Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (6 page)

“The first impression a person makes on you is oftentimes the correct one. Trust your own instincts; think your own thoughts; follow your own trail.” That was the advice Rain Tallman had given his sons.

John touched the scab beneath his jaw. For the past ten years he had lived by the gun and become skilled at using the bowie knife. He had killed, swiftly and mercilessly, but only in order to save his own life. It had never been easy for him to kill, although he had lived among men who understood no other way of life.

John had come east to buy goods for the trading post his father had set up to serve the Indians and settlers coming down the Santa Fe Trail into New Mexico Territory. This was his third trip in as many years. This time he had made the side trip to Quill’s Station on the Wabash River to visit his cousin, Zachary Quill. Now he was eager to get back to his ranch, to the cool, thick-walled adobe house he had built for the family he hoped to have someday.

John chuckled when he thought of how his mother nagged him to find a woman and fill the empty rooms in his house with children. He chuckled again and wondered what she would think if she could see him now, lying under a pecan tree, protecting a widow and a passel of younguns instead of sleeping on a soft bed in a hotel.

He was certain that he would never find a woman to equal the legendary Amy Tallman. In her midsixties, she still rode beside her husband, fought beside him, and loved him with a fiery passion. She, in turn, was the light of her husband’s life. They had built a home in the mountains north of Fort Smith and raised two boys and two girls, of which John Spotted Elk Tallman, named for his Indian grandfather who had been killed during the great earthquake of 1811, was the youngest.

Six years before, realizing that soon their sons would be expected to fight for a cause they did not believe in, Rain and Amy Tallman had packed their family and worldly goods in three freight wagons, crossed the Indian territories and settled in northern New Mexico.

Birds fluttered in the branches above John’s head. He fervently hoped they had emptied their bowels before roosting for the night. A yellow-white moon rose above the dark clump of trees, causing millions of stars to pale. An owl gave a mournful call; a wolf howled in the distance. All were familiar sounds to John.

Then a child coughed inside the house, bed springs squeaked, and once again his thoughts turned to a pair of violet eyes with dark lashes and hair the color of a buckskin horse he’d had when he was young. He turned and pillowed his head on his arm, suddenly uncomfortable by the sexual desire that swept over him.

Hell! Maybe it was time he took a wife.

*  4  *

A
ddie awakened suddenly, lifted her head off the pillow, and listened. She heard the ringing blow of an ax. Through the window on the east wall she saw the light of dawn. Her son was sleeping soundly with his hand tucked beneath his cheek. Addie rolled to the side of the bed, got to her feet and hurried to the kitchen. She was lifting the bar from the door so that she could open it a crack and look out when Trisha appeared beside her, the rifle ready in her hand.

“Who is it?” she whispered.

“I’m about to find out.”

Addie recognized the woodchopper at once. He was the man who had offered to carry their sugar to the wagon. Not many men wore flat-crowned leather hats. As she watched, his powerful arms lifted the ax and brought it down with enough force to slice through the log. He bent and tossed the stove-length stick onto a growing pile.

“Who’s out there?” Trisha whispered.

“It’s the man who was at the store, the one who wore a leather hat and shirt hanging outside his britches.”

“What’s he doin’ out there at our woodpile?”

Addie opened the door. “He’s chopping wood.”

“I know
that.
What for?”

“I don’t know. For Pete’s sake, Trisha, put the gun down.”

“That’s bugger’s got somethin’ on his mind or he’d not be doin’ that. Ain’t no man doin’ choppin’ work for womenfolk less’n he’s wantin’ somethin’.”

“Well, let’s just ask him. No use pretending he’s not there.”

“I’m holdin’ this gun right on ’im long’s he’s on this place.”

Addie took a string from her pocket, gathered her loose hair at her nape, and tied it. After she straightened her dress and made sure it was buttoned to the neck, she stepped out onto the porch.

“Good morning!” she called.

“Mornin’.” The ax never missed a stroke.

“You did enough for us last night. You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” With one blow of the ax a chunk of wood fell. He picked it up and tossed it onto the pile.

“We appreciate what you did—”

With a wave of his hand he dismissed the deed as nothing, then he dragged another heavy tree limb to the chopping block.

