Dorothy Garlock (27 page)

Buddy came to meet her as she walked back up the path to the house. Smith’s horse was gone. Plenty Mad, the Indian who had scared Jo Bell, sat at a grindstone sharpening an ax. Stacked between posts that had been driven into the ground was neatly cut firewood. There was so much of it, Willa was reminded of the long, cold winter ahead. Where would she be when the north wind brought ice and snow to the Bighorns?

Back in the kitchen, she washed her hands and splashed water on her face. She glanced at herself in the mirror as she dried with the linen towel. Deep, dark circles rounded her eyes. The hard work and sleepless night had taken its toll.

“There’s coffee in the pot,” Charlie said.

He and his sister sat at the end of the long table. Smith’s bedroll had been removed and the tablecloth once again covered the top, although it hung lower on one side than it did on the other.

“I’d better see if Mrs. Eastwood is still asleep.”

“I’ll look in on her.”

“Thanks, Charlie. Be sure to close the door.”

“You ain’t wantin’ to kill the goose what lays the golden egg, are ya, ma’am?” Jo Bell spoke as Willa filled her cup.

“What do you mean by that?”

“If she dies, ya ain’t got no reason to be here.”

Willa didn’t answer. Behind the calm facade, her thoughts were filled with turmoil. She didn’t know how much longer she would be able to endure this girl. She stared at her while several minutes went by, then calmly looked away from her as if what she said was of no consequence. That, more than any words she could say, infuriated Jo Bell.

“Did ya hear me? If she dies ya’ll be throwed off this place faster than a goose shittin’ apple seeds.”

Willa studied Jo Bell’s face for a moment, then shrugged. The girl was eager to quarrel. Willa clenched her teeth to hold back a retort. However, her silence did nothing to discourage Jo Bell.

“Yore just a hanger-on here, ’n’ don’t ya forget it. It ain’t yore kin that owns this place. Me ’n’ Charlie is next kin to Uncle Oliver. Papa had done figured that out. He said we got a claim here. I figure with Uncle Oliver dead, we got more claim. It stands to reason that when that old woman dies, it’ll be ours. I hope it’s today. By God, I do. Ya can bet yore bottom dollar I’ll send that Smith packin’. Then what’ll ya do,
ma’am
?”

Willa looked up to see Charlie standing in the doorway. He was looking at his sister as if she had lost her mind.

“I’ll swear, Jo Bell. I told you to get that notion outta yore head.”

“If ya wasn’t so thick-headed, ya’d figure out a few things ’n’ stop tryin’ to keep that old woman alive.” Her lips curled in contempt when she looked at her brother.

“I don’t think you should count on getting this ranch when Mrs. Eastwood passes on,” Willa said. “She has a daughter who will inherit.”

“Ya don’t know nothin’ about it. So . . . shut up!” Jo Bell jumped to her feet, braced her arms against the table and glared at Willa. “I’m sick of ya puttin’ yore nose in my business.”

“I’m not. I’m just telling you—”

“Ya are, too. And . . . ya ain’t nobody to be tellin’ me or my brother a dad-blamed thin’. Yore a . . . slut, is what ya are. Starr said whores got paid. Sluts don’t.”

Shock and anger drew Willa to her feet.

“Hush yore dirty mouth!” Charlie shouted at his sister.

“Don’t tell me to hush tellin’ what’s true. She was in here all night with Smith, wasn’t she? Whata ya think they was doin’, dumb-head? Holdin’ hands?” She turned the full force of her angry violet eyes on Willa. “What’d he pay ya, Miss Nasty Nice? Or did ya give him a ride on this here table for nothin’? If ya did, it proves yore a dumb slut just like Starr said.”

For the first time in her life Willa felt an almost uncontrollable rage. It propelled her feet around the end of the table, her eyes never leaving Jo Bell’s sneering features.

“I’ve . . . taken all the abuse I’m going to take from you.”

Willa’s voice trembled with the effort not to scream. She drew back her hand and slapped the girl across the face so hard that it knocked Jo Bell back down in the chair.

“Ohh . . . !” Jo Bell’s hands went to her cheeks, her eyes widened with disbelief.

“Out of respect for Charlie and for what your father did for me, I have put up with your mean mouth. No more. If you ever call me one of those names again, I’ll pull every hair out of your head, or at least make an attempt to do so. Do you understand me? You are hateful and spoiled and think
the world revolves around you and what you want.” Willa grabbed a handful of black curls and tilted Jo Bell’s head so that she could look down into her face.

