WILD OATS (16 page)

"Does the young lady know of your affection?"

Jedwin laughed. "Now I doubt that very seriously. She treats me like an admired older brother."

Cora was shaking. She wasn't sure if it was with anger or jealousy.

"Who is she?" she asked finally.

"Tulsa May Bruder."

Stopping dead in her tracks, Cora stared at Jedwin as if she'd been poleaxed. "Reverend Bruder's daughter?"

"I know what you're thinking. The girl is worse than plain and downright odd sometimes. But I think she'll grow out of that."

"I wasn't thinking that at all," Cora said honestly.

"She's a very genuine kind of person," Jedwin continued.

"She's kind and caring. I guess I feel like I understand her, because her mama is almost as disappointed in her as mine is in me." He gave a rueful chuckle. "Tulsa May is hardworking and cheerful. I think she'll make a loyal and dependable wife.''

Cora reached her bicycle propped up against the blackjack tree. With more force than necessary, she jerked it away from the tree, loudly ripping the bark.

"What's wrong?" Jedwin asked, suddenly aware that Cora was angry.

"Absolutely nothing."

He put his hand on her wrist to stop her. "Are you angry about Tulsa May?" he asked. "I swear, Cora, I've never so much as passed a secret word with her. She's still a girl, for heaven's sake. Surely, you don't think I would ... I would
call
on you if I were sparking someone else. There is no need to be jealous."

Cora jerked her hand from his grasp. "I am not jealous, Jedwin Sparrow," she snapped. "I am furious!"

"But?"

"Hardworking? Loyal? Dependable? How dare you choose a wife for those qualities! My heavens, what is wrong with the men of this world! What about love, Jedwin? Shouldn't a marriage be based on love?"

Jedwin's expression, at first confused, softened. The dark, secret intensity of his eyes focused on Cora and his words were as quiet as they were powerful.

"Mrs. Briggs," he said. "I don't intend to love more than one woman in this life. And I already love you."

Amelia Sparrow stepped through her front door and tiredly hung her coat on thejack. Slowly, lethargically, she made her way to the kitchen. A tub of lye and water stood just inside the door and she removed her apron and dropped it there. Stepping to the stove, she dipped out a basin of warm water from the reservoir and thoroughly washed her face and hands. She wanted a full bath, but she'd have to rest before she had the strength to draw and heat the water for one.

Taking a clean cotton cloth from the cupboard, she dampened it in the warm water and pressed it firmly against her sore jaw. It hurt terribly. Her whole face was hot. If she hadn't known for certain that she'd had diphtheria as a girl, she would have been worried.

Hearing a step behind her, she turned to see Haywood in the doorway.

"I heard you come in," he said, looking her over from head to toe. "You look pretty ragged, Mellie."

Amelia ran a hand haphazardly through her hair and gave him a look of disdain. "Thank you."

Haywood gave a shrug as apology. "You been down in Low Town all night?'' he asked.

Amelia nodded.

"It don't seem much like you," he said. "Nursing the sick."

She glared at him coldly. "What am I supposed to do?" she asked. "Beulah Bowman, Grace Panek, and I are about the only women in town that have had the disease and aren't burdened with small children to tend. Somebody has to take care of those sick people."

Haywood nodded, a spark of admiration in his eye.”I'm just pleased to see it, Mellie. All these years you've had me j thinking that there wasn't a spark of charity in your self-centered soul."

Amelia flung the damp cloth she held at him. It struck him
square in the face. When Haywood peeled the wet rag from his skin, to Amelia's amazement he was smiling.

"I thought that might perk you right up," he said. She gazed at him in fury for a full moment, not willing to soften. "Give me my cloth," she said finally. "My tooth is throbbing awfully."

"Let me look," Haywood said, coming closer. "I don't want you to look at it," Amelia replied. But Haywood was standing over her holding her chin down and gazing into the deep recesses of her mouth.

"Oh Mellie," he said. "That's a bad one. I bet it hurts like the dickens."

She pulled away from him. "It will be fine in a little bit," she assured him. "A warm cloth will draw the ache out of it." Haywood looked around the kitchen. "You got any sieve cotton?" he asked her.

"In the pantry," Amelia answered without interest. Haywood opened the door and located what he wanted in a couple of moments. Taking the scissors from the hook, he cut a four-inch square.

