Cassandra Austin (4 page)

“No. You don’t—”

“How old is the girl?” Cobb didn’t look up from his notes. When Andrew didn’t answer, he prompted, “Marriageable age?”

“Perhaps. Mr. Cobb, I’m not trying to steal the girl’s land. I—”

“Of course you’re not.” Cobb finally looked up and winked. Andrew wanted to close the eye with his fist. “My suggestion is to see the girl married and demand a percentage for looking after her affairs. Forty is reasonable.”

Andrew made one last effort to explain. “I simply want to know what my responsibilities are to the girl.”

Mr. Cobb shook his head. “Not many, really. You’ll want to do a few conspicuous acts of guardianship for this to hold up in court should someone challenge it. But DuBois was poor white trash. It doesn’t take much to convince that kind you’re on their side.”

Andrew gritted his teeth. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the attorney what he thought of his advice. Swearing at attorneys—or anyone else—wasn’t his normal behavior. He took a deep breath. Perhaps the man could still be of help. “I thought, perhaps, I’d help the girl find a job.”

“Oh, that’s a good start.”

Andrew tried to ignore the interruption. “Have you heard of any openings?”

Cobb was making notes again. “You might try the saloons. Is the girl at all pretty?”

Andrew had to get out of there before he did hit the man.

“Thank you, Mr. Cobb. You’ve been very informative.”

As he rose to go, Cobb said, “I can have the papers drawn up for you and signed by a judge in just a few days.”

“Don’t bother.”

“But—”

Andrew closed the door, cutting off the attorney. He started through the outer office then turned back to the clerk, who eyed him curiously. “Are you aware of anyone looking to employ a young woman?” he asked. “Domestic help, perhaps?”

The young clerk considered a moment. “Seems like there hasn’t been much in the paper lately, except your search for a deputy.” He grinned and Andrew pictured Cally applying along with every other misfit in town.

Andrew had turned to go when the clerk spoke again. “Wait. The Gwynns. I heard them talking to Mr. Cobb some time ago. They didn’t want to advertise it, but they need a housekeeper. They’re getting on in years and the house and meals and all are too much to handle. I’m surprised Mr. Cobb didn’t mention them.”

“I’m not,” Andrew mumbled. “Thanks.” He returned the clerk’s smile and left, walking thoughtfully down the stairs. So much for learning his legal obligations. He would have to follow his own instincts. And his instincts told him a young woman, marriageable
age or not, could not take care of herself on a farm two miles from town. He headed straight for the Gwynn sisters’ home.

“Why, Sheriff Haywood. What brings you here?” The short stocky Easter Gwynn had opened the door. Noella appeared behind her, looking over her sister’s shoulder.

“I understand that you ladies are interested in hiring a housekeeper.”

Easter opened the door a little wider. “Why, yes, we are. Come in. Can we fix you some tea?”

“No, ma’am.” Andrew followed the sisters into the parlor and sat on the edge of an uncomfortable but elegant chair. “I know of a girl who’s been recently orphaned. She needs to find a position.”

Easter smiled. Noella frowned. “Who is this person?” the latter asked.

Andrew almost cringed. “Cally DuBois.”

The women looked at each other. No shock or horror was visible on their faces. Andrew wondered if they might not know who Cally was. That would make it easier, he thought, then felt guilty. He shouldn’t be deceiving little old ladies.

“Isn’t that the waif that sells the pies?” Easter asked.

“I believe so,” said her sister.

“Imagine,” breathed Easter.

“How soon can she start?” Noella asked, folding her hands primly on her narrow lap.

Andrew was surprised enough to ask, “You know her?”

“We know of her,” Noella corrected.

“She’s the best cook in the county,” Easter said. Andrew was sure she started to lick her lips.

Noella spoke again. “I believe my sister asked when she could start.”

“I don’t know.” Andrew felt a need to caution the ladies. “Cally—” What did he plan to say? Cally’s a hellion? He grimaced. “Cally…hasn’t agreed to it yet.”

“Well.” Noella came to her feet. “I will show you around, and you can convince the girl for us.”

He followed the woman into a large modern kitchen, with Easter right behind him. “We will expect her to cook and clean,” Noella said. “It won’t be hard work. We’re both healthy and don’t need to be waited on hand and foot.”

“Her room will be back here,” said Easter, opening a door off the kitchen.

