The River Girl's Song: Texas Women of Spirit, Book 1

by Angela Castillo

  Wylder pulled the reins a little tighter. “Soonie, are you sure y’all should be going out in the woods alone today? Mr. Bell sighted a panther a few miles upriver and those creatures can swim. If you wait, perhaps I can go with you tomorrow.”

  Zillia’s mouth fell open. “Wylder, we go out by ourselves all the time!”

  Soonie pulled a shotgun from the seat behind her. “Who’s the best shot? Want to try to beat me right now? You haven’t been able to do it yet.”

  Wylder ducked his head and smiled. “That’s true. Zillia’s not too bad either. Just be careful, please.” He clicked to his team and the wagon jolted into the barn.

  Zillia climbed up beside Soonie and rolled her eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

  “He wants to make sure we stay safe.” Soonie slapped the reins across the mare’s back and the horse plodded down the road.

  “I know.” Zillia sat back. “I just don’t like it. What makes men think they are superior anyway? We are all made of the same flesh and bone.”

  “True,” Soonie said. “But Wylder doesn’t think he’s better than anyone else. He worries about you, that’s all.”

  “He doesn’t have to worry!” Zillia knew Soonie was right, but she couldn’t hold back her words. “We’ve been fine!”

  “He did have to fish you out of the river.” Soonie’s tone remained even. “You can’t always do everything for yourself, no matter how strong you are.”

  “Oooh!” Zillia bit the inside of her cheek and stumbled from the front of the wagon to join Orrie in the back. She sat down hard beside him.

  Tall and beautiful in the buckboard seat, Soonie looked like she could take on anything on her own. She shook her head slightly but did not glance back.

  Zillia sighed and folded her arms. Disturbing thoughts crept into her mind, and not for the first time. Why do Soonie and Wylder bother? I’m just an added burden, not even family.

  Soonie chanted to herself in Comanche while Orrie played with stones. Neither seemed to notice her brooding. Zillia knew better than to allow herself to wade too deep into the mire of self-pity. Once there, it would be hard to get out.

  She reached out and touched Soonie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I was mad. You were right. I am so grateful for everything you and your family have done for me. I just wish I knew how to pay you back.”

  “It’s been a hard time for you,” Soonie said. “But you are brave, and God will see you through. Our treasures await in Heaven.”

  “I’m sure there’s a whole palace waiting for you.”

  Soonie turned to her. “I just want to see His face.” Her eyes shimmered, like they did every time she talked about her faith. “That will be enough for me.”

  When they reached the pecan bottoms, Zillia’s bad mood disappeared.

  Trees created tunnels before them, with glimmers of fall sunshine leaking through. Birds called out warnings and squirrels scampered across the path. Patches of flowers brightened spots in yellow defiance to the approaching winter. And the ground was littered with thousands of pecans.

  Soonie jumped down and picked up a handful of the small, oval shaped pecans. Cracking two together, she picked out the meat. “Here,” She handed half to Zillia. “See what you think.”

  Zillia bit into the wrinkled meat. “Delicious! I’ve never had a better one.”

  “Mrs. Slolem will be pleased.” Soonie beamed. “Let’s get to work.”

  The two girls worked in haste to fill their containers. A few times Orrie threw in a fistful of twigs and leaves, but most of the time he was content to play with his rocks.

  By noon, the girls had filled every container and stood by the wagon, ready to drive to the house of Mr. Dunbar and deliver his share.

  Zillia handed Orrie a chunk of Johnny cake. He stuffed a big piece into his mouth and his cheeks bulged out.

  Soonie pointed to the brown creatures gathering nuts across the forest floor. “You look like a squirrel, Orrie.”

  “You do.” Zillia laughed. “Don’t eat so much at once, dear, or you’ll choke.”

  Orrie laughed too, and crumbs poured out of his mouth.

  Soonie stood and began to twirl beneath the trees. Her fringed skirt swirled around her ankles while she danced to a melody she hummed under her breath.

  “Are you singing a Comanche song?” Zillia asked.

  “No.” Soonie’s hair flew out while she jumped and spun. She pulled a scarf away from where it was looped around her neck and began to swing it in graceful arcs over her head. “It’s a song I made up. For God.”

