Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (34 page)

“I was . . . proud of you today.”

“I was proud of you too, Mrs. Tallman. Kiss your husband. He’s been looking forward to it all day.”

He lowered his mouth to her upturned lips and kissed her with a hunger that left her mindless. Her body quivered; her resolve to hold herself apart from him receded and dissolved into submission to his deep, starved, unrelenting kiss.

“Come to bed with me, love. I want to hold you, and . . . love you—”

“I . . . should stay with Trisha.”

“Later. I need you now.”

“I’ll always love you.” Desperation was in her voice, indecision in her heart. Inside her a voice whispered,
He wants you. He needs you. Take what you can, and you’ll have sweet memories.
To her surprise and dismay, a tear rolled unheeded down her cheek. Another quietly followed.

“Trisha . . . might wake up.” She made one more attempt to do what was right.

“We’ll hear her.”

She allowed John to pull her down onto the bed beneath the wagon that she had laid out for him alone. Mindlessly she removed her dress and chemise while he took off his shirt and britches. It wasn’t until they lay down and he wrapped her in his arms that he felt the tears on her cheeks. He went still.

“Addie, sweet. Why are you crying?” he asked helplessly. “Are you regretting—”

“Never! Never that! It’s just that so much has happened today.”

“I thought maybe you were sorry you jumped into marriage with me.” Relief lowered his voice to the mere breath of a whisper. “I’m going to love you so completely that you’ll forget about what happened today. You’re going to forget everything but me.”

Soon Addie’s senses were singing with uninhibited desire. She moved her mouth from his to kiss his jaws, under his ear, his chin. Her lips moved over his face almost frantically before seeking his again, kissing him with prolonged hunger, tasting his mouth, loving the feel of his mustache, his strong, rough hands stroking up to her smooth shoulders and then down her bare arms to her hips, returning to her breasts, stroking, kneading.

Impelled strongly by remembered frenzies of delight, her hand slid down between them to find him, hold him, feel him expand in an arousal equal to her own.

Poised in a kind of wonder, John reveled in the feeling of her soft breasts against his chest, her small, strong fingers caressing him. This wondrous, loving, giving wife of his excited him, confounded him, thrilled him. He treasured her shuddering, leaping response to his caresses. He raised himself above her, entered her quivering softness, and made her forget everything but him.

*    *    *

Four days out of Van Buren they made night camp in a long valley beside a small tributary that flowed into the Arkansas River. Addie had become reconciled to the fact that she could not cook meals over a campfire for her family that half-way equalled the ones Bill Wassall cooked for the men. For the past two days she and Colin had gone to the chuck wagon at noon and again at night and tried to make themselves useful to Sweet William Wassall, the chubby little man who was swiftly becoming a dear friend. At the noon camp she peeled potatoes for soup and made biscuits for bread pudding to serve at the evening meal. Sweet William, as she now teasingly called him, openly enjoyed their company. Colin’s help freed the grateful Paco for other chores.

Trisha recovered more quickly in body than in spirit. The second morning after her attack she was up, but she refused to see Buffer or leave the wagon even though the mark on her lip and cheek had receded to a dull red. When she became aware that she had been whipped while she lay unconscious, she felt an overwhelming shame and wouldn’t even allow Addie to treat or see the welts on her arms and legs. When asked about the attack, she refused the talk about what she had thought was a dream just before she was hit on the head.

It was dark when Trisha stepped down out of the wagon, the rifle in her hand. Colin had brought her a plate of food, which she had eaten without enjoyment because her throat was still sore when she swallowed. She couldn’t shake the fear that traveled down her back when she thought of the lash that had sliced through the air to cut her flesh, or of the man who had wielded it.

She settled down on the grass with a wagon wheel at her back and had been there several minutes when Buffer Simmons came out of the darkness. She had known he was there, had located him before she left the wagon, and was comforted by his presence.

“Miss Trisha. It’s me, Buffer.”

“I know it’s you. Don’t know nobody else who’d come flyin’ outta the dark like a turpentined cat.”

“How’re ya feelin’?”

“Strong enough to spit in a bobcat’s eye.”

“That’s a pile a—!”

“If ya knowed so much, why’d ya ask?”

“I’m saying ya ain’t up to snuff yet.”

“Ya don’t know nothin’ ’bout me.”

“I know yo’re balky as a mule.”

“—And ya ain’t got no faults a’tall.”

“Yo’re a sour-mouth, is what ya are,” Buffer said impatiently. “Times yo’re like a bobcat with bristles on its belly.”

