The Milch Bride

by J. R. Biery

  Hattie stared up at him. “I don’t believe that. You were her choice and they agreed to her wishes.”

  He felt the tightness in his chest. For the first time he considered their summer romance in a different light. What if it hadn’t been the banker that threw them together, but Donna who had arranged all the meetings, the dances, and events? Just the thought of it made him sigh. He realized how much he wanted it to be all Donna’s doing.

  Hattie stared up at the tall, handsome cowboy, noticing the dark hair and light eyes that were the baby’s. She set the thick, small handbook down on the dresser next to her family Bible. Running her fingers along the edge of the pages, she sensed the trace of Donna’s fingers on the smooth paper.

  Jackson remained beside the crib but stared across at the nervous girl, fingering the handbook as nervously as Donna had. So far she had taken care of the boy by instinct, rushing to take care of his needs with calm confidence. He hoped the book wouldn’t make her as nervous and indecisive as it had Donna.

  “Remember we have an agreement. I’ve paid your back taxes, so I’m not paying someone else for the same work. You believe you can handle him, don’t you?”

  Hattie nodded, “I promised you I’d do my best. I do try my best every day.”

  Rubye stood in the doorway, staring at the couple beside the crib.

  “What’s all the jabber about? Something wrong with J.D.?

  Jackson looked at her with a scowl at being interrupted. But suddenly he felt as guilty as Hattie looked at being found together in her bedroom.

  “Just giving Miss Stoddard the copy of Dr. Padgett mother Dawson told her to read.”

  He walked past Rubye and murmured as he left, “Goodnight, ladies.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The rest of the week passed without another word between them. Hattie rose early, changed and fed the baby, then hurried to the kitchen to start the fire and put on coffee and oatmeal or grits, whichever Rubye had set out the night before. She also helped to put together the basket that James Boyd took along each day for the men and their lunch. All six rode out together, and then spread out over the area Jackson assigned. They joined James at the spot set up for lunch. They would compare their tally, then move to the next sector and work through it. The plan was to take the next two weeks to finish the survey of the over two thousand acre ranch.

  At night, the women worked up a bigger meal and added a dessert. With the hens laying they had eggs. Hattie had only made one cake in her life and it was a disaster. But Rubye stirred up one most nights after the men had to be away from the house. Although each tasted different, they began with the same recipe: two cups flour, one cup sugar, one half cup butter, two eggs, one cup buttermilk, one teaspoon vanilla, two teaspoons baking soda, a pinch of salt.

  Rubye kept a pair of vanilla beans in a small bottle of whiskey, and used the strong liquid to flavor the cake, replacing the whiskey as needed but keeping the beans in the jar. Sometimes she used the vanilla, sometimes cinnamon and brown sugar. To the next cake she might add chocolate powder and pecans. All were baked in the largest iron skillet. If it was a plain yellow cake, she glazed it with a caramel made of sugar browned in the big skillet and thinned with rich cream then left to bubble and thicken before being poured over the big round cake. After a couple of days, Hattie could help bake the cake, but always waited for Rubye’s instructions.

  After the hard days, working cattle and checking boundaries, the men enjoyed the big meals, always with beef-- steak, stew, roast, braised ribs, or chili. They seemed to enjoy getting even with the animals who had worked them so hard during the day. Meals were quiet affairs, with everyone hungry and too tired for anything but eating, eager to rest for the next day.

  By the second Sunday they had finished the count so everyone dressed, the men in black suit coats, the women in starched dresses and petticoats. Hattie wore the black blouse striped with red and the solid black skirt. She wore a stiff, black, poke-bonnet that had been her mothers. Now it was starched and ironed with a big black bow tied beneath her chin. On her hands she wore her mother’s gloves, bleached white, with a briar stitch along every seam. She clenched her fingers inside the tight cloth of the gloves, nervous as they approached the church.

  The Dawsons would be waiting. That woman would be waiting to take J.D., to bounce him and show him off. To cluck over the sweet sleepy face, to silently weigh him, and tell Jackson how wrong she was as a wet nurse.

