Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  Then he did the most awful thing. He stormed over to his simmering camp fire and kicked over the pot of beans. She watched in famished horror as they spilled over the fire, the rich brown sauce steaming and sizzling before it bled into the dry dirt. Instinctively she hugged her middle, as if she were protecting her poor empty stomach from the appalling sight. The palm of her right hand began to rub her stomach soothingly.

  There was still the plate, hidden behind the tree. Her stomach growled as if in relief.

  Mr. Parker had walked over and was speaking quietly to his client, their backs turned toward Addie and Levi, who had been strangely quiet during all this. She turned to him. "Thank you."

  His expression changed from one of uncertainty to a cream-whiskered grin. "I'm glad you're happy. I don't know how the judge would have decided this case if you two had been there." He shook his balding head. "We took him right over to the hotel the first thing this morning, but neither of you were there. We looked around, but the judge had to be in Stockton by this afternoon and Angel's Camp tonight, so he insisted on trying the case with only Wade and myself serving as your representatives. We might have won, Addie, had you been there."

  "He could have won too." She nodded to the other men. "Maybe I can buy him out. I was willing to do that before."

  "Farming isn't easy."

  "I'll hire help if I have to, but I'm staying. Besides, I figure to start out slowly, restocking the farm. I can get by just raising chickens at first."

  "Okay, then we might as well get on with the inventory." Levi turned and asked Wade if he was ready to start. Mr. Creed came with Wade.

  Levi turned to Addie. "You want to come along while we do this?"

  "I am." Mr. Creed crossed his arms and pinned her with his "dare you" look.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of the hidden beans. "I trust my lawyer. All I need is a written copy of the inventory. I have things to do." Food to swipe.

  She watched them head for the barn, and after an agonizing few minutes they disappeared.

  Now was her chance.

  Addie spun around and made for the tree, only to go about five feet and then stop dead in her tracks. His horse was nibbling on the grass right next to her beans.

  "Dadgummit!" she swore.

  The horse glanced up, giving her an annoyed look.

  "Shoo! Horsey! Shoo!" She waved her hands in front of her, hoping the horse would take the hint. He didn't; he just kept gnawing closer and closer to the plate.

  She panicked and bent down, grabbing a handful of gravel from the nearby drive. She fingered a few of the pebbles.

  "Shoo! Shoo!" She tossed a couple pebbles near him.

  He moved closer to the plate.

  She clamped her teeth together and tossed the rest of the gravel right at the horse's backside.

  He looked up, narrowed his big brown eyes, and stuck his muzzle right in her plate of beans. He ate; she groaned. He licked his fat, pink lips, and her stomach shriveled like a raisin. Then the cruel brown devil lapped at the plate with his giant tongue and nonchalantly gazed up at her. He smacked those fat, freckled pink lips right at her.

  It was almost more than she could take. She rubbed her face with her hands, as if she could erase the whole incident. Just as defeat began to creep through her, she remembered. There was one last hope.

  She walked over to the small pot, lying on its side in the dirt. She grasped the handle and peered inside. One lone bean stared back. She sighed and reached in to pick it up, but something zipped past her face and landed right in the pot—on the bean. It was a big, black fly.

  Toad food.

  It was four o'clock, three long hours since Levi Hamilton had left with Addie's supply list. After the men had finished their inventory, she had cornered Levi and explained her food problem. He'd offered to take the list to town and have her supplies delivered that afternoon, but the afternoon was almost over.

  She stepped out onto the porch and looked eastward, toward the road. Still nothing. She walked along the porch that ran across the front of the farmhouse, making sure she didn't look at the tree. She'd had enough of that man for one day. Rounding the corner of the farmhouse, she spotted the woodpile. There were two stacks of wood, a large pile of split logs perfect for the fireplace, and next to it, a smaller stack of stove wood.

  Since the food was coming, Addie figured she might as well get the stove fired up; that way her meal would be ready all that much faster. She went over to the smaller pile and began to fill her arms with wood. She'd gathered only a few pieces when she felt it—the burn of his eyes. He was watching her.

