The Springsweet

by Saundra Mitchell

  "Likewise, I'm sure. I'll have to introduce you to my nephew," Mrs. Edwards said, pulling Birdie toward the heart of the ladies on the lawn.

  "She's got a beau," Birdie said, casting me a look that dared a denial.

  Though I'd hardly contradict an elder in mixed company, I simply answered with a smile. Theo wasn't my beau, but if it kept Mrs. Edwards from foisting her nephew on me, I thought I could, this once, let the lie stand.

  In quick order, Mrs. Edwards managed to introduce both Birdie's early tomatoes and me to what seemed like a hundred smiling women. Almost all of them—all but the children, it seemed—were married, and when I looked toward the men as they started work on the barn, I realized we were quite outnumbered.

  I watched them spreading out, selecting tools and considering a barn that, at the moment, was hardly more than a skeleton. They looked like geese, a flock of white muslin shirts and dark trousers. I was entirely amused, however, to see a shock of emerald green among them.

  Theo had rolled up his shirtsleeves and bound his hair back, and it seemed that his waistcoat was cotton, a concession to the day's labor. Still, he seemed too rarefied by half among them.

  Beside Emerson, he positively gleamed.

  My heart jumped twice, once in seeing Emerson, and the second in seeing him approach Theo. But whatever words they shared, they were pleasant enough. Theo's smile never faded, and Emerson gestured comfortably, as if they were old friends indeed.

  I was surprised to see how closely matched they were in height, for Emerson seemed impossibly tall when I looked up at him, and I'd never had that impression of Theo. They were a strange pair-—refined and rough but both, I realized, entirely beautiful in their own ways.

  "Already goggling at the boys," Mrs. Bader said, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

  She, like Birdie, was hardly older than I was-—I guessed at most a few years, because she had twins, three years old, rolling around the lawn with Louella.

  Her pert nose crinkled when she smiled, and she leaned her head toward mine. "Do you see that handsome devil there with the goatee? That's my husband."

  It was charming, how infatuated she seemed to be with him-—and admirable. I followed the line of her gaze and then laughed when I realized said husband was stretching himself on the barn frame, showing off for his pretty young wife. "You're a very lucky woman, Mrs. Bader."

  "Fff, call me Suzannah," she said. She tugged me along, offering conspiratorially, "And come help me can. It's pickles and relish today-—that's not hard at all. And we've got the best view of the raising."

  I hated canning. It was tedious, precision work that just as often ended in an explosion as it did in a good bottle of preserves. But Suzannah had a lively air to her, her brightness refreshing. And it was good, I mused, to see new faces and hear new voices. To do new chores while enjoying the sunshine and, I admit, the view.

  "Now," Suzannah said as she handed me a cloth, "while I get this to boiling, tell me everything interesting about you."

  Sitting on the little wood stool by the fire, I started wiping the lids clean. My gaze drifted back to the barn, where nails were finally set to wood and hammers began to drum. "Well, I'm from Baltimore. I haven't got any brothers or sisters..."

  "I heard you rode into town first thing of a morning with Emerson Birch," she said, cutting directly to gossip I had no idea had been circulating. "Tell me if I'm prying, but where on earth did he find you?"

  "On the road," I said, choosing my words carefully. "I had meant to walk to town, but he spared me that."

  "I see, I see," Suzannah all but chirped. She kept her voice low, a confidential sort of tone. "The coach came in but an hour late, and you didn't turn up until morning, so we were wondering..."

  Bright spots of heat stung my cheeks. Finding a very stubborn spot to scrub, I measured my answer. "I had gotten quite a ways on my own. By the time Mr. Birch—"

  Giggling, Suzannah repeated teasingly, "Mr. Birch. So formal! But go on, go on. I'm sorry. I'll button my lips right now."

  I could barely remember where I'd left off. "Ah, well, I ... It was dark, so he took me home."

  "He didn't!"

  Leaning toward her, I insisted, "It wasn't untoward in any way whatsoever! He ... he gave me his bed, and he—"

  "Slept on the floor at your side?" Suzannah puffed up with a delighted breath.

