Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  Addie froze. How was she going to get out of this? "Uh… let me wash it first." She sped toward the dry sink. But she forgot Lizzie was there, peeling potatoes into a big tin garbage pail. Addie just stood there, her mind a blank.

  Hettie picked up ajar and sniffed its contents. "There's nothing a man loves more than good old-fashioned buttermilk biscuits."

  She turned and watched in horror as Hettie poured some buttermilk from the jar into the bowl. Liquid would set the plaster. She closed her eyes, her hands still gripping the sifter and its bottom. Think!

  "Get a move on girl. I'm gonna need that sifter."

  Addie's eyes flew open. Lizzie stared up at her with a puzzled look on her sweet face. Trusting her judgment and praying she was right about Lizzie, Addie very slowly lifted the sifter, showing Lizzie the sack. The girl's green eyes bugged and then she started to laugh, but slammed her hand over her mouth to keep the noise from escaping.

  "You know, this dough is really stiff, Addie. I've never seen anything like it."

  Now Lizzie was really laughing hard, but very quietly. Addie could feel her own laughter coming. Lizzie pointed to the garbage pail. Addie dropped the sack inside, and Lizzie bent over the pail and covered the sack with peelings, all the while making these odd little snorting sounds.

  Addie watched Lizzie's shoulders shake. She was going to lose control. Any second she was going to burst into laughter. Addie raced past the table, dropping the sifter by the bowl as she hurried into the pantry. She sat down on a pickle barrel, with both hands over her face, and she rocked, silently laughing so hard her shoulders shook and tears streamed down her face. The look on Lizzie's face had been priceless. She wiped the tears and tried to catch her breath.

  "There, there, my dear…"

  Addie slammed her hands over her face. Hettie stood right behind her, patting her shoulder.

  "There's nothing to cry about. One ruined meal isn't the end of the world. Besides, it's been my experience that men will eat anything. There's two things men are fools about: women and food. Like with women, most men can't tell good food from bad. You watch, they'll never even notice."

  Addie nodded and stood, but she could still hear Lizzie muffling her laughter.

  "Uh… Ma?" Lizzie called out. "I think they'll notice these."

  Hettie and Addie peered around the corner. Lizzie stood there grinning and holding the bowl up by the spoon that was stuck in it.

  "What in the world?" Hettie stared at the bowl. "Well I've never, in all my born days, seen anything like that!"

  Lizzie and Addie shared a knowing grin. "I must have gotten the measurements wrong." Addie grabbed the heavy bowl and made for the pantry. As she rounded the corner she added, "I'll get you another bowl, Hettie."

  An hour later everyone sat around the big table. Abel and Amos sat on barrels they'd rolled out of the pantry, the adults sat on the six oak chairs. Rebecca had waltzed in with a man on each arm, her father and Mr. Creed, both men laughing at something she had said. Then she'd sat them down next to each other and plopped into the chair next to Mr. Creed. When her mother suggested she help, she made some lame excuse about just being in the way. Then she'd rested her elbow on the table, planted her perfect chin in her slender hand and stared at the conversing men, appearing enthralled with their every word.

  Addie really disliked Rebecca, which bothered her because the other Latimers were so pleasant, some of the nicest people she'd ever met. Hettie reminded Addie of her aunt, and she adored Lizzie. They thought alike. The only consolation Addie had was that the men appeared to be talking about crops and not paying much attention to adoring Rebecca. And Mr. Creed no longer had that enamored, Prince Charming look on his face.

  The meat was served, covered in a dark brown gravy. The potatoes were perfect, the biscuits light, fluffy, and without plaster. Addie cut into her meat. It was still awfully tough. She gripped her knife and sawed into it, finally managing to carve off a piece. She swabbed it in gravy and stuck it in her mouth, looking up and smiling. She chewed, and her smile slowly died. The meat was tough as hide, but on she chewed, and chewed, and chewed.

  The table was completely silent, every one of them masticating like cattle. The men had pained looks on their faces. Rebecca, her cheeks bulging slightly, politely lifted her napkin to her lips. A moment later her mouth was empty. She sipped her water. "Do you remember the time you burned that roast, Mama?"

