Their trysts continued like clockwork. And then, suddenly, Chester missed one of their prearranged meetings. For three panic-stricken days Phoebe returned to their place of rendezvous. For two days he did not show up. She waited outside the shed for hours, pacing hysterically, her ears searching the wind for the sound of his horse, her mind racing over the terrible things that might have happened to him. She imagined accidents. Illnesses. Even death.
On the third day, he was there, waiting for her.
She was so flooded with relief that she ran into his arms and burst into tears. And he held her close, peppering her with kisses, whispering the sweet words she needed so desperately to hear. She summoned up her courage to speak of marriage, but his hungry lips were always on hers; then they coupled again and again. There was simply no time to talk. Not after so many days apart.
Somehow, the lovemaking seemed enough. He was back. She had him wrapped around her in more ways than one. He needed her. Obviously, no one else could satisfy him. He was hers.
Or so she thought.
Over the next few months he missed more and more of their meetings, but his explanations were always smooth and soothing and sounded sincere. Besides, she wasn't about to doubt him. He was her lover and she needed to believe that whatever he told her was the truth. She had to believe that, for if she didn't. . .
. . . If she didn't, then her dreams of capturing him for herself could never come true.
She floated; she soared. 'Phoebe Savage,' she repeated to herself over and over, falling in love with the sound of it more and more. 'Phoebe Savage. Mrs. Chester Savage.' The young, powerful, exceedingly beautiful Mrs. Chester Savage.
She was at the top of the world.
She was not ready for the crash.
For he did not see her again. Ever.
Desperate, she saddled her horse and rode out to the Savage estate, a sprawling complex of buildings at the edge of the flour mill. When she reached the majestic pillared house, the butler told her that Mr. Savage was out of town on business. 'Would you like to speak to the missus, ma'am?' he asked.
She had nodded, expecting his mother. But the cool, haughty young beauty was obviously not the woman who had borne him.
'I'm Phoebe Flatts,' Phoebe said softly. 'I've come to see your brother.'
The woman laughed softly. 'So you're the one!' she said with a hint of laughter in her voice as her amber eyes appraised Phoebe thoughtfully.
'Pardon me?' Phoebe asked in confusion. She expected his sister to put her arms around her, perhaps kiss her on the cheek. But no matter what the reception, she would try her best to make friends with her.
'You're here about Chester, aren't you?' the woman asked.
Phoebe smiled and nodded. 'Yes. Will he be back soon?'
'I certainly hope so,' the woman said. 'But of course, I have a vested interest in him. You see, he's not my brother. He's my husband. ' Seeing Phoebe freeze, she added, 'Don't you read the papers? We were married only last week in St. Louis.'
Phoebe took a step backward as icy chills rippled through her. This can't be true! she thought. This can 't be happening to me. This is a nightmare. I'll awaken at any moment—
'In a way, I have a lot to thank you for,' the new Mrs. Chester Savage said saccharinely. 'After all, you've been a great help to me, you know. What Chester couldn't have with me, he had with you. But take my advice.' She smiled conspiratorially and lowered her voice. 'From one woman to another, next time, don't put out. Men love to be with women who do, but they never marry them.'
And she slammed the door with such force that Phoebe felt the force of the wind.
'Noooo!' she wailed shrilly, her voice warbling with pain. She took a faltering step backward, her hands covering her ears. 'Noooo! It can't be true!'
Then she turned and fled the vast estate with its majestic house, the house she would have given her eyeteeth to live in as her own. The house which, she had been certain, would be hers. Which now belonged to someone else.
Someone who had played a different game for the very same man. Someone who had won while she had lost.
Phoebe never remembered how she managed to get home. Nothing registered in her consciousness. Nothing but the terrible pain and confusion which filled her with knifelike stabs. In a split second her beautiful, controlled world had disintegrated, and she wanted to die. Yet, despite her pain, one thought instinctively rose to the surface of her tortured mind.
No matter what happened, no one must ever know.
She stumbled through the successive days and weeks in a daze. Somehow, the masks she pulled down over her face and heart must have been convincing. No one seemed to suspect that anything was wrong. No one seemed aware of her pain.
