Courting Miss Hattie (2 page)
T
he stillness of the gray morning was abruptly shattered as the barn door flew open, slamming back on its hinges. Peering out as if to see if the coast was clear was a handsome, well-groomed nanny goat. Her barley-colored coat was accented by white markings on her face, and her intelligent eyes and twitching pointed ears were evidence that this was no typical barnyard dweller.
Daintily seeking her way across the yard, she headed directly to the sturdy white clapboard farmhouse. She ignored the twisting honeysuckle vines and the crape-myrtle bushes, and climbed up the two small steps of the back porch. Lowering her chin, she butted the screen door in a rhythmic fashion, not unlike any caller knocking when paying a visit.
"'Morning,
Myrene
," a voice called from inside. "I'm up before you are today." Hattie appeared at the door, pail in hand, and paused to pat the goat on the top of the head before assessing the new morning.
It was still quite cool, but spring was just around the corner. It was her favorite season, all green and new. It was the renewal of life, the promise of another chance.
She walked across the barnyard to the milking platform, and the goat followed in her wake. The area, swept only the day before with a
yardbroom
, was as clean and orderly as the woman who cared for it. Even at this early hour, her faded cotton
workdress
was neatly pressed, and her mass of dark blond hair was pulled circumspectly into a coiled plait at the nape of her neck.
With an ease born of habit, she led
Myrene
onto the platform, guided her head through the round slot, and lowered the crossbar to secure the goat in place. Adjusting the stool, she seated herself for milking.
Hattie Colfax was a strong farm-muscled woman of twenty and nine. Her figure was unremarkable, but she did have the requisite number of feminine curves. Her eyes were an in-between color—not green, not quite blue. And her hair, she joked to the ladies at the church, was the exact color of possum fur.
Hattie was blessed, or cursed, with a quick and easy smile. She was faster than most to see the humor in things, and the sound of her laughter was familiar to all who knew her. Her friendly open smile, though, displayed her very straight, very white teeth. Unfortunately, they were also large and numerous, and they gave her a rather equine appearance. She had been born on the Colfax farm, the only child of Henry and Sarah Colfax. Since her mother's death two years earlier, she'd lived there alone. But at least she wasn't lonely.
Gazing down the road into the fleeting darkness, she saw Reed Tyler striding toward the house, and a smile automatically curved her lips.
Unhitching
Myrene
from the milking platform, she patted the nanny on the rump. "Have a good day,
Myrene
, and stay out of my
canna
bulbs."
Hattie carried her pail of milk back to the house and poured it through a towel to strain it. Setting the quart of fresh milk on the counter, she checked the fire in the stove, stoked it a couple of times with the poker, then began mixing up the morning biscuits.
A knock on the back screen signaled Reed's arrival. "'Morning, Miss Hattie."
She heard him opening the door and glanced up with a welcoming smile. "'Morning, Reed. Looks like a good day for plowing."
"Yes, ma'am," he answered, seating himself at the table. "I saw your garden on the way in. For shame, Miss Hattie," he scolded in mock horror, "You've been plowing on Sunday."
Hattie dismissed the teasing with a shrug. "I had some things on my mind yesterday," she said. "It's always best to get yourself to work when you start ruminating about something. The good Lord understands that I'm thinking."
As Hattie put the bacon on to fry, she glanced over at the young man she knew so well. At twenty-four, Reed Tyler was one fine specimen of male humanity. He was right at six feet in height, and every inch was covered with the rangy muscles of a hardworking farmer. His hair was as black as good
"You want coffee or buttermilk this morning, Plowboy?" she asked.
A smile spread across his face,
livening
his features. "I believe I'll have buttermilk this morning," he said. Hattie immediately set a cup of coffee down in front of him.
It was an old joke between them, one that continued to bring smiles to their mornings. One breakfast years ago when Reed was little more than a cockerel of sixteen or seventeen and going through that time of learning to fit into the world of men, he'd suddenly raged at her. "Damnation, woman! Why are you always serving me up this buttermilk like I'm some pap-fed baby? I'm a man, and I want coffee!"
Hattie had walked over to the table, picked up his glass of buttermilk, and threw it in his face. "You want coffee, Plowboy? Then you ask for it, but don't you ever curse at me again."
Since that day, Hattie had served him coffee every morning, and Reed kept his more expressive language for the
menfolk
on Saturday night.
Setting their plates on the table, Hattie reminded herself that Reed Tyler was no longer the plowboy. He was a man now. A well-respected man, which was not a typical circumstance for a sharecropper. In this sparsely populated farm country, a man without his own land was often a source of ridicule. But Reed was strong, hardworking, and ambitious, and he was going to be somebody someday. Not a soul in the county doubted it for a minute.
Joining him at the table, Hattie watched with pleasure as he devoured the bacon, eggs, grits, and biscuits she'd made for him. "So, what you planning today?" she asked.
Reed took care to swallow before answering. "I'm going to walk the west field by the spring. I suspect that's where I'll be plowing first. I'm going to put the corn and wheat over there this year. Heard they've had a real mild winter down south. Their cotton won't make much. That's good news for us."
Hattie nodded in agreement,
then
said, "I'm going to spread some manure on my garden today. We got any fresh, or should I get some from the heap?"
"There's plenty of fresh," he said, then added with a look of good-natured censure, "But I'll be doing the spreading, Miss Hattie. There's no call for ladies to be out spreading manure."
"Ladies, Plowboy, can do anything that is necessary," she said emphatically.
Reed couldn't help but grin. He loved it when Hattie got up on her high horse. "I agree completely," he said. "But in this case it's just not necessary. I'll spread the manure before I head out to the fields."
