by Jill Barnett
It was something to see, until she felt the warmth of the sun suddenly blocked from behind her and looked up, laughing. Her smile melted away in the heat from Montana's eyes. She looked around and saw Lizzie and Will talking near the barn. She and Montana stood alone, watching the turkeys.
"Looks like she's not interested," he said, nodding toward the hen but never taking his eyes off Addie.
"Looks like he's too obsessed with his goal," she shot back.
His gaze pinned her. "Maybe he's lonely."
Needing to escape those eyes, she turned around and rested her arms on a low rail, pretending to watch the bird's courting ritual. Then she whispered, "Maybe she thinks he's only going to use her."
There was a long silence, then the crunch of boot heels on the gravel as he walked away.
It was broad daylight when the train was robbed. It rolled down the track, past a grove of old, tangled sycamores that lined the dry riverbed. Rattling wheels and the spit of the steam engine drowned out the thunder of the horses. Their hooves pounded with the same cadence of the engine. Down the dry riverbed on a cloud of brown dust the two horses and riders paralleled the train track.
One rider leaned out from his saddle and grabbed the handrail on the back of a rusty car. He pulled out of the saddle and his horse veered off toward the trees. Hanging from the handrail, the man fought for a foothold, his boots scraping against the side of the rusty rail car. His long body shook with the vibration of the racing train and it looked as if he would fall.
But he began to swing, back and forth, lifting his hips higher and higher until his foot hooked over the top of the rail car. Pulling himself up, he gripped the roof rails and waved to the other rider, signaling he had made it.
The cattle in the car beneath him moaned and lowed, blocking out the thud of his boots on the metal roof as he ran. Reaching the end, he jumped; his long legs hit the next car and his knees buckled. The train sped up a grade, and the man slid back and almost over the edge. His hands grabbed the guide rails on the roof and he crawled along the car until he reached its end. He hung down over the coupling platform that joined the two cars.
And he let go.
His boots landed on the back platform, and in a flash he turned her coupling wheel and unlocked the back cars, letting them roll slowly down the grade as he applied the handbrake. The cars came to a stop, and the tall man leaned indolently on the platform rail, tipping his hat back and watching his companion ride up and jump from his mount. The shorter man shot off the lock and slid open the door, disappearing inside. There was another gunshot, and he emerged a few minutes later with a wooden box, its shattered lock hanging at a cockeyed angle.
A small cloud of dry dust billowed up when he landed on the ground. He glanced at the tall one, leaning against the rail, cool and calm as could be. "Like you said, no guards, and as far as I can tell, it's about ten thousand dollars." Then he added in a tone filled with scorn, "Apparently ten thousand is too little to guard, just another day's graft to those bastards at the S.P."
The tall man jumped from the platform and whistled. A few seconds later his horse loped out from the shelter of the trees. He mounted, then turned to the other man and said, "Yeah, but I've a hunch that the Schultz and Harrison families can use the money." And then the men rode south.
The next morning Addie stood in the chicken yard, flinging feed to over one hundred chickens that were physically incapable of laying eggs. She still had her aunt's layers, but half of them were into their second season and, according to Lizzie, ready for slaughter. At least she'd have plenty of meat, and she could sell the others and use the money to purchase a new batch of fall chicks. That brood she'd buy already sexed. Addie squirmed. It was hard for her to even think the term. She finished the feeding and was heading toward the gate when she heard it—a deep, loud male bellow.
"Goddammit to hell!" Montana shot out from the barn, a hammer in each hand and his face purple.
"What's wrong?" she asked, closing the latch on the gate.
"You were in the tools!" he accused, shaking one hammer high in the air.
"Oh that," she said with a wave of her hand. "You've been so busy that when you were gone yesterday I thought I'd help. You don't have to thank me." She started for the barn, swinging the feed pail by her side.
"Thank you? I ought to… never mind." He hurried after her and caught up just as she entered the barn. "I can't find anything."
Addie stopped and put her hands on her hips, wondering why he was making such a big deal of this. "I left you a card catalog."
