Tattler's Branch

by Jan Watson

  After a moment, Cletus answered. Amy was in his arms. The little girl squealed with excitement when she saw Lilly. She pointed one tiny finger toward the room behind her. “Baba dere,” she said. “Baba night-night.”

  “Is Anne here?” Lilly asked as the Beckers’ rawboned hound dog sniffed around her ankles.

  “Nah.”

  Lilly’s heart plunged. “Will she be back soon, Cletus? It’s important that I talk to her.”

  “Just left out,” he mumbled with his chin tucked into his neck. “Gone to town.”

  “Skip Rock?”

  “Nah, Perry.”

  Lilly’s heart sank. Anne could be gone for hours. She could feel the threat of the weapon pointed at her back. She knew the man could hear every word. “I need to take Glory for some medical tests. Could you get her for me?”

  He put Amy down and went back inside. Amy tugged on Lilly’s skirt and raised her arms. Lilly swung her up. She buried her nose in the girl’s sweet-smelling neck. Tears threatened to overtake her. Please, Lord, she silently prayed, let Cletus notice that something is wrong.

  He was gone for several minutes. Lilly had to steel herself from looking over her shoulder at the buggy. Maybe Cletus was loading his gun, or maybe he’d fled out the back door to run for help. Oh, but the Beckers didn’t have a back door.

  Amy sucked her fingers and laid her head on Lilly’s shoulder. Lilly fought to distract her racing heart. “Does Sassy like her new home?” she asked.

  Amy rewarded her with a big, toothy smile. “Oink-oink dere,” she said, looking across the yard.

  “Yes,” Lilly said, bouncing the girl in her arms. “Sassy’s in the barn.”

  “Err-err-err in a barn,” Amy chortled.

  “Yes, rooster’s in the barn too. You’re such a smart girl.”

  “Horsey?”

  “Yes, that’s a horsey.”

  Amy pointed at the buggy. “Who dere?”

  Lilly turned slightly away from the man’s line of vision and whispered, “A very bad man is in the buggy. Bad, bad man.”

  “Baaa,” Amy bleated like a sheep.

  Lilly’s heart skipped when she heard the buggy door click open and closed. He was giving her a warning. What was taking Cletus so long?

  Finally Cletus returned with Glory in her Moses basket. Lilly set Amy down and took the baby. “Thank you, Cletus. Tell Anne I’m sorry to have missed her.”

  Amy started crying. “Baba here,” she sobbed and stomped her little foot. “Baba here.”

  Cletus swept Amy up and turned his back. Lilly heard the door shut behind her as she stumbled down the steps.

  Chapter 26

  The wagon bumped and squeaked all the way up Tattler’s Branch Road. Armina held herself ramrod straight on her portion of the seat between Turnip Tippen, who was all slouched down relaxed-like, and Sheriff Clay, who was tense as a racehorse at the gate. She clutched the canvas shoes tightly in her lap. Doc Lilly was sure to need them.

  Hannah was in the bed of the wagon. Armina hoped she wasn’t getting too jostled back there. It had been unnecessary for the sheriff to bring the nurse along; Armina had no intention of falling ill again. Once the awful memories had fully surfaced, her brain clicked along on all its gears. She was kindly glad Hannah was there, though; she was starting to feel like a friend.

  Armina watched closely for the narrow bridge as the wagon rolled along. Things looked different from up here. “Stop,” she said when she spotted the stately tulip poplar under which she’d waited out the rain that day. “Let me down. I remember that there tree.”

  Turnip jumped down from the bench and forged ahead like he was chief of the Indians. Sheriff Clay stood back for a moment, taking in the scene. Hannah stayed beside Armina, pinching her elbow lightly as they walked toward the tree.

  “This is where I stopped for a break that day,” Armina said. “Ye can hear the creek.”

  Turnip slapped the long, straight tree with the flat of his hand, startling a flock of red-winged blackbirds. The birds burst from the top of the tree, dislodging hundreds of tulip poplar seeds, which pinwheeled through the air. “This here trunk would make a fine canoe,” Turnip said while brushing the debris from his hair.

