Bittersweet (21 page)

“The squirrel pie come from Ma’s recipe.” Ishmael’s shoulder hitched in a tight shrug. “Sis always did what Ma showed her—to make it and let it sit overnight so’s the flavor comes up.”

The muscles in Ivy’s jaw twitched.

She baked that for today. He ruined it just to spite her. What a dreadful
man
. Laney shot Galen a pleading look.

“The hopping John that Ivy brought tasted wonderful,” Galen countered. Laney watched how he folded his arms on the table and leaned forward a little. “As a matter of fact, if I hadn’t seen her bring it in, I would have said Ma made it.”

Josh forced a chuckle, “And I would have said Hilda had. They’ve probably swapped recipes.”

Galen slapped his hand on the table for emphasis. “That’s among the grandest compliments I can give a woman—that her cooking is as fine as Ma’s. Isn’t that right, Laney?”

“Definitely.” Laney turned to Ivy. “Remember how you sug-gested fixing up oatmeal by adding dried apple bits along with cinnamon? We tried it. It’s delicious.”

The scraping of his spoon against the bowl didn’t cover Mr. Grubb’s rude snort.

“We all have different tastes.” Hilda’s tone sounded too hearty. Laney stepped back and watched as her housekeeper bobbed her head. “Yeah, different tastes. Mr. Grubb, there—he’s a meat-and-’taters man. Isn’t that so?”

Mr. Grubb nodded as he shoveled the last bite into his mouth. He pushed the bowl away, rubbed his belly, and let out a loud belch.

“All full up?” Hilda asked.

“Uh-huh.” A self-satisfied smile flashed across his face. “Couldn’t wedge another bite in sidewise.”

“I suspected as much,” Hilda said. “That’s maturity showing.”

“Maturity?” Mrs. O’Sullivan gave them all a puzzled look as she came in the door.

Hilda picked up the bowl and tilted it. “Mr. Grubb finished off your mashed sweet potatoes.”

“Did he now?” Surprise and shock mingled in Mrs. O’Sullivan’s expression.

“Every last little bit,” Hilda declared as she pushed the bowl into Colin’s hands. “Good, healthy food. A mature man appreciates it.”

Laney couldn’t keep from gawking. Hilda was being downright chatty. Once or twice when a ranch hand had dared to burp in her presence, she’d walloped him upside his head and singed his ears with her opinion of his manners. But Hilda was nattering along and praising Mr. Grubb like a woman who fancied a man to be her beau!

“These young fellows,” Hilda said, scanning the men, “they’re still children at heart. I know exactly what they’ve been thinking and planning.” She folded her arms across her chest and gave Galen, Ishmael, and Josh an assessing look. “You’ve been waiting to have something sweet.”

Josh leaned back and gave her a scandalized look. “Hilda, you would have been offended if I didn’t save room for some of your pie!”

“Pie?” Mr. Grubb’s eyes widened. “I don’t see no pie.”

Hilda swished her hand at him. “They’re in the pie safe. Laney and Galen carried them in earlier. Don’t feel bad about already being full. I’m sure Kelly feels like I do, glad that you were so satisfied with the supper we made. We’re not offended; you’ve paid us quite a compliment.”

“Absolutely,” Mrs. O’Sullivan said as she bustled around. “Ivy, your father seems a bit disappointed. If you could come help me tomorrow, perhaps we could send you home with a pie.”

“I’m done scraping the plates into the bucket,” Dale announced. “Miss Laney, are you going to come with me to feed the hogs?”

“Ya ha ha ha!” Mr. Grubb slapped his thigh as if he’d heard a 164 hilarious joke.

“Of course I will, Dale.” Laney turned her back on the rude boor. “It’s been a whole week since I’ve seen Hortense and Mr. Snout. How are they doing?”

“Miss Laney, I’ve been takin’ real good care of ’em. You’ll see how big they are now!” When they reached the sty, Dale tugged on her hand. “Well?”

“Hmm?” Laney blinked at him.

“You said you’d help me. The bucket’s too heavy for me to lift all by myself.”

“Mercy me! I didn’t think about how heavy it must be with all of those Thanksgiving scraps. You must be very strong or you wouldn’t have been able to carry that bucket out here all by yourself!”

Glowing from her praise, Dale nodded. “I’m getting big muscles.”

“Of course you are, but I’ll help you now. After all, we’re partners.” Careful to stand over by the side where Galen had thoughtfully placed a sheet of tin so the slop wouldn’t splash on her, Laney helped Dale raise the swill up over a fence slat.

