Untethered

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  The only thing Cricket was uncertain of was whether she would drop dead of a broken heart if her father rode into town with Heathro Thibodaux’s body wrapped in a blanket and draped over the back of a horse. In that moment, she thought that, though she could endure most anything on earth that didn’t bleed her life from her, she was not sure she could endure Heath’s death.

  “Someone saw to Archie, didn’t they, Ada?” Cricket asked, suddenly needing to distract her thoughts.

  “Yes, Cricket,” Ada answered with a smile. “He’s been brushed, rubbed, watered, and well fed. Mr. Burroughs says that he’ll be fine.”

  Cricket smiled a little. “Good. Good. He’s an amazin’ horse.”

  “Yes,” Ada agreed softly.

  Cricket thought of something then—though she didn’t quite know why the matter popped into her head at that moment. Still, it made her smile, and she thought she might be able to bring a smile to Ada’s lips as well.

  “Ada?” Cricket began.

  “Yes?” Ada’s eyes lit up like fireworks. Cricket knew it was for the sake that she hoped Cricket was feeling better. “Remember the day I asked you whether or not you and Daddy were gonna have any babies?”

  Cricket almost giggled when she noticed that the tempo of Ada’s rocking was faster suddenly.

  “Yes,” Ada admitted. “What of it?”

  “Well, I just thought it might ease your mind to know that you don’t have to explain everything to me anymore,” Cricket answered. “I know all about it now.”

  Ada’s rocking came to an abrupt stop. Cricket looked to her to find her sitting perfectly still—eyes wide as supper plates, pale as a sheet, as if she’d only just seen a ghostly apparition.

  “H-how do you know all about it, Cricket?” Ada ventured, her lower lip quivering as her eyes filled with tears. “Did those men…those outlaws…did they…”

  Cricket gasped as realization of what Ada must be thinking thumped her. “Oh no! No, no, no, Ada! Nothin’ like that! Mr. Thibodaux made sure—”

  “Mr. Thibodaux?” Ada exclaimed as a dainty hand leapt to her bosom. “Did Mr. Thibodaux…did he…did he show you—”

  “Oh, heavens no!” Cricket desperately interrupted, blushing from the hairs on her head to the tips of her toes. “No! I just meant…I-I…” She’d meant to relieve Ada’s mind, not horrify and frighten her. “I just meant that you don’t have to worry about bein’ the one to explain to me all the parts Daddy left out when it comes to what really happens for babies to be born. Vilma told us while we were captive. Vilma and Pearl, anyway.”

  Ada brushed a stray tear from her cheek, smiling with relief and giggling a little. “Oh, good. You about gave me a fit of apoplexy, Cricket. There for a minute I thought you and Mr. Thibodaux had…” Cricket blushed as Ada sighed again and smiled. She patted Cricket lovingly on the knee. “Well, though I’m quite sure Vilma Stanley knows the particulars of it, I’m very sure that she does not know the most important details of…the reasons…the importance of…I’m sure she does not know, bein’ that she can’t possibly have the experience…I’m sure she does not know the emotional aspects of what goes on between a husband and wife who are truly, truly, and deeply in love when…when…”

  “When what?” Cricket asked. She was astonished at how quickly Ada’s cheeks had gone from whitewash to roses.

  But Ada’s attention was suddenly arrested by something else. “Cricket? Do you hear riders?”

  Cricket held her breath. She did hear it—the sound of horses approaching from the darkness. Leaping to her feet, she dashed off the porch, surprising even herself with having the vitality left to dash anywhere.

  Ada was at her side in an instant, and Cricket reached for her hand, grasping it for support. In silence they stared together into the darkness—listened as the approaching clop-clop of horses and riders grew nearer.

  “Daddy?” Cricket breathed as she began to discern the outline of a man astride his horse—a large man—a man who sat his saddle exactly as her father did.

  She started to run to him, but Ada gripped her hand tight—grabbed her arm and stayed her. “Wait, Cricket. Only wait.”

  Cricket’s eyes were so full of tears they burned like they were aflame. Her breath was so ragged she was more softly panting than breathing.

  At last her father was near enough that when the sun suddenly broke the horizon in the east, she saw him clearly—saw Cooper Keel riding just behind him. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw then that her father and Cooper led eight other horses at their backs. Eight horses—and each saddled horse had an outlaw’s body draped over it.