“How we goin’ to milk the cow with that . . . that buzzard out there?” Trisha hissed.

“I’d be obliged if you’d tell that girl to stop pointing the end of that rifle at me. It might go off.” John tipped his hat back and wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve.

“If’n it does, you sure be a gone goose,” Trisha yelled.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” John said dryly, and swung the ax again.

“Miss Addie—” Colin came bounding out of the kitchen door with the big buffalo gun in his hands.

“Good Lord!” John stared. “You’re about as helpless out here as a den of rattlesnakes.”

Addie smiled. “We can pretty much take care of ourselves.”

“I can see that.”

“You’re welcome to some breakfast.”

“Miss Addie!” Trisha gasped. “Why you say that?”

John leaned on the ax handle and studied the trio on the porch before he accepted her offer.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“It’ll be a little while before it’s ready. We have chores to do first.”

“I ain’t goin’ out and milk no cow with him out there,” Trisha said crossly.

“Trisha, it’ll be broad daylight in a few minutes,” Addie said patiently to the girl. “If he meant to harm us he would have forced his way in last night. We’ll
all
go do the chores. I’ll gather eggs while you milk and Colin feeds the stock. Colin, put away the gun. You, too, Trisha.”

“I’m a-keepin’ hold of this gun, an’ I ain’t takin’ my eyes off’n that . . . ‘passerby.’ ”

“That’s going to be hard to do when you milk. I’ll get the bucket and hold the gun while you wash your hands.”

*  *  *

John was still chopping wood when the women came from the barn. The chickens, free of the pen, were clucking and busily searching for grubs among the woodchips. Carrying the bucket of milk in one hand and the rifle in the other, Trisha gave him a wide berth on her way back to the house. Addie stopped to speak to him. She held the gathered end of her apron in one hand.

John stood looking down at her, waiting for her to speak. Time and space seemed to shrink to the spot where they stood beside the woodpile.

“The hens were good to us this morning. I can give you eggs with soda biscuits and gravy. We’re out of fresh meat.”

The thought crossed John’s mind that he had seen prettier women, but this one drew attention because of the light way she moved: chin up, shoulders back, and a proud lift to her head. Her hair
was
the color of that buckskin horse. It was thick and fine, too, and wisps of it, stirred by the morning breeze, danced around her face.

He studied her with a determination to find some fault, some flaw that would prove that what had been said about her in the tavern had at least a sprinkling of truth. But the cool calmness of her eyes shut him out.

“Does this mean that you no longer think I came out here with . . . ah . . . less than noble intentions?”

Addie felt a blush flooding her cheeks. She hesitated, trying to think of an answer to give him, wanting to be honest, but unable to understand what had prompted her to invite him to breakfast. Her thoughts milled about in mild disorder, and in the end she shrugged, an oddly girlish gesture.

“No. It doesn’t mean that we’re not afraid of you. But there comes a time when one must take a chance. I’m gambling that you’re an honest, decent man and have not come here to cause us grief.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze remained on him, intense, unfathomable, and, for an instant, disturbingly vulnerable.

John removed his hat and wiped his brow again with the sleeve of his shirt. He rested a foot on the chopping block, leaned his elbow on his thigh, and pointed to the house. His smile lent a fleeting warmth to his dark features.

“The girl wants to shoot me.”

Addie’s eyes never left his face. “She’s had rough treatment. It’s made her fearful.”

“Do you get many callers like the ones last night?”

“Now and then. What brought you out here?” She gazed at him steadily, her violet eyes now openly inquisitive. “I know you weren’t just passing by.”

“I heard talk at the tavern. What they said didn’t match up with the impression I had when I met you at the store.”

“I have an idea what was said about me and Trisha. I want to thank—”

“Please don’t thank me again, Mrs. Hyde. It isn’t necessary.”

“You know my name. I don’t know yours.”

“Tallman. John Tallman.”

“How do you do.” Addie offered her hand. John grasped it briefly and let it go.

“Miss Addie!” Colin yelled from the porch. “Preacher Sikes is comin’.”

“Oh, fiddle! What a way to start the day.” Addie turned toward the house, then back. “Mr. Tallman, would you mind staying in the barn until the preacher is gone? He would just
love
to find something . . . improper about your being here.”

