Heartbreak Creek

by Kaki Warner

  “Sweetness.” Swinging open the gate, Pru waited for Edwina to come through, then latched it behind her. “I can’t even picture it.”

  Pru opened the door to the coop, then stepped back as chickens spilled into the sunlight, squawking and darting in circles as if their tail feathers were on fire. As soon as Edwina started tossing grain and breadcrumbs, they settled down to business.

  “The man’s hopeless, Pru. A stone-faced mute. Maybe he’s damaged.”

  “He didn’t compliment the meal? Or notice how clean the kitchen was?” Pru’s voice grew muffled as she moved deeper into the shadowed coop, checking the nests for eggs. “He didn’t say anything to you?”

  Edwina peppered a beetle headed toward her with grain, then quickly looked away when a chicken began pecking at it. “He said I could send lunch but I couldn’t chase cows.”

  “Send lunch where? And why would you want to chase cows?”

  “It sounds fun.”

  Pru muttered something Edwina didn’t catch.

  “He also said I snored,” Edwina added. “Which I don’t. And he stared at my chest a lot. The man hardly said fifty words the whole time.”

  Pru’s head appeared in the doorway of the coop. “He stared at your chest?”

  “I know.” Edwina sighed and looked down at her less-thanvoluptuous bosom. “At least he didn’t laugh.”

  But Pru did. “You silly thing. Your bosom is fine. You just need to eat. You’re too skinny.” Taking a deep breath, she ducked back inside.

  “Is that how you got your big bosom? By overeating?” Edwina hated being called skinny. Or “Stick” as Shelly had once referred to her.

  “That’s my fine African blood,” Pru called from inside.

  “Then you must have a lot of it in your fanny,” Edwina muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  “I just wished it poked out some,” Edwina said, tossing another handful of grain. “Remember how Lucinda’s poked out? Her bosom looked so grand in that lovely silk dress.”

  Pru stepped hastily out of the coop, exhaled in a rush, and took several deep breaths. “Whalebone corset. And I cannot believe we’re discussing Lucinda Hathaway’s breasts. Here.” She thrust the filled egg basket at Edwina and began shaking dust and feathers and straw from her skirts. “That coop is nasty. Next time you’re going in.”

  “We should make the children do it.”

  “And end up with an egg fight on our hands?” Having put her skirts to rights, Pru retrieved her basket, patted her hair, and checked her shoes. “The last thing we should put into those children’s hands is raw eggs, especially after what you did yesterday.”

  Edwina smiled in spite of herself, picturing Joe Bill’s face when she’d cracked that egg over his head for trying to look up her skirts. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Those children are incorrigible. And you’re not much better.”

  After dumping the last of the grain, Edwina followed her sister out the gate and latched it behind her. With her arm looped through Pru’s, they walked across the yard. “Oh, they’re not so bad. I like Brin. She’s got spirit. And Lucas is sweet, although I wish he would talk more so I could get to know him better. He seems so lost.”

  “Just be watchful,” Pru warned as she opened the back door. “No telling what mischief they’ll think up next.”

  Mischief wasn’t the word for it, Edwina realized a moment later when they entered the kitchen door. More like total destruction. A devastating blow that left her numbed with shock and despair.

  Surprisingly, it didn’t come from Joe Bill, the prankster, or Brin, the curious meddler. But from Lucas—shy, sweet Lucas.

  Her heart seemed to shrivel in her chest when she saw the countless pieces strewn across the kitchen table. Pieces of her watch. The Waltham Bond Street watch with the push-button time set and the initials CW engraved on the back. Her father’s watch. The only thing she had left of him. “Oh, Lucas, no!” Shoving past Pru, she rushed toward the table. “What have you done?”

  The boy shrank back, his eyes round in his small face. “Joe Bill said it was all right. That I could take it apart. Didn’t you, Joe Bill?”

  Only then did Edwina see the other boy standing by the parlor door. “You!” Fury engulfed her, sent her charging toward him.

  Joe Bill ducked into the parlor.

  Edwina tore after him. “Why would you do such a thing? That was my father’s watch!”

