This Loving Land (3 page)

“The one with the whiskers will win,” he announced suddenly.

“Win what, John Austin?” Summer was glad her brother had said something.

They moved to the window and looked over the boy’s head to the street below. Bulldog chuckled.

“No, he won’t, boy. That’s ol’ Cal Hardy down thar. He’s a fightin’ son-of-a-bitch. He can whip his weight in wild cats afore breakfast. Yup, that ol’ Cal’s a fightin’ bastard.”

Summer gritted her teeth to keep from saying the words that sprang to her lips. Nothing passed John Austin’s ears and eyes!

“He won’t win this time, Mr. Bulldog. The other man is not as strong, but when he hits he puts all his weight behind the blow, while that man, Cal, only uses his arms, and he’s making himself tired, too, the way he struts around. The other man don’t waste his strength a’tall. See, see how he comes up on one foot when he hits?”

“Dad-burnit! Ya just might have somethin’ thar!” Bulldog slapped John Austin on the back. “It’s ’bout time someone whupped that bastard s ass.”

“Please. . . .”

Bulldog was so wrapped up in the excitement of the fight that- he didn’t hear the word that burst from Summer’s lips.

“How do you know that Cal’s mother didn’t marry his father, Mr. Bulldog?”

“John Austin!” Summer’s face crimsoned. She was used to her brother’s insatiable curiosity, but strangers were sometimes put off by him. But she needn’t have worried about Bulldog. He was too interested in the fight to have noticed what the boy said.

John Austin looked up at his sister, inquiringly, to see what caused her rebuke.

“A bastard is the child of a woman who ain’t married, Summer. I read it in the dictionary. I just wanted to know if Mr. Bulldog was a friend of Cal’s mother.”

Summer said nothing as she brushed the dark hair back from the boy’s forehead and pressed his head against her. John Austin was exceptionally bright. By the age of three he had known all his letters, was able to write his name and draw pictures. At five, he could read all the books the family possessed, and any other reading material made available by people passing on the road near their home, from the newspaper to wanted posters. Summer recognized his talent for drawing after his one glimpse of a train. He made a sketch of it, complete with locomotive, cars and caboose. She was amazed at her brother’s ability to remember detail. However, in other, simpler things, childish things, he was completely inept.

Bulldog took off his hat and slapped it against his leg. “Yore right as rain, young feller. Ol’ Cal got his ass whupped proper! He shore got his squawker plucked this time. He won’t be a crowin’ fer a while!”

John Austin’s eyes glinted as he glanced at his sister. This was trashy talk, and people with breeding didn’t talk this way, so Summer said. His sister was looking out the window, so he smiled indulgently at the grizzled cowboy. He liked him a lot.

“If we’d a made a bet, buster, you’d a won my drawers! I wouldn’t a bet a pinch of snuff on that skinny feller.” Bulldog’s eyes shifted down and he backed away from the window. “Got to be a goin’. I’ll tell Graves to send ya some grub up.” He went to the door. “I’ll be back in the morning ta fetch ya home.”

“Fetch you home.” The words flashed across Summer’s mind, and a picture flicked behind her eyes. A cabin set beneath a spreading oak. A rope swing made from a sack of straw . . . her legs wrapped around the sack and someone pushing her back and forth. The breeze hit her face as she went higher and higher. She was commanded to hold tightly in the same voice that said, “Go get all growed up and I’ll come and fetch you home.” The picture faded and she turned to the man waiting beside the door.

“We’ll be ready.”

She scarcely heard the door close or the boot heels pounding down the plank stairs. She was searching out the window for something that had caught her attention before Bulldog spoke. There he was, leaning against the side of the building. He was tall and powerful, though not very heavy in build. Something about the way he carried himself drew her eyes to him. They had settled on him and couldn’t seem to look away. She had noticed him skirting the crowd that surrounded the fight. He was the only person on the street who didn’t stop to watch. He stood quietly and lit a smoke. His hat was pulled down low and the light from the flared match scarcely made a pinpoint of light in his cupped hands.

