Allie's Moon

by Alexis Harrington

  He flopped over on his belly and punched the feather pillow.

  The endless night stretched out before him like a dark, twisting path, full of mystery and danger.

  Just one drink—if he had just one, it might shut out those memories and faces. He never should have let Will twist his arm into staying here. If he’d refused, Will would’ve had to take him back to town and he would have been free a lot sooner than the end of summer. He could have his whiskey, and he wouldn’t need to deal with the demanding Miss Althea Ford.

  Maybe when Will came back out in a few days, he could weasel out of this deal. Until then, though, he was stuck.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  Dawn came sooner than Althea would have liked, but there was no getting around the work she had to do today. After she washed and dressed, she went down the hall to her father’s old bedroom. The door was kept closed, and Althea had not willingly set foot inside since his death. She gripped the cold glass knob for a moment, then gave it a twist and pushed. The bedroom looked exactly as it had for as long as she could remember. She hadn’t moved or changed a thing.

  Running her hand over the already tidy counterpane, Althea stared at the chair next to the bed. She’d spent hours sitting in here toward the end of her father’s life. Years of working the land had not made him sturdy and rugged, as it did other men. At the age of fifty, his failing heart had turned him into an invalid. It had been impossible for him to take more than a step or two without becoming winded, and he’d coughed continuously.

  Olivia had been no help. In a state of nervous exhaustion she’d rarely ventured beyond her own bed. So Althea had shouldered the responsibility of caring for both of them.

  But Althea had been dutiful—Amos Ford had not had to so much as ask for a drink of water. She’d anticipated and seen to his every need and want.

  Hoping . . . hoping that he would forgive her at last, and not carry his bitterness with him to his grave.

  When he’d taken his last strangled breath, it was long past midnight. With Olivia on her knees sobbing hysterically beside the bed, Althea had stood over them, feeling excluded and alone. Finally a welcome sense of detachment numbed her pain and disappointment. As if she’d been watching the scene from some other place, she wondered why people so often went to meet Death in the deepest part of the night.

  But no matter whether at dawn or dusk, her father had gone, and the words she’d yearned for since she was seven years old, the absolution, never came and never would.

  Forcing her mind back to the present, Althea’s gaze fell to the bureau where there lay a razor, a shaving mug and brush, and a comb, the objects of her mission to this place of bad memories. She reached out with a hesitant hand and let her fingertips rest lightly on the ivory-handled blade. Still dutiful, she tended this room the same way she tended her parents’ graves. Only at night, while alone with her thoughts, did Althea admit—and then reluctantly—that she was dutiful more out of fear than respect. It was silly, she knew, but even from the grave, her father ruled her life with an iron fist from dawn to dark, just as he had when he was alive, always dangling the hope before her that he might one day forgive her.

  If only she pleased him enough.

  If only she worked just a little harder.

  If only . . .

  Ludicrous as it was, she couldn’t shake the notion that he’d find a way to punish her if she failed to do things now exactly as he’d demanded when he’d been alive. Before daybreak, she had to be washed and dressed. By dawn, breakfast had to be on the stove. That finished and served to his order at table, she’d been allowed to eat her own meal. Then while he and Olivia had lingered over coffee, it was time to wash the dishes. Then the floors. So it went throughout the day, and even now, when his death should have freed her, she was afraid to break the routine.

  That made the idea of loaning her father’s razor and shaving mug to Jeff Hicks seem almost sacrilegious. But she had no others to give him, and these were simply sitting in this room, going unused. Olivia wouldn’t approve, Althea was sure of that. Fortunately, she probably wouldn’t realize they were missing. She never came into this room, either. And maybe she wouldn’t recognize the overalls and shirts that Althea lifted out of the bureau drawers to clothe Jeff.

