Dorothy Garlock (38 page)

“I don’t need him to run things. I told him a hundred times to get out, but he won’t. He hangs around drinkin’ and whorin and stealin’ me blind.”

“Ya ain’t goin’ to make me believe bad thin’s ’bout Smith. Yeah, he drinks some, but he does good thin’s for folks too.”

“Ya don’t know him like I do.” Maud drank from the glass on the table beside the bed.

“And I’m thinkin’ ya don’t know him a’tall.”

“I know as much as I want to know.”

“Pretty day, ain’t it?” Inez said pointedly to change the subject.

“It’s been a long time since I was outside on a pretty day,” Maud answered, seemingly willing to drop the subject of Smith.

“When yore fit again, we’ll go lookin’ for some berry bushes and make us a cobbler.”

“You make a good chokecherry pie, Inez.”

“Yore right as rain ’bout that. I make ’em for the Palace Restaurant in Buffalo. Folks come from miles ’round to eat my pie. Now the secret to makin’ good pie is the lard. I never use meat fat for crust.”

*  *  *

Willa let herself quietly into the kitchen. She was hurt and confused. The shock of hearing Smith admit to the killing of Mr. Eastwood was evaporating now, but deep tremors of unease still chased through her body. She felt as limp as a pile of wet laundry.

Jo Bell had lied about Smith coming back from the cattle drive and leaving again for a week of debauchery. This time he was innocent of the accusation, but what about the next time?

Knowing the kind of man he was, how could she be so desperately in love with him?
Because you can’t help your
self!
her heart cried.

Willa squeezed her eyes shut. Her heart constricted painfully and she struggled to keep the sobs from breaking loose.
She couldn’t afford to let go. She had contracted to care for Mrs. Eastwood. After that obligation was fulfilled, she would have time to indulge in self-pity.

On her way up the stairs, Willa’s mind ground to a halt as she heard a sound coming from the room behind the library. It was the room Mr. Eastwood had used for an office. She paused at the door to listen and heard the muffled sound again. Could a rat or a squirrel have gotten into the room? If so it could be gnawing at all those wonderful leather-bound ledgers piled atop his desk. She hurried back through the kitchen and called softly to Buddy, who was lying on the porch.

With the dog beside her, Willa hurried back to the office door and listened. When she heard the sound again, she flung open the door.

“Get that rat!”

With an angry growl, Buddy leaped into the room.

Jo Bell let out a yell of surprise and quickly closed the drawer she had been rummaging through.

“What are you doing in here? You’re a guest, Jo Bell. You have no right to go through your aunt’s things.”

“It ain’t no business of yours what I do. ’Sides, they’re as much mine as hers.”

“That isn’t true. I’ll not stand by and see you prowl through things that don’t belong to you.”

“I suppose you’ll sic that old dog on me.”

“No. I can handle you without Buddy’s help.”

Jo Bell flounced out of the room and started up the stairs. Willa closed the door. The girl turned and looked down at her.

“What’ll ya do when Smith dies? Ya won’t have nobody to back ya.”

“Smith isn’t going to die. So you can forget that.”

“I ain’t a forgettin’ it,” she said smugly. “And you better
not forget it either.” She turned and went swiftly up the stairs.

Something in the girl’s attitude caused Willa’s stomach to stir restlessly. She had given in too easily. Jo Bell loved a yelling match like a dog loved a bone. There was a glint in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. It was an “I-know-something-you-don’t-know” expression.

It suddenly occurred to Willa that Jo Bell had said, “
when
Smith dies,” not “
if
Smith dies.” Had she known that George Fuller was going to ambush him? No. She couldn’t have known that. She may have overheard Sant and Billy talking about Sant taking the buckboard to bring in the body. Whatever Jo Bell had in mind, she would have to act alone. As far as Willa knew there wasn’t a person on the ranch that would do her bidding.

The loud ticking of the clock that stood at the end of the hall caught her attention. She watched the brass pendulum swing back and forth. How quickly goes the time. It seemed only a short while ago that she was a little girl sitting between her mother and Papa Igor on the seat of the caravan. The sky was blue, the breeze warm. And the birds sang merrily in the trees.

Time had suddenly turned the little girl into a woman. Her mother and Papa Igor were gone. Today she wasn’t sure that she was strong enough to cope with life on her own, but try she must. As Smith had said, there was no turning back the clock.

The sound of laughter reached her before she reached Maud’s open door. Surprised, Willa slowed her steps.

“Now ain’t that a lick? I swear, Maud, I never knowed old man Keith was a brother to Banker Caffery. Lord, wouldn’t Marge Caffery bust a gut if that old drunk showed up at one of her fancy doin’s? Ha! Ha!”

“He wasn’t but half-brother. But guess blood’s blood no matter how little or how much. Marge Caffery’s eyes bugged when she saw this house. She wasn’t snooty to me then; she was fallin’ all over herself a bowin’ and scrapin’. But I just looked down my nose at ’er like she was nothin’.”

“Doggit! I’d a like to a seen ya take her down a notch or two.”

Willa hung in the door not believing what she was seeing. Inez, with a dishpan full of apples in her lap, sat in the rocking chair, her feet up on the side of the bed. She was peeling the apples and Maud, propped up with pillows, was slicing them into another pan.

“Hello, ladies.”

“Ladies? Hear that, Maud?” Inez chortled. “I ain’t been called that in a coon’s age. How’s Smith?”

“He’s going to be all right.”

“I figured he was or we’d heard. Me’n Maud’s been talkin’ over old times.”

“You never said you knew Mrs. Eastwood.”

