Silver Lining (22 page)

She and Gilly grinned, then they burst into laughter, falling on each other and laughing until tears ran from their eyes and their sides ached. Even Livvy was smiling when she wheeled the wagon to a stop in front of the porch.

"It was so awful!" Gilly gasped, pressing a glove to her ribs. "The whispering! The things they said."

"And the way they stood like stones as we were leaving. Nodding to thin air when Livvy said their names. And they didn't even glance at me!"

"Oh, they looked at you, all right."

"I'm glad you two find it amusing to be snubbed and scorned," Livvy said after setting the brake. She climbed to the ground and headed for the wagon bed. "Can you pull yourselves together long enough to carry these packages inside?" She loaded them both from waist to chin with parcels, then looked at Louise and seemed to consider for a moment.

Then her lips pulled down in contempt and she tossed her head. "Since you seem unable to comprehend theGazette announcement, Mrs. Halston, perhaps you should drop by the church on Sunday. If there is no preacher, no guests, no bride and groom, then you may safely assume the wedding has been canceled." Pointing her nose at the sky, Livvy marched toward the door.

Louise's mouth dropped, and she blinked at Gilly . Then they both laughed and followed Livvy into the house. Over coffee and cake, they examined the fabric and trim they had purchased before Livvy measured Louise every which way while Gilly wrote down waist size, bosom size, length of arms, length from waist to floor, length from shoulders to waist.

Louise hadn't known what to expect from this day, but she had sensed that appearing in town would be difficult for Livvy and Gilly and therefore for her. And so it had.

But it had also turned into a happy day. She picked up the cake plates and dropped them into the dishpan, then brought the coffeepot to the kitchen table, refilling cups as Livvy and Gilly sketched suits and dresses on the parcel wrappings.

Before the women departed, they glanced into the parlor and noticed Louise's silver spoon. It was impossible not to notice it since the spoon was the only item on an otherwise bare mantelpiece.

"That's a very pretty spoon," Gilly said after a moment of surprised silence.

"Is it an heirloom?" Livvy inquired politely before she recalled Louise's background. "No, not an heirloom then." When Louise said nothing, Livvy crossed to the mantel and picked up the spoon, turning it between her fingers. "I have some polish that will remove the tarnish lickety-split. The next time you're up at the house, remind me and I'll send some back with you."

Blinking hard, Louise nodded. In the last minute she had experienced an array of emotions. First, embarrassment sudden and hot, that all she had of her own to display was a tarnished spoon. Then defensiveness. The spoon was the only nice thing she owned, and she didn't care what they thought.

Damned if she was going to explain. And finally, a rush of gratitude powerful enough to close her throat.

They hadn't laughed. They hadn't dismissed her spoon with ridicule or contempt.

When she stood in the doorway watching them drive away through a moist blur, she wondered if she really would choose differently if she could relive that moment of decision on the mountainside in front of Olaf's cabin.

*

Max reined up next to Dave Weaver, pushed back his hat, and wiped dust from his forehead. "Does it seem to you that the herd is only half what it was last year?"

He had agreed to return to the main ranch with the first herd and brand any beeves they'd missed in the spring. But until today it hadn't seemed necessary to split the cattle into smaller herds. Today they'd added another eighty beeves, and splitting into two herds would make each herd more manageable.

Strictly speaking, it wasn't really necessary. The boys were handling all the beeves with no particular difficulty.

Dave nodded. "I'm not sure this is the best year to split out the beeves. No one's going to end up with a decent-sized herd." Rocking back in the saddle, he frowned at the cattle grazing on dry yellow grass.

"We sold too many in the spring. Course, no one could have predicted this would be a drought year or that we'd lose so many."

The judge who'd adjudicated Jason McCord's will had insisted the cattle be counted and branded according to ownership, thus ensuring that no dispute would arise later among Jason McCord's heirs.

This had been done, but Dave Weaver and the McCords had continued to work the four land parcels as one ranch.