  Joe Bill wrestled frantically with the latch on the door onto the porch, finally getting it open just before Edwina reached him.

  “You little dickens!” she cried, racing after him down the porch steps. “You come back here!”

  He ran around the side of the house. She pounded after him, cleared the corner at a dead run, and plowed face-first into a tall, solid body that smelled of horses and alfalfa and sweating male. As she stumbled back a strong hand grabbed her shoulder to steady her. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “She’s crazy, Pa,” Joe Bill cried, twisting in the grip of Declan’s other hand. “She hit me in the head with an egg and started screaming like—”

  “That was yesterday, you little schemer,” Edwina shouted back. “And the next time you lift my skirts, it’ll be two eggs I crack over your head!”

  “Quiet!”

  The combatants glared at each other across Declan’s broad chest, their breaths coming in short, quick gasps.

  “What’s going on?” Declan demanded, scowling down at them from beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

  “She’s crazy, Pa. Like one of Chick’s demons. Look under her skirt. You’ll see.”

  “Oh, for mercy’s sake!” Jerking her shoulder free of Declan’s grip, Edwina whirled around, flipped up the back of her skirts, and waggled her bloomer-clad bottom. “There! Do you see a tail? No!” Letting her skirts drop, she turned back to meet her husband’s astonished face. “Satisfied?”

  “I, ah—”

  “It could be curled up, Pa. Check her drawers.”

  Edwina gasped.

  “Joe Bill!” Declan gave the boy’s shoulder a rough shake. “There’s no devil tail, and that’s the end of it!” He scowled down at his son, his face flushed either from anger or embarrassment. Edwina decided on anger and shot Joe Bill a triumphant smile. Which quickly faded when Declan rounded on her. “And no more egg throwing, you hear? You’re supposed to be the adult here. He acts up, send him to me. Understand?” He waited for her reluctant nod, then turned and waited for Joe Bill to give his.

  “All right, then.” Releasing Joe Bill’s shoulder, he planted both hands at his waist, his long fingers splayed across the thick leather belt he seemed to favor over braces. Without shoulder strap supports, his denim trousers rode low on his hips, and Edwina suspected a good yank would pull them—

  “Now what did he do this time?”

  Mortified, Edwina jerked her gaze from his belt area. “They broke my watch.”

  “I wasn’t me, Pa. It was Lucas took it apart.”

  Edwina shook a finger at him. “And who said it was all right for him to do that?”

  After a few futile attempts to exonerate himself, Joe Bill reluctantly admitted he had told Lucas that if he wanted to see how a clock worked, there was one on the loft night table he could take apart.

  “Which he did,” Edwina added, feeling again the despair of losing a beloved treasure. “And now it’s in pieces all over the kitchen table.”

  “I’ll have Lucas put it back together,” Declan said.

  Joe Bill shook his head. “He tried, Pa. It won’t go. He thinks some parts are missing.”

  Edwina blinked hard at the ground, tears blurring the memory of bending over her father’s body, pulling the watch from his vest pocket, and trying desperately to wipe off the blood.

  “We’ll get another, then.”

  “You can’t. It was my father’s.”

  There was a long pause. Then Declan turned to his son. “Go to the woodshed.”

  Edw
ina’s gaze flew up. She glanced from her husband’s set face to Joe Bill’s frightened one. Guessing what Declan intended to do, she grabbed his arm. “No, wait. What are you doing?”

  “He needs to be punished.”

  “By whipping him?”

  Declan looked down at her, his dark brows drawn low over his eyes. “Then what do you want me to do?”

  “Certainly not hit him. He’s just a boy.”

  “A boy who purposely destroyed something that wasn’t his.”

  Realizing she still held his arm, she pulled her hand away. “Will hitting him bring it back?”

  Muttering under his breath, Declan took off his hat, dragged his fingers through his hair, then put the hat back on. He spread his palms in frustration. “Then what do you want, Ed? Just tell me and I’ll do it.”

