Home by Nightfall (15 page)

“You hired him to work here, not take your place, damn it! He’s a hired hand. She’s
your wife
. Do you want her or don’t you?” The speed of his rocking chair increased.

“Yes.” Riley’s answer was a sullen admission of the truth.

“Then start sweetening her up. They’re already in separate beds—have been since the day you got back. He’s out there in the bunkhouse and she’s upstairs alone. You managed that much just by coming home. If you want back in her bed, do something to work your way in, unless you think it’s fun living like one of them monks in your own house. Even I go to see Mae now and then. She’s a little weathered and dried up, but she gets the job done, by God.”

Riley was distinctly uncomfortable with this discussion. Who wanted to talk about this kind of thing with his father? And yet… yet…Pop had a point. He could win back Susannah, the woman whose image he’d studied until he’d memorized her features, even before he remembered her from his past. He might be able to convince her that he was the better choice so that he could recover his own life. He’d seen no grand love affair buzzing between her and Grenfell. Maybe she was just hoping for Riley to speak up.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and a horse will fall on him or something. Then she’d
really
be a widow. That’d make things easier.”

“You might be right,” Riley said absently. He had already retreated to his own thoughts, and in his mind he traveled back to the long-gone days of their early marriage.

The old man brought the rocker to a halt and thumped his fist on its arm. “Well, hallelujah and write down the date!
Someone
in this house said I’m right. I don’t remember the last time that happened. I keep telling ‘em and telling ‘em I didn’t get to my age without learning something. I know more than any of you will ever have in your pinkies but—” and on Shaw harped, but Riley had blocked out the sound.

So far, all he’d given Susannah was a pretty rock. A
rock
. But, if he remembered correctly, which was always doubtful now, she wasn’t a woman who could be swayed by fancy gifts, anyway. Neither could he recall how he’d courted her. He wished it were as simple as firing Grenfell to clear him out.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Suddenly his hands began shaking—another unpleasant leftover from his battle experience—and he stood abruptly. The whiskey bottle was hidden upstairs in his bedroom. If he left it down here, Pop would drink it for sure.

Riley needed it more.

• • •

The early November day dawned with a fog that lifted around ten in the morning to reveal a clear blue sky so bright and sharp it almost made a person’s eyes ache to step outside.

Riley stood at Kuitan’s stall while he quartered a new, crisp apple with his pocketknife. He’d picked it himself from the small orchard that grew just on the other side of the paddock. The trees
were far enough from the fence to keep the horses from nibbling at their fruit, but close enough to tantalize them.

The buckskin snuffled at his shoulder and gave him a light shove, as if to hurry him up. Riley smiled. “Patience,
mon ami
. You don’t want to make me cut off the hand that’s going to feed you.” He held out his hand, and the horse took a piece of the apple with gentle delicacy that belied his eagerness. “I remember you now, almost as well as you remember me. We used to race across the fields with Susannah and Sally, and we’d let them think they’d won. But I knew you were the faster horse. I had to hold you back.”

Hearing her name, Sally poked her head out over her own stall door.

“I’ll bet you remember that too,” Riley said to her.

Just then the sound of boot heels on the stable floorboards made Riley look up, and he saw Tanner Grenfell walk in carrying a saddle. Tanner nodded at him and went into the tack room. If humans could raise their hackles like the long, slender neck feathers on turkeys or pheasants, those hackles would be up on both of them.

Riley heard him rummaging around in there, and then he emerged to walk down to Kuitan’s stall. He reached out and patted the horse’s neck, smoothing his dark, silky mane. “He’s a beauty—a really fine horse. Smart, sure-footed, bridle-wise. Someone trained him well.” At least the man was tactful, especially given the situation.

“Someone has taken good care of him,” Riley answered, while the horse watched them both.

Grenfell finally turned his gaze to Riley. “I would have done it anyway, but I thought it was only right since his master couldn’t be here to tend him. I saw a lot of good horses pass through here during the war, and I always worried about where and what we
were sending them off to. I probably wasn’t the right man for this job back then. It bothered me to think about it.”

