by Carla Kelly
Wesley didn’t come. She slept soundly and dreamlessly, and woke the next morning out of sorts and on edge. A phrase dodged around the frontiers of her memory, one she knew was important but couldn’t recall. She frowned as she heated water, as she went down to open the gate for Lady, as she washed the cow’s udder. It was only when she was on the stool, forehead against the Jersey’s side and listening to the sound of each stream hitting the bottom of the bucket, that the phrase came to her. It repeated over and over in time to the splash of the milk:
I’m not interested.
I’m not interested.
I’m not interested.
Chapter Seven
Heading home after deliveries that afternoon, Susannah heard a wagon approaching from behind. She led Sweetie to the side of the road to let it pass, but it stopped beside her. Looking up, she saw Douglas on the wagon seat and recognized Cookie, Papa Brown’s horse, in the traces.
“Good evening, Miz Brown. Would you like a ride?”
“Are you on your way to Hidden Spring?”
“Sure am. Tie Sweetie on behind.” He sprang down and transferred the quilt-saddlebag from the calf to the wagon. “Four gallon jugs,” he said. “You get many more customers, and you’re going to have to get a bigger pack animal.”
He walked around the wagon, pulling the brim of his hat down to shade his eyes as he watched a rider approach from town. “Afternoon, Bobby,” he called, smiling.
The rider didn’t answer until he was abreast. He stopped his horse, tipped his hat to Susannah, then looked at Douglas. “Dummy? Is that you?”
“People don’t call me that anymore.” Douglas’s tone was friendly, but his smile grew rigid when a muscle in his jaw tightened.
“Uh, sorry.” Bobby shifted in the saddle. “I hear you’re one of the big shots looking to reopen the Silver Jack. Hear you been to college in New York and everything.”
“I’m not a big shot,” Douglas said. “And I’m here to see if we can pump water out cheap enough to make reopening pay.”
“You gonna be hiring?”
Douglas climbed onto the wagon box. “Come see me at the mine. My office is by the old timekeeper’s shack.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks… Douglas.” Bobby raised his hat to Susannah. “Ma’am.” He kicked his horse and trotted on down the road.
Susannah watched him go. “Who was that?”
Douglas picked up the reins and slapped them on Cookie’s back. “Bobby Schumacher. He was in my grade in school.”
“What did he call you?”
He looked away. “I’d just as soon not talk about it.”
Something tightened in Susannah’s throat, like she was going to cry. She looked away as well, and they rode in silence to the Hidden Spring intersection. He made the turn but stopped the wagon in the shadow of a bluff.
“I couldn’t read,” he said.
“Beg pardon?”
He fiddled with the reins. “I attended through the eighth grade, and that last year, I was still reading with the second graders.”
Susannah looked at the man beside her. His shoulders slumped, and he rested his elbows on his knees, holding the reins in slack fingers. Such a different face from the proud, almost arrogant, one he had been showing her. Her heart ached for him, and she touched his wrist.
“Oh, Douglas,” she whispered.
He shook her off with an almost imperceptible flick. “I don’t need pity. You asked; I answered. My folks called me Sonny, but the kids called me Dummy because I couldn’t read.”
“But you— he said you went to college.”
“It was a polytechnic institute.”
“Whatever it was, how could you do that if you couldn’t read?”
Douglas clicked his tongue at Cookie, and they continued up the lane. “I learned.”
“When? How?”
“I found a lady to teach me.” He chuckled. “Her name was Mrs. Smithers. She was eccentric and had a houseful of cats. And bad plumbing. I fixed the plumbing, and she fixed my reading.”
“Just like that?”
“No. Not just like that. It took a year— to fix the reading, not the plumbing. I wanted to give up lots of times, but she was determined.”
“Was that in New York? How did you end up there?”
“After I left school, I went to work at the Silver Jack. They were fighting the water then, trying to stay ahead of the underground streams in lower levels.” He looked at her to see if she understood.
She nodded.
“I worked with a man by the name of Mr. Rathbone for six years. He taught me all he knew about water, but in the end, we couldn’t keep the mine dry, and they closed ’er down.”
“Then what happened?”
He pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Mr. Rathbone took me with him to mine headquarters in Troy. They wanted me to go to school, become a hydraulic engineer, but there was that one problem.”
“You couldn’t read.”
“That’s the one.”
They were passing the middle pasture, and Susannah pointed. “I need to put Sweetie in.”
“I’ll do it.” Douglas set the brake, hopped down, and let the calf loose in the field. Back in the wagon, he handed the flower-decked halter to Susannah and picked up the reins.
“Wait a minute,” Susannah said. “You said you left because they closed the mines. I heard that you left because you almost killed a man in a bar fight.”
Douglas threw back his head and laughed. “Is that what people said?”
She nodded.
“I did rough up Zeke Russell pretty good the night before I left, but he was still on his feet last time I saw him.”
“But you never wrote to your family. You simply disappeared.”
“I didn’t write because I couldn’t. Didn’t know how. And after I learned—” He stopped the wagon at the house. “I just can’t put what’s in my heart on paper.” He climbed out and walked around to help her down. “I’ll fix the roof while you get supper, and then I need to get Papa’s rig back to him.”