"Where do you keep your tea?"

Amelia glanced up at him curiously. "In the can," she said, indicating a group of painted tin canisters on the shelf. "What are you up to?"

"I'm making a poultice for your tooth," he said.

Her interest perked up immediately. "Will it help?"

"You'll feel a hundred percent better by tomorrow at this time," he said. "I guarantee it."

Amelia watched him put a heaping teaspoon of good India tea in the middle of the sievecloth. He folded it up in a good-sized square and looked it over carefully.

"Just a couple of stitches to hold the thing together," he said. "Come on down to the workroom."

Cora followed him. She watched as he threaded a piece of sterile thread into a needle he'd washed with carbolic. He placed a few careful stitches, forming the ball of tea and cloth into a neat little square.

"Lie down on the table," Haywood ordered.

"What?"

"Lie down here," he said. "Let your head hang off the end so that I can shine the lamp in your mouth and see what I'm doing."

Amelia, a little reluctantly, seated herself on the table. Careful to arrange her skirts with perfect modesty, she bravely lay down full-length with her head hanging off the end. She was glad she was a practical woman with no foolish fears about the purpose of the table. She just hoped his cure worked quickly.

"Perfect," he said as he began gathering up some other items from the cabinets.

"It's not very comfortable," she complained.

"It shouldn't take long," he assured her.

On the embalming case beside the table he placed a clean porcelain pan which contained the poultice, a polished piece of white pine about an inch wide and a half foot long, and a pair of pliers.

"All right, Mellie," Haywood said as he came to stand beside her. "Open wide." He placed a hand beneath her head to support it, and Amelia obediently opened. The tooth was so sore, she dreaded even having him touch it with the poultice, but anything was better than this constant throb. At least that's what she thought before she saw the shiny steel pliers in his hand.

"What!" she screamed as she tried to rise. "You said you were putting a
poultice
on it."

"I am," Haywood told her. "As soon as I get that rotten tooth out of there."

Amelia struggled to get to a sitting position, but Haywood easily pinned her. "Let me up!" she demanded.

"Now, Mellie," he said as he tried to force her back into position.”The only way you are going to feel well is to get that tooth out of there. Now I'm bigger than you and there's no need to try and fight me."

"I'll fight you with my last breath!" she declared furiously.

To Haywood's surprise, she proved to be a worthy opponent. Her kicking and struggling proved to be so effective, he was forced to lie down on top of her full-length on the table.

"Get off me!" she screeched.

With her arms and legs now both captured by the weight of his body, Haywood was not about to lose his advantage.

He pried her mouth open and wedged his fist in one side. She was still tossing her head violently and biting down on his hand with painful effect, but he managed to get the pliers around the sick, aching tooth.

When she felt the metal surround her tooth, Amelia stilled. Tears welled in her eyes, but Haywood coldly proceeded. With his palm braced against her forehead and the sweat beading upon his own, Haywood began wiggling the sick tooth out of its socket.

The woman beneath him made noises of fear and pain, but he held firm. Some things had to be done, no matter who they hurt or how much.

Amelia could feel the cold pliers seeming to rip out the side of her mouth. A sharp, stabbing pain like a white-hot knife shot through her jaw and to her throat. Tears sprang to her eyes. She could hear the sucking sound of flesh relinquishing bone and a wave of nausea swept through her. An unearthly buzzing and a sprinkling of stars before her eyes warned her of an impending swoon, but she fought against it.

"Breathe deep, Mellie," he whispered. "Stay with me, it's almost over."

Above her she heard him sigh heavily and the ringing plunk of a piece of bone and enamel on porcelain.

The pain was still there. Hot, fiery pain, but it no longer held itself to one achy tooth but spread itself generously throughout her mouth, her head, her whole body.

"Good girl," she heard Haywood tell her from what seemed like a far distance.

Blood rushed back to her head and he laid the pliers down and stuffed the tea poultice in the gaping hole in her mouth.

He set the white pine sideways in her mouth.

"Bite down," he ordered.

She did.

Moving back down the table slightly, he pulled Amelia with him until her head rested easily on the end.

"Now was that so bad?" he asked.

