Hawke's Pride, page 23
"There," he said, "we'll be as warm as a whore's heart in no time."
Adams grinned at Rue's startled look. "There's good and bad in all of us, Rue. Even whores." He waited a second then added, "I guess I was just tryin' to make a point."
"Hah!" Rue sniffed, "I hope you're not including Hawke Masters in your dubious observation."
"I expect he treats his father in a good way."
Rue couldn't deny that. Hawke's treatment of his father was above average, as well as the way he cared for his niece and nephew.
When Adams saw that Rue wasn't going to give him a rebuttal, he changed the subject. "I expect you're as hungry as I am. I got a pot of rabbit stew in my little storage shed. I'll bring it in and hang it over the fire. I imagine it's frozen, so it'll take awhile for it to warm up."
When Adams left the cabin, Rue stood up and shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on a peg affixed to the wall. She looked down at her dress and frowned. The hem and several inches above it were mud-stained with two big tears midway up the skirt, caused from her repeated falls in her mad dash for freedom.
She smiled ruefully. She'd have to borrow some clothes from the old man. Luckily they were around the same size, in height at least.
A snatch of cold air followed Adams into the room. "It's gettin' colder and colder out there," he said as he swung a crane out over the fire then hung a black cast-iron pot on it. "It's as cold—"
"As a whore's heart," Rue laughingly finished for him.
"Yeah." Adams grinned, standing with his back to the fire, his palms turned to catch the warmth. After a moment he put his mittens back on, and walking to the door, said over his shoulder, "Keep an eye on the stew, will you, while I go put Mule away?"
Rue nodded and sat back down, rocking the chair with a slight push of her foot. She stared into the flames, trying to keep her mind blank of the last few months, as though she hadn't lived through them. Dog pushed his nose in her hand, and she idly scratched his ears, wondering if her heart and mind would ever heal, as Adams had said they would.
"When memories of Hawke persisted in entering her mind, Rue got to her feet and walked to the shelf where Adams kept his plates, cups, and eating utensils. When Adams returned from tending his faithful mule, the stew was beginning to steam, and Rue had set the table and put a pot of coffee on. While Adams took off his heavy jacket, then washed his hands, she dished up their supper. Both were ravenous, and no words were spoken between them as the stew quickly disappeared from their plates.
It was after they'd had their coffee and Rue had cleared the table that the loquacious Adams spoke. His stockinged feet stretched to the fire, his pipe clenched between his teeth, he began. "When I was young, in my twenties, I trapped in Canada one winter. A wild and trackless country with great forests and rivers where great herds of caribou roamed and wolves seemed to lurk behind every tree."
He's like an Indian, Rue thought sleepily as Adams talked on and on, describing landmarks, the freezing weather, the currents and eddies in a river he'd crossed once.
Her head nodded in near sleep when finally the old man wound down and knocked his pipe out on the hearth. He rose and stood looking down at Rue. "I'm wonderin' bout clothes for you," he said as her eyes questioned him. "A pair of my long Johns would be warm and comfortable to sleep in." He gave a dry laugh. "As for that, it wouldn't hurt to wear them under your other clothes."
"As for them other clothes." He looked at her torn and bedraggled dress. "I guess you'll have to make do with some of mine." He glanced at a trunk shoved in a corner. "Go through my duds and take anything you want. Everything is clean."
Rue stood up and held out her hand. "Thank you, Adams, for everything. I'd be frozen to death by now if you hadn't come along."
Adams gently squeezed her hand. "I'm not a religious man, but I am a believer. I guess God does work in mysterious ways. It's like He set it all up by havin' you and Masters spend the night here, back aways. He knew you'd need a friend later on."
He saw the moistness that sprang in Rue's eyes and cursed himself for being an old fool. He shouldn't have brought up her husband's name. The dog whined and nudged his knee and Adams jumped at the chance to put her mind on something else.
"Me and Dog is gonna go outside for a minute, so dig a pair of woollies out of the trunk." At the door he paused, looking uncomfortable. "My wife's chamber pot is under your bunk," he finally said.