Riley sighed and closed his eyes for a second. “A man goes to war, even if he doesn’t want to, and he knows why he’s there. He goes into battle, even if everything in him wants to make him turn and run, but he knows he must go. And so he does.” He drew a shaky breath, remembering the horrors of the battlefields. “I saw men on both sides killed, and limbs blasted from bodies helter-skelter. Horses…God, the horses, abused, lame, injured, blinded, and suffocated by poison gas attacks, starved, pushed beyond the limits of humanity and decency, their limbs also blown from their bodies, and horses literally worked to death. When they couldn’t go on, they dropped to their knees and died. Sometimes that took hours or days. If someone took pity on them, he put a gun to their heads and shot them.” Riley’s voice began to shake, and he stroked Kuitan’s velvety nose. “If there is a final accounting when we die, I wonder if people—if
we
—will be forgiven for the sins committed against those animals. Sending a horse—an innocent—to war, is like sending a child. All those horses had going for them was the possible kindness of a wrangler and their own noble hearts. They did everything that was asked of them and more. Usually, mounts whose riders were shot off their backs just kept running. But now and then, I’d see a horse standing beside his fallen comrade, his reins dangling while he’d nudge the dead man’s shoulder, trying to get him up, trying to save what had already been lost.” He turned to look at Grenfell straight on and sighed. “It was heartbreaking.”

Grenfell cleared his throat hard and swallowed. He dropped his gaze to the boards under his feet, saying nothing.

“I know that our contract with the government could have kept me at home with Cole and everyone here. But as much as I wish I hadn’t gone to war, and for
all
I lost because of it—my wife,
my mind, my physical agility—it would have been so goddamned wrong to just supply the horses and stay here, congratulating ourselves and celebrating the fact that we avoided the whole mess. Someone should have had to endure the same misery those brave animals did. If it had to be me, well, amen. So be it.”

Grenfell lifted reddened eyes to Riley and nodded. “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me.”

Then he walked back to the tack room, leaving Riley with the images of ghost horses in his mind.

• • •

“Mail call!” Cole said, his voice pitched just loudly enough to be heard throughout the yard.

Susannah looked up and tossed the rest of the kitchen scraps to the chickens in their coop. Now that late fall was upon them, the birds were in their annual molt, and egg production has ceased for a few months. Some people butchered their chickens when they got to this point, but she’d broken the unspoken animal husbandry rule that said it was a bad idea to name an animal later intended for slaughter. They were good laying hens, and she’d named all the girls. So for three or four months, she’d buy eggs from one of the neighbors. Cole and Tanner teased her about it, and of course Shaw told her she was just being idiotic. Another compliment from that old crank. She carried her empty bucket to the porch and wiped her hands on her apron.

“I had to go into town to pick up a parcel that came from Montgomery Ward so I got the mail, too.” He stood on the back porch, sorting the envelopes and publications on the railing. “Journal, journal, catalog,
Good Housekeeping
—” He handed that to Susannah. He stopped and looked at the next piece, an envelope.
“Huh. Here’s one for Riley. From France.” He held it up and she leaned in to look more closely. The handwriting was crooked and clumsy, as if the pen had been held by someone unaccustomed to writing.

She reached out and took it from him. There were foreign stamps and postmarks on it. The paper was very thin and pale blue. In the upper left corner, she saw the name Véronique Raineau and an address that meant nothing to her. But of course she knew who Véronique was.

“It’s from the woman who took Riley in,” she said.

“She probably wants to know how he’s getting along,” Cole replied absently, already engrossed in a report from the state agriculture department.

“Probably,” Susannah said, tapping the corner of the envelope against her palm. Had he been writing to her? She wasn’t sure how he would have accomplished mailing the letters. He would have had to go into town or given them to someone else to carry for him. It didn’t sound like it was Cole. And Tanner—no, that was extremely unlikely. Shaw? He wanted nothing more than to see her reunited with Riley, plus he was no good at keeping secrets. She, most especially, would have heard about it from him, because he’d want to goad her. “I wonder how this woman got our address.”

“Oh, damn it!” Cole exclaimed and whacked the back of his hand against the report. “Can you believe people are still rustling cattle? You’d think this was the old West.” He’d already moved on to business matters.