"A what?"
She sighed for patience. "A card catalog." She marched over to the area where he'd put that mess of tools. She pointed to a small wooden box. "See, right here." She flipped it open and thumbed through the cards, ignoring his muttering.
"Every tool is labeled and in its proper order on the wall. It's really very simple." She then went on to explain to Montana exactly how the Dewey Decimal System worked. It was great, just like being back at the Mason Street Library teaching a class of schoolchildren the wonders of cataloging.
She finished up by asking, "Now what tool did you need?"
He had this odd, blank look on his face. After a minute's thought he said, "A wrench."
"Okay, see… you look it up under W—it's alphabetical—and then you pull the card." She pointed to the heading printed neatly at the top of a crisp white card: WRENCH. "See, technical sciences are the 600 category, subcategory 91, for construction materials, then the decimal point, thought up by Mr. Dewey, and the next restrictive subcategory, 0235, for hand tools, under W."
He made a noise that sounded like a grunt.
"I know it sounds confusing, but it's really quite easy. Then up here…'' She pointed to the wall and turned back around to explain the numerical placement. He was so close that the first thing she saw was his shirt pocket.
Instinctively, she stepped back and butted against the small wooden table that was wedged up to the wall. She started to move left, but his arm suddenly leaned on the table edge. When she looked right, his other arm was there. He had her pinned.
"Addie…'' he whispered, his head lowered and his eyes on her face. One look at his lips, parted and nearing hers, and she was lost.
His arms pulled her against him and then gripped her fanny, slowly sliding her up his hard body while his mouth took forever to descend. She could feel his breath, all warm and teasing as it brushed over the top of her head, getting closer and closer. She wanted to taste him, wanted to feel his lips upon hers, making her melt.
The trail of his breath moved closer to her mouth. She watched his lips, and as his face neared, her mouth parted and her eyes drifted closed. She could almost feel his lips touch, just one breath away…
"Leave… the… tools… alone." And he let her slide back down to the ground.
Her eyes flew open and narrowed. "You toad!"
He just laughed louder. "Hot little thing, aren't you?"
"I hate you!"
His gaze locked on her chest. "I can tell."
She looked down. Two little beads puckered beneath the bodice of her thin cotton dress.
Her arms covered her chest and she spun, stomping away, but just before she left the barn she yelled, "I'm cold!"
Chapter 18
The air stood still, not a breeze around to cool the heat from the noonday sun. The cows lay in the shaded corner of the field, occasionally twitching an ear. It was too damn hot even to swat at the flies. A hawk wheeled down, plucking up a luckless rat and soaring back into the cloudless sky that was a true, yet illogical blue. It was a stupid color for sky. Water, cool and wet, was blue. Ice, when it was truly cold, was blue. But a sky that propped up so hot a sun shouldn't have been blue. Today, Montana thought, the sky should have been red.
He dropped his hat on the pump post and let the cool well water run over his head. It felt so good. He straightened, letting Will step under the spigot. While Montana pumped, Will doused his blo
nd head and let loose with a whoop. "Damn but that feels good!" he said, voicing Montana's same thoughts.
"I don't know what's better," Will said, shaking the water from his hair. "The cool well water or the smell of that fried chicken."
Montana turned toward the kitchen door. "It smells good, but that doesn't mean it'll be edible."
"Come on, Montana, ease up on her. She's not that bad a cook." Will gave him an exasperated look.
"You showed up on a good night."
Will slicked his wet hair back. "You've been snapping at everyone all morning. What the hell's the matter?"
Montana continued to scowl at the farmhouse. "Nothing. This weather puts me on edge, is all." He turned and grabbed his hat. "And that woman is a bad cook. Christ! She could find a way to ruin an apple."
Will followed Montana to the house, mumbling, "Anything that smells like that can't taste bad."
Montana started up the steps. "Just keep thinking that and maybe you'll fool your stomach." He opened the back door and stepped inside, placing his hat on the wooden peg by the door.
