Wild Dream

by Duncan, Alice

  Sun nodded. “Good medicine.”

  “I expect it might be, at that.” Charley watched Addie disappear into the pantry and knew it was another room he should search, with its shelves and shelves of preserved fruits, vegetables, jams, jellies, pickles, and so forth. With a sigh, he reckoned the hiding places for a bunch of precious rubies were numberless in a well-run household.

  Addie returned to the kitchen, armed with four jars of peach preserves. “Here you are, Sun. Is this enough?”

  Sun eyed the four jars critically. “Enough. I got empty jars on my horse. I brought skins to trade this time.”

  Addie’s eyes lit up. “Skins? Oh, my. What kind.”

  “Rabbit.”

  “Oh, mercy, won’t they be soft, though?”

  Sun didn’t reply to such a silly question; he just stalked out the back door to fetch his rabbit skins and the empty preserve jars.

  “You trade peach jam for skins?” Charley watched Addie curiously. This life in the territory was like none other he’d had anything to do with before. Trading rabbit pelts for jam with wild Indians. My, my.

  “Not always. He’s brought antelope hides before. We sold those to Mr. Phipps at the Emporium. One time I traded—” Addie broke off, and her cheeks colored up becomingly.

  Charley grinned. “You traded archery lessons, Miss Adelaide?”

  Addie looked sheepish. “He told you?”

  “I asked.”

  “Well, maybe he was right and I didn’t concentrate hard enough, but it seems to me a body should have a little more patience with another body when he’s tryin’ to teach such a complicated skill as archery.”

  With a chuckle, Charley suggested softly, “I reckon an Indian might not be able to share your sentiments on the subject of gallant knights, Miss Adelaide.”

  “Maybe,” she said, sounding cranky about it.

  Sun returned, carrying an armload of beautifully cured jackrabbit pelts. Addie ran up and eased his load.

  “Oh, Sun, these are wonderful. Why, they’ll be so soft and warm come winter. Aunt Ivy, just look at these.”

  “I see ‘em. They’re beautiful.” Ivy turned to Sun. “I reckon you should get a jar or two of pickles, Sun. These are worth more than a few jars of peach jam.”

  “Bread-and-butter pickles?” Sun smiled.

  “Well, certainly, if that’s the kind you want.”

  “Aunt Pansy’s?”

  Ivy glared at Sun, who looked at her innocently. Addie laughed. “Aunt Ivy, you make the best dills in the West, but Aunt Pansy still beats you at bread-and-butter pickles. I’ll fetch ‘em, Sun.” She skipped back to the pantry and reappeared with another two jars, these containing her aunt Pansy’s award-winning bread-and-butter pickles.

  At the mention of Aunt Pansy, Lester’s face wrinkled up into a worried frown. Charley gave him a warning look. Not that he needed one probably, since Lester didn’t generally think fast enough to take part in immediate conversations. Charley doubted he’d blurt out Pansy’s role in the life of the America City Brass Band. He wasn’t so sure about the other men in the band.

  Charley accompanied Addie out to the front gate to see Sun in His Eyes off. He watched the fellow ride away, his jars of preserves and pickles wrapped carefully and packed away in hide pouches, and felt a little sorry to see him go.

  “He seems like a real nice fellow.”

  “Oh, he is, Ch—Mr. Wilde.” She smiled up at him and took his arm as they walked back to the house.

  “I wish you’d go back to calling me Charley, Miss Adelaide.”

  “No, indeed, Mr. Wilde. I know I acted like a regular ruffian when you first showed up. Why, I expect my behavior must have set the teeth of a true gentleman like you on edge.”

  Although he knew it to be useless, Charley said, “I’m not a gentleman, Miss Adelaide.”

  Addie giggled and gave his arm a playful whack. “Don’t you be an old silly, Mr. Wilde. Of course, you are.” As they neared the house, she said, “By the way, Mr. Alden and Mr. Whatley—from your band?—well, they were in church today, and they said the band would come out here around three this afternoon for a rehearsal.”

  “They went to church?” Charley peered down at her, astonished.

  “Yes, indeed. I reckon they’re workin’ for Mr. Steadlow at the newspaper for a while.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “I understand Mr. Whatley’s setting type and Mr. Alden’s doin’ some repairs on the press. Mr. Steadlow generally expects his help to attend church regular-like.”

