Deborah Camp (41 page)

Perhaps that’s why falling in love with Zanna had seemed predestined, he thought as sleep began to numb his mind. She had known the agony of being tortured by a man who had vowed to love her and Grandy had experienced the same pain. Both of them had lived in an ugly world where love had been the twin of humiliation and fear its first cousin.

As he began to drift into dreams, he smiled at an image of he and Zanna building a family. Children, he thought
with a sense of wonder. Zanna’s children. His children.
Their
children. Boys with red hair and crooked grins. Girls with green eyes and long legs. The Adams children.

He would love them and never raise a hand to them. Oh, no, not Zanna’s precious offspring. Nothing coming from his and Zanna’s love would ever be harmed. Their home would be a loving one, a gentle one, a peaceful one.

“Grandy … Grandy?”

He rolled onto his back as her voice tugged him from his hazy dreams.

“Grandy!”

Her voice took on an hysterical edge just as he identified the stench in his nostrils. He sat up, his mind screaming alarms as his ears picked up the sounds around him. Crackling. Booming. Voices raised in panic.

“Fire!” he shouted, expelling the word as he jackknifed from the bed and yanked on his trousers. “Get up, Zanna. Grab some clothes. Hurry, honey. Hurry!”

The smoke was thick enough to make his eyes water. Grandy glanced through the window to see that the door leading to the porch was blocked by burning debris. He whirled to stare into the front room, which was already engulfed in flames.

“Damn it,” he said between gritted teeth as he pulled back the lace curtains and thrust open the window. “Throw something on and get over here.”

“My dresses … my chest … my jewelry,” she cried, darting this way and that.

“Zanna! There’s no time.” He picked up her robe and made her stick her arms into it. “Out you go.” He lifted her into his arms and poked her through the open window. “Perkins, over here!” he yelled, seeing the foreman near the well. “Zanna’s over here! Come get her.”

Grandy turned back into the hot room and bent low, crouching beneath the layer of smoke, and duck-walked to the closet. He pulled out some of Zanna’s dresses, then raided her chest of drawers for some of her undergarments.
Dragging them with him, he waddled over to the window and threw them out.

“Grandy, get out of there,” Packsaddle called, seeing Grandy bob in the window. “The whole place is afire! It’ll cave in on you any second!”

Grandy was struck with horror when he saw that the ceiling above him was a moving sea of flames.

“Christ!” He dove through the window, given agility by his own fear. The ground knocked the breath out of him and he rolled away from the house just as he caught sight of a wall of fire inside the window—right where he’d stood a second ago.

“Grandy, are you all right?” Zanna asked, dropping to her knees beside him, cradling his head to her breasts. “Please be all right.”

“I …” He couldn’t talk for coughing. His lungs burned and ached with a strange fever. Pointing to the house, he forced out his voice. “Save the house! Water!”

“It’s too late,” Perkins said, standing beside him. “Look at it. It’s a box of flames. Nothing left to save.” He turned to shout orders at the other men. “Y’all fill those buckets and wet down the stables and barn. Charlie, turn out the horses!”

“Yes, boss,” someone shouted above the roar of the fire.

Grandy stared at the dancing flames. Perkins is right, he thought. Nothing’s left. The house is all but gone. A profound sense of loss moved through him like an inky shadow. He looked at Zanna. She was moving slowly with tiny, jerky steps toward the flaming house.

“Zanna, stay back,” he cautioned, reaching out and grasping thin air. “Zanna!”

It seemed as though she couldn’t hear him, almost as if she were in a deep trance, but to Grandy’s relief she stopped and stood as still as a statue. Orange and yellow flames outlined her. Thick smoke curled above her head. A breeze pressed her wrapper flush against her breasts,
her belly, her legs, making the hem flap like a flag behind her heels.

“Zanna, honey?” Grandy rose to his knees and swayed forward, still reaching for her.

Lifting one ridiculously small fist, she shook it at the column of flames and smoke.

“Damn you,” she shouted, her strong voice full of fury. “Damn you, Duncan! I pray that you rot in hell right along with your brother for this!”

“Sweet Sooz, come here,” Grandy said, holding out both hands to her.