  I do honestly believe if I'd had a pin, I could have popped her. And the worst of it was that she didn't have a hint of maliciousness. Though I couldn't trust she wouldn't repeat my story, as she was entirely a stranger, I got the impression that she was simply starved for entertainment.

  But I lied—and I don't know if it was to spare Emerson or Birdie or even my own vain self—but I looked into Suzannah's sparkling brown eyes and said, "Oh no. He took the rifle and slept in the buckboard."

  "Did he really?" Suzannah brushed her skirts back and tossed another stick on the fire. She seemed just as delighted with that answer as she would have been with a more salacious admission.

  I nodded, offering her the box of cleaned lids. "Yes, and then he carried me straight to my aunt's in the morning."

  Suzannah sighed, the sigh of a thoroughly satisfied gossip. "What a story; you should marry him so you can tell your grandchildren how you met. Or maybe that's what I'll tell my grandchildren. They won't know the difference!"

  Gently extricating myself, I said, "I'm going to check on my cousin, I'll be right back."

  "I'll be right here," Suzannah sang, and I didn't doubt her one bit.

  ***

  As I worked my way through the stations, I felt myself stripped inch by inch. Though all the women here had come from somewhere else, every one of them had developed a directness that both fascinated and terrified me.

  "Now, you're the one who does the water witching," Mrs. Rubert said, catching me between stations.

  She was an older woman, her face gently lined and her hair steel gray. She wore it loose, the way the little girls did, only the sides pinned back with jet combs. On account of her age, I felt duty bound to sit with her a moment, which meant I found myself basting quilt squares as I talked.

  Threading a needle, I nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Do you need a well?"

  "Me? No, pet, I live in town. I'm set as set can be." She worked her end of the quilt with precise fingers. I was a fair hand at it myself, but Mrs. Rubert's stitches were so even, so straight, that I marveled. "I just wanted to know how you did it."

  Reaching for a luxurious square of cornflower velvet, I thought about her question, then shook my head. "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. When I close my eyes, I hear my own heart beating. And from there, it's as if ... I'm listening for another one. When I finally hear it, when it matches mine, I look out and see a flickering light. That's where the water is."

  Mrs. Rubert made a soft, incredulous sound. "Well, I'll be."

  There was nothing I could possibly say to that, so I kept my silence and reached for another square. After a moment, Mrs. Rubert slipped her pin into the border and looked up at me. "We had a fella come through last summer, claimed to be a rainmaker."

  My brows lifted in surprise. Though my ability had come to me late and strangely, hundreds claimed to share it. Throughout the country; for that matter, throughout history. But I had never heard of a rainmaker before—just as I had never heard of anyone pulling the water to the surface, though I had done that. I was sure of it.

  "And was he?" I asked.

  "Of course not," she scoffed. She picked up her sewing again. "But he got a lot of fools to pay pennies to see him run up and down Main Street screaming like a stuck pig."

  Though inwardly the implication stung, I managed a tart reply. "Well, at the very least, I'm a genteel springsweet. Whether my dowsings find water or no, I assure you, I'm well-mannered throughout."

  Mrs. Rubert would have been entirely correct to reprimand me, but she laughed instead. "You and Birdie make some pair."

  "Thank you," I said
, standing carefully once I'd basted my squares in neatly. Mrs. Rubert let me drift away, and as the day turned, I sewed a little and pickled a little; I helped pack fresh pork into a salt barrel, and kissed Louella's scraped knee.

  Dinner approached, and I found myself washing dishes at the pump. With so many hands frying and stirring, baking and dishing, they needed scullery far more than they needed another sous-chef. We had dirtied a mountain of pots and pans, and I despaired I'd make my way through even half before the meal was all gone.

  While I sat alone at my mountain of tin and brass, smooth hands fell over my eyes. It took no effort at all to guess their owner.

  "Shouldn't you be finishing the west wall with the others, Mr. de la Croix?"

  Disappointed, Theo leaned over my shoulder. "How did you know it was me?"

  "Lucky guess," I soothed. I shied away, so his cheek wouldn't brush mine, and I waved a hand at the lengthy chore ahead of me. "Make yourself useful, won't you?"

  For once, Theo's grace failed him. He didn't even pretend to consider my request. "I'll have to get back to the men before they miss me. I just wanted to say hello."

