Desert Angel (8 page)

March struck a match and held it to the kindling. When it had caught the flame, she turned to look for the coffeepot. The only cabinet she hadn’t explored yet was a strange-looking iron one that sat between the two doors on the side wall. Painted black with pretty red trim, it was a large, boxy chest on four legs with a small door in the front. She spied the coffeepot sitting in the middle of one of the iron rings on top.

Holding it under the faucet, she raised and lowered the pump handle with delight. When the fire was burning brightly, she threw some coffee beans into the pot and put it on one of the hooks, swinging it directly over the flame.

“It’s just amazing, Jamie.” She grabbed a bowl and the ingredients to assemble biscuits. “Imagine me, March Evans, cooking in a kitchen like this. Why, I’ll bet those ladies in the city don’t have it this good.

“And the food,” her eyes turned longingly toward the can of peaches. “I’ve never seen so much food, except in the mercantile. It may be just a little short on meat, but maybe your pa goes hunting every couple of days.”

The peaches beckoned enticingly. “And peaches, Jamie. Someday, when you’re a lot older, we’ll have some as a special treat. Maybe for your birthday or at Christmas.”

Making biscuits was second nature, done for years and requiring no thought. By the time the fire had burned down to a nice layer of ashes, she had the dutch oven filled with fat balls of dough. She put it in the fire, placing a thick layer of hot ashes on the lid.

The coffee was bubbling merrily, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma and making her stomach rumble louder. When the scent of the biscuits drifted out from the fireplace, she knew she’d die before she could eat.

Wanting badly to use the flowered plates, but knowing that something that pretty was kept for special occasions, March found a wooden plate and a tin cup. By the time she’d poured her coffee and given it a few minutes to cool, she knew she could wait no longer for the biscuits, or she’d truly starve.

When they were golden brown and light as a feather, March placed two of them on her plate. She sat at the table where she could look out at the mountains, and still keep an eye on the baby.

Longing for some fatback or some of the jam her mother had once made from a cactus, she bit into the biscuit. Her gaze was captured again by the peaches, and she closed her eyes to avoid temptation. Peaches were just too expensive, costing nearly a dollar a can.

Jamie obligingly slept until she had finished her breakfast. She watched contentedly as he began to wake, stretching first his arms and then his legs. His head came up off of the blanket and bobbed uncontrollably. When he began to whimper, March bent over and picked him up.

“Good morning, again, little man.” Opening her dress, she smiled as he nursed hungrily. “You sure are the eatin’est boy I ever saw. If you keep this up, you’ll be full grown before you walk.”

The baby blinked big blue eyes at her, trying to focus. “I think when you’ve finished your breakfast, we’ll see about giving you a bath. I’ve got to wash my dress, and get it out so that it can dry. Then, if you’re real good, maybe we’ll go exploring.”

By the time March had bathed the baby, washed her dress, and cleaned up the kitchen, she was exhausted. Carrying Jamie securely in her arm, she climbed the stairs.

“Maybe we better take just a little nap.” She kissed his soft cheek and laid him in his bed. “We can take a walk after you wake up.”

March laid down on the soft bed and thought of all the fabulous things she had discovered in the house. Why, the bed had two sheets and a nicely made patchwork quilt. It was a treat to sleep in a bed instead of on the floor, and nearly impossible to imagine sleeping between sheets!

It truly was a castle, she decided. A lingering sadness threatened to overwhelm her. Mama had told stories about her childhood home in Virginia, describing the house that she’d grown up in. It hadn’t been nearly as glorious as this one, though. She wished that she could bring Mama and the little ones here to live. It would make their lives so much happier. With a sigh, she accepted the idea as impossible, knowing that by now Papa had pulled up stakes again and was headed far away.

Forcing her thoughts away from her vanishing family, March slipped into sleep with visions of canned peaches dancing behind her closed lids.

By early afternoon, March was ready to go exploring. She made a sling that held Jamie securely to her chest, and walked through the kitchen and out the back door.

The house sat away from the other ranch buildings and there were no plants or bushes to soften the stark lines of the structure. March studied it for a while. She delighted in the many things inside, but didn’t find any pleasure at looking at the outside. Somehow, it seemed out of place, as if it didn’t match its rugged surroundings.

“Well, Jamie boy, it surely is a castle, but I think it belongs in one of Ma’s fairy stories.” She hugged the baby that laid comfortably against her breasts. “Ma would say I’m probably jealous because it’s not mine, but personally I think everyone can state their opinion. What do you think?”

When the sleeping baby declined to answer, March smiled and walked toward an adobe building where she could see two men sitting in chairs under a porch. It was time for her to meet the other employees of the ranch.

“Good afternoon,” she called as she approached. One of the men stood up from his chair and removed his hat, while the other one spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground.

“Where’s the youn’en?” the seated one asked gruffly. “Got me an interest in him, since I spent so much time changing his towels.”

“I changed his towels,” the other man stated. “You fed him his vittles.”

“You was always busy when that youn’en sprung a leak.”

“Seems to me I ‘member you handin‘ him to me and telling me to fix him.”

“You’re gettin‘ old; havin‘ trouble rememberin‘ things is a sure sign.”

“Ain’t as old as you!”

“Hell you ain’t! Why you was already brandin‘ cows while I was still learnin‘ to ride.”

“That’s cause you still don’t know how to ride!”

“I can outride you any day of the week!” March smiled at the two men, enjoying their bickering banter. Only old friends who had spent years cultivating their friendship would feel able to argue as these two were doing, without worry of hurting feelings. She had never been in one spot long enough to develop that kind of relationship with someone.

“Lookee here,” the old man who was standing pointed out to the other one. “You got this here girl laughing at you. Ain’t you ashamed?”

“She ain’t laughin‘ at me, are you, girlie?”

