Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  “Don’t expect we can repair ‘em with the scrub wood around here.”

  “Don’t expect so.”

  “Even if we could unbend the frame.”

  “No.”

  “I reckon Pete’ll be back sometime today. Then me and him can ride to Fort Sumner and fetch some help.”

  Jack eyed Antelope with interest. “You sound mighty certain of Pete.”

  “Am. Pete wouldn’t waste his time if he didn’t know he’d fetch up Basteau. You know him better’n that.”

  “I guess so.”

  “He’s probably got the bastard’s carcass slung over his horse right this minute.”

  “I guess so.” An involuntary shudder rattled Jack.

  But Antelope was precisely right. Along about two in the afternoon, Jack was startled out of his grouchy contemplation of the mess inside Phoebe’s wagon by Sarah’s shrill, “Jack! Jack! I see somebody comin’!”

  He jumped down. “Reckon it’s Pete.”

  Because he was a prudent man and had lived an interesting life, Jack stuck his revolver into his belt, made sure his pistol was firmly settled at his back, and grabbed his rifle. Then he stepped in front of the wagon and waited.

  Phoebe, who had strolled over to check on the status of her suffering nephew, watched Jack’s preparations and drew closer to the children. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Antelope sidle up to stand beside Jack. He, too, bristled with weapons.

  “Mercy.” She urged Sarah closer to her side, and stepped in front of William, who craned his neck to see around her full skirt.

  “It’s probably Pete,” William croaked from his sickbed. His fever had subsided but he had laryngitis, a fact that made his sister giggle. He scowled at her.

  “I hope so,” murmured Phoebe. Then she wondered at her sanity. Not five days earlier she’d hoped never to set eyes on the dreadful Pete Spotted Pony again. Now she anticipated his arrival gladly. Circumstances changed a lot of things, she reckoned.

  “It is him.” Sarah’s whisper held awe. “And he’s leadin’ a horse with a body tied onto it!”

  “No foolin’?”

  His sister’s news was so exciting that William struggled to stand up.

  “William, you lie down again immediately!” Phoebe didn’t think she still had it in herself to sound so auntish, and was proud.

  “But Aunt Phoebe!” the beleaguered William cried. “I ain’t never seen a body hung over a horse before.”

  “He’ll prob’ly never get another chance, Aunt Phoebe,” Sarah told her, as though viewing a body slung over a horse were an eighth Wonder of the World and Phoebe was being merely peevish in not allowing William to witness such a marvel.

  Phoebe guessed it was the plea in her niece’s voice that swayed her. She’d never before known the children to be so united in a purpose that one of them would actually plead on the other’s behalf. On the other hand, maybe her mind was slipping.

  With an enormous sigh of defeat, she said, “Oh, all right. But you come right back here, both of you!”

  As soon as Pete drew abreast of Jack and Antelope, Sarah and William ran over to the three men as though there were candy and not a dead man at the end of their dash. Phoebe watched them slow down and approach Pete tentatively. He had dismounted and stood with Jack and Antelope. The men were obviously conferring, but smiled as the children tiptoed up. Jack held out a hand for Sarah and Pete grinned at William. Then he nodded gravely and led the two children to a horse tethered off a bit from the group.

  Phoebe was pleased when the children neared the horse, stopped abruptly, stood still for only a moment, then turned around and started to walk slowly back to her, talking to one another. They appeared subdued.

  Well, at least they seem to have been struck by the solemnity of what’s happened.

  The idea of her young relatives appreciating the dismal permanence of death oddly appealed to Phoebe. She liked to believe such an appreciation might influence their future behavior; make them behave towards others with respect and kindness. In her estimation, people treated both life and death in much too cavalier a manner these days.

  As soon as they were within hailing distance, little Sarah hollered, “Oh, aunt Phoebe, it stunk something awful!”

  “Eeeuuw!” William elaborated rustily. “I ain’t smelled nothin’ that bad since the ‘possum died under the house and you had to dig it out with a rake.”

  “I didn’t know people could smell that bad,” added Sarah.

