Allie's Moon

by Alexis Harrington

  She assembled a tray for him: a stack of four fluffy pancakes dotted with butter, two fried eggs, three slices of bacon, and coffee. When she pushed open the screen door, she spotted him still at the lean-to, just finishing with the razor.

  “Mr. Hicks,” she called. He looked up and she lifted the tray slightly. He hurried into the shirt she’d given him. The sleeves were a bit too short, so he folded them back to his elbows, exposing sturdy forearms dusted with blond hair. Then he jammed the short tails into the waist of his jeans. Well, she supposed the shirt didn’t really fit—at least it was clean and whole, even if his jeans were not. But as he neared her she saw that he still looked worn out, although his eyes were not as red as they had been the day before. The most striking feature at the moment, though, were a dozen or more nicks on his face. Some of them slowly oozed blood, others were drying.

  “Goodness, Mr. Hicks! What have you done to yourself?”

  “It’s nothing, ma’am.” He reached up and pressed his thumb to a particularly nasty cut on his chin. Then he shrugged like a self-conscious youth, and turned his profile to her.

  But he wasn’t a youth. He was a man, and his hand shook as if he had St. Vitus’ dance.

  Guilt scuttled through Althea. That was why he hadn’t wanted to use the razor, because his hands trembled, not because he was being stubborn.

  And she had insisted.

  She put the tray down on the tree stump and searched her apron pocket for her clean handkerchief. “Here,” she said quietly, pulling it out, “wet this at the pump. The cold water will help stop the bleeding.”

  He took a step backward. “No, ma’am, I’ll ruin it.”

  She was beginning to wish that he’d stop calling her “ma’am.” “You won’t ruin it. It’s just an ordinary square of white linen.” Olivia’s things were lacy and furbelowed. Althea’s were plain and serviceable. She held out the handkerchief for several moments, feeling as if she were waving it at a passing train. “Go on, now.” Finally he took it from her.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll leave your breakfast here. Just put the hanky on the tray when you’re finished with it. I can find some other ones for you to use.” Knowing where those handkerchiefs would come from, Althea’s gaze strayed briefly to the gravesite, half expecting to see the earth swell and buckle as Amos Ford rolled over.

  “Thanks again, ma’am.”

  Althea nearly cringed. “Mr. Hicks, it isn’t necessary to call me ‘ma’am.’ ”

  He grinned at her suddenly, briefly. It was the first real smile she’d seen on his face. His eyes crinkled at the outer corners and another five years came off his appearance. She marveled at this attractive man who’d been hiding under the shaggy hair and straggling beard. The funny flutter in her stomach came back.

  “All right, Allie. I’m not real partial to ‘Mr. Hicks’ either. My name is Jeff.”

  Allie! She had not given him permission to address her so informally. “My name is Althea, but you may call me Miss Ford. Anyway, a woman my age can’t be called a name that sounds so—so girlish.”

  He considered her with a slight squint. “You don’t look like an Althea.”

  “No? And what does an Althea look like?”

  He pulled his thumb away from his chin to check the blood there. “I’m not sure. But not like you.”

  She couldn’t believe that she lingered with this silly conversation—she had work to do, a picnic to get ready for, and a sister to mollify. Maybe it was the ache she saw in his green eyes that kept her there. Or the way the sun glinted off the gold strands in his hair. But she had to end it.

  “You clean up your face and then eat your breakfast, Mr. Hicks.” She couldn’t bring herself to call him by his first name. “You’ve got a lot to keep you busy, and I have to look after my sister. She’s a bit feeble.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He dropped his gaze and an edge of tired bitterness crept into his voice. Hearing it, Althea knew she’d put it there.

  “Well, I— I’ll see you at lunch.” Althea turned and walked back toward the house, hoping she wouldn’t have to see that haunted pain hiding behind his eyes again anytime soon.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  The morning went faster than Jeff had expected. The big breakfast Althea had given him saw him through hours of hammering and crab-walking across the steep pitch of the roof. The sun warmed up early on, and sweat trickled over the nicks and razor burn on his face, stinging like witch hazel.

