Mud Creek (7 page)

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“Would you call me James?” James asked Helen.

“I will—if you’ll call me Helen.”

“I’d be honored, but just when we’re alone like this. I’d hate to seem too forward to Albert.”

“He wouldn’t mind.”

“Believe me, he’d mind.” He nodded. “How are you faring? This trip can be rough.”

And Albert liked to slowly plod along rather than get where he was going.

“I’m tired and sunburned.”

“Have you been wearing your bonnet?”

“All the time, but my coloring is so fair. How does a woman protect her skin out here?”

She peered off across the prairie, to the western horizon and the summer twilight. Her nose and cheeks were red, her pretty blond hair down and pulled into a ponytail. The evening breeze whipped a few wayward strands over her face. She swiped them away and tucked them behind her ear.

When he caught himself staring, he yanked his gaze away.

“I have a salve that might help,” he said. “I’ll send it over once we’re home.”

“I would consider it a marvelous gift. I doubt I’ll ever grow accustomed to the harsher elements.”

He doubted she would, either, and he’d try to deliver the salve right away. He studied her profile. Her skin was so smooth, and the wind and weather would quickly have it dry and wrinkled. Most every female of his acquaintance was haggard and gaunt.

He wanted her to always be just as beautiful as she was at that moment. She appeared young and serene and composed, and her calm equanimity stirred emotions that he hadn’t felt in an eternity. She fueled his masculine instincts, making him wish he had a woman in his life again, and wasn’t that the craziest notion ever?

If he’d learned one thing in his thirty years, it was that city girls didn’t belong in the wilderness. It was a recipe for disaster, and at the thought that he might be a tad smitten, he bit down a grin.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.

“I was thinking about you—traveling all this way. You’re very brave.”

“Brave?” she scoffed. “Stupid, maybe. Impulsive. Reckless. Naïve. But brave? No.”

He chuckled. “You might surprise yourself.”

“I haven’t so far.” She stared out to where they could see Violet Pendleton’s silhouette against the darkening sky. She sighed. “It’s so big, isn’t it?”

“It definitely is.”

“And so empty.”

“Not really. It’s quite alive. After you’ve been here awhile, you’ll realize that it’s a vibrant place.”

“How long have you been out west?”

“Forever.”

“Forever?”

“My father was in the army. I was raised in the forts where he was stationed.”

“So you’re a genuine frontiersman.”

“I guess.”

“That explains it,” she mused.

“Explains what?”

“You’re so content in your surroundings.”

“I try to be. You can’t survive otherwise.”

They were quiet for a time, comfortable together, watching the night swallow Violet until she faded from view. He was nervous about her traipsing off, and he debated whether he should go after her, but he resisted the urge. He wasn’t her nanny, and it wasn’t his role to worry.

He was more aggravated over Albert’s lengthy absence and could barely stop himself from marching down to the creek and giving him a stern lecture.

It wasn’t safe to leave the women alone—even for a brief period. The Indians had been contained, so there were no marauding bands to swoop in and steal them away. But there were plenty of other hazards. Snakes or wild animals. Male travelers who were far from civilization and the restraints that law and order imposed.

James had been following them for four days, but Albert hadn’t noticed. There was no one else in the vicinity—James had made sure of it—but Albert never glanced beyond the tip of his nose. Anything could have happened, and James never ceased to be amazed at Albert’s lack of common sense.

He often tried to predict when the entire family would pack up and move to safer environs. Then again, Walt and Albert Jones were the two most stubborn individuals he’d ever met. They were too proud to admit that they were in over their heads. They’d likely keep on until they keeled over from the strain.

Footsteps sounded out in the shadows, approaching them, but James didn’t flinch. From the heavy strides, it had to be Albert.

As he stepped into the light from the dying fire, he saw James with Helen. He wasn’t quick enough to mask his disdain. He’d never liked James, but the feeling was mutual, so James could hardly complain.

“Blaylock,” Albert snapped, “what are you doing here? I told you that I didn’t need you tagging along after me.”

“I wasn’t,” James lied. “We take the same route. You know that.”

