Emmy's Equal (4 page)

Mrs. Rawson stepped over and leaned on the rail. “Relax, John. I have everything under control.”

“Forgive my exuberance, family, but Willem Dane is a very old friend. The last time we broke bread together was around my father’s table in Ripponden. You remember, Katherine, the year before we left England.”

She nodded. “I remember Willem well. He seemed like a wonderful man.”

“Of course, I’ve seen him a few times since, and we’ve exchanged letters. Now I’d like to give him a hearty South Texas welcome.”

Mrs. Rawson smiled sweetly. “And so we shall. I’m anxious to meet his family.” She addressed Greta over her shoulder. “We’ll put Mr. and Mrs. Dane in the north corner, Mrs. Bloom directly across the hall. Air out the room that faces east for young Emily. She can withstand the morning heat better than her elders.”

Cuddy perked up from where he lounged in the rocker, interested in the conversation for the first time. “Good plan! That room’s balcony connects with mine.”

His mother’s blush brightened her rouge. “Yes, Cuthbert, it does. That’s exactly why you’ll be bunking with Diego while they’re here.”

He shot to his feet. “What?”

“It’s the only proper thing to do. I won’t have Emily uncomfortable.” “That’s a ludicrous suggestion.”

“Watch your tone, Cuddy,” Mr. Rawson warned. “You’re speaking to your mother.”

“Sorry, Father, but the bunkhouse? Why can’t I just switch rooms with Greta?”

Greta spun. “Excuse me? Banish me to that awful hog wallow? I think not! The walls reek of sweat, sour whiskey, and dung-crusted boots.”

Diego’s brows lifted.
So she does know.

Cuddy pressed close to Greta’s face. “I would expect you to feel right at home in a hog wallow, precious.”

She blustered. “How dare you! After I nursed your booze-sodden behind all morning long, waiting on you hand and foot.”

“I never asked you—”

“That’s enough!”

All eyes jerked toward the bellowed roar and the blotchy-faced Mr. Rawson seated on his horse.

“I’ll have no more, understand? Greta Rawson, follow your mother into the house and start the errands I’ve charged to you.”

With a sheepish glance at Diego, Greta hustled inside on her mother’s heels.

Mr. Rawson leaned forward in the saddle. “Cuddy ... in the future, son, you’ll conduct yourself like a Rawson under every circumstance. Like a gentleman.” He jutted his chin. “Like Diego here. You’d do well to follow his lead.”

Cuddy smirked. “I guess that’s where I got confused, Father. I didn’t realize Diego was a Rawson now.”

Anger flashed in Mr. Rawson’s eyes. “Not another word, Cuthbert.”

Cuddy slumped in the chair, his sullen gaze directed between his knees.

Stern eyes locked on his son, Mr. Rawson turned his horse. “Diego, I’ll leave it in your hands to see that everything gets tended. I know I can count on you, son.”

Wincing inside, Diego nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Rawson rode off a few yards then left his companions and closed the distance to the porch.

Trepidation in his eyes, Cuddy studied his father’s brooding face. “Yes, sir?”

“Do I need to remind you of the proper manner for conducting yourself in the company of a young lady?”

Cuddy stiffened in his chair. “Absolutely not, sir.”

Mr. Rawson gave a curt nod. “I didn’t think so.” He pulled his horse around and cantered away.

Cuddy sat quietly, clasping and unclasping his fingers, his curling knuckles going white. When Diego could stand no more silence, he gripped his friend’s shoulder. “I suppose there’s a lot to be done, amigo. You ready to get going?”

Cuddy released a long, weary breath. “Sure thing, big brother. I was just waiting to follow your lead.”

“You’re going on a holiday, Emily, not to a wake.”

Mama held up Emmy’s least favorite dress, a gray gabardine with puffed sleeves gathered below the shoulders and banded with black appliquéd flowers. Four large, round buttons fastened the long-sleeved jacket in front. Mama gaped at the dress then dropped it on the bed beside Emmy’s suitcase and went fishing for more. “This fur-trimmed collar won’t do either, sugar. What were you thinking?”

“Do forgive me.” Emmy took the garment from Mama’s hand and tossed it on the growing pile of rejects. “I’m not up-to-date on the proper attire for a visit to Hades.”

