Dorothy Garlock - [Route 66] (6 page)

Brady had learned that remaining silent gave him an edge, and for some reason unknown to him, he felt that he needed one now. Most people were uncomfortable with silence, especially women. They sought to fill it with silly chatter. Not so, this young woman. She stared at him coolly, just as silent, waiting for him to speak.

“Thanks for getting the ball.” He spoke with a definite Oklahoma drawl.

Margie nodded.

“Uncle Brady told me not to throw it this way.”

Her eyes left him and went to the child. “It’s all right. I’m glad it wasn’t lost.”

He was her uncle. They looked enough alike to be father and daughter.

“You got dirty.” The little girl’s hair was dark, but not as dark as her uncle’s, her eyes anxious.

“Don’t worry about that,” Margie scoffed. “This old skirt will wash.”

“Brady Hoyt.” The man held out his hand. Margie put hers into it. With a firm grip on her hand he introduced the little girl. “My niece, Anna Marie.”

“Margie Kinnard.”

“My mama and daddy went to heaven. Uncle Brady is taking me to California to live with my Aunt Opal. Uncle Brady calls me Punkie, but I don’t like it much.”

Brady released Margie’s hand and tilted his head toward his niece. “You never told me that.”

“He hasn’t noticed that I don’t answer when he calls me that.” Big dark eyes looked up at Margie. “He wants me to cut off my braids ’cause they’re too much trouble. But I’m not going to. Granny Maude, who looked after me sometimes, rolled my hair in rags and made me pretty curls like the little girl in the movies. I’ll wait and see if Aunt Opal will do it.”

“I bet that little girl was Shirley Temple. I’ve got a picture of her in one of my magazines. You’d be pretty in curls, even prettier than you already are.”

“Mr. Payne gave us a fish without bones in it. Before he went home, he let me ride on his horse. He said he knew my daddy and Uncle Brady when they were just snot-nosed kids.”

“Uh-oh. We’d better go before she tells you our family history.”

“My daddy was Uncle Brady’s twin. He looked like him ’cepts part of my daddy’s eyebrow was gone. He said an Indian tried to scalp him, but he was just funnin’ me. Uncle Brady said he fell on a plow when he was little.”

“You’re a lucky little girl to have an uncle. I never had one, but I had a grandma.”

“I don’t have a grandma—”

“See what I mean,” Brady broke in. “You’ll soon know about how Grandpa Hoyt helped Teddy Roosevelt win the war in Cuba. Come on, Punkie.”

Margie was aware that Elmer was standing in front of the truck with his hands in the bib of his overalls listening to the conversation. Damn him!
He was waiting to see if she was going to flirt with Mr. Hoyt.

She tried hard to keep a lid on her temper and debated whether or not to introduce them. She decided that not to do so would be rude.

She gestured toward the silent man. “Mr. Hoyt, this is my father, Elmer Kinnard.” Whether she liked it or not, he was her father. She couldn’t change that, although she was beginning to hate saying the word.

Elmer met the extended hand. “Howdy.”

“And his niece, Anna Marie Hoyt.” Margie was determined not to let Elmer ignore the child.

He answered Anna Marie’s “Hello” with another “Howdy.”

Brady debated about trying to make conversation. When he spoke to the man earlier, he received only a grunt in reply. But what the hell—

“Did the fellow get his radiator fixed?”

“Naw. One of us will have to tow him to Claremore tomorrow.”

“I’ve had some experience with radiators. I’ll be glad to take a look at it.”

Elmer shrugged.

“I can tell him right off if it’s fixable or if he’ll have to have a new radiator. I’ve got a flashlight in my car.”

“Anna Marie,” Margie said, “would you like to stay with me while your uncle works on the car? We’ll walk down and talk to Mrs. Putman.” Margie sent a defiant glance in Elmer’s direction. “Just this morning she was telling me how much she liked little girls.”

“Can I, Uncle Brady?”

“Sure. The lady invited you. Don’t throw the ball again. We might not be able to find it in the dark.”

“I won’t.” The child’s little hand burrowed into Margie’s. “I like you.”

“I’m glad, because I like you too.”

Brady walked toward his car wondering why he was feeling so elated to discover that the sullen man was the girl’s father and not her husband. He had felt the tension between the two. She never looked at him, and he never looked at her. Could it be that he was not her father and they were pretending to be father and daughter for appearance’ sake?

