The Outlaw Women

by Amber Foxx

  The Outlaw Women

  Amber Foxx

  Published by Amber Foxx, 2014.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE OUTLAW WOMEN

  First edition. June 10, 2014.

  Copyright © 2014 Amber Foxx.

  ISBN: 978-1497780880

  Written by Amber Foxx.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  The Outlaw Women

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Sign up for Amber Foxx's Mailing List

  Further Reading: The Calling

  Also By Amber Foxx

  The Sight had shown Rhoda-Sue Outlaw Jackson many things over the years, but not the future. Not until a Friday afternoon in September shortly after her seventieth birthday, when Sue heard her late husband speak as clearly as if he stood right next to her in the kitchen, warning her she had only a few thousand heartbeats left. Two hundred and fifty-nine thousand, two hundred and one.

  Her feelings hovered between shock and a mystified kind of curiosity. She wasn’t ready to let go of her life, and yet Paul’s cheerful tone implied she had more to look forward to than to fear. He sounded the way he had when he’d been alive, telling her how many new chicks had hatched, or how many bushels of apples he’d sold for how much, or reminding their daughter how many days until Christmas. Won’t be long, honey. Better get ready.

  The number Paul gave her sounded big, but once she did the math—beats per minute, minutes per hour, hours per day—it was small. The weekend.

  She took Friday night for preparing as best she could, walking by moonlight around her farm, listening to the crickets, and talking to Paul as if he were there while the sadness worked its way through her.

  “I want to say goodbye to everyone, but if I say I’m about to die, either they’ll believe me and be upset, or they’ll think I’m crazy and waste our time arguing.”

  To her surprise she felt Paul’s presence, prodding and questioning, though he didn’t speak. She tried to explain herself better. “I don’t want to spend my last hours making people cry—or fussing with ’em.”

  The sensation of her husband softened. Maybe he agreed with her decision, or maybe he still knew better than to argue once she’d made up her mind.

  Sue spent Saturday visiting friends in Boone she had known since childhood. The day flowed so sweetly she almost forgot why she was dropping in on them, but when she got home at night she felt the heartbeats running out. She stayed up late outdoors again, this time sitting on the porch swing. Her mind went still and silent, taking in every moth-flutter, every change in the cooling breath of the night. A herd of deer came into the yard to graze, so close she could smell them and hear them breathing. When she finally slept, she dreamed about Paul. He lay beside her, holding her hand, and reminded her how many beats she had left.

  Sue looked as sturdy and healthy as ever, but by Sunday morning, the countdown felt like the last slow drips of a coffeepot, just about done. This final day was for family. Her daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter were coming out to her farm.

  While watching for their arrival, she kept her hands busy to steady her heart. She picked a few tomatoes, and then pulled some wriggling white worms off the broccoli to toss to her chickens. The little Rhode Island Red hens followed her around the vegetable patch, diving for the treats. The last time she’d had her ten-year-old granddaughter Mae there, the girl had made Sue laugh by saying the chickens looked like relatives.

  “They got red hair—well, feathers, and they’re even named like us. Rhoda-Reds.”

  All the Outlaw women had red in their hair. Sue’s daughter Rhoda-Rae’s hair was a deep auburn. Rhoda-Rae’s daughter Mae, who didn’t like being called Rhoda-Mae, had flaming orange hair like Rhoda-Sue’s had been before it turned more like sherbet, pale orange with ice. Sue wondered if she’d passed anything else down, or just the name and the hair. The Sight could tell her a lot, but it couldn’t tell her if other people had it.

  Her son-in-law’s pick-up truck appeared from among the trees and climbed the last stretch of dirt road. Mae, waving and smiling, sat between her tall lanky father and her trim, stiff-backed mother.

  Sue carried the tomatoes to the picnic table and sat down. She needed to figure out how to talk to each of them alone without making them think anything was wrong.

