Turner's Rainbow 2 - The Rainbow Promise

by Lisa Gregory

  Luke slid off his horse and looped the reins around the narrow porch pillar. He knocked on the door, and after a few moments a tired-looking woman answered it. Her brown hair was screwed up into a tight knot atop her head, and she wore a faded calico skirt and blouse. Her face was as faded as her clothes, Luke couldn't figure out who she was. She looked older than Tessa, but he was sure that Tessa had said that her mother had died.

  The woman's eyes widened, and she stared. "Luke?"

  "Yes."

  His puzzlement must have shown, for she chuckled mirthlessly and said? "You don't know me, do you? I'm Rachel, Tessa's sister."

  "Rachel." He tried not to let his surprise show. Rachel was a year younger than Tessa, but she looked far older. He wasn't sure which of them was worse off, Tessa selling her body in the city or this girl, staying at home and slaving for her tyrannical father, growing older and more careworn every day.

  "It's been awhile." Rachel paused. "Pa'll kill you if he sees you."

  "I didn't come to see him. I want to talk to Tessa's boy. Where is he?"

  Rachel frowned. "You oughta go."

  "I'm not leaving 'til I see him."

  She gnawed on her lower lip. Finally she said, "He's down slopping the hogs." She hesitated, then added, "Pa's out in the fields,, but he'll be back by noon."

  Luke nodded and walked away. As he approached the outbuildings, nerves began to jangle in his stomach. A boy came from behind the barn, carrying a large pail. He was barefoot and dressed in patched calico shirt and trousers, so faded that they were no particular color. A rope tied around his thin waist acted as a belt.

  The boy climbed up on the low fence and poured the contents of the pail into the pigs' trough. He stood with his back turned to Luke, so that all Luke could see was his wiry frame and a cap of dark blond hair. He turned at the sound of Luke's footsteps. His face was thin and suspicious, dominated by large, pale blue eyes. Luke sucked in his breath sharply and stopped.

  The child was his.

  He knew it instantly, all through him. There was no mistaking it. The boy's hair was a darker blond than Luke's had been as a child (though up close Luke thought that was as much due to dirt as to natural color). But the sharp blue eyes, the skin color, the facial structure were all his. He might have been looking at a mirror image of himself as a child. Even the narrowing of his eyes, the closed expression, the defiant, sullen stance, were exactly as he had stood and looked. It was eerie, like seeing a ghost of himself.

  There was a purpling bruise just below Cal's left eye and another, yellowish one on his neck. Luke's hands tightened into fists. He was certain Jackson had beaten the boy. His son. A fierce, cold anger swelled in him.

  Cal backed up a step, but continued to face him, his chin thrust out. Luke knew that the anger on his face had scared the child, so he forced himself to relax his taut muscles and smile, "Hello."

  The boy nodded, saying nothing.

  "My name is Luke Turner." Cal's eyes widened, and he backed up again, until he was stopped by the railing of the sty "What's yours?"

  "Cal. Cal Jackson."

  "You're Tessa's boy."

  "What of it?"

  "Nothing. I'm just trying to strike up a conversation with you."

  "I don't have nothing to say."

  "How old are you?"

  "Just turned nine. What's it to you?"

  Luke sighed and gazed off at the trees for a moment. How in the hell was he supposed to say this? It was suddenly very important to him that the boy not hate him. "Your ma came to see me yesterday. She told me something that I'd never known. She told me that I had a son."

  Cal's mouth curled in disgust. "She's always lying. I wouldn't believe what she said. Don't you know what she is?"

  "Yeah. I know. She's lied about me before. But she wasn't lying this time. She told mc that you were my son. I can see it with my own eyes."

  "Grandpa says you hurt her. He says you forced her to have his baby. He says you got sent to prison for it."

  "What does your ma say?"

  He shook his head. "She's a liar."

  "I didn't hurt your mother I never forced her to do anything. But I did go to prison—because she lied about me."

  "Grandpa says you're wicked. Even wickeder than Ma, 'cause you put the devil in her."

