Dorothy Garlock - [Tucker Family] (16 page)

“There ain’t no way that it’s a girl givin’ me that much grief, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. When I was a little girl I was a hellion and a half. I can only imagine how much of a tussle I had
inside my mother.”

With those words, Charlotte couldn’t help but imagine what this moment must have been like for Alice Tucker; she had said
good-bye to her handsome new husband, sending him off to war, without even knowing that she was carrying his child. By the
time she knew, by the time Charlotte would have been kicking her the way Sarah was being kicked, Alice would have thought
Mason to be dead, leaving her a widow. So what had her reaction been the first moment that her child had made her presence
known?
Had Alice been as happy as Sarah was, humbled at the miracle of life? Or had she been repulsed, just one more reminder of
her lost husband and that she would have to raise a child alone? The fact that she had died while giving birth gave credence
to the later. It nearly broke Charlotte’s heart at the thought of imagining her mother crying not tears of joy, but of heartbreak.
But just as she felt her own tears begin to well, it was Sarah who pulled her away from such morbid thoughts.

“I wish his, I mean, the baby’s father… was here to feel this,” she said, whispering so softly that her voice could barely
be heard.

Sarah’s words were like a blow to Charlotte’s chest. From the moment she had met the Becks, the question of who was the father
of Sarah’s child had reverberated around her thoughts, but she had not ventured to ask. Now the matter sat like a firecracker,
its fuse lit, filling the room with expectation, an explosion that seemed destined to occur.

But some firecrackers’ fuses fizzle…

Not this one…

Charlotte knew that she could no longer hold her curiosity at bay, particularly after what Sarah had said. Though Charlotte
knew that it really wasn’t any of her business, she pushed forward, prying a bit in search of the truth.

“Where is he, Sarah?” she asked. “Where is your child’s father?”

Sarah eyed her closely, clearly weighing whether she was willing to divulge anything further; Charlotte didn’t
know what she would do if Sarah chose to remain quiet, but thankfully she didn’t have to.

“Can you keep a little secret?” Sarah asked.

“Of course I can.”

“His name was Andrew… Andrew Watkins…” she said as tears drifted steadily down her flushed cheeks, “and he was the… only man
I ever loved… and he ain’t alive no more…”

Watching the painful emotions wash over Sarah nearly broke Charlotte’s heart in two. When she was younger, she’d loved to
read about a love unrequited or lovers who weren’t allowed to be together, but to witness such sadness firsthand was heartbreaking.
It was hard enough for her to even
understand
love, since she couldn’t honestly say she had ever found it, but that didn’t mean she failed to appreciate its value. Charlotte
wondered if she would ever meet a man whose absence would make her cry… and she suddenly found herself thinking about Owen;
bringing her to tears was something he seemed good at.

“Do you want to talk about him?” Charlotte asked.

“You wanna listen?”

When Charlotte nodded, Sarah brightened for an instant. “The first time I ever seen him was outside the mercantile back in
Colton; that’s our home in Arkansas,” she explained. “’Bout made my heart bounce just lookin’ at his blue eyes, feelin’s I
ain’t never had ’fore. When he come up to talk to me, I didn’t have no idea what to say, so I just nodded my head a bit till
he started laughin’, and whatever
was in that laugh broke the hold on my tongue. ’Fore long, we was meetin’ up whenever we could.”

“And you fell in love with Andrew?”

“It was the strangest sensation, fallin’ in love. ’Bout the only thing I compare it to would be jumpin’ off a big cliff. Once
you’re past the edge, there ain’t no particular reason to be graspin’ for a line a safety. You just keep on fallin’ anyhow,
so you might as well enjoy it the whole way down.”

Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh; it was a better way of explaining love than any she’d read in a book.

But then Sarah’s face darkened, and Charlotte knew that she had come to what had taken Andrew away from her.

“My pa said Andrew come from better than us,” she said softly. “See, Watkins was a name back home, ’portant people, folks
with money, so that must of meant Andrew was just amusin’ himself with us poor people and ’bout the time he got what he wanted
outta me he’d be up and gone faster than a runaway train. But Andrew weren’t like that; he really weren’t! What with the sort
of words he talked to me, the way he looked at me or held me in his arms, there weren’t no doubt that he woulda stood by me
if he coulda, if he’d gotten the chance, no doubt at all!”