“It’s very nice,” he said. He had to tell them. He took a deep breath. “In fact, it’s much nicer than what she’s used to. Ladies, Miss DuBois has grown up in a soddy. I’m afraid she’s…got a few rough edges.” Did that really say what he meant?

Noella and Easter exchanged a look again. “Don’t worry, Sheriff. We’ll civilize her,” Noella asserted.

Early in the evening, Andrew decided to lock up his office. He was still on duty, but almost anyone looking for him would know to come to the house on the edge of town. With no prisoner in the cell, he could spend the night in his bed, a luxury he hadn’t experienced since his deputy’s wife had taken sick three days before. In all that time, he hadn’t been home except to feed his horses and to wash and
change clothes. While he regretted the circumstances that made it possible tonight, he was more than ready for a quiet evening alone with his books or his sketch-book.

As he locked up the office and started down the darkening street, he realized he had waited longer than necessary, half-expecting to see Cally. Her visits had become a habit—like a toothache.

At home, he settled into a comfortable chair, gathering his sketchbook and pencils from the nearby table. In spite of the shock of his visit with Dr. Briggs and his frustration with Mr. Cobb, he wasn’t totally unhappy with his afternoon’s accomplishments. He had found a home for Cally.

He began sketching the women’s faces as he remembered their conversation. Easter and Noella Gwynn seemed willing to overlook her lack of social graces. It was more than he had hoped for.

“We’ll civilize her,” Noella had said. He wondered if she realized the magnitude of that particular task.

Though it wouldn’t necessarily impress Cally, the cozy room off the kitchen would be far more comfortable than her old sod house. Between the Gwynn’s modern kitchen and large but tightly built house, the work would probably be easier than what the girl experienced now. Certainly, the gentlewomen would be far better influences on her developing mind than her drunken father!

Her father. As he continued to sketch, Andrew recalled Dr. Briggs’s revelation. The fact that he had had no way of knowing the danger when he gave DuBois a drink was little comfort. He reminded himself
that it was merely a possibility but still had trouble shaking off the guilt. He felt even more responsible for the girl than he had after DuBois’ request.

He looked down at the picture he had drawn. The women that looked back at him seemed uncommonly stern. Had he seen them that way this afternoon? He tried to soften their features with a few light strokes, but they changed very little. The sisters’ haughty noses and pursed lips defied his gentle efforts.

Poor Cally.

Andrew shook himself and tossed the sketchbook aside. She had spit in his face twice. His arm still smarted where she had cut him. She had threatened to stab him with a butcher knife. Which reminded him of a drawer full of weapons he had forgotten to return to her. Forgotten! He was almost afraid to return them to her.

He should be feeling sorry for the ladies. Stern was the least of what Cally DuBois needed.

Wasn’t it?

The sun was streaming into the soddy when Cally fixed her breakfast. She had rescued her tomato patch the day before, washing and canning the ripe fruit and throwing the rotten ones to her chickens. She had been certain that she would sleep soundly after working so hard, but her night had been filled with strange dreams.

Of course, she had buried her father yesterday; she might have expected some unsettling dreams. But not like these. These had nothing to do with her father. The first dream, at least the first one she remembered,
was the worst Haywood had driven her away from her farm.

“It was a bad dream,” she told Royal, feeling a need to hear a human voice. “He took the farm same as he took Pa.” What she couldn’t say aloud, not to her trusting friend, was that in the dream Royal had stood beside the sheriff. She was just feeling abandoned, she decided.

When she had fallen asleep again, she had watched Haywood walk toward her, tired and dirty as he had been after burying her father. Instead of inviting him to dinner, she had pulled a knife from her back pocket and slashed him with it. In the dream, it hadn’t cut just his arm as it had in his office, but clear across his chest.

There was no need to let that dream make her feel bad, she told herself. However, her knees trembled and her head spun when she thought of the bright blood pouring down his white shirt. She had to banish the picture from her mind before she fainted. Her breakfast was ready, and she carried it to her rocking chair, turning her mind to the third dream.

In some ways, it was the strangest. She tried to remember it exactly. She was in her little cart under the apple tree. Strong arms had lifted her. She remembered a starched white shirt that smelled of laundry soap. She felt like a little girl being carried, but she knew she wasn’t a child in the dream. Then he laid her…where? In the grave? She didn’t think so.

