Making Hay (3 page)

Lessy squeezed her eyes together tightly and sent up the silent prayer that she offered so frequently these days. Thank you for sending me Vass. Help me to be the wife that he needs.

When Vassar offered a deep baritone amen, Roscoe seconded it loudly, and the table of men eagerly reached for the bowls of food within their grasp.

Scrutinizing the contents of the table once more, Lessy nodded reassuringly to her mother seated at the end of the table before picking up a pitcher of ice water to fill the goblets on the table.

“Lessy, you remember Roscoe,” her mother said, gesturing to the older man on Vassar’s right. Lessy gave him a welcoming nod. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Doobervale.”

Widow Green introduced the rest of the crew to her daughter as Lessy filled their glasses and politely repeated their names. When Lessy made her way around the table to the young man at her left, he turned to her and offered his hand.

“Ripley, ma’am,” he said. His eyes were bright blue and warm with laughter as he looked at her.

Rather awkwardly Lessy transferred the pitcher from her right to her left hand before offering hers. Glancing down, she saw her palm was damp from the coolness of the water she carried. Self-consciously she pulled it back and wiped it on her apron, then flustered with embarrassment, she offered her hand once more. The young man did not, as she expected, give her a hearty handshake, but merely grasped her long slim fingers in his own and gave them a most delicate squeeze.

“What a delight to meet you, Miss Green,” he said, his eyes twinkling as they looked straight into hers.

“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Ripley,” Lessy replied. She was slightly taken aback by the warmth of his greeting and a little concerned that he still held her hand.

“Please, call me Rip,” he said, dropping his voice ever so slightly. “You are Miss Lessy, I believe. May I be permitted to address you by your given name?”

His formal question seemed so out of character with his flirtatious tone that Lessy almost giggled. “That would be fine.”

“Lessy.” He repeated the name slowly, thoughtfully, rolling the s’s off his tongue in a caressing way. “It is a diminutive of Celesta, I presume.”

“Why, yes.”

Ripley cocked his head slightly to one side and let his eyes explore her head and shoulders. “Celesta. It means heavenly, you know.”

She nodded slightly.

His tone softened with warmth. “And the name does suit you … Lessy.”

A strange something skittered across her stomach at the unexpected compliment. She felt immediately ill at ease and fought the desire to drop the water pitcher at his feet and hide her unheavenly face from his gaze. Purposefully collecting herself, she leaned forward slightly to pour water into Ripley’s goblet. She felt somehow safer with her hands at work until she cast a glance at the handsome young man only to catch him eyeing her bosom. With a nervous start she jerked back from the table, managing to spill a very cold dollop of water on Rip’s trousers.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

Ripley wiped at the water on his thigh and gave her a careless gesture of unconcern. “I suspect I needed a little cooling off.”

His remark brought a snorty chuckle from the youngster across the table from him.

Lessy’s eyes were immediately drawn to Vass. He sat silently at the head of the table watching the byplay, his green eyes looking at her in a way she found strange and unfamiliar. She felt suddenly as embarrassed and exposed as if wind had thrown her skirts over her head and her best drawers had been in the wash. Their eyes caught, and she blushed and looked away.

Glancing down at the man beside her, Rip’s bright smile was open and friendly. The stranger seemed to offer a safe haven from new feelings that were distinctly uncomfortable.

As if in apology for some slight he’d caused, Ripley turned his attention to his plate, and Lessy moved on down the table to fill the glasses of John Crenshaw and Claidon Biggs, before taking her place to the left of Vassar.

“Muldrow tells me you are about to become his bride,” Ripley said.

Blushing, she spared a hasty glance toward Vass. “Yes.” Her voice was a shy whisper. “As soon as the hay is in.”

Rip’s smile broadened into a grin as he looked around the table. ‘Then I pity this crew,” he said. “With a lovely bride like Miss Lessy awaiting, Muldrow will drive us like Missouri mules!”

The men around the table chuckled. Rip gave Vass a challenging grin. Staring back at him silently, Vass continued to chew his food.

“What about you, Mr. Ripley?” Lessy asked. “Have you got a wife or a sweetheart waiting for the end of the season?”

Tommy McFadden laughed loudly this time with the less than delicate enthusiasm of youth. “Rip’s too smart to fall into some gal’s trap!”

Lessy raised her eyebrows in surprise at the words; Ripley just gave a shrug.

