by Jan Watson
Her first thought was to flee, but she determined to not let her fear take command over her as it had in the past. With great trepidation she knelt and looked under the bunk. Her mouth went dry at what lay there—a shotgun and an empty tooled-leather knife sheath. Ice water ran through her veins, flushing away any trace of bravery she had previously acquired. She tried to rise, but her legs turned to jelly.
While still cowering on her knees, she sensed a dark presence at the door to the stall. “Pancake?” she squeaked, praying it was so. Her heart knocked hard against her rib cage as her brain trilled with alarm. Slowly, one hand on the cot for support, she stood and turned to face whatever blocked the doorway.
Her eyes widened as Big Boy Randall tipped his hat. He was a massive man, way bigger than she remembered. As he stepped forward, she retreated, catching the back of her knees on the cot, which sent her sprawling on the narrow bed.
Lord, help me, she prayed. Clinching her eyes tight, she lay there helpless and more frightened than she had ever been.
“Missus,” Big Boy said, “I don’t aim to do you no harm.”
She sat up screaming, “Get out.” She threw the apple and the cracked saucer at Big Boy’s head.
He ducked and darted away.
Breathing fast, she sat on the side of the bed until her heart settled. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry as a moth’s wing. How long had Big Boy been living in her barn? Had he watched her every move from the shadows—watched as she drank her tea, brushed her hair, set on the porch in her nightgown? Feeling violated, she crossed her arms over her chest. The best thing for her to do would be to sneak out a window and make a run for the Sheltons’.
She pushed the wooden box across the hard-packed dirt floor and positioned it under the high-shuttered window. There was no glass in the barn windows, so all she had to do was open the single shutter and slither through. Better be quick, her brain warned, before he comes back and catches me. But her fingers felt big as sausages and fumbled at the latch over her head.
There, the latch lifted. She pushed and pushed, but the wooden shutter was warped and stubbornly held its place. Standing on tiptoe, she pounded on the window with both fists. “Give way,” she grunted under her breath. “Please give way.”
With alarm she felt the box beneath her tip. Her fingers grappled for the window ledge but did not find safe purchase; instead she fell heavily, cracking her head on the corner of the wooden box.
Stars danced in her vision as she lay stunned for a long moment. When her head cleared, she saw she was within reach of the weapons under the bed.
Anger nudged away her fear and fueled a firm resolve. Fuming, she withdrew the shotgun from under the cot. She’d shoot him if she had to.
The stalls were empty; the barn was empty. Pancake was gone. That crook had stolen her mule! She forced herself to take deep breaths and think. Big Boy would hardly set up housekeeping in her barn if his aim was to take Pancake. Perhaps what he really wanted was her. Maybe he planned to kill her and throw her lifeless body into Sweetwater Creek. Her heart caught in her throat. Could she do it? Could she shoot a man? even one who might harm her? She tightened her hold on the weapon. Perhaps she’d shoot over his head first, fire a warning shot.
She crept into the space behind the open barn door and peered out through the crack. Forevermore, there stood Big Boy Randall beside the mounting block, holding Pancake’s lead like he was waiting for her to come out and ride away.
Straightening her spine, she walked out with the barrel of the gun pointed over the peak of his hat. “I’ll thank ye to unhand my mule,” she said with as much command as her wavering voice would allow.
“Do you want me to load that there weapon?” he asked, his voice as sincere as a deacon at a foot washing. He took the gun right out of her sweaty hands, cracked it open, and slid a shell in its chamber. “I reckon I deserve to be shot—scaring you that way.” While stroking Pancake’s long nose, he shook his head as if disappointed. “I was just hoping we could talk.”
Despite herself, Cara was intrigued. Her legs still wobbled like a toddler’s, but she felt God’s arms surround her, holding her up, giving her courage. Out here in the light Big Boy didn’t seem threatening at all. “If you come to the porch, I could fix you a bacon and onion sandwich,” she surprised herself by saying. It was so like something Dimmert would do. “Then you’ll have to leave my property or I’ll get the sheriff.”
