Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (25 page)

M
ercy was standing beside the fire when Daniel came in. The firelight played over her. She stood still and small, as if she were depleted of all strength, and looked down at her hands, clasped in front of her.

The muscles clamped above the jawline of Daniel’s face as he bent to throw another log on the fire.

“There’s a trickle of a creek out back. I can bring in enough water for you to wash decently if you want me to.” His voice was not quite even. “This is a hell of a place,” he went on gruffly. “Damn creek’s not even deep enough to wet your ankles.”

Mercy’s face in the firelight was without expression. Her eyes were like empty stars. She said nothing and her hands pressed down the sides of her dress nervously. Daniel turned and walked away, out the door, as if he had to be alone. Mercy went to the door and watched his tall figure merge with the darkness. Then he was gone, as if forever.

Her frozen voice suddenly thawed.

“Daniel . . . you don’t need . . . to bring in more water. I can manage with what’s here.” She wanted to cry again. She had not realized he was so miserable in her presence.

“I’ve already got it.” His voice, coming from the side of the cabin, held a note of irritation. “I’ll leave it here because the goddamn bucket leaks.”

“Thank you. Come eat something.” Mercy lifted a tired hand and brushed wisps of hair from her face. Misery swelled her throat.

There was a long pause.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Mercy had poured the tea and laid out the sweet potatoes and a handful of raisins by the time Daniel came in. The firelight illuminated her face. The eyes that sought his were wide and uncertain. Her braid had come loose, and hair hung down over her shoulders and back. In the firelight she looked young and slim; she was like a wraith out of a man’s dream.

“I’m sorry if I seemed out of sorts. My anger was not directed at you. Never at you, Mercy. I want you to believe that.”

There was a silence while Mercy waited until she could trust herself to speak evenly.

“I understand.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Daniel said with unexpected fervor. “But let’s drop it for now.” His features took on a look of carved stone, and his dark eyes grew cold and unseeing before he turned away from her.

She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. Whatever she had been going to say was frozen in the silence of bewilderment.

Daniel ate in silence. Mercy made a halfhearted attempt to eat the sweet potato and to nibble on the raisins. She felt sick, and it was an effort to swallow. While they were drinking their tea Daniel drew a paper from inside his shirt and handed it to her.

“Here’s the marriage paper. You should keep it in your carpetbag.”

Mercy took it from his hand. Without looking at it, she slipped it down inside her open bag. After several minutes of silence she cleared her throat.

“I’ve been thinking of what we can do, Daniel. Papa knows people in Kentucky. We can ask him to write to the governor. And, due to the circumstances, he may . . . ah . . . undo this and divorce us.”

“Is that what you want?” Daniel’s face was inscrutable as he looked into Mercy’s eyes. “Do you want to carry the stigma of a divorced woman around with you for the rest of your life? It would certainly limit your chances of marrying again.”

“I know you have your own life to live, and I’d rather do that than see you . . . unhappy.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she blinked rapidly.

“Dammit! Don’t cry again,” he said angrily, and got his feet. He busied himself repacking the food box and shoved it into the corner. “I’ll bring in the water and refill the kettle. After you’ve had a good wash and a night’s sleep, you’ll feel better.”

Mercy wasn’t sure if it was anger or hurt she saw in his eyes before he turned from her. She wanted desperately to ask him if he was going to sleep inside the cabin, but his abrupt manner was a barrier between them.

Later, after she had washed and put on her nightdress, she laid out the clothes she would wear the following day. Mercy lay in the bedroll on the platform in the corner of the crude cabin. She wished that she felt free to call out to Daniel, to ask him to bring his bedroll inside. But his last words to her had been said so abruptly that they had thickened the barrier between them. A sense of hopelessness consumed her.

Her mind went back to the night before when she and Daniel had been linked by his hand on her ankle. Had she dreamed it? She must have been dreadfully tired to have supposed, even dreamed, that Daniel’s touch was a loving one.

