“Of course she’s skeptical,” Ruby said firmly, and Lori added, “Skeptic is China’s middle name.”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” I allowed, although I considered mentioning what I’d heard in that storeroom. But I wasn’t ready—at least, not yet. There was still a part of me that doubted what I’d heard. What I thought I’d heard.
Ruby reached out and patted my arm. “That’s all right, dear,” she murmured. “We love you anyway.”
Chapter Six
Pecan Springs, Texas
August 1888
Adam Hunt was not happy.
Oh, he was fully aware that his friends considered him a fortunate man, and he knew they had every good reason for their opinion. Hunt’s Feed and Tack was going great guns and promised to grow even faster in the years ahead. He had a pretty, sweet-tempered daughter, Caroline, who was his dearest treasure in the world. And a wife who was beautiful to look at and for whom he provided a nice house and a hired girl to help with the work. He was, as his friend Doug Duncan used to say, holding a royal flush.
But as he walked out to his rented stable to check on his horses that August evening, Adam felt as gloomy as the sky overhead, which was the greenish-purple of an old bruise. The air was hot and heavy, with the bitter tang of smoke from a neighbor’s cookstove mixed with the scent of wet leaves. A short, pelting rain had fallen that afternoon and another storm was brewing now, a bad one. It was likely to bring wind with it, and lightning. His big bay horses—Jack and Ace—were skittish about thunder and storms spooked them, even when they were safe in the stone stable, which was about as solid a structure as you could find anywhere. He’d give them some oats, settle them down. He opened the door and went into the stable, pulling in a deep breath of dusty hay and warm horseflesh. He was greeted by Jack’s anxious nicker.
“Hey, boys,” he said. “Just a little lightning and thunder. Nothing for you to worry about.” He slapped Ace on the rump and hung a bucket of oats on the feed hook, then went on to Jack. “You, too, fella. Good roof over your head. Stout walls. Best damn stable in the whole damn town, boys. Guaranteed.”
It was true, he thought, as he went out to the well and pumped up a bucket of water for each horse. Douglas Duncan had built the stable and the house and his small frame smithy in the year he and Annie got married. Doug had wanted a big house because he, like Adam, had planned to fill it with children. Then, when he lost his foolish bet against the railroad locomotive and his widow needed money to keep her going, Adam had been glad to lease the stable from her, even though Delia objected. But then Delia objected to pretty much everything he did these days. Nothing about him suited her.
Doug’s widow. Annie. At the thought of her, Adam pressed his lips together. He made it a rule not to think of her, although that was getting harder all the time—and especially when he’d had one whiskey too many, as he’d had tonight. It wasn’t Annie’s fault, of course. She always acted properly toward him, exactly as a widow ought to act toward her dead husband’s best friend. While Adam might wish to read something different into the way she sometimes glanced at him, he understood that it was his imagination and not her intent.
But so what if it was? Maybe it was okay to wish and want and imagine, as long as he kept himself on the straight and narrow. He had known Annie since she was a girl, but she had always been Doug’s girl, and out of reach. He had even managed to keep his thoughts in check—until Doug cashed in his chips, at which point it suddenly became a damn sight harder. Annie was not just lovely but deeply desirable, with that auburn hair and those large dark eyes, remarkable eyes that seemed to fasten on him. A glance from those eyes made his breath come short. And when he’d caught her in his arms the day he brought her the news of Douglas’ death, he couldn’t keep himself from touching her face and throat after he’d put her on the bed, and dropping a kiss on her pale lips before she’d come around. He’d suffered with her, too, when she lost that little boy. A tragedy, pure and simple, for he knew how much she and Doug had wanted a child.
