Someone Like You (9 page)

Susannah looked from one aunt to the other, marveling at how two sisters could be so different. Aunt Dahlia being perfection personified, she was beautifully and impeccably groomed, without a hair out of place. She never went out without her bonnet, her parasol, and her white cotton gloves. There was always a spray of artificial violets with a sachet pinned to the collar of her dress. Her collars were always white and so were her cuffs. Once, when Violette had asked her why she always dressed up so, Dahlia had replied, “If I should have the misfortune to die away from home, I don’t want there to be any doubt whatsoever in the mind of the person who finds me that I was a lady of the most refined and genteel sort.”

Worrying about what happened after you were dead wasn’t exactly high on Violette’s list of things to be concerned with, so she went about her daily living looking, as Dahlia said, as though she dressed in the dark.

Dahlia’s face, although pleasant to look at, didn’t have the soft fullness Violette’s had. She was shaped rather straight, like a floor lamp. Since she had been blonde in her youth, one would have expected her to turn gray as she aged, but the color of her hair seemed to have taken a wrong turn and wandered off somewhere in between the two.

In Dahlia’s opinion, everything was either right or wrong. With nothing in between. She was a woman of little patience, impatience being a hazard of perfection. And yet her eyes were as innocent and untouched as they must have been when she was a baby. For some reason Susannah could never imagine her being grubby or dirty, even as a child.

When she was younger, Susannah thought of her aunts as vegetables. Aunt Dahlia was a carrot; Aunt Violette, a cauliflower.

“Good heavens! I seem to have misplaced my sewing scissors,” Aunt Violette said. “Have either of you seen them?”

“They are on that length of ribbon pinned to your bosom, Aunt,” Susannah said.

Violette looked down. “My, my, however did they get there?”

“You put them there,” Dahlia said.

Violette looked at them as if they were a living, breathing thing. “Well, come along, then,” she said to the scissors. “We’ve a lot of sewing to do.”

“She is such an absentminded darling,” Susannah said, gazing fondly at her aunt who was marching out of the kitchen.

Dahlia shook her head with disgust. “We were always such an intellectual family, although Violette seems to be doing all she can to change that.”

Susannah laughed. For the moment things were back as they had been before he came.

Chapter Seven

West Texas, with its greasewood, flash floods, and scanty rain, took up a chunk of the state. It was big, empty country with little water, few roads, few people, and even fewer towns. It had a lot of stretches of desert and semiarid land, for it was an extension of the Chihuahuan Desert that originated in Mexico.

By the time the desert reached Bluebonnet it had begun to play out, leaving the Chisos, Davis, and Guadalupe Mountains behind to become a place without trees, hills, rocks, firewood, or water. From there, the dry, desert terrain became sandy, fertile soil covered by a huge expanse of wind-fluttered grass, so flat that people swore they could see for a hundred miles.

Most of those who did the swearing were ranchers, but there were a few people who worked small farms. Like Susannah and her aunts, the other farmers raised mostly cotton, along with a little corn, oats, grain sorghum, and winter wheat, while running only a few head of cattle. For them the rich West Texas soil was a farmer’s dream—when there was enough rain.

Last year had been a dry one, the flat grassland baked hard by a steady prairie wind. It was difficult sometimes to remember that beneath the parched grass lay fertile ground. But anyone who had lived around Bluebonnet for long knew that could change any moment, violent weather being one of the grassland’s specialties.

The winter before last was the coldest Susannah could ever remember, with the temperature dipping down to thirteen degrees below zero. The year before that, they found twenty mourning doves in the backyard, killed by biscuit-size hailstones.

It was in the midst of her thinking about the phenomenal weather that another thunderstorm blew in. Typical, Susannah thought. Just typical. She was returning from a trip to town. She had driven the buggy through the gate and was heading for the barn when the wind began to get stronger, whipping the few sparse trees and sending anything that wasn’t fastened down hurtling through the air.

She had almost reached the barn when a jagged bolt of lightning struck frighteningly close. It was followed by a tremendous crack of thunder that left Susannah’s ears ringing. The explosive sound frightened the buggy horse and caused Rosebud, the docile mare, to rear. Then she bolted into a dead run. Dashing wildly, Rosebud veered off the road, heading straight for the fence.

