Secret Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Four

by Vivian Vaughan

  “Stay outa my peas, missy, or you’ll be findin’ yourself livin’ with that ol’ Miz Young quicker’n a mule can sprout ears.”

  Lindy sashayed to the window where Molly stood. “Did I hear someone say we have a boarder?”

  Molly stared toward the woodpile, which was obscured by the side of the barn.

  “A logger?”

  “Of course not.”

  “If you rented to loggers, Molly, things might improve around here.”

  Molly stiffened at the rebuke. But hadn’t she thought the same thing, time and again. “Renting to loggers would bring in more money, yes, but—”

  “More? How about some? We could even afford to fix up the place. Hang the shutters, paint the house, buy new clothes.”

  “Renting to loggers wouldn’t keep the family together, Lindy. It would likely be the last nail in the coffin Iola Young is building for us. She considers a boarding house an unfit place to raise children, since we cater to drummers. Renting to loggers would add to her list of accusations.”

  “Then why did you rent to this man? Is he old as Granddaddy Berber? Or ugly as ol’ Nevershed?”

  Molly curled her lips together, listening to the rhythmic chopping of the wood. She felt again the catch in her heart when she looked up and saw Jubal standing before her on the path, hat in hand, brown hair plastered to his head, brown eyes probing, concerned…

  Concerned? That should have told her right off he wasn’t that dastardly brother of his.

  “Why, Molly?”

  Molly turned distressed eyes on her younger sister. She saw again Willie Joe’s eager response to Jubal.

  She saw the folded bills he drew from his pocket. “He had money.” But she knew even when she said it, that as badly as they needed the money, that wasn’t the reason she rented a room to Jubal Jarrett.

  Taking two sunbonnets from a peg beside the back door, she handed one to Lindy. “Enough of this. We’ve wasted too much time already.” On the back porch she picked up two hoes and two pairs of white cotton gloves.

  “Molly, I don’t want to hoe the garden today. Why don’t you get—?”

  Sugar cut off Lindy’s protest with a swat to the girl’s bottom. Although the tap couldn’t have hurt her through petticoats, pantaloons, and calico dress, Lindy jumped aside, swishing out of Sugar’s reach. Sugar didn’t let that stop her.

  “Min’ your sister, hear me? Or you’ll be answerin’ to me.”

  The sun was hot for early spring and soon perspiration trickled down Molly’s hairline, wetting the extra long bavolet on her bonnet, which was designed to protect the wearer’s neck from the sun. Even her undergarments were soon damp and clinging. A deep V of perspiration spread over her chest, reaching down between her breasts and up her throat.

  Lindy wielded her hoe with ferociousness. “I hate weeding gardens.”

  Molly cleared the earth around her bean bushes, ignoring her sister’s surliness. She heard the harsh chop, chop as Lindy attacked the earth with her hoe. “Work on those new squash plants,” she instructed. “Be sure to get all the weeds. If we’re not careful they’ll choke out the plants before they get a start.”

  “I wish we still had slaves.”

  Again Molly ignored her. She knew what it was like to be fifteen. She hadn’t wanted to work in the garden then, either, but she had worked. And Lindy would, too.

  “We ought to hire a couple of those drunks from the Dew Drop Inn. They’d hoe this garden and we wouldn’t have to.”

  Molly moved to the turnips. “Hire them with what?”

  “Mol-ly! We’ll have the new boarder’s rent money.”

  “That goes for food. And school clothes. And—”

  “Won’t there ever be anything left over?”

  Molly heard Lindy’s anguish, felt it herself. She scanned the garden, glanced to the house, its boards gray, some of them rotting. Sugar admonished her not to quit, not to give up. Well, she had one solution. One.

  “When I marry Cleatus, Lindy, things will get better.”

  Lindy threw down her hoe. “When you marry Cleatus, I’ll have to go live with ol’ lady Young.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Cleatus hates me. He hates all of us. And I hate him, too. I wouldn’t live in the same house with him if he paid me to.”

  “That isn’t fair, Lindy. Cleatus isn’t used to children, that’s all. He had a rough time growing up—”

  “What do you call this?” Lindy flung her arms in a broad gesture. “We’re having a rough time, too.”

