The Springsweet (20 page)

I had no answer at all.

***

That evening, I sat by the outside fire, boiling water for baths. If I'd had something to read, there would have been light enough. But instead, I had slipped my old dance card from its hiding place. It bore its age poorly.

Stained with mud and bent from trampling, the card had warped and no longer closed flat. The once-gleaming gold ribbon was frayed and pale, the pencil long gone. I opened the card, as I had so many times, and trailed my fingers along the worn pages. Most of the lines were blank; Thomas' handwriting haunted the rest.

Birdie came around the house, shooing Louella out of her way with a gentle nudge. Thrilled to be stripped to her combination, Louella ran to the edge of the yard, turning like a top. It didn't occur to her to be afraid of what might lurk in the dark; she cared nothing for propriety. She was unreservedly happy, spinning herself sick for no reason but she could do it.

Birdie leaned over the pot, dipping fingers in to check the temperature. She spared me a glance. "You've been quiet."

Waving the dance card at her, I said, "This time last year, I thought I knew everything."

"I've got news for you," Birdie said with a wry smile. "Every year, you know less and less. Bet you a new penny that's why old folks rock and smile all day long."

"I don't have a new penny."

"An old one will do." Birdie took the dance card, looking it over. "I'll give you one for your thoughts."

Steeling myself with a fortifying breath, I said, "I'm not going to marry Theo de la Croix. He didn't ask, and he's not going to. We're ... friends."

There was no chill or malice to it when Birdie said, "And you're hardheaded enough to mean that."

I nodded, gazing past the fire to watch Louella play. Wobbly from her game, she dropped to the ground, tucking her little arms behind her head. She looked so serious, and for the briefest of moments, I could imagine her much older—her blond hair tamed in a chignon, her skirts to the floor. Maybe she'd lie in this same grass, under these same stars, pondering beaux and mysteries alike.

But I pushed those thoughts aside; she had time enough to grow up. It would come on fast, before she knew it—she needed to enjoy the night and the sky and running wild in her underclothes while she could.

Pulling myself back from that meditation, I looked to Birdie again. "What if you were right—"

"Take that as a given," Birdie said, teasing. Then she raised her brows expectantly, letting me finish my thought in peace.

I cleared my throat. "What if I did run away? The Territories, coming west—it's not what I expected. At all. I love you and Louella, and it's not the hard work. I don't mind hard work."

Birdie smoothed her thumb along the edge of my dance card, then fanned her face with it. "Out with it."

"I don't want to abandon you."

Handing me the card, Birdie stood abruptly. At first, I thought she might be angry; she turned away and tipped her head back, the way Mama sometimes did when she was trying not to give someone a tongue-lashing she thought they deserved. But Birdie's shoulders shook, and she was silent until she faced me again, her pink lips bitten.

"Zora," she said. She enunciated carefully, as if the words might get away from her. "Pauline asked me to keep you until you came to your senses, and Lord knows, nobody tells my sister no. You've got to understand, ducky. I don't
need
you to get by."

I exhaled a soft "Oh."

"You'd better take that the way I mean it, too." She leaned down, pressing her head to mine. Her voice was soft, a breath on my cheek. "I love you, and I'll keep you as long as you want to stay. But I'm not your anchor. Don't go making me one."

Reaching back, I tangled my fingers in her hair. I shifted my weight to lean into her, and she did the same, pressing us close and fond. I felt like a selfish thing, a foolish thing, believing that I alone kept and preserved her. Being told otherwise hurt, but in the right way—the way my head ached when I'd learned something new.

After a while, I murmured, "Thank you, Birdie."

"You're welcome." She made a kissing sound, then peeled away from me easily. Gesturing toward the pot, she said, "Now, carry that inside. I'll go wrangle Lou."

That was my Aunt Birdie—all sentiment until she wasn't. I smiled a little, just to myself, and did as I was told.

Seventeen

I had my escape to the creek planned—and then it was thwarted.

Mrs. Rubert had shown me how to make cattail relish at the barn raising. It took little more than green tomatoes, of which we had an abundance, and vinegar and sugar, which were cheap. Just at Louella's nap, I gathered the pail and fixed my mouth to promise a pound of cattail bulbs for supper.

