Bittersweet (10 page)

“Ain’t my fault my rheumatiz is so bad. The gal’s got a strong back. She jist gotta step lively ’stead of lollygaggin’ and dawdlin’. Took her half of forever to tote water to that far-back section whar she’s planted t’other vegetables.”

“I recollect a few years back when we had us the same trouble. We dug a second little valley in the dirt and used a board to coax the water to trickle from the stream into that other field for a little while each noon after waterin’ the corn.”

“I ain’t a-digging. Tole you my back’s painin’ me sommat fierce.”

Ishmael took off his shirt and knelt. “Sis, you go on and search for a willow tree.” He scooped several curls onto his shirt. “I’ll move these shavin’s real careful-like. Then, whilst I go fetch wood, you cain comfort Pa with some willow bark tea or a poultice.”

“Ain’t no willows hereabouts,” Pa grumped.

“Prob’ly are some upstream a ways. Sis is good at findin’ stuff. It’ll take her a spell, but yore worth it. Ivy, go and take yore time. Be shore to find a good willow—one what’s bark is better’n the bite of Pa’s pain.”

Ivy smiled at her brother. “You shore, after talkin’ like that, you don’t want me to find a dogwood?”

“Don’t you have a fresh mouth with yore brother!”

“Now, Pa. Sis was jist funnin’ me. Yore back must be dreadful sore for you to miss the twinkle in her eyes.”

“My rheumatiz ain’t niver been this bad.” Pa glowered at her. “What’re you waitin’ on? Go fetch me the willow bark.”

“I won’t get jist any willow, Pa. I’ll be shore to find powerful strong bark.” She set down the box of town-made food, picked up the bucket, and headed out.

A short while later, Ishmael sauntered up to her beneath the boughs of a willow. “How full’s yore bucket?”

“Half the way. Reckoned I’d dry up some bark on account of Pa’s gonna want some sometime when I cain’t hike off after it.”

“That’s right clever of you. Whar ya gonna keep it?”

“Member that cigar box I found? I reckon it’ll come in handy for the medicinal yarbs I’m finding.” She ducked between some of the hanging branches and spied the mule about fifteen yards away.

“I drug a big old fallen limb back already. Figgered the mule could drag the rest. Listen up. It vexes me how Pa swiped the wood you gathered, but argufying ain’t gonna change that. I’ll take ’nuff back to camp to last you a few days, and I’ll drag in some oak to make Pa happy—but off a ways, I’m fixin’ to make a few secret stashes whar I’ll put more firewood for you. Thataway, you’ll have what you need on the days when I work over at the farm.”

“Thankee, Ishy.”

“No need to thank me. I prob’ly oughtta be thankin’ you. Whilst I’m workin’ at the farm and gettin’ fed, yore here havin’ to do all the work with nothin’ from Pa but complaints and criticizin’.” “I’m used to it.” Her stomach growled loudly. “But I aim to go back now and have me my fill of some of that store-bought food.”

“You’ll have to fix it up plenty to make it taste decent, but if anybody cain, ’tis you.”

They led the mule back toward camp. Suddenly Ishmael stopped.

Ivy leaned forward to see past him, and she bit back a cry.

Pa sat on the stump. If the pasteboard box wasn’t in his lap, Ivy would have sworn he hadn’t bothered to move at all. A stranger sat by him. They were both eating.

CHAPTER EIGHT

C
ome on.” Ishmael pulled on the mule’s bridle.

Ivy wasn’t sure whether her brother was speaking to her or the beast, but she trudged ahead. The food hadn’t looked or smelled appetizing in the least, but hungry as she was, she’d have gladly eaten it anyway.

Pa looked over at them. His jaw jutted forward. “’Bout time you got back, gal. You been gone half of forever. Didn’t care that I was back here starvin’ and hurtin’.”

“I gathered willow bark for your spinebone pain, and I found some yarbs to flavor supper.”

“Don’t know why you thunk you’d be able to improve on it. ’Twas fixed by someone who knows how to cook. ’Bout time I et sommat that didn’t make me wanna puke.”

