The Devil You Know (19 page)

It struck Willa then that she had never considered it. “I don't know. Maybe because I didn't know if you were going to stay through the winter.” That explanation seemed inadequate, and she felt heat rising in her face as he stared at her.

“Maybe because you didn't want me in your house,” he said quietly.

Willa shook her head hard enough for her braid to swing forward over her shoulder. “No,” she said firmly. “That's not it. You've been in the house.”

“Kitchen table in,” he said. “I didn't know about the piano in the front room, remember?”

“Well, Cutter and Zach don't traipse through the house either. You work for me. You have living quarters.”

“Are you listening to yourself, Wilhelmina? You asked me to marry you, and I don't know the color of your goddamn couch.”

She flinched, blinked, and drew in a sharp breath. After a moment, she spoke, but softly, not trusting herself to manage her temper above a whisper. “Maybe you should give me back the gun.” She held out her hand.

“Gladly.” He placed the Colt squarely in her palm, put distance between them by retreating a step, and rubbed the back of his neck.

Frowning, Willa stared first at the gun, then at Israel. “You don't want to do this, do you? I think you just picked a fight with me to get out of it.”

Israel did not look away, and he also did not deny it.

“Well, damn,” she said under her breath.

He made a noise at the back of his throat.

Annalea looked over the top of her primer and yelled, “Is someone gonna shoot or are you two just gonna keep on jawin'?”

Willa sighed deeply. “Gonna. Jawin'. Do you see why I am worried she will grow up stupid as a stump?”

“She might think it's more important to learn to shoot,” he said after a moment. “She can see you set a lot of store by it.”

His comment put Willa's attention back on the Colt. “I do. I hadn't realized how much, but you're right. I do. It's important for me to know that she can protect herself.”

“Could you? Protect yourself, I mean. At her age?”

“I knew how to shoot,” she said a shade defiantly.

Israel's blue-gray eyes narrowed when she looked up. “I didn't ask if you could shoot. I asked if you could protect yourself. It's not quite the same.”

Willa felt herself go from hot to cold. Very cold. If there were any color left in her face, she would have been surprised to learn of it. She had lots of thoughts but no reply, and because it seemed prudent to do something, she began to lower her hand holding the gun.

“Hey!” Annalea shouted out again. “What about the shooting? Isn't someone gonna shoot?”

Israel caught Willa by the wrist and took the gun from her. “It's loaded?”

“Yes.”

And because she spoke so softly, he checked it anyway. “All right. Stand off to the side.” When she didn't move, he did, taking a position four feet to the left of her. He raised the Colt, held it steady, and squinted as he studied the targets. They were about two yards apart, one yellow, one green, both with bold, black lettering. “Yellow one,” he said, and fired.

When the sound of the shot died away, the yellow can was still nicely balanced on the log.

Willa said calmly, “That was high, I think. And a little to the left.”

Annalea hollered, “You missed!”

“Thank you,” he said under his breath. To Willa, he said, “Green.” His eyes narrowed on the target and he squeezed the trigger.

“Still high,” she said.

He lowered the gun. “Well, I didn't hit the horses.” He held out the Colt to her, shrugging when she didn't take it. “I suppose you want me to practice, but I'm telling you, it's mostly a waste of ammunition. I shot a buck once when I was hunting with my father, but it was not a kill shot, and Quill had to do the merciful thing and finish it for me. I never shot a squirrel, a pheasant, or a rabbit. Now I can add that coffee cans are safe.” He added mildly, “Although I understand they're not good eating.”

A slender, rueful smile touched Willa's mouth. “No, not good eating. Would you mind taking aim at the yellow can again? You don't have to shoot. I want to see something.”

Israel obliged her, raising the gun as though drawing from the hip. His eyes shifted sideways when Willa stepped closer.

“No,” she said. “Keep looking at the can as if you were sighting it.”

He did, eyes narrowing in concentration until she put a hand on his and told him to lower the gun. This time when he looked at her, her head was angled in a thoughtful pose. “What?” he asked. “My grip? The way I stand?”

