A Place Called Harmony, page 18
Chapter 23
THE MCALLEN LAND
“Fourteen days,” Patrick McAllen said to his brother. “Truman has been gone two whole weeks. I’m sure he’s lying dead somewhere and we’re talking about him like he’s alive.”
Shelly glanced up and frowned.
“All right, Shelly, I’m talking about him like he’s dead. I’ll stop. I got a feeling the man would not be happy if he heard I was saying he kicked the bucket. Course, if he’s dead, he wouldn’t care one way or the other.”
Patrick hauled a few more river rocks from the wagon to where they were working on a fireplace, and then he stopped to rest. “I don’t know why I can’t shake this feeling that something is going to happen. Something bad. It’s like I can almost hear the fuse burning down and the dynamite is going to blow any moment. Something bad is coming and it’s heading straight toward me.”
He’d made it halfway back with another load of rocks when Annie pulled up with a lunch basket.
Patrick smiled. “Now that will cheer me up. I think I’ll give up worrying for lunch.” He waved as he walked toward her. “About time you got here. Shelly’s starving to death.”
He helped her down, swung her around, and loved the way she laughed. For Patrick, the day had suddenly gotten a great deal brighter.
As she set everything out on a blanket in the buckboard, Patrick looked back at their project. They’d finished Truman’s fireplace a week ago and the two in Matheson’s bigger house three days ago. If the weather held, Shelly and he would finish his fireplace in a few hours. “This fire will warm us all winter for a hundred winters.”
Annie smiled up at him as she always did. “It’s going well?”
He nodded. “Shelly loaded the wagon with wood this morning. We’ve got enough nails to frame in Truman’s place before dark. If we can get the roof on we’ll be able to keep working even if it rains.”
“The captain says he’s riding over after lunch and bringing his oldest boy. They plan to help with the framing.” Annie straightened and kissed Patrick’s cheek.
As always, she blushed. He didn’t say a word about it or she’d only blush more or, worse, stop kissing on him. And kissing on him in daylight drove him mad. He tried to remember what they’d been talking about. Oh, yeah, the kid. “Matheson’s little fellow can’t do much beyond carrying nails.”
Annie agreed. “Didn’t you start out carrying nails for your big brothers when they built Solomon’s first church in Galveston?”
“I did. My oldest brothers were almost grown before I could walk. They always worked as a team just like Shelly and I do. Even went to war together and died together on the battlefield. My other two brothers were five and six years younger, so they missed the war, but after they heard about the oldest two dying, they went wild. My father tried to control them but he couldn’t. When they went to the devil, he swore he’d kill me before he gave up another son to Satan.”
Annie looked from Shelly to Patrick and whispered, “You both think Solomon is coming for Patrick, don’t you?”
Neither answered, but Patrick saw the truth in Shelly’s eyes. A worry became a fact in one blink. His silent brother had been having the same thoughts. “You followed me here because you know he’s coming, don’t you, Shelly?”
Shelly shrugged, and for the first time Patrick knew that a shrug could be a lie. He’d seen it in his brother’s eyes. Shelly had stayed behind a week. He must have heard his father’s ranting. He knew what Solomon wanted to do and he’d come here to make sure it didn’t happen.
Patrick didn’t have to know the details; he could imagine them. Solomon must have gone into a rage and brooded for days after he woke that Sunday morning to find his son gone. Then he’d probably stormed out of his study and declared that he would find Patrick. That would have been about the time Shelly slipped away. He’d seen the map on the post office wall. He knew where to come. Knowing Shelly, he’d made sure to leave no tracks heading in the right direction. He may have even planted false notes or maps before he disappeared.
Their father was coming, not after Shelly, but for him. He was the one who was supposed to follow in his father’s footsteps. Solomon had six sons, and as far as he was concerned they’d all betrayed him. Patrick knew there would be no beating in a barn this time, there would be a murder. His murder. Solomon would rather see him dead than free.
