Dorothy Garlock (37 page)

“It’s a family matter.” Owen looked pointedly at Procter who looked back at him with a smug look on his face.

“Procter’s family,” Jens said obstinately.

“Not mine,” Owen stated in a similar tone.

“Talk if ya’ve got somethin’ to say. If ya ain’t, we got work to do.”

It took considerable willpower to keep Owen from wiping the smirk off Procter’s face. He deliberately turned his back on the man before he spoke to Jens.

“We both know that Esther is sick. We need to decide the best way to take care of her.”

“Ja. She sick in the head.”

“Sick? Horsecock! She’s crazy, is what she is.” Procter’s crude words drove a spike into Owen’s self-control, but he ignored him.

“I think we should take her to the doctor in Lansing, Jens, or to the one down river in Dubuque.”

“Ya should take her to the crazy house is what ya should do.”

Owen turned and glowered at the big straw-haired man. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Doctorin’ ain’t goin’ to do no good.” Jens spit a stream of yellow tobacco juice into the mud at his feet.

“We should at least find out if there’s something that can be done for her.”

“She’s crazy. Doctorin’ ain’t fer crazy folks.” Procter thrust out his bullet-shaped head and glared defiantly at Owen.

“You’re an outsider here. Damn you! Stay out of this.” Owen forced the words out from between chenched teeth. The restraint he had put on his temper was slipping.

“You ain’t got no call to be uppity with Procter. He’s here ’n’ sees how we got to put up with Esther. She’s plumb crazy ’n’ has been fer a spell.” Jens’s curt tone stung Owen to even more anger. “Thin’s is always in a hubbub here. Ain’t no peace round her atall. I ain’t a puttin’ up with it, I tell ya.”

“I’ll take her to my place,” Owen snapped.

“Ya wantin’ the neighbors to know she ain’t got no sense no more? Helmer Hansen was by yesterday ’n’ she was yellin’ ’n’ carryin’ on. Lily told him she had a splinter in her foot ’n’ Procter was gettin’ it out.”

“Folks will have to know sooner or later, Jens. She’s sick. There’s no disgrace in that.”

“That’s a crock a horseshit. She ain’t sick sick. She’s crazy is what she is. Folks is funny about crazies. They’ll look down on Jens fer it.”

Owen looked as if he wanted to murder Procter, but when he spoke to Jens he spoke in a reasonable tone.

“We can’t be concerned with what folks think. She’s sick and she’s got to be taken care of. I’ll take her over to my place.”

“Ja! Take ’er then, dangbustit! Glad ta be shed a her.”

“I’ll fix up the old house for Esther, Lily and Hettie. They can come stay and take care of her. I’ll pay them, of course.”

“W-what?” Procter almost strangled on the word. “What’d ya say ’bout Lily?”

“Goddammit! I’m not talking to you!” Owen shouted. “And I’m getting damn tired of you sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

“Lily and me got a . . . understandin’, don’t we, Jens?”

“They ain’t leavin’ this here place.” Jens ignored Proctor’s question. His old face was set in stubborn lines.

“They wouldn’t have to stay all the time,” Owen argued. “Jens, be reasonable. Lily knows how to handle Esther better than anyone else.”

“They ain’t goin’ ’n’ that’s that. Who’d do fer me ’n’ Procter?”

“You can hire a woman for a dollar a month and board. It’ll cost you a hell of a lot more to put Esther in an asylum.”

“Do what ya want.” Jens threw up his hands. “I took her as a favor to Eustace so the Jamison’s could hold up their heads ’n’ look folks in the eye. This’s the thanks I get.”

Owen knew to what the old man was referring. If he mentioned it in front of Procter he would shove that chew of tobacco down his throat.

“You took her along with a hefty dowry. Don’t forget that. She’s legally your responsibility, but I’m willing to shoulder it if you’ll let Hettie and Lily help with her.”

“Put ’er in the crazy house, Jens. It won’t cost much.”

Jens looked at Procter, then directed his question to Owen. “How much?”

“Twelve, fifteen dollars.”

“A year?”

“A month!”

“Jehoshaphat! That be a fortune.”

“Then let Lily and Hettie come—”

“Don’t do it, Jens. I know what he’s awantin’. Him and that cousin a his’n is wantin’ to get them women over there to diddle with—”

Owen hadn’t planned to hit Procter, but suddenly his rock-hard fist was planted solidly in the big man’s face. Surprised, Procter staggered back, righted himself, and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Name of a cow! Stop! You got no call to hit Procter.”