“I just haven’t found that right woman, Miss Lessy,” he said. His smile widened and his expression softened. “Seems every time I meet a girl I could think about marrying”—he turned to glance down the table meaningfully at Vassar—“some other fellow’s already claimed her.” Lessy’s cheeks sparkled with bright warm color at his implied compliment. What a rogue he was! And what a gentleman. She smiled with shy pleasure at Ripley for a timid moment before grabbing up the basket before her and offering it across the table. “You didn’t get any bread, Mr. Ripley. I baked this myself, and some say I’ve quite a knack for it.”

T
he sky was still
an inky blue as Lessy made her way out to the barn to milk. Vass had said he would tend to the cow this morning, but she hated to wake him. And with seven men to feed in addition to her regular chores, she wanted to get an early start on the day. Mammy was helping, of course. But she was letting Lessy lead, giving her a chance to prove what a good farm wife she could be. Lessy welcomed the chance. She wanted Vass to be proud of her.

She let herself into the door of the barn, and the sweet, warm smells of clover and alfalfa assailed her. Like everything else on the farm, the barn was nearly as clean as a church. Vassar believed that cleanliness being next to Godliness meant animals and farm buildings as well as personal hygiene.

“Morning, Sissy,” she said to the big buff-colored Guernsey that stood in the first stall. Lessy quickly gathered up some feed for the cow, and stepping past her in the stall, scattered it evenly in the trough. Sissy wasn’t willing to wait as Lessy neatly spread her morning meal. She pushed her big, anxious head up under Lessy’s arm, trying to push her out of the way.

“For shame, Sissy!” Lessy scolded her as she patted the cow sternly on the cheek. “A lady has got to learn some patience at the breakfast table.”

Sissy’s reply was a loud unconvinced moo.

“You going to sing with me this morning?” Lessy gave the cow one loving caress on the flank before she left her to her eating and gathered up her stool and pail. She hummed a tune that was playing in her head, though she didn’t know the words. It was a sweet, light tune, cheery and fresh, a tune Vass often hummed. She thought of it as Vassar’s song. It made her feel close to him to hear the sweet sounds coming from her own lips.

Lessy heard the crackle of hay underfoot only a moment before a fine tenor voice joined in her song.

“Millie’s brother’s gunning for me,

And the fault is mine, they say.

She lost her drawers at the Sunday School picnic.

And I’ll ne’er regret that day.”

“What are you singing!” Lessy’s eyes were wide with shock as she stared at Ripley leaning indolently against the stall post.

Rip’s grin was wide, his eyes were bright, and his stance was teasing, hands in his pockets, arms folded across his chest. “You were the one humming the tune,” he said. “I just joined in with the chorus.”

“But those words, I—” Lessy sputtered, her face flaming with embarrassment.

“At least I only sang the chorus,” he said. “Why, the verses of that naughty ditty would put kinks in your hair faster than a curling iron!”

Lessy’s face was fiery red. “I didn’t know the words,” she protested.

Rip folded his hands in front of him and surveyed the blushing young woman before him. His lips twitched and his eyes danced, but his tone was gentle. “It’s a drinking song, Miss Lessy. You hear it bellowed by a hoard of galoots at the top of their lungs when they’re out on a round. It’s called ‘Plowing Millie.’ ”

It seemed impossible that Lessy’s eyes could get any bigger, but they did. She nearly choked on her own words. “Oh, dear,” she began. “Mr. Ripley, I never—well, I really didn’t... I—”

Rip held up a hand to silence her. “I’m sorry I embarrassed you, Miss Lessy. I heard your sweet voice humming that wicked little tune, and I just had to join in. I shouldn’t have let you know the words.”

“Oh, no,” Lessy assured him. “I am very grateful that you did. I hum that tune quite often, and I certainly ... well, I wouldn’t want anyone to ... to, well... to get the wrong idea.”

Rip hunkered down in the stall next to her and smiled with genuine admiration. “Miss Lessy, nobody would get the wrong idea about a woman like you,” he said. “You are sweet and warm, and when you give your heart to a man, he’d never have cause to doubt.”

Lessy smiled, her face flushed with pleasure. “Well, Mr. Ripley, that is certainly a glowing endorsement.”

“Every word of it is true.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” His voice was a low gruff whisper. ‘Things about you just shine on through. I know that you are strictly the marrying kind.”

Lessy turned her attention back to the cow. “Well, aren’t most women?” she said. “And I am to be married shortly.”

“Yes, that’s what I hear. And I certainly envy Muldrow his good fortune.”