  Hattie stiffened on the hard bench beside Jackson, recalling the first time she had ridden here nearly a month before. Two benches had been added to the back of the buckboard. Rubye and James rode behind them, Cliff, Hank and one of the young hands rode on the last bench. The remaining three hands rode on horseback alongside.

  Hattie looked over her shoulder, smiling at Rubye sitting stiffly beside James Boyd. For the first time, she noticed him turn and smile at Rubye. The woman looked forty, maybe forty-five, tall, homely, and strongly opinionated. But that shy smile could have been given to a young girl. For the first time that morning, Hattie smiled.

  Jackson glanced at her and smiled too “Finally, you’ve had a pleasant thought?”

  She looked up at him, wondering if she dared to say it. “I wondered, Rubye and James?” She whispered.

  He laughed, “Anything is possible.”

  She nodded, staring down at the baby, once again tucked into the wagon toolbox for safety and riding at their feet. “I can’t help worrying, whether mother Dawson will think he is growing fast enough.”

  He glanced down at the baby. “Don’t worry about them. I know what you’ve done for him.” He gripped the reins in his left hand, reaching down to squeeze her hand. Even through the glove she felt the warmth of his fingers. Nervously, she pulled her hand free and folded both hands primly in her lap.

  He pulled the team in beside a shade tree, and then raised the sleeping child onto her lap. Jackson dismounted and then reached up to firmly grip her waist, lifting her and the baby to the ground.

  Hattie stood, waiting until the taller woman could stand beside her. Rubye wore a hat, a small blue bonnet studded with a white silk rose, a trail of veil draped across her upper face. She too was gloved, her dress a stiff blue bombazine. Hattie noticed Boyd had stepped down first, then walked around to lift a hand to help Rubye down. Using a spoke of the wheel as a step, she still weighed enough, for the man to make a woof of sound as she settled.

  As they walked around the wagons near the church, Hattie heard quick catches of breath and murmurs of disapproval. “I’ll take the baby,” his strong voice startled her. “Rubye can show you where to sit.”

  Hattie bit back the retort. I can sit where my father and I always sat, midway back, on the left side. But she didn’t say it out loud because with everyone pointing her out and whispering, she knew she would never have the nerve to walk in and sit in that pew.

  Suddenly, Hattie felt absolutely alone. The brief moment of understanding was gone. As she watched, the tall cowboy climbed the steps of the white frame church. She heard the kind murmurs: “Oh, Mr. Harper, he’s beautiful; well done, Jackson; too pretty to be yours, old son.”

  For a minute, she thought she saw a tall, young woman beside Jackson, her hair pinned in an upsweep of brown curls, smiling at everyone. Hattie imagined her tugging his arm to reveal the baby’s blue booties, perfect little blue cap and blue sweater over the immaculate white gown. The lacy baby blanket spilled over the black-sleeved arm holding the little miracle. It seemed everyone had something to say until Mrs. Dawson swept back down the aisle to fuss.

  “Cover him back up, Jackson; it’s a cool morning for a baby. Here let me have him.” When she moved in closer, the ghostly shadow of his wife disappeared. For a minute, Hattie felt her loss as acutely as the tall man who looked totally bereft when his mother-in-law paraded down the aisle, showing the baby, accepting the accolades and murmurs of sympathy for the daughter who would miss the boy and man the child would become.

 
Hattie followed the ranch hands and Rubye to the last pew on the right side and filed in first as Rubye indicated. This put her on the inside wall and she knew if the baby fussed everyone would have to rise to let her out. Then she realized they wouldn’t. She would use Rubye’s tall frame and a blanket to hide what she was doing and she would nurse J.D. in pretended privacy.

  Hattie settled into her corner, aware of the couple in front of her pew, arguing, until the woman stood and the man followed. The woman gave her a scandalized look as she rose and Hattie felt her face flame with shame. Then she reminded herself, she had nothing to apologize for, it was that trash that hung around Thelma‘s in town, bragging and making up lies about her that should be ashamed. Let God take care of those liars and these self-righteous people who were so eager to believe gossip.

