This Loving Land (25 page)

When the storm passed, she was quiet, head bowed, a little dazed by the evidence of her own feelings. She suddenly felt terribly sick, her stomach convulsed and she removed the lid from the chamber pot just in time for it to catch the vomit that gushed from her mouth.

Weakly, she leaned against the wall and wondered numbly if her face had gone as white as it felt.

Slowly, she stumbled toward the bed, walking as if she carried a heavy load, undressed, and lay down.

With extraordinary clearness of mind, she seemed to see the entanglement clearly. Her mother had fallen in love with Sam McLean while her husband was away fighting the war, but when he returned she went back to the Piney Woods with him because it was her duty to do so. But Papa had loved her, she almost cried aloud. He loved her dearly. Sometimes, he’d pull her down on his lap and whisper to her. How could Mama have done this to him? To me?

For hours, Summer lay awake staring into the sunlit room, then into the shadows and finally the darkness that was no blacker than her own thoughts. And every minute, her despair and apprehension grew deeper. A few short months ago, she had not even known Slater existed. And then her mother had died, and by an utterly unexpected chance she was here. He had woven himself into the very fabric of her life, befogging her judgment so she could not help herself when he kissed and caressed her. And because of her wild infatuation for him—Summer’s mind stumbled over the word “love”—she had turned her back on her Christian teaching, her moral obligation to keep herself pure for her husband. She had imagined that together they could make a world of their own, a family out of their love for each other.

It is strange, she thought painfully, that God’s punishment is so vicious. Where in the Bible did it say something like, “Thy sins shall be washed away”? Where was the all-seeing Providence that was forever leaning out of the window of heaven to put things right? Was her sin the unforgivable sin? Maybe this punishment was not to last, she thought hopefully. She had missed only one of the bleeding periods that came to her every twenty-eight days. No, she told herself sternly, that was wishful thinking. She was well into what would be the second period. She couldn’t pretend that everything was all right when it was really all wrong.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them once more it was morning, and the hotel man was pounding on the door.

“Open the door, I got yer grub.”

Summer raised her head. The room swayed and her stomach turned over.

“Leave it in the hall,” she called.

“I’ll get yore chamber pot,” he insisted.

“I’ll leave it outside the door.” Her voice rose in agitation.

With relief she heard him set the tray on the floor and then his heavy footsteps plodding down the stairs. She leaned back weakly, and prayed that her stomach would not heave.

Bulldog rode into town shortly before noon. He was hot and tired and mildly agitated. Waiting around town wasn’t the thing he liked to do best. After he had waited for three or four days for Slater and Summer, he decided to ride up to Burleson to see a rancher who joined their cattle drive each year, thinking it would save him a trip later.

When he’d come into Hamilton almost a week ago, he had been surprised to discover the town had progressed to the extent it had its own new plank church and a skinny young fellow for a preacher. With the purpose of his trip accomplished, all he had to do was loaf about and wait for the wedding party to arrive.

Now, thinking he should check with the liveryman, he turned his horse toward the stable and inquired if anyone from McLean’s Keep had come to town.

“No, but Jesse Thurston brought that fancy buggy of Mrs. McLean’s in.” The liveryman looked expectantly, waiting for a sign to continue.

“I ain’t a carin’ ’bout Mrs. McLean or her goddam buggy,” Bulldog retorted. “I’m a waitin’ for Slater and his bride to come in to be married.”

The liveryman couldn’t believe that here was someone who hadn’t heard the big news and joyfully launched into the long story.

“It was one of the troopers what told me. Said Travis shot his ma. Said he come in a braggin’ he’d seen Slater McLean up in the hills, eyes already picked out by the crows, said Jesse dealed hisself in and the woman run betwixt ‘em. Tom Treloar, Jesse’s top man, shot the top of Travis’s head off. There’s more to it. Soldier said Slater was hurt, bad hurt. . . .” He looked at Bulldog slyly, because he was about to drop his heaviest load. “Did ya say that Slater was gonna wed up with that gal that come from the Piney Woods? Yeah? Wal . . . I wonder why she come to town with Jesse Thurston. He put ’er up at the hotel the other day.”