She had jerked awake, to find her heart racing. Whatever it was, it still frightened her. Yet, unlike the first two dreams, it intrigued her. She wanted to remember
it, relive every detail even as they seemed to fade away.

She finished her breakfast quickly, disgusted with herself for wasting time worrying about dreams that had already made her late since she had overslept because of them. She was taking the empty bowl into the house when Royal barked. A glance out the door told her she was about to have a visitor. She grabbed the shotgun and carried it outside.

S
heriff Haywood cantered into her yard, and Royal went to meet him. For one brief moment, Cally considered the leaky barn roof and the dwindling woodpile. Then she remembered his efforts to get her to leave her farm. She weighed the shotgun in her hand as she considered. Its purpose was to discourage strangers, which Haywood wasn’t—exactly. She had a feeling he wasn’t frightened by it anyway. Still it let him know he wasn’t welcome. She kept it in her hands as she watched him dismount.

“Surprised to see you back so soon,” she said.

Haywood lifted a bag that had been tied to his saddle horn and started toward her. If he thought she was inhospitable after his help the day before, he didn’t mention it.

“I didn’t invite you in,” she said, pleased with the chill in her voice.

He stopped. “These are yours,” he said.

“Leave ‘em where you stand.”

He took his time, as if trying to decide if he should defy her. She wondered if he was gauging his own
speed against her ability to swing the shotgun to her shoulder. No, that was foolish. He wasn’t here to hurt her, just annoy the hell out of her. She gripped the shotgun tighter, wishing she knew what to say to make him leave her alone.

Haywood let the bag drop from his fingers. It hit the ground with a clatter. “Miss DuBois,” he called louder than he needed to. She was supposed to feel guilty for making him stay so far from the house. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“So talk. I can hear you.”

She watched the sheriff clench his jaw. She had made him mad. She was elated. She bit her lip to keep him from seeing her grin.

Royal sniffed the discarded bag and turned in a circle to sit at the sheriff’s feet. Cally wondered what would happen if she commanded her dog to kill. Sometime she was going to try it.

Haywood removed his hat, an odd gesture, it seemed to Cally. “I found a job for you in town,” he said.

“I don’t need a job.”

“Miss DuBois, you can’t stay out here by yourself all winter. There are two ladies who are willing to give you a home in exchange for housework. They’re nice ladies, and I’m sure you’d—”

“I got my own housework.”

“But surely you can’t mean to stay.”

Cally lost her patience. “Get on your horse and head on back to town now, Sheriff.”

He didn’t budge. “Your father asked me to look out for you.”

Cally considered that for the briefest of moments.
“You sure that wasn’t a warning?” She couldn’t stop herself from grinning but was surprised to see Haywood do the same. She didn’t think she had ever seen him smile. It made him look…different. She realized she had let her arms relax and brought the shotgun to chest level again. Just because he looked…different, didn’t mean he was. She concentrated on glaring at him.

His smile faded, but he didn’t look particularly worried. “Miss DuBois, what are you going to do when winter comes?”

A touch of arrogance in his tone made her certain he had seen her drop her guard. She glared all the harder. “I’ll get by, I reckon.”

He looked toward her woodpile. “How are you going to chop enough wood to keep from freezing? Do you plan to wade through the snow to do your chores morning and night?”

Cally was a little concerned about the wood, but she had him on this last argument. “Do you really think Pa ever did the chores?”

Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to realize she had him. “If you don’t freeze, you’ll starve. Even a grown woman wouldn’t try to make it by herself out here, and you’re a child.”

“I’m what?” Cally really considered swinging the shotgun to her shoulder. A child?

Haywood took his own sweet time deciding what to do. Was he wondering if she would really shoot him? She hoped he didn’t push her that far; Pa’s old shotgun hadn’t been reliable in years. When she saw his stance relax, she hoped she had won—at least for now.

“You know where to find me if you need me,” he said.

“I won’t need you.” Her voice, she noted with satisfaction, was as cold as ever.

Haywood rubbed Royal’s ears, and the traitor leaned into his leg. “I’ll check on you from time to time,” he said, donning his hat before swinging into the saddle.

He turned the sorrel toward town, and Cally hollered after him, “I’ll keep the shotgun handy!”

Andrew had the nerve to turn and wave at her to let her know he had heard—and didn’t care.

