Chasing Charity

by Marcia Gruver

  Sludge-covered men darted to and fro, dodging wagons, equipment, and each other. Oxen strained against carts filled with pipe, their massive hooves slinging mud as they pawed the rainsoaked ground. Rigs loaded with timber sat off to one side. She recognized these as belonging to Bender’s Mill. More stacks of lumber lined the bog in staggered piles. At least Charity thought it was the bog. Everything looked so different she found it hard to get her bearings.

  A clearing stretched in a wide circle from the edge of the dense woods beyond the bog all the way to the scrub bushes behind the house, creating an open area that hadn’t been there before. Heavy black boots had trampled the yard to mush, leaving very little grass—only a few tufts along the fence line.

  Charity’s stomach tightened. How odd to see strangers pouring in and out at the back entrance. Someone had tied the screen door open with a rope, an invitation to swarms of flies and mosquitoes. Muddy tracks crisscrossed the steps and porch. She shuddered to think what the floor inside must look like. Mama would be fit to bury!

  Well, so be it. It was justice served. When all the nonsense was over and they returned to this mess, Charity wouldn’t lift a finger to help clean.

  “Morning, Miss Charity!”

  She turned in her saddle to see who shouted the greeting.

  Stubby Morgan grinned up at her, his copper hair and matching freckles stark against his pale complexion.

  “Why, good morning. What are you doing way out here this time of day?” She glanced toward the mill wagons. “They got you making deliveries now?”

  “No, ma’am. Don’t work out at Bender’s no more.” He pointed over his shoulder with a grimy thumb. “I signed on with this outfit.”

  Stunned, Charity gaped at him. Stubby had gone to work for Bender’s Mill the year his papa died. He was only fourteen at the time. Charity, barely ten when it happened, felt sad when he never returned to school.

  His dappled face flinched under her searching gaze, and he shuffled his oversized feet. “The pay’s good, Miss Charity.” He brightened. “Three dollars a day! More’n twice what I brought home from the mill. In my family, that’s too good to pass up.”

  She found her voice. “But don’t you see? It won’t last. I can’t believe you quit your steady job to work for a company that’ll be long gone in a matter of weeks.”

  A puzzled look lit briefly on his upturned face before he flashed an angelic smile. “Why, sure it’ll last, ma’am. Humble’s a boomer town now.” He gestured over his head at a group of men standing nearby. “Just ask them fellers over yonder. Zeke there helped me land the job. He put in a good word for me with the drillers.”

  Charity followed his nod. Ezekiel Young and his son Isaac, her nearest neighbors to the north, stood in a long line of men passing boards from the wagon to the clearing. Charity understood their presence. The Young family had lost their cotton crop to boll weevils, and with Isaac set to wed Amy Jane Pike in three months, there’d be another mouth to feed.

  Shamus Pike himself huddled with another group of men shouting to be heard over the ruckus. Despite Elsa’s fancy airs, Shamus always worked extra jobs between crops. He had no choice. His wife and daughter scooped up money as fast as he raked it in. If the oil company paid so handsomely, Elsa would see to it that Shamus was first in line.

  Charity leaned over in the saddle so Stubby could hear. “You’ve worked that mill for ten years.” She frowned and nodded at the melee behind him. “Don’t throw it away for this. I’ll bet they’d let you change your mind if you asked.”

  Stubby shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Why would I change my mind? Like I said, Miss Charity, the pay’s real good.” He peered up at her, shading his eyes from the sun. “Don’t worry none about your mail. I can still run out and fetch it for you every Saturday.”

  She shook her head at the kind-faced young man. “I won’t have you go out of your way like that for me. I’m grateful for the offer, but don’t trouble yourself about it anymore.”

  “You sure?”

  She smiled. “Real sure.”

  A man near the house called Stubby’s name. He grinned at Charity, tipped his battered hat, and ran off. Her gaze drifted past him and over the scope of her land, taking in every violation, every unspeakable change, every heavy-footed stranger tromping through her yard.

  Her room sat tucked behind those mud-spattered walls. She pictured the quilt on her bed, a gift from Grandma Leona Bloom in Jefferson, covered in sludge. Remembered her diary with its too flimsy lock, left out on her desk. Nausea settled in the pit of her stomach, coupled with something akin to rage.

