The Milch Bride Page 2

  At the last words, Hattie surprised herself by letting the shovel drop across her lap where she sat in the muddy yard. Her dry eyes burned as tears pooled behind them. She sniffed to keep them at bay lest he think her crazy.

  Slowly he reached down; lifted the tool from her lap. Then he placed both hands on her arms and hauled her to her feet. She took a step backward, pulling free. It was then that they both swiveled at the loud bawl of a baby. Hattie turned to look up at the man.

  “My son will die if you don’t help us. My wife passed two nights ago. J.D. can’t keep anything down and is starving to death. Canned or cow’s milk, both come back out one end or the other about as quick as he’s fed. Ma’am, you’re the only chance we have, according to Doc Jenkins.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for desperate, you’ve come to the right place. Bring him inside, Mr.…”

  “Harper, Jackson Harper, ma’am, and J.D.’s my son.”

  The first thing Jackson noticed was the smell. He stood with the wagon toolbox in his hands, and then waited as she picked up a towel to wipe her face and dirt streaked arms. She stared at him, shrugging. “They’re in the back room. It’s why I was digging.”

  Jackson put the box down gently on the table, noting the broken backed chair that was wedged underneath one end to support it.

  Dried off, Hattie leaned down to pull the squalling infant from the box. “Fill that dishpan with water, there’s a rain barrel at the corner of the porch. I’ll get him cleaned up so I can feed him.”

  He glared at her, surprised at the sharp order. But she was already removing the baby’s soiled diaper and wiping him clean with the front of it. When he returned a minute later, the baby was undressed, angrily kicking his feet and waving fists at her.

  Jackson paused to stare as she wiped tears from her eyes, her hand gently reaching to wipe the tears from the baby’s cheeks. The boy was long and soft and very red, but even Jackson could tell she saw how perfect and beautiful the baby was. Carefully she scooped him up from the table, cradling him against her chest, tucking his face toward her neck as she cooed soothingly to him and kissed his wet face. Instantly he stopped raging, making small gasping sounds against her skin.

  When Jackson moved forward to set the basin down, she shook her head and sniffed. Using the clean front edge of his cast-off gown, she dipped and scrubbed the baby tenderly, slowly removing all the waste, then again pressing the naked, squirming body close.

  “There are baby things,” she pointed, “on top of the dresser.”

  He carried them forward, shocked when she unbuttoned her damp shirt and used it to dry and wrap the boy. Her chemise was gray and thin, but he was relieved when she used the baby and old blouse to hide herself from his view. He grinned, half apologetically, as he heard the greedy suckling sounds of his child. A few minutes later, she raised him, rubbing his back as she rearranged her clothes, then positioned him to nurse from her other breast.

  Jackson stood embarrassed. There was nowhere to sit. He noticed there was a pot on the stove and he lifted the lid to see bean soup. Restless, he busied himself opening the oven, searching for wood, and then leaving to return with three small logs, the only dry wood he could find. As the beans heated, he leaned against the wall and watched them. Clearly, the child was asleep, but he would suddenly start and make suckling sounds whenever she moved even the slightest.

  “Could you look in the bedroom for a clean shirt for me?”

  A minute later he returned and shrugged his shoulders, “I only found men’s shirts.”

  “The red plaid will be fine, I’m cold.”

  He brought both back, held the red one open while she put an arm through the sleeve, and then leaned forward so he could wrap it around her. She struggled to get her hand started in the other sleeve but when she could not manage, he held it until she succeeded. Trying not to, but unable to keep his eyes from the white fullness of her breast where the child was attached, he pretended not to be looking when the baby’s head rolled back releasing the dark nipple, a bubble of milk on his pursed pink mouth.

  Blushing, she quickly grabbed and held the front of the shirt closed as he reached for the baby. Timidly holding him with his bottom resting on one big palm, his head cradled in the crook of his arm, Jackson gently rocked his arm back and forth, terrified that the child might reawaken with more crying.

