Tucker’s Claim

by Sarah McCarty

  “Because the time has come for me to make a decision about my future.”

  “There’s no rush.”

  They both knew that was a lie. “I know what I want, but if I can’t have it, then I need to do what I must.”

  “That’s a strange way of putting things.”

  “It’s been a strange year.”

  “You been reading fairy tales while I was gone?”

  She puffed and stepped out of his embrace. “I’ve never in my life believed in fairy tales, but I do believe in thee.”

  “That’s a sucker’s bet.”

  She held her ground, sticking to her point, because she couldn’t escape the feeling that, if she let it go, it’d slip away forever to be lost in the morass of social stigma.

  He glared at her. She folded her arms across her chest. “And when you come back, I’ll know if that faith is justified.”

  With a curse he turned and headed to the door. At the threshold he stopped, jammed his hat on his head and turned back. “Goddamn it, Sally Mae.”

  She waited until he was on the back step before launching her parting shot, “God doesn’t damn anything. That’s a choice we make.”

  For the third morning in a row, Sally Mae leaned over the chamber pot in her bedroom, panting through the latest wave of nausea, torn between elation and terror. Tucker wasn’t the only one who was late. Her menses were, too, and if she hadn’t been so distracted by Tucker’s courting and then Lyle’s stalking her every move, she would have realized it a lot sooner. She pushed the thick braid of her hair back over her shoulder. She was pregnant.

  Leaning on the washstand, she rocked back and forth. What was she going to do? A baby. She’d prayed to the Lord for strength and He’d given her a baby. The miracle of that was enough to start the nausea all over again.

  She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to tell Tucker he was going to be a father. Wanted to spend a lifetime proving to him that the doubts he harbored about himself were nonsense. Wanted to be there when he realized, as a husband and a father, that he was every woman’s dream. The strength he so valued in battle was just as important at home. She wanted to see him smile in the morning, laugh in the evening. She wanted to love him, cherish him until death parted them.

  She took a breath as nausea surged anew. Oh God, she wanted to marry him. Tucker, with the Quaker philosophy and the violent heart.

  The silly man worried about the past as if it was the sole determinant of his future. As if his preferences were just flotsam in the stream of life. Her stomach roiled again. She pushed the chamber pot away. Looking at this morning’s revolt was not helping her stomach settle. Breathing in through her mouth, she exhaled through her nose, trying to get her midsection to relax. She wished the same technique worked for her mind.

  Tucker never talked about his past, but she could imagine how awful it must have been to engrave on him that he didn’t bring good to this world, because more and more she could see that’s what he thought. That anything he desired was temporary, so rather than make an honest play for it, he was satisfied with stealing an illusion. For however long it lasted. Like their affair. He’d agreed so easily to just one night when he’d clearly wanted more. And when the opportunity happened, he’d taken more, giving her everything she wanted except the promise of a future. She put her hand over her stomach. But they had made a baby. Both of them were going to have to start thinking in terms of compromise and forever.

  She poured water from the pitcher into the bowl. Grabbing a cloth off the washstand rod, she dipped it in the water and rubbed it over her face. The cool cloth felt wonderful against her skin. Holding it over her eyes, she took another deep breath before setting it on the edge of the basin and pouring water into a glass and rinsing her mouth. What she needed was a plan.

  Grabbing her bathrobe, she shrugged into it as she headed downstairs, easily navigating the near dark. She peeked out the back door when she got to the kitchen. Dawn was just breaking through the darkness.

  Automatically she reached for the coffeepot, filled it with water and slid kindling under the stove burner before setting the pot on top. She reached for the jar of coffee and popped the lid. Her stomach rolled a warning. She put it down and poured herself a glass of water instead, before taking up her pencil and a piece of scrap paper. Sitting at the table, her back to the door, she created two columns—“Yes” and “No”—and ?and started writing. Ten minutes later, she had a long list as to why she should head back East. There was only one reason in the No column. She placed her fingertip over the six letters that made up Tucker’s name. Just as in real life, being outnumbered on paper didn’t lessen the man’s odds of winning.

