Bittersweet (9 page)

Galen ruffled Dale’s hair. “With twins, there are only two babies.”

“Oh. So do they look alike?”

Laney dreaded hearing what Ishmael’s twin looked like, but she also desperately wanted to know. She waited to hear his answer.

Ishmael rose and a slow smile crossed his face. “Me and my sis—we both got pale hair and sky eyes, but on Ivy, it’s beautiful.”

“Miss Grubb and I came to an agreement,” Galen said, looking to his ma.

Laney’s heart dropped clear down to the toes of her slippers. Not only did Galen indicate he’d rather have Ivy Grubb come help his mother; Ivy was beautiful.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
’m letting my imagination run away with me. Galen’s too methodical to
be swept away by a pretty face in just a matter of days. But I would have
said the same thing about Josh, and he’s besotted with Ruth
.

Oblivious to how his words alarmed Laney, Galen continued on. “Miss Grubb’s come over and kept up your garden, Ma. She weeded and made sure to pick beans, tomatoes, and pears so you wouldn’t have to set to work till tomorrow.”

Galen’s mother has had to teach me about gardening. Ivy already knows
so much, she can take care of that on her own. A farmer like Galen needs a
wife who can work by his side and do those practical things. I didn’t learn them
fast enough
. Laney’s stomach clenched.

Weak laughter bubbled out of Mrs. O’Sullivan. “I should have guessed you’d found some help, Galen-mine. You were never one for cleanin’ the house, and my stove’s gleaming brighter than a diamond-dust mirror.”

“Elaine Louise,” Hilda said, tugging at her. “You’re to put on water to boil and make noodles. Stop daydreamin’ and be useful.”

Laney nodded. She didn’t trust herself to say anything. Her faith and prayers hadn’t made any difference. Galen still treated her like she was Josh’s bothersome baby sister instead of seeing her as a mature young lady who’d be a good wife, so he’d grown interested in someone else and given her his heart.

Ivy winced as she hefted the pail from the stream. She’d burned her hand last night—something she hadn’t done in ages. The calluses on her hands usually protected her, but she’d been distracted by Pa. By morning a blister as big as a robin’s egg had formed in the crease of her hand. The rope handle of the pail grated across it.

“What’s takin’ you so long?” Pa hollered at her.

“I only got two more rows to water,” she called back. Under her breath, she muttered, “If ’n yore in such an all-fired hurry, you could holp me out.”

“Stop by me so’s I cain have a drink.” He didn’t even bother to look up at her. He kept shaving his knife across a small branch, making wood form curls that fell into a huge pile around him.

She backtracked and switched the bucket to the other hand. Pa stabbed his knife into the side of the stump he sat upon and crammed that hand into the bucket.

Yanking his hand back out, he snarled, “That ain’t cool ’nuff.”

“I’ll use it to water the corn and fetch another.”

He pushed the bucket, causing water to slosh all over her skirt. “Yore as stupid as yore ugly. How many times do I gotta tell you, a gal’s s’posed to put the men in her life first?”

Ivy trudged back to the stream. The thin, soaking wet material of her skirt stuck to her legs. She dumped out the water, then chose a shady spot to refill the bucket. As she knelt, she studied the faded red and blue marks on the material. B-E-S-T.

“That spells
best
,” Ishmael had told her years back as she’d used the flour sacks to stitch the garment. “And that’s what you are, sis. Yore the best sister a man e’er got.”

Fine quality flour came in pretty calico; middlings were sold in simple white sacks with some lettering across them. A quick glance, and folks could tell how her clothes marked her as mangydog poor. Nobody but Ishmael could look at her one and only dress and think of something nice to say.

“What’s keepin’ ya?” Pa spat loudly. “I’m so parched, I cain barely e’en spit!”

Pa’s sore as a billy goat with a boil on his tail. Ishy don’t know how
lucky he is to get away
.

“Gal!” Pa let out a stream of curses.