  Zillia frowned. “I thought God only wanted us to sing in church. Like hymns.”

  Soonie continued to dance. Her song was wild and full of joy, nothing like the somber hymns they sang every Sunday among the stiff wooden pews.

  After a few moments, Soonie stopped and came to plop down between Orrie and Zillia. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone. “Wylder and I read about King David and how he danced before God. Psalms commands us to sing new songs to the Lord. When we were younger, we would come out to the woods to dance and sing for God. It always made us feel closer to Him.”

  Zillia gave Soonie an apple from the lunch basket. “I can’t picture Wylder dancing like that.”

  Soonie lowered her eyes. “Well, he doesn’t do it any more. At least, not around other folks. But he still makes up songs. Much better than mine.”

  “I’ve heard him.” Zillia found an apple for herself. “Sometimes, when he doesn’t know I’m listening. I thought those were old songs from your grandparent’s country.”

  “No.” Soonie picked Orrie up and set him down in the wagon. “Let’s head home. If we get chores done soon enough, we might have time to shell some of these before supper.”

  On the way home, Orrie fell asleep on Zillia’s shoulder, his blond curls tangling with her brown braids, which had come unpinned during the work day.

  Maybe God doesn’t mind if we make up our own songs. She frowned. Maybe He wants us to sing songs that we have written for Him. A person wrote the hymns, someone wrote the Psalms. What made those people more special to God than anyone else? Perhaps she could ask Pastor Fowler. He did seem open to new ideas.

  She pictured the pastor deep in thought, with his bushy black eyebrows drawn together over his hawk-like nose. Maybe I’ll just look it up for myself.

  Most of the time, she didn’t touch the dusty family Bible except to take it to church on Sundays. But she hated when Soonie knew about things she didn’t. Does the Bible really talk about dancing?

  After the pecans, she would read Psalms for herself.

  November 1888

  7 Baking Day

  The melody tripped along with the squeak of the rocker while the late fall winds howled outside.

  “Down in the Valley

  valley so low,

  hang your head over,

  hear the wind blow.

  Hear the wind blow, boy,

  hear the wind blow,

  hang your head over,

  hear the wind blow

  Zillia shivered, whether at the thought of another winter coming or from her own haunting song, she wasn’t sure. When these cold spells hit, Zillia and Orrie stayed by the kitchen fire all night to save fuel. They cuddled together in the rocker, though Orrie was far too big to be rocked and sometimes her legs fell asleep before he did.

  The pecans had brought in enough money to pay for food for them and grain for the animals, but she still didn’t know what to do about winter clothes. Soonie’s nephews wore their clothes out as fast as Grandma Louise could sew them. This seemed to be the case with every boy in River County, so she didn’t have much luck with hand-me-downs.

  The house didn’t feel as cold as last night. Zillia struggled to pull herself to her feet with Orrie, limp with sleep, in her arms.

  Gruff stretched and got up to follow them. His toenails clicked on the floor behind her. He sniffed beneath the table, checking for any stray crumbs from dinner.


  Zillia staggered to Orrie’s little cot and pulled the blanket back with her foot. Earlier she had wrapped a hot brick in a cloth and placed it under the covers. She nudged it to the foot of the bed with her toes.

  After tucking Orrie into bed, she went through the kitchen and into the small pantry. Gruff followed her in with bedraggled ears perked, his tail waving like a corn tassel.

  Zillia surveyed rows of gleaming jars. Some she traded for, but most were vegetables and fruits from her own garden. “Don’t give me those sad eyes!” she said to the dog. “You already had your dinner!”

  Two jars glowed bright orange in the lantern light, despite being shoved on the farthest top shelf.

  Wylder hadn’t mentioned the pumpkin pie again, even when he’d rolled the brightest, bounciest specimen onto her porch. Still, she had promised. After everything he’s done for us. Days of unpaid labor, haunches of meat he could have traded or sold. He’d saved her life, for goodness sake. All this time, he had only asked for one thing.

  Her pie-making attempts had resulted in burned squiggles of crusts. Even the chickens had ignored the pitiful bits she flung into the yard.