*   *   *

Mercy slept the sleep of exhaustion. When she awakened, daylight was streaming through the open door. Her head was throbbing. She put her hand over her eyes for a moment, to block out the light. When she could see clearly, she looked around the box of a cabin where the most important event in her life had taken place. The little cabin was well built. It had been a home spot for people. It had sheltered them from the weather, given them a place to come back to. But it was not her home, and she couldn’t wait to get away from it.

Mercy swung her feet off the bed. The feel of the rough planks against her bare feet brought to her mind the writhing rattlesnake. Her skin prickled; she held her feet up off the floor and reached for her shoes and stockings. She dressed quickly and went to the door.

Daniel squatted beside a small fire he had built in the yard. The carcasses of two rabbits hung on a spit over it, and a delicious aroma tantalized her nostrils. He looked up, saw her, and grinned.

“Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“I set a couple of snares last night. If you’re a good girl, you can have one of my rabbits.”

He was in a better mood this morning. That was the thought that pierced Mercy’s mind as she washed her face and hands in the cold water. She took extra time with her hair, letting the short hair dip on her forehead. She brushed the rest of it up and twisted it into an attractive knot that she fastened to the back of her head, allowing one loop to hang on the nape of her neck. She had put on the light blue dress with the white collar. After a hasty trip to the woods behind the house to take care of her bodily needs, she came back through the cabin to wash her hands. Then, wondering what her reception would be, she stepped out into the yard.

“Sleep good?” Daniel asked without looking up. “You look better this morning. You should tie your old dirty dress around your neck or you’ll get that one all splattered with meat juice.”

“I don’t want to meet the Baxters all meat-splattered. Maybe I’ll change back into the other dress. I can wear it until we’re ready to leave.”

“There’s no hurry this morning. We can take our time. I saw smoke coming up over that ridge. I suspect we’re closer to our destination than I thought.”

While she changed back into her soiled dress Mercy thought about the day ahead. Before the sun set again, she would see the place where she was born, and perhaps the woman who was her mother. Strangely she was unconcerned about the meeting. Daniel filled her thoughts. She wanted so badly to have their relationship be as it had been before. Later, much later, when he became used to the idea that he was married to her, he might even learn to love her a little.

She sat on a stump and ate the leg of rabbit. Daniel had cut up her portion and put it on one of the plates from their food box. He was ravenous and ate one whole rabbit by himself, tossing the bones back into the fire.

“Two snares, two rabbits,” Mercy said teasingly. “You must be pretty proud of yourself.”

“It’s no more than I expected.” His eyes lit up with mischievous delight.

“You had a good teacher. Admit it.”

“I admit it. I had the best. Uncle Juicy taught Farr; Farr taught me.”

“I wonder what Papa and Mamma will think of . . . all that’s happened.”

Daniel made no reply, and Mercy looked off toward the line of timber climbing the hills. They seemed so serene and blue in the quiet morning sun. Somehow she wished they didn’t have to go over the hill to that unknown place. Her thoughts raced around and around, in and out, and finally she turned worried eyes to Daniel. He had been watching her but turned his eyes away and picked up his mug of tea when she looked at him.

Before she said anything, Mercy pondered for quite a while about what she would say, and when she did speak, it was not what she wanted to say at all.

“I’m sorry . . .” Mercy was astonished to feel the crimson flush that crept up, up, up, and over her throat and face. She could have cried with mortification, but she remembered his words of last night. “I’m . . . sorry.”

Daniel stood and looked down at her. “I don’t want you to apologize to me again. What is done is done, and there’s nothing we can do about it now. We’ll go on just as we have before this . . . thing happened. After we get back home, we’ll decide what to do.”

Mercy nodded, relief flooding her heart. He was willing to go on as before. It was enough for now.

*   *   *

They traveled across the valley and up the hill between the trees. The grass on either side of the tract seemed alive with small birds whirring up as they passed. Robins flitted from bush to bush, bluejays scolded, and a sparrow diving after a blackbird swooped down in front of them. Piny squirrels chased each other around and around the trunk of a large oak. A red-tailed hawk screeched high over the treetops, protesting their invasion of his territory.

It was a beautiful spring day in the heart of the Kentucky hills.

