Someone Like You (10 page)

He left his horse hidden in the trees a few yards off and made his way toward the river to the place where their clothes lay scattered. As soon as he was close enough, he spied his own gun belt with the ivory-handled Colt he had owned for more than three years.

He dropped down low and crawled on his belly. Grasshoppers scattered as he began to propel himself by his elbows through a stand of grass until he was closer to the river. Frogs jumped ahead of him. Overhead, honeybees swarmed around a black honeycomb. But he kept on crawling until he reached the spot where his gun belt lay next to some cowhand’s clothes. Quietly he lifted the gun belt and looped it around his neck, arranging it so that the pistol rested on his back. Then he turned to crawl away. Suddenly he paused and looked back at the cowhands’ clothes. He gathered up the bundle and made his way to where their horses waited. Quickly he tied it to one of the saddles and slapped the horse’s rump.

He didn’t wait to watch the horse run off but made his way back to where his own horse waited. A moment later he put his spurs to the roan’s sides and galloped away.

When he reached home, he stopped in front of the barn and unsaddled his horse. He was just about to lead him into the paddock when he heard someone walk up behind him. He drew his pistol and turned around, pointing the Colt straight at Violette Wakefield. “Good God above, don’t you know better than to sneak up on a man like that?” he said, sheathing the gun.

“I do now,” Violette said, her questioning eyes resting on the pistol. “Is that a new gun?”

“No. It’s one I’ve had for a few years.”

“I’ve never noticed it before.”

“I haven’t had it on since I came here.”

“Why are you wearing it now?”

“Because I couldn’t wear it before, since I didn’t have it. It was stolen along with my other things. I got it back today.”

Violette’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Today, you say. Well, bless my bones, don’t stand there with your teeth in your mouth looking at me. Tell me what happened. I want to know how you got your Colt back, my boy, and don’t leave anything out.”

Reed laughed. “I thought you were absentminded.”

Violette gave him a wry smile. “Only when I want to be,” she said. “I’ll walk with you to the paddock, and you can tell me all about it.”

“It isn’t a very interesting story. In fact, it’s rather boring,” he said, and went on to explain.

When he finished, Violette slapped him on the back. “It’s just as Dahlia said—you’re a man who uses his brain instead of brawn. I like that. An ordinary man would have wanted to prove himself and ridden in there with a challenge, guns blazing. I like your way better.”

Reed chuckled. “I don’t know. Where I come from we would call it stupid to go in with guns blazing.”

“That’s more in line with my way of thinking, too. It is infinitely better to gain what you want without doubling a fist.”

“You live longer, too.”

Chapter Nine

Over the weeks that followed, there were instances when Reed saw glimpses of something in Susannah he could not understand. One time in particular would stand out forever in his mind.

Reed decided to breed the two youngest of the five mares Susannah and her aunts owned. Since they didn’t have a stud, Reed did some work for Judge McCarthy, asking that in exchange he be allowed the use of the judge’s fine-blooded stud, Texas Flyer. Judge McCarthy was so impressed with Reed’s work that he told him to take Flyer and keep him at the Wakefield place for a couple of weeks. Texas Flyer was too valuable an animal to pasture breed by allowing him to roam around loose with the two mares.

Juan Flores, the cowhand who worked for the judge, came with Flyer, since the temperamental stud was accustomed to him. It was early one morning that Juan led Flyer into the paddock where Reed waited with one of the mares, a sleek black they called Black-Eyed Susan.

The moment Flyer caught the scent of Black-Eyed Susan he began snorting and prancing, tossing his head and making it difficult for Juan to hold him. Reed saw Juan’s predicament, so he left Black-Eyed Susan where she was tied and went to help Juan with Flyer. For several minutes the two of them struggled to control the huge stallion.

At last they brought Flyer to within five feet of the mare, but Reed held Flyer back, refusing to allow him to mount the mare until he calmed down. “This horse of yours needs to learn some manners. I’ve never seen a stud behave so poorly.”

