December and Mae, page 4
She set her jaw. “That’s for me to know, mister. And don’t be gittin’ any ideas ’cause yer stinkin’ drunk er somethin’.”
He hadn’t had that much. He didn’t ken why he uttered the next words. “You start working for me.” He said with no inflection. She scowled for his troubles.
“Guess I need to ken your name if yer to keep on. I’m Lucian Farnsworth. Luke.”
She frowned, narrowing her eyes. Judging and finding him wanting. “Maybe. Maybe not. Depends.” She stuck her small chin out, snapping, “Pearly-Mae. But mostly Mae, or Hey, you.”
“Pearly-Mae. That’s pretty.” Almost said, “Pretty as you, under all that dirt,” but kenned she’d throw rocks at him. “Reckon I’ll call you Mae.” And she was, under the grime and too-thin face like a half-starved cat that needed feeding, well—pretty. Those big eyes, maybe too big because of the scrawniness, surrounded by lashes soft as shredded velvet under two black brows like silky commas. Above the small pointed chin, her soft pink upper lip protruded slightly over the lower one.
Yes, a feral scrawny kitten, he decided.
“But it’s just a job, mister. Nothing else!”
He sighed. What would I want truck with a filthy, dirty-mouthed, obnoxious gal tramp, he yearned to shoot back. Sorry he offered. He could smell trouble off her, as well as a certain perfume. The scent of youth. Not objectionable. He smelled worse from his roustabouts.
“So, you up and decided to cut and run,” he challenged.
“Warn’t like that. They—made me.” She bit her lip as if to hold more back.
Luke studied his smoke. “Go on.”
“Sez I was not eny use and if I wanted vittles, go out and make my own way, but to bring home cash money most every pay. They sent me here.” She added innocently, or so he thought, “I warn’t going to.”
She hesitated slightly, studying the straw-littered dirt and added, “Then, there was my brother, and—and my uncle, and…” She mumbled it almost to herself, without further explanation.
Luke took a drag, nodding darkly, flicked tobacco off his tongue. “Sent you?”
She gave him a look that peeled the skin off. “Said onct, heard you was well-heeled and why not help out a neighbor by takin’ on extry mouths.” Her mouth crumpled. “Pa stood there at the door with a big old stick. Said I warn’t welcome no more.” A slow tear tracked a clear line in the smudge. She scowled. “I was ready to light out anyways.”
“How’d you ken where we lived?”
“Didn’t, did I?” She looked up boldly, watching him.
“It’s a big place. Not easy to stumble on.”
She shrugged as if the vagaries of the universe didn’t apply to her. “Figgered it out, though, didn’t I, onct I was here.”
Luke wasn’t certain he quite believed her. He could arm himself, like that King Arthur fella, against arrows through the gizzard, getting thrown from a horse and a broke head, but the sight of this gal with tears trembling on her lashes unmanned him. Dang it seven ways to Sunday. Wish’t Liz was here.
He began to pick up the plate, when he heard, “Either that, or get hitched.” He turned back.
“Hitched?”
She folded her arms and nodded sulky. “Drover. One got a sheep farm.”
Luke took on a faraway look.
He kenned the drover. A mulish slovenly cuss he ran across once, down at the feed store in Red Butte.
Anyone with a lick-spittle of sense kenned sheep were scarce the trouble to drive the smelly contrary things to market. If the feller took one bath a year, it was Christmas. He recalled flabby flesh, hair limp and yellow as grass found under a rock. Had a weak left eye. Never kenned where he was looking, and the way he beat his sheep dog, had a cruel streak like a cancerous knot on a tree.
He smiled grim. The lout never found out what happened to his sheep dog, now resting comfortably before Luke’s fireplace.
“So, you scarpered?”
She lifted her shoulders.
“Why him?”
“He asked. Well, plagued Pa some. Said he’d give him five sheep if he could marry up with me. Only thing, Pa didn’t cotton to mutton or lamb, and…”
Grunting like he swallowed gravel instead of a laugh, Luke waved her off. “I’ll pay you a bit. Keep some back. Only give them a part. If any. You don’t have to, you ken? Miss Elizabeth’ll be your banker.”
She shot a shrewd glance and nodded.
“Feel some better now?”