  Thanksgiving was in two days. She sank down into the rocker and rubbed her temples. Every holiday, she and Orrie would go to the Eckharts’ cabin. And there would be pie, all different kinds. Her fingers dug into the arms of the chair and she set her jaw. She would make a brilliant pie, even if the house burnt down in the process. There wouldn’t be a single singed crumb for anyone to laugh about. In the words of Grandpa Walt, she was ‘sick unto tarnation’ of people’s lopsided smiles of pity.

  This time, mouths would hang open in awe and wonder.

  “Just you wait, Wylder Eckhart,” she whispered into the empty cabin. “I’ll make you the most beautiful pie in River County!”

  The next morning she woke, stiff and cold in the rocking chair. Daylight streamed through worn muslin curtains. How do I keep falling asleep in here? Her back ached.

  Pie day.

  When she went to check on Orrie, he still snored beneath Mama’s homemade quilt. Tiptoeing to the bed, she ran a finger over the rough, uneven stitches. Though the quilt had its flaws, Mama had been so proud of it. “The first one I ever made,” she had told Zillia. “It took me an entire year. I finished while I was waiting for you to come. You kept kicking the patches off my lap.”

  The pie doesn’t have to be perfect, she decided when she reached the kitchen. She spooned lard into a bowl. It just has to be a pie.

  Salt, just a pinch, then she added in flour a handful at a time, like Grandma Louise had shown her. A little more lard, then she pushed and pinched until dough formed in a blob between her fingers. Already, this crust had a smoother consistency than any of her previous attempts. She sprinkled flour on the table and rolled out the dough. The lump cracked and separated, but when she placed the pieces in the pie tin she dabbed a little water on the edges. Miraculously, it helped smooth them together.

  The golden chunks of pumpkin shone while she poured them into a separate dish. She added eggs, sugar and milk. Pie mixture ran into the crust and settled in a thick, amber pool. The rich spicy scent filled the air. She placed into the stove and carefully closed the door. Maybe, just maybe, this time the dessert would turn out all right.

  “Zilly, I’m waked up.” Orrie bawled from the door, his pearly teeth flashing.

  “All right. Well, let’s find some breakfast then, shall we?” She broke off a piece of the eternal johnny-cake and held it out to him.

  He folded his arms and glared. “No cake.”

  “How about some grits? With molasses?”

  “No grits.”

  “I’ll look in the pantry, but I don’t think we have anything else, honey.”

  Orrie sniffed the air. “What smells?”

  “I’m making pie, for Thanksgiving.”

  His lips curved up at the corners. “I want pie.”

  “No, Orrie,” she sighed. “We’re taking the pie to the Eckhart’s house tomorrow. Don’t you remember? We’re supposed to share.”

  “I want pie!”

  She grabbed a plate, plunked the piece of johnny cake on it, and drizzled molasses over the food. The dish clattered on the table when she set it down. “Eat it or starve,” she growled.

  Orrie’s blue eyes brimmed with tears. “Mean Zilly.”

  Someone pounded on the door. Zilly hurried over to answer it. As she slid back the bolt, a piece of johnny cake thudded against the wall. She rolled her eyes and swung the door open.

  Wylder leaned against the frame, his broad-brimmed hat in hand. “Zillia, sorry to bother you, but I noticed the goats were out. I’ll probably need help herding them back in.” He studied her over the muffler she had knit for him last Christmas. One end was wider than the other and a few strange knobs stuck out where the yarn had snarled.

  I’m staring again. She tucked a curl behind her ear. “How did they get out this time? We fixed that fence days ago.”

  “Don’t know. Grandpa and I heard howls by the cabin last night. That’s why I came by.” He sniffed the air like Orrie had and gave her his lopsided grin. “Something sure smells good.”

  “I’ve heard howling too, for a week now.”

  Wylder frowned. “Why didn’t you tell us? I would have come to look.”

  I’ve been out watching for them. Zillia didn’t want a lecture on the dangers of patrolling the farm at night. She threw on Papa’s coat and hat and fetched her brother’s sweater. “Come on, Orrie, we have to go find the goats again.”

  “I want pie.” Orrie folded his arms and stuck out his lower lip. Despite his protests, Zillia pulled the sweater over his head and jammed his arms into the sleeves.

  Wylder’s lips twitched and his eyes twinkled.