“Now wait a minute!” Dale turned loose, climbed up on one of the lower slats, and hollered, “Soooo-eeee!”

Laney let out a rueful laugh. “Dale, Hortense and Mr. Snout are already here.”

“I know. But I do that cuz it lets everybody know I’m doing my job.” He helped her tilt the bucket into the trough.

“One look at them and it’s clear you’ve been doing a fine job. Look how fat they are!”

Wiggling with glee on the fence slat, Dale laughed. “See? Hortense is almost as big as Gertie.”

“How can that be? Wasn’t Gertie Hortense’s mama?”

“Yup!” Dale finally hopped down. “But I told you I’ve been taking good care of her! Just yesterday, Ma said Hortense is so big we’re gonna have to call her a gilt instead of a shoat!”

“You’re quite a farmer, Dale. I’m very impressed.”

“I’m gonna grow big and fat, too.” He patted his stomach. “I left room for two pieces of pie!”

Laney couldn’t keep her laughter from escaping. Joy surged through her.
Today, of all days, is a day to be thankful to the Lord
.

“They won’t eat the pie without us, will they?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

Dale started to trot. “We’d best hurry, Miss Laney. That man said he’s full, but he could change his mind!”

Laney lengthened her stride and matched pace with him, laughing with glee.

“We’re back!” Dale announced as they entered the cabin.

The men had moved the benches over by the window to catch the late autumn sunlight. Galen and Josh rose at once. Ishmael copied them, but Mr. Grubb didn’t budge. Silverware clinked and water splashed as Colin and Sean washed the dishes.

Laney rested her hand on Dale’s shoulder. “This young man is doing a marvelous job.”

“Aye, he’s conscientious,” Mrs. O’Sullivan agreed from the side of her bed, where she and Hilda sat knitting.

Laney continued to look at Galen. The odd feeling that she’d interrupted something washed over her.

“I’ve been reading the parable of the Good Samaritan.”

“Oh!” Laney finally stopped staring at Galen’s handsome blue eyes and glanced down to see he held his Bible.

“Miss Laney, come have a sit down.” Ishmael pointed at the end of the bench where he’d been seated. “Mr. O’Sullivan’s sharin’ a fine tale from the Bible.”

“Thank you.”

Galen scooted over. “There’s room here by me.” Warmth filled Laney. Galen wanted her by his side. She gathered her skirts and sat down between him and Ivy. Galen looked into her eyes. A long, slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “’Tis good to have you here.”

He couldn’t have said anything to make her happier. “It’s been a wonderful day. I’m glad you’re reading from the Word.”

“’Tain’t jest one word. ’Tis a story made up of lotsa words.” Ivy elbowed her. “’Tis a dreadful good tale. A feller was a walkin’ somewhar and thieves done beat him up sommat fierce. Nobody wants to holp him now. I cain hardly wait to hear how it turns out.”

Of all the people he could go to, Dale leaned against Laney, and she lifted him onto her lap. “Please go on, Galen.”

“‘But a certain Samaritan,” he started, “as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him, And went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow when he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them to the host, and said unto him, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee.”’

“Ain’t that the beatenist?” Ishmael leaned against the table.

“He done paid for a man he don’t even know!”

“So did that Samaritan feller track down them thieves and string ’em up?” Ivy’s enthusiasm made her every bit as wiggly as Dale. “I shore do love a tale when folks get their comeuppance!”

“The Bible doesn’t tell us what happened,” Galen said. “This was a parable—a made-up story Jesus used to make folks think. Listen to this verse: Jesus asked, “Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves?”’

“Dunno.” Ishmael’s forehead creased. “That story thar didn’t say whar any of ’em lived. Jist said they was happenin’ along.”

Ivy’s nose wrinkled. “Was it s’posed to be a riddle?”

“‘He that shewed mercy on him.”’ Galen pointed to the verse in the Bible. “That’s the answer the man gave to Jesus. ‘Then said Jesus unto him, Go, and do thou likewise.’ So what we’re to do is think that everyone is our neighbor, and we’re to be kind and helpful whenever an opportunity presents itself.”

Mr. Grubb snorted. “’Twas easy ’nuff fer that Sam feller to holp. He got money and a strong mule. He even had hisself wine. I reckon folks who got so much cain holp out, ’cuz plenty of us ain’t able to.” He jerked his chin toward Ishmael. “We got work waitin’ back home.”

“I’ll cut some pie.” Ruth headed for the pie safe. “Ivy? Ishmael? Did you want pumpkin or pecan?”