Bulldog almost swallowed the cud he was chewing. Without a word, he turned his horse and rode toward the main street. A feeling of importance for being the one to pass along such disturbing news caused the liveryman to hitch up his britches and grin as he watched Bulldog ride away.

At the hotel, he stomped into the lobby and bellowed:

“Graves! Where the hell you at?”

The man ambled in from the back room, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“What you want? I let yore room out.”

“I ain’t a wantin’ yore goddam room. I’m a wantin’ to know if Miss Kuykendall is here.”

Graves looked uneasy. His eyes shifted toward the saloon door.

“Well, is she or ain’t she?” Bulldog grabbed the register and looked at it, forgetting momentarily he wouldn’t recognize her name if he saw it.

“Her name ain’t writ thar.”

“I ain’t carin’ if her name’s writ thar, ya dumb ass. Is she here?”

“It ain’t none of yore business who’s in my hotel.”

“I’m makin’ it my business, you shit-eatin’ bastard.”

Graves made a move to block the way to the stairs, but seeing the look on Bulldog’s face, shrugged and stepped aside. He’d done what he’d been told to do. It was a toss-up which one of them gents was the orneriest. It would be a good fight ta see . . . yes, a damn good sight ta see Jesse Thurston and Slater McLean a fightin’ over that lit’l bit of tail.

Summer was standing beside the window when Bulldog rode up to the hotel. She had forgotten he had come to town almost a week ago . . . come to be sure a preacher was in town, and if not to go on to Burleson or even to Georgetown to fetch one. At the sight of him, the sharp edge of terror caused her head to throb unbearably, but that was nothing at all compared to the chill surrounding her heart. She shrank against the wall, and stood there very still for what seemed an eternity.

She knew the heavy footsteps on the stairs were Bulldog’s even before he commenced pounding on the doors down the hall and calling her name. Someone opened the door and cursed him. The short, old, bowlegged cowhand spewed out a reply that caused Summer to quake. Finally, the door of her own room shook from the force of his knocking. She stood still, eyes closed, her mouth suddenly full of saliva. Time seemed to stand still while he pounded.

“Summer! Goddammit, girl, if you’re that, open the door.”

At last, at long last, he went away, and the breath left her tortured lungs. Hardly daring to move, she sidled to the side of the window and peeked out. He was turning his horse and riding down the street.

Tears she could no longer hold back came to her eyes, tears of fear and bewilderment. She sat on the edge of the bed, her weary head in her hands, and let the tears ooze between her slender fingers.

John Austin Kuykendall had never spent a day of his young life away from his sister. The newness of it lasted until exactly noon of the second day, and then a lonely, scary feeling came over him. What if Summer had left him here and would never come back? She had always been there when he needed her, always encouraging him to try something new, always looked after him, fixed the things he liked to eat, sat with him when he wasn’t feeling well.

He sat with his back to the big cottonwood, the book about the Revolutionary War on his lap. Today, he couldn’t even get interested in Nathan Hale. He kept seeing his sister’s happy face when she came to tell them Slater would be all right and hearing her shouted words: “Shut up, shut up.” He couldn’t remember Summer ever saying words like that even when she was very mad. It had to be something to do with Mrs. McLean.

John Austin stared off into space, seeing nothing. He realized now that he hadn’t appreciated his sister. Sometimes, he hadn’t been very thoughtful of her. She had done most all the work, hadn’t nagged him as Sadie was doing now. That was something else he had noticed . . . Sadie. She was acting flighty, like something was bothering her. He suspected it was something to do with Summer’s going. He began to feel really scared when the thought entered his mind that maybe Summer would not come back, that she hadn’t been going to Mrs. McLean’s burying, after all. He tried to still his fears by thinking she wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t go away and leave him . . . unless she was in terrible trouble.

He carefully marked his place and closed the book. On his way to the corral, he left it on the bench on the veranda. If Summer was in trouble, the one person to fix it would be Slater. Slater liked her, liked her a lot, almost as much as he did. Hadn’t he said he was going to take care of them from now on, that they would all live together in the big house? He saddled Georgianna, climbed up on the fence, and jumped onto her back.

“Where you goin’, John Austin?” Sadie came into the yard. “Don’t you leave this place! Hear me? Come on back, I’ll play a game with you and Mary. John Austin. . . .”

