Mud Creek (13 page)

She was finally becoming proficient at a necessary skill—cooking—and the realization gave her immense satisfaction.

Florence was a mess, distracted and unhappy and downright crazy on occasion, but she was a talented cook, herself. She’d been extremely patient in teaching the important duty to Helen.

Helen spent most of her time with Florence, and her growing ability had helped to hide many of Florence’s problems, so the entire household was more calm. Carl and Robert were less worried about their mother. Walt was less of a grouch, Albert less of a pest.

Walt toiled very hard, and his main request—that a hot meal be waiting when he was ready to eat—was a constant source of friction between him and Florence. Helen was glad that she’d provided all of them with some relief.

Summer was quickly passing. There was an almost frantic need to get tasks accomplished so they would have a full cellar of supplies to see them through the winter.

The first year the Jones family had come west, they’d wrongly calculated how much food they would need. Though they didn’t admit it aloud, Helen had gleaned from stories that James Blaylock had saved them by delivering staples when they’d been down to the bone.

The experience had rattled them, had made them more cautious in all their decisions.

The huge garden was ripening, so they were beginning to harvest tomatoes and other vegetables. She was gradually adding them to their diet. Florence had planted the garden before Helen arrived, and a good portion of their labor involved weeding and watering. The effort was backbreaking, but it gave Helen an excuse to be out in the fresh air rather than stuck in her dreary cottage.

The maturing garden created other issues and responsibilities. They would soon start canning, which was a grueling process. In Helen’s previous life, the taxing job had been performed by servants. She wasn’t looking forward to the chore and was lucky that Florence was present to advise her. If Helen had been left to her own devices, they’d all starve by January.

The barn raising was approaching, too. The neighbors would ride in for two hectic days of construction. It was a grand social event, so the men would bring their families, and Helen was excited to see people she’d met in Mud Creek on the Fourth.

But the gathering generated extra work, too. She and Florence had been setting aside provisions, baking pies, cleaning the house from top to bottom.

Helen glanced down at her dress, shaking her head over how much weight she’d lost. Her skin was bronzed from the sun and the wind. In a few short months, she’d changed completely from the pampered, spoiled girl she’d been in New York.

“Do you think they’re cold?” Florence suddenly said.

“Cold? Who?”

“My dead boys. Out there in the ground, do you think they’re cold?”

The eerie comment made the hair stand up on the back of Helen’s neck. She walked over to Florence and rubbed a comforting hand across her shoulder.

“Florence,” she soothed, “they’re not cold. Why would you fret over such a thing?”

“I worry about Arthur. He was my favorite. Did I ever tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t.”

Florence pulled her gaze from the cemetery and peered up at Helen.

“When he was a baby, he was always afraid of the dark. He wouldn’t like being trapped out there.”

“Oh, Florence,” Helen murmured. “He’s not cold, and he’s not afraid of the dark anymore. Stop torturing yourself.”

“I’m not
torturing
myself. I just wonder.” She dragged her focus out to the horizon again. “So many babies…”

Helen didn’t know how to respond. Much of the time, Florence seemed fine, but other times, the ranch appeared to be a perpetual torment for her. Helen couldn’t chase away Florence’s demons. She could only show up to assist with the cooking and cleaning.

Nearly faint from the heat, she went to the door, stepping outside to let the breeze cool her.

Albert and his brothers were out with the cattle, but Walt had returned without her being aware. He was over by a shed, talking to Violet.

They were pressed close, as if sharing secrets, and though Helen didn’t want to believe it, Violet was grinning up at him in a flirtatious way. She said something that Helen couldn’t hear—she was too far away—and thrust out her hip.

The stance made Walt laugh, and Helen was stunned by the sound. In all her years of acquaintance with Walt, she couldn’t remember him ever laughing.

Levity altered him. He looked sort of handsome, younger, happy.

Violet sauntered away, and he climbed onto his horse, the reins in his hand. He should have ridden off to join the boys, but he didn’t. He sat for a long minute, watching Violet. He was facing away from Helen, so she couldn’t see his expression, but she was sure it displayed emotions that had no business being there.

