Robin (13 page)

              “I know it looks suspicious, but as it turns out Sam and Rusty worked together down on the Queen ranch in Texas. They’re good friends. Sam isn’t the guy who rode in the night of the storm.”

              “That don’t say he couldn’t still be a snoopin’ around. Men change, Ty. And not always for the good. You know that.”

              “Rusty would bank his life on the man, and I’d bank mine on Rusty. As a matter of fact, Sam put me onto the intruder. I was headin’ out to check on a horse that got snake bit, and Sam had been watching the guy for a while. Said about the same thing as you—didn’t seem real intent on hiding, yet didn’t come riding in, either. I don’t like it. Don’t like it at all.”

              “Seems if he’s up to no good he’d stay in the shadows more. Maybe he don’t know no better. Notice anything strange at all about him?” He brought the bucket up again.

              “Just the horse. It seems bigger than any of our cow ponies. Looks more like something you might hitch to a wagon, not put a saddle on. Another good reason for me to know it wasn’t Sam.”

              “Well, if he’s still watchin’, he’s gonna wonder why I’m a yammerin’ to myself while I’m a crankin’ this bucket up and down this here well. I’m gonna go on back to the house like nothin’s wrong. You see somethin’ more, might as well come a knockin’. No need for us to be hidin’. We ain’t the ones sneakin’ around.” He turned to leave.

              “Wait, John.” A slight rustling came from where Ty hid. “Uh, you know that paper Jacob gave me this morning?”

              John groaned. “Now, before you go—”

              “Would you tell Jacob I liked the picture?”

              John breathed a sigh of relief he couldn’t see Ty’s face
.
Sure as granny has a cat that young man done laid his eyes on the notice I writ and ain’t gonna say nary a word about it. He’d rather watch this old man squirm.

              “Reckon you should be a tellin’ the boy yourself, Ty. But suppose I could mention it. Now, if you’re done flappin’ your gums, I best get this buttermilk in the house before it gets warm. Robin done turned up her nose at warm milk.”

He hunched his shoulders against Ty’s laughter followin’ all the way to the house
.
By sugar, you wait ‘til after July 1, young man. We’ll see if you’re still a snickerin’ then.

THIRTEEN

Robin turned sideways and lifted her leg onto the bed. Is this how men got dressed every morning? She should’ve put her stockings on first. The heavy fabric of the new britches didn’t want to bend, and by the time she encased both feet in her shiny new boots she panted with the effort. Emma told her it would be awkward at first. How she knew, Robin didn’t ask.

              She stood in front of the mirror and clamped her hands over her mouth to keep from squealing. Mama would have rolled her eyes and ordered her to go change at once. Wren would want a matching wardrobe, and poor Lark would probably take to her boudoir in humiliation. From a distance she supposed people could mistake her for Uncle John. Maybe she should rethink wearing men’s clothing, but her uncle said he needed outside help and her feet tangled too easily in a dress.

              She bent at the waist and let her hair fall forward, then twisted it into a rope before coiling it on top of her head. It took more pins than usual to hold. But Emma said if she wound it tight, then pulled her hat down snugly over it, most likely it would stay in place even in a strong wind. One last turn in front of the looking glass made her blush. It didn’t seem decent to look at herself packed into such snug quarters. She picked up her hat, slapped the side of her leg with it, and willed her stiff-legged britches to bend on her way down the stairs.

              Robin stood on bottom step and sucked a breath, then exhaled with a whoosh. Dirty dishes sat on the table. Both ends of a loaf of bread appeared to be chewed off, and crumbs littered the floor. Broken eggshells adorned the top of the stove, along with a big iron skillet that held the remains of what appeared to be scrambled eggs.

              She gritted her teeth so hard her jaws hurt. If Uncle John insisted he could very well take care of the inside chores, then so be it. He could start this morning, as far as she was concerned. She plunked the hat on her head, tightened the strings under her chin, slammed the door behind her, and stomped to the barn.

              She squeezed through the partially open door, and a clump of straw hit her face then slid to adorn the front of her shirt.

              “Jacob?”

              Another pile landed at her feet.

              “Jacob, stop—or at least watch where you’re throwing that stuff.”

              “Uncle John said I should scrunch my eyes when I pitch it so the loose stuff don’t paste ‘em shut.” A forkful of debris flew past her ear.

              Robin grabbed the pitchfork. “Stop. Where’s Uncle John?”