  "Well, I may be wicked. There's those that think so. But I'll tell you one thing: I never hit a kid."

  He reached out to touch the bruise on Cal's face, but the boy twisted away. He stood with his shoulders hunched, jaw set stubbornly, and stared down at the ground. Luke knew, as surely as he knew himself, that the boy would be hell to raise.

  "Do you like it, living here with your grandfather?" Luke asked.

  Cal shot him a single, flaming glance. His mouth twisted. "I hope the old son of a bitch dies."

  A laugh escaped Luke. "Tell you the truth, that's the way I feel about him. Look, You're my son. I want you to come live with me. That's what your mother wants, too."

  "Maybe I don't want to."

  "I thought you hated living with your grandpa."

  "I do."

  "How much worse could it be with me?"

  He shrugged. "None, I reckon,"

  "It'll be a lot better. I guarantee you. At least you'll be fed well and you won't get beaten." Luke wanted to reach out and touch the boy's head, but he knew better. He also knew better than to tell Cal that he would be loved and his life would be happy. Cal would assume he was lying.

  Cal shrugged.

  "Go on in the house and pack, and we'll go back to my place."

  The boy pressed his lips together "Grandpa says you live in sinful splendor."

  Luke's face lifted in amusement. "Does he, now? I wouldn't call it splendor. But you'll like it, I think."

  "I reckon," Cal said slowly, "if you're wicked, you won't care so much about my being wicked."

  "I doubt you're wicked. You're young for that."

  "Grandpa says I was born in sin."

  Luke contemplated hanging around long enough to beat George Jackson to a pulp. He drew a breath. "I'm no preacher, but I can tell you, you weren't born sinful. And you'll never be as full of wickedness as that old man,"

  "Grandpa?" Cal's eyes rounded in amazement, and, unexpectedly, he grinned.

  "Yeah, Grandpa. Come on, let's pack your things." He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder

  Cal flinched away. "I ain't got nothin' much to pack."

  Luke followed the boy to the house. When they reached the front porch, where Luke's horse was tied. Cal stopped. He gazed for a moment at the horse, then up at Luke. There was awe in his eyes. "Is he yours?"

  "Yeah. His name's Jo-Jo"

  Cal reached out a tentative hand toward the horse, then drew it back, glancing at Luke.

  "Go ahead. You can touch him. He's not ornery."

  Cal touched his nose, and the horse bent his head to nuzzle at him. Cal slid his hand along the horse's neck, and there was a mingling of tenderness and longing in his face. "Sometime, do you think you'd let me take care of him?"

  "Sure. You can help brush and feed him. You can learn to ride him if you'd like/"

  "Really?" Cal stared. For an instant his face was eager before it returned to its habitual closed expression. Reluctantly he moved away from the horse. "I'll be back in a minute."

  He went inside the house, and Luke waited for him on the porch. Inside he could hear a woman's voice raised in exclamation. Then the door opened, and Cal came out, carrying a small bundle. Rachel followed him, her face drawn with worry. She went to Luke.

  "You can't do this. Don't take him. Pa will be fit to be tied when he finds out where he's gone."

  Luke's lips drew back over his teeth in a smile that contained no humor "Tell him to come over to my place, and I'll be real happy to discuss it with him."

  "Luke, you can't!"

  "I'm sorry if your father takes his anger out on you, but there's nothing I can do about that. I won't leave my son here for George Jacks
on to beat and vilify and ruin his life the way he did to all his children. Your father likes to talk about everyone else's sin and wickedness, but I'll tell you plain: He's got a blacker soul than anybody I know." Luke turned. "Come on, Cal."

  He swung the boy up onto the horse and mounted behind him. They rode out of the yard, leaving Rachel standing on the porch, gazing after them.

  ❧

  Sarah wrapped the pad around the handle of the flatiron and lifted it from the hot stove, replacing it with the cool iron in her other hand. She turned and started toward the ironing board, but stopped at the sound of a horse's hooves in the yard. Slowly she walked over to the window and looked out.