Rue felt a little ill at ease herself, but managed to thank him. As soon as the door closed, she bent down and retrieved the white enameled vessel from where it had sat for many years. She had needed its use half an hour ago.
The long-legged underwear lay on top of the neatly folded clothes in the leather-bound trunk. Rue hurried out of her clothes and put them on, then crawled into bed. Utterly drained, emotionally and physically, she was almost asleep before she finished pulling the covers around her shoulders.
A pale winter sun fought to penetrate the cabin's single grimy window when Rue awakened the next morning. All was quiet in the small room, and she leaned up on an elbow and looked over at Adams's bed. It was neatly made. She supposed he was running his traps already, and wondered how early he started out.
A fire burned cozily in the fireplace, still Rue hated leaving the warm cocoon of her bed. Once she left it, she'd have to face the cold reality that life didn't hold much in store for her. She was back where she had started, a bleak future stretching ahead of her.
"At any rate," she muttered, "I can't lie in bed all day." She sat up and swung her feet to the floor, then jerked them back with a little cry. Her bare toes had touched something furry. She peeked a look over the edge of the bed, then gave an embarrassed giggle. Adams had placed a pair of fur-lined moccasins next to the bed where she was sure to find them when she got up.
What a caring, considerate man he is, she thought, shoving her feet into the pacs' warmth. She crossed the bare floor to the fireplace and smiled. The coffeepot sat on the hearth, steam still issuing from its spout. A tin cup and canned milk sat on the mantle, a scrap of white paper sticking out from beneath the tin. A note from Adams.
"Rue," she read outloud, "me and Dog are runnin' the traps. Shouldn't take too long since all I'll be doin' is baitin' em. Keep the door barred, and don't leave the cabin. There's all kinds of varmints in the woods. Four-legged ones as well as two-legged ones."
It's a good feeling having someone care for you, Rue mused, pouring a cup of coffee then adding milk to the dark brown liquid. Truly cared for, not an act that was put on because something was wanted from her.
Don't think about the past, she sternly reminded herself, and got busy frying several pieces of salt pork over the fire.
After a second cup of coffee had washed down her breakfast, Rue rummaged through Adam's trunk. She found several pair of twill trousers, flannel shirts, and woolen socks. There were also a half-dozen pair of longlegged underwear.
"When she rose and walked back to the fire, a change of clothes lay over her arm. She pulled on a pair of twills that fit quite well except for the waist and length. She gave the cuffs a couple turns, then shrugged into the shirt. Its sleeves were too long also, but that was quickly remedied as she rolled them up just below the elbows.
"They'll do," she muttered to herself "Anyway, who's to see me except Adams and Dog?"
Rue looked around the single room, grimacing as her eyes fell on the kitchen area. She doubted that it, or the table had been scrubbed since she had done it months ago. She could use up half the day cleaning the cabin.
Her first act, however, was to empty the chamber pot, to rinse it out with snow, then shove it back under the bed. "When she had smoothed the covers over her bed, she went back outside to scoop up a pail of snow. While it melted and heated, she grabbed the broom, which she doubted had been used in months, and swept into the fireplace a small mountain of dirt and rubble. Like most men, Adams never wiped his feet before entering his home.
The water was steaming by then and Rue dug out a battered dishpan and dropped a bar of yellow lye soap into it. After pouring the hot water over it, she placed the plates, cups, forks, spoons, and knives into it to soak. She would scrub the pots, pans, and skillets last.
While the tins lay in their hot bath, Rue laid another log on the fire, then looked at the single window speculatively. If it was clean, the cabin would be ever so much brighter. This would never occur to Adams since he was never here in the daylight hours, at least in the winter.
She went back to the trunk, and smiled when at the very bottom she found several folded fustain towels. She lifted them out and placed them on a chair. Then, with a pan of vinegar water in one hand and a towel and dishrag in the other, she attacked the built-up grime of years on the windowpane.
When the glass sparkled from her rubbing, Rue gazed through it, a wide smile of pleasure curving her lips. She had an unparalleled view of the valley. She stared at its magnificence. Spruce and pine towered over the thick blanket of snow, and the nearby stream was a clear blue. As she gazed enraptured, she saw through the trees a buck pawing at the covering of snow for some tufts of dry grass. She remembered Hawke saying that cows were too dumb to uncover something to eat. That in the winter when snow covered the ground, hay had to be brought to them or they would starve to death.
