The Milch Bride (2 page)

Even as the grin faded, he pointed with his fork toward the
back room. “Dead long?”

She shook her head. “Dad died yesterday, his heart, or maybe
another stroke. He quit eating and then he seemed to just let go.”

“The baby?”

“Sometime before daybreak, I was preparing Dad’s body. He
was just gone when I went to check on him.”

She could not look at the man, instead she stared at the
stove. “I should have gotten them in the ground. I just kind of …” her voice
broke, and she shook her head, even as she felt the tears gathering.

His voice was thick as he whispered, even though his blue eyes
remained clear and intense as he stared at her. “Well, it looks like you’ve
done a good job in getting them ready for burial. While my wife, Donna, was
fading, her parents came out. They insisted we had to get a proper box built
for her, had to have a proper funeral for her at the church and a burial in the
town cemetery. While we were waiting on the carpenter, J.D. started to really struggle.
I dug another grave, one more his size. Guess I should have filled them in, but
I didn’t. What I’m saying is, if you aren’t too proud to use it, we could bury
your folks in those graves that are already dug.”

“On your place?”

“They’d be close to you that way, while you’re at the ranch
tending to my boy. Then if you want them moved back here, we can do that when
the time comes.”

“You think I’m going to leave my ranch and move in with
you?”

“Ma’am, I intend for my son to live. He needs you and your
milk to do that. Yes ma’am, I reckon you’re moving into my place until he’s
weaned.”

Hattie glared at him, knowing she again had no choice, but
hating him and fate for forcing her life in a direction she hadn’t chosen.

“You have other plans, do you?”

“Yes. I need to find and herd up the cattle on this place. Three
weeks ago, there were about fifty head left. I intend to trail them to town to
sell in order to have sufficient money to pay the taxes on this ranch. Otherwise,
I’ll lose it.” With each word, she grew a little louder, and by the time she
finished she was standing and shouting at him. “Our ranch may not look like
much to you, but my Dad spent his life trying to make a go of it. I owe it to
him to not let the bank take it from us.”

He stared pointedly at the sleeping baby and kept his voice
low, his eyes staring directly into hers. “Fair enough, I’ll pay you for wet
nursing my son, whatever you owe in taxes. I will send my men out to round up
all your cattle and move them, pack up any of your furniture or what not that
you want, and move it all to my place. When you’re done, when J.D. is weaned,
I’ll have them move it all back.” He too rose and grew louder as he answered
her. “I reckon we can keep up with another fifty cows and whatever else there
is for a year or so.”

She stuck out her hand, shocked when it was engulfed by his.
Here she was nothing but a milk cow, but she felt more like herself then she
had in months.

Quickly she tugged her hand free. “I’ll make a list of the
animals. It won’t take long to pack up what little is left.” She quickly cleared
the table, pulled the family Bible out of the drawer of the only dresser, and
sat at the table with a piece of butcher paper and a flat pencil.

“I accept your offer of the graves. My father wouldn’t care
about proper caskets or burials in town, even if I had the money to pay for
them. Besides, I believe he is home in heaven with my mother.”

“I need something to put down in the wagon-bed, before we
load them.”

Hattie turned back and bent to the bottom drawer and pulled
out a thick-woven Indian blanket.

“It doesn’t look like the rain is going to stop. Do you have
any oilskins?”

Hattie handed him the thick blanket, blushing furiously. “They’re
still on the bed.”

Jackson stopped, accepting the heavy blanket and staring
down at the slender girl before him. Had it been such a short time since she
underwent the same ordeal that had claimed Donna’s life? According to Doc, she
had ridden to town on a galloping horse to get help for her father on the day
she delivered. Now she looked painfully shy over even the mention of it.

“I’ll be just a minute.”

When he returned, Hattie had a bag full of clothes, a rifle
and her father’s pistol on the table. He called her to take her father’s feet,
then they lifted the bodies together, careful to secure the baby in her
father’s arms as they lifted and carried them out. As soon as he had the bodies
in the wagon bed, she turned and ran back into the cabin, returning with two
quilts and the oilcloths, balled up with the yellow-coated canvas side out. Standing
in the wagon bed, he took the edge and carefully covered the top half of the
bodies, making sure not to disturb either body in their peaceful pose.