  Luke was riding Jo-Jo to the corral. A small figure sat on the horse behind him, his arms around Luke's waist. Luke had brought the boy home.

  How could he! Knowing how much she disliked the idea, he had brought the child home anyway. He might as well have said that what she wanted, what she felt, didn't matter. All that mattered was what he wanted. He had never before gone against her like this.

  Sarah's stomach quivered. She wanted to cry. Luke no longer loved her; that was the only explanation. He was angry with her because she had lost their son, and he was determined to replace him, with no concern for Sarah's feelings.

  Sarah set her jaw. Well, he would find out that it wouldn't be that easy. She didn't know what she could do, but she would do something. She refused to have that boy here. He would be a constant reminder of everything that she had lost. It was impossible. If it meant she had to take Emily and go into town to live with Jennifer, then she would.

  Luke unsaddled the horse and turned it loose in the corral. He started toward the house, the boy trailing behind him. Sarah drew a breath and went out the side door to meet them. She stood at the top of the steps, waiting, her face set and cold. Luke was being cruel to her, and that knowledge slashed her like a knife. But she was a fighter, however much she loved him, however much she was hurt. She wasn't about to give in.

  Luke's steps slowed. He didn't want to reach the porch. He stopped at the bottom of the steps. "Hello, Sarah."

  She answered him coolly. "Luke."

  Luke reached behind him and pulled Cal forward. "I've brought Cal home."

  Sarah looked down at the boy. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He glanced up at her, then quickly away. Sarah grasped the porch rail. She couldn't speak. He was Luke's son. It was written in every line of his body, every bone of his face. The way he stood, the way he looked up at her and away were exactly as Luke had stood and looked at her that first day he came to their farm. His mouth was set in an identically sullen expression, and there was the same hard, lonely defiance in his eyes.

  He wasn't simply Luke's son. He was a replication of him. It wasn't just face and form. It was what was inside him, too. He had been hurt, as Luke had been as a child. This boy had known the same rejection, the same pain.

  Sarah's heart twisted within her. She knew she couldn't send the child back. She couldn't deny him, as Luke had been denied. She couldn't condemn him to the same fate Luke had suffered. It would be a betrayal of Luke himself.

  "Hello, Cal," Sarah said evenly, though tears glinted in her eyes. "Welcome home. Have you eaten lunch?"

  Luke relaxed. Sarah hadn't changed. Love swelled in his chest. He smiled. "No."

  Cal said nothing, pushing the dirt around with his toe.

  "Go on in and clean up. I'll get lunch on the table."

  Luke guided Cal up the steps in front of him. As he passed Sarah, he reached out and took her hand. He smiled down at her, his eyes warm and loving. "I knew I could count on you," he whispered. "You're too kind to turn him away."

  Sarah leaned against his arm. For a moment she felt close to Luke, a part of him as she had been for three years and no longer was. He bent and kissed the top of her head.

  Luke and Cal entered the house. The moment was over. Sorrow swept over Sarah, and she gripped the railing, staring out over the yard. It was as if that brief moment of intimacy had reminded her afresh of all she had lost, opening a crack in the well of her grief. She was suddenly filled with longing, sadness, and pain. She sat down on the top step and leaned against the post of the railing and cried.

  ❧

  Cal stepped inside the kitchen and stopped, gazing around him in awe. He'd never been inside a house like this. The truth be known, he'd never been much of any place. Grandpa never took Cal with him when he went to town because he said he didn't want Cal getting any new ideas of wickedness—he was wicked enough on his own. Nor did they visit other people much. The only other house he'd seen was the Henderson place, but it was nothing like this grand house.

  The kitchen was enormous, and its walls were a pale blue. Cal had never seen inside walls painted a color, but the next room, which he could see through the open door, was even stranger A fancy slat of wood ran around the middle of the walls, and above the wood, the wall was covered with flowered paper Not only that, there was an eating table and set of chairs in that room, as well as the table and chairs in the kitchen. The table in the next room was massive and dark, and it was covered with a cloth as fragile as spiders' webs, so that the gleaming dark wood showed through.

