Emmy's Equal (5 page)

Grinning, he gave an exaggerated tip of his hat. “Glad to be of service, Señorita Rawson. I will happily play the clown for you whenever you wish.”

Greta tilted her still-rosy face, nearly blinding him with a smile that revealed tiny dimples he’d never noticed before.

Charmed, Diego stared, forgetting the savory lunch in his lap.

No doubt about it. The time had come for a discussion with John Rawson about his lovely daughter.

Magda stood on her tiptoes to search past the bustling platform for any sign of Bertha then quickly regretted her impulse. The bunion on her left big toe and the bursitis in both knees throbbed a painful reminder that a woman her size ought not to try resisting gravity.

Shading her eyes, she peered along the tracks to the crossroad where Bertha Bloom had best show her irksome behind ... and soon. The train to take them south was long overdue. Snarling in frustration, she snatched her skirt with both hands, hefted it up, and whirled on the platform. “Where is she, Willem? I sent Nash with the wagon most of an hour ago. They’ve had enough time to beat us to the station.”

Willem arched one brow. “Sending Nash was your first mistake. No one can draw out a simple chore longer.”

Magda sniffed. “You’ve got that right. Still, you’d think Bertha would hurry him along. This was her harebrained scheme. I don’t know how she managed to drag me along on this excursion and then persuade you to boot.” She curled her top lip. “Cattle of all things. Why can’t she learn cattle-raising in Humble? We’ve got ranchers closer to home than Carrizo Springs, and that’s for sure.”

Willem latched onto his suspenders and puffed out his chest. “Not ranchers like John Rawson. There’s no better man to teach Bertha what she needs to know.” A smile plumped his ruddy face. “Besides, this will give John and me a chance to catch up. It’s been quite a spell since I saw him last.”

Magda gripped his hand. “I do look forward to seeing John again and meeting his family.” She shot a careful glance over her shoulder.

Emmy stood behind them, fiddling with a lock of her hair, a vision in her pale rose carriage dress and matching hat.

Most of the men standing nearby stared openly, eyes wide as if reluctant to blink and miss something.

Catching sight of her mama gazing at her, Emmy flashed a tight smile.

Magda returned it before turning her back to her daughter and lowering her voice. “None of this has made Emily easy to live with, I can tell you that.”

One corner of Willem’s mouth twitched. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t mentioned it, but she doesn’t want to go. I’ve argued this trip with your daughter until I’m ready to yank out my hair.”

“Better your hair than mine, Mama.”

Magda’s heart leaped and she spun. “Emily! How many times have I asked you not to skulk about?”

Emmy flashed her limitless dimples. “Skulking? I merely walked over to join you. Can I help it if I’m quiet?”

Willem frowned. “Don’t sass your mama, girl.”

Emmy flinched and bit her lip, suddenly interested in the wide bow stretched across one shoe. “Sorry, Papa. Never meant to sass.”

The defeated look on Emmy’s pale face fired lead at Magda’s heart. She patted her daughter’s hand. “Of course you didn’t mean to sass, sugar.”

“Don’t take up for her, wife,” Willem growled. “I heard what she said.” He scowled at Emmy again. “There will be no more willful resistance to this trip. Understood?”

Emmy sighed. “Yes, sir.”

Magda winced, watching her radiant daughter’s confidence puddle at her feet. She was still beautiful even with the frown lines that sprang up between her brows. The girl came out of the womb the loveliest creature Magda had ever set eyes on. Tiny tufts of down had caressed her melon-round head, so white it disappeared except in sunlight, with darker lashes so long they rested on her chubby cheeks while she slept. A deep red blush colored her tiny puckered mouth, a mouth still plump and protruding, as if frozen in place from so much time pouting. Except when she smiled.

Emmy’s smile was so glorious a transformation, it had the power to stop grown men in their tracks and halt the words on their tongues. When she turned up the full power of it, complete with the crinkle and flash of blue eyes, she mesmerized every man in the room.

Magda’s gaze swept to Willem, the only exception. He stared at Emmy, red-faced and sulking, his bottom lip mottled and swollen like an ugly growth.

Squeezing his hand, Magda drew him closer. “Never mind, dear. Let’s not spoil our holiday. Emmy’s in much better spirits today.”