  So she made herself sit straighter, raised her head higher, and managed to lock eyes with the departing woman. “Fool,” she said without speaking a word.

  Hattie tried to relax, but the sermon seemed dry and overlong, the emphasis was on prayer to stay away from temptation. Then suddenly the preacher was in a thunder, warning that the rewards for sin were damnation, with fire and brimstone awaiting all those who fell from the straight and narrow. As one, the congregation turned to stare in her direction, as though to add, “He means you, harlot.”

  Hattie felt a quiver of despair. Was there no way to remove this stigma? True the town had seen her pregnant and unwed; she had borne a child and lost it. But she had not surrendered to temptation but to force. Hattie’s legs began to shake with nervousness. It was all she could do to sit quietly and not scream in protest of her innocence. When the tension became unbearable, she heard a high-pitched squall, and then a gasping, warbling cry.

  In a minute, she knew J.D. would be in full cry. Fortunately the preacher called everyone to their feet to sing a hymn. Moments later she saw Jackson at the end of the row, passing the baby from hand to hand down to her. When he arrived, she sank back into her seat, unbuttoned her dress and draped the lacy blanket over the fussing baby and herself. By the time the hymn ended and everyone was seated again, J. D. was happily nursing and Hattie relaxed, shutting out all the scorn and judgment. She felt at peace just holding the baby, the one person who did not label or judge her, only needed and trusted her in the most basic of ways. She would have to be like this baby and just accept and trust that life would be all right for her too.

  Finally, the service ended and Hattie was relieved to have her row exit first. She carried the satisfied baby out to the wagon, and then changed him before tucking him back into the tool box under the seat. She accepted a hand up from Boyd and settled on the buckboard seat to wait. Through the trees, she watched Jackson standing on the top step of the church, talking with his in-laws and exchanging words with others from the congregation. Please don’t let them invite us all to dinner.

  What was she thinking? They would never invite her to the house for dinner.

  Minutes later Jackson strode back to join them.

  “If those eggs ever hatch, I could stand a pan of fried chicken,” Cliff muttered.

  “It takes three weeks to become a chicken. Everybody and everything seems to be thinking of eating my poor chickens, even the ones still in the eggs.”

  Jackson laughed. “If my hounds don’t get them, I would be happy to get a chance at them.”

  Hattie scowled, sat forward in a huff, as they all laughed softly.

  <><><>

  Finally, the first clutch of chicks hatched. Cliff had put the nests up in the loft, so when Hattie went to feed them, she always checked for chicks. When the whole nest finished hatching, she scooped the first set of chicks up and carried them down from the loft, placing them in an empty stall.

  It was three days later before the last clutch hatched. Jackson and the men were once more riding the range. Hattie had managed to scoop up the last fluffy chick and was resting on the top rung, her skirt swept up to ensure her firm footing before carrying them down.

  “Well, boys, look what we’ve found here. Our own sweet wild girl, already in the hay loft waiting for her first caller,” said Rafe Hogue.

  Hattie sat, her throat frozen with fear. Her rifle was still on the porch, where she set it close to hand each morning before leaving the house. When the men were gone, Jackson had made her promise to keep it ready when she was outside.

  If only she had taken her daddy’s pistol. She looked about for some sort of weapon and spotted the hand scythe hanging on a nail to the right of the ladder.

  Able rode into the barn and leered up at her. “First, I owe her a bullet, let her feel how it is to be shot.” He raised his pistol and Hattie flipped the hand scythe through the air. His scream came with the thud of the bullet into the ladder below her feet. When the gun dropped, his finger fell with it.

  Silas swore and turned his mount to ride over to his brother. “Damn you, you’ve cut off his finger. I’m going to cut you up bad for that.”

  They heard the ratcheting of a shotgun behind them and Rubye’s hard voice, “Move and I’ll blow you in half.”

  Rafe swore. “I thought you said she was here alone.”

  Rubye let out her usual harrumph. “Get your sorry carcasses off this ranch. Jackson Harper will string you men up for this if you ever set foot here again.”