To hear the heartache in Sarah’s voice was nearly enough to make Charlotte wish she hadn’t asked about the baby’s father,
but now it was too late for any regrets. Patiently, she waited, unable to ask further.

“He died not ever knowin’ he was gonna have a son.”
A hesitation, then a correction: “A baby. He was struck by some drunk drivin’ a milk truck, right in the middle of the afternoon.”
By now, the tears were falling as steadily as the rain beginning to tap against the cabin’s windows, as if it too shared in
Sarah’s sorrows. “I found out the next day I was pregnant, just ’bout the same time I learned he was gone. Love is just like
fallin’ off that cliff,” Sarah said, “’cept sometimes you hit the ground.”

Charlotte stood under the leaky edge of the Becks’ roof, trying in vain to stay dry in the face of the growing rainstorm.
It had come on suddenly, a squall with mean intentions, peals of thunder still distant but coming. Wind swirled her skirt
against her feet, the dry earth slowly turning to mud. Though it should still have been light, dark clouds had rolled in,
blotting out what had remained of the day and hastening night’s arrival.

After talking about the death of her unborn child’s father, Sarah had become exhausted and Charlotte had put her to bed. There’d
been no protest and she’d drifted off to sleep the instant her head had touched her pillow. Not wanting to do anything that
might disturb the girl’s much-needed sleep, Charlotte had stepped outside, content to wait in the rain for John to come and
pick her up.

Perfect weather to match my mood…

Sarah’s story still affected her deeply, a keening in her heart. She’d imagined something different, something simpler, easier
to understand, not such a heartbreaking
story of loss. But there was something else, not a jealousy, but similar, for Sarah had at least known love, even if she had
lost it, while for Charlotte, she had never loved at all, a void that now seemed much greater. Involuntarily, she laughed
at her stupidity.

“I don’t think what you’re doin’ is the least bit funny.”

Charlotte was so surprised by the voice that spoke beside her that she practically jumped out into the rain.

Alan Beck leaned out of the deep shadows that draped over the house, unsteady on his feet, the unmistakable smell of alcohol
on his breath. He was unshaven and unkempt, and the snarl on his lips parted long enough for him to spit a disgusting stream
of tobacco out into the storm. His mouth hung slack, his breath ragged, a huge wad of chaw visible through his brown teeth.

“Excuse me?” she answered. “What do you mean? Funny?”

“Teachin’ that girl book learnin’ ain’t gonna do her no good,” he groused, punctuating his words with a jab of one gnarled
finger. “Fillin’ a woman’s head up with such shit ain’t in the least bit funny, if’n you ask me.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Beck, but I have to disagree with you,” Charlotte fired back, her dander rising.

“You just mark my words!” he barked, taking an aggressive step toward her. “Ain’t nothin’ good is ever gonna come outta a
gal disobeyin’ her papa! I told her that snobby prick she got tangled up with wouldn’t do nothin’ but screw her and leave
her and that’s exactly what he did! I reckon she
done told you all ’bout it! Leavin’ her without a husband or father for that kid, how in the hell’s she ever gonna amount
to anythin’?”

“Yes, she will! By getting an education, that’s how! You should be supporting her however she needs it instead of tearing
her down and drinking!”

Charlotte’s words struck Alan as clearly as if he had been struck by lightning. “I’ll show you for back talkin’ me like that,
girlie!” With a lurch, he reached awkwardly for her, one arm raised to slap her.

Balling her fists, Charlotte waited for the violence to arrive, intent upon defending herself as best she could. But as suddenly
as it had begun, it came to such a quick halt that it frightened her, as Alan dissolved into a fit of coughing and hacking
up phlegm that incapacitated him.

At the same moment, the headlights of the truck suddenly swung up over the low hill before them, cutting the gloomy rain like
a knife. Without hesitation, Charlotte ran toward it, pulling at the door before John could even bring the truck to a halt.
As she climbed in and sat down, she pondered the question: what was the reason John Grant took such an interest in the Becks?
He had been so secretive that, for a moment, she had the crazy notion that he might be the father of Sarah’s child, but no
sooner than she had had the thought before she dismissed it. A blue-eyed boy had taught Sarah to love and now he was gone,
never to know the child who had been born of it.

