She could hear the man pick up the coins from the counter, could sense the mother gathering her children and ushering them from the store. She heard the curses and the slamming door, and then everything was quiet again.
Damaris slumped against the counter, weak from the drain of emotions. She knew then that her old hatred, her old anger, had not been removed, only buried deeper within her being.
Damaris covered her face with her hands and let the tears flow as the sobs shook her whole body.
Damaris was busy sewing at the treadle machine and Miss Dover was sitting on the cushioned chair to her right, hand-hemming a new baby dress, when the door opened and Gil entered. Miss Dover was immediately on her feet, her hands laying aside the garment and reaching out to the young man.
“Gil! It’s about time. I thought you had forgotten all about me—about us.”
Gil smiled and reached for the outstretched hands. “You know better,” he teased and leaned to kiss the woman’s forehead. Then he lifted his head, let his eyes rest a moment on Damaris, and smiled his greeting. “Hello, Damaris.” He had long since ceased calling her Miss Damaris. Apparently he was determined to make her feel part of the family.
She answered with a smile of her own. She was beginning to feel comfortable with Gil. He never pushed, never intruded, never challenged her private thoughts.
“How are things at the ranch?” asked Miss Dover.
“Fine. Just got back from my first—my very first cattle drive. Took forty head of stock over to the freight yards. They brought a good price.”
“Now you can fix up your house a bit,” said Miss Dover enthusiastically.
Gil laughed and shook his head. “I’ve already spent the money,” he chuckled, “and not on curtains and carpets. It went for some better stock—and winter supplies.”
“Oh, Gil,” said Miss Dover with such obvious disappointment that both Gil and Damaris laughed.
Then Miss Dover shrugged and winked at Damaris as she spoke to Gil. “You need a wife,” she said. “She’d fix things up in a hurry.”
“A wife?” said Gil. “Now, who would ever want to take on a task like that?”
Damaris turned back to her machine and began to treadle as quickly as her feet could move, her full attention given to the material that slipped smoothly under the needle.
“Come on in. I’ll fix us some coffee and we can catch up a bit. Damaris, you need a break as well. Come on out to the kitchen.”
Gil hesitated. “Actually, I just came from Mr. MacKenzie’s store. He’s heard that there is a woman in town in great need. I—I bought a few things and I—I wondered if you—or Damaris would come with me to deliver them. I—don’t suppose it would look too good if I went calling alone. Particularly when I don’t know her. She might—might not understand that I am just trying to help her and her little ones.”
At the mention of “little ones” Damaris lifted her head again.
“Oh my,” Miss Dover said sadly. “Are they really in trouble and we haven’t even known? What a shame. Who is it, Gil?”
“Family by the name of Rudding. The man left some time ago and hasn’t come back.”
Damaris let out the breath she had been holding. A feeling of relief swept through her. Mr. Rudding was gone. Now the poor woman and her children would be free of his menacing presence. Now people like Gil and Mr. MacKenzie and she, Damaris, could do something for the family.
Before she could think about her actions she stood swiftly. “I’ll go with you,” she offered. “I know the family.” Then, realizing what she had done, she shrank back. “I—I mean if you wish. If—If Miss Dover doesn’t want to—to—”
Miss Dover waved a hand to bring Damaris forward again. “Take your shawl, dear. The wind is cool,” she cautioned.
Gil reached for the shawl that hung on the peg by the door and draped it over Damaris’s shoulders. Then he held the door for her and spoke again to Miss Dover.
“We won’t be long. Then I’d sure love a little visit and that hot cup of coffee before I head for home.”
Gil had a buckboard at the hitching rail just down the street, and he helped Damaris up and over the wheel and onto the high seat.
“So you know the family?” he asked as soon as they were settled.
“A little,” answered Damaris. “The little girl, Abbie, has been to the store a few times. The mother was there once with the other children.”
“How many does she have?” asked Gil.
“Four. And Abbie is the oldest. About five or six years old, I would think.”
Gil shook his head. “That’s quite a houseful.”
Damaris nodded, thinking of the little girl with the big blue-green eyes.
“It’s a shame about the father—” began Gil.