  “Lindy—”

  “Just because a bank president adopted Cleatus, he thinks everybody in the world should be so lucky.” Tears brimmed in the girl’s eyes. She tossed her head from side to side, flinging her pigtails, fighting her hurt with anger. “I’m not going to live with ol’ lady Young, Molly. I’ll run away first.”

  Molly jumped over two rows of beans, taking Lindy in her arms. “There, there, honey. Don’t cry. Things will work out.”

  Lindy jerked away. Tears streamed untended from her brown eyes. “I will. You’ll see. I’ll run away.”

  “There won’t be any need to run away, Lindy. You won’t have to live anywhere except here—in this rundown old house, without nice things for a while, but with your family. I promise.”

  Lindy chewed her lip, visibly struggling to control her emotions.

  “Why don’t you run to the house?” Molly suggested. “Clean up for supper. Cleatus will be here before long.”

  Lindy threw her hands in the air. “Cleatus! How can you be so blind? Cleatus is no better than ol’ lady Young or Master Taylor or the reverend. They’re all against us. Nobody wants us to stay together.”

  Molly picked up her dropped hoe, then Lindy’s. “I think we’ve done enough today. Let’s go clean up and give Sugar a hand with supper.” Putting an arm around Lindy’s shoulders, Molly urged her toward the house.

  They walked in silence, each engrossed in individual fears—of foster homes and Cleatus Farrington…and of being separated from her family.

  “Hey, Molly, look! Look, Molly, look!”

  Willie Joe’s voice brought Molly out of her stupor. He and Little Sam and Jubal Jarrett approached the house, carrying between them a line strung with three large yellow catfish.

  The delight on the boys’ faces brought a smile to Molly’s, which Rubal readily returned. “Any chance we can get these cooked up for supper—once we finish cleanin’ ’em, of course?”

  Molly met his gaze, momentarily taken aback by how much Jubal Jarrett resembled his brother. Her dander, already at fever pitch, rose. “I told you, Mr. Jarrett, guests eat what we put on the table.”

  She watched his smile fade. His eyes shifted to the boys, who frowned up at him. They exchanged shrugs, as though they’d been caught the middle of some transgression.

  Rubal looked back at Molly. “Yeah, you told me. Guess I forgot.”

  “Please, Molly,” Willie Joe begged. He glanced to Rubal, then back to Molly. “Boy, oh, boy, these suckers are gonna taste dee-licious.”

  Molly’s heartstrings tugged. She was immediately sorry for her outburst. Again, she thought how she shouldn’t have rented to Jubal Jarrett. She looked at Little Sam. Usually shy around strangers, he leaned against the new boarder’s leg, quietly sucking his finger.

  “Oh, all right,” she agreed. “But be sure you clean up good. Bury the bones, and—”

  “We will, Molly,” Rubal assured her. “Thanks.”

  Not until she turned toward the back porch did Molly notice Lindy. Her eyes riveted on the girl, who stood, mouth agape, staring unabashedly at the new boarder.

  A quick glance showed him already turning toward the barn, cleaning fish the only thing on his mind.

  Before Molly could stop her, Lindy rushed after them. “Hey, I’m Lindy.”

  Rubal turned with a smile for the girl who extended her hand. He took it, shook it, then released it. “I’m…uh, Jubal.”

  Moll
y reached them, took Lindy by the arm. “Mr. Jarrett to you, Lindy.”

  “You’re our new boarder?” Lindy’s voice had lost all trace of despondency.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come on, Lindy,” Molly encouraged. “If we’re going to cook those fish, they’d better get them cleaned.”

  “We’re real glad to have you, Jubal.”

  Rubal’s eyes strayed to Molly, who considered him with murder on her mind. “Thank you. I’m mighty glad to be here.” Turning away he guided the boys and their fish toward the barn.

  Molly ushered Lindy to the house. When they reached the back porch where a hand pump had been installed over a tin sink, Lindy stopped.

  “Go ahead and help Sugar, Molly. I need to wash my hair before supper.”

  Chapter Three

  Rubal helped the little boys wash up at the pump outside the house. When he carried the skinned and cleaned catfish to the kitchen, Molly was busy preparing the cornmeal coating.

