Dorothy Garlock (8 page)

Read Dorothy Garlock Online

Authors: More Than Memory

“I’ll get a stretcher out of the office and we’ll get him onto the table.” He fondled Kelly’s ears. “That’s a good beastie. Just hang in there, old boy, and we’ll see what’s to be done with you.”
“Lute! What did he mean?” Nelda blurted as soon as Gary disappeared in the office. Her lips trembled. She was torn between her anxiety for Kelly and the heady experience of being with Lute.
“He won’t put him away. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, I was afraid that’s what he meant.”
“Gary’s a good vet—the best.” His voice was gentle and reassuring. “Even if he is an
Englishman
,” he amended in a loud stage whisper.
“I heard that, Lute. One more disparaging remark from you, and I’ll bloody well castrate that bull of yours when I come out to vaccinate him tomorrow.” Gary positioned a stretcher beside the car. “Get to the other side, Lute, and we’ll lift him out on the sheet and slide him onto the board. Righto, out you get, old boy.”
Nelda sat in the waiting room, too nervous even to thumb through the magazines there. She had wanted to go into the treatment room with Kelly, but Gary had vetoed the idea. Lute had guided her to a chair.
“Gary knows what’s best. If you like, I’ll go in with him,” he said. “Relax. You look worn-out.”
It wasn’t until she was seated that she thought about his words. It had been a long time since anyone had been solicitous of her. In Chicago, her job consumed most of her time, and her shy nature prevented her from making many close friends when she did have a spare weekend.
She wondered for the hundredth time if Lute might be the father of a sturdy little blond-haired boy or a dainty little blue-eyed girl. Now that she’d seen him, and still felt about him the way she had so long ago, the thought of meeting his children—Becky’s little half brother or sister—tied her stomach in knots.
“Don’t look so terrified.” Lute was back beside
her, his voice gentle. “Gary says Kelly has a few cracked ribs and some paralysis in his back legs, but that he’ll probably fully recover.”
“Thank God!” Nelda rose unsteadily. “And thank you, too, Lute. I was so scared. Kelly’s really a very smart dog. He understands most of what I say to him, but he gets a little crazy when he hears a motorcycle.” She had rushed into breathless speech.
Lute smiled. “He’ll not be chasing any more cycles. I can almost guarantee it, but just to make sure, I won’t ride by the house anymore.”
“It was you all the time?”
“I usually take a spin out that way several times a week to look over the crops. Come on in and talk to Gary.”
His hand was beneath her elbow as he ushered her into the treatment room. He didn’t remove it, and she was grateful for his support. The stark white room smelled of disinfectant. Her precious Kelly lay still on the table.
“My wife took the kids to the dog show,” Gary began conversationally as soon as she entered the room. “She’ll want to meet you. She’s a great crusader, my Rhetta. She’ll try to rope you in on her bloody projects.” He was drying his hands on a towel, his dark eyes intent on her and Lute. He was an attractive man, long and lean, with dark hair and eyes. Nelda warmed to him instantly. They reviewed Kelly’s condition, then he gave her some medication when she was ready to leave.
With Kelly sedated and ensconced on the sheet
in the backseat once again, Gary completed his instructions.
“When he comes to, he may vomit. If he’ll eat, wrap one of these pills in a piece of ground meat or his favorite dog food, and he’ll sleep the night. After I go to Lute’s tomorrow, I’ll stop by, that is, if that blasted bull hasn’t gored me to death. Ring me if Kelly has any problems before that.”
Gary firmly closed the back door and opened the front for Nelda.
“I’m expecting to be fed well tomorrow at teatime, Lute. Crumpets, biscuits, scones. Oh, yes, and don’t forget the cucumber sandwiches.”
“It costs darn near as much to feed you, you hollow-legged cow-quack, as it does to pay your bills,” Lute retorted, hiding a grin.
“He always says that.” Gary put his head close to Nelda’s and whispered confidentially.
“Flirting again, Gary? I’ll tell Rhetta.”
“You would, you . . . Judas. See you tomorrow.”
Nelda didn’t speak until they were on the highway.
“Will he know where to find me?”
Lute looked at her then. It was cozy and intimate inside the car.
“I like the way this car handles,” he said, instead of answering her question. “Is it a ’54?”
“Yes. It’s my first car. I paid down on it with my very first paycheck.”
His reply was a noncommittal, “Yeah?” He didn’t trust himself to say more. Memories of his teaching her to drive—his hand over hers on the shift,
his arm brushing her breast, the scent of her hair—flooded back.
“I like your hair short that way,” he managed to say after a few minutes of silence. “It suits you better than long.”
He turned his head to look at her, then quickly tore his eyes from her to focus on the road, allowing her a view of his profile. His hair tumbled in disarray, his nose, seen from the side, was straight and finely chiseled, his mouth firm.
The thought seeped into her mind that it would be wonderful to kiss him again. A longing to touch him started in her lips and slowly enveloped her. She sucked in her stomach against the aching sensation and, trying for a distraction, turned to look over the back of the seat at Kelly.
“Everyone in five townships knows that Eli Hansen’s granddaughter is back living in the home place,” Lute said abruptly, reverting to her question as if nothing else had been said in the meanwhile. “Not much happens around here, you know. You being here is big news.”
“How strange. I’ve only had one visitor. Ervin Olsen. What a nice man. He pulled into the yard the other morning and stopped to talk for a few minutes. I thought he’d appointed himself a welcome wagon of one—or else was a square-dance recruiter.”
Nelda went on to say that the snowy-haired widower had asked if she’d like to join him and his “lady friend” at their square-dance group that met in the Ventura Community Hall. He explained, as if she didn’t know, that Ventura was a village at the head
of the lake. He was so formal in his speech and so “down-home” in striped overalls, that he had reminded her of her grandfather.
Lute chuckled. “Ervin’s the best newspaper we have, once he gets his crops in. He makes his rounds every day or two. Usually drives up to the house and honks for someone to come out.”
“That’s what he did. He drove in and honked. I went out to see what he wanted. We talked for a while. I enjoyed our visit.”
They rode along in a silence filled with unspoken and unanswered questions. Nelda didn’t dare steer the conversation into the personal channel she longed to explore.
Lute, tell me about yourself. Tell me every little detail of what you’ve been doing. Tell me you grieved just a little for me and our baby
.
“How long will you be . . . here?” His voice was quiet, hesitant, as he turned onto the gravel road leading to the farm.
“I had planned to spend the winter, but now . . . I don’t know.”
“Tired of country life already?” The edge in his voice hurt.
“Oh, no. I love it here. I always loved being at Gran’s. You know that.”
He glanced at her, and her eyes followed his down to the cleavage revealed by her partially unbuttoned shirt. Her hand moved to fasten the wayward button. It was an automatic gesture to fend off the sudden heat she felt as she recalled the sweetness of his lips on her breast. She looked straight
ahead, conscious of the blond head that turned toward her often now that they were on the little-used road.
Once she turned and gazed back into his eyes, so astonishingly blue in his tanned face.
Why does he keep looking at me?
She began to feel uncomfortable. She knew that her face was dirty and that the humid warmth had made a curly mop of her hair. Dimly she registered that her shorts were soiled, her shirt limp.
“Nelda.” The sound of her name coming from his lips made her heart lurch. “You never did say why you came back. I’d think that it would be pretty tame around here for you.”
She pulled in her bottom lip several times and stared straight ahead, mulling over in her mind what to reply.
“I suppose you would think that,” she said slowly. “But I can sum up my reasons in a few words. I got tired of the rushing, the noise, the backbiting, dog-eat-dog business of commercial decorating. I had a very successful year, so I could afford to come back to the farm to decide if I wanted to sell it or not. I also wanted to try my hand at a craft I haven’t had time for before.”
She waited for a reply, supportive or sarcastic; but Lute didn’t speak until they reached the house. He drove into the backyard and parked the car near the back door.
“You’d better see about getting the garage cleaned out so you can get the car into it this winter.”

