“More than you know, cowboy. Believe it!”
Babe had always been a feisty companion to the taciturn Mercer but she seemed changed now to Grace. Mellow, with a look of seriousness about her, that restless girl no longer looked out from her dark eyes. Mercer, ever watchful, refused Grace’s offer of a bed to tumble into, but settled for hot coffee and scrambled eggs.
“We’ll hook up over at Ellie’s. There’s room for the fifth wheel there. Timothy can run a hard line and we’ll have a hot water and power in no time. Then we can unpack.”
Grace pondered Mercer and Babe’s bond as she scooped scrambled eggs out of a skillet and buttered the toast points. Babe had made it clear in every conversation she had ever had with Grace on the topic that the relationship did not include cohabitation of any kind. Babe owned the ranch and Mercer the adjoining land in Montana, and while they spent every waking hour together, Babe’s virtue was a hard-won prize. But something had changed between them, something finite and sure. When the sisters got Babe alone in the kitchen tomorrow morning, there would surely be some conversation about the sleeping arrangements in that fifth wheel.
Chapter Twelve
“He wants to get married.” Babe snapped, after Ellie, Katy and Grace had each asked at varying intervals what in the world was happening between Babe and the tall Montana cowboy. It was Thanksgiving morning and final preparations were underway in the Stillwell kitchen.
“Babe! That’s Wonderful!” Ellie threw her arms around her sister, dodging a paring knife and a flying potato peel.
“Well? Did you say yes?” Never one to dally over details, Katy cut straight to the heart of the matter. Katy was a middle child but had always had the resolution of a leader. More blonde than the brunette of her sisters, Katy’s hair was now showing a strand or two of grey in the elegant bob that accented the pointy chin and sharp angles of her face. Katy didn’t walk, she marched, and had often fearlessly lead the tribe of sisters when the more easy-going Ellie was happy to let her take over. Katy would want answers from Babe. Direct and to the point. Normally that would be Babe’s style as well, but in this case even Grace wasn’t sure what the answer would be.
“I told him I’d have to think about it.”
Granny Stillwell began to titter into her apron, then giving in, she threw back her head and laughed heartily at the astonished looks on the faces of the four sisters.
Babe shrugged off Ellie’s hug and grumpily dug back into the potatoes. “I don’t like it. Things are fine just the way they are. I won’t love him any more than I do now, if I marry him.” She paused. “It might change things.”
Ellie’s eyebrows arched and she began to peel. “Well, change what? You said it wouldn’t change the way you feel about him. Don’t you want to wake up next to him in the morning?”
“Hmph.”
“What exactly is it that would change?” Katy cut in, tired of Ellie’s careful dance.
“It would mean he’d be a part of everything I have, dammit.” Babe sat down in a chair with a thump. “Do you know how many years it took to get them to lend me the money for that ranch?”
“Seven.” They all chimed.
“Change? Not necessarily.” Grace edged in next to Katy.
“Not necessarily what? That would mean half of everything I worked for would be handed over to him and—and it means I’m losing what belongs to me. What I worked for, and earned, and sweated, and saved for.” Babe’s voice was beginning to rise to a boom, her face dark red with a creeping purple coming up her cheeks. Babe had a temper. Enough temper, Granny said, for all four girls.
“Calm down, Babe. Have you looked at it the other way? Let me ask you something. Exactly how many acres does Mercer own?” Grace asked, continuing to peel potatoes.
“2100, just 300 more than my ranch.” Babe was puzzled.
“So my dear, you just gained the use of 2100 acres of land, rent free. Do you honestly believe Mercer wants you for your property? You could, of course, have him sign a prenuptial agreement, but, I’m having a hard time picturing that.” The image of Mercer the cowboy, standing over a marriage contract, Stetson tilted back, scratching his forehead, made Grace laugh. “Otherwise, you can look at it like this, Babe. Mercer has just as much — if not more — to lose or gain by marriage than you do.”
Babe was silent.