Susannah saw what was coming and tried frantically to stop the mare, but no amount of pulling back on the reins would curb the frightened animal. A second later Susannah screamed as Rosebud hit the barbed-wire fence and the buggy flipped over onto its side.

Susannah was thrown clear. The fall knocked the wind out of her, and for a moment all she could do was lie there, stunned, trying to breathe. When she had recovered, she managed to climb to her feet. She put her hand on the wheel of the overturned buggy for balance until the dizziness had passed. At that moment, she heard Rosebud, and when she looked, she saw that the mare hadn’t fared well.

By the time Susannah reached her, Rosebud was bleeding profusely from a deep cut on her chest and several smaller cuts on her front legs, which were still tangled in the wire. Susannah approached her slowly, talking softly, then took her by the curb piece to prevent her from moving and cutting herself more deeply.

It took some time, but Susannah did manage to get her untangled from the wire. Blood was everywhere, and Susannah prayed that the mare wouldn’t bleed to death before she could lead her back to the barn.

Lucky for both of them, Reed had been digging post holes for a new fence and saw the accident. He had dropped the post-hole digger and come running. It wasn’t until he rushed up to her and grabbed her, asking, “What happened? Where are you hurt?” that Susannah realized she was covered with blood, most of which belonged to Rosebud.

She put her hand to her head and felt a small wound there. Reed looked at it. “I think we can wait to attend to that Susannah, but Rosebud has to be looked after right away. You go on into the house.”

“No, I want to help. She’s lost so much blood.”

“Come on, then.”

Still in a daze, Susannah followed him as he led the mare into the barn and stood with her back against the corner of a stall so she would be out of his way. She watched Reed as he talked to the mare in a soothing voice. With a confident air, he ran his hands over her, checking the savage cut across her chest. “These are deep. She’s losing a lot of blood. They’ll need stitching, and fast.”

He turned to Susannah. “If you’re going to stay, I’ll put you to work. Hold her steady and keep her calm. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Susannah went over and took hold the halter. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To get something to sew her with. She’s losing too much blood.”

He was back very soon and said, “Get me a bucket of water and some coal tar from the tack room.”

Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Susannah brought the things he needed, then held the mare steady, calming her with softly spoken words and strokes to her head. Her attention was riveted on Reed as she watched him bathe the lacerations, his hands moving over the wounds with assurance. When he began to stitch the cuts, he was as competent as any physician she had ever seen. In fact, better. She had never seen such small, neat stitches.

She couldn’t help wondering where he’d acquired that skill. “You do that like you’ve done it before.”

He seemed amused. “Anyone who has spent much time around livestock has done this a few times.”

That was true, of course, but still, there was something about his professional manner, his competence and ease, that made him seem much more experienced than the average rancher or farmer. She found herself watching his hands. It was distracting, for she could not help imagining how those same hands might feel if they were touching her with such gentle thoroughness. The thought was frightening, yet she could not put it out of her mind. She watched him cover the neat stitches with coal tar.

“What are you doing that for?”

“It will keep the blowflies off the cut so they can’t lay eggs. The last thing we need is for this cut to fill up with worms.”

She understood that. In the summertime blowflies were a terrible nuisance. The least cut or scratch on any of the livestock would become infested with worms if exposed to open air.

“You are very good at this. Have you ever had to sew up a person?”

He turned his head so swiftly to look at her that Susannah was caught off guard. The look in his eyes was fierce. For a moment she tried to think if she had said something to offend him.

“Why would you ask me a thing like that?”

She shrugged. “I was just wondering, that’s all. It seems that with the traveling you must have done, you might have encountered a situation where someone needed similar attention.”

“Why would you be wondering about something like that?”

“I was just curious to know if there was any difference between sewing up an animal and a human being.”

He turned back to the mare. “Flesh is flesh whether it’s human or animal. There isn’t much difference between the two—although animals are generally better patients.”

She thought of Aunt Dahlia as a patient and smiled, but said nothing, content for now merely to watch. The scare was over and Rosebud looked as if she would be all right.

