Dorothy Garlock

by This Loving Land

  “You were expecting children? Didn’t Mr. McLean tell you about me and my brother?”

  “Well, yes’m, he did. But he didn’t say nothin’ ’bout one of ya bein’ so growed-up.”

  “One of us is indeed growed up, as you can see.” Pride added a touch of hauteur to her voice.

  “Yes’m. He tol’ me a boy and young lady. I jist never give it no thought you’d be so growed and purty.”

  “You got a room or don’t ya?” The stage driver was impatient to be on his way.

  “They got a room. Give me the key.” Bulldog picked up the key, lifted the trunk, and started up the stairs.

  “He’ll look after you, miss. Don’t pay no never mind to how he looks, but listen to what he says.” The driver chuckled.

  “Thank you,” Summer called after the ambling form of their driver.

  The room at the end of the upstairs hall was small, but had a good-sized bed and a cot. A bureau and washstand with a blue-glazed pitcher and bowl were the only other furnishings.

  Bulldog set the trunk at the foot of the bed, and John Austin went immediately to the window to look down on the busy street.

  “Ma’am, I’m just plain old sorry I warn’t thar to meet ya.”

  Summer smiled. Her heart was lighter than it had been in months. This man, this small, grizzled cowboy, was her first link with the Sam McLean who would take care of them. All she had to do, her mother said, was tell him who she was. He would take the responsibility for John Austin.

  “It’s all right. The driver looked after us.” Her mouth curved in a lovely, sweet smile and her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Will Mr. McLean be coming for us?”

  Bulldog looked uncomfortable. “No, ma’am.”

  It was the expression and not the words that affected her. She went quite still, as if she were suddenly depleted of all strength. Her hands pressed down the sides of her dress.

  “You’re taking us to him?”

  “No, ma’am . . . yes’m . . . thar aint nothin’ but a creek a’tween the two places. Yore place is fixed up real good fer ya, and ya can have a Mex woman to come and stay if ya wants.” His hard hands twisted his hat. He sensed her disappointment and didn’t know what to say.

  Disappointment wasn’t exactly the word for what Summer felt. Heartsick might have described her feelings better, or anger at herself for her impossible dreams. And dream she had, because she needed hope badly. She had built up an imagined figure; a tall, strong rancher, hard from life on the prairie, but kind. He would be someone of their own . . . a second father, a friend. Was it possible her mother had been mistaken? That Sam McLean didn’t want to be responsible for them? How could she and John Austin make a living out on a homestead, even if it was just across the creek from Sam McLean’s?

  Summer swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked. Her small, round chin tilted, her dignity returned in the guise of very stiff, proud posture.

  “It was kind of Mr. McLean to see us to our . . . ah . . . homestead. Please express our appreciation and tell him we’ll try not to be a bother.” Summer’s lips pressed together, revealing more in silence than in words.

  Bulldog scratched his head and looked down at his feet.

  “Can I trouble you for one more thing?” Summer was sorry now, impatient with herself for her cool words. “My brother will be hungry, and I don’t know if we should go down on the street alone.”

  “No, ma’am, ya ain’t better. Anything happen to ya and I’d have my hide took right off.” His faded blue eyes crinkled when he grinned. “I think it best to have some grub sent up fer ya and the boy. And—ma’am, I’ll be here in the mornin’ to take you all out to the Keep. Ain’t no more than twenty-five or thirty miles out. McLean’s Keep reaches way out to Spider Mountain. Now, that’s a fer piece.”

  “McLean’s Keep? Is that Mr. McLean’s ranch?”

  “Yup.”

  It was clear he was not giving out any more information about his employer than he had to.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bulldog. It isn’t your fault that Mr. McLean didn’t choose to meet us. There must be a reason, and I’d rather he not know of my disappointment and think us ungrateful for what he’s already done for us.”

  John Austin, leaning forward, elbows on the window sill and chin cupped in his hands, was not listening. He was watching the street, and particularly a fight in progress in front of the saloon. He always left everything to Summer. Summer would know how to handle things. She always did.

