Comanche Rose (22 page)

Rising from the dust, he brushed his buckskin pants with his hands. "All right, I guess I can help you with the rug. Just don't try to bring it in by yourself."

She opened her mouth, then shut it. "I won't," she said finally.

"Good, you're too skinny to be pulling on things like that. Afterward, you'd better sit down and make out your list."

"You're not going today surely."

"Yeah, I figure it'll take a couple of days, anyway. But I'll unload the wagon first."

"But you haven't even eaten!"

"I've still got jerky." A faint smile curved his mouth. "But I'll be sure to leave the Borden's Meat Biscuits here. I figure I'll be back before Christmas, so you won't have to eat em."

"Thank you."

"You got any neighbors close by?" he asked suddenly.

"The Willetts live about five miles to the east—why?"

"Just wondered. Know 'em very well?"

"Well, I used to. Now—" She hesitated. "Well, now I don't know—that is—"

"Yeah."

"Mr. Willett used to come over and help Ethan get in the corn; then Ethan would go back with him and they'd do his field, too. They were quite nice, really," she recalled somewhat wistfully. "Sometimes she'd come over with her husband, and we'd visit while the men were outside."

"Maybe I'll stop in and tell 'em you're home."

"They may not want to see me. They may be like Lulene Davis, you know."

"Maybe, maybe not. At least you'll know."

CHAPTER 15

To combat the awful loneliness, Annie threw herself into putting her house in order. By the time she finally went to bed the first night, she'd exhausted herself by dusting, sweeping, and mopping the parlor and her bedroom. Too tired to dream, she slept soundly until morning. Then, after a breakfast of boiled coffee and dry soda crackers, she started all over again.

Hap Walker had left most of his things there while he made the trip into Veck's Store. Making up a laundry tub with hot water, she pared a bar of lye soap into it, then unrolled his clothes when she unpacked hers. Despite the cold wind blowing down from the north, she had them all washed and pinned on the line well before noon. Then, while her bed linens soaked in one washtub and her dishes in another, she turned her attention to emptying and sorting everything in her chest of drawers.

Going through Ethan's clothing was the worst thing she'd faced so far, but it had to be done. Until she got past that, she couldn't go on. She had to get the finality fixed in her mind. Resigned, she unfolded each shirt, looked it over, then refolded it on the bed, wondering if perhaps Hap Walker might be able to wear them. Or if he'd even want to.

Hap was a strange man, a puzzle to her. Words like kind, tough, bitter, and determined came to mind whenever she thought of him. Just when she'd decided he was perhaps the kindest man she'd known, kinder even than Ethan, she'd see another side of him. Like his remark about being a cripple, the harshness of his judgment of himself. The undeserved disappointment, as though nothing else he'd ever done counted for anything now. All he could see was the limp, and he was too blind to realize it was getting better.

That was like a man, though. A man was raised to think he could do everything, to see himself as a failure if he couldn't. She'd seen that in her father, a successful shopkeeper who'd silently chafed under the boredom of standing behind that counter. In his dreams of glory he'd always seen himself as a lawyer posturing dramatically before a jury. Her mother had never shared that vision, and he'd never tried to live it.

But Hap Walker was different. In his own time he was almost a legend, an Indian fighter, a lawman whose name was as recognized in parts of Texas as Jim Bowie's or Davy Crockett's, not because he won independence for Texas, but because he'd fought to make it safe. Without men like him the place would be empty of ranches and farms, way stations and towns. The way she saw it, he had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing at all.

She set the pile of shirts aside. When he got back, he could try them on and take any that he wanted. The same with the rest of Ethan's clothes. Then she'd know all the work she'd put in them wasn't wasted—and she wouldn't have to look at them anymore. He'd take them with him to the Ybarra.

Her thoughts froze momentarily, and she felt an awful panic. It was odd—she thought she heard a wagon, but he hadn't had time to make the supply trip and get back. Keeping close to the wall and away from the windows, she moved quickly to get the shotgun he'd left for her. Her whole body shaking, she broke it open and checked the load. She had shells in both barrels.

"Miz Bryce! You in there, Miz Bryce?" a man called out.