Certainly, I could have told Birdie where I intended to go, whom I intended to meet, but I chose, instead, to keep my own counsel. The recent tragedy was reason enough to keep my head low and to go along, but in truth, it was my own contemplative state that kept me from speaking.

I hadn't lied. I wanted to touch Emerson Birch. I wanted to kiss him and feel his hands on my face. Teasing him came easily, and his barbs crackled and snapped. He was handsome, and talented-—his gift with a fiddle chilled and delighted me both.

He was earth without water. I was water without earth.

But was that enough to hitch myself to him, to accompany him, when he himself couldn't say where he might go? No, the question was more elemental than that: was I running
to
him or
away
from my mistakes?

Until I knew, until I was sure, I wasn't ready to fight Birdie about it. I wanted to choose my battles, and I had no strategy to win this one yet. It would wait until I could.

"Birdie," I called, coming out of the garden with the pail dangling from my hand, "I'm going to—"

"Somebody's coming," Birdie said. A deep furrow pressed into her brow, and she crossed her arms tight over her chest. "Horseback, no wagon."

My chest tightened. Anyone we'd want to see would no doubt come hitched to a phaeton or a buckboard. Putting the bucket down, I went to stand beside her, watching as distant plumes of dust took the shape of the marshal.

Before he'd entirely stopped, Birdie marched toward him. She had a dragon's smile on—it could be mistaken for pleasant, if you didn't know the woman wearing it. "You're out a long ways, Dennis. Is something the matter?"

The marshal circled his horse, rubbing her neck to calm her. He made no move to dismount, so I thought he couldn't possibly have any news of dire import. He tipped his hat to Birdie, then to me, before saying, "Well, about that notice you put up in town."

"I'm sorry you came all this way," Birdie said. "In light of Mr. Larsen's passing, my niece and I have decided it's best if we let God sort out the water situation here in O County."

Shifting the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other, the marshal sighed. "I wish it was that easy, Birdie. Jim Polley made a complaint this morning."

Stilling, I measured my breath. "Did he, sir? About what?"

The marshal frowned. "He says you put on some song and dance about finding a spring in the middle of his fields when there's not a drop to be had. Says he's been digging two days straight now and got nothing but a mule's grave to show for it."

"He should read our notice again," Birdie said. She caught my arm and pulled me close, petting me like some precious angel. "It's two dollars for the appointment. We never promised anybody water."

"Jim says she cheated him out of
three.
" The marshal looked to me for some refutation.

Instead, I lifted my chin. "He wanted to know how he could drain the Gibsons' spring onto his land. I didn't feel moral or ethical helping him do that, so I pointed out another source I thought he could rightfully tap. I offer my sincerest apologies if he found nothing there. Was it wrong of me to accept a tip for services rendered?"

The marshal rolled his toothpick again and said, "Probably not, Miss Stewart. But it would go a long way to keeping the peace if you'd give it back."

At that, Birdie interjected. "Why doesn't he want to keep the peace with us? This little girl drove three hours from home to call on them, and she did just what she said she would."

"Yes, ma'am, I know." The marshal scrubbed his face with his hand. "I'm not saying he's right. I'm just saying calm between neighbors is best for everybody."

At that, I snapped. I hadn't earned the dollar, not honestly, and I think if the marshal had cajoled us some other way, I might have argued Birdie down and returned it. But I was tired of holding my tongue to keep the peace.

"Well, how about this, Marshal," I said briskly. "You arrest Royal Wakes for robbing my coach, and I'll give Jim Polley his tip back with interest. Unless you think Royal's already spent what he stole from my luggage."

A dark look crossed the marshal's face. "That's a serious accusation you're making, Miss Stewart."

"Oh, shut your rag box, Dennis." It was Birdie's turn to roll her eyes. "We all know what the Wakes boys get up to. Let's be plain here: Are you demanding a refund?"

The marshal pursed his lips, then said, "I don't believe so. Jim paid for her to turn up, and she did."

Turning her bright eyes on me, Birdie asked, "Are
you
filing a complaint against Royal Wakes?"

For a small, pretty creature, my Aunt Birdie could be terrifying. I didn't dare say anything but "No, ma'am."