  But now, after giving his work a final inspection, he looked over the expanse of shingles and felt satisfaction. That was something Jefferson Hicks hadn’t felt in a long time. And he realized that so far this morning, he’d thought about taking a drink only twice. He’d done hard work and he’d done it well. Of course, the next rain would bring the true test.

  He was about to step onto the ladder when he heard two female voices outside. Although their words were too faint to catch, one voice he recognized as Althea’s. The other, higher and much younger, he assumed belonged to her sister.

  “Mr. Hicks, I’m putting your lunch over here,” Althea called as she carried a tray to the tree stump. She glanced up briefly, but didn’t make eye contact with him. And she was still calling him Mr. Hicks.

  She was a fine-looking woman, he thought again, even if she was as stiff as a collar stay. He racked his memory, trying to recall what had been said in town about these two sisters. All he could remember was something about them being crazy, but obviously that hadn’t been right. He’d met their father once or twice—he’d been a dour, sour man, one to whom joy had seemed to be an enemy.

  Jeff came down the ladder and eyed the tray. It looked like she’d given him a few sandwiches, some potato salad, and a piece of cake with chocolate frosting. The stool was still there by the tree stump, so he sat down. The little sandwiches had their crusts cut off and they were cut in quarters. It made him think of food a person would give to a child. He cast a sidelong glance at porch, where Althea’s sister sat on a blanket. She was slight and fragile-looking, and Jeff guessed her to be about fourteen or fifteen years old. She sat on a blanket with her hands folded in her lap and her skirts arranged around her as if she posed for a portrait. In fact, with her long, light blond hair hanging down her back, she reminded him of an illustration he’d once seen in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  And she was staring at him.

  He gave her a smile and a nod, but she only looked away, and appeared not to have noticed. Althea had told him that her sister was feeble—hell, maybe she’d meant feeble-minded.

  Althea came outside again with a plate. “Here, Olivia, take a sandwich and start eating.” Then seeing Jeff, she called, “Oh, Mr. Hicks—this is my sister, Olivia.”

  “Ma’am.”

  Olivia didn’t answer, and then he saw Althea whisper something to her.

  “How do you do, Mr. Hicks,” Olivia replied woodenly.

  “It’s such a nice day, we thought we’d have a little picnic here on the porch,” Althea added.

  Olivia didn’t speak again, but she began talking to her sister in hushed tones.

  Jeff felt like a conspicuous outsider, like a fly on a white tablecloth, with the two of them whispering about him, so he concentrated on his lunch. He examined the sandwiches—he didn’t think he’d ever seen ones like these, with the crusts trimmed off. He supposed that a woman as finicky as Althea Ford would hack off any crust that interfered with her sense of order. They were good, though. A couple of them were made with roast beef and some others with blackberry jam that smelled sweet and tart at the same time. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time someone had fixed him a lunch.

  This was how people lived, he recalled, even odd ones like the Ford sisters. With scheduled mealtimes and days filled with work and activity. They slept under the same roof every night, and woke up in a familiar place in the morning, not wondering how they’d gotten out of their clothes, or why they’d slept with their clothes on, or where they’d lost t
heir boots. He’d let all of that slip away from him in the past couple of years. But then, it was pretty hard for a man to keep a schedule when he didn’t give a damn about what happened to him.

  After gobbling down his lunch, Jeff was about to stand up and go investigate the rickety front porch trellis when a voice stopped him.

  “I was in discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage. If they did not love me, in fact as little did I love them.”

  Jeff glanced at the two on the porch and saw that Althea was reading to her sister. He didn’t know what book she held on her lap, but with the birds twittering in the oaks and the light breeze ruffling his shirt collar, it seemed right to hear a woman reading aloud on a day like this. Her voice was clear and distinct, and a memory darted through his mind of his mother reading to her boys.

  He was glad his mother couldn’t see what had happened to him. She hadn’t raised him or his brothers to be lazy or dirty. No, ma’am. A tiny, strong-willed widow left with five boys to bring up, Kate Hicks had taught them that hard work, honor, and acceptance of responsibility were their own rewards. He doubted that she would even recognize him now.

