Dorothy Garlock (40 page)

Soren tensed, ready to make a dash for the house if a light appeared. He waited long minutes for something to happen. Nothing did. All was quiet except for his own heartbeat.

Dear Lord, what had he done to Lily? She had fallen in love with him, or thought she had. Hell, didn’t she know he came over because he wanted to know if Procter had bothered her? He enjoyed sitting with her in the darkness, telling her about the places he’d been and the sights he’d seen. He had painted pictures for her of far-off places that she had never even heard about. He was sure she enjoyed his company. She had told him that she looked forward to his visits.

Suddenly his heart shook with another apprehension. The kiss he had given her had been a lover’s kiss. He had wanted it to go on and on. Had his interest in Lily been purely protective, or was there another reason he made the trip across the field night after night?

God’s blood! This was a fine kettle of fish he found himself in!

F
oster
sat, knees bent, his feet flat on the ground, leaning back against the rough boards of the barn. He was so impatient for Soren to return from his visit with Lily he could hardly sit still. Soren had already been gone half the night, he grumbled to himself. It would be just his luck to run into him if he went over there before he come back. What was he doing anyway? Had he fallen for little Lily? Didn’t he realize that any man who took Lily had to take Hettie, too?

Foster’s sour mood lightened when he thought of Hettie. She had changed some since he’d noticed her last. He hadn’t been so drunk that he didn’t remember Hettie flying into the German for harassing him. She had hovered protectingly over him, giving him tenderness, something he’d not had for many years. She’d been as stubborn as a mule, too, and so damn innocent it made his flesh crawl.

Hellfire, he knew Hettie was a woman with the mind of a child, but she was loyal and compassionate in her childish way. It was a good thing that she was there on the farm where she wasn’t as likely to be taken advantage of. It had happened once and Lily was the result. As pretty as Hettie was, some pimp would get a hold of her and she’d spend her days and nights flat on her back.

His thoughts turned to Owen and his new wife. Hell! She was a prize. Owen was a lucky dog. It had been good of them to offer him a bed in the house, but he’d slept where night overtook him for so long he doubted that he would ever be house-broken again. All he wanted right now was to get help to ease this pain in his gut.

He watched for Soren, cussed him silently, and finally dozed.

When Foster awakened from a nightmare of snakes and horned toads, the birds were fluttering in the trees overhead—a sure sign that dawn was no more than an hour away. The raw craving still ate at his gut. He pulled himself to his feet and stood on unsteady legs holding on to the side of the barn until the dizziness passed. He looked at the heavens and promised the Lord one year of his life in return for just one swallow of whiskey.

A rooster crowed. Shitfire! He had to hurry. It would be daylight soon. After a trip to the outhouse, Foster took off across the field running between the rows of corn. His breath rasped in and out of his open mouth, his chest hurt, his legs were rubbery. God, he was weak! He stopped to rest several times, then plunged on, staggering at times.

Finally the farm came into sight. To his horror there was a light in the kitchen window. Dammit to hell! He didn’t care who saw him, he was going to get that bottle! He slipped between the break in the fence and moved alongside the chicken house.
Damn the two-legged idiots.
They set up such a racket Jens would be sure to think there was a fox in the henhouse. Foster hurried along the board-fence surrounding the hog lot, knowing that when he reached the end he would have a full view of the back of the house.

He stopped suddenly and pulled back. Not twenty feet ahead was a span of mules hitched to a wagon. Foster pressed himself against the fence, and strained to see what was going on in the kitchen. Jens was holding the screen door open and the big German was bringing Esther across the room and out onto the porch. One arm had locked her to his side and a hand covered her mouth. Nevertheless, Esther was putting up a fight. Her arms flayed wildly, and feet lashed out at Jens when they passed.

Poor, crazy Esther. They were taking her to Owen.

“Goddammit! Be still.” The man lifted Esther off her feet, stepped off the porch and carried her to the wagon. Jens followed.