  She forced herself to concentrate on gathering the wood and she kept filling her arms, until her chin held the last piece in place. She turned and caught him out of the corner of her eye. He stood by his horrid horse. And he stared.

  Moving with exaggerated indifference, Addie made her way to the back door, not an easy task. It was hard to see with her chin propped on top of the wood, and nigh on impossible for her to look down. She lifted her foot and felt around for the bottom step. Once she had her foot firmly atop the step, she pushed up. She made it. Only three steps to go, but she could still feel his eyes on her. It was as if he were waiting for her to fall or drop the wood. The thought made her all that more determined not to do either one, even though she realized now that she'd overloaded her small arms.

  Pretend they're books, she told herself, stepping up one more wooden step. That was it. She needed to pretend they were heavy books, like encyclopedia. She had always amazed the library staff with her ability to juggle the heaviest stacks of books. So she called on that talent now, when her pride needed it the most. It was tough though because she was out of practice, so she leaned her right shoulder against the wooden siding on the house and made it up one more.

  There was only one left. Taking a deep breath, she put her foot on the porch platform and pushed upward.

  She made it.

  It was the sudden applause, snapping loudly from the direction of the tree, that made her drop the wood.

  "Dadgummit!" She turned and glared at him, the wood sticks scattered around her feet like pages from an unbound book.

  The rich deep sound of his laughter filled the farmyard. Addie bent down and picked up a few pieces of wood. It helped to hide the red she could feel flooding her cheeks. When she straightened, he was walking toward her, still chuckling, and leading that devil of a horse of his. The horse plodded along behind him, looking innocent but full. All that horse had done since she first saw it was eat, something she hadn't done since midday yesterday. They ambled by and the horse looked right at her and snorted.

  She spun around and went inside, dropping the wood into an empty box by the stove. She went back outside to gather the rest of her spilled wood, and she saw where they were heading. The sated horse stood at the empty water trough while his owner began to work the pump—her pump.

  Holding one of the stove sticks up to her forehead to shade the setting sun, Addie yelled, "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Watering Jericho." He kept right on pumping while the rusty pump sputtered and burped a small trickle of brown water.

  "Stop! Stop it, I say!"

  He ignored her and pumped away.

  She tossed a piece of wood at his feet, and his horse shied.

  He pinned her with an angry, cold glare. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  "Get away from my pump!"

  "Like hell. It's my water!"

  "But it's my pump and my trough."

  "How am I supposed to water my horse?"

  "I really don't care how, but you will not use my pump." She crossed her arms and stuck her nose up, looking down at him with what she hoped was the same smug look he'd worn. "Maybe you should dig your own well, Mr. Creed, or find a convenient river."

  She picked up the last few pieces of wood. "If you wish to lease the use of my well, you can contact Mr. Hamilton, and after we set a price, he can draw up a cont
ract. Until that time, you cannot use my pump. Should you try to use it without my permission, I will have you arrested for appropriating my property. Good day!" With a swift kick, Addie closed her door behind her, shutting out the string of curses that filled the farmyard.

  Chapter 5

  It was late in the afternoon, and still the temperature must have been ninety. Montana dumped the last of his canteen into a tin plate. He set it on the grass in front of the tree and watched as Jericho lapped it up.

  "Dig your own well," he mimicked. "As if digging a new well was as easy as licking butter off a knife." He paced around the tree, slapping a flannel shirt out of his way and ducking beneath a low branch. Hell, he thought, the job would take a good two days with a well-digger.

  They needed water, so he'd have to sneak over at night, when she was asleep. He'd steal his own water just like she'd tried to steal his beans. He'd seen her eyeing the beans, even heard her stomach growl like thunder. He smiled at the memory of toying with her when she was trying to be so smooth. She'd been as obvious as a prostitute in church.

  It hadn't taken him long to figure out that she had no food, none at all, and it made his day. He needed something to make his day since it had already been so bad. No judge in his right mind should have considered her claim legitimate. The land was legally his. He had the deed, the legal deed, and still the damn court upheld her stupid claim. It wasn't his fault that her aunt and uncle had been duped. It wasn't his fault they'd picked Doc's land for a farm. They'd been using the land for all those years, and it seemed to him that they should have had to pay him rent or something, but instead that woman ended up getting half his farm—his land.

