Joelle's Secret (11 page)

* * *

IT WAS LATE, AND the stars were sprinkled across the sky. From far off came the lonesome cry of a wolf, always a sad
sound and rather frightening to Joelle. She had been waiting for Owen to come back, but Harry had gone to bed, saying, “He’ll come in when he gets ready if he don’t get beat-up.”

A slight sound came to her, and Joelle stood up. It was a bright night with the moon round, shining, and silver and throwing gleams all over the flat plain. As she expected, she saw a tall form and knew it was Owen. Then she saw Cherry beside him, and he was leaning heavily on her. When they got close enough, Joelle saw that Owen had blood on the front of his shirt.

“What happened?” Joelle demanded.

“Well, I suppose you think I’ve been drinking,” Owen said pugnaciously. “Well, I ain’t. I ain’t had a drop.”

“I expect you need to go to bed, Owen,” Cherry said. “You’re going to feel pretty bad in the morning.”

“No, it’s too early to go to bed.”

Cherry laughed. She was half-drunk herself. “You better put him to bed, Joe. He’s had a hard night. I’ll see you tomorrow, Owen.”

Owen swayed on his feet, and Joelle pulled him toward the fire where she could see his face. “Sit down,” she said shortly.

“I ain’t had a drop.”

“You’re drunk as a skunk. Who beat you up?”

“Nobody. I ain’t been in no fight.”

Joelle had packed a medical kit, and she got fresh water and washed the blood from Owen’s face. He had a bad cut over his left eyebrow, but she didn’t think stitches were called for. She patched it up, ignoring his grunts. He grew quiet while she did her work, and finally he said, “Joe?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I have so been drinking. I got in a fight and I lost it too. I’m just no good, Joe”

“Come on. You need to lie down. Here, let me give you some laudanum. It’ll make you sleep.”

Owen was agreeable enough. He took the medicine, made a face, and stumbled over to where his blankets were. He lay down on one, and Joelle pulled a cover over him. She saw he was already going off to sleep. “I’m just no good, Joe. No good at all.”

She reached down, nearly touched his hair, and then pulled her hand back quickly. “Good night,” she said sharply, turned, and left. “He should have had better sense. That woman will get him killed one of these days!”

* * *

“WELL, YOU SURE MADE a plum fool out of yourself with that scarlet woman. Look at your face. You look like you’ve been hit with a bunch of wet squirrels or something.”

“I don’t want to hear all this, Harry.” Owen’s head was killing him. He had awakened feeling sick with a terrible headache. Not wanting to face Joe and Harry, he had left before breakfast, but later in the day Harry found him in front of the train. Harry left, but his place was taken by Joelle who had been watching them.

“Well, you made a fool of yourself, didn’t you?”

“Don’t you start on me, Joe! Yes, I made a fool of myself. I’ve done it before, and I’ll probably do it again.” He glared at her saying, “You’re just a kid. One of these days you’ll make a fool out of yourself over a woman. Every man does.”

“No, I won’t ever do that. I’ve got better sense.” She turned and left him angry clear through.

* * *

OWEN STAYED SILENT FOR the next two days. He got up early, ate a quick breakfast, and then went back to help the men herd the cattle. It was a job he didn’t like, but he didn’t want to face Joe or listen to Harry’s preaching. By noon he was tired of it, and he circled the train and went out looking for game. He was headed back with an antelope. They were easy enough to pop. All he had to do was tie a white rag onto a sapling and hide himself, and the silly creatures would get curious. They’d move closer and closer, sniffing at the flag, and he had shot one.

As he headed back, he was berating himself. “Owen, you’re old enough to know better. Why do you have to make a fool of yourself every chance you get?”

He paused suddenly and drew up his horse’s head. “What’s that? Looks like a man,” he muttered. He spurred the horse forward, and sure enough there was a man lying on his face. “Don’t look like the Indians got him.” He dismounted and dropped the reins. Captain, his horse, was trained to stay where the reins were dropped, so Owen bent down and turned the man over. “Not dead,” he said, “but he sure looks bad.” He went back to the horse and got his canteen.