“Well, sure. But I’m not forgetting about the soda biscuits and gravy.” His slow smile once more altered the stern cast of his features. Slapping his hat back on his head, he hurried to the barn.

Addie ran to the house, deposited the eggs on the kitchen table, and told Trisha and Colin to stay out of sight. She rushed out onto the front porch just as the preacher’s buggy pulled to a stop in the front yard. Hoping to discourage him from coming into the house, she walked quickly down the steps to greet Preacher Sikes.

“Morning, Preacher. Isn’t this a fine morning?”

“It is that, Sister Hyde.”

“You’re out early.”

“Have business in Freepoint. I just stopped by to tell ya that Brother Renshaw’ll be over in a day or two to get Colin. He has a need for him to pick bugs off’n his ’tater plants. Have the boy’s stuff packed and ready.”

The words hit Addie like a dash of icy water. For an instant her mind froze. Then she remembered what Trisha had told her about Mr. Renshaw, and the heat of her anger thawed the chill that had swept over her.

“I need Colin. I need him a lot more than Mr. Renshaw does. I thought I made it clear to you yesterday that he will stay here.”

“Woman, ya got no say as to where that boy goes,” the preacher said firmly, his small eyes going hard. “Ya can keep the girl.”

“They are brother and sister and should not be separated. As far as they know, they have no other living kin. It would be cruel and unfair to separate them.” Addie’s tone reflected both her frustration and her determination.

“They don’t
belong
to you, Sister Hyde. Ya just had the loan of ’em.”

“They don’t
belong
to you either. In case you’ve forgotten, the war is over.
Whites
as well as coloreds are free.”

“Not in the case of minors. They do as they’re told. Brother Renshaw has offered to feed and clothe the boy in exchange for work.”

“‘Brother Renshaw has offered’?” Addie repeated with a curl of her lips. “Wasn’t that generous of him!”

“He’s doin’ his Christian duty. He offered to take a turn as others has done.”

“Hell and damnation! I don’t give a holy damn if that dirty old fool offered his whole dad-blasted farm. He will
not
have Colin! And, what’s more—it’s not your God-given right to take that child out of this home where he is loved and wanted.” By now her voice had risen until she was shouting. “Dammit to hell! Admit it, Preacher—you’re getting money for turning this child over to that pervert!”

“Blasphemy!” The preacher gasped, and his body went rigid. “Yore mama and papa would turn over in their graves to hear such comin’ from yore mouth!” The man’s cheeks swelled, his face turned the color of a turnip, and his jaws quivered. “That boy was put in my care. He goes where
I
say he goes.”

“If it takes blasphemy to get your attention, so be it! I don’t give a tinker’s damn how much money that dirty old man is giving you or if he’s building you a church the size of the capitol down in Little Rock. I’ll not turn that child over to be mistreated by a degraded beast like Renshaw. Colin stays here, and anyone who comes to get him will be met with a load of buckshot.”

“Well! That’s settles it. Have the girl’s thin’s ready too. I’ll find a
Christian
home for her. I been hearin’ ’bout the goin’s on out here. Never believed it till now. You’re headed straight for hell,
Mrs.
Hyde.”

“And so are you, you damned old hypocrite! You don’t have Colin’s interest at heart. You care no more for these children than if they were . . . dogs!”

“Cussin’ like a riverman! Jesus, forgive her. Almighty God, this poor creature has been sucked down into the devil’s snake pit!” The preacher’s eyes rolled back in his head. He looked as if he were in a trance. Then, bright, hate-filled eyes glared into Addie’s face. “I pray that God’ll forgive me for leavin’ poor innocent children in this den of sin. But no longer, God”—he looked toward the heavens—“no longer!”

“You’ll have to kill me to get either one of them,” Addie yelled.

Preacher Sikes snapped the whip against the horse’s rump and the surprised animal leaped forward. Addie barely had time to jump out of the way.

“Did you hear me?” she screamed after the departing buggy. “If you dare come back here again I’ll fill your fat hide with buckshot. You hypocrite! You—cold-hearted, nasty old bastard!” She shook her fists at the buggy careening down the lane. “Depraved old reprobate! Bible-spoutin’ son of a bitch!”