He covered the bottom half just as carefully, then used the
bag of tools that he had removed from the toolbox to hold the top right corner.
Hattie handed him the guns and he rolled them under the edge of the tarp to
weigh down the left upper corner. She carried out a wooden box, loaded with the
broken remains of a blue and white square canister set, and a small set of oil
and vinegar jars. He put it as a weight at the tailgate on a bottom corner and
he set her bag of clothes on the last corner and jumped down.

While he gathered up the baby, she pulled on a heavy barn
coat and grabbed the family Bible, and a tattered cookbook. He was loading the
box and baby when J.D. began to fuss. Hattie reached in the box and felt his
bottom, then wrapped the blanket closer around him, before tucking the baby
inside the folds of her heavy coat. She accepted a hand up onto the buckboard
seat. Since the baby continued to fuss, she reached in to free her breast for
his searching mouth.

Hattie was not sure if it was the baby who was comforted, or
herself. As soon as she tucked him in against her, she felt a swell of warmth
rush through her.

Jackson studied her profile, and then clucked the team into
motion, putting an arm out to steady her as he circled out of the yard. She
stiffened away and he dropped his arm, as struck by her reaction as his guilt
for forgetting. The babe J.D. was his, but the woman would never be his Donna.

It was mid-afternoon when he pulled the buckboard up to
Thompson’s store. Jackson sprang down, but Hattie remained on the buckboard
seat.

When he stepped up on the boardwalk beside her, she asked,
“Why are we stopping here?” Hastily she rearranged herself and the baby.

“I promised the cook I’d bring back some stores.”  Not
giving her a chance to hesitate, he lifted her down with the baby still in her
arms. Quickly he walked over and opened the door to the store.

Jackson stood there, holding the door open even as he talked
to the storeowner. Hattie inched inside, backing up to blend with the barrels
and tack by the door while Jackson stepped forward and handed the shop owner
his list. Both men stared at her as Jackson leaned closer to whisper to the
storeowner. “Mr. Thompson, as you can see, she needs clothes, everything, head
to toe, including all the female fripperies.”  Loudly he added, “I’ll be back
within the hour. There are bodies in the buckboard, be extra careful when you
load up.”

“Bodies?”

However, the question was directed toward his back and the
closing door. The store owner turned his head and hollered at his wife. “Lady
out front needs help.”  He nodded at her and went to work filling the order.

Several minutes later, his wife finally arrived. “Lady,
humph, that’s nothing but Stoddard’s dirty slut of a daughter.”

“Hush. Jackson Harper wants her to have clothes - head to
toe - from the skin out,” he whispered angrily. “Keep a civil tongue in your
head and make the sale.”

She snorted again, and then waved at Hattie, unconcerned
that she had heard every word. “This way.”

The woman eyed her critically and Hattie realized she could
not remember the last time she had bathed or combed her hair. Why hadn’t she
thought of it before letting Jackson drag her in here?

“Could you take off the coat so I can better judge your
size?”

 Hattie hesitated; dreading the woman’s reaction, then
opened the coat and shrugged out of one sleeve. When the clerk’s wife saw the
baby’s feet, she screamed.

“My God, you’ve brought your bastard into town.”

Hattie flushed with anger. “My son is dead. This is the
Harper boy.”

“Emma, mind what you were told,” the owner yelled at her.

Hattie managed to bunch up the coat as she removed it and
laid it on top of two full crates of potatoes, then swaddled the boy and stared
up at the woman. She was thoroughly embarrassed, aware of her matted dirty
hair, the baggy flannel shirt of her dad’s and the mud- stained skirt. She
prayed she would not have to feed the baby again and expose her gray, stained,
underwear.

“My God, you do need clothes.”

Hattie kept a hand on the swaddled baby, but this time her
blush was shame, not anger.

“We really don’t carry ready-to-wear for women, other than
shirt-waists and skirts.”

“Fine, I don’t care, as long as it’s black. I’m in mourning.
My father is dead, too.”

The woman stared at her, and then pursed her lips. “I’m
sorry for your loss. Tom Stoddard was a fine man.”

Hattie bit her tongue then nodded. “Thank you, anything in
black, if not I‘ll need a box of dye.”

“Widow’s rags it is. There are two skirts, one you will need
to hem. Both black. The shirts are black, one with red stripes, the other with
blue. I just have the two.”

“Fine, they sound fine. I can make do with them.”

“Over here are the undergarments,” she whispered.

The baby interrupted with a cry and Hattie moved quickly to
lift him up, finding him wet. “Whatever you think, basic is fine. I’m sorry,
but the baby needs changing.”

“I can sell you a yard of swaddling. We can cut it to make
four nappies, you can hem them later.