  Edwina looked at Joe Bill, saw the tears the boy was struggling bravely to hold back, and she felt the terrible fears of her childhood crowd her mind. “Apologize,” she said to the boy. “Tell me you’re sorry and you won’t do it again.”

  “I-I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” His hazel eyes darted to his father’s stern face. “I promise, Pa.”

  Declan glanced at his son, then at Edwina. His expression showed doubt and confusion. And maybe relief. “That’s it? That’s all you want?”

  Realizing that if she gave in too easily she might appear weak, Edwina quickly improvised, asking if there were stalls in the barn, and if so, how many were currently in use.

  “With the mares foaling, most of them are.”

  “Who cleans them out?”

  “Chick.”

  “For the next two weeks, Joe Bill will do it.”

  Rocked by the injustice of it, Joe Bill cried, “All by myself?”

  Ignoring him, Edwina said to Declan, “And he’ll also keep the water buckets and troughs full, tend the chickens every morning and your horse every night.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “You’d rather go to the woodshed?” his father asked.

  “But what about Lucas? He’s the one who broke it.”

  “Don’t you worry about Lucas,” Edwina told the sputtering boy. “He’ll get what’s coming to him. Besides, if I were you, Joe Bill, I’d be more concerned about that nasty rooster who guards the henhouse.”

  “Pa!”

  “Meanwhile,” she continued loudly over his plaintive objections, “I believe there are some stalls that need your attention.”

  After Joe Bill disappeared toward the barn, muttering and stomping hard to show how unfair he thought it all was, Declan said, “You thrive on this, don’t you?”

  “On what?”

  “Crisis. Chaos. Confrontation.”

  Stung that he thought she actually enjoyed punishing children, Edwina responded a bit more sharply than she intended. “I’m only doing what needs to be done. Which I wouldn’t have to do if you had done what you were supposed to do in the first place.”

  “I have a ranch to run,” he reminded her.

  “Then go do it.” You great lump. “I’ve got another crisis to manage with one of your children.”

  “Okay, then,” he said cheerfully. “Adios.” And unbelievably, he turned his back on her and started toward the wagon and team waiting in the yard, loaded with shovels and picks and a dozing Amos Hicks.

  Anger ignited, consuming any lingering reservations she might have had. Confrontation? Ha! She’d give him a confrontation. “One more thing,” she called after him.

  He swung back. “What now? I should have been gone an hour ago.”

  Anger bolstered by his surly impatience, Edwina stalked forward, stopping when her skirts brushed the toes of his boots. She glared up at him, letting him see the resolve in her eyes. “If you ever take a strap, a cane, a switch, a whip, or anything else to these children, Declan, I will come at you with a pitchfork, I swear to God.”

  He reared back, his dark eyes round with surprise . . . and maybe anger. “You’re threatening me?”

  “I am.”

  “Over my own children?”

  “Children you have put into my care. And I will never countenance the beating of a child. Not even by a parent. Especially by a parent.”

  “The hell you say.”

  He stared at her so hard and for so long Edwina began to doubt the wisdom of coming at him head-on. She probably should have taken a subtler approach, maybe put on a show of meekness like Pru might have done. Although as hardheaded as Declan seemed to be, that might have sailed right past him.

  In either case, this was too important to chance on misunderstandings. This was something she would never back down on. This was something she had endured as a child, and she was determined no boy or girl in her care would ever suffer as she and Pru had.

  “I mean it, Declan.”

  She watched the anger fade from his eyes, replaced by something she couldn’t define. “Well, hell,” he finally muttered. “Joe Bill has the right of it. You really are crazy, Ed.” And shaking his head, he turned and walked toward the wagon.

  Edwina frowned after him, not sure what to think. That was twice he’d called her Ed. Not as bad as the pig-sounding Ed-wee-na, or as hated as Pricilla, or as demeaning as Miss Priss.

  Ed. A man’s name.

  “Ed,” she said aloud, liking the sound of it. Bold. Strong. A woman of consequence. Bemused, she turned back to the house. She just hoped he wasn’t calling her that because of her un-pointy chest.