  There was no other land available in the valley, according to Wade Parker. Except for a few dozen small farms like this one, the majority of the land was still owned by descendents of Bernal, who had claimed the land in a Spanish land grant. As Wade had informed him, the Bernals didn't sell their land, ever.

  He would not give this land up. His father had fought for his land, even given his life for it. Doc gave him this place, Montana thought, gave him his dream, and he'd be damned if he'd give up without a fight. That Pinky woman and her lawyer had no idea just who they were tangling with. He was a Creed, and Creeds didn't give up.

  He began to pace again. Judge's ruling or no, he'd get the farm. He would make her life so miserable, so unlivable, that she'd give up. She would take her little city fanny and hightail it back to wherever she'd come from. He would drive her away any way he could. There was no way he'd let that pesky little fly of a woman beat him. No way on this earth.

  The jangle of harness bells sounded from the road. Montana turned and watched the cloud of orange dust billow along the eastern border of the farm. He grabbed Jericho's mane, mounted bareback, and rode to the end of the drive.

  It was the same old codger and wagon that the Pinky woman had used to sneak out here. The wagon bounced over the road ruts at what must have been a tooth-rattling speed. The driver pulled back on the reins only a few feet from the farm entrance, and the team skidded to a dusty stop, the barrels, boxes, and cans banging and rolling on the wagon bed.

  Montana fanned away the dust and leaned forward, resting his arm on Jericho's damp neck. "What can I do for you, mister?"

  The driver rolled a fat cigar stub over to the corner of his mouth. "I'm s'pose ta deliver this here stuff ta the little missy."

  Montana stretched his neck to get a look at the wagon load.

  "Yoo-hooooo! Mr. McGeeeeee!"

  Montana turned at the sound of her voice, and watched "the little missy" run down the steps and hurry toward them.

  So he waited.

  She crunched toward them on the gravel, and as each step brought her closer, Montana's anticipation heightened. This time he had her.

  She stopped, well away from the horses. "Mr. McGee—''

  "Custus," the old man corrected.

  "Uh, Custus, I'm so glad you've finally arrived. It's getting late, and we need to get the supplies unloaded before dark. Just drive right around to the back door there." She pointed toward the farmhouse.

  "I'm afraid that's not possible," Montana informed her.

  Her dark eyes narrowed. "And just why not?"

  "It's my land, and I don't choose to let this wagon on it."

  "You can't do that!"

  Montana purposely nudged Jericho forward.

  She took two quick steps back. "I have a right to use this land. My lawyer wrote it into our papers."

  Sitting back on his horse, Montana tipped back the rim of his hat and looked down at her. "As I understand it, Miss Pinky, you do have that right. But he," Montana thumbed at the old man, "doesn't."

  Her mouth dropped open.

  Montana loved it. "I do not choose to let this wagon nor your friend here on my property." He smiled and nudged his horse closer.

  Her lips pursed together as she stepped back again, and she glared daggers at him.

  He couldn't help it; he laughed.

  "Decide what yer doin'. I ain't got all day here." Custus pulled the cigar from his mouth and spat on the ground.

  She spun around toward the old man. "Unload here please, Custus."

  Custus lit his cigar. "All of it? Ice and all, right here, huh?"

  She mouthed the word "ice," closed her eyes for a brief second, and then looked right at Montana, her prissy little nose up so high he figured she'd drown if it rained.

  "Yes." The word clipped from her mouth. "Here, on the public road. Don't touch his precious land."

  Custus hopped down from the wagon seat and unbolted the chains that held the tailgate. He puffed on his cigar and dropped the gate. A few dozen bright colored cans thudded to the ground. She marched over, waving the clouds of cigar smoke out of her way, Montana decided to take up cigars. Then she frowned at the old man. He shrugged, puffed some more, and grabbed a sack of flour, swinging it onto the ground. It looked to be about a hundred-pound bag.

