Untethered (4 page)

Cricket’s heart leapt with delight as she watched Ann stand up and stride to a large flour sack that was sitting against a nearby wall. Carefully she removed a new quilt—a beautiful new quilt.

“Mama let me use any of her old fabric remnants I wanted,” Ann explained as she draped the quilt over Marie’s lap for everyone to consider. “I chose the brightest colors I could find…hopin’ that it lends a little joy to his life.”

“It’s lovely!” Marie exclaimed. “Just so very lovely, Ann!”

“It so charmin’, Ann,” Vilma said as she closely studied the length of the quilting stitches. “You have the prettiest stitchin’ in the world. No wonder you won the blue ribbon at last year’s county fair.”

“It’s perfect!” Cricket exclaimed. “But…but isn’t this somethin’ you’d like to give to Mr. Keel yourself, Ann? I mean, it must’ve taken you a very long time to—”

“No! No, no, no,” Ann interrupted. “I want all of us to leave it for him…with a note. Just like we’ll leave the teapot for Mrs. Maloney.”

Cricket studied the blush on Ann’s pretty cheeks—the way she’d begun to wring her hands. “You know, you could take a more…a more personal approach, Ann…somethin’ like Marie and I have agreed to do. I mean, we all know how handsome Mr. Keel is. There’s not one of us here who wouldn’t think it would be the most romantic thing in the world if you managed to catch his eye and—”

“Mr. Keel is as old as Ann’s daddy, Cricket!” Vilma exclaimed with a giggle of disbelief. “Are you suggestin’ that Ann set her sights on marryin’ a man as old as her daddy?”

Cricket rolled her eyes at Vilma’s insensitivity. She wished Vilma would fall in love with someone. Then maybe she’d have a bit more insight into what Marie and Ann were feeling.

“How old is your daddy, Ann?” she asked her friend.

“Thirty-five in December,” Ann mumbled.

“So Mr. Keel is thirty-five as well?”

Ann nodded.

“Well, then he’s a man young enough to be a lovin’, hard-workin’ husband who can give you plenty of children and old enough to know a good woman when he sees one and not waste any time in reachin’ out and grabbin’ hold of her,” Cricket said. “You go on and set your sights on Mr. Keel if you want to, Ann. He’s as handsome as anything and does right well for himself with his farmin’ and cattle.”

Vilma exhaled an exasperated sigh, but she didn’t say another word. Cricket had made her point to Vilma—made more than one point that day, in truth—and it had nearly worn her to the bone.

“The quilt is so beautiful, Ann!” Marie exclaimed once more. “Mr. Keel will love it, I’m sure. And it will certainly brighten up his farmhouse.”

“Yes,” Vilma agreed, taking her place as an ally and friend instead of playing the devil’s advocate. “I’m sure Mr. Keel will truly appreciate the new quilt. And I suppose the age difference between the two of you isn’t all that shockin’. I mean, now that I think about it, my daddy is eleven years older than my mama, and they’re as happy as if they were already livin’ in eternal paradise together.”

Ann blushed and began to refold the quilt. “Well, I just hope he’ll like the quilt.”

“He’ll adore it, Ann,” Cricket assured her friend. Sighing with relief that at least their four choices as to who to do kind things for that week had been made, Cricket reiterated, “So, we’ve got Mr. Keel gettin’ a new quilt. Mrs. Maloney is gettin’ her teapot, Hudson Oliver is gettin’ the biggest and best surprise of his life, and Heathro Thibodaux is finally gettin’ properly welcomed to Pike’s Creek.” She looked to Vilma, asking, “What are our assignments then, Vilma?”

Vilma thought for a moment, dipped her ink pen in the inkwell at her feet, and said, “Well, since I have the best penmanship, I’ll write Mrs. Maloney a little note to go with the teapot. But I do think Ann should write the note to go with the quilt for Mr. Keel.”

“Anything else?” Marie prodded. “What should Cricket and I do?”

Vilma smiled. “Build up your reserves of courage and determination, I would think.”

“Fine,” Cricket agreed. “Then if we’re finished plannin’ for Friday, I’m just dyin’ to strip my clothes off and get to swimmin’!”