And now—well, now he had to admire her even more for the brave way she kept her little lacemaking business going, which was just about all she had to support herself in her widowhood, besides his lease for the stable and what Tobias paid her for the right to use Doug’s smithy. Delia liked to poke fun at Annie’s Laces, and say that it wasn’t worth more than a hill of beans. But that was Delia, always scornful of other women’s efforts when she herself didn’t do much besides spend money and run back and forth to Galveston as often as her sister could arrange for a party. As she had done a few days ago, and taken Caroline with her.
Adam had once thought Delia was so beautiful and had been proud when she agreed to be his wife. But he had learned—a hard, hard lesson—that her beauty wasn’t more than skin deep. His mother used to say that pretty was fine as far as it went, but it didn’t go very far when it came to keeping a marriage together. His mother had been wiser than he’d given her credit for.
And that bitter truth had been imposed on him once again when he went through the bills this afternoon and understood how much Delia had spent on those amethyst earrings and that new pink dress.
And then there was the envelope he had found, and what was in it—especially that. Which was why he had downed a couple of whiskeys with the sandwiches the hired girl had left him for his supper.
Adam picked up the water buckets. The first heavy drops of rain were beginning to fall as he carried them into the stable.
* * *
• • •
AFTER her disastrous trip to Austin, Annie’s week had gone downhill, and it got worse as the full realization of her situation began to catch up with her. She knew she had to come up with a plan that would carry her through until she was able to find more markets for the lace. In the meantime, she would have to dip into her tiny cash reserve to pay her girls the commission she owed them and explain that their two Austin shops had closed. Perhaps she would even have to let one or two of them go.
But she hated to do that. Her lacemakers were becoming quite skilled, and they worked together so beautifully, almost like a family of sisters—with the exception of Delia, who wasn’t really one of them. What’s more, they had come to depend on the work she gave them. She couldn’t let them down. She would simply have to keep them on, all of them, if she could, for as long as she could. So she put off saying anything until she had a better idea of what new opportunities she might be able to conjure up.
On a stormy August evening a few days after her trip to Austin, Annie took a pencil and piece of paper and sat down at the oilcloth-covered kitchen table to make a list of as many possibilities as she could think of. It had been hot all day, and after supper, she had stripped down to her chemise and cooled off with a sponge bath. Now, she was wearing a loose cambric wrapper, pale blue and sashed at the waist, and she had pulled her hair back from her face with a blue ribbon.
She frowned down at the paper. The first thing she should do, of course, was to find a new market for the lace in Austin. Surely another shop would open soon. Austin, she wrote, and underlined the word.
But another and perhaps more immediate possibility was San Antonio, just thirty miles to the south, so she wrote San Antonio, and underlined that, too. She had never been to the city, but she knew it was almost twice as large as Austin and had been settled by the Spanish. Surely there would be a dress shop or a millinery shop that catered to fine Spanish ladies. The Spanish ranchers were rumored to have lots of money, so their wives might be able to buy fine handmade laces. And perhaps the churches, although she didn’t have any idea how to approach them.
But even if she found one or two of the right shops and her laces were taken on commission, it would be at least a month, maybe even two, before they were sold and she was paid. Until then, perhaps she could place a mail-order advertisement in the Austin Weekly Statesman, or even a magazine. There was Godey’s Lady’s Book, fo
r instance, the most widely read women’s magazine in the country. Mail order, she wrote on her list. She frowned. But wouldn’t that be expensive? And she would have to pay for a catalogue, which would mean costs for drawings and printing, as well as the advertising space itself. And that could take months and wouldn’t produce any income in the meantime, when there were the girls to pay and her own living expenses to meet.
Annie leaned on her elbows, her head in her hands, feeling daunted and a little dazed. Since Douglas’ death, everything had been in such a muddle. She had done all she could, but she seemed to be falling further behind. Perhaps Delia was right: a woman simply couldn’t make it on her own in this day and age. A widow who had social position and money could afford to pursue her own interests, to do what she liked. But she had neither. It stood to reason that to have any kind of life at all, she ought to find a husband. A husband—the right husband, one with plenty of money—would allow her all the time she needed to do the work she wanted to do.