  "Hello."

  Exhaling a laugh, Theo knelt down beside me. "You're a puzzle to me in every way. I think you do it on purpose."

  I smiled a bit, dipping my hands in clean water, then smoothing my hair beneath my bonnet. "I do. Every morning, I get up just before dawn so I have a private hour to plan. How might I confound someone today? What trouble might I visit on some poor, unsuspecting soul?"

  "I don't doubt it," Theo said. He tried to pull me into one of his dark, soulful gazes but then thought better of it. Standing instead, he slipped his hands into his pockets. "But the joke's on you today, Miss Stewart. I hope you wore comfortable shoes."

  Curious, I peered up at him. "Why would you hope that?"

  "Well," he said, "there are twenty-some bachelors to every single, respectable girl in these parts. And by my prudent estimation, at least eighteen of them are here right now."

  "What of it?"

  "I believe they all intend to stay for the dance." Leaning down once more, he caught me with a wicked smile. "And it's likewise my prudent estimation that you are the only respectable, single girl of courting age present today."

  I paled. "Certainly not..."

  Taking his leave of me, Theo dared to bow on his exit. "I do intend to cut in on a waltz. Just so you know."

  He walked away, leaving me cursing under my breath. It was absolutely cruel that he'd finally discovered a sense of humor at my expense. Glaring very darkly at his back, I stewed, and I planned an escape. I very likely would have effected it, as well.

  But as I went to Birdie to claim exhaustion, I saw Emerson at his buckboard. He pulled a fiddle from its case and held it up to inspect it.

  Its body gleamed in the beginning lamplight, the strings catching and casting light like golden threads.

  He tucked it beneath his chin to test its tune. Somehow, his rough fingers pulled the sweetest note free; the bow quivered beneath his hands, as if it begged him to draw forth one note more.

  Madly, I longed to be that instrument, a yearning so sudden and so complete that I ached with it. And aching as I did, it no longer mattered if I had to waltz with the whole of West Glory—I had to stay. I had to hear him play.

  I wanted nothing more than to hear him play just for me.

  Thirteen

  The new barn smelled sweet, of sawdust and sun-warmed pine, but ripe as well. Everyone who had worked from dawn in the prairie heat crowded inside, fripperies like bonnets and hats abandoned to comfort.

  Someone had strewn clean straw, marking out the part of the barn that would be our dance floor.

  Our light came in buttery patches, cast from buggy lanterns and hurricane lamps. They hung from the loft and lined the windowsills. They burned brightly, the smoke from their oil and beeswax a smudging hint of perfume.

  The babies played in the stalls, and the older folks sat around the edges, to watch and chatter while the young ones, married and single, joined in the center to dance.

  Emerson stood under the window, playing tuning scales so Mr. Rubert could match the key on his mandolin. A white-haired man I hadn't met during the day stroked the pearl edge of his banjo, his foot keeping an anticipatory beat.

  A little boy still in his short britches sat in quite seriously, a pair of wooden spoons clutched between his fingers. To my wonder, when the men raised their instruments and started to play, that lad kept perfect, snapping time with them.

  "I wrote myself in on this one," Mr. Bader said, joking about dance cards we neither had nor needed.

  The lot of us lined up in pairs, for that's what a reel called for. Our band played it rather faster than the sedate quadrilles I was used to, and soon the barn was full of boot stomping and arm swinging, clapping and unexpected laughter.

  It seemed our early-morning call to work meant little—there was energy and spirit enough to dance a reel and a two-step, a Texas schottische and a double-time polka that left me gasping. Skirts of every color bloomed like flowers.

  I spun from partner to partner in a dizzy, heady swirl. So many hands clasped mine, and I gazed into eyes of every shade. The speed of it dazzled me, compelled me—just one more dance—when I thought I could dance not one step more.

  But when it came to the jig, I begged out of young Mr. Maguire's arms so I could steal a drink from the barrel and catch my breath. Dabbing my face with my kerchief, I turned to watch the spectacle. It was glorious and wild, joy lifting the roof and filling the night with song.

  "Come dance," someone said, and caught my elbow. I had already grown used to the informality, passing from partner to partner as the song and the moment moved me, so I stepped into a waltz with Royal Wakes unawares, and by the time his hand fell onto my waist, I couldn't escape.