She shook her head and took the gun from him, holstering it. “None of that. It's the way you look at a thing when it's distant from you. Have you owned a pair of spectacles in the past?” Willa could not recall that she had ever been on the receiving end of such dismissive regard. He might as well have sneered at her. “I suppose not,” she said.

“I don't need them.”

“Uh-huh.” She pointed to the yellow can because the black block lettering was clearer than it was on the green one. “Read what's stamped on the yellow can.”

Israel did not turn his head to look at the can. “Coffee,” he said. “It says coffee.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That's what you want to do? Read what it says, Israel.”

Sighing heavily, he turned, squinted, and said, “Coffee.”

Willa said, “Finch's Best. The word ‘coffee' is on the other side. Do you want to try the green can? I'll give you that it's more difficult at this distance.”

Israel shifted his attention to the opposite end of the log. “Cortana.”

“It's Cortana, all right, but that's not the side that's facing us. It reads ‘coffee.'”

Israel gave her a sour look. “Trickery. I thought that would be beneath you.”

She shrugged. “Can you even see the cans clearly?”

“I can see them just fine.”

“I don't think you have any idea just how well you're
supposed to be able to see them.” She waved to Annalea, gesturing to her to join them. “And bring your primer.” When Annalea ground to a halt in front of them, Willa took the reader from her hand, opened it to a random page, and held it up for Israel. “Start anywhere. Just a few sentences.”

He took the book from her. “I don't believe this,” he muttered, but he dutifully began to read. “‘Before the berry can be used, it undergoes the process of roasting.'” He stopped, looked at Willa oddly, and turned back a page to see what subject he was reading about. “Coffee. This about coffee.”

She held up both hands in the universal sign of innocence. “Happenstance. I swear. Go on.”

He found his place and continued. “‘The amount of the aromatic oil brought out in the roasting has much to do with the market value of the coffee, and it has been found that the longer the raw coffee is—'” He stopped because Willa plucked the book out of his hands and returned it to Annalea.

“No wonder you don't like that reader,” she told her. “Thank you, and you can go back to the blanket.”

“But—”

Willa pointed to the blanket and Annalea left, making a dramatic show of dragging her feet. “Your near vision seems to be just fine, which I expected it to be since you read a lot, but then you don't play cards, so I wondered if there was something I didn't understand. You didn't need to change the distance of the book from your eyes the way Happy sometimes does. I guess you're good there.”

“Your professional opinion, Dr. Pancake?”

Her mouth flattened momentarily. “Sarcasm? That's your best defense?”

“It's early moments yet. I will have a better strategy presently.”

In spite of herself, she laughed. “While you're thinking about it, tell me how long you've had this problem.”

“You're the one who says I have a problem.”

“Israel. You must have suspected. What about when you were in school? Could you see what your teacher wrote on the board?”

“Yes,” he said. When Willa's dark stare narrowed and never wavered, he added, “Mostly.”

“Hmm,” she said, finally satisfied. “Could your parents have afforded spectacles if you'd said something?”

“My father wore them to read and write, so, yes, they would have found a way to get a pair for me.”

“Then I'm imagining you didn't want them because they'd point to a flaw in your pretty face.”

“Not quite. I didn't want them because I didn't know a boy who didn't become a target wearing them. There is something about a pair of spectacles that makes bullies want to punch you in the nose. I have a lot of respect for my nose.”

She regarded it critically. “It's a very nice nose, I'll give you that, but I've told you before that a break would add interest, if not character.”

Wincing slightly, he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. “I'll keep that in mind,” he said drily.

“Mama wore spectacles. She didn't need them for fine work like sewing, but if she had to see who was riding down the road toward the ranch before they got to the porch, she put on her spectacles. Same when she wanted to watch what was happening in the corral when she was standing at the kitchen sink. We didn't bury her with them because Annalea had it in her mind that God would fix Mama's vision, and she would be able to see us just fine from heaven.” Willa's lips lifted in a brief, somewhat sardonic smile. “I'm fairly certain Happy never believed it.”

“I think that's probably right.”

She nodded. “The point of telling you about Mama is that I can put my hands on those spectacles in less than a minute after we return to the house. You can try them on, see if they help some, and if no one punches you in the nose, we'll figure out a way to get you a pair of your own.”