Birdie made a satisfied sound. "All right, then. Zora, you go on about your chores. Marshal, I would invite you in, but my baby girl's napping right now, and I don't have any coffee anyway."

"That's quite all right," he said. Then, as if he had to do something to reestablish his authority, he said to me, "I'll be pulling down those notices of yours. Between Larsen dying and Polley up in arms, well..."

Picking up the pail, I nodded, as if he hadn't just very manfully decided what Birdie had already told him—that I was out of business and planned to stay that way. I did hope my sarcasm wasn't entirely evident when I said, "I'm ever in your debt, Marshal."

I fled before anyone could call me back.

***

High, dry heat beat on my shoulders, and when I reached the creek, I longed to strip off and lie in its cool waters. The current would pull the knots from my hair and the weight from my soul. I wanted to plunge deep, to bathe in haunting silence—to emerge entirely new. I would be Ophelia triumphant, floating, not drowning.

Instead, I peeled off my boots and stockings, leaving them in a heap on the shore. My spirit was disturbed, my head too full with no release. I was angry, hungry, tired—I grieved and I yearned. I hesitated.

Splashing through the creek, I soaked my skirts, though I held them high. Nimble minnows fled my path. And when thunder rolled beneath my feet, the distant trembling that announced Emerson's arrival, I turned to call to him. "You're late!"

"You're crazy," he called back. Leaving Epona to graze, he cut through the cattails and stopped, just to gape at me. "The racket you were making, I thought you were wrestling with the only gator in Oklahoma."

"Don't bait me. I haven't got the temper for it today."

Running his thumbs beneath his suspenders, Emerson took a long, appraising look at me. When his gaze rose to meet mine, he said, "What's the matter?"

"Everything!"

Holding his arms out wide, almost taunting, he said, "Well, start at the beginning."

I kicked at the water. "I don't want to! I keep going back to the beginning, but what's the beginning? I don't know how to count myself anymore. I'm uncertain, and I hate it! I was always certain before!"

Emerson rolled his shoulders. "So pick something and go with it."

"It's hardly that simple," I declared.

With infuriating calm, he asked, "Why isn't it?"

"You said yourself, you had no idea where you'd go from here," I said. "You stand there mouthing simplicity at me, and you don't know! No better than I do!"

"It's not the end of the world to guess and get it wrong."

"What a convenient philosophy," I snapped. But then I deflated, ashamed of myself. I knew I looked foolish-—I was much too old for tantrums.

Hitching my skirts up a little more, I stalked back toward my boots. I would dress, I would settle myself—by force of will, I would sort myself out—such was my intention.

But an oily musk filled the air. A pungent violation, it barely registered before I understood it was a warning. That I realized too late. Uncoiling like a whip, a thick black snake struck at me. Unfurled, it struck again.

Too startled to scream, I staggered ashore. All my reason fled; panic commanded me to run, so I did. Cattails and tall grasses whipped my skin, setting off new panics. Then, suddenly, strong arms caught me, branding me with a hot impression of Emerson's body against mine.

"Stop. Stop!" He turned me around, pushing me to sit on the ground. On his knees in an instant, he pushed my skirts aside.

My chest burned, my heart pounding too hard to be contained, it seemed. My trembling lips parted to babble as I tugged my hems higher. I couldn't see, and I felt so queer—lightheaded and parched. "Am I bleeding? Am I going to die?"

Emerson's hands smoothed over my ankles, along the curve of my calf. At first they searched, their urgency evident, but then ... they stilled. He stilled. His voice low, he said, "I don't see a thing. You feel all right?"

"I'm not sure; I can't tell," I said, pulling my knees to my chest.

He searched again, fingers whispering across my bare ankles. His breath fell on my skin, heat that thawed the gripping cold within me. Bowing his head, he rested his brow against my knee; his lashes skimmed a subtle touch—and then, his lips. "I think you'll survive."

Something turned—some transient gear, a second's passing that defied time and stretched on—and I slipped my hand into his hair. Twisting his waves around my fingers, I still felt odd, but decidedly more effervescent.

And this switch rendered itself in my voice, rubbing it low and throaty. "I don't think I will."