“That’s all it took?” Clara huffed. “Boots and a gold chain? If only I had known, I’d have been courted ages ago.” She lay back on the bed, resting her head on my leg. “Sixteen—I reckon I am ready for courting.”
Courting. It was something we talked about often, something I daydreamed about far too frequently. But hearing Clara say the word felt somber. Emotion knocked at my chest. “I don’t want anything to change.”
“What are you talking about?” Clara asked, sitting upright.
“You, Paul, me—I don’t want to lose what we have,” I said, shaking my head. “Daddy and Paul fight nearly every day, and you—you’re all grown up. What if you start courting and Paul ends up leaving the valley? I don’t want to be left behind.”
Clara took in a breath and placed her arm around me. “I wish I could say that things won’t change, but you know I’d be lying.”
I nodded, swallowing my unshed tears.
“But do you really believe I’d ever outgrow you?” she asked.
I knocked elbows with her and glanced at her boots once more. “Maybe, maybe not. But you won’t get too old to have fun, will you?”
Clara nudged me back. “Never. What do you have in mind?”
I grinned. “I bet you can’t feed the chickens or milk the cows in those boots without getting caught by Mama.”
She rolled her eyes and sighed, but the hint of a smile touched her lips. “Only if you wear the other pair.”
I sat down and reached for the cream-colored pair with purple buttons up the front. They were still two sizes too large, but I shoved my toes as far forward in them as I could.
“Deal,” I said, attempting to stand.
We escaped the house without being seen, but trudging through the cow pasture with high-helled boots was something else. The ruts in the ground, coupled with the cow pies, made navigating difficult.
“Oh, let me get the gate for you, Madam,” I said when we reached the barn.
Clara rolled her eyes again, but I sensed she was enjoying herself. “Thank you, kind sir.”
I gave her my grumpiest look.
We fed the chickens, sprinkling the previous night’s leftovers around the coop. Clara collected the eggs, and I retrieved the milking pail.
Our dog—which Daddy referred to as “the mangy mutt”—wandered into the barn, sniffing near the chicken coop.
“Tuffy,” I said, patting my hand against my leg. “Come here, boy.” It didn’t matter how hard we tried to train him. Tuffy was only interested in chasing the chickens and bothering the cows.
Clara put down the eggs and managed to grab Tuffy by the collar, but he weaved in and out of her skirt. Clara turned around in circles. “A little help, Elle?”
I hobbled toward her side and tried to calm Tuffy. “Here, boy,” I said, holding out the last of the chicken-feed leftovers. “You want a treat?”
He sprinted toward me at the mention of the word treat, dragging Clara behind. She stumbled a few steps after the dog, but the clean snap of her ankle sent her falling to the dirt. She rolled over, grabbing at the foot. Her face was red, and tears sprouted instantly.
My heart sank. “What happened?” I asked, bending to her side, but I already knew.
Her foot was twisted in an unnatural way. Shock sent me to my knees.
“Clara?” I said, reaching for her hand.
She shrunk into a ball, rocking back and forth. “I need help,” she managed to say between agonized sobs.
I ripped off Grandmother’s boots and ran back to the house and called for help. I tried not to mind the thistles and sharp rocks along the way, but by the time I reached the porch, my feet were dripping blood and smudged in cow pies.
Mama opened the screen door and almost fainted at the sight of me. “Elizabeth, what has happened?” Her eyes darted from my bloody feet to Grandmother’s boots in my hands.
I was so out of breath that I could only point toward the pasture. “Clara. Broken ankle.”
Mama took off running, leaving me to catch my breath. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I hated myself for making Clara wear those boots.
All hell broke loose when Daddy returned from the meat shop. By that time, Mama had already sent for the doctor, and Paul had carried Clara into the house.
Daddy’s first instinct upon hearing the news was to go to Clara. But then he saw Grandmother’s boots and heard how it happened. His eyes turned dark, and he reached for his belt without hesitation. “Elle,” he said, almost spitting the words. “Come with me.”
