by Martha Hix
“I suppose all isn’t lost.” She brushed her sleeves, wiggled her shoulders, and collected her velvet reticule. “I’m skilled at building fires. Where’s the wood stack?”
“We burn cow patties.”
“Cow patties?”
“Dung.”
The disgust in her face turned to . . . to what? Surrender? Resignation? That, he could not read, but her green eyes sparkled. With tears, not delight. Any rube in the trifecta could see that.
“I know what they are made of, Mr. Kincaid.” She crossed her arms and hugged her handbag to her waist. “I’m just trying to understand the process of getting those patties from the source to the cookstove.”
“Hearth. We have a cooking hearth. Don’t you worry about a thing. Luis and Manuel stacked up a supply inside the house and inside the outhouse, before they got run outta Lubbock.”
“Dung in the house?” she asked, her brow lifted.
“It’s dry. It doesn’t smell unless we get a rain shower. But we’re so happy when those come along, we don’t even notice the smell of those patties.”
“Civilized people have detached kitchens.”
“I guess that makes us common, ordinary Texans.”
That was when he heard the most pleasant sound. It was laughter. A sweet chuckle from his bride!
She lifted a hand to lay fingers to her cheek. “Good gravy, Mr. Kincaid—you don’t need a wife. You need a . . . Oh, never mind.” With a roll of her green eyes, she chuckled anew. “You might call this place heaven, but I’d say we’re in a pickle.”
Unsure he should trust this new attitude, he replied, “Not really. I think we have a lot to thank our Lord in heaven for. We aren’t old, we have our health. We’ve got a roof over our heads and food for our bellies. The day always starts out for the best when you look for the good in it.”
“My only good days were with the Restons.”
“Beg pardon?”
“I worked for them. They were wonderful people. It was a pleasure to awaken each day to their presence.”
“I thought you went straight from your mama’s arms to school at Heaven’s Gate in Shreveport.”
“I worked for Mr. and Mrs. Reston . . . before I ever even heard of Heaven’s Gate.”
“My mistake then.” He rubbed his jaw and played on words. “This ranch sure isn’t at heaven’s gate, but Charlie and I have high hopes for it.”
She laughed. He cut his eyes to her, seeing her smile. It didn’t quite sparkle in the fading light of day, but it did beat her scowls and frowns.
He offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
“Why not? Thank you, sir.” She laced her arm with his, and they strode toward the sod house. “I guess we could grow flowers on the roof. That would beat all those weeds that have sprouted up there.”
“That’s the ticket. Listen . . . The sheriff—Wes Alington—my cousin Grant calls him a ‘studious thinker.’ Wes studied the froufrou flowers that take to this climate. You might wanna talk with him before you start with the petunias and sweet Williams.”
“How peculiar, a sheriff with a soft side.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But you’ll benefit from what he has to say.”
“Thank you, then.”
At last Sam could smile at the improvement in his bride’s attitude and tone.
They had taken no more than a dozen steps before she came to a halt. “Oh, good gracious, Mr. Kincaid. I think your coop door must be open,” she said, as Henny, Lizzie, and Russ—followed by their small family of near-grown chicks—turned the corner from behind the soddy, where they usually roosted on the dugout latrine.
“They don’t need a coop. Where are they gonna go? They’re content to stay here and eat their fill of corn each day, when they aren’t snacking on their own eggs. Surely are good eggs. The yolks are bright orange.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“That’s the way I see it. But don’t you worry your pretty little head. No need to consider Lizzie or Henny for tonight’s supper. I’m sure you can whip up a little something for us to eat.” He felt sublimely happy—to use his dearly departed mother’s way of putting things—at the idea of Mrs. Ermentrude Kincaid stirring the hearth pot. “I sure am fond of cornbread, just so you know. Whatever you add to that’ll tide us over ’til noon tomorrow.”
“I’m supposed to cook . . . tonight?”
“We do have to eat,” he answered.
“This is our wedding night.”
“You don’t want to take that on, not on an empty stomach.”
She pulled her arm from his. “You are sure full of yourself.”
