She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
The vegetable garden was small, and with help from Soonie and Wylder, could be tended in a few hours. The corn fields would pose a much bigger challenge. Every year since Papa’s death, the harvest had been smaller, and this year, with Jeb at the helm, it had been halved. Jeb had spent up Mama’s savings long before. Could she truly sow the fields and deal with the harvest in the years to come, even with the help of her friends?
When she squinted her eyes, she could almost see Papa, strong and proud, in the fancy suit he’d worn as a banker in Virginia. He had taken her out to the field the week they arrived in Bastrop, while workers were still building the house. Mama chose to stay in town at the hotel.
“What do you think, Zillia, my dove?” He had stretched out his arms. “All this land, not a neighbor in sight. We can be free out here. Free to do whatever we wish.”
“But it’s dirty, Papa.” Though she had only been six, Mama was already dressing her in the latest fashions. “I’m getting dust on my shoes.”
A grin had spread over his face. “Better get used to it, little one. Don’t worry, you’re going to love it here. Pretty soon you’ll be jumping in haystacks and swimming in the river, just like I did on my grandparent’s farm when I was a boy. Put some roses in those pale cheeks. ” He stooped down and kissed her.
“Those things aren’t ladylike, Papa. Can we go back to town?”
Papa had taken her hand, and pulled off the little white glove she had been wearing. He pressed something small and warm into her palm. “You know what that is, my dear?”
When Zillia opened her hand, she saw a shriveled, orange seed. Her first thought was to drop it on the ground, but she didn’t want to hurt Papa’s feelings. She examined it closer.
“Is this—corn, Papa?”
“That’s right. And I want you to put it in the dirt, right here. You get to plant our first seed. It’s a seed of dreams, Zillia. The dream I’ve had for years and years. I hope that after a little while, you will understand and love it too.”
Despite her misgivings, she’d felt a tiny thrill when she poked a hole in the small mound of dirt, dropped in the seed, and covered it again. Because of her deed, life would come. Papa wanted it to happen, and she would have done anything in the world for him.
Squeaking wheels from down the road interrupted her memory. “Is Grandpa Walt back from town already?” she asked Soonie.
“Grandpa takes his time.” Soonie shaded her eyes and stared out at the road. “Even if he didn’t meet someone to talk to, he’d still have to examine all the new tools in the general store and tell Mr. Grayson why none of them are as good as the old ones.”
“That’s not our draft team.” Wylder joined the girls. “Those are town horses.”
A small buggy drawn by two black thoroughbreds appeared, confirming his words.
“Abel Trent,” Wylder muttered. “Almost made it through the week without seeing his ugly face.”
“What’s he doing out here?” Zillia’s chest tightened, like it always did when she saw a Trent boy. And Abel was the worst of them.
The Trent family had come to Bastrop three years ago. Though, like Wylder, Abel was two grades ahead of Zillia, all the students shared the same class. Abel was tall for his age, what Grandpa Walt called “Grown-man sized.” He’d used this feature to his advantage and bullied his classmates, especially Soonie and Wylder.
When Jemima Trent had found out about Soonie and Wylder’s heritage, she filed a complaint with the school board. Of course, it was dismissed immediately. The Eckharts were upstanding citizens. Soonie and Wylder never caused trouble.
Abel made a big show about sitting in the farthest desk from them as possible. He’d come in, pinch his nose and declare ‘it smells like injun in here! Don’t you ever take a bath?” though many times he brought in undesirable odors of his own. Abel was one reason Zillia hadn’t felt bad about missing school when the fall term started.
The buggy sped towards them. Abel crouched over the reins as though he were watching for road bandits. He pulled the horses up short and their dusty hooves pawed the air. Blood and foam flecked their mouths around the metal bits.
“That boy ruins horses faster than anyone I’ve ever met,” Wylder muttered as he set off toward the buggy. Zillia and Soonie glanced at each other and followed him.
Abel swung down from the seat, narrowly missing a kick from one of the steeds. He stumbled out of the way.
