Anita Mills (15 page)

“We’re on the ranch itself,” she decided. “And the house is somewhere over there.”

“That’s what I asked him, you know.”

“No, you asked where the ranch is.”

“Why don’t you ask him how far it is?” he suggested. “Let’s see you do that.”

“No. I can already tell it’s a long way.”

“Gracias, mi amigo.”
Retrieving a quarter from his pocket, Matt tossed it to the boy.
“Por—?”

“Eduardo.”

“Por
Eduardo.”

Eduardo gestured toward the other shepherd. “Pablo.”

“Eduardo and Pablo.” Digging in his pocket again, Matt couldn’t find another quarter. “You don’t have two bits on you, do you?” he asked Verena.

“No, but I’ve got two dimes and a nickel.”

“Well, give it to him.”

“I hope you know that was for my lunch,” she muttered, fishing through her purse. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Taking the coins, he held them out.
“Por
Pablo.”

The money was a qualified success. After considerable debate over whether it was better to have twenty-five cents in one piece or three, the matter was finally settled. The cherubic-faced Pablo, apparently the younger of the two, wound up with the quarter. Waving, he indicated they were to follow him.

Taking Verena’s arm, Matt leaned close enough to murmur, “When we get there, let me do the talking.”

“Then you’d better hope they speak English.”

“With a name like Brassfield, I’ll lay money on it.” He stopped long enough to look down at her through his good eye. “Look, it’s hot, you’re tired, and we’re apparently in for a long walk. Instead of arguing about everything, let’s just call a truce until we get to San Antonio.”

Her heart almost paused, then relief washed over her. He’d said San Antonio, not Columbus. Hiding an unexpected surge of elation, she fell into step beside him. He was going to San Antonio with her. She wasn’t alone.

The large woman shaded her face against the sun, and even then she squinted. As she made out the two people with Pablo, her eyes widened with astonishment.

“Lord a Mercy! Pa! Pa, you gotta c’m’ere! Pablo’s bringin’ us some comp’ny!”

Her husband, a tall, thin fellow with a bald head, came outside wearing nothing but a pair of flannel drawers. “Here now, Sarie—there ain’t no need t’be wakin’ the dead, is thar?”

“Lookee up yonder,” she said, pointing. “It’s comp’ny, I’m tellin’ you! And one of ’em’s a woman.” Turning to him, her gaze took in his lack of clothes. “Now, Pa, you ain’t hardly presentable,” she complained. “You’d better be a-gettin’ yer pants on before they get here.”

“Must be a hundred ‘n’ ten in there, Sarie.” Taking another look at the three figures walking across the open ground, he muttered, “Wonder where they’s a comin’ from.”

“It don’t matter—they’s a-comin’ here, I’m a-tellin’ ya.” Tugging her soiled apron down over her ample stomach while she patted her wild hair into place, she tried not to appear too eager. “How’d I look?”

“It don’t matter. They ain’t a’goin’ nowheres,” he declared. “They ain’t got no horses.”

“If you don’t put on your britches, you ain’t eatin’ with the comp’ny,” she threatened him.

“Well, I kinda got a hankerin’ to hear what they’s doin’ out year first—I ain’t so dadblamed lonesome that I got no sense.”

Stepping back over the dusty threshold, he reached behind the door to retrieve a double-barreled shotgun. As Pablo and the strangers drew closer, he lifted it, sighting them. His finger curled around one trigger.

“Hold it right thar!” he yelled.

Alarmed, his wife pushed the barrel down. “Don’t mind him!” she shouted. “We ain’t got comp’ny offen enough fer him to remember the manners his ma taught ’im! Y’all come on in, ya hear?” Over her shoulder, she told her husband, “Seth Brassfield, put on your pants—now! You ain’t a-drivin’ off the only folks t’ come this way in nigh on to a year!”

Verena surveyed the place with disbelief. It made the Goode house look like a palace. As she hesitated, Matthew took her arm.

“They’re just farm folk, that’s all,” he reassured her.

