The Smartest Horse in Texas (The Traherns #2)

by Nancy Radke

  "Papa? Was he with you?" she shouted.

  "No. He's...he's still working..."

  Perri sighed in relief. Her step-father was deaf, but that wouldn't have hindered his escape if he wasn’t injured.

  "My pendant." Her mother yanked at the large ivory pendant around her neck as if it were choking her. A favorite piece of jewelry, it had been given to her by a friend working in Africa.

  "Leave it, Mom." Frantic, Perri looked toward the nearby homes. Hadn't anyone heard the crash?

  "Take it," Crystal insisted, in a voice so weak Perri had to concentrate to hear. "Take it to..." She faltered, recovered, tried to speak again; all the time struggling with the pendant's leather thong.

  Her actions pushed Perri's hand away; started the flow of blood again. "Mom, please. Lie still."

  But her mother fought the thong until Perri unscrewed the ivory clasp. With the pendant's removal, Crystal relaxed and let Perri reapply the compress.

  "You go—” Her words were slurred.

  "I can't. You'll bleed—”

  "No. You go. You go... must have it..." Crystal's eyes glazed and she seemed to lose her thoughts.

  "Mom!" Perri shouted, desperate to keep her mother conscious. "Mom, what happened?"

  "Scorpion."

  Perri kept the shirt pressed against her mother's head as she glanced over at the burning wreck. A scorpion in the car? No wonder her mom had crashed. She had an excessive fear of all snakes and bugs and spiders.

  "It's cooked now," Perri assured her, looking back down. Her mother's next words were almost too faint to hear.

  "No. No. Pendant. Take it. Inside..." Giving a small sigh, Crystal dropped into unconsciousness.

  "Mom!"

  The crunch of gravel next to her caused Perri to look up, seeing her parent's nearest neighbor, a nurse, running to them. Crouching down, the woman took Crystal's wrist, feeling for the pulse.

  "She's still with us, Perri. Keep that pressure on." The woman had brought a first-aid kit with her, plus an armful of clean towels. She bandaged as she talked. "My son called 9-1-1, then Walt, while I grabbed these things."

  "Thanks."

  An ambulance pulled up a few minutes later, followed by a fire truck and patrol car. "Anyone else in there?" a fireman shouted, undoing a hose as two medics ran up to Crystal.

  Perri glanced at the flames. "No." Helplessly she stood aside, silently praying for her mother's life. The neighbor placed a towel around Perri's shoulders and she huddled into it, her mind struggling with reality. This couldn't be happening.

  After five minutes one of the medics stood up, shoulders sagging. "She's gone. Anyone here know her?"

  "It's her mother," the neighbor lady answered, putting her arms around Perri. "Crystal Putman."

  Then Walt arrived, his face pale and strained. In silence they clung together, the image of her mother blocking out everything until a voice broke in, insistent in its authority. "Perri. Did you see it happen?"

  She stared at the short gray-haired man. Walt's new boss, Luke Rogers. He must have brought him. "Yes. She didn't even try to stop." She glanced over at the blackened wreckage. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have borrowed her car for my trip."

  “My car,” Walt moaned. “I should have been driving. Not her.”

  "It wasn't anyone's fault," Luke Rogers insisted, touching her step-father's hand so he would lip-read what he was saying. "I'll have Jordan check the car, Walt. Just in case."

  "Do that."

  "Who's he?" Perri asked, signing the words as she spoke. She always signed when speaking to him.

  "An insurance investigator. He finds things the police miss. Crystal should have slowed down for her own driveway."

  "A scorpion was in the car."

  "A scorpion? You're sure?"

  "Yes. She told me. She’s terrified of them."

  Luke frowned. "You're positive she was talking about an insect."

  "Well...sure." Perri looked at him, puzzled. What other kind was there?

  "We won't bother Jordan then. I'll take care of your latest project, Walt. Don't worry about things at the office." Bending down, Luke Rogers picked up the pendant by its leather thong. "You won't want to lose this," he added, dropping the smooth ivory into Perri's hand.

  She clutched the pendant with both hands. "Mom kept saying she wanted me to have it. She wouldn't let me take care of her until I took it."

