The Yellow Rose (2 page)

“Git out of the way, I said!” Clinton lifted his voice, but Bob merely grunted and did not even open his eyes. Clinton considered dragging him out of the way but then shrugged his shoulders and stepped over him. Bob did not move as Clinton stepped into the house. For one moment, Clinton stood there glancing at his family, who were all seated at the large table eating. His mother, Jerusalem Ann, was standing by the big fireplace, taking a pot off one of the hooks that held it over a bed of glowing coals. The house was adobe and had been there when the Hardins had bought the land. It had one huge room, which served for cooking, eating, and general living, plus three small bedrooms. The walls were penetrated by pegs, from which hung
ollas,
pots, pans, rifles, and whatever else anyone in the family felt like decorating them with. A large fireplace dominated one end of the room, and three windows on the other two walls let in pale rays of sunlight.

“You’d better set down here, Clinton, before these hogs eat all the grub,” said Clay Taliferro. Everyone had to learn how to pronounce Clay’s unusual last name as
Tolliver
. He was a man of average height, with his tawny hair worn long and tied with a piece of leather. He had sleepy, light blue eyes, and they crinkled when he smiled, as he was doing now, until they almost disappeared. He had a wide mouth and high cheekbones, and a deep cleft marked his prominent chin. Right now his face was somewhat pale, as he had been wounded at the massacre of Goliad and had escaped alive only by a miracle.

“Come set down, boy, and tell me how many deer you brung in.”

Placing the shotgun on pegs over the doorway, Clinton turned and said, “I killed four—” He broke off, for his sister Moriah had risen from the table where she was eating and moved toward the fireplace. Clinton stared at her with horror and burst out, “Moriah, you go put on some fittin’ clothes!”

Moriah Hardin, at the age of seventeen, had been emerging out of adolescence for the past two years. She had dark red hair, brown eyes, and the strong build of her mother. The dress she wore was indeed a little tight, but new dresses in Texas were hard to come by, as they had been in Arkansas. Moriah’s budding figure was made prominent by the tightness of the dress, but she was aggravated by Clinton’s constant preaching.

“What’s wrong with this dress?”

Clinton shook his head fiercely. “Why . . . why, it’s down right indecent! That’s what’s wrong with it. Why, you don’t look no better than Jezebel!”

“You mind your own business, Clinton!” she snapped.

“Well, I reckon it
is
my business. You’re my own sister. I’m a Baptist, and we don’t stand for women runnin’ around practically naked.”

Moriah shook her head with disgust and then turned to her mother. “Ma, you tell him to hush.”

Jerusalem Ann Hardin, at the age of thirty-four, did not look like a woman who had borne six children. She was a strong-bodied woman and looked at least five years younger. The hard life had not marked her as it had many pioneer women, and she retained the same clear complexion that she had enjoyed as a young girl. Her eyes were green, and she still had a trim waist and a fully developed figure. “Leave her alone, Clinton. Sit down and eat.”

“Why, Ma, I’m ashamed of you puttin’ up with Moriah like that! You got to make her act decent.”

“She is decent. Now, sit down, Clinton.”

But Clinton was beyond persuasion and continued to preach at Moriah until finally Brodie became disgusted. Brodie was almost a foot taller. Indeed, he was one of the tallest young men in the community. He was not filled out yet, as he would be later on, and he had the auburn hair and green eyes of his mother. “Clinton, you are the most cantankerous human being I ever seen. If we throwed you in the river, you’d float upstream! Ever since you been baptized, you ain’t been fit to live with. Now, sit down and eat or leave.”

Clinton stared at Brodie defiantly. “I expect God will strike some folks dead for the way they’re acting.” He turned and left the room, stumbling over Bob, who did not even rise up and bark.

“Ma, is he
always
going to be like that?” Moriah sighed. “He used to be so nice. But ever since he got religion, he’s been impossible!”

Jerusalem set down a plate before Mary Aidan, who had been taking the argument in with large eyes. She stared up at her mother and began to shovel the grits into her mouth, her throat working as she swallowed.

“Mary Aidan, don’t eat so fast. You’ve eaten so much your belly’s tight enough to crack a tick on.”

“More!” Mary Aidan smiled. She was a cheerful, happy child and the pride of all the Hardins.

“Well, what’s wrong with him, Ma?” Brodie grumbled. He forked a piece of beef, stuck it in his mouth, and chewed on it. “Sometimes I think he’s dumb as last year’s bird’s nest! It’s gettin’ so I can’t even live with him.”

