Mud Creek (17 page)

She was always curious, too. The white settlers who’d stolen her peoples’ lands, who struggled to thrive and who were so bad at it, were an unceasing source of consternation and wonder to her. She’d want to witness this latest debacle for herself.

She nodded, answering
yes
to his question. She would accompany him.

James urged his horse into a trot, Mary and Carl following after him. Before too long, the Jones’s dilapidated property came into view. It was a bleak spot, built right out in the open, with no trees or other barriers to provide protection from the wind.

James had counseled Walt against the location, had pointed out all the reasons he should have moved down toward the river, where the hillside offered some shelter, but what did James know?

They turned onto the track that led to the house and skirted around to the rear. As they dismounted, he sent Carl off to tend the horses. Until they were certain of what they faced, he’d keep the boy away. If his mother had died, James needed some time to figure out how to inform him.

James shared an exasperated visual exchange with Mary, then Mary grabbed her bag, the one she took everywhere. It contained medicines and doctoring supplies, so if Florence was still alive, Mary would be able to help her.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He reached for the door, and they stepped into the kitchen.

The scene was much as he’d imagined it would be. Florence was sitting in a chair at the table, Robert and Helen kneeling beside her.

“Walt?” Helen glanced up, expecting her father-in-law. “I’m so glad you’re—“

When she realized it was James instead, she gave such a shudder of relief that he was afraid she might collapse.

He walked over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I’m here,” he told her. “We ran into Carl out on the road.”

“Are Walt and Albert with you?”

“No. We were in Mud Creek, but we didn’t see them, so we thought we’d better stop by.”

“Thank you.”

Florence was very pale, and her eyes were closed, but her chest was rising and falling, so she hadn’t passed on. Helen and Robert had staunched much of the bleeding, but the worst wounds still oozed through the towels they’d applied.

“What should we do?” he asked Mary.

She didn’t like to talk around white people. She gestured to the front room, indicating that James should carry Florence in there.

He turned to Helen. “Would you make sure the sofa is cleared? I’ll lay her down on it.”

Helen was nervous at the notion of Mary intervening.

“Can Mary tend her?”

“Absolutely. And I’ll assist her. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Helen scooted into the other room, as James lifted Florence into his arms. She was light as a bird, no mass remaining, as if the blood had leached out every ounce of substance she’d previously possessed.

At his picking her up, she grimaced and stirred, but didn’t awaken. He went to the sofa and gently deposited her on it. Helen covered her with a blanket as Mary opened her bag and arranged her supplies on a nearby table.

Helen and Robert hovered, appearing stricken. He knew they’d be best served by having tasks to accomplish. He sent Robert to locate some linens, to tear them into bandages, and he had Helen start cooking supper.

Once they were occupied, he and Mary focused on Florence. They doused her with a dropper of morphine, then they washed and stitched and dressed the injuries. It was over an hour before Mary declared their job completed.

She packed her bag, then headed for the front door. James didn’t try to stop her.

They both understood that it would be easier if she was gone when Walt and Albert arrived. They wouldn’t like to find her on the premises—even if she had just doctored Florence so carefully.

“Helen should change her out of her ruined clothes,” Mary advised.

“I’ll tell her.”

The bottle of morphine was on the table, and she pointed to it.

“Florence will wake in the night. She’ll be in pain.”

“I imagine she will be.”

“Helen can give her some more. Show her how.”

“I will.”

“I’ll see you at home.”

“I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

With that, Mary slipped out, vanishing silently, as if she’d never been there.

Robert and Carl were outside, busy with the evening chores. The sun had set, and still, there was no sign of Albert or Walt. James hoped no misadventure had befallen them. If he had to rescue them, too, he couldn’t bear it. Not after all this.

“How is she?” Helen asked, turning from the stove as he entered the kitchen.

“Sleeping. We gave her some morphine, so she’ll be out for awhile.”

She sagged against the counter, rubbing her temples, as if her head was throbbing.

“I shudder to think what we’d have done if you hadn’t been riding by.” She smiled, but sadly. “You always seem to know when I need you.”