  “The one with the whiskers will win,” he announced suddenly.

  “Win what, John Austin?” Summer was glad her brother had said something.

  They moved to the window and looked over the boy’s head to the street below. Bulldog chuckled.

  “No, he won’t, boy. That’s ol’ Cal Hardy down thar. He’s a fightin’ son-of-a-bitch. He can whip his weight in wild cats afore breakfast. Yup, that ol’ Cal’s a fightin’ bastard.”

  Summer gritted her teeth to keep from saying the words that sprang to her lips. Nothing passed John Austin’s ears and eyes!

  “He won’t win this time, Mr. Bulldog. The other man is not as strong, but when he hits he puts all his weight behind the blow, while that man, Cal, only uses his arms, and he’s making himself tired, too, the way he struts around. The other man don’t waste his strength a’tall. See, see how he comes up on one foot when he hits?”

  “Dad-burnit! Ya just might have somethin’ thar!” Bulldog slapped John Austin on the back. “It’s ’bout time someone whupped that bastard s ass.”

  “Please. . . .”

  Bulldog was so wrapped up in the excitement of the fight that- he didn’t hear the word that burst from Summer’s lips.

  “How do you know that Cal’s mother didn’t marry his father, Mr. Bulldog?”

  “John Austin!” Summer’s face crimsoned. She was used to her brother’s insatiable curiosity, but strangers were sometimes put off by him. But she needn’t have worried about Bulldog. He was too interested in the fight to have noticed what the boy said.

  John Austin looked up at his sister, inquiringly, to see what caused her rebuke.

  “A bastard is the child of a woman who ain’t married, Summer. I read it in the dictionary. I just wanted to know if Mr. Bulldog was a friend of Cal’s mother.”

  Summer said nothing as she brushed the dark hair back from the boy’s forehead and pressed his head against her. John Austin was exceptionally bright. By the age of three he had known all his letters, was able to write his name and draw pictures. At five, he could read all the books the family possessed, and any other reading material made available by people passing on the road near their home, from the newspaper to wanted posters. Summer recognized his talent for drawing after his one glimpse of a train. He made a sketch of it, complete with locomotive, cars and caboose. She was amazed at her brother’s ability to remember detail. However, in other, simpler things, childish things, he was completely inept.

  Bulldog took off his hat and slapped it against his leg. “Yore right as rain, young feller. Ol’ Cal got his ass whupped proper! He shore got his squawker plucked this time. He won’t be a crowin’ fer a while!”

  John Austin’s eyes glinted as he glanced at his sister. This was trashy talk, and people with breeding didn’t talk this way, so Summer said. His sister was looking out the window, so he smiled indulgently at the grizzled cowboy. He liked him a lot.

  “If we’d a made a bet, buster, you’d a won my drawers! I wouldn’t a bet a pinch of snuff on that skinny feller.” Bulldog’s eyes shifted down and he backed away from the window. “Got to be a goin’. I’ll tell Graves to send ya some grub up.” He went to the door. “I’ll be back in the morning ta fetch ya home.”

  “Fetch you home.” The words flashed across Summer’s mind, and a picture flicked behind her eyes. A cabin set beneath a spreading oak. A rope swing made from a sack of straw . . . her legs wrapped around the sack and someone pushing her back and forth. The breeze hit her face as sh
e went higher and higher. She was commanded to hold tightly in the same voice that said, “Go get all growed up and I’ll come and fetch you home.” The picture faded and she turned to the man waiting beside the door.

  “We’ll be ready.”

  She scarcely heard the door close or the boot heels pounding down the plank stairs. She was searching out the window for something that had caught her attention before Bulldog spoke. There he was, leaning against the side of the building. He was tall and powerful, though not very heavy in build. Something about the way he carried himself drew her eyes to him. They had settled on him and couldn’t seem to look away. She had noticed him skirting the crowd that surrounded the fight. He was the only person on the street who didn’t stop to watch. He stood quietly and lit a smoke. His hat was pulled down low and the light from the flared match scarcely made a pinpoint of light in his cupped hands.