Mama stepped between us. “James, be reasonable. It isn’t Elle’s fault. Clara made her own decision. You can’t blame Elle for her sister’s broken ankle.”
But I blamed myself, no matter how true Mama’s words rang, and for the first time in my life, I was willing to take my beating.
Mama, near tears, followed us out the back door. “I won’t stand for it,” she said, pulling at his arm. “It’s enough that Clara is suffering. You’ll only make it worse.”
His shoulders fell. “How will she ever learn then? I tell you, Elle might as well have grown up in that there barn.” He gestured toward the pasture. “I won’t have a silly daughter.”
Mama put her arms around me, and she gritted her perfect teeth. “Go into the house, Elle. Your father needs some time to cool down.”
Daddy shook his head, but I knew he wasn’t about to go against Mama’s wishes.
I had escaped the belt, but it was nothing to my self-inflicted punishment. Guilt ate at me, and the wounds of guilt ran much deeper than any whip of the belt.
Chapter Three
MAMA’S FINGERS DANCED ACROSS THE CHIPPED keys, each note deliberate yet graceful. She reached in front of me and rolled the last chord, and the sound resonated across the wood floor.
If only every day could be Sunday. Daddy at bass and Paul at tenor—it was the one time they were in harmony with one another, the one time I wasn’t nervous to be in Daddy’s presence.
I stood from the bench, stretching my legs.
“One more?” Clara asked. She sat in the corner chair with her ankle propped up. It had been three weeks since her injury—three grueling weeks of helping her up the stairs each day and into the washroom.
Daddy turned the pages of the hymnbook, searching for a last song.
Mama stood and shook her head. “Not today, Clara. Mrs. Foster informed me that Mrs. Hughes isn’t faring well. I plan on giving her a visit and taking along the extra pie. Elle, why don’t you come with me?”
I cringed and clicked my tongue. Of course Mrs. Foster had something to say about our neighbor; Mrs. Foster had something to say about everyone. And now Mama had decided to give away one of the pies she had baked just hours before.
“Is it her hip again?” Clara asked, leaning forward.
Mama touched the base of her neck. “I’m not sure. No one has seen her for weeks. I’m ashamed I hadn’t realized it until Mrs. Foster pointed out the Hugheses’ absence from church.”
“But Paul sees George all the time. He hasn’t mentioned anything about his mama, has he?” I asked, still concerned about the second pie.
Paul shrugged. “Nothing that I recall.”
The hymnbook shut with a thud. Daddy scowled and paced the length of the room. He stopped near the window, pulling back the drape. The Hugheses’ sagging roofline peeked above the top of the fence, the chimney cracked and blackened. A household of boys and still their home was in disrepair.
“Mrs. Foster ought to mind her business. Rebecca has enough going on; she shouldn’t have to worry about becoming the gossip of the valley,” Daddy said. His nostrils flared, and his lips pressed into a tight line. “Life is difficult enough.”
It was strange to think we shared a fence—I hardly knew Mrs. Hughes. But if she were anything like George and his loud brothers, she could fend for herself. No need for Mama to step in, and certainly no need for Daddy to come to her defense.
“Come, Elle,” Mama said in a sh
aky voice. She took to the kitchen, wrapping the pie in cloth.
I followed, but a lump formed in my throat. Perhaps it wasn’t the pie I worried about. I’d never stepped foot in George Hughes’s house. Paul had, plenty of times, but not me. What would he think of me coming into his house?
The house stood only a hundred feet from ours, but it felt like a world away. A house of rowdy boys. A house full of laughter and wrestling. A house devoid of Daddy’s edicts and discipline. At least that’s what I assumed; George was all of those things—wild and lighthearted.
George’s older brother Troy answered the door. He was tall like George, but infinitely more handsome—strong and tanned, his brown hair lightened by the sun. His smile sent my heart racing.
“Evening, Troy,” Mama said. “Is your mother around?”
Troy swallowed. “She isn’t up to visitors, Mrs. Pratt.”
“Oh dear,” Mama said, inching past him. “How is she?”
