The Springsweet (10 page)

With a smile, Theo said, "Yes, I should like that," and only then did Birdie set me free.

***

Whipping a bit of sugar and flour into a bowl of cornmeal, Birdie shook all over. It was far more effort than she needed expend to make a simple batter, and it was obvious from the hard plane of her brow that she was cross.

I was likewise irritated at her meddling, so it was for the best. She would torment her batter, and I would mind the stew—made with the last of our roasted chicken.

Picking through Emerson's vegetables, I chose the turnip to peel next. I didn't care for them, and if chopped small enough, they'd only taste of stew, which suited me. I was halfway through skinning the awful, biting thing when I realized Birdie had stopped stirring.

"What's that?" she asked.

She waved a battered spoon in my direction. And before I could say a word, Louella offered from the floor, "Mr. Birch's turnips."

"Oh," Birdie said, her tone thoroughly sugared for the baby's sake, the message quite sharp for mine. "They're Mr. Birch's turnips? Did they knock on the door?"

Louella laughed, rolling onto her back. "Silly mama!"

Still paring the turnips, I steadied myself to interject. I kept my tone quite still, weighing each word before I spoke. "He brought them when he returned my scarf."

The cracking of Birdie's façade was coming. She put her bowl aside and pulled Louella to her feet. Birdie sent her outside to count the corn, a useless task that I wasn't sure she could complete. But it did get her out of the soddy before her mother lost her temper.

"Didn't I tell you-—"

"I didn't invite him," I said, quick to my own defense. "He came of his own accord."

Birdie snatched her wooden spoon up again, and for an irrational moment, I thought she might strike me with it. But instead, she attacked her batter, dropping thick dollops of it into sizzling grease. "You don't seem to understand the gravity of your situation, little miss."

"What? What situation? I'm here, aren't I? Don't I mind the baby? Don't I do everything you ask of me?"

"Not everything, obviously."

I choked on the unfairness of it. Tossing the turnip into my pot, I reached for another prize from Emerson's bundle, a fine, fat potato to slice before Birdie's very eyes. "I thanked him, and he left. And it would have been just the same if you'd been here."

"Bad enough the boy's a sooner." Another round of batter hit the grease with a wheeze. "Bad enough he snatched up good land that he's already got growing! Bad enough he does all his trading in Jubilee just to rile those fatheaded fools in West Glory! We don't need borrowed trouble, Zora Pauline. Times are hard enough for the Neals, thank you."

My frustration overflowed. "I don't know what any of that means!"

Putting the bowl down hard, Birdie turned to me. "It means you're another mouth I have to feed because you went wild back home. The least you could do is make that easy on me."

The insinuation felt like oil running down my spine, leaving me slick and filthy. Mustering as much dignity as I could, I refused to let her believe me ashamed. "Haven't I? We're having fresh tomatoes, and stew that's more than boiled bean water tonight because I dowsed a well for Mr. Birch."

Birdie halted. "Excuse me?"

"I dowsed a well for him; he paid me in green goods!"

"You did no such thing."

Throwing my hands out, I demanded, "Why would I make something like that up? After what happened last summer, why would I
ever
claim something like that if it weren't true?"

The air cooled; Birdie deflated. She said nothing for a long moment, turning the corn cakes over in their grease. Something stirred across her face, a light or a thought, one that touched her brow just so. One that set her eyes to flickering as she stared at our supper.

Uneasy, I said, "Birdie?"

Finally, she replied. "Show me."

***

Arms crossed tight against her chest, Birdie peered into the prairie. "Petty had to dig us three wells. The first one came up dry. The second one collected water but didn't fill up the way it should. We're using the third one now."

I felt as though someone had tightened a hot ribbon around my throat. "I see."

"Go on, Zora." Birdie's eyes pierced me. There was a hunger to them, an edge that reminded me she'd had ever so many more thin and cold meals than I had. "If you can dowse proper, everything changes for us. Show me. Where's my second well?"

Trembling against the sharpness of her hunger, I took a single step and looked into the fields. Gold chased green, an endless ripple of grasses until the horizon. With the day near-ended, dust hung in the air. It separated us from the other homesteads, rubbing away any hint that we were anything but alone on the prairie.

