Wild Dream

by Duncan, Alice

  The Reverend Mr. Topping stayed at the Blewitt farm to listen to the band rehearsal in the afternoon. He declared himself to be terribly impressed. Charley wished he could be as enthusiastic.

  It wasn’t that he thought the boys didn’t do a good job. Shoot, they sounded better than ever on their Stephen Foster medley. And when they attempted “Amazing Grace” as a group for the first time in five years, Mr. Topping was seen to wipe his eyes with his hastily drawn handkerchief. Even Charley thought the old hymn sounded almost celestial

  But when Mr. Topping shook his hand after the band gave their enthusiastic agreement to play at the Ladies’ Charity Fair, Charley felt only leaden heaviness in his heart.

  When Peachy Gilbert said he had a hopeful feeling about Rothwell and the good things happening for them here, Charley could only nod dully.

  When Harlan Lewis whispered his wish that maybe they wouldn’t have to rob the bank after all—if they saved all the money the rest of the men were earning and had enough money to make it to Albuquerque to find real jobs that were going to last a while—Charley just stared at him.

  When Homer Paul arrived shortly after rehearsal was over to take his cornet lesson and humbly thanked Charley for at least the fiftieth time for saving him that day in the mercantile, Charley wanted to whimper.

  When Ivy exclaimed loudly over both the band’s participation in the upcoming Methodist event and Charley and Addie’s ostensible engagement, he wanted to curl up in a corner and hide.

  Lester delivered the final blow, although Charley was sure he didn’t mean to. Lester said not a word during supper; he only looked very solemn and slowly ate his meal. When Addie and Ivy cleared the dishes off the table in preparation for bringing in dessert, however, he asked, “If’n you marry Miss Adelaide, what’s to become of the boys, Charley?”

  Charley could only stare at Lester and wish a benevolent lightning bolt would strike him dead and spare him the turmoil raging in his breast.

  Oh, how he wanted to stay here. Oh, how he needed to get out.

  If only he didn’t have to worry about the band. If only his men didn’t need him so much. If only . . . But no. Charley had accepted the position as leader, and he aimed to honor his men’s trust.

  Of course, it wouldn’t hurt if he could trust them as much as they trusted them. For several minutes, in fact, he harbored an uncharitable wish that they’d all be stricken dumb and thus unable to spill the beans. In his heart he knew, though, that it was not merely useless to hope for such miracles, but wicked as well.

  As soon as supper was over, he escaped to the apple orchard. When he sank to the ground under his favorite tree, he couldn’t remember feeling this depressed since he learned of his parents’ and kid sister’s deaths during the hard winter of sixty-three. Even when Pernell Collins, the band’s second-best baritone player, caught a stray ball at Spotsylvania and died in Charley’s arms, Charley hadn’t felt this downhearted. He was too dispirited even to play his horn.

  Charley settled his head back against the cool, rough bark of the apple tree and stared into the darkening sky. The pinks and yellows had all gone to bed by this time, leaving deep indigo, gray and dusky purple to rein in the universe. The somber colors fit Charley’s mood.

  There was no way to consider his situation objectively, but he tried. When he allowed himself to acknowledge the truth—here, alone, in the dark, under the apple tree—marriage to Adelaide Blewitt didn’t sound like such a bad idea. In fact, it sounded pretty blasted enticing.

  The idea of settling down here, of living honestly, of having sweet little Addie chattering at him for the rest of his life appealed so much, his insides ached with longing. He remembered the happy home his mother and father had made for him and his sister and wished he could make a home like that for his own children.

  His children. He sat up straight as a horrible thought struck him. What if he’d already planted his seed in Addie?

  Charley jerked his head away from the tree and buried his face in his palms. Lordy, what a fool he was! Worse than a fool; he was the wicked defiler of a sweet, innocent darling of a girl whose only sin was to live on the lonely prairie and believe him to be something he wasn’t: a good man. Who was foolish enough to be a hopeless romantic, in love with love.

  How could he have done such a wicked thing?