His posture stiffened. “If this is about Mrs. Foster’s talk, we already know. It isn’t anything like she says. We aren’t wayward; we just haven’t been to church because of Mama’s illness.”
I had followed her into the entry, but I was acutely aware of Troy’s hesitation, his unwelcoming stance. Mama had let herself in, and however gracefully it had been done, we were intruding.
“Of course,” Mama said, touching his shoulder. “I’m only here to help. Perhaps we can discuss it over a slice of pie?” She pulled the cloth off the pie I was holding, and the aroma of cinnamon and apples filled the air.
He closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet smell.
“Fresh from the oven,” she said. A sly smile spread across Mama’s delicate features.
Troy sighed, gesturing for us to come in farther.
We walked past the sitting room. The drapes were down, the room darkened and lifeless. There were no lights lit, no singing, wrestling, laughing, or any of what I’d imagined.
“Please have a seat,” Troy offered, pulling back a dining chair for Mama and me. He scrambled to the sink, rearranging the overflowing dishes. He rinsed a few plates and began drying them with a rag that appeared more dirty than clean.
Mama stood and took the plate from his hands. “How about you sit, and we’ll serve you a slice of pie?” She flicked her head toward me, her eyes darting to the pie.
I hurried to my feet and brought the pie to the counter.
“Elle, why don’t you start with the dishes?” she asked in a quiet tone.
I nodded, realizing I had proven a useless companion. I emptied the sink and filled it with soap and water. My heart sank. Most of the dishes were coated in dried oatmeal. Hadn’t they had more to eat than that?
“First things first,” Mama said, handing Troy a slice of pie.
Troy’s shoulders shook and his eyes pooled, but his voice was strong. “It looks mighty delicious; thank you.”
Mama took to the sitting room and pulled back the drapes. She managed to dust the furniture, beat the rugs, and scrub the floor in the time it took me to wash the dishes.
Troy had managed his own feat—downing nearly half of the pie before his brothers came crashing through the backyard. There was laughter and lightness until they reached the house. Their voices became hushed, as if they were required to check their laughter at the door.
“Is that pie I smell?” Clem said, dashing toward the table.
George lagged a step behind but froze when I met his eye.
“Elle,” George said, his chest caving. His eyes darted to the sink and counter, the pie at the table.
I fell back a step, feeling my own face flush. I was splattered with water, and the heat of the summer had caught up to me. I wiped my hand along my forehead, hoping I didn’t look as uncomfortable as I was. “Hi, George.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked, unable to meet my gaze.
Clem had fisted an entire piece of pie into his mouth but shook with laughter. “Why, she’s bringing us pie, of course.”
I wanted to run back home, but I cleared my throat. “My mama brought you a pie.”
Like an answered prayer, Mama appeared in the archway. “George, Clem,” she said, smiling. “I see you found the pie. Elizabeth and I are just leaving, but I’ll be back tomorrow for the dish and to check in on your mother.”
I tugged at the apron’s strings and hung the apron on the hook, grateful for an escape.
“Thanks for the pie,” Clem said, swallowing his mouthful. “It’s been ages since we had something so delicious.”
George winced, closing his eyes.
“Good evening to you boys,” Mama said, taking my arm.
I didn’t look up again until we were home. I couldn’t understand it. George had been speechless, and I hadn’t even seen Mrs. Hughes. She must have heard us cleaning and talking. Why hadn’t she come out to see us, to eat a piece of pie?
“I think we did some good today,” Mama said when we sat down to eat our own slices of pie. Daddy, Paul, and Clara had already eaten.
I ran my hands through my hair. “Mama, is Mrs. Hughes okay? She isn’t dying, is she?”
Mama’s shoulders fell. “She isn’t sick like that.”
I took a bite, hoping to disguise my confusion.
“Rebecca Hughes misses her husband. He’s always leaving for months at a time, finding work. Going to church and seeing all the other husbands seated next to their wives—well, it taxes her,” Mama said. She dropped her fork and reached across the table. “Don’t you listen to Mrs. Foster or anyone else. Mrs. Hughes will come around.”
