Nodding at Lucinda Ford’s marker, he added,
“Your mother has been gone a long time.”
Allie turned her weeder back to clawing at
some chickweed trying to take root in one of the flower beds.
“Yes.”
Jeff sighed. She was all stiff and formal
again, and he was sorry that side of her had returned. She had
softness in her—he’d seen it.
“
I want you to start working on the
garden today,” she said, not looking up.
“
Yes, ma’am. That’s what I though I’d
do.”
“
Fine. We don’t have a horse to pull
the plow, but old Mr. Smithfield will let us use his mule. You just
have to go borrow it and tell him that you’re working for
me.”
Jeff rubbed the back of his neck, and
suddenly felt awkward. “I don’t know if that’s such a good
idea.”
Allie stopped clawing and looked up at him.
“Why not? What’s the matter?”
Jeff’s memory didn’t always work very well.
The past months had blurred together and run over each other until
the passage of time had become nothing but a featureless gray mist.
But he still remembered the morning a few months ago when Elisha
Smithfield had encountered him asleep in a doorway on a side street
in town and called him a lazy, drunken bum. Even if it was partly
true, his pride has felt the sting of the old man’s accusation. And
Smithfield wasn’t likely to let Jeff borrow anything. “I’m not one
of his favorite citizens.”
Allie waved off his thin protest. “Bosh—I’ll
give you a note to take to him. Now let me finish here so I can
start your breakfast.”
Knowing that he’d been dismissed, Jeff stared
at the top of her downturned head for a moment. Then he turned and
walked toward the trough.
Suddenly the morning didn’t seem so fine,
after all.
~~*~*~*~~
The next seven days amounted to nothing more
than backbreaking work for Jeff. Old man Smithfield loaned him his
mule but not until he presented Allie’s note. Even then he showed
so much reluctance that Jeff wished he could pull the damned plow
himself and tell Elisha to keep the braying beast.
The only person he saw come and go was Seth
Wickwire, Eli’s son, who brought out the Fords’ grocery order. The
farm wasn’t far from town, but it might as well have been at the
edge of the earth, as isolated as it was.
Althea continued to keep her distance, never
again showing the vulnerable softness he’d seen that one time. The
hint of optimism that he’d felt early on in his stay at the Fords’
fizzled out, and his memories leaped forward into his thoughts. At
night, he crawled into the bed in the lean-to, stiff and aching
from physical labor he wasn’t used to. But sleep eluded him. He lay
on the tick, staring at the low ceiling overhead, seeing Wesley’s
surprised expression the instant he’d been shot. The scene had worn
a deep groove in Jeff’s tired mind. Or he’d remember the letter
that Sally had left him as if he had it in his hands once more.
. . . can’t take
the loneliness . . .
A drink or two would send those private
demons back to their hiding places. After all, Althea had said that
she didn’t want him drinking on her property or her time. That
didn’t mean he couldn’t go to town at night. The only thing
stopping him was the lack of money. He even considered asking her
for an advance on his pay but abandoned the idea—she didn’t think
much of him as it was. Short of trying to get credit at the Liberal
Saloon, or cadging drinks from customers, Jeff could only
endure.
One evening he came back to his room to find
a gray shirt on his bed. It was neatly folded and crisply ironed,
and it had all of its buttons, unlike what he wore now. The inside
of its plain band collar and yoke were lined with a gray-checked
material that made the work shirt seem very fancy, indeed. He
picked it up to feel the new fabric. Lifting it to his face, he
pressed his cheek against it and drew a deep, ragged breath over
the knot in his throat. He smelled starch and the faint scent he
recognized as Allie’s. It was the first new possession he’d had in
years and he longed to try it on. But he was afraid to—he’d just
get it dirty. He had no idea when something so nice would come to
him again. So Jeff pulled open a drawer in the bureau and carefully
laid the shirt inside.
Althea, having promised herself that she
would stay away from Jeff Hicks, still found a dozen reasons to go
to the kitchen window to watch him work. A few times she even
ventured outdoors, lured by the spectacle of the tall, powerful man
sweating under the June sun as he guided the plow. She’d seen
plowing every year of her life, but now it fascinated her—the
large, shiny blade that cleaved the soil, making it ready to
receive the seed that Jeff would scatter there.