Her wits slowly returning, the fury in her eyes said "Yes," but with the wood brace in her mouth she could only mumble incomprehensibly.

Haywood looked down at her, his expression apologetic. "Sorry for the trick, Mellie," he said. "But I swear it was the only way. You let a tooth like that fester in your mouth, you're just asking for a lot of sickness and a hurry-up trip to the grave."

From Amelia's expression, she was not the least bit grateful.

Haywood started to move off her. Then, changing his mind, settled himself more comfortably on top of her.

"Now this is really something," he said. "I can't tell you how many times I wanted to shut that spiteful mouth of yours up and lie down right on top of you."

Amelia's eyes widened in shock and she recommenced her efforts to free herself.

He chuckled lightly as he shifted on. top of her. "No need to defend your honor, Mellie. I'm going to let you up right now. You should probably take to your bed this afternoon after the work you put in last night and the blood you lost from that tooth."

As Haywood moved to rise, Amelia drew her knee up sharply between his legs, but he managed to catch it.

"Don't geld me, Mellie," he warned. "I'm thinking that would be something that we might both live to regret."

Chapter Thirteen

"I think changing the name of the town is a good idea. But couldn't we call it something better than Briggston?"

"Tulsa May, please don't interrupt your elders!" Constance Bruder's words were spoken sharply. The other adults who stood around the front door of Osgold Panek's Fine Shoes and Harness Emporium ignored her completely.

Osgold had moved his cutting table to the grass outside the store to take advantage of the sunlight, although the afternoon air still held quite a chill. All were bundled up warmly in hats and coats except for Osgold himself, who sat in his shirtsleeves and quietly cut dozens of leather soles without benefit of pattern or markings.

Tulsa May leaned over the table, watching him work while her mother was seated with Mrs. Panek and Nora Dix on the long wooden bench that was propped against the front of the building.

“Anything that brings more business to town would be very welcome to us," Grace Panek told Mrs. Bruder. "We are not as young as we used to be. If we had more work, Osgold could take on an apprentice. His eyes are not as good as they used to be," she whispered.

"But my hearing is just fine," Osgold snarled without bothering to look up from his work.

The three woman exchanged looks of long-suffering exasperation.

"More business means more culture," Nora pointed out. "It is so dreary living in a virtual frontier when folks in Kansas City and Saint Louis reside amidst beauty. Once we are named county seat we can open an opera house, or build a bandstand for concerts in the park."

Constance nodded agreement. "Exactly. A true community needs a bandstand. A true community needs a park!"

"Perhaps Miss Maimie could donate some of her garden area to the public," Grace suggested. "Nothing near the house, of course. But all of Luther Street is vacant lots; it would make perfect sense to develop a town square of sorts near the center of town."

"And she might very well do it once the town has her name," Nora said.

Constance smiled wistfully at their collective daydream. "A new name for the town would mean progress and progress benefits all of us."

Osgold looked up from his work momentarily and gave a warm smile to Tulsa May before addressing her mother. "I'm a great believer in progress, myself," he said. His words were heavy with an Eastern European accent. "It's why I left Lublin when I was little more than a boy. I come to America, here to this place so far from home, and see," he said, gesturing toward the sign that hung over the front door of his shop. “In this new country, I own my own business. I work for no one."

"And you make wonderful shoes, too," Tulsa May told him quietly.

"Yes, yes, Osgold." Mrs. Panek ignored Tulsa May's words and shot her husband an exasperated look. "We are talking the future here, no one is interested in history."

The old shoemaker shrugged, but Tulsa May would not be still. "I'm interested in history. And all of you should be if you are thinking of naming a town. A name should have historical significance."

Nora Dix's expression was tolerant. "She uses such big words for such a little girl," she said to Constance before returning her attention to Tulsa May. "Briggston is a name with historical significance," she said. "Trapper Briggs was the first person in town."

Tulsa May's brow furrowed. "People say that. But the Indians were here long before Mr. Briggs. And I understand that the old trapper just wandered away one day and never returned. So he certainly never considered this place home."

“Tulsa May, please cease to prattle about things you know nothing about," Constance Bruder said. "No one knows what happened to the old trapper or where he might have died."

"That's my point," the young girl insisted. "What if he ran off to Arizona Territory and they are naming a town after him out there this very minute."

