Читать книгу Homecoming - Jill Marie Landis - Страница 13

H attie rose early the next day and nearly stumbled over Joe asleep in the dim morning light of the hallway. She woke him gently, half-afraid he’d awaken with a start and grab his shotgun.

He was mumbling and grumbling his way to his own room when she knocked on Deborah’s door and then slipped inside the bedroom.

Deborah’s eyes were suspiciously red and swollen, as if she’d cried herself to sleep. It was the first and only sign of vulnerability and loss that was apparent.

Hattie noticed Joe didn’t look as if he’d fared much better. When he sat down at the breakfast table, there were dark shadows in the hollows beneath his eyes and he moved as if his back was stiff as a cedar plank.

Hattie was amazed at how the girl shadowed her all week. Deborah was complacent and willing to do whatever task she was shown though she’d yet to utter a word.

Those first few days, Joe didn’t trust the girl enough to do anything that involved straying too far from the house. He was convinced she would try to escape, but time wore on and Deborah continued to placidly follow Hattie around, silently doing her bidding.

Hattie knew it was better to let her hardheaded son come to terms with the situation in his own time, so she didn’t push. She waited him out and sure enough, a week after they had brought the girl home, he began to fall into his old routine and ventured farther from the house and barn.

They’d been hit by spring showers for the past two days, but he’d still ridden out to cull the Rocking e cattle from the commingled herds closest to home.

Driving in a few head at a time was a chore he could accomplish on his own, but time was near when he’d be forced to ride into Glory and contract a few extra hands to help out.

It was an expense Hattie knew he’d like to avoid, but a necessity. There was no way he could single-handedly round up all their cattle that spread across the open range.

While he was gone, she and Deborah worked side by side putting in the vegetable garden. It was a backbreaking chore, and yet it was another sign of spring that always filled Hattie with delight after a long winter inside.

Deborah never gave any sign that she understood, but Hattie spoke and gestured to her continuously as she taught the girl to move slowly down the paths between the furrows and flick precious seeds out from between her thumb and forefinger, depositing them into holes they’d bored into the dirt with thin sticks.

“This is one of the greatest gifts God has given me, outside of my Joe, that is,” Hattie told her. “And Orson and Mellie, rest their souls. I love digging my hands deep into the soil, feeling the richness of the earth. Out here, beneath the open sky, I like to pause and listen for God’s word as I work. As the Good Book says, ‘And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden.’”

Though Deborah never refused to work, there were times when Hattie would stand and stretch her back and legs, only to discover the girl staring off toward the horizon, her lovely features a study in sorrow.

In those poignant, silent moments, Hattie let her be and waited until Deborah turned to her work again. Hattie would offer up a prayer and ask God to look down upon the girl, to grant her swift healing and acceptance of this new life He’d given her.

The rain had run them out of the garden earlier this morning and now, inside the kitchen, Hattie worked at the sideboard, up to her elbows in bread dough. Her joints ached and she grew more and more tired as the day wore on. By the time she was mixing a double batch of dough in the huge crockery bowl, her head was pounding. She was punching the dough down when she heard Joe’s whistle. He was still a ways off, but letting her know she should run out and stand ready at the corral gate.

If she didn’t hurry, there was a risk of an ornery cow breaking away and trampling the newly seeded garden.

She worked the bread as fast as she could, knowing by the sound of the bawling cattle that Joe wasn’t that close yet.

Punch, knead, fold, press. She was working so fast she felt dizzy. She glanced over her shoulder at Deborah, who was sitting in a straight-back chair with a mixing bowl in her lap, busy creaming together butter, sugar and eggs for currant cakes.

Hattie thought she had plenty of time—until she heard Joe’s deep voice carry across the yard with greater urgency.

“Ma! The gate!” he hollered.

Another wave of dizziness hit her. She called over her shoulder, “Deborah!”

The girl immediately looked up at the sound of her name, stopped stirring and waited expectantly.