Raising the man up, he said, “Here, partner, take a drink of this.” The man’s eyes opened slightly. They were both puffy with blows, and his lips were swollen where they had been cut against his teeth. One of his ears was torn nearly off his head,
and he cried out when Owen moved his body. “Somebody beat

you and left you for the wolves. What’s your name?”

“Logan.”

“Well, we’d better get you back to the train. What happened to you?” The man didn’t answer, and Owen pulled him to his feet. “Come on. You can’t walk. Here, I’ll help you on the horse.” Fortunately Captain was a placid animal, and he stood stock still as Owen hoisted the battered man into the saddle. He picked up a carpet bag that had been thrown aside, and swung on behind him, saying, “OK, Captain, take us home.”

* * *

“WHO’S THAT WITH OWEN?” Harry said.

“I don’t know. It looks like he’s been through the mill though.” The two hurried, and others were gathering to meet the pair. Ralph Ogden spoke first. “Who you got there, Owen?”

“Found him on the trail.”

“He looks dead,” Edith Riker said. “What’s he doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“He’s not able to talk much. Some of you fellows take him.”

Caleb Taylor and Ralph Ogden helped the man down. “What’s your name, fella?” Ogden demanded.

He got no answer.

“He said his name was Logan. I don’t know if it’s the first or last,” Owen said.

“What’s he doing out here?” Ash Landon demanded. He was dressed as if he were in the finest restaurant in St. Louis and shook his head. “It looks like he’s not going to make it.”

“Well, we’ll have to do something with him,” Ogden said. “He’ll have to ride in a wagon.”

No one volunteered, and then Edith Riker said, “We’ve got plenty of room in one of our wagons. Bring him on.”

“You can’t take him in,” her husband said. Lyman Riker didn’t believe in showing much charity. Edith paid him no attention. “You don’t have to worry about him. I’ll take care of him.”

Riker threw up his hands and said, “I give up on you, woman. If you’d show your husband a little more attention, you wouldn’t have it to give to a beat-up stranger who’s probably some kind of a crook.”

“Bring him to my wagon, Ralph. He’ll need to be cleaned up.”

* * *

HE FELT SOMETHING COOL on his face. Something had changed and it confused him. When he opened his eyes, the coolness touched his face again, and he started to sit up and uttered a cry of pain.

“Lie still. You’ve been hurt.”

Logan opened his eyes and saw that he was under canvas. It was a wagon. It was bumping along, and the woman was sitting beside him. “I patched you up as best I could, but I think you’ve got some cracked ribs.”

“Who—who are you?”

“I’m Edith Riker. What were you doing out in a shape like this? . . . Doesn’t matter.”

Logan lay quietly and said, “You should have left me to die.”

Edith shook her head. “You’ve given up. Don’t be a coward, man. You’re young enough to make something out of yourself.”

“I’m no good to anyone.”

Edith Riker studied him. It was difficult to discern his features since his eyes were puffed shut, and his lips were swollen, but he seemed to be a higher type than most men. At least she felt this. “A man’s meant to find out what he’s put here for.”

“Not me. I wish you had left me there to die.”

Edith stared at him for a moment, then jumped off the back of the moving wagon. Artie Riker asked, “How is he, Ma?”

“He’ll be all right physically, but he sure is in bad shape in other ways. Says he wished we had left him to die.”

Artie was shocked. “Why would a man wish that? He ain’t hurt that bad.”

“Something’s wrong with him on the inside. I guess we’ll have to wait until he gets better before we find out what it is.”

The train moved on slowly under the inverted bowls of sky, and as Edith followed the wagon, she thought about the man Logan. She didn’t know his full name, but for some reason she was interested. Ordinarily she paid men no attention. Her marriage had soured her on the breed. She never had very high expectations of marriage, and the few she had had been shattered by her union with Lyman. Now she shook her head. “You can’t be much of a man if all you want to do is die.”