“This isn’t a ranch—it’s a hovel.” To her horror, the woman was coming off the weathered board porch. “Matthew, I don’t think—”

“Howdy!” Holding out a work-roughened hand, Sarah Brassfield grinned broadly, betraying a missing front tooth. “I’m Sarie—and Seth’s inside a-fixin’ hisself up for ya. I reckon you’ll be a-stayin’ fer supper, huh?” she added eagerly. Her eyes took in Verena’s torn dress and Matthew’s bruised face, and her grin faded. “Mercy me! Y’all’s been in an accident?”

Matthew and Verena answered at the same time. “No,” she replied. “Yes,” he said.

For a moment, the woman was taken aback, then she let out a heavy breath. “Now one of you’s gotta be confused a mite, huh? Was it an accident or not?”

“Uh—yes, sort of,” Verena decided, looking to McCready. “Uh—?”

“We fell
off the train,” he announced baldly.

“Huh?”

“Being from back East, Rena hadn’t seen a flock of sheep,” he explained.

“I thought you was a-talkin’ mighty funnylike,” the woman admitted, nodding. “I knowed you warn’t from around here.” She looked Verena over again, then clucked sympathetically. “Rena, eh? That’s a right purty name, ain’t it?”

Realizing that McCready was nudging her, Verena managed, “Thank you.”

“How come you to fall offen the train?”

“While we were stopped to clear the sheep off the track, I took Rena outside to watch. Unfortunately, when we started up again, she lost her balance and fell off. I jumped down to save her. By the time we got back up the hill, we couldn’t catch up.”

“By the looks of it, you musta landed on your head, mister. That’s a right ugly eye—you musta hit some-thin’ mighty hard goin’ down that hill. I reckon Seth’ll bring you some o’ that salve he makes up from sheep oil t’ put ’round it. Heals up real good, it does—if’n ya don’t get it in yer eyeball.”

“Thanks.”

“As fer the missus, ain’t no wonder she fell off—more’s the wonder she’s a-walkin’, what with them fancy shoes on her feet,” Sarah declared. “God didn’t make women to stand on them heels. If He’d a-wanted ’em to, He’d a-made us with our toes a-pointed down so’s we couldn’t walk no other way, but He didn’t.” She looked down at her homemade slippers. “I ain’t about t’ war anything if it don’t feel good, I ken tell ya. And I ain’t about t’ spend an hour a-lacin’ anythin’ up neither.”

“Where I come from, these shoes are rather plain,” Verena told her. “In fact, they were just about the most serviceable pair I could buy.”

“Well; I ain’t bought no shoes in a whiles,” the woman conceded. “Don’t need ’em. When I go t’ the pens, I just war Seth’s old boots.” Looking her company over again, she sighed. “I’m gonna git out m’ needle fer that dress before that rip gets any bigger. But I don’t know as I kin do much for them fancy duds on the mister.”

“Oh, that’s all right—really, there’s no need. I’m sure we won’t be staying long enough for that. Later, when there’s time, I can sew it up myself.”

The woman’s face fell. “Oh, but you just hav’ to! Why, where else would you be a-goin’ tonight? There ain’t another body fer miles!”

“The Brassfields. I—uh—guess the boy didn’t understand us.”

“You’re thar.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s where you are. Your a-standin’ on it.” Smiling again, the woman nodded. “Reckon I fergot m’manners in the excitement, huh? I’m Sarie—Sarah Brassfield, that is.” Turning back to the house, she noted with satisfaction that her husband had managed to pull on a shirt and pants. “And that’s Mistuh Brassfield—Seth to y’all.”

“Oh.”

“Uh-huh. And that boy whut brung y’all in, that was Pablo. His ma had two of ’em afore she up and died, a-leavin’ ’em to that no-count man o’ hern. An’ he walked in heah one day last winter sayin’ if we was to want ’em, they was ours, ’cuz he didn’t want to take keer of ’em no more. I told Pa—Seth, that is—why, two of ’em’d almost make one man, ya know, and with them we could get us some more sheep.”

“We’re up ta two hunnerd fifty head now,” her husband interjected proudly. “Come next year, we’ll be a-dublin’ that.”