Mama slumped on the side of the bed, Emmy’s faded flannel nightgown clutched in her hands. “I know your heart’s not in this trip, honey, but you’re not even trying to be cheerful.”

Emmy gave her a glum look. “Cheerfulness wasn’t in the bargain, was it? I don’t recall that clause when I signed my name in blood.”

Mama pointed at her. “Now you’re being a pill. Tell me why you’re packing these wretched rags and not the new things we got.”

“I won’t wear my good things to frolic among cockleburs and cactus. I hope to return to civilization one day, and I’d like something decent left to wear when I get here.”

Mama scooped up a double handful from the bag. “You’ll roast in all of this.”

“I don’t care. Regardless of what I wear, I’m sure to be thoroughly miserable.” Emmy flounced to the mirror. Quite pleased with her image on most days, she leaned nose-to-nose with her reflection and sighed. Her usually pert white ringlets sagged, and dark circles ringed her shaded blue eyes. Scowl lines etched the flawless forehead, and the corners of her pouting mouth turned down.

Snow White dared not inquire of the looking glass today. The dejected toad gazing back wasn’t the fairest of any land. She sagged against the dressing table. “I suppose I’m destined to be unhappy until this awful trip is behind me and Papa is back on the road.”

An ominous stirring in the looking glass quickened her heartbeat. A distorted image loomed from behind, swirling in a dark cloud of fury like Snow White’s evil queen. Emmy should’ve seen it coming. One could push Mama only so far.

A biting grip on Emmy’s arm spun her, inches from Mama’s mottled face and blazing eyes. “I’ve a good mind to give you your stubborn way and let you ride into Carrizo Springs with nothing to wear but tweed and fur collars, though the temperature soars to one hundred degrees in the shade. As your parent and protector, I’ll save you from yourself. March your behind downstairs.
I
will see to your packing.”

“But, Mama—”

“I said go!”

“You can’t pack my—”

“Now!”

Stinging from the rebuke, Emmy fought tears as she bunched her skirt in trembling fingers and dashed from the room, wincing when the door slammed shut behind her. She had seen that much anger displayed by Mama before but never directed at her. Standing behind a barrier wider than oak and hinges, she burned with outrage and guilt—anger because Mama had never understood the rift between her and Papa, guilt because she’d crossed a forbidden line.

“Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the
Lord
thy God giveth thee.”

Pondering the scripture, Emmy touched the doorknob with her fingertips. She supposed it meant her days on earth would be shortened. For all of Mama’s vexing ways, she was infinitely easier to honor than the stern stranger in the parlor.

At the landing, she eased down three steps then paused to spy out the landscape. No rustling newspaper spread open in front of the chair, no stocking-covered feet crossed on the arm of the sofa, no odor of pipe tobacco or haze of smoke in the room. She was safe.

Still wary, she took the rest of the stairs slowly, watching for movement by the kitchen door. Near the bottom step, she bent at the waist to peer out the front window.

“What in blazes are you up to, Emily?”

Blood surged to Emmy’s head, ringing her ears like a gong. She released her skirt and clutched her chest, at the same time attempting to flee the gruff voice at her back. Tripping on her hem, she fell from the third step and landed in a heap of tangled legs and twisted cloth. Rolling to her back, she propped up on her elbows and stared dumbly at her flush-faced papa.

“Daughter, I’ve repeatedly asked you not to play games on the staircase.”

“I wasn’t...”

“Don’t dispute my words, Emily. I just came down behind you and witnessed your antics.” He frowned. “All that creeping about, the stopping and starting ... What were you doing? I nearly blundered into you.”

Feeling foolish, her gaze dropped to his stockinged feet. Well, pooh! No wonder she hadn’t heard him. “Sorry, Papa.”

He descended with decidedly more grace than she had and offered his hand. “I expect you’ll heed my warnings in the future?”

As Emmy latched on and he hauled her to her feet, the warmth of his touch flashed a memory through her mind in a muddled haze. As a child, she’d fallen asleep in the carriage on the way home from an outing and awakened nestled against Papa’s shoulder as he carried her inside. The tender way he held her, the warmth of his fingers beneath her hair had so overwhelmed her with feelings of comfort and love she hadn’t wanted it to end, so she pretended to stay asleep.

