Sweetwater Run

by Jan Watson

  Everything seemed a mess and a worry. Darcy had a secret weapon against melancholy, however. Thoughts of Henry put a smile on her face. She danced around the kitchen with a dishrag and a mop.

  In no time at all order prevailed. The five-layer stack cake stood proud as the queen of England on the table, where Mammaw, in a freshly ironed day dress, could admire it from her rolling chair. Darcy hoped she didn’t count the layers—hoped she wasn’t disappointed if she did.

  If Darcy had been worried Jean Foster would spill the beans about her boldness Sunday last when she’d gone off with Henry, it was unwarranted. Miz Foster was as gracious and kind as ever. She even complimented Darcy on the stack cake, which could have used less salt and more sugar. Mammaw paid no notice, however; she kept asking for more until Darcy was embarrassed for her.

  “Mammaw,” she finally said, “don’t you want to save a slice for Papaw?”

  Miz Foster seemed startled for a moment, but then she patted Mammaw’s withered hand and gave Darcy a look of recognition.

  When Miz Foster left, she motioned Darcy to follow to the porch. “Dear, my own mother became much like Fairy Mae in her declining years. It is a heavy burden but one the good Lord will surely guide you through.” She gave Darcy’s arm a gentle squeeze. “You are a good granddaughter, one I know Fairy Mae is proud to call her own. I will be praying for both of you.”

  Darcy could have cried, but she held back. “Thank you. Mammaw needs your prayers.”

  “I’m right over the hill if you need me,” Miz Foster replied. “Just holler and I’ll come running, night or day. You hear?”

  Dylan was waiting for his mother. He gave Darcy a wave but he didn’t speak. Both the Fosters made Darcy feel uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. They were just so . . . good. But Darcy was not a bad person. She went to church and read her Bible. She took care of her grandmother and supported her. That counted for something, didn’t it?

  So why was she standing on her own porch feeling . . . guilty? That was it—like she’d opened a jar of tomatoes and found them spoiled, still pretty on the outside but festering on the inside. She searched her conscience, but she didn’t have to search far to find Henry Thomas.

  She went into the house and took the tablecloth from the table. Mammaw was asleep again. Her chin rested on her chest, and her soft snores filled the kitchen. Back outside, Darcy gave the tablecloth such a shake it flew from her hands and landed on the lilac bush. A red-winged blackbird took advantage of the cake crumbs that scattered beneath the lilac, his heavy beak thwacking the ground. Darcy watched his maneuvering as he hopped under the sweet-smelling bush to eat his treat in safety. Each time he darted into the light to fetch another crumb, his glossy feathers shone like wet coal. A small house wren boldly thought to join the feast but quickly flew away when the blackbird flashed his wings’ red stripe in warning—don’t come too close.

  Just like Henry, she thought. He was her beautiful blackbird with a flash of danger, but she was not a wren. She was not about to fly away from him.

  After retrieving the tablecloth, she shook it again, more gently this time. Maybe Mammaw would like to sit outside awhile and watch the birds. She could scatter some stale corn bread. Maybe the blackbird would come back. Maybe Darcy could take a minute to dream of Henry.

  Night was closing in when Henry came by. Darcy had just gotten Mammaw settled, thank goodness. He didn’t seem to mind if they got caught, but Darcy did. She wanted to talk to Mammaw first, smooth the waters, but the time never seemed right. Mammaw was so upset the first time Darcy mentioned Henry. Darcy wasn’t quite ready to deal with that again.

  Darcy was at the porch rail, dribbling water from the rain barrel onto the tiny tree she’d brought home and planted in an old coffee tin. It was on the porch railing, where it could catch some sun, and she was careful to keep the soil moist. Still, it struggled.

  “Darcy,” she heard a voice from the shadows. “Little Darcy Mae.”

  She didn’t have to look to know who called her name, for his voice was as dear to her as one could ever be. Awash in pleasure, she slid the spindly plant out of sight behind Mammaw’s red geranium. She pinched a leaf from the geranium and crushed it in her palms. It smelled as good as the finest perfume from Paris, France, Mammaw always said. Darcy never questioned how she knew.

