Sunset Embrace (2 page)

"Git, I said." Rather than incur their mothers wrath, which both had felt at the other end of a strop, they shuffled off toward the wagon train that was taking Sunday off to rest.

"She's in a bad way, ain't she?" Zeke asked, crouching down beside his wife.

"Yep. First thing is to get the afterbirth out. She may die of the poison anyway."

Silently they worked over the unconscious girl, "What should I do with this, Ma?" Zeke asked. He had wrapped natures debris along with the dead infant in a knapsack and had bundled it tightly.

"Bury it. I doubt she'll be in any condition to visit a grave for several days. Mark the spot in case she wants to come back to see it."

"I'll put a boulder over.it so the animals won't get to it," Zeke said solemnly and began to scoop out a shallow grave with the small spade he had brought with him. "How's the girl?" he asked when he was done, wiping his hands on a bandanna handkerchief.

"Still bleeding, but I've got her packed tight We've done all we can do here. Can you carry her?"

"If you can help hoist her up."

The girl came to life and protested, flailing her arms weakly when Zeke hooked her under the knees and behind her back and lifted her to his thin chest. Then the slender limbs fell away and she went lifeless again. Her throat arched as her head fell back over his arm.

"Ain't her hair funny lookin', though," Zeke commented, not unkindly.

"Can't say I ever seen any that color before," Ma replied absently as she picked up the things they had brought with them. "We'd best hurry. It's startin' to rain again."

* * *

The place between her thighs burned. Her throat was scratchy and sore. She felt hot and achy all over. Yet there was a pervading sense of comfort surrounding her. She was dry and warm. Had she made it to heaven after all? Had the towheaded boy left her alone to die? Was that why she felt so safe and peaceful? But in heaven one wasn't supposed to know pain, and she was hurting.

She pried her eyes open. A white canvas ceiling curved above her. A lantern was burning low on a box near the pallet on which she was lying. She stretched her legs as much as the aching between them would allow, acquainting herself with the soft bed. Her feet and legs were naked, but she had been dressed in a white nightgown. Her hands moved restlessly over her body and she Wondered why she felt so strange. Then she realized that her stomach was flat.

It all came back to her then in a wave of terrible memories. The fear, the pain, the horror of seeing the dead infant lying blue and cold between her legs. Tears pooled in her eyes.

"There, there, you ain't gonna start that cryin' again, are you? You been cryin' off and on in your sleep for hours."

The fingers that whisked the tears from her cheek were large, work-rough, and red in the soft glow of the lamp, but they felt good on her face. So did the voice that fell, full of gentle concern, on her ears. "Here, you ready for some of this broth? Made it from one of the rabbits the boys got this mornin' before they found you." The woman foisted a spoonful on the girl, who swallowed the rich liquid to keep from choking and discovered that it tasted good. She was hungry.

"Where am I?" she asked between swallows of the soup.

"In our wagon. Name's Ma Langston. Them was my boys that found you. You recollect any of that? You scared them half to death." She chuckled. "Luke's been tellin' the story all up and down the train. Did I mention we're with a wagon train of folks headin' to Texas?"

That was too much information to sort through at one time, so the girl concentrated on swallowing the broth. It was filling her stomach up warmly, enhancing the feeling of comfort and security. For weeks she had been fleeing, so fearful of pursuit that, except for a brief few days, she hadn't taken shelter, but had slept out in the open, eating what summer harvests she could gather in the woods.

The rawboned face that looked down at her was both stern and kind. Few would lose an argument to it, but few would know unkindness from it either. Sparse, mousy grayed brown hair was pulled back into a scraggly bun on the nape of her neck. She was a large woman with an enormous bosom that sagged to her thick waist. She was dressed in clean but faded calico. Her skin was etched with a tracery of fine lines, but, conversely, her cheeks were girlishly rosy. It was as though some benevolent god had viewed his handiwork, found it too harsh, and painted on those pink cheeks to soften the rough edges.

"Had enough?" The girl nodded. The woman set aside the tin bowl of broth. "I'd like to know your name," she said, her voice softening perceptibly, as though she sensed the forthcoming topic might not be welcomed.

"Lydia."