  Seven

  Edwina’s talk with Lucas promised to be much harder because by the time she returned to the house her anger had faded into weary disgust, which definitely took the edge off her determination to exact retribution for the hurt the boys had so carelessly dealt her.

  Punishing them wouldn’t bring her father’s watch back.

  But how could she not punish them? What would that teach them?

  Her mother’s voice shrieked through her mind, each word punctuated by the crack of the cane across her back. “I. Am. Doing. This. For. Your. Own. Good.” Edwina felt her gorge rise and forcefully blocked the sounds and images from her mind. This wasn’t the same. She wasn’t enjoying it, no matter what Declan thought.

  Opening the kitchen door, she stepped inside to find Pru’s dark head bent beside Lucas’s light brown one, as they carefully gathered the watch parts and put them in a small tin. Lucas’s quick glance told Edwina he might have been crying.

  She hoped not. She knew the boy had no meanness in him. He was just a curious and troubled boy who kept his mind occupied by figuring out how things worked so he had no space left in his head for the bad things.

  She had done the same, but had used music instead of puzzles. Not because she liked the sound of it, but because if she pounded the piano keys long enough and hard enough she could shut out the terror, and the despair, and the sound of her mother’s voice.

  Music and Pru had saved her.

  Now she had a chance to save this little boy. From what, she didn’t know. She just sensed he was hurting and needed someone to make it stop.

  “Lucas,” she said.

  He looked up, his eyes puffy and worried. Before she could say anything more, he blurted out in a rush, “I just wanted to see how the gears worked. That’s all. I didn’t mean to break it.” Moisture gathered in his soft brown eyes, eyes a shade lighter than his father’s but just as expressive.

  Edwina eased down into the chair beside him, turning slightly so she could face him. She wanted to reach out and comfort him but doubted he would welcome her touch. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  “I know you didn’t, Lucas.”

  He swiped a sleeve over his runny nose. “Did Pa take Joe Bill to the woodshed?”

  “No.”

  “Is he gonna take me?”

  “No.” Edwina felt the burn of righteous anger in her throat. “Has he ever taken either of you to the woodshed?”

  Lucas shook his head, sending a flop of sun-tipped hair sliding down his forehead. Another similarit
y to his father. “He took R.D. once when he caught him fooling with matches in the barn. R.D. said it was the scariest thing ever. Not the whipping, but that Pa was so mad.”

  Edwina let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding. She couldn’t have stayed with a man who was brutal to his children. But a whipping over something as dangerous as playing with matches in a barn filled with straw and hay? That she could understand, and excuse.

  Unsure how to handle this, Edwina looked over Lucas’s bent head at Pru, hoping for answers.

  But her sister shrugged and shook her head, then rose from the table. “Think I’ll see if we’ve got a ham hanging in the cool room downstairs.”

  After she left, Edwina sat for a moment, drumming her fingers on the table. Then she rose, went into the parlor, dug out a piece of writing paper and a stub of pencil from a bookcase drawer she had cleaned out the day before, and returned to the kitchen. Placing them on the table, she took her seat again. “Joe Bill’s punishment is to clean out the stalls, fill the troughs, and tend the chickens and his father’s horse for two weeks. What do you think yours should be?”

  “I don’t know. I could help him, I guess.”

  “He also said he was sorry and he would never do it again.”

  “I can say that if you want.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He did.

  She nodded her acceptance of the apology, then pushed the paper and pencil toward him. “Now write it. Twenty-five times.”

  She sat quietly until he finished the task. Then she looked over his childish scrawl, nodded, and set the paper aside. “Now tell me why you’re sorry.”

  “I broke your watch.”

  “Perhaps. We’ll see once you have it back together. What else?”

  When his face showed confusion, she helped him. “You let someone else talk you into doing what you knew was wrong. Isn’t that so?”

  He looked away, a flush turning the ears that showed beneath the uneven cut of his light brown hair a bright strawberry red. “I guess.”

  “You’re smart, Lucas. Smart enough to decide for yourself what’s right and wrong. So from now on, I expect you to do that. If you’re ever in doubt about what that is, ask me or Miss Lincoln or your father. Understand?”