“If I’m a sour-mouth, balky bobcat with bristles on my belly, why’re ya here? Jist get yoreself gone. I ain’t askin’ ya to stay.”

“I’m stayin’, if’n ya like it or not.”

“Why’d ya shave? I woke up oncet and saw a bare-ass naked face a-lookin’ at me. I was gonna poke it with my knife till I saw that silly vest ya always wear.”

“Why didn’t ya let on ya’d waked up?”

“ ’Cause I wanted to see if ya was sorry as I thought ya was.”

“Yo’re sneaky too.”

“—And good at it.”

“Was ya sleepin’ when I kissed ya?”

“Ya what?” Trisha jerked her head around so fast that she gasped from the pain.

“Don’t get all het up now,” he said with a chuckle. “I was funnin’ ya.”

“Ya got a poor way of funnin’.”

“Did Miss Addie give ya the scabbard?”

“Yeah.”

“Why ain’t ya wearin’ it?”

“ ’Cause it’d go ’round me ’bout three times.”

“Hell. I can cut it down and punch in a few more holes.”

“How’d I know that?” She turned her golden eyes on him. “Guess I can’t call ya brush-face no more. Why’d ya shave for?” she asked again.

“ ’Cause I wanted ya to see my weak chin!”

A snorting sound came from her, then: “Fiddle-faddle.”

“ ’Sides, I shave every spring. Jist hadn’t got ’round to it.”

“Guess that’s the only time ya take a bath, too.”

“No. I take one at Christmas if I get to stinkin’ real bad.” He heard a whisper of a giggle, which gave him the courage to say: “Get the belt and scabbard. I want ya to wear that knife where ya can get at it.”

Without a word she went to the back of the wagon and climbed inside. Buffer followed and waited, his back to the wagon, his eyes searching the darkness.

She had no trouble locating the treasured gift in the dark and was back almost immediately, slapping it against his chest as if it were of no consequence to her.

“Here. I ain’t doin’ ya no favors for it.”

“Dad-blame it! I don’t recall askin’ for any favors. Put it ’round yore waist where it’ll ride comfortable so I’ll know where to cut it off.” She fumbled to put the belt around her waist while still holding the rifle. “And put down the gun! Ya’ll shoot yoreself or me.”

“I ain’t got but two hands,” she snapped.

Buffer leaned his gun against the wagon and yanked the belt from her hands. Kneeling in front of her, he swung it about her slender waist.

“Where do ya want it?” he asked crossly.

She moved the belt down to ride just below her waist.

“Right there . . . bung-head!”

“I need a light,” he grumbled.

“Ya ain’t gettin’ one here and that’s that.”

“I already seen that mark on yore face, if that’s what’s got yore tail over the line. Ya think ya ain’t pretty no more an’ ya don’t want me to see ya.”

Trisha stood as still as a stone. It took Buffer a full minute to realize that she’d not had a sharp comeback. He looked up and saw that she had turned her face away. She had not taken his words as lightly as he’d meant them. Her silence became a cold and alien thing that clamped around him, making him feel like he had just kicked a puppy or stepped on a baby chick. He stood for a minute or two and then began talking, hardly knowing what he was saying.

“I’ll mark this an’ fix it tomorrow. Rolly’s got a leather punch. I’ll get a loan of it an’ put in more holes. Did I tell ya that I’m dickerin’ with a feller for a throwin’ knife like mine? It’s a mite smaller is all, and lighter. Just right for ya. That pig-sticker ya carry would be handy for close in, but ain’t much good for throwing. It ain’t heavy enough. I’m thinkin’ ya’ll take to knife-throwin’. By the time we get to Santa Fe, ya’ll be pinnin’ a fly to the wall.”

She didn’t move or speak. Buffer couldn’t tell if she was annoyed. It wasn’t like him to rattle on, and it wasn’t like her not to have a comeback. He shuffled his feet and took a quick glance around the camp site. Still she didn’t speak or move. The silence went on for so long that Buffer began to feel desperate.

“Trisha, ya mean more to me than anythin’ in the world,” he blurted. “I’d cut off my right hand ’fore I’d say or do anythin’ to hurt ya.”

He waited in the long quiet that followed his outburst. He waited with his heart in his throat for her to laugh or make a witty retort. He heard a small sound. When it came the second time, he realized it was a sniffle. Hesitantly, he put his finger to her cheek. It was wet.

“Gawdamighty, Trish. I’m jist a dumb-head. I ain’t used to talkin’ to women. I didn’t mean nothin’ by saying ya wasn’t purty. You’re the purtiest thin’ I ever did see.”