Jagged eyebrows arched in silent query. "That's right pretty all by itself, but don't it have nothin' to go with it? Who are your people?"

Lydia turned her head away. She envisioned her mother's face as she first remembered her from earliest childhood; beautiful and young, not the pale, vacuous face of a woman dying of despair. "Only Lydia," she said quietly. "I have no family."

Ma digested that. She took the girl's hand and shook it slightly. When the light brown eyes came back to her, she argued softly, "You birthed a babe, Lydia. Where's your man?"

"Dead."

"Ach! Ain't that a pity now."

"No. I'm glad he's dead."

Ma was perplexed but too polite and fearful for the girl's physical condition to pry further. "What were you doin' out there in the woods alone? Where were you headed?"

Lydia's narrow shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. "Nowhere. Anywhere. I wanted to die."

"Hogwash! I ain't gonna let you die. You're too pretty to die." Ma roughly straightened the blanket over the frail body to cover the sudden emotion she felt for this strange girl.

She elicited Mas pity. Tragedy was stamped all over the face that shone pale and haunted in the lantern light. "We, Pa and me, buried your baby boy in the woods." Lydia's eyes closed. A boy. She hadn't even noticed with that one glimpse of her child. "If you like, we can fall behind the train a few days and you can go see the grave when you feel up to it."

Furiously Lydia shook her head. "No. I don't want to see it." Tears escaped from under her eyelids.

Ma patted her hand. "I know what you're sufferin', Lydia. I've got seven young uns, but I've buried two. It's the hardest tiling a woman has to do."

No, it isn't, Lydia thought to herself. There are far worse things a woman has to do.

"You sleep some more now. I 'spect you've caught a chill lyin' out there in the woods thataway. I'll stay with you."

Lydia looked up into the compassionate face. It wasn't in her yet to smile, but her eyes softened in appreciation. "Thank you."

"You'll have plenty of time to thank me once you get well."

"I can't stay with you. I have to ... go."

"You ain't gonna feel like goin' nowhere for a spell yet. You can stay with us as long as you can put up with us. All the way to Texas if you like."

Lydia wanted to argue. She wasn't fit to live with decent folks like this. If they knew about her, about . . . Her eyes dropped closed in sleep.

* * *

His
hands were on her again, all over her. She opened her mouth to scream and las palm, salty and gritty, clomped over it. His other hand clawed at the neck of her chemise until it ripped open. Her breasts were squeezed by his hateful, clammy hand that derived pleasure from inflicting pain
.
She sank her teeth into the meat of his palm and was punished by a slap that left her ears tinging and
her jaw throbbing.

"Don't you fight me, or I'll tell your prissy mama about us. You don't want her to know what we've been doin, now do you? I think that'd prob'ly send her right over the edge. I think she'd die if she knew I was breedin you, don't you reckon?"

No,
Lydia didn't want her mama to know. But
how
could she bear to let him do that to her again? Already he was grinding his hips against her thighs, forcing them to open. His fingers were poking at her painfully, probing abusively, hurtfully. And that loathsome appendage was driving into her flesh again. When she raked his face with her nails, he laughed and tried to kiss her
. "I
can take it rough if you can," he jeered.

She fought him. "No, no," she sobbed. "Take it out.
No,
no, no . . ."

"What is it, Lydia? Wake up. Its only a bad dream."

The soothing voice readied into the pit of hell where her nightmare had flung her and lifted her out. She was returned to the soft comfort of the Langstons' wagon.

It wasn't Clancey's rape that was hurting her, but the pain that had resulted from the birth of his baby. Oh God, how could she go on living with the memory of Clancey's sexual abuse? She had had a baby by his foul seed and wasn't fit to live in the world any longer.

Ma Langston didn't think that way. As the girl gripped the sleeves of Ma's worn dress in fear of her nightmare, the older woman cradled Lydia's head against her deep bosom, murmuring soothing words. "It was only a dream. You have a touch of fever and that's given you nightmares, but nothin's gonna hurt you as long as you're here with me."

Lydia's terror subsided. Clancey was dead. She had seen him lying dead, blood pumping from his head to cover his ugly face. He couldn't touch her anymore.