“You also might want to think about why you are focusing on losing versus gaining, little sister.” Ellie added wisely. “It seems to me Mercer has proven his devotion. Last year he helped you rebuild not one, but two barns that you lost after the summer storms. Three years ago when that mare had twins, he lay on the floor with you in the dead of winter for hours and helped birth those colts, and he rode the fence line with you for a week or more looking for that wild stallion.”
Katy jumped in, “That time when you got pneumonia, and your stock had to be fed—“
“All right! All right! I get it.” Babe tossed the paring knife on the counter and stomped out the backdoor, leaving the resounding slam to shake the kitchen windows. Mercer came into the room, wincing at the sound. Knowing looks passed all around.
“Did you talk some sense into that damned woman?” Mercer muttered, snatching a warm potato roll from the tray near the back of the oven. Grace cleared her throat and looked at Ellie, who looked at Katy.
“You’re the one that wants to marry her. Seems to me you’d know that girl hasn’t got any sense, not when it comes to men.” Granny Stillwell said, then swatted Mercer’s hand away from the warm bread and pushed him toward the back door.
“Everybody always calls me when there’s a mess to clean up. Now I gotta go calm her down. Again.” He muttered, but a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth and he went stalking out the door, long legs striding toward the slight figure hunched against the chilly wind. The women watched through the back window as he approached Babe, sliding one hand over her shoulder, then lacing it through her long auburn ponytail. Babe turned and her words were lost in another gust, but a small pointed elbow caught Mercer in the side. The cowboy grabbed Babe around the waist and kissed her soundly. Laughter rang through the house from the kitchen.
Later that evening, replete with good companionship and the wonderful food from Granny Stillwell’s kitchen, an overfed but sociable group played board games in the sitting room and talked of the winter to come. Mercer, sitting quietly in the corner, sipped from a pilsner and played cards with Timothy and Christopher. Babe was noticeably keeping her distance but the tall man seemed to be more interested in his current hand of cards than the whereabouts or activities of the woman he loved. The longer Mercer ignored Babe, the more fidgety she became. She listened with only half a mind to Grace relaying to Katy the story of the Rodwell child at Franklin Hill School. When Katy, a licensed social worker, began to explain the risks and repercussions involved in the mandatory reporting of child neglect to Grace, Grace herself put a hand on Katy’s arm and tilted her head toward Babe, silencing the flow of conversation.
Babe was watching Mercer intently, emotions rumbling across her face like a runaway train. Intense longing, worry, and thoughtfulness ran the gamut, finally replaced by what appeared to be acceptance.
Mercer looked up at Babe as if he felt her reaching to him from across the room. He folded his cards, stood quietly and put on his hat, then pulled Babe toward the kitchen and the cold November night.
Granny Stillwell observed the activities from where she sat crocheting. Her eyes caught the flash of a gold box that came out of Mercer’s pocket and into his hand as he took Babe toward the door. She continued rocking and knitting, smiling softly to herself.
Chapter Thirteen
The Franklin Hill R-I football team was considered a powerhouse in the small AA conference. An imposing team of strapping farm boys formed the forbidding offensive and defensive lines while agile running backs moved the ball. Year after year, the townsfolk from neighboring communities muttered in their beer on Friday nights after getting soundly w
alloped yet again by a Franklin Hill team.
“Well, hell. They don’t grad-gee-ate ‘em, they just rotate ‘em back in. Some of those boys are twenty-five years old!” was commonly heard from the parents at nearby Diggsville High School.
Football was the only sport in Franklin Hill that could actually come close to covering its own expenses, according to Homer Emerson’s ever depleted extracurricular activities budget. Franklin Hill football also covered the cost of soccer, baseball and a minimally effective basketball team that struggled to win a game every season. Grace loved a high school football game, particularly the few times she had seen her nephews on the field. Ellie, the ever-present football mom had proved herself a screamer of first water, firmly believing a little parental embarrassment was good for the soul. Her children, in their smiling, unassuming way, agreed.