The days were sheer torture. Only the nights were soothing, when her subconscious would conjure up dreams of Chester Savage. When his warm dream lover's arms would once again be around her, bringing her exquisite love and pleasure. Yes, the nights were bearable . . . but they were far too short.
She receded into her books. Sang in the choir. Went through the ordinary motions of daily life. The glow of lust and ecstasy that had lit her from within was gone now, replaced by an undetectable countenance of shame and sorrow.
Now, sitting at the railroad station, waiting for Zaccheus, she raised her head slowly. In the distance, she could hear the long, drawn-out whistle of the approaching train.
Suddenly it was the sound of salvation. Carrying with it someone who could feed the fires that Chester Savage had kindled within her. Arriving on the train.
9
The first thought that crossed his mind was: She's grown even more beautiful.
The first thought that crossed her mind was: He's not as bad as I remember. Rumpled, perhaps, by the journey, but neat and clean. Presentable. Rather attractive, in fact. No, he's not bad at all. He's no Chester Savage, but I could do a lot worse.
Phoebe flashed Zaccheus her most dazzling smile and forced herself to take his arm and squeeze it affectionately. Unwittingly she had a vision of squeezing Chester's arm, but instantly blotted out that thought. She might as well face the facts. Chester Savage was gone from her life. She must forget him.
Reverend Flatts drove and they sat side by side in the back of the buggy. Phoebe unfolded the lap robe and pulled it over their knees, her clever fingers brushing his legs. The buggy rattled, swaying and bumping across the rutted road into the night, and they were repeatedly jostled against one another.
She said softly, 'I've missed you. I waited a long time to see you.'
Zaccheus turned toward her, his eyes glowing in the light of the white country moon. 'You have?' He sounded pleased.
She did not meet his gaze. 'I have.'
He didn't speak.
'It's so quiet here,' she said with a sigh. 'Nothing exciting ever happens.' She laughed quietly. 'Of course, you know that.' She paused, hating having to show her hand by asking the question, but it was imperative that she know just where she stood. 'Did you make any . . . friends . . . at college?'
'A few.' He swallowed nervously, feeling simultaneously thrilled, yet peculiarly discomfited, by her closeness.
A note of caution crept into her voice. 'Were they all . . . ministerial students?'
'Yes.'
No hesitancy there, she thought with satisfaction. So far, so good. Her voice relaxed. 'Now that you're back, I hope we can see quite a bit of each other. That is, if I'm not intruding on someone else's . . .' She shrugged delicately. 'You know. Territory.' Her eyes glowed at him in the dark.
'No, no, you're not,' he said positively. 'Do you want to see me? I mean, really want to?'
'Of course I do!' She smiled, lowered her voice, and hooked one arm through his. 'Remember the way you used to follow me around while you were working outside the house? Always sneaking little sideways glances at me? I'll never forget that. As soon as I'd turn a corner, sure enough, there you were—clipping or pruning right behind me! I used to feel you were my shadow.' Her lau
ghter tinkled in the night. 'You always seemed to be lurking around me.'
'I'm sorry. Did I . . . annoy you?'
'Hmmmm. Anyway, times change, and so do emotions.' She summoned up the warmest sincerity she could muster. 'I found I missed you. And now you're finally back!' She disengaged her arm from his, clapped her delicate hands together, and held her index fingers, as if in prayer, poised at her lips. She looked at him expectantly. 'Did you bring me a present?'
'A present?'
'You know . . .' She waved one hand deprecatingly. '. . . A little something from college. Don't young men usually bring . . . their lady friends a little something? You know. A souvenir?'
'Oh, I. . .'he stammered, suddenly embarrassed, and felt his face flushing. 'Yes, I . . . I brought you something,' he managed.
'Oh! What?' She sat forward eagerly.
Reluctantly he reached into his trouser pocket and touched the little velvet case with his fingers. It felt smooth and warm. For a moment he gripped it fiercely. Inside it was the sterling chain and the Venetian glass pansy charm. He had bought it for his mother, not for Phoebe.