Suddenly, Susannah realized that Reed was not wearing a shirt. She knew he’d been digging holes, and she had seen his shirt hanging on a nearby fence post. He sure was lanky, she thought. He had a hollow belly that seemed to skip his waist as it blended downward into slim hips. His arms were taut, his chest smoothly muscled and tanned, as if he went without a shirt quite often.

He was so sure of himself, so capable. She had watched him that day in town when the crowd was riled up and seemingly eager to turn itself into a lynch mob. He had stood up for himself with confidence and dignity. He wasn’t loud or tough, but he wasn’t the kind to back down either. He was a man to be admired, and it occurred to her then that she did admire him. She admired him for his masculine qualities, true, but it was his gentleness more than his strength that captured her attention and drew her to him. And those hands… She found herself thinking,
If I had someone like you, I could
overcome all the pain and shame of my past. I could raise a family and lead a normal life…

If I had someone like you.

Chapter Eight

As he did every Saturday afternoon, Reed rode into Bluebonnet.

About the only thing he saw there on this particular day was a street full of horse droppings, which told him things had been more active than usual. It was still a bit early for the ranch hands to hit town, yet most of the law-abiding folks had already concluded their business and left. Bluebonnet wasn’t a place for women and children on Saturday after the ranch hands got paid.

On the edge of town he passed by the Missionary Baptist Church. Next to it was the Reverend Elijah Wheeler’s house. A big chinaberry tree stood in the front yard with two swings hanging from its sturdy branches. He rode on by the Boot and Saddle Shop, the blacksmith’s, and the Texas Barber Shop all lined up, their window panes blazing in the sun like mirrors.

A mule was tied in front of the Boot and Saddle Shop. As Reed passed, the mule started braying and sat back on his haunches. He snapped the reins and took off down the street, bucking and braying. A man ran out of the barber shop, shaving cream over his face, the barber’s drape still around his shoulders. He lit out down the street, chasing the mule and hollering for him to stop. A few people came out of the buildings along the street to see what all the commotion was about. For a moment it looked as if things were starting to pick up, but then the fellow with the shaving cream caught his mule and, after a scolding, led him back. Dogs stopped barking and the townfolk returned to their stores. All was quiet once again.

It had been over a month since the last rain, and in the intense heat, it didn’t take long for things to dry out. The street was packed hard and dry. It drummed solid beneath his horse’s hooves. Right now the place looked as dead as a graveyard, with only two horses tied at the hitching post in front of the saloon, tails switching. The long shadows of late afternoon stretched across the street like a barrier warning the unsuspecting away.

Reed rode past the shadows and up to the Buck and Smith General Store, dismounted, and went up the steps, his boots knocking loudly on the boardwalk. A bulletin board next to the window was covered with wanted posters, snuff signs, funeral handbills, and a notice that the Widow Peabody’s farm was to be sold at auction.

He opened the door with the glass panels that said SAM SMITH, PROPRIETOR in gold letters, and stepped inside.

The mingled smells of green coffee, burlap, tobacco, harness leather, cheese, glazed calico, and asafetida surrounded him, but Reed didn’t pay that much mind. He hadn’t come into town to shop. He walked back to the post office and exchanged a few pleasantries with Daisy Hitchcock, a young blonde who was substituting for the sick postmaster.

Daisy had talked with Reed on many a Saturday afternoon over the last several months. “You mailing a letter to your folks as usual?” she asked.

Reed nodded and handed her the envelope. “I guess it’s starting to become quite a habit, isn’t it?”

Daisy took the letter. “It’s a nice habit, writing your folks like you do. We’ve got a lot of cowboys around here, but none of them are as good about writing home as you are. You must have mighty nice folks.”

“I do. They’re the best any man could have.”

“I heard a sermon just last Sunday. It was about honoring your father and mother so that—”

“Your days will be long upon the earth.” At her wide-eyed stare, he added, “We have churches in Boston, too.”

“Oh,” she said, and her face colored. She hastily scanned the envelope. “You sure do write fancy. Does everyone in Boston write as fancy as you do?”

“Well, I never thought much about it one way or the other, but I’d say a good many of them have handwriting that’s not too different from mine.”