“
Sí,
señor
. I tell the judge this all the time, but he does not listen. Flyer, he is too aggressive. He is no gentleman, that one. Juan is afraid he might savage one of the mares.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, too,” Reed said while using all the strength he had to hold Flyer back.

Finally the temperamental stallion began to quiet. Reed led him closer.

Flyer began to act up again.

Reed pulled him back to their original position.

Over and over they repeated this pattern. Eventually, Flyer seemed to understand that he was allowed close to the mare only when he behaved. Thus motivated, he remained calm long enough that he was allowed to approach the mare.

Flyer had just mounted Black-Eyed Susan when Reed heard someone approach. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Susannah step through the barn door and out into the paddock.

“I’ve been looking for you. Aunt Violette wanted you to—” Susannah gasped. She did not move, and her face seemed to pale. Reed couldn’t help noticing how beautiful her eyes were, large and fixed upon the two horses that were breeding. He cursed softly to himself, knowing this was no place for a woman to be and certainly not for a woman who had no knowledge of things of this sort.

Susannah spun around and went off at a run. He knew how horrified and embarrassed she must be. He couldn’t let her go without at least trying to say something to ease her discomfort.

Reed handed Flyer’s lead rope to Juan. “Take him to the barn and rub him down. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Juan nodded. “
Sí, Señor
Reed. I will take him back pronto.”

Reed went looking for Susannah. He came upon her sunbonnet. It was lying brim down in the grass. He remembered seeing her in it, remembered how it veiled her features so that only the tip of her nose showed from the side. How like the blinders the plow horse wore…and so reflective of her approach to life…

He paused for a moment, just long enough to bend over and pick up the bonnet. He pulled its streamers through his fingers. Was her losing it an omen?

He found her at the edge of a small meadow on the other side of the garden. She was sitting in a swing that her aunts had made for her when she first came to live with them. He saw her there, her silhouette in sharp detail against the vivid green of summer grass.

He did not understand why he felt compelled to ease the discomfort she obviously felt. Perhaps it would have been best to let her deal with it in her own way and then to act as if nothing had happened. He couldn’t do that. A latent sort of tenderness burned within him, a tenderness that made him want to reach out to her, this creature who was like a flower that never bloomed, a promise that was never allowed to go beyond the tight confines of a bud. He stepped closer, and she lifted her head and stared at him, her expression hard and accusing.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I’m sorry about what happened. Although it was a perfectly natural thing that we were doing and nothing to be embarrassed about, I know you must have been shocked by what you saw.”

She leaped from the swing almost as if she’d been shot. Then she walked a few steps away and turned, giving him her back. He could see her arms hugging her waist as if she were trying to give herself comfort. He stepped behind her and tried to console her by putting his arm on her shoulder.

She whirled around, almost throwing his hand off her shoulder, looking as if the very act of him touching her was loathsome. Her violent reaction caught him off guard.

“Keep your hands off me!”

“I was just trying to—”

“I know what you were trying to do.”

“I only wanted you to understand that it was a perfectly natural—”

She scoffed at that. “Don’t bother. Believe me when I say there is nothing, absolutely nothing that you could tell me that I don’t know already. I know you. I know men. And I know just how natural it is to turn a trick.”

Shocked, Reed could only stare at her, unable to think of anything to say.

As quickly as it had come, the wild expression in her eyes began to fade. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued, almost gentle. “Now you know,” she said, the anger, the venom gone. Her voice became even lower, softer, as if she were trying to tell him she was sorry. “Now you know I am not what I seem.”

“What is—”

“You don’t understand. No one understands.” She shook her head and tears welled up in her eyes. “There is nothing you can do. Just leave me alone.”

He reached a hand toward her—a gesture of friendship, nothing more—but the wary, almost frightened look came back into her eyes.

“Stay away from me,” she said, “far, far away. I’m warning you.”

Without another word, she hurried off in the direction of the house, leaving Reed to stare after her. He looked back at the swing where she had been only moments ago. He stood watching it move slowly back and forth until it grew still. He turned away and noticed her unsullied bonnet still in his hands.

