Читать книгу Wolf Creek Widow - Penny Richards - Страница 11

Chapter Two

The breakfast Nita fixed might have been sawdust for all the enjoyment Meg seemed to take from it. Ace and his mother made desultory conversation while trying not to watch the way Meg pushed the eggs and bacon around on her plate, partially covering them with buttery grits when she thought no one was looking so that they would think she’d eaten at least a few bites.

“Do you think we can go get the children today?” she asked as Ace mopped up some yolk with a piece of biscuit.

“You can’t go anywhere,” Nita said. “Doctor Rachel made that very clear to us. She said the wagon trip out here about did you in, and she doesn’t want anything setting back your recovery.”

“I’ll be better when I can hold them,” Meg insisted.

Ace thought he heard a bit of steel in that voice, the first emotion he’d seen besides her very real fear of him and that disturbing melancholy. He shot his mother a questioning glance, and she answered with a slight lift of her eyebrows and an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders.

“I was going to cut down a couple more trees this morning,” he told her, pushing back his chair and carrying his plate to the waiting dishpan of hot sudsy water. “Winter will be here before we know it, and I don’t want you running short of wood.”

He didn’t tell her that if her husband had been taking care of his family instead of robbing people, the wood would have been cut and stacked long ago, making starting a fire a lot easier.

If you hadn’t killed him, he could be here right now, doing just that.

The voice inside his head that reminded him of his sin several times a day put a stop to his mental criticism of Elton Thomerson. Meg had grown up a country girl; Ace figured she knew you needed a mix of seasoned and green logs to keep things going.

He also knew there was no way the fragile woman sitting across from him could have done the work herself. How would she have kept warm when she’d burned the scant supply of wood in the lean-to? Despite his attempt to not think ill of the dead, a muscle in his jaw knotted in anger at a man he’d known only by reputation.

He turned to face her, leaning against the narrow table that sat against the wall. “Would you like for me to go and see about bringing them home instead of chopping more wood?”

“Would you?” she breathed, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“I’d be glad to.”

It wasn’t a lie. Though it was fitting that he step up and do the right thing for the woman whose husband he’d shot, Ace hadn’t realized how hard it would be. Not the work—he was no stranger to backbreaking labor—but seeing how badly she was scarred from the whole experience, and how deep her wounds were, left him feeling angry and helpless. He just wanted to fix things for her.

A sharp gasp caught his attention. His gaze flew to Meg’s. The pure terror on her face took him aback. What had happened? Why was she so afraid? Seeing no cause for her alarm, he shot his mother a questioning glance and saw reproach in her eyes.

Understanding slammed into him. His loathing for the way Elton Thomerson had treated his family, especially his wife, had somehow slipped past his usual outward show of stoicism. Seeing his feelings stamped on his face had terrified her.

It was time to go, time to get away from this woman who had somehow gotten beneath his skin the first time he’d seen her sunny smile and worked her way into his heart. For all the good it would do him. Whether or not Elton was corrupt and no good, Meg had no doubt loved the man she’d married. Ace would do well to remember that.

They finished the meal in silence.

“I’ll go to town and talk to Rachel,” he said when they were done. “If she says it’s okay to bring the children home, I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Thank you,” Meg said, without looking up. He gave his mother a brief hug goodbye and left, thinking that winter would be a long time coming.

* * *

Feeling guilty and with nothing to do, Meg sat on a stump in the shade of an oak tree and watched Nita finish stacking the wood Ace had split earlier.

Overcome with guilt, Meg waited until Nita stopped to rest a moment and said, “I feel terrible, sitting here watching you work. I’m not used to being so lazy.”

“It isn’t called laziness, child. It’s called healing. There’s a difference. All you need to do is sit there and soak up God’s sunlight.” She gave Meg a teasing smile. “But if you feel you must do something, you can help me shell the last of the beans that dried on the vine. I thought I’d fix them for supper. It would give you something to do and be a great help to me.”

“Yes, thank you,” Meg said, excited to be doing something worthwhile after being inactive for so long. “Where are they?”

“In the basket next to the front door.”

Meg went through the back door and crossed the room. The basket was sitting right where it was supposed to be. Meg bent over to pick it up with her uninjured arm. As light as it was, the effort still brought an ache to her chest.

She was about to carry it out when she realized she’d seen the basket before. It, or one very like it, had shown up on the porch with predictable regularity while Elton was in prison. More often than not, it contained vegetables, though sometimes there was coffee or a little meal or flour. When she’d emptied the basket of its bounty, she’d put it back on the porch, only to find it gone the next morning. Then it would show up again in a week or so.

