Joel nodded and clamped his arms across his chest. Wet marks darkened his shirt and down his pants, proof that he’d drunk.
‘‘There’s more inside.’’ Mr. Robertson came out with a sack of flour over one shoulder.
Jacob reentered the dimness of the building. ‘‘What can I carry out?’’
‘‘That sack of beans. There’ll be more.’’
Jacob hefted the hundred-pound sack and threw it over one shoulder, grunting under the weight. He staggered slightly and regained his footing. While he was used to swinging an ax to split wood, he’d not often hoisted heavy sacks over his shoulder. Once outside, he rounded the corner and dumped the sack in the back of the wagon Mr. Robertson pointed to.
Five sacks and many more bundles, some in tow sacks, some wrapped in paper, joined the flour and beans.
‘‘Okay, that’s it.’’ Mr. Robertson climbed up on the wagon seat. ‘‘What’s your boy’s name again?’’
‘‘Joel . . .’’ He almost slipped and said Melody’s maiden name. If he used his name, he could add one more lie to the load he already carried, but if he didn’t use his name, he left himself open to questioning. No wonder the Bible had such strong injunctions on telling the truth.
‘‘Joel, come now. Bring your satchel.’’ He leaned around the building to make sure the boy was still in the chair. He was. The thudding he’d been hearing was the sound of a boot toe slamming against the post holding up the slanted roof. If the arms and the kicking foot were any indication, Joel had picked up sullenness and brought it along for the ride.
Jacob felt like snatching the boy up by his collar, but instead he stopped in front of him, one foot up on the porch floor.
‘‘Joel, Mr. Robertson has offered me a job and us a place to live. We are going home with him now, so pick up your satchel and come along.’’
‘‘I want to find my ma.’’
O Lord, be merciful to us. How do I help this child?
‘‘Joel, we’ll talk of this later. Right now we are keeping a busy man waiting.’’
‘‘She’s dead, ain’t she? You just don’t want to tell me.’’
‘‘I-I’m afraid—’’ ‘‘No, she isn’t. You’re lying.’’ Joel leaped off the stoop, ran around the corner, and climbed into the back of the wagon. The brief glimpse Jacob had of his face was mute evidence that Joel was fighting tears and didn’t want anyone to know.
Well, so much for all his ministering skills of helping people with grief. Jacob castigated himself repeatedly as he stepped on the wagon wheel spoke and climbed up to the seat. Perhaps if he sat beside the boy . . . But he remained where he was, and Mr. Robertson hupped the team toward home, wherever that might be. At least they would have a place to lay their heads tonight and a roof over their heads, along with full bellies if the rear load was any indication.
‘‘Is his mother really dead?’’ Robertson kept his voice low, so as not to be heard above the squeaking wheels and trotting horses.
Jacob wanted to say that it was none of his business, but since the man was good enough to take them in, he deserved more than a surly response.
‘‘I don’t know. She had severe consumption, and she . . . ah . . . disappeared.’’ He tried to keep his voice dispassionate, but the lump in his throat caused a stumble. Like a cat gone off to die was the way it sounded.
Ah, Melody . . .
‘‘I’m sorry for your loss. Long time ago or recent?’’
‘‘Last week.’’
Robertson nodded slowly. ‘‘I see.’’
‘‘So we came west.’’ Not an excuse but a statement of fact.
‘‘Land here has a way of easing a burden. Plenty of hard work to hide in.’’
Jacob glanced over at the driver. Eyes that gazed far beyond the distance, hands gentle on the reins, Ward Robertson looked over his shoulder and nodded. He gave a slight dip of his head, as if they’d formed a pact and needed no more for a signature. If the man thought anything peculiar about his new hand and son, he’d most likely keep it to himself. Jacob figured that if he ever needed to go to battle, he’d want Ward Robertson on his side.
Not having seen a single dwelling along the road for a long while, Jacob was pleased when they finally topped a rise and saw a ranch house snugged against the hill’s south slope. Walls that looked to have grass growing like fur on the sides and a roof of split cedar shakes used the hill for its backside. Two young girls came running to meet them.
‘‘What’d you bring, Pa?’’ The slightly taller one ran alongside the turning wheel.
‘‘Stay back now, or there won’t be any treats for nosy sisters.’’ Mr. Robertson sounded gruff, but the smile that fell in easy creases said otherwise. ‘‘The smaller one is Ada Mae, then Emily. I’ve got a wife and five daughters.’’
Both girls ran behind and scrambled up over the wagon tail.