But she was keenly disappointed that he
didn’t wear the shirt she’d made for him—it had been one thing she
could do for him and yet keep her distance. Obviously, he didn’t
like it. All the times she looked for him, she saw him either
wearing one of her father’s old shirts, or worse, no shirt at all.
Maybe it was because she’d run out of the chambray and had had to
use a piece of gray gingham to finish the inside. Granted, it
wasn’t perfect but the gingham couldn’t be seen. It seemed to her
that a man with no other decent shirt wouldn’t be so choosy about
linings that didn’t show. And her pride wouldn’t let her ask him
about it.
Finally, late one morning the earth was
ready, and Althea knew that a moment she had worried about was upon
her. While Olivia played “In the Gloaming” on the piano, Althea
pushed open the back screen door and went down the steps in search
of Jeff. In one hand she clutched a list and a ten-dollar gold
piece. In the other she carried a pie tin of lard mixed with
raisins and sunflower seeds.
The rich smell of turned dirt reached
Althea’s nose before the field came into view. It was a smell that
was rooted in her earliest memories, before Olivia was born, before
her mother’s real strangeness began. It meant spring and new
beginnings, although in this case, summer was almost upon them.
Althea scanned the yard and the fields for
Jeff, and finally saw him at the end of the fence, driving a nail
into a loose picket. Even though he wore one of those old,
ill-fitting shirts she’d given him, he looked better than he had
any day since he arrived. Hours under the sun had put blond streaks
in his hair, and three big meals a day had taken the gaunt look
from his face. He swung the hammer with sure, powerful strokes that
landed squarely on the nailhead.
He glanced up as she approached and gave her
a hesitant smile. “I noticed a couple of these were loose.” He
nodded at the pie plate in her hand. “I hope that isn’t for
me.”
Allie glanced at the beef fat and almost
laughed. “Oh—my, no. I put this out for the birds. I suppose I
spoil them, feeding them at this time of year—they really don’t
need my help now. But they’re pretty little things, giving pleasure
to the world. I like to give them a treat in return.”
Jeff studied her with a look that for the
briefest instant, reflected such tenderness, her breath caught in
her chest. She had to turn her eyes from his. “They’re lucky,” he
said finally.
Unraveling like an old sweater, she tried to
stick to her purpose. “Yes, well—I’ve made up a list of the seeds
we need to plant.” She handed the paper to him. “Just the usual
vegetables—corn, potatoes, green beans, squash and so on. You can
find everything at the feed store.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I know. I used to buy from
there too.”
“
You did?”
“
Sure. I didn’t want to be the sheriff
of Decker Prairie forever. I planned to quit eventually and farm
full time. I had a couple dozen head of cattle, a few acres
planted, a house that I’d built—”
Allie stared at him open-mouthed. “I didn’t
know that! I guess I thought—well, I suppose I never gave it any
thought at all. Didn’t you live in town?”
He shook his head. “The home place was just
about a mile southeast of town. Close enough to do my job, but out
far enough to have some breathing room and quiet.” He closed his
eyes for a second and smiled, as if to himself. “I loved the
quiet.”
Althea knew she shouldn’t ask, but she
couldn’t help herself. “What happened to it?”
“
It’s still there. Land never goes
away.”
“
No, but . . . who
owns it now?”
“
I do.”
“
Then why don’t you live there? It
would certainly be better than sleeping in a different place every
night.” The comment was out before she realized how rude it
sounded.
A shadow of pain crossed his face. “The house
is gone. Allie, did you want to talk about this list?”
Good lord, she’d been prying, a fault that
Althea herself disliked. She fumbled for words. “Oh—yes, well, I
think I’ve included everything. Please go to Wickwire’s too and buy
yourself some dungarees . . . and a new shirt
if you like. You can pay with—” Gripping it in her closed fist a
moment longer, she finally opened the hand that held the gold coin.
“Here’s ten dollars. It should be more than enough.”