“It ain’t that. I wish I was ugly as a . . . mule’s ass.”

“What is it then? What’s got ya so all tore up? I’ll make it right, if I can.”

Up out of the depth of her came an agonizing sob. Then came words that stunned the man beside her.

“I’m . . . so . . . scared!”

“Ah . . . don’t be! Don’t be!” Buffer opened his arms and she flung herself against his chest. He held her tightly, protectively, while small, miserable, choking sounds came from her.

“Darlin’, sweet girl. My darlin’ sweet girl . . .” he crooned. “Ain’t nothin’ ever gonna hurt ya.”

“He’ll be . . . back. He don’t give up.”

“Nobody’s gonna hurt ya. Nobody.” Buffer’s arms held her close, his hand stroking her dark hair.

“I was thinkin’ he’d not find me. It’s been so long—”

“Can ya tell me which’n it was? I’ll cut the bastard’s heart out.”

“I knowed it was him when I saw the marks. It wasn’t no dream.”

Over Trisha’s head Buffer saw John, Addie, and the children coming toward them. He picked up his rifle and kept one arm about Trisha to urge her along the side of the wagon to the front of it.

“John and Addie comin’ back,” he whispered in her ear. “Stay with me. Please stay a while.” Buffer took her silence for consent and called out to John: “Trisha’s with me. We’re goin’ to walk a bit.”

“I hear you. Behave yourself.”

Buffer waited, afraid that Trisha would bolt. But she stayed within the circle of his arm and walked beside him to the next wagon in line.

“Will ya let me sit ya up on the seat?”

“I ain’t crippled. I can climb up.” She put her foot on a wheel spoke and pulled herself up onto the seat.

“I know ya ain’t. I was lookin’ fer a chance to lift ya.”

“What fer?” Trisha asked, and moved over to make room for him to sit beside her.

“Hell! I don’t know.” He placed the rifle in easy reach and propped his moccasined foot on the footboard.

“Mr. Tallman wears shoes like that.” Trisha bent over and wiped her eyes on the hem of her skirt. “Where’d ya get ’em?”

“From a Indian.”

“Ain’t ya ’fraid of ’em?”

“Some of ’em. There’s the good ’uns and the bad ’uns, jist like white folk. If we run into some Choctaws, I’ll get ya a pair.”

“Don’t do me no—”

“—Favors? I ain’t. Will ya do me one?”

“What?”

“Tell me ’bout what yo’re scared of. It ain’t no Renshaw, is it?” Buffer wanted to move closer to her, put his arm around her, but he didn’t dare. “Tell me ’bout where ya come from. Who yore folks are.”

“Why’d I do that? Ya ain’t told me where ya come from. Who yore folks are.”

“I will. I’ll tell ya even the parts I’m ’shamed of. Some of my kin is so dad-blamed low-down they’d not have to take off their hats to walk under a snake.”

Even in the dark, Buffer could see the distinct outline of her profile. She was so still. There was something in the tension-charged atmosphere when he was with this woman that compelled him to irritate her and act the fool. It was purely crazy, he thought. She threw his mind for a loop. He wanted to reach out and slide his fingers along her cheeks and into her hair.
Trisha, Trisha, sweet girl
. . .

*  24  *

^“
M
y granny was a quadroon, my mama a octoroon. My own daddy was white, but I don’t know what I is.” The words came out in a rush.

“I know what ya are. Yo’re a spunky slip of a girl what’s had a heap of trouble.”

She turned her great golden eyes on him, then looked up at the heavens and began speaking slower.

“Me and Mama had a pretty little house in Orleans. We even had a darkie to do for us. Mama had been brought up ladylike and Daddy doted on her. When he come, he brought us presents and said we was his special ladies. Mama played the spinet. Daddy’d set me on his lap and we’d sing. He was proud of her. Sometimes he walked her out to show her off ’cause she was the prettest thin’ in Orleans when she was dressed up.”

Trisha’s eyes were fastened on the cloudless, star-lit sky as she remembered.

“Daddy said he wedded that woman to get a heir ’cause niggers can’t own land. It hurt Mama, but she knowed how it was. He come ta see us more’n ever after that. Then Mama died.”

“How old were ya then?”

“Ten years. Daddy give her a big buryin’, then took me to Satinwood Plantation, but not to the big house. Old Amelia, Daddy’s wife, wouldn’t have me around. I stayed with Mammy Orkie in the quarters and worked in the kitchen. Miz Amelia hated me. She hated all of Daddy’s younguns cause Daddy treated us good and got a teacher to teach us to read. I called her the witch woman.