  Zillia smiled apologetically. “Sorry, we’ve had a rough morning.”

  “Aw, I’m used to it. We have two little boys at home, remember? Though Grandpa Walt might’ve tanned a hide by now.” He squinted at Orrie.

  Orrie glared right back.

  Out in the yard, a few curled leaves still clung to the oak trees with hopeful twigs. Pinecones dotted the thick carpet of brown needles under the stand of pines. Hundreds of black birds, only seen when the chill air started, swooped and landed on any available perch.

  When the three of them reached the goat pen, only a few of the oldest nannies huddled in the stall. A scattering of cloven prints told the story; the other dozen goats had found a weak board in the fence and pressed against the wood until it broke free.

  “We’re lucky they prefer to stick together. If we find one, we’ll find them all.” Wylder bent down in front of Zillia to examine the fence more closely. Today he smelled like the smoke house. Bacon, ham, and turkey, plus his normal Wylder self.

  Why should I care what he smells like? I’m going crazy. Zillia’s fingers crept up to her blazing cheeks. Good thing he couldn’t read her thoughts. She shook her head and examined the tracks, Orrie in tow. “They get out all the time. Hopefully they’ll find an area with lots of grapevine.” The goats couldn’t resist the tender vines.

  “Doesn’t look like they’ve been out long.” Wylder glanced up. “I’m going to repair this fence so the others don’t escape. It’ll just take a minute.” He grabbed a rock and began pounding the nails back into the board.

  “Wylder, I’m worried about that howling we heard. I’m going on ahead to find them.” Zillia slung her gun over her shoulder and turned toward the path.

  “Wait for me. You don’t want to deal with varmints on your own.”

  Truly? She folded her arms in front of her chest and gave Wylder a cold stare, which he didn’t notice. “I’m going now, you take all the time you need if you think this fence is so important.”

  Wylder pounded harder.

  “Fine. Orrie, let’s go.”

  Orrie squinted up at her. “I’m cold.”

  Wylder banged the last nail in. He swung Orrie up on his shoulders. “Come on, let’s
look for some goats.” He strode past Zillia without giving her a glance. The little boy squealed in delight while they marched through the woods.

  Only a few moments passed before they heard crashes in the brush. “Just like I thought,” Zillia sighed. “Back to their favorite patch.”

  “Wait.” Wylder put his hand out in front of her. “Pretty sure I heard a dog.”

  “See? I knew we should have come faster,” Zillia said. A pack of dogs could take down a flock in minutes, and unlike coyotes, they weren’t afraid of people.

  Wylder lowered Orrie to the ground and pulled his Colt pistol out of its holster. Zillia followed him into the clearing.

  Two nannies with black and white spots ran towards them, bleating in terror.

  Three large hounds had the buck up against a tree. The frightened goat lowered his head in attempt to fend them off with his horns, but blood streamed from gashes on his muzzle.

  A fourth dog turned toward them. A kid goat’s lifeless body dangled from his jaws.

  Angry tears stung Zillia’s eyes. The baby goat, Sammy, had been Orrie’s favorite. She pushed the little boy behind her and steadied her gun.

  The shot ripped through the air. The fourth dog jerked back and dropped its victim. It rolled over and lay still.

  Dogs and goats scattered into the forest.

  Orrie struggled to get away. “Dogs hurt Sammy!”

  “Stay with me, Orrie. Those dogs could bite you, too.” Zillia’s heart pounded in her chest. What if the beasts had come into the farmyard while Orrie was playing outside?

  Wylder walked over to the dog she had shot and nudged it with his boot. “We don’t have to worry about this one any more. I’m going to go after the other three; you try to get as many goats in as possible.”

  “Be careful.” Zillia pulled Orrie close against her. The little boy shivered and buried his face in her coat. “Come on, dear. We have to be brave now, and try to find the other goats.”

  One nanny had already returned to nose the body of the kid. Zillia grabbed her horns and led her back down the path. Two nannies trotted in behind them. The buck and two babies waited for them when their unusual parade reached the fence. Only two more missing. Hopefully they’ll come back as well. After Zillia shood them into the stall, she slammed the door. They’d have to stay inside until she found a way to make the fence stronger.