Brady was twenty-nine years old and had never even considered the idea of marrying. When the need for sex was on him, there were a couple of women he knew who were glad to oblige him. They were not exactly whores, and he paid them in different ways. A cord of stovewood, a young, dressed-out deer, a couple of fat geese.

One of the women and her husband had been his good friends for a long time. After her husband had been killed, she had a hard time making ends meet. He knew that she would marry him at the drop of a hat, so he was careful not to let the hat drop.

The other woman … well, he guessed she was a good friend too. He had been surprised when she asked him to come to bed with her. She was lonely, and they had simply shared mutual pleasure.

His father had grieved himself to death over the loss of their mother.
Then Brian. O Lord! Brian.
Brady choked up when he thought of his twin. His smart, easygoing brother hadn’t been able to endure the loss of his Becky to another man and had died a murderer. Knowing of his father’s grief and his brother’s despair, Brady swore that he would never love a woman like that. He would not allow one to get so embedded in his heart and mind that he couldn’t live without her.

He clenched his teeth. There was still the problem of his spontaneous reaction to Margie Kinnard. He didn’t understand the sudden urge to reach for her, hold her, cover her mouth with his, take comfort from her and give comfort in return. Sex had always been something that was important, pleasant, but not all-consuming.

Holy hell. Had grief over his twin and the added responsibility of his twin’s five-year-old daughter caused him to lose his reasoning? One thing was sure: He couldn’t get involved with a woman until he had Anna Marie settled. A friendly neighbor had cared for her until Brady was ready to take her. Now, two days into the journey west, Brady, unfamiliar with the needs of a little girl, was awkwardly trying to manage.

Holding hands, Margie and Anna Marie walked toward the Putman camp. A blazing campfire lit the area. Grace sat on a chair beside the truck, and nearby, sitting cross-legged on the grass, were Rusty and the Luker kids. Rusty had just finished telling them something that had made Jody and his sister laugh.

“My, my, who do we have here?” A smiling Grace held out her hand to the little girl.

“This is Anna Marie Hoyt. Her uncle is taking her to California. Anna Marie, Mrs. Putman.” Margie gently urged the little girl forward.

“I’m Grace, honey. Mercy me, you’re just as pretty as a buttercup.”

“I’m not a flower,” Anna Marie said, and timidly moved closer to the older woman.

“Course you’re not. But you’re pretty as one. Come sit on my knee. It’s been a long time since I’ve held a little girl.” Grace reached out and pulled the child up onto her lap.

“I don’t think I look pretty. Uncle Brady isn’t very good at braiding my hair.”

“Humm …” Grace fingered the braids. “He did pretty good for a man with big old clumsy hands.”

“But it’s all … straggily—”

“A little maybe. You need some pretty ribbon to go on the ends is all. I may have a piece or two in my sewing basket.” Grace set the child on her feet and got out of the chair. “Let’s go see, shall we?”

Margie wandered over to where Jody was adding more wood to the campfire. His sister was sitting beside Rusty.

“Hello, Rusty.”

“Margie. I thought that was you. Do you know Mona?”

“I’ve met her. Hello, Mona.”

“Hello.”

Margie got her first good look at the girl’s face. Mona had dark brown hair that reached her shoulders, large, expressive eyes and a wide, unsmiling mouth. She would be quite pretty without the sour look on her face. And she was older than Margie had at first believed. She was built solidly, not fat as her stepmother had described. The blouse she wore showed well-developed girlish breasts.

“Did you get to talk to Andy Payne?” Rusty asked.

“Just briefly. I didn’t know he was the famous runner until Jody came by and told me. How did you find out?”

“I knew who he was as soon as he said his name. I heard on the radio about the Bunion Derby, the race across the United States. I knew he was from near here. He put Foyil, Oklahoma, on the map.”

“Heck of a nice fellow.” Jody sat down beside his sister. “He said that he has known Mr. Hoyt for a long time. He’da stayed at his house, but one of Mr. Payne’s kids has whooping cough, and Mr. Hoyt wasn’t sure if his niece had had it.”

“Mr. Hoyt is working on your car.” Margie volunteered the information. “He seems to know something about radiators.”

“That ought to please
Mrs. Luker
.”

“Mona, don’t start that!” Jody scolded.

