The Milch Bride Page 3

  For the first time, Charles Dawson seemed to lose his composure.

  “The damn council are the ones who wanted the tax rate raised…”

  “Hell, I could buy the land for that much money.”

  “Wait a month, and when it goes on the block for back taxes, if yours is the highest bid, then you can buy it.”

  “They only owe one year’s taxes. If you weren’t trying to steal the ranch, the number would be affordable.”

  “Watch yourself, Jackson. You don’t have Donna any more. You don’t want to become my enemy.”

  “I’m the father of your damn grandson. Hell, you know this isn’t right. I expect you to do the right thing. Someday that little boy will want to be proud of his grandfather.”

  Jackson rested his hands flat on the desk, leaning forward to stare into the eyes of Charles Dawson. It was a moment before the other man blinked and looked down.

  When he raised his head, he said. “Pay the bill. I’ll deed the property to you. There’s no reason for a farmer like Stoddard to have ranch land with a natural spring.”

  “Tom Stoddard is dead. The land belongs to his daughter.”

  “Not when she owes taxes she can’t pay.”

  They were again staring. This time Jackson blinked first.

  “Hell, Jackson, make up your mind. The land will sell for the back taxes. I have the power to sell it. If you want to have it, pay the bill.”

  Jackson groaned. It would put a dent in his cash reserve. With an operation the size of his, anything could happen and he would be back in this office, asking Charlie Dawson for a loan. He could just tell Hattie the taxes were too high and pay her the amount they should have been.

  No, he had given her his word. He could pay, shake his father-in-law’s hand, and take a deed to the ranch. At the end of the year, he could deed it back to the girl. He could help her fight the assessment, get it changed. But now he had to act.

  “Write it up. But remember, I need enough left to keep up my ranch and raise the boy. There are also the funeral expenses.”

  “Nonsense, Irene wanted it, we insisted, we’ll pay for it. We’ve already paid.” He handed Jackson the receipt from the funeral home. While Jackson read it, he pulled a sheet of foolscap from his desk and checked the nib on his ink pen. Then he flipped the ledger to the forms listed at the front of the book and wrote two paragraphs, then turned the book back to the listing. When he had filled in the form, he turned back to the front for the closure paragraphs needed on the form.

  Jackson stood behind him, reading over his shoulder as he created the document. While Charles was copying the boundary and specifics of the property being deeded, Jackson noted that Stoddard wasn’t the only small rancher who had an inflated tax bill.

  As he signed the debit form drawing out the money from his account, then the deed, he realized as steep as the bill was, it was only a tenth of what the four-hundred acre spread was worth, especially since the natural spring on the place made it priceless. The fact that the land fell between his and Charlie Dawson’s ranch probably accounted for the high assessment more than anything else did.

  As a last thought he stood, “I’ll need a receipt and my account balance. Smith can bring them as he comes in to notarize the deed.”

  His father-in-law gave him a hard stare, and then stepped out to confer with the teller. As soon as he returned, Jackson had to force out the words. “Thanks for the funeral, it was beautiful. I’m sure Donna would have approved.”

  Charlie’s eyes filled with tears. “It still doesn’t seem real.”

  Jackson felt his own eyes fill as well and for the first time since entering the confined, stuffy office, he saw Charlie Dawson as a human being. He had lost a beloved child just as much as Jackson had lost a wife. It was comforting to know the grave at the top of the hill in the cemetery would soon have a marble slab with a carved angel and the words “beloved daughter, wife, and mother.”

  When Charles sniffled, he surprised himself even more by wrapping a big hand around the banker’s upper arm and giving him a firm shake, just as Smith came in.

  He handed Jackson the debit slip, showed him his current account balance, and showed the subtraction at the bottom of the debit, along with the date and his initials. Then he removed a clamp from a small case, squeezed the parchment, then signed and dated as witness and notary.

  Jackson folded the documents, slipped them inside his jacket pocket, and then shoved his hat back on. He shook Smith’s limp hand as he listened to the usual obsequious statement of sympathy, and then gave Dawson’s hand another firm shake before leaving, “Thanks Charlie, thanks for everything.”