  A shadow fell over the table and the scent of stale sweat rode the humid air of the morning. Fresh mixed with foul. Fear chased goose bumps over her skin. Only one man thought he had a right to invade her home on his whim. Lyle. She tucked the pencil stub into her palm. As a weapon, it wasn’t much. She ran her thumb over the dulled point. Especially after she’d wasted time on a pointless list. There was no right and wrong for her. Only Tucker.

  She turned around. Lyle looked as if he’d been drinking all night. “How did thee get in?”

  “I jimmied the lock.”

  “What are thee doing here?”

  “I’ve come to talk to you.”

  The stench of whiskey blended with the stench of stale sweat and drove her back into the table.

  “About what?”

  “Our future. You’re a woman alone.”

  The table was between her and the entry to the parlor. Lyle stood between her and the back door. “I’m a widow, yes.”

  The door closed under the kick of his foot. “It’s not natural that a woman lives alone.”

  She tightened her grip on the pencil. “I’m doing fine, but I thank thee for thy concern.”

  “You need a man.”

  A man taking off his hat shouldn’t be a threat. Yet, somehow, when Lyle did, it was. Maybe it was because of the way his greasy hair slicked across his broad forehead, emphasizing the smallness of his eyes, his florid complexion. Or maybe it was just the way he stared at her, as if he knew something she didn’t. Something dangerous.

  “I’m still in mourning.”

  “No one mourns a man that long.”

  She rubbed her thumb over the point of the pencil again. “I loved my husband.”

  “Then you’ll find it easy to love me.” He took a step toward her. “I need you, Sally Mae.”

  “For what?”

  It was a stupid question, but it just popped out. His hands closed over her shoulders.

  “You fire my blood.”

  The stench of his breath blew coherent thought from her mind. Her stomach roiled. It would serve him right if she vomited. Then again, he likely wouldn’t care.

  “Take thy hands off me.”

  “No.”

  The only response to that was her equally forceful “Yes.”

  He didn’t let go. “I’m staking my claim, Sally Mae.”

  He was too late. “I am not a cow to be branded and owned.”

  The pencil was just long enough to serve as a weapon if she aimed for his eye. She stared, narrowing her vision to that one point. She’d have to move very fast after she struck. The one thing she’d learned over the years was that severe wounds didn’t always incapacitate a man. An ornery man could still stand, still fight. She bet Lyle could be very ornery.

  You must always respect that which is God in all men.

  The teachings of her adoptive parents sank deep. She owed them so much. They’d taken her in when she remembered nothing, given her peace, a path to follow out of the terror that had seized her mind. Terror of things she couldn’t remember. Things that, to this day, she didn’t want to remember. She released her grip on the pencil. Terror rose as the small cylinder rolled out of reach. Confidence followed immediately afterward. God was here with her, within her. Within Lyle. Her path was clear. And it was not one of
victim or of violence.

  She stood at her full height. “Let me go, Lyle.” He hesitated. She pressed her advantage. “A gentleman does not lay hands upon a lady.”

  “I ain’t no gentleman.”

  “Then thee have exerted thyself for nothing.”

  His grip tightened. “Like hell.”

  Her resolve hardened. “Thee will not swear in my home.”

  “You’re awful bossy.”

  “This is my home.”

  Lyle looked around. “I’m hungry.”

  She stumbled backward as he abruptly let her go. He set his hat on the table. The brim was stained with grease and sweat. She didn’t know if she could scrub the image of the hat from her mind.

  “Make me some breakfast.” Paper crinkled as her palm pushed it across the table.

  Lyle leaped on it like a rat on a june bug. “What’s that?”

  She scooped it up and shoved it into her pocket. “My…my shopping list.”

  His eyes narrowed. “No shopping list ever made a woman red cheeked and stutter.”

  Why was she so fair complected? “I’m uncomfortable with thee being here and what people will say. Thee need to leave.”

  “You weren’t worried none about how it looked when you were here with that injun.” He held out his hand. “Give me the paper.”

