"I declare," he muttered, shaking his head. Then he fell back into silence, letting the smile drift away to wherever he kept them.
I continued to watch, still amazed. The man could smile!
A useful thing to know about one's current oldest friend.
Before I could explore the idea further, Garrison was stopping his horses—"Ho. Ho now!" I reined in Valley Boy as well, all by myself. Our fearless leader squinted toward what looked like some bushes, breaking the monotony of the toasting grasslands. I squinted that way too, couldn't make out anything of interest, and so glanced back at him and waited.
He pointed for me. "Chimney smoke."
I squinted again and could barely make out the wispy white smoke, much less where it came from. But Garrison edged the horses in that direction, so I reined Valley Boy right along with them. The horse did just what I wanted him to, so I leaned over and patted his neck, like I'd seen Garrison do, and added a "Good horse."
The horse's tapered ears swiveled back in confirmation that he'd heard me. If it weren't for the fact that every muscle I owned needed oiling, and the burning inside of my thighs would need a skin graft to fix, I might like horseback riding.
As we got closer I recognized the "bushes" as the tops of trees, just lower than us, along a creek bottom. I saw two really large gardens, patches of order in this dry ocean of wild grass, and my own excitement grew. Civilization? I knew Garrison meant to get back to some kind of herd, but maybe these people had a... a.... The more I wanted them, the less the words came to me. Some means of communication or transportation that would save us time, help contact the proper authorities! Oh sure, the shed that came into sight past the field, complete with chimney smoke, didn't much impress me. The tiny building made me think of an ugly, quilted coat, as if it was made out of hairy bricks of grass and dirt. But Garrison had to be detouring here for a reason.
A man with a hoe limped out of the green plants to meet us. Garrison nodded at him. The gardener raised a tentative hand and came carefully closer. But he was staring, I realized, at me.
I glanced self-consciously at Garrison, but he stayed tense, watching the gardener.
"You ain't got no cows, do you?" demanded the gardener, holding his hoe as he might a weapon. “You got cows, it'll cost you.”
"Not on your land," assured Garrison coolly. From the gardener's curt nod, I assumed no cows was somehow a good thing. "You lose a gal?"
Oh! My humming nerves hit higher frequency as I forgot the cows and reexamined the man. Did I know him? Husband, father, brother? Father seemed most likely—his straw hat hid his hair color, and he was clean-shaven, but he looked pretty leathery, with wrinkles cutting deeply into his face. Despite sweaty muscles bulging out from beneath his overalls, I'd guess his age at well over fifty. I felt a lot younger than that—and had unwrinkled hands that had never plucked a bird, too.
Bracing the hoe on the ground, like a simple tool again, he surveyed me back, eyes squinty from the sun.
"Nope," he said finally, and my rush of relief surprised me. Didn't I want to go home?
Maybe that depended on the home.
He asked, "Found one, did you?"
Garrison nodded.
"We ain't heard of nobody what lost one," the gardener told him after some consideration; I was beginning to feel like a stray dog. "But we don't get much news this way, not like you drovers do. She ain't dressed decent."
Now remember, I was completely covered to the knees, with sleeves overlapping my hands like a kid playing dress-up. The coat was buttoned. Surely it would make sense to bare more of my legs and arms to this heat, not less. How could I not be dressed decent?
I mean, decently?
Maybe he just meant I was a Fashion Don't. But considering his own couture....
"'Tain't likely her doin'." Garrison was holding a regular conversation here! With a flat hand he indicated the shed's one open window, through which fluttered—of all things—a raggedy curtain. "You got a woman, maybe fix her up?"
Here? I suddenly suspected I'd misjudged the shed and the gardener, not to mention our options for getting help. The suspicion unsettled me.
"Died," our host admitted. "Took the cholera two years back—we burnt her clothes. Had a few sons, though. Some of their old duds'd be a mite better'n she's got." And he turned, still leaning on the hoe, and bellowed toward the little shed, "Sherman!"
The shed was, in fact, a farmhouse! It couldn't be more than ten by fifteen feet, and... it was shaggy. Someone might live here, but this was so not civilization.
