Deborah Camp (31 page)

“Hush, honey.” Grandy tightened his arms around her, one across her collarbone, the other at her waist. “Don’t go over it again. It breaks my heart.”

Zanna closed her eyes and tears wet paths down her cheeks. The awful past faded, subdued for a while.

“I wish I’d known before.”

“Before?” she asked, an old fear rising up to haunt her, a feeling of worthlessness that was her one true legacy from Fayne. Although a strong, shining part of her fought
against it, once again she began to feel unworthy of anything beautiful in her life. “Before?” she repeated.

“Before I made love to you.”

“It would have made a difference?” she asked, holding her breath as she waited for his answer, praying that he wouldn’t care about her past, about who had touched her or how.

“Of course.”

Her worst fear had been realized. Her lips trembled and the tears built until it was all she could do not to break into sobs. Grandy wouldn’t have made love to her if he’d known who’d had her first. Men were all alike. They wanted their women pure, unblemished, untouched by bloodstained gloves and old men with red, rough hands.

She wiggled from his arms, anxious to put distance between them.

“Zanna?”

“I’m going to bed. I’m tired.”

“Would you like me to—”

“Good night, Grandy. Thanks for listening.” She closed the bedroom door and threw herself on the bed to smother her sobs in the thickness of the pillows.

“Dirty,” she murmured into the damp linen. “I feel so dirty. The Hathaway brothers’ soiled-dove. Not even good enough for a riverboat gambler with a checkered past.”

“Whoa, sons,” Grandy crooned, and Sarge and Captain stopped in the middle of the blackened field. Grandy looked behind him at the earth his plow had overturned; renewed, fertile, full of promise. Ahead lay the results of yesterday’s dark mistakes, misfortunes, and maliciousness.

Hours before dawn, Grandy had risen and raced through his early chores—milking, feeding, watering, cleaning stalls—so that he could have the mules hitched to the plows by the time the first weak signs of sunlight touched the burned field. He’d been anxious to erase Duncan’s handiwork—for his own peace of mind and, especially, for Zanna’s.

“Taking a breather?” Packsaddle Bill called across the newly prepared earth.

Grandy removed his battered hat and mopped his brow with a wrinkled handkerchief. “It’s already getting warm and it’s not even halfway through morning yet,” Grandy complained as, leaving the mules and plow, he strode over the soft earth to Packsaddle. “What are y’all going to do today?”

“Mend fences mostly, but we got some trees to clear out in the east woods, too. Some of them have fell and the steers are getting hung up in them. It’s a helluva mess.” Packsaddle scratched his marbled beard and examined the field of ashes. “Couldn’t stand looking at it,
huh?” He chuckled at Grandy’s sheepish shrug. “Know how you feel. It’s better to wipe it out and start all over than to look on it and brood. What time did Duncan show up at the dance last night? Perkins says he came late.”

Grandy fitted his hat back on his head and delivered a measured glance at the sly older man. “He was a couple of hours behind everyone else. He seemed in fine spirits, too. Right happy with himself.”

“That’s what I figured.” Packsaddle lowered his thick eyebrows and squinted at the field. “The Hathaways have ruled the roost around these parts for a couple of generations.”

“So I’ve been told,” Grandy said, waving aside a blue fly.

“I’m not from around here. I wandered down from Nebraska, but it didn’t take no time for me to learn about the Hathaways. I come around looking for work and Fayne hired me.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Ten years. I haven’t stayed all the time. I left every so often to work other ranches in Mexico and in the Territory. Fayne was good to his hands and they kept coming back, just like me. I hadn’t been here long before I noticed how mean he was to his animals. That never set too well with me. I’d get a bellyful of seeing him beat the mules, the horses, the cattle, the dogs—every beast in reach—and I’d head out for a while.”

Hooking his thumbs under his suspenders, Grandy regarded Packsaddle from the corner of his eyes. Was the old man working up to something or was he just fishing? Grandy wondered, but remained silent, waiting the other man out.

“I thought marriage might wise him up,” Packsaddle said. “ ’Course he’d been married before, but Miss Zanna was so sweet and childlike that I thought Fayne might turn over a new leaf.” Packsaddle looked at Grandy and
shrugged. “He didn’t. I believe he got worse. It’s hard to figure out some men, ain’t it?”