Early this spring they'd held a family meeting and agreed that operating four ranches as one was not an efficient long-term arrangement. Whose hired hands should hay the cattle during the winter? To whom did the spring calves belong? Who was responsible for what chores and expenses? Moreover, Dave and Max had both pledged cattle as collateral to build their places. The bank reasonably wished to know how many cattle each man owned. In the end, it was agreed to split the main herd as soon as each place was fenced. Dave was prepared to move his and Gilly's cattle onto their range. Max's ranch was ready enough that he'd agreed to bring his beeves to his place and Shorty and the boys would be responsible for feeding them over the winter.

The bank. Max lit a cigar and waved out the match.

This spring he'd sold fifty winter-thin beeves for about half the money he could have gotten for the same cattle if he'd sold them now. But he'd needed cash money then to put against the loan to build his house, barn and outbuildings, and begin the fencing.

Cost overruns hadn't concerned him much. When he'd ordered the best stove and oven on the market, when he'd decided on top-grade wallpaper and when he'd bought a piano for the parlor, he'd thought of the salary he'd earn at the bank and planned to put most of it against the house loan. The terms of his loan were generous, and he hadn't supposed Howard Houser would be too particular about the date he paid it off.

Now he gazed at the herd and imagined it divided into fourths. The result was sobering. Happily, his note at the bank wasn't due until the first of June next year. Therefore, he had some time to find a solution for paying off his loan. This was about the only happy thing he could think of at the moment.

The day after tomorrow he'd have to face his brother and the woman who was carrying his child.

«^»

M
uch as it pained Louise to conduct herself as a real wife, she felt Max deserved to return home to a clean house. Therefore, she pinned up her hair, tied on an apron, and eventually, grudgingly, conceded some satisfaction in scrubbing floors and polishing surfaces until they gleamed. Next in her preparations, she put up a wash, laundering the items she'd borrowed from Max's side of the dressing room along with the rest. She suspected it would be a long time before she'd again enjoy the comfort and convenience of trousers.

Once the laundry was flapping on the line, she took a couple of pie apples down to the corral to give Rebecca and the black gelding. "It'll be good to have the boys back," she said, offering the apples. She couldn't quite bring herself to state aloud that she'd missed Max and would be glad to see him again.

Tugging her shawl close against a cold wind and leaning against the corral rails, she squinted up at the house. In her time she'd ridden past hundreds of houses with lines of wash waving in the yard. Sometimes laughing children ran in and out between freshly laundered sheets, and that was nice to see.

There was nothing that spoke so powerfully of family and home as a line of wash, that snowy proof of a woman's labor on behalf of those she loved. Home was where a person could hang out the wash without fear that someone would steal her shirts and long johns.

Home was also where the squeak of a windmill was a comfort and not a lonely sound. And home was where you planted flowers in the expectation that you would be there to see them bloom year after year.

Louise had never had that kind of home, and she doubted she'd be here in the spring to plant flowers around the front porch. But she'd already realized part of a dream she hadn't known she'd dreamed. She was looking at a house with wash on the line, and, miraculously, it was hers. That was her petticoat pinned next to Max's nightshirt, and her everyday stockings flapping against his heavy boot socks. If a solitary figure were to ride past and wonder what sort of woman lived in the house with the wash in the yard—this time the woman would be her.

A shine of moisture filmed her eyes. Oh Lord. How could she have wanted this so much and not have known it?

Almost running, she returned to the warmth of the kitchen where she focused on peeling the apples Livvy had sent over. And while her pies baked, she leaned in the mudroom doorway, drinking coffee and watching the wash flutter on the line even after it was dry and ready to come inside.

*

Louise awoke well before the rooster crowed. As she had done all week, she rolled to Max's pillow to inhale the scent of him, but the laundered case now smelled of soap and fresh air. Rising in the dark, she dressed quickly in old clothing, heavy boots, and a thick shawl to protect her from the frosty air as she went about her morning chores. When she returned with a basket of eggs and a bucket of milk, the water she'd left on top of the stove was hot enough to fill the wash tub and have a bath.

Once she was clean and glowing from a good scrub, she sat near the opened oven door, drying her hair and wondering if she should wear the black dress she'd worn to dinner in Denver . Or if it would be more appropriate to wear one of the too-short skirts, a shirtwaist, and a jacket.

