“No, it isn’t,” Nathan said after another short lull. “It’s… Rebecca… She drowned this afternoon.”
A minute of silence went by while the telephone line hummed with static and perhaps the suspended breaths of those listening on the party line. “Samantha?” Nathan said. “Are you there? I know this comes as a shock.”
Samantha said, “I’m… here, Nathan.” I’ll tell you how the sun rose / A ribbon at a time… “How?” she asked.
“She… wandered too far from us when we weren’t looking and… drowned in the Trinity River behind my grandmother’s house. I’ve called to leave word for your father that drilling plans have been suspended for a while. Nothing can be done until the ground dries enough to lay pipe and set up tents and the rig platform. This rain is the aftermath of a hurricane that struck Galveston yesterday, and Daniel is to stay with you until he hears from us, probably not until after the funeral later in the week.”
Samantha heard the instructions, recited mechanically as if Nathan were reading them from a list, through a fog of stunned disbelief. “Nathan,” she said, “is there anything I can do for you and your family?”
“Just… remember her.”
“I will remember her in every line of poetry I read from now on.”
“Thank you. She would like that.”
Samantha hung up the receiver quietly and sat a while at the table below the wall telephone. She hardly knew Nathan Holloway and had met his little sister only once, yet she felt as shattered as if she’d known them all her life. She sat so long that Sloan came in search of her and found her staring listlessly, tears flooding her eyes, running silently down her face. With a grunt of dismay, he drew her up into his arms. “Sam, honey, what’s happened? Who was that on the phone?”
“Nathan Holloway. His little sister drowned today.”
Chapter Seventy
Samantha finished writing a note of condolence to Nathan Holloway and his family and withdrew her address book from a desk drawer. The book did not contain the address of his residence, but she’d recorded the mailing information of Waverling Tools. The note was so little to offer at a time like this, but at least it satisfied her need to do something to express her sympathy. She would have liked to attend Rebecca’s funeral, but unlike Galveston, where the skies cleared on Sunday morning as the hurricane’s forces pressed northward, the rain had continued on and off. The roads were still muddy and unsafe for travel, and Samantha had no details of the time or place where Rebecca would be laid to rest. She didn’t even know when the weather would be dry enough to allow her to mail her letter.
Melancholia pressed around her, smothering as a blanket, gray as this fourth day of dwindling rain, with no good news on the horizon to relieve her depression. Over the telephone, the lines miraculously having survived the storm, her mother had read to her the Fort Worth Gazette’s articles about the horrific death toll, property destruction, and reprehensible behavior of looters in Galveston. Friends’ relatives and friends had been lost, their homes destroyed, the hotel where Samantha and Sloan had honeymooned washed away. Anne Rutherford had spearheaded a disaster relief campaign in which Estelle had participated, and volunteers had sent a train car loaded with collected food, clothing, blankets, and medicines to the devastated city.
The losses of the Triple S were as dire as expected, and the ranch hands were working round the clock to salvage and repair what could be saved. Las Tres Lomas had suffered higher losses. The Triple S was on a greater elevation, and in times of floods, water flowed downhill rather than stood stationary until it soaked into the ground. Sloan had aged five years in less than a week’s period. His Thoroughbred had broken a leg and had to be put down, and Saved was missing.
One weak light shone through the darkness. Sloan’s animosity toward Daniel had dissipated somewhat, at least temporarily, owing to the shoulder that Daniel had willingly put to the wheel in assisting him and the ranch hands in the brutal and endless hours of cleanup and restoration. He had put his smithy, carpenter, and ironmonger’s skills to work, and within a few days had repaired several faulty pulleys necessary to haul bales of hay into the barn loft, hewn fence posts, and reconstructed two lean-tos over feeding bins. He’d addressed a number of items on Samantha’s household list and adjusted the hinges on the oven door, hammered out a collar for a leaky pipe in the kitchen, and built a new shelf for the pantry.
“Not a lazy bone in his body, I’ll give him that,” Sloan had said.