But her independent spirit balked at the thought of marrying a man just to gain his financial support. No! Whatever Delia said, she didn’t need a man, she needed a change. Perhaps it was time to admit that Pecan Springs wasn’t the right place for her business. The house, which was free and clear, was her largest asset. She could sell it and move to a city in the east or up north, where it would be easier to find shops that would market her work. St. Louis, maybe? As a girl, she had occasionally visited her cousins there and had liked the city. The money from the sale of the house would support her until she could get a new start. On her list, she wrote ST. LOUIS in capital letters and underlined it twice.
But even as she stared at the words, she knew she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t sell this house. It was her spirit, her life. It was filled with memories, with the echoes of Douglas’ song. With sweat and blood, with the sweet ring of laughter and bitter tears of grief, with all the music of work and love and life that had been lived within these walls. She couldn’t leave that, could she?
She crossed out ST. LOUIS and dropped her pencil. She would have to face her challenges here in Pecan Springs, not somewhere else.
It had rained that afternoon and the smell of wet leaves hung heavy on the air. Now, the evening sky had grown very dark, and the wind was picking up. Another storm was blowing in from the south, and Annie could hear one of the wooden stable shutters banging. She found a match and lit the kerosene lamp that hung over the table. Then, pulling her wrapper closer around her, she went to the open kitchen casement, thinking to latch it. But just as she put out a hand to pull the window shut, there was a blinding flash and an ear-splitting crack of thunder. Not thirty feet away, the large cottonwood tree beside her garden exploded in a violent shower of sparks, hurling chunks of splintered wood like flying rockets. Limbs crashed to the ground and the tree swayed and began to topple toward her house.
Annie gave an involuntary cry and stumbled back. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought the cottonwood was going to fall across the roof. But when it crashed to the ground, she saw that it had just missed. There was no immediate danger, but that didn’t dispel the effects of her fright. Her heart was pounding and she was still trembling when, a moment, later, she heard someone banging at the kitchen door. She opened it to Adam, bareheaded and wet, his shoulders hunched against the rain. Behind him, she saw whipping trees, illuminated by flashes of blue-white lightning.
“Are you all right?” he asked urgently. “That cottonwood nearly took out your chimney.”
“I’m fine,” she said, opening the door wider. “Just a little scared.” With a shaky smile, she put her hand on his arm. “Do come in, Adam. You’ll be soaked to the skin.”
His startled gaze took in her figure, and she dropped her hand, clutching the wrapper a little tighter against her, remembering that she wasn’t dressed. A flush rose in her cheeks, and she half turned away.
“I’m not exactly presentable,” she said in a low voice, “but you’re welcome. The kettle’s still hot. We can have tea.”
He hesitated as if he might not accept the invitation, then seemed to change his mind. “Thanks,” he said, and stood by the door, dripping. “When that lightning bolt hit, I was at the stable, fastening the shutters. I thought it had struck your house.”
“Everything’s all right out there?” Annie asked, disturbingly aware of the male scent of tobacco and something else. Whiskey? Yes, whiskey. She was surprised. Delia often said that she didn’t allow drinking in her home. And then she remembered. Delia had taken little Caroline and gone to Galveston to visit her sister.
“There’ll be some cleanup,” Adam said. “That tree literally exploded. But once all the pieces are dried and cut to size, it’ll be good stove wood.”
Annie felt herself trembling. “You’re wet,” she said. He was wearing a light blue shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, and dark canvas trousers. The shirt was plastered to his shoulders, and raindrops glittered in his dark hair. Still clutching her wrapper, she opened a drawer and pulled out a towel.
“Here,” she said, holding it out to him. “Dry off. I’ll find you one of Douglas’ shirts.”