She thanked him and got up to the take their plates. As she poured him another cup of coffee, she urged him to sit and drink it while she did the dishes.
Reed took a sip of his coffee, then leaned back in his chair and watched Hattie work. Her movements were smooth and efficient. Remembering Bessie Jane's piece of gossip, he began studying Hattie in a way he never had before. Facing toward the sink, she offered a view that might be considered her best. Her hair was parted in the middle and carefully wound into a neat little bun at the nape of her neck. Although not petite and curvaceous like Bessie Jane, Hattie was definitely built like a woman. She was tall, maybe standing as high as his chin, and her shoulders were broad for a woman. But her waist was nicely differentiated, and he suspected it was no larger than Bessie Jane's. Allowing his gaze to drift downward, he didn't fail to appreciate her behind. It wasn't lush and tempting like Bessie Jane's, but even decently covered by her shapeless calico dress, he could tell it was high and well rounded. Had
Ancil
Drayton noticed that too?
he
wondered.
The idea didn't sit well with Reed. Shaking the thought away and transferring his gaze to the fields outside the window, he reminded himself that Miss Hattie would have nothing to do with old Drayton, and it was none of Reed's business anyway.
"Suspect I'd better get out there, Miss Hattie," he said. "Those fields aren't going to plow themselves."
Hattie heard the scrape of his chair and turned to him as he rose. With his arms high over his head, he stretched languidly, a yawn escaping his lips. Her gaze was drawn irresistibly to his broad, hard chest.
He smiled at her as he reached for his hat. "I'm going to spread that manure for you first thing," he said. "Don't you be forgetting that you have a man around this
place.
"
* * *
Preacher Able arrived very near to dinnertime with the official word that
Ancil
Drayton wanted to court her.
He was mounted on the Tennessee walking horse that was his pride and joy. If the preacher had one weak point where temptation was apt to get him, it was his love of good horseflesh. Although spiritual guidance was something Hattie reserved for Sunday reflection, she had a goodly respect for Preacher Able. Her trust of the tall, lanky man, though, was based more on his fine care of his livestock than his hellfire-and-damnation preaching.
"I was just sitting down to dinner, Preacher Able," she said, smiling. "But I suspect you know that, having timed your visit so well."
The preacher couldn't help but laugh at being caught red-handed finagling himself an invitation to dinner.
"I can't lie, Miss Hattie," he said as he dismounted. "I always say that you set one of the finest tables in the county, and truly I don't get asked to it near often enough to suit me."
Hattie laughed,
then
apologized for her tardy invitation. "I never have a soul over to break bread with me, excepting Reed of course, and I truly never think of it. You're going to have to get Millie to remind me that having the preacher to dinner once a month is part of my Christian duty, as well as my pleasure."
The goat trotted up and butted the preacher lightly on the side.
"
Myrene
!" Hattie scolded, grasping the nanny around the neck and pulling her away. "This goat just doesn't have any manners, Preacher. She's thinking you've got sugar or something sweet in your coat, like most of the peddler men that stop by this way."
The preacher reached down into the long pockets of his black coat and pulled out a sugar cube. "Indeed I do, Miss Hattie," he said, laying the sweet in his palm and offering it to the eager animal. "She must have magic eyes, this goat, to be able to see what is in a man's pocket."
As the goat thoroughly cleaned his hand, Preacher Able glanced around the Colfax homestead. As usual, it was fastidiously clean. The little four-room clapboard house was neatly painted white, and a trellis of budding vines shaded one side of the long hardwood front porch. The
washporch
stood on the near side of the house, and all the tubs and brushes, brooms and
buckets,
were neatly hung. A place for everything, and everything in its place. The T-shaped clothesline poles stood perfectly straight at either end of the backyard, and the three lines of cord were pulled taut between them and tied with precision. Up the slight slope to the south, he could see the carefully laid-out garden plot next to the whitewashed chicken coop. To the west, the barn, sheds, and pigsty were all in the kind of shape to make any farmer proud. Even Miss Hattie's privy, discreetly nestled between two lilac bushes, was freshly painted. He shook his head in admiration. Miss Hattie had a fine
homeplace
, and she'd done it all on her own. It was the kind of success many a farmer in the county would envy.
The conversation centered on plowing and livestock as Hattie fried up side meat and stirred it into some beans and eggs. Served with corn bread, it was a tasty dinner that stuck to a man's ribs. She entertained the preacher with stories of
Myrene's
exploits and her plans for breeding her
Hampshires
. She wanted to raise the finest hogs in the county, and Preacher Able could easily understand that ambition.
After Hattie had sat down
and thanks was
offered for the meal, Preacher Able came directly to the reason for his visit. "
Ancil
Drayton has come to see me, Miss Hattie," he began,
then
gave her a long, thoughtful look, as if expecting her to make some comment. She didn't, and he continued. "It seems that you have caught his eye and he wanted to get my opinion on him courting so soon after his wife's death, and to ask me to approach you with his suit."
Hattie swallowed convulsively and tried to maintain a facade of polite interest. It would be highly foolish for a woman of her age and circumstances to act as eager and giddy as she felt.
"You understand, Miss Hattie," the reverend went on as he heartily partook of Hattie's fine cooking, "under usual conditions, I wouldn't hear of a man setting out courting so soon after his wife's death."
Hattie nodded and waited, making it a point to continue to eat, although she found herself dreadfully nervous and without appetite.
"I've known
Ancil
Drayton for a lot of years," Preacher Able said, "probably as many as I've known you. He is a decent, God-fearing man who loved his wife and grieved when he was forced to put her to ground."
