The Unplowed Sky (41 page)

Busy as she was, three times a day Hallie pumped and heated water to fill the tub. “I don't like you going to all this work,” Meg said ungraciously. “It makes me feel like—like I'll owe you too much.”

“You help me a lot,” Hallie reminded her. “Anyway, doesn't the soaking make you move easier?”

“My back doesn't hurt as much,” Meg admitted. She rubbed at the tears gleaming in her eyes. “But when I try to put weight on my legs and walk, they just go out from under me like rotten old sticks!”

“It's something not to hurt as much.”

Meg glared. “It's not enough!”

“Meg—”

“Don't! Don't tell me it could be worse!” The fury in Meg's eyes and voice hardened to a calm that was much more alarming. “If I know—when I know—I'll never walk, I'll just fall down the stairs or do something Daddy will think was an accident.”

“Oh, Meg, don't even think that. Didn't you say that if Luke would stay your friend, you could stand this better?”

“I don't want him feeling sorry for me, hanging around a cripple in a wheelchair when he could be having fun.”

Meg was still a child but wasn't it possible that she was dreaming of when she wouldn't be? And that dream, now, must often turn into despairing questions: Could she marry? Could she have babies? And if she could, would it be fair to a man she loved?

Hallie asked briskly, “If Luke were in the chair, wouldn't you still want to be with him?”

“Of course I would, but—”

“Remember that. Try to give him—and other people—credit for feeling the way you would if things were the other way around.”

Meg stared at Hallie, half-gratefully, half-resentfully. “I almost wish you were crippled for a while!” As Hallie gasped, Meg hurried on, “So you'd know how I feel—and so I could take care of you—heat your soak water, massage you, and think up things like the railings.”

Hallie stifled a sigh and saw with bitter clarity that, even leaving Garth out of it, until Meg could pay the debt she thought she owed, there was no chance of friendship between them.

“I'll try not to break a leg till you can take care of me,” Hallie tried to joke. “Now, could you make sandwiches for the men's afternoon lunch while I finish baking?”

Stacks of headed golden grain awaited threshing as soon as the full crew assembled at the MacLeod farm. Mike Donnelly and Harry Crutchfield would bring their teams and wagons to receive the wheat and haul it to the elevators in Hollister. Garth went over the separator again, checking, tightening, greasing, oiling.

“You need to give the engine a good going-over,” he said to Rory at dinner. “I noticed one of the hand holes is leaking. You need to drain the boiler and replace that hand-hole gasket. And if you don't chip off those clinkers that are building up on the grate, you'll not only have a slow, smoky fire but you'll burn out the grates—”

Rory went red to the tips of his ears. “I'll take care of it, for Pete's sake! If you weren't always poking around, trying to find something to gripe about—”

“That's not hard to do. You're going to ruin the frogs on the hand-hole bolts if you don't quit forcing them. You let the ash pan fill up and touch the grates. You—”

Rory shoved back his chair. “To cut a long song to a chorus, big brother, you don't think I'm much of an engineer!”

“You're good when you're not careless.” Garth paused, met Rory's glare steadily, and said more gently, “Probably this shouldn't have come up at the table, laddie. But”—he floundered—“you don't seem to hear me unless I make you mad.”

Shaft interposed, “The wheat looks good to me. Fullest, fattest heads I've ever seen. What do you think, Garth?”

Both brothers relaxed. “Looks like forty bushels to an acre.” Garth spoke cautiously, but his smile betrayed his satisfaction.

“Forty! Make it fifty—even sixty in the south field,” Rory exulted. “If half the farmers we thresh have wheat as good, I'm going to have enough money at the end of the run to—to—”

His shining blue eyes swung to Hallie as if he couldn't help himself. Garth's face closed. “Guess I'll get back to work,” he said, rising.

“Don't you want your pie?” called Hallie.

“Thanks, don't feel like I could stomach anything sweet.”

Baldy and Dan Rogers divided the rejected peach pie blissfully, but Hallie still felt slapped. As standoffish as Garth was, he had no business sulking because Rory persisted in his foolishness, eyeing them grimly when Rory dried dishes for her after supper.

