Mud Creek (8 page)

“I will, I will.”

She glanced at the stove as if she didn’t recognize it, as if she’d never learned how to prepare a meal.

Albert clasped Helen’s arm and led her away. When they stepped outside, she drew in several deep breaths. She felt as if there had been no air in the kitchen, as if she’d been suffocating.

“What’s wrong with Florence?” she asked. It appeared that he would attempt to whitewash her condition, and Helen said, “Don’t you dare tell me she’s fine.”

“No, she’s had some struggles,” he admitted.

“What was she staring at out that window?”

“We have a little cemetery up on the hill.”

“Oh.”

“Arthur is buried there. And she lost a couple of babies.”

“A couple?”

“Three.”

“One each year,” Helen murmured.

“Every death was a nightmare for her, and Arthur’s was the worst of all. She’s a bit…disconnected, but she’ll get better now that you’re here.”

I don’t see how,
Helen nearly replied, but she kept that opinion to herself.

“Let’s go over to our house,” Albert said.

“Will Violet and I live there with you?”

“Yes.”

“But we’re not married yet. Do you think we should?”

“You’re not in New York anymore, Helen. You have to make allowances.”

“I realize that, but shouldn’t we wait until the wedding? What will the neighbors say?”

“They won’t bat an eye; they understand about the traveling preacher. It’s a very common problem.”

He went to the wagon, but she didn’t move. It was all happening too fast, and she didn’t care how he viewed the situation. Whether she was in New York or on the Dakota prairie, some things were appropriate and some things weren’t.

They shouldn’t share accommodations until they were married.

He noticed she wasn’t following him, and he whipped around.

“What now?” he asked.

“I’m not sure about this. It doesn’t seem proper.”

“Helen”—he sighed dramatically—“there’s no space with Ma and Pa. They can’t squeeze in anybody else. The Fourth of July is in a few weeks. We’ll be wed so soon that you won’t even remember a time when we weren’t.”

Helen dithered, considering, wanting to refuse, but not knowing how. She peered down the rutted track to her new home. Violet was already there and waving for Helen to join her.

“All right.” She forced another smile. “Show it to me.”

“That’s the spirit.” He smiled in return. “I built it just for you.”

“I’m grateful.”

He hefted her into the wagon, and as she settled herself, she caught a glimpse of his expression. He was smug, as if he was gloating, as if he might shout,
you should be grateful!
Luckily, if he was preening with such an insufferable thought, he didn’t voice it aloud.

Aware that their lengthy journey was over, the horses trotted off with no coaxing. Much too quickly, they rattled to a halt next to Violet.

“Am I living with Walt and Florence,” she inquired, “or here with you?”

“Here,” Albert said.

“It’s pretty small. Is there room for three?”

“It’s bigger than it looks,” he insisted, but Helen didn’t imagine that was true.

It was a shack really, with a sloping roof that probably leaked when it rained. A crooked chimney stuck out at the rear. There was a window by the door, but it had no curtain covering it.

But then,
she reminded herself,
Albert is a bachelor
. He would have left it for her to arrange, and that’s exactly what she’d do. She’d fix it to her liking.

She flashed Violet a warning glance, urging caution, then she climbed down. Albert jumped down, too, and dropped their bags in the dirt. Then he clambered up onto the seat and picked up the reins.

“Where are you going?” Helen asked.

“While you unpack, I’ll unhitch the horses and unload the wagon. You and Violet can share the bed for now. I’ll sleep on the floor in the front room.”

“But…but…” Violet stammered, “won’t you help us?”

“You’d best learn fast, Violet,” he replied. “You’re on a ranch, and you have to pitch in. I expect you can unpack your bag without my holding your hand.”

“I expect I can, too,” she crossly responded.

“When I’m done with the wagon,” he added, “I’ll stop by and we’ll go over to Ma’s to cook supper. She’s too distracted to finish on her own.”

Violet was horrified. “We have to cook supper for your whole family?”

“Cook or starve.”

“I don’t know how to cook,” Violet protested.

“Looks like it’s
starve
then,” he snottily retorted, and he clicked the reins and rumbled away.

