Vows (5 page)

 
"I didn't have any watch."

 
"You can see the sun, can't you?"

 
"I couldn't." His eyes widened to best advantage. "Honestly, I couldn't, Emily. We were down by the big cottonwoods in the empty lot behind Stroth's place and I couldn't see the sun behind the trees!"

 
She pitied the poor girl who tried to tie this one down. Dressed in a straw hat, wearing neither shirt nor shoes beneath his overalls, with his wide eyes shining and his lips open in feigned innocence, Frankie presented a charming picture, one Emily had difficulty resisting. Still, she tried.

 
"Here." She released the agitator lever on the washing machine. "Your turn. My arm is ready to fall off."

 
"But I want to take my fish uptown and show Papa. And besides, Earl's waiting and soon as we show Papa we're gonna come straight back here and clean these so you can fry them for supper. Please, Emily …
pleeeease
?"

 
She let him go because when she was twelve she had not had to wash clothes at four o'clock on a warm summer afternoon. Without his help, the washing took longer than she'd planned, and she was just finishing up when Papa came home for supper True to his word, Frankie had cleaned the trout, and tonight he and

Papa took over the cooking while Emily put the washroom in order and stacked the wet laundry to wait till morning.

 
Papa's cooking left room for improvement. The potatoes were mushy; the trout was a little too brown; the coffee boiled over; and the biscuits stuck to the pan. But worst of all, Mother was absent from the table. Edwin took a tray up to her but returned to catch Emily's eye across the room and give a sad shake of his head. The empty chair cast a pall over the meal, as usual, but Emily tried to brighten it.

 
"From now on, I'll do the cooking and you can clean up the washroom," she chided.

 
"We'll do as we've been doing," Edwin returned. "We'll get along just fine."

 
But when his eyes met those of his daughter she caught a momentary hint of despair such as she'd witnessed in his private midnight session on the porch. As quickly as it appeared, Edwin hid it and lurched to his feet, reaching for dishes to carry to the sink.

 
"We'd better clean up. Charles said he'd be stopping by later tonight."

 
Charles stopped by most nights. He had a house of his own, but it was undeniably lonely for him living in it by himself. It was natural for him to want to be with the Walcotts, having known them all his life, and having come to Wyoming at the same time as they. Since their relocation in Sheridan he had come to be a dear friend to Edwin in spite of the difference in their ages. And Mama had always shown a distinct affection for him, having known him since he was a boy. Charles, she often reiterated, came from a staunch religious upbringing, knew the value of hard work, and would someday make a dedicated husband for Emily. As for Frankie—well, Frankie absolutely idolized Charles.

 
Charles arrived in time to help wipe dishes. Whenever he arrived lately, it seemed there was something he could help with, and he always did so gladly. Emily had grown tired of hearing her father say, "That Charles, he sure knows what work is." Of course Charles knew what work was—didn't they all?

 
After dishes Frankie talked Charles into a game of dominoes. They all retired to the parlor where the two set up their pieces while Emily watched and Edwin smoked a last pipe before going upstairs to read to his wife.

 
"I suppose you met the new man in town," Charles said to nobody in particular.

 
"We've got his horses at the livery," Edwin responded.

 
"What new man?" Frankie inquired.

 
"His name is Jeffcoat. Tom Jeffcoat," Charles answered, placing a five on a five.

 
"So you've met him, too?" Edwin inquired.

 
"Yes. Loucks sent him over, told him I was a carpenter."

 
"He wants to hire you, of course," Edwin ventured.

 
Charles glanced up. His eyes met Edwin's, and Emily witnessed the ambivalence in his glance.

 
"Yes, he does."

 
"Well, if his money is green, you'd better say yes."

 
"Do you know what he's building, Edwin?"

 
"A livery stable, he tells me."

 
"He
told
you?"

 
"As Emily pointed out, it'd be hard to hide a livery stable once it starts going up."

 
"Emily met him, too?" Charles's eyes veered to her as she leaned over Frankie's shoulder, studying his domino selection.

 
"I'm sorry to say I did," she replied coolly, without once raising her eyes to Charles's.

 
"Oh?"

 
She picked up one of Frankie's dominoes and played it while answering. "First he called me 'young fellow,' then tried to give me advice about how to take care of Sergeant's cracked hoof. I didn't appreciate either one."

 
Edwin chuckled, holding the pipestem at the corner of his mouth. "I can vouch for that. She was whetting the edge of her tongue on him when I walked in and saved a week's worth of business she had just sent packing."

 
"Papa!" Emily spouted irritably. "You don't have to tell everything!"

 
"Emily did that?" Frankie put in, losing interest in the game, grinning with wonder at his sister.

 
"Now, Emily, we have no secrets from Charles."

 
Which, in Emily's opinion, was one of the reasons she couldn't generate any romantic gust for him. It felt as if she'd already lived with him for the last two years, he was here so much. She gave up playing Frankie's dominoes and plopped down on the divan.

 
"I hope you spit in his eye, Charles!" she said pugnaciously.

 
"Now, Emily, be sensible. How could Charles do that?" her father chided.

 
"
I
did it, didn't I?" she challenged.

 
To Emily's surprise Charles said, "As a matter of fact, I rather liked him."

 
"Liked him!" Emily exclaimed. "Charles, how could you!"

 
"Emily, you seem to forget Charles has a business to run!" Edwin's tone grew sharper, then mellowed as he turned to Charles. "Whatever she says, you know I wouldn't hold it against you if you worked for Jeffcoat."