“He’s got no call to stick his nose in our affairs. He’s an ignorant, two-bit leech, hanging around Lily thinking to get this farm.”

Procter, roaring like a bull, lowered his head and charged Owen.

Owen was ready. He didn’t enjoy a brawl as his cousin, Soren did, but he didn’t mind this one at all. He’d had enough from this stupid lout. Owen and Soren had fought their way out of many a river tavern and had engaged in dock fights with crews from rival riverboats. Owen was confident he could handle a clumsy oaf like Procter Himmel with one hand tied behind him. He wasn’t even to be compared with some of the toughs Owen had fought.

Quick on his feet in spite of his lame leg, Owen sidestepped the lumbering German as he lunged, and landed a fist in his belly. As the air left Procter’s lungs it made a swooshing sound. He reeled, but didn’t fall. Rage made Procter mindless. He swung his fists recklessly. Owen threw an arm up to protect himself from the windmilling attack, but a fist broke through, landing a blow to his jaw. With a grunt of pain, he stepped back and landed a smashing right to Procter’s temple.

Procter was a grappling type of fighter. He grabbed Owen in a bear hug.

“I’m goin’ to bust you up. I’m goin’ to stomp your guts out!”

“You’ll not do it jawin’ about it,” Owen panted, his feet stamping for purchase on the wet ground.

His lame leg suddenly gave way. He fell to the ground, taking Procter with him. Owen arched his back to resist the tremendous strength of Procter’s arms as he squeezed him. Failing to break free, he brought his head foreward in short, sharp raps, striking Procter’s face. He bloodied his nose and raised livid cuts over his eyes. Just when he felt himself began to drift away from lack of air in his lungs, he freed his arms, drew them apart and slapped Procter smartly over both ears with his cupped hands.

The sudden concussion rendered Procter momentarily helpless. He yelled, dropped his arms to clasp his hands over his ears, and rolled away. Owen drew gulps of air into his tortured lungs. Slowly he pulled himself up to his feet.

Procter came up off the ground with a stout stick in his hand. Owen threw up an arm to deflect the blow. Pain shot through his arm and shoulder. For an instant he thought it was broken. A grunt escaped him. In blind urgency he swung his fist, putting all his strength behind the blow. It caught Procter in the mouth, shearing off a tooth. The big German staggered, but didn’t fall. He spit out the tooth. His lips were covered with blood and it rolled down his cheeks from the cuts above his eyes. For an instant he stared unbelievingly at Owen, surprised that a man pounds lighter than he could hit him so hard.

Before Procter could recover, Owen grabbed a piece of stove wood from the pile and swung. The blow caught Procter on the collarbone and he yelled like a wounded bear. Disoriented and blinded by the blood in his eyes, he tried to swing the stick. Owen whacked him sharply on the kneecap.

“Drop the stick,” Owen gasped.

“Ye . . . ow!” The stick slipped from Procter’s hand, but he lumbered forward to attack with his fists, shaking his head like an angry bull and mumbling through his smashed mouth.

“I’ll . . . k-kill . . . ya—”

Owen hit him. The uppercut to the chin sent him backward. His knees buckled slowly and he fell to the ground. Owen stood over him until he was sure the big man wasn’t getting up, before he turned to Jens.

“You m-mean old s-son-of-a-bitch!” he gasped. “You were hoping he’d kill me.”

“Ja. It woulda be all the same to me. Jamisons is lorded it over folks fer years. Ya ain’t gettin’ Lily. I aim to wed her up to Procter.”

“You’d do that to your own granddaughter to spite me. You’re no better than that piece of shit on the ground.” Age was all that kept Owen from smashing Jens in the face. “I’ll be here first thing in the morning to get Esther. If Lily and Hettie choose to come home with me, I’ll take them. If . . . Procter gives me any trouble—well, I know ways to cripple a man so he’ll wish to hell I’d killed him.”

The old Norwegian’s eyes blazed hatred.

Owen staggered out from behind the chickenhouse, praying his lame leg didn’t fold up beneath him. Lily and Hettie were on the back porch.

“Uncle Owen—” Lily called and stepped off the porch. She stopped when her grandfather came out from behind the building.

“Get back! Get back,” Jens roared and picked up a willow switch.

“I’ll be here in the morning to get Esther,” Owen called. “If you and Hettie want to come live with me, you’re welcome.”

“Get off my land!” Jens shouted.