Rue gave herself a mental kick, once again ordering herself to stop remembering anything that had to do with the past.
By lunch time she had the old cabin set to rights, years of ground-in dirt scrubbed away. She gave the room a sweeping look and nodded her head in satisfaction. There was no comparison to what it looked like when she first started in on it. It looked like people lived here now.
What to do now? Rue wondered, then spotted her soiled dress and underclothing. She marched purposely to the wooden tub hanging on the wall. She made several trips outside for snow before she had enough water heated to half fill the tub.
Altogether, it took close to two hours before her clothing was washed and placed near the fire to dry. After that, time lay heavy on her hands. Her eyes went often to the clock as the afternoon dragged on. She was used to being busy from daybreak to nightfall and didn't know how to handle idleness. She couldn't remember ever sitting down in the middle of the day.
A heavy sigh escaped Rue's lips. She couldn't even start supper. She had no idea where Adams kept his meat, or even if he had any. However, she remembered, she had seen a big bag of beans on the shelf next to the window. Also there was a large slab of salt pork. She would simmer a pot of beans, she decided.
The sun was just setting through the forest fringe when Rue saw Adams and Dog returning home. He walks the same as ail mountain men, she thought, remembering her grandfather, toe in, like an Indian.
She hurried to unbar the door, lonesome for the sound of a voice. Dog rushed in, almost knocking her over as he pushed against her, whining a greeting, his heavy tail beating a tattoo against her leg. She rubbed his rough head and smiled a welcome at Adams.
But the old man didn't return it. He only stood and stared, a mistiness forming in his eyes. "The place ain't looked like this since my wife died." His voice was gravelly with emotion.
"I hope you don't mind that I cleaned up a bit," Rue said. "It helped me pass the time," she alibied, not wanting to admit that she couldn't abide dirt.
"Not at all, honey. I guess the place was a bit of a boar's nest." He looked down at the clean floor where the snow from his boots was making a dirty puddle. "There's a big heavy door mat out in the shed. My wife always made me take off my boots on it." He opened the door. "I'll go get it right now."
While Adams was gone, Rue filled a basin with warm water from the kettle on the hearth and laid a towel and bar of yellow soap beside it. She was lighting the lamp when he returned.
"Now, how's that?" he asked a minute or so later after unrolling a large square made from several thicknesses of burlap bags. Rue nodded her appreciation with shiny eyes. "It's just fine," she said, then added honestly, "I do like clean floors."
"Most women do." Adams understood. "Course there's some who are as careless as men when it comes to cleanliness," he said, hanging up his jacket. "Why I recall…"
Rue hid her smile as her old friend talked on about slovenly housekeepers, water splashing all over as he washed his face and hands.
She had the beans on the table by the time Adams finished wiping his hands, and was taking a platter of fried salt pork from the hearth where it had been kept warm.
"I didn't know what else to cook," Rue apologized for the skimpy supper as Adams sat down at the table. "I don't know where you keep your supplies."
"The beans are just fine. I'm right partial to them," Adams said, filling his plate from the pot. "I'd cook them myself, but I'm afraid to leave them all day unattended. They could boil dry and burn."
After eating a couple mouthfuls, he said, "My meat and supplies are out there in the little shed. I hadn't meant for you to do the cookin', but I sure do appreciate it. I'll give you the key to the padlock. You have to keep everything locked up around here, or the Indians will steal everything but your back teeth. Especially in the winter if they get hungry, which is most all the time, poor devils."
Adams grew silent then as he fed his empty stomach. But Rue knew it was only the lull before the storm. Once his hunger was sated, and he sat before the fire, he'd regale her with stories from his past.
However, as she sat with him later, mending her torn dress while he puffed on his pipe, Adams didn't start a long-winded tale. There was a hesitation about him, as though he were searching for the right words to express himself. And that is strange, Rue thought. The old man never seemed at a loss for words.
