Spirit of the Valley (15 page)

She sighed. “A bad man,” she admitted quietly.

“A bad man who may come after you?”

She looked at him warily. “I don't know how he could possibly find us.”

“In the place your father lived and died?” he asked incredulously. She blushed, because there was something else she was hiding. “Why don't you just say what you're not telling me?”

It was the wrong thing to say, or maybe the right thing to say, because a tear slipped down her face. She quickly wiped it away.

“Nothing you say will ever leave this house,” he pledged. “I just need to know to . . . to be able to protect you.”

“I've told you,” she said guardedly.

“You're not telling me the whole truth.”

“Have you told me the whole truth?”

So, they'd reached an impasse. He couldn't tell her and she wasn't willing to share more than she already had. At least he knew there was a man responsible for the pain and damage. It couldn't be anybody too close to her, because then he would have known where her father lived. Maybe after her husband died, another man came into the picture, one who didn't care for her children. He picked up his glass and took another drink, wondering how to diffuse the tension that had crept between them. “Did you get your baking supplies this week?”

“All that I could,” she replied stiffly.

“What do you still need?”

She shook her head. “I'll start with what I have. I'll begin with simple breads and work my way up to cakes and candies.”

“I'll help if you tell me what you need.”

She pulled her shawl tighter. “Our arrangement is set and . . . I don't think we should get money involved.”

The words stung. “I wasn't talking about our arrangement. I wasn't talking about a new one either. I was just talking about helping. I eat your food, don't I? Drink your wine? We didn't have a specific
arrangement
for that.”

She studied him a moment, as if confused again. “I should check on the children. They might—”

“Go. Check on them. I should go to bed, anyway.” He pushed back in his chair and stood. “Thank you for the wine,” he said before turning away. He started to the guest room. The
guest
room. That's all he was, a temporary guest, and he shouldn't forget it.

Chapter Twenty-One

The next afternoon, Lizzie walked toward Jeremy, who was plowing a garden spot. She felt a mixture of guilt and bewilderment for many reasons. For one thing, she knew she'd hurt his feelings by refusing his offer to help purchase baking supplies, although it certainly hadn't been her intention. She'd tried to smooth things over this morning, but he'd remained cool and distant. For another thing, it suddenly felt as if they'd known each other a year and not just a few days. How did he know what he knew about her? At least, he seemed to know. He also seemed to care—sincerely care—or was she imagining that? “Water,” she called, holding up a glass.

He looked over at her and halted his horse with a “Ho!”

She went to him, stepping high over the furrowed earth, which wasn't too difficult because she'd put on a pair of men's overalls April May had given her. They felt strange on her, as if she was wearing too many clothes, but she was planning on getting dirty. Jeremy looked quizzically at her clothing, accepted the glass of water, and downed it. “I'm going to help,” she stated. “You take a break and—”

“No.”

“Don't be stubborn. You've already broken up the dirt, so it won't be so hard now.”

“You ever plowed before?”

“I have not, but I'm looking forward to it.”

“It's no work for a woman. No matter how she dresses.” He handed the glass back. “I'd take more water, though.”

“Then you go get it and let me do this. I want to help.”

He gave her a look. “There's so much to do around here, we won't have it done in a year.”

The words were thrilling.

“You have baking to do, don't you?”

“You mean after I get you more water like the helpless woman I am?”

He scoffed. “I never said that and I never thought it.”

She turned and started away, but turned back when she realized he hadn't begun plowing again. Just as she'd suspected, he was staring at her. And grinning. That gave her a thrill, too. “What?”

“It's not a sight you see every day,” he said. “Just thought I'd enjoy it.”

She rolled her eyes and started back so quickly that she tripped and fell. “Are you okay?” he called, but she could hear the laughter in his voice. She got up and turned back to him. She couldn't be offended, since teasing and talking was so much better than silence and hurt feelings. “I suppose you think I'm going to rinse the dirt from your glass before I refill it?”

“I'm not thinking anything. I'll take the water, dirt and all. Happily.”

When she returned with a clean cup and a filled pitcher, he halted the horse again and drank his fill. “Tell you what. You can do one row,” he said, barely keeping a straight face.

“So you can laugh at me? I don't think so.”

“Oh! So now you refuse to help.”

“That's right. I'm going to go find my own project. A new project.”

“What project?”