Big Boy held his arms up in surrender. “No need for that. Just hear me out and I’ll be on my way.”
A few minutes later Cara returned to the porch with Big Boy’s sandwich. She sat in the rocker while Big Boy took the top stepping stone. He washed his sandwich down with sweet milk before he patted his stomach and belched. “Man, that hit the spot. I was so hungry I could have et my shadow.”
“I think I just figured out who brought me this chair,” Cara said, “and Pancake. But why?”
Big Boy rolled the milk glass between his meaty palms. “I brung Pancake home because I couldn’t stand the way that Walker Wheeler done Dimmert.”
“But can’t you see that what you’ve done may get me in serious trouble? The Wheelers could accuse me of stealing Pancake just like they accused my husband.”
Big Boy cast a knowing look her way. “I wouldn’t worry none about that coward Walker,” he said, then aimed a stream of tobacco juice out into the yard. “He won’t be claiming Dimmert’s mule again.”
Cara’s stomach sank. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know how he had come upon the chair that gave her such comfort. “I guess you’d better tell me the whole story.”
“Me and Dimm was bunkmates in jail, you know,” Big Boy began. “I don’t reckon I ever met a man kinder than Dimmert Whitt.” With a sweep of his arms, all of a sudden he was talking like a poet. “‘Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart: so doth the sweetness of a man’s friend by hearty counsel.’” He closed his arms and dropped his head. “Proverbs 27:9.”
Cara made a mental note to check that out. Proverbs sounded like the Old Testament to her.
Big Boy slid down to the bottom step, propped his elbows on the top one, and leaned back. Stretching out his long legs, he crossed his feet at the ankle. When he took off his hat, his hair, red and wild as a burning bush, sprang out in all directions. His legs looked thick as tree trunks, and Cara had never seen bigger boots. He seemed right at home. That thought gave her pause.
“They weren’t much to do there but talk,” Big Boy continued. “At first Dimm was stiff as a corpse, wouldn’t talk to save Satan, but I didn’t mind to carry the burden. I’ve always liked me an audience.”
His back was to Cara, but she didn’t need to move her chair closer to hear. His voice was as big as the rest of him. He reminded her a little of Ace in the way he could draw you into a story—make you listen and care despite yourself. She watched him pat his pockets.
“I must have left my twist in the barn,” he said.
Pancake ambled across the yard like he was coming over to listen. Big Boy released the bit from the mule’s mouth and took off his lead before he settled on the porch steps again. Cara began to wonder if this would go on ’til suppertime.
“Funny thing happened whilst me and Dimm was shut up,” he said. “Dimm took to leaving crumbs on the outside windowsill for this blackbird every morning. Soon that thing was pecking biscuit from his hand. Next thing you know, Dimm could bring that bird inside and ride it on his shoulder. Strangest thing I ever seen.”
Somehow Cara doubted that. She would bet that Big Boy had seen many strange things, most of which she wouldn’t want to hear. “Dimm has a way with animals.” She thought she might tell him about the chickens, about how they had left when Dimm did and how she thought they were grieving for him as much as she did. But she didn’t want to start a conversation. She didn’t want Big Boy to see her as a friend. “You’d best tell me about how you got Pancake and why you thought to bring me this chair.”
“It w
as like this, you see. Dimmert told me about Pancake. There weren’t no justice there that I could see, so I figured to right what wrong I could. Dimmert wouldn’t allow me to bust him out of jail, though I told him he could hide out with me for as long as was necessary.”
Cara nearly laughed. Big Boy was hiding out in Dimmert’s barn. Did he think Dimm would have hidden there too? Big Boy was kind of silly. His words tickled her funny bone.
“I had the perfect solution to pay Walker Wheeler back for his thieving ways. I found me a dead polecat and nailed his hide to Walker’s stable door; then I put me half a dozen live ones in with Walker’s prized horses after I led Pancake out of there.” Big Boy gave a contented-sounding snort, like he’d put a big one over on the Wheelers.
