Backwoods Girl

by Peggy Gaddis

  “Thanks, glad to know business is so good,” Jim assured him.

  “It would be a damned sight better if you’d stop horsing around and get your nose back to the grindstone,” Peter answered.

  “I may do just that one of these days,” said Jim, and added before Peter, could speak, “Meanwhile, how’s for making me a small loan?”

  “I shouldn’t!” Peter protested. “Maybe if I don’t you’ll have to get back to work. But okay, how small?”

  “Would a couple of hundred stretch the petty cash too far?”

  “A couple of hundred, he says! Petty cash, he says! The man’s mad,” Peter chuckled. “What’s up? Are you planning to buy one of those damned mountains and perch in a cave for the rest of your life? Sure, I can spare a couple of hundred for a pal who may be coming back to work one of these days.”

  “Swell! Mind wiring it to me here, care of Western Union?” asked Jim. “They don’t have banking facilities in my settlement.”

  “Be there in less than an hour,” said Peter and added quietly, “Seriously, Jim, come on home and stop being a damned fool, will you?”

  “It seems more likely than it did a month ago,” Jim told him cautiously.

  “Swell, fellow! All your friends have been worried as hell about you. We’ll buy a nice big can of red paint and give the town a good going-over. Be seein’ you, fellow!”

  Jim went back into the street, feeling warmed by Peter’s loyal friendship. He searched out a book store, the only one in Marshallville, though the supply of books was by no means large or varied. He carefully selected some school books suitable, he hoped, for Cindy’s use, and he added to them two or three well-loved children’s books.

  When he went back to the telegraph office, the woman behind the counter brought out ten twenty-dollar bills, accepted his signature without question, and he was free to return to Ghost Creek.

  “Mr. McCurdy,” the woman said impulsively, and Jim turned politely. “Please don’t think I’m being nosy, but if I were you, I wouldn’t take all that money back to Ghost Creek. I’d leave most of it here in the bank. Those folks back there are pretty wild, and two hundred dollars is a fortune to most of them. It might be dangerous for you.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid you have the wrong idea about them,” Jim protested. “They’re painfully honest and straightforward.”

  The woman lifted plump shoulders in a slight shrug and smiled. “Well, of course, Mr. McCurdy, it’s your own business.” She defended her suggestion. “I was born and raised in these parts, and I guess I’m suspicious. I only know that about the only crime we have for trial at the county courthouse here comes from in around the mountain settlements. Knifings, and assault-and-battery cases, and some times worse.”

  Jim grinned at her. “Sounds as if Marshallville might be a good place for an ambitious lawyer to hang out a sign—or are you already overstocked with ambitious young legal eagles?”

  The woman laughed scornfully. “Now what would there be here to attract ambitious young men? As soon as they get old enough to find they’re ambitious, they take out for Atlanta,” she scoffed. “The only lawyers we have are too old to leave, or such fumblers that they’d starve to death more quickly in a big city than in Marshallville.”

  Jim was thoughtful. “You interest me,” he said.

  “You? With a partner already in practice in Atlanta? Mr. McCurdy, most of the clients you’d find in Marshallville would have to pay you off, if they paid you at all, with a side of meat, or a ham, or maybe a jug of corn-squeezin’s,” the woman assured him vigorously.

  “Well, even lawyers have to eat—and drink,” he laughed and added, “Thanks for the tip. Maybe I’ll stop in at the bank after all, if you think they won’t throw me out for trying to open an account with a mere two-hundred dollars.”

  “They’ll welcome you with open arms, and you’ll be considered a tycoon,” she assured him and laughed. “Two hundred dollars in actual cash is a cool fortune in Marshallville, Mr. McCurdy.”

  When he presented himself at the bank and opened the account, Jim found that the woman was quite right. He had never been made so welcome in a banking institution with ten times the sum. When he had completed his business in Marshallville and climbed aboard the bus for the trip back to Ghost Creek, he was thinking very seriously, and with a growing excitement that he tried hard to deny.

