by Jill Barnett
Rebecca ignored her sister and went on, "Montana told me how stunning I look in blue."
Addie was just biting back the urge to tell her she'd be glad to turn her black and blue when Montana and Will rode in from the field. They rode up and Montana dismounted, slapping that obnoxious horse of his on the backside and then watching it head for the water trough. Will reined in next to Lizzie. "Are you all off?"
"I guess. Becky's in a hurry—umph!"
Addie saw Rebecca jam her elbow into Lizzie's side, and then she said, "I'm just so excited about the dance. Aren't you gentlemen?" She directed her question straight at Montana.
He glanced up. His face and neck were dusty from his field work and sweat glistened from the chiseled bones of his face.
"I'm looking forward to that chicken," Will said, a typical hungry male look on his face, which had the same sweat dirt on it as did Montana's. His smile, though, was only for Lizzie.
It made Addie wish a man—one man—would smile at her like that. She glanced at Montana. His eyes weren't on Rebecca, perched so pristinely on the wagon seat, like she figured. They were on her. She hooked some damp hair behind her ear and said, "Thanks, Lizzie, for all the help."
"Anytime," Lizzie answered, climbing onto the wagon and settling next to her sister. "Let's go, Becky. It'll take you a year to get into that dumb dress."
Addie grinned and Rebecca gasped, then sat a bit taller on the seat and looked right at Montana. "I'll look forward to that dance you promised me." She gave him a meaningful smile.
Montana smiled back.
"Well, see you all tonight." Rebecca snapped the reins and drove toward home.
"I'm going to go get myself a nice, cold bath," Will said, dismounting and leading his horse toward the trough.
Addie turned and started to leave but Montana asked, "Can you still be ready by five?"
"Of course I can be ready. I'll have you know I'm never late." She raised her nose a notch. "What's wrong? Worried that you might miss your dance with Rebecca?"
His mouth tightened a bit. He waited a moment, searching her face; then a stupid grin lit his face. "Jealous?"
"Hardly," Addie said, walking toward the back door.
A tinny, scraping sound, like dragging tin cans, sounded from the back of the farmhouse. Addie stopped just as that devil of a horse nudged an empty, bent pie tin across the farmyard.
"My pies!" she screamed, running around the corner and heading for the windowsill. The sill was empty, but her foot hit the other tin. It too was licked clean.
"That horse from hell ate my pies!" She spun around, her fists knotted at her sides.
Montana stood in the yard, examining his stupid horse. She grabbed the tin and marched over to him.
"You have to do something!" she told him, waving around the pie tin.
He glanced at the tin and her, then he scrutinized the horse. "Do you think he'll get sick?"
"What?"
"Maybe I should send Custus for the veterinarian," he mumbled.
"I'll have you know those were perfectly good pies!"
The horse raised its freckled lips, belched and smacked.
"He ate those pies on purpose," Addie accused, waving her finger at the thing.
"I doubt that," Montana said, his face serious, then he gathered the reins and led the horse toward the barn. "Animals have an innate sense of self-preservation."
She gasped so loud her throat ached, then she spun the pie tin right at Montana's grinning head.
"And so do I." He laughed, ducked, and disappeared into the barn.
Montana slunk an inch lower in the tin tub. The well water was cold, but it felt damn good. He was so sweaty that the dust clung to every bit of his exposed skin, and when he had removed his hat, his hair had a circular dent from the crown. His head had looked like a peanut.
Bending forward, he dunked his head in the water and used a bar of soap to get a good lather. A few minutes later he was clean, so he lounged back in the tub, his legs flung over the end, and just let the water soothe him. In the bunk room, Custus was singing some bawdy song about the real kind of dancing a man liked to do—on a mattress—and every so often Will would join in. Montana smiled at one particularly lurid verse. He shook his head and sank lower. The next thing he knew he was mentally acting out the verse with a tiny, black-haired woman who had skin as white and soft as a new cotton bud. God, he could almost feel it… It was a damn good thing this water was cold.
