Opal (3 page)
Father God, how do I deal with this? What do I say to him?
Jacob closed his eyes and swallowed, wishing for the ax and the wood. Instead of rising, he leaned forward and took Mr. Dumfarthing’s bony hand in his. ‘‘Mr. Dumfarthing, could we pray together?’’
The old man reared up from his pillow, eyes wide. ‘‘I can’t pray like that . . . together out loud. I can’t.’’ He fell back. ‘‘Not for forgiveness. Not anymore.’’
‘‘Then God help us, because I can’t either.’’ Jacob’s throat felt as if it might shatter from the glass lodged within it, that his heart would leap out of his chest.
Father, what have I done? This is not what
I was taught in seminary
.
Forgive, forgive, forgive
.
The old man settled back into his pillows and swallowed himself back to normal. ‘‘You mean you want to pray for me? Say all those proper words that don’t mean a hill of corn?’’ He sighed. ‘‘I been prayed for by older and wiser men than you, son, and it never did no good.’’
‘‘No, sir. No proper words and pretty phrases. I’m asking you to pray for my struggle with this, and I’ll pray for yours. I’ve written a sermon that is just so much pap, and I feel that God has me by the scruff of my neck. I’d rather go anywhere than to church in the morning.’’
If Jacob could have forced his shaking knees to work right, he’d have fled the room and the house and most likely the town. Whatever had possessed him to talk like that? Hands clasped, elbows on his knees, he let his head hang.
Thou, O Lord, art the
lifter of my head, my sword, buckler, and shield. I have to trust that this
is all of thee
.
The silence no longer hung oppressing but as if waiting, listening, like a beloved mother.
Words stuck in his throat. He, who should be able to pray in any circumstances, couldn’t say a word. His eyes burned, and his nose dripped on his thumb.
‘‘Lord God, help us. Amen.’’ Mr. Dumfarthing’s voice crackled and cracked.
Even the curtains sighed in relief.
Jacob dug his handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. ‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘You’ll come again soon?’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’ He clasped Mr. Dumfarthing’s hand in both of his and shook it with all the gentleness of a mother’s touch. ‘‘Tomorrow, after church.’’
‘‘Good. I want a report on that service.’’
By the time he got home Jacob felt as though he’d been run over by a fully loaded dray wagon with six up.
‘‘Sweet mercy, I sure hope we didn’t kill him.’’
‘‘Still could.’’ Atticus nudged the man’s shoulder with his boot toe.
Opal bent down to see for certain that the man’s chest was still rising and falling. The brushy mustache triggered a memory. Back those years before, on the train west, she’d leaned a bit close, checking to see if a mustached man was indeed breathing, and all sorts of a ruckus broke loose. She hadn’t even touched that man on the train, but now her icy hand clenched the branch she’d clouted this drifter with, keeping the weapon close beside her, just in case.
Atticus rubbed the side of his head. ‘‘You came mighty close to killin’ me too.’’
‘‘Not funny. Besides, he’s not dead. He’s still breathing.’’ She stood and glanced to see if her friend had blood on the side of his head. None. ‘‘Anyway, I missed you by a mile.’’ She stopped at the look in his eyes, after his gaze had traveled down and then up again. Red flamed his cheeks.
She glanced down at herself and clenched her eyes and teeth. Heat traveled up her body so fast she thought she could hear the steam from her wet garments whistle.
Atticus turned his back. ‘‘Ah, you better get some clothes on.’’ His voice strangled on the simple words.
‘‘Oh, for . . .’’ Opal huffed a sound of disgust. ‘‘You keep an eye on him, then. I’m sure he’s not going to be too gracious when he wakes up.’’
‘‘Opal.’’ The misery in his voice calmed her now-racing heart.
‘‘Don’t worry, Atticus. Rand isn’t going to come after you with the shotgun and force you to marry me for this compromising situation we are in.’’ While she talked to calm him down, she fought the sleeves of a light blue shirt into place and, after buttoning it, pulled on her divided skirt of navy twill. Her wet drawers immediately soaked through her clothing, something else she ignored as she sat down on a log to pull on her boots. ‘‘I’ll just explain what happened and—’’ ‘‘Opal.’’
‘‘And tell him it’s all my fault.’’ She glanced over to see his neck beaming red like he’d been in the sun for hours or scrubbed his skin with raspberry juice. ‘‘And you came to my rescue like a gallant knight in shining armor.’’ She finished with a flourish. ‘‘You can look now. I’m decent again.’’
‘‘Opal!’’