“Ya’ll be . . . sorry—” Violet eyes blazed with hatred. “Ya’ll be sorry,” she whispered again.

“You’re selfish and insensitive. I’m sick to death of you.”

“Yore jealous cause yore old and ugly and . . . men don’t look at ya when I’m around,” Jo Bell spat out venomously.

“I’d ten times rather be ugly on the outside than ugly and evil on the inside like you.”

Practically smoking with rage, Willa released the hold she had on Jo Bell’s hair and walked out onto the porch. Leaning against the support post, she felt small and weak. The hand she lifted to brush hair off her brow was shaking with anger and humiliation.

“Willa—”

“I’m not sorry, Charlie. She pushed me to the limit.” Willa turned to look at the tall, serious-faced boy. “I’ve been taught to look for some good in everyone. I can’t seem to find any in your sister.”

“I . . . thought she’d straighten out—”

“She isn’t going to change. The more you try the more she rebels. You’ll have to let go, Charlie. She’ll drag you down with her or get you killed.”

“Somehow she’s got it in her head that we’d get this place if Aunt Maud dies—”

“That’s wishful thinking. Mrs. Eastwood has a daughter and maybe grandchildren for all I know.” Willa’s shoulders slumped wearily. “Would you mind bringing me something to eat, Charlie? I don’t want to leave Mrs. Eastwood alone.”

“I’ll make Jo Bell watch her—”

“No,” Willa said quickly. “I’d rather do it.”

Charlie stepped off the porch, then turned back, his young face troubled.

“Smith said Jo Bell would have to stay in here from now on. The men are comin’ back today and he don’t want her stirrin’ them up.”

“That’s up to Smith. My job is to take care of Mrs. Eastwood.”

Willa watched the boy walk toward the cookhouse with Buddy close to his heels. At that moment Smith rode into the yard, dismounted and came toward the house.

“The doctor will be here in about half an hour.” he said without a greeting. “I spotted his buggy down on the flats.”

“Mrs. Eastwood was still asleep a few minutes ago.” Willa looked away from him as she spoke. Jo Bell’s words had somehow dirtied what had happened between them. “I’ll go see about her,” she said, as she opened the door to go back inside.

“Willa—” Smith waited until she turned back to look at him. “I set up a rat trap in that privy room at the end of the hall. Keep the door shut. You may have a few mice, but I don’t think you’ll be bothered with anymore rats.”

“—A
few
mice,” she broke in scathingly. “I would say there’s more than a few.”

“I’ll send Plenty to Buffalo to buy some mouse traps.”

“He was just there yesterday. How far is it?”

“A couple hours if you cut across the foothills. About three hours if you come on the road.”

“The doctor must have left before daylight.”

“Plenty says he’s new. Old Doc’s dead. I suppose he drank himself to death. Actually it’s not a bad way to go. You’d feel no pain.” After he spoke, he stood motionless, studying her with cold, hard eyes. It was a scrutiny that made Willa exceedingly uncomfortable.

“I wouldn’t know about that as I’ve never drunk myself senseless.” She looked at the remote expression on his face and her heart sank, but she kept her voice level. “If a man
is too much of a coward to face life, I suppose that it’s as good a way as any to duck it.”

She continued to stare at him. There was not a trace of the Smith who had held her so protectively and who had told her not to be afraid. She could see no hint at all of the Smith who had kissed her so tenderly and awakened in her a hunger to love and be loved.

“Keep the girl in the house today—”

“—I have enough to do taking care of Mrs. Eastwood—”

“I don’t want her in the bunkhouse.”

“Let her stay in the cabin behind it.”

“That’s my cabin and I don’t want her in it.”

“Well, for crying out loud! I have no control over her. Tell her yourself.”

Willa met Smith’s green stare with all the poise and self-control she could muster. She was more scared of his effect on her than she wanted to admit. He kept staring at her as if he were deliberately trying to read her mind. She would be damned if she would give him the satisfaction of letting him know that the kisses they had exchanged were of any importance to her at all. She waited impassively for his answer.

“I will,” he said and swallowed, his mouth unaccountably dry.

Stop thinking about it, he commanded himself. It should have never happened. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how perfectly she had fit into his arms. He couldn’t look away from her glossy thick hair, her large, round, clear blue eyes, and her mouth. Lord! Her lips were pink and soft, and they had tasted sweeter than anything he had ever tasted before. He glanced at her hands clasped in front of her. They were small, her wrists fragile, and they had caressed his naked chest.