O
WEN ROSE WHILE
the first of the morning sun still ducked under the distant horizon. The ranch house, set up a bit higher than the other
buildings on the property, was beginning to outline itself against the sky. Very little was stirring at such an early hour;
a few horses whinnied and neighed inside their corrals, and he could hear the first birds of the day chirping in a tree somewhere
close. A light in the kitchen window told him that someone else on the ranch had awakened before him but was nowhere to be
seen.

He was alone, just the way he liked it.

Inside the cabin, his sister still slept soundly on the cot beside his own. Quietly, he’d slipped a worn shirt over his work
pants and boots before going out. He ran a hand over his stubby chin that was in desperate need of a shave. Sleep still cottoning
his head, he stretched a sore
kink out of his back, snatched up a wooden bucket from beside the front door, and headed off into the morning for his water.

Nearby, the work of rebuilding from the fire had already begun. The wrecked barns and charred fences had been demolished and
cleared away; the only obvious signs of the fire that still remained were blackened earth and dead shrubbery. In the end,
the damage had been minimal, even if the fear of worse had not been. Hale had been placed in charge of the reconstruction
and, with loads of enthusiasm and a penchant for backbreaking labor, had been intent on finishing the work quickly.

All the better to keep him out of my hair
, Owen thought.

In the days since his confrontation with Hale in the horse barn, Owen steadfastly stayed out of the man’s way, save for an
occasional run-in around the supper table up at the ranch house; he avoided the cramped dining room at breakfast and dinner
for another reason. Avoiding Hale wasn’t something he did out of fear, but rather caution. Ever since Owen had arrived at
the Grant Ranch, he had done his best not to draw any attention to himself. In order to learn if John Grant really was the
man responsible for ruining his mother’s life, if he was his and Hannah’s absent father, the last thing Owen needed was an
extra pair of eyes on him.
Work hard… keep your head down and your eyes open.
If there were bad blood between him and Hale, it would be a setback; Owen regretted mouthing off
in the horse barn; it made things much worse than they needed to be.

Even though he had done his utmost to avoid Charlotte, by steadfastly skipping any meal she might attend, skirting the main
ranch house, and even excusing himself from driving her and Hannah into town, sometimes he wondered if he wasn’t making his
situation worse. By not seeing Charlotte or talking with her, he found himself
thinking
of her all the time: while he did his chores, while Hannah rambled on about her day at the law office, and especially when
he lay in his cot at night, trying unsuccessfully to sleep. Even when he should have been out gathering evidence pointing
to John Grant’s guilt, he was wondering if Charlotte hated him for all he had said and done. While his head was pulling him
one way, his heart pulled another. Reluctant as he was to admit it, he was falling in love.

Rounding the back of a cabin, Owen neared the well that served the bunkhouse, where the workingmen employed by the Grant Ranch
lived. Constructed of mortared stones and odd pieces of brick, with a simple winch and bucket, the well provided water for
cooking, drinking, or whatever other personal use might be needed, including, in his case, letting a groggy man have a much-needed
shave.

Owen loosed the rope line from the winch and tossed the bucket down into the darkness of the hole, hearing it land with a
gentle splash. When he pulled it back up,
straining easily at the winch, he whistled a tuneless tune, echoing the chorus of morning birds.

Before the bucket reached him, he knew that something wasn’t right; a nauseating stench rushed up to meet him, a smell, a
particular
smell that he couldn’t quite place, assaulted his senses. Despite his strong desire to let the bucket drop, he managed to
draw it up.

Once the bucket was in view and he had pulled it over to the well’s ledge, the pungent odor grew stronger. Owen expected to
find something in the water, a dead animal or horse manure, but the bucket’s surface just rippled as usual. Pouring out the
water on the ground yielded no further answers and, after he had smelled the bucket, he began to wonder if it was the pail
itself; someone could have untied it, used it for something else, and put it back not realizing what damage had been done.