Dusty Britches

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “Miss Britches’s been keepin’ company with them varmints that’ve been gettin’ to your cabbages, Mrs. Hunter!” Ryder explained brokenly through his coughing.

  Dusty’s mother started down the porch steps. She stopped dead in her tracks, however, bringing her apron up to her face to try and lessen the stench.

  “A skunk?” she squealed. “Dusty, I swear…I never know what to expect next!”

  “Oh, it ain’t nothin’ a little scrubbin’ and a week or so won’t wear off, Mrs. Hunter,” Ryder assured her.

  “Well, for cryin’ in the bucket, Ryder,” Dusty’s mother sighed. “What’ll I do? I can’t scrub her up in the kitchen. It’ll send the whole house to stinkin’!” Dusty watched as her mother leaned forward and sniffed Ryder. “Good grief, boy! You smell nearly as bad as my poor baby!”

  Ryder just nodded, asking, “Well, where do ya want the little onion?”

  Elly shook her head. Dusty could tell by the look on her face her mother’s irritation was already gone. Fact was, she was struggling not to laugh. “Well…I’ll get Feller to haul the washtub out to the barn. I guess that’s better than stinkin’ up the house!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ryder nodded. He turned and carried Dusty toward the barn.

  Dusty still wept, tears rolling down her cheeks. Yet the quiet chuckling overtaking Ryder comforted her. It was obvious he wasn’t angry—only amused. They reached the barn soon enough, and he set her down just inside.

  “I guess all we got is each other for a few days, Dusty,” he told her.

  Dusty nodded, oddly consoled. Suddenly, Becca appeared, running toward them, the elusive black-and-white kitten clutched tightly in her arms.

  “He was in the barn, Dusty!” she called. “He was just where I told you he…” Becca stopped short about ten feet away. She grimaced and pinched her nose closed. “Dusty! You stink!” she exclaimed, and Dusty burst into bawling.

  Dusty smiled. She giggled quietly to herself as she placed another plate into the dishwater. How funny it all seemed now. How ridiculous she must’ve looked to her mother all wrapped up in Ryder’s shirt and reeking of skunk.

  There was a tap on the window in front of her. Drawn from her reminiscing, she looked up to see none other than her fellow skunk-mate of long ago looking at her through the window.

  Flicking water at the window with her fingers, she called, “You scared the waddin’ outta me!”

  He smiled, shrugged, and told her, “Your daddy wants ya out here. And where’s Feller gone to?”

  “Do I look like his mama?” she asked, trying to rid her face of the smile still there plain upon it.

  “No, ma’am…you do not!” he chuckled, tipping his hat to her. He winked before turning and sauntering toward the barn.

  Dusty dried her hands on her apron and put them to her cheeks to cool the blush. She hated the way he made her feel! It would be her undoing if she didn’t get a handle on it. His wink and smile had delighted her so she’d felt the same as she had on that first skunk-stinking night all those years ago—when her only companion had been her champion.

  Her mother had tucked Dusty in the barn for the night as comfortably as possible—on a nice bed of straw with an old blanket she didn’t mind getting ruined with the odor of skunk. Moments later, Ryder had sauntered in. The whining of the other ranch hands in the bunkhouse over the detestable odor about him had forced Ryder to the barn too. Dusty remembered how he’d looked that night—so handsome and strong—and tired to boot.

  “Make sure she stays warm, Ryder,” Elly Hunter told the young man. “And thank ya for offering to stay out here so the smell won’t drive everyone else out.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am,” Ryder mumbled as Dusty began to weep quietly.

  “I love you, peach,” her mama whispered. She bent and kissed Dusty lovingly on the forehead. “It’s a fine, brave, and kind thing you’re doin’ by sleepin’ out here for a few nights so things don’t smell inside.”

  Dusty only nodded.

  “Mornin’ will come soon enough, punkin. And when it does…the smell will already be fadin’, okay?” As Dusty nodded, her mother whispered, “Thank you, Ryder.”

  “The boys don’t want me in my bunk anyhow, Mrs. Hunter. Might as well enjoy the summer night,” Ryder sighed.

  “You’re a fine boy, Ryder Maddox. A fine boy,” Elly said. She kissed him affectionately on the cheek before she left the barn.