  As soon as he stepped back with the child, Hattie rose, turning her back while she rearranged herself, buttoned, and tucked in the shirt. Turning around, she busied herself, replacing the soiled quilt with a clean blanket. Jackson gingerly nestled J.D. back inside the toolbox.

  In whispers she said, “I need to get back to digging.”

  He held up a hand, shaking his head and pointing at the chair. “Just sit and eat while the food’s hot, I couldn’t find enough wood to keep things going. I have a little ground Arbuckle’s out in the buckboard, it looks like you’re out of coffee and lots more.”

  Hattie sagged into the chair he pointed out and waited while he carried the only bowl and spoon left on the shelf, as well as a tin mug that he had brought inside with the coffee grounds.

  “There’s a bit of corn pone in the pan inside the oven - molasses on the shelf,” she said, even as she started to eat the warm beans.

  He brought the warm bread and sorghum, and then looked around again. He went outside and brought in the rocker from the front porch. Then he used the empty coffee can to hold a cup of coffee. Breaking the bread in two, he handed her half, then brought the bean pot from the stove.

  He watched her eat like someone who had not stopped to eat in a long time. Satisfied when he saw the bottom of her bowl, he refilled it, then using a bent fork, crumbled his crust of bread in the liquid and ate just as hungrily. When her coffee cup was empty, he refilled it and poured the remainder in his empty can. “Tasted mighty fine,” he grinned at her, pleased when she grinned back.

  Even as the grin faded, he pointed with his fork toward the back room. “Dead long?”

  She shook her head. “Dad died yesterday, his heart, or maybe another stroke. He quit eating and then he seemed to just let go.”

  “The baby?”

  “Sometime before daybreak, I was preparing Dad’s body. He was just gone when I went to check on him.”

  She could not look at the man, instead she stared at the stove. “I should have gotten them in the ground. I just kind of …” her voice broke, and she shook her head, even as she felt the tears gathering.

  His voice was thick as he whispered, even though his blue eyes remained clear and intense as he stared at her. “Well, it looks like you’ve done a good job in getting them ready for burial. While my wife, Donna, was fading, her parents came out. They insisted we had to get a proper box built for her, had to have a proper funeral for her at the church and a burial in the town cemetery. While we were waiting on the carpenter, J.D. started to really struggle. I dug another grave, one more his size. Guess I should have filled them in, but I didn’t. What I’m saying is, if you aren’t too proud to use it, we could bury your folks in those graves that are already dug.”

  “On your place?”

  “They’d be close to you that way, while you’re at the ranch tending to my boy. Then if you want them moved back here, we can do that when the time comes.”

  “You think I’m going to leave my ranch and move in with you?”

  “Ma’am, I intend for my son to live. He needs you and your milk to do that. Yes ma’am, I reckon you’re moving into my place until he’s weaned.”

  Hattie glared at him, knowing she again had no choice, but hating him and fate for forcing her life in a direction she hadn’t chosen.

  “You have other plans, do you?”

  “Yes. I need to find and herd up the cattle on this place. Three weeks ago, there were about fifty head left. I intend to trail them to town to sell in order to have sufficient money to pay the taxes on this ranch. Otherwise, I’ll lose it.” With each word, she grew a little louder
, and by the time she finished she was standing and shouting at him. “Our ranch may not look like much to you, but my Dad spent his life trying to make a go of it. I owe it to him to not let the bank take it from us.”

  He stared pointedly at the sleeping baby and kept his voice low, his eyes staring directly into hers. “Fair enough, I’ll pay you for wet nursing my son, whatever you owe in taxes. I will send my men out to round up all your cattle and move them, pack up any of your furniture or what not that you want, and move it all to my place. When you’re done, when J.D. is weaned, I’ll have them move it all back.” He too rose and grew louder as he answered her. “I reckon we can keep up with another fifty cows and whatever else there is for a year or so.”

  She stuck out her hand, shocked when it was engulfed by his. Here she was nothing but a milk cow, but she felt more like herself then she had in months.

  Quickly she tugged her hand free. “I’ll make a list of the animals. It won’t take long to pack up what little is left.” She quickly cleared the table, pulled the family Bible out of the drawer of the only dresser, and sat at the table with a piece of butcher paper and a flat pencil.