“You must have had a lot of book learning to write like that. Nobody around Bluebonnet can write as fine as this. Heck! Nobody even comes close, not even Judge McCarthy, and he’s had the most book learning of anyone in town. He went to college.” She paused and gave Reed a curious stare.

Reed knew what was coming next.

“Have you been to college?”

He thought he had mentioned once that he had studied at Edinburgh, but he was not certain. That was the trouble with not always telling the truth. You couldn’t remember what lies you’d told or what truths you’d left only partially told. Thankfully he was spared answering when the bell over the door tinkled. Both Reed and Daisy glanced toward the door as a man walked in.

He was dressed in typical cowboy garb, although it was obvious his clothes were of a finer cut and cloth. He was wearing a pair of expensive chaps, and the spurs on his boots rang as they struck the wooden floor. This caused everyone to stop what they were doing and turn to look.

“Afternoon, Tate,” Mr. Smith said as he walked toward his customer with a bolt of linen clutched in his arms.

Tate nodded stiffly. “Afternoon.”

Reed recognized the bastard right off as the leader of the bunch who robbed him that day. He turned to Daisy and whispered, “Who is that?”

“It’s Tate Trahern. His pa owns the Double T.”

Reed sized up the man who Violette had told him had tried to court Susannah. He didn’t like him for that reason alone—not to mention what Tate had done to him after pulling him off his horse and stealing everything he owned. If his father owned the Double T, he didn’t have to resort to stealing. It was now plain to Reed that Tate had robbed and roughed him up merely for amusement. Reed did not like the idea of being anyone’s entertainment.

Tate got angry just watching that slow-ass Sam Smith. It took him a solid week to put down the bolt of cloth he was holding before he could turn and ask, “What can I do for you, Tate?”

Tate didn’t say anything. He knew Sam didn’t expect to be treated with respect, respect being something Tate didn’t have for anyone.

Taking his own sweet time, Tate pushed his hat back off his forehead with one finger and sauntered over to the case where firearms and boxes of bullets were displayed.

Sam stroked his beard thoughtfully, then followed him. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“No. Give me a couple of boxes of shotgun shells,” he said, his gaze scanning the store, going over the half dozen or so people there, pausing to stare at Daisy. He saw a stranger talking to her, and he felt his anger rise. What in the hell was she doing talking to that drifter?

As Tate looked at the drifter, he thought there was something familiar about him. Suddenly he remembered where he had seen that face before. Reed Garrett. He had known that name since the day Curly came back without the big red roan and the saddle.

He wondered if Garrett recognized him—not that he cared. There wasn’t anything that drifter could do to him. He gave Reed a quick, dismissing look, and said to Sam, “You got any of those new shotguns?”

“I’ve ordered a couple of the bolt-action ones. Newest thing on the market.”

“What about the magazine-loading kind?”

Sam scratched his head. “Don’t reckon I’ve heard anything about those. Magazine loading, you say?”

Tate didn’t answer. He was watching Daisy. He liked to make her fidget.

Daisy looked away from Tate and waved the envelope Reed had handed her a few minutes before. “I’ll get this letter off to Boston as soon as the stage comes through,” she said nervously. “Will there be anything else?”

Reed looked from Daisy to Tate and back to Daisy, but made no comment other than to say, “I guess that’ll be all for this trip.”

“See you next week, then,” she said. In an instant she disappeared behind the curtain that covered the door to the stockroom.

Tate ignored Reed and turned back to the counter. He heard Garrett walking a few feet behind him, but he kept on looking at the items on display until he heard the door open, then close.

Reed had barely left the store when Tate picked up the boxes of shells. “Put them on our account,” he said as he shoved the shells into his pockets and walked to the back of the store.

“Will do,” Sam said.

Tate paused a few feet from the curtained doorway. “Daisy, don’t go making yourself scarce. I saw you talking to Garrett.”

Daisy poked her head through the curtain and walked out to where Tate stood. “Hi, Tate. What brings you to town? It’s a little early for you to be coming in to get drunk, and I know you didn’t come in just for those shotgun shells.”

“Does a man need a reason to come to town to see his girl?”