He moved away from the building and strode across the road. Summer watched. He walked as if he owned the earth! Bulldog emerged from under the hotel porch and hurried to meet him. He talked. The tall man tilted his head as if listening intently. Bulldog lifted his hand toward the upper window of the hotel. The man stood stonestill, never lifting his head to glance up. Finally, he started walking down the street. Bulldog’s shorter legs worked to keep pace with him. The two passed out of Summer’s sight and she felt odd and nervous, knowing something was going to happen—something apart from just the new life on their old homestead. Something, she felt, that for her was truly new and unimaginable.

While her brother leaned on the window sill, oblivious to everything except the sights, sounds and smells of the street, Summer washed her face and hands. Every so often, she thought she could hear a sound coming from the other side of the thin wall and would turn her head a little, trying to catch the sound.

For a minute, she heard nothing. Then the sound came again and she knew what it was. A child was crying. She glanced at John Austin. It seemed so long ago that he was a child, with only crying to speak for what hurt him or what he needed. It was hard for her to believe this little brother of hers was merely eight years old. He had not even cried when their mother died. Instead, he had comforted her, telling her that Mama had gone to heaven to meet Papa. She would be able to walk there and would be happy.

A pounding on the door brought her up with a start, and she went to it. The hotel man stood there with a pan of stew, bowls, a flat tin of cornbread and a jug of milk, all balanced on a heavy tray. He set the tray on the bureau.

“Leave the pots outside the door when yore done, or else come down with ’em.” His bold eyes appraised her.

“I’ll leave them in the hall,” she said stiffly, and moved to close the door the instant he passed through. Seconds later, she heard a loud thumping, and pulled the door ajar. The man was viciously kicking the door down the hall.

“Hush yore mouth! I ain’t a havin’ no goddam bawlin’, hear? Yore botherin’ payin’ lodgers.” “A louder wail came from the room, as if the child were suddenly terrified by the man’s loud voice.

“Is that child alone?” Summer demanded, coming out into the dimly-lit hallway.

The man turned on her angrily. “She shore as hell better be! I ain’t havin’ no whorin’ done in my hotel! I hadn’t ort to a let her leave the snotty-nosed brat here. I never figured she’d bawl all night.”

“Where is her mother?”

“At the dance hall or the saloon. A whore’s what she is!”

Summer’s lips tightened. “Well . . . that’s not the child’s fault. Open the door, and I’ll talk to her.”

“She locks the door afore she goes off nights.”

“I can’t believe a mother would do such a thing. What . . . what if this building caught fire?”

“I got me a notion,” he growled, ignoring the question, “to haul that squallin’ brat over to the dance hall. I ain’t a havin’ no more of it.”

“That’s no place for a child, and you know it. Open the door, and I’ll take care of her until morning.” Summer’s anger was rising.

“I’d have to get the key,” he protested.

“Then go get it!” She pulled herself up to her full height of five feet, four inches and glared at him.

He looked for a moment as if he were going to protest again, but seeing that she was not going to back down, he growled something under his breath and turned away. At the head of the stairs, he looked back at her standing firmly by the door, her arms folded, watching him.

“Damn lucky fer you I ain’t a wantin’ to tangle with that bastard Bulldog works fer.” Still growling to himself, he stomped back down the stairs.

Summer kept her back straight and her chin lifted until the man was out of sight. It wouldn’t do for him to know how tired and small she really felt. She placed her ear to the door. The child’s sobs were ragged.

The room was dark as night when she opened the door. The faint glow from the lamp in the hall showed the outline of the bed and the small bundle huddled on it. Large, wet eyes looked up at Summer from a chubby face framed by long, curly hair. Small lips trembled as she peered past Summer toward the hotel man standing beside the door.

“Come stay with me until your mama comes back.” Summer held out her arms and the little girl went into them eagerly and hid her face against her shoulder. Summer got to her feet holding the child.

“I’ll take care of her,” she said to the sullen man as she walked past.

In her own room, she kicked the door shut, and her eyes sought her brother. He was still looking out the window, and she doubted if he knew she had been gone.

