Deborah Camp (7 page)

“Well, what say, little sister?” Duncan asked. “Cat got your tongue? Want me to get down off my horse and check you over to see what’s wrong with you?”

“No.” Zanna swallowed the surge of fear that had risen within her like bile. “Stay put. I’ve nothing more to say to you.” She started to turn away, but his voice stopped her, sliding into her heart like a knife blade.

“Gonna murder this husband, too?”

Zanna slanted a glare up at him. The sun was behind him and his broad-brimmed hat threw his face into shadow. She couldn’t see his expression clearly, but she knew he was sneering at her.

“My husband was struck by lightning.”

“And in the nick of time, huh?” He looked toward the barn. “Your new one doing chores or is he piled up in your bed?”

“He’s working. That’s what I should be doing, so you’ll have to get along, Duncan. I’m busy.”

“I want to meet this new man of yours. It ain’t every day a fella gets to jaw with a convict. I bet he’s got some tales to tell.”

“He’s too busy to tell tales.” She started for the house, taking giant strides away from Duncan and his jittery palomino. Fayne had given him the stallion and Duncan had named it Pride, which is what he felt for it. Zanna thought
it should have been named Pity because it was terrified of every sound or motion and never knew a moment’s peace.

Before she went inside the house, she looked over her shoulder. Duncan removed his hat and made a sweeping motion, crossing his arm over his chest.

“I’ll be back for a longer visit,” he said in a voice as slimy as castor oil. “You and me got some catching up to do.” He laughed and set his hat back over slick black hair. “That’s right, little sister. Me and you got some business of our very own.” He brought the palomino’s head around, then applied his spurs. The poor steed leaped, snorted, and ran like the wind.

Zanna released her breath in a long, whistling sigh and went inside. She set the basket of eggs on the dining room table and dropped into a chair. After a few minutes of repairing the damage to her nerves, she went into the kitchen and put three eggs into a pan of water. She stoked the fire, added more kindling, and set the pot on top of the cast-iron stove. She stood motionless, staring at the eggs, while dark memories immersed her until she felt the need to come up for air. She gasped for breath, blinked rapidly until her eyes focused on the boiling water. The eggs tapped against the sides.

Using her apron as a pot holder, Zanna removed the pan from the stove and poured off the water into a large mug. She put the eggs in a bowl on the table along with two slices of bread and a glass of water. For herself, she buttered a slice of bread and spooned on a generous amount of strawberry preserves that a neighbor woman had given her for Christmas. She made some tea with the hot water from the eggs.

Zanna had finished her light dinner when Grandy stumbled into the house, bleary-eyed and sweating profusely. His shirt was stained under the arms and across his chest and back.

“You’ll need to wash out that shirt so that you can wear it until I can get into town and buy you some others.” She
stood up from the table and started for the spare bedroom. “There might be one other shirt in the trunk. Did you look?”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Your dinner is on the table,” she said, going into the spare room. She pushed back the heavy curtains, but dusk provided only enough light to silhouette the sparse furnishings. A cot, a chest of drawers, a small table, a trunk, a crib in one corner, a hobby horse in another. Zanna kept her gaze from straying to those corners where the memories were too painful. She opened the trunk, reached under the winter underwear, and pulled out a mustard-colored shirt. Its elbows had been patched, but the patches were thin. It would have to do, she thought, and she would have to make another trip into town before the week’s end.

“Pardon me, but just what the hell is this supposed to be?”

Zanna straightened, clutching the threadbare shirt. Grandy filled the doorway, holding out the bowl of eggs and the glass of water for her inspection.

“Dinner,” she said, with false bravado, not liking the underlying tension in his voice.

The bowl and the glass went sailing, smashing into the far wall near the hobby horse. Zanna shrank from the shower of glass. The wooden horse rocked back and forth, nodding its ornate head. Zanna shielded her face and peeked through her fingers at Grandy, thinking that she was a fool to have thought she could tame such an animal.

“I’m not working my butt off for boiled eggs and water,” he roared. He pointed one finger at her and then at his feet. His upper lip curled in a menacing snarl. “Get over here, woman.”