A headache throbbed behind her eyes, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose, struggling to understand what she’d just witnessed.

Violet detested Walt, and he had no patience with her, either. He was often critical, chiding her for her refusal to chip in, her refusal to do as she was told. He’d warn her that he was about to put her on a train to New York, as if the trip—that
he
would pay for—was a threat that could scare her into behaving.

In reply, she’d quip, “Yes, please, send me to New York. On the next train.”

And her flip retort would end their quarrel.

When had they gotten friendlier?
Why
would they have gotten friendlier? How could it have happened?

There was no privacy for anyone. They all ate together. They slept together. While Violet had plenty of free time, Walt certainly didn’t. He worked from dawn to dusk, then he fell into bed in an exhausted stupor.

That was the sum total of his entire life. Where could Violet possibly have a place in that arduous routine?

Helen sighed with dismay. They’d been at the ranch for almost three months, and she was just beginning to feel as if her feet were on the ground. She couldn’t have Violet causing trouble, and she was convinced her sister was contemplating mischief.

She turned to come inside, and as she did, Florence was staring out the door. Her angle had given her the exact same view of Walt that Helen had had. She was fixated on the spot where Walt and Violet had been.

“Will he allow me to be buried with my boys?” she inquired.

Helen blanched with shock, then forced a smile. “Florence, you are being absolutely maudlin.”

“When I’m dead, I want to lie beside my boys!” The announcement was hurled with more vehemence than she’d exhibited in ages. “Tell him! After he kills me, tell him that’s my last wish.”

“Florence,” Helen huffed, “Walt is not going to kill you, and your health is perfectly fine. You’re not about to be murdered, and you’re not dying.”

“I’d simply like someone to know it’s my last wish. Is that too much to ask? Promise you won’t forget.”

Helen was exasperated and could barely keep from shouting at the poor woman. But Florence was so clearly out of her mind. It was pointless to yell at her.

“Why are you acting like this?” Helen scolded. “It makes me afraid for you. It truly does.”

She grabbed a bowl of beans from the counter and set them on the table in front of Florence.

“Snap those for me.” She hoped the chore would distract Florence from her woes.

“Why bother? He’ll never be satisfied, no matter how hard I try.”

“Let’s get a jump on supper,” Helen urged. “Let’s start early.”

She’d been astute in giving Florence a task. In a quick minute, Florence’s fingers were flying, and they were talking about the weather. A few minutes after that, Florence was actually lucid, coherent enough that they could review the preparations for the barn raising.

Helen passed the next hours, grateful for small favors.

*    *    *    *

“Help me…”

Helen had just reached for the latch on her door when she heard the murmured plea. It had wafted by like a breath of wind, and she wasn’t positive it had really been uttered.

The prospect—that she’d imagined it—frightened her. She spent an enormous amount of time with Florence, so she was acutely aware of how isolation could peck away at a woman’s sanity. Yet the appeal drifted by again.

“Oh…help me…”

It sounded like Violet, as if she was moaning in agony.

Helen shoved the door open and hurried in. Violet was over on Helen’s bed, curled up in a ball.

Helen rushed over.

“Violet, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Helen?” She slumped with relief. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

“What is it?” Helen asked again. “Are you hurt? Are you sick?”

“Albert isn’t with you, is he?”

“No. He’s still out working on the fence.”

Violet groaned and clutched her abdomen. A wave of pain rocked her.

“Violet! Tell me what’s wrong. Right now!”

“I can’t tell you, Helen. I can’t say it out loud.”

“Nonsense. Of course, you can tell me. Why couldn’t you?”

Helen started searching for some sign that would indicate the problem, running her hands over Violet’s arms and legs. There was a large spot of blood on her skirt.

“Is it your monthlies?” Helen inquired. “Is that it?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“It’s…something else. Something worse.”

Helen’s mind raced. What could be
worse
than her monthlies?

“If you don’t tell me—this instant—I’ll go get Albert.”

“No, no you can’t do that.”

Violet clasped Helen’s wrist, but Helen pried her fingers away.

“I’m not in the mood for any of your theatrics.”