She dug her toe in and nodded, sulky.
Luke heaved a sigh. “First thing, proper boots.” Maybe a dress. Thinking of Liz, he held back. But jeans. He’d see if one of the skinniest hands had castoffs. Even those would be better than the scraps half hanging off her, especially after their tussle.
She smiled.
Luke started. It was like the sun broke out on a bubbling brook. Mischief, fun, sweetness, all hidden till now, rippled across her face. A high clear laugh tinkled like a chandelier in the wind.
“Settled then,” he gruffed.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered. “I’ll do anything you ask, sir.”
Luke looked down.
She had ahold of his hand.
A slim cool small-fingered thing with tiny callouses, lost in his large scarred tanned paw. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. He felt a stir from some unkenned regions lost in the past, drawing his hand back as if hers was made of flames from the burning pits of Hell, and gave it a quick pat.
“Enough of that now.” He flushed, stern.
She cocked her head, studying him with a wisdom that unsettled him like a burr under the saddle.
He should leave, but of a sudden, with a sensation with which he was unfamiliar—it felt comfortable with nowhere particular to go, despite Elizabeth’s habit to go to bed with the chickens, when the sky was alive with stars. He settled back against a hay bale.
Mae began to ramble, which made it easier, letting her stories wash over him in a soothing tide. He got to chuckling, captivated by recollections of her many siblings and their wicked stunts against feckless parents.
****
“So, my oldest brother and me, his name’s Sammy, we got back at Pa for the beatin’ he gave Sammy, over nothin’ this time.” She giggled.
“Pa stole a pig. Says he’s gonna butcher it, though he never did, and it made a big old mud wallow after that bad storm…”
Luke nodded. He recollected the one. A real humdinger, when the sky turned the color and weight of anvils and lightning forked the ground with vicious eye-blinding stabs. He nodded—Go on.
“Anyhow, we put straw and grass and I don’t know what all over that big old wallow.”
Mae was laughing so hard now she could hardly speak. “And then, Sammy yelled…”
Luke laughed along. It felt freeing. “So, what then?”
“S-Sammy yelled, ‘Hey, Pa! You stink worse’n rotten eggs and look like a pile of horse apples,’ and Pa came barreling out, hit that mud puddle like he was dancin’, belly-flopped, rolled over and sat the seat of his britches smack in the mud clean to his waist. And when he stood, he slipped and fell face f-first. Like a tar b-baby.”
“Hahahah!” Luke’s basso voice rang out.
Good thing the hands weren’t about. Or, he amended, checking Elizabeth’s window for the glow of kerosene—Lizzie. But why shouldn’t he be out here? His ranch. Still, probably should go in. But then, Luke found they both chuckled to beat the band over another tale concerning a wasp nest and her sister and a stick. When the dust settled, Luke asked quiet-like, “Your dad hard on you too?”
She rolled her eyes. “Likkered up, or just wanted to feel better and beat on somebody.” Luke kenned the type. Angry at the world. Only way to blow off steam was pummel with hurtful words, brutal fists, or worse.
“Ma’s no better. Tried at first. Easier to go ’long.” Mae shrugged. Luke now noted the scar bisecting one brow, the crooked little finger, and the bruise he had thought a shadow on her slender neck.
Getting late now. S’posed she could kip in the kitchen, but what if he wanted to wander in his altogether? Some nights when Liz was tucked in and he restless, he did just that. More and more lately. He’d search out windows or saunter to the porch and check the moon in his birthday suit, relishing the chill on his lean flanks and bare chest, then haul clear cold well water in for a drink.
He chuckled. Now that would scare the bejeebers out of any young thing. Nope, wouldn’t do. Still, plate in hand, studying the stoic figure, he hesitated. “Getting on late. Tonight, sleep in the kitchen. Only got two bedrooms.” Guess he’d curtail nightly wanderings for a time.
Mae scowled and kicking at straw, looked away.
“Your woman said I could sleep in the stable.”
“Darn decent of her,” he muttered.
“Yup. Said red up the dishes and you can sleep in the barn, ’cause it’s dark, like you said, but then I got to go.”
“So.…” Luke was aware he’d been out here a long time and Liz could teach General Sherman a thing or two about interrogation. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah, mister. But…already made me a bed. Here. Ain’t sleepin’ in no house with you.”