  “George always did have a turn for machinery.”

  Addie gave an expressive sigh. “I reckon the town could use a couple of skilled people like them. It’s a shame you have to be movin’ on.”

  She peered up at him again, and Charley recognized the longing in her eyes. He looked away hastily. Oh, my, how seductive the lure of domesticity could be. Even out here on the frontier where he’d just bade farewell a real wild Indian not five minutes before, he felt it grab onto his heartstrings and yank. And he knew it was Miss Addie Blewitt doing the yanking, too. He tried to harden his heart and was singularly unsuccessful. It was impossible to be hard-hearted when it came to Addie.

  Oh, it was true she drove him crazy with her silly notions about wanting to be a Georgia belle and all. And maybe she talked a lot, although that didn’t bother him at all anymore. Still, Charley wished she’d open her eyes to her own merits. She was about the most competent female he’d ever met in his life, and worth any ten of the simpering misses he remembered from America City.

  It wasn’t in the cards for Charley to succumb to his longings, however. Not with a band to take care of and a thwarted robbery in a neighboring town looming over them like the hatchet of doom.

  “I wish we didn’t have to go, Miss Adelaide.” He mumbled the truth and then wished he’d kept his mouth shut as he prepared to withstand Addie’s cajolery. He expected her to start right in on trying to convince him to stay.

  Addie, however, was still doing her very best to behave in a ladylike manner. Although her heart soared when she heard the genuine yearning in Charley’s tone, she refrained from pouncing. She knew no genuine Georgia lady would come right out and beg a gentleman not to leave her. Such a thing would be beneath her dignity, a commodity, she thought grimly, she’d sorely lacked. Until now.

  “Well,” she said primly, “I reckon you know best, Charley.”

  She really knew no such thing. She knew Charley belonged here, even if he didn’t. Her job, she did know, was to make him understand it.

  Addie and Aunt Ivy served dinner as soon as she and Charley returned to the house. She’d set two chickens to fricassee before they left for church, and Ivy’d made the biscuits while she and Charley saw Sun in His Eyes off.

  “This is mighty good, ladies,” Charley said after he swallowed another succulent bite of chicken.

  “Fricassee is one of Aunt Ivy’s favorites, Mr. Wilde, Her fricassee is much better than Aunt Pansy’s.” She smiled at her aunt. Ivy fairly glowed under the praise. Lester said nothing, but chewed impassively. He did raise his head and exchange a brief glance with Ivy, a fact which did not pass unnoticed by Charley. He shook his head and wondered what he’d do if he had to leave both Addie and Lester behind. It didn’t bear thinking of.

  He decided this afternoon’s rehearsal would be a good opportunity for him to practice “Wood Up Quick Step.” He wondered again if Addie Blewitt would swoon. She was such a romantic, dramatic little thing, he bet she would.

  Then he acknowledged unhappily that he’d actually be happy if she’d just go back to calling him Charley.

  Chapter 10

  “Mr. Wilde,” Addie said passionately that evening when she found Charley alone under the apple tree. “I never heard anything as splendid as that piece you played this afternoon. Never, not once.”

  The rehearsal had gone better than Charley’d imagined it would. His men seemed happier than he’d seen them since they left
Georgia. Also, he learned Addie had told him the absolute truth. Both George and Francis had taken up temporary employment at the Rothwell Weekly Record. Harlan still worked at the smithy, although nobody was sure how long that job would last. Only Peachy Gilbert remained without employment.

  “But the school teacher, Miss Pinkley, says she needs somebody to fix the roof. She said she’d pay five dollars. I reckon I kin do that.”

  “You know how to fix a roof, Peachy?” Charley looked curiously at Peachy, who shrugged.

  “I reckon.” He sounded doubtful.

  “Well, shoot, Peachy, when are you going to start? I’ll go into town to help you.”

  Peachy, an insurance underwriter back home in America City, brightened. “Would you really, Charley? I’d surely appreciate your help. I don’t know much about roofs.”

  “I know, Peachy. And I’ll be happy to help you.”

  It would feel good to be working at his old craft again. Charley’d already found several things at the Blewitt farm that needed a carpenter’s attention, from the bullet-marred kitchen cabinet to the hayloft in the barn, which was poised for collapse. He also needed to set the pane of glass Fermin Small had brought that afternoon.

