Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  She crept to the window and peered out. She couldn't see him. He wasn't by the tree, although all his clothes still decorated it like a ragman's tinsel. She leaned to the other side, but she couldn't see the south end of the farmyard. Why was she suddenly uneasy?

  The water! Addie barreled out the back door, sure she'd catch him.

  The farmyard was empty. He wasn't there.

  With her eyes narrowed in suspicion, she descended the steps. Just because he wasn't there didn't mean he hadn't been there already. She wouldn't put it past him. She walked over to the pump. It appeared untouched. She looked into the trough; it was damp, but no more so than it had been earlier, when she'd stopped him from using the pump. She looked around the back of the farmhouse. The orchard held nothing but full, plump green trees. No sign of anyone. The chicken yard stood empty as a church on Saturday night, and the big, weathered, two-story barn appeared untouched. He must have gone to find a river, because it was quiet, so, so quiet, and peaceful.

  The sun had sunk below the western foothills, turning the blue sky into a fiery silver-pink, just like the inside of a seashell she'd once seen. A flock of birds, flying in an arrow, shot across the pearly sky, and the evening's first cricket chirruped through the silence. Addie relaxed and smiled. She was home.

  She walked along the back of the house, just looking at the south end of the farm. Not far from the back of the house was a small staked area. She hadn't seen this before. As she stepped closer she could see the remains of some small furrows and a few brown, sunburned plants. This must have been her aunt's garden. Addie bent and plucked one of the dead plants. A small, shriveled brown carrot dangled from the liver-colored leaves. It should have been a fat, crisp carrot suitable for a raisin salad or a spicy cake, but now it was mottled and limp. She sat down on a small vegetable cart and stared at the carrot, lying so lifeless in her palm. Then she gazed out toward the fields, plowed under, barren, and brown. This place was her aunt's dream, and through the letters and years, it had also become her dream. She remembered every color, every bit of life of which her aunt had written, and at that moment she knew that the farm needed its own renaissance, to come to life again. No more barren fields, no more empty chicken yard, no more dead garden. She was here and she would breathe life back into this farm.

  Tossing the dead carrot on the ground, she stood, filled with renewed determination. She needed to get those supplies inside, get settled as quickly as possible, and shape up this farm. She dusted the dirt from her derriere and glanced down at the cart. It was almost a miniature version of a hay cart, with two front wheels and back legs and long wooden handles with which to roll it. Her aunt must have used it to haul manure or fresh dirt. In fact, it was coated with a thick layer of dirt. But the cart was sturdy.

  She smiled, her eyes alight with a new idea. Grasping the wooden handles, she lifted the cart and rolled it to the back door. She ran inside, through the kitchen, dining room, and parlor, and down the small hallway to a storage closet. She flung open the door and grabbed her bicycle, pressing down on the handlebars and testing the tires for air loss as she rolled it back to the kitchen. They needed more air. She snapped the tire pump off the shaft and attached it to the tire valve. She pumped that plunger over and over, imagining the toad's face when he saw her. She would show him. No one would stop Adelaide Amanda Pinkney.

  A few minutes later she thumped her shiny black bicycle down the back landing, and propped the cycle against the railing. She was ready to attach the cart. She found some rope near the barn and looped it through the metal pull rings on the cart handles. Then she tied it around the seat post. Mounting the seat with an experienced cyclist's ease, Addie tested her invention. It worked fine empty, but good sense told her that she'd better test it loaded.

  At the woodpile she stopped and filled the cart with enough wood to weight it down. For momentum she pushed the cycle forward a few yards and then used a running mount. She made it about ten feet before the rope caught in the spokes. She stopped dead, straddling the crossbar with her green serge skirt hiked up past her knees and her shoe heels buried in the soft dirt.

  Dadgummit! It didn't work. She gripped the handlebars and shoved forward, looking over her shoulder as she hobbled along, trying to see the problem. Sweat dripped from her head before she realized that the rope was too taut. It needed some give, buoyancy like seat springs, to allow for the bumps in the ground.

