Pamela Morsi (13 page)

Clara tutted at her. “You were always saying how it was not so bad and that we just complained too much,” her sister reminded her. “Every single day we lived there you talked about how pretty the view was.”

Eulie shrugged. “It was the only nice thing to be said for the place. And if you cain’t say something nice …”

“Well, now there is something nice to say,” Clara told her. “It’s nice that none of us have to live there.”

Eulie heartily agreed with that. The two women worked side by side, both smiling, lost in thought for several minutes.

“I think we should put up a grape arbor down at the far end of the garden,” Eulie told her sister. “There ain’t no better eating, and it’s such a cool place to sit of an evening.”

“It’s kind of late to get it started this year,” Clara pointed out.

Eulie shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking of this year,” she agreed. “This year we’ll be lucky to get the house in shape and enough food to hold us for the winter. But next year …” She let the thought drift off for a couple of moments. “Next year I’ll be planting posies around the porch on the first warm day and a grape arbor at the end of the garden and maybe a swing for the youngers, hanging from that old tree over there.”

Clara smiled at her. “It sounds nice, Eulie. It sounds real nice.”

It did sound nice. It sounded more than nice. It sounded like the life she had always dreamed about. Now, at last it was not only possible, it was happening. And the reality of it was sweeter than she had imagined.

“It’s a really pretty place, isn’t it?” Eulie said to her sister.

Clara followed the direction of her gaze down the slope, taking in the broad expanse of sun reflecting on the river and the abundance of wood and fields in the distance.

“Yes, it is a lovely place,” Clara told her. “But no more than you deserve. I am so happy for you.”

Eulie looked at her sister curiously and wrinkled her brow. “What
I
deserve. You’re happy for
me.
Sister, this is
our
home. A home for our whole family, together again.”

Clara nodded “And it is wonderful,” she assured
Eulie. “But I’ll be getting married myself and having my own home.”

“Oh, that.” Eulie waved the concern away. “We’ve got years before that happens. It’s not near time for you to marry.”

Clara looked at her sister intently. “Eulie, maybe I want to marry,” she said quietly. “Maybe I think I’m ready.”

Eulie could hardly argue that.

“Well, when it happens it will happen,” she told Clara instead. “You can never know when the right man will come around.”

Clara held her silence for a very long moment.

“Eulie, your husband gave his permission for Mr. Leight to call upon me,” she said.

“What?”

“Last night,” Clara told her, “Mr. Leight asked if he could formally pay call, and Mr. Collier said yes.”

Eulie was nearly fuming with frustration.

“Well, I will set that straight this morning,” she said. “I don’t care for Bug, it’s true. But I see no reason to torture him. You two can never be together, it ain’t fair for him to come courting thinking that it can be so.”

“What do you mean we can never be together?” Clara asked.

“It was one thing for him to set his sights on you when you were an orphan with your family scattered and no place to call your own,” Eulie said. “But now we’ve got a home. You won’t have to marry some man just to have a roof over your head. You can wait for someone to be happy with.”

“I think I would be happy with Mr. Leight,” Clara declared with conviction.

“Happy with Bug?” Eulie shook her head in disbelief. “Clara, he’s so ugly.”

“That don’t matter a bit to me,” Clara told her with matter-of-fact certainty. “I guess I’m pretty enough that our younguns won’t frighten the hogs.”

“It’s not just that,” Eulie went on. “The man is so awkward he couldn’t lead geese to water with a double rein.”

“It’s just ‘cause he’s shy,” Clara insisted. “A shy man will get to fidgeting. But once we’re married, he’ll get used to being around me.”

“But Clara, there is just no reason for you to get married.”

“I love him, Eulie. And I think he loves me,” she said. “I suspect that is reason enough.”

Eulie was completely taken aback by her words.

“You haven’t said those things to each other?” she asked, horrified.

“No, we haven’t said them,” Clara admitted. “But they are true just the same.”

“Oh, Clara,” Eulie almost moaned in disappointment.