Magda marveled at Willem’s change toward their daughter in recent years. From the day she’d come into the world, no one had a greater hand in spoiling Emmy than Willem. He’d encouraged her precocious spirit, pulling her onto his lap and roaring with laughter at her outrageous antics.

When had it changed?

Magda lowered her gaze, pushing aside the disturbing notion that wriggled into her mind whenever she asked herself that question. The answering finger of guilt pointed firmly in her direction. She should learn to keep her trap shut about Emmy’s escapades.

Her chin jerked up. “Oh, look. There’s Nash with Bertha, and just in the nick of time. Here comes our train.”

Nash turned the two-seater at the crossroad and rumbled along the narrow lane beside the tracks. He pulled to a stop next to the platform, then leaped to the ground and helped Bertha down.

Emmy hurried over to hug him good-bye.

The two stood whispering together, until Nash’s cautious glance caught sight of Willem’s scowl. He patted Emmy’s hand and stepped away from her, an uncomfortable smile on his face.

Magda surveyed Bertha. “What on earth kept you?”

“Couldn’t find a thing to wear. All my new clothes come six inches too long. Didn’t know until after I slipped them on.”

At the age of twelve, a sudden growth spurt took Bertha Maye Biddie from the height of four foot eight to four foot ten. After that, she simply stopped growing. Lucky for Bertha, Magda grew tall enough to hand most things down to her. Then Thaddeus Bloom wandered into Bertha’s life, marrying her and replacing Magda. After he passed to his eternal reward, washed from Bertha’s arms by a raging Texas river, Bertha found herself back where she started ... in a world filled with out-of-reach places.

In other words, all of her dresses came six inches too long. She should be used to it by now.

Stringy strands had escaped Bertha’s hairpins as usual, and the hem of her new frock was crooked.

Magda prayed she’d remembered her shoes. “I see you’ve been doing your own needlework again.”

Bertha glanced down at her dress. “Had to.”

Magda took her by the shoulders and turned her in a circle, tracking the erratic path of the fat stitches. “You’ve made a right mess of it, you know.”

Bertha bristled and pointed at the rig. “You try sewing a straight line while riding in that contraption.”

Arching her brows at Emmy and Willem to be certain she’d heard right—by the stunned looks on their faces, she had—Magda turned to gape at Bertha. “You hemmed your dress without taking it off?”

Bertha blinked up at her. “Couldn’t sit there next to Nash in my corset and knickers, could I?”

Emmy hurriedly covered her smile with one hand, and Willem shook his head.

Magda pinched the fabric of Bertha’s dress and raised it slightly to see her feet. Bertha slapped away her hand. “Stop that. I’m wearing them.”

“Just checking.”

The train pulled up beside them in a rush of blustery wind, smoke, and the loud squeal of brakes, ending the conversation. Magda shouted last-minute instructions to Nash then lifted two of the bulging bags, handing one off to her husband. “Come along, Emily. It’s time to go.”

With a last hurried kiss for Nash’s cheek, Emmy gathered her things and swept onto the train, followed by Bertha, who tripped on the bottom step before righting herself and disappearing inside the car, her luggage thumping up the steps behind her.

Taking Willem’s arm, Magda recoiled at the bright red circles staining his fleshy face. She groped for his hand and found his fists clenched. His stormy gaze still locked on Nash, Willem helped Magda on board, handing their bags to the white-coated porter who had appeared behind her.

Watching her husband struggle with his anger, the finger of guilt concerning the rift between Emmy and Willem shifted, lifting the load of blame from Magda’s shoulders and replacing it with sudden clarity and a fresh new crop of trouble.

The porter stopped next to a pair of empty seats, motioning with a smile and a nod for Emmy to sit. She groaned. The two wide benches faced each other across a narrow space that barely provided legroom, which meant that for looming endless miles there’d be no escaping Papa’s stern glances and constant reprimands. However would she bear it? No doubt she’d arrive at their destination bunched tighter inside than her fists, which were clenched so tightly the tips of her nails stung her palms through the soft leather gloves.

She stole a peek over her shoulder and swallowed hard. Her parents, their mouths drawn like they’d shared a lemon, lumbered through the passenger car behind Aunt Bertha, who chattered wildly to no one in particular.