“It was filling.” The stranger leaned forward and squinted at Ivy.

“Was?”
Ishmael’s voice rang with outrage.

“Mr. Smith and me had us a business dinner. Nuthin’ a-wrong with that.” Pa shook his fork at Ishmael. “You et at yonder farm, so you got no reason to whine.” He dropped his fork into the box. From the way it rattled, Ivy knew they’d eaten every last morsel.

“Sis had plans—” “Well she cain jist go change ’em. She oughtta be thankin’ me. Now she don’t have to cook for us men. I spared her havin’ to work. Soon as she brews me that willow bark tea, she cain rustle up sommat to keep her own slats apart.”

The stranger turned his attention on Ivy. His mouth bowed upward in the sorriest pretend smile a mouth ever made, but pure old meanness turned his eyes a flat gray color. “She’s as scrawny as I heard.”

Ishmael growled, “Don’t be talkin’ about my sis thataway.”

“Truth’s the truth.” Pa waved his hand back and forth in the same way he’d want to swish flies off his plate.

Ishmael tugged the mule forward another step, blocking Ivy from view. “And who was talkin’ ’bout Ivy?”

“Now, Ishmael,” Pa brayed, “don’t get all het up.”

The mule hedged sideways, so Ivy saw the stranger hitch a shoulder. “Plenty of us men like a woman we can span with our hands.”

“Another feller come by today,” Ivy said in an undertone to Ishmael. “Had blacker hair’n this ’un, but I reckon they’re brothers or cousins.”

“Mr. Jones here …” Pa started.

“Called ’em Mr. Smith not three minutes ago,” Ivy whispered.

“… is my new partner,” Pa went on. “Until I get ’nuff corn to ferment, he’s gonna bring me some corn and sugar.”

“That’s right.” Mr. Jones or Smith—whoever he really was—stood up and dusted off the seat of his britches. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Day after tomorrow’d be better. Afternoon.” Ishmael’s voice carried great certainty.

“Sooner we start, the better,” Pa said. “Tomorra sounds right fine.”

Ishmael shook his head. “Pa, yore back’s been dreadful bad. No use in makin’ it worse. Day after tomorra, I’ll be here all afternoon and evenin’. You’ll need my holp unloadin’ the supplies Mr.—”

“Johnston,” the stranger filled in.

“Mr. Johnston brings by.”

“No need to wait.” Pa’s voice sounded cranky. “The gal’s got a strong back.”

“Pa, Mr. Johnston hisself said Ivy’s scrawny. If she tries atotin’ a bag of sugar and drops it, it could bust open. Day after tomorra is best.”

“He cain come whene’er he wants,” Pa snarled. “Gal, stop lollygaggin’ and brew me that willow bark.”

Ishmael pushed Ivy away from the stranger and toward the stream. “And go fetch a fresh bucket of water. Test the water a couple of places so’s you bring back the coldest, sweetest thar is.”

Ivy headed as far off as she could. The black-haired man earlier today had been handsome and sleek as a raven that just took a bath. He’d had an easy-going, friendly manner about him—a far cry from this man. Pa’s new partner made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. Lots of the folks Pa trucked with were shiftyeyed, but none ever felt menacing like this one did.

Footsteps sounded behind her. She tensed and whirled around.

“It’s me, sis.” Ishy drew closer. “That feller’s gone. Here. This is the cheese what Boss’s ma give me to have you fix up the taters. You go on an et it.”

“Wanna share it?”

“Nope. I et till I nigh unto busted my seams.”

Ivy bit into the wedge and tamped down a moan at how the flavor burst in her mouth. “Ishy, it’s wondrous good.”

“You still got that sheath for yore knife?”

“Uh-huh.” She swallowed and waited a second so she’d be able to savor the flavor of the next bite.

“You ain’t been wearin’ it. From now on, you keep yore knife on you all the time. Don’t reckon as I b’lieve in God, so ain’t a devil, neither—but that thar man what jist left, he shore puts me to thinkin’ mayhap the devil’s real after all.”