As Procter attempted to lift Esther to the wagonbed, she bucked violently. The hand covering her mouth slipped. He howled, drew back his hand and slapped her across the face. The blow turned her head around, but she didn’t cry out.

“Don’t hit her,” Jens said.

“I’ll knock her teeth out if she bites me again!”

“Don’t whip me, Papa! Please, Papa. Mama . . . Ma . . . ma—”

“Hurry up. Lily and Hettie will be out here.”

“I locked ’em in. Yeow . . .”

Fighting him with all her strength, Esther had landed a blow on Procter’s cracked collarbone. He gave her a smart cuff on the ear.

“Don’t hit her!” Jens attempted to help hold the struggling woman, but had to back away when she kicked him.

Foster reared up. He could not stand aside and see a woman mistreated. Esther could be handled without hurting her. Even in his weakened condition, and knowing the man could make mincemeat of him, he shoved himself away from the fence to surge forward. As he did, his foot caught in loose wire. He fell face down in the dirt, his breath knocked out of him. He fumbled to untangle his foot from the wire and got to his feet.

Procter’s huge hands were clamped to Esther’s shoulders and he was shaking her with such a force her head whipped back and forth like a leaf in a windstorm.

“Ya damn crazy bitch! Ya damn crazy bitch!”

“Stop that! Put her in the wagon ’n’ go. If ya ain’t, take her back in the house.” Jens grabbed at Procter’s arm. The German was too angry to hear. He continued to shake Esther viciously.

“Leave her be!” Foster yelled.

Startled by Foster’s shout, Procter stopped shaking Esther and stared at him stupidly. Esther hung in his hands like a rag doll.

“You don’t have to treat her like that.”

“Dammed if it ain’t the drunk stickin’ his nose in,” Procter roared, and shoved Esther with such a force that her head whipped back and cracked against the wagonbed. She slid to the ground. He started for Foster but stopped when Jens spoke sternly.

“I’m not havin’ no more fightin’. Ya hear, Procter?”

“Yeah. I hear . . . for now. I ain’t forgettin’ this, ya pickled-brained good for nothin’. Just ya wait. Ya’ll get what’s comin’ to ya.” He gave Foster a threatening look, then turned back to where Jens bent over Esther.

“Get up, Esther, and get in the wagon. You’ll be all right with Procter’s kin. They’ll be good to ya, or I’ll not pay for your keep. Now get . . . up—” Jens grabbed her shoulders to lean her against the wagon wheel. Her head flopped crazily to the side. He put his hands on each side of her face to hold her head up. When he let go, it fell sideways and she slumped on her side.

“God help us!” he gasped in horror. “Ya killed her!”

Jens knew immediately what had happened. He’d wrung enough chicken necks to know when one was broken. He stood and backed away.

“What’er you sayin’?
I
didn’t kill her! I . . . didn’t! I . . . never hurt her! Get up, ya crazy bitch.” Procter knelt down, grabbed Esther’s hair and lifted her head. His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed in wordless horror. When his hand slipped from her hair, her head sagged like the bloom of a wilted flower.

“I told ya not to hit . . . her!” Jens cried.

“I didn’t hurt her!” Procter blurted, still backing away.

“Ya broke her . . . neck, is what ya done—Ah . . . Ah—” The old man gasped, grabbed at his chest with both hands and sat down hard on the ground.

“What’s the matter, Jens? What’s the—”

“Get . . . Lily—” Jens leaned far to the side, then slowly toppled over.

“Jens! Get up. I didn’t mean to—Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! I didn’t mean to—”

Both Foster and Procter stood as if rooted to the ground for several long seconds. Then Foster moved. He hurried past the still-rooted Procter and ran to the house. “Lily!” He pulled open the screen door and yelled again, “Lily!”

“In here! We can’t get out!”

Foster yanked away the chair that had been wedged under the doorknob and flung open the door. The women had hurriedly pulled dresses on over their nightclothes when they heard the commotion, but their hair hung down in tumbling masses around their shoulders.

“Foster! What you doing here?” Hettie was never at a loss for words.