“But, Big Boy,” Cara couldn’t help but ask, “how in the world do you catch a skunk without getting sprayed?”
Big Boy looked around his shoulder at her and raised one eyebrow as if he couldn’t believe anybody wouldn’t know the answer to that. “Why, you snatch them up while they’re sleeping and pack them tight in a gunnysack. They can’t shoot you if they can’t raise their tails.”
“Hmm. I didn’t know that.” Valuable information, she supposed, if you could figure out when the striped varmints slept. “I don’t see how skunks are going to keep the Wheelers from coming after Pancake.”
“Thing is,” Big Boy said, “Walker Wheeler knows his kin. Him and striped kitty are same as kissing cousins. It was a goodly reminder of the coward that he is. Besides, it’s kind of my trademark. Believe you me, that old boy don’t want to mess with me or mine.” He leaned back on the step, resting on his forearms. “‘Whoso diggeth a pit shall fall therein: and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.’ Proverbs 26:27.”
“That’s true enough of Walker,” Cara said, “but what about Anvil? He might not feel the same.”
“Walker Wheeler wouldn’t have nothing but a rabbit farm if not for his old man. From what Dimmert told me, I suspect Anvil knew the truth all along. He just didn’t want to call his son out in front of the sheriff and everybody.”
Pancake nudged Big Boy with his long nose. Big Boy pulled a clump of grass from beside the step and held it up. “What’s the matter, you lazy bum? Cain’t pull your own grass?”
Cara had a sinking feeling. She had grown used to having a rocking chair. “So, what about this chair? Please tell me it doesn’t belong to the Wheelers.”
“Nope. It sort of used to be on the porch of the funeral parlor.”
“‘Sort of used to be’?”
“Thing is, they had half a dozen and you had none.” He turned to look at her again. His face wore not a hint of shame. “Dimmert told me how you’d always wanted a rocking chair.”
“But . . . but . . . you can’t go stealing chairs from off the undertaker’s porch!”
“I beg to differ,” Big Boy said. “Way I see it, I wasn’t stealing. I was just evening things up, so to speak. They had plenty and you had none. Now you have one and they still have plenty.”
Cara hid a smile. “I beg to differ” sounded like a prim old maid. He was funny and entertaining, she’d give him that; but funny or not she needed to get him and his ill-gotten gain from off her porch before the undertaker and the law came calling.
Cara pulled the fancy rocking chair to the edge of the steps. “You have to take it back. Dimmert would never approve of you taking someone else’s property and bringing it to me.”
“Well, if you’re tore up about it . . .” Gathering his bushy hair up under his hat, he fixed her with an innocent look. “I was only doing a favor for a friend. Dimmert asked me to look out for you, missus.”
“And I appreciate the gesture. But you have to know this isn’t right.”
Hands the size of small hams rested on Big Boy’s hips as he turned her words over. “Cara Whitt, you are a woman to be prized. Proverbs 31:10. ‘Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.’” Standing, he gave her a courtly bow. “Can I borrow your mule for a spell?”
“Of course, and there’s one other thing. You can’t be sleeping in the barn.”
“I reckon there won’t be no need once I take this here chair back to the funeral parlor. Of all the men setting out front of the pool hall after the chair went missing, I’m the onliest one the law questioned. Figure that,” he said with a wink, like he got his own joke. He put the bit and the lead back on Pancake. Hoisting the chair with one hand, he started out across the yard.
Soon she watched him come out of the barn. Pancake was fitted with a saddle blanket and an upturned rocking chair. Big Boy stopped and gave a salute. “I’ll bring your mule back directly.”
Despite herself, Cara waved, like she was sending a sweetheart off to war. She gathered her skirts around her and took the step Big Boy had just vacated. She missed the rocking chair already, but somehow she thought she hadn’t seen the last of Big Boy Randall. What a puzzling man he was, stealing chairs and retrieving mules and quoting Scripture. What was it Ace said about him playing Robin Hood—robbing the rich to give to the poor. Misguided, if you asked her, but she sure was glad to get Pancake back.