  Cal couldn't understand what you would do with two tables to eat on; he wondered if they had that many people living here. But then, that other table surely wasn't for eating, not with the fancy cloth on it. There was other furniture besides the elegant table—a long chest and a tall, glass-fronted cabinet filled with delicate, painted dishes. He didn't know what you'd do with that many dishes either. Luke led Cal to a washstand in the comer of the kitchen. At home, the wash pitcher and bowl were on a low table on the back porch. In winter he often had to break the skimming of ice to get to the water. He didn't use it much.

  Luke poured water into the bowl and washed his hands with a big yellow bar of soap. He handed the bar to Cal, and Cal reluctantly soaped his hands. It didn't sting like the lumps of soap Rachel made, so washing wasn't so bad, even when Luke went back over his hands again with the soap.

  Cal couldn't figure Luke out. Why did Luke want him to live here? He knew Luke was his father; his ma and grandpa had told him that often enough. But he hadn't wanted Cal since he was born. Why would he start now? There must be a reason for it. Maybe he was big enough now that Luke figured he would get some work out of him. Whatever the reason, Cal was glad to leave his grandpa. The old man had hated him, and Cal had hated his grandfather right back. He would have been glad if Grandpa had dropped down dead one day. He knew that made him wicked, but he didn't care. That's how he was.

  He wasn't so sure how to feel about Luke. Grandpa said he'd hurt and shamed his ma, but Ma said he was a good man. Luke said he didn't hit children. Cal couldn't imagine that. Men punished their womenfolk and young 'uns when they were bad; everyone knew that. And Cal knew that he was bad often enough that Luke would hit him fairly often.

  But there was something special about Luke, something that had made Cal want to go with him. He didn't know what it was, just a thing inside, a need that had made him hang on to Luke with both arms as they rode. It was a feeling that rose in his throat, part fear, part hunger, whenever Luke took him by the arm or laid his hand on Cal's head. It was crazy, but he thought—he thought that Luke might like him.

  The woman didn't, though. He'd seen that plain enough when she met them at the top of the steps. He had figured she was going to tell him to get, and his stomach had turned sickly She hadn't said that, though, which surprised him. But he'd seen the tears in her eyes, and when he'd looked back, she was sitting on the step, crying. He didn't know what he had done to make her cry, but he was sure it was his fault. He had made his mother cry a lot, too.

  Sarah came into the kitchen. Her eyes were red, but she was no longer crying, and she bustled about the kitchen putting things in bowls and setting them on the table. She plunked down utensils and dishes and more food than Cal had ever seen in his life. There was a
little bowl of butter and a loaf of bread. There was a plate of meat that smelled so good it made Cal's stomach knot and the saliva flood his mouth. There were bowls of peas, greens, and little new potatoes, with butter melting golden Iy on them. The crowning glory was a cherry pie with a fancy latticed crust on top and thick cherry filling oozing out.

  Cal swallowed hard and glanced at Luke. Surely they couldn't mean for him to have whatever he wanted of all this. Luke pressed his lips together and looked like he was going to start cussing, but he didn't. Instead, he took Cal's plate and put something on it from every bowl.

  Cal crammed the food down as quickly and in as big amounts as he could, suspecting that all this bounty would be taken away from him. Sarah stared at him, at first in amazement, then with growing pity. Poor thing; he acted like he'd never eat again. Finally, Luke had to stop him for fear he would make himself sick.

  Sarah began to clear the table, and Luke got up to help her. Cal stared. He'd never seen his grandfather lift a hand to help Rachel with the food.

  "Where's Emily?" Luke asked. Cal wondered who Emily was, but if there was one thing he'd learned, it was not to ask questions.

  "Upstairs taking her nap." Sarah glanced at the clock. "She should be getting up in thirty or forty minutes. In the meantime, I think it would be a good idea if Cal took a bath."

  "Sure." Luke grinned. He had figured Sarah wouldn't let the boy's present state of dirtiness pass.