  Dusty wiped at her tears, embarrassed they’d started again. Ryder groaned as he put a blanket down on the straw several feet from where Dusty was tucked in for the night.

  “I feel like I been spit at and hit,” he moaned as he lay down. “What a day, huh, sugar?”

  “A rotten day,” Dusty mumbled.

  “Ah, come on now,” he said, stripping off his shirt, sitting down on the blanket, and removing his boots. “You and Becca were havin’ a fine time ’til ol’ Mr. Stinky-Rear showed up, now weren’t ya?”

  Dusty couldn’t help but smile. His voice was so soothing. She nodded at him as she watched him stretch out on his back, cross his feet, and rest his head on his hands. He winked at her and looked out the barn door to the stars in the night sky. He released a heavy sigh—tired after a long day.

  “You see the Big Dipper out yonder?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Dusty answered. Her daddy had taught her long ago about the constellations. She found them fascinating in their starry beauty.

  “Well,” he continued after sighing again, “I always thought it looked more like a beat-up ol’ pan or somethin’…’stead of a drinkin’ ladle.”

  “Me too,” she agreed, somehow warmed that he would think similarly to her.

  “Yeah…I woulda named it ‘the ol’ beat-up pan Mama used to smack skunks with’ instead.”

  Dusty smiled at him warmly as he continued to stare at the stars. It was comforting, and somehow exciting, to have his attention so completely to herself.

  “You never did tell me, Ryder,” she ventured then.

  “Tell ya what?” he asked, yawning.

  “Whether or not you’ve been sparkin’ that girl in town you’re sweet on.” At ten years old, nearly eleven, Dusty herself didn’t understand why her curiosity was so inclined toward that particular subject regarding Ryder. All she knew was that it was.

  Ryder chuckled and turned on his side to face Dusty. “Well, sugar…that’s my own business,” he told her. She looked away from him for a moment and then back when he continued, “But since we’re such good, stinky friends together…I’ll tell ya just this once.” He winked at her again, and she smiled. “Just this once, mind you, nosy-Rosy!”

  Dusty nodded, wondering if she really wanted him to tell her. It bothered her to think of his attentions being focused on someone else. Especially at that moment when they were so focused on her.

  “Her name is Miss…” he teased, quickly whispering, “Nobody!”

  “Ah, quit teasin’ me,” she whined at him, scowling.

  “I ain’t teasin’,” he chuckled. “Why…I figure…no one’ll ever be as pretty as you’re gonna be when you grow up. So why waste the time?”

  Disappointment and delight mingled in her. Yet Dusty was dazzled by his compliment, while still bothered that the secret was still his own. Playfully she drew up a handful of straw and threw it at him.

  “You’re a skunk yourself, Ryder Maddox!” she giggled.

  “Least I know better’n to poke a stick at somethin’s rear end!” he chuckled, brushing the straw from his hair.

  He yawned again, and Dusty knew she was selfish to be keeping a cowboy from his sleep. Ranch hands worked hard. If they lost sleep, well, it wasn’t right. Still, she had his undivided attention! How could she give it up?

  “Now,” he yawned, “I’m tired, wrung out, and I gotta get some shut-eye, Miss Skunk-Britches,” he told her. “Still…there’s always time for a good bet.”

  Dusty raised her eyebrows expectantly.

  “I’ll bet
I can keep my eyes open longer’n you.”

  “Deal,” Dusty said.

  She snuggled down onto her bed of straw and began returning Ryder’s amused stare. His eyes were so warm and soothing even in the moonlight. She knew it wouldn’t be long before she lost the battle and drifted into pleasant slumber—knowing she would always be safe with Ryder so near to her. His smile was the last thing she saw before her eyes finally closed for good that night in the barn. Even the prominent odor of skunk did nothing to tarnish her pretty dreams.

  Dusty breathed a heavy sigh and finished drying the last plate. She put it in its place in the cupboard before going to find her father. She wondered what he wanted of her. As she left the house, something caught her attention, and she glanced at the barn. Looking up to the sky, she wondered where the Big Dipper might be that night. She would go to the barn when everyone was settled in for the night. She’d go to the barn where she and Ryder had once slept; she’d gaze up into the stars and find their Big Dipper. Not because of the sentimental reminiscing she’d been doing while washing the dishes—simply because she hadn’t looked for it in so long.