Ivy hoisted the pail and headed back to her father. “Here. It’s cool as cain be.” She held out the bucket, and Pa slurped as much as he wanted. “You shore got a pile of shavings thar, Pa.”

“Yup. They’re gold in my pocket.”

Gold? Ivy gave no reply. Pa couldn’t just take a handful of dried leaves and twigs to start the fire for his still. He insisted on using shavings from an east-pointing branch from an oak tree—at least today he did.

“Don’t stand there the whole livelong day. Ain’t like yore purdy ’nuff for a man to wanna take a second look. We’ve gotta get us some corn right quick. All I got is one jug left, and it’s half gone.”

She headed toward the far corner of the garden and emptied the bucket on the corn. It took five more trips to finish watering the farthest little patch where the water didn’t manage to seep when she diverted the flow from the stream into the irrigation ditches.

During that time she watered her worries, and they grew. At best, Pa tended toward being surly. When he ran out of his oh-be-joyful, he turned impossible.
The corn won’t be ready yet, and he’ll
run out of his likker. Ishy always holped me when Pa took a bad turn like that.
With Ishy a-workin’ at the farm down yonder, how’m I a-gonna manage Pa?

“Hey.”

Ivy wheeled around and spied her brother over several rows of corn. “Ishy! What’re you doin’ home?” He didn’t look sad in the least, but Ivy couldn’t help blurting out, “Yore s’posed to be working for that O’Sullivan feller. Did he—” “Stop frettin’.” Ishmael carefully weaseled his way toward her. “His kin came home. I’ll work a full day tomorrow ’stead of today.

And lookee what I got here.”

Ivy tilted her head to the side. “A box?”

“A box from a real diner. This is store-bought food!”

“Cain’t be. Nobody’s fool ’nuff to put vittles in a paper box.”

Ishmael chortled softly. “Depends on what kind of vittles, but the gal in town at the diner don’t have much horse sense. Took Mr. O’Sullivan’s ma and three other gals a chunk of time and work to fix it up afore we et.”

“Don’t make no sense. Why’d anybody pay lots of cash money for food they had to take home and cook up again?”

“No explainin’ the peculiarities of others.” Ishmael lifted the lid on the box.

Ivy looked inside and resisted the urge to poke at the contents. “What is it?”

“Taters and fur-ick-a-seed chicken.”

“I don’t see no seeds on the chicken.”

“Me, neither, but I didn’t ask. Miz O’Sullivan mixed up a batch of white gravy and we poured it o’er the chicken and a mess of noodles.”

“Why’d they leave the eyes in the mashed—” Ishmael chuckled again. “Those ain’t the tater peels or eyes. Part of the box stuck. They picked off the pasteboard, mixed eggs and cheese with the taters, and fried ’em up.”

Ivy’s mouth started to water.

“Tasted right fine. Miz O’Sullivan said she was too tuckered out from travelin’ to have to do the same all o’er again with this box. The other gals—they’re from the ranch next door—they said they was plumb wore out, too. The McCain gals—one’s Joshua McCain’s wife and t’other’s his sis—well, when Mr. O’Sullivan tole them how good yore breakfasts was, they asked if you’d be willin’ to take this on. Elsewise, they was gonna jist drop the box into the pig sty!”

“They couldn’t!” Ivy glanced back at the box. “Then again, cain’t say as I blame ’em if ’n they’re dead on their feet. That food’s a rare mess.”

“Miz O’Sullivan stuck a hunk of cheese in my pocket.” He shook his head. “Niver woulda thunk I’d do it, but I fed the cake to the pigs, sis.”

Ivy gawked at him. “A cake?”

“If you could call it that. ’Twas burnt on the outside and mushy like muddy grits on the inside. Soon as Boss’s ma cut into it, it run all over. Ever’body started a-roarin’ like ’twas a grand joke. One of the boys stuck his finger in it to sample it. Grabbed for a cup of water to wash out the taste.”

“That’s a cryin’ shame.”