Lessy turned to look at him. Surprised and puzzled at his words, she was not sure if they were not just flattery.

Before she could make a determination, Rip’s fingers reached out to lightly trace the curve of her jaw and tenderly caressed the tiny white circles he found there.

“I know what these are,” he said.

Lessy pushed his fingers away. “They’re pockmarks.”

“Pockmarks!” Rip sounded horrified. “No, ma’am,” he said firmly. “I’m absolutely sure this is where the fairies kiss you in the dead of night.”

She giggled. “No fairies are kissing me in the dead of night.”

“No? Maybe it’s Muldrow.” He hesitated a moment and touched the tiny scars again before his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Lucky Muldrow.”

A tiny whimper of surprise and shock escaped Lessy’s lips as a strange tingly feeling emanated from his hands to her flesh and throughout her body. Her pulse jumped and a covey of butterflies took flight in her stomach. Her hands stilled at their work. She did not so much as blink, feeling frozen in place.

Her eyes wide, Lessy stared at the handsome man beside her who was looking at her in a way no one had before. She could feel the depths of heat in his eyes, and ripples of anxious excitement quaked through her body.

Vassar! Her mind whispered his name as a plea. The trembling inside her made her think only of Vassar.

The heavy humid silence between them held for one full minute.

Sissy made a noisy complaint and stamped her hind foot threateningly. Lessy jumped slightly, startled. The cow’s interruption broke the spell, and she jerked away from the warm male hand that caressed her.

“Mr. Ripley, please.”

He immediately withdrew and made apology. “Forgive me, Miss Lessy,” he said. “Morning and mockingbirds always get the best of me. They get the best of any man, I suspect.”

Lessy wondered.

His words were made with such a boyish sincerity and an impish grin that her discomfiture ceased immediately, and she found herself smiling and shaking her head at him. He was flirting with her. The idea of a handsome young man making pretty talk to a plain farm woman that was practically married filled her with delight.

“I’ve got no time for foolishness this morning,” she said. “I’ve got a big breakfast to get on the table and a whole day’s chores to do.”

His grin widened. “Don’t let me stop you, Miss Lessy. It’s my ambition to one day marry myself a right-living farm gal and watch her a-working all day long.”

Lessy threw him a look of mock exasperation as he chuckled and leaned indolently against the stall. Contentedly she continued her milking with his eyes upon her.

“So do you flirt with all the women you meet?” she asked him.

Clutching his hand to his chest dramatically, he assured her that it was not so. “Not all the women, certainly,” he said. “Just most of them.”

In response Lessy turned the teat she held in her hand in his direction and squirted the toe of his workboot with warm milk.

Rip raised his hand like a captured criminal. “Don’t shoot, ma’am. I’m unarmed.”

When the milk was just foaming along the top of the pail, Lessy pulled it out of Sissy’s way and handed it to Rip.

“Don’t spill it,” she admonished him as if he were a youngster.

“I’ll do my best, Miss Lessy,” he assured her.

She hung the three-legged milking stool on the side of the stall before leading Sissy out the back of the bam. Lessy removed her halter and gave the milk cow a grateful slap on the rump.

“See you at sundown, Sissy.”

With lazy grace Sissy leisurely strolled away from the barn without so much as a backward glance and began her morning inspection of the pasture.

Lessy watched her for a minute before turning back to Rip, who stood in the doorway, milk pail in hand.

“I can take that now,” she told him as she came back into the barn.

“It would be my pleasure to carry it for you, Miss Lessy,” Rip answered with a flourish of his hand indicating that she should lead the way to the farmhouse.

The two were laughing together as they stepped into the back door of the farmhouse. Vass was leaning against the cupboard, coffee cup in hand, but with his eyes closed. At the sound of their entrance, he stood up straight as an arrow and stared in surprise.

“Good morning, Vass,” Lessy said sweetly. “You’re up early.”

“Morning, Muldrow,” Ripley said. “Where do you want this milk, Miss Lessy?”

Lessy turned her attention back to him. “Let me get the cheesecloth, and you can strain it into the milk can.”

V
ass watched
them work with a strange catch in his heart. “You’re up early, Ripley,” he said.

The young man smiled at him, his straight white teeth glimmering in the dim morning light of the kitchen. “I’m an early riser,” he said. “I can hardly wait for the days to begin.”