She had given most of her husband’s clothing away, but she had kept two of his favorite flannel shirts that she herself wore to sleep in on cold nights. She found one and took it to the kitchen and busied herself wordlessly with the teapot while Adam turned away from her and stripped naked to the waist. He rubbed himself down with the towel and shrugged into Douglas’ plaid shirt. A few moments later they were sitting across the table from each other, cups in front of them. The rain was pounding against the windows. The thunder was a continuous mutter and the lightning flashed wildly. The air in the kitchen felt close and charged, somehow. It felt, Annie thought, as if something was going to happen.
“Tea’s good,” Adam said, not looking at her. Caught in a draft, the flame of the kerosene lamp flickered, and Annie was struck by the realization that he was very like Douglas. Not physically, of course. Her husband had been dark-haired and sun-browned and large. Adam’s hair was fair and he was slender and wiry. But both were strong men of generous heart and optimistic vision who gave themselves fully to work and play. She remembered the many times the two of them had sat at this table, laughing, while she bustled around making sandwiches for them, or pouring coffee or slicing pie.
But tonight Adam’s mouth had a grim set, and his forehead was furrowed. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, and she got up to fetch him one of Douglas’ ashtrays. Again, she caught the scent of whiskey. She sat down and watched him light his cigarette.
After a moment, she broke the silence. “I . . . I don’t mean to pry, Adam, but is something troubling you?”
Adam seemed to consider her question, as if he were debating what to say. After a moment, he said, quite abruptly, “You sure you want to hear this, Annie?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, of course.”
“You’ve known Delia for a long time.” His glance lingered on her hair, her throat. “Did you know . . .” He pulled on his cigarette and blew out a stream of blue smoke. “Did you know she’s been taking something all this time—something to keep herself from . . . from having a baby?”
His voice was taut and his words, slightly slurred, hit Annie like a fist. Her breath felt as if it were trapped in her throat. His gaze was holding her now with such intensity that she couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, couldn’t even drop her eyes. She was sure he wouldn’t have asked her that question if he hadn’t had too much to drink. He would probably regret it in the morning—if he remembered it. Likely he wouldn’t.
She might have parried him, but she didn’t. Perhaps it was that he was sitting in Douglas’ chair, wearing Douglas’ shirt, holding Douglas’ cup. Perhaps it was the electrical storm outside, the flicker of the lamp over the table, casting a circle of warm, sheltering light over the two of them. Whatever it was, she felt a new
and startling intimacy, and it emboldened her to answer in a way she would not, could not have otherwise.
Meeting his eyes, she said, “I know that she doesn’t want a baby.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back. This was dangerous, risky. And yet, there was a kind of wild pleasure in it that made her heart race, her breath come short.
He gave her a long, questioning look. “She told you that?”
She nodded. She could hear the pain in his voice, and the anger. And understood.
He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray. “Did she say why?”
She pressed her lips together. Delia’s reason—that babies ruin a woman’s figure—was too trivial to repeat. “I thought . . . perhaps she had a hard time with Caroline.”
“A hard time with Caroline? I remember it differently.” Adam’s shoulders slumped. “I guess I wouldn’t mind so much if she hadn’t been lying to me all these years. I wanted another child and I thought she agreed.” Annie thought he sounded disgusted. “But now I find out that she’s been getting something from Mrs. Crow. To keep herself from getting pregnant.”
Annie shifted uncomfortably. She wasn’t surprised to hear that Delia was using something. Many women did. But she was surprised to hear that Adam was just learning about it. And even more surprised that he was telling her. He must be deeply troubled.
“Do you know what she’s getting from Mrs. Crow?” she asked, trying to lighten the conversation. She chuckled wryly. “Not that I have any use for it, of course. As a widow.”
For the first time, he smiled, and his voice lost some of its tension. “Well, you’ve been married, so maybe you had a use, then. Wild carrot seeds. ‘Chew and swallow with water’ was written on the envelope. ‘To prevent conception.’” He drew on his cigarette. “Is this something women . . . do?”
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