The traditional rivalry game between the Franklin Hill Warriors and the Diggsville Muskies generally took place after the playoffs, as an exhibition game the weekend following Thanksgiving. The weather was generally cold but sunny, and while there were no tailgate parties, school-organization vendors sold bratwursts, burgers, funnel cakes and hot chocolate to fuel the crowd of six hundred that filled the small stadium. Grace walked among the throng, waving at teachers and speaking to students. Homer Emerson sat shivering under a stadium blanket with his wife Melba, a thermos between them. Both waved gloved fingers her direction. Grace noticed Homer was already sporting a fleece-lined orange hunting cap with ear flaps down and tied under his chin. Grace herself was wearing a tailored shirt and wool fisherman’s sweater to keep out the wind. It would be a long winter for Homer if thirty-five degrees was giving him the chills.
She passed by the funnel cake kiosk and was moving toward hot chocolate when she saw a young boy watching her, his slight frame leaning against the back of the burger stand. There was something familiar about that oval face, feathered black lashes and pointed chin. This was, no doubt, Derry Rodwell. Wearing a thin windbreaker and a t-shirt, knees torn out of his jeans, he approached her cautiously.
“Miss Phillips?”
Grace paid for her hot chocolate and motioned for another, handing a cup to Derry.
“Yes? You must be Gina’s brother. She told me about you.” Derry looked at the cup, puzzled, then realized it was a gift. He cautiously took a sip and closed his eyes, his body leaning into the steaming drink.
“Going to watch the game, Derry?”
“Naw, I’m waiting for Mama to get done over at the Home. I just came by to look at everything.”
“How was your Thanksgiving?” Grace urged the boy toward a seat in the bleachers and he continued to gulp the drink, a chocolate mustache forming above his lip.
“Oh, it was something, Miss Phillips! We had a great big old bird, bigger than Gina even. We had stuffing and pies this year, too.” Mama said somebody left a basket of groceries in her car with a note. She thinks it was from the nursing home but those people don’t—those people never—they won’t do nothing for nobody. See, she works all the time and she don’t—she hasn’t got a raise or even a Christmas present since she’s worked there.” Exasperated, the boy spit the words out. “But,” a fleeting brightness returned, “we ate till I thought I’d get sick. Gina had three pieces of pumpkin pie and I had one of each. We still got enough for two more meals, if we’re careful, Mama says.” It was an added caution.
Grace listened to the thin boy ramble, exclaiming over his meal. She knew the sponsor of the basket but kept quiet, as she had promised Bernadine. Grace wondered if he had a winter coat. He was shivering next to her, holding the steaming hot chocolate as close as he could inside the thin windbreaker. A winter coat was not likely.
“So you take care of the little ones for your mama while she works? That’s a lot of responsibility, Derry.”
“She don’t—she hardly makes any money. There’s the two of us and Willie, he’s just little-bitty still. He goes over to the church school. They let him go for free 'cause Mama cleans up there some nights. On Friday when I ain’t got—when I don’t go to school the next day, I take care of the little kids and stay up until she comes home.”
“It’s good to know she can trust you to watch out for your brother and sister, Derry. I know she must really appreciate it.”
“Well, the washer’s broke—I mean broken, and I don’t do so good with sewing. But Gina, she won’t hardly hold still long enough to fix anything. Mama was worried about those clothes you sent her home in, Miss Phillips. Did you really give ‘em to her?” So this was the heart of the matter. He was afraid his sister would have to give back the newly acquired wardrobe. Grace was not surprised. To a ten-year-old boy with nothing, it probably seemed like the world had changed when Gina came home warm, clean and with shoes that fit. Grace smiled reassuringly.
“No, Derry, I didn’t. We had a swap. Gina said she might be able to bring in something and that will be fair. We’re going to do a big swap at school, you know. I expect you to bring those boots Gina was telling me about.” She studied the boy’s face carefully. He was puzzled. The Rodwells had few handouts in their young lives.
“Just those boots? That’s all we need to bring?”
“That’s all. And if you tell me your brother’s sizes we’ll find something for him as well. Some things might be a little big, but that’s fine. Maybe we can come across a winter coat or two. That would help your mama out.”
“I’ll ask about the sizes.” He looked at his now-empty hot chocolate cup, a fleeting show of disappointment passed over the impish face. Grace handed him her cup and received a glowing smile in return. “Don’t you like hot chocolate, Miss Phillips?”