She shrugged. “I've never gone all the way down into the cellar.”

His grin disappeared and he shook his head. “No, you're not. Those steps are rotted.”

“So, I'll fix them,” she replied breezily.

“Do not go down there,” he said sternly.

Her eyes widened with surprise because he was serious.

“Let me fix the steps first,” he continued. “I mean it. You fall through and you'll break your leg or worse.”

Why was her heart beating like mad? “All right. Fine.”

He nodded, satisfied that she acquiesced. “Maybe tonight we can work on a list of things to get done and we'll prioritize them. So be thinking about that.”

She didn't want to show how much she was feeling, so she pursed her lips and looked at the plow and the horse. “I really can do a row.”

He handed the glass back. “I was kidding.”

She took the glass from him, and decided to take the plunge. “I didn't mean to hurt your feelings last night.”

“You didn't,” he replied quickly. Too quickly.

Had the wall come right back up between them or was she imagining it? She didn't know what else she could say and so she turned and started back to the house.

“Lizzie,” he called when she was clear of the furrowed ground.

She turned back. “Yes?”

“The offer I made . . . it still stands.”

Tears pricked the backs of her eyes and she looked away quickly.

“No strings attached,” he said, “other than to taste some of the stuff you make.”

She nodded but couldn't look at him, and he didn't stop her again when she walked on.

 

 

As the sun set, Jeremy brushed down his horse, a chestnut stallion that stood sixteen hands high, with a reddish-blond mane. The plowing had been hard work and the horse was as sweaty as he was. Not that he minded. He was tired, but he felt alive in a way a man was supposed to feel alive.

He noticed Rebecca slowly coming closer. She was wearing a pair of overalls made of sturdy blue fabric with a pink patch in the middle that had her name embroidered upon it. The clothing was obviously the influence of the Blue sisters. April May frequently wore such garments, while Cessie, who'd likely done the sewing, was as feminine as could be. Cessie had a pretty face and liked lace and frills. Cessie and April May, while close to each other, were at opposite ends of the spectrum in their tastes. As he recalled, the other girls in the family had fallen somewhere in between.

The Blues were a funny, gregarious family, full of life and laughter—but April May was
funny
in a different sort of way. He knew this because of a time the two of them had been together after managing to rescue a mule from the mine.

Sometimes mules went mad from the dark dankness beneath the surface of the earth. Usually the madness manifested itself when the animal exited the mine, transporting a load. The light and the air triggered a need so deep that no one could get it to go back inside, not by coercing, pulling, or beating. On this occasion, they'd actually gotten a mule back to its confines within the depths of the mine, but then it went crazy. It brayed, cried mournfully, and went in circles, rearing and kicking, driving off the other mules. Finally, it just lay down to die. Try as they might, they couldn't get the animal up. No one wanted to haul a mule carcass from the mine, so the mule lady had been summoned, and she'd gotten it up using soothing talk and treats. Jeremy had helped, walking ahead of her and the mule, with a lamp.

Once outside, the beast of burden broke free of them and ran, braying joyfully. It was shocking to see. Not only was the mule nowhere close to dead, it wanted life and light and air. Jeremy should have gone right back to work, but he'd lingered. He'd always liked April May Blue, odd as she was. She was honest to a fault—that was how his mother had once put it. She spoke her mind and didn't care what anyone thought of it.

“You ever want to do that?” April May asked him as she watched the mule with that cockeyed smile of hers.

“What?”

“Break free and run in circles. Scream ‘I am alive, damn you all.'”

He grinned. “Is that what it's saying?”

“Oh yeah. He'll settle down before long, but for now he wants us to know. I . . . am . . . alive. Damn you all very much for stickin' me in that stinkin' hole.” She looked at Jeremy. “Of course, you stuck yourself there, so maybe you don't feel the inclination.”

It was true. He had stuck himself there and he wasn't asking anybody to feel sorry for him. The mule finally came to a standstill and was lifting and lowering his head, as if to better feel the sunshine. Or maybe adjusting to the brightness of day. It was overcast, but it was painfully bright in comparison to below. “No one could get him to budge an inch,” Jeremy commented.

“Yeah, well, I promised him the right thing. Freedom. We all want freedom.”

It was an odd comment. “You don't think most people are free?”

She chortled. “Most people are anything but free. It's just that we're bound by different things. Working somewhere we don't want to in order to put food in our mouths. Fear. Bad marriages. Obligation.”