Susannah thought she’d seen Riley go into the stable. She left her magazine on the step and crossed the yard to find him. Stepping into the gloom of the building, she breathed in the scents so familiar to her—hay, straw, leather, horses. Just like Tanner.

“Riley?”

“Down here.” His voice came from the general location of Kuitan’s stall.

She passed the tack room and saw Tanner standing with his back to the door opening, working on something she couldn’t see. He must have heard her voice but he didn’t turn to acknowledge her. She sighed. She missed him and longed for his company, but he remained distanced from her and she didn’t know if he was waiting for her to choose him over Riley, or if he’d assumed that she’d already chosen her first husband over him. Every time she’d tried to talk to him, he’d brushed her off or told her he’d have to catch up with her later because he was busy with work. But he never sought her out. She could only guess that he was mad or resentful. She could only hope that he still cared about their marriage, even though the situation was such a mess.

Riley emerged from the stall holding a brush. “I was just grooming Kuitan.”

“I can tell. He looks very sleek and neat.” She held out the envelope. “This came for you.”

“Oh?” He took the letter from her and when he saw who it was from, his expression smoothed out to a careful blank. “Thanks. I’ll look at it later.” He pushed it into his back pocket.

Feeling dismissed and awkward, Susannah said, “I’ll see you at supper, then.” She turned and passed the tack room again. This time, Tanner looked at her as she went by and gave her a smile. She smiled too, and her heart lightened.

• • •

14 September 1920

Dearest Christophe,

Several weeks ago I sent a letter to the Croix Rouge in Paris. (I did not want to deal with Mlle. Weidler or M. Bennett again, after the trouble they caused.) They told me the information is private, but the person who opened my letter took pity on me. She said she had to investigate their Records and would try to respond.

Yesterday I received an answer from her. I was able to learn that you were sent to Hospital in New York, America, and now you reside in the province of Oregon, or perhaps it is a state—you know that my education is only a little. They included your address. I was also told that your real name is Riley Braddock. For me I believe you will always be Christophe.

I am a little bit embarrassed to admit that I asked the Paris office about your address. I was not going to write to you at first. I thought it would be wrong of me to interfere in the life I insisted you return to. But I decided to write anyway, on paper provided by the Society of Friends.

In moments of my Greatest loneliness I confess that I wonder if I did a good thing or a foolish thing, Sending you away. Your absence has made a big hole in my life.

You might be pleased to know that the sheep promised to us finally arrived. I received a Male, and a female that gives milk. I am Lucky to have them. Because I am alone here it was thought that I should have just one. Fortunately, Monsieur le curé Michel was able to get both. He also has found someone to help me with the farm from time to time—Édouard, a young homeless French soldier. He sleeps in the Church basement in the village. He does not speak, although Père tells me he is not mute because he’s heard
him talk to himself When he believes he is alone. In exchange, I feed Édouard on the days he works here and sometimes give him sheep’s milk Cheese to take back to the church. It is strange to be with someone who never says anything, but the War has damaged us all in different ways. I see him watching me sometimes, as if he has suddenly forgotten who I am. But he is here at Monsieur le curé Michel’s request, so I accept him.

Today we harvested the squash and potatoes you and I planted. The Soil is poor, as you know, but they are Plump enough, even so.

Now that I have a place to send this letter, I will post it and Hope that you can still read French. I hope also that you are well and that your Leg does not trouble you too much.

God keep you.

Véronique

Riley looked up from the page and sighed. He gazed across the open fields, remembering how much destruction had been visited upon the Raineau farm. Sitting on a boulder beside the long drive to the Braddock house, far enough away to give him privacy to read this letter in peace, he glanced at Véronique’s painfully inscribed lines. In the two years he’d lived with her, he didn’t think he’d seen her take up a pen more than a couple of times, and then only to make a list or complete a requisition. Her struggle with spelling and capitalization made him wonder how long it had taken her to write this letter. He recalled again the day the
Croix Rouge
had come to her farm and disrupted two lives that had already been torn down once. It didn’t sound as if she was better off without him. Nor did the soldier Édouard sound like he was right-minded. He exhaled a humorless chuckle. As if his own mind was so excellent.