  The truck came to a stop under a big oak tree, and the family got out. Jim Bob Martin, known as Marty to everyone but Rhoda-Rae, unfolded slowly, placed an Appalachian State ball cap on his tousled sandy hair, and stretched. He looked relaxed and ready for a day on the farm, or as relaxed as he ever did around his wife. She wore spotless white jeans that showed off her figure, and heeled white sandals that implied her intention to keep clean, even on the farm. She tugged her blouse into place and watched with a frown as Mae took off across the lawn at a run to join Sue at the table.

  The girl leaned over to hug her from behind, and rocked her grandmother, cheek to cheek. “Hey, Granma.”

  Rhoda-Sue patted Mae’s hand. “Hey, sugarpie. Everybody ready to help an old lady with some chores?”

  Mae let go and plopped on the bench beside her. “Sure.”

  “Chores?” Rhoda-Rae stopped a few feet away from her mother. “It’s the Sabbath. Or did you forget? But then I don’t suppose you went to church.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d refuse to work if you got a Sunday shift at the hospital.”

  “It’s not like I’d have a choice. You do.” Rhoda-Rae’s cheeks flushed pinker under her make-up. “And I’d still find time to get to church.”

  “Well, I didn’t.” Sue knew she shouldn’t be fighting with her daughter right now, and yet her irritation spilled out. “It’s too far and I can pray fine right here. As far as I’m concerned my garden is Eden and everything we do here has the Lord’s blessing.”

  Rhoda-Rae rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath. Marty shoved his hands in his pockets. “Come on, babe, don’t preach at your mama. We can do a few chores. It’s more like playing anyway, doing a little farm and garden stuff.”

  Mae said, “I’m up for anything. Oh, there’s my aunties.” She clucked to the chickens, who were eating grass near the table, then crouched down and picked up the tame one to pet it. “Need me to get eggs, Granma?”

  “No thanks, I got those at sunrise. Rhoda-Rae, why don’t you head down to the orchard and pick some apples? That won’t violate your Sabbath too much, unless you find a snake and listen to him.”

  Marty turned away, but Sue heard the sniff of a stifled laugh. She continued, “Mae, you can finish getting all the ripe tomatoes and bring ’em in. We need to do some canning.” Not that it would get finished, or that Mae was any good in the kitchen, but it would keep the girl busy and in one place. “Marty, I need some help getting my winter things out of the attic.” She wasn’t going to be around to wear those coats and sweaters, but everything would have to come down soon anyway. “Won’t be hard to find ’em, all the boxes are labeled.”

  He adjusted his cap and smiled his crooked half-grin, that not-quite-happy look he had at the best of times. “Wish I’d known. I woulda worn a helmet.” He was six-foot-two and the attic space wasn’t.

  Sue chuckled. “For all I know you might find one up there. There are boxes in that attic I haven’t looked at in ten years or more.”

  “Seriously? Maybe I should do an inventory, see what all you got.”

  It would be a head start. When Rhoda-Rae inherited the farm, she would undoubtedly either rent or sell it, but she’d want to know the value of every last thing she got rid of. Sue managed to smile. “Thank you. I may take you up on that.
But you don’t need to do it today.”

  ––––––––

  Best get the hardest talking done first. Sue walked down to the orchard with her daughter. The empty basket swung in Rhoda-Rae’s hand, held away from her body. Sue took it. “I don’t mind a little dirt. Or is there something else you don’t like about my apple basket?”

  “Of course there is. Honestly, Mama. Chores? You could have had us for dinner.”

  “I had my reasons.”

  They turned off the path and into the orchard. The view was at its best. A few autumn leaves in the mountains freckled the rounded green folds with color, echoed by the red and yellow apples in the orchard. The grass was still lush, and the sky was clear above the shadowy curves of the Blue Ridge. A good last day in a world hard to leave.

  Sue stopped under a small tree and studied the lowest hanging fruit. The Gingergold apples were never uniform in color and sometimes oddly shaped, but they were the best. She picked one and took a bite. Juice flooded from the crisp flesh. She ate slowly. Her last taste of being in a body.