LOGAN TEMPLE CAME OUT of unconsciousness with a spastic motion. The movement sent a white-hot, searing pain through his head, and immediately he realized his entire body was in pain. His tongue was so thick and dry that he couldn’t even lick his lips.

Sounds began to come to him—the creaking of wagon wheels and the far-off moaning of a coyote. Closer than these was the sound of a woman singing an old hymn he remembered from his childhood:

The memory of the hymn was a good one, but it immediately faded, and bleak memories began to rise like ghosts. They seemed to come out of a dark, malevolent box, and one of them was recent. He winced as he thought of a thick-set man named Yates cursing him, striking him with hamlike fists, and beating him into unconsciousness.

For a long time Temple lay still and wondered whose wagon he was in. He was waking up in a strange place, and he dreaded facing the world. As he lay there, a wagon wheel dropped into a ditch or a hole, shaking his whole body and making him clench his teeth against the pain.
I wonder when
was the last time I woke up happy and ready to face the day with
joy?
The question had no answer, and he felt that happiness and joy were as far back in time as the antediluvian period or the Flood.

He wanted desperately to return to the black hole of unconsciousness, but that time had passed. Finally he heard a voice cry out something, and the wagon ground to a stop. It was time, he knew, to rejoin the world. He struggled to his elbows and managed to get into a sitting position. Looking down, he saw that he was naked to the waist and that his chest, stomach, and arms were dark with bruises, some violently yellow and others fading into a garish violet. He ran his hands over his chest and winced.

Moving cautiously, he eased onto his knees and moved toward the back of the wagon. Pushing the canvas aside, he stuck his head out and at once was blinded by brilliant sunlight. It was nearly as powerful as a physical blow, and Temple shut his eyes and waited. He finally opened them a mere slit. He was staring at a wagon train.

Slowly he lowered his legs over the edge and with one impulsive motion shoved himself out. His feet hit the ground, but there was no strength in his limbs. His legs folded and threw him facedown, causing him to utter a painful grunt. He lay there, nearly helpless, catching his breath. He heard footsteps, and then hands were turning him over. He was still
staring into the brilliant heavens, but he saw a woman. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” she said.

Temple couldn’t answer for his tongue was thick. He felt her strong hands help him into a sitting position. He caught a glimpse of bright hair rising from her temples, making a mass on her head and caught into a fall behind. She had gray-green eyes such as he had never seen before, and he knew she was full-figured as she held him to keep him from falling. She said, “Here, lean back against this wheel,” and he obeyed.

She left for a moment, and he tried to collect his thoughts, but all was confusion. She was back in a moment, kneeling beside him and holding a cup to his lips. The water was tepid, but he drank it eagerly. Some of it ran down the sides of his mouth onto his chest, and the woman said, “Drink slowly. You can have all you want but a little bit at a time.”

Temple drank all the water, licked his lips, and felt better. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and rough.

The woman stared at him. “I’m Edith Riker. What’s your name?”

Temple started to speak and had to clear his throat. It was still difficult to talk. “Temple,” he whispered roughly. “Logan Temple. Could I have more water?”

She went to a keg on the side of the wagon, filled the cup, and returned. “Can you hold it yourself?”

“I think so.” His hands were unsteady, but he drank the water more slowly than he would have liked. When he handed the cup back, he thanked her again.

Edith Riker stared at him. “How did you get out here in this place in such bad shape?”

“Where was I?”

“We found you on the trail.” She touched the bruises on his chest. “Who did this to you?”

Temple looked down and then lifted his eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

His answer didn’t please Edith. She was not satisfied with a man who would take such a beating as if it were nothing. “Where were you headed?”

“No place important. Doesn’t matter.” He added, “It’ll be just like the last one.”

Edith noticed something in the man’s face, especially in his eyes. He had light hair, not blond exactly but close to it. His eyes were blue, and as she studied him, she saw loneliness and a pain most people would not show. She felt compassion for this bruised, beaten member of humanity. This was a strange thing for her, almost an alien thing, for her marriage had hardened her against most men. But this one seemed different, and she couldn’t determine why. It troubled her that she felt like this. It made her feel a softness she thought she’d lost.