  Well, he’d never do it again. At least he wouldn’t be stealing from her; that was a minor blessing. Now that his shock had worn off, he found himself glad there were no more Blewitt family rubies. The idea of robbing Addie and Ivy Blewitt gave him a heavy, sick feeling in his belly and a bitter ache in his heart.

  He wouldn’t allow himself to touch her again. He’d have to stay here until they robbed the bank since there was nowhere else for them to go, but he’d just have to be strong enough to keep away from Addie, no matter how difficult it would be. And then he’d leave. Eventually she’d find another man to love; a good man; a man who didn’t have to steal in order to make a living.

  He couldn’t stand the thought of Addie in another man’s arm.

  Every time Charley thought about leaving Addie, which was every three and a half seconds or so, his guts twisted in anguish. And to leave her after having bedded her, after taking her maidenhood—oh, God. Charley wished he were dead.

  “Good evenin’, Charley. Pretty out tonight, isn’t it?”

  Addie’s sweet question almost startled Charley out of his skin. He wrenched his head up to find her walking toward him, blessing him with one of her magnificent smiles. It didn’t seem right that he should be so happy to see her while he was so torn up inside but, right or not, his heart lit up like a skyrocket.

  “Good evening, Miss Adelaide.”

  “Mind if I join you for a while?”

  Surprised by her question—she’d never asked before—Charley jumped up as a gentleman should, and removed his hat. It was, he realized with shame, the very first time he had done so. “Of course I don’t mind. I—I like it when you visit with me.” 184}It was the truth, he realized with a pang.

  Addie subsided with a sigh against the fence, her hands bracing her at her back. “I’m real glad your band will be playin’ at the Methodist Ladies’ Charity Fair, Charley.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am, too.”

  She seemed different tonight; more sober. None of her usual bubbly enthusiasm twinkled on the surface; she exhibited none of her former chattiness. Charley’s innards crinkled up when he considered the likely causes for such a condition.

  Her sigh slashed through him. His guilty conscience guessed she’d had seconds thoughts about their afternoon activities and now regretted them. His chest hurt so much he wondered if his heart was giving out on him. He was the cause of her downfall. The knowledge churned within him and he felt almost desperate to cheer her up.

  “The moon should be up any minute now, Miss Addie. It’ll be real pretty, won’t it? I expect it’ll be just about full tonight.”

  “Mmmm,” Addie said dreamily, “I reckon.”

  I reckon? What did that mean? Groping for something to rekindle the flighty, romantic Addie of yore, Charley blurted, “Don’t the magnolias smell nice tonight?” As soon as the words left his lips he cursed himself as an idiot.

  With a gentle laugh, Addie said, “Why, Charley Wilde, you old silly. There isn’t a magnolia tree within a thousand miles of Rothwell. You told me so yourself.”

  He was almost—but not quite, as it was too dark—sure she winked at him when she added, “But the apple blossoms have a certain merit, to be sure.”

  “I guess they do,” he said drearily.

  Stillness settled over them. The quiet made Charley even more nervous. He’d never encountered Adelaide Blewitt and silence in the same place and the same time before. Something was definitely wrong.

  He bet he knew what it was, too. She hated him for what he’d done this afternoon. Although he didn’t much blame her, the ache in his innards grew until he felt as though a monster of unhappiness were ea
ting him from the inside out. He felt an uncontrollable need to vanquish the silence, as though somehow that would bring his chatty Addie back again.

  “Getting back to the war,” he said, feeling like an utter imbecile, “I reckon I think General Lee was the most noble of the southern leaders. I know you’re partial to Stonewall Jackson, and he was a great man, too, but I like Lee.” He tried to see her expression, failed, and hurried on. “I reckon it’s the dignity Lee always had about him, even in defeat, that struck me. He sure made Grant look like a rag picker at Appomattox. I remember it, ‘cause we played at the surrender. Don’t you think Lee is a dignified man?”

  “I expect he is.”

  Charley held his breath, waiting for her to expound further on the dignity of Robert E. Lee. She didn’t, and he wanted to hit his head against the apple tree. Frantically he fought to unearth other names from the war. For more than two years now he’d tried so hard to forget everything about the cursed conflict that it was rough going, but at last a name popped into his brain.