“Helen, Helen,” he murmured. “I have no idea what to say.”

Suddenly, he was terribly weary, and he eased himself down into a chair.

“Supper’s almost ready,” she said. “You’ll stay, won’t you? Mary, too?”

“She left.”

“Left! I didn’t have a chance to thank her.”

“She had chores at home,” he lied, “and I have to be going.” The prospect panicked her, and he hastily added, “But I’ll wait till Walt gets back. I won’t leave you here alone.”

“You are a saint.”

She had sliced some bread, and she buttered a few pieces, put them on a plate, and slid them toward him.

He took a bite and grinned. “It’s good. I guess you really have learned to cook.”

“Told you. I’m not totally incompetent.”

She pulled out a chair and sat, too, so they were facing each other, their knees touching.

“Did she say what provoked her?” he asked, meaning Florence.

“Just that the wind was blowing.”

“It’s driven more than one woman crazy.”

“Oh, James, why would she act that way?” A shiver racked her body. “The boys found her when they came in from school. Why would she let them see her like that?”

“She’s not in her right mind, Helen. She hasn’t been for some time.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re correct.”

They were quiet, miserable, exhausted.

Finally, Helen said, “What will happen now? What will become of all of us?”

“I’m very worried about you.”

“And after this…”

She shivered again.

“How is Violet?” he inquired.

“Wild. Cruel. I think she’s having some sort of…relationship with Walt.”

“Your sister and Walt?” He was very shocked.

“Or maybe it’s my imagination. Everything is so mixed up.”

“It definitely is.”

“I’m so unhappy!” She started to cry. “How can I go on? It was awful enough before. How will we cope after this?”

He couldn’t stand her tears, her woe.

Without giving himself an opportunity to reconsider, he drew her onto his lap. It was wrong and stupid and completely reckless, but he couldn’t stop himself.

He nestled her to his chest, stroking a soothing hand up and down her back.

They didn’t speak, and he wondered what thoughts plagued her. His own mind was awhirl with choices he couldn’t make.

Earlier in the summer, she’d bravely dangled the possibility of her marrying him instead of Albert, but he’d been too timid to agree. He hadn’t wanted to cuckold Albert, hadn’t wanted to stir a controversy, but since then, positions had shifted.

After Violet’s shenanigans at the barn raising, the members of the Jones’s family were pariahs. Who would care if James trotted off with Helen? Who would condemn him? People liked Helen very much, and he figured most of them would congratulate him for rescuing her from the insane brood.

Should he? Did he dare? What were the benefits? What were the ramifications? What would Mary say if he brought Helen with him? His home was Mary’s home, too. How would she like it if—without seeking her opinion—he inserted a white woman into their midst?

And no matter what he decided about Helen, there was still the problem of her sister. He would never—absolutely
never—
welcome Violet into his life. The prospect was unthinkable, and Helen was very loyal. She wouldn’t abandon her sister.

Had anything actually changed since the Fourth of July? If he urged Helen to flee, to live in sin with him a few miles away, would she be delighted or offended?

Wives didn’t run off and leave their husbands. Despite how badly a husband behaved, it simply wasn’t tolerated or allowed. It was such a huge, extreme step. Could she take it?

Before he could speak up, his chance was lost.

Horses came into the yard, and it had to be Walt and Albert. No one would be visiting at such a late hour.

She leapt to her feet and moved to the counter, and as the two men entered the kitchen, she was dabbing her face with a towel, swiping the tears from her cheeks.

“Blaylock,” Walt said, but Albert offered no greeting.

“Walt.” James nodded his hello. “You had a spot of trouble this afternoon. I bumped into Carl out on the road, and he asked for my help.”

“What happened?”

“Florence had an…episode.”

“An episode?” Walt frowned. “What does that mean? Is she all right?”

“She was here alone,” Helen explained. “I was down at my house, washing the laundry, and she…she.…”

Helen was distraught and couldn’t describe the incident, so James jumped in. “She got hold of your razor, Walt, and cut herself all over.”

“Cut herself!”