Uncertain, I closed my eyes and listened to the wind. To the whisper of bowing grain and the hum of bees wandering nearby. Beneath that, the crackle of dry earth, the sudden hiss of dust thrown against the soddy's walls, there was water.

It came to me like a drumbeat, like a rhythm sustained. It was perfect, reverberating on my skin, ringing in my ears. And when I dared to look again, I saw a silver veil. It was delicate as dew and just as apt to dissipate. The brightest beads marked our everyday well, the one that ran pure and clean.

Turning from that, I followed the fainter strands. I moved, so suddenly that Birdie gasped, but I didn't stop to reassure her. I had no idea how long this connection would last; how certain my affinity could be. For a few paces, I walked, but then I hurried.

There was a spot quite near, one with a dull glimmer to it. I tasted brackish water, the way I'd tasted the rainwater in Emerson's well just by standing near it. Soon, my skirts cut through the grasses. The cotton snapped and whipped, my boots kicking still more dust into the already hazy air.

"Here!" I called, as the silver faded.

I pointed to a depression in the ground, rocks jutting through a layer of earth that was bald of any greenery.

Birdie stopped and bit her lower lip in silence. She wasn't worried; her brow was smooth. But her dark lashes fluttered, her eyes flickered: something was at work inside her head.

Softly, I said, "I'm right, aren't I?"

Clearing her throat, Birdie twisted to look at me. Instead of answering, she asked, "And you can do this anytime you like?"

"I don't know—yes, probably." I swallowed hard. "But how many wells do you need?"

It was a foolish question; Emerson Birch needed only one. Birdie Neal needed only one. But West Glory—and I'd discover soon, Jubilee—needed many, many more. Every homesteader needed water for survival.

That's what Birdie meant when she said everything would change. She saw only the possibility, only the promise of a better life in a desolate land. But standing there, over a dead well that I had ascertained by magic alone, she couldn't fathom just how
much
would change.

I could, but I let it happen anyway.

Eight

Birdie woke me early, coaxing me carefully out of bed to keep from waking Louella.

Bleary, I followed her outside. The sky was still dark, just beginning to glow in the east. Cool without my shawl, I wrapped my arms around myself and followed her to the back. We hadn't discussed my gift since I'd proved it the day before; I wondered if she'd blocked it out entirely.

Especially when she produced two buckets I'd never seen, blackened on the inside and graying on the out. I took the one she handed to me, peering down into it. "Did you want me to fetch water?"

"I've got some. Stuff the bottom of that with some straw, and don't lose the stopper."

Her instructions seemed like nonsense, and though I did as I was told, I had to ask, "What is this for?"

"Soaping," she said.

As the morning grew steadily brighter, my fog cleared. "I could go to town and fetch soap if you forgot it."

With a snort, Birdie said, "I'm not made of money, duck."

The little bag that she cut open puffed, as if it were full of smoke. But when she came closer, I realized it was full of ashes. My nose twitched when Birdie dumped it on top of the straw. Then she reached in after it, stirring it until pale, powdery tendrils rose up to be caught by the wind.

My ignorance must have shown, because Birdie took one look at me and said, "I'm not about to pay fifty cents for a pound of store-bought soap when I can get lard for a penny and wood ash for free."

What came after that was the most hideous chore I'd ever had the displeasure to complete. Making soap, I discovered, started with making lye.

Pulling the stopper from the ash bucket, Birdie told me to fill it with rainwater, slowly. I did, but the process seemed entirely useless—what could we possibly do with this?

But by some scientific miracle, the ash turned plain water to acid. It was foul stuff. It burned just to breathe its vapors, and though the cloudy liquid looked harmless enough, the slightest splash ate through cotton and flesh alike.

If I didn't know better, I would have believed Birdie picked soaping to both punish me for having Emerson on her land and to offer a contrast. Next to soaping, a ride with the devil would have been a delight. A ride with Theo de la Croix could only be ecstasy.

Late in the afternoon, Theo and his phaeton appeared in the distance to test that theory.