Wondering what had happened to put the sour looks on their faces, hoping it had nothing whatever to do with her, Emmy settled into a tense wad by the window, leaving plenty of room for Aunt Bertha to spread out beside her.

Mama plodded up and took her place opposite Aunt Bert, storing her parasol and an oversized basket of food beneath the seat.

Unreasonable panic crowded Emmy’s throat as Papa settled across from her, a nameless storm brewing on his face. With no forethought, she sprang to her feet and pushed past them into the aisle, her head spinning.

Mama gaped up at her. “What are you doing, Emily? Sit yourself down.”

She gripped the back of Aunt Bert’s seat for balance. “I won’t be a moment. I forgot something.” Whirling, she traversed the narrow car, ignoring Papa’s bellow—a reckless act of rebellion for which she’d pay dearly.

Praying with all of her might, she brushed past the wide-eyed conductor before he could speak the warning his upraised finger foretold. Nash would be outside waiting for the train to leave. He just had to be.

Eyes sweeping the outer rim of the crowd, she lifted the hem of her garment and helped herself down to the platform. Miraculously, Nash sat atop the wagon right where she’d left him, his expressive brows drawn to the middle of his forehead. Her heart in her throat, Emmy dashed over and clambered up beside him.

He blinked in surprise. “Miss Emmy, what you doing out here? You gon’ miss your train.”

She clenched her fists under her chin, wincing from the pain of pierced palms against the crush of leather. “I can’t go with them, Nash. I simply can’t. Please go ask Mama if I can stay here with you.”

He slumped on the seat, his voice pitched to a whine. “You know I cain’t do no such thing. Your mama’s mind is set, not to mention Mr. Willem’s. For all your pleadin’, you ain’t managed to sway ’em none. How you reckon they gon’ listen to the likes of me?” He jabbed his finger behind her as if Papa stood there. “Mr. Willem had just as soon fire me on the spot—or worse—if I was to pull off a fool stunt like that.” His head swung side to side. “No, chil’. You got to stop asking me for what ain’t in my power to give.”

Quivering inside, Emmy twined her fingers behind her neck and leaned her head back. “I’m desperate, Nash. I can’t see how I’m going to survive a whole month under Papa’s thumb.”

Nash tugged on her arm until she let go and straightened to face him. His eyes softened to brown puddles of compassion, and he patted her hand. “The good Lord gon’ see you through, that’s how.”

She groaned and fell against the seat. “Very comforting, Nash. Yet another crushing thumb I can’t seem to avoid.”

The tender pools in his eyes dried up and hardened to flint. “Why you want to say something like that for? Jus’ cause you grew up with a stern papa don’t mean you got to see God in the same light.”

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but Mama’s shrill voice turned the words to ash in the back of her throat. “Emily! Get down this instant and come with me.”

Emmy was off the rig and standing beside her mama without remembering how she came to be there.

None too gently, Mama took her by the arm. “I don’t know what you two are playing at, but just be glad you haven’t missed that train. While you’re at it, count your blessings I was able to talk your father into letting me come for you instead of him.”

Truth dawned, churning Emmy’s insides. Her impulsive act did nothing toward improving the situation. Instead, the threat of a difficult trip had become an impending nightmare. With a last desperate glance at Nash, and with the conductor’s final call to board ringing in her ears, Emmy allowed Mama to herd her onto the platform.

There was no hiding. She would step onto the train, face her papa, and reap what she’d sown in her haste.

Isi pushed back his plate and stood. “Thank you, Mother. Muy
bueno,
as usual.”

Heart swelling, Melatha beamed. “I’m happy you liked it.” She left her own eggs and
frijoles
and rushed to the woodstove where tortillas warmed in a plate. Lifting two of the steaming rounds of corn, she spread mashed beans in a circle. With a square of braided rags, she hoisted the lid from her cast iron roasting pan and tore off chunks of crisp, golden hen, rolling them up in the slathered bread.

“Wait, son. You have a long day ahead. Let me wrap these for you to take with you.”

Frowning, he hooked his thumbs in the top of his trousers. “You really think I need that?” He chuckled and tugged on his waistband. “I’ve just eaten enough for two grown men. Thanks to your good cooking, I’m about out of notches in my belt.”