As fast as it came the memory disappeared, leaving behind an ache that swelled her throat. She pulled her hand free and Papa brushed past her to the parlor. “I heard your mother shouting. Are you the cause?”

Cringing, she lowered her head. “I suppose I am.”

He settled in his easy chair, as unyielding as the high, straight back of the furniture. “What sort of answer is that? You either are the cause or you’re not.”

She glanced up and opened her mouth to speak then looked down again as the words stuck in her throat.

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Come over here, please.”

She complied, standing in front of him with her arms behind her back like a naughty child awaiting punishment. How did he make her feel so diminished?

“Emily, I’ve tried to be patient with you, but I understand you’ve been up to one thing or the other the whole time I’ve been gone, and a couple more escapades since I’ve arrived home.”

Mama told! Emmy’s heart plunged and the oft-repeated words sprang to her lips. “I’m sorry, Papa.” She sucked in air, her mind scrambling for a good explanation. “I guess I just didn’t think it through. I know the well is dangerous, and—”

“The well?” He sat forward. “I was referring to an incident involving your mama’s best linens. It seems one of them wound up tossed in the yard. She suspects you are somehow implicated.”

Emmy’s chin sank to her chest.

Papa snorted. “Just as we thought, and after your mama has asked you numerous times to leave them be.”

“I took one by mistake. I thought—”

His hand shot up. “No excuses. You should pay closer attention.” He frowned, his brows nearly touching over the bridge of his nose. “Now then, let’s return to this confession concerning the well, shall we?”

Dread tensed Emmy’s shoulders. “Yes, sir. I, um...”

“I meant to tell you, Willem...” Her mama’s unruffled voice resounded from the top landing.

Emmy breathed a sigh of relief, her grateful gaze following Mama down the stairs.

“Your daughter put something down the shaft that doesn’t belong there.” She shifted her attention to Emmy and her eyes softened. “Something quite precious.” She swept across the room, skirts rustling, and headed off Papa’s next question with a pass of her hand. “Never mind, dear. There was no harm done. We got it out in one piece.”

“Even so, wife, it sounds like a foolhardy thing to do and the act of an irresponsible child. One would think the girl had just turned twelve, not twenty-one.”

Mama dismissed his insult with a flick of her ruffle-cluttered wrist. “Careful, or we’ll turn your game of reversing numbers against you, dear. You’re so grumpy of late, one might mistake you for ninety-four.”

Thankfully, her teasing tone softened the blow. Papa’s face twitched, as if torn between a smile at her clever twist or a frown at her rebuke. The smile won out, of course. As firm as he was with Emmy, he seldom disputed his wife. Unlike most men in town, his tiptoed waltzing around her feelings stemmed from his great fondness for her rather than fear. Emmy’s parents had always held each other in the highest regard.

Pausing in the front hall, Mama pulled on her gloves, her vacant gaze fixed on a spot above the doorpost. “Let’s see ... we’re all packed and the house is buttoned down. I’ve prepared a basket of food to sustain us on the train tomorrow. I hope the blasted thing is on schedule. We waited better than an hour for our trip to the state fair last summer.” Frowning, she fanned herself. “Positively gruesome in this heat.”

She raised her brows at Papa. “I’m assuming you gave Nash the list of his added responsibilities?”

Papa nodded.

“Good. He’s a capable man but downright forgetful these days. Must be his age.”

Emmy frowned. “He’s not that old. You make him sound fit for the grave.”

Ignoring her, Mama opened the door. “All that’s left to do is wake up and make our way to the station. With the luggage, there won’t be room for much else, so Nash will drive us down first then go after Bertha.” She regarded Emmy at last. “I expect you to put on the carriage dress I laid out for you and be downstairs and ready for breakfast by six. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She took in her mama’s gloves, hat, and the parasol she lifted from the hallway stand. “But, Mama, where are you going?”

“To see about Aunt Bert. If I don’t help her pack, she’ll do as good a job of it as you did. With Charity in St. Louis, I have to keep an eye on Bertha’s shenanigans, or no telling what she’ll get up to.”

“May I go?”