  Yet as a fresh, new ray of sunshine suddenly beamed across the heavens, Cricket collapsed to her knees when she saw that following the eight horses laden with eight corpses was one more horse—a horse with a rider sitting slumped in its saddle—a rider far more handsome than any other man to ever walk the earth! There, riding into Pike’s Creek—a white bandage at one shoulder, weary and dirty, but fully, beautifully, and miraculously still alive—was Heathro Thibodaux.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Well, of course I know who stitched this quilt, Cooper Keel,’ I told him,” Maymee Maloney said as she poured another cup of cherry and blueberry tea for Cricket. “I told Cooper, ‘There’s only one woman in town that stitches this perfectly…and that’s Ann Burroughs,’ I said.” Mrs. Maloney offered Cricket another pastry and continued, “And I’ll tell you one thing. I have never in all my years of knowin’ Cooper Keel seen a smile spread across his face the likes of what the mention of Ann Burroughs coaxed out. No, sirree. Never! And that’s countin’ the years his wife was alive and with him…God rest her soul.”

  Cricket smiled, trying not to reveal how perfectly delighted she was that Cooper Keel had inquired of Mrs. Maloney concerning the quilt he’d had left on his doorstep weeks before—or how further delighted she was that Mrs. Maloney recognized Ann’s unusually beautiful quilt stitch and told Mr. Keel.

  “Well,” Mrs. Maloney rambled on, “when I saw the size of that smile on his face and the twinkle that jumped right down from the stars above to land in his handsome eyes, I asked Cooper right then and there…just flat out asked him if he had any, you know, aspirations where Ann Burroughs was concerned.”

  Cricket’s eyebrows sprung into hopeful arches. “And what did he say?”

  Mrs. Maloney paused, grinning a purely mischievous smile. She picked up her cup of cherry and blueberry tea, took a long, slow sip, and set the cup down again.

  “Well?” Cricket urged. “You have to tell me what he said!”

  Maymee Maloney leaned closer to Cricket. “Well, when I asked Cooper Keel if he had any of those aspirin’-to-woo-a-woman thoughts where Ann Burroughs was concerned…do you know what he answered me?”

  “What?” Cricket giggled, in agony with curiosity.

  Mrs. Maloney smiled. “He said, ‘Hell yes, Maymee Maloney! I plan on marryin’ that girl one day!’ That’s what he said.” Mrs. Maloney’s made an expression of firm pointedness. “ ‘Hell yes,’ he said. Right here in my house.” Mrs. Maloney was quick to add, “But don’t you go tellin’ Ann nothin’ about it now, Cricket. You let things unfold the way they’re meant to unfold, you hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cricket sighed. She picked up her teacup and inhaled the delicate aroma of Mrs. Maloney’s own blended cherry and blueberry tea. “I won’t say a word. Not one word.”

  “You best not,” Maymee reiterated. “Love is a delicate thing. One false move or interference can really pop out a spoke.”

  “Yes, it can,” Cricket mumbled, sipping her tea and trying not to think of the only thing that was ever on her mind—the only person that was ever on her mind—Heathro Thibodaux.

  “And Hudson Oliver and Miss Marie King?” Mrs. Maloney began. “I hear the date is set for August…at long last.”

  Cricket nodded. “Yep. August nineteenth! Oh, I’ll sleep better once those two are finally married.”

  “Y
ou’ll sleep better?” Mrs. Maloney asked, giggling. “Why’s that?”

  Cricket shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s been so very long in comin’…or because I just know those two were meant for each other.” She shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just want them married, that’s all.”

  “And what about yourself, sugar bean?” Mrs. Maloney ventured. The old woman placed her elbows on the table and leaned across it toward Cricket. “Why won’t you just tie that Heathro Thibodaux up in a chair and seduce the livin’ life out of him, darlin’?”

  But Cricket shook her head—even as tears welled in her eyes. “I-I can’t. He…he…I-I think he remembers bad things when he looks at me now.”

