Mud Creek (20 page)

“What time is it?” he asked again, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“How would I know? Three? Four?”

“Four o’clock! For God’s sake, Violet, I have to be up in another hour.”

“So?”

She glowered at him, but he ignored her, so she stomped away.

He liked to be in charge of her, assumed he owned her and could order her around. He thought she should only drink when he allowed it, when he was with her to dole it out in small amounts. But she always craved more than he was willing to supply.

Her temper sparked.

She went to the dresser in the front room, opened the top drawer and riffled through his clothes. Helen had neatly folded them for the ungrateful ass.

Violet didn’t find the bottle, but she was in a wild mood, and she dumped the clothes on the floor. Then she tossed the drawer, and it landed with a clatter.

She’d just done the same with the second drawer when he staggered in from the bedroom.

“You have absolutely tipped off your rocker,” he fumed.

“I need that liquor,” she hissed. “I need it!”

“God almighty,” he grumbled, peering at the mess she’d made. “Clean that up!”

”No.”

As he watched, she seized the bottom drawer and emptied it as she had the first two.

“Where is it?” she demanded. “Tell me, or I swear I’ll tear down the whole bloody house.”

She grabbed the trunk in the corner and pitched out the contents. It was more of his clothes, his winter things, mittens and sweaters and wool hats Florence had knitted before she’d gone mad.

Walt stood, gaping, and the heat of his gaze was intoxicating. He lusted after her, and his attraction was different from that of the boys with whom she typically flirted.

His desire was angry and controlling. He wanted to possess her. He wanted her to belong to him, to grovel and obey.

He wanted her to be…Florence!

Gad, that was it, wasn’t it?

He’d sent Florence to an asylum so he could replace her with a younger, prettier version! He hoped Violet would become Florence!

Violet was drunk and furious and insanely awake. She hadn’t slept in four days—she was that agitated—and the notion that she was supposed to be the new Florence was incredibly amusing.

She started laughing, twirling in circles, bumping into the furniture, knocking it over.

“Stop it, Violet.”

“I’m not Florence,” she jeered in a sing-song voice. “I’m not Florence! I’m not Florence!”

“Stop it!” he said more sternly.

“And you can’t make me be Florence.” She was doubled over with hilarity. “You can’t make me be her, and that’s what you’d like, isn’t it? You can’t make me be Florence!”

There was an iron poker by the stove. She snatched it up and began banging on the floor slats, suspecting that his liquor stash was hidden underneath.

She liked the sound of the poker thudding against the wood, so she struck the walls, too. With each blow, she grew stronger, more certain the whiskey was calling to her.

There was a window next to the door, and she swung hard and smashed out the glass. It splattered everywhere, and the sight was uproariously funny.

Shrieking with glee, she whirled faster and faster, so dizzy she could barely stay on her feet.

He rushed over, clutched her forearms and shook her so ferociously that her head snapped back and forth.

“What is wrong with you?” he seethed.

“I’m happy!”

“No, you’re crazy as a loon. Calm your ass down!”

“I’m not crazy, so I can’t be Florence.”

“Quit saying that.”

His insistence that she cease the taunt only made her hurl it louder and more rapidly.

“I’m not Florence. I’m not Florence.”

“Shut up!”

“I can’t.”

“Shut up!”

He was bellowing now as she squealed with elation.

Didn’t he realize how silly he looked when he was angry? Didn’t he realize how old he was? How homely? How…bald?

Every night, they talked and talked, and he thought it meant something. He thought she…
liked
him. Didn’t he understand that she did it for the whiskey? That she did it to aggravate Albert? That she did it to keep herself busy so she didn’t die from boredom?

“I’m not yours, Walt,” she mocked. “I’m not.”

“You stupid witch. Get the hell out of here.”

“I can’t leave. I don’t belong anywhere.”

She pulled away from him, still holding the poker. Without intending to, she spun—but he was in the way—and she hit him.

He slapped her so viciously that she fell to her knees.

She grinned up at him, daring him, goading him to further violence.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she bragged.

“You should be.”