  “Weren’t nobody talking about canoes, Turnip,” Armina said, wishing she could push him off in one. Maybe he’d float all the way to the Mississippi.

  The sheriff coughed behind his fist. Armina saw a little smile play around his lips. He must be as weary of Turnip Tippen as she was. The man had not stopped talking all the way from Skip Rock, yet he hadn’t said one important word.

  “Stand back if you don’t mind, Turnip,” the sheriff said. “Let’s give Miz Armina a little space.”

  Hannah took the shoes from her. “I’ll keep these safe, Armina.” She followed Turnip back to the wagon. The seeds popped like corn under their feet.

  Armina stood under the tree with the sheriff. It was definitely the right one. “The bridge is over yonder,” she said.

  “You all come along—” he motioned to Turnip and Hannah—“but hang back a ways.”

  She appreciated the young man’s effort. It must be hard for him to match his pace with hers. He surely wanted to hurry things up. For her own self she wanted to find Doc . . . and she didn’t. She was mortally concerned about what the outcome might be. A body wasn’t jerked out of their own shoes without being forced. She didn’t think she could bear it if Doc had been hurt. Especially since Armina had started this whole thing.

  Behind them, the red-winged blackbirds swarmed the poplar again, screeching and chattering their claim.

  Armina stopped just shy of the bridge to get her bearings. “This is the bridge I crossed with my berry bucket. See the gate there among the brambles?”

  They trooped across the bridge one at a time. Armina made certain she didn’t look down. There might be a pile of bones under there.

  When they approached the gate, the sheriff drew his pistol. Turnip carried a shotgun. The sheriff motioned for Armina and Hannah to stay back. Hannah clasped Armina’s hand tight enough to cut off her circulation. As soon as the men disappeared among the trees, Armina pulled her forward. They huddled behind the very same tree where Armina had hidden that awful day.

  The house looked as tidy as when Armina had seen it last. She didn’t see a thing out of place. The flower garden wasn’t so pretty, though. The red and orange zinnias drooped, and the yellow marigolds needed a good pruning.

  Sheriff Clay sent Turnip around to the back of the house while he went up the porch steps and pounded on the front door. “Sheriff!” he yelled. “Open up!”

  When no one answered, he raised his booted foot and kicked the door in. With gun raised, he went inside.

  Hannah stood so close behind Armina that she could feel the woman’s sharp intake of breath and hear her whispered prayer: “Oh, Lord, please let Dr. Still be okay.”

  Armina was so thankful for the words that she reached up and patted the hand that Hannah had clamped to her shoulder like a vise.

  In moments that seemed like hours, the sheriff came out shaking his head. He called for Turnip, and they stood on the porch together like comrades in arms. Armina and Hannah walked up to the yard.

  “Can you be certain this is the right house, Miz Armina?” the sheriff said, his face a study in disappointment.

  “I’m certain sure. I even remember the flowers.” A shovel sporting a rusty blade had fallen over in the garden and a pickax leaned against the rail. Armina toed the blade of the shovel. “Looks like the tools he carried off that day.”

  “Show me where you went inside,” the sheriff said, following her to the window at the side of the house.

  “It was raised that day. I crawled right over the sill.”

  “Let’s go inside. I want to see where the baby was when you found her.”

  The sheriff poked around in every corner. The house was neat as a pin. There wasn’t a cobweb or a dust bunny anywhere that Armina could see. The only
thing out of place was a ragged-edged square of paper poking out from behind the kitchen stove.

  Sheriff Clay bent to pick it up. He showed the page to her. “Do these pictures look anything like the baby you found?”

  “Somewhat,” she said, squinting to take it in. “She was an odd-looking little thing.”

  He examined the page as if it were a bug and he had a microscope. “Hmm. This look like blood to you?”

  She looked at a smear on the paper. “Dried up, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It does.”

  “Oh, man,” he said.

  Chanis was reaching for the doorknob when Armina spied something else out of place. On the wall beside the door, a red lard bucket and a sycamore walking stick hung from a peg. She took the stick down and examined it as Chanis watched.

