Surrender A Dream

by Jill Barnett

  The awful horse stuck its head out the bedroom window and whinnied at its master.

  "Get that animal out of my house, now!" Addie waved her pointed finger at the horse.

  "Why, Miss Pinky…'' His mouth crept into that awful smirk. "You aren't afraid of a poor dumb animal, are you?"

  His tone told Addie that he darn well knew she was. "Get that beast out."

  He walked to the window and reached up to stroke the horse's nose. "Why, Jericho here wouldn't hurt a fly."

  So says the toad.

  The horse spit out the other pearl button. Montana bent down and picked it up.

  "Lose this?" He tossed the button to her and she caught it. Then he pulled out a pocketknife and opened it.

  "Get him out, now."

  Holding up the knife, he examined the blade. "Why should I?"

  "Because he's trespassing."

  He leaned back against her farmhouse window, and with his devil horse looking innocently over his shoulder, he began to clean his fingernails with the knife. "It'll cost you."

  "Pardon me?" She'd swear she'd heard wrong.

  "I charge for horse removal."

  "But it's your horse!"

  "Like you keep reminding me, it's your house."

  "You put that horse in there."

  He started cleaning the nails on the other hand, grinning. "Now why would I do that?"

  "Because you're a toad!" Addie screamed before she could stop herself. Her hand flew to cover her mouth.

  He threw his head back and laughed out loud.

  She planted her hands on her hips and waited for him to stop laughing. A bee buzzed around her face, and she shook her head. When she looked at him again, his gaze rested just below her neck. Addie glanced down. Half her bosom fell through the bodice gaps and her dark nipples were budding against the thin nightgown. Her arms clamped over her chest and she felt her face flush red.

  "Cold?" he asked.

  She wanted to die. Instead she turned and walked away, heading around the corner and straight for the porch. The front entry was wide open and the wooden door lay on the porch, as if it had just fallen there. But it hadn't. She knew that as well as she knew her own name.

  The toad was outside and the horse inside; she didn't know which was the worse evil. She decided to bear the beast inside, since he couldn't speak, but she paused when Levi Hamilton came up the drive. To Addie, his arrival was like manna from heaven.

  Remembering her state of dress, she ran up the stairs and stepped over the broken front door. She ran into the parlor and grabbed the woolen throw off the sofa, wrapping the throw around her shoulders before going out to greet her lawyer.

  She ran down the steps. "Oh, I'm so glad you're here."

  Levi wrapped the buggy reins around the brake shift and hopped down. "Custus gave me your message. What do you need?"

  "A gun."

  "What for?"

  "To shoot that man and his horse!"

  Levi bit back a smile and shook his head. "What's the problem?"

  Addie lifted an arm and pointed toward the broken doorway. "He put his horse in my bedroom and won't remove it!"

  "That's not true." Mr. Creed stood a few feet away while he looked her lawyer straight in the eye, and lied.

  She faced him and crossed her arms again only tighter. "Then how did he get inside?"

  He shrugged. "He was probably thirsty. She refused to let me use her pump to draw any water."

  Looking surprised, Levi turned to Addie. "You did?"

  She nodded. "I told him he had to lease the use of it. I said we'd decide on a price and draw up an agreement." She looked from Levi to Mr. Creed. "That was why I asked you out here." She tugged up on her drooping sleeve. She could lie too.

  Mr. Creed muttered under his breath.

  Levi spoke. "Addie, you really should let him use the pump. This whole thing with the farm isn't the horse's fault. He's just a poor animal."

  Her lawyer was defending that deadly horse. "That horse is an animal, all right. He attacked me."

  "How did he attack you?" Montana asked.

  "Well, he—he—''

  "I wouldn't call rocking your bed 'attacking.' ''

  "How did you know that's what he did?"

  "I saw him—''

  "Ah-hah! So you were peeking in my window." She turned to Levi. "He's a Peeping Tom! Have him arrested."

  "Arrested for what? Looking for my own horse?"

  "For looking in my bedroom window!"

  "You've just got a bug up your little city-white butt because you were buck naked."

  "See, you did look!" She was mortified, so she covered it up by adding, "And how I sleep is none of your business."