She and Helen watched until he was out of earshot, then Violet seethed, “I hate him.”

“No, you don’t.”

Violet whirled to Helen and tightly gripped her hands. “Don’t marry him, Helen. Don’t let’s stay.”

“Don’t
stay
?” Helen scoffed. “Where on earth would we go? How would we get there?”

Violet was frantic, like a rabbit trapped in a snare. “Let’s grab our bags and head out to the road. Someone will come by.”

“Over the past four days, we didn’t see another soul except for Mr. Blaylock.”

“Maybe he’d take us in.”

Helen frowned. “We don’t even know him. I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

“We’ll keep walking then, until we stumble on someone else. We’ll hitch a ride.”

“And ask them to deliver us where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

Helen sighed with dismay. “We’re not leaving, Violet. We’re at the end of the line.”

“We’re not! Don’t say that.”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s true.”

“There must be an alternative. We just have to find it.”

“No, there’s no alternative. There’s no white knight to rescue us. We have to rescue ourselves. We’re tough, and we’ll be fine. Albert’s provided us with this cottage and—“

“This shack, you mean.”

“No, I mean
cottage
. We’ll fix it up and be happy in it. Look at us! We’re still together. We’ll
always
be together, but we’re starting over—from scratch. Now come on. We have a lot to do before he returns.”

Helen grabbed the latch on the door, flicked it open, and they stepped inside.

*    *    *    *

“What did I tell you?”

“I don’t remember, Walt. I’m sorry.”

Walt Jones stared at Florence. His temper was at such a sharp precipice that he nearly backhanded her. She was so preoccupied that drastic measures were required—such as a clop alongside the head—to get her attention. But she’d become such a trembling fool that hitting her was like kicking a puppy.

“Supper should be on the table at eight,” he snapped.

“I know,” she claimed, but he doubted that she actually recalled his instructions.

“I’m dog-tired when I drag myself in. I want my meal hot and ready.”

She simply gaped at him with those vacant eyes of hers.

She’d never been a strong woman, but he needed a dedicated partner. Not a constant hindrance. Was it too much to ask that she take care of their home? Was it too much to expect that she cook and clean like any other sane, competent wife?

He was responsible for every chore in the entire world, and often, the stress seemed too much. Couldn’t she handle one tiny detail—such as having supper on the table when she was supposed to?

She’d grown so troubled that, when she was alone, he was terrified. She might light the stove, forget about it, and burn the house down. Then what would they do?

“When I sit down to eat,” he continued, “what should be on my plate?”

“Meat and potatoes.”

“That’s right. That’s what I should see. Every damn night, Flo.”

“There’s no need to curse at me, Walt. I’m trying my best.”

“Well, it’s not good enough. If you’d mind your duties, as the Lord intended, I wouldn’t have to chastise.”

She slumped and studied the floor, and he knew he’d lost her.

For the remainder of the evening, she’d stand like a statue, awash in misery, until Carl or Robert led her to bed. They were too young for the myriad of tasks he’d forced them to assume, and they worried about her when they couldn’t waste energy fretting.

Summer was short, and they never managed to store sufficient food for the long, bitter winter. There was no respite from work. There was no let up.

From the time he was a small boy, reading dime novels in his father’s store in Maywood, he’d dreamed of being a homesteader. Yet the reality had proved more daunting than he’d anticipated.

He was carrying the whole load, with occasional bursts of assistance from Albert. In New York, Walt’s role as husband and father had been simple enough.

Out here, the choices were harrowing, and he couldn’t deal with so many impossible burdens. Florence was one more that was too heavy, and the situation couldn’t fester.

She had to buck up, to stop complaining and do her share, but she refused to try. He’d love to be rid of her, but what were his options? A man couldn’t abandon his wife. He couldn’t turn her out on the road. So her nonsense had to end.

He grabbed his coat and stomped outside. Though it was the middle of June, the night was cold, a nip in the air that never completely vanished. The moon was up so he could easily see his way over to his largest shed.

Lumber was stacked next to it, the pile growing as they’d saved for the barn. It would be built after the Fourth.