“I suppose,” Grandy said.

Packsaddle chuckled softly. “You ain’t going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“I can’t give directions if I don’t know where you’re headed.”

“Fair enough.” Packsaddle ran a hand over his mouth and sucked in a quick breath. “Fayne was mean to her. We all knew that. And now Duncan’s making her life miserable. Me and Donny want you to know that we think it’s time she got a fair shake. We’re behind you, if you decide to take a stand against Duncan.” Packsaddle frowned and issued a self-directed curse. “Should’ve done something before now, but Fayne was our boss and her husband and we just didn’t think it was our place.”

Grandy ran a hand down his face, fighting off the helpless anger he felt toward the Primrose men who had stood by and watched the Hathaways beat animals and rape women. He told himself he was being far too judgmental. Marriage was a private union, sacred by society’s standards. Maybe if Grandy hadn’t been raised in a family haunted by abuse, he, too, would have been reluctant to step in and take a stand against a husband’s questionable rights.

“So, you gonna do something?” Packsaddle asked, peering hopefully into Grandy’s face.

Grandy wiped his face again before he tucked the handkerchief back into his pants pocket. “I appreciate your concern and I’m glad to have you behind me, but I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I’ll tell you what I’m
not
going to do; I’m not going to turn my back on this and pretend like nothing’s going on.” He looked Packsaddle right in the eyes. “Did you see Duncan leaving here last night?”

“Naw.” Packsaddle heaved a sigh. “Couldn’t make out
the rider, but I swear that horse was a palomino. The fire lit it up for a second and it looked blond to me.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Grandy placed a hand on Packsaddle’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, partner. I’d better get back to work before the boss lady chews me out.”

Packsaddle grinned, showing crooked teeth. “I hear that. See you later, pard.” His short legs, as crooked as his teeth, took him across the field toward the bunkhouse.

Grandy stood for a few minutes, lost in thoughts of Duncan’s vindictive act and courses of action he could take. Arriving at no clear plan, he went back to the patient mules and took up his place behind the plow.

“Okay, boys, let’s step it off. Hiyup!”

The mules set off down the charred field, pulling the plow that stirred new life into the soil. Their hooves were black with soot. The stench of ash rose up but was beaten down by the pungent perfume of warm, rich soil. Grandy’s shirt began to stick to his back, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Working up an honest sweat had become comforting to him. He hated to admit it, but fanning wasn’t as bad as he’d remembered. Like Zanna’s kitchen, it was the accompanying events and not the work that had soured him.

He looked toward the house and saw her throwing seeds and corn in a shower around her. The chickens set up a song of greed and went to work, pecking at the ground and scratching in the dirt. Her blue bonnet obscured her face, leaving him to wonder about her mood. Had the morning brought her new hope? Or had she faced the new day with resignation? She went back inside the house, never once looking toward the field.

Sighing, Grandy focused ahead again, automatically calling to the mules to turn as he reached the edge of the field. She’d left him so quickly last night, as if relating her past had drained her of all feeling, all thought, all consideration.
He’d wanted to crawl into bed with her and hold her close, but her crisp good night had discouraged him. He felt he should have done something, but what? He’d been there for her, but she hadn’t needed him. He couldn’t
force
her to rely on him or trust him. She had to meet him halfway.

But what the hell? another, more strident voice echoed within him. Do you
really
want to sink your anchor any deeper into this stagnant pond? What about your getaway scheme? Have the roots of this land wrapped themselves around your ankles to hold you to it? Riverboat’s a-callin’, son. Can’t you hear? That low, throaty whistle is singing out to you. It’s not too late to throw down that old plow and join the lively again. This isn’t any of your business anyway. It’s not your place to—

Grandy gagged that inner voice. Damn it, he wouldn’t join the long line of cowards in this county who saw Fayne and Duncan Hathaway through rose-colored glasses! He refused to buckle under to his selfishness by turning the other cheek and leaving Zanna to Duncan and the hypocrites surrounding her.