Vass took a large swig of coffee and winced as it burned his mouth. He had tried to be an early riser this morning. He’d forced himself out of bed at the first cock’s crow. But apparently it hadn’t been early enough. Ripley had already been slicked up milking and laughing with Lessy before he’d even got both eyes properly opened.

“Stop that or I’ll hit you with a frying pan!” Vass heard Lessy warning. Turning toward them, he saw Rip with the last bit of milk in the pail threatening to douse Lessy.

‘Turnabout is fair play,” Ripley stated, his eyes bright with mischief. “You squirted milk on me—I pour it on you.”

“Not if you want biscuits.”

“Ah, biscuits.” Rip’s grin widened. “Quick bread made from your sweet hands, Miss Lessy, would taste to me like manna from heaven.”

Lessy giggled with delight. Her pink cheeks and bright smile were very alluring.

Vass cleared his throat uncomfortably. A stab of hot jealousy seared his heart. She and Rip looked so happy together. Their talk was soft and flirty. Vass envied that talk.

But it could never be that way for him, he admonished himself. He respected Lessy too much. Vass would never risk the loss of control a flirtation might provoke. Other men could play with fire, but Vassar’s own carnality had already burned too many.

T
he mower cut
a wide swath toward the right of the wheels as it moved across the meadow. John Crenshaw sat high above the team, pulling a line as straight as an arrow. In front of him, Roscoe and Vass walked through the knee-high grass, searching the ground for hidden dangers to horse or cutting blade. Behind the mower Claidon Biggs, Angus McFadden, and his son stirred the worst of the cutting with rakes. The hay would have to be fluffed and separated to dry. The haykicker would do most of that, but still hand labor could spot a potential problem that might break a rake spine and set men and machinery back a day or more.

At a distance Ripley drove the haykicker. He stood on the crossbar, reins in hand, as he guided the shiny piece of farm equipment into the cutting. The haykicker scooped the hay from the ground with spikes and tossed it into a wooden cagelike bin. The bin, connected to the wheels, tumbled the grass over and over as it moved, getting both sunlight and breeze into it. Sometimes known as a tedder, the haykicker took the place of dozens of women and children who in days long past would have been asked to follow the mower or scythe and toss and shake the cut by hand. The newfangled modern machine was able to stir the grass and then evenly spread it against the ground to dry in neat windrows. Fresh-cut hay would not be safe stored in a bam. Damp grass took to rotting and became as combustible as kerosene on a fire grate.

From the shade of the front porch Lessy watched their progress as she shucked com. Squinting, she could almost make out Vass in the distance. His familiar straw hat hid his face from view, but the breadth of his shoulders made him easily distinguishable from the others.

Grabbing up the next ear of corn, she clasped the husk at the blackened tip of the silks and ripped it down with one swift, smooth motion. Snapping off the stem, she pulled the rest of the husk with it and began stripping down the fine silks that clung so tenaciously to the ridge rows.

She wanted Vassar Muldrow. For four years now she had wanted him more than anything in her life, and she’d gone after him with everything she had.

Within days of his arrival on the farm, Lessy had known that he was a serious-minded worker. He had no time for frolic or foolishness. It was as if he held his fears and feelings in fine leather harness with a sharp steel bit to pull up when necessary. Lessy admired his control and emulated his example. But her heart cried that there was more behind his stem facade. That the pain behind his eyes was real and raw and that surely she could soothe it.

But he would never let her close. He would never let anyone close who threatened the restraint that bound him. Lessy understood almost immediately that like catching a chicken in the henhouse, to catch Vassar Muldrow she must scratch as hard and crow as loud.

Lessy was, by nature, neither quiet nor thoughtful. She loved life in a way that she couldn’t quite tamp down. A warm, open girl, she loved to laugh, to run, to sing in the sweet air of morning and the purple shadows of closing day. She had been a high-spirited child who ran wild through the meadows and climbed every tree in the orchard. But overnight she had become a quiet young lady of decorum and responsibilities. A lady that Vassar Muldrow might want to marry.

And the change had not gone unnoticed. Her mother’s brow was furrowed more than once over the metamorphosis. The people at church assumed it was her father’s death that “calmed young Lessy down.” But she thought that her mother knew the truth. The truth that love had conquered Lessy Green.

It had been an improvement, Lessy thought to herself. It had been time for her to grow up and assume the dignity of womanhood. She would have done so, sooner or later, had Vassar not arrived. But since he had, there was no reason why she couldn’t take it on in a way that was calculated to please him.