  <><><>

  Hattie had the baby diapered and cradled against her when the door from the store to the saloon swung open. Her heart raced and her tongue turned to cotton as she was faced with her daily nightmare. Unshaved, smirking, dirty, she had thought she would never clean their smell from her skin and hair. Rafe Hogue and his shorter, smellier partners, Silas and Able Sweat appeared.

  “Lookie, lookie, I told you she’d be coming to work at Thelma’s.”

  He walked toward her and Hattie shrank back, the baby giving an alarmed cry as it sensed her fear.

  “Hey, look what sweetie has,” Rafe cackled. “Come on girl, let’s see who the little bastard looks like.”

  Horrified, Hattie pulled the baby even closer, raising the blanket to protect him. The storeowner’s wife gasped in shock and turned to find her husband.

  “I told you about that girl,” she whispered furiously, “now what are you going to do?”

  “Hey, fellas, she’s acting shy again. Help me get her cornered so we can examine our work. Five dollars says he looks like me,” Rafe boasted.

  Hattie looked around, wishing she had her gun. The first time they came, she had been too shattered to think of pursuing them. She would have gone to town for the sheriff but her father was so badly beaten, she had forced herself to pull her torn clothes around her, choke back her tears and help him to bed.

  She had been terrified when her dad was unable to talk to her, but mortified by the tears that leaked down his cheek every time he looked at her.

  The next time they came, she was sitting at the window, her guns ready beside her. She began firing as the first man stepped on the porch. She heard one man holler when he was hit, another scream when splinters from the porch rail hit his face.

  Now in this store, the only thing at hand was the crate of potatoes. She gripped one tightly.

  “Watch out boys, she wants to keep the papa a secret.”

  The bell over the door rang behind them, but they were all focused on the terrified girl. Hattie was studying them, looking for the mark of splinters or gunshot. Able Sweat had three red spots on his cheek; his older brother seemed to favor his leg. On Rafe’s face were five streak marks from where she had clawed, trying to get his eyes.

  “Cowards,” she hissed. Each had noticed her eyes catching their marks.

  “Maybe we need to mark her up a little this time,” Able growled.

  The sound of a gun being cocked behind them brought them up short. Hattie realized she had dug her nails into the potato.

  “Far enough boys, move away from my son.”

  Rafe recovered first. “Wow, our little wild girl’s been busy on the side, boys.”

  Hattie felt her face flame with the insult. Wasn’t it enough to be raped and beaten by these savages? Why did they need to destroy her reputation, too? She shoved past Rafe and when Silas grabbed at her, she fired the potato at his head as hard as she could.

  There was a pop as it splattered and she was rewarded by his angry yell, then angrier curses.

  Able clapped his hands and laughed. “Got you again, brother.”

  Silas swore and swung at his brother and they grappled as Jackson reached for Hattie, pulling her and the baby behind him.

  “Hey,” the storeowner raised his shotgun and the loud racheting sound as he cocked it stopped eve
ryone.

  Rafe raised his hands and backed toward the saloon door. “Come on boys, we’ll visit the little lady later. See if she has time to put us on her dance card.”

  “No need men. She is going to have all her time taken up caring for Donna’s and my son. If you want to lay claim to her son, you’re too late, he’s dead.” Jackson’s cold voice filled the store.

  Hattie had been frightened and angry before. Now she felt humiliated. Her father was gone. There was no one left who knew and loved her, who knew she was not a fallen woman, who knew she was a person, not just a wet nurse. However, to everyone in Star, she would never be anything else.

  When they were gone, Jackson holstered his gun, and then turned to examine the woman. She shushed the crying baby and would not look at him or anyone else. She turned her back and let him settle with the clerk. When he looked at the invoice, he was surprised at how brief her purchases were. Well, there were Donna’s clothes that could be made over, a room full of them, if she needed more.

  “Thanks Thompson, for grabbing the shotgun,” he added as he paid the bill.