“Never knowed a
Mrs. Eastwood.
But I sure as hell knowed Maud Putney. We went to school together. What there was of it, huh, Maud?”

“Who’d Smith get in a wrangle with?” Maud asked abruptly.

“No wrangle. According to Billy, a man named Fuller ambushed him and Mr. Rudy at the creek crossing.”

“He ought a shot his blasted head off,” Maud grumbled and shoved the pan of apple slices off her lap.

“I’ll swear, Maud, that’s downright mean.” Full of bluster, Inez’s feet hit the floor and she stood.

“If he’d done to ya what he done to me, ya wouldn’t be
. .
. ya wouldn’t be—”

Maud stopped speaking in mid-sentence. Her face paled and her entire body assumed a condition of extreme rigidity.
Willa rushed to the side of the bed, knowing that Maud was having one of the seizures the doctor had talked about. The rigidity lasted for only ten of fifteen seconds, but to Willa and the startled Inez it seemed an hour.

What followed was small quivering movements which involved her whole body. Her arms, shoulders and head twitched, and saliva ran from her mouth. Her face appeared swollen and had a purplish cast.

“What’n hell is wrong with her?” Inez blurted.

“Hold her broken leg so she can’t move it,” Willa said calmly. “She’s having a convulsion. There, there, it’ll be over in a minute,” she crooned more for Inez’s benefit than Maud’s.

“Lordy mercy. I ain’t never seen anything like it.”

“The doctor said that she’s probably had seizures all her life. I’m sure it’s why she’s spent so much time alone. She’s been made to feel ashamed.”

The convulsions did not last more than a minute or two. Their violence then decreased. Maud’s breathing became near normal and her face less livid. Finally she drew a deep sigh and fell into a sound sleep.

“It’s over.” Willa placed Maud’s hands at her side and covered her with the sheet.

“Was she a havin’ one of her fits?” Jo Bell asked from the doorway. Willa looked up to see her lounging there, her shoulder against the doorjamb.

“She’s had a convulsion. It’s a mild form of epilepsy.”

“I ain’t carin’ what they call it. Is she dyin’?”

“Of course not. People live a long time with epilepsy.”

“Oh, shoot! Why can’t that mean old cow die? She ain’t no use to anybody.”

“More use than ya are!” The words burst from Inez and she started for the door.

Jo Bell saw immediately the anger her words had provoked
in both Willa and Inez. She ran down the hall to her room. Once inside, she slammed the door.

“Did ya hear that?” Inez demanded. Then before Willa could answer, “I ain’t never heard the like. She’s a bad one. The devil’s right in her.”

Willa was beyond being shocked by the hateful words that spewed from Jo Bell’s mouth.

“At times I’m sure she’s . . . dangerous.” Willa spoke with a worried frown on her face. “I’ve been thinking that since I found her here in the room. I’ve been afraid to leave Mrs. Eastwood alone when she’s in the house.”

“Well,” Inez said stoutly, “I can handle that feisty little flip-flapper, but about Maud—will she be all right?”

“She’s worn out and will sleep for a good long while. We must be careful how we act when she wakes up. I’ll mention that she had a seizure and we’ll act as if people have them every day, that it was nothing unusual at all. We must never use the word ‘fit’ or make her feel ashamed.”

“It just plumb scared the waddin’ outta me. We’d had us a good visit, that is after we’d gnawed on each other for a while. Maud ain’t had it all roses. Her first man was as ornery a critter as God ever made, and I’m a’thinkin’ that girl of her’n took after her pa.” Inez waddled to the door.

“Thank you. The two of us must keep a close watch on Mrs. Eastwood. Inez, you’ve done her a world of good. I don’t know what you said to her, but I’m glad you said it.”

“It was jist plain talkin’ I done. Times is a feller’s got to put the cards on the table.” She stacked the pans one atop the other and settled them on her hip. “These here apples is turnin’ brown. I’d best get on down and get some water on ’em. Ya comin’ down?”

“In a little while.”

Willa closed the door to the bedroom, then sat down in the rocker and looked out the window. She was glad that Inez had
broken through the thick barrier of bitterness that surrounded Maud. Perhaps, now, the woman had a chance for some happiness.

But as for herself, she realized now, love, happiness and contentment were not in her future. She felt sick inside, sick with guilt for wanting Smith, sick with the anxiety caused by Jo Bell, and sick with worry about her future.

24

J
o Bell could scarcely contain her excitement as darkness approached. She had rolled what she thought she would need in a bundle and tied it with a sash from one of her old dresses. The rest of her things were locked in her trunk.

Standing at the window, she could see part of the bunkhouse, the barn and corrals. There was no sign of Vince, not that she expected one. She was glad that Charlie was away and that he had left their horse. The note she had written to her brother was on the bureau.

Vince had promised he would be back as soon as he collected his pay from the mule buyer. And this morning the ring of stones had been in place beside the outhouse door.

Too bad, Jo Bell thought now, that whoever shot Smith hadn’t done a better job. Arrogant, uppity trash was what he was. He’d be sorry for the way he treated her. He wouldn’t be so smart when this place belonged to her, and it surely would. After all, she was the eldest of Oliver’s sister’s children, and the brightest. Charlie didn’t have enough gumption to know which end of him was up.

Her papa had saved the letters that had been written by her
Uncle Oliver, and she had found letters in Oliver’s desk that had been sent to him by her mother. What more proof did she need? The letters were in the bundle she would take with her to Sheridan, along with the rings and the gold watch and the money she had discovered during her latest search of Uncle Oliver’s room, more than a
hundred dollars
in gold pieces. It was all hers. She didn’t plan to share it with Vince. She would let him think that the rings and the watch were all she had.