  Rhoda-Rae dropped a few apples in the basket. “If you had your reasons, please do tell.”

  “We need to set a few things right between us. I can’t do that with all of us sitting around the dinner table.” Sue took her time with another sweet bite of apple. The breeze rippled through her cotton house dress and her thin cardigan. “You ever have any hint you might have the Sight? The healing touch?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t want to talk about this in front of Mae.”

  “I gave you my word I wouldn’t. I’m asking about you right now.”

  Rhoda Rae reached into the tree, yanked an apple from its stem and placed the fruit in the basket. “I have the healing touch as a college-educated, licensed health professional, thank you very much. I don’t try to diagnose people by waving some rock over them.”

  Sue could run a quartz point over someone’s body and sense where they were sick. She could hold something that the person owned and see what might have caused the problem, and she could touch them and ease their pain. Give them herbs to move the illness out. Her daughter knew all this, and was ashamed of it. College educated. It hadn’t made a snob out of Rhoda-Rae’s husband. Marty was a coach and PE teacher now, but he’d spent his first years out of college playing baseball in the minor leagues, and he’d come out of that more country boy than ever. Rhoda-Rae seemed to despise her roots.

  “Sometimes I think you wouldn’t let yourself have this gift even if God wanted you to.”

  “God doesn’t want witchy-women—”

  “I know what you believe. You can spare me the tirade. Does Mae show any sign of—”

  “No. Thank goodness.”

  Rhoda-Rae picked a few more Gingergolds and crossed over to the row of Galas. Sue followed. “I’m surprised. The Outlaw women have had this gift for generations.”

  “Then the Outlaw blood is running thin. Mae favors her father. Sports. That’s all that girl thinks about.” Rhoda-Rae plucked some red Galas. “I might as well have had a boy. But at least she’s not one of those old-time Outlaw women.”

  “All right. I reckon that’s the end of that, then.” Sue felt the damp weight of sadness descend. She’d known for years that the chances were slim her gift would be passed on, but this finality, with only a few hours left to share even a hint of her traditions, hit her hard. She set the basket down, and gave Rhoda-Rae a hug. “We won’t fight about it anymore. Could you pick me a good mix of eating apples? I need to head up and go start the canning.”

  Rhoda-Rae hung the basket on her arm, still holding it away from her white pants. “You better not talk to Mae about the Sight.”

  All these years of bickering were about to end. Sue patted her daughter’s arm and fought back tears. “Don’t worry. I’ll be trying to teach her how to can tomatoes.”

  “Good luck.” Rhoda-Rae circled the tree, snatching apples as if they might run away from her. “That child is allergic to the kitchen.”

  ––––––––

  No additional tomatoes had been lined up on the picnic table. Mae was sitting in the dirt down a row of broccoli, peering into a plant. “Granma, look. It’s like a whole city. Those worms built little rooms and walls.”

  “Goodness.” Rhoda-Sue eased herself to her knees beside her. “Pull ’em out and feed ’em to the chickens. You’ll have to get the nest out of that plant, too.”

  “I know. I feel kinda bad messing up their house, though. You ever wonder what it’s like to be a bug and get swallowed by a chicken?”

  “No.” She’d been trying to imagine her own death, though, hoping it would be quick like Paul’s had been. “But now I do.”

  Mae stuck her bare hands into the webby white mass and extracted it, then separated the worms from their home and tossed them to the red hens. “I wonder what they taste like to the chickens, too—like do chickens have taste buds on their tongues like we do? They got such little pointy tongues.”

  “You think like a scientist.”

  “I do.” Mae beamed. “I like to figure stuff out. Mama keeps telling me I should be a doctor.”

  “Is that what you want to be?”

  “No. I don’t like hospitals. Daddy studied exercise science. That sounds better.” Mae sighed. “But really, I wish women could play baseball.”

  “Do you ever think about ...” Sue searched for the words. She had promised not to talk to Mae about the Sight, and she was chipping at the edge of that promise by asking, but she could be careful how she put it. “Things science can’t explain?”

