Allie's Moon (7 page)

Fleeting images sliced through Jeff’s mind:
the summer afternoons they fished at the stream, the Saturday night
dinners he and Sally spent with Will and his wife, Caroline, the
laughter and fun—it had all been part of that other life Jeff had
known. And it was as dead as autumn leaves. He regretted that, as
much as his sense of insulated detachment would allow, anyway.

Will sighed and pushed his hat off his
forehead. “Damn, Jeff, you sure haven’t made it easy. I’ve wanted
to turn my back on you lots of times over the past couple of
years.”

“
Then why the hell didn’t
you?”

Will propped his foot on the wagon wheel hub.
“Because true friends don’t do that. I owe it to the man I used to
know and respect—I owe it to him to help you now.”

Jeff scuffed at the dirt with his boot but
had the grace to keep his mouth shut.

“
Well, Jeff, what do you
say?”

He jammed his hands in his pockets but
wouldn’t look Will in the face. What could he say? A twinge of
sentiment stirred somewhere inside him. “Yeah, I guess I’ll stay
here,” he muttered.

Will lifted his head and called to Althea,
“Ma’am, how about it? Can you use the help?”

Jeff chanced a look at her. The sunset gave
her heavy auburn hair highlights of fire. She turned and glanced
over her shoulder at the house, as if seeking permission. “Yes, I
suppose—I suppose it will be all right.”

“
Good. I’ll let you two work out the
details.” Will hopped up to the wagon seat and took the reins.
“I’ll drop by sometime next week, just to see how things are
going.”

Jeff couldn’t keep the scowl off his face as
he watched Will drive away. After the wagon was out of sight, he
looked around him again, remembering what he’d thought just this
morning when he first saw this place—there was enough work here to
keep a man busy for months. At that moment, he hadn’t realized he’d
be stranded out here and have the months to give.

He heard Althea approach him; her skirts
swished through the tall grass, and the faintest fragrance
accompanied her. “I’ll warm up your dinner in a minute, Mr. Hicks.
But perhaps we should discuss our arrangement.”

He faced her and nodded. Her smooth skin was
the color of fresh cream, and in keeping with that dark-flame hair
she had a spray of pale freckles across her nose and cheeks. But
those eyes . . . he felt as if they saw all the
secrets, all the hurts.

“
Why did you steal those eggs from
Farley Wright?”

He pushed his hands into his back pockets.
“Because I was hungry.” He wished he had a better answer, a more
noble answer, but he didn’t.

“
Are you going to steal from
me?”

By God, but she was blunt. Her directness had
a way of cutting a man to the bone. “No, ma’am.”

“
You know if you do, I’ll have Sheriff
Mason take you back to jail before you can say Sam
Hill.”

He didn’t know why he should care what she
thought, but he blurted, “I only took one egg. And I didn’t steal
it. I left a penny for it.”

She nodded again, apparently satisfied. “You
won’t go hungry here. I’ll give you room and board, and pay you a
wage—seven cents an hour—provided that you don’t drink on my
property or on my time. There is no excuse for that sort of
behavior, Mr. Hicks. Our years are too precious to waste on
self-indulgence.”

Keeping his expression carefully blank, Jeff
sneered at her self-righteousness. She didn’t know what she was
talking about, and sounded like someone who’d never had a bad
experience in her life. Some things were too horrible to bear, and
humming a happy tune or looking on the bright side didn’t make them
one damn bit easier to live with.

She probably felt sorry for him, too. He
wasn’t sure which was worse, people’s pity or their busybody
whispering.

Her eyes touched him here and there,
examining his lack of barbering and dirty clothes. “I must also
insist that you clean up and let me cut your hair. I think I can
find something for you to wear, too. Cleanliness is one of the
qualities that raises us above animals.”

She was beginning to sound like a missionary.
The minute she brought out a Bible, he’d be gone from here, no
matter what Will Mason threatened. “I’m no church project, Miss
Ford,” he warned.

She got a tight look around her mouth, and
her nose pinched up, as if she smelled something bad. “This is not
Christian charity I’m offering, Mr. Hicks. Even you must agree that
your clothes have already seen their best days. And there is
nothing wrong with being clean. Soap and water are cheap.”