Mrs. Bruder's expression was not at all amiable.

"Well, it could happen," Tulsa May insisted with a glance for support in Osgold's direction.

Nora Dix tittered lightly and adjusted her gloves. "What kind of name would you choose, dear?'' she asked.

Tulsa May screwed up her mouth in contemplation. She grasped one long orange braid in her hand and thoughtlessly flicked the tail of it repeatedly against her chin.

"Get your hair out of your mouth!"

Tulsa May immediately dropped the braid, and didn't even bother to defend herself against the unjust accusation.

"I think I would name the town for one of the Greek scholars," she said.

"What!"

"One of the Greek scholars, Socrates or Plato or Aristophanes."

The three women looked at her as if she had grown another head.

Nora smiled with feigned benevolence. "It is all well and good to understand the higher things in life, Miss Tulsa May. But"—she turned with wide eyes to the other women— "Aristophanes, Oklahoma?"

The women burst into laughter. Tulsa May's face flooded with embarrassment. She turned her attention to Mr, Panek as if the others were not even there.

"How do you know what size to cut the leather?" she asked.

Osgold smiled at her and gave a careless shrug. "I have cut so many shoes. It's something that I can do well. The truth is, I see a man walking half a mile away and know exactly what size will fit him."

Tulsa May smiled broadly at his words, displaying the wide gap in her two front teeth. "Someday, I want to do something well."

Osgold smiled at her strange words. "Someday? Silly girl, I'm sure you do many things well right now."

Tulsa May shook her head without self-pity. “Not that I can think of."

Osgold laughed in disbelief, but didn't offer any suggestions.

Picking up a small scrap of smooth brown cowhide, Tulsa May caressed it lightly before bringing the piece to her nose for a deep whiff of the fragrance. Casually, she rubbed the rough side of the leather against her cheek.

"You like it?" he asked.

“It's strange how it can appear so smooth and perfect on one side and be so rough and scarred on the other," she said.

Osgold looked at her strangely and then waved a hand at her. "You want a piece you take it, no charge."

"Oh, I couldn't."

"Sure that you can," he said. "I got more scraps than I need right now."

Tulsa May smiled her thanks as she held the small piece of leather against her heart like a treasure.

"Amelia is going to write to the railroad," Constance Bruder was saying to the women on the bench. "And we will have to circulate a petition to present to the governor."

Tulsa May determinedly ignored their conversation. "What do you usually do with the scraps?" she asked Osgold.

The old man looked up at her, pleased at her interest. "I make little things, belt loops, shoe strings," he said. "It depends on the size of the scrap and what people want made. I made a scabbard for a paring knife with something this size. Auslander wanted it for his grandson." He held up a wide piece of leather left from the insteps of two soles. "And these could be hinges for a toolbox, like your father has. This morning, Jedwin Sparrow had me to make new leather cups for a pump. I make most anything that people want to buy."

The young girl nodded gravely, her orange braids bobbing in agreement. "It's a good skill to take what you have and make it into something people want."

"Tulsa May!" Constance Bruder's voice was strident.

Glancing up, the young girl realized that Mrs. Dix had already left and that her mother was looking at her, both with impatience and disappointment.

"Thank you for the leather, Mr. Panek," she said hastily as she hurried after her mother. "Good day, Mrs. Panek. See you in church."

She had barely reached her mother's side when Constance Bruder looked down at her with tears in her eyes. "I have never been so humiliated in my life," she whispered dramatically. "Aristophanes, Oklahoma?"

There was a light tap on the back door. Cora smiled in recognition.

"Come in, Jedwin," she said evenly.

The night was blustery and bleak. Jedwin was wrapped warmly in a wool greatcoat of dark brown. The exact color of his eyes, Cora thought.

"Evening, Mrs. Briggs." He smiled at her a little uncertainly. Their leave-taking at the farm two days before had been strained. Jedwin was not exactly sure what he had done wrong, but he knew that talking about love had been a blunder. He hoped not to blunder now. "I've got the new foot valve and leathers for the pitcher pump," he explained. "If it's convenient for you, I'd be pleased to finish fixing it."

Cora nodded a little hesitantly. "All right."