  "Injured people tend to focus on one thing," Luke said. "Usually it's an object; sometimes a person."

  His words made Perri remember her step-brother, in the middle of a three-week business trip. "Owen. He needs to know."

  "Right," Walt agreed, then looked straight at his boss. "Ask the company to bring Owen home. He needs to be here."

  "Regardless?"

  "Yes."

  "Alvaro, wasn't it?" Luke Rogers mouthed the words, but Perri could read lips very well, having practiced with her step-father.

  "Yes. Just don't tell Owen why he needs to come home. I wouldn't want him to get careless."

  * * *

  "Is he dead?"

  "No. His wife took the car."

  "I thought you never missed."

  "I don’t, normally. But an accident, like you requested—well, it's not so certain. I’ll set up another."

  "Cancel that. I've a better plan; one that will rid me of both him and his son."

  "He has a daughter."

  "Splendid. She can be the bait."

  Can’t get enough of those sisters? Snatch up SONGS FOR PERRI, #5 Sisters of Spirit Romantic mystery, suspense, contemporary. Perri travels to Mexico to rescue her brother, and finds a man of many masks. “Charming and wonderful with a dramatic twist at the end.” AddyM

  The PRETTIEST GAL on the MOUNTAIN

  A short pioneer story by Nancy Radke

  (The Traherns Series)

  I hitched my creaky old rocker out onto the wooden porch of my old home and set a bit, watching the early summer sun fall down over the Tennessee mountains. There was no one around to ask me to get them a bite to eat, or for help, or for anything. I was all alone on the mountain.

  Mallory Buchanan hadn’t been gone two days and already I missed that gal. I missed the knowledge of her being there, just a few miles away on the other side of the mountain. She should be almost in Kentucky, if she took the most direct trail to Missouri.

  Mally was the last of ‘em, God bless ‘er. With my husband, Jacob, gone five years now, alive or dead I had no way of knowing, and all my boys off to this war between the states or the western lands, I had a whole mountain to myself. I was used to loneliness, but this here went a mite too far.

  “Well, Abigail Courtney, what you gonna do now?” My voice sounded strange. I was used to talking to the animals, but not much to myself.

  I had the rest of the summer to answer my question. I needed to be off this mountain before winter, for I sure as shootin’ wouldn’t live through another one. Last winter had just about done me in. Mally had come over to help me drag in some firewood. Said she had thought about me, and wondered how I was, so left off nursing her sick mother and come to see if I was still kickin’.

  The wood had froze to the ground, complements of an ice storm, and we hacked at it until we had enough broke loose I could rebuild my fire. It had gone out two days before, and I hadn’t been able to cook or keep warm. I had finally decided I was going to have to pull down some of the barn siding, when she came.

  When Mally and her mom had been next door, we women would get together to do the heavy lifting and hauling. Now they were gone. Although I didn’t need them at the moment, I sure would later on. Should I even try to keep farming through the summer? Sooner or later I was gonna have to leave.

  The mountain farm had been my home ever since my man Jacob had brought me here as a new bride, and tears watered my eyes at the thought of leaving it. He’d built it strong to withstand the mountain storms. A strong house for a strong man. It had stood against the storms for many year
s, but things needed done to it that a woman couldn’t rightly do. There’d been a few shingles blown off and the door didn’t quite close snug anymore, so the wind howled as it passed through. Two windows needed repair, and a new post put on the porch roof.

  Also, I’d lived here so long, I figured the rest of the world had passed me by whilst I was raising my brood. I had no idea what the world was like, apart from the small settlements at the base of the mountains.

  I had me a dilemma. I was too old to pick up and move out and too young to stay. I was still in my forties. A woman needs a man, just as a man needs a woman. But I was too old to put up with another man—and didn’t want to—and too young to want to live alone any longer.

  The breeze blowing past was cooler than before and I looked over that way at some gathering clouds, black and billowing.

  “Storm blowin’ up and you ain’t got yer pigs in. Or the cow milked. Best rustle along and get things rounded up.”

