Courting Miss Hattie (15 page)

No, this day had been just like every other day, she assured herself. Then her brain focused on the instant when she'd tripped on the root. The memory of his arm around her waist and the intensity of his eyes
was
vivid. What had it meant? Had she revealed something, some inner longing of which she was unaware?

She sat up in the tub, resting her elbows on the rim and holding her chin in her hands. His arm had felt safe and pleasant around her waist. The memory of
Ancil's
arm in the same place popped up then, like a garden weed. Her brow furrowed as she compared the two episodes.

Reed's touch had made her feel warm, secure. She had not attempted to move away from him but had welcomed his strength.
Ancil's
touch had made her uncomfortable and wary. When he had tried to hold her close for longer than she liked, she had become very annoyed.

"Well, of course," she said aloud, a relieved smile brightening her expression. A brother's touch would make a woman feel protected. She wouldn't run from it or be fearful of it. But the touch of a man who was courting her…
Well, a woman would feel a good deal different about that. Hattie knew enough about gentlemen to understand that the woman was supposed to be always on her guard in case his feelings got out of hand. Even with a man that she loved, a woman maintained a healthy distance. It was why all brides were nervous, she supposed. Courting was a strange and frightening experience to get through.

There was nothing frightening about Reed Tyler, though. He was no mystery to Hattie Colfax.

Lying back comfortably again, Hattie sighed. She was pleased with her insight. It was such a disadvantage to start courting at twenty-nine, she realized. Why, the girls Bessie Jane's age could talk about these things and figure out what their feelings were. If the courtship became really confusing, they could always go to their mothers or an aunt. Hattie couldn't confide in a soul—she'd feel like an utter fool. It was a little like putting up preserves without a recipe, she mused. She knew it would take sugar and cooking, but beyond that, she'd just have to find things out as she went along.

It was natural that she would think about Reed, she assured herself. She'd just spent a very pleasant day with him. He was charming and a fine looker to. A woman couldn't fail to notice that, even if he was practically her brother.

* * *

Harmon had been in bed a little more than an hour when he heard the stumble on the porch, followed by a racking cough and the heaves of retching. Rolling out of bed, he grabbed the lantern that hung on a hook near the door and fumbled for the matches. When the lantern's light illuminated the dilapidated shack, the two rough cots, the worn table, and the two remaining spindle-back chairs that served as the furniture in the
Leege
household, Harm adjusted the wick and headed out onto the porch.

Raising the lantern high, he glanced around. "Pa? Where are you, Pa?"

A cough from the edge of the porch answered his question, and Harm went over to investigate. Jake
Leege
lay on the ground next to the house, not more than a foot from where he'd vomited.

Harm set the lantern on the porch and squatted down to help his father. "Come on,
Pa.
Let me get you inside."

"I'm sick," the old man said, his voice raw and hoarse from the fiery liquid he'd consumed.

"That stinking rotgut will make you sick," Harm said, trying without success to get his father on his feet.

"Don't tell your mother I'm drunk again," Jake beseeched his son.

Harm ignored the statement. He'd never told his mother, not once. That hadn't kept her from knowing. It hadn't kept her from leaving, either. She'd just walked away and never looked back, fifteen years ago. Harm wondered what strange quirk of his father's whiskey-soaked mind always made him forget that she was gone.

Finally seeing that Jake was not going to walk into the house on his own power, Harm lifted his father as if he were a child and carried him into the shack. It wasn't much of a chore. His father, who had once been as big and muscled as Harmon, was now little more than skin stretched over brittle bones. He rarely bothered to eat, though Harm cooked every day. Each morsel had to be forced down his father's throat, Jake cared nothing for it. It was only whiskey he wanted. Whiskey was everything—wife, child, home, work. Whiskey was life.

"Where did you get the money, Pa?" Harm spoke softly, no hint of anger or threat in his voice.

Still, the old man looked nervous. "I'm sick," he repeated querulously.

"Did you steal from somebody, Pa? I got to know so I can pay for what you took so the law won't come get you."

Jake turned his head toward the wall, not willing to look his son in the eye. "I didn't steal from nobody."

"Then where did you get the money if you didn't steal it?" Harm asked, then immediately knew the answer. "You found my stash." His voice was flat with finality. Saving nearly every penny he got was almost a compulsion with Harm, just as spending every penny on drink was Jake's. Drunks were clever people; Harm knew that for a fact. He constantly had to move his money to new hiding places to keep it out of his father's hands. Sometimes, like now, even the most ingenious secrets were breached.

"Did you take it all?" he asked quietly.

Jake nodded. "I'm sorry, Harm." He began to cry. "I know you been saving that money to get away from here, to make something of yourself. I told myself I'd never take it. But I got me such a thirst yesterday morning, and I just
kinda
started looking around, and when I found it, well, I clean forgot that it was
yourn
, not mine."