‘‘Sorry.’’ Sometimes she just couldn’t resist teasing him. He fell for anything. She finger-combed her mud-riddled blond hair back and dug a plaid ribbon out of her pocket before braiding the still-soaking mass and tying it off. She flipped the braid over her shoulder, catching a eye. ‘‘Atticus, watch out!’’
The man on the ground snagged an arm around Atticus’s knees and, with a twist of his shoulders, sent the younger man toppling.
Opal grabbed her holster and gun belt off the tree limb where she’d hung it for safekeeping, jerked out her pistol, and with the ease of long hours of practice, fired a round that splintered a rock by the man’s side. Shards of stone sliced both his face and shirt.
‘‘You done kilt me!’’ His yelp could probably be heard clear to Medora. Clapping a hand on his upper arm, he bellowed, ‘‘You shot me. I’m bleedin’.’’
‘‘If I’d have shot you, you wouldn’t be screaming like that. Get up!’’
Atticus picked himself up out of the water and slapped his hat on his thigh. ‘‘Low-down . . . Why didn’t you just shoot him?’’ He hauled the drifter up by one arm. ‘‘Hand me that rope off your saddle.’’
Opal kept her gun in one hand and retrieved the rope with the other. ‘‘If you move, I’ll be glad to shoot you in the knee, so make your choice.’’
‘‘I’m bleedin’ bad.’’
‘‘No you ain’t. Little rock cuts never hurt nobody.’’ Atticus dropped the loop over the man’s shoulders and cinched it around his upper arms, then flipped a couple more loops and tied it off. ‘‘You want to take him into town, or should I?’’
‘‘What good will that do?’’ Opal holstered her gun, grateful that Rand had had his way over her carrying a firearm. Ruby’d had three fits from west over that decision.
‘‘What do you want to do with him?’’
‘‘Let him swing from that tree branch over there.’’
‘‘I din’t hurt nobody. You can’t hang me!’’
‘‘Says who?’’ Opal arched an eyebrow and turned to gaze at the tree limb. ‘‘It’s just about the right height.’’
He thinks I mean to
hang him by the neck
. She kept back a chuckle with difficulty.
Atticus gave the roped man a shove. ‘‘Get on over there.’’
‘‘Sure hate to waste a good rope on him. Maybe we better just shoot him and send the body down the river.’’
Atticus appeared to stop and ponder before shaking his head.
‘‘Nah, bullets cost too much. Rope is better. Will leave a lesson for other varmints too.’’
‘‘I din’t do nothing!’’ Eyes wild as a roped mustang, the man stumbled and was saved from scraping his knees by the jerk Atticus applied to the rope.
‘‘Get on over there.’’
Opal mounted Bay and took the end of the rope from Atticus. She flipped two twists around her saddle horn, as if roping a calf, and half-dragged the screeching man toward the tree. Once close enough, she unwound the rope and tossed the end over the stout tree limb, catching it as it looped down. She made two turns around the branch, then two around the saddle horn again.
‘‘Anything you want to say for yourself?’’
‘‘I got some gold in my pocket. Take that and let me loose.’’ Spit dribbled down the man’s chin.
‘‘You want his gold?’’
‘‘Nah, let the poor sucker who finds him empty his pockets.’’
Atticus studied the trembling man. ‘‘Face it like a man.’’
‘‘No, please. For God’s sake, I . . .’’
‘‘You sure weren’t thinking of God when you were leering at me.’’ Opal backed Bay up enough to tighten the rope till the man stood on his tiptoes. ‘‘You got anything else you want to say?’’ Disgust made her wish, just for a fleeting instant, that she had shot him. Not to kill, mind you, shooting a deer was hard enough, but to teach him a permanent lesson. Pain was a real good teacher.
She saw a dark stain spreading on his pants. ‘‘Let’s get it over with.’’ She backed Bay enough that the man dangled in the air, then handed the end of the rope to Atticus to tie around the tree trunk.
‘‘If someone comes along and lets you down, you might want to get out of the area. Men around here don’t take kindly to having womenfolk bothered.’’ Atticus cinched the knot down tight. He glanced up to Opal. ‘‘You want to tell someone about him, or should I?’’
‘‘Neither. He’ll probably yell loud enough to wake the dead. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.’’ She drew her foot out of the right stirrup so he could swing up behind her. ‘‘Where you going?’’
The two of them rode off, the man’s screams for help assailing their ears.
‘‘I was on my way home. Been out diggin’ up the garden plot for Mrs. Black. Jed’s so busy building for the marquis, he don’t have time.’’
