This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [61]
“Why should I be scared of him? I was just thinkin’ that if’n he’s like that, he should be shot. I guess what’s wrong with me is I miss town!” Spots of color showed vividly on her cheeks as she tilted her head rakishly. “I ain’t never been away from town for a long time, so how’s I to know I’d miss it?” Her pert nose elevated to a saucy angle.
Staring at her, Summer tasted a draught of disappointment.
“You want to go back to town?” Her disbelief betrayed itself in a voice trembling with concern. “You said you liked it here.”
Sadie whirled away, unable to bear the bafflement on Summer’s face.
“I ain’t said I want to go back to town,” she flung over her shoulder. “I like it here. I was just a wonderin’ how it would be when you and John Austin go over to live with Slater. There wouldn’t be no need for me stayin’.” She laughed scoffingly. “‘Sides, I wouldn’t stay down here by myself if Slater’d let me.t’ A flush burned her cheeks. “I’d have to find me a man, and there ain’t many to choose from here.”
At twenty, Sadie had evolved something of a philosophy to assist her through difficulties: hide your feelings, smile over a hurt, pretend, pretend . . . pretend. But her heart rebelled: she wanted to scream and stamp her feet and pound her head against the wall, but it would do no good. No good at all.
There was a long, troubled silence. Summer had turned equally red in the face. She gazed at Sadie, then away.
“You and Mary are welcome to stay here as long as you want, Sadie. Even when John Austin and I go over to Slater’s.” Summer watched Sadie’s face anxiously, astonished at her change of attitude. Since the day they’d left Hamilton, she had been so cheerful. Now, suddenly . . .
“Oh, I ain’t goin’ no place, Summer.” Sadie’s voice was light. “I just wanted to know if you was planning on me staying. Course I ain’t if there ain’t enough for me to do to earn our keep.” She laughed nervously. “Speaking about workin’, I’d better get along with makin’ up that soap. We got a heap of ashes saved up, and I found a crock of grease.”
They carried bucket after bucket of water to pour over the ashes that had been scooped into a wooden trough. The potash water dripped into a bucket through small holes in the ash trough, and when Sadie pronounced it ready, she poured it over the grease that Summer had been rendering in the iron kettle over an open fire.
When the soap mixture boiled to pudding thickness, they strained it into a large flat pan and added salt to harden it. The soap had a strong lye smell, but when used in the wash pot, the clothes would come out clean, and after being rinsed and dried in the sun, they would be sweet-smelling.
They worked silently, each wrapped in her own thoughts. The only sound that broke their silence was Sadie’s scolding of Mary. She wanted the child to stay in the house. Summer was puzzled, at first, but decided Sadie was fearful of her being near the boiling pot. Mary cried and fussed. Finally, in desperation, Sadie wrapped a spoonful of sugar in a cloth, tied it securely, and gave it to the child to suck on.
“I shouldn’t do it,” she grumbled. “I shouldn’t let her think she’ll get a sugar-tit every time she throws a spell.”
They had finished the soap-making and were cleaning up, when John Austin called out that someone was coming. Both girls looked toward the creek and the trail to the Keep, and seeing no one, swung around to face the trail leading north to Hamilton: that also was empty. To the south were the hills, covered with thick brush and trees. The two riders had come from that direction and were rounding the end of the corral and almost in the yard before they were seen.
A man with a black beard, wearing a flat-crowned, Mexican-type hat, was leading a brown and white pinto pony that carried an Indian with long, straight black hair, a red band wrapped around his forehead, his hands bound behind his back and a rope about his neck. He was slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest.
Summer watched them approach, her mind numb. Sadie moved