He couldn’t deny that. She was the fussy
sort, though, and probably hard to please. It showed in everything
about her—the way she dressed with her high, tight collar, and the
way she wanted things done. Her foolishness about the barn door was
a good example.

But he sensed that there was more to her, a
femininity that made him remember a time in his life when he could
appreciate softness and tender feelings. It made him want to study
her when she wasn’t looking at him.

“
You can stay in that room over there.”
She pointed to the lean-to where he’d found the shingles. “I’ll
give you clean linen and a tick. If you do as I ask, we’ll get
along. Is this agreeable to you?”

Agreeable? What choice did he have? He looked
into her eyes. “Well, ma’am, my mother used to say that some people
are born with no place to go. I don’t think she was talking about
me, but I guess that’s the way it’s turned out.”

~~*~*~*~~

“
Do you mean he’s going to live here? A
man?” Olivia asked, a delicate horror on her delicate face. She
buttered a biscuit she’d made herself with dainty strokes and
added, “Goodness, Althea, we don’t know anything about him. He
could murder us in our beds. I saw him from the window—he looks
quite disgusting and disreputable.”

They were eating dinner later than usual;
good lord, it was nearly eight o’clock, Althea noted when she
glanced up at the parlor clock. Getting Jeff Hicks fed and settled
were tasks that she hadn’t anticipated.

Olivia had made the dinner biscuits in an
effort to be helpful, and Althea took one, but eating it was a
labor of love. Olivia could try her patience down to its last
fiber, and then she’d do something sweet like making these biscuits
or ironing. Unfortunately, Olivia had no talent for the domestic
arts. Althea owned several chemises with large, iron-shaped scorch
marks that Olivia had branded upon them, and her biscuits could be
used for cannonballs.

On her plate, Althea mashed a boiled potato
with her fork. “We do know something about him. He was the sheriff
and he needs the work. We certainly need the help. Anyway, Will
Mason recommended him, and I think that counts for something.”
Althea kept her own misgivings and Will’s reasons for the
recommendation to herself. Olivia would probably fuss and worry too
much if she knew the details. “Besides, he won’t look so
disreputable after he’s cleaned up. I’ll give him a haircut and
he’ll look better.”

Her sister dropped her knife on her plate
with a clatter. “You’re going to touch him?” she whispered. “Do you
think you should? After all, he’s a man—I mean isn’t it
indecent?”

Althea didn’t know whether to laugh or frown.
Olivia was even more innocent than Althea, and her own experience
with men was limited to serving dinner to Lane Smithfield. “Cutting
a man’s hair isn’t indecent. I used to cut Father’s hair.”

“
But that was different. He was, well,
he was a relative.”

Now she did laugh. “Don’t worry, Olivia.
Cutting Mr. Hicks’ hair isn’t going to jeopardize my reputation or
my immortal soul. If I have to deal with him, I want him to look
tidy.”

Olivia took a nibble of her biscuit. “Well, I
hope he won’t be here long. You know how difficult it is for me to
adjust to changes.” She looked up, her expression emphatic. “We’ll
still have our picnic, won’t we? I mean, we don’t have to invite
him, do we?”

Althea took a sip of her coffee. “Of course
not. Jeff Hicks is a handyman, Olivia, not our guest. Except for
eating his own lunch, he’ll be busy working while we picnic.”

Olivia took up her knife again. “All right.
You won’t forget to make the tea sandwiches and potato salad, will
you?”

A picnic was not something Althea really had
time for. She had ironing to do, and the rugs needed to be beaten,
aired, and put in storage. The graves needed weeding and that was a
task that she could not delegate to Jeff Hicks or anyone else. But
to keep Olivia happy, she would set aside her other chores. “No, I
won’t forget. I’ll get up early to fix them.”

There would be no needlepoint tonight. By the
time the dishes were washed, Althea was ready to fall into bed. It
had been a very long day and tomorrow promised to be just as
tiring.