  She glanced up without a trace of welcome. “This is Sugar,” she introduced in clipped tones. “Sugar, Mr. Jarrett’s our new boarder.”

  The large black woman beamed. “Welcome, mister. My, but aren’t those nice-sized cats! Most as big as the grins on those younguns’ faces. Mighty kind of you to take ’em fishin’.”

  Molly had returned to her work as though Rubal weren’t even in the room. “Don’t thank me too much,” he told Sugar. “I enjoyed it.” Glancing around the sparkling clean, if shabby, kitchen, he noticed an empty milk pail sitting on one of the two cookstoves. Another job the boy Travis had shirked, as he recalled.

  “Long as I’m here…” He picked up the pail without further explanation. Molly’s voice stopped him on the threshold.

  “You’re a paying guest, Mr. Jarrett.”

  He responded with a shrug, then headed toward the barn, where he had seen a Jersey cow sticking her head in a feed sack.

  Old Bertha, or whatever Molly had called the family’s milk cow, was docile and the milking didn’t take long. Sugar’s face lit up like a star-studded sky when he returned to the kitchen with a pail of foaming-fresh milk. Molly was nowhere around.

  After washing up on the back porch, Rubal returned to the room Molly had assigned him. He put on a fresh shirt, and thought how after supper he’d have to talk to Sugar about laundry. Sitting on the bed, he idly polished the vamp of his boots and mulled over the events of the past day.

  Certainly he hadn’t envisioned things turning out as they had, although looking back, he cursed himself for a danged fool for thinking he could ride up to Molly’s door after running out on her like he’d done, and expect her to rush out with open arms.

  He hadn’t intended to lie to her; it was one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions; one he regretted the moment the words left his lips. A sick feeling in his gut told him he would likely live to regret those careless words even more before he found an opportunity to set the record straight.

  But what choice had he had? Other than stepping back in the saddle and riding away? And that would have solved nothing. He would still dream about her. Still worry over what might have been. Way things stood, he figured he was fixing to find out just how things were going to be.

  Quizzing the boys while they sat on the bank of the ruddy stream, he had learned that the only regular diner at supper was Molly’s fiancé, Cleatus Farrington. Rubal wondered, uncharitably, whether Cleatus paid for meals with the same currency as other folks who ate at a boarding house. From the shape of things, someone needed to put some cold cash and elbow grease into the place.

  When he heard Sugar’s dinner bell—which wasn’t actually a bell at all, but a triangle of iron on which she banged with a vengeance usually reserved for revival meetings—he prepared himself for the moment of reckoning.

  In a matter of minutes he would come face to face with the competition. As was generally the case when he was faced with a difficulty he didn’t know how to get a handle on—and wasn’t entirely sure what he would do about if he did—Rubal’s first impulse was to light a shuck. Hell, Molly didn’t want him on the place, anyhow. That was clear as rainwater. Below, the front screen squawked. A male voice called, “Molly! I’m here!”

  The sound of Cleatus’s voice was all it took to activate Rubal’s competitive streak—that, and the memory of the man’s handsome face and citified clothing. Molly’s fiancé was definitely a man who would appeal to women.

  Mindful of Molly’s warning that latecomers were refused supper, Rubal ducked to glance in the small bureau mirror, smoothed back his hair with open fingers, and headed for the stairs.

  Just as he reached the top of the staircase, Cleatus called again. “Mol-ly!”

  Rubal straightened his shoulders, not quite ready to meet the feller, knowing no time would be pleasant, given his own status in this household.

  From the staircase, he watched Molly emerge through the open doors that led from the foyer into the dining room, drying her hands on her apron. Rubal hesitated midway down the staircase, braced to see her rush into Cleatus’s arms. But he was disappointed.

  Relieved, rather. For Molly stopped short of the tall, good-looking man who hadn’t changed clothes, but still wore his city suit from earlier. He hung his useless hat on a hook on the combination umbrella stand and hall rack. Turning to Molly, he stood a moment, obviously waiting for her to come to him. When it became clear she wasn’t going to rush forward without encouragement, he extended his arms.

  “Aw, honey, come on. Give me a kiss. I apologize.”