Paying her no attention, he rode on toward the creek-crossing leading to the Keep.

Jack’s horse stood beside the house, stamping and swishing his tail to rid himself of the pesky flies. John Austin hesitated. He had an intuitive feeling that Jack wouldn’t want him to bother Slater. He guided his horse around behind the bunkhouse, tied her, and squatted in the shade to wait until Jack left the house.

It seemed a long while to the waiting boy, but finally Jack came out, mounted, and rode off toward old Raccoon’s garden. John Austin walked quickly along the stone wall, then darted into the coolness of the house. He could hear Teresa in the kitchen as he sidled past the door and down the hall to Slater’s room. The door was open and he peeked in.

Slater lay on the bed in his drawers. He had bandages around his waist and up over his ribs. Another bandage was on his left shoulder, and both his hands were covered with strips of cloth. His right arm was raised, the forearm laying over his eyes. John Austin stared for a moment. Slater wasn’t in any shape to help himself, much less Summer. He thought about it for another moment, before deciding he could at least talk to him about it.

He walked into the room and sat down in the chair beside the bed. When he next looked at Slater, he was looking back at him, the arm having moved up to rest on his forehead. The first thing that struck the boy was how awful Slater looked. He had just been shaved and had small nick-cuts on his chin. His cheeks were sunk in so that the scar stood out in bold relief on his face. Suddenly, John Austin was scared, and almost wished he hadn’t come. Slater looked scary! Looked like he didn’t want to be bothered about anything.

“What do you want?”

Slater acted as if he was mad at him. A part of his mind searched for a reason, the other part was determined to get help for Summer.

“Are you feelin’ better?”

“No. I feel like hell. What did you expect?”

“I wish you felt better.”

“Well, I don’t. Now, what do you want? If it’s another book, go get it.”

The cold tone hurt a little, but a determined look settled on the boy’s face.

“I come to talk about Summer. You like her, don’t you? You said you did.”

Slater covered his eyes with his forearm again. He lay still for so long John Austin wasn’t sure he was going to say anything. Finally, he said harshly:

“What about her? She went off with Jesse to bury Ellen, didn’t she? She thought that was more important than staying here with me.”

He sounded bitter and hurt-like. John Austin had heard that tone before, but not from a man.

“I don’t think it’s that,” he said, then rushed on. “I don’t think she even liked Mrs. McLean or she wouldn’t of yelled ‘shut up, shut up’ at her.”

Slater lay still for a moment, then removed his arm slowly. His eyes roamed the boy’s worried face.

“When did she say that?”

“The day she come to tell us you were goin’ to be all right. She had on a big smile then, but she didn’t smile no more after she talked to Mrs. McLean. She cried and held onto Sadie, and Sadie made me take Mary up to the loft. Mrs. McLean just walked up and down on the porch. That was before Travis come to shoot her.” He waited to see what effect his words were having, to see if he was telling Slater something he didn’t know.

“Go on, go on,” Slater urged.

“Well, I’ve been thinkin’ that if Summer was just goin’ for the buryin’, why did she take her trunk and why did she say she would write me a letter? That morning, she almost cried when she come to my bed to say she was goin’. I know how Summer looks when she laughs ’cause she wants to cry. She did it lots of times when Mama was sick.”

Slater lay silently for a long while. John Austin knew he was thinking, because he did that himself sometimes.

“What does Sadie say?” Slater didn’t act like he was mad anymore.

“She don’t say nothin’ about it a’tall. I tried to ask her, but she said if I loved my sister, I’d best hush up and read my books like she told me. Sadie acts flighty and scared like she did that time Travis come. I knew she was scared of him ’cause her eyes got so big and she wouldn’t look at him. She never smiled or laughed and played with me and Mary after that, and I don’t know why she was scared of him. I liked him.”

Slater’s quiet eyes studied the boy’s face until John Austin began to squirm and finally his lips began to quiver and he blurted out:

“I miss Summer! I want her to come back! I think she’s got . . . trouble!” He looked away from Slater and blinked to hold back the tears, but the dam broke when Slater reached out a bandaged hand. He fell on his knees beside the bed, hiding his face in the folds of the sheet. His shoulders shook with the force of his sobs.