She glared at the horse and rider until they disappeared, then at the sack in her yard. She knew it contained all the weapons he had taken away from her. She was glad to have them back. She really was. She just didn’t want to look at them right now.

She took a deep breath and stomped across the yard, grabbed up the sack and stomped back to her house. She deposited the sack on the table, then turned and put the shotgun in its place.

She would dig her potatoes today. She would dig them all and take them to her root cellar. She marched to the barn to get the spade. “I’ll boil a potato for dinner,” she told the dog. “There’s nothing better than fresh dug potatoes. I might even boil two. Too bad you don’t like potatoes. Seems like you should since you like apples.”

She knew she was babbling and to a dog even, but it was either that or think about that insufferable sheriff. “I’ll check on you from time to time,” she mocked.

Royal twitched his ears at the change in her tone.

“Meddling sheriff,” she muttered, shoving the barn door open with more force than necessary. “Found me a job, did he? Like I have time for a job!”

She grabbed up the spade and left the barn. “Why, I’ve got so much to do here, I hardly know where to start.”

She had stomped half the way back to her garden when she glanced down at the spade and stopped in her tracks. She stared at a small clump of dried mud that clung to the blade. Haywood had cleaned the spade and shovel before he brought them back to the barn, but a tiny bit of earth had remained to remind her of how the spade had been used. Yesterday.

Cally found herself sitting on the ground, her knees drawn up to cradle her face. In spite of how upset she had been, she hadn’t cried the night Pa had been arrested. She couldn’t remember even wanting to cry before that, though tears had threatened a few times since. But now the floodgates had opened, and she was powerless to stop the tears. Sorrow, loneliness and fear washed over her in turns.

Once she raised her head to let the breeze cool her damp face, hoping that would help her regain control. Royal, responding to what he saw in her face, whimpered, nuzzled her shoulder and licked at her ear, causing her to burst into fresh tears.

She didn’t know how long she sat like that, in the middle of her yard with the offending spade discarded half a pace away, but in the end exhaustion won where willpower had failed.

She awoke later from a light doze and raised her head. “Potatoes,” she reminded herself, stretching her stiff shoulders. “Lord, Royal, what if Haywood
had ridden in and seen that? He’d be hauling me off to town hog-tied to the saddle, I reckon.”

She came unsteadily to her feet and took a deep breath. “If that wasn’t the silliest thing.” She rubbed her cheeks to make sure there were no more tears and brushed at her damp knees. She felt foolish, but in a strange way it had been good to cry. She felt released from a kind of tension that she had felt since Pa had been arrested.

The spot of dirt from her father’s grave didn’t bother her when she caught up the spade and headed for the garden. Digging the potatoes felt good, too. She inhaled the scent of the rich soil as she brushed it away from each one. Big ones and little ones went into the bucket, and she carried them to her cellar where she spread them on a piece of woven wire. Then it was back to her garden for another bucketful.

The soil in her garden was much more mellow than where Haywood had dug the grave. Of course the garden was fertilized and cultivated every year, and there was no apple tree sapping the moisture like on the hill. For some reason, it didn’t hurt to make comparisons now. The cry and her garden had healed her, she decided.

She dipped the spade into the edge of the hole left by the last plant she had dug and lifted another clump of potatoes, watching them separate from the rich, dark brown dirt.
Dirt the color of Haywood’s eyes.

The thought startled her. This garden that she loved so much shouldn’t remind her of
him!
He should have been the furthest thing from her mind.

She sat down beside her half-filled bucket to rest. She looked toward the hill where the two crosses
stood. “Did you really ask him to look out for me, Pa?” she whispered.
“Him?
Pa, I can’t believe you’d do that to me.”

But in her heart she knew he had. Haywood wouldn’t lie about that.

Andrew settled into his comfortable chair. He eyed his sketchbook but it didn’t even tempt him this evening. It had been three days since he had visited the DuBois farm. The Gwynn sisters had come by again today asking when he would bring Cally in to meet them. He had hedged a little, not wanting to admit how obstinate the girl was. He had been certain she would come in herself by now.

He kicked a footstool into position and propped up his heels. Why did he keep thinking Cally would behave the way a normal young lady would? If he expected her to cooperate, he should have asked about a job at the livery.