  “I accept your offer of the graves. My father wouldn’t care about proper caskets or burials in town, even if I had the money to pay for them. Besides, I believe he is home in heaven with my mother.”

  “I need something to put down in the wagon-bed, before we load them.”

  Hattie turned back and bent to the bottom drawer and pulled out a thick-woven Indian blanket.

  “It doesn’t look like the rain is going to stop. Do you have any oilskins?”

  Hattie handed him the thick blanket, blushing furiously. “They’re still on the bed.”

  Jackson stopped, accepting the heavy blanket and staring down at the slender girl before him. Had it been such a short time since she underwent the same ordeal that had claimed Donna’s life? According to Doc, she had ridden to town on a galloping horse to get help for her father on the day she delivered. Now she looked painfully shy over even the mention of it.

  “I’ll be just a minute.”

  When he returned, Hattie had a bag full of clothes, a rifle and her father’s pistol on the table. He called her to take her father’s feet, then they lifted the bodies together, careful to secure the baby in her father’s arms as they lifted and carried them out. As soon as he had the bodies in the wagon bed, she turned and ran back into the cabin, returning with two quilts and the oilcloths, balled up with the yellow-coated canvas side out. Standing in the wagon bed, he took the edge and carefully covered the top half of the bodies, making sure not to disturb either body in their peaceful pose.

  He covered the bottom half just as carefully, then used the bag of tools that he had removed from the toolbox to hold the top right corner. Hattie handed him the guns and he rolled them under the edge of the tarp to weigh down the left upper corner. She carried out a wooden box, loaded with the broken remains of a blue and white square canister set, and a small set of oil and vinegar jars. He put it as a weight at the tailgate on a bottom corner and he set her bag of clothes on the last corner and jumped down.

  While he gathered up the baby, she pulled on a heavy barn coat and grabbed the family Bible, and a tattered cookbook. He was loading the box and baby when J.D. began to fuss. Hattie reached in the box and felt his bottom, then wrapped the blanket closer around him, before tucking the baby inside the folds of her heavy coat. She accepted a hand up onto the buckboard seat. Since the baby continued to fuss, she reached in to free her breast for his searching mouth.

  Hattie was not sure if it was the baby who was comforted, or herself. As soon as she tucked him in against her, she felt a swell of warmth rush through her.

  Jackson studied her profile, and then clucked the team into motion, putting an arm out to steady her as he circled out of the yard. She stiffened away and he dropped his arm, as struck by her reaction as his guilt for forgetting. The babe J.D. was his, but the woman would never be his Donna.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was mid-afternoon when he pulled the buckboard up to Thompson’s store. Jackson sprang down, but Hattie remained on the buckboard seat.

  When he stepped up on the boardwalk beside her, she asked, “Why are we stopping here?” Hastily she rearranged herself and the baby.

  “I promised the cook I’d bring back some stores.” Not giving her a chance to hesitate, he lifted her down with the baby still in her arms. Quickly he walked over and opened the door to the store.

  Jackson stood there, holding the door open even as he talked to the storeowner. Hattie inched inside, backing up to blend with the barrels and tack by the door while Jackson stepped forward and handed the shop owner his list. Both men stared at her as Jackson leaned closer to whisper to the storeowner. “Mr. Thompson, as you can see, she needs clothes, everything, head to toe, including all the female fripperies.” Loudly he added, “I’ll be back within the hour. There are bodies in the buckboard, be extra careful when you load up.”

  “Bodies?”

  However, the question was directed toward his back and the closing door. The store owner turned his head and hollered at his wife. “Lady out front needs help.” He nodded at her and went to work filling the order.

  Several minutes later, his wife finally arrived. “Lady, humph, that’s nothing but Stoddard’s dirty slut of a daughter.”

  “Hush. Jackson Harper wants her to have clothes - head to toe - from the skin out,” he whispered angrily. “Keep a civil tongue in your head and make the sale.”