They stood staring at each other, unsure. Jedwin shrugged out of his coat and donned his apron. He pulled the new pump parts out of his pockets and without further word he started to work.

Intending to ignore him, Cora stepped into the parlor and seated herself in her sewing rocker. Taking up her mending, she attempted to give new life to a shirtwaist that was more patches than fabric. Silently she assured herself that this was the correct behavior for the situation.

Jedwin's revelation about Tulsa May Bruder had felt like a physical blow, only partially from jealousy. Although she knew that she could never wed Jedwin herself, she hadn't really thought of the different paths their lives would take. Or that he'd already picked her successor. Or that he planned to shortchange the girl.

Now, like a can of worms that could never be contained again, the reality
of
the romantic game they played was laid bare before them. Jedwin had come to her, a scandalous female, to learn the ways of a woman's bed. She had teased and cajoled and lured him to romance her. And he claimed to have fallen in love with her.

Love,
she thought bitterly. The last thing she wanted in this world was another lesson in
how men love.

As if she were reliving it today, she felt a painful tightness in her chest, and she could almost hear Luther's voice.

"I can't help myself, Cory," he had said. "I tried to do what Mama wanted. I tried to make a life with you. But I already have the life I want."

"You told me you loved me!" Cora accused him, stunned.

Luther shook his head apologetically. "That's just sweet talk, Cory. A man is supposed to say that, even when he don't mean it."

Tears had welled up in her eyes, and after she had cried for days. But Cora's eyes were dry now as she contemplated the worn shirtwaist in her hand and searched the rag bag for a patch that would match well enough to be inconspicuous.

Luther had claimed to love her, but he hadn't. Jedwin had said that he loved her. And Cora believed that he was sincere. Not that he really loved her, but that he really believed that he did. Unlike Luther, Jedwin was too innocent in the ways of the world to separate wanting a woman in your bed and being in love with her.

Setting her sewing aside, Cora took a deep breath. Perhaps it was time to teach him the difference. To teach him that inequitable truth that men could choose to please themselves in this world, and then leave the women to pick up the pieces.

It would be no chore or great sacrifice, she admitted to herself honestly. She wanted Jedwin Sparrow as much as he wanted her. She needed to know warmth and affection from another human being. In her years as the scandalous Mrs. Briggs she had never allowed her own desires—even her desire for companionship—a moment of unrestraint. Unwaveringly she'd adhered to the rules of society more closely than the most pious paragon. But those days, she decided, had come to an end.

Rising to her feet, she stepped back into the kitchen. Jedwin was tightening the pump head down and smiled with pride.

"I think I've fixed it. All we need to do is prime it and see if it works."

"We will do that tomorrow," Cora said evenly. "Bring the lamp, Jedwin, and come upstairs."

Freezing in place, Jedwin looked at the pump for a long moment before turning his eyes to Cora.

"Come upstairs?" he asked quietly. His throat was unexpectedly dry and his voice sounded raspy.

She nodded. "I want you to spend the night."

Cora turned to go. Jedwin, still rooted to the floor, attempted to comprehend what was happening. He loosened the wrench on the pump and as it clattered loudly in the sink, he started. She had already reached the stairs and had not so much as glanced over her shoulder.

She was going up to her bed, and she'd invited him to join her. At that particular moment, Jedwin's desire was practically nil. Fear, cold, blank fear, flowed through his veins like a broken drainpipe.

He leaned his hands against the sink. Lowering his head, he took a deep, calming breath. This was it, he told himself sternly. This is what he had planned all along. Don't make a fool of yourself. Latch the door, get the lamp, go upstairs and crawl on top of her. At that moment, the first two seemed infinitely more pleasant than the third.

Slowly, Jedwin made his way to the stairs. He remembered the first night he'd been in her house. How he'd wanted to climb those stairs then. That night he'd been eager. Eager and ready to be a male stud to a handsome mare. Then it would have been impersonal. But now it was no pair of horses performing a functional act. It was Cora Briggs and Jedwin Sparrow. Two people with feelings and problems and fears. Mrs. Briggs had been hurt. He knew now that she was no lightskirt who'd been deservedly ostracized. She was a warm and loving woman who'd somehow allowed Luther Briggs to ruin her life. She deserved joy and love and happiness and a man who could give those to her. And he knew it couldn't be him.