‘‘Who are you?’’ Ada Mae plunked down beside their young guest.
Jacob turned to watch.
Joel looked away without answering.
‘‘Pa, where did you find the boy?’’
‘‘In town at the store. This here is Mr. Chandler, our new hand, and his son, Joel.’’
‘‘Howdy, sir,’’ they both chimed and without hesitation swung their full attention back to the boy glowering between them.
Ah, Joel, how disappointed your mother would be in your manners
today
.
‘‘How old are you?’’
No answer.
‘‘Cat got your tongue?’’ No trace of sarcasm colored Emily’s question, only curiosity.
‘‘With my girls, your boy might get right spoiled.’’
He could do with some spoiling,
Jacob thought,
but he needn’t be
rude
. ‘‘Joel.’’ One word could speak for many at the right time. Jacob glanced over his shoulder and gave a parental nod to put emphasis on the command.
Joel glowered, shoulders hunched. ‘‘Seven.’’
‘‘I’m Ada Mae, and I’m eight. Do you like school?’’
‘‘Some.’’
Jacob turned to study the house. Two posts off to the side held up twin ropes of drying wash. Cattle grazed down the slope toward the flat field before the creek that leaped and bounded over and around the rocky draw. Grazing cattle dotted the pasture; calves raced through the grass, tails high in mock terror.
‘‘You have a good-looking place.’’
‘‘Thank you. It’s home and keeps food on the table. You and your son can bunk in that soddy off to the right. You’ll eat at the house with the rest of us. Mrs. Robertson is a right good cook.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘We’ll unload the wagon later.’’ He raised his voice. ‘‘You had dinner yet?’’
‘‘No, Pa, we was waiting on you.’’ Emily grabbed one of the tow sacks.
‘‘Good.’’ Turning to Jacob, he said, ‘‘I’ll introduce you to everyone when we get inside.’’
The girls leaped off the wagon before it stopped completely at the hitching post in front of the porch.
‘‘Leave your things here, and let’s go eat.’’
Jacob beckoned to Joel, and the two followed Mr. Robertson, who was slightly favoring his right side, into the house.
‘‘Well, I’m most pleased to meet you,’’ Mrs. Robertson said after her husband had introduced her. ‘‘We’ve been needing some extra help this season. Sit down, sit down. I see you’ve met Ada Mae and Emily.’’ She laid a hand on a girl with long braids. ‘‘This is Virginia. Edith is next, and Mary, our eldest, is married and moved away.’’
‘‘Pleased to meet you all.’’ Jacob smiled at each of them.
What
a fine family
. ‘‘This is my son, Joel.’’ He nearly tripped over the words, but each time he said them, it became easier.
Mr. Robertson said grace as soon as all had taken their places. It was like a flock of birds settling down at once, first one fluttering up, then another. The fragrance of stewed meat and fresh bread nearly undid Jacob. His stomach responded with such a growl, the littlest girl, on his right, giggled behind her hand.
‘‘Ada Mae, mind your manners.’’ Mrs. Robertson set another bowl, this one of baked beans, on the table. ‘‘Help yourselves, now. We don’t expect anyone to leave the table hungry, thank the Lord.’’
When she’d finally dished up her own plate, Mr. Robertson was already raising his coffee cup for a refill.
‘‘Now, Edith, you pour the coffee, and Virginia, since you are finished, you serve the cake.’’ Mrs. Robertson glanced over to Joel. ‘‘Son, you better have another slice of bread. It’s a long time until supper.’’
By the time they left the table, Jacob knew he’d eaten twice what he needed.
‘‘Let’s get that wagon unloaded, and then I’ll want you to run through some things for me.’’
‘‘Fine.’’
What kind of things?
Some time later one of the girls brought a horse in from the field. ‘‘Pa wants to see how you ride.’’
‘‘Ah, fine.’’ Jacob looked at the saddle. ‘‘We never had a saddle, however, we just rode bareback.’’
Virginia looked toward her father. ‘‘Should I give him a lesson, then?’’
‘‘No, you can do that later. Right now, young man, I’d like to see you ride.’’
‘‘You mount by putting your left foot into the stirrup, left hand on the horn, right on the cantle.’’ Virginia identified each piece by a touch of her hand. ‘‘Then pull yourself up, swinging your right leg over the horse’s rump.’’
