Chasing Charity (8 page)

“Well, the answer’s no.”

She crossed her arms and leaned against the door. He still fought with the key. After a bit she eased over to him. “You know, I think that must be the wrong one.”

He straightened and frowned as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “You think so?”

She watched him figure it out. He’d have to go downstairs, and he’d sooner be poached and pickled.

“Charity, could you...?”

“Exchange it for you? Of course.” She took the long brass key from his hand and dangled it between them. “In exchange for a favor.”

His hopeful eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t bushwhack me like that.”

She smiled her sweetest smile. “Such a harsh word.”

He threw up his hands. “Who spawned the hardheaded women in this town? Go on, then. Get my key. But you’d best be ready to head out first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll be ready. I promise.” She rushed to the head of the stairs and then turned. Blast pride—she was desperate. “Buddy?”

“Now what?”

“I haven’t eaten all day, and I’m faint from hunger.”

“Lucky for you, I am, too. We’ll rustle up a bite downstairs before we turn in.”

“Wonderful idea.” She lifted the hem of her skirt and started down the stairs.

“I just hope you can keep up tomorrow,” he called after her. “Because I won’t be coddling you.”

The fiery red and gold horizon, visible between fat, knotted trunks, belied the cold of the morning as Charity followed Buddy out of town. The horses’ steady footfalls were quiet on the pine straw blanket, and the creak of leather and occasional snort of a horse were the only sounds to break the stillness. In the chill air, their breath, and that of their mounts, came out in smoky billows of mist. Charity shivered and drew her shawl closer, her attention on Buddy’s back.

His spine as rigid as a tomato stake, he sat tall in the saddle on the big bay. As for his vow not to coddle her, so far he’d failed to keep his threat. While she couldn’t claim Buddy had pampered her, he had certainly tended to her needs.

After staring hard at her denim britches, he wouldn’t allow her to go with him to the livery, insisting she wait inside the hotel instead. In no time he returned with a gentle horse for her, shortening the stirrups before taking her elbow and helping her aboard. Then he led her through the swampy streets, guiding the little mare past the mud holes and deepest ruts before handing over the reins.

Charity blushed remembering how Buddy looked at her when she opened the door dressed in men’s pants. She guessed the women in St. Louis wore split skirts or riding habits, but Humble afforded no such luxuries. Women here made their own by cutting wornout frocks up the middle and sewing them into flared legs, or they borrowed jeans from a man. Thankfully, she’d packed an old pair handed down from her slip of an Irish grandfather.

She stared down at her legs. A mite snug and hardly the latest fashion, but the pants served her well for sitting a horse. “It’s mighty cold, isn’t it?” she asked then cringed, waiting for Buddy to order her to return to her room. She needn’t have worried.

The quarrelsome man hadn’t said ten words to her all morning. He’d had even less to say at dinner the night before.

She itched to get him talking again and searched her mind for something to draw him out. “Hey, what’s that over there?”

Buddy looked over his shoulder, and she pointed near the edge of the trail. “Are those coyote droppings?” She winced at her choice of topic but forged ahead anyway. “You know, I think they are. He left some tracks, too. See? In front of the droppings. One paw in front of the other, as clear as day.”

He acknowledged her findings with a grunt and turned away again.

“Coyotes don’t usually come in this close to town. Wonder what drew him?”

Buddy shrugged. It seemed the most he would give, so Charity gave up. They rode the rest of the way in silence.

A quarter mile from her property, a commotion the likes of which she’d never heard reached Charity’s ears. The sound grew louder as they neared the house, yet Buddy seemed unconcerned. She longed to ask about the source of the racket, but her offended pride wouldn’t allow her.

As they rode up even with the yard, the hullabaloo frightened the horses. Buddy’s mount sidestepped, prancing and bobbing his head until Buddy dug in his heels and coaxed him forward. Charity’s skittish little mare fell in behind. They picked their way to the rear of the house and reined in at the edge of chaos.

Sludge-covered men darted to and fro, dodging wagons, equipment, and each other. Oxen strained against carts filled with pipe, their massive hooves slinging mud as they pawed the rainsoaked ground. Rigs loaded with timber sat off to one side. She recognized these as belonging to Bender’s Mill. More stacks of lumber lined the bog in staggered piles. At least Charity thought it was the bog. Everything looked so different she found it hard to get her bearings.

A clearing stretched in a wide circle from the edge of the dense woods beyond the bog all the way to the scrub bushes behind the house, creating an open area that hadn’t been there before. Heavy black boots had trampled the yard to mush, leaving very little grass—only a few tufts along the fence line.