“My name is March,” she informed them. “And I’m not laughing at anyone.”

“She polite, which is more than I can say ‘bout you.” The standing one ran his fingers through his thin gray hair. “I’m Hank and this here is Woods.”

“Where’s the youn’en?” Woods asked again. March pulled the sling back enough for them to see the baby’s head, then readjusted it to assure that the sun didn’t touch his tender skin.

“Why if’en that don’t beat all! Got him all snug and tight, and still got your hands free.”

“Women just seem to know how to do those kinds of things with a youn’en. Guess it comes naturally.”

Woods nodded in agreement. “Just like cookin‘, cleanin‘, and bickerin‘. Ain’t never known no woman that can go long without findin‘ somethin‘ to sink her teeth into.”

“Or someone, more like.” Hank deposited another stream of tobacco juice in the dirt. “Women was born just to make man miserable.”

” ‘Cept for mamas,” Woods added. “My ma used to be the bestest cook this side of the Big Muddy. Ever’ year for my birthday, she used to make me a big pan of Spotted Dog, just for me, said I didn’t have to share unlessin‘ I was a wantin‘ to. Oowhee, I can still remember bitin‘ into it. Seemed to just melt in my mouth!”

“Back when you had ‘nough teeth to bite into somethin‘. Now you’d just have to gum it to death.”

“What’d your ma make you for your birthday?” Woods asked with a smirk.

“Didn’t have no ma or birthdays, either. Man don’t need to be reminded that he’s gettin‘ older. I know that every mornin‘, when I wake up a half hour before my body’s of a mind to move!”

“Only place it moves is from yore bed to that rockin‘ chair.”

“Seems like I ‘member you still snorin‘ loud enough to shake a cactus, when I already had breakfast cookin‘ this mornin‘.”

“I don’t snore! Why a body cain’t get no sleep around here for all the noise you make. If’en you ain’t snorin‘, yore snorting or talkin‘.”

“I’ll see ya’ll later.” Shaking her head with amusement, March started to move off. They were getting ready for another round, and as entertaining as it was, she was curious to do some more exploring before Jamie needed to be fed again.

“Quiet little thing,” Hank commented as they watched her walk back toward the house. “Hardly said two words,” Woods agreed.

“Real polite-like, too.”

“Cute as a long-legged filly takin‘ her first steps.This’en just mite do a bit better than the other one.”

“Woman should be quiet and polite. Why, I knew a woman once … “

At the corral March talked quietly to a couple of horses, who greeted her with soft whinnies. The chicken house was abandoned but in good shape, and an old worn-out mule happily scratched his rump against the fence rail. Peeking into the dark, cool depths of several barns and outbuildings, she decided to save them for later exploration. She was getting tired, and Jamie would soon be demanding his supper.

Walking back to the house it struck her how peaceful it was with only the occasional stamping of the horses and the twittering of the birds. March had always dreamed of a home that was without the constant bickering that she had endured as a child. It seemed to her that nothing ever made her father happy. He always had a complaint, whether it was about the food or the noise of the children.

Whenever something went wrong, as it frequently did, he always found someone else to blame. She had learned how to dodge his blows as a young child, and how to protect the little ones from his temper when she was grown. It seemed to her that he always had a plan to get rich quick, one that avoided any work on his part. He didn’t object to anyone else in the family working, just as long as he wasn’t directly involved.

It had always amazed her that her pretty, educated mother had ever married such a brash, insensitive man. March had asked her once, but her mother had gotten so upset that March quickly changed the subject. It was only during March’s long hours of labor to give birth to her stillborn daughter, that Virginia Evans had told her the story, perhaps hoping that March would continue to fight rather than to give in to the pain and sure death that crept ever closer.

More than twenty years earlier, at the start of the war between the states, Virginia and her family, staunch supporters of the Confederacy, had hidden a wounded Rebel soldier in their home. His injuries were not life-threatening, but took a considerable time to heal.

The only child of a shipping magnate, Virginia was fascinated by the heroic presence of the soldier. During his lengthy stay, he told wonderful stories of his home in Georgia, of the cotton plantation his family owned and the life that waited for him once the war was finished. He was charming and gallant, captivating sixteen-year-old Virginia with great ease.

Perhaps, in happier times, Virginia’s father would have investigated the soldier more thoroughly. Perhaps if he hadn’t been concerned with the survival of his business interests, he would have convinced Virginia to wait. But he,

too, was taken in by the soft-spoken man, and gave his only, beloved daughter to George Evans.

When George rejoined his unit, Virginia was pregnant with her first son. George returned twice more in the next couple of years, each time leaving his wife pregnant with another child. When the war was finally finished, the North claiming victory, George was eager to step into the shipping business owned by his father-in-law.

Instead of returning to the wealth and prestige he craved, George discovered that his wife and three small children were living in former slave quarters. Both of her parents were dead, and the shipping business bankrupt. The burned- out shell of her former home seemed like a skeleton taunting George that he’d never be anything more than what he’d always been, except now he was saddled with a wife and children.

To his credit, he did not abandon his family, but that was his last and only noble gesture. Selling the land to the first carpetbagger to show interest, George moved his family west. The plantation in Georgia was purely fictional, as were all of his other claims to wealth.

March leaned against the porch railing and stared unseeing into the distance. She could barely remember ever loving her father. As a child she had felt guilty, because she disliked and feared him so much. A child should run to her father for protection, instead March had run from him, frequently spending the entire night hiding from his terrifying rages.

She remembered all of the things he had done, things even a child recognized were illegal or immoral. They never stayed in one place long enough for the law to catch him, often slipping away in the dead of the night. She had lived with equal parts of hope and dread that he would be found out. When it happened, and it would someday, how would Mama support herself and all of the little ones?