Another hulking figure appeared in the doorway of the quilted dirt house, but he was a young hulk, all awkward teenager angles. Sherman carried some kind of huge rifle, which he thankfully wasn't pointing at us. He stared suspiciously across the yard at Garrison and me before responding. "Yessir?"
"Fetch yer little brother's clothes outta that trunk yer ma kept," shouted our host.
He then looked back up at us and said, "Our Eb went and drowned 'bout four years back. You folks light here and rest yerselves in the shade of the soddy." Then he turned suspicious again. "Long as your cows ain't nearby."
My cowboy escort extended a hand downward, half in greeting and half in challenge—I suspected that, even at my best, I couldn't hope to understand the macho undercurrents going on here. Hell, I was still reeling from finding myself smack in the middle of Hillbilly World. "Jacob Garrison," he offered, far more comfortably than he'd introduced himself to me yesterday.
"Wendell Peaves," responded the gardener—no, I realized, the farmer—as he took the hand in a grudging shake. Then he looked up at me, waiting for my name too. Join the club, Wendell.
"Pleased to meet you," I bluffed.
Garrison urged his horse parade forward, up to the cabin door. Three pigs scattered out of his path with sulky squeals. "Cain't recollect no name," he explained, swinging easily down.
I eyed the distance between myself and the pig yard, did a mental inventory of my abused muscular structure, and waited. Belatedly, Garrison helped me down without me having to either ask.
My bare feet touched filthy ground—Hillbilly World, up close and personal—and I waffled between trying to explain my own situation, edging away from the skinny pigs, and staring at the cabin. Since the fly-dotted pigs didn't get too close—yet—the cabin won.
It really was made out of layered dirt! As in...dirt! The window had rough plank on three sides, like the doorway, but an exposed cross-section on the fourth, where the board must have fallen away, showed the walls to be over a foot thick with… sod. The shade of the soddy. Suddenly that word seemed exactly right; this house was made out of sod, thickest at its base, not over a foot wide at the low roof's edge. It still had grass on it! When we stepped into its cramped shadows, it felt blessedly cool after the sunny ride.
An uncertain rock fireplace filled one narrow end, with a rough-hewn table and four chairs. A hanging sheet with a seam down the middle blocked off the rest of the single room. The floor was dirt but, inside, sans pig poop. The ceiling boasted some kind of once-white cloth across it.
Young Sherman Peaves stood beside the sheet, his long arms dwarfing the clothes he held, staring dumbly until his father took the load and handed it to me.
"You take whatever you need, Miss," Wendell Peaves assured me, pulling back the sheet to reveal a rough, narrow bed. I realized the curtain made it a bedroom, and the only privacy they could afford me.
They were giving me clothes. Dirt poor—literally—they were still going to help me. I almost said, Really, there's no need... but I caught myself in time. There was a need, especially if I wasn't dressed "decent." So, with a quick smile of gratitude, I ducked by the youthful giant that was Sherman. He blushed and hurried to the fireplace on the other side of the room.
I mean, of the house. The soddy.
At least I felt fairly sure I didn't come from any place like this.
I let the curtained divider fall back behind me and stood in the
heavy shadows by a lumpy looking, quilt-covered bed. I could clearly hear Wendell Peaves on the other side of the curtained wall: "Might as well sit, Drover. Sherman, fetch the pail from the crick."
I stripped off the dusty coat.
Getting dressed was like trying to solve a puzzle, and not just because I felt stiff and self-conscious about bumping the curtain with hip or elbows. The illusion of self-sufficiency I'd gained from my horsemanship faded the minute I encountered the underwear. Of course there were no bras; poor, drowned Eb hadn't been that kind of boy. Luckily I wasn't built to seriously need one. But neither were there underpants, only one-piece long johns, like kiddie pajamas, complete with a handy flap in back.
In this weather? I hesitated. The material in the pants looked pretty rough, though, and my inner thighs had rubbed raw and ugly from riding, despite Garrison's vest. I hurt. Padding seemed the wiser idea.
"We seen a wagon go by, 'bout three weeks past," I heard Peaves say, breaking the silence on the other side of the sheet, "but I don't recall mention of no lost woman."
