Wild Texas Flame

by Janis Reams Hudson

  And still she cried. She cried for her mother. Lord how she needed her mother just then. She cried for her father, who’d loved his wife and missed her terribly all these years, who’d had to raise four daughters alone. She cried for her sisters, who would have to grow up with no one but Sunny to care for them.

  Katy was almost a woman, and she was strong. She would have memories of their mother and father to make her stronger.

  But poor Rachel and Amy. Mama died right after Amy’s birth, when Rachel was barely two. Neither child had the fond memories of their mother like those Sunny and Katy shared. And now they had no father. They had only Sunny.

  She cried for them, and for herself.

  She felt more alone, more frightened than she’d ever felt in her life. It was up to her now to raise the girls and run the ranch. She would honor her father’s last wish that Baxter not get his hands on Cottonwood.

  A warm hand pressed down on her shoulder. She looked up to find Doctor Sneed standing over her. “I’m sorry, Sunny. He’s gone.”

  Sunny wiped the tears from her face. “I know.” With trembling knees she stood, then leaned over and kissed her father’s cold cheek. Her tears started again and she sobbed. “Good-bye, Daddy. I love you. I’ll always love you.”

  When she straightened, she wiped her face again, forcing an end to her tears. She had no right to stand there and cry when her sisters needed her. Her father would want her to be strong. And practical. And so she would be.

  Doctor Sneed cleared his throat. “I’ll send someone for Mr. Banks.”

  “No.” Her father wouldn’t like the idea of an undertaker. Neither did she, even though Fred Banks was a nice man. Ross Thornton had been a loving man in life. In death, he would be handled with none other than loving hands. “No,” she said again softly. “I’ll take care of Daddy. I’m taking him home.”

  But the living had to come first. She left her father on the table in the doctor’s office and went to find her sisters. Outside on the street, her father’s ranch hands stood waiting for news. For once she was glad her feelings always showed on her face. It eliminated the need for her to say anything. One look, and they knew.

  The oldest of the men, Tom Wilson, her father’s second-in-command, spoke first. “We’re sure sorry, Miss Sunny. Your pa was, well, he was the best. You want to take him home?”

  She swallowed, then nodded.

  Tom nodded back. “We’ll take care of it. When you’re ready to leave town, we’ll be right behind you.”

  Sunny finally found her voice. “Thank you, all of you.”

  Erik Sutherland, the youngest of her father’s hands, stepped forward. “If nobody minds, reckon I’ll go catch up with that posse that took outa here awhile back. They’re not just after bank robbers now, they’re after murderers.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I aim to make sure they stick to the trail.”

  With a start, Sunny realized the four men were waiting for her answer. Oh, God. She was in charge now. With frightening clarity, she understood just what that meant. She’d been in charge of the house and her sisters since her mother’s death. But that was different. Her mother had taught her everything about running a house and raising a family. Those were things Sunny understood and enjoyed. She was a born caretaker.

  But this—being in charge of the whole ranch! Still, it wouldn’t do to show how scared she was. Knowing most men would refuse to work for a woman, Sunny made an instant decision, one she was sure her father would have approved.

  “That’s fine with me,” she told Erik, “but if Tom is willing, I’d rather he take charge, as ranch foreman. It’s what Daddy would want.” She held her breath. She probably should have talked with Tom privately first, but there was no time. This decision needed to be made now, before the other men started making noises about moving on.

  Her worry was apparently for nothing. Tom tugged on the brim of his hat and said, “Yes, ma’am.” Then he turned to Erik, a hard look on his face. “Find that posse, boy, and make sure they do what they’re supposed to do.”

  “I’ll do it,” Erik answered. “I saw which one shot the boss. He’ll get what’s comin’ to him.”

  Sunny shivered despite the warmth of the sun. In the instant he spoke, Erik lost his youthful look of an innocent, fun-loving boy. He looked suddenly harder, older. There must be more to the happy-go-lucky “kid” than she’d known.

  With another shiver, she turned and left the men, eternally grateful she wasn’t the one from whom Erik Sutherland sought vengeance.