“Well, it’s true. When we drove in, she was looking him and Mr. Payne over like a starving dog looks at a meat wagon. She tried her best to get Mr. Payne to stay for supper. Daddy is so … dumb. She’s got him twisted around her little finger so tight that he can’t see anything but her.”

“Sugar isn’t at all nice to Mona when Daddy isn’t around.” Jody tried to explain his sister’s dislike of their father’s wife. “When he is, she’s sweet as pie.”

“My granny used to say that you can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat other people.” Margie spoke in the silence that followed Jody’s words.

Mona’s head turned toward Margie. “She isn’t going to like you.”

Margie tossed her head. “Why would she dislike me? I’ve hardly spoken to her.”

“She doesn’t like any woman unless she is old or so ugly that a dog wouldn’t take a bone from her hand.”

“Thanks for the compliment … I think.”

“Someone will have to tell me about this Jezebel.” Rusty laughed lightly. “I only know what my mother told me, and I think her version of Mrs. Luker was slightly colored.”

Neither Mona nor her brother said anything.

“I guess it’s up to me.” Margie pulled her knees up under her full skirt and wrapped her arms around them. “She’s pretty in a flashy sort of way: black hair, white skin. She has an air of helplessness, which appeals to some men. She’s ill-mannered, or she’d not have spoken about Mona as she did to me, a total stranger. I think that she’s a woman who demands attention, and not from other women.

“My father married a woman like her who flattered him until she got all she could from him, then she ran off and left him for greener pastures.”

“That’s about the same picture Ma painted for me.” Rusty was smiling, and Margie was sure that he was enjoying the gossipy conversation.

“I forgot to say that she’s a little older than I am,” Margie said.

“A lot older than you,” Mona said, and glanced at her brother. “She’s thirty and claims to be twenty-five. That’s not all. Daddy’s her third or fourth husband.”

“How do you know that?” Jody asked.

“I snooped in her things and found out.”

“Holy smoke, sis! Don’t do it again. As sure as God made little green apples, she’ll tell Pa, and it’ll give him all the more reason to think we’re mean to her when he isn’t around. It’s what she wants.”

“He thinks that anyway. She can make him think a cowpie is pudding once she gets him in that tent and—”

“Mona!” Jody said sharply.

Anna Marie came to where Margie was sitting and held up the ends of her long braids. “Look. Look at the ribbons Aunt Grace gave me.”

“Pretty. The blue matches your dress.”

“Aunt Grace said for me to untie them myself, ’cause Uncle Brady might lose them.”

“He may not know how important ribbons are to little girls.”

“Can I sit on your lap so I won’t get my dress dirty? Uncle Brady said we can’t get our clothes washed for a while.”

“Sure. This old skirt washes easily.” Margie straightened her legs and pulled the child down to sit between her knees.

“Rusty, have you forgotten you promised to play your guitar for us?” Jody asked.

“No, I’ll get it.” Rusty started to rise.

“Sit still, son. I’m already up,” his mother said.

Grace brought the guitar, and while Rusty was strumming it, she pulled her chair closer to the group sitting on the ground. He picked out a tune, played for a while, and then Grace began to sing.

“Come to the church in the wildwood,

Oh, come to the church in the dale …”

She had a beautiful soprano voice and clearly loved to sing. When the song ended, Rusty played a few notes of “I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair.” Grace’s voice was hauntingly beautiful in the stillness of the night.

When she finished, Rusty sang in a low, husky voice so full of feeling that it almost brought tears to Margie’s eyes.

“Oh, I’m thinking tonight of my blue eyes,

Who is sailing far over the seas.

I’m thinking tonight of my blue eyes,

And I wonder if she ever thinks of me.”

Grace and her son took turns singing. Margie couldn’t remember when she’d had a more enjoyable evening. Anna Marie had long ago fallen to sleep. Margie shifted her to a more comfortable position with the child’s head on her breast and absently stroked her hair as she listened to Rusty sing a sad song about a dying cowboy.

“Oh, bury me not on the lone prair-ie
,

Where the wild coy-otes will howl o’er me.

In a narrow grave … just six by three
,

Oh, bury me not on the lone prair-ie.”

Margie held her breath. Rusty’s voice seemed to have the power to mesmerize her. She was so lost in the song that until it was over she was unaware that someone had squatted close behind her. Instinctively she knew who it was. Brady Hoyt was close enough for her to feel his body heat and to smell his warm male scent. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck and unconsciously straightened her shoulders.