That night Reed lay in bed, unable to sleep, thoughts of what had transpired earlier weighing heavily on his mind. He was still stunned by Susannah’s outburst and her choice of words. Not only was it not in line with the woman he had come to know, but try as he might, Reed could not understand how a seemingly sheltered and virginal woman would know the phrase “turn a trick”. He was determined to find out.

He rolled over with a sigh and closed his eyes. It seemed he had just found another reason to stay.

Chapter Ten

As was their custom, Susannah and her aunts moved to the parlor when the evening meal was finished.

The windows were open. Outside it was very still. Nothing stirred. The scent of honeysuckle drifted into the room from the flower bed beneath the window. The peace of the countryside enveloped the room, where silence prevailed, save for the steady ticking of the clock on the mantle.

Susannah was thinking about the baskets, brimming with berries, in the kitchen. She wondered if it would be cool enough to start cooking them down to make jelly at six o’clock in the morning. Or should she get up earlier?

Sitting across from her, Dahlia was stitching together the perfectly cut squares of a quilt top that she held firmly in her pink hands. Even the bluebonnets pinned to the lace at her throat were still as fresh looking as they had been this morning.

Susannah looked from Aunt Dally to Aunt Vi and smiled. There were blossoms in Aunt Vi’s hair, and the wilted zinnia she had picked before breakfast was still pinned to her bodice. Two bright red dots of color on her face stood out like markers announcing—to anyone who might have trouble knowing—the exact location of her cheeks.

Today she had on two different earrings, a tiny gold stud in the left ear, a dangling creation of black jet in the other. From beneath the hem of her dress her bare toes peeked out, and Susannah found herself wondering if her aunt would remember where she’d left her shoes. Dear, dear Aunt Vi. It was such a treat to wake up each morning and rush down the stairs, as she had done when she was a child, to wait and see what impulse Aunt Violette had given in to that day.

This morning it had been the petticoat, for she had come down to breakfast wearing it on top of her dress. As she said, “What’s the point in having a beautiful red petticoat if you’re going to hide it beneath a dress? You ought to put it out where folks can see it. Not much joy in having something wonderful if you can’t share it. Besides, I think it makes me look like I have on a whole different outfit.”

Susannah nodded in agreement. Aunt Vi was right. It did look different. In fact, Susannah couldn’t think of a time when a red taffeta petticoat worn over a blue dress wouldn’t look different. It was one of the things Susannah found so endearing about her, this giving in to impulse. Truly Aunt Vi lived a life in which innovation, inventiveness, and creativity were allowed free rein.

Violette was sorting through a bowl of last year’s rose hips. She took another sip of port and turned to her sister. “The trouble with you, Dally, is you are far too serious. You are one of those people who lives sensibly and sanely and has nothing to show for it.”

Dahlia looked completely flabbergasted. “Nothing to show for it? I don’t know how you can say that, Sister. Why, this house is full of my collectibles.”

“Tangibles,” Aunt Violette scoffed. “I’m talking about memories, opportunities taken, and you speak of material goods.”

“If you are referring to Elijah Ashcraft…”

“I said opportunities taken, not opportunities missed.”

“You always thought I should have married Elijah,” Dahlia said, sounding bitter.

“No, I believe you are the one who’s always thought so. I have always thought you should have followed your heart.”

Dahlia blew out her wrinkled cheeks in indignation. She patted one of the two matching silver combs that held back her hair. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said in her huffiest tone. “Just because my name begins with Miss, don’t go thinking that means anything. I haven’t missed as much as you think I have.”

Susannah paused, her needle in midair, and watched Dahlia adjust her posture to sit more primly on the edge of her chair, the epitome of one who has taken umbrage and is determined to enjoy it to the fullest. Susannah thought about what her aunts were saying.

Aunt Dahlia always did what was expected, Aunt Vi almost never did. Life was very strange. Her aunts were all she had, and both of them were quite dear to her. But Susannah could not help wondering sometimes if Aunt Vi was not right. In the end, what was important? What really made a difference?

Of the two, who would be more remembered? The one with no more substance than vapor?

Or the one who caught sunlight and turned it into a rainbow?