  “No!”

  She might as well have been shouting in the wind. He grabbed her arm, yanked her around and reached into her pocket. She grabbed the list with her free hand. The paper tore. Lyle lifted up his half. Through the paper she could see the black lead forming one word. Only one word. So could Lyle.

  “You bitch!”

  The slap came fast and hard. Stars shattered behind her lids. Water hissed as it boiled over on the stove. Pain exploded in her face. She ducked and threw up her hand, blinded by the surge of tears.

  “Stop it!”

  “Tucker McCade is your reason to stay?” Lyle raged. “You laid down with that stinking Indian when there were plenty of white men around ready to scratch your itch?”

  He raised his hand again. She spun. The next blow glanced off her shoulder, but it was still strong enough to knock her off balance. She went down on her knee.

  “Stop!”

  “Goddamn you.” Lyle snarled, “I was going to make you my wife.”

  He drew his foot back. She tucked her arms around her ribs, thought of the pencil just two feet over her head, lying on the table where she’d left it.

  Please, Lord, give me the strength. To hold to her beliefs, to honor her family. She braced for the pain.

  “You son of a bitch!” The curse was blessedly familiar.

  Tucker. Oh God, Tucker was here. Lyle was suddenly gone, the threat of his kick vanishing as sunlight replaced the darkness of his shadow. It wasn’t enough. “Tucker.”

  It was a raw whisper. She wanted to run into his arms, have him carry her away from the fear and the horrible helplessness.

  “Come kick on me, you worthless piece of shit.” Fists met flesh in sickening thuds.

  “Fucking injun. You had no right to touch her.”

  The door rattled as something slammed against it. Shadows spun past her gaze. Dishes rattled. Something crashed. Water sizzled in an angry hiss on the stovetop.

  “You’ll never touch her. You’re a dead man.”

  Dead man. Oh, no. “No!”

  It was a faint whisper, nowhere near loud enough to be heard over the crash of plates.

  “You kill me, they’ll hunt you down, injun.”

  “Let them hunt.”

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, she stood, swaying as the room spun. A dull throb started in her head, taking up the throb in her rapidly swelling cheek. She blinked. Tucker was down on one knee, his arm around Lyle’s neck. His hand on one side of his head. Lyle’s face was blood streaked and a ghastly purple and his feet kicked.

  “Tucker.” She managed more sound this time.

  “Turn around, moonbeam. You don’t want to see this.”

  No. She didn’t. Her stomach roiled. “Thee can’t kill him.”

  His biceps flexed as he applied more pressure. “No one here to stop me.”

  “I am.”

  Tucker’s lip lifted in a snarl. She’d never seen him like that, every muscle rigid with tension, his face drawn tight with lust. Not the softer lust she associated with their lovemaking, but a cold lust. A killer’s lust.

  Lyle made an awful gurgling sound. She had to hurry. She licked her lips, tasting blood. Taking a step forward, she reached out to Tucker with her voice and her hand. “Killing him only kills the good in thee.”

  His gaze skimmed her face. “Not much of an argument when I’m looking at your cheek all bruised and your hands shaking.”

  She tucked her hands into her skirt. “The bruise on thy soul won’t heal as fast as the bruise on my cheek.”

  “By your standards, my soul was lost long ago.”

  “A soul can’t be lost.”

  “I’d be happy to chat religion another time.”

  There was no softening of his tone and Lyle wasn’t kicking nearly as hard. “Don’t do this, Tucker.”

  “Don’t…” Lyle grated out, his nails clawing at Tucker’s forearms like a wild animal. She wanted to vomit, to look away. Instead, she took another step forward.

  Tucker’s biceps bulged as he applied more pressure to Lyle’s throat, shutting off the plea she could see lingering desperately in Lyle’s eyes.

  “I can’t let thee do this.”

  “Go upstairs.”

  “He was upset.”

  “Wrong tack if you’re thinking on soothing me. I’m a touch upset myself.”