  Before a demon of misgivings could change her mind, Althea scooped up the items. She spotted the razor strop hanging next to the door and grabbed that too. Then she fled the room as if Amos Ford’s angry spirit had chased her out and slammed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Armed with a basket that held a scissors, mirror, towel, and the other things she’d collected, Althea took a deep breath and went down the back steps in search of Jeff Hicks. The new day was crowned by a cloudless blue sky, and a light, clean breeze stirred the oak and pear trees with a sound like the faint rustle of silk petticoats. Chickadees and nuthatches were already busy in the branches, pairing off and building nests.

  Everywhere Althea looked, life was renewing itself. A funny little flutter skittered through her as she crossed the grass. She’d had the same feeling yesterday when she saw Jeff on the roof staring at the horizon. It felt like anticipation, yearning for something, but for the life of her she couldn’t understand what it meant.

  Scanning the yard, she didn’t see Jeff, and he wasn’t on the roof. He was probably still asleep. Well, he’d find out soon enough that days around this farm started early. Shifting the basket to her other arm, she cut a wide path around the barn and avoided looking at it directly.

  She approached the lean-to gingerly and stood well back, not knowing what to expect. The door was ajar, but she risked only a quick, furtive peek. Good heavens, for all she knew he could be sleeping nake—without clothing. The very idea brought such heat to her cheeks and neck, she almost turned around and went back to the house. But no—she would see this through.

  “Mr. Hicks,” she called to the door opening, “the morning is well underway and there is a lot of work to do. I’ve brought you some clothes and a few other personal items.”

  Althea waited for a response, but only a noisy crow perched on a nearby fence post answered her.

  She tried again, this time with more emphasis in her voice. “Mr. Hicks, lollygagging is not a virtue. The spring rains won’t really end until after June, so you must take advantage of every sunny day that we have now. Please make yourself decent and come out here so I can cut your hair. I have my own work to do.”

  Still she got no answer. She took one step forward.

  “Mr. Hicks! If you don’t answer me now—”

  “Ma’am?”

  Althea jumped and whirled to face Jeff Hicks as he rounded the back corner of the barn. He carried his wrung-out shirt in one hand and his towel in the other. His long, wet hair streamed down his bare chest. Although his thinness threw his ribs into moderate relief, they were crisscrossed with lean, hard muscle that extended into the waistband of his jeans. His shaggy beard also sparkled with water droplets and made him look not simply disreputable now, but downright dangerous.

  And, to Althea’s horror, utterly fascinating.

  “I-I’m sorry, I thought you were still—” She gestured at the lean-to. “I thought you were in there.”

  “No, ma’am. I was washing at the trough.”

  Her eyes followed the trail of another rivulet that snaked over his collarbone and into the hair that spanned his chest. “Yes, I see—well, I came out to cut your hair and bring you some clothes and things.” She indicated the basket.

  He nodded. “I’ll get that stool.”

  Following, Althea watched him stride across the yard to get the stool from the back porch. His legs were long and slim, and his shoulders were broader than she’d realized. He set the stool next to the tree stump that had served as his dinner table the evening before. When he sat down with his back to her, she stepped closer and considered the bare breadth of his shoulders.

  “I brought a shirt that might fit you,” she said, thinking he
r voice sounded high and very young. “You should probably put it on now.”

  He turned his head and said over his shoulder, “I’ll wait until you’re done. If I put it on before you cut my hair, it’ll just itch all day.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she stumbled, feeling timid. Taking up the comb, her hand remained suspended just above his head. He smelled clean, like the soap she’d given him, but like a man, too. She knew she should work the tangles out of his hair soon; the morning sun was warm and it was already beginning to dry, turning a rich sandy color.

  Do it—just do it and get this over with. She sank the comb’s teeth into the damp strands at the back of his head.

  “Were you comfortable in the lean-to last night?” she asked, desperate to fill the awkward silence.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jeff lied. He’d barely slept at all, and this morning his muscles ached in places that he’d forgotten existed. But he’d gladly give up another night’s sleep if it meant he could sit here again tomorrow and feel her fiddling with his hair. She worked out the tangles carefully, not pulling or ripping at them as he was inclined to do. The delicious sensation of the comb scraping lightly over his scalp raised goosebumps all over him. He glanced down at the hair on his arms standing on end. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him.