  “Jeb Stuart!” His voice was too loud and Addie gave a little start. Charley cleared his throat and began again.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to holler. But, don’t you think Jeb Stuart was something, though? They say he was a regular genius; probably the smartest man ever to plot a battle or wage a campaign.”

  “But he lost, too, didn’t he?”

  Charley had never heard Addie sound wry before; it scared him. Daunted, he mumbled, “Well, er, yes, I guess so.”

  “Oh, Charley,” Addie sighed. “I reckon Jackson, Lee and Stuart were all fine men, and noble as can be. Don’t tell Aunt Ivy I said so, but I expect even some of the Yankees were noble. But I can tell you here and now I wouldn’t want any man of mine to go off and fight in any old stupid war and get himself shot.” With a shudder, she added, “Or any son of mine, either.”

  Astonished, Charley could only stare at her shadowed face for a moment or two. At last he found the wherewithal to say softly, “But I thought you believed wars were romantic, Addie.”

  He could barely distinguish her gentle smile in the shadows so he stepped nearer to see her better. “I reckon I used to, Charley, before I started thinking about things.”

  “Oh?” He took another step closer. Through the gathering dark he could see her expression, soft as an angel’s kiss, sweet as spun sugar. He sucked in a breath and held it.

  “I reckon I’ve been plumb silly about things like knights and gallant southern gentlemen and such, Charley. I don’t know how you’ve put up with me.”

  Charley got the impression she was embarrassed. He wanted to reassure her, but discovered somebody had stuffed his throat with cotton wadding and it had stopped working. He tried to swallow and failed.

  “Aunt Ivy used to fill my head with grand tales, stories about princes and royal ladies, gentlemen and southern belles. I know now she did it because she was lonely for her home and needed those old stories to make her feel better. I reckon I sort of grabbed onto ‘em and squeezed ‘em for all they were worth. Why, when you came here, you must have thought I was crazy.”

  He tried to deny it, but the lie became entangled with the cotton wadding in his throat and he couldn’t. He shook his head, but wasn’t sure she could see him.

  “You don’t have to try to make me feel better, Charley. I know what a gentleman you are and that you’d deny it, but you don’t have to. I know how silly I’ve been.”

  “Addie—”

  He got no further because she put two fingers over his mouth and his voice choked away into a startled gasp.

  “I don’t need that sort of silly dreaming stuff any longer, Charley,” she whispered, pressing his lips gently, then bringing her fingers to her own lips.

  “You don’t?”

  She shook her head. “I realized it this evenin’ when Aunt Ivy and I were washin’ the dishes. I don’t need those silly old romantic daydreams any longer. I’ve got you now.”

  Ah, hell.

  “And, oh, Charley, I never knew I could love anybody the way I love you.”

  Addie’s declaration sounded soft and breathy. Charley stared at her in dismay.

  “You—you love me?”

  “I do love you, Charley. I just love you so much.”

  He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. Even as his heart swelled with happiness and gratification, his better nature kicked him, hard, in the guts.

  “And, oh, Charley, when we’re married, I swear I’ll be the best wife any man could ever have.”

  He managed to whisper, “I don’t doubt you’d make the best wife anybody could ever have, Addie.”

  Her eyes sparkled; he could see that much. “Thank you, Charley.”

  Charley felt like the cruelest scoundrel ever to crawl the earth. Oh, sweet Lord have mercy, what had he done?

  Then Addie very sweetly put her hands on his shoulders, drew herself up on her tiptoes, and brushed his lips with hers.

  “Addie,” leaked out of him even as his heart broke. He returned her kiss with all the love he didn’t know he still had in himself to give.

  Addie pulled back and gazed into his eyes, her own a glorious confirmation of the truth of her newly acknowledged love.

  “I wish I deserved your love, Addie. I’ve done nothing to earn such an honor from you.”

  “I don’t reckon love is one of those things you earn, Charley,” she said softly. “It’s just something a body gives or doesn’t give.”