  “I can’t vouch for the bucket,” she said, “but this is my stick. This proves my story.”

  “It sure does,” Chanis said.

  Armina took her stick outside while the men searched around the cabin and up to Tattler’s Branch. Neither she nor Hannah felt like talking. They could hear Turnip and the sheriff thrashing around in various places.

  Soon Turnip returned for the shovel. His face was white as a sheet. “It don’t look good” was all he said before he left again.

  “You see any reason we shouldn’t make coffee?” Hannah asked.

  Armina remembered the grating sounds she’d heard the day she took the baby. “No reason at all,” she said, certain as she was that Doc Lilly was not in this place. “It’ll give us something to do while we wait.”

  Armina measured the grounds she’d found on a shelf while Hannah went to the well to fetch water. This kitchen was a puzzle, what with its cheery red-checked curtains at the window and the pink-and-green china so carefully stacked in the cupboard. It was hard to imagine how people who lived in such a welcoming place could wind up wrestling in the creek—much less how one could smack the other upside the head with a rock. Especially if the one that got smacked happened to be the mother of a baby. What would make a woman cleave to a man like that?

  She took the lid from the coffeepot and peered inside. It was clean as a whistle. Armina’s own sister had a husband mean as a chained dog, always nipping at her with his condescending words. But her sister had hightailed it home the first time he’d shown her the back of his hand. Maybe the baby’s mother didn’t have anywhere else to go. Or maybe putting up with a man like that felt natural to her—some women didn’t have much gumption.

  “Looks like a storm’s brewing,” Hannah said, setting the water bucket on the sink. “That’s all we need.”

  Armina stuck another chunk of wood into the cookstove before putting the coffeepot on the heating burner. “If it ain’t one thing, it’s another.”

  The men were glad for the coffee when they came in, their faces set in grim lines.

  “We found the grave,” Sheriff Clay said. “I figure it to be the mother of the baby you found that’s lying there.”

  “Was her head . . . ?”

  “Yeah, just like you said.”

  Armina bustled around, tamping down the stove, rinsing out the pot, dashing the water Sheriff Clay and Turnip had washed their hands in, while the sheriff jotted things down in his notebook. She couldn’t say why it was important, but she didn’t want to leave the house in disarray.

  Thunder rolled across the mountains and swept up the holler.

  “Let’s head out,” Sheriff Clay said.

  “Are we going to leave her like that?” Hannah asked as tears spilled from her eyes.

  “We covered her back up,” the sheriff said. “That’s the best we could do for now.”

  Armina figured she should keep watch on Hannah. She climbed up into the wagon’s bed and settled down beside the distraught woman.

  Turnip unfolded a tarp and draped it over them, tucking the tail underneath their feet. “Sit tight, ladies, and you won’t get wet.”

  Armina found herself appreciating his efforts. Good gravy, was she going to have to change all her opinions?

  “Maybe Dr. Still will be waiting when we get back,” Hannah said, dabbing at her tears.

  Rain tap-danced over their heads as they rode tight as ticks in their temporary tent. “Let’s call on the Lord,” Armina said as the storm broke.

  Chapter 27

  Shade Harmon kept his eyes on the lady’s back. Dr. Still—what an appropriate name. Even after that steep climb this morning and then being locked up in that room, she kept her composure. And then she’d unrolled that snake shed for the boy like it was no more than a strip of crepe paper, like they were going to have a birthday party. Still Waters—that’d be the perfect moniker for her.

  He’d need to keep on his toes while around her; that was sure. He could see she was always thinking of ways to outwit him. Saying she wouldn’t come with him unless he brought the boy inside—and him holding the gun. Little Miss High-and-Mighty was about to find out who was in charge of this roll of the dice.

  He pulled at the handkerchief he’d wrapped around the cut on his hand. It was healing well—no fresh blood—but the hankie was stuck like glue. He’d have to soak it off.

  Man, he had his share of troubles. And that kid, he’d sure put a crimp in his plans, nosy brat, always sneaking around, spying. Shade’s luck had held, though, as it usually did. The boy had become the perfect tool for keeping the doctor in place.