 
"He wants to see my blueprint collection, too. After the livery barn he intends to put up a house."

 
"So he said. And it could mean a tidy profit for you, Charles."

 
"Maybe so, but I don't like working for your competition."

 
Edwin took a puff on his pipe, found it dead, fished a horseshoe nail from his shirt pocket, and began scraping out the dottle into an ashtray. "Charles, I'm not your father," he began after a thoughtful silence, "but I think I know what he'd say if he were here to advise you at this moment. He'd say this is one of those occasions where you have to be a businessman first and a friend second. As for me, I'll respect you as much for making a prudent business decision as I will for being loyal, so tell Jeffcoat yes. It's what you came here for, isn't it? Because you thought the town would prosper, and you, too, along with it? Well, you can't do that by turning down paying customers."

 
Charles turned his gray eyes to Frankie. "Frankie, what do you say?"

 
"I don't care if Papa doesn't care."

 
"Emily?" He lifted his eyes to her and she had difficulty separating her distaste for Jeffcoat from the realization that Papa was probably right. Was she the only one in the place aggravated by the entire situation? Well, she hadn't their magnanimity, and she wouldn't pretend she did! With a flash of annoyance, she shot from her chair toward the front door. "Oh, I don't care!" she called back. "Do what you want!" A moment later the front screen door slammed.

 
Emily's peevishness put an end to the games in the parlor. Charles rose and said, "I'll go out and talk to her."

 
Edwin said, "Frankie, make sure you bury those fish guts before you go to bed." He went up to spend the remainder of the evening with his wife.

 
The porch wrapped around three sides of the house. Charles found Emily on the west arm, sitting on a wicker settee, facing the Big Horns and the paling peach sky.

 
She heard Charles's footsteps approach but continued leaning her head against the wall as he perched on the edge of the settee beside her, making the wicker snap. He joined his hands loosely between his knees and studied them.

 
"You're upset with me," he said quietly.

 
"I'm upset with life, Charles, not with you."

 
"With me too, I can tell."

 
She relented and rolled her head his way, studying him. She had grown up in an era when most men wore facial hair, yet she would never grow accustomed to it on Charles. His sandy brown mustache and beard were thick and neatly sculptured, yet she missed the clean, strong lines it hid. He had a fine jaw and a good chin, too attractive to hide beneath all that nap. The beard and mustache made him look older than he really was. Why would a man of twenty-one want to look like one approaching thirty? She stifled the critical thoughts and studied his eyes—intelligent gray eyes watching her now with the hurt carefully concealed.

 
"No," she assured him more softly, "not with you. With all the work, and the worry about Mother, and now this new man coming to town and competing with Papa. It's all very upsetting." She turned her gaze back to the Big Horns and sighed before going on. "And sometimes I miss Philadelphia so badly I think I'll simply die."

 
"I know. Sometimes I do, too."

 
They watched the sky take on a blue tint and eventually Charles inquired, "What do you miss most?"

 
"Oh…" She missed so many things—at that moment she could not choose one. "The skating parties and the round of visiting on New Year's Day and the summertime picnics. All the things we used to do with our friends. Here all we do is work and sleep, then work again and sleep again. There's no … no gaiety, no social life."

 
Charles remained silent. Finally, he said, "I miss it a lot, too."

 
"What do you miss most?"

 
"My family."

 
"Oh, Charles…" She felt tactless for having asked when she knew how lonely she herself would feel if she were suddenly two thousand miles away from Papa and Mother and Frankie. "But we're here for you anytime you need us," she added, because it was true. Because she could not imagine her home without Charles there most evenings and Sundays. Too late she saw the appeal in his eye and knew he would reach for her hand. When he did, she felt no more excitement than she had when she was six and he was nine and he had squired her down a Philadelphia street with their mothers behind them pushing perambulators.

 
"I have an idea," Charles said, suddenly brightening. "You're missing the picnics in Philadelphia, so why don't we plan one?"

 
"Just the two of us?"

 
"Why not?"

 
"Oh, Charles…" She retrieved her hand and dropped her head against the wall. "I barely have time to do the washing and ironing and fix suppers and take my turn with Mother."

 
"There's Sunday."

 
"The cooking doesn't stop for Sundays."

 
"Surely you can find a couple of hours. How about this Sunday? I'll bring the food. And we'll take your father's little black shay for two and drive up into the foothills and drink sarsaparilla and stretch out in the sun like a couple of lazy lizards." In his earnestness he captured both of her hands. "What do you say, Emily?"

 
To get away for even an afternoon sounded so wonderful that she couldn't resist "Oh, all right. But I won't be able to leave until the others are fed."

 
Elated, Charles kissed her hands—two grazing touches meant to keep the mood gay. But when his head lifted, he gripped her fingers more tightly and the expression in his eyes intensified.

 
Oh no, don't spoil it, Charles, she thought.

 
"Emily," he appealed softly while lifting one of her hands again to his lips. The sky had darkened to midnight blue and nobody was around to see what happened in the shadow of the deep porch as he took her arms and drew her close, dropping his mouth over hers. She acquiesced, but at the touch of his warm lips and prickly mustache she thought. Why must I have known you all my life? Why can you not be some mysterious stranger who galloped into town and gave me a second look that rocked me off my feet? Why is the scent of wood shavings on your skin and of tonic on your hair too familiar to be exciting? Why must I love you in the same way I love Frankie?