“I know you don’t like Mr. Leight,” she said. “I know that he has never suited you. But he suits me, Eulie. He suits me just fine. And I am the one who would be married to him.”

“There is no need to rush things,” Eulie told her. “You’re still far too young to wed.”

“I’m only a year younger than you, and you’re married,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but I …” Eulie had no idea what to say.

“If the courting goes well,” Clara told her, “I expect him to propose this summer. We could be married
after harvest. And next spring, I’ll be putting up grape arbors and planting posies at my own home.”

Moss Collier awakened to the sound of women laughing. It was a sound with which he was not very familiar. It was so pleasant, so pleasurable, with his eyes not yet opened for the day, his mouth began to draw into a grin.

The movement rekindled the soreness of his bitten cheek. He moaned painfully and sat up. That was a mistake. The exhausted, whiskey-soaked blood in his head rushed downward, leaving him momentarily faint. He recovered quickly but remained chilled and clammy and nauseated. His head began to pound incessantly. Drinking had never agreed with him.

He fingered the bandage that covered his cheek. It was pretty dry, probably no longer providing any medicinal benefit, and he hated having one eye covered. Gingerly, he removed it. His shaving mirror was up at the cabin, so he had no idea about how he looked.

He did, however, know how he felt. His face seemed bruised and swollen. His bones creaked and his muscles ached. Sleeping on a cold dirt floor wasn’t good for a fellow, but this morning he couldn’t even complain. He was on his way. At long last he was bound for Texas. It had happened so quickly he could hardly believe it.

“I’ll make her a bed,” he vowed aloud “Before I leave, I’ll get the shingles on that shed roof, move the grain from the cabin, and make my little bride a nice, comfortable bed all her own.

It didn’t seem like too much to give to the person
who had finally given him his freedom. She should have her own bed to sleep in. Especially if she was going to have to sleep in it alone.

He hadn’t tried to couple with her again. Getting his cheek bit off had sure taken the urgency off his lust. And it would have been unreasonably cruel to take his pleasure with her, maybe get her with a child, when he was leaving. Of course, it was unfortunate, really, that she would never have children. She would be good with children. She certainly was with her youngers. But she was married to him. So naturally she could never take any other man to her bed. And he would be gone. She’d just live her life chaste.

His brow furrowed as he wondered if this meant that he could never have a woman again. Truthfully, he’d never really thought about having one or needing one. But somehow the thought that it would just be him and his good right arm for the rest of his days didn’t offer a lot of comfort.

If he were unfaithful, of course, she would never know. Moss had never really thought about faithfulness or marriage or any of those things. He supposed that he’d simply assumed that marriage was such a fine thing that those suited to try it would always show some respect.

He let that thought swish around in his brain for several minutes to see how it felt. He still wasn’t sure. If he had
wanted
to marry her, then they would never be separated. If she wouldn’t go with him, then he simply would have stayed here. He’d never intended to wed. But he had. And a marriage was a marriage, no matter how it came about.

Yes, he decided, he would have to be true to his vows.
That was just part of the price that he was required to pay.

And his reputation here in the Sweetwood, he’d have to pay with that as well. His lifelong neighbors had believed the worst of him when Eulie had accused him of something he didn’t do. How much worse would they think of him when he actually did run off and leave his whole family to fend for themselves?

“I’m praying for you,” Preacher Thompson had assured him last night.

Moss didn’t know exactly how he felt about that. Considering the lies and bitterness the match began with, and the extraordinary way they had decided to resolve their problems, he almost hated to draw heaven’s attention in their direction.

It seemed as if it was all going to work out much better than he’d thought. His unexpected discussions with Bug Leight and Enoch Pierce has positively buoyed his hopes. But never had he considered leaving while Uncle Jeptha lived. And he always felt badly about waiting for the man to die. Now he could leave the poor legless cripple with his wife and head west. He could head west right away.

This morning, in the clear light of day, he wasn’t sure how feasible that plan actually would be. But still the burden he’d felt yesterday was considerably lightened. Eulie Toby had trapped him into marriage and then set him free—more free than he had ever been in his life.