“Why? You can’t hurt me.”

He raised his fist, clenched to deliver a clout rather than a slap, when suddenly, the strangest expression crossed his face.

Instead of lashing out, he clasped the center of his chest, directly over his heart.

“Jesus!” he gasped.

A wave of pain rocked him, and he bent over, a palm braced on his thigh.

“Jesus!” he gasped again, and he dropped to the floor.

He didn’t say another word. He took a few wheezing, tortured breaths, then his respiration halted altogether.

It grew very quiet, the only noise the wind rustling the grass outside.

Amazed and shocked, Violet froze, then tiptoed over. She squatted down, watching him.

She could have screamed and run to the main house, could have yelled for Albert and pleaded for help. But what was the point?

“You shouldn’t hit girls, Walt,” she murmured.

She laid the poker by his right hand so it would seem as if he’d wrecked his own home in a drunken rage.

Then she stood and walked out, and even though he was dead, dead, dead, she closed the door softly as she left.

“What do you
think
happened?”

“I have no idea.”

Helen gazed over at James, then over to the family cemetery that was growing by leaps and bounds.

They were standing by the back door, the burial finished.

Without asking Albert’s permission, Helen had sent Robert and Carl to fetch James. Albert had been paralyzed with grief and Helen with astonishment. They’d been in no condition to inter his father.

On hearing of Walt’s death, James had come immediately. He’d built Walt’s coffin, had assisted Carl and Robert in digging the grave. Although he wasn’t a preacher, he’d read from the Bible and talked about Walt’s life and efforts at the ranch.

Then he and the boys had lowered the coffin into the ground, had covered it with dirt.

Albert was still out there by himself, a lonely figure on the barren hill. He was in a state of shock. In a few brief months, he’s lost his beloved brother, his father, his mother to madness. It was a series of stunning blows, and Helen didn’t know how he’d get through it.

He would need support and empathy, but with how he’d been treating her and Violet, Helen’s compassion was in short supply. She would have to muster some kindness, but how? He was as unlikeable as her sister.

She was shaken by the unseemly manner of Walt’s passing, drained by the realization of the changes his absence would bring. He hadn’t been the most competent rancher in the world, but at least he’d had some sense.

Albert was in charge now, and God help them all.

“It looked as if his heart simply gave out,” Helen explained.

“You don’t believe that’s the whole story?”

“I can’t begin to guess.”

“He worked hard. A man’s body can only take so much before it’s had enough.”

“If you’d seen the cottage…”

Her voice trailed off, and she shivered.

It was a cold afternoon in late October. Gray clouds whipped across the sky, pushed by a frigid wind. There was snow on the ground.

“It’s a very small house,” she said.

“I’ve been in it. Albert showed it to me once.”

“The front room was in ruins, Walt’s clothes on the floor, the window smashed out. For some reason, he flew into a rage and demolished the place.”

“That doesn’t sound like Walt.”

“There was an empty liquor bottle next to him,” Helen confessed, ashamed to mention it.

Why speak ill of the dead? Why tarnish Walt’s image? But the circumstances of his demise were just so odd, and every detail upset her.

“Maybe he was intoxicated and went overboard,” James said.

“I suppose that could be it,” Helen haltingly concurred.

“Women aren’t the only ones who go crazy out here.” He was referring to Florence. “Men can fall apart, too. Florence’s situation might have affected him more than he let on.”

“It’s possible he crumbled from the strain, but for him to destroy what he’d built with his own two hands. It seems so…out of character. And for him to drink himself into a stupor! He tippled in the evenings, but was never inebriated.”

“He probably hid it from you. Men do that, too, you know. If he had a problem with liquor, he wouldn’t have wanted you to witness it.”

“I wonder if that’s why he moved out.”

“Was it his idea?”

“Yes. After Florence left, he had us switch houses so I could be near the kitchen. He thought it would be easier for me.”

“His living alone might have been a way he could imbibe to excess without you being aware.”

“But to wreck the place!” She sighed. “I don’t understand it.”

