Summer Lightning

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  His grin was the same as his son’s, only not quite as broad or infectious. The big shoulders were like Jeff’s too, only weighted by an extra twenty years. It was his left leg that dragged. His eyes were deep-set and his blond hair showed touches of frost. Despite that, the two men looked more like brothers than father and son.

  When Edith shook hands with him, she felt no electric tingle as she had with Jeff. However, she was aware of the faintest glimmer about him, almost imperceptible even to her sharp sense.

  “Don’t leave our cousin standing, son,” the older Mr. Dane said. “Breakfast’ll be ready in two shakes.” He glanced at his granddaughters. “Get washed up, my beauties.”

  “Yes, Gran’pa,” the two girls piped and ran off.

  Jeff said, “I’ll get your luggage, Miss Parker.”

  “Perhaps . . . if I could go to my room first. I’d like to take my hat off.”

  “That’s right, son. First things first. Speaking of which, my pie’s about ready to come out. ‘Scuse me, miss. I mean, Cousin Edith.” He grinned.

  Jeff and Edith followed Mr. Dane into the house. “Dad’s one of the best cooks around. We used to have a bunch of ladies coming around after Mother died, bringing all sorts of food. Maybe he should have married one of ‘em but he said he’d rather learn to cook than replace Mother.”

  “When did she pass away?”

  “Two years ago. Here you are.”

  The rooms they’d passed through had been neat without being finicky. She noticed the mantels and tables were bare of knick-knacks, not even pictures. However, there were a great many books, both on shelves and scattered freely around.

  At the end of the upstairs hall, Jeff swung open a door and stood aside to let her enter a good-sized white room. Instead of the heavy curtains, beaded, hobbled, and fringed, that her aunt had always hung, thin muslin covered the windows, draped back to let the full sunshine in. The brass bed was neatly made, the candlewick spread flat and nearly smooth. A mirror above a plain pine dressing table showed Edith her own tired face.

  “What a pleasant room,” she said, reaching up to take out the hatpins that seemed to have dug through to her skull.

  “Thanks, it’s mine.”

  Edith’s hands stilled. “I beg your pardon.”

  “This is my room. I’ll be bunking in with Dad while you’re with us. Don’t worry,” he said in response to her startled look. “It’s no trouble.”

  “But I can’t . . .” He was gone.

  Edith looked at the big, deep bed. It seemed to grow larger as she stood there. She’d never slept in a bed that belonged to someone else nor ever even shared a mattress with a friend. Her aunt had been horrified by the thought of such moral decay.

  Searching her spirit for some hint of true distaste, Edith was startled to find none. She reminded herself that this was a man’s bed, a very attractive man’s bed. This is where he laid his head every night. Possibly he’d shared it with his wife— Gwen. Edith knew that married people usually slept in a common bed though she didn’t imagine it could be very comfortable.

  Laying her hat down on the pine bench at the foot of the bed, Edith smoothed a single wrinkle out of the white spread. She followed the crease up to the pillows, the minute dots of the pattern tickling her palm. The pillows were down, deep and soft. Edith fought the urge to put her cheek tenderly against one.

  After all, it couldn’t hurt to sleep in a man’s bed as long as the man were sleeping somewhere else. Jeff wasn’t likely to lose his way in his own house, or to absentmindedly return to his former room by mistake. Such a thing would be absurd.

  The darkened room showed only a glimmer of moonlight through the translucent curtains. Long ago the house had quieted and now the few sounds that reached her wakeful ear were of the house settling. Then, faintly, she heard a footstep in the hall outside her door. Propping herself up, she looked toward the sound and saw the white china knob of the door turn. A slice of darkness grew as the door opened. Soft as a whisper, Jeff called her name. “Are you awake, my dear?”

  Frozen, she didn’t answer. She heard him sigh and the creak as the door began to close. “Yes, I’m awake.” He came back into the room, closer and closer. . . .

  Edith sat up, pressing her hands to her cheeks. Her heart beat very fast and her lips were strangely dry. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep and dreamed. . . . No. That fantasy had been produced by her waking mind.