“Good, those first please.”

The clerk shook her head but grabbed the bolt of cloth,
quickly cutting off a yard and quartering it.

Hattie moved back to the coat and made quick work of
changing the crying newborn. His bottom was already chapped, and she did not
want it to get raw. “Do you have salve, something I can use for the baby’s
bottom?”

“I’ll get you a tin of balm. Make sure you keep him clean
and dry.”

Hattie glared at the woman, but nodded.

<><><> 

Jackson crossed the street to the bank, bustling into the
small brick building and knocking on the office door at the back of the room,
barely acknowledging the greetings from young Smith, the only teller.

“Hello, Charlie.”

“Hello, son, where’s the baby?” Charles Dawson said as he
rose, an anxious expression on his face.

“Over at the store, with the wet nurse.”

Dawson shook his head, scowling. “That Stoddard tramp, I
can’t believe you left Donna’s son with that woman.”

“Enough. We don’t know that all the gossip about her is true.
There are a lot of things that make me wonder if somebody lied. If you saw how
busted up their house was, and Tom Stoddard looked broken down too. It could
all be stories told by the men who should have been hung for what they did.”

“Bah, you’re more gullible then I thought. A jezebel like
that could fool any man”

“Let’s agree to disagree. Why I’m here is I’ve hired her to
care for J.D. I told her I would pay their back taxes.”

“Ridiculous. Do you even know how much they owe?”

“A ranch a fifth the size of mine, one year’s taxes. I
figure I can handle it.”

Charles Dawson moved over to the ledger for taxes. In a
small town like Star, he was rancher, bank president, and tax assessor.

“You’re going to regret your offer, Jackson. Might make you
question your judgment all around.”

He spun the ledger around and pointed to the number. Jackson
sank into the chair in front of the desk and tented his fingers as he thought
what he should say. Finally anger got the best of him.

“What the hell is going on Charlie? You set this damn number.
I’ll pay the same rate as last year’s taxes on the property, or I’ll meet with
the city council and you can explain this number.”

For the first time, Charles Dawson seemed to lose his
composure.

“The damn council are the ones who wanted the tax rate
raised…”

“Hell, I could buy the land for that much money.”

“Wait a month, and when it goes on the block for back taxes,
if yours is the highest bid, then you can buy it.”

“They only owe one year’s taxes. If you weren’t trying to
steal the ranch, the number would be affordable.”

“Watch yourself, Jackson. You don’t have Donna any more. You
don’t want to become my enemy.”

“I’m the father of your damn grandson. Hell, you know this
isn’t right. I expect you to do the right thing. Someday that little boy will
want to be proud of his grandfather.”

Jackson rested his hands flat on the desk, leaning forward
to stare into the eyes of Charles Dawson. It was a moment before the other man
blinked and looked down.

When he raised his head, he said. “Pay the bill. I’ll deed
the property to you. There’s no reason for a farmer like Stoddard to have ranch
land with a natural spring.”

“Tom Stoddard is dead. The land belongs to his daughter.”

“Not when she owes taxes she can’t pay.”

They were again staring. This time Jackson blinked first.

“Hell, Jackson, make up your mind. The land will sell for
the back taxes. I have the power to sell it. If you want to have it, pay the
bill.”

Jackson groaned. It would put a dent in his cash reserve. With
an operation the size of his, anything could happen and he would be back in
this office, asking Charlie Dawson for a loan. He could just tell Hattie the
taxes were too high and pay her the amount they should have been.

No, he had given her his word. He could pay, shake his
father-in-law’s hand, and take a deed to the ranch. At the end of the year, he
could deed it back to the girl. He could help her fight the assessment, get it
changed. But now he had to act.

“Write it up. But remember, I need enough left to keep up my
ranch and raise the boy. There are also the funeral expenses.”

“Nonsense, Irene wanted it, we insisted, we’ll pay for it.
We’ve already paid.” He handed Jackson the receipt from the funeral home. While
Jackson read it, he pulled a sheet of foolscap from his desk and checked the
nib on his ink pen. Then he flipped the ledger to the forms listed at the front
of the book and wrote two paragraphs, then turned the book back to the listing.
When he had filled in the form, he turned back to the front for the closure
paragraphs needed on the form.

Jackson stood behind him, reading over his shoulder as he
created the document. While Charles was copying the boundary and specifics of
the property being deeded, Jackson noted that Stoddard wasn’t the only small
rancher who had an inflated tax bill.