“You mean you’re leaving right after supper?” Susannah tried to keep her disappointment from showing.
Douglas looked up from the rope he was uncoiling. “I don’t want to leave Cookie standing too long.” He tied the horse near the watering trough, unloaded his tools, and set a bucket of tar to melting over a small fire.
Susannah went inside and made supper out of leftover chicken and dumplings, adding some early peas she’d carried home in her apron pocket from Mama Brown’s garden. She skimmed cream from last night’s milk, set it aside to go over home-canned peaches, and poured the rest into a pitcher.
As she carried chairs out back, Susannah glanced up at Douglas working on the roof with the deft motions of a craftsman. Her eyes lingered on the way his shirt pulled tight across his back as he crouched down and the way his black hair fell forward over his brow. He looked up and caught her watching; she turned away to place the chairs under the pinyon tree.
Moments later, she heard him come down the ladder. “Almost done,” he said.
“So’s supper.”
He appeared a moment later with the tar bucket, and as he effortlessly scaled the ladder again, she went back to setting up supper. By the time everything was ready, he was finished, and the tools and ladder were put away.
“I’ll just wash up,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “May I use some of your hot water?”
Susannah nodded and sat waiting under the pinyon, enjoying the coolness of the breeze as it blew down the ravine.
He returned, pausing at the corner of the house to button his cuffs, and then he came over and sat opposite. “It smells tasty. Thank you, Miz Brown.”
She ladled chicken and dumplings into a shallow bowl for him. “My name is Susannah.”
“I know.”
“Why do you call me Mrs. Brown? You could say we’re family.”
He picked up his spoon. “You could. Or, you could say tha
t we have a business arrangement, and that with my being a single fellow out here alone with you every evening for supper, it’s better if I don’t start using your Christian name.”
“But that arrangement will be over at the end of the week.”
“Well, as to that…” He sat back, eyes twinkling. “How would you like to have water piped from the spring to the house so all you had to do for water was turn on a faucet?”
Her brows shot up. “Could you do that?”
He grinned. “Easy as pie.”
Susannah clapped her hands in delight, and they spent the rest of the meal talking about the project. Every time she thought of a new way it would make her life easier, she voiced it, and when he climbed into the wagon to go home, she was still listing them.
“I’ll be able to fill the tub on wash day so much more quickly,” she said.
He picked up the reins. “You already said that.”
“Did I?” She put her hands in her apron pocket. “Oh, I forgot. Here’s the ad you wanted me to write. To sell Wesley’s poems.”
He took it from her and stowed it in the pocket of his shirt.
She backed away. “Tomorrow evening, then?”
“Yes.” He touched the brim of his hat and clicked to Cookie, and the wagon started down the lane.
Susannah followed behind, heading to the middle pasture where the Jersey grazed. By the time she made it to the gate, Douglas was passing the fence line at the end of the lower pasture. She undid the latch and watched the wagon disappear behind a screen of willows, standing for a moment to listen intently before she called Lady in.
There it was, floating on the warm purple haze of the evening air— the sound of a whistled “Oh, Susannah.”
Chapter Eight
Susannah and Douglas settled into a comfortable routine. He would arrive about an hour before supper and work until she called him in to eat. As the days lengthened, he worked after they ate as well, sinking an intake port into the spring and laying pipe from there to the house.
“We’ll worry about getting it in the ground before cold weather,” he said. “For now, let’s just get the water flowing.”
It took two weeks of work, but one evening he called her out of the kitchen to a standpipe by the watering trough. “It’s ready,” he said. “Will you turn on the tap?”
She did so, and cold, clear water gushed out of the faucet. “Oh, Douglas! That’s the most beautiful sight I’ve seen in a long time.” She turned the handle off and then on again, grinning up at him. “It’s wonderful.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the rough patch on his cheek.
He bent down to stow his tools in a satchel. “Just paying for my supper. Glad it pleases you.” He spoke without looking up.
“It pleases me enormously. And speaking of supper, it’s ready.” She walked with him back to the kitchen, and while he washed up, she said, “I’ve got another batch of cottage cheese for you to try.” She handed him a spoon and lifted a dish towel, revealing a crock of snowy curds bathed in cream.
“Looks good.” He put a spoonful in his mouth.
She waited as he closed his eyes, and she smiled as the corners of his lips curled up. “How is it?” she asked.
His eyes opened. “Right on the money. Can you make it like this every time?”
“That’s the challenge.” She handed him a kettle to carry out to the pinyon tree and picked up a pan of biscuits. “The trick is in heating the curd. Slow and low is the secret.”
All during supper, they talked about the next project. He wanted to make her a summer kitchen, but she felt it would be better to get the piping in the ground before the summer rains started. And she’d have liked a shelter in each pasture before then too.
“You’re the boss,” he said, and for the next three weeks, he worked at getting a ditch dug parallel to the water line. When the pipes were underground, he brought Papa Brown’s wagon, and they went up on the bluff to cut cedar poles for the shelters. It took a week to get all they needed, and another two weeks to get the shelters built.