  Phoebe only sighed and wondered if there was really any hope for humanity after all.

  # # #

  Jack forgot to be grumpy when Phoebe related her relatives’ astute observations later on in the evening. For some reason, he found it very difficult to resuscitate his long standing irritation with Phoebe. It seemed to have breathed its last the night before. In its place were feelings unexpectedly warm and tender, and entirely unwelcome.

  He wondered if he was turning feeble minded. That explanation, while unnerving, sat better than the other one which kept poking at his conscience. The second explanation was that he was discovering an amazing amount of affection for Phoebe, and tremendous delight in her company. In Phoebe Honeycutt, for God’s sake!

  And that’s not all, either. It was as if some hitherto unrecognized champion had sprung up within him. All at once it seemed his primary goal in life had become seeing to Phoebe’s welfare.

  Well, hell.

  Since he appeared to have no choice in the matter, he gave in to his mushy mood and chuckled. “Aw, hell, Phoebe, they’re just kids.”

  “I know that, but their attitudes seem so—so—well, I don’t know. I reckon they seem frivolous somehow.” She threw a pebble into the Pecos and watched the ripples fan out under the moonlight.

  “You just think they’re being frivolous because you’ve had to bear burdens they’ll never face. It colors your outlook on life, Phoebe. You’re too serious. Remember that mole?”

  Her grin gratified him.

  “I remember it.”

  Jack felt tired tonight, and his bad arm ached a little. It was a good tired, though. Pete had taken the body and made off toward Fort Sumner. Antelope stayed behind to act as an extra guard, and because Pete related finding evidence of Indians in the area.

  Jack spent the afternoon straightening out the back of the wagon all by himself since William was still under the weather. Antelope had offered to help him, but Jack told him to patrol their camp instead. He wanted to be private.

  As he worked, he tried not to think about what he and Phoebe had done the night before. Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to think about anything else, even when he was lifting cartons that seemed to weigh a ton. He still wasn’t sure how Phoebe and Sarah had avoided being crushed during their crazy ride across the desert. But they had, and Phoebe’d even managed to frighten off their pursuers.

  Damn. She was amazing, all right.

  After Jack had straightened out the wagon’s contents, he’d unhooked its canvas cover. Bowing to the reality of his affliction, he rigged up a tent-like shelter for Phoebe. He reckoned if they had any more nights like the last one—and, God help him, he hoped they would—the more privacy they had, the better.

  Now they lay side by side, comfortable as a pair of old shoes. The easiness she exhibited surprised him, especially after last night. He’d figured she’d be standoffish and embarrassed, but she didn’t seem to be.

  Of course, as he now knew, everything about Miss Phoebe Antoinette Honeycutt was unexpected. Once upon a time he’d been sure he’d never feel anything but a grudging respect for her, with her mincing airs and affinity for the old southern ways. He’d never been attracted to prudish, prissy, belleish females before, especially after observing the mincemeat one of them had made of his brother. But Phoebe had surprised him; turned out to be not at all mincing, prissy, or prudish. Not even when she tried to be.

  Well . . . maybe she was a bit of a belle.

  He smiled and shook his he
ad when he realized he was becoming aroused. There was something about her, all right. Last night had been—well, it had been quite amazing. In fact it had been really, really amazing.

  “Pete’s on his way to Fort Sumner to turn over the body and get us some help.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Antelope decided to stick around here. Help with the kids and do some scouting.”

  “That’s nice of him.”

  “There have been a few hostiles spotted in the area.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “But there’s an army post nearby, and what with Antelope being with us, well, I expect we’ll be all nice and safe here where we are.”

  “That’s good.”

  When he peered at her again it was to discover her staring at the river, a dreamy expression on her face.

  “Whatcha thinking about, Phoebe?” He kept his tone deliberately light and pretended he didn’t want her answer to include him.

  “Oh, this and that.” Her voice sounded as dreamy as her expression. She threw another pebble into the water.