Harm nodded and turned away. Walking to his bed, he doused the lantern,
then
lay down, flinging an arm across his eyes. He hoped to hell Miss Hattie's rice field panned out. They would dang sure need that money before winter.

"I'm sorry, Harm." The sound of his father's bitter, choking sobs filled the room. "I'm so sorry."

Harm barely listened. He'd heard these apologies before.

 
CHAPTER
 
9

«
^
»

H
attie was late for church, a calamity that rarely befell her. It was exhaustion and nothing less, she told herself. Making a rice field out of a piece of fallow ground was hard labor.

Harm had come the last three days to help with building the levees and leveling the field, but even with the two men doing most of the heavy
work,
Hattie had pushed her physical resources to the limit.

It had been worth it, though. The three sides of the field away from the bluff now had high embankments to trap the water. The largest of these, the levee on the river, had two fancy mechanized floodgates. They leveled the field by attaching two-by-fours to the grader and slowly smoothing them across the ground.

"Smooth as a pool table," Harm declared, complimenting his partner on his farming skill.

Reed had been buoyant and happy every day, constantly teasing both Hattie and Harmon, neither of whom could resist his good humor. For all the struggle and effort, Hattie wouldn't have traded the experience for anything. She couldn't remember when she had enjoyed herself more.

Arriving at church, she maneuvered her rig among the others. There were no shady spots left, but the weather wasn't to warm yet, and there was just a bit of a breeze blowing.

She set the handbrake carefully, then took her parasol and handbag and stepped down from the buggy. As she walked toward the church, the singing of "Shall We Gather at the River" wafted through the windows. After checking the angle of her hat and smoothing down her skirts, Hattie opened the door as quietly as possible and slipped inside.

The congregation was on its feet for the hymn, and
Ancil
stood next to the aisle in the last pew on the left side. As if he had been waiting for her, he smiled and moved slightly aside, indicating she could join him in his pew.

The children, well scrubbed and wide-eyed, were all watching her. She nodded to them in what she hoped was a friendly fashion. It wasn't their fault their father was such a clodhopper.

Her gaze returned to
Ancil
, and she froze him like a masher,
then
calmly continued on toward the font of the church. The
Colfaxes
had always shared the second pew on the left with Milt Tuttle and his wife, right behind the preacher's family and Deacon Eschew. Hattie saw no reason for this morning to
be
any different.

She nodded at the
Tuttles
as she stepped into the pew,
then
glanced to her right. As usual, the
Tylers
took up the front three pews on the right side. Clive and Mary Tyler nodded to her. Reed was in the font pew with Bessie Jane and had apparently missed her entrance.

Not needing a hymnal, Hattie sang the final chorus in her strong alto as Marybeth Tyler, Reed's simpleminded younger sister, played the tune unerringly on the piano.

"Yes, we'll gather at the river,

The beautiful, the beautiful river.

Gather with the saints at
the
river,

That flows by the throne of God."

As the last strains of the music faded, Preacher Able rose from his seat behind the pulpit and nodded to Marybeth. The young woman twirled around on the piano stool, her proud smile precious in its honesty, as she jumped up. She joined her family in the first
pew. The
Tylers
shifted, making room for her, and Reed draped his arm along the back of the pew behind Bessie Jane. As he did, his glance caught Hattie's. He smiled and mouthed, "You're late."

Hattie gave an almost imperceptible shrug in reply. Reed let his gaze wander to the back of the room toward
Ancil
,
then
looked back at her, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.
His expression insinuated that
Ancil
Drayton might have precipitated her tardiness.

It was almost impossible for Hattie to resist Reed's teasing. Especially, she thought, when he was dressed up for Sunday. With his brawny masculinity cleverly disguised in a broadcloth coat and his thick black hair, usually controlled by his old straw hat, waving enticingly, he looked just about as handsome as Hattie had ever seen him. With a thrust of her chin, she managed to ignore him and turn her attention to the preacher.

Within a few minutes, though, her gaze was drawn unwillingly to the right. Reed was looking at the preacher, and she had a moment to study him. The sunlight shining through the window beyond him gave a glow to his lustrous hair, the back, she saw, beginning to creep over his collar. She had a sudden desire to reach over and stroke the errant black mane.

Reed would never attempt to take liberties with a woman as
Ancil
had, she told herself loftily. Reed would court with respect and would seek honesty, common goals, and love. Then, grudgingly, she conceded that this was one aspect of Reed's life she didn't know at all, one part of him that even as a close friend she could never share.

She had no idea about Reed's expectations of a wife. Surely he'd chosen Bessie Jane for her beauty and wit, but he'd never
divulged to Hattie any tender feelings for her. Actually, more often than not he spoke about Bessie Jane's lack of knowledge about farm life. Her curiosity aroused, Hattie wondered how
their
courtship had proceeded.