“Pecan!” Ivy lit up.

Ishmael chortled. “Yore askin’ a gal from the South if ’n she’d like herself a slice of pecan? Might as well have asked a beaver if ’n he likes birch!”

“Oh, I ain’t et pecan pie in six years or better,” Ivy said as she joined Ruth at the table. As soon as Ruth cut a generous slice, Ivy grabbed it right off the server and bit into it. “Mmm! Oh, it’s wonderful good!”

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” Hilda told her as she set aside her knitting. “If you’d like, I’ll write it down for you.”

Mr. Grubb snorted. “Ain’t no use. The gal cain’t read a word.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Laney burst out.

“Shore does,” Mr. Grubb said, giving her a dark look.

“You read, don’t you, Ishmael?” Galen asked.

“Some. Not as much as I wish.”

“I’m starting a library for the town.” Ruth didn’t bother to ask Ishmael what kind of pie he wanted. She cut another huge wedge and served it straight into his hands. “You’re welcome to come to the Broken P and borrow books any time.”

“And until you can read, I’m sure Ishmael will read aloud to you.” Laney took a deep breath. “Josh read aloud to me all the time until Ruth taught me to read this past year.”

Pain shot across Ivy’s features. She dipped her head and muttered, “Yore funnin’ me.”

“No, Ivy,” Laney said quietly. “I’m not.”

“We’re all very proud of the hard work Laney put into learning.” Galen’s voice resonated with warmth.

“See?” Hilda waggled a knitting needle at them. “I’ll be sure to write my recipe down for you, Ivy. Until you learn to read, your father or brother can read it to you.”

“It’s past time we left,” Mr. Grubb announced as he slapped his knees and rose.

He can’t read, either
. The realization stunned Laney. He’d belittled his own daughter, which was horrid in and of itself; but he’d done it over something he lacked himself.

In less than a minute, Mr. Grubb had said good-bye, made sure Ivy had hold of the pot she’d come bearing, and pushed his children out of the O’Sullivan home.

“I’m looking forward to your help tomorrow, Ivy!” Mrs. O’Sullivan called from her doorstep.

“I’ll be here. You cain count on me!” Ivy’s voice faded as she added, “Thankee for the grand day.”

“Ma?”

Mrs. O’Sullivan turned around. “Aye?”

Sean was drying a platter. “Ishmael and Ivy are nice, but their da—I tried hard to like him, but it didn’t work. He’s greedy and mean.”

“He rubs me the wrong way, too,” Galen agreed with a grimace. “We’ll have to be good neighbors and pray for them.”

“It strains my mind,” Ruth said, “to think that in this day and age, someone hasn’t heard the gospel.”

“Our example will say far more than our words.” A wry smile tilted Galen’s mouth. “Ishmael watches me like a hawk.”

“Aye, that he does.” Mrs. O’Sullivan stared out the window. “A while back we heard Ishmael whistling a hymn Galen left the house singin’ that very morning.”

“Speaking of hymns …” Laney slipped past Galen and went to the far side of the bed. She’d waited a long time to share this surprise with the O’Sullivans and now pulled out the gift hidden in her knitting bag.

“This is for your family. Because, well—” All of the tender things she’d thought up and practiced saying fled her mind. She slipped her knitting bag into Mrs. O’Sullivan’s hands. “Today is Thanksgiving. We want to give thanks that Cullen O’Sullivan was such a big-hearted man.”

“What have we here?” Mrs. O’Sullivan pulled out the book.

“
The Sacred Melodeon
,” Galen read aloud.

Mrs. O’Sullivan’s mouth formed a tremulous smile. “This is so kind of you. My Cullen always loved to sing hymns.”

Galen nodded somberly.

“Our Galen whistles or sings every morning now when he goes out to work.” Dale stood on tiptoe to get a better look at the book.

“Open it,” Laney urged.

“In memory of Cul—” Mrs. O’Sullivan’s voice broke as she tried to read the inscription.

Looking up at Galen, Laney said, “I wanted to do something special because your father was such a wonderful man of God.”

Galen’s hand found hers and squeezed it. “What a thoughtful gesture. We’ll treasure it.”

Josh slapped Galen on the back. “My sister’s tongue-tied for the first time in her life. What she’s trying to tell you is that the church now has hymnals in your father’s honor.”

“Oh,” Sean said with a frown. “Mr. Lufe won’t make up his funny words anymore.”

“Now that,” Hilda said with great enthusiasm, “is something we can all truly be grateful for!”