There was no need to talk about it. No need for him to worry Annie. Solomon was his and Shelly’s hell. One fact bothered him more than the fear of death. If his father got to him Shelly would already be dead because he wouldn’t stand by and watch another beating.
Patrick forced a smile. “Don’t worry about it, Annie. He’ll never find us, and if he does, he’ll find men, not boys. We’re not going back, not ever. Right, Shelly?”
For the first time in their marriage Patrick was lying to Annie. He told himself he had to. She would only worry. Only, when Solomon did come, it might be too late for Patrick to say he was sorry he lied.
Shelly moved over to pick up his lunch without looking at them, and Patrick switched the talk to house plans. “We got to think ahead, Annie. There’s going to be lots of kids one of these days and we’ll outgrow this two-room house pretty fast.”
“Give it time, Patrick; we don’t have to do everything at once. We’ve got years. After living in one room, this place will be a palace.” She looked at the hearth. “Can I have a window that faces the sunrise and a flower box just for herbs?”
“Of course.” Patrick smiled down at her, but the lead in his heart was still there. Somehow he didn’t feel like he had time. Weeks maybe, but not years. “As soon as we get the door framed in I plan to hammer up a horseshoe and we’ll catch all the luck we need.”
“And I’ll hang scissors just inside to cut any trouble that blows inside in half.” She laughed. “My own house; just think, Patrick, I’ll have my own house.”
“Wait, I’ll be there.”
She frowned. “Oh yeah, I forgot. We’ll have my own house. You can have the land and the barn, but the house is mine, unless you want to help clean it.”
“No,” Patrick said. “You’ll have your own house. I’ll just live there with you. As long as I’m sleeping next to you, I’m happy.”
She handed him lunch. “I like that idea.”
He took a bite of the biscuit stuffed with ham and tried to smile, but he noticed that Shelly tossed his lunch into the grass and walked down toward the creek.
The girl, Jessie, was there with her pony. Patrick had seen her talking to Shelly before and wondered what she had to say to a man who never answered back.
The faraway sound of a bell ringing seemed to clang in the air. For a moment they all listened. Matheson had hung the bell the first day he was able to walk out of the house. He said if there was trouble at the trading post, everyone should come running.
Jessie swung onto her horse and held her hand down for Shelly to join her. She dropped him at the wagon without slowing down and he climbed up.
Shelly took the reins of the wagon Annie had ridden out in and headed at full speed toward the post while Patrick swung first Annie and then himself up. They were farther out by a mile than they’d ever been.
While Patrick bounced around on the bench trying to hold on to his seat and his wife, he tried to think of what might have gone wrong. The list was far too long to bother repeating to the others.
When they passed the chimney at Truman’s place and rounded the last bend on what they all called Lone Oak Road, Patrick made out several wagons pulled up to the trading post. Wagons often traveled in groups, but these wagons looked to be loaded with lumber.
“Look!” he shouted, hugging his wife. “The supplies are here.”
Truman was back. The real building could begin. Patrick almost felt like he could jump off and outrun the team traveling at full speed. Now the building of the town would really be under way.
Only, when they pulled up no one was celebrating or hugging. Patrick helped Annie down as they watched Truman slowly lift an old lady from the first wagon.
Truman walked, flanked by two young dark-haired men, toward the trading post. A tiny woman of about forty was talking to Karrisa in a different language and, to Patrick’s surprise, Truman’s wife seemed to understand.
“Put her in our room,” Karrisa said as Truman passed inside. “I’ll move our things out.”
“No,” Harmon Ely yelled from the porch. “Put her in my room. I’ll sleep in the store. Tired of climbing the stairs anyway and that top room right off the stairs is the warmest one.”
Patrick turned to say something to Annie, but she was no longer at his side.
He found her and Daisy a few minutes later in the kitchen helping boil water and getting towels ready to go upstairs. “What’s wrong?” he asked to Annie’s back.