He feared his new bride had begun to tremble, but not with carnal enthusiasm. “I might be that, Mrs. Kincaid. I did understand from your letters that you enjoy the wifely arts, one being cooking. I didn’t read it wrong. You graduated from Heaven’s Gate School for young brides, with recommendations. I do—”
“Ladies,” she corrected. “It’s a school for young ladies. A finishing school. They do not instruct anyone in scullery duties. The only reason Jewel knows them? She was the cook. I don’t know how—I’m . . . Cooking is not something I have mastered.”
“Aw now, honey. Quit funnin’ me.” Again he hooked his arm through the crook of hers. He tapped her hand; it still felt quivery. “I bet you’re not giving yourself enough credit. I know a lady has her pride. The last thing you want is for folks here in Lubbock County to think you’re not gentry and have to go without house servants to do your bidding.”
The skin beneath her nose freckles went as white as wallpaper paste.
He went on. “Let’s be practical. My uncle and I both know Brother Fred Inman at the church quite well. He’s the one who married us. He came here from the mission in Shreveport. He knows of what he speaks. We all know you graduated from a school that stresses the importance of showing a man to his happiness through his stomach. And his loins.”
“Loins? That was not a school for concubines or painted ladies!”
He had fudged on the loins. “Don’t you worry about nothing, honey. I reckon you’ll do fine, as soon as you get accustomed to your kitchen. We’ll make do tonight, but chicken and dumplings will sure hit the spot tomorrow.”
“Mr. Kincaid . . . please tell me you are prone to practical jokes.”
“No jokes. I’d sure hate to sacrifice either of those two plump hens to chicken and dumplings, but that’s my favorite dish. ’Course, dumplings without milk in the gravy? Nasty, flat-out nasty. Charlie and I were in a hurry today, getting ready for your arrival, so I didn’t have time to round up our good milker. I’ll collar Beulah in the morning. You can milk her while I sharpen the ax blade for you . . .”
“You expect me to chop a hen’s head off?”
“We wouldn’t wish to sacrifice Russ. He’s the rooster.” Sam didn’t miss a beat. “It works best if you wring her neck first.”
“You expect me to cook?”
He glanced left to right, then back again. “Don’t see anyone else to take care of it.”
“You must have stayed up late, planning for this afternoon and evening.”
“Just wanted to make things nice for my bride, my sweet little Ermentrude.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Kincaid.” He went back to the surrey to heft the sack of pinto beans onto a shoulder. Figuring to get the house issue put to bed and his new missus in their bed, he summed it all up so they could get on with supper. “I reckon you’re as hungry as I am. If we’re gonna survive, we have to eat. If you’re willing to cook, I’m willing to do the washing up.”
“That would be nice. Th-thank you.”
“Dishes it is, and now . . .” He put down the beans to do his bridegroom honors, but by the time he straightened, she’d already stepped inside. He scratched his jaw with a thumbnail. She didn’t want to be carried across the threshold? This was sure not going the way he’d expected.
Chapter 5
While Mr. Kincaid had generously offered his services as dishwasher, Linnea-turned-Ermentrude had a problem. She had never swung an ax in her life. Her skills had been honed in the upkeep of Rutherford G. Reston’s fashionable residence in Shreveport, not to neck-wringing on the lone prairie.
A big wad of dread mixed with panic in her belly.
It wasn’t the looks on the inside of the soddy, which turned out to be tidier and cleaner than one might expect.
It wasn’t the fact there was only one bed in this house of mud.
It was the fact that he expected her to celebrate their marriage with a meal that included cornbread. And he expected her to do the work and lay the banquet out in front of them.
Brought up in the Rapides Parish Institute for Orphan Girls, she’d never tried her hand at cooking, and that hadn’t changed during her marriage; she and Percival had lived in an endless succession of boardinghouses.
The idea of wringing and chopping chicken necks and heads didn’t exactly thrill her, either, but the two Mrs. Clucks were a problem for tomorrow.
