Now Bulldog rushed up the slope to where Slater sat on the ground. The wound in his thigh was throbbing painfully, and he took the handkerchief from around his neck and tied it tightly around his leg.
“Did they get ya, boy?” Bulldog knelt down, but Slater held out his hand to ward him off.
“Only a scratch. Anybody else?”
“Luther got a little nick and Jay got caught with a flying splinter.”
“Why the hell didn’t Jack have somebody out there riding point?” Slater got to his feet.
“Thought you was doin’ that, sonny,” Bulldog said impudently, but his eyes were full of concern.
Slater grinned. “Don’t be givin’ me any of that ‘sonny’ sass, old man. I can still whip your ass.”
“Wal, now . . . I don’t know nothin’ of the kind. Ya ain’t tried it fer a spell.”
“Ain’t had to, you old buzzard.” Slater reloaded his weapons and Bulldog brought his horse over to him. “Better get back down there to the women. Tell Jack I’ll ride point from here on.” He looked at Bulldog, then away. “How did she do?”
“Cool as buttermilk. Threw herself down on top of the kid. Never heard a whimper. Sadie did good, too. Both of ’em got grit. Ain’t ya comin’ down? She’s gonna be askin’. ’Sides, you ain’t ort to be a ridin’ with that gunshot.”
“No, I ain’t coming down. I’m going to ride. Tend to your own business.”
“Ya are my business, ya . . . stubborn jackass.” Grumbling, Bulldog went back to the wagon.
Four
Sundown came, and with it the happy anticipation of homecoming. Summer was tired, but strangely stimulated. Youth is wonderfully resilient. Not even Bulldog’s irritability could dampen her spirits.
The wagon rolled up and over a rise. The house came into view. It was impossible for Summer to tell what her feelings were at that moment, or even if she had feelings at all. The house, set close to the ground, blended into its surroundings as if it had been born there. Built of heavy logs, it looked solid and permanent. A lean-to porch roof had been added recently, the heavy support posts showed the bark had just been peeled. Two doors led into the house from beneath the porch roof, and two stone chimneys rose from each side of the house; one emitting a thin plume of smoke. Summer’s eyes took in everything, from the pole corrals behind the cabin to the plowed garden spot to the side, out from under the shade of the large oak trees that surrounded the house.
They were going alongside the stream. The water gurgled darkly over the stones and swirled around a branch as it bent its way through the long grasses. Summer was scarcely aware of it, her eyes reluctant to leave the house.
“Is this where we’re gonna live, Summer?” John Austin held on to her shoulder to steady himself in the swaying wagon.
“Yes, John Austin. We’re home.”
The riders, except for Jack, abruptly turned, crossed the creek and disappeared down a well-worn trail.
“Did ya tell Raccoon to light a shuck up there and see to the stubborn mule?” Bulldog fired the question at Jack as soon as he rode up beside the wagon.
“Yes, I tol’ him.”
“ ’Times, he don’t use no gumption a’tall.”
“It’s his pride what makes him what he is. That ’n not wantin’ any coddlin’.”
“Might be prouder than a game rooster, but he bleeds anyhow,” Bulldog grumbled.
“Was someone . . . hurt back there?” Summer asked.
“Ya could say t’was back there or a long time ago.” Bulldog spit into the grass and screwed his hat down tighter on his gray head.
Closer to the house now, Summer could see a large pile of freshcut stove wood and a horse tied to the pole railing. Her pulses quickened. Perhaps Sam McLean was waiting to welcome them, after all.
In the back of the wagon, Sadie was shaking Mary awake. Summer looked back and met the girl’s dancing green eyes.
“This is the prettiest place I ever did see, Summer. This is the prettiest place in all of Texas. Look, there’s a sack swing tied up to that tree.”
Summer’s eyes followed the pointing finger and her heart lurched again with a distant, familiar memory.
She heard that voice: “Hold tight, summertime girl.” Happiness, such as she hadn’t known for a long time, swept over her. This was home, the place of the fleeting memories that had haunted her for years.