“Violet stumbled on him while she was walking.” Helen ignored Albert’s obvious displeasure. “He was camped nearby. She invited him over.”

“Where is Violet?” Albert asked.

“Still strolling in the grass,” Helen said.

“The crazy girl will get herself killed,” Albert grumbled.

James couldn’t argue the fact, so he had no comment.

“Mr. Blaylock has a salve for my poor, burned face,” Helen mentioned, struggling for amiability in an encounter that was patently disagreeable. “It will protect my skin from the sun and the wind.”

Helen had intended the remark as cordial conversation, so she wasn’t prepared for Albert’s hostility toward James.

“Your Indian woman’s hocus-pocus medicine isn’t welcome at our place. Don’t be offering it to Helen.”

“Albert, what is wrong with you?” Helen chided. “He was being neighborly.”

“He’s butting in where he doesn’t belong,” Albert retorted.

James sighed, wondering why he bothered with the man.

Albert was surly and obnoxious and ungrateful, but they lived in a tough world. There was no point in harboring ill feelings. Why be rude? Why be churlish?

Albert was holding a towel and a bar of soap. He whipped away and went over to the wagon to stuff them under the seat.

When he spun around, James was standing.

“I’d best be going,” James said.

“So soon?” Helen’s voice quavered, and it was clear she would lament his departure.

“I’m riding out early in the morning, so I better bunk down.”

She would have pushed herself to her feet to give him a proper goodbye, but he waved her down. He could sense her fatigue.

“No need to get up,” he insisted. He made a slight bow to her, when he’d actually like to squeeze her hand as he had when he’d arrived.

“It was marvelous to see you again,” she told him.

“I appreciate the hospitality,” he responded, and he left.

He should have continued on to his campsite, but once he was hidden by the darkness, he paused, stupidly curious as to how they carried on.

There was an awkward silence, then Helen said, “He seems friendly.”

“He’s a braggart and a blowhard,” Albert fumed.

“Well, I found him to be very pleasant.”

“He’s not, and I won’t listen to you extolling his virtues.”

Helen sucked in a shocked breath. “Honestly, Albert, you’re being ridiculous.”

They might have quarreled, but Violet took that moment to return.

“Where have you been?” Albert demanded.

“Walking. Where do you think?”

“It’s time for bed,” he advised. “Don’t let me catch you wandering off again.”

“Or what?” Violet taunted. “Will you spank me?”

“You might be surprised by how I’ll react.”

“You’re not my father, Albert. Don’t boss me around.”

“Stop it,” Helen intervened, “both of you. You’re bickering like a pair of children.”

“He started it,” Violet protested like the spoiled child Helen had just accused her of being.

Albert looked as if he might explode, as if he might give Violet the thrashing she was practically begging to receive, but he reined in his infamous temper.

“Helen, I’m all in,” he said. “Tamp down the fire like I showed you.”

“I will.”

“I want to be home tomorrow night, so we’re heading out before dawn. Get to sleep.”

“We will. Right away.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Helen replied, but Violet remained mutinously silent.

Albert crawled off to his bedroll, and the two sisters glared, an unspoken fight flitting between them.

“Oh, Helen,” James whispered. “What have you done to yourself? How will you ever survive?”

He turned and slipped away.

“This is it,” Albert proudly said.

At the same time, Violet scathingly said, “This is it?”

Helen kept her face carefully blank as she scanned the decrepit, ramshackle farm and surrounding flat prairie.

There were rolling hills in the distance, the creek visible off to the east, so plenty of dips and valleys could have provided protection from the constant wind. But Walt had selected a plot next to the road. The land was completely exposed, with no natural barriers.

A couple of mangy dogs barked at them as Albert urged the horses through the gate, and they bounced down the rutted track to the house. It was small, with a door and two windows on the front, a narrower window up above. The wood hadn’t been painted, so even though the structure was only three years old, it was weathered and gray. It leaned slightly, as if the wind had been beating against it to protest its presence.

The yard was scuffed dirt, with tufts of scattered weeds and wild grass. There were no flowerbeds, no trimmed bushes or budding trees.