“I—I guess I could boil some beans,” Linnea muttered as Samson doffed his Texas hat and she went to a half-filled burlap bag of dried beans to peek inside. Unsettled at the thought of turning those hard pellets into a pot of something tasty, she sought anything that would stall her cooking chore. “I should change out of my good clothes.”
“I brought in your valise. You want help unpacking?”
“No.”
“I could get you outta your laces . . .”
“I don’t wear a corset.”
His blue eyes widened expectantly, one edge of his mustache tilting up with a one-sided grin. “You don’t say.”
“I say. And I also say . . . I would appreciate my privacy while changing clothes.”
“What exactly do you want me to do, Ermentrude?” he asked, his voice not as pleasant as the previous moment.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“What in God’s name do you want me to call you then, dammit?”
“I’m not particularly keen on ‘Dammit.’ ”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it. In my opinion, you’ve been pretty contrary since the moment you hit Lubbock. What’re you looking for, Mrs. Ermentrude Kincaid?”
“You could call me Linnea.”
“Why would I want to do that?” He looked even more perplexed than before.
“You see, Mr. Kincaid, it’s my . . . it’s my middle name. I like it ever so much better than Ermentrude.”
“You should’ve told me so in your letters. What the heck. Listen, make you a deal. You call me Sam and I’ll call you Linnea.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“Miz Linnea. I—”
“Linnea, please. Simply Linnea.”
“Good and dandy.” He nodded, the tension between them lessening. “I’ll go outside and put the surrey and gelding up for the night.”
Thankful to be on a more even basis with Sam Kincaid, her husband, she forced a smile. “I didn’t see stables when we drove up. You didn’t mention them. You seem to be a man who thinks things through before acting. I’ll bet you built the horse pens away to protect your home.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“That window. It is of real glass. I’ve always admired window curtains. I think gingham would be so cheery and happy. Did you build the stables downwind, to keep the smell of horse dung away from your home?”
He took a moment to wedge and wiggle a forefinger into the neck of his shirt, as if it had gotten tighter. He then clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “No, Mrs. . . . no, Linnea. That isn’t it at all. Horses have the shade of an arroyo seco to protect them from wind and the afternoon sun. They make out fine. Country folks make do with what we have.”
Linnea nodded and realized the obvious. Her fate was not withdrawing rooms and piano recitals. She needed to climb down from her high horse and be thankful for what she was offered, which might have been a jolt to her senses, but Sam and his High Hopes were more than she had earned and were about a thousand times more than silver-tongued Percival ever promised. Or provided.
Sam then said, “I’ll let you get to your dress changing.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much, sir.” She paused. “I do appreciate your consideration.”
Return her gaze, he didn’t. But he did nod once, before setting his hat atop his dark head to make an exit.
At last she had some privacy, which she took good advantage of. Unscrewing her diamond-and-cameo earrings, she placed them carefully in their box inside her velvet grip. She then stripped to her underclothes and plopped down on the bed. Punching the pillow beneath her neck, she caught a whiff that she already recognized. It was the scent of Sam Kincaid, and Linnea had to admit to herself that it was a nice smell.
Rather than think on the implications of that fact, she assessed the whole place. The bed cover was four old horse blankets stitched together, but it didn’t smell like animals. In fact, now that she took a look around, she noticed that the tidy abode had a homey, clean air to it.
“That’s nice,” she said to herself.
For a change it would be nice to have a tidy husband.
The earthen floor was covered by a huge rag rug, and two rocking chairs faced the fireplace, with a table and an oil lamp separating them. The mantel held a fancy clock. A wooden stool held a water crock. A table with three chairs and a kitchen-type table were situated to the right of the hearth. A few doilies like Miz Myrtie had crocheted—wouldn’t they look nice decorating the tables?
A shelf held ajar of tea and one filled with coffee, plus three canisters marked Flour, Cornmeal, and Lard, a water pitcher, and a bowl of eggs. There were a few pewter plates, cups, and bowls. Eating utensils. Cooking paraphernalia—an iron skillet, pan, water kettle, coffeepot—hung from either nails on the wall or from a lug pole.