Charity’s stomach tightened. How odd to see strangers pouring in and out at the back entrance. Someone had tied the screen door open with a rope, an invitation to swarms of flies and mosquitoes. Muddy tracks crisscrossed the steps and porch. She shuddered to think what the floor inside must look like. Mama would be fit to bury!

Well, so be it. It was justice served. When all the nonsense was over and they returned to this mess, Charity wouldn’t lift a finger to help clean.

“Morning, Miss Charity!”

She turned in her saddle to see who shouted the greeting.

Stubby Morgan grinned up at her, his copper hair and matching freckles stark against his pale complexion.

“Why, good morning. What are you doing way out here this time of day?” She glanced toward the mill wagons. “They got you making deliveries now?”

“No, ma’am. Don’t work out at Bender’s no more.” He pointed over his shoulder with a grimy thumb. “I signed on with this outfit.”

Stunned, Charity gaped at him. Stubby had gone to work for Bender’s Mill the year his papa died. He was only fourteen at the time. Charity, barely ten when it happened, felt sad when he never returned to school.

His dappled face flinched under her searching gaze, and he shuffled his oversized feet. “The pay’s good, Miss Charity.” He brightened. “Three dollars a day! More’n twice what I brought home from the mill. In my family, that’s too good to pass up.”

She found her voice. “But don’t you see? It won’t last. I can’t believe you quit your steady job to work for a company that’ll be long gone in a matter of weeks.”

A puzzled look lit briefly on his upturned face before he flashed an angelic smile. “Why, sure it’ll last, ma’am. Humble’s a boomer town now.” He gestured over his head at a group of men standing nearby. “Just ask them fellers over yonder. Zeke there helped me land the job. He put in a good word for me with the drillers.”

Charity followed his nod. Ezekiel Young and his son Isaac, her nearest neighbors to the north, stood in a long line of men passing boards from the wagon to the clearing. Charity understood their presence. The Young family had lost their cotton crop to boll weevils, and with Isaac set to wed Amy Jane Pike in three months, there’d be another mouth to feed.

Shamus Pike himself huddled with another group of men shouting to be heard over the ruckus. Despite Elsa’s fancy airs, Shamus always worked extra jobs between crops. He had no choice. His wife and daughter scooped up money as fast as he raked it in. If the oil company paid so handsomely, Elsa would see to it that Shamus was first in line.

Charity leaned over in the saddle so Stubby could hear. “You’ve worked that mill for ten years.” She frowned and nodded at the melee behind him. “Don’t throw it away for this. I’ll bet they’d let you change your mind if you asked.”

Stubby shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Why would I change my mind? Like I said, Miss Charity, the pay’s real good.” He peered up at her, shading his eyes from the sun. “Don’t worry none about your mail. I can still run out and fetch it for you every Saturday.”

She shook her head at the kind-faced young man. “I won’t have you go out of your way like that for me. I’m grateful for the offer, but don’t trouble yourself about it anymore.”

“You sure?”

She smiled. “Real sure.”

A man near the house called Stubby’s name. He grinned at Charity, tipped his battered hat, and ran off. Her gaze drifted past him and over the scope of her land, taking in every violation, every unspeakable change, every heavy-footed stranger tromping through her yard.

Her room sat tucked behind those mud-spattered walls. She pictured the quilt on her bed, a gift from Grandma Leona Bloom in Jefferson, covered in sludge. Remembered her diary with its too flimsy lock, left out on her desk. Nausea settled in the pit of her stomach, coupled with something akin to rage.

These men rode into Humble like a gang of roughs and thieves, turning everything upside down with their silly oil. They had disrupted her life and defiled her home. Hiring her friends and neighbors to take part in it dealt Charity a staggering blow.

She felt Buddy’s gaze on her and glanced his way. He watched her from astride his horse with the same puzzled look she’d seen two days before. What must he be thinking?

Who cares what he thinks? This is his fault. All of it.

“I’m going,” she spat. “I’ve seen enough.” She whirled the mare and dug her heels into its flank, leaving Buddy in a spray of mud.

Charity hoped the horse knew the way back. She was too upset to think about where she was going. Clinging to the saddle horn, she let the mare take her where it would, while the trees on both sides of the trail passed in a blur.

Her life was a fine mess. In a week’s time she’d lost her fiancé, her best friend, her home, and her mama, in that order. The only good had come to her at the hands of a stranger, a man at whom she’d just flung dirt.

Guilt niggled at her conscience. How could she be cruel to Buddy Pierce? He’d offered her nothing but kindness since the day they first met. If not for him, she would be homeless.

Forgive me, God. I’ve acted shamelessly. I should turn around and apologize.