He sat up suddenly.
Or Lafferty’s feed store!
Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? He would ask tomorrow and, with any luck, could ride out to the farm with a new, perhaps more tempting, offer.

Smiling, he grabbed the sketchbook, turning the picture of the Gwynn sisters to the back, and started a quick sketch of Cally with baggy clothes and floppy hat The outline complete, he concentrated on her face.

His mind had been occupied too much lately with Miss Cally DuBois. He hadn’t even had more applicants for deputy to fill up his time. What he needed was a good long ride through some of the little communities in the county. While his deputy was home
with his sick wife, it wasn’t wise to leave the office for any length of time unless something specific called him away. He found himself wishing for a little trouble to have something new to think about.

Finally, this evening, Bill had come in saying his wife seemed to be through the worst of it. Andrew had wondered if the threat of having her women friends staying with her instead of her solicitous husband might have had some healing effect. At any rate, tonight Andrew had come home much relieved. Tomorrow he would make a wide swing though the county.

After he had talked to Lafferty. And after he had talked to Cally.

He looked down at his half-finished sketch. Were her lips really shaped like that? He had drawn them soft and full, extremely kissable. Her pert little nose, sprinkled with freckles, looked right, perhaps. But surely these weren’t Cally’s eyes? They were open wide with innocence and framed with beautiful dark lashes.

He had flattered her, he decided. He added a few more freckles, but it didn’t change the overall effect. He should have drawn her angry, spitting in his face, her eyes narrowed and glaring. That he would have recognized!

He didn’t know whom he had drawn, but it wasn’t Cally. He set the sketch aside unfinished. He should check on the weather before he turned in. There had been some dangerous-looking clouds gathering in the west when he came home.

Outside, he was hit by a chilly wind that carried
the smell of rain. Lightning crackled constantly in the clouds in the west. They were in for a storm.

He pictured Cally alone in the leaky little soddy, hearing the thunder as the rain pounded relentlessly on her roof. A heavy enough rain would dissolve her house into a pile of mud!

Andrew had grabbed his coat and slicker from the hooks by the back door and started toward the corral before he was conscious of what he planned to do. He had known all along that she couldn’t stay on the farm alone. Tonight was his chance to prove it to her.

The mare pranced around the corral, avoiding Andrew’s loop. Her skittishness increased Andrew’s concern, making him more impatient to rescue Cally. Keeping his own feelings under control, he calmed the horse with his voice and soon led her into the barn. Once inside she settled down while he saddled her. Andrew heard the first drops of rain on the barn roof and slipped into his slicker before leaving the barn.

The wind was increasing at an alarming rate. Lightning flashed like Chinese firecrackers. Thunder had become a constant rumble over the sound of the wind. He made it halfway to the farm before the sky opened and drenched him, turning the road to a river of mud in a matter of minutes. The thought of poor Cally, terror-stricken, possibly drowning, kept him struggling onward.

By the time he rode into the farmyard, the mare was fighting not only the mud but panic as well. Relief at seeing the house still standing was followed by the conviction that his horse would bolt as soon as he was off her back. He rode her toward the barn and,
keeping a tight hold on the rein, dismounted and opened the rickety door.

The interior of the barn was dark but relatively dry. Flashes of lightning could be seen through a hole in the roof where rain poured in, sending a little river of water across the floor and out under the door. Good heavens, the girl had dug a trench to channel the water out of the barn!

In the uncertain light he made out two large forms in the barn. One would be the mule, the other the cow he had seen. He had determined a dry place to leave his horse when something cool and damp brushed his hand. He jumped before he recognized the friendly whimper of a dog.

“Why aren’t you in with Cally?” he asked, scratching the dog’s head. Almost immediately, the dog moved slowly away. So, this wasn’t the friendly Royal. This was the old dog he had seen lying by the door. Cally must have left it in the barn to keep the animals calm. It seemed to be working. Even his horse was less skittish now.

Andrew tied the mare, hoping she wouldn’t panic and pull the barn down around her. He removed her saddle and rubbed her down quickly, anxious now to see about Cally.

Cally lay awake, listening to the thunder. She had done all she could to prepare for the storm. Now she had to wait it out. By morning, her root cellar would be wet. Her barn would be wet. Her house would be wet, no doubt leaking mud for days to come. By morning, more than likely, everything she owned would be wet. There was nothing she could do about
it now. She rolled over, trying to ignore the howl of the wind.