“Sis, if that gal cain get herself a job in a diner cookin’ sommat that sorry, I’m shore one of these days when—” He stopped and shoved the box into her hands. “You got a future, Ivy. Yore a fine cook. Someday, you’ll be a-cookin’ in one of them fancy town diners and folks’ll come from far and wide to get a taste.”

He picked up the bucket and scanned the field. “I’ll get up early tomorrow and water afore I hie on over to the O’Sullivans’.”

“You don’t need to.”

They walked back toward the fire pit. Pa sat there, scowling at a curl of oak and going on the second round of cusswords.

“That’s a powerful lot of oak.” Ishmael’s voice took on an edge. “Thunk you finished doin’ the shavin’s yesternoon.”

Pa shook his head. “Didn’t hardly sleep a wink last night. Couldn’t figger out why. This mornin’ it all come to me. East of the Mississip, I did branches growin’ west. We’re clean on the west coast. I reckon that means the shavin’s ought to come from a eastgrowin’ branch. The one I did yesternoon went the wrong way. Had to put that matter to rights today.”

Ishmael shot a look at Ivy. “D’ya got any wood for supper tonight?”

“Not much. Used up most of the deadwood I collected these past days. Pa’s been claiming what he wants for the still.” Her father had taken almost everything she’d gathered. She pointed at a pitiful little tangle of wood. “That thar’s what I got left to cook with.”

Ishmael set down the bucket and picked up the ax. “Since Pa favors the oak for his still, I’ll be shore to find some sycamore or cottonwood this time.”

“I’m a-gonna need plenty of oak when the time comes.” Pa tossed down the last bit of the branch he’d been using. “And I need one straightaway. A beetle-bug crawled ’cross jist now.”

“You already have plenty to use as tinder.” Ishmael focused on the pile of shavings. “Fact is, Pa, that’s a powerful lot there. Bet you worked all day on it.”

“Ain’t no good now. The beetle-bug ruint it. I’ll jist make a new supply tomorry. You find me a good east-facin’ oak branch now.”

Ishmael let out a long, mournful sigh. “Sorry, sis. Guess we ain’t a-gonna have that good supper after all.”

“Huh?” Pa finally bothered to look at her. “Why not, and whatcha got thar?”

“Don’t matter what she got, Pa.” Ishmael studied the ax blade. “You always say we gotta put the still first.”

Pa’s face pulled to the right, the way it always did when he was fixin’ to concoct an excuse. “I reckon you cain chop wood for a cook fire. I was about done with that branch afore that blasted beetle-bug took a mind to scurry here, so this tinder’ll be good ’nuff.”

Ishmael nodded gravely. “You know best, Pa.”

“Gal, tote all these careful-like to the lean-to. Don’t you go breakin’ none of my special curlies.”

“Ain’t that nice of you, Pa?” Ishmael smiled so big, Ivy could see his back teeth. “Lettin’ Ivy move them light little curlies while us men go drag back the heavier wood. It’s right gentlemanly.”

“Now hold on. My back’s twinged the whole livelong day.”

“Don’t doubt that atall,” Ivy said.

“I’ll rig a travois for the mule,” her brother said. “That’ll spare your back, Pa.”

Pa settled back. “Then you won’t need me.”

“Till I get wood,” Ivy said, striving to keep bitterness from her voice, “I cain’t very well get supper goin’.”

Pa shrugged. “It’s jist past midday. Ishy’s got plenty of time.”

Ivy turned away.
No use trying to get Pa to do any work. If he put
half the effort into doing chores as he did to avoiding them, life would be a lot
easier. Well, it’d be easier for me and Ishy. Pa don’t care none ’bout that though
.

“Whoa. What in thunderation d’ya thank yore doin’?”

Ivy turned and saw Ishy fill his big hands with the silly little oak shavings. “I figgered if I had time, I oughtta holp Sis.”

“That’s woman’s work.”

“When we bartered my labor for the right to work this land, you said you and Ivy would work the fields here so’s you’d bring in the crop. Every crop we’ve ever had, it’s taken Sis and me both to grow it. Ivy’s a-doin’ man’s work. Heavy work. Ev’ry day.”