How stupid of me! he cursed himself silently. I should have bought Phoebe something too. Why didn't I think of it?
But even if he had, his finances wouldn't have permitted it.
He hesitated, his mind in sudden turmoil. He knew how much his mother would treasure the keepsake. Perhaps he should tell Phoebe that, in his hurried departure, he'd forgotten her present. Or had lost it. But the warm reception he'd received from her filled him with pride, massaging his male ego and cementing, once and for all, the feelings he'd always harbored for her. Somehow he had to reciprocate the warmth she was showing him. He had to please her. Prove he loved her.
Slowly he pulled the velvet box out of his pocket. 'Here,' he said quietly, handing it over.
'Oooooh!' she squealed, seizing the case and hurriedly lifting the lid. She peered closely into the box, trying to make out the shape in the moonlight. 'A necklace!' she breathed. 'Oh, Zaccheus! You shouldn't have! I mean, I'm so glad you did, but nobody's ever given me anything like this before!' She leaned sideways and pecked his cheek.
Zaccheus smiled shyly and looked down into his lap. He'd always been attracted to Phoebe, but he'd never dared believe that she could feel the same way about him. Did she really like him that much?
Slowly he lifted his hand and touched the spot on his cheek where she had kissed him. It tingled warmly.
It seemed too good to be true.
Half an hour later they pulled up to the Howe farm. The tiny cabin windows glowed with weak kerosene light.
Zaccheus hopped off the buggy, swung his suitcase to the ground, held Phoebe's proffered hand between both of his, and then waved to Reverend Flatts. He stood there watching the buggy drive off until it was completely swallowed up in the night.
He glanced around and breathed deeply. The night wind was sweet and moist, exactly as he'd remembered it. Cicadas and crickets chirped shrilly; wind rustled in the trees. From somewhere in the distance the breeze brought the sound of a barking dog wafting toward him.
Suddenly he felt all alone. Visitors to the farm had always been rare events, and he remembered how everyone always rushed out to meet anyone who arrived. But no one came out to meet him.
Slowly he made his way up to the cabin's rickety porch and set down his suitcase. He stood staring at the door's weathered wood before turning the knob. Then he pushed the door open and stepped into a room alive with flies. They swarmed over every surface.
The tattered curtain dividing the cabin was drawn aside, and Zaccheus could see his mother lying quietly on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell with the rasping, labored breaths she took. The noisy snores which punctuated them came from Nathaniel. Keeping vigil beside the bed, his father had fallen asleep in the rocker, his hands folded in his lap, his head tilted sideways against his shoulder.
Zaccheus slowly approached the bed and stared down at his mother, his heart tightening painfully. With a shock he saw how much weight she'd lost. She'd always been on the gaunt side, but sturdy, and fit as a fiddle. Now the skin of her face hung with a slack translucence, one of her arms, poking out from under the covers, seemed ghostly pale and skeletal, and her emaciated body was drenched with sweat. Even the covers were soaked through.
She seemed to sense his presence: her eyes flickered open. 'Zack,' she whispered listlessly, her lips barely moving. 'My son.' She lifted one arm slowly, holding a trembling hand toward him.
'Ma!' The word was a sob caught in his throat. Then he was kneeling beside her bed, holding her clammy hand tightly. He brought it up to his lips.
She turned her face sideways on the pillow to face him, her eyes deep and dull, yet moist with a peculiar shine. 'Let your ma look at you!' Her lips curved into a faint smile. 'You've grown taller, son. My, but you're a fine-lookin' man, if I say so myself. Life at that college shore seems to be agreein' with you.'
'Ma? Soon's I heard how sick you were, I came hurry in'.' For some strange reason, for the first time in many years he found himself slipping into the country dialect of his childhood. It was as if he wanted her to know he was hers, that he was no different from her, that they were equals.
'I know you hurried, son.' She sighed heavily and sat suddenly forward, her body racked with coughs. They came from deep within her and seemed to last forever. She turned away, felt for a rag, and spat noisily into it. Then she balled the rag up, sank back on the pillow, and smiled apologetically. 'It's the sickness,' she said weakly.