  Swinging her feet off the bed—another sin to be counted against her, shoes on a clean counterpane—Edith vowed to take this fantasy as a warning. She would lock her door. Not so much to safeguard against Jefferson, but as a defense against her own worst nature.

  A few minutes later, she stepped into the wide hall. Following her hunger, she found her way to the kitchen by the smell of warm biscuits. Both girls were there, their hair wet from splashing their faces. Mr. Dane, a red gingham apron contrasting with his blue jeans, worked at the big black stove.

  “There you are. Just in time.” He placed a towering stack of pancakes on a plate and put it down at an empty chair. “Now don’t say you can’t eat all of these. They’ll just go cold if you don’t pitch in.”

  “Oh, I should be happy to eat whatever you set before me, Mr. Dane.” She sat down and poured pure amber honey over the stack. The pancakes looked wonderful, high and moist. “Your son said you were a fine cook.”

  “He did? Shucks.”

  Though his expression changed little, he flipped a pancake high in the air, catching it in the pan. Maribel laughed. “Do it again, Gran’pa.”

  He obliged and then said, “That’s enough. I want to eat ‘em, not play with ‘em.”

  Every moment, Edith expected Jeff to walk into the bright kitchen and seal himself at the round oak table that gleamed golden in the sunlight. She found herself eating more and more slowly, to give him time. The little girls had no such restraint. They ate with relish, sometimes seeming to put more in their mouths than they could hold.

  Mr. Dane said, around a mouthful, “Won’t be much left for your dad, Louise, the way you go on.”

  “Um, where . . . ?” Edith began.

  “You can’t expect that son of mine to sit down to eat before he’s checked the stock. Not after being away for a week. But then, he does the same thing every morning the Lord sends.”

  “Commendable,” Edith replied. All at once, she began to eat more quickly, certain she was merely trying to get ahead of the children. After all, she had a lot of meals to catch up on, and at their rate of speed, there’d be no second helping if she didn’t hurry.

  She looked up to find Louise gazing at her. Edith became a little nervous. The child’s look seemed to be largely composed of speculation and surprise, as though she were wondering what strange kind of insect she found in the yard. Sternly. Edith told herself that she was far older than Louise and should easily be able to manage the child. Yet when she tried to meet her steady gaze, it was Edith’s eyes that fell.

  “If you’re done eating,” Louise said, “I’ll be glad to show you ‘round, Cousin Edith.”

  Mr. Dane frowned. “That’s right nice of you, honey. But I bet she’s worn out from traveling, aren’t you, uh, Edith?”

  “Actually, I slept very well on the train. Thank you, Louise. I’d appreciate a tour.”

  “Okay.” The girl took her plate to the sink. “You ready?”

  “Me too,” Maribel cried, climbing down from her chair.

  Like Louise, the younger daughter of the house carried her plate to the sink, although she demonstrated greater care, holding the rim tight in her fists. Edith felt it wise to follow the little girls’ example and also put her sticky plate into the cast-iron sink.

  “Why, thanks, cousin,” Mr. Dane said. “Girls, you run on out in the yard. I want to talk to Miss Edith a minute.”

  With some alarm, Edith resumed her seat. She folded her hands primly in her lap and looked up at the older gentleman, trying to disguise her apprehension. He leaned back in his
chair to glance out the back door. Edith peered past him and saw that both girls were running around the yard, aimlessly.

  Mr. Dane brought all four feet of his chair back to the ground. With a mysterious air, he drew a small clipping out of his apron pocket and unfolded it. His deep-set brown eyes looked at the neatly torn piece and then locked on hers.

  “You don’t resemble your picture much. You sure that son of mine brought home the right party?”

  He handed the paper across. It was her own advertisement from the Bulletin, from the last time it ran. Edith had never noticed before how sharp and narrow her aunt’s gaze was behind her black pince-nez. Perhaps it was her own guilty conscience that made it seem her aunt was giving her a most criticizing look.

  At the same time, however, Edith recalled that Jeff had mistaken her for her aunt when first they’d met. She cringed at the thought. Surely, she could not look so stern ... so ... incurably virtuous.