  “Let me get my finger, won’t you?” whined Able.

  Hattie stepped down as soon as she heard Rubye’s voice, racing to pick up the fallen gun, while managing the apron full of chicks.

  Crouching she raised the pistol, cocked, and aimed it at Rafe Hogue’s head. “The hens have already eaten it, move before I shoot off some more food for them.”

  She saw the fury in Able’s eyes, heard all three mutter threats, but as quickly as they rode in, they were gone.

  Hattie squatted and shook the little chicks from her apron. Then she picked up the finger where it had dropped. She stuck the grisly trophy in her apron pocket, hooked the scythe over the stall wall, and followed Rubye across to the porch.

  By the time she reached the steps her legs felt rubbery and she sank on the bottom riser, letting Rubye move past her before collapsing on the top step.

  “Lord, girl, if the dog hadn’t started barking, I wouldn’t have looked out to see them.”

  Hattie looked up at her and then reached out to clutch her hand. “You were so brave, Rubye, thank you.”

  “Humph. I just didn’t like their mangy manners. Are they the ones you were telling Jackson about?”

  Hattie nodded as she gulped air, her heart still pounding in her chest.

  Rubye looked grim, still staring down at her. “Next time, make sure you have a gun with you.”

  Hattie nodded. “I’ve got Dad’s old pistol, and now I’ve got this one.”

  She turned the barrel, looking at the five bullets in the chamber, holding it at arm’s length as she released the hammer to uncock it.

  “Let me see it.”

  Hattie raised the gun but Rubye shook her head and Hattie looked down to where Rubye was staring. There was a blood stain on the pocket. “Do you have a box?”

  Rubye stood up, went inside, and then came back a few minutes later. She handed Hattie the large box that until minutes ago had held kitchen sulfurs. Hattie solemnly removed the finger, studying its broken, dirty nail, and passed it to Rubye.

  “Just two knuckles. He’ll still have a stub.”

  She passed the index finger back and Hattie dropped it into the match box. Slowly she closed it. “Don’t say anything to Jackson,” Hattie pleaded.

  “Don’t be silly. I have to tell him. He’ll want to keep more men here to protect you.”

  Hattie laughed. “I’m already boxed up. That would be one or more men who couldn’t do their job, just hanging around to ‘guard’ me.” She stared up at Rubye. “Please don’t tell him.”

  The older woman shook her head. “I can’t lie to him. What if he or one of the men heard the shots and asks me? I’ll have to
tell him then.”

  “I’m not saying lie if he asks you, but don’t tell him anything if he doesn’t ask.”

  Rubye stood up, shaking her head as they both heard the baby’s first cry. “What about J.D.?”

  “It was me they were after. The baby is safe.”

  Rubye gave her usual snort as both entered the house.

  <><><>

  The men came in that evening and nothing was said about the incident in the barn. They all wanted to talk about the little chicks milling around the yard. The biggest worry was the dogs. All but the oldest hound were always gone to work with the men, with the cowboys barking orders at them when home. But the hens had settled them down quickly, circling to protect the chicks, taking turns at pecking any part of the hounds that came forward.

  “I’d feel better if they were in a coop. Boyd, I thought you were going to put wire around the garden,” Jackson said.

  “I think they’d be better off if I put it around the empty corral for now. Maybe set some boxes in for nesting. They might eat the seeds and the ladies plants if we keep them fenced in the garden.”

  “You could, but you’d have the chore of moving boxes and chickens if and when we need it for horses,” Cliff added.

  “We’ll think about it, and then Saturday when we’re in town, we can get the supplies,” Jackson concluded.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Two months later, there was still no coop. Hattie was resting on the porch, rocking the sleepy baby after doing laundry and hanging it. She looked up at the squawk of a hen and stared as a red blur squeezed out from under the rail, a sagging bundle of feathers dangling from his jaws.

  She gently dropped the baby into the cradle, then picked up the rifle and rested the barrel on the rail. The first shot set up dust behind him, the animal was moving so fast. The second she aimed ahead and to the left of the last shot and was thrilled when he zagged into her bullet.