Mud Creek (19 page)

“When will she leave for Minneapolis?” he asked as he finished.

“The judge has to give his consent to the commitment before it’s official. He’s supposed to stop through on Wednesday.”

Walt gulped, panicked at the notion that a judge might release her.

“Will there be any problem with it?”

Florence sealed her fate by wailing madly, and the sheriff sighed with dismay. “I’ll show him the wounds she inflicted. There won’t be any problem.”

“Good, good. In light of her condition, we just can’t manage her.”

“There should be a marshal on the train to escort her. He’s transported many women in her same state, so he’s familiar with her type. She’ll be fine.”

She screamed—an alarming, eerie cackle that raised the hair on Walt’s neck.

The sheriff offered a supportive smile. “Don’t let her behavior upset you.”

“I can’t help it,” Walt replied. “I feel bad for her.”

“She’s not the first female I’ve sent to Minneapolis, and she won’t be the last. Some of them aren’t cut out for this life.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“She’ll be better off where there are people to watch her, to keep her from harming herself.”

“Lord knows, it was impossible at the ranch.”

“I’m sure it was.” The sheriff held out a piece of paper. “That’s the information for when and how you can write to her.”

Walt scowled, not understanding. He had no intention of ever writing to Florence, but he could hardly admit it to the sheriff. He couldn’t have the man viewing him as merciless or cruel. He accepted the paper, folded it and stuck it in his pocket.

“Thank you. My boys will be glad to have the address.”

“You take care, and don’t fret over her. She’ll be in the best of hands.”

Walt stepped outside, and the air smelled so fresh and clean. The sky looked so clear and blue. He’d been suffocating on Florence, on the trouble she’d caused, on the mess she’d made.

He could breathe again. He could live again.

Grinning, he strolled off, his burdens rolling away.

For once, he had no chores to attend. Helen had asked him to check on some items she’d stored at the blacksmith’s when she’d initially arrived, but Albert had whispered that he’d sold her possessions. He’d used the money to pay some of their bill at the mercantile, an action of which Walt heartily approved. Helen would get over it. Or not.

Other than that non-task, he had nothing to do.

Since his last visit to Prairie City, someone had built a ramshackle saloon, and he decided he deserved a celebratory drink. He’d down a few glasses of whiskey and purchase some extra bottles to enjoy at the ranch.

Then he’d hit the road for home, and he’d think about Violet all the way.

Florence would never cross his mind.

“I’m so sad, Helen.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

Helen stared at Violet across the table in Florence’s kitchen. Although it was her kitchen now, she’d never cease to think of it as belonging to Florence.

When they were such a small, isolated group, the removal of one member left an enormous hole. If Florence had died, Helen couldn’t have felt her absence any more intensely.

“I need you to help me,” Violet wailed.

“Help you what?”

“Take care of me as you used to when I was ill.”

“I’m sorry, Violet, but I don’t have the time or energy.”

Or the inclination,
Helen thought.

She’d always looked after Violet. She’d tended and nursed and worried, but she’d finally arrived at a spot where every ounce of her compassion had evaporated.

She could have blamed it on fatigue, but the fact was that she had no empathy to extend. Violet couldn’t change, and Helen couldn’t continue to fool herself into believing the situation would improve.

Violet didn’t
want
to change. And why would she? Her life was just fine the way it was.

She spent her days in leisure pursuits, walking and wandering off on her own. She spent her evenings with Walt, playing cards and strolling with him in the dark.

She had no chores and provided no support to Helen. She was simply an unpleasant burden. She sniped and nagged and attempted cruel jests, and Helen had moved beyond the relationship they’d previously had.

Duty and responsibility had forced her to move, while Violet remained exactly as she’d been at five, at ten, at fifteen.

She was still a spoiled, disagreeable girl, and Helen was an adult woman with a family to manage and a household to run. She’d lost the vigor required to fret about Violet, and she wasn’t interested in how unhappy her sister had suddenly grown.

Compared to everyone else at the ranch, what did Violet have to be unhappy about?