Doc Pepperidge, Cal Perkins, Packsaddle Bill, Sheriff Warwick, even Theo Booker—all of them had stood by and let Fayne spoil the inner beauty of a young girl who’d never raised a hand or said a bad word to anybody! And the way the women treated her! Other than the hanging wives, Mrs. Jackson had been the only woman who had welcomed Zanna with open arms. Two-faced biddies, he thought. If any of them had suffered through a marriage like Zanna’s, they’d be as crazy as moonstruck coyotes or as dead as a snake’s eyes. Their snobbery was downright disgusting and Grandy wasn’t having any of it. He’d stick around as long as he was needed.

His boots sank into the freshly turned earth and he stared between the plow handles where his dirty boots flashed in and out of his line of vision. Then something else flashed.

“Whoa, boys,” Grandy said, holding tightly to the plow until the mules had brought it to a stop. “Whoa, now. Did you boys see that? What was it, huh? Y’all just stay there and talk among yourselves while I hunt for it.”

Eyes scanning the chunks of dirt, Grandy walked carefully, examining each place before he set his boot down on it. Five steps later, he saw it. Something amber winked at him and as he crouched lower, the amber turned golden. Grandy shoveled aside the soil around the treasure and lifted it from its grave. The gold heart with a swirled design was suspended on a delicate gold chain, which was broken. Grandy took out his handkerchief and polished the necklace and pendant, rubbing vigorously to revive its sheen. A tiny latch gave way under his thumb and the heart opened to reveal a picture of a man with thick hair, a bushy mustache, and an Irish cast to his face. On the inside of the lid were the engraved initials S.S.

“Suzanna Sullivan,” Grandy murmured, wrapping the necklace in his handkerchief and pressing it into his trouser pocket for safekeeping. He returned to the mules, moving around to stroke their long ears. “Ready to get back to work?” he asked, resting his cheek against Sarge’s long face for a few moments.

Grandy chuckled and nuzzled Captain, then went around to the plow. “Hiyup,” he said, grasping the plow handles and marching along with his two friends as the blades ripped through the crusty earth and found new life underneath.

It was dark by the time Grandy emerged from the stables, finished with his chores and pleasantly weary. He stopped just inside the front door to let his eyes grow accustomed to the lantern light, then took a deep breath and held it for a few moments while his senses identified the aroma of fresh bread, ham, and beans.

Following the invisible trail, he found Zanna at the stove—of all places!

“Did you get lost?” he teased, grinning when she turned to frown playfully at him.

“Certainly not. It’s suppertime, is it not? And I don’t believe you stopped for dinner today, so you must be simply raven—” She glanced at him, wide-eyed and blushing. “Hungry.”

Grandy swept his hat off his head and ruffled his hair, lifting it off his itchy scalp. “Ravenous,” he said, since she couldn’t bring herself to say it. He recalled the night with the newborn calf when he’d unwittingly transformed that word into a shared memory. “By the way, the calf is growing by leaps and bounds. He’s going to be one of our prize steers.”

“Yes. Did I ever tell you what I call him?”

“No.”

“Quincy, after you,” she said, turning sideways to catch his wince. “I like that name.”

“I’m glad someone does.”

“You’d better wash up while I set the table. Supper’s been ready for some time. You worked awfully late tonight, Grandville.”

“I had a list of chores longer than one of Packsaddle’s stories,” he said, making her laugh lightly.

In his bedroom he stripped to the waist, then poured water from a pitcher into its matching bowl. Folks on the riverboats called that kind of washing up “a whore’s bath,” he recalled with a smile as he lathered the lye soap over his arms, neck, face, and chest. When he removed his pants, he remembered the treasure and placed it on the washstand so he’d remember to show Zanna. He knew she’d be pleased to recover one of her baubles.

When he was as clean as a hound’s tooth, he shrugged into a fresh shirt and pulled on a pair of Sunday trousers. The locket went into his pants pocket.

Grandy gained a pleased smile from Zanna when he held out her chair and helped her settle into it before sitting in his own.

“You cooked beans and cornbread all by yourself,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “Did you know they’re my favorite combination?”

“No, and I didn’t do this all by myself. You helped.” She smiled at his arched brows and questioning eyes. “You taught me how to prepare these things and … after last night, I knew that the ghosts who used to live in the kitchen were gone for good.” She served him, spooning a generous portion of beans and ham into his bowl, then adding a wedge of cornbread on the side. “I hope it’s half as good as yours.”