  Her simple words made Charley’s wounded heart pulse with pain. Then she stroked his cheek and he leaned into her caress like a cat. He wondered how he’d managed to chance upon this selfless, delightful creature and knew, whether she admitted it or not, that he didn’t deserve her.

  “I reckon my aunt Ivy and I have sounded awful foolish, Charley, with all our talk about knights and such. But it gets real borin’ out here in the territory with nothin’ around and no newspapers or magazines except the ones we get from the big cities months after the news happens. I guess I sort of made up my life. I never really believed you’d come along.”

  She sounded as though she were trying to apologize to him, and Charley’s insides squeezed. He cupped her cheeks. Her skin felt like velvet to his touch. “Reckon I’m not much, Addie,” he said unhappily.

  “You’re all I want, Charley. You’re my prince. My Prince Charley.”

  “But, Addie, I don’t even have a job. And I have my band to take care of.”

  “You need to learn to have faith, Charley,” Addie advised gently. “You’re too quick to give up. Why, I recollect you hollerin’ at me for pretendin’ things were romantic when all you could see was the dust and the cactus and the horned toads.”

  “I remember that,” he said huskily.

  “I expect I was bein’ ridiculous. Still, I think a body’s got to be able to see things as better than they are, Charley, or else everything will always stay the same as it already is and never get any better.”

  “I remember you telling me that, too.”

  “And if ‘what is’ is ugly, then maybe a little dreamin’ can help it get prettier.”

  “I guess it’s possible.”

  “I think love makes things better.”

  With a sigh, Charley said, “I reckon you’re right.”

  “And faith does, too.”

  Charley’s heart was too full for him to answer, so he only nodded. Bitterness washed over him. Although he didn’t want to wound Addie by saying so, he thought the problem with faith was that you had to believe in it before you could believe in it.

  As much as he wanted to believe Addie’s love for him—and his love for her—could make a difference in his life, he couldn’t make himself do it. All Charley could see from where he stood was a lovely young girl who loved a bounder, and a bounder who had five men depending on him to deliver them from the jaws of catastrophe.

  At least now, when he rode out of Addie’s life and broke both their hearts, he wouldn’t be
taking her family’s heirloom rubies with him. Oh, he’d be a thief and a wanted man, but at least he wouldn’t have stolen anything from her but her heart. Small consolation.

  “What’s wrong, Charley?”

  Her question startled him, and he didn’t know how to answer. In order to spare himself either lying or admitting the truth, he kissed her. He realized his mistake as soon as his lips touched hers and the sparks ignited between them. His passion flamed up like dry kindling, and so did Addie’s.

  They ended up in the barn at last, although Charley vilified himself the whole way there. He couldn’t seem to stop, though, and eventually gave up the task as beyond his tattered moral resources. When had he become so lost to virtue and honor? He couldn’t remember a specific time or place, but he knew he possessed neither now.

  He and Addie made slow, sweet love on the fresh-smelling hay, with the Duke of Essex dozing in his stall nearby.

  Chapter 15

  Fermin Small watched the America City Brass Band head out to the Blewitt farm several days later. Homer Paul trailed after them like an eager puppy, and Fermin’s long face pulled down into an even longer frown.

  “Goin’ to rehearse. They say.” A cynical grin twisted Fermin’s face, making it considerably shorter. “Well, they can just go and rehearse all they want. I’ll be a-watchin’ ‘em. I know what they are. Even if nobody else wants to believe it.”

  “Well, I don’t give a hang what they are, dammit, Fermin. When’re you gonna let me and Luther out o’ here?”

  Garland, Addie Blewitt’s erstwhile ravisher, glared angrily at the sheriff and gripped the bars of his cell. His looks hadn’t improved after a few days behind bars. Now, in addition to his too-long, greasy black hair, he sported several days’ worth of whiskers.

  Garland’s partner in crime, Luther, languished on the small cot in the cell, looking bruised and very miserable. He added a whimper to Garland’s belligerent question.

  Turning to frown at his prisoners, Fermin said, “It’s your own durned fault you’re in there. I told you to be careful.”