Her heart pounding so hard she could hear it, she edged to the window and lifted a yellowed curtain. Jim Willett was standing on her porch, and his wife, Mary, was sitting on the buckboard in her front yard. She'd been so lost in thought she hadn't heard them until they were there. Relief washed over her, followed by a new anxiety. What if they'd come just to gawk? What if they looked at her as Lulene Davis had?

"You'd better knock, Jim," Mary reminded him.

Telling herself there wasn't much she could do about what anybody thought of her, Annie smoothed her hair back from her face and went to the door, ready for the worst. Wrenching it open, she managed to force a smile and look Willett in the eye.

"Well, if you ain't a sight for sore eyes! Mary, come here—she's all right!" Grinning at Annie, he pulled off his hat. "Glad to see you home, ma'am."

Behind him, his wife hurried toward the stoop, carrying a basket. "Why, when Captain Walker stopped in to tell us, we couldn't believe our ears! Jim and me figured you were done gone forever, Annie!"

"Hard enough to believe it was Walker," he allowed, taking the basket. Holding it out, he added, "Packed you a mite to eat, ma'am, 'cause he said about all you had was some kind of canned biscuits, and that didn't sound good a-tall."

"Thank you," Annie said, taking it. Afraid she was going to cry, she stepped back. "Come in."

"Better get the rest of the stuff, Jim," Mary reminded him. She stood there for a moment, looking at Annie, then burst into tears herself. "Lordy, but I prayed for this. I been praying ever since it happened, but I never thought—" Unable to go on, the woman threw her arms around Annie. "Welcome home, honey—welcome home," she choked out.

Annie's arms slid around her, embracing her, holding her, hanging on. "Thank you," she whispered. "From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Mary."

Still patting her as though she were a child, the Willett woman assured her, "It's not what I'd like to bring, mind you, but Jim wanted to get right over this morning—said I could fix what you wanted when I got here." Releasing her, she stood back to wipe wet cheeks. "We brung you some chickens. You'll want most of 'em fer laying, but I'm going to wring one of 'em's neck and fry it up for supper. I don't figger them heathens fed you any fried chicken."

"No. Oh, Mary, you don't know how glad I am to see you!"

"Reckon so. If I'd a knowed you was coming home, I'd a been over cleaning the place up, getting it ready fer you. Lawks-a-mercy, but you coulda knocked me over with a feather when Walker said you was home! Now, you just put that food wherever you want it—it's just pork sandwiches, mind you—and I'll get busy. We got a lot of work to do here, Annie, but we'll get it." Her gaze traveled from Annie's face downward, and her smile faded. "Starved you, they did," she decided. "Well, it won't take long to fix that, neither."

"I think I've gained back about half of what I lost."

"Well, you got a ways to go." Mary wiped her streaming eyes again. "I'm so sorry about the kids, Annie. I reckon God's got a special place for that little boy."

"Yes."

Rather than dwell on that, the woman looked past her. "Good, I see you've been busying yourself already. Only thing to do right now—keep busy until you get to where you don't think. Leastwise, that's all that helped me when I lost my boys."

"You lost them?"

Mary nodded. "Diphtheria, both of 'em. Austin caught it first, then Billy—first winter you was gone, Annie. It was real hard, real hard. I ain't over it yet, but—" She patted her stomach shyly. "But after trying hard fer nigh to three years, it looks like God's giving me another chance."

"I'm happy for that. You were a good mother."

"No better'n you." Recovering, Mary Willett moved farther into the room. "I seen those clothes on the line. You been washin' already this morning?"

"Yes."

"Looks like you got this part about in order," Mary murmured approvingly. "I brung a little linseed oil. Soon as I get a rag wet, I'll go over the wood fer you, get it polished up real nice. Then we'll wash the curtains and things, get 'em starched and ironed up. By tonight it'll be like you never left it." Her gaze returned to Annie. "Me 'n' Jim stopped by the church afore we came over to tell the reverend the good news. He'll be spreading the word you're home, so folks'll know to get over and help out."

"Thank you. I'll look forward to seeing everybody."

Mary frowned, then owned, "Well, I wouldn't count on everybody, mind you. There's always some as ain't got any Christian charity, no matter how often they make it to church. But I reckon they ain't worth knowing, anyways."

"I know."