  “Fine. As soon as you finish the roof and shore up the trellis, I’ll need you to start plowing the garden. I’m very late getting it planted this year. I hope you know something about plowing and planting.” She talked on about what needed fixing, patching, painting.

  “Hmm, yes, ma’am.” With her fingers playing in his hair, it was the only response he could make. His eyes crossed slightly as he relaxed, and he heard the blades of the scissors snipping here and there. It was followed by more combing. Hair scraps tumbled down his upper arms to be carried away on the wind. This wasn’t like having the barber cut his hair. That felt completely different. Barbers were heavier-handed. They cinched a striped bib around a man’s neck and pushed his head this way and that, making quick, decisive moves. This was a woman’s touch, lighter and infinitely more gentle. Now and then he felt her clothing brush against his bare back and wondered idly if perhaps it was her breast beneath the fabric. And she smelled good, like starch and clothes hung out to dry in the sun.

  “Will anyone in town be missing you while you’re here?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Your wife knows where you are, then?”

  Jeff’s eyes snapped back into focus. “I don’t have a wife,” he answered stiffly, his muscles tensing again. Was it clever sarcasm that she aimed at him? Nobody in town could have missed Sally’s desertion.

  “Oh, that’s good—” The teeth of the comb paused on his scalp. “I mean, it’s good that you haven’t left anyone alone.” Jeff couldn’t see her face, but her voice sounded unsure and as innocent as a girl’s. He relaxed again.

  “Who looks after your stock?” He thought it wise to change the subject just in case she got curious and wanted to ask more questions.

  “We don’t have animals anymore. After my father took sick, and with my sister Olivia to see to, tending the stock was more than I could handle alone. And I wouldn’t go into the b-barn anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  Her hands fell still. “I-I haven’t been in there in years. I’ll never go in there— I can’t—” She broke off so abruptly that he turned to look at her. She suddenly looked very young and very frightened.

  “Ma’am?”

  She took a deep breath and made a circular motion with her hand to turn him back to his original position. The snipping started again. “I sold the livestock a few years ago.”

  “What do you do for meat and butter and such?” he asked.

  “I made an arrangement with Wickwire’s to have fresh provisions sent out a couple of times a week. I used to buy from the Smithfields’ farm but, well, that was a while back. At any rate, Mr. Wickwire has my standing order in his store. I imagine I’ll have to send him a note to increase our order while you’re here. Of course, I put up my own vegetables and fruit. The pear tree always gives me a good crop.” She went on cutting his hair without another word. Finally she ran the comb over his whole head with light strokes, then walked a slow circle around him to survey her handiwork. “That’s much better. You can finish up with the razor I brought you. Then you can get on with patching the roof.”

  Disappointed that the barbering session was over, Jeff stood up. “I don’t think I’m ready to shave—”

  Althea Ford drew herself to her full height—all of five feet and maybe three or four inches at most, Jeff figured—all businessy and bossy again. “I’ll be having none of that, Mr. Hicks. Believe me, you are more than ready. We agreed yesterday that you would clean up, and so you will. In the meantime, I’ll fix your breakfast. It will be ready by the time your finished.”

  She walked back to the house, her auburn head held high, and her skirts swaying as she went. Goddamn it, but she was a fussy, demanding woman. And she had a way of saying “Mr. Hicks” that sounded as if she’d been sucking a lemon. Jeff glanced at the contents of the basket she’d left for him. An old ivory-handled razor lay in the bottom and he stretched out a shaking hand to pick it up.

  He could buck her and refuse to do her bidding. It was a tantalizing idea. Or he could do as she asked and show her the result.

  He swung open the razor. The shiny blade caught the morning sun and gleamed like a cavalry saber. He looked up at the house again, just in time to see the screen door slam behind Althea.