  But what? She glanced down and, like an answered prayer, her eyes locked on her stocking supporters, her pink elastic stocking supporters. Fifteen minutes later, with her cart bouncing behind her like a baby buggy, Addie rounded the corner of the farmhouse, gravel spitting in her wake and her myrtle-green hose sagging around her ankles.

  The toad was standing in front of her supplies, and his horse stood behind them. Still aiming to show him, she pedaled faster and lifted her nose a notch higher.

  She skidded to a stop right in front of him. The gravel crunched and sprayed at his boots, just as she'd hoped. She dismounted and leaned the cycle by a stack of crates. Wiping her sweaty hands on her skirt, she turned. "Couldn't find a river?"

  He shook the gravel off his boots, tilted his hat back and smirked.

  She hated that smirk.

  "I didn't need a river." He nodded at his horse. "Jericho found what he needed."

  Addie walked around the supply pile and screamed. "He's licking my ice! For godsakes, stop him!"

  "He was thirsty."

  "That… is… my… ice."

  "Well then, maybe you ought to get it off the public road." He leaned back against her supplies, crossed his arms—and his boots—and watched that damnable horse of his.

  The two ice blocks, packed in straw, were stacked, and the horse lapped up the insulating straw, melting ice with a long stroke of his huge tongue. He turned his head toward Addie and chomped; his brown eyes appeared almost gleeful. Then he swallowed and licked the drops of water that were dripping down the sides of the block.

  "Get him away from there!" she said, frantically waving her pointed finger at the horse.

  "It's your ice. You get him away."

  "It's your horse!"

  "He's thirsty because you won't let him have my water. Animals find water when they need it. He's only acting naturally."

  "Then he can act 'naturally' near a river, but get him away from my ice. That's stealing, Mr. Creed."

  "You should know. You stole my land."

  "I did not. It's my farm—''

  "On my land," he interrupted.

  Addie spun around and grabbed a crate of cans. "The court didn't see it that way."

  "That court couldn't 'see' through a barbed-wire fence."

  She loaded her crate in the cart and looked him straight in the eye. "How much do you want?"

  "For what?"

  "For your precious land."

  He stood stiff as a banker's collar. "It's not for sale."

  "Why not? I'll pay you a fair price, though heaven knows why I should."

  He stepped closer to her, and she could almost see him shake with fury.

  "It's not for sale."

  He was mad again. She could tell because he'd been shouting for a good three minutes. She'd gotten him.

  "Why not just sell me the land and go buy your own farm?"

  "This is my own farm."

  "Half of everything grown will be mine. The court decreed it."

  He strode to his horse, grabbed a handful of his mane and mounted. Then he turned to her, and she could have sworn she'd never seen anyone so furious.

  "You'll only get half if you last here that long." With that threat he rode off.

  "I'm staying here all right, mister." Addie shouted after him. "I might even be here to see you become human!"

  She turned and began to load her supplies, muttering, "Although I doubt either of us will live that long."

  Addie wiped the last dish and set it on the counter. She untied her apron and looked around the kitchen. It smel
led wonderful, like the beans, bacon, and biscuits she'd eaten earlier. She put the apron on a peg near the pantry door and she stretched, pulling all the stiff, tired muscles she'd used to get her supplies into the house. Washing the ice blocks hadn't been easy either. She'd had to lift them to the sink and pump water over them. Then, after wrapping them in cheesecloth, she'd lugged them over to the Arctic Ice Box and loaded them in the top compartment. The perishables were inside the lower box, cooling, in spite of that awful horse. The crates, cans, sacks, and jars all sat in the pantry, waiting for her to organize them—something she planned to do first thing in the morning.

  Her pitcher sat on the sinkboard, and she pumped it full of water, grabbed the lamp, and left the kitchen. She passed the parlor and checked the front door. It was about as secure as she could get it. Pushing the broken door up into the splintered frame hadn't been easy either. She'd used the andirons from the fireplace to prop the door up, and tried to get the hinge pins back in. She wasn't very good at that; the door still wobbled. But at least she had some privacy.