  These men rode into Humble like a gang of roughs and thieves, turning everything upside down with their silly oil. They had disrupted her life and defiled her home. Hiring her friends and neighbors to take part in it dealt Charity a staggering blow.

  She felt Buddy’s gaze on her and glanced his way. He watched her from astride his horse with the same puzzled look she’d seen two days before. What must he be thinking?

  Who cares what he thinks? This is his fault. All of it.

  “I’m going,” she spat. “I’ve seen enough.” She whirled the mare and dug her heels into its flank, leaving Buddy in a spray of mud.

  Charity hoped the horse knew the way back. She was too upset to think about where she was going. Clinging to the saddle horn, she let the mare take her where it would, while the trees on both sides of the trail passed in a blur.

  Her life was a fine mess. In a week’s time she’d lost her fiancé, her best friend, her home, and her mama, in that order. The only good had come to her at the hands of a stranger, a man at whom she’d just flung dirt.

  Guilt niggled at her conscience. How could she be cruel to Buddy Pierce? He’d offered her nothing but kindness since the day they first met. If not for him, she would be homeless.

  Forgive me, God. I’ve acted shamelessly. I should turn around and apologize.

  Before Charity could act on her decision, a pause in the mare’s stride broke the monotony of her plodding and a shudder coursed through her body. Her ears fell back, and she cantered to the side.

  “Easy, girl. What’s your trouble?”

  The horse’s breath came quicker and her head shot up. Eyes wild with fear and nostrils flared, she edged away from the right side of the trail, and it was all Charity could do to hold her. A low growl came from the bushes just before the mare reared, her legs pawing the air. Charity hit the ground hard and rolled in the mud, away from the flailing hooves. She fought to draw breath into her lungs but couldn’t. This scared her almost as much as the scraggly beast crouching at the edge of the path.

  The wolf, no longer interested in the fleeing horse, stalked Charity in short, quick bursts. His body lay low to the ground, his hollow haunches trembling from the effort. He bared his teeth in a wide, feral grin, and stringy spittle ran in rivulets from his mouth.

  She struggled to get up, to breathe. Twenty more feet and he’d be on her. She groped the ground for a weapon. Desperate, scrambling fingers closed around a clump of muddy grass, and she tensed to hurl it at him.

  Fifteen feet.

  Ten.

  Leering, taunting her, the wolf rose for the last advance. Sure of his kill, he swayed closer.

  Charity met his eyes and saw evil. She dug her heels into the ground and scrambled away. Willing air into her lungs, she hurled the fistful of mud at his face. He wouldn’t take her without a fight.

  Still, he came. Almost upon her, he snarled and gnashed his teeth—the promise of things to come.

  God, help me!

  The wolf took two more steps then froze midstride. He crouched again, his attention drawn to an approaching rider.

  Buddy reined in between them. “Don’t move.” His voice was grave with warning. “He’s rabid.”

  Buddy’s horse trembled, no happier than the mare to be so close to the snarling creature, but Buddy held him steady.

  Charity struggled to her feet. Her lungs had somewhat ease
d, and she sucked in short, gasping breaths. She longed to leap for the horse but knew if she did, he might bolt.

  The wolf held his ground, too blind-insane to be afraid.

  A shot rang out from a nearby wooded grove. The wolf yelped and lunged, straight for the legs of Buddy’s mount. The big bay reared, but Buddy held the saddle. The wolf died midleap and fell on the muddy trail with glazed eyes, teeth still bared. His tongue lolled to the side, and bloody foam rimmed his muzzle.

  Charity shuddered at the sight. Buddy rode his frantic horse a few feet away, leaped off, and ran to Charity. Oblivious to her mudcovered clothes, she threw her arms around his neck and hid her face against his chest.

  He held her and rubbed her back with both hands. “Are you all right?”

  “My legs won’t hold me.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

  She nuzzled closer and shuddered. “I was so scared.”

  “Me, too,” he whispered, “but it’s over now.”