As he signed the debit form drawing out the money from his
account, then the deed, he realized as steep as the bill was, it was only a
tenth of what the four-hundred acre spread was worth, especially since the
natural spring on the place made it priceless. The fact that the land fell
between his and Charlie Dawson’s ranch probably accounted for the high
assessment more than anything else did.    

As a last thought he stood, “I’ll need a receipt and my
account balance. Smith can bring them as he comes in to notarize the deed.”

His father-in-law gave him a hard stare, and then stepped
out to confer with the teller. As soon as he returned, Jackson had to force out
the words. “Thanks for the funeral, it was beautiful. I’m sure Donna would have
approved.”

Charlie’s eyes filled with tears. “It still doesn’t seem
real.”

Jackson felt his own eyes fill as well and for the first
time since entering the confined, stuffy office, he saw Charlie Dawson as a
human being. He had lost a beloved child just as much as Jackson had lost a
wife. It was comforting to know the grave at the top of the hill in the
cemetery would soon have a marble slab with a carved angel and the words
“beloved daughter, wife, and mother.”

When Charles sniffled, he surprised himself even more by
wrapping a big hand around the banker’s upper arm and giving him a firm shake,
just as Smith came in.

He handed Jackson the debit slip, showed him his current
account balance, and showed the subtraction at the bottom of the debit, along with
the date and his initials. Then he removed a clamp from a small case, squeezed
the parchment, then signed and dated as witness and notary.

Jackson folded the documents, slipped them inside his jacket
pocket, and then shoved his hat back on. He shook Smith’s limp hand as he
listened to the usual obsequious statement of sympathy, and then gave Dawson’s
hand another firm shake before leaving, “Thanks Charlie, thanks for
everything.”

<><><> 

Hattie had the baby diapered and cradled against her when
the door from the store to the saloon swung open. Her heart raced and her
tongue turned to cotton as she was faced with her daily nightmare. Unshaved,
smirking, dirty, she had thought she would never clean their smell from her
skin and hair. Rafe Hogue and his shorter, smellier partners, Silas and Able
Sweat appeared.

“Lookie, lookie, I told you she’d be coming to work at
Thelma’s.”

He walked toward her and Hattie shrank back, the baby giving
an alarmed cry as it sensed her fear.

“Hey, look what sweetie has,” Rafe cackled. “Come on girl,
let’s see who the little bastard looks like.”

Horrified, Hattie pulled the baby even closer, raising the
blanket to protect him. The storeowner’s wife gasped in shock and turned to
find her husband.

“I told you about that girl,” she whispered furiously, “now
what are you going to do?”

“Hey, fellas, she’s acting shy again. Help me get her
cornered so we can examine our work. Five dollars says he looks like me,” Rafe boasted.

Hattie looked around, wishing she had her gun. The first
time they came, she had been too shattered to think of pursuing them. She would
have gone to town for the sheriff but her father was so badly beaten, she had
forced herself to pull her torn clothes around her, choke back her tears and
help him to bed.

She had been terrified when her dad was unable to talk to
her, but mortified by the tears that leaked down his cheek every time he looked
at her.

The next time they came, she was sitting at the window, her
guns ready beside her. She began firing as the first man stepped on the porch.
She heard one man holler when he was hit, another scream when splinters from
the porch rail hit his face.

Now in this store, the only thing at hand was the crate of potatoes.
She gripped one tightly.

“Watch out boys, she wants to keep the papa a secret.”

The bell over the door rang behind them, but they were all
focused on the terrified girl. Hattie was studying them, looking for the mark
of splinters or gunshot. Able Sweat had three red spots on his cheek; his older
brother seemed to favor his leg. On Rafe’s face were five streak marks from
where she had clawed, trying to get his eyes.

“Cowards,” she hissed. Each had noticed her eyes catching
their marks.

“Maybe we need to mark her up a little this time,” Able
growled.

The sound of a gun being cocked behind them brought them up
short. Hattie realized she had dug her nails into the potato.

“Far enough boys, move away from my son.”

Rafe recovered first. “Wow, our little wild girl’s been busy
on the side, boys.”

Hattie felt her face flame with the insult. Wasn’t it enough
to be raped and beaten by these savages? Why did they need to destroy her
reputation, too? She shoved past Rafe and when Silas grabbed at her, she fired the
potato at his head as hard as she could.

There was a pop as it splattered and she was rewarded by his
angry yell, then angrier curses.