He’d put too much stock in having the barn finished, but in his mind, he viewed it as the stable center that would make the ranch a success. The barn was what they required to prosper. He was convinced of it.

Hovered out of the wind, he leaned against the wall of the shed while he rolled a cigarette. He lit it and enjoyed a long puff, the smoke settling in his lungs. A flask was tucked in his pocket, filled with the whiskey Albert had purchased in town. Walt chugged down several gulps, liking how the liquid calmed him, how his problems seemed less insurmountable when it was coursing in his veins.

He was distracted by motion out in the pasture, and he focused in. It was Violet wandering in the grass in the dark. She’d seen him, too, and she waved and walked toward him.

She was another female who was slowly going crazy, another female who would need care and protection he didn’t have the will to supply.

Albert didn’t think Violet ever slept. He’d wake in the wee hours to find her tiptoeing out the door. She’d slip back in at dawn so Helen wouldn’t realize she’d sneaked off.

What drove a girl like her? What caused her to behave so erratically? Why couldn’t the women in his world act as they’d been taught, as was suitable and proper?

There had been stories about her in letters from acquaintances in New York, that she was shameless, that she brazenly carried on with every traveling drifter who passed through town. Supposedly, she’d had to flee Maywood before she was tarred and feathered and run out on a rail.

Walt suspected that most of the rumors were true. She had an insolent way of staring at a man that made him contemplate things he had no business contemplating.

If some fellow in Maywood had gotten himself into a jam with her, Walt wouldn’t be surprised. Walt, himself, was forty-eight, bone thin from hard work, his shoulders and legs bowed, his skin lined, his once-brown hair gray and balding. Yet whenever he looked at her, he felt a stirring in his loins that worried him, that had him forgetting he was married with children to raise and responsibilities to tend.

She was that kind of temptress. She made a man ignore what mattered.

She kept on until she was directly in front of him, her demeanor sassy and impertinent.

“How about if I join you in a smoke?” she asked.

He was so shocked by her request that he offered her his cigarette, but she pushed it away.

“I can roll my own,” she claimed. “Give me your papers and tobacco.”

He pulled out his pouch and handed it to her, wondering if she was serious, and being stunned when she proceeded like an expert.

They stood, puffing away and gazing out at the stars, their backs on the rough wood of the shed. She continued longer than he did, until the butt was just a little nub that she dropped on the ground and crushed under her heel.

“Let me have a drink,” she commanded, shocking him even more.

She pointed to the flask he had in the pocket of his shirt, but he didn’t cotton to women imbibing. It wasn’t right.

“No.”

“Come on,” she nagged. “Don’t be such a grump.”

“No,” he said more sternly.

“Albert brought a stash from Prairie City, so you have plenty. Don’t be stingy.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” she lied without hesitation.

He snorted. “You’re barely eighteen and hardly out of the schoolroom. When you’re living in my home and eating at my table, you’re not drinking alcohol. I forbid it.”

“I forbid it.” She used a singsong voice that mocked him. “Do you realize how pompous you sound when you talk like that?”

She was lucky he didn’t slap her. Instead, intending to chastise, he seized her arm and yanked her around to face him. At the quick movement, she stumbled into him, and suddenly, her entire body was pressed to his.

For a brief moment, they froze, paralyzed by the abrupt contact, by the astonishment of their wrongly touching one another.

Then she grinned a sly grin that offered heaven and hell, and he was stupid enough to imagine he might reach for her, that he might hold her tight and misbehave.

Before he could react, she slid away, her fingers dipping into his pocket to take his flask. He could have grabbed her wrist and stopped her, but he didn’t.

In a flash, she was swallowed up by the darkness, and he braced himself against the shed, refusing to trot after her like a stallion chasing a mare.

“Violet, you have to get up.”

“I can’t.”

“Violet!”

Helen hovered in the door to their bedroom, staring at her sister as she rolled over and pulled a pillow over her head.

It was nearly noon, and Helen had no idea what to do. For the prior week, Violet had been wildly ecstatic, not able to rest, and fidgeting with boisterous energy. Then, as if a switch had been flicked, her uncontrolled verve had altered to melancholy.