“You seem pretty free.”

“I'm probably freer than most,” she acknowledged. “In some ways. Or maybe not,” she mused. “Maybe less.”

He had no idea what she was getting at. “I bet most people think they're free.”

“Most people don't analyze too closely, probably because they don't want to face certain truths.”

Then maybe he was freer than most. He'd faced the truths and was paying the debt he owed. “What freedom would you want that you don't have?” he asked, desirous of keeping the discussion about her and not himself.

“The freedom of love, I guess. That special, sacred bond.”

It was strange to think of her in love, but then again, most people wanted that. Or needed it. Not him, of course, but other folks. His guess was that she was just so different, men didn't see her the way a man saw a woman he wanted to marry. That was sad, because she was a really good lady.

“Well, I best get my new friend on home,” she said, starting toward the mule.

He wanted to say something more—something that would let her know how well he thought of her. “It was his loss,” he called when she was halfway to the mule.

She turned back to him, curious about the statement.

“If there was someone special,” he said, “and he was too blind to see what all you offer, it was his loss.”

She smiled, touched by the sentiment. “I appreciate that. Although, just between you and me, it was
her
loss,” she said with a wink. She turned and started toward the mule again, which was a good thing, since Jeremy's jaw had dropped.

 

 

“What's his name?” Rebecca asked from a safe distance.

“Dancer.”

“Why'd you name him that?”

This was the first time she'd struck up a conversation with him, which was oddly pleasing. He shrugged. “He does this prancy thing sometimes, kinda like a dance,” he said as he kept brushing. “I named him a long time ago.”

“How long have you had him?”

“Almost twenty years, I guess.”

She came a little closer, moving slowly, her hands shoved into her pockets.

“Do you like horses?” he asked.

“I like donkeys. They're smaller.”

“More stubborn, too. Horses are friendlier. They get to know you and they want to please you.”

Her expression turned doubtful.

“It's true,” he said, moving around to the other side of the horse.

“April May says mules aren't as stubborn as people say. They just want what they want.”

He grinned because he could well imagine her saying just that. “She's probably right.”

“Did you know that donkeys and mules are different?”

“Is that so?” he asked thoughtfully.

She nodded. “Mules are bigger. They come from a horse and a donkey. The horse was the mother.”

Jeremy murmured his interest. “They're strong,” Jeremy said. “That's why they're used in mines to haul heavy loads.”

“They don't like that,” Rebecca stated matter of factly.

“I don't imagine they do,” he agreed.

“Were you scared to get up on him at first?” she asked, looking at Dancer.

“Nah. Not that I remember. We had a farm, so we always had horses.”

“Do you still have the farm?”

“No. I only have this piece of ground that nobody else wanted.”

“Why didn't they want it?”

He stopped for a moment and looked over at her. “Truthfully, I didn't offer it. It had this old cabin on it that some of my ancestors lived in a long time ago, so I kept it.” He paused. “You know what an ancestor is?”

She nodded. “Family that lived a long time ago.”

“I bet you did good in school.”

“I was top of my grade,” she replied proudly. “The last day of every month, Miss Jamison, our teacher, wrote the names of the top students in every grade and it always said ‘second grade, Rebecca Ray—' ” She broke off suddenly with a startled, almost frightened expression.

He blinked in surprise at the reaction. “That's something,” he said calmly, wondering what had so spooked her. “I never did that well.”

She studied the ground around her, looking miserable. It felt like they'd made a little progress, but then she'd taken a big step back.
Second grade, Rebecca Ray. Rebecca Ray Carter.
What had spooked her? “How do you think Jake will do?” he asked.

“He's not going to like it. He won't want to speak up.”

He tossed the brush aside and reached into his pocket for the pick. “He might surprise you,” he said as he picked up Dancer's front hoof and started cleaning it. He noticed Rebecca come around so she could watch what he was doing. She still kept her distance, but it interested her.

“He thinks he likes you,” she said. It was almost spoken like a challenge.

“I like him, too,” he said without looking up.

She hesitated. “Do you like me?”

He dropped the leg and looked at her. “Sure, I do.”

Silence.

“If I pet him, would he bite me?”

“No. He'd just look at you. Wonder about you.”

“How do you know?”

“'Cause I know him. I told you, I've had him a long time. We know each other's mind.”