Prairie Song

by Jodi Thomas

  “Of course I’m all right.” Maggie smiled as she patted Grayson’s arm, silently thanking him for hiding the gun. “Grayson and I were just looking around. How did you sleep?”

  Cherish glanced from one to the other, knowing her aunt was lying as she always did to protect her from any unpleasantness. The silent giant stood shirtless and barefooted, and her aunt hadn’t taken the time to pull her hair up, something she always did before leaving her chambers.

  Deciding not to argue, Cherish began her own lie. “I didn’t sleep very well. Would you mind if I spend the morning resting?”

  “Certainly not.” Margaret patted Cherish’s arm. “Grayson and I will inventory the house and then go shopping for what we need. I’d also like to call on the bank and see about the account Tobin left. I can’t wait to get this house in order.” She moved toward the stairs with her niece in tow. “I’ll have Azile bring a lunch up to your room. You just rest and I’ll check in on you when we return.”

  Grayson followed, wondering if Margaret realized Cherish was a woman in her twenties. She might be small in build, but he doubted she let anyone else treat her like a child. He’d been around Cherish long enough to know that she was bred of the same strong frontier stock as her aunt. There was a bond between these two women, if not of honesty, then of love. Somehow Margaret equated putting the house in order with putting their lives in order after living out of a suitcase for four years.

  Margaret quickly finished dressing and began her inventory of the house while Grayson downed his breakfast. She wore a black dress with a thin line of lace at the collar and Westley’s broach pinned over her heart. A butterfly, he thought, that had gone back into her cocoon of mourning. She wore her widow’s weeds as proudly as a veteran does his medal of honor.

  As Azile entered the kitchen, Margaret began her plan of attack for the day. “I will need your help today if you still wish to be employed here.”

  “Ain’t got nowhere else I know of to go. If I had I would have quit six months ago.” She tied on her apron. “You tell me what needs doing and I’ll work till it starts getting dark. Then don’t be calling on me for I’m not likely to come out of my room unless you’re yellin’ fire.”

  “First, I wish to meet Miss Hattie; then I plan to do some shopping, so you may wish to make a list of what you need.”

  Azile nodded. “I’ll wake Bar and get him to write it all down after I take you to Miss Hattie.” She started moving into the hall, assuming Margaret would follow. “Miss Hattie got the curse from her younger days and don’t see too good. Her mind flickers on and off like a single firefly on a lonely night.”

  Margaret, as a nurse, was schooled in the effects of syphilis, but still, as Azile opened the door, she was unprepared for the skeleton of a woman who lay in the middle of the huge bed. An ancient flint-lock rifle rested at her side, and her bony fingers patted the stock.

  Miss Hattie must have been a woman of great beauty with her high cheekbones and flowing hair, but age had dried her into a brittle shell of what she once had been. Her faded eyes and pale skin made her look much more like one who walked with the spirits than like one of the living.

  Margaret moved forward. “Miss Hattie, I’m Margaret Alexander.”

  Pale, watery eyes seemed to look right through Maggie. “Tobin talked of you.” Miss Hattie’s clear voice surprised Maggie. “He said you played a fine little mother to Cherish.” She raised her head like a queen. “He said if anything happened to him, you’d see that no one bothered me until my daughter comes.”

  Margaret nodded. “I will do that, ma’am. Tobin was a true friend to my family and I will stand by his word.”

  Hattie laughed. “He was an old coot who talked almost as much as he drank, but you’re right about him being a true friend. Ain’t a man in a hundred worth the trusting and I guess I’d had my hundred before I found him.”

  Margaret reached for the gun on the bed. “Ma’am, would you like me to take that?”

  “No!” Hattie screamed, her voice cracking with intensity. “I might need it. There are those who would want to take my treasure away from me.”

  Margaret noticed the large, shell-covered box on her nightstand. She doubted it contained anything of great value.

  “You are safe now, Miss Hattie. I’ll help you keep your treasure secure.”