  “Those rowdies, I figured you deserved someone to back you. I’m sorry about not getting the supplies loaded, but it’s been raining.”

  Jackson knew it was not rain, but the man’s fear of the dead bodies. He let the man carry out the box, while he lifted and toted the sack holding flour, dried beans, and corn meal. As Jackson carefully loaded everything, the storeowner complained, “It seems wrong that Tom’s daughter isn’t burying Tom in town,” he added, then realized the girl was already seated on the buckboard.

  “Maybe, she doesn’t care anymore for this town than they seem to care for her” Jackson said, as he climbed up to sit beside Hattie and the baby. He had noted her curved back and bowed head as he stepped up, but he was surprised to hear J.D. slurp loudly as he released the nipple. Jackson scooted the box out between their feet, and then took the boy.

  Hattie started when he did, then quickly fastened her coat and struggled to sit upright, her eyes half-closed in weariness.

  Jackson tucked the small boy into the blanket lined box, surprised when he lay there, staring up at him, opening and closing his mouth. “It’s all right boy, you can have more when we get home.” Smiling, he secured the box and started the team.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When he pulled up at the ranch house, it was almost dark. He moved his shoulder to jostle the sleeping woman leaning against him, and was startled by the vivid blue eyes staring up at him. “I’m going to unload the wagon, and then try to drive the team up the hill to the graves.”

  Hattie nodded, and then started to get down when a small voice began a high-pitched squall. A couple of people came out of the house, one a woman who started to talk, then froze as he reached under the seat for the baby. As he pulled him out and up to her, he whispered, “He’s wet again.”

  The cry was growing in intensity. She laid the babe onto the high seat as Jackson swung down, passing the box and bag of groceries to the waiting hands. “There’s clean cloth in the top of the bundle of clothes,” she said.

  The woman on the porch harrumphed as Jackson hurried to hand her the diaper. “Miss Harriett Stoddard, my housekeeper, Rubye White.”

  Hattie looked past the waving tiny feet at the scowling face of a tall, angular woman who stood with arms folded across her chest. Before Hattie could speak, Rubye raised her apron to cover her mouth and nose.

  “Rubye, we’ve got some folks to bury first, before Harriet can come in. But I know she’d like to clean up and get settled.”

  Another man came out on the porch, and both men uncovered their heads in respect. Even as Jackson finished giving Rubye orders, the loud frantic cry changed, and then abruptly stopped as Hattie lifted the child to suckle, her back to all the people on the porch.

  Rubye disappeared into the house with a disapproving cluck, ready to heat water and set up the tub in the pantry off the kitchen.

  Hattie stared down at the small baby in her arms, grateful for the fading light that helped to mask them from all the staring eyes. Jackson handed out the last bundle, removing the Bible and putting it on the floor of the buckboard beside her.

  “Hank, can you give me a hand to get the team on up the hill.”

  Hank walked up to the head of the lead animal as Jackson sprang up to the seat beside her.

  “Hold on to your hat, Miss Stoddard,” and he snapped the reins.

  Hattie braced forward, hanging onto the baby who frantically held onto her nipple. She managed to clasp one hand on the back of the seat as they began the steep incline. Through it all, the babe continued to nurse.

  At the top of the hill, she continued to tend the baby, grateful to be able to watch as Jackson shook out one of the oilcloths into the bottom of each of the graves. At least here on the hill, the water had already run through the soil and she was glad not to hear a splat.

  For the first time, he lifted the tiny scrap that had been her son, pausing with the baby beside her. Hattie fought back tears at the sight of the tiny bundle, dressed in his flour-sack gown. Unloved, unwanted, he was about to be buried. He was about to be buried in an unhallowed grave without even a name. Hattie choked back a sob as she nodded and Jackson lowered the tiny babe as gently as though he were sleeping into the small hole in the ground.

  She returned the sleeping boy in her arms into his box and straightened her clothing yet again, wiping at her eyes even as Jackson and his cowhand paused again beside her, waiting silently with her father’s body. This time she had to bite her lip to swallow the sobs, wondering even as tears streaked down her face if they were for her father, or for herself.