Zane Satterfield, Jerusalem Ann’s older brother, laughed. “He’s just like his pa, Brodie. Whatever Jake did, he did it full steam.” Zane suddenly was aware that a silence had fallen over the room and knew that the family was not yet used to the idea of Jake being dead. Jake had been gone for long periods, for years, more or less, but this time he wasn’t coming back, and that made a difference. “He’s a good boy, Clinton is. He’s just all taken up with religion. He sees it as his duty to save the rest of us and keep us all on the straight and narrow line.”

“He’s driving me crazy with his constant preaching,” said Julie Belle Satterfield, who was twenty-nine and had the same reddish hair and sparkling green eyes as her sister. She had full lips, a provocative body, and a rebellious spirit. She had never been known to back down to anyone, and now she shook her head, her lips drawn in a straight line. “He’s a pest.”

Jerusalem shook her head as she sat down and began to eat. “We have to love him,” she said firmly. “He’s my son and your nephew, Julie. That’s what counts. No matter what any of us do, me or anyone else, all the rest of the family has got to show love.”

Julie stared at her sister, then got up and walked outside without another word.

Zane watched her go, then shrugged. “I guess Julie and me needed that, sis. We’re the outlaws of the family, me the jailbird and Julie the bad woman.”

“And there’s me,” Clay said, grinning. “I reckon I ain’t got much credit up at the pearly gates either, but Clinton never gives up on me.”

Jerusalem smiled at Clay. “And you never get angry with him, Clay. I appreciate that. I know he’s a trying boy, but I’m hoping one day he’ll get past that fire-and-brimstone stage. You know, I’ve often thought,” Jerusalem Ann said quietly, “if he had heard a sermon about the love of God, he would have been a gentler convert. All he knew was that one evangelist, and he just got the wrong one to mold himself after.” She suddenly got up and left the room, and everyone knew that she was going outside to talk to Julie.

Brodie shook his head mournfully. “Well, Ma’s right, but Clinton is peskier than chiggers. As a matter of fact, I’d take the chiggers any time over his blasted preachin’!”

Clay walked down toward the river and found Clinton there, as he had suspected. Clinton was fishing, which he did with every free moment he had. Clay came up and sat down beside him.

“Caught anything?”

“No.”

Clinton’s answer was terse, but Clay ignored it. “You know, I’ve been thinkin’, when this shootin’ war with the Mexicans is over, you and me might make a trip to the mountains where your pa and me used to trap. You’ve never seen the high country, have you, Clint?”

“No, I never have.” Clinton relaxed slightly. All the rest of the family was irritated with him, but Clinton could not seem to help being what he was. Clay Taliferro, however, was different. It had been Clay who had come back from the mountains and stayed until, at Jerusalem Ann’s request, he had led them to Texas in search of Jake Hardin. Clay had become such a part of the life of the Hardins that when strangers came by, they almost automatically assumed that Clay was Jerusalem Ann’s husband. Clinton sat there listening as Clay spoke softly for a long time about the things that they might do in the mountains. He finally said, “I know I’m a pain in the neck, Clay—but I can’t help it!”

Clay smiled and, doubling up his fist, struck Clinton fondly on the shoulder. “Don’t fret yourself, Clint—they’s a whole tomorrow out there that ain’t even been touched yet!”

CHAPTER
TWO

L
ooking up from the dress that she was mending, Jerusalem fixed her eyes on the approaching rider and then smiled. “Look, Mary Aidan, there comes your gentleman friend.”

Mary Aidan was sitting flat on the porch with her legs stretched out in front of her. She was wearing an old shirt of Brodie’s that came down halfway to her knees and had been cut off at the elbows. Her red hair, fine as gossamer, caught the afternoon sunlight, and she jumped up at once and ran down the steps. “Rice,” she cried. “Rice!”

Rice Morgan stepped out of the saddle, patted the gray on the shoulder, and then draped the lines over a sapling that had been tied across two posts to make a hitching post. He turned quickly, and a smile lit up his face as Mary Aidan ran straight toward him. He caught her under the arms and tossed her high in the air and laughed as she squealed. Rice squeezed the child and gave her a kiss on the cheek, saying, “How’s my best girlfriend?”

“Rice—play with me!”