  Dusk was already settling on the valley when he reached his cabin, and while he yearned anxiously for a sight of Cindy, he was not sure that it would not be wise to wait until morning to bring her the things he had purchased.

  Supper was ready soon after his return, and he ate with Marthy and Storekeeper. Jim assuaged their curiosity somewhat by admitting he had gone in to Marshallville to telephone his partner, and that he had no intention of leaving the valley immediately.

  Back in his cabin, he eyed the packages he had brought from town, and was so restless he knew he would not sleep. It was not yet eight o’clock, but the darkness was complete. Until, as he swung open the door for a look at the weather, he saw a faint but growing light at the top of the mountain and realized that there would be a moon. By moonlight, the trail up the mountainside would be negotiable, aided by his flashlight.

  Moving swiftly he caught up his purchases, blew out the lamp on the table, and armed with the flashlight, swung open the door. The light at the top of the mountain was more vivid now, and he reasoned that well before he needed its light, the moon would appear.

  He walked swiftly, surprised to discoved that his feet seemed to know the way as well in the semi-darkness as in mid-day. He was grateful that the lights were out in the store and the living quarters behind. He walked warily as he approached the Haney cabin, but there were no lights there, and though a dog barked somewhere back of the house, there was no sign of the Haneys awakening. He breathed more freely, however, when he had reached the turn in the trail that would shield him from the sight of Jennie or her son, in case either of them had been awakened by the dog and looked out of a window.

  As he reached the plateau on which the cabin stood with its back pressed hard against the rocky mountainside behind it, he paused and waited for his breathing to become more normal. Excitement and the speed with which he had mounted the trail had conspired to hasten his heartbeats until he grinned ruefully at himself for behaving like a gawky kid.

  From inside the cabin he could hear Seth’s startled, alarmed barking and saw the flickering of firelight against the curtained window that increased its glow as Cindy awoke and lighted the old kerosene-oil lamp.

  “Don’t be frightened, Cindy,” he called to her. “It’s Jim.”

  He heard the dog’s growl, and then Cindy opened the window a trifle. Jim could see the outline of her head against the light.

  “Jim? Whut you want this time o’night?” Her voice was wary, shaken with suspicion, and Jim was stabbed with compunction at having so thoughtlessly alarmed her.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late, Cindy,” he told her. “I went to Marshallville today, and I brought you back a few things. I’ll just put them here on the porch, and you can take them in in the morning.”

  As he went, up on the porch and bent to deposit his burdens the door opened, and in its yellow light he saw Cindy standing there, her hand tight on the dog’s stout leather collar.

  “I reckin you can come in, Jim, but it’s right late,” she said hesitantly. “I was asleep.”

  “I’m sorry as the dickens. It was thoughtless of me,” he apologized. “I didn’t realize how late it was. It’s not much after nine, though, and that’s a very respectable calling hour in Atlanta.”

  “I reckin folks in the flatlands don’t get up as early as us mountain folks,” she said, and stood back, saying again, “Reckin you can come in.”

  He walked past her, carrying his packages, and she cl
osed the door behind him as he turned, facing her above the packages.

  “Surprise, Cindy,” he told her.

  Wide-eyed, she stared at the armload of packages, and her face was touched with wonder. She wore a nightgown of outing-flannel, white with tiny rosebuds scattered over it, and it was much washed and faded. The collar buttoned beneath her chin, and there were long-sleeves. Around her shoulders she had drawn an old shawl.

  “But why?” she burst out.

  “Why?” he repeated, puzzled. “Why what?”

  “Why’re you bringin’ me presents? It ain’t Christmas, ner yet it ain’t my birthday—an’ folks don’t give a body presents lessen it’s one or eother, ‘ she pointed out, her arms wrapped about herself, as though she was fearful of accepting the packages.

  “You foolish child,” said Jim, and his voice was warm and tender as he put the packages down. He selected the largest one, held it out to her. “I hope you like it, Cindy. Open it.”

