Courting Miss Hattie (26 page)

Hattie's eyes widened in shock. "Oh, Mary Nell, you mustn't do that. You're much too young to think about marriage."

"Well, I'm sure not waiting around until I'm old like you and somebody marries me to take care of his
younguns
." With that, Mary Nell had flounced away. All through dinner she'd been obnoxious, so much so that
Hattie would have loved
to box the young lady's ears.
Ancil
had called her down a couple of times, but he clearly didn't want trouble, so Hattie had to let it go. The young girl's distance and anger
were
a barrier she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to overcome.

At dusk they ate a light supper, and afterward she and
Ancil
sat on the porch swing as the children played "potatoes." Buddy had snuggled up between them and fallen asleep with his head on Hattie's lap. She felt such contentment. This was what she had always wanted—a little family, quiet times spent together, and a husband. She looked over at
Ancil
.

He smiled at her. "Mary Nell!" he called. "Come take Buddy. The rest of you get your things and get on out to the
wagon."

"You have to go?" Hattie asked, handing the sleeping
child
to his sister.

"Not right yet," he answered, and slipped his arm around her to gather her close. "I'm sending the kids to
the wagon so
we can get a little
smoochy
-smooch."

Blushing at the statement and inwardly cringing at his
description of kissing, Hattie nevertheless managed a tight little smile.

"That's my girl," he said, sliding closer. "You've decided that you like me enough for a bit of
smoochy
, haven't you?"

"I do like you," she answered noncommittally.

The answer pleased him well enough, and he pulled her into his arms for a rather sloppy wet kiss. Hattie instinctively tried
to pull back in distaste, but he held her fast. She made noises of protest.
Ancil
was either ignoring her or had mistaken the
sounds for passion. When he finally released her, it was all she could do not to wipe her mouth.

Remembering that kiss the next morning as she watched the water spread through the rice field, she did raise her arm and wipe her lips on her sleeve. At least he hadn't pinched her. Marriage to him might be all right if he didn't want to kiss very much. She tried to imagine having to bed with him, but her mind kept straying from the idea.

She heard the men closing the floodgates, and the water began to settle. Only a few inches of the plants would peek above the surface, just enough to get sunlight. As the plants grew, the water level would be increased. The next time this field would be
dry was
harvesttime
, four months away.

Hattie heard raised voices but couldn't make out a word. She
looked toward the levee and saw that Reed and Harmon were obviously having an argument. With both of them acting like bears with a toothache, she figured she'd better go down and see if she could help. She'd just taken a couple of steps when she saw Harm come across with a hard right to Reed's jaw, felling him to the dirt.

Hattie broke into a stumbling run, hurrying to get between the men.
Neither had moved an inch by the time she got there, though. Both seemed paralyzed, staring at each other as if they couldn't believe what had happened.

"What is going on here?" she
asked,
her hands on her hips.

"Don't ask me," Reed said, sitting up to feel the damage to his jaw. "This man is either drunk or crazy."

"Don't call me a drunk, Tyler, or I'll shut your mouth permanently!" Harm said.

"He's not calling you a drunk, because you aren't one." Hattie said. "But something is the matter with both of you. I thought you were friends."

"We are friends, dammit!" Reed replied.

"Don't you curse at me—" Hattie started, but was inter
rupted by Harm.

"That's right. Don't you dare curse at Hattie Colfax, or I'll knock the rest of your teeth out. You want to curse at someone, Tyler, make it me 'cause I'm ready."

Harm assumed a fighter's stance, and Hattie looked at him in exasperation.

Reed jumped to his feet, clearly ready to take up the challenge.

"Stop it, both of you!" Hattie's voice rang with authority. She gave each of them a cold, hard look. When she spoke again, they both listened respectfully. "I haven't seen such ridiculous behavior since I left the schoolroom. Perhaps you both need a
good dose of tonic. I won't have you breaking into fisticuffs in my presence."

She turned first to the man she knew best. "What do you have to say for yourself, Reed Tyler?"

"He started it!" he protested.

"You have been crabby and disagreeable for a week," she said. "Now if you've got a bug up your craw, let's hear about
it. Harm has a right to be a little confused right now. He just
buried his father
last week. You're supposed to be his friend.
I'd think you would remember that."

Before Reed had a chance to comment, she turned to Harmon. "I have not known you very long, but I consider you a friend of mine and a fine, good man. As my friend, you
should
know that I do not approve of fighting. I don't think that breaking someone's jaw
ever solves anything. If you feel the need to
vent your anger by knocking someone down, I'd ask you to do it someplace other than my farm."

Harmon looked genuinely distressed. "Miss Hattie,
you've
been real good to me. I
…
you and Reed are the only friends
I have." He looked at his adversary, and although there was still anger in his face, his voice was controlled. "I shouldn't have hit you, Reed. I'm sorry."