  Like Cleatus, Rubal waited, although he was certain with opposite emotions. But Molly only reached out and took Cleatus’s hand. “To tell the truth, Cleatus, I’d forgotten it. This afternoon has been rather full.”

  The boy Travis rushed through the front door, then, moved quickly around Cleatus toward the staircase. Seeing Rubal, he stopped.

  “A boarder?” Travis frowned up at Rubal. “What does this mean? A boarder?”

  Molly noticed him then. Instead of softening, her eyes glazed over, hard as some old horseshoe nail. “Mr. Jarrett works for Lutcher & Moore.” She introduced Travis to Rubal.

  “A logger?” the boy accused.

  “Scouting for a rail line,” Rubal corrected. Taking the remaining steps, he offered his hand to Travis.

  “And this is Cleatus Farrington.” Molly’s voice was crisp, her tone abrupt. “He’s with the Apple Springs Bank. Cleatus, take Mr. Jarrett to the porch and fill him in on Apple Springs, while I help Sugar put food on the table.” She called after Travis who was quickly disappearing up the staircase. “Change your shirt and wash your hands, Travis. And when you come down, thank Mr. Jarrett for chopping your wood. And for milking Old Bertha.”

  If Travis was to take his cue from Molly, Rubal decided, following Cleatus out to the porch, he wouldn’t be getting any thanks. Her tone held no trace of gratitude. Which was beside the point. He hadn’t done those chores for gratitude.

  Rubal turned his attention to the perturbed Miss Durant’s fiancé. A banker, was he? He wondered where the man fit on the bank’s employment roster. President, likely, or aiming for it, from the way he was dressed.

  They settled down in a couple of the half-dozen rocking chairs aligned along the broad front porch. The sun was sinking behind them, casting the front yard and the town below in shadow.

  Cleatus opened the conversation easily. “So Lutcher & Moore actually plans to build a line out here?”

  “Seems so. I’m to scout the best path; talk to sawmills, contractors, see if we can come up with a location that would be fair to all.”

  “Good luck,” Cleatus replied with a short, cynical laugh. “As many small sawmills as we have in this neck of the woods, you’re likely to get that many answers.”

  “So I figured.”

  “If I can be of help, let me know. Being with the bank, I’m acquainted with L&M’s hierarchy. I can help you locate just about anybody in the business.”

  “Tha
nks. I might take you up on it.”

  They rocked silently a while, and Rubal found himself pleasantly surprised with Cleatus Farrington. The man’s name had warned him off. That and his clothes—not to mention the fact that he was engaged to marry Molly. The fact that he was engaged to marry Molly, most of all.

  “Hear you and Mol—uh, Miss Durant plan on tying the knot.”

  “One of these days,” Cleatus responded, leaving Rubal to wonder how eager this prospective bridegroom really was. If it were him—

  Whoa, there, pard. If it were him contemplating matrimony, he’d be hightailin’ it out of these woods faster than a bloodhound on the scent of a rabbit dinner. Rubal turned the conversation back to business.

  “An interesting ride up from Orange,” he commented. “Heard lots of gossip along the way.”

  “Gossip?”

  “Or tall tales. Couldn’t decide which.”

  “About what?”

  “Timber theft.”

  “Timber theft? Oh, that’s real enough, if you’re the landowner whose trees get cut.”

  “You know of cases?”

  “A few. Like you said, rumors. But if you put two and two together, likely wouldn’t take much smarts to sniff out the perpetrators.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, let’s see. First, you’d have to look for land owned by several parties, all or most of them living outside the area. Then you’d have to go over to Lufkin to the courthouse, search out the deeds—for the metes and bounds. You’d use them to draw up a deed in your name, ride back to the courthouse and file the sucker. That way when you engaged a contractor to take out the logs, you’d have a deed in your own name.”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “Logging contracts can’t be let without proof of ownership.”

  “What about sawmill receipts?”

  “What about them?”

  “They list the origin of the timber and the logger’s name. Wouldn’t they lead a man to the thief?”

  “If he had time to go through ’em, sure. Who has time to check out every sawmill in the area? Like I said, there’s a passel of ’em. If the deeds are bogus, though, you’d have a chore on your hands. Don’t see how it’d profit a man to spend so much time. Should’ve sold the land in the first place.”