Marrying Stone (12 page)

Slapping her hands together was not merely a gesture to shake off the dust from the garden, but to free herself from the thoughts of Roe Farley. The man was a stranger. A stranger she didn't really even like. Certainly he was kind to

Jesse, and her father found him interesting. But, she had no cause to waste so much as one minute of her time thinking about him.

With that firmly in mind, she reached for the sack of seed potatoes. Unfortunately still distracted by the sound of hammering, Meggie picked it up from the wrong end. Big half-moldy tubers spilled all over the ground.

"Dad-burn and blast!" she swore with vexation. Once again her dreamy mind was elsewhere and she'd made a mess.

"Roe Farley!" she whispered under her breath. Then honesty compelled her to admit to herself that the scholar from the Bay State had not spilled the potatoes, she had.

With a sigh of resignation she began picking them up, grateful that it was tubers she'd spilled and not the seeds.

Once a semblance of order was restored, Meggie gave full attention to her task. She cut the potatoes into pieces, making sure that each piece had at least two or three eyes on it. When she had enough to fill her apron, she walked to the far end of the tilled row. She dropped the pieces a few inches apart into the little trough of dirt. As she moved slowly forward, she used her steps to cover each potato piece with soil as she walked.

She did manage to plant almost one complete row before her thoughts again strayed. And once more the direction they traveled was to the wash shed roof.

Meggie had thought much about love in her life, but little about sex. Even the word was somehow foreign to her. Her fairy tales were full of romance. And romance instilled her with passion. Her scant knowledge of the actual acts of passion had left her with the impression that what men and women do together was embarrassing at best, at worst distasteful.

Meggie had been so wrapped up in her images of princes and fairy tales, she had never felt the slightest twinge of sensual desire.

But she had felt it yesterday. Stopping abruptly in the potato row, Meggie laid one hand upon the butterflies that had formed in her stomach. She felt it today.

It was enticing to allow herself to slip into this new dimension. To dream not only of a prince to love her, but one who excited her and desired her. Once more she saw Roe's eyes widening behind the dark rims of his spectacles and she sighed aloud.

Determinedly, she pushed the feelings of desire away. Roe Farley was not her prince. That he had seen her and liked what he'd seen was unfortunate. It would be more unfortunate for Meggie if she allowed herself to mistake for even a minute that carnal need with the romantic love that she wanted.

She finished her row and began to cut up potatoes once more. Roe Farley was not her prince. He had not come to this mountain for her. And when he left she was not going to be leaving with him. Whether he desired her was not important. And if she desired him, well it would bode well if she put such thoughts away from him this very minute.

Resolutely, she admonished herself to keep her mind as pure as her deeds and her attention on the needs of her garden.

She might have been able to do that, for a few minutes at least, if that infernal hammering wasn't so distracting.

Because of the necessity of fixing the shed roof, Jesse and Roe got a late start for the cornfield the next day.

By the time they arrived, the sloe-eyed black mule didn't even twitch an ear with interest. Roe felt just as lazy.

It was a glorious day, the sky was as blue as midsummer and big puffs of cotton-white clouds lazed high above. In the clearing of the field the melancholy call of a meadowlark blended with the soft, sweet sound of the wood thrush. Roe stopped in place to appreciate the fine music of the birds and the whirring of grasshoppers in the tall grass. How could he have thought of this place as silent?

The warmth of the sunshine brought tiny beads of sweat to his brow. He liked working outside, he decided. The realization surprised him. Perhaps when he returned to Cambridge he'd try to find a small house with a little garden. He could use some of the knowledge he was acquiring here in the Ozarks.

A broad grin lightened his expression. If he was going to use some of his new knowledge, he more likely should keep hogs and chickens! That would certainly give the city matrons a cause for concern.

He shook his head with good humor. He did think he might try his hand at gardening. It was a shame for the seasons to come and go without touching nature occasionally.

"Can you plow a furrow?" Jesse asked him.

The question brought Roe back to the task of the moment. He shrugged. "How hard can it be?"

Jesse turned his head and gave the hillside a long, thoughtful look. "It can be purty hard."