For heaven's sake, young Dan Rogers dried, too, and at the end of the day, very glad she had been for their help! Apart from wistful glances and an occasional brush of hands that might have been accidental, Rory hadn't flirted. She'd even begun to hope that his infatuation was subsiding. His half-voiced thought and the way he had looked at her just now forced Hallie to realize—painfully, for who would not be fond of Rory—that he hadn't gotten over his crush.

After dinner, he took over Hallie's chore of pumping and heating water for Meg's tub and then dried the dishes. After Meg was ensconced in the fragrant-smelling water, Hallie came back to the kitchen to finish the dishes.

Through the window, Meg saw Dan helping Baldy fix a wheel on the coal wagon. Jackie must have gone out with Shaft to inspect the cookshack. Uneasy at being alone with Rory, Hallie hurried with the dishes and talked rather desperately to avoid a silence.

“The elderflower soak does seem to be easing Meg's back pain. And Meg's taking the idea of helping in the cook shack instead of driving the water wagon a whole lot better than I thought she would, thanks to Luke's promising to find places they can swim. I think—”

Rory tossed the dish towel over the rack. He turned to Hallie. “What do you think about us?”

She prayed he would not touch her. She didn't want to get into a struggle, repulse him physically, or hurt his young male pride. They were friends. They had shared last summer's run. He had patiently taught her how to run the engine. He was so handsome, strong, and likable that she might well have cared for him—if it hadn't been for Garth.

“Rory,” she stumbled. “I—I wish you were my brother.”

His eyes dilated. Pulses throbbed in his throat and temples. He reached for her, then locked his hands into fists at his sides. “You wish I was
my
brother, don't you?” he said in a tight hard voice. “Even if he's twelve years older than you, can't trust women, and has a bratty daughter who may be on his hands for the rest of his life?”

“Rory!”

“You think I'm just a kid! Well, there are women who know better! I'm going to town and find one of them!”

Before she could say anything—and what was there to say?—he stalked out. The door banged. In a few minutes, she heard Garth's angry voice, Rory's furious retort, and then the truck started.

Henry, Luke, Rich, and Steve drove up in time for supper. They said Mike Donnelly and Harry Crutchfield would be there with their wagons in the morning.

“Where's Rory?” Henry asked with a blue-eyed twinkle. “Is he ready to fire up in the morning and show me how much better his engine is than horses?”

“He had to run into town.” Garth's tone was careless, but Hallie saw the tightening of his lips. “Must've had trouble with the truck or something.”

“Want Steve and me to drive towards Hollister and see if he's broken down beside the road?” Rich offered.

“Oh, let's give him a while,” Garth said. “The engine needs a few things fixed, though. Maybe I'd better take care of them tonight so we won't be slow getting up steam in the morning.”

“Please let me help. I like the engine!” Luke's green eyes shone in his dark face. The young beauty of the graceful Cherokee was firming into maturity. No wonder Meg watched him as if she were thirsty and he were cool, clean water.

“Won't hurt you to learn how to take care of hand holes and flues.” Garth smiled at Luke's cousin. “Dan, you want to hold a lantern for us?”

Dan was as eager as Luke. Their enthusiasm—such a change from Rory's grudging attention to details—seemed to put spring into Garth's step as he rose from the table. “Well, lads, let's get after it, then!”

Since the crew would set up cots or spread bedrolls on the porch or in the yard or shed, except for morning and afternoon lunch, they would have meals at the house and use the flivvers to go back and forth from the more distant fields. Shaft, once more in charge of the kitchen, planned the next day's menu while Hallie washed dishes and Meg dried.

“Say, Hallie, girl, you've baked bread for tomorrow, and that's a mighty good row of pies on the shelf, not to mention that crock of oatmeal cookies! Gets us off to a good start.”

“Mary Donnelly sent eggs and butter and some wonderful new potatoes and peas,” said Hallie, resolving that when she had a home, she would certainly grow vegetables. “And radishes, tomatoes, green onions, and gorgeous yellow summer squash.”

“That kind of garden stuff is larrupin' good,” Shaft approved. “We'll eat it while it's fresh. No pinto beans tomorrow! Bake a ham, and we're all set.”