"Don't know as she's been lost more'n a day or two," drawled Garrison's more familiar voice. It was a strong voice, when he used it. "Weren't starved nor wasted."
Oh well, the long-john material seemed to breathe okay. I'd just take a pair of scissors to the sleeves and the long legs, first chance I got. If they seemed completely unfamiliar, I could blame that on them being for boys—right?
"If'n she's addled, could be any number of rough men got to her," Peaves noted from the room beyond as I studied my two choices of shirt in the gloom. One looked to be bluish, with white dots that had faded gray. The other might be an orangey once-red. "There's still some renegade Injuns in off the Territory now and again. And some years back, regulators came up on a wagon train and stole themselves a girl—"
Garrison cleared his throat significantly, and Peaves stopped talking. Awkward silence reigned.
I held a fistful of my frighteningly tangled hair against first one shirt then the other and chose the blue, only belatedly realizing, when I thought about it, that I didn't give Peaves' theories any credence at all. The idea of being abducted by Indians seemed just plain silly, not to mention insulting to the Indians, and I didn't even know what regulators were. Either my subconscious knew something I didn't, or denial worked much more thoroughly than I could ever have hoped.
"Could be a blessing if she don't remember, is all I meant," Peaves finished, and the reign of silence continued.
The pants were a hoot. I had to roll up the cuffs but, even fastened with the button-fly, the pants themselves wouldn't stay up. I was about to actually poke my head out past the curtain and ask Garrison for help—wouldn't that thrill him?—when I remembered the familiar Y of his suspenders. Sure enough, another rummage through poor little Eb's belongings found a set of straps that turned into suspenders—those buttons at either side of the waist hadn't been for decoration after all! With several tries I actually got them on so they didn't twist, and adjusted them to the right length.
"Folks what lost her should be askin' about," noted Garrison finally. "If she has any. You know of any womenfolk live nearby?"
Peaves said, "Nope. Ain't so settled, this far West."
Rolling on my second sock, I made another emotion check. Surely if I'd lost somebody precious along with my memory, my heart would be aching for them, wouldn't it? But that took me too close to whatever I had lost—everything, screamed my soul, everything—and I suddenly developed a fascination for boots. They were heavy and scuffed, with square toes and low heels and a strap around the ankle that buckled. Probably the ugliest things I'd ever put on my feet. They were a bit large, too. But because of them I felt whole again, independent at last, no longer as vulnerable to burrs or pig droppings. A floppy, flat-brimmed hat completed me. But I had noticed the men baring their heads as they stepped inside, so after testing it for fit, I took the hat back off.
I had clothes! One step closer to being a real, functioning person again. In purdah long enough, I slipped around the curtain like an actress stepping on stage.
Mr. Peaves immediately stood when I emerged, and he limped forward to pull a rustic wooden chair back from the rustic wooden table. He was missing a leg, I realized with shock, and had a peg-leg, like a pirate, but it didn't slow him down.
Garrison and Sherman also rose. The old-fashioned manners startled me. After blinking at them a moment, I had to remind myself to hand Garrison his coat and vest before I took the offered seat.
The three men sat as well, Garrison nodding his thanks for the returned garments in a way that seemed almost embarrassed. He looked younger beside Peaves, whose revealed hair was indeed a scrubby, iron gray. Maybe Garrison was in his late thirties?
Sherman, handing me a tin cup of yellowish milk, looked downright young. When I took a sip, the milk tasted rich and kind of tangy and not at all familiar. Still, like the house, it was vaguely cool—especially after the hot ride, I liked it. I smiled my thanks.
Sherman blushed.
Then we sat in silence, Garrison finishing his milk in a few quick swallows, me savoring mine. Sometimes Peaves glanced suspiciously at Garrison. Garrison kept from returning the inexplicable hostility by gazing at the grayish, plastery wall over Peaves' shoulder—and occasionally glancing at my tin cup. Young Sherman stared at me the whole time until, fidgety from the inexplicable undercurrents, I began to finger-comb the ends of my wind-tangled hair.
Then I noticed that Peaves and even Garrison were staring at that innocuous activity as well, and I stopped. Oh. Bad manners at the table, right?