“So your mind is made up on this.”

“Yes.” She realized he was studying her, head cocked to one side as he grazed her features with his brilliantly colored blue-gray eyes. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

He smiled a little then, his gaze never leaving her face.
“I can't say for certain, but it seems to me that you're sounding a lot like a wife.”

“Oh.” A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “What does that mean? Should I apologize?”

Israel laughed on an indrawn breath. “No. It means that the time's come to make it a fact. For all kinds of reasons, Wilhelmina Pancake, I need to be your husband.”

There was less than an hour of daylight left when Israel, Willa, and Annalea returned to the ranch. Annalea knew nothing about the agreement that the adults had come to. There was no handshake, no display of affection. Israel had chuckled but mostly because Willa was dumbstruck.

He'd led her back to the blanket, where they sat with Annalea and ate from the repast she had packed in Willa's saddlebag. There was ham left over from breakfast, hardboiled eggs, a thick heel of bread, and apples. They held their canteens under the fresh, cold spring water cascading from the rocks and drank their fill. Annalea read to them from her primer, although not from the chapter on coffee, and answered questions about her reading to Israel's satisfaction. Willa remained quiet, observing only.

When the blanket ceased to provide a sufficient barrier between the ground and their backsides, they packed everything with the intention of returning right then, but because Willa caught Israel eyeing the rifle in her scabbard, she asked him if he wanted to try it out. He had, after all, shot a buck once.

If she had challenged him, he would have declined, but her wry humor had him agreeing to it. That began a round of target shooting in which even Annalea was eventually able to participate. Her success was on par with Israel's, but Willa was the undeniable champion, striking down the targets so often that Annalea finally refused to set them up again. Willa bowed out of the competition after that and took care of repositioning the coffee cans, a task that, to the sheepish amusement of Israel and Annalea, required infrequent attention.

They dismounted at the entrance to the barn. Zach came
out to meet them and helped Annalea. He sent her inside to care for her mare before she could launch into all the particulars of her outing. If Annalea suspected she was being maneuvered out of earshot, she did not say so. Willa, though, knew very well what Zach had done. She arched an eyebrow at him and waited.

“It's Happy,” said Zach. “Not long after you left, he saddled Lightfoot and headed out. I assume to Jupiter, but I can't know for certain. I couldn't get a word out of him about his intentions. Tried comin' at it a few different ways, but he shrugged off all my questions. Cutter doesn't know anything either.”

“And Happy's not back.” It was statement, not a question.

“That's right. I figured I would go into Jupiter and have a look around when you got back.”

“Do you know if he had any money?”

“Couldn't say. He wasn't drinking, though, and he didn't take his flask.”

“Both those things are to the good,” said Willa. “I'll check the old flour tin to see if there's much missing. I don't think he would have gone anywhere with empty pockets. Go on, Zach. Unless you want to send Cutter.”

“No, I'll go. I have more experience bringing Happy home.”

Willa nodded. The truth of that made her want to weep like an orphaned child.

*   *   *

Israel and Cutter were invited to the house for dinner. It was Annalea who wanted them at the table. In a frank declaration, Annalea told her sister she was not fit company, and she also declared the same to Israel and Cutter when she asked them to come up from the bunkhouse.

Israel was forced to agree with Annalea. Willa's efforts to behave as if nothing were wrong only underscored the fact that something was. Her smile was forced, her laughter a bit too bright and brittle, her eyes never quite meeting his or anyone else's. She was deeply unhappy, and quite possibly, he thought, afraid.

Cutter excused himself as soon as he scraped the last crumb
of applesauce cake from his plate. No one asked him what he was in a hurry to do. Annalea used John Henry as her motive to leave the table, carrying the dog out the door because he needed to walk. She seemed to miss the irony there.

Israel offered to clear the table, but Willa told him that she would do it, and since she was tense with pent-up energy, he didn't try to help. Instead, he leaned back. He smiled to himself when the chair wobbled. It took him back to the night she proposed. No one had ever gotten around to fixing it. Maybe no one would, and maybe there was a reason for that.