  Mae picked up a worm and moved it closer to the hens. “Like what it feels like to be a worm getting swallowed? I mean, we can’t know that, but I think about it.” She watched the hens fight over the juicy grub, tossed them another. “When Grampa died I wondered what it was like for him. Mama said he went to heaven, but heaven doesn’t make any sense to me. How there can be anything without your body.” She looked up suddenly, her green-gold eyes wide, and put her hands in front of her mouth. “Oh my gosh, Granma, I’m sorry, that was awful. I was talking about worms dying and then Grampa dying like it was all the same—If you believe he’s in heaven I’m sure he is. I—”

  “Hush.” Sue almost laughed, and would have if Mae hadn’t been so serious. Paul would’ve had a big guffaw over heaven and worms all mixed together. He’d been as irreverent a man as ever walked the earth—and somehow the pair of them had produced Rhoda-Rae. The more they’d tried to raise her as a free spirit, the more she’d rebelled by conforming to rules. “It’s all right. I don’t know what I think about heaven, either.” Especially since Paul had spoken to her, and given her the numbers. “Actually, I think your Grampa’s right here.”

  “What—like his ghost is here?”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t picture it. Heaven and angels and all of that. Or ghosts. Mama wants me to study science and be good at it, and I am, but then when I ask science kinds of questions about things like this, she gets mad.”

  “Don’t worry. When you’re grown up maybe you can study the science that explains it.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “I have no idea, but there’s bound to be. Come on, help me up, and get back to those tomatoes. You didn’t pick a whole lot yet.”

  Mae jumped to her feet and gave her grandmother an arm to hold onto. Solid. If the major leagues ever let women play, Mae might stand a chance. But as for taking after the Outlaw women, she didn’t seem too promising.

  ––––––––

  Sue left Mae picking tomatoes, and made her way upstairs. She found that Marty had brought her boxes of winter clothes down to her bedroom, but the attic stairs were still down, and the light still shone through the trap door in the hallway ceiling.

  “You get lost up there?” she called.

  “Sure did. It’s like a museum. You got some treasures up here. These old pictures and diaries and letters? You need to
take these to the historical society. I bet they’d be thrilled.”

  “That’s a good idea. Why don’t you hand ’em down to me.”

  She stood on the fold-down stairs, a few steps up, and reached to receive the box, but he stuck his head in the hole and said, “I’ll bring ’em. Don’t want you falling with your hands full on the steps. I need to help you do a good clear-out. Unless there’s a reason you’re hanging onto Paul’s things, of course.”

  “No. Reckon I can let those go. It’s about time.” A strong urge struck her. “Why don’t you bring some of those boxes down while you’re at it, if you don’t mind?”

  Marty easily clambered backwards down the stairs with a box in one arm, and then went back up for a few more. Sue brought her late husband’s clothes into her bedroom, but left the family papers and pictures in the hall. “Thanks, that’s enough for now. You look like you been roasting up there.”

  “It’s pretty hot.” Marty folded the stairs and watched them finish their creaky, spring-loaded ascent. He took his cap off and wiped his forearm along his brow. “Rhoda-Rae still in the orchard?”

  Sue nodded.

  “Good. She needs to get outside and relax more.”

  “She’s outside. I can’t say if she’s relaxed. Come in and talk with me for a bit.” Sue started toward her room. “If you don’t mind, I’m kind of tired and I need to put my old feet up.”

  She sat on her bed, took her shoes off, hoisted her legs up, and arranged her pillows behind her back. The time-drip of her heartbeats felt close to finished. Marty might be the last person she saw—and that might be for the best. He’d lost his parents young and had taken to her as a mother figure when he and Rhoda-Rae were still dating. Marty and Sue had shared quite a few serious talks before. There wasn’t much they didn’t know about each other.

  He sat in the rocker that had been Paul’s favorite chair, and hung his cap on the post of the bed. “Talk about ...?”