  "I looked for my horse. Your lily-white body just happened to be part of the scenery."

  "I hate horses! You knew it and you put it in there!"

  He smirked at her. "Prove it."

  "Get me a gun, Levi."

  Fists up, she started to go for him. Levi grabbed her arms and held her back. "Calm down, Miss Pinkney, just calm down. I'll take care of this. I have to before you two kill each other."

  She took a deep breath, all the while glaring at that horrible man and wishing her eyes could shoot poison darts.

  Levi let go of her arms. "Let's get the pump lease worked out. Now what do you feel is fair?" he asked her.

  "He doesn't have that much." She glared at Mr. Creed.

  "I think five dollars a month is fair. That's sixty dollars a year." Levi looked back and forth between them.

  "Make it two hundred," Addie spat.

  Mr. Creed didn't even blink. He just gave her that smirking look that said he didn't care how much she charged. It annoyed her.

  Levi frowned at her. "I think that's too much—''

  Mr. Creed interrupted, "Two hundred is fine, Levi. Draw up the lease." As he spoke, his eyes drilled her.

  Two hundred was not fair, and she knew it. It was a ridiculous amount. What was going on? She didn't trust him, or that horse of his. But what did she care if he wanted to pay the price? It was payback for all the splinters she'd picked out of her hands the night before. Lugging the supplies hadn't been easy, even when she'd used her cycle. In fact her thighs still ached from all that pedaling, and the muscles in her arms were killing her, especially after she'd had a tug-of-war with that devil horse. And she had things to do, but she couldn't do them with that horse inside.

  "Get the horse out," she ordered.

  "I'll do it," Levi volunteered.

  "Fine." She spun around, stuck her nose up and marched up the porch steps. When she stepped over the door, she paused, giving Mr. Creed a knowing look. She knew that he'd removed the door to get the horse inside, but she couldn't prove it. She stepped inside and let Levi precede her. Mr. Creed followed her.

  They approached the bedroom. The horse stood by the washstand, drinking last night's wash water. Its big tongue lapped at the water, and it sounded to her as if the animal was purposely making drinking noises. It looked over its shoulder at them once, its tail swishing, and then went back to slurping.

  That deep, princely voice sounded over her shoulder. "See, he was thirsty."

  Addie turned and blessed him with her best scoff.

  Mr. Creed leaned against the bedroom doorjamb, looking happy as a toad on a warm rock. He smiled at his horse.

  Levi went over and started to lead the horse away. The animal tried to bite him.

  Both Addie and Levi looked at Montana. He shrugged. "Sorry, he doesn't like strangers." He pulled out that knife again and cut a string from his shirtsleeve.

  Levi reached for the horse, whose ears flattened before it nipped at him. He turned to Addie. "He's not going to let me do this."

  She faced Mr. Creed. "You do it."

  "Sure, Miss Pinky, but for horse removal I charge two hundred dollars."

  Levi began to cough, and Addie bit back the nasty name she wanted to shout at him. He'd gotten her. No wonder the lease fee hadn't bot
hered him. Whatever amount she demanded for leasing her pump would be what he would charge her.

  She took a deep breath, swallowing a bit more of her pride. "Just get him out."

  "I want it in writing. One horse removal in exchange for a year's lease of your water pump and trough," he said, still leaning against the doorframe.

  "Fine." She agreed under duress. "But if that animal 'wanders' in my house ever again, I want 'free horse removal.' ''

  "Agreed." Mr. Creed sauntered over to his horse. "I can almost guarantee this won't happen again." He patted the horse on the neck. "Will it, boy? You were just thirsty, weren't you?"

  The horse flicked its ornery head and blew out its nose, as if answering its master.

  He led the horse out of the room, and by then Addie had moved to the far end of the hall. As he passed by, he said, "After all, we have water now. Don't we, boy?"