With the horses’ harness rattling and the wagon wheels creaking, their approach generated a ton of noise, but no one rushed out to greet them. She’d thought the entire family would be eagerly awaiting their arrival, but the spot was eerily quiet.

Out beyond the house, the grass was taller and thicker, and she observed an outhouse and several other dilapidated sheds poking up from it. A pile of lumber was stacked in the pasture for a barn they were building after the Fourth of July. All the neighbors were coming to help.

The lumber was the sole sign of optimistic endeavor. Every other aspect was bleak and dismal.

“See out there?” Albert pointed to a shed out by the creek.

“Yes.”

“That’s our place.”

He was beaming with pride, and Helen forced a smile. She was too far away to get a true notion of what the cottage was really like, but it couldn’t possibly be the cozy abode he’d described in his letters.

“It looks lovely,” she lied, positive it would be horrid.

“Let’s say hello to Ma, then we’ll go over and unload your things.”

“Yes, let’s say hello to Florence,” Helen agreed.

They climbed down, with Violet jumping out first. Thankfully, she was silent, the vastness and isolation rendering her mute.

Albert went to the front door and fussed with it. It wasn’t locked, but the frame was crooked, so it was jammed. He had to heave and strain to shove it open. Finally, it swung wide, and he walked in calling, “Ma, Ma, where are you? I’m home. Helen and Violet are with me.”

Helen entered behind him, while Violet loitered outside, gaping at the bumpy road that had delivered them to the ranch. She appeared as if she might race to it and head back the way they’d come.

The house was dark and cold, the windows not letting in much light. There was a stove in the corner, but it was a June afternoon. Helen was certain they wouldn’t waste firewood. How much would the temperature have to plummet before a fire was allowed?

The main floor consisted of exactly two rooms: a parlor area and the kitchen at the rear. There was a flight of stairs off to her left that had to lead up to bedrooms.

The front room offered more unpainted, weathered wood and a low ceiling that made the space seem much too tiny. It was jammed with their furniture from Maywood. In the rundown setting, the sofa, hutch, and other items seemed absurd, the doilies and lace curtains pilfered from some other house, in some other world, and dropped into
this
house by mistake.

“Ma,” he called again, and he proceeded to the kitchen.

Helen followed.

Florence was seated at the table, blindly staring out the window.

She’d never been particularly handsome or robust, but the changes wrought in three years were shocking. She was short and had been pleasingly plump, but now, she was rail thin, her face lined with fatigue. Her gray hair was lifeless, her gray eyes the same.

“Ma,” Albert snapped with exasperation, “we’re home.”

His sharp tone yanked Florence to her senses. She blinked once, then her vision cleared, as if she was waking up from a deep sleep.

“Albert?” She was very confused. “What is it?”

“I’ve brought Helen and Violet,” he repeated. “I went to Prairie City to fetch them in the wagon. Remember?”

“Oh…yes. Of course, I remember.” She pushed herself to her feet, hands extended in welcome. “Helen, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad, too, Florence.”

Florence smiled, but her look was vacant, as if she wasn’t sure who Helen was. Florence was forty-five, so she wasn’t growing senile. What could be ailing her?

“How was your trip?” Florence inquired.

“Fine. Long.”

Helen laughed, but Florence didn’t laugh in return.

“Where is Pa?” Albert asked. “Where are Carl and Robert?”

Carl and Robert were Albert’s younger brothers, age ten and twelve.

“They’re out…with the cattle?”

“Well, I know that. I meant
where
with the cattle.”

“I have no idea. They’ll be in for supper.”

“Yes, they will, now listen,” Albert said, but Florence had stopped paying attention. She was peering out the window again.

Helen peeked out, too, trying to see what was holding her so rapt, but there were only the rolling plains, with some white buttes shimmering on the horizon.

“I’m taking Helen and Violet out to my house,” Albert told his mother, “to unload their things.”

“All right,” Florence mumbled.

“You have to get started on your chores. You have to have supper ready on time, or Pa will be angry. He wants food on the table at eight.”

Florence frowned. “He certainly does.”

“Don’t be daydreaming. We’ll be back in an hour or so to help, but you need to begin on your own.”