She tucked the cloth-wrapped bundle into his rabbit-skin knapsack and slung it over his shoulder. “A woman likes a sturdy man, Isi.”

He lifted his brow. “Oh? And which woman are you fattening me up for?”

Melatha chose not to answer. Instead, she took his arm and walked him outside to the porch. Best to let him wait and see for himself.

With disgruntled squawks and a flurry of beating wings, her chickens announced an approaching visitor. John Rawson rounded the bunkhouse and rode straight for them, scattering the frantic fowl in ten directions. He came so close to the steps before reining his horse, Melatha feared the big Appaloosa might stumble and throw him, obliging her to catch the overgrown man in her apron.

His urgent arrival stirred no fear in her heart. The man always scurried about in a frenzy. Though she feared for his health, she greatly admired his vigor.

Isi crossed to lay his hand on the animal’s trembling shoulder. “Morning, sir. Care for a bite of breakfast?”

Mr. Rawson patted his bulging middle. “Thank you kindly, but Rosita and the girls fixed me up real good this morning.” He nodded at Melatha. “Don’t reckon it compares in flavor to your spread, ma’am, but it got the job done.”

Isi winked at her. “See? I told you. Your cooking is legendary.”

Melatha’s face warmed. “Oh, you...” Uncomfortable with the attention, she nodded at his boss. “I’m certain Mr. Rawson didn’t ride out here to listen to fables.”

Mr. Rawson nodded. “Your mother’s half right, son. While I’m certain your boasts about her skillet are true, I’ve come to entrust you with an errand. A very important task.”

Isi bowed slightly. “I’m at your disposal. Whatever you need, sir.”

A few more straggling chickens scurried past, running from Cuddy, who trotted toward them from the side yard. Stopping at the rail, he rested the sole of one dusty boot on the edge of the porch and brushed the soil and stickers from his bull-hide chaps.

Isi nodded and smiled at him.

Cuddy returned the gestures then tipped his hat at Melatha. “Mornin’, ma’am.”

“Morning, Cuddy. Would you like some eggs and tortillas? Isi finished the frijoles, but I have a roasted hen warming.”

He grimaced. “Sounds right nice, but I believe I’ll pass.” He swiped his forehead with the sleeve of his white cotton shirt. “Working in this heat takes a man’s appetite.”

Melatha couldn’t help wondering if his recent hankering for hard liquor was the real reason. Concerned, Isi had mentioned it and asked her to pray.

“Not every man.” She laughed and pointed at Isi and Mr. Rawson. “Those two pushed away from the table with full bellies.”

Cuddy cut around the porch and came to stand beside Isi. Watching Mr. Rawson pay no heed to his son’s presence, Melatha’s insides squirmed. She released her breath when at last he dipped his head at young Cuddy.

“Our guests are arriving tomorrow. I want you boys to meet them at the station in Uvalde and bring them here. Cuddy, rig up the two-seater. Diego will follow with your horses. After they join you, Mr. Dane can take over the reins and drive his family to the ranch. You’ll be their escorts.”

He leaned to rest his arm on the saddle horn then regarded them each in turn, his heavy brows flattened over squinty eyes. “You two make sure that family has a safe, uneventful trip. I’ll expect to see them pull up in good spirits and in good condition.”

Isi squared his shoulders. “You can count on us, sir.”

If the warning on Mr. Rawson’s face rattled Isi, he hid it well. Melatha’s chest swelled with pride.

Casting a pointed look in her direction, the big man lowered his voice, though she heard every word. “Take your rifles. I don’t expect any trouble from
banditos,
but Pancho Villa yet rides free. If you ran across him, I doubt he’d wait to hear where your loyalties lie.”

Always mindful of her feelings, Isi shot a worried glance over his shoulder before speaking, his voice overly bright. “I doubt we’ll have the pleasure of such an encounter. They say he stays mostly to the mountain regions, busy running from the law.”

Mr. Rawson straightened in the saddle. “Nevertheless, be cautious. Villa has his share of admirers, young copycats eager to prove their manhood by acting the fool.” He shoved his broad-brimmed hat to the back of his head. “It’s been some years since I’ve seen Willem Dane. I don’t want an unfortunate mishap cheating us out of a reunion.”

