The Milch Bride (9 page)

“What’s going on between you and that girl?”

“You’re asking me if there’s something improper between me
and Miss Stoddard.” He felt the muscle in his jaw flex, he was gritting his
teeth so hard. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” she said the word with disgust, her hands on her
flat hips. “Don’t tell me nothing. I saw you two making eyes at each other.”

“Making eyes? We shared a smile when the baby laughed. You
smiled and laughed too.”

“You weren’t smiling at the baby. You were looking at each
other, smiling and looking away. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he growled. “You’re here every day with us, you
know nothing is going on, for God’s sake.”

“Don’t swear at me, Jackson Harper. Then why were you on one
horse?”

He wondered if it was possible that Rubye had seen him
kissing Hattie. He shook his head in disbelief. No, he had been in a swale
below sight of the ranch. No one saw it.

Rubye was one cagey old bird. Somehow she knew about it.

“I heard the shots. Worried those no counts were back and
rode in to help you ladies…”

“She was shooting coyotes. What kind of woman shoots
coyotes?”

“Quiet down. Give me a chance to answer. She was out
walking, and I only had one horse. I was bringing her back to the house to be
safe.”

“Donna would never shoot at coyotes. She was a lady. This
girl is strange. You’ve heard all the whispers and talk at church. Mrs. Dawson
says she can send for someone suitable, we don’t have to have that trollop.”

“Irene Dawson needs to back-off. She seems plenty pleased at
how big and handsome J.D. looks when she ‘s showing him off at church services
as her wonderful grandson.”

“When have you ever seen any lady act like she does?”

“No, she’s not Donna. Her Dad taught her to shoot and ride
and chase cattle,” he continued.

“She’s strange. Donna would never have scrubbed dirty clothes,
or harnessed a mule to plow a garden, or skinned a rabbit. She was a lady.”

“Her manners may be lacking, but you can help her with that.
She’s young and has grown-up with just her dad these last ten years.”

Angrily he whispered as he stood over her, determined to
shut her up. “Donna never chased or fed chickens, cooked a meal for a table
full of cowhands or did any real work. She would plan meals, read Dr. Padgett,
sew baby clothes, and read the catalog for things to order for the house or for
herself. Hattie’s a prairie girl. She’s had to learn it all, do it all. But she
can read and write and does every single day. She works hard, and judging from
that meal tonight, she can cook as good as any woman in Texas.”

“Humph,” Rubye snorted and turned toward her room. “I’m
watching you,” she hissed before slamming her door.

Jackson paced angrily back and forth in the living room.
Even after three months of working closely with her, Rubye still resented
Hattie. He knew part of it was that the younger girl had beaten her in the
kitchen today. It would be hard for most women to hear another woman praised as
Hattie had been tonight by all the men present.

What would his mother have thought of Hattie? He believed
she would have liked her. After all, his mom could ride and shoot, perhaps not
as well as Hattie, but it was only a few years since every western woman needed
to learn to shoot to survive. He would never know what they thought since it
had been six years since he lost both his parents to Typhoid fever, following
the big flood. He paused to stare at their framed portrait. He felt sure his
parents would have admired Hattie’s ‘spunk.’

Rubye was jealous. The more the men bragged about their
dinner, the more it got her goat. She’d been in a real lather all evening. Almost
as bad as the day Hattie had commented about how dirty the windows were and
then spent the day cleaning them.

It might have passed if the men hadn’t come in, not knowing,
and bragged about how bright and wonderful everything looked. Rubye had been
furious.

Hattie was clueless to the woman’s resentment. If she had
not been, then she would never have offered to mop the floors real good and
maybe wax them for Rubye. He had been afraid that Rubye would go up in flames.

For a girl who had been orphaned so young, she knew a heck
of a lot about housework, gardening, and cooking. When you added in what she
knew about animals and ranching, well, she might not be a lady like Donna, not
knowing when to curtsy and simper, how to use a complement to insult, not up-to-date
on proper clothes and who and what was acceptable, but neither was he. She was
still a remarkable woman.

His actions today had been wrong. But the thought of her
being confronted by those trashy low-lifes had panicked him. He’d been furious
when Rubye finally told him about the last encounter in the barn. The fact that
the grisly trophy had sat on the mantle for two months before Rubye mentioned
it didn’t help. She had seemed proud of Hattie for sticking up for herself, but
he knew if the housekeeper hadn’t backed her with her shotgun, they might have…

His mind closed down on what could have happened. Today when
he heard those shots, his only thought was to reach her in time. Maybe he had
grabbed her too quickly, held her too tightly. But she had looked so smug and
satisfied, with her coyote tails and her prize hen and rabbit, while he was
distraught and terrified. He had wanted her to feel the fear that was running
through him.