Jacob knew his thank-you was not heartfelt, but since when had he needed a young girl to explain something so simple? He turned the stirrup with one hand, raised his left foot to shove it into the stirrup, and the horse moved off just a couple of feet, swishing his tail at Jacob’s clumsiness. Three times and he finally swung his right leg over as advised and settled into the saddle. ‘‘Very good, Mr. Chandler.’’ She flipped each rein up around the horse’s neck so that they crossed on the withers.
Jacob picked up the reins, one in each hand, and clucked the horse forward.
‘‘You might want to walk him around the corral, get the feel of his mouth.’’
Jacob did as told, but when he pulled on the right rein, the horse stopped.
‘‘That horse is trained to neck-rein, son.’’ Mr. Robertson sat watching, arms crossed on the horn. ‘‘Let me show you.’’ He exaggerated putting the reins together evenly in one hand with the ends of the reins coming up past thumb and forefinger. Nudging his horse forward, he laid the reins to the right to go right and left to go left. ‘‘Very easy. It gives you a free hand for your rope or a quirt or sometimes to hang on with. Some of our gullies are mighty steep.’’
Jacob followed the instructions, feeling like a failure at first but gaining confidence quickly. He settled back in the saddle as his boss did and followed him out the corral gate down along the creek. Watching Robertson work his cattle gave Jacob a hint of how much he had to learn.
As they rode past the house, Robertson whoaed his horse. ‘‘Wait here.’’ He strode into the house and returned with two rifles and two kids on his heels.
‘‘Can we go along, Pa? We promise to stay out of the way.’’
‘‘I guess.’’ The man mounted his horse and pulled his daughter up behind him. He pointed to Joel. ‘‘Go on. Get up behind your pa.’’
Jacob reached down and, grasping Joel’s hand, pulled him up. Not as smoothly as Virginia and her father but he managed. The feel of Joel’s arms about his waist made his heart do a two-step flutter dance.
My son
.
‘‘Come on along.’’
His horse automatically followed the other.
‘‘We’ll go on up the creek where I set up a target range for the girls to learn on. Everyone needs to be able to shoot out here, if for nothing else but to keep meat on the table. Snared rabbit gets awful tiresome after a while.’’
Jacob swung Joel down, dismounted, and took the rifle offered.
‘‘You know how to load and fire?’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘Good.’’ Robertson handed Jacob a couple of shells. ‘‘See if you can hit that tin can nailed to the tree.’’ He pointed at a distant tree.
Jacob loaded, sighted, fired, and missed. Second shot missed.
‘‘How about that can set on the stump?’’
Jacob sighted, and the can pinged off the wood.
Thank you,
God
. He sighted on a stick poking up from behind a rock. ‘‘I think your sights need some adjusting.’’
‘‘Good. You’ll do.’’
Jacob let out a breath he just realized he’d been holding. If he’d been as bad a shot as he was a horseman, he and his son might have been hoofing it back to town with no job in sight.
‘‘My pa could shoot better’n that.’’
Jacob spun around to catch a gleam in Joel’s eyes. Was that malice? Or just ordinary spite?
I won’t have summer on the ranch. Ruby, how could you do this to
me?
Opal stared out the dirty train window. She was being sent east to the Brandons for her protection like a little kid being sent to her room. How could they be so cruel? All this mess because she’d had a headache and asked to go home from school early and had listened to the siren song of the river and had gone for a swim. Surely you ought to be able to go for a swim without the whole world crashing down around your ears. But it had. And it was all her fault. Atticus had been beaten to within an inch of his life, and those drifters were still loose.
Atticus. Oh, Atticus, you’ve got
to get well, or I’ll never forgive myself
.
Ruby had already packed Opal’s bag, and they were in the wagon on the road to town before she could do much more than catch her breath.
‘‘Is this seat taken?’’
The voice jarred her out of the scene raging in her head. She looked up to see a man dressed in a black wool suit coat, his eyes dark as the coat, cigar smoke wreathing his dark hair.
Opal glanced around. There were plenty of seats available. ‘‘No, but I can’t abide cigar smoke.’’ She sat up straighter and studied him through slitted eyes.
‘‘And if I put it out?’’ His voice had a nice ring to it. He could be interesting.
Sure, just like that drifter, only dressed better. ‘‘No, thanks.’’ She turned back to face the window. She didn’t even have her gun along. Rand made her leave it at home.
He took the seat right across the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him grind out the cigar on the windowsill and stick the remaining portion in his breast pocket.
He reminded her of the hustlers that used to come into Dove House. They’d spend their days doing who knew what and the evenings in the cardroom.