“No!” said Damaris quickly. “No, it isn’t. It’s—”
She felt Gil’s glance swing to her and her face flushed. She had spoken too forcefully, too quickly.
“You know him?” asked Gil.
Damaris bit her tongue so she wouldn’t spill out more of her feelings. “I’ve seen him a few times,” she said slowly.
“And you didn’t care much for what you saw,” stated Gil in the form of an observation rather than a question.
“No,” said Damaris, shaking her head. “No, I did not care for what I saw.”
“And what did you see?” Gil probed, this time in a direct question.
“I—I called on the home when Miss Dover and I started our Sunday school. He—he was very angry. Said his children didn’t need any—any part of it. He—he had been drinking. I could smell it. Then Mrs. Rudding came to the store one day. Wanted a few groceries. Just—just flour—and yeast. She had the coins, but he followed. Tore the bag away from her and hurled it back on the counter and—and accused me of causing her to spend his money foolishly. He had been drinking then, too.”
Damaris shivered. She pulled her shawl more closely about herself, pretending that the tremor came from the cold winter weather rather than from her frightening childhood memories.
“You’re cold,” observed Gil. “Here, take my jacket.”
“No. No, I’m fine. Really. It—it isn’t the wind. It’s—”
But how could she explain her past and its effect on her to him? She didn’t even understand it herself, and she could never talk about it to anyone else. No one would understand the fear, the torture of suspense, the anger that burned deep within, the stripping of self-worth, the feeling of being totally at the mercy of another. She shivered again.
“If you won’t take my coat, sit closer,” insisted Gil. “Let me shield you from the wind.”
Damaris felt her cheeks glow with embarrassment as Gil turned her slightly so that she would be protected from the wind by his larger frame. She wanted to escape, but she held herself rigidly in place and soon had to acknowledge that he was right. It was much warmer up closer to him where the wind no longer could flutter her light shawl.
They soon arrived at the simple shack on the edge of town and Gil helped Damaris down.
“Perhaps it would be good if you’d go knock on the door,” said Gil. “She will recognize you. I’ll come along later with some of these groceries.”
Damaris nodded and walked to the door, side-stepping clutter on the path as she went.
As she reached the door she saw some movement at the window. A small hand swept away a torn, faded curtain and Damaris saw Abbie’s face, pale and thin, appear behind the dirty, broken glass.
Damaris knocked, but there was no response. She turned back to the window and noticed that the girl was still staring out at her. She motioned to the door, asking her to open it, but the child shook her head. Damaris stood for a moment, uncertain, and then her hand went to the latch and she pushed against the door. To her relief, it opened. Damaris pushed it farther on its whining hinges and then entered the run-down dwelling.
“Mama said I wasn’t to let anyone in,” explained Abbie, but she looked relieved to have Damaris there.
“Where is your mama?” asked Damaris.
“She’s in bed. Sick,” answered the girl.
Damaris heard a scuffling noise in the corner and turned her eyes to see young Willim sitting on the floor. His thumb was in his mouth and tears had washed streaks down his dirty face.
“He’s hungry,” explained Abbie, “but we don’t got no food.”
“Where’s Tootles?” asked Damaris.
“She’s in bed with Mama. Mama’s sleeping but Tootles won’t come out. She just lays there and cries.”
Fear gripped Damaris’s heart. Never had she imagined that things would be so bad.
“Do you have wood for a fire?” she asked.
The child shook her head.
Damaris spun on her heel and went back outside, her eyes filled with horror, her face pale. Gil took one look at her and stepped quickly to her assistance, placing his hands on her shoulders to hold her steady.
“It’s even worse than I thought,” she explained. “The mother is sick in bed and the children haven’t eaten in days. Could you find some wood for a fire?”
“Are you going to be all right?” Gil asked her, still not releasing her shoulders.
Damaris nodded stubbornly. She would be all right. She had to be.
Gil gave her shoulders a slight squeeze and turned back to the wagon. Without further comment he hoisted out a large box of provisions and carried it into the house, kicking aside debris from the path as he walked. Then he returned to the wagon, lifted an axe from the box, and strode off toward the clutter of bush that crept in close to the rear of the house.