“We got mor’n any two hundred fifty now, Pa. Yer fergittin’ th’ ones Eddie found yesterday, ain’tcha? Them you’d given up fer dead.” Reaching out, she beckoned to the boy. “Come here, youngun.” As the boy stepped forward, she ruffled his dark hair affectionately. “You’re a good little feller, ain’tcha? Yes, ya is.”

“The father just gave his children to you?” Verena said incredulously.

“Yep. But I ain’t mindin’t it none. Me’n Pa, we always wanted kids. None of ourn lived long enough ta grow. Diptheria,” she explained succinctly. “There was three of ’em—took ’em all. But,” she added, recovering, “these are good boys—real good boys. Pa’s started learnin’ em to talk like white folk, but it ain’t took yet. No so ya’d know it, anyways.” Turning again to Matthew, she asked hopefully, “Y’all kin stay fer supper, cain’t ya?”

“Uh, we’re not very far from Columbus, are we?” Verena spoke up.

“ ’Bout eight mile if a crow was to fly it.”

“We could be there tonight, Matthew.”

“But you ain’t crows,” Sarah pointed out. “If’n y’all wus t’ stay here t’ night, I reckon either Seth or one of the boys’d getcha into Columbus tomorry—eh, Seth?”

“Road’s bad,” he grumbled. “And the wagon ain’t much good neither.” He looked to his wife, and he could see the longing for company in her eyes. “Guess I could work on that wheel after the sun goes down a mite,” he allowed. “And s’pose I could spare Eddie fer the day tomorry, if’n he was t’ make it back a-fore dark.” Turning his face to Matthew, he explained, “Don’t want the boy tuh be out with the rattlers and painters at night.”

Seeing that Verena looked puzzled, Sarah Brassfield translated, “The snakes an’ the cuggars.”

“Cuggars?”

“You don’t have cougars in Pennsylvania?” Matt murmured.

“Oh, cougars.”

“We got ’em real fiercelike at times,” Seth said. “Now the rattlers, the onliest time they ain’t out is winter. Come fifty degrees, and they’s a-gone underground until it warms up. But now as it’s gittin’ hot, you cain’t walk fifty feet without you seein’ one of ’em—mebbe more’n that. Sleep underground in the day and come out after dark, when the ground’s warm, but the sun ain’t out.”

“Now, Pa, you’ll be a-skeerin’ the lady. It ain’t that bad in daylight, cuz they ain’t a-likin’ this heat neither. It’s night when you gotta be a-lookin’ out fer ’em—and then it ain’t like you cain’t hear ’em. They buzz real good a-fore they hit you.”

“Ain’t that whut I was just a-sayin’, Sarie?” Seth complained. “If’n you wants tuh be safe about it, a-fore you go a-stickin’ yer hand unner or behind anything, you’d sure as hell better be a-looking first. Them rattlers gets unner things fer shade.”

“I’ll be sure to look,” Verena promised. “Everywhere.”

“See as you does. T’uther week, they wus one in the outhouse. I wus just a-closin’ the door when I heerd it. Been takin’ m’shotgun in with me ever since,” the older man declared. “A body cain’t be too keerful.”

“Oh, it ain’t that bad,” Sarah Brassfield insisted. “Onliest things we really worry over is keepin’ the sheep and the dawgs close by after dark.” Catching herself, she shook her head. “Lord a-mercy, but where’s my manners? Here I been runnin’ on, and I ain’t even let you innerduce yerselves, let alone took you inside and outta this heat.”

“Hotter’n hell inside,” Seth muttered. “But you sure are welcome—you and the missus.”

Matthew offered his hand. “Name’s McCready—Matt McCready—and this is my wife, Elizabeth.”

For a moment, the woman’s gaze went to Verena. “Thought you wus callin’ ’er Rena.”

“Elizabeth Corrina.”

“She don’t look Mexican,” Seth protested.

“Her mother was a hopeless romantic, I’m afraid. She read quite a lot of poetry.”

“Eh?”

“Herrick,” Matt explained.

“He means she wus a Herrick,” Sarah declared, putting an end to the matter. “Her name wus Lizzie Herrick a-fore she was married—ain’t that right, honey?” she asked Verena.