The child’s large, sad eyes tugged at her heart. She couldn’t be more than three years old. And such a beautiful child, even in the huge shapeless nightdress. Her hair was copper-brown and curled in tight ringlets. A spattering of freckles crossed her short, pert little nose. She looked around the room with interest and her eyes caught John Austin by the window.

“What’s your name?” Summer asked as she poured water into the wash bowl. She wet a cloth and wiped the child’s face.

The little girl hiccoughed. “Mary Evelyn.”

Summer barely heard the little girl’s shy voice.

“My name is Summer and the boy is my brother. His name is John Austin.”

Shaken from his reverie, John Austin turned to look with astonishment at the little girl sitting on the cot.

“Where’d she come from?”

“From the room next door. She’s going to stay with us till her mama comes back.”

The two children eyed each other.

A pleased smile came over John Austin’s face. He went to the cot, sat down, and picked up the little girl’s hand.

“She’s so pretty, Summer. Look at that curly hair.” He reached up and pushed the hair back from the child’s face. “What’s she been cryin’ for?”

Summer had thought nothing her brother could do would surprise her anymore, but she wasn’t prepared for his interest in and compassion for the little girl. Involuntary tears of love sprang into her eyes, and she swallowed the lump in her throat.

“I suspect she’s hungry.” She lifted the lid on the stew pot. “Wash your hands, dear, and I’ll dish up the stew.”

By the time the meal was over, the little girl’s eyes were dry, and only wet, spikey lashes remained. She smiled often. Once she laughed out loud at John Austin’s antics.

Seeing them together, Summer thought she could remember another time when a small child gazed with adoration at a boy; a tall, slim, dark-haired boy, who held her hand and walked with her on a log spanning a creek. He told her not to be afraid; and because he asked it, she wasn’t. The child was herself, but the boy . . . ? Was he just a figment of her imagination?

These flashes were so brief—she couldn’t be sure if it was a memory or a wishful dream.

She bedded John Austin down on.the cot and lay, fully clothed, beside Mary on the bed. The child snuggled up to her and was soon asleep. Resentment toward the child’s mother curled deep in Summer’s stomach. She and John Austin would be gone tomorrow, and then what would become of the little girl?

Soon the nagging worry of how she and her brother were going to survive out on a homestead, without having to depend on Sam McLean for every bite of food that went into their mouths, crowded all other thoughts from her mind. It wasn’t too late to put in a garden. She could certainly do that. But she needed money for other things; shoes, yard goods, a warm coat for John Austin. They shouldn’t have come! The money spent on the stage fares would have kept them for a long time if they had stayed in the Piney Woods. One thing was sure, she couldn’t ask Sam McLean for any more help. Although his letter had promised no more than that a homestead was waiting for them, she had expected more. Now she had only herself to blame.

Summer couldn’t prevent her eyelids from drooping. She was tired and regretful, regardless of the promise she had made to her dying mother. They had traveled all day for many days, and her body ached from the bouncing stage. Soon sleep came, though she didn’t know it.

A piercing scream and the slamming of a door woke her. She tried to gather her wits. She shook her head, stretched her stiff back, and came to her senses. It had to be the child’s mother.

Summer hurried to the door and fumbled with the key. The instant she stepped into the hall, another door opened and a man sprang into the hallway. Summer almost laughed. He wore only his breeches and a hat and had two big six-shooters in his hands.

“What the hell?”

A large blonde woman, making no attempt to cover her voluptuous breasts, came out of the man’s room.

“Come on back, honeybunch.” She clutched his arm and rubbed her bare bosom against him.

With face aflame and eyes averted, Summer edged past them.

A woman’s voice was coming from the stairway and had risen to an almost hysterical pitch.

“Graves! Graves, you bastard! Where’s my baby? If you let anything happen to her, I’ll . . . I’ll crucify you! Mary Evelyn! Mar . . . ry!”

Summer hurried to overtake the woman before she bolted down the stairs.

“Your little girl is with me,” she called, but the woman was already at the foot of the stairs and didn’t hear.

The hotel man came up from a cot behind the counter.

“Shut yore goddam mouth! Yore waking up the whole place.”

“You . . . you yellow-bellied . . . skunk! Mar . . . ry!” The woman was sobbing now.