“Carl and Robert stumbled on her after school.”

Walt froze, processing the news. “Is she alive?”

“Yes, she’s alive. She’s in on the sofa, but she’s in a sorry state.”

Walt went into the front room, while Albert huddled in the doorway, mute, angry, glaring at Helen, at James.

“I’ll be goddamned,” Walt muttered. Momentarily, he returned.

“You stitched her up?”

“Yes.” James left Mary out of the story. “I doused her with some morphine, so hopefully, she’ll sleep until morning. I’ll leave the bottle for when she wakes.”

Walt scowled at Helen, “Did she give you a reason?”

“She was upset by the wind.”

“The wind?”

“Yes.”

Looking rattled and bewildered, Walt peered over at James.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“I couldn’t tell you, Walt,” James kindly replied. “I really have no idea.”

“She needs an extended rest,” Helen suggested, “and some peace and quiet. I can take over her chores, so she has time to heal.”

“She’s crazy as a loon,” Walt grumbled. “Always has been, always will be. Taking over her chores won’t help.”

He stomped outside.

Albert didn’t follow him, but rudely stared at James, indicating that he should depart, and James was happy to oblige.

After the assistance he’d provided to Florence, he thought someone should be patting him on the back, that someone should be thanking him or showing a hint of appreciation. But gratitude was the last thing he’d ever receive from Albert.

James stood and gazed at Helen.

“I’d best be going,” he said.

“Are you sure you won’t stay for supper?”

“I can’t.”

He grabbed his hat and coat, jammed his arms in the sleeves. Helen was weary and frightened, and he was at a loss over what he should do for her.

What
could
he do? If she snuck over to his place and begged to remain with him, he’d agree in an instant. Yet they were in her father-in-law’s house, her husband watching them like a hawk. They seemed to have no options.

“If you need me,” he told her, “send one of the boys. I’ll come right away.”

“We won’t need you,” Albert answered. “We can take care of ourselves.”

“Can you now?” James insolently scoffed.

He walked to the door, but Albert was blocking the threshold. They had a petty, pointless confrontation, but Albert was a coward who couldn’t stand his ground. Grudgingly, he moved out of the way.

James exited into the lonely, dark night, saddled his horse, and rode for home.

“I’m making some changes.”

“What kind of changes?”

Helen stared up at Walt.

She was on the sofa in the front room, with Violet sitting next to her. Albert was seated in the chair across. Walt was pacing.

Carl and Robert weren’t present. Despite the tragedy the previous day, they’d been sent to school. Both boys had protested, had begged to remain at home with Florence, but Walt had refused. So off they went.

Helen didn’t know how the tense night had passed for Walt and Florence.

After she’d served supper and cleaned the mess, she’d been too exhausted to nurse Florence. She’d walked out to the cottage and fallen into bed.

In the morning, when she’d arrived to cook breakfast, Walt was already up, drinking coffee in the kitchen. Florence had been moved off the sofa and was up in their bedroom—though whether Walt had carried her or she’d climbed the stairs on her own was anybody’s guess.

She’d wanted to check on Florence, but Walt’s curt command had stopped her.

“Leave her be.”

“She has to be starving,” Helen had countered. “I don’t mind taking her a tray of food.”

“Leave her!” he’d snapped, so Helen had dropped the subject, but she was terribly worried about the older woman.

She wished Walt would put on his coat and set off to work. The minute he left, she was taking Florence some breakfast, and she didn’t care what Walt thought.

“I’ve been pondering our dilemma,” Walt said.

Albert and Violet gaped at him like a pair of statues—as if Florence’s situation had no bearing on them—so Helen had to engage in the conversation with Walt.

“What have you decided?” she asked.

“She’s gone off the deep end.”

“Not necessarily. She’s had spells in the past, but she’s improved after them.”

Walt shook his head. “I don’t see it happening this time.”

“It could. She could get better.”

Florence desperately needed a champion, and apparently, Helen was the only one willing to serve in the role.

“No,” Walt insisted, “she won’t get better, and we can’t keep her here.”