  “Oh, bull roar, girl!” Mrs. Maloney gruffed. “I’ve seen the two of you…walkin’ around each other like you think nobody notices that invisible attraction connectin’ you to one another.” She slapped the table with one hand. “I’m tellin’ you that boy is yours for the takin’, Magnolia.” She leaned back in her chair, the mischievous grin returning to her face. “What went on out there between you two, honey? Somethin’ did, I know it. Every one of you girls has told the story over and over. You all got taken by Heck Alford and his gang of outlaws. They was headin’ for New Orleans when along come Heathro Thibodaux. He tricks ol’ Heck into believin’ he’s workin’ for some brothel man, rides along with you all for a few days…and quick as a mouse, you all are on your way back to Pike’s Creek.” Mrs. Maloney’s eyes narrowed as she studied Cricket with suspicion. “Only thing is, there’s a few things I keep hearin’ repeated. ‘Cricket helped Mr. Thibodaux,’ for one. ‘While Cricket and Mr. Thibodaux were away from the group’ is another.”

  Cricket shrugged and shook her head. “I-I helped plan it…the escape and all. He told me I was the strongest and that he knew I would do as he told me.”

  “Did he now?” Mrs. Maloney chuckled. “Hmmm. Well,” she sighed, “at least Hudson and Marie are on their way to wedded bliss. Looks like Ann will be followin’ shortly. And word is Wyatt Stanley suddenly has his eye on you.”

  Cricket’s stomach churned. “Wyatt Stanley is a mousy, manipulative idiot,” she mumbled.

  “I agree,” Mrs. Maloney said with a nod. “So why don’t you stomp on that little mouse of a Stanley man and tie Heathro up to a chair—”

  “And have my way with him,” Cricket finished with a giggle. “I know, I know.” It was time to change the course of their conversation. Thus, Cricket asked, “And how’s ol’ Nobody MacGee doin’ these days, hmm?”

  Mrs. Maloney’s smiling eyes lit up. “Oh, me and old Nobody…” She slowly shook her head for dramatics as she said, “We’ve been doin’ some sparkin’ that would make Marie King and Hudson Oliver blush.”

  Cricket burst into laughter. “Then that is some might passionate sparkin’!”

  “Mmm-hmm!” Mrs. Maloney affirmed. “Why, my mouth just takes to waterin’ at the very thought of it! Do you know what I mean by that, sugar?”

  Cricket blushed a little and glanced down to her teacup—but nodded.

  “Mmm-hmmm. I thought you might,” Mrs. Maloney mumbled. “I just thought you might.”

  ❦

  Later that afternoon, as Cricket slowly meandered home from her visit with Mrs. Maloney, she tried to think about anything but Heath. She tried to concentrate on the little set of ragdolls she was finishing for Shanny Lou Harty and her little sister Marianne. Shanny Lou and Marianne had been Cricket’s choice for the Friday night shenanigans she, Vilma, Marie, and Ann had planned. It would be their first night of shenanigans since Heath had gunned down Heck Alford and the rest of his gang. But, of course, even the plans for Friday night couldn’t keep Heath from her mind.

  Cricket stepped off the dirt road and into the soft, cool grass. It felt better on her bare feet, and she squinched her toes several times, relishing the feel of the green grass blades between her toes.

  “Hey there, Cricket!” Mr. King called as he drove his wagon past.

  “Hey, Mr. King!” Cricket returned with a smile.

  Mr. King nodded and winked at Cricket, and she felt warmed and comforted inside.

  She looked up and around her. Mrs. Stanley paused before entering the general store when she caught sight of Cricket. The preacher’s wife smiled and waved, and Cricket smiled and waved back. It seemed that, since the day Cricket had slapped her husband silly, Mrs. Stanley could not smile and wave often enough at her. Reverend Stanley had said nothing about the incident—well, not really. He’d given a sermon two Sundays later, concerning how one could always know who the better man in life was by who was turning the other cheek and who was delivering the blow.

  Zeke Cranford had nearly laid out Edgar Stanley again right then and there in the church, but Ada placed a hand on his thigh, instantly calming him.

  Cricket didn’t feel much like returning home yet—and for two reasons. For one, she didn’t look forward to dusting and oiling the furniture the way she and Ada had planned. And for another reason—she was still trying not to startle at the sudden appearance of her own shadow.