Since the Trent boys never came to church, Zillia hadn’t seen Abel since the funeral. He seemed bigger and even more surly, if possible.
Abel raised a giant hand to his eyes and surveyed the farm without so much as a hello. His stare ended when he caught sight of Soonie. A wicked leer spread across his face.
“Can we help you, Mr. Trent?” Wylder’s voice was molten steel as he stepped in front of his sister.
“Ah, the half-breeds.” Abel’s voice was a combination grunt and guffaw. “Don’t got no business with you today, leastways, I don’t think I do.” He pointed at Zillia. “I need to speak with you, Cousin of sorts.” His fingernail was black and crusted over with yellow fungus.
“I don’t hold you as kin, you know that, Abel,” Zillia crossed her arms. “I’d thank you to state your business and leave.”
“Oh, I don’t aim to stay.” Abel put his hands on his hips. “I came to find out what’s going on with my uncle.”
Zillia stretched to her fullest height, which caused her to land right at Abel’s shoulder. “Jeb found a trading partner in North Dakota and struck out on a new venture. He’s pretty sure he’ll come back with a wagon load of cash. I told your mother months ago.” The lie had been concocted by Grandpa Walt, and it burned Zillia’s tongue every time she told it. But if she hadn’t found a way to explain Jeb’s absence Orrie could be taken away.
Abel gnashed his tobacco-stained teeth at her. “Yep, you told her all right. How come he didn’t let us know he was going? After all, we’re family. And why did I find this at the trading post across the river? Owner wouldn’t tell me where he got it, but he gave it back after I made him.” He opened his hand to reveal a small, silver object.
A pocket watch, unmistakably Jeb’s since his initials were carved into the back. Jeb had taken the trinket, a wedding present from her mother, when he left. How had it ended up at the trading post?
“I don’t know. Jeb might have needed money for his trip. Maybe he sold it on his way out.” Zillia tried to speak evenly, but anger threatened to boil over. Jeb has no shame, selling Mama’s gift to him.
“Know what I think?” Abel’s eyes grew hard and glittery. “I think someone knocked him off.”
It took a moment for Zillia to grasp his meaning. “You... you think someone killed Jeb?”
“Yep. And I think you know all about it.”
Wylder snorted. “That’s a pretty far-fetched idea, even for you, Mr. Trent.”
“Yeah, you think? Mebbie it’s not. Mebbie you did it, Mister Eckhart. You might just have my poor uncle’s scalp tacked to your cabin wall. Mebbie my brothers and I should come over and find out.”
“Get off my land.” Zillia stomped her foot, and Orrie whimpered. “You’re not welcome here. Go away and don’t come back.”
“That’s almost an admission of guilt right there,” Abel taunted.
Wylder gripped his hoe a little tighter. “You heard what she said.”
Abel stepped back. “Yeah, well, I don’t really feel safe here, anyways. No telling what you murdering savages will get into your heads.” He climbed back into the seat and slapped the reins over the glossy black backs. The horses bolted and were a quarter of a mile down the road before Abel regained control.
“Man shouldn’t be allowed to own horses.” Soonie turned back to the garden. “Sun’s almost gone. What a waste of daylight!”
Another wagon rattled down the road, this time Grandpa Walt with his buckboard. The elderly man st
opped the cart and lumbered over the side. “Everything all right over here?”
Zillia told him about Abel’s visit while they walked back to the house and washed up at the pump. “Do you think I should be worried?” she finished.
Grandpa Walt shook his head. “That man is all talk and bluster, like his whole family. Why don’t we go in the house? I have something to show you.”
Zillia lit the lanterns and stirred up the fire in the stove. Orrie started fussing for his bottle so she got it ready. Soonie ladled out the beans that had been cooking all day. Wylder brought in another armload of firewood. Grandpa Walt sat in Papa’s chair, watching them contentedly. “Those vittles smell good.”
Zillia sat in the rocking chair with Orrie. “All right, Grandpa Walt. What did you want me to see?”
“Well... I should have given you this sooner, but Soonie just told me you’d been looking for it.” Grandpa Walt pulled a crumpled paper out of his pocket and handed it to her.