  "Not now, Rebecca," Hettie warned.

  "Oh I'm sure Mr. Creed would like to hear the story, now wouldn't you?" She smiled at him.

  Addie's foot itched again. She reached down to scratch it, glaring at Mr. Creed, daring him to answer the woman.

  He winced while he chewed, looking as if chewing was a painful experience. Rebecca continued to look at him expectantly. Addie stared at her plate, waiting for the story she knew would make her look more foolish than she already did.

  She heard John Latimer's voice. "Quiet, Becky."

  Addie looked up and Hettie gave her a reassuring smile. She smiled back, a bit unsure, a lot grateful.

  Rebecca buttered a biscuit, handing it to Mr. Creed. "I've been told I make wonderful biscuits. Isn't that right, Mama?"

  "You ought to, I taught you myself," Hettie answered.

  "Too bad it only took you ten years to master the craft," Lizzie mumbled at Addie, who bit back her grin.

  "Did you hear about the train robbery?" Amos asked.

  "Oh! Do we have to talk about that awful thing again?" Rebecca piped up, her voice the same irritating tone as wheel metal scraping gravel.

  "Get some more coffee please, Rebecca," Hettie ordered in a no-nonsense tone.

  "I'll get it." Addie started to rise but Hettie stopped her and stared at her eldest daughter. Rebecca reluctantly obeyed, flouncing over to the stove and returning with the coffeepot. She poured some into her father's cup and then sashayed over to Mr. Creed and, bending over his shoulder, slowly refilled his mug. He spoke to her, quietly, and she murmured something back.

  Addie looked away, trying to ignore the scene. Every word he spoke to her was an order, or was taunting her. He didn't like her. Addie wondered if it was because of the farm or because she was… unlikable. The other Latimers seemed to genuinely like her. She was sure of that. But despite all her bravado when it came to dealing with Mr. Creed, something deep inside, something she didn't really want to admit, made her a bit jealous of Rebecca and the way the man treated her, and looked at her.

  '"They took ten thousand dollars!" Abel exclaimed, looking right at Addie.

  "Who?"

  "Some bandits done robbed the S.P. again, two nights ago. Just a few miles outside o' town," Abel said, his young eyes alight with the excitement.

  "They said it was the same two as before," Amos added. "Only about ten miles from here."

  "That's just horrible!" Addie said, imagining how frightened she'd have been had her train been robbed.

  "Not really," John Latimer informed her. "The railroad's been driving out half the farmers in California for years now. They started in the central valley and now they're doing it up here. Ever since that Mussel Slough incident years ago—"'

  Mr. Creed's coffee mug slammed down on the table. Steaming hot coffee sloshed out of the mug, over his hand.

  The whole table stilled. He didn't say a word, just stared off, over Addie's shoulder. His expression was harder than stone, his lips thinned, the muscles in his neck so tight that Addie could count the throbs of his pulse. His nostrils flared slightly and his eyes were hot, angry, and gleaming like gold. And he didn't move. He didn't flinch. She had never seen anything like it. His look was deadly, filled with such pure hatred that she felt like running away, even though he wasn't looking at her. She silently prayed that she was never the recipient of that look, because if she ever was, she knew she'd soon be dead.

  Hettie and Rebecca fussed over him, tending the dark red burn on his hand, but he didn't seem to notice. Finally he glanced down and stared blankly a
t his hand. Hettie covered it with a wet towel. Rebecca had the butter crock in her hand, apparently waiting to put butter on the burn.

  His eyes cleared and he took a deep breath. "I'm okay."

  Addie stood and went to the pantry, taking down the box that held the medicines and bandages. She came out and set it on the table. Hettie treated and bandaged his hand while Rebecca fawned over him. Her behavior didn't bother Addie anymore. All she could think of was the lethal look in Mr. Creed's eyes.

  John sent the boys to milk the cows, claiming Mr. Creed couldn't do it with his burned hand. Addie didn't comment that he wouldn't have done it anyway, since they were her cows. She didn't want to start anything with him after what had happened. She wasn't that stupid. He hardly said much, just went outside with John while the women cleaned up. The boys brought in the milk, and the Latimers were soon all packed up and driving down the road.