Damaris was already in action. She first grabbed the water bucket that stood beside the door and headed for the pump in the yard. She was relieved when it worked without priming. Soon a stream of water was gushing into the pail.
“At least
it’s
clean,” observed Damaris.
Gil soon returned with an armful of wood. While Damaris cleared away scattered dirty dishes, he started a fire. Damaris heated water in a pot and a large pan, the only kettles she could find in the house.
The children said nothing. Just watched the hurried proceedings with large eyes.
Damaris’s thoughts scrambled as she tried to decide what would be the fastest and most nourishing meal.
“There are some crackers in there,” Gil whispered.
Damaris glanced toward the children. “We don’t want to fill them up on crackers,” she answered.
“No, but they need something—fast.”
Damaris agreed and dug through the groceries for a handful of crackers. The children accepted them hungrily and Damaris had to turn her head to hide her grief.
“How’s the mother?” whispered Gil, concern edging his voice.
“I haven’t made it to the bedroom yet—maybe I haven’t dared to look,” responded Damaris, her eyes showing her fears.
Gil nodded and headed for the room at the back of the house.
Damaris heard a child cry. She supposed that little Tootles had reacted to a stranger. Then all was silent. Damaris waited for a few minutes—until she couldn’t stand it any longer.
When she entered the room she found Gil cradling the little girl in his arms, gently rocking her back and forth. It took several minutes before Damaris could see anything else in the darkened room, but then she made out two forms on the bed. They both lay very quietly, the woman with the baby tucked in the crook of her arm. Damaris’s heart quickened.
“We need a doctor,” whispered Gil.
“But—” Damaris was about to remind him that the town had no doctor.
“I know,” went on Gil. “The nearest one is over thirty miles away.”
“Maybe I can feed her some broth,” said Damaris.
“Broth? I don’t think—Do you have broth?” asked Gil, his voice low.
“No,” answered Damaris, “but I’m sure Mrs. Stacy does. She always keeps broth of some kind in her pantry, for soups.”
“I’ll go get it,” said Gil. He passed Tootles to Damaris. The child began to whimper again, and Damaris hushed her and rocked her gently.
She left the dark room with its awful smell. She could stand it no longer. The two older children still crouched in the kitchen devouring crackers. Damaris reached for a handful for Tootles.
Damaris’s eyes filled with tears. She had thought she’d had a hard life—but never, never anything like this. And to think that these little ones, this mother, were sick and slowly starving just minutes away from a town full of people.
Damaris could not believe how quickly Gil made the trip to Mrs. Stacy’s and back. When he returned he not only had a kettle of broth, but the town sheriff as well.
The big man pushed his way past Damaris and headed directly for the dark bedroom at the back of the house. He was there for several minutes while Damaris busied herself with warming the broth on the now hot stove.
When he returned to the kitchen his face was pale. He shook his head sadly and glanced at the three children huddled together on the kitchen floor.
“It doesn’t look good,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“How bad?” asked Gil.
Damaris could not speak.
“She’s still breathing—but just.”
“The broth will soon be hot,” said Gil.
Damaris turned to stir the broth again so it wouldn’t get too hot. She didn’t want to burn the woman’s mouth.
“The baby’s gone,” said the hoarse voice.
Damaris jerked her head upright, not wanting to believe the words.
“Are you sure?” she asked, horror gripping her.
“I’m sure,” said the sheriff. “He’s already stiff and—”
A strange cry escaped from Damaris’s throat. She whirled from the stove and fled from the house. The tears flooding her eyes made it impossible for her to see where she was going. She tripped and righted herself, tripped again, and struggled on. She did not know where she was going and she did not care. Panting and weeping she pushed on, pressing deeper and deeper into the thicket behind the house. At last her feet tangled helplessly in fallen branches and she fell heavily to the ground. She lay where she had fallen, her whole body shaking with convulsive sobs. She did not even try to control her weeping. Anger, dreadful anger encompassed her. A hatred like flaming fire burned within her. The man Rudding and her father were all intertwined in her mind, and what bound them together was the strong smell of whiskey.