by Jan Watson
Her heart twisted with bitterness as he stepped into the barn. She stayed at the window, her back to him, her eyes fixed on the shadowed mountain. The strength of his presence cast an aura around her.
“Grace?” was all he said. As usual, he left all the unsaid words to her.
She didn’t mean to. She’d steeled her heart against it, but as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, tears came instead—great racking sobs that doubled her over and felt for all the world like the hard contractions of childbirth.
He reached for her shoulder, but she shook off his hand. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice worried. “Is it the children?”
“They’re fine,” she spat. “It’s me! Do you ever wonder how I am?”
“What’s got your dander up? You never used to carry on like this.”
A wash of color bright as blood clouded her vision. She wanted to break something. She wanted to push him straight through the barn siding. Instead she grabbed the milk bucket that hung on a peg near Molly’s stall and flung it out the little window. They could hear its metallic ring bouncing off one rock after another.
“That bucket’ll be ruined,” he said as if the bucket was what mattered. “It’ll be full of dents.”
She rushed him then, catching him full in the chest and knocking him onto his rear.
He struggled to a standing position as she beat at his head with closed fists. Catching her hands, Will pulled her into a firm embrace. “Grace, honey, stop.” She struggled against him, but he wouldn’t let her go.
His strength overpowered her, and she sagged against his chest. “Why must you go up there to her grave every night? Why don’t you talk to me?”
Will shook his head, holding her away from him so she could see the disbelief on his face. “You can’t be jealous of your own dead sister.”
Suddenly she was as cold as ice. Her shoulders slumped. “You’re right,” she said, resigning herself to the situation. “I know I can never take her place. I don’t even want to try anymore.”
He tightened his arms around her again. She could hear his heartbeat against her ear, and it muffled his reply. “Listen to me carefully, Grace. I loved Julie. She was my heart, but you are my soul. I love you none the less because you are second.” He traced the track of her tears with his thumb. His words were a balm to her aching heart.
“I always felt that you were too good for me, that you held yourself apart because you could never love the man who caused your sister’s death.” He rested his chin on the top of her head. “I’ve felt so guilty for loving you as I do.”
Emotions she’d long kept at bay threatened to overwhelm her. Why had she always turned away from such powerful love? What could be wrong with loving the man who so obviously loved her?
Will’s next words nearly broke her heart. “Seems I should suffer every day of my life. Instead God has blessed me with you and our children.”
The pride that had sheltered her nearly all her life shattered; like a broken crystal vase it lay in pieces at her feet. She would take a chance and open her true self to him. The sound of a sob clutched her heart, and she felt his tears drip down her own face. A man’s tears—so much heavier than a woman’s.
“I’ve been so stupid, so wrong,” she confessed. “Will, I always felt that if I gave in to your love then I was betraying Julie somehow. I think it was because I never got to make my peace with her.”
He bent his head to hers and murmured against her ear, “I’m so sorry. . . .”
A gentle rain began to tap its music on the barn’s tin roof. Twilight deepened to dusk, and dusk ushered in the night as they grieved their terrible loss together. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close as they sat on a stack of newly mown hay.
Their tears mixed together as he told her of the guilt and anger he carried with him daily. “I didn’t take proper care of Julie. I was so full of myself, so sure I could handle everything. I couldn’t wait for Granny and Emilee to leave so I could take care of my family myself.” He bowed his head as if in prayer. “God forgive me, but it was my own negligence that killed Julie. Granny warned me to be careful, but in my haste, I took the buggy instead of the wagon. If we’d been in the wagon it wouldn’t have turned over in the creek.”
“But that was my fault, Will.”
He looked at her. “I don’t see how you figure that.”
Grace leaned her head against her bent knees. Her voice was hushed, contrite. “When you took Julie away, I was so angry. I meant to make you pay. If I hadn’t sent the buggy to Julie after father died, the accident would not have happened. I sent it to entice her back to me. I sent it to show her what she was missing.”