  Naturally, she hadn’t slept well since returning from being abducted. But it was the near constant sensation of insecurity and fear that accompanied her that bothered her most. In fact, in the two weeks since Heath had saved them all, Cricket had taken to forcing herself to walk out to Mr. Burroughs’s pasture—and even to the old Morgan house, but only once. Each time she wandered too far from home, Cricket would nearly be panic-stricken with anxiety—and she was determined not to let fear win. She was the fighter, and she continued to fight.

  And so Cricket meandered along, pausing to squinch the grass between her toes, to pluck a honeysuckle bloom and savor its sweet nectar, or to simply gaze up at the sky and remind herself that all was well. Nearly all, at least. It wasn’t long before Cricket found herself at the fence surrounding the very pasture through which Heath’s bull had chased her.

  Sighing, she sat down in the grass—in the very spot where Heath had pulled the splinter from her foot and rubbed his medicinal spit onto the wound. As Cricket closed her eyes, the euphoric memory of the night in the abandoned barn washed over her—of Heath caring for the cigar burn on her chest with the same medicinal spit he’s used to soothe her foot.

  Goose bumps raced over every inch of her body as she bathed in the returning sensations his kisses that night had rained on her. Heath owned her from that moment on. He’d owned her before that moment—long before! Didn’t he know he did? Didn’t he care that he did?

  Two weeks they’d all been back. Two long weeks in which Cricket had hardly seen Heath—and when she had seen him, he’d only smiled at her as a strange sort of distant, hollow look rose in his beautiful blue eyes. He’d said, “Hello,” on three occasions—“Good afternoon, Miss Magnolia,” on two others—but nothing else. Cricket had unwillingly at first begun to understand that what had transpired between them had been borne of fear, desperation, and need. Though her heart was as solidly gripped in Heath’s hand as it had been all along, his seemed to have flittered from her.

  Perhaps men were different. Perhaps men didn’t feel as deeply or with the excruciating intensity that women did. Those were often Cricket’s thoughts—that perhaps what had been heavenly to her had only been a passing thought for him. Yet she didn’t truly believe that. It’s just what she told herself when trying to console herself.

  She was thankful that none of the other girls inquired about it—about what they’d witnessed the moments before Heath had forced Cricket onto Archie’s back and sent her home. Not even Vilma had asked what had gone on between them during the occasions when Heath had dragged Cricket away from the outlaw encampment to “have his way with her.” It was as if everyone knew that Heath had done what he’d had to do to free them—everyone but Cricket, that was. Cricket still wanted to believe there was more to what they’d shared—especially in the barn—than just the dictates of necessity.

  In truth, Cricket’s heart
was broken. In truth, she found her way to being alone several times a day, simply so she could release the tears and sobbing that begged for release. She wanted Heath to love her! She wanted to marry him! She even wanted to share his bed—and that was saying something if everything Vilma and Pearl had revealed about intimacy between men and women were true.

  As she sat in the grass there near the pasture fence, Cricket realized that she was alone and could cry. Throwing herself onto the cool summer grass, she was instantly overtaken with tears and sobbing—not because of what had happened between she and Heath during her abduction but for what hadn’t happened since. Marie would marry her lover, Hudson. Ann would marry Cooper Keel—Cricket felt it in her very soul. Even Vilma would one day reveal to her friends who she loved, stand before her idiot of a father, and be wed, and then flee as fast as her new husband could carry her away from Reverend Stanley and to a new and beautiful life. But Cricket was beginning to think that her dreams had already been granted as having come true. Perhaps the passion she’d shared in the barn that night with Heath was the end of it. Perhaps the moment he’d taken hold of her—so possessively taken hold of her and nearly ravaged her there in front of her friends before setting her adrift astride Archie’s back—perhaps that moment had been the end of her dreams coming true.

  For a moment, Cricket sat up straight. “I’ll just snatch him away, tie him to a chair, and…and have my way with him,” she said out loud. She was determined to do it. She truly was—and for nearly two minutes—long enough to stand up and begin willfully marching toward Heathro Thibodaux’s house. And then her determination was vanquished—vanquished by the same fear and anxiety that drove her to force herself to farther from home than was comfortable—the same fear and anxiety that haunted her dreams—that often found her calling out in the middle of the night—calling for Heath.