  Montana chuckled to himself. He doubted if she weighed that much. This was going to be good, real good. So he sat back and watched, just to annoy her, as Custus unloaded the entire wagon. Two ice blocks, about two feet square, solid and heavy, were packed in protective straw. He stacked them to the side. Crates of canned goods, jars, and tins were soon stacked up three high on the dusty road. Sacks labeled Spreckles Sugar, Arbuckle Coffee, and Great Northern Beans soon lined up next to a large crate of Washington State Apples.

  The old man unloaded a bag of Quaker Oats and set it on the apple crate. Jericho whinnied and the Pinky woman grabbed the bag faster than chain lightning. Hugging it to her chest, she scurried to the other side of the wagon, all the time giving his horse a wary look.

  The hot sun was almost behind the western foothills by the time the wagon was empty. Custus dusted off his hands, swiped the sweat from his face with a old bandanna, and closed the wagon's tailgate. The Pinky woman put her hand deep in her skirt pocket and pulled out a small pouch. "How much do I owe you?"

  Custus lit another cigar and puffed. "Forty-three dollars for the supplies and two dollars for the delivery."

  She pulled some bills from the pouch and paused in her counting. "I thought you only charged a dollar?"

  "Ya hear'd of supply and demand? Well now, ya needed them there supplies, so I'm demandin' two dollars." He took the bills, counted them, held one up to the setting sun and scrutinized it, then tucked them in his torn shirt pocket.

  She pulled out another bill and handed it to him after he hopped back in the wagon seat. "Please tell Mr. Hamilton that I'd like to see him." She eyed Montana. "First thing tomorrow morning."

  Custus tucked the bill away with the others and, puffing on his cigar, turned the wagon back toward town and took off at a full run.

  She just stood there a moment, waiting for the dust to settle and staring at the mound of foodstuffs. Montana watched her take a deep breath and pick up the closest crate. Her small arms went straight as fence posts from the weight
of the heavy crate and she started toward the farmhouse, shuffling along the drive.

  He had to do it. Montana kneed Jericho forward and they walked along the opposite side of the drive, staying parallel with her as she did her best to carry the crate. It took only a few minutes for her to notice.

  She stopped and set the crate down. Pulling a splinter from her hand, she scowled up at him. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

  "Nope." He smiled and tipped his hat. He'd done it, given her the first installment of trouble. A few days of this and she'd be long gone, scurrying back to the city where she belonged.

  She finished rubbing the circulation back into her hands and bent down and picked up the crate. Without a backward glance she took off, muttering something. Montana tried to decipher her mumbling. He shook his head, trying to make sense of what he thought she'd said. It sounded like she'd said "toe."

  The back door slammed shut. Addie dropped the crate and grabbed a jar. She scurried into the pantry, seized a jar wrench, and pried off the sealed lid. Two seconds later her cheeks bulged with a whole, plump, spiced peach.

  It was heaven, pure heaven, except for the pit.

  She spit it out and eased onto a small pine bench, her back against the pantry shelves. And she chewed. Her eyelids drifted closed and she savored the fruit, all juicy sweet and spicy with cinnamon… and nutmeg… and allspice. It tasted like sunshine.

  As she stuck her fingers into the jar for another one, she vowed to never, ever take food for granted again. Chewing with the delicacy of a masticating cow, she set the jar down and wiped her hands on her skirt. She stood and walked to the crate, determination driving every footstep. Now she wanted beans.

  She plucked each item from the crate: Fanny Purdy's Pickles, Dr. Goody's Curative Rhubarb Relish, Mrs. Todd's Mincemeat, and Prince Albert Marmelaide, but no cans and no beans. There must have been ten cans of Charles River Baked Beans bouncing off the wagon and rolling around the dirt road. She remembered seeing the distinctive yellow and red labels right before that carnivorous horse had whinnied after her oatmeal. It was just her luck to grab the wrong crate. Well, she had to bring in the supplies anyway, so she might as well get started. Of course to do that she had to tolerate him and his devil horse.