“No.” Zanna was surprised she could get the word out. Her knees shook, her hands trembled, her insides quaked. But something in her core solidified against the fear and made her stand straight and confront the cause of her terror. “I’m
your
boss and
I
give the orders around here.” She glanced toward the hobby horse. “Clean up that mess, mister. You’ll get no more food from me tonight.”

“That’s not food. That’s sickbed slop.” He continued to fill the doorway, preventing her escape. “All I’ve gotten around here is what somebody else threw away.”

“And lucky to get it,” she added, then remembered the shirt she held. She pitched it at him. “That’s for you.”

“Another hand-me-down.” He examined it with disdain before tossing it aside. “Is this how you treated your other husband?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Well, I know one thing,” he said, narrowing his eyes to regard her with menace. “You sure didn’t kill him with kindness.”

“I didn’t kill him!” She advanced, her fists pumping at her sides, and to her astonishment, he moved back to let her out of the room. She escaped to the kitchen, then wondered what in heaven’s name made her head in that direction since it was the one room she thought of as useless.

“If you won’t fix me a decent meal, can I at least prepare myself one?” he asked, joining her.

“You mean …” She examined his face carefully. Was he teasing her again? “Can you cook?” she asked, greatly wary.

He folded his arms and propped his shoulder against the doorway. “Do I look helpless? Of course I can cook.” He screwed up one eye as if he were hard at work somewhere in his mind. “You can’t do anything more than boil water. I remember now that you admitted as much back at the jail.”

She turned her back to him and glared dolefully at the dreaded stove. “I’ve tried, but I don’t have the knack.”

“Well, pay attention. You might learn something.” He went to the basket of eggs and removed six, which he broke into a mixing bowl. “You said you had a full larder. What kind of meat do you have put up?”

“Beef and pork.”

“Bacon?”

“Yes, but the last meal of the day is a light one here,” she insisted.

“You’re a real stickler on rules, but I think they’re made to be broken—like horses and uppity women.” He grinned at her schoolmarm frown. “I’ll scramble some eggs and make me a couple of sandwiches.”

“And you’ll clean up the mess you made in the spare room,” she insisted. “And you’ll not do such a boorish thing again.”

“Boorish,” he said, chuckling to himself and shaking his head as he whipped the eggs with a fork. “I haven’t heard that word in ages. You love to throw language around, don’t you? Makes you feel superior. Well, sweetheart, you won’t hobble me with words.”

Zanna pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. The tension-filled day had left her limp and she hoped tomorrow would be easier to bear. Grandy went about his task, spilling the eggs into a hot skillet and poking at the fire in the stove for higher heat. The eggs popped and spit and cooked within a few minutes. He sliced off four pieces of
bread and made two sandwiches which he sat down at the table to eat.

“I don’t see the difference between what you’re eating and what I offered,” Zanna said after he’d taken a swallow of water and a huge bite of one sandwich. “Looks to me like you’re eating eggs, bread, and water.”

“That’s right, but these eggs are seasoned and scrambled. Boiled eggs are fine on a picnic, but they’re no picnic as a main meal. Who baked this bread?”

“Butch. He cooks for the hands.”

“I’ll cook my own meals from here on in, if it’s all the same to you.”

“What’s wrong with Butch’s cooking?”

“Nothing, but there’s not enough of it. After you and your hands have finished at the trough, there’s hardly any slop left for me to lap up.”

She didn’t care for his calling her and her hands pigs. If anyone was an animal, it was he. “If you show your temper to me again as you did a few minutes ago, I’ll make you stay in the barn at night.”

“
You’ll
make me, will you?” He chuckled at that, then resumed eating like a man having his last supper. He finished the second sandwich, wiped his mouth on his cuff, and sat back to study her. “Why did you marry me? You’re a fine-looking woman, so I know you could get a real husband if you tried. You’ve got good cowhands, so you don’t need another worker. So, why? Did you just want to play master to a slave like we did in the good old days before the war?”

“Certainly not! I was never comfortable with that arrangement.” She lowered her gaze to her lap where her hands were busy pleating and unpleating her skirt. “My reasons are my own. I won’t share them with the likes of you.”

“Why do you have a child’s room when there’s no child?”