Slowly he rose to his feet. The laughter outside had ended and some sort of serious discussion between the women had begun. He looked around for his trousers. They were missing; only the galluses hung on a peg by the door.

He glanced out the doorway but couldn’t see a soul. The yard was deserted, but he could hear the female voices still deep in discussion. Moss edged his way to the corner of the building and peeked around. Sure enough, the two young women were down by the river at the firepit, busily engaged in the task of washday.

Moss grimaced unpleasantly. His trousers were either boiling in that pot or hanging somewhere sopping wet. What the devil was he supposed to put on? He was grateful that he’d been wearing his union suit. The woman might well have left him stranded bare naked.

Uneasily he checked the lower buttons on the placard front of his flannels, assuring himself that the horse was securely in the barn. It was certainly disconcerting to have only a thin piece of well-worn cotton between a man and his modesty. He’d probably shocked the life out of the woman last night. He didn’t want to repeat the offense today.

Moss tried to reason what was best to do. He could simply go lie back down on the pallet and wait. Surely she would come eventually to check on him and he could send her to the cabin for his spare trousers. Of course, busy with laundering, it might be hours before she headed this way.

He could call out to her. That would be extremely logical. But he hated to call attention to himself in his current condition. It made him feel so helpless.

He could just brazen it out and walk across the yard like he owned it. It sure wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been outside in his underclothes. But somehow he just couldn’t do that in front of these two young women. It would be sort of disrespectful, he
thought. As if they were not good enough to be treated in a gentlemanly manner. And they were young women deserving of respect. Clara was a quiet, sweet young thing who would make a fine wife for some fellow. And his little bride was a little flighty and too cheerful by half, but she worked hard, took care of her own, and was certainly intent on doing right by him.

He stared across the distance of the yard and imagined himself running across it like the fires of hell were after him. The fires of hell might well be after him, but he would sure look the fool taking off across there.

Frustrated, he began to look for another route. If he headed down the slope toward the river, he could scoot into the tall marshy grass that grew at its edge; then he could follow that into the trees, going up through the woods to behind the barn and then back down the slope to the cabin without ever getting within sight of the firepit He assessed the route again and glanced at the women washing once more. It would work, he decided. He would get his spare trousers and no one the wiser.

Moss stepped back into the kitchen to get his shoes, grateful that they could not be boiled in the iron pot. He glanced thoughtfully at the bedclothes and momentarily toyed with the idea of wrapping a blanket around himself. But he decided against it. The blanket would be hard to move with in the tall grass.

He went back to the kitchen doorway, edged to the west corner, and peeked around again, making certain the women were still in their place. Sure enough, they continued laundering. Moss’s opportunity for escape was at hand.

He walked quietly and close against the wall to the
east corner of the building and hesitated for a long moment. The sprint between the kitchen and the tall grass was probably a distance of twenty yards or better. He would at no time be visible to the women at the firepit, but he would be exposed. With a deep breath and a fateful determination, he took off. Loping down the slippery slope, one foot in front of the other, he was hidden in the tall grass in no time at all.

His heart pounding, his breathing rapid, he squatted down and surveyed his surroundings. There was absolutely no indication that anyone had seen or heard him. He had made it to the secure and modest shelter of cane and cattails. Proud of this accomplishment, he took heart as he pulled the legs of his union suit to above his knees and began to tramp through the swampy wetland toward the woods.

The tall grasses grew in this marshy area next to the river because of the consistent presence of standing water. Walking through was neither pleasant nor easy. Each footstep was taken into at least a couple of inches of brackish water. And a man’s footing in mud was never certain. Moss picked his pathway carefullly. Just looking at the ground you couldn’t tell where it was wetter or drier. He stayed, as best he could, within the stalks of cane and sedge. They tended to grow in less water than reeds or cattail where the depth of the water might be a foot deep. The water lilies, which also grew there in abundance, might be disguising an imperceptible flow of water that was knee-high. The last thing he needed was to get his flannels wet to the waist.