  Finally, both bodies had been moved, each one once again covered with the quilts from the cabin. Although not wooden coffins, Hattie felt that both were now wrapped protectively in love. The quilts made by her mother had always been important to her father and herself. She was comforted knowing they would cover them in their final sleep.

  Jackson reached up to help her down and Hattie accepted his hand, feeling awkward in the twilight in this strange place. “Is the Bible still in the wagon?”

  The tall cowboy reached around her and lifted the worn and torn bible from the floor beneath the seat. “I grabbed it before they carried your belongings inside. But I don’t think there’s enough light to read. Do you know the words you want us to say?”

  She shook her head, clutching the old book close against her chest. “Begin with Dad,” she whispered.

  Both men uncovered their heads and moved to the foot of the grave, framing Hattie. Jackson placed a hand on her shoulder and she lowered the Bible toward him. Taking it, he began to speak.

  “Tom Stoddard, beloved husband, father, and grandfather…”

  Hattie gasped. She clenched her jaw to keep from fresh sobs.

  Jackson continued as though she had not interrupted, holding the Bible forward in both hands, the brim of his hat clutched beneath the book.

  “Never heard any man say a bad word against you, so I’m sure God has welcomed you home, that your wife and parents have greeted you in their loving embrace. Your daughter here is grieving, but she knows you are in a better place. As the good book says, ’dust to dust, ashes to ashes.’” He knelt down to drop a hand of dirt onto the soft quilt.

  Hattie followed his motion, scooping the pebbly soil into both hands and sprinkling it over the quilt.

  Jackson extended a hand to her elbow to help her rise. “Tom, as hard as it is to let you go, we rejoice knowing you are in a happier place, Amen.”

  Hattie and the other man echoed, “Amen.”

  When he turned to the grave holding the baby, Hattie sank to her knees between the two graves, dropping a handful of dirt onto the babe.

  Jackson waited expectantly, but was surprised when she rose and took the Bible from him, choking back tears until she could speak.

  “Go with your grandfather, little one. I’ll join you soon. Amen.”

  Ther
e was a dissatisfied silence, then finally the men added, “Amen.” She scooped up another handful of dirt and sprinkled it over the quilted form.

  Jackson lifted out the sleeping baby and Hattie clasped the Bible to her body once again, and then let the strong man beside her lead her down the hill toward the house. In the shadowy light, she was grateful for his support.

  <><><>

  On the porch, the hands gathered for dinner. Jackson acknowledged their greetings, ignoring the jibes about his carrying the baby. Rubye tsked and took the infant, then scowled at Hattie.

  “Vittles are ready, and I set up for her bath in the pantry.”

  Jackson patted Rubye’s shoulder as he gave up his son. He turned and steered Hattie toward the pantry and held the door for her.

  <><><>

  The water was cold and Hattie shook her head, rousing enough to rinse the second soaping from her hair. It had been ages since she had the time to relax and enjoy a hot bath. She heard the baby cry and realized J.D. was gaining momentum. Sighing, she rose to towel off, dressing in the stiff new clothes. She felt strange, embarrassed by her uncertain status. The housekeeper had propped a mirror on a pantry shelf, setting a brush and comb in front, a lighted oil lamp beside it.

  Hattie lifted the gilded handle of the brush, noticing dark hair caught in the bristles. She dipped it in the cold bath water, and then used the comb to clean it. Gratefully she toweled her hair and furiously attacked it.

  J.D.’s angry cries and Rubye’s frantic pacing warned Hattie to hurry, but the knock at the door still made her jump. Hattie laid the brush down and hastily twisted her hair into a clumsy braid before opening the door.

  She was surprised to find the big dining table empty of all but Jackson and the cowboy Hank. Hank rose, tipped his hat, and then bowed out of the room.

  Hattie opened her arms for the baby and the housekeeper gladly turned him over. “He’s hungry,” Rubye snapped.