She turned to him, her face crumpled, and she collapsed in his arms with a sob that tore at his heart like a crown of thorns.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Zanna spun around to face Grandy, frowning at him for catching her before she could mount up and gallop away. She thought about hiding the truth from him, then discarded the notion.

“I’m going to Hathaway Hill.”

“To hell you say!” He grabbed one of her wrists to keep her in place. “Just what do you think you’ll do once you’re there?”

“Sell Primrose to Duncan.” She shrugged when his mouth dropped open. “You’d better hit the trail before things go from bad to worse, Grandville. Things are going to turn ugly once Duncan gets what he wants. As for me, I’ll pack up what little I have left and find a better life somewhere.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.” She jerked her wrist from his grasp. “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait.” He grabbed her shoulder and spun her back around to face him. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Wherever. If you’re leaving Primrose, we’ll leave together. We’ll build another life.”

She smiled, touched by his gallant offer, and lifted one hand to stroke his whiskered cheek. He looked as tired as she felt after a night spent fighting the fire. Dawn had found the house reduced to ashes, save for two columns of bricks that had been the chimneys. The outer buildings had been saved, but the henhouse and the walkway Grandy had built for her were gone—swept away by the wind and rain that had come too late.

They had taken refuge in the bunkhouse during the brief, soaking rain. The men had fallen asleep, but Zanna had remained awake, too weary and discouraged to rest.

“So what do you say?” Grandy asked, giving her a little shake back into the present.

“I … well, let me think.” She cocked her head to one side in contemplation, thinking that his eyes looked bruised and his color was too pale. He was exhausted. This life she had forced on him had drained him of all vitality. “Riverboats? Saloons? Going where the wind blows you?”

He nodded, a grin spreading across his face.

“No, thanks,” Zanna said. “That’s no life for me, but I want you to go back to it, Grandville.” She framed his face in her hands, loving him with such an intensity that it frightened her. She recalled her father’s advice about loving something enough to let go. “You’re free, Grandy. Free to live your own life again without me hanging onto your arm. I’ll never forget the wonderful things you’ve done for me. There’s no way I can thank you enough, so I’m letting you go. I’ve taken too much of your life as it is. As for me, I’m a woman who needs roots. I want a husband and children. I want to live off the land, not off someone else’s misfortune and bad luck.”

When she would have let her hands drop, he caught them and pressed them firmly against the sides of his face.

“I don’t want to go, Zanna. Not without you.” He
sighed and closed his eyes. “And I won’t let you cave in. It’s too late for that.”

“Grandy, Duncan won’t back down. He’ll never give up. How long do you think we can go on like this?”

“For as long as it takes.” He opened his eyes to let her see the determination shining there. “Stay here with me and fight. Primrose is yours. Don’t let that bastard take it from you. He’s taken enough, damn it. We can’t let him win, Zanna. We can’t!”

“All right,” she said, wrapping her arms around him to sedate his riled temper. “We’ll fight him together. I just don’t want you to stay because you feel you must. You’re not responsible for me, Grandy.”

His arms tightened. “But I am. You’re my wife.”

She closed her eyes, warding off her desire to rejoice in his commitment, for she had no intention of holding him to a marriage he’d been forced into. When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the rubble that had been her home.

“You know what I wish I could have saved from the fire?”

“Photos? No, your handkerchiefs. You’re not fully dressed if you don’t have a handkerchief in your pocket or in your hand.”

“No, none of those.” She rubbed her cheek against his chest, which smelled like ashes and soot. “I wish I could have saved my Bible from the flames.”

“Honey, you can always get another Bible. I’m sure Preacher Timmons has a spare.”

“It wasn’t the Bible, but what was in it.” She tipped back her head to look into his hazel eyes. “I put those primroses you picked for me in it. Remember? The picnic?”

Grandy’s smile was like the dawn of a new day. He kissed the tip of her nose and chuckled as he shook his head. “Women,” he grumbled. “God love ’em.”

Concerned neighbors called all during the next day, bringing blankets, clothes, medicine, and food—some of which was leftovers from the Primrose barbecue. They kept Zanna too busy to mope about her latest disaster.

