Courting Miss Hattie (36 page)

"The flowers are just lovely, Reed," Hattie said as she reentered the room. She hesitated by the cane-seat rocker, glancing over at the space beside Reed on the settee. He moved slightly as if making room for her. With her eyes focused on her feet, she crossed the room to sit next to him.

They smiled politely at each other in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

"It's rather late in the year for marigolds," Hattie finally managed to say.

"They were the last in my mother's garden," Reed said, shifting over to make sure she had plenty of room.

"The very last? Well, it was so kind of your mother to share them with me."

"Well, I asked her for them, actually. I told her I was coming courting."

Hattie's eyes widened, and she quickly looked away. He was courting her! That was what he'd said. She was sure of it. Daring a glance back at him, she almost asked him to repeat it.

Watching the expression on Hattie's face, Reed was daunted. She hadn't realized his interest. It obviously had never occurred to her that his call was anything but friendship.

They both sat in an increasingly awkward silence, struggling for something to say. After several abortive attempts at the weather, the crops, and the neighbors, Hattie excused herself to get supper on the table.

The moment she left the room, Reed knocked his forehead with the heel of his hand in self-disgust. He was making a fool of himself, and he didn't know how to stop. His experience with women had generally been positive. He was always calm, always in control, even in his teen years, and the girls he'd called on had always seemed subordinate. They were eager to please him, and if there was any timidity and awkwardness to be overcome, it had never been his. Now, suddenly at twenty-four he was with a woman who was his equal, and he felt as clumsy and insecure as a schoolboy.

Supper wasn't much better. The flowers sat in a vase in the middle of the table, a glaring reminder of his presumption. Reed tried without much success to retake some of the ground he was sure he'd lost. "The rice looks real good," he said. "I think we might do better than we originally thought on that little field."

"That's wonderful," Hattie replied.

"I've been able to keep the water level pretty steady. If the depth of the water is uneven, the crop won't all ripen at the same time."

"You still think it'll be ready for harvest in September?" she asked as she passed him another roll.

"The way I've got it figured
,
I'll drain it about the time the pickers get here. By the time we've got the cotton at the gin, the rice field will be dry enough to get the binder in."

"How is the pump working?"

"Pretty well. Harm was out a couple of days ago and had a look at it. He thinks it will make it through the season with no problems."

Hattie smiled with pleasure. "So you and Harm have resolved your differences."

Reed hesitated. In his current rather defensive state of mind, Hattie's words sounded maternal, even condescending. Bessie Jane's ill treatment of him still rankled at times, and he hated being the recipient of sympathy. He especially didn't appreciate gracious motherly concern from Hattie.

"Harmon
Leege
and I have no differences to resolve," he said with more sternness than was called for. "Harm is my friend, and my former relationship with his wife is a thing of the past."

Reed's refusal to be brokenhearted about the faithlessness of his intended struck Hattie as cold-blooded, but she steered away from that. "I think you've been brave about the whole unfortunate incident. And I was so proud of you at church when you shook Harmon's hand, as if to let bygones be bygones. I think it will really help the community accept them."

"I didn't do it to get the community to accept them," he said with exasperation. "I shook his hand because he's my friend. I maintain the highest regard for Bessie Jane, but what's over is over."

Again, Hattie found his apparent callousness unsettling. "Well, it sounds to me as if your feelings for Bessie Jane were fairly shallow, for a man engaged to be married."

Reed bristled at the criticism. Did she think he was so young and easily hurt that he would come to her like a child to cry on her shoulder? "Sometimes people marry for other reasons than tender feelings," he said, then asked pointedly, "How is Drayton?"

"He's fine," Hattie replied, her blood roaring through her veins at his reference to
Ancil's
contrived interest in her. The hurtful insinuation made casual conversation almost impossible.

"He was here last night?" Reed asked.

"We had lemonade on the porch."

Continuing to stir the food around on his plate, Reed asked the question that was uppermost in his mind with as much nonchalance as he could muster. "Are you still thinking about marrying him?"

Hattie hesitated. Somehow, thinking about marrying
Ancil
Drayton was inconceivable at this particular moment. "Perhaps," she
answered,
her head high.

"Do you think he loves you?" It was an unfair question, and Reed could have bit his tongue as soon as he heard his own words. Still, he wanted the answer.

"He doesn't love me, no," Hattie said honestly. "His interest is in the farm. I am aware of that."

Reed nodded. It surprised him that she could speak of it with such detachment. A woman like Bessie Jane would take to bed in a grieving fit over something like that. Of course, he knew Hattie was different. She was so
mature,
perhaps the personal things that hurt young girls no longer bothered her. Maybe she didn't really care if a man loved her or not.

She'd told him she wanted to get married. It was possible that the security of marriage and the hope of children were all that really interested her. "Drayton isn't much of a farmer," he said, "and he isn't interested in your rice field."

"So?"

"So I know how to grow that rice for you. And I'm twice the farmer Drayton will ever be. If you're looking for a husband who wants your farm, well, I want it."

"What?"

Reed felt clumsy and awkward, but having stated his position, he was determined to follow through. "I want this farm, Miss Hattie. You know I always have. I planned to buy it, and I still want to if that's what you'd like. But I thought to myself, why should Drayton get this farm and you too when he doesn't even know you and knows even less about this plot of ground?"