When she looked back toward the house, Pud was coming out the door. He stood by his horse and waited for the wagon to reach him.
“Put yore horse in the corral, Pud,” Jack called.
“Yo’re gonna stay and make yoreself useful to the women for the time bein’.”
The boy threw his dusty hat in the air. “Yaaa . . . hooo! Ain’t I gonna be the spite of every galoot on this here ranch?”
“Quit a shootin’ off yore bazoo, boy, and start unloadin’ this wagon. The womenfolk are all tuckered out.”
Summer stood in the yard, forgetting for once about her brother. Somehow, the fact that Sam McLean had not been there to welcome them didn’t matter at all. The homestead was so much more than she had hoped for. It was better, after all, to have a place of their own. Now, in her heart, she gave thanks to Sam McLean for bringing them here.
The house was divided into two rooms; one for cooking and eating and the other for sleeping. At the end of the room used for cooking, a ladder led to the loft and a good-sized room tucked under the roof. John Austin came in the door and went up the ladder, not bothering to look at the rest of the house.
“I’ll sleep here, Summer. There’s two bunks with ticks on them.”
On a double bunk nailed to the wall in the kitchen, Sadie placed her bundle of belongings.
“This here will do fine for me and Mary.”
Summer looked into the other room with its large rope bed and thick shuck mattress, clean bedclothes and faded quilt folded neatly at the foot. This was the bed where she was born! She felt a sharp pang of homesickness for her mother, who had suffered here so she might live.
“I don’t need this whole room to myself.”
“Well, you’ll just have to get yoreself a husband then.” Sadie laughed. “I don’t ’spect you’d have no trouble.”
To hide her blush, Summer went to help unload the wagon. She lifted a box, but had it taken out of her hands.
“Here, boy,” Jack called to John Austin. “This here’s man’s work.”
“I can take it,” Summer said. “He gets to thinking about things and doesn’t hear you call.”
Jack frowned. “Boy!” His voice was sharp and loud. John Austin turned and stared at the man, who had removed his dusty hat and slapped it against his thigh when he called. “Over here, boy. Help yore sister. Men don’t dawdle ’round while the women work.”
John Austin didn’t exactly hurry to pick up the case, but that he came at all surprised his sister.
“What’s dawdle, Jack?”
“Dawdle’s when a man stands ’round with his head up his arse and lets his womenfolk do the work.” Jack heaved a large sack onto his shoulder and started toward the house.
John Austin flashed a glance at Summer’s red face and giggled.
“Why is it,” she mumbled as she retreated to the house, “that he always hears the things you don’t want him to hear?”
Bulldog came hurrying through the door.
“Has someone been living here?” Summer asked.
“It’s been used from time to time. Teresa cleaned it up a bit.”
“Mr. McLean’s wife?”
He swiveled around in surprise. “Ain’t married. Teresa’s the Mex woman what cooks ’n cleans for . . . the boss.”
Summer watched him hurry to the wagon for another load. He was anxious to be gone. She and Sadie were putting away supplies when Jack stuck his head in the door.
“Ma’am, I’m a goin’ now. Bulldog already lit a shuck fer the Keep. Pud’ll be stayin’ here. He’s a good lad for all his cuttin’ up.”
“
Is the . . . Keep far from here?” For some reason, Summer’s face burned when she asked.
“It’s no more than a hoot and a holler. You go right on down there to the creek and look off yonder.” He pointed toward a cluster of trees partially hidden by an incline. “And you can see the top of the house. There ain’t no need for you all to be a worryin’ none. Pud’ll fire a signal shot if’n there’s anythin’ a’tall.”
“We’re grateful that Pud will be staying with us.” Summer smiled at the boy and held out her hand to Jack. “Thank you for bringing us here.”
Sadie clung to the door frame, shy, not yet sure how she was regarded. Jack smiled at her, the leathery skin around his eyes crinkled. On impulse, she held out her hand.
“Me, too.”
Jack’s smile deepened, and Summer thought the weathered face the kindest she had ever seen. Something like she had imagined Sam McLean would be.
