polish up my game tonight.”

  Christine’s scowl could have curdled his milk. She looked ready to tell Mama that he was about to live dangerously—to have fun—and he enjoyed the fact that she couldn’t. As she picked at her food, however, she was working up to something that would put him in his place again.

  “So why don’t you have any children, Mrs. Monroe?” she demanded. “It seems you have plenty for little hands to do around this place.”

  Billy wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. As Mercy straightened, flushing at his sister’s rudeness, he hoped she wouldn’t load them both onto the next stagecoach that came through.

  Gazing at the girl, Mercy prayed for the wisdom to nip Christine’s impertinence in the bud. If the girl sensed this issue was a source of constant torment to her, there would be no controlling such a cruel tongue.

  “Children arrive in their own good time,” she said softly. “If you recall your Bible stories, Abraham was a hundred and his wife Sarah more than ninety when God announced they would have a son. And this began the lineage King David and Christ Himself came from. Samson’s parents were childless for years, too. Good things come to those who wait.”

  She took a deep breath, to allow her words to sink in.

  Christine smiled smugly. She remained silent, so Mercy would have to plead her case.

  But Mercy thought of an approach that might appeal to a girl of the Bristols’ background. “I know you find our home lacking, compared to what you’re used to,” she began, “so it’s to your advantage that Judd and I don’t have children, Christine. This way, when we go to town, the money for shoes and yard goods will be spent on you and Billy.”

  The girl let out a snort. “Save your money, Mrs. Monroe. I wouldn’t be caught dead in calico.”

  “I wouldn’t push my luck, young lady.”

  The kitchen went silent as Judd’s burly frame filled the doorway. His raven hair fell around his face in unruly waves, while his shirt clung to a broad body already damp from a hot morning’s work.

  “I won’t have the people under my roof at odds. And I won’t tolerate a thankless child who berates my wife,” he stated. He stepped into the room slowly, casting a long shadow across the table.

  “You miss your parents terribly, I know—even though your mother deserted you,” he went on in a low voice. “But you’d be hard-pressed to find a kinder woman in all of Kansas to care for you, Christine. Your mama would be appalled at the way you’ve badgered Mercy, and you know it.”

  Billy shriveled in shame, even though Judd’s words weren’t directed at him. Clearly Mr. Monroe was the head of this house and his wife didn’t wheedle or pout to get what she wanted, like at home. A sense of respect bound them together, apparent in the way he draped an arm around his wife’s shoulders as he awaited Christine’s response.

  His sister had sense enough not to sass back. Her knuckles went white from gripping her fork, though, and he could feel the rage coming off her in waves. The only sound in the room was the rapid tattoo of his own heart.

  “When you’ve finished eating, you’ll do whatever Mercy asks of you,” Judd instructed. “And if our way of life doesn’t suit you, feel free to use that stagecoach ticket you keep telling us about, come Monday.

  “But I’ll warn you, Miss Bristol,” he went on with blue fire in his eyes. “Folks west of here live in soddies and dugouts, where the floors, the walls—even the ceilings—are made of dirt. It crumbles down into your plate while you eat. It lands in your face while you’re sleeping, and snakes like to slither inside during a rainstorm. We live in a two-story log house with puncheon floors because Mercy’s dowry bought us plenty of homesteading supplies.”

  His expression relaxed, but his voice remained firm. “Proverbs tells us that the wise woman builds her house, but the foolish one plucks it down with her hands. You’re no fool, Christine. We expect you to behave accordingly. Come outside when you’re finished eating, Billy.”

  “Yessir. I’m on my way.”

  He followed Judd from the kitchen, glad to leave the tension behind him. Sunlight pierced his eyes when he stepped outside, and he had to walk double-time to keep up with the man’s longer stride. They were heading toward the corrals when Billy looked up to find Judd smiling at him.

  “We have to let the women work that out between themselves,” he said.

  “Uh-huh. Daddy always did that, too.”

  “I bet you were his right-hand man, and had a real struggle after he was gone,” Judd continued. “You probably had hired men, but he gave you your own responsibilities, didn’t he?”

  Billy brightened. “Yessir, Wesley and me kept the horses fed and watered, and put down fresh straw after we mucked out the stalls. And after trainin’ sessions, I walked the horses around the paddock to cool ’em down.”

  “What breed did you raise, son?”