  Darcy turned and eased the kitchen door closed, then flew down the steps, across the yard, and into Henry’s waiting arms. His kisses were darting, teasing, leaving Darcy weak in the knees.

  “Come up to the logging trail with me,” he said. “I want to ask you something.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t leave Mammaw.”

  He tipped her chin and kissed her again, slow and easy this time. “Come on, little Darcy. Do it just for me.”

  A longing overtook Darcy—a need to fulfill his need. It seemed to come from the very marrow of her bones, which turned to water; from her heart, which forgot to beat; from her breath, which caught in her throat. Darcy had never wanted anything more than she wanted to do Henry’s bidding. But what if Mammaw called out and no one was there?

  “Please,” she said, “don’t tempt me so.”

  “Listen,” he said. “I love you.”

  On her tiptoes she put her arms around his neck. “I never thought to hear such pretty words.”

  He hugged her tight. “Run away with me and I will marry you tonight.”

  “What about my family? And I’d thought to make a dress.” Darcy leaned back to study him. He was so handsome with his high cheekbones and long, straight nose it took her breath, but his eyes were dark and brooding.

  Henry dropped his arms from around her and turned, staring off into the gloom.

  Darcy’s heart sank. Was he mad at her? She dared to go in front of him, tried to kiss his cheek, but he shrugged her off. “What did I do?” she asked.

  With a quick movement he was on horseback looking down on her. “Go on back in the house. Go on back to your mammaw.”

  Shamelessly she grabbed his coattail. “But you said you love me.”

  His horse took a side step away. The saddle creaked as he reached to unclasp her fingers. “Yes, I did, but you never said the same. I need a woman who puts me first.”

  Darcy twisted her hands together, not daring to touch him again. “I do love you, Henry. I love you so much it pains me.”

  With one strong grasp under her arms, he lifted her off the ground. She could feel his muscles bunching up, straining against the sleeve of his jacket as she felt the press of the saddle against her chest. For a moment she thought he meant to carry her off and she wished he would. But instead he kissed her hard enough to leave his memory on her mouth for a good long time.

  “If I come for you again, you’d better be ready. I’ve asked you once. I might ask you twice, but there’ll be no third.” Easing her down, he removed his arm and flicked the horse’s reins. The horse trotted off smooth as Henry himself.

  Darcy stood there in the yard for the longest time, stood with the manly scent of saddle leather surrounding her, stood with the kiss stamped on her mouth and Henry’s desire stamped on her heart. She wished she could stand there in that selfsame spot until he returned.

  Darcy was tugged in two directions. Mammaw was like her child now. Her need pressed like butter in a mold on Darcy’s heart. While Henry . . . Henry made that same heart sing with longing.

  The night was bringing a damp cool with it. Lightning threatened in the distance. Darcy pulled her apron up over her arms against the chill. How her life had changed since she met Henry. She’d never thought to know such passion, had not known of its existence. Her own father and mother lived like strangers in the same house. She’d never seen them kiss. Ace and Dance had a certain passion, she supposed. Ace did toward Dance, anyway—you could see it in his eyes—but Dance didn’t look the same way at him.

  Thunder rolled across the sky ever closer with each wave. Darcy kept her place, lost in ruminatio
n. Dimmert and Cara loved each other truly; Darcy bore witness to that. But theirs was a sweet and simple love, like flowers blooming or summer sunshine across your shoulders. Henry’s love was thunder and lightning and wild whipping wind stirring her emotions like the sudden spring storm fast approaching.

  Lightning splintered the night sky with many fingers of fire. Darcy hurried inside. The little house lit up with each flash of lightning, trembled with each cracking boom. She stood just inside the screen door, mesmerized by the storm’s display. She could smell the rain before it started, hear each fat drop spatter against the wooden porch floor before the drops joined forces, hurling buckets of water across the porch. Her dress front was soaked before she thought to close the door. She leaned against it and slid slowly to the floor, resting her head on her knees.

  Teardrops mimicked the rain as she sat there. It didn’t seem fair that love would hurt so much. If she turned her back on Mammaw, she would never forgive herself, but if she turned Henry away, she would never be happy again. Outside, the storm raged on as inside, Darcy wept and prayed for guidance.