Sometimes, she’d find a skinned and gutted squirrel or rabbit hanging on a nail, always fresh, as if someone were aware of her habits and knew just when she’d be there to find them. It never entered her mind that she should be concerned about someone watching her comings and goings, since she wasn’t the only person who had benefited from the mysterious benefactor. Ace and his mother were rumored to be responsible, but no one had ever proved it one way or the other. Recognizing the basket was as close as anyone was likely to come to solving the mystery.

Readying herself for the task at hand, Meg tied a faded apron around her waist. She’d lost weight since the day of the shoot-out, and Rachel said she was far too thin. Well, maybe her newfound freedom would relieve her of some of her worry, and her appetite would come back. Most likely, she’d just find a new anxiety, like how she was going to provide for her kids. She couldn’t rely on the good folks of Wolf Creek forever.

She was almost to the door when she realized she was thirsty. No doubt Nita was, too. The water bucket sat on the tall table she used for preparing meals, beneath the dishpan that hung on a nail and two shelves that held her few dishes and bowls. The long narrow stand, the same one Ace had leaned against that morning, was pushed against the wall, and the breakfast dishes she’d insisted on washing were draining on a flour-sack towel.

After filling two spatterware mugs with the fresh water Nita had carried in, Meg looped the basket over her right arm and took the drinks outside. It felt good to be useful, even in a small way.

Nita, who was just finishing with the wood, smiled when she saw Meg with the mugs. “Thank you,” she said, taking one. “I was getting pretty parched.”

Automatically, the two women headed toward the shade of the small back porch, where two unpainted, worse-for-wear ladder-back chairs sat. Meg took the one with the sagging woven seat, leaving the better one for Nita, then went back inside to fetch a couple of thick pottery crocks. Nestling them in their laps, the two women began to shell the beans into the bowls, letting their aprons catch the hulls. They worked in companionable silence for a while before Meg said, “I want you to know that I appreciate your help, Mrs. Allen. Your son’s, too. There’s no way I could have come home if you weren’t here. And I certainly couldn’t have brought the children back.”

“We’re glad to do it. And please call me Nita.” She ran her thumb along the seam of a shell. Beans popped out into her bowl. “Tell me about your babies. I’ve seen them around town with you, but don’t know much about them except that they’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Meg beamed with pride. “Teddy is nearly three, and Lucy is going on ten months. I’ve missed them.”

“Haven’t you seen them these past weeks?”

“Yes, but not nearly enough. My aunt and uncle are taking care of them, and with the way they work, it’s impossible for them to get off the farm very often.”

“Farming is a challenging occupation,” Nita agreed. “You have good ground here. It doesn’t seem as rocky as some places.”

“It’s a pretty nice ten acres,” Meg said. “I always wanted to plant some corn and things to help out during the winter, but my husband...he wasn’t much for farming.”

He was more for robbing and cheating and womanizing.

“I couldn’t seem to find time since I stayed so busy with my laundry and mending.”

“Plus the care of two little ones.”

Yes. Her little ones.

She loved Teddy and Lucy more than anyone on earth, but sometimes...there were worries that lay heavily on her heart, and there wasn’t a single soul to talk to about her concerns. She and her mother, Georgina Ferris, whose well-known escapades with the opposite sex were a frequent topic of gossip in town, had been at odds for years, which left her Aunt Serena and Uncle Dave.

Elton hadn’t wanted her having any friends, hadn’t wanted her to have frequent contact with anyone. He’d seen to it that they lived far enough from Serena for visits to be almost impossible, and they’d drifted apart since her marriage. Still, it was her aunt and uncle who had stepped up to take the children while she recuperated.

“Is something bothering you, child?”

Meg looked up and found Nita’s keen gaze fixed on her. There were a lot of things bothering Meg. It was so tempting to let out her doubts and fears.

Tell her, Meg. Tell her that your greatest fears are that you will turn out like your mother and that your children will turn out like their father.

The little voice inside her head appealed to the lonely, needy part of her she kept hidden from the world. She wasn’t sure why she felt so compelled to confess her worries to this stranger, but as strong as the urge was, Meg knew she couldn’t do that.

One of her mama’s favorite sayings was that no one wanted to hear another’s problems, that you shouldn’t air your dirty laundry to the world. Of course, Georgina Ferris’s laundry was dirtier than most.

“I was just wondering if you have other children?” she asked, knowing by the look in the older woman’s eyes that she recognized the lie for what it was.

Nita shook her head. “Even though Yancy waited on me hand and foot, I lost two babies early in my pregnancies and two to illness when they were little more than babies. Ace is my only living child.”

As a mother herself, Meg was keenly in tune to the older woman’s pain, even though the words were delivered with little emotion. Though Elton had still tried to maintain his image of caring and decency during her pregnancy with Teddy, he had slapped her a time or two. There had been another baby before Lucy that had not survived, maybe because Meg had been so worn down and distraught and Elton had been so furious that it had happened so soon. She would never know.