An eager smile on his face, Cuddy gave his father a soldier’s salute. “Like Diego said, you can count on us.”

Mr. Rawson pulled back on the Appaloosa, tapping its sides with his heels. “That’s the problem. I am counting on you, Cuddy.” He nudged the horse around and scowled at his son. “Don’t let me down.”

Cuddy’s gaze followed his father’s broad back until the horse cantered out of sight. A mix of emotions played across his face, from an angry scowl to heavy lids lowered in shame. As he raised his eyes, they burned with a longing so deep Melatha’s heart ached for him.

Isi closed the distance between them and wrapped his long arm around his friend’s neck. “Wake up, amigo. We got us a ride to make.”

Visibly shaking off his father’s disappointment, Cuddy grinned. “You bet, brother. I’ll go hitch the wagon.” He wriggled loose from Isi and bounded down the steps toward the barn.

Isi moaned and dashed his hat on the rail. “Blast it, Mother! How can a man as kind as John Rawson be so cruel when it counts the most?”

Melatha squeezed his rigid shoulder. “There are many ways to be blind, my son. Mr. Rawson suffers the most crippling loss of vision.” She turned Isi to face her, using his rumpled collar for an excuse to gather all the comfort she could muster into her nimble fingers and press it into his neck. “Just pray he regains his sight where our Cuddy is concerned, before one of them stumbles and falls.”

Emmy lowered her book a smidgen and stole a peek at her papa.

It had taken miles of clattering track for the last bit of color in his cheeks to subside. After sputtering threats and frightening promises, using admirable restraint to hold his volume in check, he’d settled against the seat in a grown man’s version of a pout.

Emmy had taken refuge behind her copy of
Little Women.
At first, the story proved a convenient place to hide, but she soon became lost in the characters’ lives, due in part to a revelation about her own nature revealed within the pages.

Emmy’s temperament too closely matched that of headstrong, outspoken Jo. Like Jo, Emmy’s problems sprang from a tongue that was often too quick and too sharp and a mind that seldom engaged before she took action. Jo’s sister, the gentle, eager-to-please Beth, behaved more like kindhearted, forgiving Charity Bloom. It was as if Charity and Emmy were Louisa May Alcott’s characters in the flesh.

Emmy’s heart sank as Charity’s pretty face swam in her head. How different she would feel if the southbound railcar on which she traveled was headed north instead, carrying her to St. Louis to spend time with Charity and her new baby.

Sighing, she laid the novel in her lap and leaned toward the window to peer out at the rushing countryside. The rolling hills to the west had given way to flatland as far as the eye could see.

They’d left the station in San Antonio some time ago. The stretch of her legs she’d enjoyed there hadn’t been enough to ease the kinks from her bones. When she first heard of it, Emmy had dreaded the upcoming fifty-mile trek by wagon the most. Now, after hours spent sitting on the train, she couldn’t wait to get it started. The distance from Houston to San Antonio wasn’t the reason the train had trapped them for so long. Rather, it was the lingering stops at countless dingy, uninteresting depots along the route.

Emmy’s back ached, not to mention an unmentionable part of her anatomy that had fallen soundly asleep. A mite jealous of the serene expression on her mama’s face, Emmy longed for a little extra padding on her posterior region.

Sporting far less cushion than Emmy, tiny Aunt Bertha squirmed on the seat and moaned then pressed her nose to the glass. “Ain’t we there yet, Willem?”

Before Papa had time to answer, the conductor appeared at the back of the car to announce Uvalde as the next stop.

Mama grinned at Aunt Bert from across the way. “Ask and ye shall receive, sugar.”

“Well, it’s a blessing my sore bottom’s grateful for,” Aunt Bertha announced, and none too discreetly.

Emmy stifled a laugh when Papa’s mouth flew open. His head jerked around to nod and grimace at nearby passengers, most looking as scandalized as he did.

Evidently mentioning unmentionable parts in public didn’t bother Aunt Bertha one bit. Considering his wife had been friends with the feisty, outspoken woman for going on forty years, one would think Papa would be used to her by now.