  He got a letter from her once or twice a year. Kirby Bromfield at the telegraph office would hunt him down and deliver it. Jeff kept the letters with his gear, but he’d stopped opening them. A current of hurt ran through them when she described wondering how he was and asked why he’d stopped writing. They tore at Jeff’s heart to read them. He’d tried to write back to her once, to lie and tell her that he was fine, just to give her peace. After all, how could he tell her the truth—that her eldest son, the sheriff of Decker Prairie of whom she’d been so proud—had fallen to such depths? But his hand had trembled so much that he’d splattered ink on the paper, and the few words he’d managed to scratch out had been illegible. He couldn’t ask someone else to do the writing—his pride wouldn’t permit that. Frustrated, he’d balled up the page and thrown it away.

  The last time his mother had seen him was on his wedding day in Klamath Falls five years earlier. With cheering family and old friends waving them on, he and Sally had started out on the three-day trip to Decker Prairie, and his new job, that afternoon. Pretty little Sally, just two weeks older than seventeen, sat on the wagon seat next to him with her hand tucked in the crook of his arm. He thought she was the most beautiful bride he’d ever seen. The thinly-veiled eagerness he’d seen in her eyes made him only too happy to escape the inevitable shivaree that would have interrupted their wedding night. He would make love to his new wife slowly and completely, with only the stars and moon to witness their consummation.

  He didn’t want to think about those days, or the fact that other people lived safe, comfortable lives, untouched by the kind of guilt he dragged around with him. Jefferson Hicks didn’t deserve anything more than what he had right now, and that was the way it would stay.

  But he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to spend a few minutes on a bright spring afternoon, listening to the measured, lulling sweetness of a woman’s voice.

  ~~*~*~*~~

  Althea sat on an old rocker and held the book on her lap. She had never really enjoyed reading aloud, but at least she didn’t stumble over the text as some did.

  Sitting across the quilt from her, Olivia selected another jam sandwich from a flowered plate and listened with eyes wide, as if Althea were reading from a lurid dime novel instead of Jane Eyre.

  Althea felt a kinship with Charlotte Brontë’s much-abused heroine but she kept that fact to herself. And even though Jane triumphed by the last chapter and married the man she loved, she wasn’t allowed to have a completely happy ending. No, indeed. For the sin of loving a man with an insane wife, Jane was punished—when she finally won Mr. Rochester he had been stricken blind. For a moment, she imagined Jeff Hicks with a pair of dark spectacles and a white cane, with his hand tucked in her arm. Oh, God, how horrible—

  “Altheeeah,” Olivia carped, “I know there’s more on the page. You’ve stopped in the middle of a sentence.”

  Althea was jolted back to the porch. “Oh, dear, I guess my thoughts wandered. We can take this up again later.” She laid a tatted bookmark between the pages and closed the volume. “I have chores to get to, and you might want to lie down for a while.”

  “Oh, all right,” Olivia replied with a sigh. She leaned back against a porch upright and closed her eyes dreamily. “I’m so glad we had this little lunch. I know I’m such a pest sometimes, dear Althea. I don’t know how you put up with me.”

  Althea began gathering the tablecloth she’d spread on top of the quilt. “You’re my sister, not a pest.”

  “And all we have is each other, isn’t that so? Nothing and no one can come between sisters.” Olivia bent a brief, hard look on Jeff, who’d left his seat by the tree stump and appeared to be heading toward the front porch.

  Althea noticed the glance, but dismissed it. “Of course not. We’re family. No one can break up a family.”

  Olivia picked herself up with surprising strength and agility, and scampered across the porch toward the screen door. “Do you promise?”

  “Promise—” It seemed as if Olivia were asking if her eyes would always be hazel or if the sky would always be blue. “We’ll always be sisters, Olivia. Nothing can change that. We’re related by blood.”

  Olivia lingered with her hand on the screen door pull, digesting her answer. Then she gave Althea a sweet, endearing smile and went into the house.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Come on, you son of a bitch.” Jeff ground out more epithets through gritted teeth as he worked a saw in short, quick strokes. He’d been struggling with this monster for the better part of an hour, and now he was drenched in sweat and in a lousy mood.

