“Are you sure, sweetheart?” Zeke asked all the same.
“Yes, Daddy,” Cricket answered. “I’m just gonna run on over to Mrs. Maloney’s for a nice, long visit this afternoon, and then Ada and I are gonna put up some blackberry jam for you. How does that sound?”
“Sounds sweet,” Zeke chuckled. He sighed. “All right then. I’ll be back in a couple of days.” He still paused, remembering what had transpired the last time he’d left Ada and Cricket alone.
His eyes must have spoken the words his mind was thinking because Cricket smiled, raised herself on her tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek, saying, “Those outlaws are dead, Daddy. Nobody is gonna steal me away this time. You go on and help those men. All right?”
“All right,” Zeke sighed. He reached out, gathering Ada into one arm and passionately kissing her. She tasted like plump, ripe blackberries, and he moaned, “Mmmm,” as he ended their kiss. “You taste so good, honey.”
Ada blushed, kissed him quickly on the cheek, and said, “You go on…before I decide to drag you back in the house and…and…” Glancing to Cricket, Ada blushed, finishing, “Before I decide to drag you back in the house and put you to work on those blackberries waitin’ in the kitchen.”
Zeke laughed and mounted his horse. “You two stay out of trouble this time, you hear?”
His girls giggled, exchanged glances, and clasped hands. “We will,” they chimed in unison.
As his anxiety settled somewhat, Zeke spurred his horse toward Lyman and the men trapped in the mine cave-in there.
Cricket sighed a sigh of contentment, even as she watched her father ride away. She wasn’t anxious about his leaving—not that day. For one thing, she was still walking on air—for the warm euphoria inside her caused by sparking with Heathro Thibodaux at the Cornfield Chase lingered like a sweet summer breeze.
She watched as Cooper Keel, Hudson Oliver, Clifford King, and Ralph Burroughs joined her father in the distance. Heathro was planning to ride over, once he’d corralled his ornery, trouble-making bull again. Of course, Cricket wished Heath wouldn’t go. She wished he’d just stay in Pike’s Creek. In truth, she wished he’d carry her to Clifford King’s barn again—drench her in his passionate kisses—for the rest of her life!
“So?” Ada began. “You haven’t told me anything about how the Cornfield Chase went. Did you have a good time?”
Cricket blushed and nodded. “Yes, I did, Ada.” She looked to her loving stepmother and friend, adding, “Thanks to you.”
“Me?” Ada asked. Cricket thought it was a good thing Ada had never tried to become an actress—for she had no gift for acting. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Cricket. Truly.”
“Hmmm. Don’t you?” Cricket asked. She was certain it was Ada’s revelation to Heath that Cricket had been calling out for him at night that had spurred him on to seeking her out at the Cornfield Chase. Why he’d paused for two weeks before that, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps Heath had been thinking the same types of things that Cricket had—that it was only the trauma of the circumstances surrounding her abduction and his saving her that found her so willingly in his arms. She wasn’t sure. But whatever the reasons that had kept her and Heath apart since returning from bondage, it seemed they had been vanquished by Heath’s brief conversation with Ada.
“Not at all,” Ada sighed. “Well, I’m off to start preparin’ those blackberries. You tell Maymee Maloney that I said hello. All right?”
Ada turned and almost skipped back into the house.
“I will,” Cricket called after her. Her smile broadened as gladness for the fact she and Ada were becoming close fluttered in her.
Turning and starting toward Mrs. Maloney’s house, Cricket gazed up into the blue summer sky. There weren’t many clouds nearby, but a thunderhead was smoldering in the south. Still, there seemed plenty of time to wander a bit and enjoy a visit with Mrs. Maloney.
Cricket sighed with contentment as she meandered toward Maymee Maloney’s house. She smiled as she neared the quaint little house of her friend, for she heard birds gleefully twittering in the trees and caught the tinkling sound of the wind chimes hanging on its front porch as she approached.
Mrs. Maloney was waiting for her in a rocking chair on her front porch and greeted, “Well, there you are, sweet pea! I was wonderin’ when you’d meander on over this mornin’.”
Cricket giggled. Oh, how she adored the elderly woman! Mrs. Maloney was not only a cherished friend but also an invaluable tutor, a counselor, a comfort, and a guide—in truth, Cricket’s blessed and beloved mentor.