Luke sighed again, startled when she took his hand in her impossibly small one. Guessed she finally decided he wasn’t that Jack the Ripper fella he’d read about, in London, over in Europe. Leading a mystified, edgy Luke deeper in the stable, Mae showed him like any house-proud female…an empty horse stall Luke surveyed with no little interest.
Horse blanket neatly folded across a hay mound with an old saddle for a pillow. Ragged jacket on a hook. Rusty tin can from the dump holding drooping Shasta daisies. She’d removed a lantern and it too hung on the same rusty nail fastening a horseshoe. The small space seemed warm and inviting with the lantern light melting the red plaid horse blanket in a buttery glow.
Luke felt a lump big as a turnip. He spied a piece of ham meat in a crust of bread wrapped in a faded red bandana peeking out of the hay.
“Looks right nice. Did right proud. But mayhap we can do better. Maybe a piller? I’ll ask Miss Elizabeth.”
Mae held out her hand for a formal shake. “I’ll work like the devil for you, Mister Luke. Haven’t never been afraid of it. Just you tell me anything you want. I’m sorry ’bout the pie…”
“Ummm. Good night then. Ah…” He looked out at the darkness. “You aren’t scared?” Luke nodded at the night.
“Ain’t scared a nothin’. Nicest room I done ever had.” Mae wrapped arms about herself in a hug of contentment.
Luke studied his boots. “Fine, then. Help Miss Lizzie out in the kitchen and such at first. Not getting any younger, I reckon, and could use a hand. Whatever she asks. Won’t be over much.” Without another word and oddly reluctant, Luke strode away.
Looking back, Mae appeared lost, framed in the vast doorway, with the dark interior behind her. It was all Luke could do to keep from running back and dragging her to the house, Liz be damned about “help sleeping or eating in her home.”
****
Lucian Farnsworth strode into the kitchen with a scowl that would turn a grape to sour wine. To his consternation, Liz was still up in her nighty and raising her teacup with the roses to her lips, eyes shining over the rim. “You need your sight tested, old man, for spectacles.”
Luke sailed his hat on the hook. “Why’d ya not tell me!”
“Not often I get one over on you.” Liz didn’t try to hide her smirk.
“Don’t have to look so all-fired pleased. Sure as shootin’ looked like a boy!”
Suddenly their faces crumpled, Luke sputtering not to laugh and Liz, gasping from the same affliction, grabbed the corn likker this time, from the shelf. “Might help us sleep, finally.”
“Sure are somethin’, Liz.” Luke splashed a shot in his old cup and added to hers. “So, she’s to stay?”
Liz eyed him. “You were out there a spell?” She always could read him like a hymnal. “We don’t ken anything about her other than she’s a Sauerbeck.” It was a warning.
“That shouldn’t damn her.”
They sat and sipped in uneasy silence, each in their own dark alley of thoughts.
“Long day tomorrow,” Luke said, abrupt, drank the dregs and kissed his sis on the forehead. She didn’t seem to notice. He steered away from her sad face, shaking his head, and watched Liz slowly make her way upstairs. Women were an unknown planet sometimes.
Too early for bed, too late to read. Luke rocked on the porch, smoking Sweet Caporals and watching the indigo midnight sky. A dim light glowed in the stable. Another in the bunkhouse. Was this all there was? He pondered, as if a dark masked stranger had tapped him on the shoulder, asking for the time. The slow slide into old age?
He stubbed the butt on the heel of his boot without answers.
Dawn would come too soon.
****
Next dawn, Luke, in his usual blue cambric work shirt so scrubbed it resembled gray silk, a worn black leather vest, taut faded denims, loose in the waist but skimming his long leg muscles like paint, plus scuffed wedge-heeled boots, took his first wincing sip of scalding tar as he gazed idly out the window at the closest corral to see if any of his hands were out and about.
The sun already threatened a cook-oven of a fall day. Be good to work in relative cool. He drew a tin cup of cold well water piped in to the new zinc sink Lizzie had wanted as the latest thing. Glancing out again, he dashed the rest.
Damn.
Trouble already brewing like a nor’easter.