Walt had just taken his crazed wife to the train to ship her to an asylum. He was out on the prairie, stuck in the wind and the rain and the cold. Albert was out with the cattle, some of them sick, a few of them dead, and he was frantic over what was wrong.

The milk cow had stopped giving milk. Chickens were disappearing in the middle of the night, probably from a coyote creeping into the yard. No matter how relentlessly Robert and Carl chopped firewood, the pile wasn’t nearly high enough for the bitter months that were approaching.

Helen hadn’t been able to harvest a good percentage of the garden. A hailstorm had wrecked what was waiting to be picked. The canning wasn’t finished, and the hay wasn’t cut, because no neighbors had come to pitch in.

Autumn was ending, winter barreling down on them, and there wasn’t sufficient food put by to tide them over until spring. Helen was so drained she could barely lift her arms to set the frying pan on the stove.

Violet’s current melancholy was so far down on Helen’s list of woes that she couldn’t bring herself to notice.

“You don’t love me anymore,” Violet charged.

“You’re my sister, Violet,” Helen replied with weary resignation. “I will always love you.”

“You don’t act like it. You’re never kind; you never take my side.”

The last accusation was true. Violet constantly fought with Albert, and Helen ignored them both. She couldn’t stand their bickering and refused to moderate their quarrels. If Albert hit Violet again, Helen wasn’t at all certain she’d intervene. Though it was awful to admit it, Violet was so exasperating that Helen often felt like slapping her, herself.

Violet was so ill-equipped for life on a ranch. She needed to return to New York, to make a place for herself there, and Helen needed money to send her.

She was doing more than her fair share of the work, and she deserved an allowance, which would supply the funds for Violet.

She intended to ask Walt about it, but in light of Helen’s suspicions about him and Violet, she couldn’t predict what he’d say. He might not want Violet to leave, but for Violet’s sake—and everyone else’s—Helen had to try.

“I hate this house,” Violet complained.

“Why?”

“Everything in it reminds me of Florence.”

“Well, I like it. It’s bigger, and since I’m the cook, I like being close to the kitchen. It’s easier for me.”

“Let’s move back to the cottage,” Violet said.

“No.”

“Please?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“We were happy there.”

“We were not.”

“You like Albert more than me.”

Helen sighed with annoyance. “You’re carrying on like a whiny toddler.”

“You do like him more!”

“He’s my husband.”

“He hit me, and you still like him.”

“I made him stop. I pulled a knife on him, remember?”

“You didn’t use it,” Violet sullenly griped.

“I won’t apologize for
not
stabbing my husband.”

“We could have left,” Violet insisted. “If you hadn’t married him, we could have gone somewhere better.”

Helen sighed again. “Why persist with this fantasy that we could have run away?”

“We could have! You were just afraid.”

Helen pondered the charge, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose I was.”

“We didn’t need to hook our wagon to Albert. If you’d given me a chance, I could have found some other man to take us in.”

“Some other…man?” Helen snorted with disgust. “Who could you have found out here in the middle of nowhere? Maybe Myrtle Dudley’s husband?”

It was a caustic question, but Helen couldn’t keep from asking it.

Mr. Dudley was the hapless fellow Violet had been caught with at the barn raising. Afterward, he’d slithered home with his wife and children, and no stain had attached to his character. All the shame had fallen on Violet.

Helen had never discussed the evening with her sister, because she couldn’t bear to hear Violet’s excuses. What explanation could possibly justify her conduct?

“I wouldn’t have picked him to save us,” Violet stated. “He couldn’t have. He was too much of a dullard.”

“Then why involve yourself with him?”

“Why not?”

“It was easy to tempt him?”

“Yes.”

“What about his wife? Did it ever occur to you that she might not be too keen on your rolling around in the grass with her husband?”

“Who cares about Myrtle? She’s a dullard, too.”

“She’s our neighbor.”

“Your neighbor maybe,” Violet said. “I’ll never claim her as mine.”

Helen blew out a heavy breath. “Do you ever listen to yourself? Do you have the slightest idea how rude you sound?”

“Perfect Helen,” Violet sneered. “Do you ever listen to
yourself?
Do you have the slightest idea how pompous and irritating you are?”

