by Caryl McAdoo
Swallowing the cotton in her mouth, she refrained from telling the truth in her heart, that she'd go to the ends of the earth to be wherever he was. Instead, she cleared her throat and managed to get one word out.
“Texas.”
Standing, as if that gave her the floor, Arlene put her hands on her hips. “Well, Charity and I want to stay here.”
Alicia glared at her sister, but none of the adults bothered to tell her that wasn't an option.
“Noted, sweet cakes.”
Taking his sister's example, Aaron stood and hauled Rich, sitting beside him, to his feet, too. “Me and Rich vote Texas. I want to get me a horse of my very own, too!” He turned to his shadow.
“You want one too, don't you, Rich?” The younger boy wagged his head in the affirmative but kept quiet and sat right back down.
Then one by one around the circle, all the adults said the same thing.
Texas won the day.
The whole time the plan for trekking west got hatched then thoroughly dissected, Flynn kept making eyes at her. If only she could know his heart. Was he content with the awful edict not to ever be alone with her? Had he even thought about apologizing for the kiss? Or perhaps proposing? At least to arrange a chaperoned visit.
Did he have any plans on courting her at all?
The theory he couldn't support her held no water. He'd made some wages and sold a right nice pile of furs last winter. Had he saved any of that coin? Did he have any ready money? She knew for a fact he'd bought his own fiddle but had not one idea how much one cost. Ma knew all about the families' money. She'd been in the thick of it when that scoundrel cheated them on the land.
Well, if he wouldn't arrange a visit, maybe she should. She could ask Ma to talk with Aunt Libby. Surely Flynn wouldn't deny her the chance to talk with him. She needed to! Certainly, Pa would honor his word and pay everyone for what they picked. That'd be a good amount, especially times two. Should she be hunting ways to make a dollar?
She waited until her beau looked at her then she smiled real big and stood. “Ma, I'm going home. Want me to round the little ones up and put them down?”
She looked around then shook her head. “No. They're fine playing. I'll bring them in when I come.”
Though she still talked with her mother, she turned her attention to Flynn. “Figured I'd write a letter.” She resisted asking if she needed a chaperon to pen a missive to the man she loved but didn't. It'd probably be counted as sassing.
“That's fine, sweetie. You know where I keep everything.”
“Yes, ma'am.” She backed away from the circle, not taking her eyes off him until she couldn't make his features out anymore, then turned and practically skipped the rest of the way. She found the matches and lit the lantern easy enough. Ma kept her paper, quill, and ink in the top of the armoire. She got everything ready.
But what had come to mind before lingered just out of reach. She dipped the quill.
Dear Reagan Flynn O'Neal,
Formal maybe, but she liked it.
You including me in the decision making progress thrilled my heart.
Should she just go ahead and say it? I love you. Will you want to ask me to marry you? No, of course not! She'd send him packing to Baltimore to take some fiddle playing job if she started talking like that without even knowing if he loved her.
I hate them keeping us apart as we didn't do anything wrong. My heart is yours, sir, and hopefully you'll reciprocate my affections. I don't know what I'll do should you not, and I pray you'll not be startled away by my bold forthcoming.
Her gaze kept going back to reciprocate. It didn't look right. Had she spelled it correctly? It just looked weird. Would he even know otherwise if she hadn't? Aunt Liberty would, for sure, but hopefully, she'd never see the letter.
I plan on asking Ma if having someone to where they could see us but not hear what we're saying might be acceptable. What do you think? Would it come better from you?
I've got three silver dollars and a five-dollar gold piece that my grandmother gave me when I was only six, right before Arlene was born. I'd hate to spend them but would if we needed the money . . . perhaps to purchase our own wagon and supplies for the journey to Texas.
Certainly, I don't mean to be presumptive, but left to my own deductions, I can hardly help thinking of anything else, and it seems to be the rightful course for two so close . . . if indeed, we are on such a course as I have imagined and dreamed of.
Might as well just ask him outright what his intentions were toward her?
Footfalls sounded on the porch. She put the stopper in the ink, blew her last few words dry, then carefully folded the page into thirds.
“Hey, Lesha! You missed it! Flynn boosted me and Rich with his feet! We set on 'em, and he sent us flying, Sis. I sure like my partner.”
He gave her a smirky little grin. “You do too, don't you? Like kissing him and holding his hand too, probably. Don't you?” He pressed the back of his hand to his lips and kissed it hard, making little sounds like eating a butterscotch. “I love you, Flynn.”
The brat!
Pa strolled in and swatted Aaron's bottom. “I told you not to torment your sister.”
“I wasn't. Tell him, Lesha.”
“Keep me out of it. Pa's got two eyes, you little beetle! I'm going to bed. Where's Arlee?”
“Ma's letting her sleepover with Charity.” He smiled real big then batted his eyelashes at her. “Will you sing me a song tonight? Please, Sister?”
How could she stay mad at him? The rascal was so lovable it hurt. “One song, then you get in your bed.”
“All right! Piggyback me up the ladder?”
“No. You're getting too big, Aaron. Come on.”