Grace fished in her pocket for her handkerchief. She wiped her tears and turned her face away from him. “And then, Will,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying, “I betrayed her even more when I fell in love with you. I’ve harbored such anger toward you . . . as if it were your fault that I love you.”
He stood and lit the lantern that hung by the barn door, turning the flame down low so just a little yellow glow protected them against the darkness of the night. He settled down beside her and tenderly plucked a piece of hay from her hair before he took her hand. She felt his fingers trace her own and hoped he didn’t notice how rough hers had become over the years at Troublesome Creek. For a moment she wished she could turn back the clock and give him her youthful self once again.
“When did you come to love me, Grace?” His voice was husky. “How was it that I didn’t know?”
“That’s the part that gives my heart such grief, Will. I came here for the baby, for Laura Grace, but I stayed for you. I stepped into my sister’s life, and I fell in love with my sister’s husband.” She paused, afraid to reveal too much, yet her heart told her she couldn’t turn back now. “I think I loved you from the time you came to Lexington to get me, but I wouldn’t admit it . . . even to myself.”
He stood and helped her to her feet. “Julie was so gentle and so kind, and she loved you, Grace. She wouldn’t deny us happiness.” The night outside their little circle of light was as dark as the inside of a well. He put his hands upon her shoulders, and she let them stay, warmed by his touch. “No more hiding. No more secrets. It’s time we truly buried the past.” His face was set with determination and tenderness. “I do love you.”
“And I love you,” she replied, tasting the unfamiliar words on her tongue. “I love you, Will Brown.”
Their kisses were tender, tentative, as if they were new lovers, and in a sense they were.
Much later, they returned to the house to find the children asleep in the same bed—Copper in the middle with a twin curled on each side, an open storybook tangled in the covers.
Will put his arm around his wife’s shoulder, and she let him hold her. “Should we tell Copper?” he asked, gazing at his sleeping daughter. “Should she know about the night her mother died?”
“Oh, Will,” Grace said, “let’s give it a while. That’s a heavy weight to put upon such young shoulders.”
CHAPTER 13
Copper and Daniel were churning butter when Willy dropped a dead hen at their feet. “Daddy said for you to clean this, Sissy. Something got in the henhouse last night and drug off two other chickens.”
“Probably a possum,” Copper replied, eyeing the plump bird.
Willy poked the dead hen with his bare toe. “This’n got left behind. Daddy says we might as well have chicken and dumplings for supper.”
“Mam?” Copper yelled through the screen door. “Do you want me to finish this butter or pluck this hen?”
“There’s no need to raise your voice, Daughter.” Mam stepped out, pulled the dasher from the churn, and looked at the clots of butter hanging on the wooden rod. “It’s nearly ready. I’ll finish. You go ahead and dress the chicken.”
Copper went to the side yard and started a fire under a cook pot filled with water. She chopped off the chicken’s head and hung the body by its fe
et from the clothesline. Blood dripped onto the grass. Still fresh. It will be all right to eat. She gathered her skirts beneath her and settled down to rest for a minute. Wonder what varmint got into them. I need to patch that fence.
She stuck a chunk of wood onto the fire, letting her mind wander. There was something different about Mam today. She kept looking at herself in the mirror, and she’d put on one of her nice dresses, but they weren’t going to church. Maybe she’d received a letter from her friend Millicent—that always made her smile. But Copper didn’t remember seeing one in the post yesterday. Mam always let Copper read the letters before she put them in the little dresser drawer that held her few pieces of jewelry. Millicent lived in Philadelphia, where she and her husband ran a school. Millicent was always after Mam to come to Philadelphia for a visit.
Bubbles rolled and popped in the kettle, catching Copper’s attention. Turning her focus back to her work, Copper took the hen off the line and dunked it in the roiling water. Up and down, then up and down some more. The black-and-white feathers loosened, and she easily plucked the chicken bald, except for a few tenacious pinfeathers.