“Me too!” Marie giggled, taking the ribbon from her hair and beginning to unbutton her blouse.

“And I am not wearin’ my corset this time,” Cricket announced. “I was wet to the skin for two days last time.”

“Do you mean we should go swimmin’ in just bloomers and camisoles?” Vilma gasped with an expression of horrified astonishment.

“I absolutely do,” Cricket confirmed with a giggle.

“Me too,” Ann added. “After all, no one comes out here…not ever.”

“Well, whether they do or not, I just don’t know if it’s proper to—” Vilma began.

“Oh, Vilma, please,” Marie whined. “We’re hot, and this old house is so stuffy. No one is gonna catch us. Let’s just have some fun for once without you naggin’ on and on at us. All right?”

Cricket giggled as she watched Vilma huff and puff for a few more seconds, until at last she conformed, “All right then. Bloomers and camisoles it is. But if we get caught, I swear I won’t ever forgive you all.”

“We won’t get caught,” Cricket assured her. “Nobody’s around close. And certainly not in the heat of the day like this.”

“Fine then,” Vilma said, laying her pen and pad down on the floor. “Last one to the swimmin’ hole is an old maid!” Leaping up from her chair, Vilma laughed as she bolted out the door of the old Morgan house.

Cricket giggled with amusement as she followed Marie and Ann out of the house. As all four girls raced for the Morgan swimming hole, Cricket’s frustrations, fatigue, and worries seemed to scatter—dissolved somehow by the warmth of the sun and the beauty of the day.

She could smell the cool water of the swimming hole as they neared—was delighted by the scent of warm summer grass, green cottonwood leaves, and wild summer roses. She thought for a moment that perhaps the roses had only grown wild since the Morgan house had been abandoned. Perhaps, and even most likely, they had been planted long ago by loving hands that had cared for them for ever so long. Perhaps they had once been pruned back or trained to cling to a bright white wooden trellis. But now they’d grown wild for years and years, and though they may have missed the tender hands that once cared for them, Cricket imagined that their existence in lingering freedom now inspired them to bloom all the more fragrantly.

Cricket splashed into the water just after Ann and Marie. Vilma was already wading up to her neck out farther from the shore. The water was so cool and refreshing! The warmth of the sun was ambrosia to Cricket’s soul, and she turned her face heavenward, allowing the sensation to calm her. As she dipped her head back into the water, she exhaled a sigh of reprieve. She wasn’t quite sure what had caused her to feel so bothered before—perhaps all the chores her stepmother had demanded she finish up or all the planning and coaxing for their Friday night shenanigans—perhaps anxiety for what might or might not happen between Marie and Hudson Oliver on Friday. But whatever had taken her tranquility from her, Cricket felt serene in that moment at least.

As she listened to the birds in the trees and the laughter of good friends—as Marie, Ann, and Vilma splashed and played in the water—Cricket thought there could be nothing so beautiful in all the world as the bright blue, cloudless sky above and the feel of the cool water rinsing her cares away.

Heath had half a mind to just slit Conqueror’s throat when he finally found him—slaughter him up and have himself a tasty beef supper. The bull was turning out to be a heap more trouble than ex-Texas Ranger
Heathro
Thibodaux
had counted on. Still, he thought of the roll of paper money the rancher over in Thistle had paid him for Conqueror’s stud service and figured the bovine rascal was worth the trouble in the end.

Heath was just glad old Fred Elmer had seen Conqueror heading toward the Morgan place—glad the stubborn bull hadn’t headed off toward Ralph Burroughs’s herd the way he’d done the week before. Not that Ralph Burroughs would have minded Conqueror consorting with his cows free of stud fees. But since Heath had quit rangering, he’d need every dollar his small herd of cattle and farm would allot him. He had plenty of money held up in secret, but a dollar was a dollar when a man was looking down the long, lonesome road of life.

Heath swore under his breath as he saw Conqueror’s hoofprints in the soil. Yep—the bull had changed his mind and was heading straight for the Burroughs place.

“Well, come on, Archie,” he said, spurring his buckskin to a trot. “Let’s get ol
’ Conq back home before Ralph Burroughs gets some calves he ain’t paid for out of it this time.”