  The sheriff hadn’t lingered. He’d brought the glass, picked up his two guns, which had been carefully unloaded by Charley, and left again, all the time being watched like a hawk by Addie. If he paused for so much as a second, she shook her broom at him.

  For a moment, Charley entertained the wistful thought that he and the band might be able to remain in Rothwell if Peachy could find a job and the other men’s jobs became permanent. He thrust it aside almost immediately. Staying here was too dangerous. If that lady from Arleta didn’t visit and recognize one of them, sure as the devil one of the boys would let the cat out of the bag. He sighed, discouraged, and looked up at Addie.

  She stood demurely beside the apple tree, her hands clasped together in front of her, her shod feet peeking out from beneath her petticoats. Charley guessed her fence-sitting, foot-swinging days were over. What a shame. He used to enjoy watching her shapely ankles flash by his head. Oh, it was true, he found her naked flesh provocative, but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy seeing it.

  “The piece you like is called ‘Wood Up Quick Step,’ Miss Adelaide. It was one of my specialties back home.”

  “Well, it surely is special, Mr. Wilde. It surely is.”

  An impulse to ask her if she’d felt like swooning when she’d heard it nudged Charley, but he thought better of it. He settled for a prosaic, “Glad you liked it.”

  “Oh, I did. I surely did.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to sit down, ma’am? Aren’t your feet tired?”

  A brief frown visited Addie’s face. “No, thank you, Mr. Wilde. There’s nothing to sit on but the fence.”

  “You didn’t used to mind sitting on the fence, Miss Adelaide,” Charley reminded her. He felt bad when her cheeks flushed.

  “Well, I guess I did used to sit there, Mr. Wilde, but I don’t believe it was very ladylike of me to do so.”

  She sounded grim and determined, and Charley wished she’d never heard of ladylike behavior. He liked her better the way she was before, all friendly and casual and utterly charming. She’d gone stiff now, and he missed the old, free-wheeling Addie.

  “Miss Adelaide, I think you’re making too much of this ‘lady’ stuff, myself.”

  “You do?”

  “I do.” Charley frowned as he tried to find the words to fit his thoughts. “I mean, look at it logically, Miss Adelaide. What earthly good is the ability to embroider fancy hankies and press flowers out here on the frontier? You’re better off being able to doctor wounds and trade preserves for hides with Indians.”

  “What do you mean, press flowers?” Addie demanded, as though this were something she should already have known about.

  Charley sighed. “Now, don’t you go off and start pressing flowers, Miss Adelaide. It’s a useless occupation for people who don’t have anything better to do with their time. You’ve got lots better things to do with your time. And you do ‘em better than anybody I’ve ever seen, too.”

  “But how does a body press a flower?” Addie persisted. “Do you run it through the mangle? I’d think it’d stick and get all gooey.”

  Charley tried to smother his grin. “No, ma’am. Ladies back home used to arrange flowers between the leaves of books. The petals would dry flat and the color and shape of the blossom would dry and be preserved that way.”

  A look of intense concentration settled over Addie’s features. “Books, huh?”

  Charley wished he hadn’t brought the subject up. Conversation lagged while Addie thought and he watched her, trying to figure out how to dissuade he from pursuing the useless hobby of pressing flowers.

  At last, sounding quite vexed, she said, “Well, I don’t expect a yucca would fit into a book very well. And I don’t suppose I’d better steal any more apple blossoms or we won’t have a crop come fall. There’s always creosote, but it might make the book smell funny. Come summer we’ll have verbena and mallow. And bind weed.”

  Charley stood and put a hand on her shoulder. He knew touching her was dangerous, but he felt guilty about mentioning flower-pressing. “Miss Adelaide, please don’t think pressing flowers would make you any more of a lady than you already are.”

  She looked stricken. “You mean I’m not acting ladylike yet?”

  He shook his head, wishing he were better with words. “No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am. Yes, you’re acting very much like a lady.”

  “Oh, good.” She was obviously relieved.

  “In fact, I wish you’d stop it.” Knowing he was taking a monumental step in the wrong direction and feeling powerless to stop himself, Charley began to trace her chin with his finger. He felt her shiver at his delicate touch and groaned inwardly.