  Henry almost made it home before the storm overtook him. He couldn’t believe what he had just done—begging Darcy to run off with him, telling her he loved her. He’d meant to ask her to marry, not demand. But then she wouldn’t even go a step away from her grandmother to please him. That got him mad—who did she think she was?

  All the plans he’d put in place, all the property to be acquired, all the money yet to be made . . . He’d come that close to throwing it all away over a woman! How dumb could he get? Henry sank in a quagmire of self-pity. Once—just once—he’d like somebody to love him best.

  His horse didn’t like the lightning and the thunder, so he took extra time with his care when they got to the stable. He talked gently as he rubbed the animal down and put some timothy hay in his feed box. Lester lay curled up on a gunnysack under a bench, safe and dry. Henry let the old dog be. Through a flash of light he saw Daisy dancing with excitement at the yard gate, and he lifted the latch to let her out. With wagging tail she waited at the stable entrance. She knew not to approach until he was finished with the horse. Darcy Mae should be so obedient.

  Finished with the rubdown, he put the horse in a stall. Daisy stuck her nose in his cupped hand, looking for the small piece of beef jerky he always brought her. He patted her bony head and shared his conundrum. “I made a fool of myself tonight, Daisy. Of all things, a woman’s managed to get my heart in a vise.”

  Daisy leaped up and planted a slobbery kiss on Henry’s cheek. He slid her long silky ears through his hands. “Come on, girl. Let’s go in the house. I know just the thing to get me thinking right again.”

  Henry sat in his rolling chair with the land survey sheets spread out before him and waited for the rush of excitement to come. The coal-oil lamp sputtered, and he turned up the wick. Rain beat a lonesome sound on the tin roof. Daisy sighed from her bed on a thick rag rug under the desk. Henry shifted position and reached for his pen. With a precise X he marked the spot where he would build a house once the land was his. First he’d fell some timber, then knock down that shanty Darcy called home.

  He tapped the pen against the blotter on the desk and drew a circle around Fairy Mae’s piece of property. How long could the old woman last? Not much longer surely. Being married to Darcy beforehand would be to his benefit as far as said property went. He’d almost blown the whole deal tonight. Darcy was not quite as malleable as he had supposed. That would change once they were wed.

  Hours passed as he studied the drawings and made his plans. Finally he got up and twisted the combination lock on the safe he kept in the back room. He didn’t even have to think to turn the knob clockwise, then counter, now clockwise again, for his fingers held the code and his ears were attuned to the familiar clicks. By lamplight he studied the bills and sacks of coins inside the safe. Just for the joy of hearing the sound, he jingled a few gold pieces.

  That joy was fleeting tonight, however. Darcy’s face wavered between him and his money. He saw the hurt he had caused. Over and over he ran his thumb across his lower lip. He could still taste her sweet mouth.

  “I have to rethink this,” he said. “I’ll ask her right and give her time to make a fancy dress. The land will be mine whether we marry now or later and so will she.”

  Reacting to her master’s voice, Daisy stuck her nose around the doorpost. Yawning, she stretched and bowed her back. He had interrupted her sleep.

  “Daisy, I’m perplexed. Darcy Mae keeps getting in the way of me counting my money. Did you ever think that day would come? I think she’s put a hex on me.”

  He smiled at that notion as he turned the dial until he heard the lock click into place. Without undressing, he lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. Daisy flopped across his feet.

  Instead of counting sheep, he ticked off each item of his plan. Arrange to marry Darcy—that was the first and most important step. Put the squeeze on the county tax assessor to raise the taxes on Dimmert’s place—favors were owed, so that would be easy. See what he could do about Ace’s part of the original parcel of land. Ace would be the fly in his dumplings. He was already suspicious after catching Henry and Darcy together. Yes, Ace could cause real trouble.

  Henry’s mind swirled with plans. Since he was a young boy, he’d plotted how to avenge his grandfather’s degradation by Fairy Mae’s husband, Herbert Whitt. If he remembered correctly, Ace Shelton was once in trouble with the law over a whiskey still.