“Was this your mother's chair?” he asked suddenly.

Willa paused halfway to rising. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“A stray thought.”

“Hm.” She finished getting to her feet. “But that reminds me . . .” She excused herself and left the kitchen.

Israel had a fairly good idea where she was going and what she would be bringing back. She did not disappoint. In less than a minute, she returned holding her mother's spectacles. She separated the wire stems and held them up for his inspection. He did not take them from her immediately. They looked too delicate for him to hold comfortably. The stems were gold-plated, as was the bridge, but the lenses were frameless, making them all but invisible.

When he did not reach for them, she turned them around and settled them on his nose, carefully bending the earpieces so they fit snugly behind his ears. She straightened and tilted her head this way and that to study him. “Look up,” she said, pointing to her face. “At me. Hmm. Not bad. Wait. Don't move.”

Israel watched her disappear into the pantry and return holding something behind her back. She skirted the table in a way that kept it hidden from him, and when she was on the far side of the kitchen, she revealed it, holding it up in front of her chest. “Can you see this?”

Even without the glasses, Israel would have had no difficulty making out that Willa was holding a jar of preserves. From the color alone he could have narrowed the contents to something in the deep blue or purple family: elderberry, blueberry, plum, or grape. What he could not have told her with certainty was that she was holding blackberry preserves.

“Blackberry,” he said.

“You don't sound pleased about it. Your vanity really has no bounds. Would you like a mirror?”

He shook his head. “No, I might punch myself in the nose.” That raised her slim, slanted smile and Israel did not mind at all that it was at his expense. He wiggled the glasses up and down on his nose instead of raising and lowering his eyebrows while he studied her mouth.

“I'm not giving them up,” he said. “Not now that I can see you still have a truly splendid mouth all the way over there.” He was prepared for her to throw the jar of preserves at him, but she surprised him by setting the jar on a shelf behind her and walking toward him.

“What about now?” she asked when she came to stand beside him.

Israel looked over the top of the rimless lenses. “Still splendid.” He removed the spectacles because he did not need them to see her clearly anymore, and he set them on the table. He circled her wrist with his fingers but did not attempt to pull her onto this lap.

“If it's my answer to your proposal that is making you so unhappy, then you need to tell me. I don't think it is, though, and that makes me believe it has something to do with your father. Am I right?”

“Mostly. It has everything to do with my father.” Without any encouragement, she dropped onto his lap. “I thought he was doing better. I really did. After all this time, you'd think I would know better than to allow myself to hope, but I had an inkling, and it's hard to ignore an inkling.” A tear slipped over her cheek and she hastily brushed it away. The mouth he had called splendid turned rueful and watery. “You should probably rethink your answer. Look at the family you'd be taking on. My father's a drunk, Annalea is like a pebble in your shoe, John Henry's no kind of hound dog, and most days I'm afraid Zach and Cutter will realize I'm not up to running this place. It's occurring to me that Eli Barber deserves us. You don't.”

Israel touched the side of her chin and turned her face toward him. “Really? And what do you think I don't deserve?
I like your father, Willa, he's not a mean drunk, and sober, he is a good storyteller and makes sense. There are times your sister is a pebble in my shoe, but I swear I've learned to walk better when that pebble's there than when it isn't. As for what Zach and Cutter might realize, it will never be that you aren't up to managing this spread. I know that because you are up to it, and I had an inkling I might earn the right to stand beside you someday. I'd count it as maybe the best thing I've ever done. Like you said, it's hard to ignore an inkling.”

She sniffed. Her smile wobbled.

Israel groped for one of the crumpled napkins on the table and handed it to her.

Willa blew her nose into the cloth and balled it up in her fist. “You didn't mention John Henry,” she whispered.

“Well, truth is, my feelings toward the dog are mixed. You're right that he's no kind of hound, but last night he rose to the stature of Cerberus.” When she regarded him blankly, he explained, “That's the three-headed dog that guards the gate of Hades. When you think about it, John Henry was rather fearless. I don't think he knows he's stubby-legged and wrinkly.”

Willa's laughter had no sound, but Israel felt the vibration of it ripple through her chest. He waited for her to go still again, and then he said, “You heard what I said last night about doing time in a Cook County cell. I thought you believed me. Did you?”