  “You do?” Her whisper tiptoed into his head, drifted downward, and lodged in his heart.

  “I do.”

  Her big, lustrous eyes seemed to beckon him. Even by the scanty light afforded by the moon and stars, they called him closer and closer, until Charley discovered his face hovering only inches away from Addie’s.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed.

  “Miss Adelaide, I think you ought to stop trying to compare yourself to ladies in Georgia. You’re much finer than any lady I ever met back there. And more useful, too.”

  Much to Charley’s dismay, the words he’d used in a despicable attempt to soften the last of Addie’s resolve seemed to have exactly the opposite effect. Suddenly she stood up straight. Her head, which had been bent back so she could peer into his eyes, tilted forward once more, and her forehead bumped Charley’s chin.

  He straightened immediately. “Ow!”

  Distractedly, Addie reached up and rubbed her forehead. Then she rubbed Charley’s chin. She didn’t seem to notice him stiffen at her touch.

  “I’m sorry, Charley—I mean, Mr. Wilde. I didn’t mean to bump you. But you’re wrong, and I know it.”

  “I am?”

  Since Addie had left off stroking his chin in favor of pressing her forehead, presumably to feel if a lump was forming, he took over the job for her. Shoot, she had a hard head, Charley thought as he rubbed his chin.

  “Oh, you’re certainly being kind, Mr. Wilde, but I know you don’t mean it.”

  “I don’t?”

  Addie offered a brittle laugh. “Why, of course, you don’t. Oh, I think it’s right gentlemanly of you to give me such a pretty little white lie, but I know better. I’ve behaved in a most unladylike manner, and I’m sure you couldn’t be anything but disgusted by such tomboyish manners.”

  “Believe me, Miss Adelaide, nothing could be further from—”

  She pressed two fingers over his lips, shocking him into silence. “Now, I don’t want to hear another nice word from you, Mr. Charley Wilde, or I’m liable to forget my vow and kiss you, you’re so sweet.”

  “You might?”
>
  “Yes, indeedy.” She didn’t remove her fingers. “And I know you’d just hate that.”

  “I would?” Charley realized he’d begun to whimper but was hard-pressed to stop himself. Her flesh against his lips had an almost electrifying effect on his body.

  “Well, of course, you would, you old silly. Any gentleman would hate to have a lady fling herself into his arms and kiss him.”

  “He would?” He’d done with whimpering, Charley noticed. He’d proceeded to croaking.

  “Why, la, you silly Willy,” Addie trilled, sounding exactly as Mrs. Minnie Mayfield back home in Georgia.

  The comparison stunned Charley’s already overwrought senses. Minnie used to trill in just that coy manner every time they snuck out to old man Mayfield’s barn to make love. Charley still felt a little guilty about having carried on an affair with a married lady, but after all, old man Mayfield was ninety and senile and his bride had just gone twenty. Her family had married her off to Mayfield in a blatant attempt to secure his wealth. Charley had been only seventeen at the time and ruled by his hormones, so he figured he might be forgiven. Minnie’d been especially vulnerable to “Wood Up Quick Step.”

  He told himself it would be dangerous to think about that at the moment.

  “Why, of course. No gentleman wants a lady flingin’ herself into his arms!”

  “Yes, he does,” Charley rasped.

  Addie laughed. “Don’t you be ridiculous, Mr. Wilde,” she said as she swung away, leaving him behind feeling utterly bereft. “But I have to admit, it was hard for me to keep away. That ‘Wood Up Quick Step’ is purely stirrin’, Mr. Charley Wilde. It’s purely stirrin’ to a lady’s blood.”

  Charley finally couldn’t stop himself. “Did you feel like swooning?”

  “Oh, my, I surely did,” feathered back to him over the warm spring air.

  Charley groaned miserably and sank to the ground under the apple tree.

  # # #

  The only way Charley managed to keep away from Addie during the next three days was to work himself almost to death. He repaired shutters, rebuilt stalls, fixed the kitchen cabinets, installed the new window pane, sawed, planed, and hammered until his muscles quivered, his wounded arm ached, and he was ready to collapse from exhaustion. He even went to town and helped Peachy Gilbert fix the schoolhouse roof.