The day after he finished, he brought Susannah a piglet. “He’s the runt of a litter that Bobby Schumacher had, but he’ll grow if you feed him the whey from your cottage cheese.”
Susannah was delighted and named him Percy. While she did the evening milking, Douglas fixed the pen beside the chicken coop so the piglet couldn’t root underneath and get out. As she finished, he came into the milking parlor. She handed him the pail while she undid the stanchion. “I’m staying in town after my deliveries tomorrow, so supper may be late.”
“Oh?” He moved aside for the Jersey to go out the door.
“It’s my anniversary. Wesley’s and mine. I’m going to the cemetery.”
He nodded and carried the pail into the kitchen, setting it on the table. As she followed, he pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “I almost forgot this. I’ll go put Lady in the pasture.”
He went out the door, and she opened the note, finding another paper inside. She read the letter and then the enclosure before trotting down the lane to meet him on his way back.
“Somebody sent a postal money order for a copy of Wesley’s book?”
“Looks like.”
“We’ve been so busy, I forgot about the ad.” She looked at the letter again. “You make me believe anything is possible.”
He smiled down at her as they walked to the house. “Likewise, I’m sure.”
Chapter Nine
The cemetery sat on the far edge of town, a dusty patch of land surrounded by a barbed-wire fence and sprouting sagebrush, wooden grave markers, and tombstones. Susannah arrived late afternoon and tied Sweetie to a post.
She hadn’t visited the graveyard for well over two months, not since moving back to Hidden Spring. It felt a little strange, like when she returned to the Browns’ when it wasn’t home anymore. She used to talk to Wesley when she came, but now that seemed strange too.
She pulled a tumbleweed, a vigorous bit of green sprouting from the dun-colored earth covering her beloved— or the beloved of the girl she had been last year. She didn’t feel like the same person now.
A sound behind her made her look around, and her heart beat a staccato rhythm as she recognized the rider dismounting his horse. “Hello, Douglas.” She took a deep breath as he came toward her.
“Do you mind if I’m here, too? I haven’t visited since I came back.”
She shook her head and he stood quietly for a moment, staring at Wesley’s headstone.
“I don’t know how he died,” he said. “Mama mentioned blood poisoning, but she wouldn’t talk about it.”
“It got pretty awful before the end.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“That’s all right.” She flapped her arms against her sides. “It was so stupid. It started out as a blister on his foot.”
“A blister?”
“He spent most of the money he inherited from Grandma Brown on publishing his poems. That was to be our income, you know.” She folded her arms and looked at her shoes. “He caught a ride to Tucson and tried to sell some there, but nobody would buy them. He couldn’t find a ride all the way back, so he walked the last twenty miles. I often wonder—” She stopped and closed her eyes.
“What do you wonder?”
“If he didn’t die of a broken heart. You know, from the rejection.”
Douglas put his hands in his back pockets and kicked at a dirt clod. “I don’t think you die of a broken heart,” he said quietly. “Rejection can break your heart, but you end up living with it.”
They stood in silence for a moment, and then he said, “My father is buried here too.”
“Where?”
“I’ll show you.” He led her down the row to a grave with a wooden marker.
Susannah deciphered the faded writing then did some math. “She must have remarried pretty soon after he died.”
“She did. Maybe because a good man
came along.”
Susannah nodded. “And because a little boy needed a father?”
“Maybe. Too bad the little boy didn’t appreciate his good luck.”
The bitterness in his voice made her look sharply at him. “What do you mean?”
Douglas took his hat off and ran his hand through his black hair. “Nathan Brown is as good as they come, but I never could forgive him for not being my father.” He gestured toward Wesley’s grave with the hat. “And I couldn’t forgive Wesley for being all the things I wasn’t.”
“Because he could read and you couldn’t?”
“I guess.” He sighed and put his hat back on. “Papa— Nathan Brown— wanted to adopt me, wanted me to carry his name, but I wouldn’t have it. I was sure he was ashamed of me, so I went around being angry and raising hell.”
“Like the barroom fight?”
“Yeah. Who wants a son who gets in trouble all the time?”
She turned and began walking toward the gate. “You’re not getting in trouble now, are you?”
He laughed as he walked beside her. “Maybe. Just a different kind of trouble.” He nodded toward the sorrel, tied by Sweetie. “Want a ride home?”
“If I ride, you’ll have to walk. I’m used to walking.”
“We can ride double.”
She looked down at her skirt, and he added, “You can be in front. Hook your knee over the horn like a sidesaddle. You’ll be fine.”
She nodded, and he lifted her into the saddle. While she shifted to get her right leg positioned correctly, he tied Sweetie’s lead rope to the rear saddle string. Then he swung up behind the cantle and turned the sorrel toward Hidden Spring.
As they rode, Susannah was very aware of his proximity, of his arms around her as he held the reins, and of his chest as she leaned against him for stability. Her whole world shrank to the places she felt his touch— her arms, her back, where his cheek rested against her hair. Neither of them spoke, and when they finally arrived at the house, he silently dismounted and reached up for her. She unhooked her knee and put her hands on his shoulders, looking into his dark eyes as she slid off.