Jack turned to the boy. “You behave yoreself with the women.” He hit him a gentle blow on the stomach. Pud doubled up, as if in pain. “You’ll have to feed him, ma’am. That’s sure ’nuff a chore, ’cause them legs of his are holler.”
They stood beneath the new porch roof and watched him splash across the creek and disappear up the slope.
“Ain’t he nice, Summer? Ain’t he about the nicest man you ever did see?” Sadie sighed. “It’s a pity all men ain’t like him.”
It was during the night that Summer decided she couldn’t stay in this house another day without seeing Sam McLean and thanking him for his assistance. Midmorning, she left the security of the log house and walked down to the creek and the two huge tree trunks lashed together to make a footbridge. She had taken pains with her appearance—she was wearing a blue calico dress with a full skirt and scooped neckline. Her dark hair was coiled on top of her head to make her look older, more sophisticated.
At the footbridge she paused, and her eyes sought the roof of the house where she was headed. She knew she must have been there before, but she remembered it no more than the home she had lived in until she was almost four years old. She stepped up onto the big split logs. High water had washed the far bank, causing the logs to tilt downward and barely clear the rushing water. “Don’t be afraid, I’ll hold your hand,” whispered the voice from the past. A feeling of homesickness for that distant time caused her to pause on the footbridge and look back at the house.
Sadie’s laugh and Mary’s squeals came drifting down to her. Up at dawn, Sadie moved about the kitchen as if she had found heaven. She was making bread and she sang happily to entertain her daughter. John Austin was drawing a picture in the dirt for Pud. The sight of her young brother brought Summer back to the present. And to her need to speak to Sam McLean.
The trail to the ranch house was sandy and up-hill. By the time Summer reached the top and the house came into view, she had a thin coat of perspiration on her brow. Cockleburrs caught at the hem of her dress and she stopped to pick them off, wipe her face, and push the damp curls from her cheeks. Pausing, she stood listening to a scolding bluejay and studied the ranch house. It was a square building made of heavy stone in the style of a Spanish hacienda. A wide veranda held in place by axe-hewn timber pillars was hung with baskets of flowers trailing their bright blossoms from the beams. Massive live oaks shaded the house from the strong sunlight, throwing black shadows on its stone walls. It was beautiful, peaceful.
She walked on slowly, feeling the sun hot on the back of her neck. Excitement stirred inside her. Be calm! she commanded herself. She had to appear calm.
The floor of the veranda was made of stone set deep in the earth. The shade of the veranda, the cold stone floor and wall, made coming in from the outside a cool retreat. A heavy wooden door with wrought-iron hinges stood open, and she could see a spacious room running the width of the house. Overhead, huge, ancient-looking timbers supported the ceiling connecting it to the stone walls, directing the eye to a massive fireplace. Bright Mexican rugs dotted the stone floor, and large, deep chairs, a couch, several tables and a glass-fronted secretary furnished the room.
She hesitated in the doorway. It was so quiet it was eerie. She took a deep breath.
“Mr. McLean.” Her voice didn’t come out very loud and she called again. “Mr. McLean.”
There was nothing to break the silence but her voice. She moved into the room and toward the door beyond. She peered down a long hallway into the first open door. A large trestle table and handsome cabinets filled with dishes and silver assured her that Mr. McLean was not poor.
A large black cook-stove dominated the kitchen. Behind it, arranged neatly, hung an assortment of pots and pans. From the rafters hung bunches of dried spices, chili peppers and colorful gourds. A skillet was left burning on the fire, greasy smoke filling the air.
Instinctively, Summer went for the stove, her eyes searching for something with which to grasp the hot handle of the skillet. Seeing nothing, she bunched her skirt in her two hands and moved the pan to a cooler part of the stove. Standing back, she let her skirt fall back down around her ankles. In spite of the quiet, she had the feeling she was not alone. Swinging around, she jumped with surprise, her hand going to her mouth.