Zillia unfolded it with her free hand and glanced over the document. “This is Mama’s signature!” she gasped. Sometimes Grandpa Walt’s absentmindedness was exasperating.
“Yes. It’s the deed to the land. Your mother gave it to me to keep safe.”
Several times she had torn the house apart to look for the deed, and even checked at the bank to see if it had been stored in a lock-box there. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask Grandpa Walt if he knew where it was. What a relief to hold it in her hand!
“I wonder why Mama didn’t tell me about this?”
Soonie scraped up her last spoonful of beans from the tin plate. “I’m sure it was just for caution’s sake, so Jeb couldn’t make you tell.”
The girls gathered dishes and stacked them by the counter washtub. Grandpa Walt stood, stretching his leathery arms into the air and almost snapping his overall straps. “We’d best be getting home. Don’t want Grandma Louise to wonder what’s become of us.”
Wylder brought his bowl to Zillia and leaned over. “Come outside with me, Zillia, just for a few minutes.”
“All right.” She glanced over. Orrie was asleep in his cradle. “Soonie, can you mind Orrie for a moment?”
Soonie looked up from the dishes and nodded.
Zillia followed Wylder outside. The sun was gone, but the impossible colors of evening remained. Golds and pinks and deep reds stained the skies, bordering feathery clouds.
Wylder walked out to the fence and put his hands in his pockets. He let out a low whistle. “Sure is beautiful out here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I guess it is.” Zillia poked at a rock with her toe.
He put his hands behind his head and leaned back against the fence. “Remember when we were little kids? We’d sit out here and pretend we could climb up the clouds.”
Zillia smiled. “I thought if we could find a tree tall enough, maybe we could get to Heaven without having to die. Like the prophet Elijah.”
Wylder turned and studied her. “You have to give yourself time to enjoy things. Like this sunset. If you worry too much, you’d miss it.”
“Sure, Wylder. Today was a bit—unsettling.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to let Abel Trent bother you.”
“I know,” Zillia said. Any member of the Eckhart family would fight to the death for her and Orrie, and she’d do the same for them, but it was nice to have Wylder come out and say it. “I just hated when he accused you of those terrible things. Especially when Jeb is so despicable.”
Grandpa Walt walked up behind them. “Don’t think you’ll be bothered by any of the Trents for awhile.”
“What do you mean?” Zillia asked.
“Didn’t I tell you? Mr. Bell, the ferry owner, heard from the sheriff. Jeb’s gone and attempted a manslaughter. He’ll be in jail for quite some time.”
A wave of relief like Zillia hadn’t felt in months flooded over her. She sagged back against the fence. “For how long?”
Grandpa Walt shrugged. “Don’t know the particulars. But the Trent family has their pride. They won’t be making much of a stir for awhile. And I’m your official guardian until it’s all sorted out. I’ve already smoothed over details with the sheriff. Normally he wouldn’t allow it without written consent of a parent, but since we’re good friends and all, he went ahead and approved the measure. One thing’s for sure, I’d be surprised if Jeb ever shows his face in these parts again.”
Zillia didn’t share Grandpa Walt’s conviction. But at least she had a bit of reprieve from the Trent family. Abel must not have heard the news, or he would never have ventured out with his bluster and accusations.
Later, Zillia watched while her friend’s lanterns bobbed through the darkness to the wagon. She called goodbyes until everyone was too far away to hear. While she stepped in and bolted the door, she tried to ignore the knot in her stomach that cinched tighter every time she was left alone.
July 1887
5 Soap and a Savior
“Maaaaaa!” A goat begged for breakfast through the wooden fence. Her twins pressed tiny faces next to hers.
“Zilly, goats.” Orrie’s curls bobbed while he grabbed fistfuls of grass and held them out to the animals.
“Yes, goats.” Zillia poured grain into a bucket and dumped the water pail to refill at the pump. Thank God for the goats. Her mother had purchased them the spring before her passing.
