This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [113]
Summer didn’t know what to do. She was sure her offer of help would be spumed, and she didn’t know if she would be able to stand rejection without bursting into tears. The decision was made for her when Jack came to the end of the wagon.
“You can go down the creek a ways. Me and Bulldog got to get Slater out fer a while.” He didn’t speak unkindly. She was surprised.
Jack didn’t offer to help her down and she clung to the end of the wagon for a moment after her feet were on the ground, allowing the numb, tingling feeling to leave her legs. She held her back stiff and her head high until she was out of sight of the camp, then walked slowly on until she found a place to relieve herself. Close by, the bank to the creek was sloping, and she sat on a rock, and dipped the hem of her skirt in the water and washed her face. The water was so refreshing that she longed to remove her shoes and bathe her hot feet, but fear of snakes stopped her. Night had come and the darkness seemed a comforting cloak. A frog croaked. It was not a loud sound, but with no other it was more obvious. A squirrel, awakened by the frog, chattered inquiringly; then there was silence.
Tired, Summer got to her feet. She would talk to Slater tonight. He would realize she could not live at McLean’s Keep or at the “little place.” She would make him realize it would be better for her to go where she wasn’t known, where she could pose as a widow and still keep some semblance of respectability. It would be easier talking to him in the dark. She wouldn’t have to see the shock of what they had done on his face.
On the way back to camp, she met Jack. The glow of his smoke alerted her to his presence.
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” she said drily.
“I was makin’ sure.”
With the help of the light from the campfire, she could see that Slater had been moved, tarp, feather bed and all, to a grassy spot beside the wagon. He lay flat on his back, arms and legs outstretched. His shirt had been removed and Bulldog knelt beside him putting a new dressing on his shoulder. She could feel his eyes on her and turned her back to fumble with the straps on her trunk, anything to be busy so she didn’t have to face him.
Cornbread was cooking in a skillet and strips of meat hung from a spit over the fire. Fat sizzled as it fell, and the flames were constantly alive with small bursts of brightness.
Later, she sat with her back to a tree, where she could see only the top of Slater’s head and he couldn’t see her at all. The silence between the four of them was terrible, but speaking was worse. Bulldog squatted beside Slater and dropped food into his mouth from time to time. If any words passed between them, they were so low she couldn’t hear them. Summer picked at her own food. The meat was too greasy and almost nauseated her. Not wanting to leave it on her plate, she flipped it into the grass when she was sure no one was looking. She ate the cornbread and drank the strong coffee, and felt surprisingly better when she had finished.
Jack came and took the granite plate from her hand. His manner was so purposeful it immediately killed her intention to offer help. Calmer now than she had been all day, she decided to wait and let Slater make the first move. It wouldn’t be long, she reasoned. Part of her wished to hurry and get it over with, the largest part of her dreaded the scene.
With plates and cups in hand, Jack went toward the stream. Bulldog kicked dirt onto the fire until the blaze was small, and stalked off toward the horses. Somehow, Summer knew this was the time. She was getting to her feet when Slater’s voice reached her.
“Come down here where I can see you.”
Calm and resigned, she moved to stand beside him, looking down at him, but not into his eyes.
“Sit down. Here on this blasted feather bed that’s been like an oven all day.” Obediently, she sat down, her hands clasped in her