“I’ll get your shirt,” she said abruptly. “I had to wash it.”

Temple watched as she moved away. He was aware of people at the next wagon staring at him, and he didn’t meet their eyes. When she came back, he leaned forward and reached for the shirt, but the pain made him grunt.

“You must have hurt your ribs. Here, let me help you.”

Edith put one arm in the shirt, draped it over his shoulders, and then put the other arm in. She pulled it together in the front, and as she buttoned it up, she studied his face. She had noticed that he was no more than average height and rather thin. She was used to rough men—farmers, hunters, and trappers—but this man had none of their roughness. He had
almost aristocratic features with a short English nose and a clean-cut jaw. What little she had heard from his speech gave him away, for it was not the speech of a rough farmer.

“I’ll get you something to eat.” Rising quickly, she moved back to the fire.

His mind was clearer now, and he studied her while she couldn’t notice his attention. She had clean physical lines, and as badly as he felt, he also noticed the smoothness of her body within her dress. She was shapely in a way any man would notice. She returned carrying a bowl and spoon and knelt beside him again. “Can you feed yourself?”

“Yes, I think so. Thank you.”

He had fine manners, and her curiosity grew as she watched him eat. He was half-starved, that was obvious. Most men would have gobbled the stew down, but he ate slowly and without spilling any of the food.

She took the bowl when he handed it back, and when he said, “Thank you. That was good,” she, once again, was struck by his language and by his attitude.
He doesn’t belong out here,
she thought.

Hearing a noise, she turned and saw that her husband had rounded the wagon. He came up at once and stared down at Temple’s battered face. “Well, has he told you who he is?”

“His name is Logan Temple.”

“What are you doing out here on the prairie, Temple?” Riker demanded.

“I got left behind.”

“Who left you? Who beat you up like this?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter. I appreciate your taking care of me.”

“It wasn’t me. It was her.” Riker turned his eyes, glowing with accusation, toward Edith. “You’ve fed him and put him back together, but he can’t stay here.”

Temple noticed Riker’s harshness and got to his feet, swaying. “I’ll be moving on,” he said.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Edith said. “You wouldn’t get a hundred yards.”

“I don’t propose to take him to raise, Edith.”

“He’ll be no trouble, but he’s got to have some care until he’s able to take care of himself.” She stared at her husband with challenge in her green eyes. “You wouldn’t begrudge a wounded man the little food he’ll eat, would you?”

Lyman Riker never liked to be challenged by anyone— man or woman. He had married Edith not for love but for her property. He had learned quickly that she was as strong as he was, and now an angry reply leaped to his lips. He saw that she was waiting for it, and instead he shook his head and said, “Well, he can’t stay forever.” Stiffly, he turned and walked off.

Logan Temple stared at the man and then looked back at Edith. She saw something in his expression that told her that he understood what was between herself and Lyman Riker. She was not accustomed to this kind of sensitivity. Somehow in a brief encounter, Temple comprehended all about her marriage, and that disturbed her.

But she said only, “You’re not ready to go anywhere yet.”

“I don’t want to make trouble, Mrs. Riker.”

“My trouble was made long ago.” The answer came from Edith’s lips before she had framed it with her mind, and she knew she was not telling him anything he had not seen for himself. “Here, you sit down and eat more of this stew.” She
guided him back to a sitting position. “Eat all of this, and when the train starts, I’ll help you get back in the wagon.”

She saw him smile for the first time as he took the bowl. “I guess you hate bossy women,” Edith added. “Most men do.”

Logan looked at the stew, and when he looked back up, there was a strange expression in his eyes, but he said gently, “No, I don’t mind at all.”

* * *

TWO DAYS AFTER TEMPLE had been found, the heat of the journey was broken by a prairie storm. It broke at dusk with streaked lightning and long booming drums of thunder. It turned the sky black, and the wind whistled ominously. Joelle had seen storms before, but not like this one. With nothing as a barrier on the prairie, the thunder smote the earth like cannon fire, deafening and clattering, dying away only by slow degrees. The sky was marred by streaks of brilliant lightning branching down and seeming to grab the ground, a vivid, dangerous sort of thing that frightened Joelle. The rain came suddenly in a solid sheet, dense and massive enough to flood the earth, it seemed.