  Breakfast actually sounded good—his stomach wasn’t as jumpy as it had been yesterday. He supposed if his shaky hand didn’t cut his throat with the razor, he’d survive to eat.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  “Althea, I thought you’d never finish with that man.” Olivia met her in the kitchen. Her baby-fine, uncurled hair hung loosely around her waist, and she wore only her shift and an old shawl. Her feet were bare.

  Startled, Althea demanded, “What on earth are you doing up at this hour? It isn’t even eight o’clock yet.”

  “I couldn’t sleep so I came downstairs looking for you, and I saw you outside with him, that—that handyman. You were there for an hour. You touched him.” Olivia’s eyes had a distraught look to them that made Althea wary. She’d seen that look in her sister’s eyes many times before—it signaled an upsurge of emotions that nearly always led to one of her spells. It might not happen right away; sometimes days might pass.

  Anxious to soothe Olivia, Althea immediately changed her tone. “Remember, dear? Last night I mentioned that I was going to cut Mr. Hicks’ hair this morning.”

  “Yes, I remember. But Althea, I saw your face. You looked as if you were enjoying it.”

  Althea dropped her gaze to the scissors she still held. Enjoyed cutting Jeff’s hair, the feel of the clean, wet strands in her fingers? And the warmth that radiated from his big frame while she stood behind him?

  “Nonsense, Olivia. It was just another job to do, like the laundry or the cooking.” Was that why she’d asked him about a wife, double-checking what she already knew?

  “But you weren’t here. And I wanted to help with the picnic food.”

  It didn’t sound rational to Althea, but when Olivia got this way she didn’t sound rational. Althea’s stomach sank to her knees. Oh, please, she thought, please don’t let her go into the declines again.

  “That’s fine, I’d love your help. But don’t you want to wash and get dressed first? I haven’t even cooked breakfast yet. We have plenty of time to fix lunch.”

  Olivia glanced out the window again, and Althea followed the path of her gaze. His face full of white lather, Jeff Hicks stood outside the lean-to, staring into the mirror she’d given him. He’d hung it on a nail next to the door.

  “I don’t think he should be here,” Olivia murmured. “I don’t think any good will come of it.”

  “He’s just helping us. You go on, and I’ll
have pancakes ready for you when you come down again.”

  Finally Olivia nodded and padded to the back stairway.

  Althea watched her sister climb the steps and she released the breath she’d been holding. Olivia hadn’t suffered from a convulsion in months. Althea hoped with all her heart that she wasn’t going to begin having them again. Maybe she hadn’t slept enough, or perhaps the change of having Jeff on the property had upset her a little. She’d be fine, Althea assured herself. She just had to be.

  Turning, she began to gather flour, eggs, and the other necessary ingredients to make pancakes. With an extra mouth to feed, she’d have to remember to tell Mr. Wickwire to send more food out.

  An extra mouth.

  . . . you were enjoying it.

  Oh, well, maybe she had found satisfaction in cutting Jeff Hicks’ shaggy mop, she admitted to herself, but only because it gave her a sense of accomplishment and order. She cracked the eggs into a bowl and whisked them with a fork. Revealing the shape of his head hiding beneath almost made him look younger. Now his hair just brushed his collar—or where she’d estimated that his collar would reach. He’d been wearing no shirt, after all. Although she’d tried, she couldn’t ignore the sharp-edged wings of his shoulder blades, or the shadowed hollows they created. His skin had been cool and damp from his bath, but it soon warmed under the sun. And he’d smelled good—different from her father or Lane.

  Glancing at the eggs again, she realized she’d whipped them into a high, pale-yellow froth. “For heaven’s sakes,” she muttered. She measured flour, baking powder, and a little milk into the bowl.

  Soon she had bacon and eggs frying while she poured pancake batter onto the cast iron griddle. It was a working man’s kind of breakfast, she realized. Neither she nor Olivia ate this much in the morning. But Jeff was too thin—who knew when he’d eaten his last decent meal before last night?—and she had hard work planned for him. He’d need a big meal to sustain him until lunch.