“Am I your girl, Tate?”

“I said you were, didn’t I? That makes it so, doesn’t it?”

“I guess it does.” Daisy fluttered her eyelashes and smiled. “I didn’t expect you ‘til later. I can’t leave now. We won’t be dosing up here until six o’clock.”

“I can wait. Tell me why you were acting so friendly to that drifter.”

Daisy paled. “I wasn’t so friendly, Tate. You know I don’t have eyes for anyone but you.”

“Yeah? Well, you better make sure it stays that way.”

“I reckon I’ll be sweet on you for as long as you’re sweet on me, Tate.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Daisy. How come you and that drifter looked like you two was all wrapped up in each other?”

“Wasn’t nothing like that, Tate, I swear. It’s just that he comes in here almost every Saturday to mail letters, so we’ve gotten to the point of passing a few words, that’s all.”

“Letters? He comes in here to mail letters?”

“That’s what I said, and I didn’t stutter.”

“You honestly expect me to believe he comes in here to mail letters like some old lady?”

“Believe what you like, but it’s the truth. He comes in here every Saturday. Ask Mr. Smith if you don’t believe me.”

“Who would a drifter have to mail letters to?”

“Even drifters have families, Tate.”

“He writes to his family?”

“Yes. His name’s Reed Garrett and his parents live in Boston. Golly, I’d never sent a letter all the way to Boston before he came. Sending those letters that far sure does make this job a lot more interesting. Why, I feel like I’ve traveled someplace myself.”

Tate wasn’t listening. “Let me see that letter he just mailed.”

“I can’t do that, Tate.”

“You’re my girl, aren’t you?”

“You know I am.”

“Then give me the letter. I’ll give it back. I only want to look at it.”

Daisy glanced toward the front of the store, where Mr. Smith was grinding up a pound of coffee for Mrs. McCormick. “I can’t, Tate. You know I can’t. I could lose my job if Mr. Smith found out.”

Tate went on pressing her, confident he could bring her around. Daisy always liked to put up a show of resistance, but in the end she always gave in.

“Please don’t push me, Tate.”

He frowned, unable to figure out what was going on. “You getting sweet on that Garrett?”

“You know I care for you, but my pa is sick and we don’t know when he can go back to work. Right now, I’m the only one working. My whole family is depending on me. You know that. I can’t afford to lose this job, Tate. I just can’t.”

Tate hooked his hand around the back of Daisy’s head.

“Tate, what on earth…”

He pulled her head forward and kissed her. “I sure have missed you,” he whispered. “I hardly worked, thinking about you.”

“Thinking what?”

“The same thing I’m thinking right now—how purty you are.”

“I still can’t give you that letter, Tate. No matter what.”

“Okay, we’ll let it ride for now,” he whispered, touching her face and nose and cheek and ear. Daisy leaned into his hand, kissing his palm. He pulled her closer. Their mouths touched.

She pulled back. “Tate, please…”

“Don’t you worry. Old Sam Smith is too near blind to see anything happening this far away.”

“I pray you’re right, Tate. I surely do.”

“I’m always right. I’ll see you at six,” he said and left the store.

An hour later Tate was standing in front of the saloon smoking a cheroot, a piece of whittling in his hand, a pile of shavings at his feet. His hat was pulled low over his eyes as he watched Reed Garret mount his roan.

Bastard. Tate didn’t know why he hated that drifter from Boston, but he did. As he watched him ride slowly out of town, he was thinking that if that Yankee knew what was good for him, he’d never set foot on Double T land.

On his way back home, Reed took a shortcut across the Double T.

He wasn’t certain if he did it because it was a quicker route or out of spite. Regardless that he had gotten his roan and saddle back, he was still chapped over the loss of his pistols, not to mention the gray mare.

He had no more than finished wondering if he’d ever see the things that were stolen from him again, when he came upon a group of Double T cowboys. They were swimming in the river, stripped down to their bare skin. They were having such a good time, they didn’t even notice him. Reed looked around and saw shirts, socks, boots, and britches tossed in a pile, even a pair of string drawers. He felt his insides grow warm at the thought of finding something that belonged to him.