Cricket dashed up onto the porch, stooping and placing an affectionate kiss on Mrs. Maloney’s weathered, velvet-soft cheek.
“Well, aren’t we just a perky little persimmon this mornin’?” Mrs. Maloney laughed as Cricket plopped down in the rocking chair next to her. Cricket unlaced her shoes, removed them, and began stripping off her stockings. “And what’s that I see?” Maymee asked, closely studying Cricket’s face and neck.
“What?” Cricket asked, wondering if she’d inadvertently smeared blackberry juice on herself while helping Ada that morning.
“Why, Magnolia Cranford!” Maymee gasped. “Is that whisker chafin’ I see there around your mouth?” Cricket blushed seventeen shades of pink and red as Mrs. Maloney continued to tease. “Were you out sparkin’ at that Cornfield Chase last night?” The old woman laughed again, her light blue eyes twinkling with merriment. “Or did you finally tie that handsome Texas Ranger to a chair and have your way with him?”
Cricket smiled and giggled then. Tucking her stockings into her shoes and tossing them aside, she answered, “I didn’t tie him up to a chair.” Blushing, she added, “I didn’t have to.”
Maymee Maloney rocked back in her chair, looking to the heavens, raising her arms, and hollering, “Hallelujah! Somethin’ excitin’ is finally happenin’ in this drowsy old town!”
“Shh!” Cricket playfully scolded in a whisper. “It was just a little sparkin’, Mrs. Maloney. It isn’t…it’s not serious.”
“The hell it isn’t, girl!” Mrs. Maloney exclaimed. “I’ve been waitin’ a month of Sundays for you and that handsome hunk of manflesh to quit prancin’ around it all and just have at it the way you’ve both been wantin’ to for months.”
“Oh, but I don’t think he—” Cricket began.
“Oh, don’t you start now,” Maymee interrupted, shaking her head. “If it was up to you and Ann Burroughs and all your innocent naïveté, it’d be a miracle to see another baby born in this town.”
“What? What about Ann?” Cricket asked. She was wildly curious. She hadn’t seen Ann since Mr. King had pounded on his wife’s stewpot the night before to start the Cornfield Chase. Of course, Cricket hadn’t seen anybody until long after the chase began. She and Heath had spent near to three hours behind Clifford King’s barn, either sparking or conversing. And when Cricket had finally peeked into the barn while all the other folks were enjoying pies, cookies, and punch, Ann Burroughs had been nowhere to be found.
Mrs. Maloney’s eyebrows arched with triumph. “Well, let’s just put it this way, shall we?” she began. “Ann Burroughs…when she dropped by this mornin’ to offer me an extra spool of thread she’d found in her sewin’ basket…well, she was nearly as bright-eyed and chap-faced as you are.”
“Ann?” Cricket asked. “But she’s sweet on Mr. Keel! Who would Ann be sparkin’ with last night?” Cricket gasped as it struck then. And as Mrs. Maloney nodded with affirmation, she asked, “Do you mean to tell me that Mr. Keel captured Ann in the cornfield last night?” Cricket was delighted—beyond delighted—she was ecstatic!
“Captured her in the cornfield and Clifford King’s pumpkin patch and under that old oak tree behind the general store,” Mrs. Maloney confirmed. As Cricket giggled with pure merriment, Maymee added, “And Cooper Keel was over to speak to Ralph Burroughs this mornin’ before the men left for Lyman. Ann’s mama told me just fifteen minutes ago that Cooper
Keel asked Ralph’s permission to court Ann…with the intentions of marryin’ her before fall.”
Cricket clapped her hands together, squealing with delight. “How marvelous! Oh, how perfectly romantic!”
“Yes,” Mrs. Maloney sighed. “It seems everything is workin’ out just fine.” She paused for a moment, and Cricket noticed the expression of concern that quickly crossed her face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“What’s what, honey?” Mrs. Maloney responded, feigning ignorance.
“Somethin’ just crossed your mind, takin’ the wind right out of your sails. What was it?”
“Oh…oh, nothin’,” Maymee fibbed, trying to weasel out of telling Cricket what her thought had been.
“Tell me!” Cricket demanded. “Tell me, or I’ll howl at you all day like a hound with a treed raccoon.”
