This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [44]
“Goodnight,” he said with a catch in his voice; then, anxiously, “you’ll be back tomorrow?”
“Right after sun-up.” Slater’s voice was softer, friendlier.
With his hand on her elbow, he turned Summer and guided her firmly away from the house, down the path toward the creek.
“How could you?” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“I could and I did. It was very easy. I intend to manage him my way, Summer. Its best I begin in the way I intend to go on.”
“But . . . you’re so abrupt . . . unfeeling.” She had a sob in her voice. “He’s not used to that.”
“He’ll get used to it.”
She walked beside him in silence. There seemed to be nothing more she could say. They crossed the yard and stopped under the cottonwood where the sack swing hung. Absently, she gave it a push.
“It can’t be the same swing,” she said, half to herself.
Slater moved away from her and leaned against the tree.
The cottonwood leaves were whispering and the stream seemed unusually loud in the quiet night. With no other noise, the smallest sounds were obvious. Summer tried to see Slater’s face in the deepening shadows, but the outlines were gone, and she could only see that he was standing there.
Abruptly, he struck a match and held the flame unusually long to the end of the cigarette he held between his lips. The light flickered on his scarred cheek and outlined it briefly before he blew out the flame.
“This is a hard, lonely land, Summer. I’m a hard, lonely, impatient man, made more so by the murder of my pa and my own . . . injuries. I’m asking you, now, before this thing between us goes any farther, if this thing on my face repulses you, if I repulse you.”
She had expected him to say almost anything but this. Shocked, she stared at his shadow, at the small glow of his cigarette. Finally, she found her voice.
“I’ve said that I didn't know you, Slater. Well, you don’t know me, either, or you wouldn’t ask me such a question.
“It’s an important question and I demand that you answer.”
“All right, but I’m disappointed that you think I have no more depth to me than to be put off by a scar.” She stopped and caught a long, ragged breath. “I have a few questions of my own, Slater Where do we stand with you? It appears to me that you’re taking over our lives I have the right to know what to expect.” She finished breathlessly, her heart thumping like a mad thing in her breast.
He drew on the cigarette, then dropped it to the ground and stepped on it.
“I’ve told you what to expect. You’ve had several days to think on it. Why are you angry?”
From anxiety and anger, her mood changed when he spoke.
“I’m not angry. Confused, but not angry.”
“Then answer my question. I need to know if the woman I plan to spend the rest of my life with finds me unbearable to look at.”
Summer stood motionless, staring at his shadow, transfixed, literally shaking inside. She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. There was a poignant longing in his voice, and for a moment all the years rolled away and she remembered him as he had been . . . the tall, slim boy: You go on and get all growed up, summertime girl, and I’ll come and fetch you home.
“How can you ask?” The warm night air almost suffocated her as she waited for him to reply. He said nothing, and finally she cried out helplessly, “No! No! You make it seem so important and it’s not! It’s not!”
“Then come to me,” he whispered huskily.
It didn’t occur to her not to obey. She stopped in front of him and his arms reached out and drew her close. Her palms pressed against his chest. She looked up at him, into his eyes. He studied her face, the sparkle of tears on her lashes, her trembling mouth. He grabbed her hand and held the palm hard against his cheek.
“You’re sure?” he asked, and she nodded. “You are absolutely sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She was crying to herself inside that it was so hard for him to believe her.
Slowly, he released her hand, but she held it there against his face and let her fingertips trace the rough ridges