The kitchen was almost hotter than it was outside. Lizzie Latimer and Addie scurried about the hellhole of a room like water drops on a hot griddle. Lizzie ran to the sink-board, grabbed something, then ran back to the stove where Addie stood, fork in hand, over four big cast-iron skillets. She handed Lizzie another fork and then both women set to turning the chicken that sizzled like the weather and smelled like heaven.
Montana silently watched Addie as she stabbed the chicken and turned it over. She wasn't cold now, he smiled to himself. Her black hair hung halfway down her back, and it was damp and curly all around her flushed face. She raised her hand and swiped the sweat from her forehead. Her pink shirt clung to her damp body, outlining her breasts and narrowing to a waist that was so small it was almost doll-like.
Will cleared his throat, and Montana would have liked to have killed him for it, because it gave away their presence. He could have lingered a bit longer, unnoticed and looking to his heart's content.
"Where's Custus?" Addie asked, not looking at Montana.
He made sure he was the one to answer. "He'll be in in a minute."
She didn't say a word, but Lizzie, who had been welcoming Will with a delighted smile, didn't ignore either of them. "Dinner's on the table. You two go ahead. We need to finish this chicken for tonight."
Montana walked over to his chair. He didn't have the time or the inclination to play gooey eyes like Will and Lizzie were doing. It took him a minute to realize he was staring at Addie's butt. What he wanted was to eat, to lie down near a cool, shaded stream and make love to Little Addie Pinkney, not necessarily in that order. Instead, he jabbed a hunk of ham and shoveled some scalloped potatoes on his plate, expecting at least one of them to make his stomach churn.
Neither did. The ham was moist, instead of dry as usual, and the potatoes didn't stick to the roof of his mouth like flour paste. He eyed the biscuits, unsure if he was strong enough to lift one, so he watched Will pluck two from the plate—with one hand. Montana grabbed three before they disappeared. Custus joined them and the men ate silently while the two women finished their cooking.
"This was great." Will leaned back in his chair when he had finished. Montana scooped up the last bite of biscuit and mentally agreed. He hadn't had a meal like this since he'd eaten at the Latimers'.
"Thank you," Lizzie said, shyly smiling at Will. "Addie let me fix dinner while she cut up the chickens."
"No wonder," Montana said under his breath, and received a prissy smirk from Addie.
Then she twitched across the room and opened the icebox, pulling out a bowl of chipped ice and a fresh pitcher of iced tea. She set them on the table and then went back to the stove. A few minutes later she and Lizzie both sagged back against the worktable, big glasses of iced tea in their hands.
Addie set hers down first, eyeing the huge platters of fried chicken. "We're finished."
"Mama said this morning that it figured she'd offer to make fried chicken on the hottest day of the year." Lizzie walked over to the table and leaned near Will to get the pitcher of tea. She refilled their glasses and walked back, taking her sweet time about setting the pitcher down.
Montana watched Will stare at Lizzie, about chest high, and then squirm in his chair. He stood and announced, "Time to get back to work."
Will all but shot out of his chair, his eyes still on Lizzie, who was standing at the sink cleaning pans. Custus still sat, intent on slowly picking his teeth. Montana nodded and he finally creaked up.
They headed out the door, but Montana stopped next to Addie and said, "We'll be in early. I figure we should leave for town by five."
"Fine," she mumbled, bent over some contraption that she was trying to clamp to the edge of the worktable. Curious, he waited long enough to hear her swear under her breath.
"Here, let me do that," he offered, moving in to readjust the butterfly nuts so the thing could clamp onto the table edge more easily. He tightened the nuts and then tried to wiggle the thing. It was clamped tight. He eyed it, then asked, "What is that thing?"
"An apple parer," she answered over her shoulder just before she disappeared around the corner of the pantry. A scraping sound called from the back room, and then her butt came around the corner, followed by the rest of her, bent and dragging a crate of apples into the kitchen.