“I’m ill, Helen.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m…more than ill.”

“With what ailment?”

“I don’t want to say. You’ll hate me.” Violet began to weep, huge tears cascading down her cheeks.

“You’re my sister. I couldn’t hate you.”

“You will! You’ll hate me.”

“Violet! Why must there be so much drama with you?”

“You won’t love me anymore,” she keened, goading Helen to her limit.

Helen had been up since dawn, cooking, cleaning, mending, hoeing, caring for Florence. She’d only stopped by the cottage to change her dress.

She was filthy and sweat-stained, and it was the sole quiet moment of the day where she could be alone and relax. Shortly, she’d have to return to Florence’s to put supper on the table, then tidy up when they were through.

After dark, with the chores finally completed, she’d stagger home and climb into bed to wait for Albert. They’d waste a fruitless hour, as he fought to perform the deed he insisted they attempt every night. But many times, he couldn’t do it. She didn’t know why and was clueless as to how they could fix the humiliating situation.

He blamed her. He scolded her. He refused to speak to her the next morning.

It was all too much.

And now Violet was lying on Helen’s bed, wailing and begging to be mollycoddled, but Helen simply didn’t have an extra ounce of compassion to share. She was spent. She was exhausted. She was aggrieved with her life and her world, and there was no one to commiserate, no one to listen and empathize.

“Get up!” she hissed.

She pulled her sister to a sitting position, which brought on another stomach spasm. Helen was fumbling around, trying to balance Violet, when she realized her sister had a towel stuffed between her legs. Helen pushed Violet onto the mattress and withdrew the towel.

It came away with a rush of blood.

“Violet!” she shrieked, unable to contain her panic. “You’re injured! Have you harmed yourself? What have you done?”

It had always been a fear of Helen’s that Violet might harm herself. When Violet was in a low mood, she could be so morose. Any dangerous conduct was possible.

Yet lately, she’d been in a high mood, had been lively and active and full of unrestrained vigor. There’d been no reason to worry about her.

“Swear you won’t hate me.” Violet grabbed Helen’s hand and squeezed tight.

“I won’t! I swear.”

“I think I might be…having a miscarriage.”

“A miscarriage? What are you saying?”

“I might have been pregnant,” Violet confessed, “and I’m losing the baby.” She buried her face in the pillow and muttered, “Thank God.”

Helen was alarmed. “Who did this to you? Who was it? Was it Walt?”

“Gad, no.” Violet retched as if she might vomit.

“Who then! Who was it?”

“Get me another towel, Helen. For the blood. Please.”

The stain was spreading on Violet’s skirt, and Helen ran to a trunk where she stored what linens she still possessed. She yanked out a towel, folded it, and stuck it between Violet’s thighs.

She dropped onto the edge of the mattress, feeling more incompetent than she’d ever been.

A new tremor wracked Violet, and she moaned with distress.

“I don’t know what to do.” Helen was crying now, too. “I have no idea how to help you.”

“You can’t
help
me. I just have to ride it out.”

“What if it grows worse? What if the bleeding increases? We should hitch the wagon and take you to town. There must be a doctor somewhere who could—“

“Stop it!” Violet snapped, cutting Helen off. “It’ll pass in a few hours. We have to wait.”

“A few hours? Oh, my Lord…”

Helen stared out her open door. Off in the distance, she could see Florence’s house. Walt and the boys were about to return, expecting to be fed, yet she couldn’t abandon Violet when she was in such a dire state. Nor could she allow Albert to witness Violet’s condition. He’d never understand, and Helen couldn’t imagine how he’d react if he learned the truth.

“I have to speak with Florence,” Helen told Violet.

“What? No. You can’t leave me here by myself.”

“I don’t want Albert to show up, wondering what’s wrong. I’ll tell Florence you’re sick, and he should sleep at their place tonight or he might catch what ails you and he wouldn’t be able to work tomorrow.”

“All right,” Violet whimpered. “But promise you’ll come back.”

“I promise.” Helen rose, but her legs were so rubbery they could barely support her. “Try to rest.”

“I will.”