  He pushed his hat up a ways with the barrel of the gun. What was taking so long? He watched her swing a little girl back and forth in her arms as she waited on the porch. Talk about your phenomenal luck. Meeting up with Grunt and the boys last night for one last game had been the flukiest thing yet. Hoppy had goaded Grunt about playing with coins instead of bills. Grunt just shook his hangdog head, managing to stutter a few words about a new baby in his house, a foundling his wife had taken in. A lightbulb had gone off then, nearly blinding Shade with knowledge. It all made a perfect, if illogical, sense.

  He’d thought of following Grunt home and taking the baby by force, but he didn’t want it to go down that way. A gambler’s best bet was to stick to the plan—never let them see your hand.

  The little girl laughed. Soon, Shade would hold his own baby girl in his arms. He pictured them years from now, Betsy Lane laughing with delight over some little something. Maybe he could find some of those Mother Goose books to read to her. Little Miss Muffet and all that.

  Finally the doctor was coming down the steps and heading to the buggy. Shade leaned across the seat and opened the door from the inside. The doctor stepped up awkwardly, then slid inside with Betsy Lane in her basket cradle. He flicked the reins and the buggy rolled out of the yard.

  On their way to the Beckers’, the doctor had shown a keen interest in the house with the Quarantine sign. She was more than likely hoping someone there would notice her through the buggy window. Now as they approached the house again, he ordered her to duck down in the seat.

  She gave him a look and stayed as she was. “They’re all inside,” she said.

  He admired her poker face. She was a cool customer. The gun rested with authority in his lap. The horse’s hooves clip-clopped along the dirt road. They could have been any family out for a ride.

  A family? Why hadn’t he seen the possibility before? Nobody would question a family traveling with a baby. He wasn’t exactly changing the plan; he was just adding to it, taking advantage of the situation, as it were.

  After a few minutes, Shade pulled the horse over into a grove of trees. He wanted to see his daughter.

  “Give her to me,” he said.

  The doctor put the basket on the buggy floor. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said as she lifted the baby from her nest of blankets. “Oh, you’re fresh as a daisy.” She passed the bundle to him, saying, “Support her head.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m her father, aren’t I?”

  His hands trembled as he undid the soft flannel wrap. It was her—
his baby girl. She yawned and stretched with her whole body, then opened her eyes wide and looked straight at him with her blue all-knowing gaze. She didn’t cry or startle. His daughter hadn’t forgotten him. The world stood still. Every bit of everything he’d ever gone through was worth this moment.

  He traced her cheeks and she turned her face toward his hand. He laughed. “She looks good. Her face is fuller, and her hands—look how plump.”

  “The Beckers take good care of her.”

  “Well, I’ll be taking care of her from here on out.” He lifted the baby to his shoulder and patted her back. “Her name’s Betsy Lane,” he said.

  “That’s quite lovely. Is it a family name?”

  “Of a sort,” he said, laying the baby on his lap so that he could see her face again. He couldn’t get enough of her almond eyes and her loopy smile. She began to whimper.

  “Cletus put a bottle of milk in the basket. Do you want to feed her?”

  “Do I need your permission?” he snapped, the gun resting under the baby giving bravado to his words.

  “Of course not,” the doctor said with a shrug.

  Betsy Lane squirmed and mouthed one tiny fist. “It’s not like I’ve never fed her before,” Shade said.

  He tipped the bottle. Betsy took the nipple and sucked. There—he knew what he was doing. Then milk flooded from her nose and she turned a frightening bluish color. Without a thought, he handed her over.

  The doctor mopped milk with the corner of Betsy’s blanket. When Betsy recovered, the doctor handed her back. “Try holding her in a semireclining position while she feeds. See if that helps.”

  It made the feeding easier, and she didn’t strain to suck as she did with the nipples he’d bought at the store. “She likes this better—seems like she doesn’t have to work so hard to get milk.”

  “We enlarged the hole in the tip. The milk flows better that way. You might want to let her rest a bit every few sucks. She tires easily.”