Before Charity could act on her decision, a pause in the mare’s stride broke the monotony of her plodding and a shudder coursed through her body. Her ears fell back, and she cantered to the side.

“Easy, girl. What’s your trouble?”

The horse’s breath came quicker and her head shot up. Eyes wild with fear and nostrils flared, she edged away from the right side of the trail, and it was all Charity could do to hold her. A low growl came from the bushes just before the mare reared, her legs pawing the air. Charity hit the ground hard and rolled in the mud, away from the flailing hooves. She fought to draw breath into her lungs but couldn’t. This scared her almost as much as the scraggly beast crouching at the edge of the path.

The wolf, no longer interested in the fleeing horse, stalked Charity in short, quick bursts. His body lay low to the ground, his hollow haunches trembling from the effort. He bared his teeth in a wide, feral grin, and stringy spittle ran in rivulets from his mouth.

She struggled to get up, to breathe. Twenty more feet and he’d be on her. She groped the ground for a weapon. Desperate, scrambling fingers closed around a clump of muddy grass, and she tensed to hurl it at him.

Fifteen feet.

Ten.

Leering, taunting her, the wolf rose for the last advance. Sure of his kill, he swayed closer.

Charity met his eyes and saw evil. She dug her heels into the ground and scrambled away. Willing air into her lungs, she hurled the fistful of mud at his face. He wouldn’t take her without a fight.

Still, he came. Almost upon her, he snarled and gnashed his teeth—the promise of things to come.

God, help me!

The wolf took two more steps then froze midstride. He crouched again, his attention drawn to an approaching rider.

Buddy reined in between them. “Don’t move.” His voice was grave with warning. “He’s rabid.”

Buddy’s horse trembled, no happier than the mare to be so close to the snarling creature, but Buddy held him steady.

Charity struggled to her feet. Her lungs had somewhat eased, and she sucked in short, gasping breaths. She longed to leap for the horse but knew if she did, he might bolt.

The wolf held his ground, too blind-insane to be afraid.

A shot rang out from a nearby wooded grove. The wolf yelped and lunged, straight for the legs of Buddy’s mount. The big bay reared, but Buddy held the saddle. The wolf died midleap and fell on the muddy trail with glazed eyes, teeth still bared. His tongue lolled to the side, and bloody foam rimmed his muzzle.

Charity shuddered at the sight. Buddy rode his frantic horse a few feet away, leaped off, and ran to Charity. Oblivious to her mudcovered clothes, she threw her arms around his neck and hid her face against his chest.

He held her and rubbed her back with both hands. “Are you all right?”

“My legs won’t hold me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

She nuzzled closer and shuddered. “I was so scared.”

“Me, too,” he whispered, “but it’s over now.”

She raised her head and sought his eyes. “I’m sorry for being mad at you, Buddy.”

He cupped her chin with his finger and laughed down at her. “Were you mad at me? Funny, I thought I was mad at you.”

She smiled and pressed her cheek against the rough fabric of his shirt, for the first time aware of the clean, woodsy smell of him. He held her tighter.

“You know,” he said, his breath warm against her hair, “next time you get peeved at me, you might want to let me in on it. Seems a shameful waste of anger if I don’t know.”

She rose up and nodded at the wolf. “What happened? Who shot it?”

He tilted his chin toward something behind her. “I think there’s your answer.”

Charity looked over her shoulder. Three riders emerged from the trees, one of them Daniel Clark. He came alongside them, a rifle balanced across his saddle.

“You all right, Charity?” His blue eyes moved over her, dark with an emotion she’d never seen there before.

Aware that Buddy still held her, she drew a breath and moved away from him. “I will be.”

Sidney Anderson spoke up. “We been trailing that wolf all day. Rabid, you know.”

Buddy moved toward them, planting his feet carefully to give wide berth to the dead animal. “Yep, we figured that out.”

Daniel motioned at the ground with his chin. “Sid, take a shovel and bury that critter. Put him deep. Cover the blood, too. Last thing we need around here is an outbreak of rabies. And, Jack”—he pointed down the trail—“follow Miss Charity’s horse and make sure it gets back to the livery.”

Buddy nodded at Daniel. “Much obliged. I’m grateful you showed up when you did.”

Daniel flashed a broad smile. “Oh, I reckon you could’ve handled the situation. We just came along at the right time. We’ve tracked that thing for miles.”

Buddy grinned. “So you said.”

Daniel leaned in the saddle to offer his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Daniel Clark.” He seemed to chew on the next part but said it anyway. “A friend of Miss Bloom’s.” His eyes shifted to her when he said it.