With a smile and a comforting pat on the shoulder, Roe reassured him. "I may not be from around here, Jesse. I know I'm just a city fellow, but I'm getting toughened up a bit, I think. See my hands." Roe held them out for inspection and Jesse did solemnly take note of the tough hardwork callouses that had begun to form. "And I'm very smart," Roe assured him. "A smart man can outthink his labors and make them easier."

Jesse nodded hopefully, but his expression said that he didn't understand. "I know you're smarter than folks 'round here. I ain't smart a'tal. I figure we kindy even things out."

Roe grinned at him. "Maybe you're right." Roe slapped the young man companionably on the back. To his surprise, Jesse hugged him warmly for a long moment. The affectionate movement surprised Roe and made him uncomfortable. Hugging was not something that was a part of J. Monroe Farley's life. Gentlemen did not hug each other. Roe couldn't remember a time when someone had hugged him.

His back stiffened slightly at the contact. But he did not want to hurt the feelings of the gentle young man. Bravely, Roe stood the contact as if it were a traveling dentist chiseling out one of his teeth. He even managed a half-smile when he was released.

"I'm glad yore my frien', Roe," Jesse said.

His answer was a polite nod.

Carefully checking the mule harness and the plow blade, Jesse Best appeared not simple, but competent and knowledgeable. Roe felt a sense of inexplicable pride in his friend as he watched the meticulous preparations for the fieldwork. The unwanted hug Roe had momentarily endured suddenly seemed less a torture to overcome and more a token of brotherhood and friendship. This simpleminded backwoods cracker from the Ozarks
was
his friend. He could never have imagined this being true a week or two earlier.

"Let's get to plowing," Jesse said with genuine pleasure.

Roe nodded.

Gloved and shod, the two young men commenced their labors. The ground was uneven and peppered with more than a few hidden rocks. Jesse set Roe to inspecting the field. Systematically he walked every square foot of the ground awaiting the plow, carefully clearing it of any unhappy surprises that the plow blade might unearth. The sun beat down on his back and the day was progressing from mildly warm to downright hot, but he didn't even think to complain.

Whistling a tune that Roe vaguely recognized as "I'm a Good Ole Rebel," Jesse led the plow-harnessed mule to near the middle of the field.

"Why are you starting there?" Roe asked as he followed the young man curiously.

Confused, Jesse looked down at the ground and then at the mule before he shrugged. "This is where I always start," he said. "This is where Pa showed me to start."

Roe shook his head. "Well, that doesn't make sense, Jesse. You should start at the edge and go to the edge."

Jesse gazed at one edge of the field and then at the other. His brow furrowed in concentration. "That ain't right," he said.

"Of course it's right," Roe told him, smiling. "It makes perfect sense. Starting in the middle doesn't make any sense at all."

Jesse bit his lip nervously as again he surveyed the field. "We got to start right here, Roe. I know we do."

Roe sighed and shook his head. "Now, Jesse, you just told me yourself that I was smarter than folks around here. And I told you that a smart man can make light work of his labors. You do believe that, don't you?"

Jesse nodded solemnly.

"Then you've got to trust me when I tell you that the place to begin is at the beginning, not in the middle."

To Roe's horror, tears welled up in Jesse's bright blue eyes. "We got to start right here," he insisted. "This is where Pa taught me to start and it's the way I know."

Alarmed at the young man's emotion, Roe voluntarily touched his shoulder in an uncertain attempt to comfort him. "It's all right, Jesse. Don't cry," he said.

"I ain't crying," the young man insisted through his tears. "I'm too big to cry."

Roe nodded as he passed Jesse his handkerchief. "Forget I even brought it up," Roe told him. "We can start plowing right here."

"No, no," Jesse answered, sniffling. "You're lots smarter than me and if you think it should be a different way, then we'll do it that way."

"It doesn't matter, Jesse," Roe said. "I don't want to upset you."

Jesse swallowed and looked around the field. Roe could see him struggling with his thoughts, trying to put them in a coherent order. "It takes me a long time to learn things," he told Roe finally. "When I learn 'em, I try to hold on real tight. It's kindy scary for me to try to unlearn 'em."

Roe nodded. "But, don't you feel great when you learn something new?"