              Jacob wiped his hands on his pant legs. “He’s out behind the barn doing this—” He bent forward, hands behind his back and his face close to the floor. “He says he’s trackin’. I’m supposed to tell you to get a fork and help me.” He pointed over his shoulder. “There’s one hanging on the––”

              The boy’s eyes widened, and he put his hands over his mouth. Giggles tumbled around his fingers. “Robin! You look like a boy.” He turned and ran out the door. “Uncle John! Uncle John, come look at Robin. She looks like you.”

              Robin stood against the wall and waited for the inevitable. Might as well get it over with so they could get on with the day.

              “What do you mean she looks like me?”

              Jacob dragged the older man into the barn by his hand. “See?” He pointed.

              A scowl buried itself deep in John’s forehead. “Now if that don’t send granny’s cat up the wall. What do you think you’re a doin’, girly? I never seed anything so . . . so wrong in all my born days.”

              She moved away from the wall and squared her shoulders. “Did you expect me to clean up this stuff in a dress, Uncle John?”

              “My ma did. She’d a never let another soul look on her dressed like a man. No, siree. You ain’t gonna look like that around here.” He shook his finger in her face. “Now, you git right back in that there house and put you on some woman clothes.”

              Robin crossed her arms. “You don’t seem to understand. I’m the new around-the-place help you need. And it doesn’t matter what name you put on this . . . thi
s
jo
b
you want done. I’m not doing it in a dress. Nor will I pick up rocks or go huntin’ for little baby cows in woman clothes. I thought you agreed I could help.”

              “Calves,” John mumbled. “And I never agreed to you lookin’ like a man.”

              “What?”

              “They’s called calves, not baby cows. And the job, if you want to know, is called cleaning out the barn. And you can do it just as well in lady’s clothes.”

              “That’s not what you told me, Uncle John.” Jacob mimicked John’s stance—hands on hips, legs apart. “You told me we was gonna muck out horse—”

              John slipped his hand over the boy’s mouth. “That’s enough outta you, son.”

              Robin planted her hands on her hips. “What difference does it make?”

              John’s frown deepened and one eyebrow shot up to his hairline. “What difference does what make?

              “What I call a baby cow.”

              “Cuz they’re not baby cows, they’s calves. Besides, it makes you sound like one of them city fellas. That’s the difference.”

              “
I
a
m
a city fella—or rather, a city girl. That’s what makes this whole thing so ridiculous.”

              “What whole thing? And nobody could tell you was a girl––city or otherwise––by lookin’.”

              “Ohh.” She stomped her foot. “I know I have a lot to learn. And I agree I look ridiculous in this getup. I feel that way, too. But you need a hired man and that’s what you’re getting. Now, if you don’t mind”––she wielded the pitchfork—“I have some stuff to put in a pile somewhere.”

              John grabbed the fork from her. “No, ma’am. Not ‘til you go back in that house, like I told ya, and put on somethin’ what makes you not look so much like . . . like me. Ya hear? I ain’t about to have somebody come drivin’ onto this here yard and be a squintin’ their eyeballs tryin’ to decide if you’re a man or a woman. Hard tellin’ what could happen.”

              Robin clenched her fists. “You can stand out here and growl and grumble all you like, but by what I observed in that kitchen, you have a lot of work to do. Now, if you don’t mind, me and Jacob here have a barn to clean. We’ll be in at noon for lunch. If there’s gonna be bread for the table you better get it measured out and starting to rise. And since I made a trip to town yesterday, the washing didn’t get done. Take care you don’t throw Jacob’s white shirt in with your dirty pants. It’ll need to be scrubbed separately.” Her pulse raced, but she faced him eye to eye.

              “You tryin’ to shame me, girly? You think I ain’t scrubbed clothes before? I done washed a whole lot more clothes than you’ve made straw piles, I’ll have you know.”

              “You haven’t scrubbed boy’s clothes or woman things. Before I came, I would imagine you lived on biscuits and pickles. And Emma probably gave you the pickles.” She grabbed for the pitchfork. “Give that to me, Uncle John.”

              John gripped tight. “Nope, not gonna do it ‘til you put on somethin’ decent.” He pulled on the fork.

              “Then we can stand here and do this all day because I’m not changing clothes.” She yanked the fork from his hands, turned her back so he couldn’t reach it again, and plunged it into a pile of straw and whatever else was under there.

              “So now what’cha gonna do, girly? That there load is heavier than you.”

              Robin withdrew the fork and realigned her hands. “I can handle it . . . Just you watch.” She would show him she could work as hard as his ma. Bless her soul. She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth.

              “Yeah, well—you best be the one what’s watchin. Some of that stuff is still fresh . . .”