She thought to get her leather strop and sharpen her whittling tools, but a bigger project came to mind. While in the barn she’d noticed a pile of lumber stuck up under the worktable where Dimmert stripped tobacco. Now was the time to investigate. She hurried to the barn.
With a satisfied smile she pulled several oak boards out from under the stripping table. As she ran her hands down the grain, she fancied she could still smell the live tree.
With a carver’s practiced eye she chose just the right boards for making long rockers for wide, smooth rides. After they were cut, planed, and sanded, she’d pick out wood for the arms. Before summer, she would have a rocking chair for herself. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? If she wanted, her porch could resemble the undertaker’s. Cara laughed aloud. Wouldn’t that be a sight?
Two would be enough for her porch, one for her and one for Dimm. When he came home, they’d sit together enjoying the dimming of the day as lightning bugs flashed and whip-poor-wills sang. When the days got short, they’d take the chairs inside and toast their toes in front of the fireplace.
It warmed her heart to think Dimm had reached out to comfort her from behind bars. She guessed if Dimm trusted Big Boy, she should do the same. How else would she loan him the mule? She was beginning to understand his mercurial nature. But she’d keep an eye on her things, just in case he knew a widow down the road somewheres who needed her bread bowl or her hominy pot worse than she did. Cara laughed at herself. It felt good, laughter.
The barn seemed homey now as she bent to her task. The shadows were just shadows, and the dust motes that danced in the streams of sunlight spoke of work being done and dreams coming true.
CHAPTER 16
A FIVE-LAYER DESSERT SAT proudly but precariously on a cut-glass cake stand in the middle of the kitchen table. There would have been six layers, but one stuck to the pan. From her station at the cookstove, Darcy cocked her head. The cake seemed to be leaning to one side. Before she could react, the top tier slid off the stack, continued over the side of the table, and plopped to the floor. Good thing she hadn’t iced it yet. Without a moment’s hesitation, she dusted the layer and stuck it back in place. She always kept her floors clean enough to eat on, after all. As if mocking her, the top started its slow slide again. She had a mind to fling the whole mess right out the door.
Taking the errant layer off, she laid it on a plate, then went to the pantry for the inside broom. With a quick snap she had a single thick straw. Carefully, she positioned the misbehaving piece in place and drove the straw right through the middle of all five layers. Some of the sulfured apple filling oozed out and dripped down the side. She figured she could cover all that with icing. What an aggravation this had been. Why had she listened to Mammaw anyway?
Back at the stove, a niggling worry begged attention. Like a mouse w
ith a hard crust of bread, it kept gnawing at her. There was something wrong with Mammaw. While Darcy stirred cream into brown sugar and melted butter, she tried to figure out exactly what was different. Mammaw seemed like her old self when Darcy got her up this morning, but soon she was back to the pattern that had started about two weeks ago. Like one of Dance’s little kids, she asked the same thing over and over. It was as if her mind was a sieve. She even forgot how to feed herself sometimes.
Darcy didn’t mind the added physical work. Her grandmother deserved the best, and Darcy took pains to keep her spotless and comfortable with frequent linen changes and as many sponge baths each day as necessary. But the endless questions made her short-tempered. Just this morning Mammaw asked for biscuits and gravy three times even though she’d already eaten her breakfast.
The brown-sugar mixture bubbled in the pan. Darcy added a shot of vanilla and let it cook for several minutes, stirring until her arm got tired. When the icing had cooled and was starting to thicken, she poured it over the stack cake, letting it dribble down the sides. The cake took on a whole new look as Darcy swirled the caramel icing. “Pretty as a picture,” she said.
The clock on the mantel chimed twelve times. Where had the morning gone? Dylan’s mother was coming for her visit early afternoon and Darcy still had the kitchen to clean up and Mammaw hadn’t had her dinner. Darcy looked around. What should she do first? Feeling guilty but rushed, she decided to take advantage of her grandmother’s extra-long nap to wash the pans and mixing bowls. Mammaw wouldn’t be happy if Jean Foster saw the kitchen in such a state and neither would Darcy.