  Entering the bedroom, she set down the lamp and wash water. She pulled down the holland shades and stripped to her smallclothes. She washed the day's heat from her skin, and the cool water felt like heaven in the still air. It had been another hot day, and lugging all that stuff into the house hadn't helped.

  She pulled out her muslin nightdress with the little tucks—it was her favorite for warm summer nights—and slipped it on. Then she removed her drawers, crawled into the big feather bed and turned down the lamp wick.

  Fifteen minutes later her hair was wet with sweat. It was hot, and there was no air in the room at all. Throwing back the thin sheet, she left the bed and went to the window. She lifted the shade and opened the window, hoping some air would drift inside. When it didn't, she went to the other window and opened it too. Then she returned to bed, where she lay there, sweat still eking from her skin.

  Finally reaching a point of desperation, she pulled the sheet up to her chin and glanced around the room. Silly, there's no one in here. Under the sheet she unbuttoned the nightdress and wiggled out of it, still keeping the sheet tucked firmly under her chin.

  She was now naked. She'd never slept naked before. In fact her mother had even worn her undergarments under her nightdress, but Addie had always slept better without restrictions. Between the chemise, corset, cover, drawers, and an occasional bustle or hoop, she felt constricted all day. She didn't want to feel that way at night too, especially when it was hot.

  Addie reached down under the sheet and pulled out her nightdress. Tucking the sheet neatly under her arms, she laid the dress across the foot of the bed; that way it was within reach for morning. She plopped back against the pillows and giggled, feeling a little bit wicked, lying there under the sheets, stark naked. She closed her eyes, remembering this feeling from before, at the Chicago Exposition, when she'd sneaked a peek through the opening in the Little Egypt tent.

  Within the tent, in splendid, wicked glory, had been a small young woman clothed in layer after layer of colored veils. Oh, how she'd danced, spinning and turning and wiggling. With each deep movement the woman had dropped a veil, and the audience, mostly men, had cheered and clapped. Their enthusiasm made the woman's movements even more… native. Addie had been a bit embarrassed, but enthralled, and in the back of her mind she'd always wondered what it was like for a woman to dance like that for a man.

  Soon Addie fell asleep, dreaming of herself in a hot, torrid desert, where she, an exotic creature clothed in a coin-covered belt and sheer veils of red, yellow, and purple, danced before her sheik. She swirled and spun and her veils drifted toward the man whose face was only a dim image, but he sat beneath a date palm and he wore all white. When she spun to a stop before him, her head thrown back in submission, he stood, picked her up and carried her to his horse—a big brown thing with pink-freckled lips and beans on his breath.

  She woke up with a start. A nightmare had butted in on her dream. She glanced at the window; it was still dark. She could probably get a bit more sleep before the sun rose. Lying in the darkness, she listened to the night sounds: crickets, and an occasional thud on the front porch, which was the loose door in the wind.

  Turning over, she punched the feather pillow a couple of times, and went back to a sound and dreamless sleep, never remembering that there was no wind.

  Chapter 6

  A loud clumping sound filled Addie's sleepy head. All cozy, with her face buried in the pillow, she did her best to block it out. Sleep was much more important. She'd started to drift off again when the bed shook like a Chicago trolley. Holding a breath, she opened her eyes, waiting to see if maybe she'd dreamed it.

  She counted four more clumps on the wooden floor. Very quietly she exhaled. Something banged against the foot rail and rattled the whole bed. Addie shot upright, her eyes wide as imported ripe olives. She clutched the sheet in her tight fists and pulled it over her naked chest. Her mouth froze halfway through her scream, which came out in a croak. Her body froze, her hands still holding the sheet, and her breath froze in her throat at the sight that greeted her.

  That devil horse stood in her bedroom!

  Its brown eyes blinked at her and it snorted, then rubbed its muzzle on the foot rail of the iron bed. Addie scooted back, pinning the bed pillows between the head rail and her naked body as she watched it.