But it was Karrisa who answered in her shy voice, “The old woman saved Truman’s life but was hurt. They were attacked on the road. Her daughter says she’s been coughing up blood for a while.”
Matheson stormed into the kitchen. “Got the warm towels ready and a bottle of whiskey?” The captain in Matheson was taking charge. “Jessie, can you watch the kids?”
The girl who’d just stepped through the back door nodded as he continued, “We’ll need blankets. Ely is staying with the store and there is not room for all of us in the tiny room. Daisy and Annie, can you handle the doctoring? Karrisa, I want you to keep talking to her since you know Italian. It may help her calm. Try to get a little whiskey down her. It might help with the pain.”
All three women nodded.
“I don’t know if it will help,” Matheson added, “but once when I saw a man kicked by a horse, the doc wrapped his chest with strips of cotton soaked in starch. The starch made the bandage harden as the cotton dried. If we can keep her breathing shallow it might stop any more damage inside her chest.”
When they hurried to follow orders, Patrick asked, “What can I do to help?”
“Get the wagons in the barn and the mules in the corral. Karrisa said one of the drivers speaks English so he’ll help. The others will probably pitch in.” Matheson glanced at the pot of stew. “Truman said they haven’t eaten since yesterday.” He looked from Shelly to Patrick. “Looks like we’ll have to man the kitchen until the women have her resting easy.”
Patrick and Shelly must have looked horrified at the thought of cooking because Daisy interrupted her husband. “After you take care of the wagons, wash your hands and start slicing bread and ham. That and the soup should feed folks.”
As the women hurried away, the captain looked at the McAllens. “Can either one of you cook?”
Both shook their heads.
“We’ve got four older sisters still at home. Why would we be needed in the kitchen?” Patrick didn’t want to appear a fool, so he added, “But I’m sure I’m a better cook than Shelly.”
Since Shelly didn’t comment, the claim stood.
“How about you, Captain, can you cook?”
“I’ve eaten in the mess hall all my life. All I’ve ever done is warm a can of beans over a campfire.”
Patrick smiled. “That makes you the head cook. If the women aren’t down in an hour we have bread, ham, and warmed beans.”
Matheson headed for the door. “Great. We have a plan. As soon as Truman comes down I’ll find out if there is a chance the outlaws may be following them.”
“And if they are?” Patrick asked.
“Then we prepare to fight.”
Chapter 24
Clint Truman
Truman stood in the corner of the room and watched Granny Gigi’s breathing grow slower and slower. Every now and then it would be so long between breaths or her breathing would be so shallow he was sure she was dead.
She’d used her one bullet to save him. He had a Colt full and couldn’t save her. Momma Roma knelt by her bed, holding her mother’s hand and crying softly as she prayed. He understood how she felt. He’d been that helpless once. His Mary had died of a fever and his daughters were growing weaker by the hour. He’d decided to ride for the doctor one more time, hoping something could be done. He’d left, with their cries for him filling his ears. Only, when he returned with the doctor it was too late to save them, too late to hold them.
Clint closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He hadn’t slept for two days and nights. Silently, he pushed his daughters’ deaths to the back of his mind and forced himself to think of them dancing in their summer dresses underneath the old cottonwood on his farm near Huntsville.
People circled past him, but he was barely aware of them.
Daisy and Annie had done all they knew to do. Everyone agreed that the kick from the musket she’d fired must have collapsed her lung. Maybe it broke something inside that started bleeding. Maybe her lungs were slowly filling with blood. Without a doctor no one could be sure.
Truman had heard Harmon Ely mutter something about how the next thing this town needed was a doctor. No one argued. They were all strong and young but unprepared for illness or accidents. From the looks of it, a cemetery might be needed soon.
The one thing that made the sickroom bearable for Clint was that Karrisa was in the room. She’d changed slightly in the two weeks he’d been gone. Her face was a bit fuller. She’d gained a few pounds, finally rounding out a bit, but it was more than that. She was one of them now. She talked easily with the women. His wife was growing stronger, getting over the birth. Her eyes were brighter and her hair no longer dull. He’d rushed home thinking only of being with her and there hadn’t been a moment he’d been alone with her. The need to kiss her again was a dull ache that never left now that she was so near.