Maymee paused—seemed thoughtful for a moment. “I’m…I’m just not sure I should tell you what I’m thinkin’,” the old woman admitted.
“Well, why ever not?” Cricket asked. “You can tell me anything…and you should tell me if it’s somethin’ that’s worryin’ you…or somethin’ you think I should know.”
Mrs. Maloney nodded, sighed, and smiled. “You’re right, honey. You’re right. So I’ll just ask you straight out…are you in love with Heathro Thibodaux? Or just awful, awful sweet on him?”
Cricket’s eyebrows arched with surprise. She certainly hadn’t expected such a serious, forthright question from her normally playful friend.
“You’re askin’ me to confide my greatest secret to you, Mrs. Maloney,” Cricket whispered. “I-I…”
“I just want to be sure there isn’t anything on this whole green earth that could take your heart from him, that’s all,” Maymee explained.
“There isn’t,” Cricket stated firmly. “Nothin’.”
Mrs. Maloney sighed with relief, smiled, and patted Cricket on one knee. “Let’s me and you head on into the kitchen for piece of cake and the exchange of a couple more secrets, shall we?”
Cricket smiled and frowned at the same time. Mrs. Maloney wasn’t normally so cryptic—sneaky and mischievous, but not cryptic.
“Certainly,” Cricket said, rising from her chair as Mrs. Maloney rose from hers.
“Isn’t it just the loveliest day, Magnolia?” she asked as she preceded Cricket into the house.
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Cricket agreed as she closed the door behind them.
Once Mrs. Maloney had cut them each a piece of cake, she and Cricket settled down at her kitchen table.
Handing Cricket a fork, Maymee asked, “Have you ever heard the tale of the pied piper of Hamelin, Magnolia honey?”
“Of course,” Cricket answered—though she couldn’t imagine what in all the world the old tale about rats and a flutist had to do with the price of potatoes up north.
“And what do you remember about it?”
Cricket shrugged. “There’s a town infested with rats…”
“Mmm-hmmm,” Mrs. Maloney encouraged with a nod. She placed a bite of cake in her mouth, rolling her eyes and sighing with sugar-pleasure.
“And the folks in town can’t stand it any longer, so they offer a bag of money to anyone who can get rid of all the rats,” Cricket continued.
“And then…” Maymee prodded.
Cricket giggled a little, amused by Mrs. Maloney’s random subject of conversation. “And then this man comes along, all dress in patched-up clothes, and he plays the flute…and he tells the townsfolk that he will get rid of the rats if they truly will give him the bag of money.”
“Go on.”
“All right,” Cricket said. “But why am I tellin’ you this story in the first place?”
“Because I asked you if you were familiar with it.”
It wasn’t really an explanation; it was a weasel move on Mrs. Maloney’s part. Still, if nothing else, Cricket’s curiosity was piqued.
Thus, she continued, “So then a man comes to the town—Hamelin, that’s the town. This man comes dressed in pied clothing, and he plays a flute. And he tells the townsfolk that he will rid them of the rats if they will give him the bag of money.”
“And what happens next?” Mrs. Maloney asked.
Cricket shrugged. “The townsfolk agree…and the piper plays his flute, and all the rats follow him out of the town and to a river. As he continues to play his flute, the rats all jump in the river and drown…and the town is finally free of the rats.”
“But when the piper returns for his reward…” Maymee urged.
“Oh, well, that’s the terrible part,” Cricket exclaimed. “Not that rats drownin’ in a river isn’t terrible—not that rats on any occasion isn’t terrible. But the most terrible part of the story is that the selfish townsfolk do not give the piper the money they promised! They entirely deny him his reward.” Cricket sighed with disapproval.
“What then?”
Cricket took a bite of her cake, smiling as sugar-pleasure flooded her mouth. She swallowed her sweet cake and answered, “Well, the piper feels that the townsfolk are dishonest and not to be trusted. He tells them that he pities their children, for they will grow up to be like their parents…dishonest, lacking integrity, and the like. So one day, while everyone is at church services, the piper returns…and he plays his flute again. And this time the children of Hamelin follow the piper, and he leads them away to a glorious paradise where they are happy forever. And though the adults of Hamelin send messengers far and wide to find the mysterious piper—to beg him to bring their children home—he and the children are never found.”