  Her hands shook slightly as she removed the wrappings very carefully and lifted the lid of the box Then at the sight of the soft, cranberry-red wool sweater, knitted cap and mittens to match, she cried out in eager, childish delight. “Fer me? Oh, it’s the purtiest thing I ever seen!” she breathed in awe and delight as her hands caressed the soft wool. “Why, it’s real soft—like a kitten’s ear.”

  Her hands shook as she took the sweater out of the box and held it in her arms as though it had been a child, her eyes wide.

  “I hoped you’d like it, Cindy,” he told her eagerly. “I knew it would keep you warm while you were doing the chores.”

  Shocked, she protested, “Oh, I ain’t ever gonna wear it!”

  “Why not? Don’t you like it?”

  “Like it? It’s so purty an’ I never had nuthin’ purty like this afore. It’s too purty to wear. I’ll keep it to be laid out in,” she said simply.

  Puzzled, Jim frowned down at her. “Laid out in?” he repeated.

  “After I’m dead and gone,” she told him. “Folks allus likes to know they got somethin’ mighty purty to be laid out in, an’ I’ll keep this so’s I’ll look nice in my coffin.”

  “Good Lord!” Jim gasped, repelled by the picture her words drew with such simple acceptance. His arms caught her close and held her against him. “Cindy, don’t ever say anything like that again! Don’t even think it! You’re going to wear the sweater and enjoy it now. That’s why I bought it for you.”

  She made no effort to escape from his arms. She seemed to like being there, and Jim felt a rush of ardent desire, of hunger for her young body that was more than he could endure. He had been badly shaken at her words, at the thought of her saving the sweater for such a morbid purpose. Now he bent his head and set his mouth on hers in a kiss that was at once urgent, demanding, yet somehow gentle.

  “Do you understand now, Cindy?” he asked at last, and his voice was rough and shaken with the stress of his passion.

  “I reckin I do,” she told him softly, and crept still closer in his arms.

  “I love you, Cindy!” His voice was so low that only the fact that his lips touched her ear made her hear him. “I love you so much, I want to take care of you, and give you things and cherish you. Do you understand, Cindy?”

  In the warm, yellow lamplight and the flickering firelight, she lifted her face, flushed and radiant, her eyes shining. “I be’n hankerin’ fer you ever since that first time you come here,” she told him simply. “I lay awake that night, hopin’ you’d come downstairs—.”

  “Cindy!”

  “I reckin it ain’t mannerly for me to tell you that,” she admitted. “Only it’s so.”

  “Oh, darling, darling!” Jim’s arms were about her so tight that she could scarcely draw her breath, and when she stirred in his arms, he let her go, thinking his passion had frightened her.

  She dropped the sweater on the table, and suddenly she moved swiftly to throw her arms about him and cling closely to him. Jim’s blood pounded like a jungle drum. Yet she was so lovely that for a moment he was content just to hold her.

  “Cindy, Cindy, you’re lovely,” he said on a passion-torn breath. “You don’t know what women can be like. They can tear a man apart, and leave him for the vultures to pick up the pieces. That’s city women, the women I knew. Maybe you’re different. Maybe you’re like the mountains, clean and fresh—and wild.”

  She loved him that night with a sweet, untaught abandon that was the loveliest thing that had ever happened to him. It was surrender that laid a cool hand on the wild tumult of his blood, so that he was gentle with her, restraining the violence of his ardor. He did not want to frighten or repel her, until at last, through the pounding of his pulses, through the wild throbbing of his blood, he sensed her own response that mounted to a superbly distilled moment of fulfillment, a moment so perfect that they lay for a time adrift on the ebbing tide of that lovely perfection. She was the sweetest, the most exquisite lover he had ever known, and he was breathless before the miracle of her perfect surrender.

  It was Cindy who spoke at last. Her voice low-pitched, dreamy, touched with wonder. “An’ I allus thought lovin’ like this would be nasty, an’ ugly, an’ hurtin’,” she mused aloud. “I never knowed it could be—good and beautiful—and right.”