“All right. I don’t have a thing in the world to do but to play with pretty girls.” He carried her up the steps and took his hat off and tossed it on the floor, then sat down flat as he said, “Hello, Jerusalem.”

“Hello, Rice.” Jerusalem took in the figure of the man who sat there. Rice Morgan’s actual name was spelled R-h-y-s when he had lived in Wales, but everybody thought it was
Rice,
so that was what he had become. He was a trim man of five feet ten, well-built, with a deep chest and strong muscled arms. Years of hard work in the coal mines in Wales had formed his upper body, and he was stronger than most. He had jet black hair, direct gray eyes, and when he smiled, two creases appeared on each side of his mouth. He was a neatly handsome man but seemed to have no knowledge of the fact. He also had the fastest reflexes of any man that Jerusalem had ever seen. She had seen him sparring with the young men, and he had merely laughed as he pulled his head out of the way of their blows and softened his own. She knew that he had done some prize fighting in Wales, although he rarely spoke of that.

“This is my baby. Her name is Abigail,” Mary Aidan said, holding up the rag doll that Jerusalem had made for her. “You be the pa, and I’ll be the ma, and she’ll be our baby.”

“I think that’s a good arrangement.” Rice nodded. “We’ll pretend that I’ve just come home from work and am playing with Abigail.”

Jerusalem put her sewing down in her lap and sat there quietly watching the gray-eyed man play with the red-haired girl. There was something pleasing to her about the way Rice could adapt himself to the world of a four-year-old. She did not know many men who could do it, and of her own children, only Brodie could unbend at times to play with his younger sister.

Julie stepped out of the house and came over to sit down in a cane-bottom chair. “Hello, Rice,” she said. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’m not Rice. I’m Pa. This is Ma, and this is Abigail.”

Julie smiled. “Oh, I see. Sorry. I made a mistake.”

The two women sat quietly and saw that Rice Morgan had no embarrassment at all about sitting down on the porch and playing with the child. Jerusalem never remembered a time when Jake sat down and played with the children like this. He had taken the boys hunting on occasion, but never had he known how to reach out to Moriah.

The game went on for quite a while, and finally Mary Aidan crawled up into Rice’s lap and asked him to sing for her. He had a fine tenor voice and sang one of the well-known ballads from the old country. Mary Aidan was tired, and soon she put her head against his chest and went sound to sleep.

“I declare, that child is worn out,” Jerusalem said. “Put her up here. I’ll hold her, Rice.”

“She’s all right where she is.”

“You’re good with children,” Julie observed. “That’s a rare thing in most men.”

“Well, devil throw smoke! Why wouldn’t I be good? Didn’t I raise my own four brothers and sisters?”

“You raised them? What about your parents?” Jerusalem inquired.

“My pa, he got killed in the coal mine when I was only thirteen, so it was up to me to step in and help.”

“What about your mother?”

“Sickly she was most of the time, and so I had to learn to do women’s work as well.”

“Most men wouldn’t have done that,” Julie said.

“Well, there is dull you are, Julie Satterfield! A man does what’s to be done when it comes to family,” Rice said as he stroked Mary Aidan’s hair gently.

Both women noticed how his hands were almost square and looked very strong. There was an old scar on one of them, and Julie said, “How’d you get that scar?”

“Foolishness.”

“I’m surprised you were ever foolish, Rice. You’re so proper now.”

Rice grinned at her. “Go and scratch. I’ve had my share of foolishness like all men. Where is everyone?” he said, looking around.

“Clay’s fishing with Clinton down at the river, and Brodie’s gone to make a fool of himself over a girl.”

“Well, I will go to my death,” he said. “Brodie is a fine boy. He’ll not make a fool of himself over a skirt.”

“That’s what you think.” Julie grinned. “You don’t know near as much about women as you think you do, Rice Morgan.”

“Saying nothing against him, I was. But he’s a fine broth of a boy. He’s got more sense than to go wild over a female.”

Both Jerusalem and Julie broke forth into laughter.

His feelings slightly hurt, Rice stared at them. “Well, why are you laughing? Am I a rat with green teeth, then?”

“Rice, the only person who knows less about women than you do is Clay Taliferro,” Jerusalem said. She shook her head in dismay and said, “You’d better stick to your preaching and leave women alone.” Getting to her feet, Jerusalem reached over and picked up Mary Aidan. “I’m going to put her down for a nap. She sleeps like Bob. I’m afraid she’s died sometimes.” She left and went into the house.