She shot him a curious look when he said suddenly, almost defensively, "You know a man don't age much, livin' in the woods. Oh, his hair might turn white, a few wrinkles appear on his face, but outside of rheumatiz settlin' in his bones from bein' exposed to the harsh elements of winter, his juices remain much the same."
Was he leading up to something, Rue wondered, or was he rambling in his usual fashion? She took a close look at his face. Was he blushing, or was it the flames in the fire lending that redness to his features? And why was he squirming around?
She was startled, stabbing the needle in her finger, when he blurted out, "I never mentioned it before, but I got me a squaw."
Rue stuck her wounded finger in her mouth, staring at Adam's profile. That was the last thing she had expected him to say. Suddenly the humor of his confession struck her and she was hard put not to laugh out loud. She made sure her face and voice didn't reveal her mirth as she answered calmly, "That's nice. Do you visit her often?"
Adams's face relaxed. "I don't visit her. You get no privacy in her village. She comes visits me. She stays a week out of every month." He waited a few seconds, then announced, "She'll be showin' up tomorrow night, early."
Rue's eyes widened and she knew a moment of uncertainty. "What was she supposed to say to that? she wondered. She rocked the chair. Should she offer to sleep in the little barn with Mule?
Adams was talking again and she ceased rocking, giving him her attention. "Rainy will be company for you while I'm out all day. And we won't be too crowded at night. We'll just set another plate at the table and pull up another chair before the fire." He chuckled. "Me and Rainy use my bunk, so your bed will still be your own."
Rue quickly looked away from the beaming Adams, wondering if she wouldn't rather share Mule's quarters. Only about six feet separated the two bunk beds. And the mattresses, filled with hay, rustled every time you turned over. She could imagine the noise the pair making love would make.
She sensed that Adams watched her, waiting for a response. What could she say? That she'd be too embarrassed, knowing what was going on just a few feet away from her? She remembered the squaw's unusual name and grabbed at the subject.
"Rainy's name is as odd as mine, don't you think?" she asked.
"Oh, that's not her real name. That's what I call her. Her father named her Rain On The Face when she was bom. Her mother went into labor during a rainstorm. They were caught in it, and as soon as the baby came into the world, it got rained on. Indians give their newborns names like that." He grinned. "I suppose if she'd been born during a snowstorm, she'd be called Snow On The Face. I'd be callin' her Snowy then, instead of Rainy."
Rue laughed, the unusual name cleared up for her. But later, curled up in bed, she tried to imagine white-haired Adams making love to his squaw in the same fashion Hawke had made…
She flipped over on her side, giving the pillow a whack. Don't ever think of him again, not in anyway! she chastized herself angrily.
Two days passed before Hawke was cognizant of everything that had taken place. In that time, he had tossed and turned in delirium, calling Rue's name over and over. Dark shadows had appeared beneath Jeb's eyes as he ran back and forth, caring for his two bedridden patients. He was too upset over Hawke to put any importance on Susie's rambling about the witch who had taken Auntie Rue away. He told himself that the child raved in a feverinduced nightmare.
When son and granddaughter finally began to mend, Susie stopped asking for Rue and never mentioned the witch again. And Hawke, after he listlessly reported all that had happened in his search for Rue, lapsed into silence. There were many silences as the weeks passed, some that would last for hours. At first Jeb tried to talk to Hawke to bring him out of his deep despair. But receiving little, or no response for his effort, he gave up, relying on time to heal the pain that gnawed at his son.
Hawke, snowbound, spent most of the daylight hours, standing at the kitchen window, staring up at the mountain. Up there, somewhere, buried beneath the snow, was Rue. His lovely, fiery Rue. Never again would he hear her throaty laughter or hold her in his arms.
When nearly a month had passed, Hawke decided that he could no longer stand being shut up in the house. There were too many memories of Rue inside its walls.
As he slipped into his heavy jacket, Jeb argued that he should wait at least another two weeks before venturing outside. He only wasted his breath as Hawke argued back that his leg was mended, with only a slight stiffness remaining. A few days of activity and he'd never know he'd been shot. Except for the scar that would always remind him of Rue every time he looked at it, he added to himself.