Daniel was not bad company at the end of the day, either, though Sloan would not go so far as to admit it. A couple of nights the five of them simply sat around the fire in the great room, the women mending or knitting, the men, their legs stretched out before them, too tired from the day’s work to concentrate on a card game. Of all of them, Daniel was the better read and more informed on current affairs, but he did not trip out his knowledge like many men with less education and refinement would have in the company of those supposedly having more of both. It was from Daniel they learned that two brothers from North Carolina had designed a man-carrying glider they planned to test soon to prove their theory that man could fly and control an air craft that defied gravity.
“I’m convinced they’ll do it,” Daniel said. “Maybe not this go-round, but in time I’m positive we’ll see flying machines manned by men.”
Samantha had held her breath that Sloan would ridicule the idea as absurd, but he’d leaned forward interestedly. “When is this test supposed to take place?”
“Sometime in October at a place in North Carolina called Kitty Hawk. The Wright brothers—Orville and Wilbur—have been experimenting with their idea of an airship for years.”
“We’ll have to keep a lookout for news of it,” Sloan said. “Wouldn’t that be something—a manned flying machine. What gave those brothers the idea for their glider?”
Daniel launched into the history of the brothers’ attempts to put a craft into the air by observing buzzards in flight, then designing kites to simulate birds’ wing movements—gliding, soaring, banking, flapping—in relation to air currents that enabled them to stay airborne. It was called wing warping, Daniel said. Samantha could not follow Daniel’s aeronautical explanation for the distraction of worries over the fate of the ranch, but she and Billie June, pleased that their men were getting along, winked at each other over their needlework.
Samantha turned to the page where she’d listed Trevor Waverling’s company address. It was the last to be recorded. Above it was the imprint of Bridget Mahoney’s name and address in San Francisco, the information still vaguely discernible because of the failure of her India gum “plug” to erase it completely. She had forgotten that she’d written down the address, then tried to rub it out after throwing away Eleanor Brewster’s letter. Last April fourteenth seemed so long ago in light of all that had happened since. She heard the weary boot tread of Sloan coming up the stairs, then his tired sigh as he entered the bedroom and bent down to kiss her neck. “Nice to touch something clean and fresh,” he said. He had refused to let her participate in the field cleanup. “Men’s work,” he said, and Samantha had not overridden him. Her job, along with Sloan’s sisters, had been the daily and constant bottle-feeding of motherless calves. Consuela and the domestic staff had been allowed to stay with their families during the rain, and the household work had fallen to the women. Samantha reached up and drew Sloan’s head down to press her cheek to his. He smelled of mud and rain.
“Who are you writing?” he asked.
Samantha told him, and he said, “A sad business, but I’ve got some good news for a change.”
“Finally. Let’s hear it.”
Sloan unbuttoned his shirt. “I talked to Wayne today. Neal’s boys found Saved. Guess where?”
“No idea,” Samantha said with a thrill of relief. She had imagined the worst.
“First crack of thunder, the boy must have hightailed it back to the ranch and got himself a nice little berth in one of the hay barns. They fo
und him sound and dry. Had all the feed he could eat.”
Samantha laughed. “Sounds like him, the big spoiled baby. Did you ask Wayne how Daddy is getting along?”
“He’s worried like everybody else. Their damages are far worse than at first thought, honey. Neal is really counting on that well coming in.”
The tone of Sloan’s voice told Samantha to prepare for even more dire news than their own when she would see her father the next day, her first opportunity to visit him since the storm. The distance had been too wet and muddy for safety, and she’d been needed at the Triple S. At least there was money in the bank to cover the ranch’s losses, but they would wipe out the surplus and put Las Tres Lomas back on the teetering line between the red and the black, a position her father loathed.
Out of his soiled clothes, Sloan tugged the long plait of her hair trailing down her back. “I’m hitting the tub. Feel free to come scrub my back if the spirit moves you.”