“Oh, I like it all right Derry, but hot chocolate likes me too much!” She patted her stomach and Derry laughed. The boy peered through the bleachers and jumped up quickly, nearly losing his hot drink at the sound of a loud muffler. ‘There’s Mama! I’ll talk to her, Miss Phillips, and I’ll get them—those sizes!”
One of the many teachers gathered around the hot drink stand looked at the boy’s departing back and called to Grace. “Grace! When’s the clothing drive going on? We should announce it here at the football game!” Grace looked at Homer Emerson still shivering in the stands. The superintendent had not yet rubber stamped her memo with his approval. Homer’s orange-capped head turned sharply her direction, voices carrying to him. A gloved thumbs-up gave his blessing and she approached the teachers, nodding her head.
“Let’s do it! It’s always better to give than receive, and it is nearly Christmas.” They would put that simple adage to the test in Franklin Hill.
I do come home at Christmas. We all do, or we all should.
We all come home, or ought to come home . . .
— Charles Dickens, “A Christmas Tree”
Chapter Fourteen
Grace broke her promise to keep the television at bay between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. Ted Turner would be broadcasting every old holiday movie available and she intended to decorate her new home and immerse herself in the season, in the company of Jimmy Stewart, Bing Crosby, Rosemary Clooney, Cary Grant, and George C. Scott. Tangled Christmas lights were stored in the attic along with ornaments, garland and a framed print of Ebenezer Scrooge and Bob Cratchit that she had hung every year since leaving home. First, she would search for evergreen garland and a tree big enough to fill the bay window and welcome her home every evening with its bright twinkle.
Grace heaved on the rope to pull the steps down from the attic, unfolded and braced the makeshift stairs, and was on the ascent when a rustling sound came to her from just above her head. She hesitated, but reached up to pull the attic light on. Before her fingers could grasp the string, her gaze encountered two sets of beady black eyes staring back at her from edge of the hatch. Grace screamed, and the rodents squeaked in response. She reflexively backed down three steps fast, only to miss the fourth tread and fall, thumping onto her backside on the hall runner.
“Ooooomph!” More s
kittering from above and she swore she saw a bushy tail retreat from the narrow attic opening. Grace hauled herself up from the floor and headed for Norm and Cindy’s house. She was across the back yard, with one hand on the gate when she saw Norm loping toward her, a .22 shotgun in his hand.
“Squirrels.” His only word as he passed her.
“Thank God you’re here! There were at least two of them, Norm—” she was talking to the tall man’s back as he made for the house.
She stood in the yard, looking up at the house and rubbing her bruised backside while the war with the fuzzy invaders ensued within. Scuffling, some muffled cursing and then a loud “GIT!” thundered from the attic window. No less than five seconds later two flying balls of fur scurried down a power line and toward the sycamore at the edge of the yard. The attic window opened with a creak and a nest of insulation, torn newspaper and red yarn was flung out by a brawny gloved hand. Squeaks and chattering issued from the sycamore, a loud protest of Norm’s home invasion.
Ed stomped past her sporting a wide leather utility belt and toting a beat-up yellow toolbox. Under one arm he held several pieces of plywood and a tube of caulk.
“Hole.” He explained. These were men of action, and of few words..
Grace ran a hand through her hair and looked around her. There was no way she was going back in that house until the all clear, but she was freezing. November was fading and December would bring a stern warning of the January to come. She hugged herself, tucking her hands in as best she could and stomped her feet.
Connie and Cindy, in matching pumpkin-colored polyester pantsuits, approached the fence, whispering to one another. Connie, or possibly Cindy, handed Grace a mug of steaming coffee and a plate of still-warm sugar cookies. Cindy, or possibly Connie, wrapped a large, green, insulated hunting jacket that probably fit Norm around Grace’s shoulders. She accepted the offerings, trying to convey thanks and compliments to the twins attire. She noted the flattering seaming on their double knit pants and always matching outfits but the twins merely giggled and looked up at the attic window, pointing, and wordlessly accepting that Grace wasn’t going back in that house until the critters had been completely evicted.
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