“I’m going, but I’ll be back.”

Owen went through the break in the fence and headed across the field toward home on not-quite steady legs. His face was bruised and swollen. Blood oozed from several cuts. His knuckles were bleeding and his clothes were muddied and torn. It was a toss up which hurt the most, his leg or his upper arm where Procter had hit him with the stick.

Home. The word had never meant much to him before. Now it did. He wanted to go home to the woman who waited for him—the woman who put her soft arms around him and called him her love—the woman who held him as if he were all the world to her.

What would she think when she saw his clothes, his battered face and swollen hands? He groaned aloud.

She’d think him uncivilized!

*   *   *

Ana was bent over the scrub board when Soren and Foster Reed came out of the old house in the grove. She squeezed the water out of Owen’s shirt and dropped it into the tub holding the rinse water. At last she was going to meet Foster. She wiped her wet hands on the end of her apron and waited for the men to reach her.

Heavens! The man was as thin as a scarecrow. Dark hair streaked with gray hung down each side of his face to his jawbones. As he approached, Ana could see a patch over one eye and a puckered scar that ran over his cheekbone and into his hairline. Owen had said he had lost an eye and an ear in the war. Poor man.

“Ana, I want you to meet Foster.” Soren’s smiling eyes went from Ana to Foster and back again. He was clearly enjoying the surprised look on his friend’s face. “Ana is Owen’s wife. Can you imagine that ugly son-of-a-gun getting a woman like her? Better watch your step around here. She rules the roost.”

“Hello, Foster.” Ana held out her hand. “Don’t pay any attention to Soren. He only talks to hear his head rattle.”

“How do you do, ma’am?” The voice was firm, but the hand that clasped Ana’s was shaking. His thin frame seemed to be lost in the over-sized clothing. The ravages of dissipation were evident in his face, particularly around his eyes and mouth. Those deep lines made him appear older than he was. He had crammed a lot of living into his thirty-nine years.

“We’re so glad you’re here. We have a room ready for you.”

“A . . . room?”

“In the house. Upstairs. Soren and Uncle Gus are moving into the house, too.”

“Oh . . . no. No. I’ll sleep in the barn.”

“No friend of Owen’s will sleep in the barn when he has a bed in the house,” Ana said firmly. “I left your breakfast on the back of the stove.”

“Thanks, ma’am, but I’m not hungry.”

Ana tilted her head and looked at him. His one green eye looked into hers, then away. He shuffled his feet and began to edge toward the barn.

“Foster?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Am I going to have trouble with you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am.”

“Then come on.” She took him firmly by the arm and urged him toward the house.

With his hands on his hips and a grin on his face, Soren watched Ana maneuver his reluctant friend up on the porch.

“If you don’t like my biscuits, you can eat cold cornbread,” she said as they entered the kitchen. “Although I’ve not had any complaints about them from Uncle Gus. I didn’t expect any from Owen and Soren. They eat anything that doesn’t jump off the plate.”

“I don’t want to be any bother, ma’am.”

“My name is Ana, and I hope we can be friends.”

Later when Ana went back to the washtub and Foster to the barn, she wondered what his life would have been like had he not gone to war. He was very intelligent, she could tell that from their short conversation while he ate a token amount of the breakfast she had saved for him. The hopelessness she saw in his one good eye tugged at her heartstrings. He reminded her of a boat cut loose from its mooring and drifting aimlessly down stream. He needed to feel loved and wanted and needed.

While she was hanging the sheets on the line she heard the rich, mellow whistle of the oriole and looked up hoping to spy the olive-colored bird with the bright-yellow rump and tail. She loved to hear the male’s throaty whistle as it called his mate. The bird flew out of the wild grape vines that grew along the lane and headed for a big oak tree on the east edge of the cornfield. Ana’s eyes followed the flight and saw her husband coming back across the field toward home.

Owen walked between the corn rows at a snail’s pace gazing at the blue Iowa sky, dreading to have Ana see him in such a sorry state. He saw her at the clothes line as soon as he topped the rise. Her white apron was flapping in the wind, her hair shining in the sunlight. He felt his throat fill when she turned and waved. He loved her more than she would ever know. His woman—his wife—was coming to meet him.

Ana lifted a hand and shaded her eyes. Finally she realized what was different about him. His limp was more pronounced, one arm hung at his side and his face—Lord amercy, his face was cut and swollen.

“Owen! Oh, Owen!” She halted twenty feet away. “You’re hurt!”