  Trouble was, I was tireder than a three-legged mule with the field only half-way plowed. I’d been trying to cut fence poles with a dull axe. When the raiders come last winter, one of them had relieved me of my whet stone. There’s nothing more dangerous than a dull axe, for it tends to bounce rather than cut. You had to swing it harder to dent the wood, and if it bounced onto your leg, you landed yourself in a heap of trouble.

  I had walked over to Mally’s old house yesterday and gathered a few of the blankets she’d left. Mally had also left a sharp axe, along with a good whetting stone, and I latched onto them like a tick onto a dog. First thing this morning I’d taken that stone to my tools, sharpening my hoe, my knife, my axe and my sickle. Then I’d whacked away at the trees with great zeal, got several poles cut and blisters to show for them.

  The cow bawled and I forced myself to move. I grabbed my bucket with the big dent in it where she’d put her foot last week, and took it down to where she was waiting impatiently.

  Old Aggie was standing next to the milking station, ready to have her grain whilst I milked.

  “Too bad, old girl. There ain’t any more.” I had some, but I needed it for seed.

  I wiped her udder down with an old rag, straightened up the one-legged milking stool, put the bucket between my knees and commenced to milk.

  I put my head in her flank whilst I watched the milk shoot into the bucket, a hard shot of milk with each squeeze. Squirt, squirt, squirt, squirt. The rhythm was always soothing. I did my best thinking, milking cows.

  Jacob used to give our cats milk, a squirt to their open mouths. I had never perfected the art. Also, our cats were all gone, probably eaten by the wolves. Even our ole hound dog, the one Jacob had trained, had passed away last fall.

  I missed that dog. He was a good hunter. Jacob would take him out and bring back meat every time. Sometimes ducks. Sometimes deer. With Jacob gone, that dog would still go out and bring me back a quail or a duck. He’d just hunt on his own. I never had to feed him.

  I had hid Old Aggie all during the war, taking her down into a hidden root cellar and staying with her whilst the raiders passed through. I’d hear ‘em comin’ and have just enough time to grab Aggie’s collar and hurry her over to the cellar. They’d stole my chickens and ridden over my young corn. Of the rest of the animals, only the pigs survived, hiding in the tangled brush as pigs know how to do. I didn’t even have a gun to defend myself if they’d have found me.

  I’d been living on Aggie’s milk for many days now. I had no mule, but I wondered if maybe I could get her to pull a plow, just enough to put in the last of my seed grain that I’d refused to eat. I had been able to train her pretty quick to lead with that collar, which was just a strap around her neck.

  This farm needed a man. Mine had all skedaddled. You’d think a woman who had raised five strapping boys would have had at least one stay to help her. But they wouldn’t stay. Each had gotten bit by the wandering bug, and when the restlessness was too great, they’d pack a kit, promise to come back, and vanish down the trail. The first two had left within a month of Jacob’s leaving, and later that year, when Paralee turned sixteen, he took off, too.

  I stripped the last milk out onto the ground, picked up my bucket and kicked the milk stool over by the gate.

  The bucket was only half full, but it would supply my wants. Aggie trotted out into the pasture, and like all cows, promptly put her head through the fence to check out the grass on the other side. I’d been repairing that fence, and she seemed to be able to find the weak spots and work on it until she pushed it down again.

  I’d gotten most of the poles put back up, but needed some new posts. Until then, I really didn’t have a way to keep her inside, except she wasn’t much to wander far. But I had to have a fence up before I put in any crops, because she would eat them right down to the nubbin.

  I took the milk back to the house, poured it through a cloth into a bowl, covered it with another cloth and put it in the cooler. Jacob had made the cooler by running a hollow log from our spring so that water would drip over a tin container he’d bought from some ship that was being outfitted in Norfolk. He was always so good with his hands. The water kept the sides cool. I loved that cooler, especially during the summer. Everything stayed fresh.

  Then I went back to the pasture to get Aggie and the pigs. Aggie walked into the barn with no trouble, but the pigs didn’t want to go in, ducking and dodging until I finally just closed the barn door and hoped those pigs would have enough sense to take shelter when the storm hit.