Shaft fussed around, though, discovering and rearranging things like any cook assuming command of a kitchen after someone else has used it. When Meg was having her soak in the front room, Shaft frowned at Hallie.

“I saw Rory stomp out of here after dinner, honey. He yelled at Garth that he was goin' to town, and Garth hollered that he'd better do the engine repairs first. Rory just went foggin' off.” Shaft cleared his throat. “I'm not trying to nose into your business, but did that young hothead say anything to make you think he might not be back?”

The notion dumbfounded Hallie. She gazed at Shaft in dismay.

“We—we had kind of a falling out, but he didn't say he was leaving for good. Oh, Shaft, do you think—”

“I don't know what to think. Some ways, it might be better for Garth and Rory both if they split up till Rory learns what it's like not to be the boss's kid brother and Garth quits treating him that way.” Shaft looked at her with sad wisdom. “And until you decide which one you want and t'other's got used to it.”

Hallie flushed. “As far as Garth's concerned, what I decide doesn't seem to matter, except to me.”

Shaft heaved a sigh. “Honey, Rory kind of hinted to Garth that there was something between you. Never said it right out but kind of bore down on a word here and there or put on a cat-ate-the-cream smile.”

“How could Garth believe that? And when could it happen, for heaven's sake?”

“When a man's in love, 'specially when he's scared to be, he's seldom noted for good judgment and horse sense.”

Hallie caught her breath. “You
do
think he loves me, Shaft?”

“I'd stake my head on it, includin' my beard. But whether he'll ever risk lettin' you in on the secret”—Shaft's tufted brows pulled together—“I don't know, Hallie, even if you waited till Meg's grown up.”

“Meg may always have to live at home now.”

“Yeah. There's that, too. Hark! There's some kind of vehicle comin' down the lane.”

Hallie listened intently. “It doesn't sound like the truck. And it's not Donnelly's flivver.”

They looked at each other uneasily. With Raford up the road and Cotton Harris a few miles farther, the sound of an unfamiliar motor could be a warning. “Maybe the truck broke down and someone's givin' Rory a lift. Let's go see.”

Out by the shed, Dan held a lantern while Garth and Luke worked on the engine. A gleaming automobile pulled up beside them. Shaft whistled. “That's a new Lincoln V-8!”

“But the same Sophie Brockett,” Hallie breathed. “What does she want?”

Sophie's bobbed blond hair caught the lantern light as she got out of the swank bottle-green Lincoln. Raford must be pleased with her to supply such a luxury auto. Her shrill nasal voice carried to Hallie and Shaft as they stood on the shadowed porch.

“I came to tell you, Garth MacLeod, that your kid brother's going to be engineer for Quent Raford's threshing crew. I've come to get his clothes.”

“Why didn't
he
come?” Garth's tone was quiet, but it sounded like a cry of pain.

The woman lifted her bare plump shoulders in a shrug. The beaded fringes on her black dress glittered above her knees. “He smashed up your truck.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Bruised and cut a little. Doctor says nothing's broke. The hangover he'll have tomorrow's probably going to be worse than anything he got when he turned the truck over in a ditch.”

Garth strode toward the gloating woman. She shrank away and he halted. “Did you sell him the bootleg, Sophie?”

“What if I did?”

“The law—”

“The sheriff's paid off,” she jeered. “Call in the feds if you want, but it could wind up with your curly-headed brother in the pen. I let him sell a couple of pints of booze just to make things cozy.”

“You got him drunk. You set him up to bootleg. You got him to hire on with Quent Raford. What else did you do, Sophie?”

She laughed and moved her body suggestively. “Can't you guess?”

“Where is he?”

“In my suite at the hotel, of course.”

“I'm coming to see him.”

“He doesn't want to see you.”

“Maybe not, but he's going to.”

“His things—”

“
I'll
bring them. You just head for town, Sophie. I want the door to that suite unlocked when I get there, and you out of the way. Understand?”

“All right, you big fool, you can hear it from him! Just don't break the furniture or kick up a row. I manage a high-class hotel.”

“Sounds more like something else.”