Thrilled, Hattie smiled. It was the first time Deborah had shown any response to her name. Usually all she did was mimic Hattie’s motions.

“The gate. Go open the gate.” Hattie nodded toward the door. Deborah had seen her open the gate and had stood back as Joe drove the cattle into the corral for two days now.

“Open the gate. Gate,” Hattie told her with greater urgency. “Joe’s back.”

By now Joe was yelling and whooping to beat the band. The bawling of the cattle intensified as they drew nearer to the corral.

Hattie held up her flour-coated hands and, like a general facing his troops, barked out the order. “Go open the gate!”

The girl set down the bowl, shot to her feet and ran out the door.

Hattie took a deep breath and her light-headedness subsided. She caught herself smiling as she kept watch through the window over the dry sink.

Gate.

Eyes-of-the-Sky knew the word. She knew many of the whites’ words now, though she refused to give her captors any sign that she was learning. For the first few days, the words had been nothing more than a confusing jumble that made her head ache, but as time wore on, distinct sounds began to separate themselves and she began to understand.

The foreign tongue almost seemed a part of her somehow. At night, the words invaded her dreams until she dreamed both in Nermernuh and in the white man’s tongue. She dreamed odd dreams filled with Nermernuh and whites, faces she knew so well and others that were unfamiliar. Unsettling dreams that left her feeling anxious and confused.

On the first day of her arrival, when they took away her clothing, it became clear to her that she was a slave, and that she now belonged to the woman, Hattee-Hattee. From sunup until the evening meal, she worked with Hattee-Hattee and did everything the woman told her to do.

In this, she realized, the whites were no different from the her people. Whenever the warriors returned to the encampment with captives in tow after a raid, their possessions were taken from them. They were beaten, whipped, even burned and tortured by their owners.

That was the Comanche way and, knowing she was now a slave, Eyes-of-the-Sky was determined not to shame herself by crying or showing fear. Among her people, things always went easier for those who showed courage and strength of will. Weak or cowardly captives were tortured by the women, if not killed outright. She never let herself forget that Hattee-Hattee, no matter how kind she appeared, had the power of life and death over her.

For now, she would obey. She would pretend to have accepted her fate.

In the beginning, the man remained close by, watching her, making certain she did not try to escape or attack the woman.

Whenever she turned around, he was there. Whenever she followed Hattee-Hattee from one place to another, he was there. Sometimes he would speak to the woman and then leave them for a short while, but he soon returned. He was always watching.

As a slave, she had no right to deny him anything. When he decided to use her in any way he pleased, that was the way of things. She would do what she must to survive.

She had endured the Blue Coats’ attack. She could endure him, too, if that was her fate.

Lately he had begun riding out before the sun rose and would bring more cattle back to the enclosure near the dwelling. She thought him crazy for collecting worthless cows.

She was sitting in the place where the food was prepared—the kitchen —when she recognized his whistle. It was his way of letting the woman know he was nearly there, that he had returned with more cattle.

It was Hattee-Hattee’s task to meet him at the corral, to lift the rope, push the heavy wooden gate wide, so the cattle would run into the enclosure.

But today the woman was making bread, the food that she enjoyed most of all. She loved the taste of it in her mouth, the warm comfort and softness of it. The magic way it melted on her tongue. She loved to inhale the scent of it as it grew plump and hot inside the iron beast with fire in its belly—the stove. The woman’s hands and arms were covered in the white powder— flour. Mixed with yeast, it magically became bread.

Outside, the whistle grew sharper, louder, as the man brought the cattle closer and closer to the house. So close that she could feel their hooves against the earth.

Hattee-Hattee was speaking to her, saying the words Joe and gate among others that she didn’t understand. Suddenly, Hattee-Hattee turned to her and commanded her to go.

She leaped to her feet and ran for the door, then outside into the blinding sunlight. Shielding her eyes with her arm, she tripped over the edge of her long garment and almost fell headlong down the steps but regained her balance just in time.

