by Peterson, Tracie; Davis, Mary; Hake, Kelly Eileen; Stengl, Jill; Warren, Susan May
He did not come up. Beulah began to feel concerned. Had he hit his head on a rock? “Myles?” she inquired.
“Myles, where are you?” She stepped forward, took a mouthful of water, and coughed. “Myles!” Her hands groped, searching for his body. This pool was too shallow for safe diving. Panic filled her voice. “Myles!”
“ ‘Ruby lips above the water blowing bubbles soft and fine, but, alas! I was no swimmer, so I lost my Clementine.’ ” The voice in her ear was a rich baritone.
“Oh!” Beulah’s anger revived. “You are dreadful! I thought you had drowned—that’s what you wanted me to think!” Even more infuriating was her helpless condition. It was difficult to appear righteously angry when her face barely cleared the surface. Exertion and excitement made her huff for every breath. “How can you be so mean? First you say I’m ugly, then you drop me in the water fully clothed, and then you pretend to drown? And I thought you were a nice person! You’re horrible! Cruel!”
“Who said you’re ugly?” He caught her by the waist and lifted until her head and shoulders rose out of the water. His hair lay slicked back from his high forehead. She could count the freckles on his peeling nose.
“Let go of me!” The grip of his hands sent her heart into spasms. Her corset’s ribs bit into her flesh. She pulled at his fingers, kicking wildly.
He shook her. “If you don’t hold still, I’ll drop you back in the pool and you can find your own way out.”
Her struggles ceased. She gripped his forearms, feeling iron beneath the flesh. I can’t cry! I must keep control.
“Now who said you were ugly?”
“You did. That was unkind! I can’t help having crooked teeth any more than you can help having red hair and freckles!”
He blinked. She saw his eyes focus upon her mouth. She clamped her lips together.
“I never noticed that your teeth are crooked.”
“But you said…”
“I said I’d never seen a pout like yours. It’s like a tornado brewing. Wise people stay out of your way.” He grinned. “I would never call you ugly. Your temper, however, deserves that designation, from all I hear.”
Beulah gaped into his face.
“Go ahead and flay me alive. I can take it.” He smiled.
Her mouth snapped shut. The backs of her eyes burned.
“I’ve got to put you down for a minute. My arms are giving out.” He turned her to face away from him. She placed her hands on top of his at her waist, thankful for her trim figure and sturdy corset.
Hefting her back up, he slowly walked toward the far side of the little pool. As they passed the waterfall, Beulah looked up and felt spray on her face. “Wait!”
Myles stopped, lowering her slightly. Beulah reached out and touched the sheet of falling water, surprised by its power. “Ohhh, this is wonderful!” Rainbows glimmered in the misty water. She lifted her other hand, straining her upper body toward the falls.
“I can’t hold you like this anymore,” Myles protested, then let his arms drop.
Startled, Beulah caught hold of his wrists and began to protest; but Myles pulled her back, wrapped his arms around her, and supported her against his body so that her waist was at his chest level. “Go ahead and enjoy the waterfall,” he ordered from between her shoulder blades.
Beulah’s pounding heart warned her that she had exceeded the bounds of ladylike deportment. “Have you ever walked beneath it?”
“I have.” She was sliding down within his grasp.
“Can you walk through it while holding me?” She looked over her shoulder at him and recognized the intimacy of the situation. His arms pressed around her waist and rib cage. He lifted his knee to boost her higher in his grasp.
“Are you—are you sure—are you sure you want me to?”
Chapter 4
Seek ye the LORD while he may be found, call ye upon him while he is near.
ISAIAH 55:6
Please do!” she begged.
His arms shook both with strain and with excitement. Knowing he should flee temptation, Myles found himself unable to deny Beulah’s request. Hopefully she would attribute his strangled voice to physical effort.
Again hefting her higher in his grasp, he walked toward the waterfall, feeling stones turn beneath his feet. Keeping one arm wrapped over his, Beulah lifted her other arm over her head to greet the cascade as it tumbled over their heads. Water filled their ears, noses, and eyes, dragged on their clothing, and toiled to pull them under. When they emerged on the far side, Beulah coughed. Water dribbled from her every feature. She had slipped down within his grasp, her bonnet was gone, and her arm now clung around his neck. Long eyelashes clumped together when she blinked those glorious brown eyes. Her smile lighted up the grotto. “I will never forget this, Myles.”