  Slow as a snail she moved to the right of the bed. The horse moved with her. She moved back to the center. So did the horse. She leaned left, and the horse edged around to the left side of the bed. The horrid animal was stalking her.

  She eyed the windows on either side of the bed. They were open and beckoning, and a few too many feet away. And she was naked. She clutched the sheet a bit tighter and judged the distance to her nightdress. It was lying against the foot rail, only inches away from the horse.

  Scooting down farther on the bed, she tried, under the covers, to kick the gown closer to her reach. The horse watched her; the gown didn't move much. A few more tries and she gave up. She glanced back at the horse. Its long neck was bent around, chewing at an itch on its back.

  Now was her chance. Addie leaned forward and grabbed the sleeve of the nightgown. The horse's head twisted back around and its knowing eyes met hers. She jerked back on the sleeve and the horse bit down, clamping a hunk of the nightgown in those huge yellow teeth.

  "You…'' She pulled. "Obnoxious…'' She pulled harder, her words gritted through her teeth. "Beast!" The sleeve ripped half off.

  With one hand she reached out and gripped the bodice as tightly as she could. The bodice wouldn't tear; there were no bodice seams, but she could feel the tuck threads snap.

  The horse snorted and shook its head. The sheet slipped. She clamped her elbows hard against her sides, trying to keep the sheet up. Still she tugged back.

  The horse began to gnaw on the gown.

  "You're not going to eat my nightgown too!" She leaned back, still trying to get him to release it.

  The horse walked backward; Addie slid forward. Cool air hit her exposed backside. He moved back again and her feet hit the iron rungs on the foot rail.

  Using the rail for leverage, she bent forward and moved her grip up the nightdress, hand over hand. The sheet fell; the horse let go; and Addie's bare back hit the mattress with such force she bounced.

  Glaring at the damnable horse, she pulled the torn gown over her exposed chest and sat up. She untwisted the gown and slipped it over her head, shoving her right arm through the gaping armhole. The shoulder seam of the sleeve hung down near her elbow. She tugged it up and began buttoning the front of her gown. All the pristine little tucks were crushed with teethmarks and beginning to unravel, and three of the little pearl buttons were missing. The horse lifted its lips, pushed its huge tongue against the roof of its mouth a few times, and spit out two pearl buttons.

  Then it butted its forehead against the rail and banged the bed against the wall. Addie closed her eyes, imagining ex
actly how she was going to kill Mr. Creed—slowly, very, very slowly. Then she could send this horrid creature to the closest glue factory. But right now she had to get away from this horse. The animal rocked the iron bed, and she watched the window from the corner of her eye. With each whack, she moved closer to the right edge of the bed.

  The window was maybe three, four feet away. If she moved fast, she could do it. The horse lowered its head and hit the rail. Addie's bare feet hit the floor.

  She vaulted out the window, black hair flying, right into Montana Creed's chest.

  His arms clamped around her. "Damn!" he swore. They both hit the ground, dust curling up around them and slowly sifting down.

  Her face rested in the dirt above his head. She coughed. His hands gripped her derriere and he mumbled something against her chest. She lifted her head and shook the dust from her face. He mumbled again. She looked down, horrified to find his nose buried in the middle of her bosom. Then his hands squeezed her bottom.

  She brought her knee up, catching him right between the legs.

  "Jesus Christ!" He let go, fast.

  She scrambled to her feet and spun around to face him.

  He rolled on his side, hands between his legs and his face all scrunched up.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.

  "Trying to breathe," he groaned, and then sat up, resting his head on his knees while he took some deep breaths.

  "How dare you! How dare you do this to me! Peeking in the window like some… Peeping Tom!" She crossed her arms and looked down at him. "You're a sick man."

  He got to his feet, slowly, and picked up his hat, dusting it off on his pant leg. "I wasn't looking in your window."

  "Sure." She tapped her foot in agitation.

  "I was looking for my horse." He swiped the dust off his neck.

  "In my bedroom! You knew he was there."