❦

It took more than an hour to head Conq for home and get him into the small corral. By the time the bull was secured once more, Heath was hot, tired, and cran
ky. The heat of the day was beating down on him like fire and brimstone, and all he could think of to cool himself off was a dip in the old Morgan swimming hole. Nobody used the old swimming hole. The fact was the whole place was abandoned—house, barn, and swimming hole. As he rode Archie toward the swimming hole, Heath grinned. He liked the seclusion it allotted, and once summer had hit hot and dry, he’d taken to swimming three or four days a week. There was nothing quite like being alone out there in the cool water—listening to the birds in the trees and enjoying the modest summer breeze that would waft by every once in a while.

Heath dismounted, loosely tethered Archie’s reins to a cottonwood, patted the horse on the flank, and mumbled, “You have at that new grass there, boy.”

Tossing his hat to the carpet of soft, green summer grass under the tree, Heath unbuttoned his shirt and was just unbuckling his gun belt when he heard voices—female voices.

Stripping his shirt off, wadding it up, and pitching it over to join his hat, Heath walked toward the swimming hole—all the while making sure he was well hidden by the brush. What he saw when he managed a good view of the water through the trees and bushes made him chuckle.

Four young women were playfully splashing around in the water, entirely unaware that anyone was near—especially a man. Glancing around, he saw their discarded shoes, stockings, petticoats, and dresses scattered over a couple of fallen trees nearby. The mischief in him considered snitching their clothes for a moment—hightailing off with them and leaving the girls to figure on how to make it back to town in nothing but their underwear.

Still, Heath knew better, and he wasn’t near mean enough to do such a thing to four little innocents—no matter what everyone in town thought. And all he needed was one more reason for folks to think he wasn’t worth a wad of mud.

So he paused, listening to the girls’ happy prattle and their careless giggling. It was, after all, a heavenly sound—female happiness. He missed it—missed hearing his sisters chirping away as they brushed their hair each morning and readied for the day. He exhaled a heavy sigh, wondering if he’d ever see Fanny and Clara Jean again.

But Heath pushed thoughts of his family to the back of his mind—reminded himself of what he’d done—or rather, what he hadn’t done.

“Marie King…this time next month, you and Hudson Oliver will be standin’ right there in front of Vilma’s daddy sayin’ your vows!” he heard one of the girls giggle.

“We will not!” another girl said, splashing water at the first.

“Yes, you will!” a third girl countered. “I won’t rest until I’ve seen your weddin’, Marie…until I’ve seen Hudson Oliver whisk you away in his arms and carry you over the threshold of the house the two of you will share forever.”

Heath frowned a bit—studied the third girl who had spoken. Oh, he knew her name well enough—Magnolia Cranford—“Cricket,” as everyone in town called her. He knew who all four girls were, in fact. He’d recognized them right off. After all, it was his job to know people, to watch them, to know their business. At least, it
had
been his job—and old habits died hard.

These four Pike’s Creek girls were thicker than fleas in a cat’s right ear. Furthermore, he was ninety-nine percent certain it was these four girls that were the little do-gooders in town—always leaving cookies on somebody’s front porch or making rag dolls and gifting them in secret
to all the little girls in town.

He smiled with triumph, realizing he’d found their hideout. He’d always suspected that, whoever the group of secret do-gooders in Pike’s Creek, they must’ve had a meeting place, like a bunch of rustlers or bank robbers—somewhere they could plan their do-gooding in secret. It made perfect sense that they’d use the old Morgan place. The rumor around town was that the old house was haunted by the ghosts of two boys who had drowned in the swimming hole some years back. Heath felt his eyebrows arch in admiration for the girls,
if for no other reason than that they obviously dared to beat back their fears of specters and drowning to find themselves an outlaw hideaway of sorts.

“For Pete’s sake, Cricket!” the fourth girl rather scolded. “You’re so dramatic. A month? There’s no way
Hudson
and Marie will be married in a month. Well, a month ain’t even long enough for a proper courtship.”

Heath shook his head. Yep. He could always spot this one coming a mile away—the preacher’s daughter. She always walked like she had post shoved up the back of her dress. Stiff as a board and twice as plain.