  Hank Hunter was sitting on one of the large logs near the fire pit as Dusty approached. Becca sat next to him with Ruff, Guthrie, and Titch. Ryder and Feller were walking over from the barn.

  “What did ya need, Daddy?” she asked him. She wanted to find out what he needed so she could return to the house and avoid everyone—avoid Ryder.

  “I want ya to come on out here with the family and talk awhile. It’ll do ya good to get out of the house,” he told her.

  “Alice and I took a good long walk today while she was over and…” Dusty began to argue. She glanced to where Feller and Ryder both now sat on one of the logs.

  “Sit down, Dusty,” her father said. He was firm—not cruel, but very firm.

  Sighing heavily, Dusty sat down next to Becca, grinding her teeth with irritation. It wasn’t long, however, until the light conversation concerning ranch life and townsfolk lulled her into a state of relaxation. Ruff told a funny tale he’d heard in town concerning old Leroy’s latest antics.

  “I always thought ol’ Leroy oughta hook up with Miss Raynetta McCarthy,” Guthrie offered.

  “Heck, no,” Hank argued. “He’s near to seventy year old! She’s a kitten compared to him.”

  “Yeah, but they’re both so…so…you know,” Guthrie stammered.

  “Eccentric,” Dusty finished.

  “Yeah, that’s it. ’Centric,” Guthrie chuckled, nodding at Dusty in thanks.

  “I think Miss Raynetta is an angel,” Becca sighed. “I wish I had the guts to wear purple like she does.”

  “She’s the sweetest lady I’ve ever known,” Ruff agreed, yawning.

  “Send us to sleep on a tale, boss,” Titch suggested.

  “Yeah,” Ryder agreed. “Somethin’ along the lines of Lady Godiva a-meetin’ up with Paul Revere.” Everyone chuckled, even Dusty and Feller.

  “Oh my, boys,” Hank sighed, “don’t know if I’ve got it in me tonight.”

  “How ’bout the time Grampa Hunter had the kickin’ fight with the mule, Daddy?” Becca suggested.

  “That’s a good one, Daddy,” Dusty heard herself say.

  She nervously glanced around to see if anyone were looking at her—thinking how ridiculous she sounded in entering the conversation. Still, all heads were nodding in agreement—all eyes already on Hank as he began the tale.

  “Well, ya see, my daddy had this here old mule name a Ross.”

  Dusty watched her father begin to tell the tale. She loved to listen to her father tell stories. She’d missed so much by avoiding the evening fire outside.

  “Ol’ Ross up and kicked Daddy in the rear-end one day while they was out plowin’ together. Well, Daddy, he don’t take nothin’ from a mule…so he hauls off and kicks ol’ Ross in the leg. Ol’ Ross kicks him back, and Daddy kicks him, ’til all of a sudden my mama looks out the window and hollers, ‘Henry! You get out there and stop your daddy from kickin’ that mule!’ Well, when my mama said, ‘Go,’ I went! So I trot on out there, and Daddy’s still exchangin’ kicks with that mule…”

  Dusty didn’t hear the rest of the story. She didn’t need to. Just being there with her family—bathing in the warm security of friendship with the hands—was enough. Enough to send her to bed with another new resolve to be a better, friendlier person—to let her guard down—let it down in front of everyone except Ryder Maddox, that was.

  Chapter Five

  Eight days had passed—eight days since Hank Hunter and Ryder Maddox had returned from the drive. Dusty had expended most of her energy each day trying to avoid Ryder. Certainly it seemed they’d made a kind of unspoken peace the day Alice visited. Still, he unsettled her, and she kept her distance as much as possible. Other than at mealtimes, she endeavored to avoid him entirely. It was less painful, less vexing that way—for whenever she was near him, or near enough to see him, her heart would begin to ache. Heartache was a threat—a threat of feeling something—and Dusty didn’t want to feel.

  On that eighth day, it was decided everyone would take a trip to town. Hank, good to his word, had given Ryder the day off for besting the big cow while branding. He’d thrown in half a day for everyone else to boot. Becca, with hardly any effort whatsoever, had also talked her daddy into buying the yellow dress in Miss Raynetta’s shop for her. There were supplies for the house Dusty needed, and several of the men had business to do in town. So sitting high on the wagon seat between her father and sister, Dusty listened to the low, easy conversation of the ranch hands as they rode alongside. Even Feller, who rarely found any use for town or the people there, was accompanying them.