Something had to happen, and soon. He hadn't had much chance to seduce her. There were just too many people around. No, he thought, seducing her wouldn't work. He needed another plan. Propping his elbow on the edge of the tub, he sank deeper. What he really needed was some way to get her to want him. Maybe if he ignored her completely… Suppose he danced with every woman in the grange tonight except her. Or… Montana's eyes took on a decidedly wicked gleam, he could dance with Rebecca. He remembered her reaction to Rebecca, and he grinned. Yep, that was it. Every time Rebecca Latimer was around, Addie got twitchy.
He liked her twitchy. Her nose went up, her eyes were like black fire, and boom! she was in his arms—right where he wanted her.
Addie strained to reach the last few covered buttons on the back of her dress. She finally got them. She backed away from the dresser to widen the scope of the mirror, and she twirled, sending the skirt of her lilac figured silk dress into a full bell. She smiled at her reflection; she couldn't help it. The deep purple lapels were trimmed with lace jabots of a lighter shade. Bodice gores crossed in front, taking the shape of a basque jacket—with its tight-fitting waist and center point. In this dress her waist looked smaller than a choker.
As the skirt settled from her twirl, the silk rustled and the lilac lace jabots that trimmed the left side spilled downward like water over a deep purple moire silk inset. The dress was so feminine, and against the white of her skin and the black of her hair, it looked as if no one else in the world could wear it.
Sent to her by her Aunt Emily, the dress had been delivered the day before her college graduation. "We're with you in our hearts," the note had said. Addie had cried for two full hours, lying on her lonely bed in the women's home, hugging her purple graduation dress and wishing some of her family were there in person. The crying spell had purged that rare bout of self-pity.
The next afternoon she'd donned the dress, and a smile for her long-dead father, and she graduated with her head held high. No one knew that Adelaide Amanda Pinkney, the small, quiet girl at the top of Melvil Dewey's School of Library Economy—class of '92—was lonely and scared and vulnerable. No one knew her heart ached with the need to have someone who loved her there when they called her name; someone to be proud of her when they placed her rolled diploma in her hand; someone to hug her when the other girls were hugged by their families.
From that moment on, the dress had become Addie's pride dress. And like a knight who dons his armor, she wore it to protect herself when she was most vulnerable.
Tonight she was an open wound. She loved a man she wanted to hate, and who didn't love her. In a foolish moment of passion, she'd given him her marriage gift, and he only wanted her farm. She wanted him to value her, not her farm.
Twisting her black hair up high on her head and securing it with an ivory comb, she took one last look in the mirror. The woman who stared back didn't look wounded. The color of the dress tinged her skin to a pearly white. Her black eyes almost glowed. She left the room, gathered the food baskets and walked out the door, heading for the wagon, her head held high. Tonight a smile masked her face, a determined walk hid her shaky legs, and her pride dress covered her wounded heart. Tonight no one would know.
Chapter 19
On the notes of a fiddle. laughter rode out the open windows of the grange hall. The light spilled out too, forming long, boxy shapes of yellow on the dark cool dirt of the alleys. Within the red-brick walls, light shone from a few sweaty, bald heads in a group of men who sat near the wood stove. Their faces
were brown from working in the fields, where the sun burned down and had no favorites. But their brows were white as milk from wearing the cool, protective covering of a straw hat.
In this tight corner the bite of ancient wood smoke mingled with that of bay rum, beer, and human musk. Custus stood among the group, sucking on a cold cigar stub around which rolled a stream of gruff curses that caught Addie's attention. She smiled, wondering if he was having a rough time keeping up.
When they'd first arrived she had stood nearby, listening to the talk of farming and animals and the men's simple pastimes of dominoes, fishing, and dove hunting. She learned that durham wheat grew best in California as a late crop, and cows which eat too many pine needles can abort their calves or die. She learned that no less than five men called themselves town champion of a domino game called sniff, that Seth Pearson shot the most doves last September—although Eli Whittier argued that point. But what Addie really discovered was that in this group, the first liar didn't stand a chance.
"I was a-passing by Mule Ear Creek the other day an' I sawed a trout that were leastways four pounds," Custus'd bellowed to the men.