While I hurried to climb back into my corset, Birdie chatted with him in the yard. Her laughter rang through the oilpaper, bright and sweet. I laced myself breathless, listening to an impression of conversation. I heard no words at all, only voices. They rose and fell, fluidly matched. And there was a high color in Birdie's cheeks when I finally came out of the soddy.

"There she is," she sang, hefting Louella onto her hip.

I didn't meet Birdie's gaze, for I thought looking at her right then might spark my irritation again. To Theo, I said, "I apologize for keeping you."

"All is forgiven," Theo said, offering me his hand.

Handsome as ever, he wore a new suit. This one was shades of brown, with a frock coat cut to his knees and a cream silk ascot at his throat. He'd dispensed with the ribbon for his hair, so dark waves framed his face and carelessly brushed his shoulders. He would have been preciously fashionable in Baltimore. In Oklahoma Territory, he was too fine by half.

Louella strained at Birdie's arms. She reached for me—well, for the buggy. "I go?"

Leaning down for her, I was surprised when Birdie stepped back. Her nose brushed Louella's temple, and her eyes held mine as she said, "Next time, pet. This is a ride for big boys and girls."

"Shall we?" Theo asked as he settled beside me.

As I had no choice in the matter, I started to nod. Then it occurred to me—I would take the ride regardless of my wishes, but I alone could decide whether to enjoy it. So I smiled at Theo and at all the things this drive was: an escape from drudgery, a chance to talk to someone besides a toddler. "Let's do."

Newly bright, Theo snapped the reins and we took off. When I turned back to wave, Birdie had already hurried inside—she must have sprinted to disappear so quickly. I could make no sense of her, so I put her from my mind and didn't try at all.

***

I was amazed anew at how close the wilderness was. We'd driven barely ten minutes and yet found ourselves surrounded by open prairie and cloudless skies. The sun began its slow descent, making longer the plainness of the horizon.

Until then, we'd been quiet but for pleasantries. There was much to admire from the high seat of the phaeton, but as twilight settled, I forged our conversation so I could choose its direction. Hands laced together in my lap, I nodded toward the exquisite black mare and asked, "What's her name?"

Theo laughed sheepishly. Cutting a glance in my direction, he admitted, "Annabel Lee."

"So you
are
a fan of Mr. Poe's," I said.

With a toss of his head, he pretended indifference. "He is but one among many poets I admire. It's an exquisite calling, don't you think?"

"Writing verse?" I had never considered it, but it would've been rude to say that. Instead, I rearranged my shawl. "Since it drives men mad, it must be so. I've never heard of anyone wasting away on the sweet agony of figuring sums."

Theo startled me when he exclaimed, "Exactly! My father couldn't understand that. He thought I should dedicate myself to keeping the inventory for his company."

The slightest bit curious, I looked to him. "And what does your father do?"

"Shipping," Theo said. Just saying the word turned Theo's face sour, and he urged Annabel Lee to go a bit faster.

"You don't care for it?"

The wind pulled at Theo's hair, and he showed no signs of slowing. "It's tedious, Miss Stewart. There are manifests forever going out, forever coming in. I couldn't care less about counting a thousand cases of olives or fifteen tons of coal or thirty-seven French hats with plumes."

"That does sound dull," I said. A particular lightness dared to flutter up in my chest-—a faint tickle of relief. He'd come all this way to get from under his father's thumb, not to court me. "But won't you be taking it over someday? If I had shown the slightest inclination toward the law, my father would have made me partner straightaway."

With a distant smile, Theo shook his head. "I'm the second son, I'm afraid."

"My apologies," I said awkwardly.

"It's for the best. Here in the Territories, I can pen my own verses at night, and by day, it will be a pleasure to teach." Theo sounded quite genuine, as if he truly relished the opportunity to preside over a schoolroom instead of a boardroom. And then he doused my small lightness by saying, "And I should think this is a much more likely distance from which to catch your eye."

Dash propriety and manners; I twisted in the seat and looked up at him. "Tell me the truth, Mr. de la Croix. You didn't really come all this way to court me, did you?"

"You could call me Theo," he said.

When I didn't reply, he pulled the reins smoothly to stop the horse. Suddenly still among the swaying grasses, the phaeton grew dreadfully quiet. But with more aplomb than I could have managed, Theo wound the reins round his hand and turned to me.