To Opal it seemed strange to hear Cimarron referred to as Mrs. Black, but then, Atticus hadn’t really known them when they all still lived and worked at Dove House. The more new people who moved in, the fewer would remember Cimarron’s former life as a soiled dove before Ruby and Opal inherited the saloon-turned-hotel from their dying father.
‘‘I’ll take you back near to town, then I gotta get on home.’’ Home to the ranch, the first real home she’d had of her own in her entire life.
‘‘How come you weren’t in school?’’
She’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask that. ‘‘I had a headache and felt sick to my stomach, so I told Mr. Finch I needed to go home.’’
‘‘But you went swimming instead.’’
Leave it to Atticus to hit the nail on the head. He had a talent for that. Opal sighed. ‘‘The river was calling my name.’’ She thought a moment. ‘‘How come you showed up?’’ The bend in the river where she’d gone swimming was not on his way home, more like a mile out of his way.
‘‘Thought I’d take home some fish for supper.’’
‘‘And I messed that up for you. I’m sorry.’’ She looked over her shoulder, suddenly realizing how close he was, her back warming from the heat of him.
‘‘Never mind. I’ll get Robert, and we’ll try the second bend north of town. We always catch plenty there too.’’ Robert was Atticus’s younger brother.
When they came around the hill, she stopped the horse. They could still hear the man yelling, although faint by now. ‘‘Who you going to tell?’’
‘‘Charlie?’’
‘‘If you tell him the whole story, he’ll go string the snake up himself.’’
‘‘Maunders?’’
‘‘That skunk and Jake Maunders are probably in cahoots. They smell like two of a kind. Word of this gets back to Ruby . . .’’ Opal shuddered. All she had wanted was to feel better, and a swim seemed the perfect answer.
Why do I always get in trouble when
I don’t mean to? I wasn’t playing hooky. Mr. Finch gave me permission to
leave
. Somewhere in all this the drumbeat at her temples had started up again. Once she got home, Ruby would steep up some willow-bark tea, and that would take care of things.
‘‘You can let me off here.’’ Atticus swung to the ground when she stopped her horse.
‘‘Thanks for saving me.’’ She smiled down at him, then cocked an eyebrow at the serious look on his face. ‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘Don’t you never make fun of us gettin’ married again, you hear?’’
‘‘Atticus, it was . . .’’
Of all the nerve
.
‘‘I mean it.’’
She watched him stride off across the land now rippling with calf-deep grass. Whatever had come over her friend?
She should be home from school by now.
You know Opal will be here when she gets here. You promised yourself
you would no longer worry about her. After all, what can happen between
Medora and the ranch?
Ruby Torvald, now Mrs. Rand Harrison, tried to ignore the argument going on between her ears, but she knew only too well all the things that could happen between town and home. Runaway horse, although it would take something pretty catastrophic to set Bay off; step in a gopher hole; a snake bite, although she’d heard no mention of rattlesnakes being out of hibernation yet. Surely Opal wouldn’t have gone fishing without letting her know. But she’d done just that in the past. Or gone hunting. But her rifle stood in the gun cabinet Beans had made, along with the others. Even though guns were not allowed at school, she’d taken her revolver along, thanks to Rand, who thought she was much safer with a gun when she was riding alone. Surely Mrs. Robertson didn’t allow her daughters to wear a gun belt and holster. Not that any of them had shown any interest. Unlike Opal.
‘‘Ma?’’ One-year-old Per had finally learned to say her name.
‘‘Yes, dear, I’m coming.’’ A more tractable child would take a nap without being tied in bed, but not her son. Therefore, when he awoke she needed to be near enough to hear his call, or for sure there would be trouble to pay. She smiled at the sight of his red cheeks and four-tooth grin. ‘‘How’s mama’s big boy?’’
‘‘Get up?’’ He waved his arms, then pulled at the band she’d tied around his middle. She’d learned rather quickly that she must tie it in the back and without a bow. She untied the knot, blowing on his neck to make him laugh.
‘‘Pa?’’
‘‘Out with the horses. Are you wet?’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Wet.’’
‘‘You are a parrot.’’ She checked his soakers and laid him on the table to change him. When she bent over to unpin his diaper, he pulled at the front of her waist, making sucking noises at the same time. ‘‘You’re hungry, eh?’’ He was always ready to nurse after a nap, even though he could drink from a cup, a slow and painful process that usually got more on him than in him. As soon as she had him dressed again in the loose dress that all small children wore, she sat down in the rocker and unbuttoned her waist. He nursed greedily for the first couple of minutes, then smiled up at her, milk dribbling from the side of his mouth, one fat little fist reaching for her mouth.
