Читать книгу The Rocking R Ranch - Tim Washburn - Страница 7

CHAPTER 2

A short distance down the road from the main house, Abigail Turner walked through her dark house and into the kitchen, trying to recall the dream she’d just had. She struck a match and lit the coal oil lamp and stoked the fire, adding more wood from a small stack beside the stove. The dream involved a carriage, a man, and a large city, possibly Saint Louis. But try as she might, she couldn’t recall any of the details of who was involved or what she might have been doing. And the last time she had been in Saint Louis was years ago, before she’d met her husband, Isaac, and settled down.

As the last fragment of the dream frustratingly faded from memory, Abby stepped out the back door and walked to the outhouse to relieve herself, then filled a pan with water from the well and returned to the kitchen, the sweat already running down her back. Wetting a dish towel, she wiped her face and under her arms and then gathered up her long, red hair and used a strip of fabric to fashion a ponytail. Abby was tall like her mother and had also gotten her mother’s red hair and blue eyes, but that’s where the similarities ended. She had her father’s larger frame with wide shoulders, larger hands, and she wore a size nine shoe. Abby wasn’t chubby or fat although she looked larger than an average woman. She called it being big-boned. With her hair off her neck, she already felt cooler. After putting on a pot of coffee, she grabbed her sourdough starter from an overhead shelf and began making biscuits.

Over the years a succession of cooks had paraded through the Turner home, yet none ever quite lived up to Abigail’s expectations. So now, much like her mother, Abigail was responsible for a majority of the cooking duties and usually begged for help only for special occasions or holidays. Her sister, Rachel, however, had run through a long line of cooks before she got tired of that and settled on the last person she’d hired and she rarely, if ever, ventured into the kitchen of her house next door. Abigail couldn’t decide if her sister had a less discerning palate or if it was just plain laziness. Knowing Rachel as well as she did, Abby suspected it was the latter.

In addition to the main house where her parents lived, she and her three siblings had constructed four other three-room homes that formed a horseshoe-shape with the main house at the center. Although they all shared a huge backyard, there was a good deal of distance between the houses and that allowed for a modicum of privacy while also creating a fairly strong defensive position. If marauding Indians rode up to the rear of the homes, they’d face the cold steel of a dozen rifle barrels. And around front, the semicircle arrangement allowed a single shooter at the main house an almost unlimited field of fire to keep any intruders at bay.

Her husband, Isaac Turner, walked into the kitchen, pulling his suspenders over his shirt. “Biscuits ready?”

Her hands covered in flour as she mixed the dough in a bowl, Abigail said, “Do they look ready?”

“You don’t gotta bite my head off.”

“Why’re you asking if you can plainly see they aren’t ready?”

Isaac poured himself a cup of coffee. “I got work to do.”

“Work your butt up the ladder and roust the kids.”

“You wake up mad?” Isaac asked before taking a sip from his cup.

“Yes, and I’m likely to stay that way.”

“One more reason to get out of the house,” Isaac mumbled as he stepped out of the kitchen. Rather than crawling up the ladder to the sleeping loft, he shouted upstairs for the kids to get up.

Abigail pursed her lips and blew a stray strand of hair off her face “You tryin’ to wake up everybody on the ranch?”

“I expect they’s already up. What’s got you so riled up? Cookin’? I tole you to hire another cook.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you none to learn how to make biscuits.”

“Okay, I’ll make biscuits and you go traipsing after your pa all day.” Isaac had sandy blond hair and he and Abby were the same height. Wiry and lanky, he might weigh 140 pounds if he put on his coat and stood in the rain for an hour. Being about the same size as Abby, they had often argued about who would win if they ever got into a real fight.

A clatter arose from overhead as the three children climbed out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Abigail asked.

“Hunt down them rustlers that stole them two steers.”

“Does two less steers really matter?”

“It surely does to your pa.”

“If he says jump do you ask how high, too?”

“Don’t start, Abby.” Isaac pulled out a chair at the table and sat.

“Have the law take care of it.”

“What law? You know there ain’t no law round here except your pa.”

Raised voices interrupted their conversation when an argument erupted upstairs. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and shouted, “Hush up and get down here.” She turned back to her husband to say something else but was interrupted by footsteps pounding down the ladder. Their oldest daughter, thirteen-year-old Emma, appeared first. “Emma, you and your sister go gather the eggs,” Abigail said.

“Ugh,” Emma moaned. “Can I go to the outhouse first?”

“You can. But if you want to eat, I need the eggs.”

Emma grabbed the hand of her sister, seven-year-old Amelia, and dragged her outside as Abigail, using a spoon, dolloped the biscuit dough into an iron skillet and slid it into the oven. She pulled a large pan from the shelf overhead and started slicing bacon into it. She glanced over at Isaac. “What about the ranger that was through here a few days ago?”