  He moved away from the building and strode across the road. Summer watched. He walked as if he owned the earth! Bulldog emerged from under the hotel porch and hurried to meet him. He talked. The tall man tilted his head as if listening intently. Bulldog lifted his hand toward the upper window of the hotel. The man stood stonestill, never lifting his head to glance up. Finally, he started walking down the street. Bulldog’s shorter legs worked to keep pace with him. The two passed out of Summer’s sight and she felt odd and nervous, knowing something was going to happen—something apart from just the new life on their old homestead. Something, she felt, that for her was truly new and unimaginable.

  Two

  While her brother leaned on the window sill, oblivious to everything except the sights, sounds and smells of the street, Summer washed her face and hands. Every so often, she thought she could hear a sound coming from the other side of the thin wall and would turn her head a little, trying to catch the sound.

  For a minute, she heard nothing. Then the sound came again and she knew what it was. A child was crying. She glanced at John Austin. It seemed so long ago that he was a child, with only crying to speak for what hurt him or what he needed. It was hard for her to believe this little brother of hers was merely eight years old. He had not even cried when their mother died. Instead, he had comforted her, telling her that Mama had gone to heaven to meet Papa. She would be able to walk there and would be happy.

  A pounding on the door brought her up with a start, and she went to it. The hotel man stood there with a pan of stew, bowls, a flat tin of cornbread and a jug of milk, all balanced on a heavy tray. He set the tray on the bureau.

  “Leave the pots outside the door when yore done, or else come down with ’em.” His bold eyes appraised her.

  “I’ll leave them in the hall,” she said stiffly, and moved to close the door the instant he passed through. Seconds later, she heard a loud thumping, and pulled the door ajar. The man was viciously kicking the door down the hall.

  “Hush yore mouth! I ain’t a havin’ no goddam bawlin’, hear? Yore botherin’ payin’ lodgers.” “A louder wail came from the room, as if the child were suddenly terrified by the man’s loud voice.

  “Is that child alone?” Summer demanded, coming out into the dimly-lit hallway.

  The man turned on her angrily. “She shore as hell better be! I ain’t havin’ no whorin’ done in my hotel! I hadn’t ort to a let her leave the snotty-nosed brat here. I never figured she’d bawl all night.”

  “Where is her mother?”

  “At the dance hall or the saloon. A whore’s what she is!”

  Summer’s lips tightened. “Well . . . that’s not the child’s fault. Open the door, and I’ll talk to her.”

  “She locks the door afore she goes off nights.”

  “I can’t believe a mother would do such a thing. What . . . what if this building caught fire?”

  “I got me a notion,” he growled, ignoring the question, “to haul that squallin’ brat over to the dance hall. I ain’t a havin’ no more of it.”

  “That’s no place for a child, and you know it. Open the door, and I’ll take care of her until morning.” Summer’s anger was rising.

  “I’d have to get the key,” he protested.

  “Then go get it!” She pulled herself up to her full height of five feet, four inches and glared at him.

  He looked for a moment as if he were going to protest again, but seeing that she was not going to back down, he growled something under his breath and turned away. At the head of the stairs, he looked back at her standing firmly by the door, her arms folded, watching him.

  “Damn lucky fer you I ain’t a wantin’ to tangle with that bastard Bulldog works fer.” Still growling to himself, he stomped back down the stairs.

  Summer kept her back straight and her chin lifted until the man was out of sight. It wouldn’t do for him to know how tired and small she really felt. She placed her ear to the door. The child’s sobs were ragged.

  The room was dark as night when she opened the door. The faint glow from the lamp in the hall showed the outline of the bed and the small bundle huddled on it. Large, wet eyes looked up at Summer from a chubby face framed by long, curly hair. Small lips trembled as she peered past Summer toward the hotel man standing beside the door.