  She raised her head and sought his eyes. “I’m sorry for being mad at you, Buddy.”

  He cupped her chin with his finger and laughed down at her. “Were you mad at me? Funny, I thought I was mad at you.”

  She smiled and pressed her cheek against the rough fabric of his shirt, for the first time aware of the clean, woodsy smell of him. He held her tighter.

  “You know,” he said, his breath warm against her hair, “next time you get peeved at me, you might want to let me in on it. Seems a shameful waste of anger if I don’t know.”

  She rose up and nodded at the wolf. “What happened? Who shot it?”

  He tilted his chin toward something behind her. “I think there’s your answer.”

  Charity looked over her shoulder. Three riders emerged from the trees, one of them Daniel Clark. He came alongside them, a rifle balanced across his saddle.

  “You all right, Charity?” His blue eyes moved over her, dark with an emotion she’d never seen there before.

  Aware that Buddy still held her, she drew a breath and moved away from him. “I will be.”

  Sidney Anderson spoke up. “We been trailing that wolf all day. Rabid, you know.”

  Buddy moved toward them, planting his feet carefully to give wide berth to the dead animal. “Yep, we figured that out.”

  Daniel motioned at the ground with his chin. “Sid, take a shovel and bury that critter. Put him deep. Cover the blood, too. Last thing we need around here is an outbreak of rabies. And, Jack”—he pointed down the trail—“follow Miss Charity’s horse and make sure it gets back to the livery.”

  Buddy nodded at Daniel. “Much obliged. I’m grateful you showed up when you did.”

  Daniel flashed a broad smile. “Oh, I reckon you could’ve handled the situation. We just came along at the right time. We’ve tracked that thing for miles.”

  Buddy grinned. “So you said.”

  Daniel leaned in the saddle to offer his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Daniel Clark.” He seemed to chew on the next part but said it anyway. “A friend of Miss Bloom’s.” His eyes shifted to her when he said it.

  She could tell he wanted to catch her reaction. She forced herself not to have one.

  Buddy seemed not to notice. He reached up and shook Daniel’s hand. “Buddy Pierce. I work for an oil company here in town.”

  “Glad to know you, Mr. Pierce.” Though he spoke to Buddy, Daniel stared at Charity. “Can I give you a ride into town, honey? You could use some cleaning up, and I’m headed that way.”

  The endearment stiffened Charity’s spine. Daniel Clark was cockier than a man had a right to be. No matter how black his hair or broad his shoulders, there were some things you just didn’t do. Besides, how did he know she was staying in town?

  She took a step closer to Buddy. “No, thank you. Mr. Pierce will take me.”

  Daniel’s dark eyebrows rose; then his gaze swept to Buddy. “I’ll leave you in his capable hands then.” He tipped his wide-brimmed hat and turned his horse.

  “Daniel...?”

  Leather creaked as he shifted his weight to look at her.

  She swallowed the ache in her throat and met his eyes. “Thank you. For shooting the wolf, I mean.”

  He held her gaze until her cheeks grew warm. Mischief teased the corners of his mouth. He glanced at Buddy. “I’d shoot a wolf for you any old time, sugar.” He winked then spurred his horse and rode away.

  Sidney fetched a shovel from his pack and bent to scoop up the carcass. Charity spun away from the gruesome sight. She doubted she’d ever forget the big animal standing over her, its trembling legs coiled and ready to spring.

  Buddy’s hands gripped her shoulders from behind. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Charity. I feel responsible.”

  She reached to touch his fingers. “You? Nonsense. How could it be your fault?”

  He stepped around to face her. “If I hadn’t pouted like a schoolboy this morning, I would’ve taken a closer look at those tracks you found.” He glanced over at the wolf. “I expect they belonged to our friend there.”

  Charity shook her head. “It’s nobody’s fault. And like you said, it’s over now.”

  He smiled, mostly with his eyes, and nodded. “Let’s get you back to town, then.” His arm went across her shoulders, his grip firm.

  Tucked against him, she felt safe. She allowed him to guide her to where the bay stood pawing the ground. On the way, she saw his hat, saved from the mud by a thatch of tall grass. She bent and picked it up, brushing it off before handing to him, but his curious gaze followed Daniel up the trail.