"Now, Annie, you can't think about 'em—they ain't worth wastin' your mind on. There's always some as is so nasty-nice they can't put themselves in anybody else's place. The way I figger it, they got a surprise comin' when they get to them pearly gates upstairs—St. Peter's going to be givin' 'em a one-way ticket down, don't you know?"

"It doesn't matter to me," Annie lied. "I can't worry about what I can't change."

"Exactly. It wasn't easy, mind you, but that's what I finally had to decide after we buried the boys. If I hadn't, I'da gone plumb crazy."

"All right, Mary, where'd you want to put all this stuff?" Jim asked from the door. Looking past her, he told Annie, "She brung darned near ever'thing but the washtub."

"And you woulda thrown that in," his wife reminded him. Turning to Annie, she explained, "It ain't all that much—just things I didn't figger you'd have right now."

"A lot of corn and beans she put up last summer," Jim declared proudly. "Eggs from the layers, bread, round o' cheese, crock o' butter, a little flour to hold you over," he added, ticking them off on his fingers.

"We figgered anything left here was weevily, you know," Mary said quickly.

"I don't know what to say," Annie responded slowly. "I never expected this."

"You want me to turn the hens loose?" he asked.

"I haven't even looked at the henhouse yet."

"I'll see to it. Looks like it's still standing, anyways."

"Ain't you fergettin' something, Jim?" Mary prompted him.

"Huh?"

"You know, in t'other basket."

"Oh."

"Really, this is too much. Hap's gone in to get what I need." Seeing the other woman's smile falter, Annie hastily embraced her. "I'll never be able to repay you for this, never."

"It ain't all that much."

"It's the kindness, Mary. I don't even know what to say."

"You done said thanks, and that's more'n enough."

"Ah-hem." Behind them, Mary's husband cleared his throat. "Reckon this was what you was wantin', ain't it?"

"Well, bring it on over, and let her take a look. Mind you, they ain't much, but I thought they was real purty for what they are." Taking the basket from him, Mary lifted what looked like a small blanket. "Bless me if they ain't sleepin'."

Curious, Annie looked over her shoulder as she reached inside. All she could see was an old pillowcase wrapped around something.

"They're just cats," Jim explained.

"Cats?" she repeated faintly.

"You don't like em?"

"Oh, yes."

"There you are... come on now," Mary said, lifting a little black ball of fur. Slate-blue eyes opened and tiny claws came out as the kitten tried to climb her shoulder. Nestling it against her chin, she reached into the basket again, this time to retrieve another almost like it. But as she held the second one up, Annie could see the little white toes. Both had more hair than any cats she'd ever seen. "Now," Mary demanded triumphantly, "ain't they the prettiest little things? Where they came from I don't know."

"That old gray barn cat," Jim said.

"I know that—I was meaning you wouldn't expect 'em to look like this. Look at that fur." Disengaging the one on her shoulder, she held it out to Annie. "Now, you don't have to take 'em—or you can have just one if you want— but I figgered you'd like a little company."

"They're beautiful."

"Both boys, if you was to believe Jim. Like I said, you can have one or both. I was just hatin' to split 'em up. Real unusual, ain't they?"

"Mary, they're just cats," Jim protested.

"Surely you don't want to part with them."

"Oh, he's been complainin' ever since they was born seven weeks ago—says we got too many. Why, if I hadn't stopped him, he'd a drowned em."

"You're sure?"

"You want em?" Mary asked hopefully.

The one Annie held had its eyes fixed on her face. The long black fur made a circle around its little head, giving it an owlish aspect. It was, without doubt, the prettiest kitten she'd ever seen.

"Of course I want them," she assured the other woman warmly. "They are really beautiful."

"They're just cats," Jim insisted. But as he said it, he was grinning. "Even if they are a mite purty."

"Thank, you."

"Well, that's settled, then. While me 'n' Annie's putting things away and doin' what's needed, you'd better go back home and fetch Henry for her."

"Henry?"

"Well, you gotta have milk, and we can spare 'im."

"Oh, now that's too much! I can't take your cow. Really."

"Ain't a cow." Heading for the door again, Willett said succinctly, "Goat."

"You better take 'er. He don't like 'er neither," Mary confided. "You got to keep 'er tied, or she's a-eatin' ever'thing."

"Oh."