The long skirt was always in her way. It was a useless garment, one of flimsy, shiny cloth, not of sturdy, tanned buffalo hide. It was easily soiled and torn. Not only did all the whites’ garments have to be washed, but Hattee-Hattee would sit with them on her lap and repair them after all the outdoor and kitchen work was done.

Across the open yard, the first of the cattle neared the corral. She grabbed handfuls of the long gown in her hands, lifted it high above her ankles and started running.

Joe whooped and slapped his hat against his thigh to keep the cattle moving, then wiped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve.

The first thing he noticed when he scanned the yard was that the women weren’t in the garden. Nor was his mother waiting at the corral gate. He was close enough to be heard from inside the house, so where was she?

He’d been so vigilant early on. Had he dropped his guard too soon? Had his mother’s trust in the girl and in God been misplaced again?

If anything happens to her—

Joe let go another sharp, shrill whistle. If it wasn’t for the line of twenty cows he was pushing, he’d have kicked his horse into a canter and headed for the house.

He cut right, swore at a heifer that started to bolt, forced it back into place. He was about to turn them away from the corral, let them wander lose and forget about them when a flash of yellow caught his eye.

Deborah came barreling out of the house and across the porch. She nearly went down the steps headfirst but caught herself. Then, incredibly, she hiked her skirt up above her knees and kept running.

Somehow she’d overpowered his mother and was making a run for it. He drew his rifle out of the sheath hanging alongside his saddle and was about to take aim when he suddenly realized the girl was headed for the corral gate.

The lead cow was close enough that Joe feared Deborah’s fluttering yellow gown would send the cattle stampeding around the yard. He shoved his rifle back into the sheath and headed straight for the lead cow.

Deborah jumped up onto the lowest rung of the gate, tossed off the loop of rope that held it shut, and the gate swung open wide—with her riding on it. Carried by her weight and its own momentum, the heavy gate picked up speed and, before he could shout a warning, slammed her into the fence behind her.

She hung on tight as the first of the cows charged through the gate and into the pen. Once the cattle were all inside, he blocked the entrance to the gate on horseback.

He broke out in a cold sweat at the realization that he’d almost put a bullet in her, not to mention the fact that if she’d lost her grip, she’d have been trampled.

“Are you all right?” he yelled at her without thought, forgetting she didn’t understand. Though she was still clinging to the gate, she looked no worse for wear.

He reached for the gate post.

“You can let go now,” he told her. “Let go.”

She blinked up at him, but when she failed to get down, he slowly swung the gate closed. She rode it as it shut, hanging on for dear life until he slipped the rope into place.

That done, his fear turned to anger, his blood running cold. Where was his mother? Deborah may not have been escaping, but that didn’t answer the question of what had happened to Hattie.

“Where’s Hattie? Hattie? ”

She finally stepped down off the gate and glanced toward the house, seemingly unaware of the churned mud and muck oozing between her bare toes.

Frustrated, he was tempted to dismount, grab her and shake the answer out of her, until he heard Hattie call out from the porch.

“Sorry, son. I was busy.”

From where he sat in the saddle, he gazed down at the girl standing in the mud as she stroked and nuzzled his horse’s nose and whispered softly to the animal in Comanche. Joe was arrested by the tender way her fingers trailed down the horse’s flanks, the soft caressing sound of her hushed whisper. For a heart-stopping moment he forgot who she was and why he was supposed to hate her.

When he’d left the house that morning, his mother had been trying to fashion the girl’s hair in a topknot of sorts, but her sprint to the corral had loosened the pins. Now her chestnut locks flowed wild and free around her shoulders. Washed and brushed to a high shine, free of the braids, her tresses caught the sunlight, streaked with red and even a touch of gold.

In a week she’d begun to fill out the hand-me-down dress and, from her sprint across the yard, there was high color in her cheeks.