Copper had done this task a hundred times. As she worked, she wondered why Mam’s friend never came to visit. Millicent ought to know after all her times of asking that Mam wasn’t going there, Copper mused as she hung the pitiful-looking bird back on the line. She rolled an old piece of newsprint into a tight cone and stuck the end of it into the fire.
As expected, Willy came running. He liked anything to do with fire. “Can I do it, Sissy? Can I fire the bird?”
“It’s called singeing, Willy.” She guided the burning paper around the hen. “We want to scorch off all the little pinfeathers.”
Willy held his nose. “Boy howdy, that stinks.”
“Yes it does,” Copper agreed, ruffling Willy’s hair. “Let’s keep our minds on how good the dumplings will taste.”
Supper was especially good tonight. Mam made fine dumplings, and the chicken was fork tender.
“Do you think it was a possum that made off with the other two hens, Daddy?” Copper asked.
“Seems like something bigger,” he replied between mouthfuls, forking up another helping of dumplings. “A possum or a coon would likely get just one. Something rode one side of the fence around the henhouse down to the ground. I shored it back up.”
“Maybe it was a bear,” Willy added.
Mam looked startled. “Will, surely not.”
“Don’t fret,” Daddy replied. “Bears don’t much like chicken.”
“Shucks,” Willy said. “I wish chickens had four legs. Are you going to eat your drumstick, Daniel?”
Mam stood and put the kettle on the stove. “Willy, leave your brother’s food alone. Daniel, eat your supper or you’re going straight to bed.”
“I can’t eat all this, Mam,” he said and turned his head away as if his plate held a shovelful of food.
Daddy pushed back his chair and went to the tall cupboard in the corner of the room. He took down his slingshot—Copper’s favorite weapon—and headed for the door. “You kids finish up and we’ll have a little target practice.”
Copper quickly started scraping the plates. Mam turned her back, and Daniel slid his drumstick onto Willy’s plate. Lickety-split, Daniel was finished with his supper.
“May we be excused, Mam?” Willy asked.
“Yes, go on,” Mam said. “And you too, Laura Grace. I’ll do the dishes tonight.”
Something strange has happened to Mam, Copper thought. But she didn’t give Mam time to change her mind. She was out the door on the heels of the twins. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on that sling.
Whir, whir, whir, round and round over her head, then release. The little pebble she slung hit the barn door with a rewarding thunk.
“That’s good, Daughter.” Her father’s voice was proud. “Now loosen your grip just a little and aim higher.”
Copper did as Daddy instructed and hit the bull’s-eye midcenter. “I could do this all night,” she exclaimed. She loved the feel of the smooth leather in her hand and the power released from the sling’s pouch.
After taking their own turns, Willy and Daniel drifted away to do other things. Daddy retreated to the porch with his pipe. It was getting dark. Mam lit the coal-oil lamp in the kitchen window. But Copper stayed out, flinging stone after stone until she could hit the bull’s-eye every time.
Copper and the boys were all alone when the varmint came back to raid the henhouse once again.
A “hello to the house” woke them near midnight when John Pelfrey came to fetch Mam to help with the birthing of his mother’s latest baby. Daddy and Mam left with John, leaving Copper in charge.
While they were gone, Copper tossed and turned in her bed, twisting the bedclothes in a knot. She dreamed a large blackbird was pecking and cawing on the roof, trying to get into the house.
Sometime in the night, Willy climbed into her bed and placed his cold feet against the small of her back. “Sissy, wake up! Wake up! I’ve done something really bad.” Fat tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped onto Copper’s face.
“Whatever is the matter?” She scrubbed her face, trying to wake up, and looked at Willy through scrunched-up eyes.
“Sissy, promise you won’t tell Daddy. Swear on a stack of Bibles.” He leaned into his sister and sniffled against her chest.
“I promise,” she answered. “Now what is it?”
“Swear, Sissy. Swear on a stack of Bibles!”
Copper yawned mightily, wishing to sink back under the bedclothes. “Oh, Willy, we don’t have a stack of Bibles. Besides, it’s a sin to swear. Just tell me.”