By the time Lucy came along, he had abandoned or lost any good that had ever been in him, though Meg suspected that what little decency she’d seen was nothing but a show he put on for the world. It was a wonder that she’d carried Lucy to term.

Meg and Nita worked silently for several moments, the kind silence that usually came with long acquaintance and deep trust. The soft rattle of dried beans falling into the bowls and the sweet song of a robin wove seamlessly into the tranquillity of the late September day. Simple, everyday sounds. The sounds of life and peace.

Peace. Would God give her peace once she put enough distance between herself and her memories, or was she destined to be forever lost in this numbing emptiness?

Be still and know that I am God. The favorite passage stole quietly into her mind. She took a deep breath and looked around her at the familiar barnyard scene and realized at that moment she was at peace, that there were no memories tormenting her. Could she dare to hope that her joy in living would return to her this way? In small moments of contentment and little snippets of the day that were filled with something as simple as the soothing sameness that was in itself a sort of peace? Could she trust that God would help her healing by blessing her in tiny ways throughout the coming days? After what she’d suffered at Elton’s hands, it would be hard.

But what about Nita? Though she’d been blessed with a husband who cherished her, her life had been filled with problems and grief, too. She’d lived close to God and yet she’d lost four children and her son had gone to prison—not once, but twice. She and her family had been ridiculed and persecuted because she was Indian. How did she reconcile that with her love and trust of God? How had she stayed so optimistic and encouraging?

Meg wanted to ask, but thought she’d spilled enough of her guts for one day. Besides, it wouldn’t be a good idea to become too dependent on Nita or to like her too much, because she would be gone before year’s end, taking Meg’s secrets and fears with her.

* * *

The trip to Wolf Creek and back gave Ace plenty of time to think about things. He’d needed to escape from the fear he saw in Meg Thomerson’s eyes that his nearness seemed to generate. His guilt was bad enough without adding to her distress. He never wanted her to be afraid of him for any reason.

Meg had caught his eye the first time he’d seen her. About a year ago, he’d come back to Wolf Creek after spending a few years in Oklahoma, where he’d tried to put himself back together again after his two-year stint in prison. Tiny, blonde and green-eyed, she’d captured his interest with her bright smile and shy but sweet disposition.

It hadn’t taken long for him to find out she was married. It had taken even less time to learn that she had one child with another on the way and that her husband was pretty much good for nothing. At best Elton was handsome and shiftless; at worst, he was a drunk, guilty of ill treatment. Whenever Meg was a victim of Elton’s anger, the news spread around town, but she always seemed to put it behind her. She never lost her smile or gave in to her circumstances. He admired her for that and even for sticking to the no-account man she was married to. She was one of the strongest women he’d ever known, and Ace figured she and her kids deserved better, but then, that wasn’t for him to say.

He recalled the day he and Colt and big Dan Mercer had surrounded the Thomerson house. Every minute of that day was etched into his mind in vivid detail—from getting word that Elton and his cohort had escaped from prison to the moment he’d felt for a pulse in Elton’s neck.

What he remembered most was cradling a battered Meg in his arms on the way back to Wolf Creek, trying his best not to jar her lest he do her even more harm than Elton had. In retrospect, he should have hitched up her old wagon and made her a pallet in the back to transport her to Rachel’s, but he hadn’t wanted to take the time. Besides, he knew it might be the only time he ever got to hold her.

Especially since you robbed her of a husband and her children of a father. The cruel reminder slipped into his mind as it was wont to do when he least expected it.

There was no making amends for something like that. To say he was sorry and ask for her forgiveness would be a waste of breath. He hadn’t yet found the courage to tell God he was sorry for shooting Elton and ask for His forgiveness. Ace figured that until he could go through a day and not feel glad that Elton was dead, asking for the Lord’s forgiveness would be futile. He didn’t want to add to his other transgressions.

He was miserable without the Lord to lean on, weighed down by guilt and disgust. He’d been through a lot in his life. Clinging to a deep spiritual belief system and parents who demanded his best, he’d managed to come through all his trials with minimal emotional scarring. He wondered if that would be the case this time or if this second accidental killing would be his undoing...one way or the other.

He wasn’t sure how he could get to the point of true sorrow for what he’d done, since sly memories had a habit of slipping into his mind at unexpected times. Like Elton’s taunting voice saying that he wondered how Meg was paying Ace for the food he left on her doorstep.

Ace ground his teeth at the remembrance, and his horse danced sideways, the reins a conduit for his anger. Until he could forgive Elton for his treatment of Meg and himself for his lack of sorrow, the best he could do was help Meg get through the next few weeks.