Hattie stared at him, obviously dumbstruck.

He continued. "To be honest, I never considered marrying you. I guess I just never thought about you that way. You were simply my friend, a spinster lady. When Drayton started to call on you, I began looking at things differently, but I was already engaged to Bessie Jane. Now that I'm free
…
well, I'm free to ask you to marry up with me."

Hattie continued to stare at him, opening her mouth to speak, then shutting it again, unsure of her words. Finally she started
to sort everything out. "So," she began hesitantly, "you say you're not upset about losing Bessie Jane, because now you can marry me and get my land."

"I want the land," he said. "And I'm willing to buy it, just like always. But if we married up, we could take the money I've been saving to pay you and put it into irrigation for more rice. Miss Hattie, you'd be surprised what we could do with this farm in, say, the next ten years or so." His eyes were on her, but she could see that he was visualizing a distant dream. "You know what kind of farmer I am. What you want is a farmer for this land, and I'm a far better one than Drayton."

"I'm looking for a farmer?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I thought I was looking for a husband."

The two stared at each other for a moment. Hattie felt as if someone had reached inside her breast, grabbed her heart, and twisted it out of her body, only to discard it in the slop bucket. Tears welled up behind her eyes, painful burning tears, but she bit down fiercely on her lip and would not allow them to disgrace her. "Let me get you your dessert," she said, rising from her chair. By the time she reached the kitchen, she was holding her pain in with anger. Grabbing the plate of sugar cookies, she walked back to the table,
chin
high and shoulders straight.

"Here are your cookies," she said calmly, handing him the plate. "
why
don't you just take them with you?"

"Miss Hattie, I…"

Retrieving his coat from the rack, she all but threw it at him. "I believe you know your way out."

Reed stood, coat in hand, floundering for the right words.

"I'm sorry, Miss Hattie, I didn't mean…"

Ignoring him, Hattie began clearing the table as if he had already left. Reed watched her for a moment,
then
let himself out the front door.

Hattie continued to carry the dishes to the sink, calmly, serenely, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. When all that was left on the table was her mother's milk-glass vase holding the beautiful bouquet of bright flowers, she reached out to caress the delicate petal of a red dahlia. A tear spilled from the corner of her eye. She jerked the flowers from the vase and opened the front door. Throwing them out, she spoke to the silent evening. "And take your stupid flowers with you!"

Slamming the door shut, she leaned against it, no longer able
to stop the tears. She allowed herself the luxury of private grief and wept for several minutes. Finally she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and washed the dishes, though a teardrop occasionally fell into the soapy water. By the time all evidence of the supper was cleared away, she felt better. As she washed her face and readied herself for bed, she came to grips with her feelings. "It's not as if he was dishonest about it," she told herself aloud. "
Ancil
does just want me for the farm. So if Reed wants the farm, it's really the same thing."

Sighing, she stared at her wide-jawed face in her hand mirror. "Maybe I should be glad I have a farm to offer!" she declared. Setting the mirror down, she blew out the light and crawled into bed.

Her mind was a whirl of confusion, and it was her nature to try to bring order to it. When a problem cropped up in the fields or with the animals, she always forced herself to restrain her reaction until she'd sorted out all her options and reached the best decision. In the quiet darkness of her room, with only the sounds of the crickets outside her window to distract her, Hattie reviewed the possibilities.

Things remaining exactly as they had been was
an alternative. Of course, a person could never truly retrace her steps, but Hattie was fairly sure she could go back to being the hardworking, self-supporting spinster she had always been. Unfortunately, she didn't particularly long for the tranquil sameness of the past. The excitement of a man in her life could not be underrated.

Marriage to
Ancil
would be a reasonable decision. She'd acquire a fine man and a houseful of precious children. Reed was right—
Ancil
was not so good a farmer. She could teach him to be better, though. He didn't love her, but she didn't love him either. They were equal in that. The neighbors already expected a marriage, so the entire community would be behind it.

Or she could marry Reed. He would make some woman a fine husband. Hattie had every confidence that he would provide for her and care for her. They had been friends for years, so there was no question about their ability to get along. The community would be scandalized by their marriage, however. They might suspect that
Ancil
had married her for her land, but they would know that Reed had. He didn't love her.

Why did that truth sting so much more with Reed than with
Ancil
? Because her feelings for Reed were more than they should be, she answered herself, and she well knew it. He was young, virile,
handsome
. Was it so unreasonable that a woman, even one of her age, would find that appealing.

Without conscious thought, her tongue ran along her lips, as if to taste Reed's sweet kisses again. Moaning softly, she ran her hand across the breast that he had touched so fleetingly, and the memory, more than the caress, sparked her to flame. She felt the familiar throbbing of urgency between her legs, and she pulled her thighs together tightly against it. How long must a woman bank the fires inside her? Would a lifetime of self-denial be worth it?

Sitting up in the bed and wrapping her arms around her knees, she knew that it would not. Wanting a man, his touch, his children…
Those were not evil things. It was something most women took for granted. She would not deny herself anymore. Maybe neither man loved her, but she was sure both could bed her and give her children—now, before it was too late to bear any.

"Mrs. Hattie
…"
she said aloud. She hesitated in her thought, but only an instant. Given a choice between peaches or
smoochy
-smooches, a decision was easily reached.

 
CHAPTER
 
19