The baby of the family looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, the compliment seemed to sink in and he took the rungs two at a time. Hopefully, in Texas she'd have her own room—with a door! She hated sharing. Well, with the younger siblings anyway . . .
In Texas, she best be sharing a bed with Flynn, wouldn't mind that one little bit.
What would it be like?
She could only imagine.
The next morning, the sun showed itself after two, maybe three miles, best Flynn could figure. He'd not traveled the road to Charlotte enough to know for sure.
The mules found themselves an easy gait and acted like pulling the wagon, even uphill, was no more than a hawk circling in the sky. Seeing how the matched pair could step impressed him plenty.
From the moment he'd heard Mister Seve Van Zandt wanted him to take his father's place on the journey, Flynn figured the man wanted a chance to talk about his daughter, but so far . . . the conversation had been concerning the weather and how well the cotton grew.
Not that he looked forward to being in the man's crosshairs.
Guess he had no sense of rushing the topic. He had himself a captive audience.
“Think Jenkins will make a deal?”
“Hope so.”
“Papa thinks five percent is fair if we have to pick it and pay for the ginning.”
“Yes.” Seve laughed. “I was there when he first said as much.”
“Yes, sir. That's right.”
For the next mile or so, other than a stray word or two instructing the animals, the man acted like he had no intention of speaking his mind. He actually kind of wanted him to be at it.
Get whatever he had to say off his chest. Maybe not saying was a part of the game he was playing, making him sweat and wonder when it would come.
Or, perhaps rehearsing his meeting with Mister Jenkins and what he would say kept his mind too preoccupied to focus on a silly little kiss. Aunt Mallory sent a block of yesterday's cornbread and a hunk of jerky and called it breakfast.
Shame he couldn't abide cold coffee like Seve, but a jar of still-warm milk topped it off right nice.
“Bless Auntie's heart for packing us that basket.”
“Amen, she makes the best cornbread this side of the M
ississippi. You ever been baptized, Flynn?”
Wow, that came from left field. Guess he decided he'd get on with it. “Yes, sir. When I was twelve.” Not a bad opening salvo. Couldn't be the man's big gun though. He hoped to make a good impression on the trip to the town.
Hadn't been given much opportunity to speak with his honorary uncle alone since becoming a man.
“Good.”
Studying the size of his hands—how had they grown so huge when he wasn't looking—Flynn waited for more questions, but only silence reigned. For a fact, Alicia's father was no coward.
Could he be waiting for him to say something? Should he bring the issue up? Apologize? Explain himself? No. Papa told him strong men didn't offer explanations. He didn't want to come off as weak.
If his goal included trying to make him sweat or say something he shouldn't, then his uncle would surely be disappointed. The kiss . . . he hadn't done anything wrong. So let him talk if that's what he wanted. Fine with him.
And if not, so be it.
Temperature warmed considerably by the time Charlotte came into view but wasn't intolerable. “What should I do while you talk with Mister Jenkins?”
“Well, I figured you come with me. You don't want to?”
“Yes, sir. Sure do. That'd be great. Just didn't know if it'd be my place.”
“Whoa, mules.” Uncle Seve stopped the wagon in front of a boardinghouse on the outside of town, set the brake, then eased down. He reached back under the buckboard and grabbed his grip. “Don't let any cats out of any bags.”
“Yes, sir. Speak only if spoken to.”
The man laughed then walked to the front door. “Good idea.” He pulled the doorbell's string but didn't wait. Opened it and walked right in. Flynn shadowed him.
An older man sat at a small table in the parlor off to the right of the entry hall. He pulled a half-smoked cigar from his meaty jowls and held it sideways toward Seve. “I like a man that keeps his word.”
“Yes, sir. A man's word is his bond. Shame your cousin's wasn't.”
“I agree. He's paid for his sins. What's your pleasure, Mister Van Zandt?” The man inserted the stogie between his teeth, puffed it to life, then nodded toward the near chair. The man held his hand out then looked to Flynn. “Son, drag in one of those cane-bottoms off the porch if you're a mind to sit.”
“I'm good. Thank you, sir. Been sitting for a spell, standing will be fine.”
“Suit yourself.” He turned his attention to Seve. “So, what's it going to be?”
“We'll agree to the six acres of the lint you want. You pick and gin it. And we'll give up fifteen percent of our seed.”
“In another few days, pickers are going to be hard to come by, and I don't care to rent slaves.” He pulled his cigar out, examined it, then stuck it back in his mouth.
“I'll take nine percent of the lint and forty-five percent of the seed, but you folks will pay for the ginning and do all the picking. Deliver me the cash and the seed.”
“Generous, sir, but seeing as how we thought the crop would all be ours, how does four parts on the lint and a quarter of the seed sound?”
The old man laughed then looked right at Flynn. “What do you think, son?”
A nervous chuckle escaped that he tried to make sound better. “Seems to me you two are pretty well matched, Mister Jenkins. Since you asked though, and since it was your family cheated ours, three percent, and we keep all the seed sounds perfectly fair to me.”
Jenkins smiled. “You Reagan's boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You favor your father. You a fiddler, too?”
“Yes, sir, but not first-class like Papa. Not yet.”