  She snorted again, and then waved at Hattie, unconcerned that she had heard every word. “This way.”

  The woman eyed her critically and Hattie realized she could not remember the last time she had bathed or combed her hair. Why hadn’t she thought of it before letting Jackson drag her in here?

  “Could you take off the coat so I can better judge your size?”

  Hattie hesitated; dreading the woman’s reaction, then opened the coat and shrugged out of one sleeve. When the clerk’s wife saw the baby’s feet, she screamed.

  “My God, you’ve brought your bastard into town.”

  Hattie flushed with anger. “My son is dead. This is the Harper boy.”

  “Emma, mind what you were told,” the owner yelled at her.

  Hattie managed to bunch up the coat as she removed it and laid it on top of two full crates of potatoes, then swaddled the boy and stared up at the woman. She was thoroughly embarrassed, aware of her matted dirty hair, the baggy flannel shirt of her dad’s and the mud- stained skirt. She prayed she would not have to feed the baby again and expose her gray, stained, underwear.

  “My God, you do need clothes.”

  Hattie kept a hand on the swaddled baby, but this time her blush was shame, not anger.

  “We really don’t carry ready-to-wear for women, other than shirt-waists and skirts.”

  “Fine, I don’t care, as long as it’s black. I’m in mourning. My father is dead, too.”

  The woman stared at her, and then pursed her lips. “I’m sorry for your loss. Tom Stoddard was a fine man.”

  Hattie bit her tongue then nodded. “Thank you, anything in black, if not I‘ll need a box of dye.”

  “Widow’s rags it is. There are two skirts, one you will need to hem. Both black. The shirts are black, one with red stripes, the other with blue. I just have the two.”

  “Fine, they sound fine. I can make do with them.”

  “Over here are the undergarments,” she whispered.

  The baby interrupted with a cry and Hattie moved quickly to lift him up, finding him wet. “Whatever you think, basic is fine. I’m sorry, but the baby needs changing.”

  “I can sell you a yard of swaddling. We can cut it to make four nappies, you can hem them later.

  “Good, those first please.”

  The clerk shook her head but grabbed the bolt of cloth, quickly cutting off a yard and quartering it.

  Hattie moved back to the coat and m
ade quick work of changing the crying newborn. His bottom was already chapped, and she did not want it to get raw. “Do you have salve, something I can use for the baby’s bottom?”

  “I’ll get you a tin of balm. Make sure you keep him clean and dry.”

  Hattie glared at the woman, but nodded.

  <><><>

  Jackson crossed the street to the bank, bustling into the small brick building and knocking on the office door at the back of the room, barely acknowledging the greetings from young Smith, the only teller.

  “Hello, Charlie.”

  “Hello, son, where’s the baby?” Charles Dawson said as he rose, an anxious expression on his face.

  “Over at the store, with the wet nurse.”

  Dawson shook his head, scowling. “That Stoddard tramp, I can’t believe you left Donna’s son with that woman.”

  “Enough. We don’t know that all the gossip about her is true. There are a lot of things that make me wonder if somebody lied. If you saw how busted up their house was, and Tom Stoddard looked broken down too. It could all be stories told by the men who should have been hung for what they did.”

  “Bah, you’re more gullible then I thought. A jezebel like that could fool any man”

  “Let’s agree to disagree. Why I’m here is I’ve hired her to care for J.D. I told her I would pay their back taxes.”

  “Ridiculous. Do you even know how much they owe?”

  “A ranch a fifth the size of mine, one year’s taxes. I figure I can handle it.”

  Charles Dawson moved over to the ledger for taxes. In a small town like Star, he was rancher, bank president, and tax assessor.

  “You’re going to regret your offer, Jackson. Might make you question your judgment all around.”

  He spun the ledger around and pointed to the number. Jackson sank into the chair in front of the desk and tented his fingers as he thought what he should say. Finally anger got the best of him.

  “What the hell is going on Charlie? You set this damn number. I’ll pay the same rate as last year’s taxes on the property, or I’ll meet with the city council and you can explain this number.”