Lorraine Heath (15 page)

Jake walked in, pulled out a chair, turned it around, and sat straddling it. “Think you got any broken ribs?” he asked.

“No,” Zach said, not looking at Jake.

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“No.” He gave Jake a small smile. “But I imagine your wife’s planning on poking around to make sure.” He studied the man sitting across from him. “Why didn’t you ask me if I did what they said?”

“I only ask questions when I don’t know the answer.”

“You expect me to believe you haven’t thought the same thing?”

“It crossed my mind you might be working with Ethan against me. But I don’t think you are. Want some coffee?”

Zach nodded, wishing he hadn’t when the pain in his head intensified.

Jake got up and poured two cups. “Want some, Reb?” he asked.

“No, thank you. Unbutton your shirt,” she instructed Zach.

Zach smiled. “My ribs are fine. I swear they are.”

“All right.” Rebecca closed up her box.

Jake set the cup of coffee in front of Zach as he sipped from his own cup. Zach took a swallow, then closed both
hands around the cup, concentrating on the black liquid.

“I’m not working with Ethan. I did go talk to him earlier in the week to tell him to leave, which just made him angrier. I do think he’s the one that ran off your cattle today. I also think he’s the one that’s responsible for most of the damage done to your fencing.”

Jake nodded. “It’s going to get a lot uglier before it gets better. Ethan’s in the wrong and sooner or later, he’s going to pay for it. I’ll understand if you’re not here in the morning, and if the cattle you brought with you and ten of my own are gone. I won’t send my men looking for them.”

Zach thanked Jake and Rebecca, then walked with a single-minded purpose to the bunkhouse. He ignored the men, not wanting to see their suspicions, doubts, or sympathy. He lay down on his bed without taking his clothes off, having no desire to let them see the full extent of his injuries. He had lied to Rebecca. His ribs weren’t fine. He didn’t think they were broken, but he was sure several were cracked. He supposed he should have let her help him, but at that moment he had wanted to avoid contact with anyone. He hadn’t deserved the beating, and it had left him filled with impotent rage. For the first time he fully understood why no one had been able to drag Jake off of Ethan when he had laid his fists into him the day of their father’s funeral. Jake had collected many undeserved beatings over the years, most instigated by Ethan’s careful wording of the truth. Sighing, Zach laid a wrist over his eyes, his mind drifting.

The moment he was born, he idolized Ethan, always tagging after him, trying his older brother’s limited patience. Cuffs about the head were delivered playfully when he became too much of a nuisance, secrets were whispered through a knothole in a board along the wall that separated their rooms. It was through that knothole that they had first discussed Jake.

The harsh words inflicting pain and anger had begun long after they’d both gone to sleep. How long the words had been flung back and forth between their parents or what had initially prompted the voices to raise to a fevered pitch
they never knew. They had sifted through the argument hoarding bits and pieces of information like miners searching for gold. They were just able to figure out that their father had another son, a son he was going to bring home the next day, a son their mother didn’t want.

Another brother. Zach had always longed for a brother to tag along after him and worship him the way he worshipped Ethan. He was certain his father would tell them about their brother in the morning. When he did, he would offer to share his bed with his newfound brother. He’d stayed awake the remainder of the night thinking of his younger brother and anticipating his own rise in status to that of a big brother.

But things hadn’t worked out the way he’d hoped. His father had hitched the wagon and rolled out of sight without a word, leaving Zach sitting on the porch steps the rest of the day waiting for his return. It didn’t come until evening.

Zach had seen the young boy clutching his small bundle, looking uncertain. He had hopped off the porch ready to make him feel welcome, but his father’s stern face and hard voice when he had told the boy to get down off the wagon stopped Zach. Ethan had moved up beside him, his face a reflection of their father’s.

Still clutching his bundle, the boy had followed their father as he took long sure strides towards the bunkhouse, the two older boys falling into step behind.

His father had opened the door to the bunkhouse and pulled the boy in. “This is where the men sleep. When you can work like a man, you can sleep in here.” Then he had pulled the boy out and marched him back to the barn, stopping beside the last stall.