 

 

C
hapter
F
ive
N
ELDA
’
S LEGS WERE TREMBLING WHEN SHE GOT
out of the car. She started toward the house to open the door for Lute, then remembered that she had put the house key on the ring with her car keys. She turned back and ran full tilt into Lute, who had moved to open the back door of the car. His hands shot out to steady her. Her thighs and hips came into contact with his. She jumped back.
“Oh, sorry. I need the keys.”
Still holding on to her arm with one hand, he reached into the car and pulled them from the ignition. She took the keys, and, when she moved away, his hand dropped from her arm.
“Are you going to put him on the porch or in the house?” His voice sounded perfectly natural, but her poise had vanished, and she croaked out her answer.
“The house.”
“Fix a place for him. You’d better lay papers; he won’t be able to go out for a while.”
Nelda escaped into the house. Lute had the power
to completely disarm and frighten her, yet he thrilled her, too. Right now she fought to get a handle on her emotions before she made a fool of herself. Damn him! Why couldn’t he have just turned into a balding, potbellied, beer-swilling redneck that she could have dismissed from her thoughts at first sight.
Lute carried the groggy dog into the kitchen and gently placed him on the bed Nelda brought down from her bedroom.
“It would be cooler if he lay on the tile. You should have an air conditioner. It’s like an oven in here.”
“Oven! Oh heavens! I forgot my roast.” She hurried to the stove and pulled down the oven door. The light came on and she saw the small dark brown roast lying in a sea of juices. “It isn’t ruined,” she said with surprise. She looked over her shoulder at Lute. He was standing on spread legs, his hands wedged in the back pockets of his jeans. Something close to a smile on his face. Happiness suddenly filled her and she smiled too.”
“Here, let me get the pan out and you can turn the oven off.” He took a towel from the counter and lifted the roaster to the top of the stove. “It’s no wonder it’s hot in here. All the windows are closed.
“This type of storm window stays on, and the bottom slides up,” he explained, as he twisted the hook on the top of one window sash, effortlessly lifted the window, and reached out to slide up the outer pane and pull down the screen. “This winter, if you’re here, you’ll slide the screen up again and lower the storm.”
“I know how they operate, but I wondered how in the world I was going to get to them when I couldn’t raise the inside window.” She was talking to Lute’s back, trying to ignore the fluttering of her heart. He was moving through the house raising the stuck windows. “It’s cooler already. I had to prop open the front and back doors to get the smoke from my first cooking disaster out of the house. Oh, Lute! Smell that fresh country air.” Nelda knew that she was babbling as she followed him from room to room, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
“All I can smell is that roast.” He strained to lift a tight window that had been closed for years. Fascinated, she watched the muscles rippling across his shoulders. “There’s not much you can do about the porch, but during the day you can open the inside door and unfasten this glass panel on the storm door.” He suited his words to action, and soon a nice breeze was cooling the house. “How about the upstairs?”

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