  His opponent was an ancient climbing rose. It had grown bigger than its trellis, literally pulling the support out of the ground and loose from the rusty nails that had once held it in place against the porch overhang. It was as if the rose bush had a gray-white, fan-shaped skeleton.

  At least he thought the trellis itself was generally fan-shaped, but it was hard to see through the foliage and twisting branches that gripped it. The rose encircled every slat and grew through every opening. The thing had branches as big around as his fist and thorns the size of arrowheads. Its pale pink blooms were full of enamored honey bees, further complicating his work.

  Jeff’s arms bore so many long red scratches he looked as if he’d been in a saloon fight with a mountain lion, and in several places he’d snagged his shirt on the thorns, ripping holes in the fabric. Branches that had fallen to his saw were in a pile around his feet, their thorns grabbing his pants legs, too. He thought the whole damned business ought to be chopped down with a double-headed axe, but Althea had insisted that he merely trim it. She liked the climbing rose, she said, its flowers were pretty and they smelled sweet.

  Pretty. “Well, then let her come out here and argue with this no-good—”

  Over the sound of his sawing, swearing, and shrubbery-rustling, Jeff heard the muffled thud of slow hoof beats in the road that passed the front of the house. Dragging his torn shirt sleeve across his forehead, he looked up to see if Will Mason had come back to deliver him from this miserable job. But when the rider climbed down from his horse and stood back to look at the place, Jeff felt every muscle in his body tense.

  It was not Will Mason at the gate. It was Cooper Matthews.

  Slowly, Jeff let the saw drop to the floor. He didn’t own this property—hell, he hadn’t even been here long enough to say he lived here. And he was not related to either of the women who did own this place. But whether or not it was his right, a fierce territorial instinct rushed through his veins, surprising him as much as it incited him to wariness. The general consensus in Decker Prairie was that Cooper Matthews was a no-account scum. There weren’t many, though, who knew just how black his heart really was.

  Jeff Hicks knew. And t
here was bad blood between them, as bad as it could get.

  He stepped down from the porch, making his presence known, and stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Though it had turned into a hot day, the sun pounding down on Jeff’s shoulders did nothing to dispel the icy knot in his stomach.

  Matthews saw him, as Jeff had intended, and sauntered forward. As long as he’d known him, Jeff had seen only two expressions on the man’s face: a haughty smirk, or a malevolent glare. Right now he wore the smirk.

  “What are you doin’ out here, Hicks?” He raked Jeff up and down with a venomous, contemptuous look. “You courtin’ one of those crazy Ford women?” If it were possible, Jeff thought that Matthews actually smelled worse than he had himself before his dunk in the trough. His clothes were even dirtier, and his teeth looked like short, walnut-dyed pegs in his red, puffy gums. He had the kind of face that made Jeff long to mash his fist into it, just to get rid of that smirk.

  “I’m here because you didn’t show up yesterday, like you told Miss Ford you would.”

  “Shee-it, today, yesterday, it don’t make any difference.” He waved his grimy hand at the house. “This place ain’t goin’ nowhere, and besides, that woman just don’t know her place. Nobody orders Cooper Matthews around. But I guess you know that, don’t you, Sheriff?”

  Jeff had arrested Matthews once or twice, and he’d raised such a ruckus while in custody, Jeff had been sorely tempted to either lynch him or turn him loose.

  “Besides, me and Floyd Endicott had somethin’ better to do with a couple of gals he knows over in New Era. But I’m here now, so you run along back to what you do best—bein’ a coward and shootin’ boys.”

  Jeff clenched his jaw so tightly his head began to throb. He uncrossed his arms and let them hang at his sides, his hands closed into fists. As much as Wesley Matthews’ death had tortured his dreams and dogged his waking hours, Jeff believed that the boy’s father hadn’t been troubled by the loss. Oh, he had vowed revenge against the man who’d shot Wes. But on the afternoon of his son’s funeral, while Wes was buried Cooper Matthews had stood at the bar in the Liberal Saloon, telling all who would listen that now he had one less mouth to worry about feeding. Since then, Jeff had cut a wide path around him and done his best to avoid the man.