  “That’s my late aunt. I’m running the service now.”

  “You must be pretty busy. Jeff must have been kind of pushy to get you to come all the way out here.”

  “I didn’t have very much choice, I’m afraid.”

  “You mean he made you throw everything else up? That doesn’t sound like Jeff.”

  “Oh, no,” Edith said, hurrying to adjust Mr. Dane’s wrong idea. “He was courtesy itself. It was just that . . . well . . .”

  Without knowing quite how, Edith began telling the older man all about her troubles with her empty post box and her demanding landlord. “Really, I was at my wit’s end.”

  “So when my son offered you a job, you jumped at it?”

  “No, she didn’t. That’s the last thing she did.”

  Edith turned around in her seat. Jeff Dane leaned against the kitchen door frame, his arms folded across his chest. She had no idea how long he’d been standing there, but he surely must have heard every word, even when she described him as “a gallant knight riding to her rescue.”

  He pushed lazily away from the upright post and entered the room. A long brown dog followed him in. The animal stopped and raised its head. Edith found herself looking into the sad face of what was probably the ugliest dog she’d ever seen in her life. His face was all wrinkles and his ears were long lappets.

  “Down, Grouchy,” Jeff said, shaking the coffee pot.

  The hound slumped against the ground, gazing up at her out of pouchy red-rimmed eyes. Cautiously, Edith extended her hand. The whip-like tail thumped against the boards of the kitchen floor as he lifted his pointed face to sniff. He whimpered as his wet nose nuzzled her hand.

  “What kind of a dog is it?”

  “A hound dog. Got a first-class smeller there. Track anything over any kind of ground, won’t you, boy?”

  The small eyes rolled ecstatically at his master’s voice.

  Sam said, “Would you believe that dog slept outside your door at night, Jeff? Wouldn’t budge much in the daytime either. I think he was worried. Since one master left him, I mean.”

  “Left him?”

  “His owner died last year,” Jeff said. “He left Grouchy to me in his will.”

  “I see.” Moved, Edith took a piece of bacon off her plate and offered it to the dog under the table. As nonchalantly as a baby, Grouchy stood up, stretched and yawned, showing a dark tongue. Then, as if he were thinking of something else, he filched the tidbit and gave her hand a quick swipe in thanks before lying down again. Edith met Jeff’s eyes and had to smile when she realized he’d seen the whole thing.

  “Did you ever have a dog?” he asked.

  “No, I wanted one but I had enough trouble convincing Mr. Maginn that I should be allowed to keep Orpheus.”

  “You’ve missed a lot.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He sipped his coffee. “Remind me to pay a call on the landlord of yours next time I’m in St. Louis.”

  Sam said, “Maybe I’ll go along next time. Sounds to me like the fellow needs a little lesson in how to treat a lady.”

  Chapter 7

  Edith looked back and forth between the two men. “It’s all right,” she said, not sure if they were serious or not. “I imagine Mr. Maginn has other things to think about now. After all, his home did burn to the ground.”

  “What do you remember about the fire?” Jeff asked.

  “Nothing, really. I took Orpheus and ... of course, the stairs weren’t burning yet, just the lower landing. . . .”

  “You were lucky not to be burned in your bed,” Sam said.

  “Everybody got out, I think. I remember standing in the street with lots of other people. Mr. Sandrow—from across the street—I didn’t know he was bald. And Mrs. Webb ... I’d never seen a red silk nightie before.”

  Jeff coughed and she raised her eyes to him. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m running on and you must want your breakfast.”

  “Never mind. I meant to ask, how is it that you came to me? Surely you must know people in St. Louis . . . relatives?” He smacked his hands together. “I should have asked you that before, I can send a telegram to anyone you want me . . .”

  A silent shake of her head silenced him, for she looked as though this refusal were the most prosaic thing in the world. His father leaned forward and said, “There must be someone who needs to know where you are.”

  “No, my aunt was my only relative.” She smiled, that elusive dimple peeping out for a moment like a shy child. “Until now, that is. I think I’m going to like being your ‘cousin.’“

  Standing, she said, “I’ve forgotten about Orpheus. He must be so hungry. He wouldn’t eat on the train.”