“But the dishes and the drapes—” I started to say, eyes widening.
Mama sighed. “Those boys get on as best they can. They don’t know any different.”
George’s shock upon finding me in his home sprang to mind. Was it surprise, or had he been embarrassed?
An ache lodged in my throat as I contemplated his reality. I didn’t want to picture my life without Daddy for months at a time. As difficult as our relationship was, I couldn’t bear to think of the alternative.
I swallowed the last of my pie, a few tears sprouting. Daddy was hard on me, but maybe, like the Hughes boys, he was doing the best he could.
Chapter Four
FOURTEEN YEARS OLD—IT WAS ONLY ONE more than thirteen, but it felt significant. Birthdays came and went in our family. Mama might make a special meal, and Daddy would sing to me, but life continued as it always did. Yet I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face or calm the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Fourteen. I was practically a woman.
My apron was covered in rust-colored streaks, my hands cracked from scrubbing the block. The butcher shop reeked of blood and bleach, and I staggered my breaths in hopes of avoiding a headache. Daddy always delivered meats on Fridays, leaving Paul and me the duty of cleaning shop.
The scratch of the wire brush against the counter grated on my ears. Paul insisted it was my turn to scrub, and I hadn’t argued. He did it more frequently.
“Elle,” my brother said, wiping the counter after me. “Do you think you’ll stay in the valley forever?”
My breath caught in my chest. I wanted to ask him the same question but hesitated for fear of giving him ideas. “Where else would I go?” I asked.
He shrugged, leaning his backside against the counter. “The world is larger than the Teton Valley.”
I cleared my throat. “But my whole world is here.”
He sighed, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, I get that.”
“But?” I asked, inhaling sharply.
“But mine isn’t.”
The brush slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor. I bent to retrieve the brush, but Paul beat me to it.
He clutched my elbow. “I’m not saying I’m leaving tomorrow. But I have to go sometime.”
“This is about Daddy,” I said, turning away. “Isn’t it?” It took all my resolve not to burst into tears. Clara had been right when she told me things would change.
“Partly, but it’s more than that. I want to be my own man, Elle. I need to see more of the world to know where I fit in it.”
I nodded. I had felt the same; Paul and I were cut from the same cloth. But leaving didn’t feel like the right answer—or maybe I just didn’t want him to go.
“I couldn’t bear it if you left,” I said. My lips trembled. I took the broom, desperate for a distraction.
Paul gave a half smile and tugged one of my braids. “That’s why I’ve stayed as long as I have.” He walked across the room and began scrubbing the knives. His gaze was distant. “One of these days, he’s going to realize what he’s done.”
I leaned against the broom. “Who? Daddy?”
Paul nodded. He put a knife in a drawer and shrugged. “It don’t do any good to talk to you about it. You’re only thirteen.”
“I don’t mind, Paul. And besides, I’m fourteen—today,” I said.
He winked, flashing his handsome smile. “That’s right, already a young lady.”
We laid out the fresh sawdust, spreading it across the floor in silence.
Paul grasped an empty carcass hook and grinned at me. “One last ride before we head home?”
He lifted me up, and I clung to the hook while Paul pushed me along the metal track. It was as close to a roller coaster as I’d ever seen. I rode the track until my sides hurt from laughing and my arms were too tired to hang on.
We stopped at the drugstore on the way home, and my brother bought me a candy stick for my birthday. I ate it all the way home, my arm linked through his.
“So you think you’ll really leave the valley?” I asked, kicking a rock down the dirt road.
“I’ll give it one more year,” Paul said. He nudged me with his elbow and grinned.
One year—it seemed like an eternity. I needed my brother. People didn’t often leave the Tetons and come back.
We walked the rest of the lane in silence, until we passed the Hugheses’ place. George stood in the yard, tossing his baseball in the air. It was a sharp reminder of our differences. George was the youngest of three brothers. There wasn’t a meat shop George had to help with, no farm animals he had to take care of.
Forever Elle (Regency Romance) Page 3