He returned to Meg’s house just after noon and saw her leaning against the trunk of one of the big oaks in the front, staring up into the leafy branches that shaded her. Though her hair still straggled around her thin face, and purple shadows beneath her eyes proclaimed her sleepless nights, she was still beautiful.

When she heard his horse, she looked at him, an expectant expression on her face instead of the alarm he halfway expected. Relieved, he nodded at her in acknowledgment and shifted his gaze to the front porch, where his mother was busy scrubbing the graying pine boards with a broom and a bucket of soapy water.

He couldn’t help noticing the chunk of wood missing from a board a few feet from the edge. He’d put that mark there, a warning to Elton, who’d grabbed his wife by the arm he’d already broken. Just thinking about it brought back the fury that had overwhelmed him at the other man’s callous disregard for the woman he’d promised to love and cherish.

Ace closed his eyes and drew on the strength that had seen him through the dark days of his incarceration. When he opened his eyes, he was calmer, at least on the outside. Meg was following him toward the house.

His mother glanced up from her scrubbing, and he experienced a surge of love he never failed to feel whenever he looked at her. Like Meg, life had given her many hardships, yet both women had overcome their struggles with enviable serenity and a quiet dignity.

Nita Allen suffered no fools but had often been deemed foolish by her husband for her willingness to give of herself and her means, even to those the world labeled as takers and users. She was often hurt, yet she never changed, nor would she ever.

So here she was, lending a hand to yet another lost and needy soul. He hadn’t been the least surprised when she volunteered to help. He smiled at the busy image she made. From years of living with her, he knew that the water had already been used inside the house to clean something or other. When she was done with the porch, she’d water some plant or another with what was left. Nita Allen wasn’t one to see anything die or go to waste, especially a life.

He could smell the beans she’d brought. They were simmering in a cast-iron Dutch oven hanging on a metal tripod that straddled a small fire she’d built outside. It smelled as though she’d added some salt pork from the smokehouse. There would be johnnycakes and wild green onion and perhaps some potatoes fried in the bacon grease left over from breakfast.

Neither woman spoke, but they both watched as he rode closer and slid from the gelding’s back. It struck him how very different his mother was from the small blonde woman, yet how very alike their expressions were. He suspected that they had other traits in common, too.

“Well?” Nita asked with her customary bluntness.

Ace looped the reins over the hitching post. “Rachel says she thinks we should wait to bring the children home.”

The anticipation in Meg’s eyes faded. Something inside him stirred in response—the innate need born in a man to protect, to shield loved ones from any more pain.

“But she told me they could come home.” Meg’s voice was laced with distress.

“Rachel says she knows mothers and she knows you, and she’s afraid you’ll overdo it with them around. She doesn’t want you picking one of them up without thinking or chasing after them yet. She said you need at least another week or so to heal before taking up their care again. I’m sorry.”

Instead of answering, Meg turned and walked away. Her back was ramrod-straight, and her chin was high. She placed her feet carefully, as if she were so fragile she might shatter if she took a wrong step. And perhaps she would. Automatically wanting to comfort her, Ace started to follow.

“Let her go.” Nita’s voice was low but firm. “You, of all people, should know that she has to work through this in her own way, in her own time.”

They watched as she entered the edge of the woods at the side of the house, the same area where Dan Mercer had wounded Joseph Jones.

Ace thought of all the time he’d spent in the forest through the years. It was the place he’d often gone as a boy to try to sort out his mixed heritage. He’d learned of his Celtic past from his father, who’d filled his mind with stories of bards and fanciful tales and a strangely melodic language he’d tried so hard to learn.

From his mother he absorbed tales of the Keetoowah, the spiritual core of the Cherokee people, who stressed the importance of maintaining the old ways. The mission school he’d attended taught him the tenets of Christianity.

Vastly different, yet with fascinating similarities. All sought solitude for meditation and prayer. Both cultures thought nature was sacred. God had created a place of nature for Adam and had walked with him in the garden; God spoke to Adam there.

The woods were Ace’s garden. His refuge. A place to listen for the voice of God that whispered in the wind and murmured through the leaves of the trees and the rustle of creatures going about their day-to-day lives: finding nourishment, caring for their young, being wounded or hunted. Dying. Becoming part of the earth again, continuing the cycle put into place before the earth was spoken into existence. Ace believed that the voice of God could still be heard in the world around you, if you chose to hear it.

He watched Meg disappear into the woods and wondered if she would hear God’s voice. According to those who knew her, she had a strong will and a stronger faith. This time, though, her injuries were worse, the pain deeper.

He wished he could follow her, but he had trees to fell and wood to chop. He would be here when she returned. Deep in his heart, he knew that he would always be there for Meg.