Jeff gazed upon the money in Allie’s palm
like a starving man would view a banquet table. He let his eyes
connect with hers, and an unspoken question hung between them.
Would Jefferson Hicks do as she’d asked and return from town with
the goods and change left from the coin? Or would he take the
money, stop at the Liberal Saloon, and disappear back into the
bottle that she and Will Mason had fished him from? He saw worry
written in the depths of her eyes. But he saw trust, too.
He took the money from her and folded it
inside the list, then put it in his pocket. “Maybe I’ll just wash
up a little, and then I’ll hitch Smithfield’s mule to your wagon
and be on my way.”
“
All right, then.” She turned to walk
toward the pear tree in the corner of the yard, carrying her suet
bird treat. Jeff admired her form as she went—her long slender neck
and narrow back, her rounded hips that swayed softly with the
rhythm of her pace. She stopped suddenly and called over her
shoulder, “I’ll see you when you get back.”
That lonely, scared feeling came over him
again, stronger than ever.
~~*~*~*~~
“
Come on, Kansas, keep moving,” Jeff
muttered to the mule. He thought Kansas was a stupid name for a
mule, but he didn’t own the bad-tempered animal. The old wagon
beneath him rattled and lurched along the rutted, potholed road,
and he hoped it would hold together long enough to get him to
Decker Prairie.
If he could only make himself relax and enjoy
the ride, there were lots of things to see and appreciate. The
afternoon was so sharp and blue, the trees on the far side of the
valley seemed close enough to hit with a rock. The stream that ran
across the Ford property paralleled the road, and the water looked
clear and icy, like liquid glass, as it gurgled over the rocks in
its bed.
He noticed things that had always existed
around him, but until recently had been hidden by the blurry
curtain that he’d drawn over his mind.
The turmoil galloping through Jeff’s thoughts
prevented him from taking any pleasure in his surroundings, though.
He’d seen Allie watching him from the kitchen window as he pulled
away, and then he’d felt her eyes boring into his back. That she
trusted him enough to send him to town with money gave his
self-respect a considerable boost. But terror sluiced through his
veins with every beat of his heart.
He hadn’t been to town since Will Mason
sentenced him to the country hush of the Ford farm. After being
away from the jangling piano and the smell of whiskey at the
Liberal, Jeff’s head had begun to clear. The ground he’d gained was
shaky, though, and as the gray outline of Decker Prairie’s
buildings emerged in the distance, he knew it could crumble beneath
him by a single moment of temptation.
He didn’t want to be in town.
He didn’t know if he could make himself leave
after he got there.
The town loomed closer, and he let Kansas
slow to a moseying dawdle. Why had Allie put her trust in him and
sent him into Decker Prairie, and with a ten-dollar gold piece,
when she knew it would be so easy for him to backslide and
disappoint her?
Then a treacherous thought occurred to him.
Maybe Althea expected Jeff to fail. That way she could send him
back to Will Mason and be rid of him. She’d been so cool and
distant since that one evening in the lean-to, when he’d merely
thought about kissing her, this might be just the opportunity she’d
been looking for.
The very notion made Jeff sit up straight on
the wagon seat, boiling anger and cold fear tightening the muscles
in his back.
“
Damn her!” he snapped at the mule’s
rump. “That’s just what she’d like, fussy Miss Althea Ford—to see
me knocked on my ass again.” Well then, by God, if he started
drinking again it would be her fault, not his.
He rode along, nursing the idea of
blame-shifting. He’d done it often enough before. It wasn’t even
his fault that he’d started drinking in the first place. It had
been Cooper Matthews’ fault—if he’d done right by his own boy, Wes
never would have broken into Wickwire’s. Sally, with her complaints
about loneliness—a married widow, she’d called herself once—had
only helped to keep him on the bottle. Decker Prairie had done its
part, too, he rationalized, by whispering about him. The notions
all worked for a moment, filling him with a kind of righteous
indignation. Those people had all wanted him to fail, to see him
flat on his back, so they could dispense their pity and disapproval
and moralizing. Oh, it made them feel so superior.
But in his heart Jeff knew better. He’d
always known better.