The Primrose ranch hands were angels, welcoming the neighbors, thanking them kindly, accepting their help in rummaging through the black remains of the house for anything usable.

There was nothing. The fire had been so hot that it had even melted the glass. Pots and pans were ruined chunks of metal. All the little touches that made her house a home—quilts, doilies, curtains, bric-a-brac—were all gone. For Zanna, only the memories—some good, some too terrible to recall—remained.

“Heaven forbid, if you hadn’t woke up when you did …”

“What could have started it …”

“Which room do you reckon it started in …”

“And you say Zanna and her mister were trapped up front there in the bedroom with no …”

“I heard that fire’d make hell look like a lightnin’ bug …”

“So the rain came just five minutes too late …”

“A pity. Such a pity …”

“He works in mysterious ways …”

The comments floated to Zanna throughout the day. She
nodded as if she understood them. She smiled, thanking them. She sighed, wishing they would leave so she could think. She had to
think
. What was next? Should she rebuild? How much money would it take? How much money did she have? Was it enough?

Grandy huddled with the men, discussing lumber prices and ways to haul the boards. Zanna watched him, wishing theirs was a permanent union. She had come to think of him as her husband, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe he considered her his wife. No matter that he’s called you that, her heart told her, he doesn’t belong to you. He’s only being kind. He’s your friend, not your man.

She was thankful for his company, especially when the afternoon brought a visit from Duncan.

Zanna was in the stables when she heard the approach of yet another visitor. She stepped outside to see who it was and hatred blasted through her when she recognized the palomino and his rider.

What gall, she thought, marching from the stables to the knot of men standing in front of what used to be her house. Grandy and the ranch hands watched Duncan’s approach with stony expressions. Zanna was almost abreast of them before she noticed the rifle Grandy held, cocked and ready.

Duncan reined in Pride and tipped his hat like a gentleman. “Heard about your bad luck,” he said without preamble, ignoring the hatred clearly stamped on each face before him. “Seems like Primrose has seen nothing but trouble ever since Adams set foot on it.”

“You’ve got your nerve coming here,” Zanna said, stepping forward, eager to show him she wasn’t afraid. “I thought you were told to stay off Primrose land.”

“I have trouble hearing when it comes to empty threats made by empty heads,” Duncan said through an unfriendly smile. “Being a good neighbor, I’ve come to see if I can do anything for you. Y’all need supplies? Got enough cots? How about food?”

“How about you getting off this land before I have to use this thing,” Grandy said, raising the rifle barrel until it was level with Duncan’s chest.

“Suzanna,” Duncan said, his smile slipping away. “Call off your dog.”

Grandy lifted the butt to his shoulder and squinted one eye to take careful aim.

“Count to ten,” Zanna said calmly and clearly. “And then shoot him. Make sure you kill him with the first shot. I don’t like to see any animal suffer.”

Grandy grinned. “One … two …”

“You wouldn’t shoot,” Duncan said.

“Three … four …”

“In cold blood?”

“Five … six …”

“You plumb crazy, Suzanna?”

“Seven … eight …”

Duncan switched his attention from Zanna’s impassive expression to Grandy’s imposing stance. He jerked the horse’s head around and applied his spurs.

“Nine … ten.” Grandy raised the rifle up and squeezed off a round that split the air three or four inches above Duncan’s hat. Pride bucked, then seemed to sail across the ground with Duncan hanging on for dear life. “I don’t think he’ll be back.”

Perkins chuckled. Charlie slapped Grandy on the back. The others glad-handed him. Zanna shook her head sadly.

“If you think a little buckshot is going to keep Duncan off this land, you’re living in a fool’s paradise,” she said, then pivoted sharply and returned to the stables.

She finished feeding the horses, recalling Duncan’s retreat with a grin but knowing she’d pay a price for his humiliation. And there was Grandy … brave, brash Grandy.

The rattle and creak of a horse-drawn buggy interrupted her thoughts and she peeked out again to see that it was Theo. She waved as he drove the buggy toward the stables.
He put on the brake and leaped down, crossing the distance between them in short, quick steps. Theo embraced her. He was shivering.

“I returned from Dallas this afternoon and I heard … oh, Zanna! Thank God you’re unharmed.”