She was a slender girl, yet she felt substantial in his arms, better than anything he had ever imagined. Oh, but she was lovely with her questioning eyes and her lips that seemed to invite his kisses! Her free hand crept up to rest upon his chest; she must feel the tumult within. His breath came in labored gusts.
Shaking, he gripped her forearms and shoved her away. He shook his head to clear it, reflecting that another dunk under the waterfall might benefit him.
“Myles—” she began, then fell silent. Although she was obliged to cling to his arms to keep from sinking, he felt her withdrawal. Her chin quivered with cold.
God, help me! I love her so, the wild little kitten.
Without another word Myles hoisted her into his arms, this time in the more conventional carrying position, and slogged across to the far shore. When Beulah turned to crawl up the bank, he caught a glimpse of her face. “Beulah?”
Her booted foot slipped and thumped him in the chest. With a soft grunt, he caught hold of her ankles and gave her an extra boost until she could sit on the mossy bank.
Water streamed from every fold of her clothing. Her hair dripped. Her face was crumpled and red. Her woeful eyes turned Myles to mush.
“Are…are you all right?” Assorted endearments struggled on his lips; he dared not speak them aloud. He touched her soggy boot, but she jerked it away, staggered to her feet, and rushed off along the bank of the creek.
When Myles emerged from the forest near Fairfield’s Folly, Watchful rose from her cool nest beneath the back porch and came to greet him, tail waving. Thankfully she was not a noisy dog. Myles left the jug on the porch and turned to leave, but the kitchen door opened.
“Hello, Myles.”
Myles removed his hat as he turned. “Hello, Mrs. Watson.”
Violet Watson cradled Daniel against one shoulder, jiggling him up and down. “My, but it’s hot today! I happened to see you out the kitchen window.” Her blue eyes scanned him.“I see you’ve been for a swim.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I must admit, a dip does sound tempting. So Beulah reached you men with the water and cookies?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please extend my thanks for all of her thoughtfulness.”
Violet smiled. “I’ll do that. She must still be reading at the pond. That girl does love to read, and she seldom finds time for it these days. I’m afraid I depend greatly on her help around the house. Maybe I need to give her more afternoons off like this.”
Myles nodded, feeling dishonest. He knew Beulah had returned home already, for he had followed her wet trail through the forest. She must have sneaked inside. “I enjoy reading, too.”
“Really? Do you also enjoy music? Beulah and I are both fond of music, but we have so little opportunity to hear good music around here.”
His ears grew warm. “I enjoy music.” Realizing that he was rubbing his stomach, he whipped the offending hand behind his back. Violet didn’t seem to notice.
She leaned against the door frame. “I play the piano a little. Obie bought me a lovely instrument for Christmas, you know, but I do not do it justice. Beulah plays better than I do. Do you sing or play an instrument?”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
“I’m thinking of planning a music party after harvest, just for our family and a few friends. Might you be willing to join us?”
“I’d be honored, ma’am.” Myles shifted his weight. “I must be going. Have an errand to run.”
“Are you going to see Cyrus Thwaite? That poor man has been so lonely since his wife died. I’m certain he doesn’t eat well. Let me pack you a sack of cookies for him.”
Myles handed over the empty cookie sack. Little Daniel reached for it, trying to bring the strings to his open mouth.
When Violet returned the full sack, she gave Myles a sweet smile. “Good-bye, and thank you.”
Myles’s mare whinnied as she trotted up the Thwaite drive. “Hello the house!” Myles called. Swinging down in one easy motion, he left his mare’s reins hanging. A knock at the door brought no response. Myles entered, feeling mildly concerned. Cyrus seldom left his farm since his wife, Hattie, died last spring.
Myles scanned the kitchen, taking a quick peek into the pantry. The sacks of flour and sugar he had delivered the week before had not been touched. Only the coffee supply had been depleted. Dirty cups were stacked in the dry sink, but few plates had been used. He set Violet’s sack of cookies on the table.