  “Mostly Belgians, for field work, and quarter horses. But we had Arabians for pleasure ridin’, too,” he added proudly. “Our trainer was the best in the business. Folks paid top dollar, knowin’ their wives and daughters could trust a mount they bought from the Bristols.”

  He was shielding his eyes with his hand, squinting up as he spoke, when Judd stepped sideways to block the intense sunlight for him. Billy grinned, grateful that this mountain of a man didn’t crouch down to his level like most adults. His face resembled leather, from years in the sun. His blue eyes sparkled beneath long black lashes, but Billy sensed that nobody called Judd a sissy because of them!

  “If you could do the same chores here that you did at home, I’d be grateful. That way, Nathaniel and I can get the platform ready for tomorrow, and set out the benches and tables. Other days, it’ll allow us more time to work the yearlings and expand the corrals.”

  “Yessir, I could do that!”

  A huge hand came to rest alongside his face, gently brushing his hair back.

  Billy held his breath. His father hadn’t touched him much; felt such coddling was for girls. So this unexpected contact with Judd Monroe felt like a blessing, a benediction. A welcome into the family.

  “Your daddy would be proud of how you’re carrying your family name through troubled times, Billy,” he said. “I’ll show you around now. I know you’ll take care of these Morgans like they were your own.”

  After a noon meal marked by Christine’s sullen silence, Billy ran outside again. His arms ached from hauling pails of water from the creek behind the barn, but he felt a wondrous sense of freedom. Nobody watched him like a hawk. Nobody treated him as though he were fragile—or teased him mercilessly about being the runt, like Wesley had. He thought about his brother a lot as he worked, wishing he could know the fate of the companion and rival who’d shared his every activity.

  Yet it wouldn’t be the same if his twin were here. Wesley would complain about the heat and sneak off to the tree-lined river to catch frogs, leaving the work to him and then taking the credit for it. Billy secretly admired his brother’s knack for bending Mama’s rules and defying Daddy’s authority. He wished he had the same courage to speak out when things bothered him.

  But being in charge of the horses—being his own man—felt mighty fine, now that the burden of overseeing a bankrupt ranch wasn’t on his shoulders. When Billy finished scooping grain into the wooden troughs, he stood back to admire the sleek coats and sturdy conformation of Judd’s Morgans.

  He’d missed being around horses. He loved their earthy smell and their soulful eyes; their quiet whick-erings when they greeted him. Horses would come up to him when they knew his voice and his way of moving, and he looked forward to that day.

  When he passed through the shadowy barn into the yard, he saw that Asa had joined the other two men. They were arranging wooden benches in semicircles that faced a platform, preparing for the worship service. Billy had never gone to church outdoors, except for East
er sunrise services, because Mama and Christine fretted about bugs crawling up their skirts. Judging from the number of seats, Judd expected quite a crowd.

  “Did you say Mercy’s dowry helped you settle this place?” he asked as he grabbed the end of a bench. Then he flushed. His question could be considered just as offensive as Christine’s query about children.

  Nathaniel regarded him with an unreadable expression, but Asa chuckled. “Mr. Judd’s the only man I know who’ll admit his wife helped set him up. Some are too proud, you see.”

  Judd laughed, tugging the platform into its usual grooves in the ground. “You’ll find this hard to believe, but my wife came from a wealthy family in Philadelphia. When we got engaged, her father offered me a position managing one of his carriage factories. But I didn’t feel suited to the work.”

  “And you didn’t want to be beholden to Mercy’s dad?” Billy asked.

  The big man chuckled again. “You hit the nail on the head, boy. My own father farmed—quite prosperously—but he had too many sons and too little land to support us all. So Mercy’s parents gave us a generous endowment to buy land of our own. They nearly shot me when they learned we were going to Kansas to homestead.”

  Billy scowled. “Why? Didn’t they like you?”

  “Oh, they tolerated me all right, but I was taking Mercy where savages still roamed and towns weren’t settled yet. They were afraid they’d never see their daughter again.”

  Billy thought for a moment, letting the breeze lift his hair from his collar. “Did her folks live in a big house? With servants and runnin’ water and a ballroom?”

  “Yes—and they still do. Mercy gave up a privileged life and then invested her entire dowry in supplies so we could stake our claim here. That’s why I love her so much.”

  In Judd Monroe’s smile, Billy saw pride of accomplishment, as well as fierce loyalty to his wife. He felt honored that this man would share such feelings with him. And he understood why Judd wouldn’t tolerate his sister’s insolence.