  “Come stay with me until your mama comes back.” Summer held out her arms and the little girl went into them eagerly and hid her face against her shoulder. Summer got to her feet holding the child.

  “I’ll take care of her,” she said to the sullen man as she walked past.

  In her own room, she kicked the door shut, and her eyes sought her brother. He was still looking out the window, and she doubted if he knew she had been gone.

  The child’s large, sad eyes tugged at her heart. She couldn’t be more than three years old. And such a beautiful child, even in the huge shapeless nightdress. Her hair was copper-brown and curled in tight ringlets. A spattering of freckles crossed her short, pert little nose. She looked around the room with interest and her eyes caught John Austin by the window.

  “What’s your name?” Summer asked as she poured water into the wash bowl. She wet a cloth and wiped the child’s face.

  The little girl hiccoughed. “Mary Evelyn.”

  Summer barely heard the little girl’s shy voice.

  “My name is Summer and the boy is my brother. His name is John Austin.”

  Shaken from his reverie, John Austin turned to look with astonishment at the little girl sitting on the cot.

  “Where’d she come from?”

  “From the room next door. She’s going to stay with us till her mama comes back.”

  The two children eyed each other.

  A pleased smile came over John Austin’s face. He went to the cot, sat down, and picked up the little girl’s hand.

  “She’s so pretty, Summer. Look at that curly hair.” He reached up and pushed the hair back from the child’s face. “What’s she been cryin’ for?”

  Summer had thought nothing her brother could do would surprise her anymore, but she wasn’t prepared for his interest in and compassion for the little girl. Involuntary tears of love sprang into her eyes, and she swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “I suspect she’s hungry.” She lifted the lid on the stew pot. “Wash your hands, dear, and I’ll dish up the stew.”

  By the time the meal was over, the little girl’s eyes were dry, and only wet, spikey lashes remained. She smiled often. Once she laughed out loud at John Austin’s antics.

  Seeing them together, Summer thought she could remember another time when a small child gazed with adoration at a boy; a tall, slim, dark-haired boy, who held her hand and walked with her on a log spanning a creek. He told her not to be afraid; and because he asked it, she wasn’t. The child was herself, but the boy . . . ? Was he just a figment of her imagination?

  These flashes were so brief—she couldn’t be sure if it was a memory or a wishful dream.

  She bedded John Austin down on.the cot and lay, fully clothed, beside Mary on the bed. The child snuggled up to her and was s
oon asleep. Resentment toward the child’s mother curled deep in Summer’s stomach. She and John Austin would be gone tomorrow, and then what would become of the little girl?

  Soon the nagging worry of how she and her brother were going to survive out on a homestead, without having to depend on Sam McLean for every bite of food that went into their mouths, crowded all other thoughts from her mind. It wasn’t too late to put in a garden. She could certainly do that. But she needed money for other things; shoes, yard goods, a warm coat for John Austin. They shouldn’t have come! The money spent on the stage fares would have kept them for a long time if they had stayed in the Piney Woods. One thing was sure, she couldn’t ask Sam McLean for any more help. Although his letter had promised no more than that a homestead was waiting for them, she had expected more. Now she had only herself to blame.

  Summer couldn’t prevent her eyelids from drooping. She was tired and regretful, regardless of the promise she had made to her dying mother. They had traveled all day for many days, and her body ached from the bouncing stage. Soon sleep came, though she didn’t know it.

  A piercing scream and the slamming of a door woke her. She tried to gather her wits. She shook her head, stretched her stiff back, and came to her senses. It had to be the child’s mother.

  Summer hurried to the door and fumbled with the key. The instant she stepped into the hall, another door opened and a man sprang into the hallway. Summer almost laughed. He wore only his breeches and a hat and had two big six-shooters in his hands.

  “What the hell?”

  A large blonde woman, making no attempt to cover her voluptuous breasts, came out of the man’s room.

  “Come on back, honeybunch.” She clutched his arm and rubbed her bare bosom against him.

  With face aflame and eyes averted, Summer edged past them.