For some women being manhandled and kissed might be a
fantasy. For an eighteen year old girl who had already experienced rape, it
could only be a terrifying reminder. Her terror, her panic, had made him regret
his action as soon as he’d started it. The kiss had changed from threatening to
comforting. But when he had finally stopped that wonderful kiss, had he
imagined she was kissing him back? Donna, Donna, what was he doing?

He had promised Hattie she would always feel safe when she
was here, that he would protect her. He realized before he could go to sleep,
he needed to apologize to her. Galvanized, he moved swiftly to her door,
raising his hand to knock. No, if he knocked he might wake the baby and Rubye,
and then reap hellfire and damnation from the already upset housekeeper.

Gently he held the knob, then slowly turned it. Inside, he
was surprised to hear Hattie talking to the baby. The sweet coos coming from
the boy sounded like he was talking back. Jackson stood mesmerized at the sight
of her snuggled against the baby, crooning a fairy tale to him, while he smiled
and crooned back at her. J.D. startled first, turning his head to stare at his
Daddy. Hattie half rose in bed next. Before she could say anything, Jackson
raised a hand.

“I couldn’t go to bed,” he whispered.

She stared at him, warily lifting the baby in front of her
as a barrier as she listened.

“Today, I was frightened, worried about you. When you seemed
so carefree, it made me angry. I had no right to manhandle you that way.” He
stared at her intently but couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.” He was aware of the
lamplight on her face and her swiftly changing expression. Her blue eyes looked
enormous in the dimly lit room, her hair pulled back and tightly braided only
emphasized how small and blonde she was. Where the top three buttons of the
yellow gown were open, he could glimpse skin, ghostly pale compared to the
golden brown of her face and hands. He remembered coming in early one day,
seeing her sitting with a cloth soaked in buttermilk across her face, two hands
dipped in a bowl of the same liquid. Rubye’s attempt to bleach her sun burned
features of their ’red Indian’ look.

“Thank you.”

The words were soft but full in the night. He felt the pull
of the woman and the bed. Swallowing hard, he blinked and closed the door.

Rubye continued to be short-tempered with Jackson and Hattie.
There was never a moment when the two were left alone or unobserved, as though
it mattered. Jackson avoided her all day, seeing her only with the baby after
the men were gone. But if Hattie noticed, she didn’t let on, just whistled and
worked like a dervish to help with cooking, cleaning, and dishes while taking
care of the baby, her garden, and her chickens.

Rubye reclaimed her kitchen. She planned meals and did all
the cooking, unless it was allowing Hattie to prepare vegetables or meat as
directed. One day, Hattie insisted on saving some cream that had soured. To
Rubye’s horror, she added a little to a small jar, keeping some souring at all
times. When she added it to the potatoes one night, all the men were excited
about the sweet, tart taste. After that, Rubye let her share some more of her
mother’s recipes, but made sure to prepare the majority of the meal.

Between Hattie and the cowhands they had the dogs broken
from ever chasing chickens. Any time they looked at one, somebody would
reprimand them and chuck a clod of loose mud or rock toward them.

The chickens recognized the sound of the screen doors bang
and boiled out from the barn, manure pile or pasture to cluck and gather,
hoping Hattie would share some fresh kitchen scraps, cracked corn, or stale
bread. She now had the dozen surviving hens, plus the thirty young chickens.

<><><> 

It was a Sunday afternoon, all were relaxing after church
and lunch. The cowhands were watching the eight or nine young cocks mock
fighting, dusting up into the air over some imaginary insult or scrap of pie
crust. The men were joking and placing bets on the winner. Hattie watched too,
while she finished stringing and snapping a mess of green beans. She eyed the
small warriors to decide who would be her new rooster. When she had him marked,
she scattered the bean strings and stems in front of the porch. As the chickens
all gathered, she shocked everyone by quietly walking through the flock,
grabbing a chicken and twisting his neck. When she had three, she returned to
the porch and quickly plucked and singed the pen feathers, then carried the
chickens inside to cut them up.

Hattie put her beans on while the meat soaked in salted
water. Then she planned out her meal while she worried with the fussy baby. He
had complained during church and fussed while nursing today. After a night when
she had woken nearly as often as she had when he was new, she was worn out from
holding him. As soon as she handed the baby off to Jackson, he cajoled Rubye
into helping him entertain J.D. and to leave the cooking to Hattie. He hadn’t
forgotten the day a month before when she had cooked the entire meal and made
Rubye furious.

She came out with a crock of frozen pudding for the hands to
crank, then returned to the kitchen. Hattie made buttermilk biscuits and put
them in the oven, while she soaked the tender chicken in buttermilk. Then she
dredged it in salted and peppered flour before frying it in hot oil. She added
bacon crisps and fat to the stewing beans, made thin slices of potato and
onion, waiting to fry them when the chicken was done. She made a dish of cold
cucumber slices in vinegar and sliced a plate of ripe tomatoes. Finally, she
put a dozen eggs on to boil for dressed eggs.