“Cyrus?” he called, quickly inspecting the rest of the untidy house. Stepping outside, Myles felt the relief of fresh air. A breeze had risen, swaying the birches beyond the drive. “Cyrus?” he bellowed, heading for the barn.
There—he heard a reply. From the barn? Myles broke into a jog. Chickens scattered as he approached the barn door. The cow lowed, turning her head to gaze at him. “Why aren’t you out at pasture?” Myles left by the barn’s back door. “Cyrus, where are you?”
“Here, boy.” Cyrus waved from across the pasture. He appeared to be leaning on the handle of a spade. At his feet lay a gray mound. Two vultures circled overhead, and crows lined the nearby pasture fence. The swaybacked old mule must have keeled over at last. But by the time Myles crossed the field, he realized that the animal had met a violent death. Its body was mauled.
“What happened?”
Cyrus lifted a long face. “You know how he could unlatch doors; he musta let hisself out last night, poor ol’ cuss. Myles, I may be crazy, but this looks like a bear’s work to me.” He lifted a silencing hand. “I know there ain’t been a bear in these parts since Hector here was a long-eared foal, but what else could break a full-growed mule’s neck like this?”
Myles studied the claw marks on the animal’s carcass. “Why would a bear want to kill an old mule? Surely it might have found better eating nearby.” A suspicion popped into his mind.
“Mebbe it’s sick or wounded or plain cussed mean. Would ya help me bury what’s left of Hector?” Cyrus looked halfway ashamed to ask. “Cain’t jest see m’self leavin’ him for the vultures and coyotes. Thought I’d bury him on this here knoll.”
Myles nodded and returned to the barn for another spade.
To give Cyrus credit, he worked harder at eighty than many men worked at thirty; but his body lacked the strength to lift heavy loads of dirt. All too soon he was obliged to sit down. “Was a time I could work like you, boy, but that time is long past.” He wiped his forehead with a grimy handkerchief. “I been putting lots of thought into what’s to become of this here farm. Hattie wanted to leave it to Obie, but I don’t see much point in that. He’s already got more land than he can work.”
Myles paused for a breather, leaning on his spade. One callused hand absently rubbed his belly. “You might sell it and live in town. Bet you’d enjoy living at Miss Amelia’s boardinghouse, eating her good cooking morning and night. Lots of company for you there.”
Cyrus looked pensive. “You paint a tempting picture, Myles boy. I reckon I’d like that mighty well, but I can’t see myself selling this farm. Hattie and me built it up when we was young, expecting we’d have a passel of younguns. Never did, though. I figure this land is worth more to me than it would be to a stranger. It’s played out. We planted it so many years, took all the good right out’n it.”
Myles began to dig again. “I hear there’re ways a man can put soil right again by planting other things like beans and peas in it. Some scientists claim it’ll work.”
Cyrus shook his white head. “I’ll never see the backside of a plow again. But if you had a mind to buy, I might reconsider selling. I’d rest easy knowing it was in your hands, Myles.” His eyes drifted across the weedy pasture to stump-ridden fields beyond.
“If I—” Myles stopped working to stare at his spade. “You’d sell to me?”
“That sounds about like what I said, don’t it? This place needs someone who’ll put work and love into it. You’ve done a sight of work hereabouts already, but I know you’ve been itching to do more, to make the place what it oughta be. You’re a good man, Myles Trent, and I think you’re a man God will use—no matter if folks claim you don’t believe in Him. I know better.”
Myles met the old man’s gaze. “How do you know?”
“You’re plumb full of questions that demand answers, and you ain’t the kind who’ll quit before he finds them answers. God promises that a man who seeks Him will find Him, if he searches with all his heart.”
Myles shifted his grip on the handle. “I can’t buy your place, Cyrus. No money. I’ve laid a little by each year, but not enough.”
Cyrus pondered, deepening the lines on his brow. “Don’t know why, but I got this feeling about you and my farm, Myles. I think God has something in mind, though I cain’t begin to tell you what it is.”
A deep sigh expanded Myles’s chest. When he exhaled, his shoulders drooped. “Unless He plans to drop a fortune into my lap, I’ll be a hired hand till the day I die.”