              She swung her arms back along her side, then with all her strength lunged with her left foot as she brought the fork forward. Oh dear, that was the wrong thing to do. She scolded herself as her foot slid on the loose straw. Her bottom hit the ground, and her teeth clamped onto her lip. She tasted salty blood. The strings around her neck choked her when the hat flew off, and her hair tumbled around her face like a mane. The fork, full of . .
.
debri
s
, flew over her shoulder. Uncle John moaned.

              Papa’s oft-quoted admonition flew through her mind so fast she wanted to duck. “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.” Today she fully understood the meaning. She guessed the Lord would rather remind her of her failing than answer her prayers.

              “Uncle John?” Did the pitchfork hit him? Had she killed him with her stubbornness?

              “Jacob? Where are you? Can you see Uncle John? Is he hurt?”

              Two eyes peeked over the wall of the nearest stall, and his fingers gripped the splintered boards.

              “Answer me, Jacob.”

              One finger wiggled.

              She swiveled on her bottom and came face to face with her uncle, sitting on the barn floor behind her.

              Muck covered her uncle’s face. Clumps of dirty hay stuck in his hair and draped across his shoulders. His hat lay at his feet, flattened. He spit out a piece of straw. “You can handle it, eh? Just watch, you said. Well, missy, look what ya done did. I oughta turn ya over my knee and give you a good whuppin’. That’s what I oughta do.” He heaved himself to his feet.

              “You. Wouldn’t. Dare.
”
Ohh! Wrong thing to say.

              His eyes darkened. “I wouldn’t dare? I won’t back away from nobody’s dare. But never let it be recorded that John Wenghold paddled a gal while she was down. Let me help you up and then, by jumpin’ bullfrogs, we’ll see how high and mighty ya sass me.” He grabbed her hand.

              “Stop it!” Jacob butted with his head to get between them and kicked at John’s shins. “Stop it. You’re mean. You can’t hit my mama!” he screamed. “I won’t let you hurt my mama no more.” He pummeled John’s stomach with his fists and continued to kick. Tears ran down his face.

              “Oh, Jacob.” Her heart lurched. “Your Uncle John—”

              “What’s going on in here? Miss . . . Miss Wenghold? Is that you? Do you need help?” Anna Blair stood in the doorway armed with a pitchfork. “I’ll keep the old man busy, you crawl away as fast as you can.”

              As though frozen in midair, Jacob stood with one foot ready to kick, his small fists doubled against John’s chest while Robin’s uncle held her arm by the wrist.

              Robin jerked free from John’s grasp. The last thing she needed was Miss Blair paying an early morning visit—in the barn—while she sat in a pile of straw. Wearing britches. She attempted to get her feet under her, but the slick soles of her new boots slid on the loosened muck.

              “Miss Wenghold? Should I get help?” Anna gripped the fork with one hand, while she pinched her nose with the other.

              Robin couldn’t blame her. She shared the same sentiment––the aroma was less than that of roses.

              Robin gulped and willed the lump in her throat to go down along with the pride she was forced to swallow. So much for praying. “No, Miss Blair. What you witnessed is not at all how it appears.”

              Robin’s hair hung in her eyes, but to swipe it away would mean turning loose of the mess she clutched in her hand. She shrugged and wiped the remains on the leg of her men’s britches.

              Anna offered her white glove-encased hand then quickly withdrew it.              

              “Miss Blair, if you would like to go to the house, I will join you shortly. Perhaps we could have a cup of tea.” Robin glared at her uncle. “Mr. Wenghold is relieving me from my present duties, you see.”

              Miss Blair seemed relieved for an excuse to exit.

              “Well, now,” John muttered when she was gone, “likely the whole town of Cedar Bluff is gonna hear about how John Wenghold’s niece was found sittin’ in a pile of muck, dressed like a man.” He held out both arms for leverage and helped Robin to her feet.

              “I imagine my being dressed as a man is the least of your problems, Uncle John. Now, if you don’t mind keeping Jacob busy, I will attempt to entertain Anna Blair. Perhaps there will be a redeeming quality to this day yet.”

              “I don’t want to stay here with him.” Jacob pointed at Uncle John. “He’s mean.”

              Robin sighed. She didn’t have the time nor the energy to have this argument. “Jacob, Uncle John is not mean, and you will stay with him. Don’t fuss with me.”

              Big tears swam in the boy’s eyes. “But he was gonna hit you.”

              The older man knelt in front of Jacob. “Oh, son, I would never hit Robin. Never.”

              “But you said . . .”

              “I know what I said, but it was an old man talkin’ when he should’ve kept his mouth shut.” He nodded at Robin. “You go on in and attend to Miss Blair. Me and Jacob will finish this man’s work.”