For the briefest second, Violet looked mean and malevolent, as if she hated Helen, as if Helen repulsed her.

But as quickly as the malice flared, it vanished, and Helen wondered if she’d actually seen it.

“You don’t have to stay in here with me,” Helen told her. “I’m not in the mood for your insults.”

“I want us to move back to the cottage,” Violet said again.

“We can’t. Walt’s taken it for himself.”

“He’s not God. We don’t have to obey him.”

“Yes, we do.”

“We could refuse. We could ignore him.”

Helen groaned with aggravation. “You exhaust me, Violet, and I’m busy. Go away.”

“Come with me to the cottage. I feel a bad spell percolating, and I want to lie on our old bed and rest. You can tuck me in.”

“You’re not five anymore, Violet, and I don’t have the energy to bother with you. Use the sofa in the front room. I’ll light the stove.”

“I’m ill, Helen! I’m ill, and you don’t even care.”

“I guess I don’t.”

It was a short and simple comment, but it fell between them with momentous impact.

Since the day they’d left New York, Helen had been overwhelmed and harassed and unfairly burdened. Her opinion of Violet had plummeted until it had fizzled to nothing.

Their isolation had brought Violet’s faults into stark relief. What was there to like about her? Why maintain the pretense of affection? Helen had grown up, and Violet hadn’t. It all circled back to that one important fact.

At Helen’s bald announcement of how matters had changed, Violet smiled a sly smile.

“I didn’t think you’d ever admit it.” Violet preened with a strange sort of triumph. “I’m going to the cottage.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am!” She was nearly shouting. “I may be sick for weeks, and I need my own bed, my own place.”

“It was never your bed, and it’s not your place.”

“Well, I don’t belong in this house, do I? Where do I belong?”

As she posed the question, she appeared young and lost, some of her bluster temporarily absent.

“Stop being a pest. Lie down on the sofa.”

“No. You won’t take care of me in there.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Then I’ll just have to take care of myself!”

She huffed out the door, slamming it behind her.

Helen pushed herself to her feet and went to the stoop. She hollered at Violet’s retreating back.

“Don’t you dare go over to Walt’s.”

Violet glared over her shoulder. “You’re not my mother. I can do whatever I want.”

“It’s not ours, Violet. It’s Walt’s, and you can’t simply barge in.”

“Walt’s not here to complain, is he?” Violet said. “So I don’t see how it’s any of your business where I am.”

She whipped away and sashayed off.

*    *    *    *

“Where did you hide the whiskey?”

“The…what?”

“The whiskey! The whiskey! I finished the first bottle. Where is the other one?”

“What time is it?”

Violet was in the cottage with Walt. Hours earlier, he’d passed out from exhaustion, and he was dozing on the bed.

She loomed over him.

As he’d stumbled away, he’d coaxed her to join him, but she wouldn’t. She didn’t like him touching her. He was so old and so ugly. He tried to make her do things she didn’t want to do, things she didn’t like.

If she refused to behave as he commanded, he’d slap her, and odd as it sounded, she didn’t mind. When he lashed out, she felt so vibrantly alive, which was a relief. Often, it seemed as if she was dead inside, as if she was becoming invisible.

He was on top of the covers, his shirt off, but his jeans and boots were still on. He’d been snoring loudly, and her question had jerked him awake. He fumbled around, struggling to remember where he was.

He’d moved to the cottage so he could be away from the rest of the family, so he could spend his evenings with Violet. But he never had the energy to revel with her.

She was in a frantic, reckless state. The approaching full moon had exacerbated her feelings of power and omnipotence.

They’d been drinking and smoking, but while the alcohol had taken a toll on Walt, it had had no effect on Violet. Liquor calmed her nerves, and when she imbibed, she could manage herself a bit, could rein in her worst impulses. Yet she’d downed an entire bottle and it hadn’t helped. There was a second bottle. Where had the bastard put it?

He pushed himself to a sitting position, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“What did you say, gal?”

“I finished off the whiskey. Where is the other bottle?”

“You woke me up for that?”

“Yes.”