“In spite of you being a liar? Yes, I believed you.”

“When you invited me to ride with you today, I thought you meant to press me for details, then you told me Annalea was coming with us, and I realized it was unlikely that it was your intention. But your sister's presence aside, I did wonder why it wasn't.”

“You didn't tell me about your crime last night. I have to trust that you'll tell me when you're ready, or I have to accept that you'll never tell me. I can't exactly force it out of you.”

“Are you sure it isn't because you really don't want to know?”

She hesitated a beat too long. “Maybe I don't. Last night I didn't. You've been clear all along that no one's ever mistaken
you for a saint, but as long as you haven't killed anyone, and with your aim, I am inclined to believe it would have been an accident if you had—”

“I haven't killed anyone.”

“Well, then, that's in your favor.”

“You do realize the Lord sent Moses down from the mountain with Ten Commandments, don't you?”

Willa grinned. “Sometimes I forget you are a preacher's son.”

“Minister. My father is a minister and I am a minister's son. The distinction is important to him. A preacher is a Bible-thumping, snake-handling, speaking-in-tongues individual who never attended seminary. The Reverend James McKenna delivers fire and brimstone from the pulpit in an erudite fashion. You see the difference?”

Willa's smile deepened. “All right. You are a minister's son. The up-to-no-good one if I understand correctly. Exactly how many commandments have you broken?”

Israel counted them soundlessly on his fingertips. “Seven.”

She whistled softly. “Perhaps you could tell me the ones you've obeyed.”

“No killing. No other gods. No graven images.”

“Oh my.”

“Mm-hmm.” He regarded her soberly. “That's what you're getting, Wilhelmina, and I'm damn sure you don't deserve it.”

Willa's reply was cut short by the sounds of horses and men approaching the house. She sat up straight, removed herself from Israel's lap, and went to the back door. When she stepped outside, Israel was right behind her.

A fingernail of moon provided enough light for Israel to easily identify Zach and Happy as they rode up to the porch. There was a third man, unknown to him, who was following in a buggy. Annalea and Cutter emerged from the bunkhouse and were hurrying toward them, while John Henry trotted ahead of the pair in pursuit of the buggy wheels.

Israel heard Willa mutter something under her breath that sounded like, “Prepare yourself,” but he wasn't certain if she was speaking to him. Still, he sidled closer and had the odd thought that perhaps he should have put on the
spectacles. He would have liked to have had a sharper picture of Mr. Buggyman's face.

Willa ignored her father and Zach and stepped off the porch to greet Mr. Buggyman as soon as he brought his conveyance to a halt.

Israel heard her speak clearly this time but still wondered if he heard her correctly.

“Pastor Beacon.” She held out her hand to him.

Beacon leaned over the side of the buggy and placed his gloved hand in hers. He had an almost perfectly round face, a chin that protruded like a doorknob, and eyes that seemed to be perpetually astonished. They tended to lend him a very merry look even when he was not smiling. He was not smiling now, and for once he looked harried and vaguely put out in spite of the wide eyes.

“How lovely to see you,” said Willa, removing her hand from his firm grip.

“And you, dear. I think. Your father insisted that I accompany him back. Rather forcefully, I might add.”

“Gun?” asked Willa.

“Shotgun. He thought it was fitting and believes he'll have the use of it here directly.” He used his buggy whip to point past her to the porch. “Is that the fellow there?”

Seeing Pastor Beacon indicate him with a flourish of his whip, Israel dropped down one step. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware that Happy was dismounting. It took him a moment longer to register that Happy was pulling a shotgun from the leather scabbard. By the time he turned his head, his eyes every bit as astonished as Pastor Beacon's, Happy had the shotgun aimed squarely as his chest.

Israel raised his hands slowly, not with any hope of deflecting buckshot if Happy decided to fire, but to indicate in no uncertain terms that he was surrendering. He had some experience with it, of course, but he usually was plotting escape in the back of his mind. He was not thinking about that now. From the presence of the parson, Israel was able to make a reasonable deduction about Happy's intentions.