Rather than try to straighten the woman out, Verena agreed. “Yes.”

“Good. Now that we got that settled, you come on in and cool off a mite while Pablo fetches water from the pump.” Turning to the boy, she spoke softly in Spanish. As he hurried around the corner of the house, she smiled. “I told ’im if’n he wus real good he’d be the one a-drivin’ y’all into Columbus in the mornin’.”

Filing past the beaming woman, Matt and Verena found themselves inside a large, dim room. Seth moved a sleeping dog with his foot, then directed Verena to a rickety rocking chair with a cushioned seat. Unaccustomed to the change in light, she was about to sit down when the cushion came to life, clawing, spitting, and hissing.

“Danged cats is ever’where,” Seth muttered as she jumped back. “Sarie named that one Cider, cuz it’s full o’ vinegar. Then thar’s Punkin, ’Lasses, an’ ’Tack fer the rest of ’em. Don’t know why she’s gotta name ’em, cuz they don’t come when a body calls ’em, enyway.” Turning to Matt, he cautioned, “Now, if’n you steps on Molly, she’s a biter.”

“I usually get along with dogs,” Matt murmured.

“She ain’t a dawg. Bird and Rufus is the dawgs—Molly’s a sow. Heat makes ’er a mite tetchy.”

“There’s a live pig in here?” Verena asked faintly.

“Pigs is cleaner’n dawgs if’n you let ’em be.”

Afraid Verena would say something more on the subject, Matt admitted, “We raised pigs when I was a kid.”

“An’ I’ll bet you ate ’em, didn’t you?”

“Or sold them.”

“We ain’t eatin’ Molly. Be like a-killin’ a member of the fam’ly. But you been a-walkin’ quite a ways,” Seth said, recalling his best manners. “Go on—make yourself t’home while Sarie’s wringin’ a hen’s neck so’s you kin eat afterwhile. I reckon I better have a look-see at the privy a-fore you use it.”

“Yes, please do,” Verena murmured. Waiting until he had left, she looked around the room and winced openly. “We can’t stay here, Matthew,” she whispered. “We just can’t. I’m not eating or sleeping with a pig at my feet.”

“I don’t know anywhere else to go, do you?” he countered. “If you can come up with something better, you tell me, will you?”

“I think I’d rather walk to Columbus.” As she said it, a huge black-and-white sow emerged from the shadows, snorted in her direction, and then lumbered over to the rocker, settling in front of it, obviously daring anyone to sit there. “Is that thing dangerous?” Verena asked nervously.

“She’s a biter,” he reminded her.

“I can’t believe anyone would keep a pig for a pet.”

“Not in the house, anyway. But if you ever got a close look at a little piglet, you’d find they’re real cuddly, and after you’ve handled ’em a little, they follow you around like a dog.”

She eyed Molly skeptically. “Cuddly’s the last word I’d use. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one up close before.”

“Not even in western Pennsylvania?”

“Oh, I saw the pens, but I didn’t particularly care to look at the animals. I always figured I wouldn’t want to eat the meat if I did.” Gingerly skirting around the pig, she found another chair, dusted it off, and sat down. “I cannot fathom why anyone would want to live like this,” she said tiredly.

“This place, or anywhere in Texas?”

“Both.”

Walking over to the small window, he lifted a faded calico curtain to look outside. Sarah Brassfield was moving stealthily among about fifteen or twenty gangly chickens, until she found the fattest one. Her hand shot out, snatching it. As he watched her, she wrapped her apron around the squawking bird, then took it around the corner.

“It’s not just here, Rena,” he said, letting the curtain drop. “I used to ask my pa why anybody’d want to live on a farm.”

“Did he answer you?”

“No. But looking back, I think some folks are born wanting to own land, to sink their roots down somewhere. They put all their dreams into having some little piece of ground. Sometimes they make a living on it, and sometimes they just keep trying until they either go bust or die on it.” He lifted the curtain again, but this time when he stared out, his mind saw bare Tennessee dirt, an old gnarled tree, and a weathered barn. “For me, it was like quicksand,” he found himself saying slowly. “I didn’t want to be sucked under and suffocated by a few acres of land.”