  Addie stayed on the porch, watching Mr. Creed. He stood at the end of the drive, where it met the road. He stared off to the southeast. She went to feed and water the chicks. It was twilight when she'd finished. As she left the chicken yard she looked down the drive. He still stood there, as if he were carved from the heaviest stone, unable to move.

  The sky darkened and deep purple clouds crept over the western hills, consuming the brilliance of a burning pink sky. The breeze picked up, flicking dust and leaves around the farm yard. The air cooled. She turned, lifting a hand over her brow to block the wind, and she watched the clouds continue to pour over the hilltops, growing darker, as if a door from hell had suddenly opened up.

  Now the wind blew; it caught the barn door, slamming it hard against the barn. Addie ran to the doors and remembered the turkeys. She went into the barn and fed them some chicken mash, hoping that would suffice until she could read about the big birds. The doors banged again, and she ran through the dank darkness of the barn, out the wide-open doorway. She grasped the left door, shoving it closed and anchoring it with her hip while she grabbed at the other door. Her hairpins flew and her hair tumbled down from its topknot. Her eyes teared from the blasts of air. She lowered her head and finally grabbed the other door. Pulling with all her might, she tried to fight the power of the wind, ramming her small body against the doors, holding them while she slid home the wooden latch.

  The wind almost howled now, whipping her loose hair across her face, over her eyes, into her mouth. She peeled it away and turned around, expecting to see him still standing there, statuelike, oblivious to the wind. His spare clothing blew from the branches of the tree and tumbled down the drive. His packs slid from the force of the wind, butting against the tree trunk. Ash and burnt wood chips spun upward in a small dark cloud, the remnants from his last camp fire.

  She glanced at the water trough. The horse was gone. She looked at the tree. The saddle was gone. She looked down the drive, where it met the road. He was gone.

  Chapter 9

  Come on, boy. It's not much farther." Montana bent low over Jericho's neck as the horse plodded through the deep mud of the north field. Rain pelted against his back, covered only by the thin shirt he'd worn that day. An icy blast of wind blew right through him and he shivered and hunkered closer to the horse's wet mane. His hand throbbed beneath the sodden bandage, so he let it fall, holding the reins in only his left hand. The rain and wind whipped at him and he felt the bandage unravel. The burn ached but he ignored it and tried to see through the rain.

  Jericho stumbled and Montana knew he had to dismount or risk injuring the horse. He slid from the slick saddle, his boots plunging into mud that almost reached his knees. The rain streamed down; the mud sucked at his feet; the wind bit through his bones. He shivered, growing colder and colder by the minute. Lightning cracked through the black sky, breaking open its darkness for a brief, silver instant before it blackened again, shuttered closed. Thunder bellowed high above him, as if protesting the hiding of light.

  His horse shied. Instinctively Montana pulled the reins with both hands. The leather pushed into his raw burn. He wanted to yell. He didn't. He went on, unaware of the way his jaw clamped, unaware of the gritting pressure of his teeth, aware of only the need to keep going. In weather like this, flash floods surged over fields and roads. He remembered Wade saying that the Pinky woman's aunt and uncle had died in one, swept away, buggy, horses, and all.

  He looked to the west, half expecting a wall of black water to swallow him at any second. He saw nothing but a curtain of pounding rain, until he looked to the south. There he caught the flicker of a dim light. Swiping the water from his eyes, Montana stopped and tried to focus. Again the lightning split the sky, and he saw it—the outline of the farmhouse.

  He jerked on Jericho's reins. "We're home, boy. We're almost home." The horse snorted, shaking his head. They both dragged on. They crossed the edge of the north field and closed the few hundred yards to the oak tree, pausing under the protection of its wide branches. For the first time, he breathed through his open mouth, not having realized his jaw was so tight until he relaxed it. Now it ached like his hand.

  Again the lightning stabbed down, only it was so close to them the light from it almost blinded him. Soon after, the thunder boomed. Jericho brayed, rolling his eyes and flattening his ears. He reared up, pulling the leather reins right through the wet, straggling bandage on Montana's hand. He sucked a breath, bending and grabbing his white-hot hand. The bandage fell off. The rain poured into his eyes, and when he could focus again, he lifted his head.