  “That your Daniel?”

  She halted, nearly tripping him, and dashed his hat to the ground. “He’s not my Daniel! Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  Buddy’s forehead crumpled. “Ease up, little lady. I didn’t mean to pry.” He leaned for his hat, wiped the fresh mud from the brim onto his jeans, and walked on ahead.

  Charity cringed and pressed her knuckles to her eyes. “Buddy, please wait.”

  Whatever she meant to say next, the words were lost when he stopped short and turned. Embarrassed, she spit out the first thing that came to mind. “Goodness, but you’re a cantankerous man. You keep me in a constant state of gratitude or regret. I never know whether to thank you or say I’m sorry.”

  He lifted a brow. “Which one you offering this time?”

  She winced. “Definitely the latter. I’m sorry. I truly am. I’m not the least bit mad at you. It’s that insufferable Daniel Clark.” She glared up the trail. “Have you ever witnessed such arrogance? Why, the nerve of him.”

  “He did seem mighty friendly, considering.”

  A blush crept up her cheeks.

  Buddy brought the horse around and motioned for her to climb on. When she lifted her foot to the stirrup, he frowned at her mud-covered pants. “Reckon it’s too late to whistle for old Daniel? I’m not sure I care to cozy up behind those all the way into town.”

  She swung into the saddle. “Don’t tease. It’s not funny.”

  He climbed up behind her and leaned to take the reins, so close his breath tickled her cheek. “It’s none of my business, but if you ask me, Daniel Clark is a man having some regrets.”

  She squirmed around to glare at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Buddy flicked the reins. “Like I said, Miss Bloom, it’s none of my business.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Emily Dane sprawled in her four-poster bed, idly gnawing a drumstick. Barefoot and still in her nightdress, she lay propped against goose-down pillows, one long leg crossed over the other. With her free hand, she twirled one of the blond ringlets framing her face while admiring the smooth, bare skin of her knees.

  “You’re downright scandalous in your impropriety, Emily Dane.”

  Mama’s stern voice in her head made her giggle. That’s what she’d say, all right, but what of it? According to Mama, she was forever downright scandalous in one silly thing or the other.


  Emmy froze midbite and stared down at the greasy poultry until her eyes crossed. Gracious! If I keep this up, I’ll be prime pork and ready for the slaughter. She extended her leg and stared, examining it from every angle before she smiled. Then my thighs won’t be quite so fetching, now, will they?

  Deliberately, and with great satisfaction, she flicked her wrist, tossing the half-eaten chicken leg through the open window. “There you go, Mama. Another pretty rose for your garden.”

  Emmy wiped her fingers on the lace napkin in her lap then gaped at the dark oily spots left behind. She had smuggled the fried chicken to her room wrapped in one of Mama’s best linens. Holding the square of delicate cloth aloft, she surveyed the mess. “Oh bother! They’ll hear her clear to Montgomery County if she gets wind of this.”

  She rolled onto her stomach and slid to the edge of the bed, peering into the dark recess between the floor and her lumpy mattress. Fighting to keep her balance, she leaned further in and worked at a tear by the nearest slat until she had removed a handful of fluff. Then she tucked the soiled cloth deep inside the hole. After stuffing the cotton in after it, she pushed upright and lay back with a satisfied smile.

  There. Now she won’t need to fret.

  A thought flitted past, changing her smile to a frown. It was Mama’s own fault, after all, for opening the door to Charity and Aunt Bert. She left Emmy no choice but to rummage like a thief in her own kitchen, so she’d have to live with the occasional missing napkin, now, wouldn’t she?

  She flopped on her side and stared at the floral wallpaper. During her confinement, she had memorized the line of every petal and every shade of pink. She knew how many blooms adorned each wall, as well as the numbers facing left and right. She had stared at the big ugly roses for days now, and they’d stared right back, silent witnesses to her frustration.

  In truth, her history with the flowers started more than mere days ago. The horrid walls had been her constant companions for the past eight years, since Papa hired her room remodeled the summer she turned twelve. No one had touched it since. For Emmy, the youthful decor had long since lost its charm.