  The reminder of the reason for Erik’s words—her father lying cold on Doc Sneed’s table—was almost enough to send her riding out with Erik.

  But no. The girls needed her. She was all they had now. She located them at the Harveys’ house, where Gerta Miller had taken them. All three of Sunny’s sisters liked to visit Sam and Martha’s two daughters, Mary Sue, age ten, and Carrie, their five-year-old.

  On hearing of Ross Thornton’s death, Martha Harvey didn’t give the girls time for tears and questions before she started issuing orders. “Mary Sue, run tell your pa to close the barber shop and hitch the team.”

  “There’s no need for that, Mrs. Harvey,” Sunny told her.

  “There’s every need, girl. We’re not about to let you go through this alone. Carrie, go wash your face and pack your nightgown. Mary Sue, after you tell pa what I said, run on down to Miz Standridge’s place and tell her what’s happened. She’ll be wanting to go with us, I suspect.”

  And so it started, just like it had when her mother had died. When what Sunny wanted most in the world was to crawl away to some dark, private place and hide until her grief became bearable, she would instead be surrounded by people who would not give her the chance to feel sorry for herself. And it was probably for the best, she knew.

  Within half an hour a stream of wagons and riders headed out of town. Ben, who’d worked on the ranch for three years, drove her wagon, so Sunny and the girls rode in back on flour sacks. Amy sat curled up in Sunny’s lap, while Katy and Rachel hugged her sides in misery.

  “Is Daddy going to heaven now, to be with Mama?” Amy asked timidly.

  Sunny’s eyes teared even as the thought of her parents, together again, brought a half-smile to her lips. “He’s already there, honey.”

  “What’s going to happen to us now?” Katy asked. “Who’s going to take care of us?”

  I wish I knew. But she couldn’t let her sisters worry. “We’ll take care of ourselves, just like Daddy taught us. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.”

  But everything wouldn’t be fine, and Sunny knew it. She doubted she knew enough about running the ranch to get by. Yet even if she learned more, how could she see to the ranch, even with Tom acting as foreman, and still take care of her sisters? How could she keep the ranch out of Ian Baxter’s hands? For that was what she was most determined to do. It had been her father’s last request. She would see to it. Somehow.

  She rested her cheek against Amy’s head and tightened her hold on Rachel and Katy. Tom was behind them, driving a hired wagon that carried her father’s sheet-wrapped body. Behind Tom came the Harveys in their wagon; Ella Standridge rode with them. Back toward town Sunny could see the Millers following. By noon tomorrow, the time for the burying, nearly all the county would be at the ranch paying their last respects to a man well-liked by everyone.

  It was late afternoon by the time they reached the ranch. Ben helped Sunny and her sisters down from the wagon, then Tom approached. His sad eyes held a question. Sunny squared her shoulders. Foreman he may be, but she still had to make some decisions herself.

  By the time she finished quietly giving orders, her father lay in the parlor on a wide board supported by two barrels. Tom and the boys were moving into the barn for the night to make room in the bunkhouse for the overnight guests. In the barn, Tom would direct the building of a box for the burying.

  Carla Miller and Katy took charge of the smaller children and herded them into the kitchen f
or a light supper.

  Sunny followed them and watched Mrs. Harvey, Ella Standridge, and Gerta Miller carry in the food they had hurriedly gathered and brought with them: two fresh loaves of white bread, a cured ham, an apple pie. Those who came tomorrow would bring more, Sunny knew.

  She didn’t realize it was dark until Ella Standridge lit the lamps. Sunny sat at the kitchen table and listened as Katy and Carla put Rachel and Amy and the Harvey girls to bed.

  Arrangements were made for the women to sleep in the house, the men in the bunkhouse. Then Sunny could put it off no longer. It was time to prepare her father. She knew what had to be done; she’d helped her father bathe and dress her mother. She dreaded it. It was so…final. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself into the parlor.

  She gasped and nearly stumbled. Three lamps cast light to all corners of the room. The men had removed the sheet her father had been wrapped in. He lay there on that board as though he were only napping. Except for the paleness of his face and hands, he looked like he might get up any minute and ask when supper would be ready. But she knew it wasn’t true. Ross Thornton would never get up and walk on this earth again.