Two rucksacks were suspended from the ceiling, and a slab of something—bacon?—hung from beneath the prairie’s answer to a cupboard, a “kitchen” shelf. Beneath were the newlyweds’ purchases. Lastly, cow patties were stacked neatly in a basket to the left of the hearth. Everything a cook would need, she supposed.
Then it hit her.
This soddy held a treasure chest of goods, the makings of a modest home. Nothing of value had come from her marriage to Percival. Here it was all available, just waiting for a homemaker to add her treasured Bible.
Linnea then turned her attention to the decorated walls. Pegs held Sam’s clothing. Two portraits adorned the south wall, each of an obviously well-heeled person. Most likely his relatives.
One was of a bearded man who stood—one oddly shod foot on an ankle-high rock—in a field of purple flowers. Wearing a plaid kilt, he held a shotgun. A hunting dog clamped a dead pheasant between its teeth. The second painting portrayed a beautiful lady also wearing a plaid garment—this one a skirt. Above the left breast, she wore a piece of jewelry.
Jewelry? No. It appeared to be something sort of fuzzy. It looked like a funny little hairy foot. Strange. Whatever it was, it must have had significance to the pretty lady.
The breast-piece reminded Linnea of the price she had paid Jewel for her silence.
Would she actually stay at the High Hopes and keep up the marital charade? She liked the idea, but go or stay, she might as well make the best of it for the moment. She owed her great sacrifice that much.
Which meant trying to place a meal on the table.
By the time she donned her simplest cotton dress, got a pot of beans and a kettle of water heating, and some rather flat cornmeal johnnycakes sizzling in the skillet, Linnea started to feel pretty good about the wifely arts and the situation in general.
Definitely, Sam Kincaid and his uncle had greatly exaggerated their circumstances. They dreamed of a better future, same as she did. Lord knows, she didn’t start with much.
I’m so sorry, Miz Myrtie, letting the brooch go. But I imagine Jewel will tre
asure it, will guard it with her life.
Dear Miz Myrtie!
Everything Linnea did for her dear lady, she’d done with respect. She even came to love the man of the house, the formal and formidable “capitalist,” as the banker called himself. Often, Linnea would lie abed at the midnight hour, imagining she had been to their family born.
I should have listened when Miz Myrtie tried to warn me off Percival Powell.
Take care with your heart, Linnea, she had said. We don’t know that man. He is new to Shreveport. He arrived with no recommendations, and just because he sells Bibles doesn’t put him to rights with God.
Of course, that had fallen on deaf ears. Despite Miz Myrtie’s reservations about the slick-speaking Bible salesman, she and Mr. Reston had provided a cozy wedding in their parlor, with flowers and a man of the cloth.
They even had a wedding gift. With a pat to her arm and a “use this wisely,” Rutherford G. Reston handed Linnea an envelope holding more cash than she had ever seen in her life—five twenty-dollar bills!
“That’s enough money for us to have a proper start,” Linnea gushed to Percival their wedding night.
“So true, Linnie sweet,” Percival remarked, his lids half drooping over brown eyes. “And we must guard our fortune with our lives. I must take the envelope for safekeeping.”
He scooped up the envelope and the bills with the ease of a gambler accustomed to collecting currency from a gaming table.
That was the last she saw of the money.
Percival lost it all that very weekend in a game of five-card stud.
It got to where the Bible company stopped sending “merchandise”—that’s what he called those precious Good Books!—because he had become so untrustworthy. They roamed Louisiana and the Mississippi coast in search of games of chance. Linnea and her husband returned to Shreveport the previous autumn.
A parched-plains soddy was a far cry from a cottage with a picket fence and all those flowers, but it did beat even the best of orphanages and boardinghouses. It will be nice, meeting that local lawman who knows about prairie flowers.
What if she said something stupid, gave herself away? Was it illegal to impersonate someone? Watch yourself with him. There was still some chance for this scheme to work out, Linnea figured. Her gaze turned once again to the two fine portraits, and she found herself smiling just a bit, noting the dark-haired man’s resemblance to her handsome new husband.