A few men had snorted their disbelief, but Harlin Perkins, the blacksmith—a small-town title that encompassed locksmith, gunsmith, harness maker, and shoemaker—begged to differ. "I ain't never seen no four-pound trout in these parts, McGee." He gave Custus a look of pure skepticism.
Custus's face said he wasn't moved, nor the least worried about the men's doubt.
"How'd you know it was four pounds?" Harlin challenged.
"Weeeell…'' His cheeks colored to a rosy pink and a grin of devilment lit his lips. "I could tell by the scales."
The group erupted with groans and laughter. Custus must have grown a good inch, and Harlin Perkins bought him three beers. Addie had walked away certain that if lying were truly a sin, then none of these men were destined for wings and harps.
She'd moved to another crowded corner where the air swelled with lemon verbena, lilac, and rose water, and it was here that Addie still stood with the other women, watching the dancers strut by.
Will swung Lizzie in a full circle right in front of Addie. The skirt of the girl's blue dimity dress rustled against a wealth of white petticoats that fluttered into view for a circular second. His hand spanned her waist as he swung her, and Lizzie's laughter sang with each exaggerated swirl. Her face was flushed pink and her green eyes sparkled. In the lights of the grange room her bright red hair picked up golden highlights that made it look like a winter fire. Addie thought her friend was lovely, both inside and out.
She could see the look of adoration on Lizzie's sweet face and she frowned, not wanting her to be hurt. But then she chanced to look at Will, and his expression mirrored her friend's. There was nothing to worry about there. Those two were falling in love fast and at an equal pace.
She felt relieved, but just a bit emptier than the moment before. Then she saw Montana and Rebecca, and Addie stood as stiff as a clothesline post. Unconsciously she shook the skirt of her pride dress, tugged down its tight sleeves, and rested her pale hands on the small, snug waistline. Her chin went up an extra inch as they spun by, tall and striking on the small dance floor, swans in a crowd of ducks. She felt ill.
Becky talked with Montana as they danced, and Addie noticed that her nose was almost even with his mouth. When he stood close to her, her nose was even with the middle of his broad chest. It made her feel… Lilliputian. Rebecca fluttered her dark lashes as they danced by again. She appeared about as coy as a fox prowling around a chicken coop.
The tune changed to a country waltz and, afraid to watch again, Addie turned and joined in a conversation between Hettie and Annie Pearson. A minute later a tall shadow blocked the warm touch of light behind Addie, and she sucked in a quiet, tentative breath. Someone touched her shoulder and she turned, her black eyes wide with expectation.
"May I have this dance, Miss Pinkney?" Wade Parker held out his hand and smiled down at her.
She masked her disappointment. "I'd love to, Mr. Parker." And off they swung in the circle of dancers, his big hand spanning her lower back as he danced her past Montana and Rebecca.
One hour and six dances later, none of them with Montana, Addie stood behind a long table groaning with food, and she served the chicken to an eternal line of men that passed by, plates in hand. Lizzie spooned up some potato salad and served it to her father. John moved to Addie and she smiled up at him. "Light or dark or both?" she asked.
"Both, please." His blue gaze followed her hand as she speared a meaty breast and a leg with the thigh still attached and dropped them on his full plate. He smiled his thanks and moved on. Addie knew that Will was next, followed by Montana. She tried to calm her bubbling insides but she couldn't. He hadn't danced with her once, and he'd danced with every other young woman and with Rebecca at least four times. He had purposely excluded her; Addie knew that, but the knowledge didn't make the swallowing of it any easier.
Will now stood in front of the chicken platters, but he wasn't looking at the food, he only had eyes for Lizzie, who returned his look. Addie watched her scoop up a big glop of potato salad and lift it toward Montana's plate, never taking her eyes from Will. She turned the spoon and, to Addie's delight, the potato salad landed on Montana's tanned hand.
"Landsakes, child! Watch what you're about." Hettie stood on Lizzie's other side, and she grabbed the spoon from Lizzie and scraped the salad off Montana's hand and shirt cuff.