Albert was the unfortunate person to have found Walt. He hadn’t arrived for breakfast, so Albert went to check on him, innocently assuming Walt had slept in or was sick.

None of them had been prepared for the reality of what had occurred.

Luckily, it hadn’t been Carl or Robert who’d stumbled on Walt. They’d been bundling up for the long, chilly ride to school, so they’d been shielded from the true condition of the cottage, the true condition of their father.

Albert had raced in with the terrible news, and he’d been overly distraught, so Helen had had to make all the decisions. She’d kept the boys away from the carnage, had sent them to find James.

By the time they’d returned with him, she’d cleaned up most of the mess, had laid Walt on the bed and covered him with the blankets so it would appear as if he’d died in his sleep. But it was all a farce.

Walt had suffered a sudden, violent, and disturbing death, and they were all inconsolable.

Except for Violet. She was thoroughly unmoved.

Helen had dragged Violet out to the cemetery for the burial, but the minute the ceremony was over, she’d walked back to the house. She was inside, and Helen couldn’t guess what she was doing. Certainly not finishing the cooking of the meal Helen intended to serve once they had calmed enough to eat.

Violet was probably sitting by the stove, dreaming of how much better off she’d be if she could flee the ranch. Helen had the same dream, but she’d learned not to dwell on escape.

Life was hard, work unending, happiness fleeting. Why pine away?

If a woman was shrewd, if she was thrifty and resourceful, she could change her fate. Yet it took money and luck, and Violet didn’t have either one.

Helen glanced over and saw Carl and Robert out in the south pasture. They’d saddled James’s horse and were bringing the animal to him. As the moment approached for him to depart, she was nearly bereft.

“Are you sure you won’t stay for dinner?” she inquired.

“I’d like to, but I can’t.”

“I don’t care about Albert,” she vehemently claimed, “or how he treats you. I don’t care if he’s rude or stupid or condescending. I don’t care! Stay for me. Stay because I’m asking you.”

He smiled a sad smile. “It’s difficult to refuse, but I can’t oblige you.”

“I hate that this is how I’m forced to carry on.”

“I know.”

“You were so helpful to us, and I’m so grateful. I don’t have any means of repaying you except with food.”

He gazed out at Albert where—in his black suit—he was a dark stain in the grass.

“He wouldn’t like it,” James murmured.

“And I told you: I don’t care. It’s my home, too. When do I get what I want?”

He shrugged. “Maybe never?”

“You’re right about that,” she petulantly scoffed.

The boys delivered his horse, and he thanked them, but they thanked him, too. They were much more polite than their older brother. They understood the kindness James had extended by pitching in. They understood how awful it would have been if he hadn’t agreed to assist.

Looking glum, they trudged into the house, the sole bright spot of their day being Helen’s promise to feed them shortly.

James was checking his saddle, and when he would have mounted, she said, “Let me walk you out to the road.”

He stared out at Albert. “Are you certain you should?”

“I can’t bear to part with you just yet.”

They strolled off, side by side, his horse nosing along after them.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she morosely stated.

“I don’t want to leave, either.”

“Stay then! Just till sunset.”

“Oh, Helen, please don’t beg me. This entire affair has left me very weary.”

She peered up at him, for once not concealing her deep and abiding affection. He was undone by her frank expression, and he missed a step, stumbling slightly on a loose rock. Then he straightened and continued on.

The gate was looming much too quickly, and when they reached it, there would be no reason for him to dawdle. She wished she had magical powers that could push the gate farther and farther away so they never arrived.

“I’m very frightened,” she confided. “Without Walt to keep us focused, I don’t know how we’ll manage.”

“Neither do I.” He studied the decrepit, windblown yard. “Every time I stop by, this place is worse. A homestead is supposed to gradually improve, but there’s been no progress here, which is a very bad sign.”

“Of what? Of failure?”

“Eventually.”

“You think Albert might lose the property?”

“Yes, from disaster or exhaustion. That’s the likely conclusion. It’s very common.”

Helen examined the ranch, trying to see it as he saw it: the slanted house, the falling sheds, the broken down equipment that was never repaired.