Gratefully she let her head drop heavily on Ma's breast. When she was almost asleep, Ma laid her back on the lumpy pillow that felt like featherdown to Lydia. She had made her bed out of pine needles or hay during the past couple of months. Some nights she hadn't been that lucky, but had slept as well as she could propped against a tree trunk.

A sweet, black oblivion seduced her into its depths again as Ma continued to hold her hand.

* * *

Lydia awakened the next morning to the swaying of the prairie schooner. Cooking pots rattled with each rhythmic rotation of the wheels. Leather harnesses squeaked, their metal fasteners jingling merrily. Ma was calling instructions to the team of horses. She punctuated each direction with a crack of a whip. In nearly the same tone she kept up a lively dialogue with one of her offspring. Her chatter was both advisory and admonishing.

Lydia shifted uncomfortably on her bed and turned her head slightly. A white-haired girl with wide, curious blue eyes was sitting within touching distance, staring down at her.

"Ma, she's awake," she shouted. Lydia jumped at the sudden noise.

"Do as I told you," Ma called back into the wagon. "We can't stop now."

The girl looked back at the startled Lydia. "I'm Anabeth."

"I'm Lydia," she said scratchily. The back of her throat felt like a whetstone.

"I know. Ma told us that at breakfast and said not to call you 'the girl' anymore or she'd pop our jaws. Are you hungry?"

Lydia weighed her answer. "No. Thirsty."

"Ma said you'd be thirsty on account of the fever. I got a canteen of water and one of tea."

"Water first." Lydia drank deeply. She was amazed at how much energy it cost her and lay back weakly. "Maybe some tea later."

life and all its functions were taken for granted by the Langstons. She was embarrassed when Anabeth slid a washbasin under her hips so she could relieve herself, but the girl was kind and matter-of-fact and seemed not the least bit bothered by having to empty it out the back of the wagon.

During the noon break, when the train halted for both man and beast to rest, Ma climbed into the wagon to change the pad of cloth she had secured between Lydia's thighs.

"The bleedings not so bad. Your woman parts look like they're healin' fine, though you'll be sore for a few more days."

There was nothing crude about Ma's frankness, but it still embarrassed Lydia to have herself peered at that way. She was glad some sensibilities had remained intact considering where she had been living for the past ten years. Her mother must have ingrained some refinement in her before they had moved to the Russell farm. She knew most folks looked upon her as white trash by association. Nasty taunts had been flung in their direction whenever they went in to town, which mercifully wasn't often. Lydia hadn't understood all the words, but she learned to recognize and dread the insulting tone.

lime and again she had been embarrassed and had wanted to scream out that she and her mama weren't like the Russells. They were different. But who would have believed a dirty, ragged, barefoot girl? She had looked just as disreputable as the Russells, so she had been ridiculed too.

But apparently some people weren't so hasty to judge. The Langstons weren't. They hadn't minded her dirty, tattered clothes. They hadn't scorned her for having a baby without a husband. They had treated her like a respectable person.

She didn't feel respectable, but more than anything in the world, that's what she wanted to be. It might take years to shed the taint the Russells had smeared on her, but if she died trying, she would get rid of it.

During the day she met the Langston clan one by one. The two boys who had found her shyly ducked their heads into the wagon at their mothers introduction, "That there's my eldest, Jacob; but everybody calls him Bubba. The other one is Luke." "Thank you for helping me," Lydia said softly. No longer did she resent them for saving her life. Tilings didn't seem so dismal now that she was rid of her last reminder of Clancey.

The towheaded boys blushed to the roots of their pale hair and muttered, "You're welcome."

Anabeth was a gregarious and energetic twelve-year-old. There was also Marynell, Samuel, and Atlanta, with barely a year between them. The baby, Micah, was a strapping three-year-old.

Zeke, whipping the hat off his balding head, spoke to her late that evening from the end of the wagon. "Glad to have you here, Miss ... uh ... Lydia." He smiled and Lydia noted that he had only two teeth in the front of his mouth.

"I'm sony to put you to so much trouble."

"No trouble," he said dismissively.

"I'll get out of your way as soon as possible." She had no idea where she would go or what she would do, but she couldn't impose on this generous family who had
so
many mouths to feed already.