  Jack tried not to be disappointed. He returned his gaze to the river. Moonbeams danced on the ripples stirred by Phoebe’s pebble just as they danced in her hair. She had such pretty hair. He’d loved brushing it. It had felt like silk cascading through his fingers.

  He looked at her again and wondered if she had any idea how lovely she was. She seemed stuffed full of notions on the subject of beauty care and feminine behavior, but the way she spouted them to Sarah made him believe she’d learned them all by rote. It was as though they had no real, personal meaning to her. Her way of imparting the art of womanhood reminded him of the way Miss Pennyfeather had imparted the rules of Latin to him a lifetime ago.

  Jack continued to stare at her as he flipped numbers around in his head. The war had ended more than five years ago. Through brilliant mathematical reasoning, he thereby deduced that Phoebe had been twenty at the time. The war had lasted over four years. So she’d been a green girl when it started—too young to have reached the full flower of her beauty or to have understood it if she had. In fact, she’d probably been in the worst throes of adolescent insecurity just when all hell broke loose around her. From what he’d gathered about her life since then, he guessed her hell had not eased up much.

  In fact, it seemed to him as though Life had been mighty unfair to Phoebe Honeycutt. Although, in truth, he considered fairness a concept developed by weak-brained philosophers, Jack didn’t like things that were unfair. He couldn’t help it. It was a flaw in him.

  “You’re a very pretty woman, Phoebe,” he said softly.

  That got her attention. She turned her head sharply and gaped at him. “What?”

  “You’re a very pretty woman.”

  He saw her swallow. “I—I—thank you.”

  She didn’t believe him. He could see it in her eyes.

  “I’m not just saying that, Phoebe. You’re beautiful. Not very many women can lay claim to real beauty, but you can.”

  After a tiny pause she repeated, “Thank you.”

  Even by the soft moonlight, he could tell she was blushing. He grinned. “You know, there are many ways a woman—or anybody, for that matter—can be attractive. I reckon physical beauty, the kind you’re born with, isn’t as important as some of them. But I think if a woman is beautiful, she ought to know it.”

  Phoebe said not a word. He hadn’t expected one. As she turned to stare at the river, he warmed to his subject. If he consciously put his former sister-in-law out of his mind, this was kind of fun. Josh’s wife had been a beauty and expected everybody to know and acknowledge it. Phoebe was as different from her as night was from day.

  “A woman might have a pretty smile or winning ways. She can be kindhearted or a good cook. She can be bold and brassy or quiet and shy—there are plenty of men who are attracted to both of those types. She can be coy, or she can be straightforward and honest. I reckon beauty isn’t really necessary. Hell, just being female is enough in some parts of the country.”

  “Like Big Spring, Texas,” Phoebe murmured.

  Her voice sounded shy and her words a little forced, but Jack appreciated the fact that she was at least listening. He laughed softly and said, “Right. Exactly like Big Spring, Texas. But that’s not my point.

  “I figure a woman’s got to put up with a lot in this life. She’s got no vote, she’s got no right to property in most states and territories, she’s got to bear and rear the children. Unless she’s lucky and finds herself a man with money, she’s got to cook and clean and do the washing up. Half the time her man’s no good.”

  “My goodness.” Phoebe sounded slightly stunned.

  “So, anyway, it used to amaze me, given the things a woman has to put up with, why any of ‘em would ever choose to marry. That’s when I figured out why the laws were made the way they were.”

  After a small pause, Phoebe said, “Men made them.” She was watching him now, a little warily, but with a tiny smile playing on her lips.

  “Exactly. Because men need women but women don’t need men. But, you see, men are smart even if they’re not worth much. We’ve rigged everything up so that women do need us.”

  “By way of the laws.”

  “By way of the laws. Exactly. So I figure that while a woman can use any number of ways and wiles to snag a man and most of ‘em are clever enough to do it, you’re way ahead of the game because you’re beautiful to begin with.”

  “Pshaw.” Phoebe flapped her hand at him, but he could tell she was embarrassed—and a little pleased, too.