  Her eyes and nose stung. Daddy.

  The light in the room seemed to dim. Sunny blinked to clear her vision. But it wasn’t her tears that darkened the room, it was the presence of others. The three women had followed her.

  “You aren’t alone, child,” Mrs. Miller said. “We’ll help you, if you’ll let us.”

  Sunny’s knees nearly buckled in gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I’ve got water heating on the stove to bathe him with,” Mrs. Harvey told her quietly.

  Sunny looked at her father’s face. A frightening sense of aloneness nearly suffocate her. She knew the water didn’t need to be warmed; her father would never feel the cold now. Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of bathing him in cold water. Once more, she was grateful.

  With trembling hands, Sunny ignored as best she could the splattered blood and reached to tug off her father’s leather vest. It was no easy task to undress such a large man who couldn’t offer any help at all. With the women’s help, the vest finally came off and out from under his back.

  Something clattered to the floor. Sunny jerked and felt her heart pound. Silly. It was only something from the vest pockets. A deep breath helped ease her trembling. She stooped and retrieved two silver dollars, a pocket knife, tobacco pouch and cigarette papers, and two other folded pieces of paper. She fondled them lovingly; they were some of the last things her father had touched. With care, she placed them in a cubby hole of his rolltop desk in the far corner of the parlor.

  When she returned to finish undressing him she unbuttoned his shirt. Her shaking grew worse. Then, blessed relief. Doctor Sneed had wrapped bandages around her father’s chest and abdomen to conceal those awful, gaping wounds. Once again she was grateful for the kindness of others.

  When her father was down to his drawers, Mrs. Harvey brought the warm water from the stove. Sunny bathed his face, neck, and hands. The women helped her dress him in his best white shirt and black suit, complete with the black string tie with silver tips he wore for special occasions.

  He’d always said a man ought to look his best the day he married, the day his first child was born, and the day he died.

  Daddy, Daddy, what am I supposed to do without you? her heart cried.

  And from somewhere deep inside her mind her father’s voice came to her. Trust your instincts, Sunshine.

  The thought didn’t help. Her instinct just then was to run away and hide. But she knew that wasn’t possible. First there was the death watch—for she couldn’t leave her father lying there alone. Tomorrow would come the funeral, the burial, and the countless condolences from friends and neighbors.

  Mrs. Harvey, Gerta Miller, and Ella Standridge took turns sitting with Sunny throughout the night. The lamps had been doused and a lone candle glowed softly on the mantle over her father’s head. Even Katy stayed for a while, until Sunny sent her to bed.

  Sunny kept faithful watch all night on the body that once housed her father’s spirit. But for Ash McCord, she might very well be lying on her own board, hands folded peacefully across her chest. Her sisters would have been alone then, with no one to look after them.

  Thank you, God, for sending Ash McCord to save me.

  She’d been selfish at Doctor Sneed’s. She’d been so taken up with her own misery that she hadn’t even asked about the man who’d saved her life.

  She didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until Ella Standridge spoke. “Doc said Asher would…recover.”

  Sunny was too relieved to learn he was still alive to question Ella’s hesitation over that last word. A few moments later Ella went to bed and Gerta Miller came and sat with Sunny.

  Near daylight, Mrs. Miller left her alone in her vigil. A few minutes later Sunny heard the woman shoving wood into the cook stove. Soon soft voices and clanking stove lids told her breakfast was underway.

  Sunny finally rose, her back and legs stiff from sitting all night. She went to her room and washed her face, brushed her hair, and changed into her blue dress—the one her father had liked so much—then joined the others in the kitchen.

  The three women took one look at her and gasped in unison.

  Sunny smiled slightly and shrugged. “Daddy’s last words were, ‘Don’t wear black.’“

  Mrs. Harvey frowned, then turned slowly back to the stove.