Reed, still rubbing his jaw, accepted the apology with a shrug. "I've not been thinking real straight the last few days. You're probably right about the canals. I think we should leave them just as they are."

Harmon looked surprised. He'd forgotten about the canals completely.
"Your idea has some merit," he said to Reed. "Maybe we could do a few of them that way to see how it works. If we see
it's
better,
we could change them all."

"Fine," Reed answered, and the two began to discuss the changes they could make.

Hattie walked away slowly, not feeling quite right about the situation. They were both acting as if everything were fine, but underneath she could sense things were still bothering both of them.

* * *

The long summer day found Reed working late in the cotton, chopping and thinking. Motion was typical of his life, so he never stopped the rise and fall of the hoe as he worked, the hot sun plastering his shirt to his back like a second skin.

The bruise on his jaw was big and ugly and purple. It would take some explaining, but he wasn't concerned about that. Other thoughts were torturing him.

The rice field had been so important to
him,
he'd wanted it so much. He remembered thinking that once he had rice growing, he would be a happy man. He wondered why he wasn't. He was sure it had something to do with Hattie, but it didn't take a wizard to figure that out. He was trying to understand what had changed between them and when it had happened.

She was his friend, just as she'd always been. He told
himself
it was natural for him to worry that Drayton might take advantage of her. Any friend would feel the same concern. But that couldn't explain the unreasonable jealousy that had assailed
him—still assailed him—at the thought of her kissing old snuff-smelling Drayton.

Bringing his hoe down sharply into the hard black dirt, he remembered the lightning-like sting of envy he'd felt when she'd
spoken of Drayton. On no occasion in his life had he ever felt the slightest wish to be
Ancil
Drayton, but he had found himself wishing he was the one making calls to Hattie's front porch.

Did he care about Hattie?
he
asked himself. Of course he cared. She was like a sister to him. But he didn't care about her
that
way. Or maybe he did. Memories of the past few
weeks
flittered across his mind like a magic-lantern show. Hattie laughing in his arms in the
pigsty,
so
flushed and embarrassed. A
glimpse of pink rickrack on her drawers and her bodice covered in mud, amply displaying her charms. Hot sweet kisses in the fog…
All were evidence that his feelings were not entirely brotherly. Even the memories brought a lick of fire to his loins, and he cursed his lack of control.

He was promised to Bessie Jane. That was the reality. A man promised was as good as married, some said. Reed
didn't
always believe that. But when a man had bedded a
woman, that
was a promise as sacred as any spoken in church. It made no matter what his father had said about making choices. Breaching
a woman's innocence was a decision made. Momentarily,
though, he wondered. No blood, no pain, an easy entry
…
Slamming the hoe roughly into a patch of crabgrass, he cast the doubt away. It was unworthy of Bessie Jane. It was unworthy of him. Looking for a reason to do wrong, a man would always
find one. What he needed to be doing was resolving to do right.

Bessie Jane was young and sweet, and trusted his honor. She
was flighty, but she had a good heart and a depth
of feeling in
her soul, he knew. She deserved better than a bridegroom with his mind on another woman.

And the other woman deserved better too. For the last eight years, he had talked with her, laughed with her, and worked with her. He probably knew Hattie better than anyone else in the world. Not once during all that time had it occurred to him to be interested in her as a woman. It was as if he'd had blinders
on, looking at her every day and never seeing her.

Stopping to wipe the sweat from his brow, he thought that the old saw must be true: You really can't see the forest for the trees.

Hattie finally had a beau of her own, and he was singing sour grapes, jealous where he had no right. He should be wishing her well, yet he selfishly wasn't. He couldn't have her for himself, so he didn't want anyone else to have her. He wasn't being fair, but as he plied his hoe in the row of cotton, he didn't know how to stop.

Letting his mind wander through the past, he tried to recapture the feeling of that night, that one night with Bessie Jane. It eluded him. There had been desire and eagerness, but he couldn't remember passion, and certainly not love. That was it, he thought as he stopped to look back on the row he'd just completed. He didn't remember if he loved Bessie Jane. Lots of people married without being in love. He knew that. Bessie Jane would be a good, devoted, and faithful wife, always pretty and always by his side. A wife was someone who helped you in the field, cooked your meals, washed your clothes, birthed your children, and warmed your bed. Bessie Jane could do all of that, he told himself determinedly. But then, the devil in him pointed out, so could Hattie. And she could be a friend besides.

In disgust he stared across the field of nearly full-grown cotton to the impeccably clean white farmhouse in the distance. Bessie Jane would be his wife, and Hattie would be his friend. It was best that he resign himself to those facts. A man could have only one woman, and he'd already chosen his.

There
was no second chances
for second choices.

 
CHAPTER
 
14