  Acre after acre of rich, reddish-brown land encompassed the farm buildings. It was twice as much land as Montana and his pa had farmed, and lost. They'd had a barn, but it wasn't much bigger than the three-room farmhouse his father had built, and the railroad had stolen. But this farm had a real barn, a two-story structure of California redwood, with three stalls, complete with manure gutters. There were two large grain bins and three smaller ones, a sturdy hayloft built under the high gabled roof, and big hay doors to load the bales. A large area, perfect for a future silo, lay vacant between the barn and the two feeding pens enclosed by split-rail fences. Someday he'd build a silo to store the grain that would grow so well in this fertile soil.

  A smokehouse was partially hidden behind the barn, and a tall, white windmill stood between the barn and the house. The water cistern sat on a white wooden building nearby, and pipes led from it to the back of the farmhouse. This place had water plumbed from the cistern right into the kitchen. It was a prosperous place, a farm to be proud of. And Montana intended to make damn sure it was his, all his.

  He watched Jericho drink from the trough. He smiled, feeling so damn proud of himself. He'd gotten her, gotten his water, and she hadn't even seen it coming. He resisted the urge to rub his hands together; he chuckled instead.

  He hadn't thought it would be so easy, getting his horse in her bedroom. He cut some burlap he'd found in the barn and tied pieces of the cloth to Jericho's hooves to muffle the sound. It worked, but the best part had been Jericho's own creation—butting up against her bed. When that happened, it had been all he could do not to jump in the open window and kiss that horse.

  He reached out and stroked old Jerry's mane, reliving the whole incident in his mind. A small part of him—a very small part—had to respect the woman. She'd put up a good fight, just as she had when he'd tried to scare her with his gun. She had gumption, he had to give her that. She was like a jigger tick, small and harmless but a real pain when she got under your skin. And as much as he hated to admit it, he had to respect her strength, both in character and physically. Her small arms had lugged the wood and hauled those supplies. He would have expected a woman to be sapped dry. But not the Pinky woman. She'd come out the winner in her tug-of-war with Jericho.

  He started laughing again, remembering the way she'd slid down that bed, her whole backside exposed. He'd had to look twice because her skin was as white as those sheets, and it had looked even whiter with all that black hair hanging down her shoulders.

  It dawned on him then that she wasn't bad-looking, although he'd always preferred redheads, tall, buxom redheads, not miniature black-haired city prisses with skin like buttermilk. For such a little thing, she had some curves too, at least from what he'd seen of her. And felt of her, he reminded himself. Her round little butt had fit right into his palms. He remembered squeezing her, then he remembered her knee.

  He groaned. She had spirit too. Even when she was afraid of him and his horse, she'd not broken down. That amazed him more than anything. Women always cried. And it always got to him when they did. She hadn't cried. He'd yelled at her, shot at her, taunted her, and done his all-around best to send her packing. Not once had she shed a tear.

  Driving her off was not going to be as easy as he'd thought. The gun hadn't worked, neither had the bullets, and the horse in the bedroom hadn't worked either, although he had gotten his water. He'd have to watch her, find another weakness and use it. He hoped it wouldn't take too long because in a couple of months he had to get his wheat planted. It would be his first crop, and he'd be damned it he'd share the profits with her. No city-born and bred female, stubborn though she was, would beat him. Of that he was sure.

  Addie glued the last label on the pantry shelf. Standing back, she admired her work. Every jar, every can, every single one of her supplies was put away, in order. Melvil Dewey would have been proud of her. The huge sack of flour sat on the floor just below the label 641.021. Next to that label sat the lard can, 641.022, and the other baking ingredients: Durkee's Perfectly Pure Gauntlet Brand Spices, 641.0231 through 641.0239; Rhumford's Baking Powder, 641.024; Arm and Hammer Saleratus, 641.025; Charles Fleischmann's Austrian Quality Yeast, 641.026.

  It was an organizational masterpiece, and good solid use of the Dewey Decimal System. She had decided against using a card catalog. After all, she would be the only one using the kitchen. The class and division numbers were inbred in her. As a librarian, and honor graduate of Library Economy, she had prided herself on her ability to guide the library's patrons straight to their desired books. As Professor Dewey had always said, "Da card catalog is for da laymen's usage."

  Wiping her hands on her muslin apron, she left the pantry, ready to start unpacking her farming books. Once in the parlor, she opened the barrel trunk and began to shelve the books.