The train lurched to a stop with a squeal of brakes. The excited travelers, likely as stiff and sore as Emmy, shuffled into the aisle muttering their relief. Unaware of the stir she’d caused, Aunt Bert squatted to gather her luggage from beneath the seat. Standing, she hoisted the heavy bags and motioned with her head. “Let’s go. Ain’t none of these folks waiting for us.”

Papa followed her with Mama close on his heels.

Grateful to escape the rolling prison, Emmy filed into the slow-moving line, clutching Mama’s sleeve to maintain her balance. After so much time spent wobbling and rocking along the tracks, she felt a little dizzy now that the train was still. The crush of people around her made her breathless, and the odor of unwashed bodies in such close quarters pitched her queasy stomach.

Mama glanced over her shoulder. “You all right, baby?”

She nodded, but sweat beaded her top lip and her hands felt clammy.

When had it gotten so hot?

Unconvinced by her answer, Mama stepped aside and pulled Emmy between her and Papa. “We’ll be off this contraption in a minute, sugar. You’ll feel better after you get a breath of fresh air.”

“Do you see ’em, old pal?” Cuddy lumbered to his feet, dipping and swaying as he fought to stay upright.

Diego reached a steadying hand and braced Cuddy against the wagon bed. “Not yet, but I reckon when people actually start coming off the train, it’ll be easier to catch sight of them.”

His heart aching, Diego studied Cuddy’s glassy eyes and unsteady stance, realizing there was no way under heaven to hide his drunkenness from Mr. Rawson’s guests. If they complained to their host about Cuddy’s sloppy state, it would seal his fate.

Diego had first smelled the liquor on his breath when they were saddling up at their campsite that morning and warned Cuddy to lay off the booze. Nearly to town, Diego caught him turning up a silver flask. Furious, he climbed aboard the rig and forcibly removed it, but by then the damage was done. When Cuddy wasn’t looking, he stashed the troublesome container inside the jockey box under the driver’s seat.

Cuddy pointed. “Eyes front. There they are.”

Diego’s gaze followed his wobbly finger. “How do you know it’s the Danes?”

“Look at ’em. Three old geezers and a little gal.” Cuddy released a whiskey-scented breath in a long, slow whistle, staring with eyes as hungry as a stray dog at the kitchen door.

A jolt shocked Diego’s middle. As the party drew closer, the first muddled impression of perfection sharpened to rows of corn-silk curls beneath a jaunty hat, a blush-colored dress that couldn’t begin to hide a lithe, perfect figure, and lips the same rosy color, stuck out like a petulant child’s.

Lips that begged to be kissed.

“Ain’t she something?” whispered Cuddy.

Diego tried to answer, but a lack of saliva had glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth—unlike Cuddy, who swiped drool from his face with his sleeve.

No doubt, she was the prettiest woman Diego had ever seen, but it wasn’t just her beauty. Greta was pretty. This girl carried herself like a stallion, fierce and proud, yet her eyes were wide and cautious, like a doe protecting her young.

She followed her three companions across the platform, heading his direction. As she neared, Diego’s chest tightened. When they came to a stop in front of the wagon, her roaming blue eyes locked on his, and he sucked air like a drowning man—a condition very difficult to hide. The effort rendered him speechless.

Luckily, Cuddy, who now seemed as sober as a preacher, stepped forward and offered his hand. “You folks must be the Danes.”

The older gentleman latched onto his palm and gave it a hearty shake. “That we are. I’m Willem. You must be John Rawson’s son.”

“Guilty as charged, sir.” Nodding at the women, Cuddy lifted his Stetson and pressed it to his chest, using the other hand to run his fingers through his hair. “Welcome to South Texas, ladies.”

He tugged on Diego’s sleeve, pulling him closer. “This here is Diego Marcelo, our foreman. We’ve come to escort you out to the Twisted-R Ranch.”

A sizable woman with hair the color of coffee beans returned his nod. “Thank you kindly, son. I’m Magdalena Dane.” She motioned to the slip of a woman at her side. “Allow me to present Mrs. Bertha Maye Bloom of Humble.”

The smaller woman, spry as a barn swallow, bobbed her head like one, and then Mrs. Dane turned to the vision in pink. “This is our daughter, Miss Emily Dane.”