'How long you been sick, Ma?'
'Since right after you left,' she said quietly.
'And you didn't tell me? Why didn't you have Reverend Flatts write to me?'
'He wanted to, but I wouldn't let him. You're busy, son. You got your whole life ahead o' you. I didn't want to mess that up for you.'
Tears blurred his vision. 'I love you, Ma!' he said with quiet forcefulness.
'I know that, son,' she said gently. 'And I'm so glad that you're doin' well. I'm so proud of you. That's what kept me goin' all this time. Even ole Doc Fergueson sez so.' She paused. 'By all rights I shoulda been six feet under a long time ago.'
'Don't talk like that, Ma!' he whispered huskily. 'You're gonna live. I'm not gonna let you die!'
She smiled painfully. 'Sooner or later, we all gotta die, son.'
'Then I'll make sure it's later,' he vowed.
'Will you do somethin' for me, son?
'Sure, Ma. Anything you ask.'
'Jest hold me? Jest for a minute?'
He nodded and drew close to kiss her.
She turned abruptly away. 'Don't kiss me!' she whispered.
He stared at her uncomprehendingly. 'Why not?'
'Doc Fergueson said so. No kissin'. An' don't touch my spit rag, neither.'
'Why? What have you got?'
'It's my lungs. I fergit the word for it. Doc Fergueson sez it's from the cold winters and the bad heat here in this house.'
'Tuberculosis?' he asked softly.
'Yeah. That's it!' She smiled again at him, this time radiantly. 'You shore are gittin' an education. My! Jest listen to you rattlin' off them big words!'
In his rocker, Nathaniel awoke with a start. He stared at Zaccheus, then pushed himself painfully to his feet. The illness was taking its toll on him too. He looked thinner, older. Worn out.
Zaccheus forced himself to smile. He held up a hand in awkward greeting. 'Hi, Pa!'
'Hi, son.'
Then Nathaniel did something he had never done before in his life. He swiftly crossed to the bed, put his arms around his son, and held him tightly.
10
It was raining. One of those warm, steady country rains. Inside the cabin it sounded like a ceaseless scratching on the roof. When Zaccheus looked out the window, all he could see were steady silver rivulets of water running down from the eaves. He could hear the steady musical plops as water dripped heavily down into the buckets fr
om leaks in the roof.
Nathaniel continued his listless vigil in the armchair. He seemed to lack interest in anything. The crops were suffering. The fences needed mending. Even the tools were rusting. The only thing he did do was feed and water the animals so they wouldn't die. Nothing else mattered much anymore.
Zaccheus boiled a large of pot of water and kept busy for a while scrubbing the crusty dishes and pots and pans which had accumulated over the weeks. It was a thankless chore, but he was glad to be able to do something—anything—as long as he could keep occupied.
After he finished the dishes, scrubbing the pots with steel wool until they shone with a luster they hadn't seen since they were new, he began to tidy up the cabin. But despite all his puttering, his mind was consumed with his mother's illness.
When the cabin was tidy, he stepped out onto the porch for a well-deserved break. He sat down on the porch bench, his back to the cabin wall, savoring the freshness and cleansing effects of the rain. He stifled a yawn. Strange, how until now he hadn't realized how bone-weary he was. The last three days must be taking their toll. First there had been the long train trip during which he'd hardly managed to catch a wink. And last night he'd barely been able to shut his eyes. All night long, his mother had had coughing fits. It had been difficult to sleep through them.
Now he found his eyelids drooping. His head slowly lolled forward onto his chest, and he nodded off.
He awoke abruptly, suddenly aware that someone was standing over him. He lifted his head. 'Doc!' he said with surprise.
Doc Fergueson was a short, stout man with tufts of unruly white hair and a pleasant reddish face. 'Zaccheus,' he greeted gravely.
Zaccheus got to his feet and they shook hands. The doctor's grip was surprisingly firm and warm.
'Mind if I sit down and join you?' Doc Fergueson asked.
Texas Born Page 15