“I think Procter killed Esther! Your grandpa has swooned or something,” Foster explained breathlessly.

Lily hurried to the door, then hung back. “Where’s Procter?”

“Out there.” Foster reached for the rifle that hung over the door. “Let’s go.”

“Mama, bring a lantern.”

When they reached the still forms beside the wagon, Procter was nowhere in sight. They went first to Esther who lay crumbled and lifeless. The women watched while Foster laid her flat on the ground and straightened her limbs. Her neck had been broken. Lily let out a sob, then went to see about her grandpa.

Foster sat on his haunches beside Esther, wondering if he couldn’t have done something to prevent this accident, and it
was
an accident. He honestly didn’t believe the big German brute had intended to kill her—he had not been aware of his strength when he shook her.

“Grandpa? Are you all right? Grandpa! Oh . . . oh . . . mercy!” The light from the lantern shone on the old man’s face. The eyes were open and staring.

“What’s the matter, Lily? Why is Pa looking like that?”

“Foster!”

Foster knelt down beside the old man. He had seen enough of death to know that he was gone. Yet he tried to find a pulse and put his ear to Jens’s chest hoping to hear a heartbeat. He was as still as a stone.

“He’s . . . gone. His heart must have given out all at once when he saw what had happened to Esther.”

“Oh, goodness me! Poor Grandpa—”

“Pa’s dead, ain’t he, Lily?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“He’s gone to heaven to be with Ma and Harriet,” Hettie said the words as if to comfort Lily. “But you’ve still got me, Lily.”

“Yes, I’ve got you, Mama.”

Lily stood and put her arms around her mother. While they were holding each other, the barn door opened and Procter rode out on his horse. By the time he left the yard the horse had been kicked into a run. They listened to the hoof beats until they faded into nothingness.

“What happened, Foster?” Lily asked.

“Procter was trying to put Esther in the wagon. At first I thought they were taking her to Owen, then Jens said they were taking her to some of Procter’s kin. Esther fought and Procter shook her. I’m sure he didn’t mean to kill her.”

“They were going to get her away before Uncle Owen came.”

“Seems like it.”

“How come you’re here?”

Hettie answered. “You come to get the bottle you hid in the lilac bushes, didn’t you, Foster? It’s not there any more. I broke it on a stump.” Hettie took hold of his hand and gazed at him. “I like you, Foster. I’m not going to let you kill yourself with whiskey. Soren said you would.”

For the first time in twenty years Foster saw wide-eyed, open admiration in the face of a woman looking at him. It did something strange to his heartbeat. Hettie was the only person he’d ever known who so openly expressed her feelings.

“You’re not, huh?” It was all he could say.

“Soren said drink would kill you. I don’t want you dead, Foster.” She slipped her arm around him as naturally as she had around Lily. “I’ll help you be good, Foster.”

It seemed natural for him to put his arms around both women. They held each other for a long while.

“What do we do now?” Lily looked dazed.

“We go tell Owen.” Foster’s voice sounded different to him. How long had it been since he’d taken charge of anything? How long since anyone needed him as these two women needed him? “You two scoot into the house and get dressed. I’ll stay here while you go over and tell what has happened.”

They moved to obey. Lily paused. “What if Procter comes back?”

“Procter has had the hell scared out of him. He won’t stop until he reaches the river and finds a boat to take him across. Go on, now.” He prodded them gently. “We’ll leave the wagon where it is so Owen can get a true picture of what happened.”

“What’ll we do without Pa, Lily?” Hettie asked.

“We’ll get along. You’re not to worry about that now. Uncle Owen will know what to do.” Lily took her mother’s hand and led her to the house.

Dawn had lit the eastern sky by the time the women started across the field. Foster found blankets to cover the still bodies on the ground. Death was so final, he thought, as he covered Esther’s still face.

Would he die in some river-front tavern with a knife in his ribs, or would he freeze to death lying drunk in a ditch or under a bridge? If things had been different he might have had a family who loved him. Oh, hell, he’d given fifteen years of his life to whiskey because things
hadn’t
been different.