Jesse nodded a little hesitantly. He gazed at the field once more solemnly, then managed to smile at Roe. "Where do you want to start the plowing, my frien'?" he said finally.

Following Roe's directives, Jesse led the mule to the far left corner of the field and made ready to set the plow in the ground.

"You're facing the wrong way," Roe said.

"Huh?"

"You're facing the wrong way. It will be a lot easier to plow up and down on the hillside than crossways."

Jesse looked confused and slightly scared all over again. "We always plow crossways," he said. "Ever' farmer on the mountain plows crossways."

Roe waved away his concern. "Just because everyone on this mountain does it that way, doesn't make it right. Plowing crossways on a hill like this is much harder. You have to stand crooked all day long."

Jesse nodded. "That's why they call plowing work."

"But, if you plow up and down the hill, you can stand straight up and every other furrow, the down furrows, will be much easier with the help of gravity."

"Who's grab-ba-dee?"

"It's a force that… well, it's what makes it easier to run downhill than up."

Nodding as if he understood, he stared at the field once more with worry. "You sure this is the best way?"

"Absolutely."

With his friend's certainty in mind, Jesse turned the mule to face up the hill.

* * *

Meggie tossed the thread-wrapped shuttle hand-to-hand through the multitude of cotton and linen lines that made up the weaving harness. Forcefully she tromped the first treadle, lifting the threads across the warp. Passing the shuttle back once more, she tromped the second treadle which raised the second harness of threads that had laid low before. After another throw of the shuttle, she pulled the batten toward her with a firm jerk. In this methodical, rhythmic pattern she, Meggie Best, created the cloth that was worn by herself, her father, and her brother. And now by Roe Farley. She did it with the ease of familiarity, but her mind was not on weaving.

She hummed quietly to herself as in her imagination she spun and twirled across the dance floor in the arms of a handsome prince. She was beautiful, of course. Her dark blonde hair had magically turned the color of the palest cornsilk and was twirled on top of her head in a braided coronet entwined with blue ribbons. Her dress was blue also. Not the blue that she could make by soaking homespun cloth in cedar tops and wild flag petals. But a real, dyed blue, like the bolts of fabric in Phillips' Store. Soft, shiny blue that would never fade to gray even if it was washed a dozen Wednesdays. The dress had a wide skirt reaching clear to the floor and yards of material belled about her with circular hoops. The tiny stitches in the seams and facings were flat-felled in thread of pure gold, and the yoke was so heavily embroidered it looked like a dozen gold necklaces graced her bosom. On her feet were shoes, the like of which she'd never seen before. They looked, at first glance, to be doe-skin dancing slippers, but on closer observation they were made of real glass and felt as light and comfortable on her feet as if she wore no shoes at all.

Meggie sighed languidly as again she continued to pass the shuttle through the harnesses and tromp the treadles. Her quill of yarn was almost finished and she turned to the huge broomgrass basket at her side to fetch another.

Again and again the handsome prince spun her around the dance floor. When the movements called for a moment of closeness, he would whisper sweetness in her ear.

"You are beautiful, my sweet Meggie," he would say. His voice was low and rich, and his speech was that of the learned and cultured. "My lonely life has been one long, rainy day until you, like the sun, shined upon it."

Meggie sighed again and looked up into the handsome visage of her own sweet prince. He was tall and strong, but in a courtly way, not beefy and muscled as a man used to farm work. His eyes were warm acorn brown, his hair was black as birch bark, his broad, welcoming smile was as white and gleaming as blossoms in the clover. He was so handsome. He was so perfect. He was J. Monroe Farley.

"Dad-burn and blast!"

Meggie came to reality in a single flash. Both from the disconcertment of having Farley invade her daydream, and from the huge mess she had managed to snarl into the loom. Her inept gardening had taken the whole morning and now that she was finally free to work at the loom, the image of Roe Farley followed her here.

Slowly and painstakingly she pulled out the threads of the new woof which were miswoven and lumpy, as she silently cursed the city man. Why in heaven was it her bad luck that the most princely man to ever set foot in the Ozarks would have to show up at her family's cabin? She blushed vividly at the memory of his face above her peeking down through the roof of the shed.