When she realized what she was thinking, she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and threw up her hands.

No one she had ever known—including herself—would believe that Louise Downe would waste two minutes trying to decide which lady ensemble might make her appear the most attractive.

But Max was coming home today.

And so was Philadelphia .

Before she dressed, in one of the too-short skirts and a somber dark shirtwaist, Louise hitched up the wagon and loaded her pies. The crusts on a few were brown around the edges, but all in all she wouldn't have to hide her face when the boys tucked into them.

Until she drove away from the house, she hadn't noticed that autumn was making inroads. Gumweed and rabbit brush continued to bloom, but drifts of red and rust climbed the foothills. Seemingly overnight the cottonwoods were turning to gold, and here and there a maple or an ash flamed orange like a column of fire. She also spotted wild turkey, pheasant, and a family of quail not far from the road. If she'd been wearing her pistol, she could have filled the larder for a week.

So far no one had suggested that putting meat on the table was a wife's chore, and that was good because a woman had to draw the line somewhere. Sure as hell if she brought home one pheasant, she'd be expected to provide all the small game. Thinking about it made her angry, and she held on to the feeling since anger was something she understood a lot better than the fluttery heat that erupted deep in her stomach when she thought about seeing Max again.

Pressing her lips together, she tightened her grip on the reins as she pulled up in front of the main house and set the brake. Gilly had already arrived and hurried outside to lend a hand. They carried the pies into Livvy's kitchen, which smelled of baking ham and yeasty bread and the beans and bacon bubbling in a large pot on top of the stove.

"What can I do?" Louise inquired, removing her hat and jacket.

"You could peel potatoes." Gilly tossed her an apron before she returned to shucking corn. "One of the boys rode in about thirty minutes ago and said the first herd will arrive before dinnertime. We should have plenty of food here for dinner and supper."

"Hello, Aunt Louise." Sunshine ran in the back door and smiled. "You're wearing lady clothes."

"I was hoping to see you. I brought you something."

"Is it candy?"

"Much better than candy. I brought you a rock."

"A rock? Oh." Sunshine tried not to show her disappointment, and Gilly hid a smile.

Louise reached in her pocket then bent over and placed an egg-sized rock in Sunshine's small hand.

"Look," she said, kneeling and tracing her fingernail along a streak the width of a thread. "That's gold."

"Real gold?" Sunshine whispered, her blue eyes widening. Now she inspected the rock with genuine fascination.

"Real gold. Just like your grandpa searched for way back when, and like your uncle Max was trying to find this summer."

"You panned for gold, too," Sunshine said, staring at the rock.

"Yes, and me, too."

"I never had gold before. Mama, can I take this down to the barn and show Mr. Deke?" When Gilly nodded, Sunshine threw her arms around Louise's neck and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Aunt Louise! This is the best gift I ever had. Real gold!"

Standing, Louise touched her fingertips to her cheek. Sunshine had kissed her. And had called her aunt.

"You have a way with children," Gilly observed. "Sunshine is very fond of you. She says you make her feel grown up."

The compliment made her face grow hot. "Where is Livvy?" she asked, changing the subject before she filled the lap of the apron with potatoes then sank to a low stool and pulled the slop bucket in front of her to catch peels.

"Ma's upstairs seeing to the room that will be Wally and Philadelphia 's."

"Oh." From now on, nothing would be the same. Philadelphia would live here, and she would bring a new element to the fragile relationships Louise had begun to form. Livvy and Gilly would be Philadelphia 's family as much as they were Louise's. And Philadelphia would be Sunshine's aunt, too.

Frowning, she scraped the blade of the paring knife across a potato and swore she would say nothing.

"What sort of person is Philadelphia ? What does she look like?" Well, damn it anyway. Her mouth wouldn't mind her brain.

"Her eyes are blue or green, depending on what she wears and the light," Gilly said after a pause. "She has blond hair. I guess Philadelphia 's about my height, maybe a bit shorter, but not by much."