  “He found out…” She didn’t know how to put it into words.

  “Whore.”

  Lyle managed to find a breath and that’s what he’d wasted it on? “Shut up, Lyle!”

  “You—” Lyle sputtered. A flex of Tucker’s forearm cut off whatever Lyle was going to say.

  “He won’t let this go, Sally Mae.”

  “Being a fool is not a reason to kill him.” She tried another step forward, another tack. “I can’t let thee do this, Tucker.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “I’m not that hurt.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  Her next step brought her within reach.

  “Get back.”

  She touched his arm. “For me. Please. Don’t.”

  The rage was so strong in him. When she looked into his eyes he was her Tucker, yet…not. She didn’t know what to do. For the first time, she didn’t know how to touch him to make this right. She slid her hand up his arm, feeling the rock-hard muscle, the tension, the anger. “Please.”

  “Sally.”

  Was he weakening? “For us.”

  “Son of a bitch. I’m going to regret this.” He jerked his head. “Stand back.”

  She did, taking those two steps with a sense of elation. Tucker would make a choice. There was hope. Her bare foot came down on something sharp just as Tucker released Lyle. She cried out. Tucker reached for her. Lyle was closer, more desperate. He grabbed her ankle and yanked. She went down hard on her hip. Lyle grabbed her throat, pulling her in front of him. Using her as a shield, he stood.

  “Stand back, injun.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t, and I’m going to snap her neck. She’s a frail-built woman. Won’t even tax me.”

  “I don’t imagine it will.”

  “See how much he thinks of you, Sally Mae? First chance he gets he’s throwing you to the dogs.”

  Was Lyle blind? Couldn’t he see the coiled tension beneath Tucker’s facade of calm?

  “No.” She wasn’t talking to Lyle.

  “Yes. No injun is going to risk his life for a bit of pussy.” Lyle grabbed a knife off the counter, held it to her throat. “But he might if he thought he could take me.”

  The steel pressed into her throat. Thank goodness, she was lax about sharpening
her knives.

  Lyle took a step backward. Tucker took one forward. His eyes never left Lyle. His hand didn’t leave his side.

  “I’m going to do more than take you. I’m going to kill you,” Tucker threatened quietly.

  Sally shook her head.

  “I’ll cut her throat,” Lyle barked.

  Too fast to see, Tucker’s hand whipped forward. Almost in the same moment, something sped past her face.

  Lyle jerked back. The knife slipped against her throat. Something wet and hot coated her face. And then Tucker was in front of her. Lyle jerked and wheezed. She’d heard it enough times to know it was a death rattle.

  Tucker lifted her up, wiping at her cheek with his arm. “I told you I was going to regret letting him go.”

  She turned. Tucker caught her shoulders.

  “No. Don’t look.”

  She couldn’t help it. She leaned back. Lyle was sprawled against the kitchen cabinet, a knife protruding from his eye, blood dripping down his face. She touched her fingers to the wetness on her cheek. More blood. The horror sank into her.

  She rubbed her fingers together and then wiped them on her robe. The stain didn’t leave.

  She looked back at Tucker. There was no gentleness in him now. There was only a seething rage that hadn’t abated. He’d killed Lyle. Would kill him again if he could.

  “He would have let me go.”

  His lip lifted in a snarl. “No, he wouldn’t have.”

  She shook her head, stepping away from him, stumbling slightly before catching her balance on a chair. “Thee didn’t give him a chance.”

  He stood to his full height, chin up, shoulders squared, as if ready to take a blow. “No, I didn’t.”

  She’d asked him to make a choice. Glancing at Lyle, she shook her head and stepped back from the realization. “How could thee do this and say it’s for me?”

  13

  He’d known it would come to this. A clash between beliefs. “I did it because it needed doing.”

  Sally Mae stood before him, her eyes big and accusing in her bleached white face. Christ, Lyle would never have come sniffing around her if he hadn’t had his suspicions that Sally Mae was sweet on Tucker. A man with Lyle’s hate couldn’t stand losing out to an Indian.