Her lips thinned into a line of discontent and she forced
her mind past the unpleasant memories “Tomorrow you’ll awaken at the appointed hour and commence your chores. I trust I’ll not need to roust you from your bed as I was forced to do this morning.”

“Why are you keeping me away from your hired hands?”

She sent a slicing glance his way as she pushed herself up from the chair. “Therefore, you’d best turn in early. Good night.”

“Did you marry Hathaway for love or money?”

She stopped in the doorway to look back him, long and hard, despising him for asking her such a question. “Good night,” she said again, this time sharply, succinctly.

“Good night, Mrs. Hathaway,” he rejoined with a smirk. “Or, rather, Mrs. Adams. Were you married in name only to Hathaway, too?” he called after her.

Zanna slammed the bedroom door behind her and dropped the crossbar into place, locking him out of her world, wishing she didn’t have to endure his smirking face come morning.

Zanna waited impatiently for Grandy to place the last bite of biscuit and gravy onto his tongue. He chewed slowly, closing his eyes in a feigned swoon. The dining room still held the aroma of fried bacon, milk gravy, homemade biscuits, and fresh coffee. Even though she’d eaten breakfast with her hired men, Zanna’s mouth watered.

“Are you quite through?” she asked archly.

“Quite,” he returned just as archly, then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with one of her linen napkins. “I’ll wash up my dishes, then I’ll be at your disposal.”

“Good. There’s work to be done.”

“You know, I’m getting a little tired of being kept away from everyone.” He stacked his dishes and took them into the kitchen. Slipping them into a tub of lukewarm water,
he looked back over his shoulder at her. “What are you afraid of, a slave uprising?”

“I have no slaves.”

“Only one. Me.” He turned back to the tub of dishes. “I’m sick of being treated like a damned leper. I should be given free rein like everybody else around here.”

“Very well.” She folded her arms against her waist, pleased with a sudden thought. “If you want to work outside with the others …”

“I do. I can finish your damned connecting porch after dinner in the early evenings. A house is no place for a man during daylight hours.”

“Fine. Are you finished there?”

“Yes.” He dried his hands on a towel as he turned to face her.

“Come with me.” She crooked one finger at him as she spun in a slow semicircle.

He followed her into the front room. She lifted a straw hat from the tree beside the door and handed it to him.

“What, another hand-me-down?” he said with a sneer, but he tried it on. It was a bit too big, riding low on his forehead, but he kept it on nonetheless. “When am I going to get my own clothes?”

“Soon. I’m taking you into town Saturday.”

“Really? Many thanks, Mistress Zanna!”

She ignored his sarcasm and finished her thought. “Because you must have something to wear to church on Sunday.”

“Church?” He spoke the word as if it were foreign to him.

“That’s right. The Good Shepherd Church in Scyene. Everyone at Primrose goes, so you’ll be no exception.”

“Maybe I’m not a believer.”

“Even sinners are welcome in our church.” She gave him a look straight from the pulpit, her eyes flaming with self-righteousness. “You’re going to church Sunday.”

“Yes, Mistress Zanna! I’s goin’.”

“Oh, hush that silly talk and come with me.” She turned, her calico skirt whirling around her legs, and led him straight to the stables where the mules and horses were kept. She heard his footsteps falter, then shuffle when he realized where they were headed and why. Zanna went past the horse stalls, directly to the paddock housing the farm mules.

“I bought these animals two years ago,” she said, resting an arm on the top rail. “The chestnut with tan markings on his face and blond mane and tail is Sarge. He’s the oldest. I was told they were all trained and ready to farm, but I was duped. They’re sorry animals. We barely got our crop in and cut last year. Donny got the forty acres broke and ready for this spring, but it was a fight all the way.”

She pushed away the black mule that had come over to the fence. “This is Captain. I keep them corralled because they’re so hard to catch and bridle.” She indicated the other two. “The gray is Kate and the brown line back is Betsy.”

“Mules, generally, are a hell of a lot smarter than horses.”

“Well, these aren’t.” She made a sound of contempt, then spotted the only cowboy on the place who knew something about farming. “Donny, we’re going to hitch up a couple of mules. Will you help us?” She glanced at Grandy. “Donny knows how to handle them pretty good. He’ll get you started.”