But by morning the sun came out again, and Joelle and the others took a deep sigh of relief. Joelle took the Ogdens biscuits she had made before the rains came. She had made too many, and now she said, “Mrs. Ogden, you folks like biscuits?”

Cleo Ogden smiled. “Of course we do, Joe. You didn’t make these yourself?”

“Sure did. I learned how when I was real young.”

“Most men think cooking is a woman’s job.”

Joelle immediately grew defensive. “Well, I expect that’s about right.” She changed the subject abruptly. “What do you think about this fellow Temple we picked up?”

Cleo brushed her hair back from her face. She had beautiful auburn hair, thick and lustrous, and very sharp blue eyes. At only twenty-eight, she still had traces of girlhood beauty. “He’s a strange fellow. Edith says he’s quality. She ought to know.”

Joelle caught something in the woman’s words. “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Ogden?”

“For land sakes, Joe, why don’t you just call me Cleo? It makes me feel like an old woman to be called Mrs. Ogden. What do I mean by that? Well, it don’t look too good.”

“What doesn’t look good?”

“The way Edith took that fellow in.”

“She was just trying to help him.”

“Maybe so, but that’s not the way Lyman saw it. That husband of hers is jealous. What I heard is he tried to get her to run him off, but she wouldn’t do it.”

“They’re a strange couple, aren’t they, Cleo?”

“As strange as you know, boy.” Cleo shook her head and seemed to be thinking. “Lyman Riker wouldn’t help anybody. It’s all Edith that’s doing that. That’s a bad marriage there, the Rikers.”

“They don’t seem much alike.”

“Alike! Why, they’re as different as night and day! I’ve seen women like Edith before. She was bound to have been one of those sprightly girls all the men wanted to dance with. She’s still fine-looking, but she’s lost most of that. I guess living with Lyman Riker would cause any woman to lose her bloom.”

“Why did she marry him?”

“She didn’t show good judgment. Women are weak. You be careful. Look at the Halls.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Boy, don’t you have eyes in your head? He’s a womanizer, and Aiden knows it. And that boy knows it too. He’s ashamed of his daddy, and he ought to be.”

Joelle had not thought about these things. The wagon train was small enough that she knew everybody on it. She had thought the Halls had a good marriage. Davis was tall and fine-looking and could sing well. Aiden, his wife, was a beauty, and Benny was a fine-looking boy. “I always thought they had a good family.”

“Open your eyes, Joe. You just be careful when you get you a woman that she’s the right one.”

Joelle felt tremendously uncomfortable with talk like this, and she merely said, “I guess I’ll be thinking about that.”

“Men are always thinking about that. You ain’t very old yet, but don’t tell me you haven’t thought about the girls because I know better.”

Joelle suddenly laughed. “I guess I got more things to think about than that.” She left, feeling that she would have to steer clear of conversations like this.

* * *

THE LAND WAS A sea of mud after the rainstorm, so the train made only six miles that day. Several times wagons bogged down, and extra oxen had to be hitched to pull them out.
Finally, by the time they pulled into a circle near a large creek, now swollen and muddy, everyone was gloomy and short-tempered.

Delbert and Ada Pickett were weary of the trail. Both of them were small and undernourished. It was a mystery to everyone how Jennie, their sixteen-year-old, could blossom into such a well-formed, pretty girl. She looked nothing at all like her parents, and more than once one had asked if she had been adopted. Her youthful figure was the target of men’s eyes already.

“Ma, you want me to go down to the river and get some water?”

“I guess you’d better, honey. It’ll be muddy, but we’ve got to have water.”

“Ma, I’m worried.”

Ada Pickett looked at her daughter. “Worried about what?” She herself was worried all the time. Being married to Delbert had worn her down. He had been a failure at everything he had ever tried, and she had given up any expectations.