As loath as he was to admit it, no matter how he felt about her, there was no denying her beauty. Without her Comanche trappings, and because of all the care and time his mother had lavished on her over the past week, she was beginning to show the promise of the young woman she might have become had she been raised by her own kin, in her own world.

No matter what she looked like, when push came to shove, he was certain she carried the heart of a Comanche inside her. Countless stories circulated the Texas plains, tales of captives gone savage, of kidnapped whites who rode and fought beside their captors and were every bit as vicious as the raiders that brutalized the frontier.

There were stories of women like Cynthia Parker, a captive who married a Comanche man and bore his children. Stories of women who would rather die than become civilized again.

He realized she was studying him every bit as closely as he was her until they heard Hattie call out again.

“What are you dawdling for? Come on in.”

By now he should have grown used to her silent perusal, but he had trouble breaking Deborah’s stare.

She was driving him crazy, staring up at him that way. Sizing him up. Waiting for him to do something, expecting something from him maybe. What that was, he couldn’t fathom.

“What?” He didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

A slight frown marred her smooth forehead, then she pointed toward the porch and, clear as a bell, said, “Hattee-Hattee.”

Caught completely by surprise, Joe threw back his head and laughed. It was a rusty sound and just for a heartbeat, Deborah’s expression mirrored his own shock.

A moment later, with Worthless trailing along behind, Hattie joined them. She was smiling at Joe in a way she hadn’t in a long while.

“I heard you laugh all the way across the yard. It’s been a long time since you’ve laughed like that.”

Joe turned away, taking his time tying his reins to the fence post as Hattie fawned over her charge.

“Can you believe it? She knew exactly what to do when I told her to run out and open the gate.”

Joe had a hard time forgetting the scare they’d given him, the panic he’d experienced when he saw Deborah run out of the house on her own.

“Where were you?” Joe demanded. His mother looked flushed and tired, and the idea that something might be wrong with her scared him. “I thought she might have hurt you.”

“I’ll forgive your tone, seeing as how I know that your impatience stems from worry and not orneriness. I was up to my elbows in flour. What was so funny, anyway?”

“She thinks your name is Hattee-Hattee.”

“She spoke? Why, Joe, that’s wonderful. Isn’t it?”

Hattie touched Deborah on the arm, then pointed to herself and waited for the girl to say her name.

Deborah looked from Hattie to Joe and back.

Hattie smiled and nodded encouragement. Joe crossed his arms and figured the girl was out to prove him wrong—or crazy.

“Hattee-Hattee,” the girl whispered.

The years seem to drop away when Hattie laughed and clapped as if it were the greatest feat ever accomplished.

“I’m so proud of you, child!”

“Don’t you think just one Hattie would do?” Joe leaned against the fence post, watching the exchange, afraid his mother’s joy might actually seep into him—if he let it.

“Hattee-Hattee is close enough for now,” she said. “Close enough, that’s for certain.” She reached for Deborah, wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

Deborah slipped out of her grasp and gathered the hem of her dress up to her knees again.

Joe couldn’t help but look down. It was a moment before he caught himself.

“You’d better teach her not to do that,” he advised Hattie before turning around to focus on the cattle milling in the corral, trying to forget the sight of the girl’s well-turned calves and ankles.

“She’s making progress, though. Isn’t she, Joe?”

“Except for the fact that she keeps lifting up her dress. She’s doing better than I expected,” he admitted grudgingly.

“But…?”

“I’m taking a wait-and-see attitude, Ma.”

“Uh-oh,” Hattie muttered.

Joe followed her gaze. Deborah was on her way back to the house on her own.

“If I don’t stop her, she’ll track mud right into the house.” Hattie hurried across the yard, then paused to call out, “I have a feeling she’s going to surprise you.”

As he watched Deborah walk away holding her skirt above the mud like a barefoot queen, he couldn’t help muttering to himself.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Ma. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”