This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [6]
“If we’d a made a bet, buster, you’d a won my drawers! I wouldn’t a bet a pinch of snuff on that skinny feller.” Bulldog’s eyes shifted down and he backed away from the window. “Got to be a goin’. I’ll tell Graves to send ya some grub up.” He went to the door. “I’ll be back in the morning ta fetch ya home.”
“Fetch you home.” The words flashed across Summer’s mind, and a picture flicked behind her eyes. A cabin set beneath a spreading oak. A rope swing made from a sack of straw . . . her legs wrapped around the sack and someone pushing her back and forth. The breeze hit her face as she went higher and higher. She was commanded to hold tightly in the same voice that said, “Go get all growed up and I’ll come and fetch you home.” The picture faded and she turned to the man waiting beside the door.
“We’ll be ready.”
She scarcely heard the door close or the boot heels pounding down the plank stairs. She was searching out the window for something that had caught her attention before Bulldog spoke. There he was, leaning against the side of the building. He was tall and powerful, though not very heavy in build. Something about the way he carried himself drew her eyes to him. They had settled on him and couldn’t seem to look away. She had noticed him skirting the crowd that surrounded the fight. He was the only person on the street who didn’t stop to watch. He stood quietly and lit a smoke. His hat was pulled down low and the light from the flared match scarcely made a pinpoint of light in his cupped hands.
He moved away from the building and strode across the road. Summer watched. He walked as if he owned the earth! Bulldog emerged from under the hotel porch and hurried to meet him. He talked. The tall man tilted his head as if listening intently. Bulldog lifted his hand toward the upper window of the hotel. The man stood stonestill, never lifting his head to glance up. Finally, he started walking down the street. Bulldog’s shorter legs worked to keep pace with him. The two passed out of Summer’s sight and she felt odd and nervous, knowing something was going to happen—something apart from just the new life on their old homestead. Something, she felt, that for her was truly new and unimaginable.
Two
While her brother leaned on the window sill, oblivious to everything except the sights, sounds and smells of the street, Summer washed her face and hands. Every so often, she thought she could hear a sound coming from the other side of the thin wall and would turn her head a little, trying to catch the sound.
For a minute, she heard nothing. Then the sound came again and she knew what it was. A child was crying. She glanced at John Austin. It seemed so long ago that he was a child, with only crying to speak for what hurt him or what he needed. It was hard for her to believe this little brother of hers was merely eight years old. He had not even cried when their mother died. Instead, he had comforted her, telling her that Mama had gone to heaven to meet Papa. She would be able to walk there and would be happy.
A pounding on the door brought her up with a start, and she went to it. The hotel man stood there with a pan of stew, bowls, a flat tin of cornbread and a jug of milk, all balanced on a heavy tray. He set the tray on the bureau.
“Leave the pots outside the door when yore done, or else come down with ’em.” His bold eyes appraised her.
“I’ll leave them in the hall,” she said stiffly, and moved to close the door the instant he passed through. Seconds later, she heard a loud thumping, and pulled the door ajar. The man was viciously kicking the door down the hall.
“Hush yore mouth! I ain’t a havin’ no goddam bawlin’, hear? Yore botherin’ payin’ lodgers.” “A louder wail came from the room, as if the child were suddenly terrified by the man’s loud voice.
“Is that child alone?” Summer demanded, coming out into the dimly-lit hallway.
The man turned on her angrily. “She shore as hell better be! I ain’t havin’ no whorin’ done in my hotel! I hadn’t ort to a let her leave the snotty-nosed