  Moving closer, Margaret noticed that Hattie’s bed was clean and her hair combed. “Is there anything I can do …”

  “Who’s that?” Hattie yelled again. “There in the doorway!”

  Margaret could almost taste the sudden fear in the air. She looked back but saw only Grayson. “He’s the man we hired to drive up here. I assure you, Miss Hattie, he will cause you no harm.”

  The wild fear didn’t leave the old woman’s eyes as she lifted the rifle from her bed. “I don’t allow no men except Bar in my room. No men at all! Now, get out!”

  Margaret glanced at Azile and the housekeeper nodded toward the door. “I’ll calm Miss Hattie down. I got some tea that will settle her down,” she said. “You go on and do the shopping. As far as what we need, I reckon you could say everything.”

  Backing out of the room, Margaret couldn’t take her eyes off of Miss Hattie’s face. The old woman had somehow turned the corner of insanity. There was no hint of rational thought in her voice as she yelled for everyone to keep away and for Azile to bring her medicine.

  Margaret put her hand on Grayson’s shoulder. “I need some air. I’m starting to wonder if this house was a blessing or a curse Tobin left me with.”

  An hour later, Grayson found himself following Margaret along the plank sidewalks of a town still in its adolescence. There were signs of a city, but the people acted like small-town folks as they stared at him and Margaret as if they were the morning’s entertainment. Something told Grayson that no matter how many streets this town added or how fast these people bred, this place would always be a town and never a city like some he’d seen up north.

  Margaret shoved package after package into his arms until he could barely see to follow her. He watched her calculate her money after each purchase as she budgeted out what was needed. He wasn’t in the habit of shopping with a woman, but he could hardly tell her that. He simply followed and counted the number of stores to the barbershop pole that marked the end of Main Street.

  “Careful, Grayson,” Margaret whispered. He looked around the bags to see two Union soldiers coming toward him. They looked as though they’d spent the night heavy into drink and had been in foul moods since the sun rose.

  Margaret guided Grayson into the street to avoid the men.

  The taller of the two soldiers noticed her action and stumbled into the street in direct collision with her path. “What’s ‘a matter, lady,” he yelled. “Think you’re too good to walk on the sidewalk with a Yankee?”

  Margaret’s back straightened slightly, but she didn’t back down. She looked ahead as if the soldier wasn’t there. “Come on, Grayson, we have more shopping to complete.”

  The Yankee again stepped directly in her path. “Don’t like us, do you, Miss High-and-Mighty?” His words were slurred as he looked at his friend. “Here we saved the world for democracy and this is the thanks we get. This southern lady won’t even speak to us.”

  Margaret’s temper snapped. “I’ll speak to you, you drunken swine. First, I’ll have you know that Texas was a democracy before the war so you saved us from nothing. And second, I am too good to walk on the same sidewalk with drunken soldiers of any uniform so get out of my way before I’m forced to—”

  “Forced to what?” The drunk was trying to regain some of his pride. Her tongue was too sharp for his muddy mind, but he didn’t want to admit it. “I’m a Union soldier and I ain’t afraid of no woman.”

  Grayson had had enough. He shuffled the packages and stepped around Margaret. He’d seen soldiers like this before. All the idealistic young men had gone back to their families when the war ended, leaving many losers to assume occupa
tion duty in the southern states. They were men with no family or ambition who were addicted to trouble. During the war they’d found plenty to keep them busy, but now excitement was in short supply. Men like these made him ashamed to be from the North. Grayson could think of nothing he’d rather do than flatten both men into the dirt.

  The soldier pulled his gun with lightning speed. “Take another step, reb, and you’ll be dead. I’ve killed rebs bigger than you.”

  Grayson was torn between putting these men in their place and destroying his cover. He’d have liked nothing better than to tell them he was an officer and have them both reported, but then he would have wasted the past two weeks and Margaret would never speak to him again.

  “Wait,” Margaret yelled as she turned on the soldier like an angry hen on a stray dog. “Leave this man alone. He doesn’t understand what you’re saying and he wasn’t even in the war.”