  Jim kissed the hollow of her strong young throat. “It isn’t always, Cindy,” he told her gently. “It’s only when two people truly love each other as we do that it’s good and beautiful. This is the meaning of love, darling—when two people love each other so much that they want to spend all the rest of their lives together, then it’s like this—and it will always be like this for us, Cindy.”

  “Always?” She repeated the word carefully, as he had spoken it, and there was a puzzled question in her voice. “But Jim, you’ll be goin’ off to town—.”

  “I’m never going back to town, Cindy, unless you go with me,” he told her quickly, and his arms held her close, glorying in the touch of her—warm, and sweet, and fragrant with youth’s own glorious freshness. “Tomorrow, Cindy, you and I are going in to Marshallville, and we’re going to be married.”

  He felt the convulsive start that she gave, the tremor that sped over her, but it did not prepare him for the suddenness with which she wrenched herself free of him and slid out of the bed, huddling the nightgown and the shawl clumsily about her shrinking body.

  “Married?” she repeated.

  Jim came towards her, but she backed away from him, shrinking from him, fumbling the gown over her body, drawing the shawl close as though suddenly she was very cold.

  “Well, of course we’re going to be married, Cindy. I love you. I want to take care of you—.”

  “No, you don’t. You won’t. I ain’t no good, Jim. I gotta tell you somethin’, an’ when I’ve tole you, you’ll just walk outen that door, an’ I ain’t never gonna see you no more.” Her voice was a small, broken wail of utter despair.

  Jim tried once more to take her into his arms, but she put the table between them, leaning one hand on it to help support her shaking body. He saw her face contorted in such bitter grief that he was alarmed.

  “Cindy, my very dearest, there’s nothing you could possibly have to tell me that would alter my feeling for you,” he said. “I love you. I want to take you away from here, if you want to go. Or I want to live here with you, if you’d rather not leave the mountain. I’m completely yours, Cindy. I’ll always be. Without you, I’m nothing—.”

  “Oh, hesh, hesh up!” she wailed. “I’m a-tellin’ you I ain’t no good. Out there under the oldest apple tree they’s a little grave. It ain’t no bigger’n this,” she held up her hands to measure. “It’s the grave where my li’l young-’un is buried.”

  Jim stood straight as though she had plunged a fist suddenly against his chin,. as though he had been kicked hard in the stomach. There was a
roaring in his ears, and he could not make himself believe she had really said that.

  “You mean, Cindy, you’ve been married? You’ve had a child?” he fumbled for words.

  Her face was white, now, and her smile was bitter.

  “I had a baby, but I ain’t never been married.” She was fighting tears so hard that her voice was without expression. “My baby was born dead. I never did see it. I was powerful sick, an’ Granny buried him out there under the apple tree. Don’t nobody ‘round here know nothin’ ‘bout it. They think I ain’t decent, an’ they’re right—only they don’t know ‘bout—the li’l young-’un.”

  Suddenly, despite her efforts, her voice broke, and tears slid down her face. “Seems like I could a kep’ my baby, seem’ I didn’t have nothin’ else,” she sobbed. “When Granny was took, my baby would ‘a’ be’n so much comp’ny. Only I know it ain’t right to wish he’d ‘a’ lived, the way folks ‘round here would ‘a’ treated him. Only it’s be’n so lonesome.”

  Jim was stiff with shock and chagrin. His heart was wrung with pity for her, but there was anger in him, too. He would have staked his life on her innocence, her purity. Yet here she was, telling him that he was not the first man in her life, that she had borne a child for another man.

  “Stop crying, Cindy,” he said roughly at last. “You may as well tell me about it, don’t you think?”

  She nodded forlornly, not daring to meet his eyes. She moved to an old chair before the fire, and he saw that she moved stiffly, awkwardly like one suddenly grown old and very feeble. Still he could not beat down the disappointment and the anger in his heart that she should have so completely fooled him. It is the nature of many men that they will forgive a woman all things, save being made a fool of, and in that moment while he waited for Cindy to regain enough self-control to begin her story, he convinced himself that she had made a fool of him, innocently, perhaps, yet he had been duped.