When Orrie had outgrown his bottle, Zillia began to sell milk to neighboring farms for a good price. It had taken a little convincing for some of her neighbors to make a switch, but they all agreed the goat’s milk had a better flavor.
Green stalks of corn swayed in the summer breeze. Zillia had begun to prepare the land for her second crop months before, after the frost pulled back its chilly fingers from the earth. She had no high hopes for this year’s harvest. But what else could she do? The land would soon be overcome with brush and weeds if she didn’t clear it out. Zillia pressed on. She’d hitch Sometimes to the plow and trudge behind him for acres at a time. They’d move along for an hour or two, until Sometimes dug his hooves into the sand and refused to go any further.
She didn’t pay attention to how much time slipped by, just worked through to make it until the next sunrise. And she managed to keep going, with the help of Soonie and Wylder. It was wrong to depend on them so much. But they brought warmth and friendship in the back of their wagon, along with borrowed tools and food from Grandma Louise. If they didn’t come to help, she would have surely died from loneliness.
Grandpa Walt nagged her about the Virginia relatives until she finally told him she had written them and no one had replied. It seemed like the more lies she told, the easier it became, like each bite of Eve’s apple.
What would Grandma Rose and Aunt Darlene say if they knew their granddaughter worked in the fields all day and shot vermin at night? Probably nothing. The last letter they had sent her mother had been filled with vicious words Zillia would never forget. Mama had been confused about Jeb, that was certain, but she hadn’t deserved such hate.
Last week, Zillia and Orrie had celebrated his second birthday over a crumbly piece of johnny cake. The little boy learned new words and skills every day. At times she wondered if her brother was the most clever child in the world. Of course, she would never share this thought with Soonie.
Zillia filled the feeding pail on the milking stand and let the goats into the gate one at a time to have their breakfast and be milked. If only she could let go of the corn crop and focus on the goats! She leaned against the stand to rest. She couldn’t lose the land Papa had worked so hard for, or the home he had designed and helped to build.
No spoon money remained, so she’d have to use proceeds from the corn to pay the harvest crew. Zillia had sold clothes, furniture and anything else in the home that could be spared.
Today she had a new project in mind. For the last two years she had purchased small cakes of soap from the dime store, wincing at the waste when she dropped coins in the shopkeeper’s h
and. Today she would try to make her own.
Soonie had scoffed at the notion. “You’ve never been to our house on soap day. It’s a nasty, difficult process. Better just buy it from the store like your mama always did. It’s harder to make than you think.”
“Yes, but soap is expensive. I can make a big batch all at once and save money. Any penny saved is a good thing.”
How satisfying it would be to open her wooden box and see smart, square bars of soap to supply them for months to come. How hard could it be? Surely, not as difficult as mucking a stall or plowing a field.
Zillia left the goats and went to the darkest corner of the barn where she had stored containers of lye and lard. She opened the lye bucket and poked at the gray liquid with her feather. The quill dissolved in seconds. Finally. For weeks she had experimented to get the right consistency.
When she lifted the lid of the lard container, she covered her nose and tuned away with a gasp. How could something so rancid be used as a cleanser? No wonder Mama had never attempted to make her own. She slammed the lid down and hauled the bucket to the outside fire pit, then lugged out the lye pail. With grim determination, she lit the fire.
“Zilly, Zilly, come see.” Orrie toddled from the side yard and tugged at her skirts. “Come see duckies.”
“Orrie, I can’t right now. I’m doing something important. Wait for a little while.” She hung the heavy iron kettle over the fire and dumped in the bucket of lard.
“Ew.” Orrie wrinkled his freckled nose. “What’s that?”
“I’m... making soap.” Zillia scooped dripping fat back into the pot with her wooden spoon. She squinted down at Grandma Louise’s wobbly instructions. “Add lye a little at a time, then stir slowly.” She peered into the kettle. “Hmmm. I think it needs to melt some more. What do you think, Orrie?”
Silence answered her. “Orrie?” She glanced to the side of the house, then around the goat shed. “Orrie, where did you go?”
The River Girl's Song: Texas Women of Spirit, Book 1 Page 4