  "We haven't been introduced proper," he said with a smile. He led well, with a light touch and refined steps. Nevertheless, I found him entirely repulsive.

  "Miss Stewart, late of Baltimore," I said.

  His smile grew as he turned me through the first chain. "Royal Wakes, late of right here. How do you do?"

  Looking past him, I tried to catch another's eye, anyone's eye. I begged Emerson to raise his head, but he was lost in The Blue Danube, thankfully one of the faster waltzes. If they slowed the tempo, I had no hope of rescue whatsoever. As neutrally as I could manage, I said, "Fine, thank you, and yourself?"

  "Pretty good, all around." He squeezed my hand, a strange light passing in his gaze. Then he pulled me closer, so much so that I felt the heat of his body radiating through his clothes. The sensation struck me as primal and unpleasant, and I leaned my head away, my only reprieve.

  But to counter it, he leaned in, so his lips moved against my ear. "I just wanted to apologize for your locket."

  Stiffening, I forgot to breathe. How brazen he was, to speak so openly about the wrongs he had done me, about the crimes he visited on innocent people throughout the county. Weighing my reply, I said, "If you were sorry, you wouldn't have done it."

  "To be fair," he said, turning me again, "that was more Ellis than me. He's the mean one."

  Lifting my chin, I said, "To let it happen is just as much a sin as doing it yourself."

  "Why can't you be sweet?" he asked.

  Annoyance darkened his blond brow. His grip grew tight, not so much to hurt but to warn. I knew his cut; I recognized a coward. He tagged after his brother, playing bandit. Had he not quailed when I refused to play his victim? Had he not wavered when Ellis wanted to put the gun to me?

  This little man was nothing and, advice to the contrary, I refused to pay him in fear. He repaid me with a sharp squeeze that made my eyes water.

  And that was the moment Theo decided to find his way to me. No doubt it was because he knew the fast waltz always preceded the slow one, but the reason mattered not at all. He was my rescue, and I was glad to see him.

  He put a hand on Royal's
shoulder and offered him the most charming smile. "I'm afraid this one is more vinegar than sugar. May I cut in?"

  "Be my guest," Royal said.

  Picking up the steps without hesitation, Theo thanked him and swirled us from Royal's company. Flicking his head back to clear the hair from his face, Theo glanced heavenward a moment before looking down at me. "What did he say to upset you so?"

  My heart sank; I'd given Theo rather less credit than he deserved. And I was tired of holding in this awful secret, no matter what Birdie said would come of speaking it.

  "That jackanapes is one of the men who robbed my coach. He had the gall to apologize for stealing my locket."

  Troubled, Theo glanced to find Royal in the crowd again, then looked back to me. "The marshal's outside. I was just speaking with him. You should—"

  "No." I pressed in, keeping my voice low. "Birdie already forbade me to speak of it, and it doesn't matter anyway. It seems most everyone knows."

  "Are you serious?"

  I offered a bitter smile. "It seems as long as we're being robbed by the likes of him, no one worse will come around. The Daltons murder; those two only pillage."

  Affronted, Theo seemed as though he might leave me there on the floor and start some ill-advised trouble over it. But I had seen enough trouble; I knew what came of valor when it crashed into villainy.

  Tenderly, I stroked his shoulder and coaxed him with a soft voice to look at me again. "It's not worth it. Please just leave it."

  The music shifted, melting from a sprightly pace to a slower, more intimate one. As I had closed the last conversation unequivocally, he changed the topic with the tempo. "Speaking of Mrs. Neal, she asked if I would drive you to your appointments this week."

  "I didn't know I had any."

  Theo nodded, taking the half turn that would bring us to the front of the barn again. Faces swirled at the edges, a patchwork of strangers all turning sentimental on the sweet, high cry of the fiddle. "Four, at least. I admit, I accepted the task for reasons most selfish."

  Of course he had.

  And dancing there with him, I could see a future for the two of us. Companionable and friendly; I had learned to like him. We would be good friends and good partners. Perhaps we'd read poetry after dinner; he might indulge me and let me plait his hair with ribbons.