He nodded then looked back to Uncle. “Everyone sign my paper?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I'm not saying I don't trust you folks, but how about this? Haul the lint to the gin here, and I'll take five points on lint and sixty percent of the seed.”
“Five and fifty, sir, and you have a deal.”
“Done. With one condition. My wife loves throwing a big shindig. What would you say to Reagan and his boy here do the fiddling?”
That sounded downright fun. Uncle Seve looked to Flynn and he nodded.
“Yes, sir. We can do that. Sounds like a good time.”
The man stuck out his hand. “Deal.” He smiled. “And of course, the lot of you are welcome to come.”
Moods were high leaving the boardinghouse. Dinner from Aunt Mallory’s basket stretched out under a big oak in the middle of town proved a downright treat.
Though he hated to admit it, her cooking would surely win a blue ribbon at the county fair. He hoped she'd been teaching Alicia.
The mules enjoyed their oats and sucked their fill of water.
The inquisition surely would come at the end of the meal, but nary a word. Uncle even managed a short nap. Then once the mules turned their noses toward home, his uncle acted like Flynn had only come to keep him company.
Maybe he just wanted to get to know him better, see what kind of man he'd grown into. Did her father like the idea of him for a son-in-law?
Not that he was old enough or ready to be a husband.
But the deal and coming shindig would be great news to the families. The traveling weather couldn't have been better, and by sunset, the waters of the home creek wet the wagon's wheels.
With the last of the day's sun shining through the trees, the man turned toward Flynn. “You ever lay a hand on my Alicia again, I'll kill you.”
“Sir, we . . .”
“I know what you did. And if you have any intentions toward my baby girl, you best keep your hands and lips where they belong.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Just wanted you to know how it is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Five
Her father told his news over supper. Having to only give up five percent of the cotton was top drawer, everyone agreed. The thought of a shindig Saturday-next after the first boll picked proved a great time to look forward to and even better!
But it sure seemed to Alicia something powerful wrong troubled Flynn.
Had her father forbid him from courting her? She had her letter all ready to give him, but would he even want it in his mood?
Though he shot her looks aplenty while he chowed down, not one time did he offer even a hint of a smile.
She stayed at the cook-fire until the end, but nothing changed, then her mother herded her inside along with her brother and sister as if a little kid—and herself a grown woman old enough to marry.
It humiliated her.
The archaic actions of her parents over one harmless little kiss unsettled her, and she didn't even get to give him his letter!
The heat in the cabin didn't suffocate her. It always helped when the sun took its plunge to the western horizon, so not too bad. Maybe she'd gotten used to it. Like every year just before September, she still longed for that first blue norther.
Fall was the best of all the seasons. She loved it when the earth began its cooling and the trees' colorful leaves danced their way to the ground.
Could Texas be as hot as she'd heard?
That night after carrying Aaron to his bed and twice hushing Arlene's whispers, she closed her eyes. Sleep eluded her though. Mercy! What could Pa have said to Flynn?
Strange enough, him going instead of Uncle Reagan. That had to have been at her father's request. She mulled that over, wondering if she should give her letter or rewrite it or wait.
Ma hadn't shot down her request for a chaperon to be close but out of ear shot. But her 'I'll talk it over with your father' didn't seem nearly as positive considering her beau's acting so pensive all evening.
Similar to the inner workings of a clock, each thought turned another worry wheel, and the negative possibilities piled up and made her burdens heavier by the minute. For a fact, she shouldn't fret.
Pa kept telling Ma all the time that worry never produced anything
positive and only hindered every promise of God.
But how could a body not?
If only she had a window to slip out of, she'd chance going to him to find out what had happened.
“You told him what?” Her mother's voice pierced the cabin's darkness.
Her father replied, but she couldn't make out what he said for his hushed tone. Ma seemed plenty upset over it whatever he'd said, and they had to be talking about Flynn. Who else? Jenkins, maybe?
No, that wouldn't upset Ma so. She needed to hear the exact words!
Scooting to the loft's edge, she listened hard, but not a word tickled her ears. Either they'd stopped talking altogether or covered their mouths to where only the other could understand. They might have even gone outside because she didn't even detect any muffled sounds.
Get him ma!
“Oh Lord, have mercy on me.”
The rooster had nothing on Flynn the next morning.
Before the bird went to bragging, he already had the cow milked, her calf turned back in to suck his share, and the big metal can cooling in the creek. He enjoyed getting his chores done before the sun showed its face.
Not that he always accomplished the goal, but that day started rough on him.
Waking from a nightmare where all the families circled the hole they's about to put him in—killed dead as his taste for liver. Uncle Seve hung for his murder in the closest tree to his grave.
Poor Alicia cried her eyes out over losing the two men she loved the most.
’Twas a strange night vision to be certain. Looking up from his pine box. The sheriff stringing up Uncle Seve right there where he could see the man swing from his grave.
Thank God, it was only a dream.
While gathering the eggs, he wondered if it might have been a prophetic vision—the good Lord warning him what lay ahead. But it proved upsetting enough to promise himself and the Almighty that he'd not even shake Alicia's hand.
Much less kiss her.
Or any girl again until his wedding night. Right was right, and wrong was wrong.