Mama wagged her head. “No, you may not. What you may do, however, is sit with your papa and keep him company until I return.”

Emmy stole a glance at Papa’s face to confirm he was no more thrilled than she at the prospect of an afternoon together. “Oh, please, Mama.”

She gave Emmy a pointed look. “Do like I say, Emily. I mean business.”

The door closed in Emmy’s face. She grasped the knob, her slender fingers clutching with the desperation of a drowning cat. Leaning her head briefly against the cool wood panel, she prayed for rescue. When none came, she turned to find the man she was duty-bound to honor hiding behind his paper. With the sensation of a guillotine falling overhead, she crossed the room and took a seat in the chair farthest from her papa.

Wheeling around the barn with a bucket of whitewash in one hand and a long-handled brush in the other, Diego bumped into Cuddy coming the other way with a pitchfork. “Whoa, my friend!” he cried, sidestepping the sloshing limewater and righting the pail. “You came close to turning a lighter complexion than how you were born.”

Cuddy grimaced and held up the tool. “And you nearly wound up dangling from the end of these tines.”

Diego set aside the brush and paint and draped one arm around Cuddy’s neck. “I’ve had the feeling all morning that you’d be pleased to see me skewered.”

Cuddy ducked his head. “Dreadful sorry, Diego. It ain’t about you, really.”

His arm still looped around Cuddy, Diego patted him on the chest, laughing when it thudded like a thumped muskmelon. “Forget it, partner. I know what’s hung in your craw. I’d feel the same in your boots.” He gripped Cuddy’s shoulder. “Just don’t take it so much to heart. Your father is very proud of you.”

Cuddy held up his free hand. “Hold it right there. You’re supposed to be whitewashing this barn, not the facts.” He sighed and eased gently away. “Don’t cry for me, Diego. I’m a big boy. I reckon I can handle the truth when it’s dumped in my lap.” He flashed a somber smile, shouldered the pitchfork, and rounded the corner of the barn.

Intent on Cuddy’s hasty retreat, the
whoosh
of leather on sandy soil startled him. He spun around with balled fists.

Greta had managed to slip up from behind and stood inches away with a wide grin on her face. “I spooked you, didn’t I?” She giggled. “I didn’t think it possible to sneak up on an Indian, Diego. Melatha will be scandalized.”

His hands relaxed at his sides. “Not as scandalized as your mama would be if I had sent you home with a shiner.” He grinned. “I almost slugged you, Greta. What were you thinking?”

Her lashes swept down to cover her eyes, as if the truth about what she’d been thinking embarrassed her. “I brought food.” She held up a plate covered with a red-checkered dishcloth then leaned to peer around him. “For Cuddy, too. Where’d he rush off to so fast?”

Diego raised the corner of the cloth to find fat rolls of shredded beef wrapped in corn tortillas. He whistled appreciatively. “These could easily spoil my appetite for lunch, Miss Rawson. But they will be well worth it.”

She angled her head. “This is your lunch, Mr. Marcelo. I prepared it myself. You and Cuddy missed the noon meal by a half hour.”

“We did?” He chuckled and nudged his hat aside. “No wonder these smell so good.” He took the plate from her hands and sat on a nearby hay bale, balancing the feast on his knees. “I suppose we got so busy we lost track of time.”

Greta perched beside him and offered him a napkin from the stack in her lap. “We figured as much, with everyone so set on getting the place in shape.”

He folded the cloth back from the mounded dish and breathed in the aroma of seared beef, spices, and diced chilies. “Yes, ma’am, these look mighty fine.” He widened his eyes and lifted his brows, as innocent as a fresh thrown calf. “But where’s the rest?”

She blinked twice. “The rest?”

Diego elbowed her and winked. “I thought you made some for Cuddy, too.”

Clearly pleased by his appreciation of her cooking, Greta tittered with glee and returned his jab in the ribs. “Oh, Diego. You’re such a tease. I bless the day you came to this ranch.”

Mid-bite, he twisted to look at her.

Blushing brighter than the red squares in the cloth, she busied herself refolding Cuddy’s napkin. “What I meant to say is there was never any fun on the Twisted-R until you showed up.” She stole a peek from under her lashes. “Now, we just laugh all the time.”