This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [110]
It seemed to Summer that she was alone in a lonely world. In fact, she had never been as alone as she had been for the last five days. On the way out from the Piney Woods, she had had John Austin to take care of. In this very same coach they had come to Hamilton in search of Sam McLean. They had found him, all right, Summer thought bitterly.
The heat was stifling in the coach. Summer took off her hat to fan herself and the breeze it created helped to quiet the baby. She prayed her stomach would stay still. Usually, by noon it would settle down, but today she had been so nervous waiting for Jesse that she had to keep swallowing to keep her mouth from filling with saliva.
She watched the vanishing hills pick up colors of sun and sky, watched the prairie of bleached grass stretch into nothingness. She stared back over the trail until the sun’s glare caused the corners of her eyes to water. An eagle spiraled in the sky, climbing higher toward the sun until he was only a speck in the vast emptiness. Oh, to be an eagle!
The worst part of her pain was buried in the back of her mind and she was determined not to let it surface. It was there all the time, on the periphery of her vision, tormenting her, reminding her.
They splashed across a shallow creek and rolled into a stage stop. Because it was so hot, Bill said they would take a few extra minutes after the fresh horses were hitched, if anyone wished to get out. Everyone did, except Summer. She sat and waited, hardly conscious that the back of her dress was soaked with sweat and that rivulets ran between her breasts. The Mexican woman with the baby on her hip brought her a dipper of water. Summer drank it thirstily, greedily, and thanked the woman with a tearful word.
Rolling again, Bill cracked the whip and shouted to the straining team to make up for the minutes lost. The afternoon wore on. No one talked. The baby slept. The coach was like a furnace. Summer felt lightheaded, like she was floating. The torturous ride was making every inch of the road known to her aching body. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, her mind too weary for thought.
When the coach slowed and came to a stop, she didn’t bother to raise her head or open her eyes until the voice of the man opposite blasted forth.
“Now what the hell’s the matter? We ain’t never gonna get nowhere at this rate.”
Summer looked out the window, squinted her eyes, thinking she saw Jack sitting on his big sorrel talking to the driver. She blinked several times and looked again. He was still there. On this very hot day, in this steaming coach, she felt such a chill she clamped her jaws tight to keep her teeth from chattering. How could it be? He couldn’t have known she was on the stage. She shrank back against the seat, holding her hat in front of her as if to shield her face from the sun. She felt the coach sway as Bill got down off the high seat, heard the man opposite her curse the delay, heard the door of the coach open.
“Miss,” Bill was saying to her, “Jack here says he’s come to take you off the stage.”
“No! I paid my fare. I’m going to Austin.”
“It’s up to you, miss, if’n you go or stay,” Bill said firmly, and banged the door shut.
A few minutes passed, and the door opened again. Jack stood there looking at Summer. She wanted to die.
“Summer, get on out now, ’n let these folks go on. I come to get ya, and I ain’t leavin’ without ya.”
“No! I’m not getting out. You’ve no right to interfere.”
“Hell, no, you ain’t got no right. The gal don’t have to go if’n she ain’t of a mind to.” This came from one of the men inside the coach.
Jack ignored him. “It’ll save a heap of trouble if you step out. It’s that or the folks here’ll have to wait with ya.”
“Leave me alone, Jack. I’m not going back, so go away and leave me alone.” Anger and humiliation caused the tears to stream from her eyes.
Jack stepped back and motioned for Bill to move away from the coach. When they turned to face each other, Jack’s six-gun was pointed at his belly.
“What’s . . . what’s this?