Although they were both getting on in years, Aunt Dally seemed to be growing old, while the word that came to mind when Susannah thought of Aunt Violette was…well, ripening.

Violette polished off the last drop of port, then put the glass on the round table beside her. She glanced around the room and sighed.

Susannah had seen her do this enough to know it meant Aunt Vi was ready to have some conversation.

“Did you hear that poor Mr. Smithers lost his memory again?” she asked. “He mounted a horse and forgot how to ride and fell off?”

“I heard about it at church yesterday,” Susannah said. “Everyone there was talking about it. Poor Mr. Smithers. He was lucky he didn’t break something.”

“He did. He fell off his horse and broke his arm,” Dahlia said.

Susannah stared at her aunt. “Where did you hear that?”

“At church yesterday.”

“Aunt Dahlia, I was with you at church yesterday when Mrs. Appleby and Miss Sally Mayfield told you about Mr. Smithers. All they said was he fell off his horse. They didn’t mention his breaking his arm.”

“Broke his leg, too,” Dahlia said. “In three places.”

“I didn’t hear anyone mention the word ‘arm’ or ‘leg’,” Violette said.

Dahlia took no notice of what her sister said. “He broke his arm first…then he broke his leg.”

“He did not.” Violette gave her sister the sternest of looks. “Dally Bradford, you are making that up as sure as the sun comes up in the morning. I don’t mind telling you that is something that has caused me quite a bit of concern of late.”

“Why would my telling you that Mr. Smithers broke his arm or his leg cause you concern?”

“What concerns me is…” Violette stopped, then started up again. “As much as I hate to say it, Dally, it appears to me that more and more lately you are exercising your unpleasant habit of telling fibs.”

“Fibs!” Aunt Dahlia said, doing her utmost to sound insulted, sounding insulted being something she excelled at.

“Yes, fibs, and don’t bother to sound so persecuted. Well, it’s worse than fibs, Sister. I have personally caught you in several falsehoods this past week. Untruths. On occasion, you’re telling downright lies.”

Susannah, who had also noticed Aunt Dahlia’s newly acquired habit of telling falsehoods, listened with acute interest, looking to Aunt Violette and back to Aunt Dahlia. She noticed that being called a liar was something that did not seem to offend Aunt Dahlia in the least.

In fact, she seemed to be taking it all in stride. Susannah was just wondering if Aunt Dahlia was going to defend herself when she said, “Maybe you won’t have to put up with it much longer. I’ve been feeling as close to my end as a body could feel.”

Susannah knew it was time for Aunt Vi to say something to mollify her sister, as she usually did whenever Aunt Dahlia ended her sentences with a dash of self-pity. So she was very surprised when Violette came right out and asked, “Well, are you going to tell the truth, or are you going to be evasive and pretend you don’t know what we are talking about? You have been telling falsehoods of late, have you not?”

Dahlia went right on with her sewing, her words coming slowly and matter-of-factly. “There is no point in telling the truth when one’s life is so terribly dull. I hate getting old. I’ve lost my hair, my teeth, my bloom. What’s next?”

Violette looked at Susannah. “That is why I tell you not to let your regrets take the place of dreams.”

Dahlia rallied long enough to ask, “Now which one of us is fibbing? You aren’t sitting there trying to say you enjoy getting old, are you?”

“I don’t mind getting old. You get to sit on the front pew at church.”

Susannah ducked her head and hid her smile behind the gown she was embroidering. How dear her aunts were, and how much she enjoyed these quiet evenings together, with the three of them sewing, her with her pot of hot tea, her aunts taking an occasional sip of the one luxury in their life, a glass of port, which now seemed to be making her aunts feel drowsy. Dahlia started to doze off, her glasses slipping far down her nose before she gave a start and pushed them back up.

Aunt Vi suddenly went limp and dropped her embroidery. Her head fell back against the chair.

Susannah’s heart fluttered. In a panic, she sprang to her feet and rushed to her aunt’s side. “Aunt Violette…Aunt Violette,” she repeated, slapping the older woman’s hands. Violette did not move. For a moment, Susannah was numb; she held her dear aunt’s wrinkled hand. Aunt Vi couldn’t be gone. Not now. Not like this.

A tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another and another. Soon she was crying. “You can’t leave me. Aunt Vi! You can’t leave!”

Susannah put her ear against her aunt’s chest and listened, praying desperately to hear a sound, however faint. She heard nothing. She held her breath. She was about to pull back when she heard the faintest sound. She wanted to shout with joy, but since Aunt Vi was still motionless, Susannah knew that time was precious. If Aunt Vi wasn’t dead, she might not be far from it. God, she couldn’t be dying.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Dahlia asked. Susannah paused only long enough to take her hands. She kissed each of them.

“She is still breathing. I could hear her heart beat.” Susannah dropped her hands and rushed forward.

For the first time in her life, Susannah saw them not as the women who had raised her but as two white-haired old ladies without too many years left to live. She had never confronted the reality that her aunts would not always be with her. The thought of losing them wrenched her heart. She turned quickly away.

Susannah reached the door and opened it.

“Are you going after the doctor?” Dahlia’s voice sounded high-pitched and frightened.

She paused just long enough to say, “No, Aunt, I’m going to find Reed. I’ll send him to town for the doctor. He can make better time on horseback than I can in the buggy.”

Susannah hurried outside and went running down the path that led to Reed’s house. She was screaming out his name even before she started pounding on the door.

The moment he opened the door she burst into tears. “Aunt Vi…”

He stepped outside and put his hands on Susannah’s shoulders, trying to calm her. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“It’s Aunt Vi! She’s dying! Go after Dr. Bailey. Quickly! She’s unconscious. I don’t know how long she can hold on.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s in the parlor!” Susannah screamed. “You’re wasting valuable time. If you let my aunt die, I’ll—”

Reed was halfway up the path. Susannah turned and ran after him.

By the time she followed him into the parlor, Reed was dropping down beside Aunt Vi’s chair. He checked her pulse. Next, he put his head against her chest and listened to her heart. He removed the wilted zinnia that was pinned to her dress and unbuttoned the tight collar at her throat. That done, he lifted each of her eyelids before leaning closer to her face.

Susannah was mesmerized. All her attention was focused on the manner in which he examined her aunt. His hands. His beautiful, beautiful hands. She was captivated by them as they moved over her aunt. Truly they were gentle, knowing hands. Reed Garrett’s hands.

But they were not the hands of a rough-and-tumble drifter.

He rose to his feet, turned to Susannah, and the first thing she noticed was the smile stretching across his face. When he chuckled, she could not believe what she heard. Then he said, “There’s nothing to worry about.” Susannah was stunned.

For a confusing moment, all she could do was stand there feeling bewildered. Nothing to worry about? Who did he think he was? A man of medicine?

Susannah had never felt more like slapping anyone in her life. Her aunt was unconscious, probably dying, and he laughs? “Nothing to worry about!” she shouted, waving her arms. “I don’t know how you can say that! Look at her! For God’s sake, she’s unconscious! She might—”

“Calm yourself.” He held his hands up. “She isn’t dying. She’s drunk.”

“What?”

“She’s not unconscious. Your aunt is drunk. Dead drunk.”

“Drunk?” Susannah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Drunk?” she repeated stupidly.

“As a skunk. Let her sleep it off and she’ll be fine in the morning…a headache perhaps, but otherwise fine.”

“Drunk? My aunt is drunk?” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it.” Suddenly, she narrowed her eyes and gave the bottle of port sitting on the silver tray next to Aunt Vi’s chair a suspicious look. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. She can’t be drunk. Look at that bottle. It’s practically full. She couldn’t have had enough to make her drunk. Why don’t you stop trying to play doctor and go to town for Dr. Bailey like I asked you?”

“I can go for the doctor, but he’ll tell you the same thing. Your aunt doesn’t have a thing wrong with her that a good night’s sleep won’t cure. She’s drunk. I don’t know how to make it any plainer than that.”

“I told you she couldn’t have had enough to drink. Look at that bottle of port if you don’t believe me. Hardly any of it is gone, certainly not enough to make anyone drunk.”