  Easing his feet out from under Daisy, Henry left his bed and began pacing in the dark. He always thought better on his feet. What was the story? Henry had been away in school when it happened, but he remembered hearing rumors when he came home for a visit. A man was shot and killed, and Ace was involved somehow. That was it. Henry rubbed his chin. He needed to find out which judge let Ace Shelton walk.

  Henry felt better. He lay down again and stared into the darkness. First thing in the morning he’d hightail it to the courthouse and look up some records. It was good to have a plan.

  CHAPTER 17

  A FEW DAYS after Big Boy Randall took the funeral parlor’s chair away, Cara was sitting on the front porch, sharpening her small-bladed whittling knife on a leather strop. She had begun to think Big Boy was not going to return the mule. And what could she do if he didn’t? Go to the sheriff and say, “Someone stole the mule my husband stole that someone stole from him”?

  As if in answer to her quandary, she heard, “Morning, missus,” from across the barnyard. “I brung your mule back.”

  Cara laid the tool aside and stepped out into the yard. She didn’t want to encourage Big Boy to come up on the porch. She aimed to keep his visit short. She needn’t have worried, however, for Big Boy dismounted and with a jaunty wave strode away, leaving Pancake by the barn. Cara guessed he was going to cross the creek and head back to the road.

  “Well,” she said, retrieving the leather strop. Slap, slap, slap—the blade stroked the strop at an angle. Cara ran the mirrored edge of the blade across the surface of her thumbnail to check for nicks.

  The midafternoon air was soft and balmy. Who didn’t love the first sweet days in June? The porch was quiet, and Cara fell into a meditative state as she carved a chunk of butternut. Strangely, she was let down by Big Boy’s quick departure. She’d thought they’d share a few words. After Big Boy’s visit the other day, she searched the Bible until she found the book of Proverbs, and she read every word aloud. The rhythmical flow of the short verses put her in mind of the cadence of whittling—each line a beat as each score with her knife was also a beat.

  She had memorized her favorite verses, and now she recited them. “‘There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.’” That was pretty to say. The whole book reminded her of the riddles her daddy had taught her when she
was a girl and which she now taught to Jay. Each one had a lesson at its core.

  Wood chips flew through her fingers as the rough face of a doll emerged from the butternut. Tiny ears appeared on the oval shape; a slight dimple creased the chin. Given a chance, she might have asked Big Boy about the spider verse. It puzzled her: “The spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in kings’ palaces.” Was that some kind of warning? Cara didn’t like spiders. She kept knobby green hedge apples under the bed and in each corner of the house to keep the creepy things away. She thought of one time she’d seen a hairy wolf spider big as a half-dollar crawling up the bedpost. She smacked it so hard with a cord of wood that she busted the post. Dimmert laughed until he cried. The thought made her laugh too. My, she missed her husband.

  She turned the doll’s head in her hands, searching for rough spots. Merky was sure to like having her own baby to play with. Darcy said she would make a dress and bonnet for the doll. She had stopped by yesterday on her way to mail some packages. Cara gave her a letter to post to Dimm. Darcy was too dressed up for a quick trip to the post office. Cara wondered if she meant to make a call on that lawyer again. But she bit her tongue. Darcy didn’t need her playing mother hen.

  Time to put her project away; she could get it out again this evening. The sadiron was already on the stove and her ironing waited. Such as it was—one dress, some bedclothes, and a few shirtwaists. But if she was going to do Dance’s laundry tomorrow, she needed to get her ironing done today. Maybe Dance didn’t care if her wash wasn’t done until Wednesday, which put her ironing off until Thursday, but Cara did. No wonder Dance was always out of sorts. She had no pattern to her days.

  She positioned the wooden ironing board in front of the window, which was propped open to catch the breeze. Wrapping the handle of the sadiron with a dish towel, she tipped it and spat. The spit sizzled on the flat surface, and the starched pillowcase hissed when she pushed the hot iron across it. It made Cara feel wealthy to sleep on ironed linen. Her mama had never enjoyed such luxury. They were lucky to have blankets. It didn’t seem to matter back then, though. Daddy told them a story every night before Mama tucked them in with a kiss. That was luxury enough.