“And the moral of the tale is…” Mrs. Maloney urged.
“Always keep a promise…no matter what. Show integrity in the keeping of a promise,” Cricket answered, feeling rather proud of herself for knowing the answer. She’d detested the story as a child—found it frightening and sad. But now, even though she still found it frightening and sad, she could see the lesson for its great value.
“Yes. Yes, that is the moral of the story, I suppose,” Mrs. Maloney sighed.
Cricket felt her brow wrinkle with inquisitiveness. “Is there more to it then? Somethin’ I’m not understandin’?”
Mrs. Maloney nodded, taking another bite of cake and then answering, “I believe so. In fact, I’ve always thought so, and I think you and I are about to witness the less obvious aspect that story portrays. It’s the part that plum disgusts me too.”
“What part is that?” Cricket asked, frowning. After all, wasn’t the story grim enough with just the one moral to be learned?
“It’s what I’m startin’ to see in Pike’s Creek where your handsome lover, Heath, is concerned, darlin’. It’s the same as in the story.” She smiled and sighed as she glanced out the window as if remembering the past. “Oh, he was this town’s hero, wasn’t he?” she breathed. “Handsome with broodin’ manner and the tortured soul of a hero. And then what happens? He risks his everything, includin’ his life, to go after you girls all on his own.” Mrs. Maloney looked back to Cricket, offered a firm nod, and said, “And he saved you—saved your virtue, saved your lives—and everyone in Pike’s Creek felt forever indebted to him for his sacrifices and for bringin’ our girls home.” Maymee breathed a heavy sigh then—a sigh of disappointment in the least.
Suddenly, Cricket understood what part of the pied piper of Hamelin Mrs. Maloney was referring to, and she frowned as anger began to bubble in her bosom.
“Just like when the pied piper piped away those rats,” Maymee Maloney continued. “Land sakes didn’t this town love Heathro Thibodaux when you girls came ridin’ in all livin’ and unspoiled!” She slapped her knee with enthusiasm at the memory. “Yes sirree! There he was…all beat up, shot up, bloodied, tired, worn to the bone…our hero! He’d saved you girls from bein’ sold to a brothel in New Orleans, saved you from death and things worse than dyin’…and, boy oh boy, did everyone love him!” She paused, slumped back in her rocker, and sighed. “For near to two w
eeks…and now…”
When Mrs. Maloney paused again, Cricket placed a hand on her knee and asked, “And now?”
The wise woman nodded and continued, “And now, some of the men in this town—the righteous Reverend Edgar Stanley, for one—have started seein’ their own weaknesses. They most likely got tired of hearin’ their wives go on and on and on, forever and a day on and on, about the magnificent, handsome, young, and strong Texas Ranger who had saved our girls’ lives.”
Cricket’s stomach began to churn with anxiety as complete understanding seeped into her very soul.
“Yes, Heathro Thibodaux had brung you all home,” Mrs. Maloney continued. She shrugged and frowned. “But it wasn’t anything that any other man couldn’t have done by himself—not if Heathro hadn’t been the first to think of headin’ out toward New Orleans,” she said, the sarcasm thickening in her voice. “Why…he should’ve fired a shot, miles down the river when he found those tracks. If he had, well, surely every other man from town that was ten miles in the opposite direction would’ve heard the shot, known exactly what it meant, and headed out straight away to assist him.” And Mrs. Maloney wasn’t finished venting her angry disgust yet. “Why, if Heathro Thibodaux had taken the time to let all the other men in the posse know he’d found those tracks and was hot on the trail…” She forced her expression into one of feigned astonishment and continued, “Then of course every other man would’ve hung his pride out to dry for bein’ wrong and followed Heathro in the right direction.” Mrs. Maloney nodded emphatically—with such substantial sarcasm apparent in her demeanor that Cricket almost laughed out loud. “And heaven knows that if Heathro had turned around and taken the hours upon hours it would’ve meant to track the posse down and then so easily convince them he was right about those men takin’ you all to New Orleans to sell instead of to Mexico…well, pfff! Of course all those hours, maybe a whole day long, wouldn’t have made a bit of difference in your safety and well-bein’. Why, the men in this town are all so noble and such fantastic horsemen, they could’ve easily made up that day Heathro would’ve lost.”
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