  The two men watched her go out. Jeff sipped his coffee, his thoughts wandering down unaccustomed and frightening pathways. Though he’d had a variety of adventures before settling down at last on the family ranch, he’d always known that the love and strength of his family were behind him. He cherished memories of an openly affectionate mother and a father whose manliness had never been threatened by a hug. Those recollections served as a cushion against the rough, sometimes brutal world. What would it be like to have no one? No one at all?

  Sam said, “That’s a brave gal.”

  “No argument. But I didn’t know things were so bad with her as that. Losing everything you own is one thing. Not having anything worth missing is something else.”

  “Maybe, son, you could manage to take a bit longer than a week to make up your mind about the ladies. After all, we can’t send that little girl back to St. Louis with a lousy twenty-five bucks in her pocket.”

  “Uh, I promised her fifty.”

  “Fifty!” His father leaned back and made a long arm for the coffee pot. He tipped a generous measure of the thick, hot brew into Jeff’s cup and then into his own. ‘That’s a lot of money. Are you sure she’s going to be worth it?”

  “I don’t know. She seems to have . . .” He shrugged. “If she can’t help me, then she’ll go home with fifty dollars. We can just call it charity.”

  “Things are really that bad for her?”

  “You should have seen the room she was living in. My shack when I worked on the Trinity had a more homelike feel. A good, big fire was the best thing that could have happened to her boardinghouse.”

  “Why do you suppose a nice girl like that would live in such a place? She is a nice girl, isn’t she?” Sam narrowed his eyes at his son.

  “Don’t worry, Dad. She won’t teach the girls five-card stud or how to swear.” He examined the formidable face of the woman in the advertisement. “Ask yourself what kind of girl this lady would have raised and you’ll see why I’m so sure.”

  * * * *

  A little while later, Jeff stepped out onto the porch. He glanced up at the little cage and saw that the bird was drinking, his head tipped back and his tiny throat working. When the bird saw the man, he flirted his wings and cheeped.

  “Sociable little thing, aren’t you? Where’s your mistress?”

  He stepped off the porc
h, setting his broad-brimmed hat on his head. It was good to be back on his own ground. Without thinking too much about it, he inspected at the house, checking the paint and the roof. He kicked a few white pebbles back onto the path and snapped a drooping flower off the honeysuckle vine that sprawled on a trellis at the front of the house. Gwen had loved honeysuckle. Though the fragrance clung to his fingers, it was not of his late wife that he was thinking as he came around the corner of the house.

  He saw his daughters grubbing in a depression in the ground. A recent rain had left this spot soggy and the girls were squatting down above it, intent on their play. Several rocks served as bases for their mud cookery. Edith stood in the shadows of the house, watching them.

  Before she could speak, Jeff strode forward. “Louise, Maribel! Is this any way to behave before our guest?”

  Their startled faces jerked up at his first words. Now Maribel’s lower lip began to quiver and her eyes filled with tears. Louise, her left cheek smeared with rich brown mud, sent a resentful look toward Edith. “We didn’t know she was there.”

  Edith hesitated no longer. She stepped forward and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Dane ... I mean, Cousin Jeff. There’s no need to be cross. I don’t . . .”

  “You’re very kind, Edith, but they ought to know better. Now march inside and get washed up.”

  “But we’re not finished . . . ,” Maribel began to protest.

  “Yes, you are.”

  She turned her swimming eyes up to her father, her baby lip pouting. Edith’s heart turned to butter, though she saw Jeff standing firm, his hands resting on his hips.

  “Don’t cry,” she said. “Your pies look good enough to eat. But you know, they really should bake a while. You go in and wash as your father wants you to, and I’ll watch over these so they don’t get too brown. I mean . . . any browner.”

  Maribel’s eyes cleared as though by magic. Louise, already halfway to the back door, turned and looked back. Edith expected to have to work hard to build liking in the older girl’s heart, but she saw no hostility there now. Louise gave Edith an easy smile as she waited for Maribel to waddle over to join her. As they went inside, their heads were together, Louise whispering to her young sister.