But when she turned down the wick on her
bedside lamp, Althea found her mind on the man staying in the
lean-to. She didn’t know what to think of Jefferson Hicks; he
wouldn’t meet her gaze, he didn’t speak unless directly questioned,
and then he responded in short, clipped sentences. Although she
knew it was none of her business, it bothered her that he was
squandering his life on dissolution. Despite his grubby appearance,
something about him touched her—he looked as if neither he nor
anyone else in the world cared one whit about him.

Althea knew that feeling very well.

~~*~*~*~~

Late that night Jeff lay on top of the bed
he’d just finished making in the little lean-to. It was only an old
corn husk mattress that Althea had given him, but the sheets were
clean and he didn’t feel right about crawling between them without
a bath. He figured he’d take one at dawn, when he could see his way
to the trough.

He’d been lying here a long time watching a
moth bump restlessly around the globe of the kerosene lantern
hanging on the wall. He knew how that moth felt. It had been many,
many months since he’d had to face silence and his own thoughts
without the pleasant blur of a head full of whiskey. He knew it was
nearly midnight, and after the hard work he’d put in on that roof,
he should be sleeping like the dead. He would need the rest if he
meant to put in a full day tomorrow.

Except he couldn’t sleep at all. His nerves
seemed to be on fire just beneath his skin, and his heart was
pounding as if Farley Wright’s dog had him trapped in the henhouse
again. Once in a while, he’d begin to doze off, only to lurch awake
again with a sense of profound panic. He had nothing to be afraid
of, exactly, but the feeling wouldn’t go away.

He tossed and turned, wishing to God he’d
been able to get that whiskey he longed for. Without it, Wes
Matthews lay dead before him again, his chest spouting blood like a
geyser. Or he’d see Sally’s face, cold and shuttered, or worse,
he’d hear her voice, sweet and soothing, as it had sounded before
she’d turned away from him.

Sometimes even a picture of Althea Ford rose
in his mind, and he found that most amazing of all. He hadn’t given
much thought to having a woman in the last two years, so why he
should think of her, he couldn’t guess. Miss Fussy Drawers didn’t
approve of him or what he did with his time. But now he imagined
what her softness would feel like under his hands and lips. Would
her hair be lush and sweet-smelling when she freed it from its
pins? Would her body be as smooth and cream-white as her
complexion?

He flopped over on his belly and punched the
feather pillow.

The endless night stretched out before him
like a dark, twisting path, full of mystery and danger.

Just one drink—if he had just one, it might
shut out those memories and faces. He never should have let Will
twist his arm into staying here. If he’d refused, Will would’ve had
to take him back to town and he would have been free a lot sooner
than the end of summer. He could have his whiskey, and he wouldn’t
need to deal with the demanding Miss Althea Ford.

Maybe when Will came back out in a few days,
he could weasel out of this deal. Until then, though, he was
stuck.

~~*~*~*~~

Dawn came sooner than Althea would have
liked, but there was no getting around the work she had to do
today. After she washed and dressed, she went down the hall to her
father’s old bedroom. The door was kept closed, and Althea had not
willingly set foot inside since his death. She gripped the cold
glass knob for a moment, then gave it a twist and pushed. The
bedroom looked exactly as it had for as long as she could remember.
She hadn’t moved or changed a thing.

Running her hand over the already tidy
counterpane, Althea stared at the chair next to the bed. She’d
spent hours sitting in here toward the end of her father’s life.
Years of working the land had not made him sturdy and rugged, as it
did other men. At the age of fifty, his failing heart had turned
him into an invalid. It had been impossible for him to take more
than a step or two without becoming winded, and he’d coughed
continuously.

Olivia had been no help. In a state of
nervous exhaustion she’d rarely ventured beyond her own bed. So
Althea had shouldered the responsibility of caring for both of
them.

But Althea had been dutiful—Amos Ford had not
had to so much as ask for a drink of water. She’d anticipated and
seen to his every need and want.

Hoping . . . hoping that
he would forgive her at last, and not carry his bitterness with him
to his grave.

When he’d taken his last strangled breath, it
was long past midnight. With Olivia on her knees sobbing
hysterically beside the bed, Althea had stood over them, feeling
excluded and alone. Finally a welcome sense of detachment numbed
her pain and disappointment. As if she’d been watching the scene
from some other place, she wondered why people so often went to
meet Death in the deepest part of the night.