  I pulled my rocker inside and shoved my shoulder against the cabin door just as the storm front hit, slamming into the side of the hill like it was trying to whallop me one. I barely got the bar dropped. It brought heavy rain with it, and I prayed that Mally was off the mountain where she was supposed to be.

  The chill entered the room something fierce, and I built me a fire, small, but it gave off some heat and I put the kettle on to fix me some coffee. Once I was the only one cutting and splitting the firewood, I wasn’t so generous with the size of the fires. Putting on a coat was easier than cutting down a tree.

  I’d had to cut up some of my fence poles for firewood during the deep snow. I’d need to cut wood all summer long to have enough to last the winter again. How was I to do that and also tend a crop?

  If I left here and went down into the settlements, what would I do? With the war over, there would only be widows there, a few broken soldiers, and ruined farms. The war hadn’t landed lightly on the South.

  That night I read my Bible as I always did, hoping for comfort. And I prayed for guidance. I surely needed it. I was afraid if I left, and the boys come looking, they wouldn’t be able to find me.

  The next morning I milked Aggie, then decided to go down the mountain to see who had survived and if there were anyway I could wrangle help for myself. I was looking for an old man, or some youngster who had been too young for the war, who could come up when I needed plowing done. Just how I’d pay for the help, I had no way of knowin, but a person didn’t know until they asked.

  ‘Bout then the pigs showed up. They’d probably burrowed in the bush when the storm went by. I looked at them and realized that, if nothing else, I could trade a pig for work done.

  Before going down to the settlement, I put on my best dress. My work dress had so many holes in it, patched over, that it resembled the patchwork quilt I’d taken apart to mend it with.

  The settlement down in the closest holler was gone, the tiny store burned to the ground and the house with it. The other three houses were empty and you could tell no one had lived in them for awhile. I walked around and called, but no one answered. I could walk on to the next village, somewhat larger, but I’d have to hurry. It was almost noon and I needed to get back to milk Aggie tonight.

  The road between the two wasn’t as rough as my mountain path, and I walked as fast as I could, forcing myself to cover the distance. Twenty miles. I was probably on a fool’s errand.

  From the ridge above I could see no m
ovement and just about didn’t go down. Then a whip of smoke rose—or was it fog?

  There it came again, steady enough that it held the promise of a fire. And people.

  I ran down into the holler looking for the source and finding a small cabin. It looked like it had been set on fire once, but the people who lived there had put it out, so only a smidgin was burnt.

  “Hello, the house!” I called, walking up to it.

  My long time friend, Jessica, stepped out, saw me and squealed. She was always thin as a fence post, and was even more so now. “Abigail!” She ran to me and we hugged. I hadn’t been down the mountain since fall, it being the war and all. It was a time to stay close to home.

  “We thought you were dead,” she said.

  “I will be if’n I have to work that farm alone. You got any help extra here with you?”

  “Not really. Jest my husband, Simon. He’s out in the barn. He’s only got one hand, Abigail.”

  “I remember. That’s why he didn’t go to war. You had you a boy—”

  She shook her head. “The Battle of Nashville. He was in Hood’s army. I got his hat back and some of his letters, but he was amongst the first killed there. Your boys?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve no idea. I ain’t seed hide nor hair of ‘em for three-four years.”

  “Come in and rest.”

  “Cain’t. Got to go home and milk Aggie. I came to see who was left. I don’t reckon I kin work that farm by myself. Was hoping I could hire someone to come help me now and then. I got me a pig I’d trade.”

  “You live up next to ol’ stone face don’tcha? The one that looks like a man with a beard?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “I’ll ask Simon if he kin go up once in a while. That’s a fur piece to walk and still have time to put in a day’s work. The men are still coming back, Abigail. Maybe one of them boys of yourn will return.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not bettin’ on it.”

  “I thought the Buchanans lived the other side of you.”

  I told her how the missus Buchanan got sick and just gave up on life, and when the mister got home and she died soon after, he shot himself. I said how Mally had left once her folks were gone. “Mally was a good shot. Me, I let the boys do all the shooting. I can’t hit the broad side of a barn when it’s sitting in front of the barrel. So I cain’t hunt for food.”