  Mrs. Miller shook her head. “Well I’ll swan, child. What are people going to think?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Ella Standridge said. “I think Sunny shows courage by honoring a request she knows is going to raise a few eyebrows in this county. And I say Ross Thornton was right. Wearing black doesn’t mean a thing. It’s how you treated the dear departed before they were departed that counts.” She placed her hand on Sunny’s shoulder. “And no man was ever loved more by his family than Ross was by his daughters. That’s what I think.”

  “I guess I never looked at it like that,” Mrs. Miller confessed.

  Mrs. Harvey moved the coffee pot to a cooler spot on the stove. “You just might have something there, Ella.”

  Relief, and that same gratitude she’d felt the night before, swelled in Sunny’s breast. She pressed her cheek to Ella’s. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  After breakfast there seemed to be a million things to do. Sunny was grateful. The tasks made the morning move swiftly. While standing at the counter washing dishes, she glanced out the back window. Two of her father’s drovers were silhouetted against the dull gray sky as they dug a grave next to her mother’s up on the rise.

  The tears started again.

  At a shout from in front of the house, Sunny shook herself and dried her tears. More people were arriving. She had to hold herself together.

  Families in wagons and men on horseback poured into the ranch yard all morning. They brought food and condolences and managed somehow in all the confusion to instill Sunny with a feeling of strength. She would get through this. She would survive.

  The Baptist preacher and his wife arrived last.

  The men placed Ross Thornton in the box they’d built and loaded him into the back of the ranch wagon. Sunny and her sisters, shivering in the cold, hands tightly joined, followed on foot, with the other mourners, now numbering around fifty, following them.

  After the prayers and eulogy, Sunny put her arms around her sisters and lifted her head to the sky. “Rock of ages, cleft for me…”

  Just as her voice broke, others joined in and helped her and her sisters sing her mother’s, and therefore her father’s, favorite hymn.

  At the end of the song, the voices trailed away on the chill midday air.

  The cover made a grating sound as the men slid it into place on the coffin, forever hiding Ross Thornton’s face. Sunny hugged her sisters tightly against her sides. Each hammer blow on the nails felt like it was striking at her own he
art.

  Katy turned her face against Sunny’s shoulder and sobbed. Rachel and Amy joined her. Sunny was able to hold her tears back until the men lowered the box into the ground and the first spadeful of dirt struck the lid with a dull thud. The continued scrape of the spade and thud of the dirt landing on the coffin sent her tears overflowing.

  By the time the men finished filling in the grave, Sunny managed to pull herself together. She gazed at the fresh mound of dirt with its crude wooden cross at the head. She’d have to order a stone, one to match Mama’s.

  Ten feet beyond her parents’ graves were two others, the final resting places of Mary and Nathan McCord.

  In fewer than fifteen years, these four people, and undoubtedly others, had died on this land. It was a harsh, unforgiving place. But to Sunny, as it had been to her parents and surely the McCord’s, too, it was home. It was the only real home she’d ever known, and she loved it.

  Come what may, she vowed then and there over those four graves that she would never leave Cottonwood Ranch. Never.

  With a final, silent good-bye, Sunny led her sisters back down the hill to the house. Inside it was so crowded she could scarcely make her way through the press of people.

  Since it was too cold to set up tables outside for eating, the meal was being handled indoors in shifts. The men ate first. When they finished, the women would serve the children, then themselves.

  Someone, Sam Harvey, maybe, talked lowly at one end of the table. “Good thing Baxter left for San Antonio yesterday morning, instead of going in to work at the bank. Why, bound to that wheelchair the way he is, he wouldn’t have stood a chance against those robbers. And you know he would have tried to stop them. We would have lost two good men, instead of one.”

  “Yep,” someone else answered. “Lucky.”

  Lucky. Why hadn’t her father been lucky? Sunny blinked to clear her vision.

  “Here’s our poor little orphans now,” the preacher’s wife cried upon spotting them.

  Sunny cringed. She knew Mrs. Holden must have some redeeming qualities, or a nice man like Preacher Holden would never have married her. But to Sunny the woman had always seemed overzealous, overpious, and overloud. It was a fact that she was also overweight—in the extreme. She and the rail-thin, quiet, friendly reverend seemed mismatched.