  Warm, filtered light bled through the windows of the farmhouse as the curtains split aside. The front door wobbled open. She stood, a lamp in one hand while she called out to him. He couldn't understand her over the howl of the storm. She disappeared for a moment, then she ran down the porch, wrapped in a rain slicker twice her small size. She flew at him, this pestering, little bug of a woman, all cloaked in yellow oilcloth, feet scurrying across the sodden farmyard like a water weevil. She neared, yelling something about the barn and pointing at it.

  The wind gusted and she slowed, sloshing forward with the lantern under the voluminous protection of the slicker. "Put your horse in the barn!" she yelled over the scream of the storm.

  He nodded and led Jericho across the gravel toward the barn. A moment later he stopped, unable to believe what he saw. She whipped past him, a flash of yellow oilcloth, and ran ahead of him, lighting his way with her lantern. "Get back inside!" he shouted.

  She ignored him, as usual. Damn her!

  Before he could reach for the door, she shoved her small shoulder under the wooden door latch and somehow rammed it up, out of the bolt. The door flew open, almost taking her with it as it swung wide. He blocked it with his body, pinning her between him and the edge of the door. He straightened his right arm, using it to hold the door, keeping her covered, protected by his body. She wiggled and he could hear the mumble of her voice. He pressed closer; she squirmed some more, making the oilcloth crackle between them. He jerked once on the reins and Jericho loped inside. He wrapped his arm around her middle, lifted her off the door and hauled her inside, slamming it behind him. He stood there, water pouring off them both.

  Her wet head poked out of the slicker. "Put me down!" She kicked at him and slipped out of his arm, landing on the ground with a hard thud. "Dadgummit!" He heard her swear as he bent and picked up the fallen lantern.

  "Why the hell didn't you get back inside?"

  The slicker crackled again while she tried to dig her way out, her arms waving like a drowning swimmer. All the while she mumbled, something about curses "upon his black soul." Then she said something about his horse. Finally she whipped the slicker off and scowled up at him.

  Her hair, wet and black as the sky outside, hung around her face. Her cheeks were flushed red from anger and the bite of the wind. Her skin looked whiter, and almost breakable. Her eyes, black as her hair, glared up at him. Dark and round, they glistened with anger. Her black brows winged upward with her frown, but it was her mouth—red, full, and p
outy—that made him suddenly want to taste her, feel her, and do battle with her—in a bed, atop her.

  He shook the image from his mind and repeated his question. "Why didn't you go back inside?"

  "You looked like you needed help." she said, managing to sound aggravated and doubtful at the same time. She pushed herself up, shaking the water from her soaked hair. She wore some nightgown made of cloth so thick it would take one of those telescope things to look through it.

  He breathed a relieved sigh. He didn't want to think of her sexually.

  Then she bent and wrung the water from her long hair. Her gown was wet; it clung to her, outlining her butt perfectly. He remembered her bare backside, lily-white and sliding down her bed when she had that tug-of-war with his horse. His hands itched, and he thought of the feel of it, when she'd jumped out the window right into him. He loved a round butt.

  Then he reminded himself just who the round butt belonged to. This woman was trouble for him, and for his future. He needed to get rid of her, not bed her.

  "If I need your help, I'll ask for it." He spun around and walked past her toward Jericho. Picking up the reins, he led him to a nearby stall. Hay bales were stacked in a corner and he shoved one under the stall railing. He needed wire cutters, and looked to the wall, where a few tools were haphazardly hung on some rusty nails. No wire cutters. He squinted, trying to see in the dark corner of the stall. "Bring that light over here."

  He heard her breathe, hard. Then… "Asking for help?" Her voice was threaded with feigned innocence.

  "Hurry the hell up!"

  She bent and grabbed the lantern. "Yes, master."

  He ignored her, continuing to slam around the barn, looking for a toolbox.

  She held up the lamp.

  He forgot to ignore her, and glanced up. It was a mistake. She held the lamp out and its light proved better than a telescope. He could see the silhouette of her body beneath the fabric. Her naked body.