To break the uncomfortable silence and to recover my manners, I said to the Peaveses, "You're very kind to help me out this way. I wish there were some way I could repay you." Maybe once I reached civilization....
Sherman looked at his father and finally spoke. "Could we maybe marry her? I mean... could I?"
For a moment I thought I wasn't hearing right, but no, that's really what he'd said. He wouldn't look directly at me afterwards, either.
As soon as I recovered the ability to even move, I looked quickly at Garrison. What? He didn't help matters any by raising his eyebrows at me, as if curious to see my response, so I whipped around in my chair and stared at the Peaves men. I opened my mouth—and couldn't manage a sound. What did one say to something that ridiculous?
"We were thinkin' 'bout advertisin' for a woman," Wendell Peaves admitted, cocking his head like he might examine a pig he meant to buy. He was really considering it!
"She has purdy teeth," Sherman noted softly, not looking at me. "Never seen teeth so purdy."
Say something. Say anything as long as it's a negative! Horrified, I could only shake my head at them, then twist in my chair again to stare imploringly at my oldest and closest friend. If eyes could speak, mine were trying to say please please please please please save me. But I couldn't seem to draw the breath to turn it into words. I couldn't conceive of the sequence of actions that would politely extract me from this farce on my own. He had to do it for me!
Garrison sighed, sat back in his chair and said, "Might already be married."
My eyes tried to say thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you, but he wasn't bothering to glance my way.
"Ain't wearin' no ring," Peaves pointed out.
"Rings can get took." Garrison didn't mention my original state of undress. "Got no name to marry by. Ain't proper jest yet."
Just yet?
Once Peaves took hold of an idea, though, he didn't seem to let go easily. "A name's easy enough. We'll call her Martha, after my second wife."
I opened, then shut my mouth again. Whoever and whatever I was, I was not a Martha. And even if I wanted to marry a complete stranger, I wouldn't pick an adolescent living in a dirt house!
"Ain't proper," Garrison repeated patiently. "Not touched in the head like she is."
Touched in the head?! With a great deal of willpower, I grasped the edge of the table, took a deep
breath, and finally managed words: "I'd rather not." I then added, "Thanks anyway." Etiquette, or wimpiness?
"She's got a lady's hands, Pa," said Sherman to the tabletop, as if my words hadn't even registered. It was like a nightmare, where you scream and scream and nobody hears you. "Ain't they nice?"
"What ain't proper," Peaves told Garrison in the meantime, "is takin' the gal back to whatever wild cow camp from whence you hail. Mix her with them Texas cowboys and seems to me she'll be doin' all sorts of marryin'!"
He raised his chin triumphantly at that, as if it made perfect sense. Sherman, maybe concluding like me that this argument was getting bigger than the both of us, didn't add to my catalog of attributes. Not out loud, anyway.
Garrison's gray eyes gleamed with something dangerous at Peaves's words. When he directed his stare full force at me, I actually drew back from it. And I was only getting peripheral anger! "Do you wish to stay with these here nesters?"
The direct question both startled and annoyed me—hadn't I just said I didn't? My throat tightened with the longing to say something sarcastic to that effect, but under the weight of his gaze, I only shook my head. Wimpiness it is.
He didn't look particularly pleased, but he nodded, pushed back his chair and stood. "What'll you take fer the clothes and the buttermilk?" His words came out low, deceptively so.
"Jest leave the girl where we can keep her respectable," Peaves insisted, "and we'll throw in some greens. You ain't doin' her no kindness, cowboy."
"She'll be safe until Dodge," assured Garrison, with the certainty a person would use to mention the sun rising.
Peaves spat on the floor when he heard the word Dodge, as if it were Sodom and Gomorrah. And as if floor-spitting was ever justified.
With one hand Garrison pulled my chair back—me still in it. I took that as my cue to stand, edged behind him, and tried not to linger on this new information about cow camps and Texans and Dodge. If Garrison said I'd be safe....
Actually, I hadn't known the man long, so any opinion was a gamble. But on instinct alone, I trusted him more than I trusted these crazed farmers—especially if he never aimed that angry gleam directly at me.
OverTime 1 - Searching (Time Travel) Page 4