Samantha said something about flying pigs and finished addressing the envelope to Nathan Holloway at Waverling Tools. Maybe tomorrow one of the boys could run it to the post office in Fort Worth. She capped the ink bottle and put pen and paper away. It was time to help her sisters-in-law prepare supper. Samantha started to close the address book, but the faint trace of Bridget Mahoney’s name held her eye. Samantha thought of Rebecca and the suddenness of her death. Had there been things her family meant to say to her, do for her, but delayed, thinking there was always time for words and deeds tomorrow for one so young? Would they regret the opportunities allowed to slip away? Samantha’s throat closed. The midwife was the very last connection she would ever have to learn the truth about her birth. Was the woman still alive? She would be elderly now. Did she still live in San Francisco at this address or had she moved on? Or had time run out on Bridget Mahoney? Would Samantha one day regret letting the opportunity go by to contact the midwife while there might still be time?
Spurred by a sense of urgency, she drew out pen and paper again. She could now write to the woman without fear that her reply would be intercepted by her father or mother. Bridget Mahoney’s letter would be placed in the Singleton post office box, not in the Gordons’ or delivered to her mother’s town house. Her parents need never know of her correspondence to the woman who’d assisted in her delivery. What were the chances that her letter would reach her anyway? Or that she would respond? Quickly, before she changed her mind, Samantha uncapped the ink bottle and dipped the point of her pen into the black liquid. “Dear Mrs. Mahoney,” she began.
She had finished the letter and folded it when she heard a hammering down the hall. Sloan came out of the bathroom dripping water and fastening a towel around his waist. “What in blazes is that noise?”
Licking the envelope, Samantha said carelessly, “Oh, that’s just Daniel, replacing the doorjamb of the Christmas closet. Now maybe we can open it without using a crowbar.”
“What?!”
Before Samantha could register his outburst, Sloan had flung open their bedroom door and stomped off down the hall in his bare feet yelling, “Lane, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Samantha heard Daniel’s calm reply. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Samantha jumped up to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. What on earth had gotten into Sloan? She rushed out into the hall to see that Billie June, too, had come out of her room, expression bewildered. Millie May had already gone down to start the evening meal, but in the kitchen Samantha was sure she could hear her brother shouting in what sounded like the beginning of a ruckus. When Samantha reached them, the two men looked as if they were about to square off at each other.
“Who gave you permission to fix that door?” Sloan demanded.
Daniel stepped away from his task, hammer in hand. “Your wife. It’s on her repair list.”
Billie June put her hands on her hips, her face tight and angry. “For goodness’ sakes, Sloan,” she said. “You ought to be thanking Daniel rather than dressing him down. That door has needed fixing for years, a job you’ve never taken the time to do! And speaking of dressing down, what are you doing out here in a bath towel?”
Millie May had come to the foot of the stairs. “What’s going on up there?” she called.
Samantha eyed Sloan. “Yes, Sloan, what’s going on?”
Sloan suddenly looked like a man knocked unconscious who’d had cold water splashed into his face. Dazedly, he shook his head. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “I… overreacted.”
“I’ll say you did,” Billie June snapped.
“It’s just that… Billie June, you know we have that angel Mother made for me one Christmas stored in there and… some other breakable things of hers. I was afraid of what the hammering might do to them. Look, I’m… sorry, Daniel.” Sloan offered his hand. “Thank you… for fixing the door. It… was good of you.”
“No apology necessary,” Daniel said, accepting Sloan’s hand. “I just fixed the jamb. I don’t think the hammering would have damaged your mother’s things.”
“But you’re finished now, right?”
“Yes, I’ve finished.”
“That’s that, then.” For good measure, in demonstration, Sloan opened and closed the door. It swung easily both ways with no sticking or sound of squeaking. “Very good. Fine job. Now let’s go down and have a drink before supper, shall we?”
“Fine with me, but… uh, like that?” Daniel glanced down at the towel.