“Charlie Simmons? Hell, he’s too lazy to wipe his own ass. Claims he’s lookin’ for rustlers but he ain’t.”

“Momma, Pa said a bad word,” ten-year-old Wesley said as he entered the kitchen, his hair looking like a bird’s nest.

Abigail wiped her hands on a towel and smoothed Wesley’s hair down. “Hush up. We’re having grown-up talk. Now go do your milkin’.”

Wesley groaned, grabbed the bucket, and headed outside.

“Why’re you all the sudden so concerned about us trailing after a couple of cattle rustlers?”

Abigail stirred the bacon around the pan. “Did I say I was concerned?”

“Why ask all them questions, then?”

“Because you’ll be gone who knows how long leaving me here to wrangle the kids.”

“Send ’em up to your mama’s for the day.”

“What makes you think she wants to wrestle our rascals? She’ll be swamped with Percy and Mary’s bunch once Percy rides off with you.”

“What’s wrong with Mary? She feelin’ poorly again?”

The bacon done, Abigail carried the pan over to the table and set it down. “What do you mean, ‘again’? She’s been feeling bad for months. Might not hurt for you to take a good look around once in a while.”

“Hell, I can’t keep up with my own family.”

“Thank you for makin’ my point. Anyway, Mary has something bad wrong with her. Says her eyes get blurry and she hurts all the time. Claims she’s so stiff sometimes she can hardly move.”

“Shoot, I’m stiff as a board after bein’ in the saddle all day, too,” Isaac said.

Abigail, on her way back to the kitchen, stopped midstride and glared at her husband. “Sometimes I wonder why I married you.”

The kids eventually returned with the requested items and Abby scrambled the eggs and carried the pan to the table and sat.

Eating was an act of warfare in their home, and as her family mowed through breakfast like it was the last meal they ever expected to see again, Abby nibbled the corner of a biscuit, waiting for them to finish so she could get on with her day.

Once her family had eaten everything in sight, Abigail added a fresh batch of biscuits to a basket, along with more bacon and scrambled eggs she’d hidden in the oven, and asked Emma to take the food over to Percy’s house. Then Abby dived into the cleanup and was in the middle of wiping out the cast-iron skillets when Isaac returned to the kitchen carrying his bedroll. Tossing it on the table, he grabbed his gun belt from the coatrack by the door, and strapped it on, eager to try out his newly purchased pistol. He pulled it from his holster and looked at it—again. The Colt Single Action Army revolver—the Peacemaker—was a new type of weapon and had just been released from the manufacturer earlier in the year. There was no more packing powder and ball into each of the pistol’s cylinders—with the Colt all Isaac had to do was drop in six .45 caliber metallic cartridges and he was ready to shoot.

“Why do you even bother with a pistol?” Abigail asked from the kitchen. “You can’t hit anything with it.”

Isaac frowned. “Can, too. Amos give me some pointers.”

“Blind leading the blind,” Abigail said. “If you want to learn how to shoot, you’d be better off talkin’ to Percy.”

“Why? ’Cause he rode with the Rangers for a spell? That don’t make him a crack shot.”

Abigail shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

* * *

Angered by his wife’s pessimism, Isaac shoved a couple of boxes of ammunition into his saddlebag, slung it over his shoulder, grabbed his rifle and his bedroll, and walked to the front door. With his hand on the latch, he paused for moment, hoping his wife would at least offer parting words or give him a hug before he left. But after a few moments of silence and no movement on Abigail’s part, he pushed the door open and stepped out into the dawn. “Damn that woman,” he muttered as he walked toward the barn.

While saddling his horse, Isaac’s mind drifted repeatedly to his wife. Things hadn’t been good between them for a while now. They were cordial to each other—mostly—but a man had his needs and Abigail had been less than cooperative. Yes, the birth of Amelia had been hard for Abby, but that had been seven years ago. Since then, their bedroom encounters had been few and far between and Isaac didn’t know if Abby was afraid of getting pregnant again or if it was something more. He had even thought about broaching the subject with Abby’s sister, Rachel, yet for one reason or another hadn’t. Probably because he knew what his sister-in-law’s answer would be—Tie it in a knot and quit pestering your wife. Besides, he thought, the chances of the story getting back to Abby were high and if she found out Isaac was talking about their private business, he’d catch eternal hell. With no easy answers available, Isaac climbed aboard the now-saddled horse and shoved his rifle into the scabbard. With a cluck of his tongue and a touch of his spurs, he steered the six-year-old bay gelding out of the barn.

Emma had named the horse Blaze because of the slash of white on his forehead and not because of his speed. However, Blaze had a comfortable gait and was Isaac’s preferred choice for long rides. And with his stubborn father-in-law, a long ride was almost assured.