“She’s with me,” Summer called again.

The woman turned. She was no more than a girl. Green eyes stared up at Summer out of pain-darkened sockets. Tight, matted curls framed a thin face with a short, upturned nose. A pink satin dress, much too large for the slight frame, hung to the floor on one side and came up to midcalf on the other. She raced back up the stairs.

“Where’s she at?”

“You get that little bastard and get outta here!” The hotel man was standing at the foot of the stairs, his face twisted with rage. “Whore! Slut! Out . . . do you hear? Out!”

“You have Mary? Oh! Oh, thank God! I was so scared! I was scared that piss-ant had done something to her. I’d a killed him! I swear, if he’d a hurt my baby, I’d a killed him.”

“She’s all right. She’s sleeping in my room. Come, I’ll show you.”

The man with the gun went back into his room and slammed the door when Summer marched by him without as much as a glance. Inside her own room, she closed the door firmly and turned the key. The girl went to kneel beside the bed. The child was awake and reached out to wrap her small arms about her mother’s neck.

“Mama . . . Mama . . .”

“Oh, baby! Oh, God, baby, I was so scared! I couldn’t find you, lovey.”

Summer stood at the end of the bed. The light from the flickering lamp played on the girl’s pitifully thin shoulders and arms. When she looked up, her eyes were swimming with tears, her mouth looked puffed and bruised, and there were teeth marks on her neck.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

“No thanks are necessary. I think my brother was smitten with her,” she said, indicating the sleeping boy. “They took to each other right away.”

The girl looked searchingly at Summer, then at the boy on the cot. She covered the little girl and got shakily to her feet.

“I’m at the end of my rope,” she blurted out. “I just don’t know what I’m goin’ to do.” Tears streamed down the tired white face, and her lips trembled. “I’m not a whore, ma’am. Not yet! But I’m just the same as . . . ’cause I don’t know how much longer I can hold out without going to bed with ’em! I don’t care about me, anymore, but I got to find a place for Mary Evelyn. You like her, don’t you? She’s sweet and real . . . good.” She sank down on the bed and buried her face in her hands.

Summer put her arm across the shaking shoulders and the girl’s story poured out in sobbing, broken sentences.

Her name was Sadie Irene Bratcher; married at fourteen, mother at fifteen and widowed at seventeen. She’d married a young drifter and they had tried homesteading, but the lure of town was too much for her young husband. He died in a shootout over a card game, and Sadie and the little girl had been on their own for almost a year. She had come to Hamilton about a month ago. The only work she could find was in the dance hall, and it took most of her earnings to pay the hotel man.

“I’ll go to whorin’, if it’s the only way I can feed my baby,” she said firmly, then trembled violently. “Oh, God, ma’am, you can’t know what it’s like . . . pawin’ . . . slobberin’ . . . and they stink and dip snuff and spit! But I could do it if I had a decent place for Mary to stay.” The girl rocked back and forth in her misery.

Summer went to the window and looked down. The street was empty, except for a horse tied to the rail in front of the saloon. The horse stood, head down, stamping or pawing occasionally, to relieve the boredom of waiting. Summer felt the shadowy presence of Sam McLean more distinctly than any time since her mother had died. He was in the back of her mind, a person to lean on. He stood solidly between her and her becoming like this poor, miserable girl. The girl was desperate, and Summer knew what she was leading up to; the request she was about to make. She couldn’t take on the care of another child. She couldn’t. But . . . Bulldog had said something . . . something about if she wanted a woman . . .

Not one to hesitate after making a decision, Summer went back to the bed and faced the girl.

“I’ve a solution, if you’re willing to go out to a homestead with me and my brother.” She sat down on the bed. “We have a homestead about thirty miles south of here. I don’t know what kind of place it is, but it’s near a large ranch owned by . . . our guardian. We’re going out there tomorrow. You and Mary are welcome to come with us. I don’t really look forward to being the only white woman for miles and miles around. Another thing, Sadie, we don’t have much money, but we’ll have a place to live. We’ll have to work hard, put in a garden first thing and . . .”