She straightened with an apronful of apples which she dumped onto the table. She jammed an apple onto a long, metal fork that protruded from a crank wheel. Then she slid a hook over the end of the fork and secured the apple. Then she grabbed the wooden handle and cranked the wheel. It worked like a lathe. The apple spun with each turn of the crank, and a paring cutter moved against the apple and peeled away the skin. She swung the cutter aside and twisted the apple counterclockwise, and it came away peeled and cored.
"Well, I'll be…'' Montana was surprised. He'd never seen one of these contraptions. He remembered his mother sitting on the porch and peeling apples by hand.
"You need some help with those pies, Addie?" Lizzie called out over her shoulder.
Pies? Not pies. He groaned at the thought. He couldn't help it. He loved apple pie, and the mere thought of Little Miss Pinky making one was almost a sacrilege.
"No," she answered. "I can handle these." To Montana's horror, she peeled more apples.
He stood there a moment, then remembered he had things to do, besides which, he didn't think he could watch the desecration. As he walked to the door he thought of the ways she could ruin an apple pie. The crust could be like her biscuits, he thought with horror. Other than that, he didn't think there was much she could do wrong. Just apples and spices and sugar and salt…
He stopped dead, his mouth already puckering. He sneaked a peek over his shoulder. Lizzie was drying the dishes and Addie was busy with the apples. His hand shot out to the salt crock that sat by the stove. He snatched it and hid it in front of him, grabbing his hat and beating it out the back door. This way, he reasoned, heading for Will and the horses, the pies would have a fighting chance.
Addie pinched together the crust on the very last pie. One was still in the oven and the other one sat on the open windowsill, cooling. They were perfect, she thought with a satisfied smile. She popped the last one in the oven and began to clean off the worktable.
Lizzie came through the back door swinging the empty garbage pail. "It's amazing how much garbage chickens can eat. She continued over to the sink, washed the pail and poured another glass of tea. Sagging back against the sinkboard, she rested an elbow on the edge and said, "I wonder where Mama is. Isn't it after three?"
Addie glanced at her watch pendant. "Almost three-thirty," she said, bending to remove the second pie from the oven. She set it on the sill, next to the first one. "Lord but it's hot. I wonder if these pies will even cool." She shook her head, unable to believe they'd gotten everything done.
"I'm drenched," Lizzie commented, plucking her bodice fabric aw
ay from her damp body.
"I want a bath, a cool bath," Addie wished with a sigh.
A wagon jangled and crunched down the drive. "Oh, there's Mama!" Lizzie said, standing on her toes to peer out the kitchen window. "Oh, rats! It's Becky."
Addie looked down at her clothes. Sweat ringed her sleeves and ribs and there was chicken fat and flour all over the front of her apron. She took off the splattered apron and peered down. She still looked as if she'd melted.
Lizzie grabbed her things and turned to Addie who was wiping the sweat from her forehead. "It's hot in here, but that's preferable to what I'll have to put up with for the next half hour. There's the heat, the dusty road, and—God give me strength—Becky's whining." Lizzie walked to the back door and went on, "I've never understood how two people as good-hearted and sweet as Mama and Papa could end up with a daughter like her."
Addie laughed and followed her outside.
Lizzie leaned over and whispered, "Do you think maybe the doctor dropped her?"
Addie smiled. She really liked Lizzie.
Lizzie straightened, a deadpan look on her face. "I guess not—that might have knocked some sense into her."
Both women approached the wagon, and Addie wanted to hide. It must have been over a hundred degrees outside, but Rebecca Latimer looked as if she just stepped out of an icebox. Didn't she sweat?
"Hello, Adelaide. Where's Montana?" Rebecca scanned the farmyard.
"Hi, Rebecca. Yes, I'm fine, thank you." Addie couldn't resist.
Rebecca gave her a cool stare. "Cute." Then she turned to Lizzie. "Come on, I don't have all day. It'll take me at least two hours to get ready for the dance." She turned to Addie and blessed her with a phony smile. "I've got a beautiful new blue dress and—''
Lizzie plopped on the seat and cut in, "And it'll take her the full two hours to get her corset laced tight enough to squeeze into it."