“Worthless, lazy, no-good,” Pa was muttering in the distance. Then he bellowed, “I’m sufferin’, gal! You kept me waitin’ far too long.”

Ivy hurriedly scooped a little water in the bucket. “I’ll wear my knife from now on. You cain be shore I will.”

“Ishmael and I are planting the barley today.” Galen stood at the washstand in the kitchen, preparing to shave. He looked in the mirror to see his mother’s reaction.

“I wondered why you didn’t plant it yesterday after you harrowed it.”

“Need a scarecrow.” He turned around. “Think maybe you and Dale can see to that?”

“Sure as I live and breathe, we can.” Ma started some coffee.

“Once was, I’d already have a scarecrow waitin’ on you.”

“You and the boys were away. ’Twas time well spent.”

She went on. “When I dyed my dresses, the pink one didn’t take right. Instead of wasting good clothes, I aim to make the scarecrow a lass instead of a lad this year.”

“A lass? That would be different.” He shrugged. “I suppose there’s no reason why not.”

Ma nodded. “That’s what I thought. There’s something else.”

Galen waited for her.

“Sick as he was, your da wore his nightshirt these last months. Last eve, I set out to store a few things of his in my trunk… .” Her voice faded out, then came back in a plaintive half whisper. “Galen-mine, you look so very like your da.”

Galen blindly set down the razor, then crossed the cabin and held his mother.

She burrowed into his arms. Once she’d seemed every bit as indomitable as his father. Now he realized that for all her strength, she also had her frailties.

Ever since Da passed on, Ma had started encouraging Galen to take a wife. He’d dismissed the thought because his first sweetheart ran off with a butcher from Sacramento, and then Josh up and claimed Ruth when Galen fancied her for himself. Those two experiences left him guarded.
No more. I’ll start paying more heed to the
young ladies at church. God said it’s not good for a man to be alone. I’ll have
a helpmeet and fill our home with children. My wife will help Ma, and babies
will keep them busy and content
.

“I don’t think I could bear seein’ you wear Cullen’s shirts.”

Galen held her tight. “Don’t worry, Ma. I don’t need Da’s shirts.”

“I know. But I wondered if—” She sucked in a breath, then said in a rush, “Would you be upset if I gave them to Ishmael? We buried Cullen in his Sunday-best shirt, and the other two are just ordinary work shirts—and well worn, at that.”

Lord, you know this was what was on my heart this very morn
. Galen dipped his head and pressed a kiss on her morning-mussed hair. When had it gotten those silver strands?

She stroked small, comforting arcs on his back. “If the thought troubles you …”

“Ma, Da would be pleased to know someone else could use them. Ishmael looks so different, it won’t bother me.” Even in the midst of her pain, she still thought of others. He needed to do likewise. “What about the boys, though?”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” came a voice from up in the loft.

“Sean Michael O’Sullivan, you’ve been eavesdropping?” Galen gave him a stern look.

“Not on purpose.” Sean looked down at them. “Miss Laney said ’twas a blessing to be either a giver or a receiver. Mr. Josh got us new shirts, so maybe it’s our turn to be givers.”

Dale sidled up by Sean. “Besides, a scarecrow will be okay in a dress, but Ishmael would look silly in it!”

The door opened and shut as Colin returned from the outhouse. “What’s so funny?”

Dale piped up, “We decided Ishmael shouldn’t wear Ma’s dress.”

“So we’re giving him Da’s shirts instead,” Sean finished.

“No!” Colin’s head swiveled from side to side.

Galen wasn’t sure whether it was a violent shake of negation or if Colin was trying to decide whom to blame and whom to appeal to as he looked from Ma to Galen and back. Galen turned loose of Ma and stepped forward. “Letting go is hard. It takes practice. Trust us on this, Colin. Ma and I both feel it’s the right thing to do.”

Footsteps sounded on the porch, and then someone rapped softly on the door.

“Yes?” Galen rasped.