  The soldier lowered his gun. “Oh,” he mumbled as his face reddened. He glanced at his friend, who was touching his head with one finger, indicating Grayson was absent a brain. The friend stepped off the walk and into the street next to his drinking buddy. “Yeah, Sam, ain’t no sport in picking on the feebleminded. Come on, let’s go get another drink.”

  Margaret opened her mouth, then closed it and took her chance to leave. She grabbed Grayson’s shirtsleeve and pulled him forward. Grayson followed, swearing under his breath. The men had called him first a reb and then feebleminded. Nothing more humiliating could possibly happen today.

  When they reached the end of the walk, he heaved a sigh of relief and turned to find Margaret marching into the barbershop like it was just the place she’d been looking for all morning.

  He could do nothing but follow. When Grayson followed through the door with his packages, to his amazement, she was telling the barber how to cut his hair.

  Anger sizzled in him like frost on a fresh-lit stove. Every man in the shop turned and stared at him like he was some huge retarded child who had to have his mother come in with him. Those who had seen the scene in the street a few minutes before were relating it to the others as all eyes stared at Grayson with pity.

  Margaret paid no attention to their stares. “Go ahead and give him a shave after you cut his hair. I swear he looks like he hasn’t seen a proper razor in a month.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The barber bowed. “I’ll get to him right away; these other gentlemen won’t mind waiting. If you’ll come back in fifteen minutes, your man will be all fixed up.”

  Margaret nodded and whirled. “I’ll be across at the bank.” She patted Grayson’s arm as she’d done since they’d met, only now the slight touch was a slap to his pride and not a comfort to him.

  Without responding, Grayson dropped the bags on an empty chair and sat down in front of the barber. A second later, a warm towel slapped his face, soothing the burn of his anger and embarrassment. “Forget every kind word I ever thought about that woman,” he swore to himself beneath the towel. “When I’m finished telling her what I think there won’t be enough of her left to fill a snuffbox. Damned if she isn’t the maddeningest creature God ever made on either side of the Mason-Dixon line.”

  He continued to swear to himself as the barber worked. After some time, Grayson calmed down enough to listen to the other men in the shop.

  “I could never handle a woman like that, not even in a nightmare,” an old man with a smoke-colored goatee was saying between puffs on his pipe. Each time he exhaled, his face became a blur for a moment.

  “Now, Jack, don’t go being so hard on her. You saw that broach she had on. It’s called a widow’s broach from Bull Run. My sister lost her first husband in that battle and she had one just like it. She gave it up to be melted down about the time she remarried, but it were the same kind. That woman lost her man in the first battle of the war and she’s still mourning him. There’s something to be said for that kind of strong woman. I’d give a lot to know a woman mourned me that long.”

  The barber stopped working and added to the conversation. “You’re right. It was a hard war and the menfolk weren’t the only ones who suffered.”

  Grayson tried to relax. In his thirty years of life he could never remember being so angry at a woman, or so attracted to one. When this job was over, he planned to pull her off her high-and-mighty pedestal and teach her she couldn’t run over people. While he was at it, he might teach her a little about what it meant to be a woman. Not a widow, but a warm, flesh-and-blood woman.

  The men in the shop changed the subject to the latest Indian raid, while Grayson silently planned his revenge on Mrs. Margaret Alexander.

  Chapter 7

  The still warmth of late afternoon hung in the air like a thousand invisible spiders. Cherish could feel the heavy dampness brush her hot flesh, but she had no time to stop working. This spare room had to be cleaned before bedtime. Brant’s fever had broken after three days and now he would be safe without a constant watch. Her plan was simple: she’d move him down the hall while the others were eating dinner. Somehow she had to get him farther away from the Union officer camping in the sitting room.

  “Miss Cherish,” Bar whispered from the doorway, “where you want this mattress?”

  “In that corner.” Cherish pointed with the handle of her mop. “Is my aunt back yet?”