Roustabouts surrounded Mae as she tried to toss a bridle up over a horse’s head—Betsy, his old brood mare—missing by a mile. Least she reckoned which horse was tamest. He watched her hopping about, trying to wedge one small moccasin in a stirrup. One of the hands, grinning foolishly, cupped her bottom to help her up.
She scowled and swatted him off. Luke had been on the rifle end of her scowls. Even so, as she desperately tried to grab the pommel, the mild mare dragged her about some. Luke swore out a breath when she almost slipped under Betsy’s nervous prancing hooves. Mae hopped aside.
Arms folded, she leaned against the splintered rail, glowering at the wranglers. Luke had to chuckle. She still resembled an angry feral cat. Ignoring the entertained hands, Mae grabbed Betsy’s reins. Hanging onto them with her teeth, she climbed the split rail and gingerly lifted a leg over the saddle.
Betsy sat docilely as if that was her intention all along.
Hearing Liz arrive, still pinning up her hair, Luke spoke over his shoulder.
“What’s a gal like that doin’ in the stable?” He said it before he thought.
“Can you see her in the bunkhouse with the hands?” She hooted, startling him some. “They’d think it was Christmas, New Year’s and their birthdays all rolled into one.” She glanced mockingly at him. “Can’t have a gal stirrin’ ’em up. Like kerosene to a match.” Liz smirked, nodding toward the window. “’sides, for what they’re thinkin’, they can go in to The Red Dog. ’Course, she looks like she’s been in a few bunkhouses to me.”
Luke didn’t comment. Start another fire. “Wasn’t thinking, Liz. Right. Ain’t fittin’.”
The stable was three steps away from the bunkhouse. “I’ll have a palaver with them too.”
Liz scoffed. “Be gone ’fore the week’s out anyway. Probably with my best silver,” she repeated, like a mantra. “I’ve dealt with these tramps before. Not worth the effort. Keep an eye on her.”
Luke could not tell if that was a threat or a prediction. He looked out again. When Mae couldn’t get Betsy to budge, Luke watched her try to dismount, to the accompaniment of his bronco-busters’ ribald comments, and finally slide down Betsy’s broad side, showing them her little rounded rear end.
Luke scowled. Time to get to work himself. He strode out. When Mae looked over, he thumbed toward the kitchen. He shook his head, watching her drag over to the kitchen door as if going to the hangman. He didn’t see Mae again for the next few days; Liz had her on a cleaning tear and almost forgot about her, what with one hundred twenty head of cattle found lost in a fold of hills and a trek into town to talk with his lawyer about fence lines in contention.
Chapter Two: Widow Alcie
The sleek Sunday-go-meeting surrey with Old Tom at the reins was hitched and ready when Liz stepped out in her best cranberry bombazine straight from Chicago, courtesy of Sears Roebuck catalogue and the Wells Fargo Stage Coach Company, plus her usual cameo brooch that had belonged to their ma.
Luke, fiddling a gold watch looped about his gray velvet vest, was spiffed up too. New black suit, high-collared shirt, black bolo, and Stetson freshly brushed, the gold watch and chain, and his boots, lick-spittle shining. His choice would be clean jeans and his best shirt. But Liz liked to put on the ritz.
As she raised a boot to the iron step, Liz smirked over at the barn. Luke followed the arrow of her discontent. There Mae crouched, forlorn, in the barn doorway, arms about her knees, wistfully watching. She ducked at their attention, scratching dirt with a stick and appearing interested in a rock.
“See here,” Luke muttered, “why can’t she go?”
Liz, prissily straightening her skirts and clutching her Bible, looked at him as if he’d just grown another head. “That gal hasn’t set foot inside a church since the day she was put on this earth,” she hooted. “Land a Goshen, Luke. Church roof would fall in if any of the Saurbachs warmed their fannies in one of the new pews. ’Sides, she can’t go dressed like a tramp.”
“What might you be telling me, Lizzie? That you deny this poor little scrap a bit of pleasure in life? Maybe riding into town or going to a shindig come harvest time or a church social? That would cost you nothing.”
“Pshaw! What would she want to go to a harvest dance for? She’d be like a pig with a ribbon tied round the ear! She’s hardly house broke, or worn shoes! Folks would laugh and make us out as prize fools.” She huffed and fussed with her hat.