She served the meal, embarrassed by their complements even
before they sat down. By the time the meal was on the table, the boy was once
again in full throttle.

She carried her plate and the baby out to the front porch. Over-heated
and exhausted, Hattie retreated to the porch rocker to feed the baby in the
evening breeze while everyone else was inside. First she ate and shared the
frozen custard with the baby. Then she parked the happy baby against a pillow
in the cradle so he was sitting up like a little sailor in a boat, then shooed
the dog away that wanted to lick his face.

She ate, relaxing in the cooling breeze, using one foot to
keep the baby rocking. Jackson came out on the porch, patted his tummy, and
smiled at her. It was the first time in a month they had found themselves alone.
Afraid, he would upset Rubye more or make Hattie uncomfortable the way he did
by his actions the day she shot the coyotes, he had kept away. Through the
screen door they could hear the satisfied cowboys still talking, arguing about
who deserved the ice cream paddle based on who had cranked the longest.

“I would have argued that your chicken and dumplings dinner
was the best I ever had, until tonight. That was definitely the finest chicken
dinner ever served to anyone.”

Hattie looked up from under raised brows. “Well, the next
batch will have more meat on them, but the third frying will probably be about
the same size. Rooster chicks are cruel, soon many will be frazzled and missing
feathers. Of course, in another month there will be the young hens that don’t
lay, and just before cold weather, we’ll probably have to stew one of the older
hens that quit laying. You can’t keep a strong flock without culling.”

“And there we thought we would just get to watch them
meandering around and settle for fresh eggs. By the way, everyone loved the
dressed eggs.”

Hattie sat quietly, blushing at all the praise. He started
to step inside, but J.D. was chortling and waving his arms and Jackson laughed
as he scooped him up. “Come on son, let’s go talk to the other cowboys.”

 Hattie sat, sucking on the crisp skin on the chicken wing
she’d picked up, studying the tall lean lines of the man as he sauntered back
inside. J.D. was greeted by all the cowhands. At four months, he was a lively active
baby, already trying to roll from side to side. She was proud of how quickly he
was growing, but had given up leaving him in bed beside her. The first time he almost
completed a roll he had slipped between the bed and crib, crying frantically
and waking her before he fell all the way to the floor. Now she would cuddle
and play with him until he went to sleep, but return him to spend the night in
the crib, at least four hours at a time.

According to Dr. Padgett, she was in danger of being an
overprotective mother, the type who never let her child take any risks or
explore on his own. She shook her head. He wasn’t her child, but Donna’s, and
she had promised to take care of him. She didn’t want to think of J.D. getting
hurt until he grew bigger and stronger.

When the first cowboy came out onto the porch to thank her,
Hattie quit wool-gathering and hurried to slip inside. The man doffed his hat
and stopped her with the words, “Miss Stoddard, I don’t know how such a pretty
gal can be such a great cook, but you’re the prettiest and best I’ve ever
seen.”

Hattie blushed, startled by the attention. Looking down she
curtsied as she’d seen Irene Dawson do at church to a complement and slipped
past and around into the kitchen. Several of the men were telling her “thanks
for the fine meal” but Hattie stayed hidden until the last man was gone. She
noticed that Jackson looked after her, wondering what the man on the porch had
said to send her hiding.

Rubye glared at her. “You’d think those men had never had
fried chicken or fried potatoes the way they went on.”

Hattie cleared the table and made herself busy washing dishes
while Rubye sat with the cranky baby. She could not help the pride she felt as
she carried empty plates to the dish pan, every bite of everything was gone.
She had finished washing up and grabbed a dishtowel to dry when Rubye came in
with a wet and crying baby and traded him for the dishtowel. Hattie took the
baby, hurt that there were no words being exchanged. Well, if Rubye wanted to
be angry and jealous, so be it. Nothing Hattie could say would change things.

<><><> 

“Boss, there are cows missing on the south range.”

Jackson stared at Cliff. “What do you mean cows are
missing?”

“Seven or eight head in that little clump that had two sets
of twins. We rode out like you said, to brand everything, not just count heads,
and they were gone. We checked that part of the range, compared what we’d seen
when we were heading back to the bunkhouse. Nobody saw them. They’re gone.

“All right, but is there any sign where they might have
gone?”

“No, but it rained the night before. No tracks.”

He sat there, waiting, knowing Cliff would have more to say.

In a minute he started again. “At church, I heard a few of
the squatters talking. One had a prairie fire, and you know it’s not that dry
and we haven’t had a lot of lightning with the rain that’s fallen. It took his
silage field. Most have been losing animals, a handful at a time.”