Someone was standing in the gloom at the far end of the room, standing quite still and watching her. While she stared, the figure moved and materialized slowly, became a tall man with a dark shirt and pants, straight black hair and a lean, swarthy face, whose right cheek was badly scarred. There was something about the outline of him, the way he held his head, that caused Summer’s legs to tremble and her heart to pound in the most alarming way. It was him. The man from the street in Hamilton and the man from the store where they loaded the supplies.
“I’m looking for Mr. McLean.” Her voice seemed dreadfully loud.
“You found him.” He didn’t look at her, but moved toward the stove.
“I mean . . . Sam McLean.” Summer looked at his back. He had pulled the skillet back over the flame and dropped a piece of meat into the hot grease. The only noise that broke the silence was the sizzle of cooking meat. He didn’t answer.
“I’m Summer Kuykendall, from over across the creek. I came over to thank Mr. McLean for . . . letting his men escort us from town. John Austin and I . . . John Austin is my brother. We came from the Piney Woods. You see, our mother died and she told me that. . . .” Suddenly, she couldn’t stand the sound of her own voice. Her words seemed so trite, so unnecessary. The man was ignoring her, keeping his face turned away from her, and it made her angry. “Is there someplace where I can wait for Mr. McLean? It’s . . . it’s just not my nature to be beholden to someone and not be able to thank them.”
“There’s no need to feel beholden.” The man’s curt tone matched hers.
Summer was about to make a sharp retort when the man moved. His leg almost buckled under him. It was then that she noticed his feet were bare.
“Sit down. I’ll fix your meal while I’m waiting.”
She had expected him to protest, but he limped over to the table and eased himself into a chair, extending his leg out in front of him. Summer moved swiftly and efficiently between the work counter and the stove. Lifting the meat from the skillet, she broke two eggs into the fat; while they were cooking, she took biscuits from the warming oven.
Scarcely looking at the bent dark head, she placed the plate of food on the table and returned to the stove to pour two mugs of coffee. With both her hands curled about the warm cup, she sat quietly and watched him eat. The light from the window shafted across his right cheek, showing up an ugly white scar that curved from the middle of his ear up and over his cheekbone and down to the corner of his mouth. Thick black lashes hid deep blue eyes, when he looked up to see her looking at him. There was an awful, strained silence as they stared at each other.
“S. McLean?” Summer said carefully, as if the words were strange and she were terribly afraid of them.
“Slater McLean.” His voice held a tinge of regret.
“You
wrote the letter?” Summer’s eyes held his.
“Yes.” He looked down at his plate. “It’s what Pa would’ve done if he was alive.”
“Sam McLean is dead?”
“Five years now. But even then, he wanted you to come home.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Or meet me in Hamilton?”
“Would you have come with me?”
She studied his face; one side so smooth and handsome, the other puckered, distorted. Most men, she thought, would have grown a beard to hide at least part of the disfigurement.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said at last. “My mother told me to find Sam McLean and I . . .”
“Say no more,” be interrupted curtly. “I understand.”
“What ever happened to your face?” The words were out before she could stop them.
There was an awful moment of silence while the enormity of her rude question shamed her. His thick dark lashes came together over the hard gleam in his eyes, and the left comer of his mouth slanted upward as he smiled.
“You’re not supposed to mention it. You’re supposed to look away and pretend it isn’t there. It’s ugly and offensive, but I’m grateful it’s where it is and not two inches to the left where it would have cut across my eye, nose and mouth. I can see, smell, eat, and I’m alive. And that is important to me.”
His mockery affected her more than she was prepared for.
“I’m sorry. It was rude of me to ask, but I had no idea you were so sensitive about it. No amount of pretending is going to make it go away, you know.”
“On second thought,” he said icily, “I think I prefer your outspokenness to sly glances.” He made to get up. “More coffee?”
When he was seated again, she asked, “Why didn’t you ride with us? I saw you in the store.”
“On my way to town, I found Indian signs. We haven’t had Indian trouble for a year or two. Figured I’d better scout ahead.”
“I was scared,” she confessed.
Dorothy Garlock Page 5