“This is where you’ll sleep until then. Do you understand?”

With large, somber eyes, the boy had looked up at him and nodded.

“You speak when you’re spoken to. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” he said in a near whisper.

“Yes, sir. You say, ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ to me.”

Blinking his eyes, the boy said softly, “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Good. These are my sons, Ethan and Zachary. You’ll address them as you do me. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir.”

The boy had turned, and for the first time, both Truscotts had gotten a good look at their brother. Zach had watched his lips move as though he were going to smile.

“What’s wrong with his face?” Ethan had asked.

The boy had flinched but he didn’t turn away, keeping his eyes on Ethan, studying him.

“He had smallpox,” Truscott had said.

“That’s like the plague, isn’t it?” Ethan had asked. “Like what God sends down to the sinners to punish ‘em and mark ‘em?”

“Indeed, son, it’s a plague. You boys head on to the house. I’ll be there shortly.”

“Why can’t he sleep in the house with us?” Zach had whispered to Ethan as they walked out of the barn.

“Because he’s a child of sin.”

They had eaten their supper, an uneasy suffocating silence hovering around them. When they had finished the meal, their mother had placed a bowl in the center of the table for the scraps from their plates and Ethan had carried the bowl out to the barn, Zach tagging along behind.

Jake was sitting in the corner, his bundle resting beside him, his arms crossed over his upturned knees, his head laying on his arms.

“Here’s your food, you ugly bastard,” Ethan had said and Zach’s eyes had snapped to his brother’s. Ethan had never talked to him in that tone of voice or thrown unkind words at him.

Jake had cautiously lifted his head, eyeing Ethan warily. “Come and get your supper.”

Jake had slowly risen to his feet and walked towards them, his eyes never leaving Ethan’s.

“Say ‘please, sir,’” Ethan goaded.

Jake shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together, his eyes still studying the older boy.

“Wonder where a whore’s bastard got such pride,” Ethan had said and walked out of the barn holding the bowl.

Zach had looked at his newest brother. “You don’t have to say ‘sir’ to me.” “Reckon I’d better.”

He’d turned around, heading back to his corner. Zach had seen the two streaks of blood on the back of his shirt, recognizing the marks made by a switch. His father had used one on him once. He hadn’t drawn blood, but he had managed to leave raised welts.

“I’ll tell my mother you’re hurt. She’ll come tend your back.”

Jake had smiled. “Is your ma nice?”

“Oh, yeah,” Zach had reassured him. “And she’s real good when it comes to dealing with hurts.”

“So was my ma.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Jake had nodded. “I sure do miss her.”

“I’d miss my mother, too, if she was gone.”

Zach had run to the kitchen where his mother was drying the last of the dishes.

“Father took a switch to Jake and his back is bleeding. Will you help him?” Zach had asked the woman who had always been there for him.

“I will neither help nor hurt him,” she had said with finality. “Never mention him to me again.” And she had walked out of the room, but not before Zach had seen the lie. By not helping Jake, she was hurting him.

Later that night, Zach had crept into the kitchen, filled a bowl with leftovers and taken it to the barn. He’d set it down beside the sleeping boy, wishing he couldn’t see where the tears had cleaned his face. He had nudged the boy’s shoulder. Jake had opened his eyes, lifting his head and staring at him.

“Here,” Zach had said and walked away leaving the bowl. He’d taken several steps before he turned to look back and saw the boy wipe his eyes before thrusting his hands into the bowl and stuffing the food into his eager
mouth. Zach had felt the first stirrings of hatred begin. He had wanted to rail at his father, his mother, and his brother. Every Saturday night their mother scrubbed the grime from their bodies. Every Sunday morning they dressed in their finest clothes and went to church so the grime could be scrubbed from their souls. At that moment he had known that all the scrubbings in the world wouldn’t be enough to cleanse him.

“You gonna be all right?”