  “Wipe that sour-pickle look off your face, girl,” Hank told Dusty. “I’m gettin’ tired of that frown ya wear. It ain’t you, Dusty.”

  “Don’t start chewin’ me, Daddy,” Dusty whined.

  “I’ll start into chewin’ anytime I want to! And I want to now.”

  Dusty sighed. She knew what was coming. She’d heard it so many times before—how she needed to get over the wrong, the heartache heaped on her by Cash—how a person couldn’t let others ruin their life. Yet this time—this time Hank hit her with something new—something unexpected.

  “How do ya think it would make your mama feel to know you’re carryin’ on like this?”

  Dusty looked to him quickly, all too aware of Becca climbing from the wagon seat beside her to the wagon bed behind. Becca habitually slunk away whenever the subject was raised by their father.

  “That’s not fair, Daddy,” Dusty told him.

  “Yes, it is!” Hank argued. “Your mama wouldn’t have allowed you to do this! You wouldn’t have done this to her, but ya do it to me…feelin’ sorry for yerself and throwin’ self-pity to all the world.”

  “I’m not that bad, Daddy,” Dusty argued, feeling mostly angry but hurt too—hurt by her daddy’s disappointment in her.

  “Yes, ya are. You are that bad…and it’s selfish, Dusty. Plain selfish.” Hank looked to his daughter for a moment. “I mean…what’s this?” he asked, gesturing to her hair. “Ya look like some ol’ tight-lipped spinster. Heck! Everybody calls Raynetta McCarthy a spinster, and she don’t look so severe as you.”

  “Severe?” Dusty asked, unable to believe she had heard him correctly. Before she could move to avoid it, her father had reached over and pulled out the pin holding her hair in a tight bun at the back of her head. “Daddy!” she scolded as her hair fell in thick, brown cascades over her shoulders and back. “We’re goin’ to town!” she complained, reaching for the pin a moment before her father flicked it into the air.

  “Then braid it up soft and nice like ya used to. I’m sick of it, Dusty! I know you’re better than what you’ve become, and I ain’t gonna tolerate it no more.” Dusty could see her father’s jaw clenching and unclenching angrily. He was mad. She knew arguing with him just then was pointless. “And I want ya to have Miss Raynetta hook ya up
in a new dress too.”

  “Daddy—” she began to argue.

  “I mean it. We’re goin’ to the picnic on the Fourth as a family, and I won’t have ya detractin’ from your sister and ruinin’ her fun this time with your starched-up, arrogant attitude.”

  Slowly and very self-consciously—for she noticed the conversation between the ranch hands riding behind the wagon had stopped—Dusty began to work her hair into a loose French braid. When she’d finished, she twisted a strand of hair at the end and tucked it, securing the braid. She tired to ignore the heated blush on her cheeks—tried not to hate her daddy in that moment for making such a fuss in front of the hands.

  Sometime later, when her daddy pulled the team to a halt in front of Miss Raynetta’s dress shop, Dusty hopped down from the wagon and began marching up the steps to the shop.

  “Get your attitude straightened out before I get back,” Hank told her.

  She glared back at him—anger and humiliation raging within her. He simply raised his eyebrows in a silent scolding, and she bit her lip to silence her frustration. She watched as Feller took Becca by the waist and lifted her out of the wagon. All the other hands looked away in discomfort when Dusty looked at them—all of them but Ryder. Ryder simply stared at her with no apparent expression.

  “Come on, Becca,” Dusty urged with irritation.

  Becca paused, uncertain about joining her.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “I’m sorry Daddy got onto you, Dusty,” Becca offered in a whisper as she followed Dusty into the dress shop.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Dusty mumbled.

  A bell rang, triggered by the door when the girls entered Miss Raynetta’s shop. In the next moment, Miss Raynetta McCarthy fairly floated in from the back room.

  “Well, lookie here!” she greeted, obviously delighted to see the girls. “Angels! I tell ya, you two are simply angels!” She took each girl by the shoulders in turn, kissing them on both cheeks. “And what brings ya into the shop today, ladies? Perhaps a certain yellow dress I’ve had set aside?” With a wink, she nodded knowingly at Becca.