“You might could marry rich,” Cyrus suggested with a wicked grin. “Naw, I don’t mean it. You find yourself a good wife and make this place into a proper home again.”
Myles quickly began to dig. Cyrus chuckled. “Why is finding a wife such a chore for you young fellers? I just up and asked Hattie to wed me and got us hitched. No fuss and feathers about it, yet we stayed happy together sixty years. Bet there’s more’n one lady in town who’d be eager to accept a fine feller like you. Why not chance it? Might want to wash up first; try hair oil and scented soap. Females like such things.”
“A man doesn’t want to marry just any woman,” Myles objected. His thoughts whirled.
Scented soap. Van Huysen’s Soap.
Money. His money.
Farm. His farm?
“Why not? One woman is same as another.” Cyrus’s grin displayed almost toothless gums. “Comely or homely, fleshy or scrawny, they kin all keep a man warm on long winter nights. Hattie was never what you might call comely, but then I weren’t no prize winner myself!” He cackled. “One woman—that’s all you need.”
When the hole was deep enough, Myles dragged the carcass over and shoved it in. “That should be deep enough to keep varmints from digging ol’ Hector up,” he said. Cyrus helped him fill in the hole and tamp it.
“Hope that bear took off for foreign parts,” Cyrus remarked. “We don’t need a killer loose in these woods.”
“I’ll warn our neighbors about the possibility of a renegade bear. Want to come to supper at Miss Amelia’s boardinghouse with me tonight?”
Cyrus’s faded eyes brightened. “That’d be fine. You got a buggy?”
“We can hitch my mare to your buggy,” Myles said. “I’ll talk with Buck about getting you another mule or horse. You can’t stay out here alone with no transportation.”
On the way to town, Myles’s mare tossed her head and tucked her tail whenever he clucked to her. “Cholla takes being hitched to a buggy as an insult,” Myles explained when Cyrus commented on the mare’s bad mood.
“Is she yours or Obie’s?”
“Mine. Caught and tamed her myself out in Wyoming. Not so pretty to look at, prickly like the cactus she’s named for, but she’s got legs like iron and a big
heart.” Myles fondly surveyed his mare’s spotted gray hide, wispy tail, and unruly mane.
“And a kind eye. You can tell a lot about a horse by its eyes,” Cyrus added.
Miss Amelia Sidwell greeted them at her boardinghouse’s dining room door. “Pull out a chair and tuck in. Evenin’, Myles. You been taking too much sun.”
“You’re looking pert today, Amelia,” Cyrus commented. “Fine feathers make a fine bird.”
Miss Amelia appeared to appreciate the compliment, favoring the old man with a smile. Her blue-checked apron did bring out the blue in her eyes. “What brings you to town, Cyrus? Ain’t seen you in a spell.” Her voice was as deep as a man’s.
“Your cooking draws men like hummingbirds to honeysuckle,” Myles assured her, straddling his chair. He returned greetings from other diners, most of whom he knew.
A stranger stared at him from across the table. Myles nodded, and the gentleman nodded back, then looked away.
Amelia scoffed. “Hummingbirds, indeed. More like flies to molasses, I’d say.” She ladled soup into Cyrus’s bowl. “Got more of you blowflies than I kin handle these days. I’m thinkin’ of hiring help.”
“You, Amelia?” Boswell Martin, the town sheriff, inquired in his wheezy voice. “I can’t imagine you finding help that would suit. What female creature ever found favor in your eyes?”
Never pausing in her labors, Amelia snapped back, “Miss Sidwell to you, Boz Martin—and I’ll thank you to keep your remarks to yourself. If that’s a chaw in your cheek, you’d best get yourself outside and rid of it. I never heard tell of a man eating with tobacco tucked in his cheek, looking like a hulking chipmunk. If you don’t beat all!”
The sheriff meekly shoved back his chair and stepped outside while the other diners struggled to hide their mirth. Myles again met the gaze of the dapper gentleman with bushy side-whiskers. The two men shared an amused smile.
“I ain’t never seen you before, mister.” Cyrus directed his comment toward the stranger. “You new in town or jest travelin’ through?”