Zach lifted his wrist and peered out, smiling at Frank’s concerned face.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“I figured after what they did to you today, you might decide to leave tomorrow. I just wanted you to know that I don’t believe anything they accused you of doing. I know you didn’t have nothing to do with my branding.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

Frank nodded.” ‘Night.”

Zach closed his eyes wishing he had let Rebecca prod around. He was sore as hell.

The following morning, as the sun sent streaks of orange across the horizon, Zachary Truscott, with a swollen face and aching ribs, saddled his horse and set out to tend his younger brother’s herd.

T
HE WOODBOX WAS
empty. The stove smelled of ashes. The discarded clothes needed to be washed and ironed.

Yet Rebecca rocked back and forth, a feather pillow at her back, her feet elevated on a tiny stool Jake had somehow found time to make for her. She was reading
Black Beauty,
a book he had bought the last time he went to town because he thought the story would cheer her up. Dropping the book on the floor and bracing her hands on both armrests, Rebecca pushed herself to her feet.

It wasn’t fair to Jake. He was carrying his load and hers. She had told him if he put up his fence, she’d shoot anyone that tried to take it down. War permeated the air as silent warriors used stealth to attack, cowardice to avoid direct confrontations. They must know in the darkest recesses of their conscience they were in the wrong. Meanwhile she sat safe and secure inside the house, aiding and abetting the enemy because she wouldn’t risk the health of her child by offering Jake substantial aid. He left before the sun came up, returned after the sun had set. He would have stayed out all night, but he didn’t trust her to keep her due date. The past two nights, he had fallen asleep right after supper, last night shortly after he had dropped his weary body down on the sofa.

She stomped out onto the porch and surveyed the area. No one was in sight. Good. She’d just fill up that old woodbox. When she was through she started a fire in the stove,
deciding to cook Jake a good meal. He always came home around noon to see how she was doing. Today she’d surprise him with something special when he came traipsing in through the door.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Spinning around, she faced the tall man standing in the doorway, legs wide apart, hands pressed to his hips, jaw set. She had seen Jake angry before, just never angry at her.

“Fixing you lunch,” she said, lifting her chin up.

“Who the hell put the wood in that box?”

“I did,” she said, lifting her chin higher. She had never seen him work so hard to control his temper, and the fact that he was having to work so hard made her rethink her earlier desire to surprise him. She was no longer certain her actions carried any merit.

“You could have waited and I would have gotten the wood for you. And I can fix our lunch if you’ve grown tired of eating grub.”

Deciding his stance was more intimidating than hers, she braced her legs apart and her hands flew to where her hips used to jut out.

“It’s not fair, Jake. You’re wearing yourself out carrying your load and mine. You’re losing weight and you look like a raccoon with those dark circles around your eyes. You can barely make it to bed before you give in to exhaustion, and last night you didn’t even get that far.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“And you never do! I could hit you over the head with a cast-iron skillet and you wouldn’t complain. You’d probably think you deserved it whether you did or not!”

“I thought you loved Brett. I though you wanted his baby.” He took a menacing step forward. “Well, let me tell you, wife, you lose this baby because of your stubbornness, don’t come crying to me. I’ll have no sympathy for you. None whatsoever! I don’t want to see a tear! Not one goddamn tear!”

He stormed out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him. Rebecca dropped into a chair, resting her elbows
on the table, digging the heels of her hands into her watery eyes. Was that their first fight? She felt lonely and desolate, far worse than she had when she began the useless day. The wood of the table darkened where her tears splashed upon it.

Nature was as fickle as a woman with too many beaux. The men had gone out that morning leaving vests and jackets behind because the warm sun was shining down on the land. But now the sky had enticed the arrival of heavy black clouds that only occasionally allowed the sun to peer through. Rebecca stood on the front porch and felt the gust of icy wind hit her full force, sending shivers through her body. Did winter come this quickly?

She watched as Zach and Frank scurried towards the barn. She knew they would be needed on the range because a stampede was imminent with the weather that was brewing. A horse snapping a twig in the still of the night was enough to start a stampede that could send the cattle rushing forward without thought for a distance of a hundred miles or more. And there was more than a snapping twig coming now.