Sloan peered down. “Right. Later then.” With embarrassed dignity, he struck off down the hall, leaving wet footprints, and sailed without word or nod to Millie May, who’d reached the top of the stairs. She stared after him in astonishment.
“What just happened?” she asked the trio at the hall closet.
Billie June explained and Samantha said, “Tell me about this angel. I don’t ever recall seeing it on your Christmas tree.”
“That’s because we haven’t taken it out of the cupboard in years. It’s made of papier-mâché and probably almost dust by now. Our mother made it for Sloan, her baby boy, the last year of her life when he was four years old. It’s very special to him.”
“Is there a chance I could see it before it completely disintegrates?”
“Of course,” Millie May said. “We’ll need to clean out this storage cabinet anyway, see what all we can keep and what must be thrown away in case…” Her voice dropped. Silence fell, the meaning of in case hanging heavy in the void. Millie May said, “We’ll sort through things tomorrow morning after we feed the calves. No telling what’s in there.” She turned to Daniel. “It was awfully good of you to fix the doorjamb, Daniel. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure,” Daniel said with a thoughtful glance at the storage cabinet before packing up his tools.
Chapter Seventy-One
In the great room where all had gathered after an almost silent supper, the gloom of worry, sadness, and lingering embarrassment of the scene at the Christmas closet was brightened by an unexpected ray of sunshine stealing into the room before it was swiftly extinguished by nightfall. Billie June dropped her head back against her tall chair and closed her eyes. Brown smudges darkened the flesh beneath them. Visibly, she was taking the threat of foreclosure harder than the rest of them. “Oh, thank God. I hope that sliver of sunlight means the rain is finally over,” she said with a sigh of relief.
“I never thought I’d say it about rain, but I hope so, too, Billie June,” Samantha said.
Daniel entered the room from the hall after taking a telephone call from Trevor Waverling. “You missed the promise of a sunny tomorrow, Daniel,” Billie June said.
“That’s what my boss called to tell me. The weather forecast calls for clearing rain, and I’m to get out to the drill site tomorrow and check out conditions, then report back to him. If it looks like the area will be dry enough by Monday, the crew can get started on the platform.” He clasped his hands together and shook them high like a victorious boxer be
fore a cheering crowd. “The sooner we get that rig up and running, the better.”
His meaning was clear. The quicker the well started producing, the sooner the chance for all their financial worries to be over, but his attempt to inspire a little faith failed. No hope flickered on the faces of the others in the room. Slumped in his deep personal chair, crushed by an overwhelming sadness, Sloan was surprised that Daniel cared one way or the other whether the Triple S survived, but then he admitted that Daniel had surprised him in lots of ways. This chair, for instance. Out of sheer insolence, Sloan had expected the upstart to take possession of it as well as help himself without permission to his expensive cigars—to attempt to, that is—but he’d done neither. Simply to rub his nose into the physical intimacy going on between him and Billie June, Sloan had anticipated Daniel’s behavior toward his sister no better than a randy cowboy taking liberties with a saloon call girl, but he’d fooled him there, too. In the presence of the household, Daniel had shown Billie June nothing but courtly respect. And Sloan had to recognize that he didn’t know what the Triple S would have done without Daniel’s help and expertise in these past days.
But it could all be a ruse. It could be a ploy to throw Mr. High-and-Mighty Big Britches off, get him to forget his threat to ruin him. Wearily, Sloan rubbed his forehead. The storm might have accomplished that goal for Daniel. Noble Rutherford would want his money in full, an impossible amount to pay right now. Sloan could expect no extension, no mercy. He’d struck a deal with the banker to repay the loan with interest quarterly. If the ranch’s cash flow was slim one month, the next would make up for it and average out by the end of the three months, but this quarter, with the loss of so many of his market calves and the cost of feeding the ones that had survived, he would not have the money unless he let go half his workforce, the bitterest pill of all to swallow. Some of the men had worked for his father, and the measure would only forestall the inevitable. Without giving him time to regroup financially, Anne’s father would call in the loan, and the Triple S would belong to the bank.
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