She’d never be someone he could love, but he was glad she looked better. If Sheriff Lightstone could see her thriving out here, he’d think Clint was doing a good job of taking care of her. Clint didn’t want to think about what would have happened to her if he hadn’t been out by the prison gate that night. Would she have survived? Would he have?
The baby cried and Karrisa excused herself. Everyone in the room knew nothing could be done for the old woman. From now on it was just a waiting game. She might recover. She might, Clint reminded himself, wishing for the impossible.
The captain came in and suggested Clint go down and eat something. “It’s going to be a long night, Truman, and you’re no good to anyone if you fall over.”
Clint didn’t care about food, but he needed to do something besides measure the time passing between Granny Gigi’s breaths. He’d been around far too much death in his life. Sometimes he thought death planned to keep stomping him in the gut until finally he’d feel nothing, absolutely nothing.
He expected to find Karrisa in their room, but it was empty so he followed the captain’s orders and went down to the kitchen.
Patrick and his brother were there serving dinner to the two Roma boys and the one remaining driver from Buford’s livery. Harry Woolsey never had been much of a talker on the road, but because he was the only one willing to take McAllen’s questions, he was now reporting on every day of the journey.
Clint noticed Karrisa over in the shadows feeding the baby and listening. She had a blanket over her shoulder and the baby. The men probably didn’t even know what she was doing. He decided his wife was the most invisible person in every crowd.
Clint went over to her and blocked the men’s view of her with his broad shoulders. “May I see the baby, dear?”
He thought she would lift the tiny boy up to him, but when she simply raised the blanket the sight of the baby feeding almost buckled his knees. The baby’s cheeks were red, his eyes bright as he pressed against her creamy white breast.
Karrisa ran her finger gently along her son’s cheek. “I still haven’t thought of a name,” she whispered.
He trailed his finger where hers had caressed the warm tiny cheek. “My brother was a good man. He loved to watch things grow and sang louder than everyone in church. He was older than me, but he never said a mean word to me. The day he left home he had big tears in his eyes when he hugged me. Daniel died at nineteen fighting in a war he didn’t understand.”
“Daniel,” she whispered. “I like that name. We could call him Danny until he grows up, and then when he goes off to be a doctor, he’ll probably change it to Dan or maybe Daniel like his uncle, Daniel Truman.”
“Thank you, dear,” he said, knowing that she’d just given him a gift.
“You are welcome, Truman.” Her voice was soft, just for him. “Now eat your supper. We’ve a long night to wait out death’s calling.”
“You know it’s coming?”
She nodded. “I’ve seen it before. I was only sixteen but I remember sitting by my mother’s bed and watching her pass away a little at a time like the old woman is doing now.”
Clint knew she was right. He’d seen it also. Sometimes folks don’t die all at once, but a little bit at a time.
“Her name is Granny Gigi. That’s all I know about her,” he whispered. “Except she saved my life.”
He lifted the baby blanket and put it back on her shoulder. His scarred hand brushed against the side of her hair in almost a caress before he turned to join the others.
Patrick was busy trying to learn Italian in one night and managing to make the Roma boys smile.
Truman collected a bowl of stew from the stove and a slice of bread before sitting as far down the table as he could get from the others. He wanted a clear view of his wife sitting in the corner. She’d told him a bit more about herself tonight, but it hadn’t been a surprise. He would have guessed her mother, maybe both of her parents, were long dead. Also, it didn’t speak well of her father that she hadn’t wanted to use his name. If he was still alive, he didn’t mean anything to her.
Patrick spotted him and headed straight toward him. “Truman,” McAllen said, “I’ve been waiting to ask you one question.”
“Can it wait till I’m finished eating, because your questions usually make me so mad I can’t eat for cussing?”