“Don’t be nervous.” Daniel’s eyes were dark, concerned pools that looked into her bright ones.

“How did you know?” Her eyes did not leave his face.

“By the way your fingers tremble and because you haven’t taken a deep breath since I lifted you up on the wagon seat.” He reached for her hand, placed it on his thigh, and covered it with his.

“I’m glad you’re not mad anymore,” she said urgently.

“I was never angry at you. I was angry at them, and disgusted with myself for letting us get into such a fix.” His voice held a baffled regret.

“What will you do?”

“To Lenny and Bernie? Nothing now, but before we leave here, I’m going to do my level best to see that they gum their food for the rest of their lives.”

Mercy smiled. “I want to see it. I might want to get in a few licks myself.”

“You’ll have to be faster than you were with Glenn Knibee.”

“I learned my lesson. I’ll get my licks in first.” Mercy laughed, yet there were tears in her laughter: tears of happiness because there was a new understanding between her and her love, even if he was unaware of it. As long as he didn’t hate and resent her, there was hope that someday he would love her.

They came up over a ridge to see a house and several outbuildings nestled among the trees not a quarter of a mile ahead. Two gray mules were tied beneath a spreading oak.

“Could this be it?” Mercy asked. “I thought we’d pass through Mud Creek, the settlement they were always talking about.”

“Mud Creek could be beyond.” Daniel pulled his hat down to shade his eyes when the trail turned slightly east. “This is the Baxter place. I’ve been looking at the back end of those mules for a hundred miles. I’d know them anywhere.”

Smoke curled up from a rock chimney that soared up above the steep, slanting roof of the house, which was built of rough, heavy timber. The chinking between the logs, which had once been white, had long since weathered to a soft, mellow gray. The house sat high off the ground on blocks, and covered by the slanting roof was a porch stretching along the front. Two front doors stood open to the morning sun. Mercy could see the figure of a woman standing in one of them.

The ground surrounding the house was bare, except for a few clumps of bushes. Chickens, two dozen or more, picked and scratched in the dirt. Blue-blossomed vines climbed thickly over a stump beside the huge woodpile. A rosebush clambered valiantly up the cobblestones of the chimney. Mercy could see a shed attached to the back of the house. In the area between the house and the creek were a smokehouse, several three-sided sheds, a garden, and a pole enclosure for hogs.

“It looks like it’s been here for a long, long time,” Mercy murmured. She turned her palm up and gripped Daniel’s hand tightly.

Bernie led the mules to the back of the house as they approached. Dogs darted out from under the porch and barked furiously, then slunk back under the porch when Lenny came out and shouted at them.

Several people followed Lenny to the porch: a woman with a babe in her arms; a man who was a larger, older version of Lenny, and several children. Two small children ran screeching to the vine-covered stump, climbed on top, and stood staring at them. One, a girl with two fingers in her mouth, pushed the smaller child, a boy, off the stump. He fell but climbed back on.

Daniel stopped the wagon beneath the tree. While he tied Zelda to a hitching rail Mercy took off her white shawl, folded it, and placed it on the seat. She didn’t want to appear to be too well dressed.

“Are you all right?” Daniel murmured when he lifted her down.

“I’m fine.” She felt strangely detached, and it showed in the lift of her chin and eyes. She looked calmly at the group on the porch. She smiled faintly at Daniel and took his hand.

Daniel thought she had never looked lovelier. She was regally beautiful, calm and serene. At this moment he was enormously proud that she was his wife, even if the ceremony had been forced upon them.

They passed the children on the stump, and Mercy smiled at them. “Hello,” she said softly.

“Are ya Hester?” the girl shouted after they passed.

Lenny stayed on the porch beside the woman holding the baby, and the other man came to meet them. He was almost as tall as Daniel, and heavier. His face was clean-shaven, but his straw-colored hair was long and unkempt. He wore a shirt made from homespun, and his britches were held up by leather straps that crossed in front, as well as in the back. His piercing blue eyes honed in on Mercy’s face.

“Lenny says you’re Hester.”