  “Pshaw, nothing, Miss Phoebe Honeycutt. You’re a certified beauty. Why, when you get to Santa Fe, I expect you’ll have to fight off the men with a gun.” Or he would. Somehow the latter scenario sounded more likely. He didn’t tell her so because the truth distressed him.

  Now Phoebe looked dismayed, and Jack wondered what he’d said to trouble her. He was trying to make her feel good, not put that bleak look on her face.

  “It’s the truth, Phoebe,” he told her gently, wishing she’d look at him and smile again.

  At last she said, “Thank you. I reckon a man is generally hankering after something besides a pretty face when he marries, though.”

  “Well, sure. He wants all that other stuff—a slave to cook and clean and iron his shirts.”

  She didn’t so much as crack a grin, and he was puzzled.

  “I expect most fellows, when they marry, expect other things as well,” she whispered.

  He thought for a minute. “You mean children?”

  She nodded and Jack guessed she’d made a valid point. “Yes, I suppose most men want to perpetuate themselves. Men’re big-headed that way. Think their seed is the best in the forest and can’t wait to sow it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Never understood that attitude myself,” he said thoughtfully.

  It was the truth, though. Had been ever since the war. Jack figured there were enough people in the world already. Those who were here couldn’t get along, so what was the point in adding more? He didn’t need sons to till the fields and milk the cows. Hell, he didn’t have any fields or any cows, and he sure didn’t plan on getting any. And he’d be damned if he’d want any son of his to go off and get himself killed in any stupid war, so some other poor bastard would have to write letters like the ones he’d had to write. In spite of himself, he shivered.

  He noticed Phoebe looked sad now, and he frowned. “What is it, Phoebe? What did I say to put that pensive look on your beautiful face?”

  She flashed him a fleeting smile that nearly knocked him over. Lord, she was something all right. He reached for her hand because he couldn’t help himself.

  “Jack—” She sounded nervous, tentative.

  “What, pretty Phoebe?”

  “Jack—” She hesitated and he was afraid she wouldn’t continue. Then, in a burst of candor he could tell embarrassed her, she said, “Jack, can we pretend tonight?”

 
“Pretend?” Of all the things she might have said, that was about the last one he expected.

  “Yes. Pretend. Can we?”

  He gave her a little smile, game for whatever she had in mind. “Pretend what?”

  She threw her head back, eyes wide open, and stared into the starry sky. “Let’s just pretend that—that things are different than they are. Let’s pretend we’re somewhere else. Let’s pretend this isn’t the Pecos River and we’re not stuck somewhere in the territory and that you’re not you and I’m not me.”

  He shook his head, curious. “Why do you want to pretend something like that, Phoebe?”

  She looked at him earnestly now, as though this meant a whole lot to her. “Just ‘cause. Let’s just pretend for one night that I’m not a Confederate and you’re not a Yankee and there was never any war and everybody still likes each other and that life is like it was.”

  He couldn’t figure her out at all. “I sort of like my life, Phoebe. And I like being me. And I really like you being you.”

  “Please?”

  He saw the moonlight sparkle in her eyes and got lost for a minute in wondering. At last he said, “Well, I reckon we can pretend those things if you really want to, Phoebe.”

  “Thank you.” It was a tiny, wistful “thank you,” and Jack’s heart, an organ which had been battered around a good deal lately, gave an enormous lurch.

  “Anything else you want to pretend?” He reckoned he was up for anything now.

  “Yes,” she said so softly he could scarcely hear her. “But you have to promise you won’t laugh at me.”

  He held his right hand up, palm out. “Swear to God, Phoebe. I won’t laugh at you.” He meant it, too.

  Hesitating for only a second—Jack presumed to gather her courage—Phoebe said, “Then let’s pretend we’re alone somewhere. Somewhere we want to be. Paris, France or London, England, or Rome, or New York or somewhere. Let’s pretend we’re married or betrothed—that we love each other. And I want you to . . . to . . . I want you to really make love to me this time.”

  He knew he was staring at her, and that he must look like a fool, because he couldn’t get his mouth to shut. She squeezed his hand so tight he was afraid she was going to break his fingers.