  “Yes and no. She came stormin’ in, sayin’ somethin’ about how the bank still wouldn’t release any of old Tobin’s money. She grabbed the will and headed back toward the bank with that giant right behind her.” Bar shrugged his bony shoulders. “She can storm and stomp all she wants but my guess is she won’t be gettin’ any money until she cuts them in or goes for the sheriff.”

  “If you ask me, everyone we’ve met in this town is out to see us gone.” Cherish had only been out twice on short errands, but she’d seen the frowns as people passed her on the street. No respectable women lived in Hell’s Half-Acre, even on the hill. Between the townspeople’s mistrust and the Yankee soldiers’ looks, she’d about decided it might be safer to talk her aunt into selling the house and living somewhere else. Cherish doubted her aunt would pay a dime under the table and that seemed to be the only way anything worked in this place. It didn’t surprise her that the banker would be corrupt, but she didn’t know about the sheriff. “Bar,” she asked as she finished cleaning, “what would the men in town do if they knew there was a northern spy around?”

  “Don’t rightly know.” Bar scratched his dirty hair. “Back before the war there was a couple of Northerners that tried to stir up the slaves. White folks caught them by gettin’ a loyal black to lie under the boards at church and listen to them talkin’ of helpin’ the slaves run away. Some of the men was mighty upset. They strung up the Northerners down at the hangin’ tree and let their bodies swing till there wasn’t nothin’ left but the bones. But that was five years and a war ago.”

  Cherish nodded. It was a lifetime ago, she thought. Now, if she turned in Grayson she’d probably be the one hanged. One thing she knew for certain: if Grayson found Brant, the wounded outlaw would be the dead man. Her only alternative was to help Brant and pray that he got safely away before Grayson stumbled across him.

  She shoved the cleaning bucket into the hallway. “Would you go downstairs and get a bowl of that soup Azile left warming? I’ll check on Brant.”

  Bar disappeared down the stairs as Cherish unlocked the door to her room. Bulky shadows and thin ribbons of light made everything seem out of focus for a moment. She was several feet into the room before she saw that the bed was empty.

  The door snapped closed with a pop. She fought back a scream as her worries blossomed into fears. Cherish whirled with the sudden instinct of a trapped animal and slammed into the bandaged chest of Brant Coulter.

  Before she could step away, he pulled her against him, steadying himself as well as her with his actions. “I knew it was you taking care of me,” he whispered. “When the pain was too great to even open my eyes, I could feel your hands moving acr
oss me. Each time I dreamed I was burning in hell, your cool fingers would touch me. Even when I turned my head into the pillow to fight back the screams I could smell your perfume in the linen.”

  Cherish didn’t try to pull away. She told herself it was because she wasn’t sure he could stand alone, but her heart knew it was far more. She wanted to see how tall this man who haunted her dreams was as he stood beside her. She wanted to look into his face and see how much of him was real and how much she’d made up from her need to have someone in her life.

  When she didn’t speak, he lifted her chin. “How long have I been here?”

  Cherish was fascinated by his rust-brown eyes that flamed with anger and need. His chestnut hair covered his forehead and several days of stubble formed a short beard over his strong jawline. He was the most dangerous man she’d ever met. But somehow she felt no fear as he spread his hands out along her back and pulled her to him with a need pounding in his heart as primal as jungle drums.

  “Three days.” Her voice was lower than a whisper, but it only needed to travel a few inches to reach him. “I dug the bullet out of your chest the first night. The fever had already set in and didn’t break until this morning.”

  “How could I not recover when the sight of you was waiting for me?” He brushed his thumb over her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “You’re even more beautiful than you feel and smell.”

  Cherish smiled. “And you still have some fever. I’ve been afraid more than once that you wouldn’t pull through.”

  “You saved my life,” he whispered in more of a question than a statement. “That’s the second time.”

  “It will all be wasted if you reopen the wound.” She studied him and wondered if anyone had ever gotten him to follow orders in his life. There was a sadness that must have taken years to layer into his gaze. “You should stay in bed,” she added, realizing that his fingers still touched her jaw.