  Three hours later she tucked the last book into its section. It was a little-known volume titled Swine Husbandry. She was sure that one day she'd raise pigs, but first she'd start with chickens. They supplied meat and eggs, both of which Levi assured her she could sell in town. There was already a sturdy henhouse. She had everything she needed at her fingertips, except the chickens. Custus had told Levi that there were a few chickens with the other farm stock, and a neighboring family, the Latimers, would bring them back in a few days. But Addie wouldn't do things halfway. "A few" chickens wouldn't be enough. She intended to be a prosperous farm woman, and she'd brought her books to help teach her how.

  Three volumes over from the swine husbandry book was the one book she needed to read: Makers of Millions; Or the Marvelous Success of America's Self-Made Men. And women, Addie thought. She took the tooled-leather book over to a large, brown velvet-covered armchair that matched the sofa. She sat back, pulled her reading spectacles from a chain she'd hung around her neck and propped them onto her nose. She began to read.

  It was late when she finally set the book on the lamp table. Yawning, she stretched and let the spectacles drop from her nose. She wiggled, rubbing her shoulders against the back of the chair. The book had been an inspiration. Mr. Wendell T. Gates had started out just like Addie. He'd moved from Trenton, New Jersey, to Eli, Nevada. He bought a large brood of chicks, and within a few years he had expanded, and expanded, all the time investing in his chicken ranch and eventually earning over a million dollars. The man retired with a fortune. And that's what she would do, earn her millions through chickens. It sounded simple enough, and she was an intelligent, college-educated woman. And she didn't give up. Tenacity was her middle name, just like Mr. Wendell T. Gates.

  Through the open parlor window the night sounds drew her attention. She released the window shade and settled back in the chair, gazing at the night sky. It had been dark for some time, and there was a certain peace that came with the dark. Life was different here, on this farm, different from anything she'd known. The sharp, earthy smell of dirt was something pleasant here. One could smell it so clearly once the night settled in and cooled the hot ground. The trees smelled too. With her bedroom windows open she could almost taste the tangy, clean odor of the eucalyptus trees that stood behind the
farmhouse. It was wonderful. And the sounds were so different, somehow quieter and softer. The cricket's song and the hum of the locust were peaceful, lulling sounds, unlike those of rattling trolley cars or the constant clicking of the hooves of so many wagon teams on a paved street. Those, Addie thought, were noises, but these were sounds, and there was a difference. One could soothe, while the other annoyed…

  A horse's nicker rent the air, sending all her benevolent feelings straight to Hades. In her active day, she'd been able to block out the existence of Mr. Creed and his horrid horse. Now she couldn't.

  She leaned over the edge of the chair arm and peered out the window. He sat in front of the tree with his horse alongside. She could see the outline of that devil's snout in the glow of their camp fire. The animal looked hell-sent. After today, she was sure that was exactly where that horse had come from, the horse from Hades.

  Addie knew that the Devil himself had had something to do with her humiliation. Never in her entire life had she slept nude. Yet the one very night she did, that foul fiend put his obnoxious horse in her bedroom. But she'd gotten away. She'd showed him.

  You showed him all right. You showed him every inch of you.

  She felt her blush coming, and buried her face in her hands, as if that would make the whole incident go away. The very thought of that man ogling her just made her want to… scream? No.

  Cry? No.

  Hide? Never!

  Get even? Yes!

  Of course that wouldn't be easy. The man obviously had no shame. He'd probably dance naked through a church social. After all, he hung his clothes, red underwear and all, out in broad daylight for the whole world to see. He didn't care a fig for a woman's sensibilities, of that Addie was sure.

  And where had he come from? He was rude and crude, and a loner. He didn't much care for people. She could tell. What sort of woman had raised a man like that?

  What sort of life had he led that he'd never seen a stereoscope? The viewfinder sat next to the glass lamp. She picked it up by its long, wooden, candlestick-shaped base and noticed her uncle's initials, J.M., carved on the base. She fiddled with the double glass slides that were magnified by the viewfinder's binocular-type eyepiece. It had been a wonderful invention, allowing people to focus three-dimensionally on the picture depicted on the slides. The stereoscope viewer had opened a whole new world for people.