“Yeah, I heard the same talk.”

“Tony did what you said when he was in town, nosed around.
There was nothing with the Stoddard brand in the feed lots or in back of
Thompson’s. He even looked through the hides while Mr. Thompson got his order
ready.”

“Anything with our brand?”

“Only the ones at the bottom of the back stack. Hides were
from the ones you sold Dawson last fall.”

“Well, if they haven’t sold them, they’re holding them
someplace. With everybody watching, I don’t see how they’re able to take the
animals.”

“Hank and I were talking about that, boss. We figure they’re
doing it on Sundays, you know, everybody goes to church, takes the day off. It
rained last Sunday night, too.”

“Sounds right. Guess I’ll have to get a backache and beg off
church next week.”

“Hank and I can backslide with you.”

“Yeah, if we can keep Tony from ‘cowboying it up’ Saturday
night, Tony can take the North quarter. I hardly see him at church anyway. We
can go talk to them now.”

<><><> 

Hattie stared at the men still talking on the porch. She
wished they would move off for the evening so she could go back outside again
before J.D. started calling for her. She realized it was probably too late as
Rubye held him, trying to keep him from getting a finger in his hard gums. He
had become a drool monster these last few days, gnawing and slobbering on
everything. “He needs a toy, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, something hard to bite on,” Rubye turned her hand and
gave a mock yell of ‘ow.’  J.D. looked up and grinned, then bent, hunting for
another knuckle or finger to gnaw on

“James might whittle something if you asked?”

“Might if you did the asking. I’m not asking favors of no
man.” Rubye shook her head. “Maybe you could sew him a doll.”

Hattie shook her head. “Momma didn’t like to sew. All I can
do is mend and sew on buttons.”

“There you go. That’s all you need to make a doll.”

Hattie picked up the old sackcloth diaper, one of J.D.’s
burp cloths, that she had handy for after feeding him. Examining the clean
cloth, she noted the writing was almost faded, and only faint red checks of the
pattern remained. She went to the bedroom and came back with Donna’s sewing
basket. Inside were scissors, ribbons, needle and thread and at the bottom of
the box, a wire held ten brass jingle bells.

She found the short kitchen pencil, then traced a horse on
the folded towel. Carefully she cut out the pattern.

Rubye came over and stared down at her. “I never heard of a
horse for a doll. But if you sew it like that, he’ll only have two legs.”

Hattie looked down at it. Then she went to the bedroom and
came back with another flour-sack cloth. Opening out the horse, she traced the
legs and left a long rectangle between them, shaping the rectangle to a vee in
the front and back.

“Humph, that makes no sense, and you’re wasting all his burp
cloths.”

Before Rubye could persuade her to stop wasting her time,
she had it cut out. She held it up to show Rubye the design.

“It might work, but the fabric is pretty nasty looking to
make a toy.”

Hattie went out to the kitchen and found the jar of beets
she had pickled a week ago. The beets were already gone but she had saved the
liquid to pickle eggs. Instead, she stuffed the pattern pieces into the jar.

“There. It should be a pretty red color when I take it out
in the morning. The vinegar will make the color set.”

Rubye snorted. “Doubt it, it’ll just bleed out in the wash
water.”

Hattie reached out to take the fussing baby, surprised at
how heavy he had grown. He leaned forward, snagging her braid and pulling it
into his slobbery mouth.”

“Yuck,” she tugged at the braid but he held to it determinedly.
“All right slobber man, hold on, but we’re going to bed.”

She watched as Rubye rolled the scrap cloth and tucked it
and the scissors into the box, then carried it to set where it had been since
Donna used it last. Then she turned back to move the jar of beet juice into the
kitchen. In minutes, the house was dark, it seemed that all life was gone with
the light. In the silence, all she heard was the baby breathing soft and fast,
then she felt an imaginary arm go around her. “Thank you, keep trying, keep him
safe,” she felt the words through her bones.

With a shiver and a smile she carried the wiggling boy to
bed.

<><><> 

When chores were done and the men were back out working the
next day, Hattie carried the dried clothes inside to fold. She placed a quilt
on the floor and laid J.D. on it to kick and play while she worked, settled on
the settee with the sewing box on the end table. Taking the soft red cloth, she
threaded a needle and fought the fabric until she had the main pieces sewn
together. Then she wrapped a jingle bell in scrap cloth and then forced one
into each hoof. She then rolled scraps of faded sack toweling into tight tubes
and forced them down each leg. Satisfied, she sewed the edges, leaving only a
small opening, through which she forced and molded the extra toweling to make
the body as hard and tight as possible. When she finished fastening the
opening, she tied a snug knot and bit the thread loose.