“I’ve done the biggest sin. . . .” He ducked his head, twisting the front of his nightshirt into a wad. “Well, okay, here it is . . . I left the henhouse door open, and something is eating all Mam’s chickens!”
Suddenly the squawking she was hearing made sense.
“Be very quiet so we don’t wake Daniel, and I’ll go and see what’s wrong.” She stepped out of bed and forced her feet into her shoes. That aggravating possum—she’d finally put an end to him.
“Good idea,” Willy said, his tears forgotten. “Daniel never could keep a secret.” He crept behind her as close as a shadow.
“It would behoove you to worry about the chickens rather than yourself,” she fussed as she cracked the kitchen door, admitting a bar of moonlight.
“I can do that. I can sure do that. I’m worried if some old rat-tailed possum eats them hens Daddy’s gonna behoove me good. Yes, siree, I’m real worried about them hens.” He placed a hand on his rear end as if he could already feel the sting of the paddle.
“I’ll take care of it, Willy. Here, stay on the porch and hold the lantern.” Taking pity on her brother, she paused to squeeze his shoulder.
Copper had nearly reached the rollicking chicken coop, a three-quarter moon lighting her way, when a frightening scene stopped her in her tracks. Between her and the henhouse stood a bobcat. A fine specimen—she judged him to be forty pounds at least. His back to her, his ears pricked, he stalked the boys’ pet rooster. Cock-a-Doodle was trapped against the fence, jumping about in an odd pirouette and flapping his wings.
Copper backtracked quickly, never taking her eyes from the varmint. Backing all the way into the kitchen, she pulled Willy and the lantern along with her. She dragged a straight-backed chair to the corner cupboard and stood on it to retrieve the leather sling. Placing the lantern on the washstand, she directed the dumbstruck Willy to stay in the house and shut the door behind her.
Searching the moonlit path, Copper chose a smooth, round stone, about the size of a marble, and seated it snugly into the leather pouch. Poor Cock-a-Doodle had exhausted himself in his futile attempt to escape and now lay flopping on the ground as his predator closed in. Copper took aim at the back of the bobcat’s head.
Wham! The rock missed its mark and slammed instead against the wildcat’s rump. He turned on her, a wa
rning growl releasing from deep in his throat.
This wasn’t as easy as the bull’s-eye on the barn door. Her mouth went dry, but she stood her ground. She wouldn’t let the hateful thing eat Cock-a-Doodle.
“Please, Jesus, help me finish this!” she prayed as she seated another stone. Her eyes and hands steady, she whirled the sling round and round, faster and faster, and let fly the missile that found its mark with lethal accuracy. The wildcat dropped without a sound, dead as four o’clock on a Sunday afternoon.
Just then, Willy flung open the cabin door and burst out with the lantern. Cock-a-Doodle perked right up and made a beeline for the light on the porch. Willy stood, mouth agape, the lamp dangling at his feet, as a dozen squawking, feather-ruffled hens, following the rooster’s lead, rushed into the house, through the open bedroom door, and straight under Mam’s bed.
“Now you’ve done it, Sissy,” he chided as Copper came in. “How will we explain feathers and chicken pats under Mam’s bed?”
“Well, Willy, what a fair-weather friend you’ve turned out to be.” Copper stood with her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at her brother. “Here I’ve saved your hide, and you have the audacity to blame me for letting the chickens into the house! Didn’t I tell you to keep the door closed?”
Tears returned to his sad little face. “I can’t be a fine-feathered friend, ’cause I ain’t got no feathers. And I don’t know what aubacity means, and you’re supposed to help me ’cause you’re my sister.”
“Fair-weather, Willy,” Copper corrected sharply. “It means . . . oh, never mind. Stop crying and I’ll let you see the wildcat.”
Once outside, Willy let out a long whistle and touched the dead cat’s body with one bare toe. He begged the sling from her and lobbed a couple of rock chips toward the barn door. “Know what this reminds me of, Sissy?” he asked finally. “David and the giant.”