She was everything that was beautiful and good. He wasn’t fit to hold her hand, and yet he had pressed her softness
against him and kissed her mouth again and again. What in the world had he been thinking of? If by some miracle she had special feelings for him, he would only cause her unhappiness and disillusionment.

The silence between them was broken by the squeaking of the screen door. Willa stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes swept the room. Jo Bell was not there. The door leading to the other part of the house was closed. She remembered Charlie leaving it open so they could hear Mrs. Eastwood if she called.

Small hairs prickled on the back of her neck. An acute feeling of urgency caused her to hurry across the room, barely aware that Smith had come into the kitchen behind her. When she reached the stairs, she lifted her skirt with her two hands and ran up the steps to the second floor, not pausing until she flung open the door to Maud’s room.

Jo Bell stood beside the bed looking down at the woman on the bed. She turned her head slowly. A mysterious smile twisted her mouth, her eyes glittered brightly.

“She’s pig ugly, ain’t she?”

“Who’er you?” Maud demanded.

“I’m Jo Bell Frank. Uncle Oliver is . . . was my mother’s only brother. Me and my brother came a visitin’.”

“Get out!”

With her heart pounding so hard that she drew air into her open mouth, Willa moved around the end of the bed to stand close to Maud’s head.

“The doctor will be here in a few minutes. I need to get her ready.”

“So . . . get her ready. It’s what yore gettin’ paid for.”

“I would rather you’d go—”

“—I got more right here than you.”

Smith stood in the doorway behind Jo Bell. Willa glanced
at him and then wrung out the cloth in the washbowl and placed it on Maud’s head.

“Do you need her help?” Smith’s voice was soft but with a sharp edge.

“Murderer! Bastard! Get . . . outta my house!” Maud shouted.

“No.” Willa yelled to make herself heard.

Jo Bell whirled around, a practiced smile lighting her face.

“Mornin’, Smith.”

“Get out of here.” The edge in his voice had grown sharper. “Now!”

“Well, fiddle-faddle. I just wanted to help my . . . aunty.” The words rolled off Jo Bell’s tongue in a heavily accented southern brogue. She fluttered her lashes as she looked up at the tall man.

“Come on.” He jerked her out into the hall and closed the door. With a hand wrapped about her upper arm, he pulled her down the hall to a room at the end.

“What—? Let go of me.” Jo Bell struggled to free herself from his grip.

“This is where you’ll stay.” Smith opened a door and shoved her inside. “You can clean it or you can stay in it as it is.”

“I ain’t stayin’ here! It’s all . . . cobwebs and dirt.”

“You will stay here, and if I hear of you giving Willa any more sass I’m going to turn you up and tan your hide.”

Jo Bell wheeled on him. “If ya lay a hand on me, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . have you shot.”

“You scare me to death, sweetheart. Who’ll you get to do it? Charlie? Lord, but I feel sorry for that kid. Saddled with a blister like you will deal him nothing but grief.” Smith turned his back on her and went silently back down the hall, his moccasined feet making no sound on the hall runner.

“Ya . . . ya mean old thin’.” Jo Bell called after him. “Ya ain’t the boss of me.”

Too bad Fuller didn’t get her, Smith thought, unaware that he was grinning. The two of them deserved each other.

When the doctor drove into the yard, Smith went to the horse’s head, unhooked the tie rope from the harness and looped it over a rail.

The doctor stepped from the buggy, removed his canvas duster and placed it on the seat. He was a plain-looking man in his mid-twenties, solid and stocky. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes bright brown, and he wore a bushy mustache.

“Howdy,” Smith said. “You must have left Buffalo before daylight.”

“Actually I spent the night at a ranch halfway between here and Buffalo.” The doctor lifted a black bag from the floor of the buggy. “The Mathews children are down with chicken pox.”

“I’m Smith Bowman.”

“I figured you were. I’m Doctor Hendricks—John Hendricks. I’ve taken over Doctor Goodman’s practice.”

“Yeah. Plenty, the Indian who brought you the note, told me old Doc had died.”

Smith looked the man straight in the eye and waited for him to extend his hand. When he didn’t, a wave of the old sickness washed over him. It made him angry—but at himself. He thought he had gotten used to being ostracized by the community and that he no longer gave a damn.