"Serves him right," Addie muttered and immediately felt the heat of Montana's look. She gave Will his chicken, two breasts, then stood with the fork up as Montana moved in front of her.
She didn't say one word, she just stabbed the fork into the platter and put the almost meatless chicken neck on his plate. The silence hung around them like fragrance. He didn't move on, just continued to stare at her.
"More?" she asked with feigned innocence. She jabbed a chicken back and dropped it on top of the neck. She could have sworn she heard the grinding of teeth, and she sincerely hoped so.
"I'd like some dark too… please." His words were spoken through clenched teeth.
Addie blessed him with her brightest smile. "Certainly." She stuck the fork into a wrinkled little gizzard and scraped it onto the edge of his plate.
She could see the knuckles on his hand whiten. He didn't move. The only sound around them was a distant cough of embarrassment from someone in the line behind him.
To break the tension, she forked another gizzard and put it on his plate.
"Again," he said in a deep, bedroom voice that had nothing to do with wanting more chicken.
Addie turned so red she thought she'd burn up right there. Her head shot up and she was captured by his look—a challenge.
Her hand jabbed at the chicken on the platter and lifted it toward the plate. His eyes left hers and locked on the fork, poised above his plate. Addie looked down. Two little fried chicken hearts were speared on the end of her serving fork.
He smiled, and before she could move, he plucked them off the fork and moved on. She wanted to chuck the fork right into his horrid black heart. Instead she gave the next lucky man three plump breasts and two thighs.
When all had eaten and the main meal was put away, desserts of every kind lined the table. Elbow-high chocolate cakes, lemon pies with golden meringues, and crispy thick cobblers sat on the damask-covered table that looked ready to buckle under the heavenly weight. Addie's one apple pie sat right next to a Sierra-high angel food cake with dark chocolate icing drizzled over it like a black waterfall.
"Here, Addie, help me write numbers on these squares." Hettie handed her a stack of larges squares and a pencil.
"What are these for?" Addie asked, following Hettie's example and writing her numbers, twenty-eight to fifty-two on the squares.
"A cake walk."
Lizzie came and grabbed the finished squares and, with some of the other women, placed the foot-square cards with giant numbers in a
circle on the dance floor.
Karl Bickerman, fiddle in hand, stood at the podium. "Well now, gents. The ladies have come up with a grand way to make some money for the anti-railroad lobbying fund, now called the BTBFB, Beat the Big Four Bastards." Chuckles echoed around the room and he waited until they died down. "Like I was saying, the ladies have decided that if we gents want any of that devil's temptation setting on that table over there, then we're gonna have to pay and perform for it." Now the men groaned. "There'll be a cake walk, although in this particular case it'll be a dessert walk, since there's more than just cakes on that table. It'll be a dollar a card. Line up, men, and the missus, here, will take your money."
The men lined up, some laughing and some grumbling, but all of them came up with the money. A few minutes later ten men pranced in a circle of white cards to Karl Bickerman's scratchy but lively fiddling. The women clapped and the men performed, most of them not prancing but stomping, their feet being more accustomed to fields and plow furrows than fancy footwork. When the fiddling stopped, each man had to stand on a square, and then a number was picked. The man with that number won the dessert that Martha Bickerman held for display.
Eventually Will, John, Custus, and Montana were all in the circle. Martha held up a dark molasses-colored tube cake and Lizzie leaned over to Addie and whispered, "That's Rebecca's apple cake."
The music started and so did the men, John Latimer stomping with his farmer's boots, Custus rolling along in a kind of lurching gait that was so slow it held up all behind him. Will and Montana strolled right past him, earning themselves a string of curses. The music stopped and Addie prayed. Karl pulled a number out of his hat and called out, "Eight! Number eight."
Addie held her breath while the men shuffled back, checking their squares. This time, God answered her prayers. Custus's hoot of triumph filled the room and he rolled forward to get his prize. Lizzie elbowed her in the ribs and nodded into a back corner. A pouting Rebecca plopped into a chair, crossing her arms and sulking like a three-year-old.