The Long Trail Home (27 page)

“They can have my share of artichokes. They look awful tough and woody. Maybe they waited too long to pick them. It's a cinch they didn't know how to cook them. I bet you're supposed to boil them.”

“Hi, Sam; Abby!” Dacee June greeted as she slipped through the door. “Wow, this is really, really fancy! What are those?”

“Haven't you ever heard of artichokes?” Sam chided.

“I read about 'em once. When do they get ripe?”

“Eh . . . I think they're ripe now,” Sam offered. “You're a tad late, li'l sis.”

She slipped her arm around his waist and then looked Abby in the eyes. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not yet,” Abby replied.

“Where's the newly-wed husband? I thought Todd gave him the afternoon off,” Sam questioned.

Dacee June released Sam and rocked back on her gray, lace-up boots. “Carty is at the house. He . . . eh . . . well, this is kind of embarrassing.”

“What?” Abigail pressed.

Dacee June rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Well, he said that I look so nice today that he has no intention of sharing me with anyone else. He wants me to stay home and—”

Abigail raised her hands. “Enough said. We know exactly what you're talking about.”

“You do? But you're not even married.”

“We can imagine,” Sam said.

“Yeah, well, I'm sorry. But all of this is sort of new to me.”

Abby raised her thick, dark eyebrows. “But fun?”

“Oh, yes!” Dacee June giggled and scampered out, swinging the tall door behind her.

Abby locked her arms across her chest and smiled. “Now there is one happily married lady.”

“Were you ever that young and giggly?” Sam challenged.

“I was that young, but I don't know if I ever had that much fun. How about you, Sam? Were you ever giggly?”

“Men don't giggle,” he grumbled.

“Why is that?”

“Well, it's . . . it's . . . you know . . . sissylike.”

“Oh, my a semanticist. Just what exactly do men do?”

“We chuckle, snicker, or guffaw . . . perhaps we even roar with laughter—but never giggle.”

“Little boys giggle. I wonder why they stop?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Fortune?”

Hobson came through the door again. “There's a note here for you. It might have been at the registry for some time, but they forgot to tell me. I'm sorry for the delay.”

Sam took the note, opened it, reading as he returned to Abigail's side.

“Who's it from?”

“Who's left to hear from?”

“Rebekah?”

“Listen to this:

‘Dear Sam and Abby,

By now you have figured out there is a conspiracy afloat to abandon you two at dinner. If you are upset, get angry with me. It is all my idea. I thought you needed to spend more time alone. We didn't want you to have any interruptions or distractions. So enjoy your meal and your visit. To help you have an interruption-free meal, we have instructed Mr. Hobson to lock the door after he delivers this letter.'”

“What?” Abby gasped.

“Let me finish . . .” Sam insisted.

“In fact, I am considering leaving the door locked until you two decide to marry. If you should so decide, you could slip a note under the door, and I'll fetch Rev. Colton within the hour. (Just teasing! You can't get married until Bobby and Jamie Sue get a chance to come back!)

Enjoy yourselves.

And remember, you have to tell me every single detail of what happens.

     Love, Rebekah”

Abby stared at the big table covered with food. “Well, Sam Fortune, what are we going to do?”

“Right now, or in the future?”

“Both.”

“Is the door really locked?” he asked.

Abby scurried across the empty ballroom and clutched the round, crystal doorknob. “Yes! It really is locked.”

“Well, I have no intention of letting all this food be wasted.”

“And I have no intention of us sitting at opposite ends of a twelve-foot table,” she pointed to the full expanse of the table full of steaming food.

“I have an idea,” Sam offered. “Help me slide the table to the window; then we'll both sit on this side.”

Soon they sat side by side, facing the window, plates loaded with food.

“This is the strangest meal I've ever eaten,” Sam admitted.

“I don't believe I've ever had a meal with this much food for only two people.”

“Look at this: a huge empty ballroom . . . a spread fancy enough for the banquet feast of heaven . . . a beautiful lady . . . and one Sam Fortune. Even in my dreams, I could not imagine something like this.”

“I do believe I won't soon forget this! Did you try the Chinese sweet and sour sauce on the pheasant? It might be the sweetest meat you will ever taste in your life.” Abby stabbed a bite on her fork and held it over for him to sample.

Sam hesitated.

“Oh—don't you eat off someone else's fork?”

“No . . . no, I didn't mean to offend.”

He surrounded the bite with his lips and slid the morsel into his mouth. After a moment of chewing, he smiled. “I could get spoiled with somethin' that delicious.”

“Yes, but why did you hesitate?”

“I hesitated because no lady has offered me a bite off her fork since my mother died thirteen years ago. I was startled when I thought of how long it's been since I've been this close to a woman. I'm not talkin' about my virtue, but about how I feel in my heart. It just startled me; that's all.”

“Now, everything's changed?”

“You can't imagine. A few weeks ago I was eatin' a bowl of cold beans with my knife. Oklahoma dust blew in my eyes, and a cocked carbine lay across my lap as I prayed for the cover of dark.”

“When the Lord blesses, he blesses good.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

He flinched. She sat straight up. “What are you scared of Sam Fortune? I presume your feelings for me aren't quite as intense as mine are for you.”

“Abby, that's not it at all. Just the opposite.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That doesn't always come across.”

“That's because I'm so hesitant.”

“Of me?”

“Of disappointin' you. I don't think you realize the burden I carry with me. I can't live a normal life like my brothers. For the rest of my life, someone like Burns or McDermitt will show up.”

“I thought we took care of that this morning,” she said.

“We took care of two of them. And I'm prayin' we slowed down the parade to Deadwood. But, I'll be lookin' over my shoulder . . . sittin' with my back to the wall . . . pullin' my pistol at ever' thump in the night—for the rest of my life.”

Abby, slowly, let out a long breath. “I can learn to live with that.”

“And ever' time some ol' gal from out of town strolls down the boardwalk and smiles at me, you're goin' to wonder if she was a friend of mine from the ol' days. Abby, sometimes she will be.”

“But the Lord's forgiven you for all that.”

“Yes, he has. But I have to live with the results. I'll tell you what else scares me. I'm afraid you're attracted to me because of Todd, Daddy, Bobby, and Dacee June. You have an idea what Fortunes are like. But I might not be able to live up to those standards. I never could when I was young.”

“Did you try?” She speared another bite of pheasant, dipped it in the red sauce, and held it up for him to eat.

“Not really.” He slid the morsel into his mouth. “I guess I've always had a streak of rebellion.”

Abby wiped her lips with the linen napkin. “I'll make you a promise.” She handed the napkin to Sam. “You never have to be like Todd, if I never have to be like Rebekah.”

He wiped his lips and handed it back to her. “She intimidates you?” Sam stabbed a long piece of pickled okra with his fork.

“She's a dear friend, but she will always be one step—at least—beyond me. Socially, spiritually, culturally, and intellectually. Did you hear how we first met?”

“Something about you still being an actress?” He held the bite up to her lips, and she bit off the tip of the okra.

“I was playing the Gem Theater, and she sat royally up on the porch of that Forest Hill home, gazing down on the rest of town. I've never loved a woman more than I love Rebekah, but she'll always be the queen on the hill.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

This time, she flinched.

Sam sat back up. “What are you so scared of, Abigail Gordon? I presume your feelings for me aren't quite as intense as mine are for you.”

“OK . . . I deserved that. We're not young anymore, so can I be real blunt with you?”

“Are you goin' to embarrass me?” he asked.

“I doubt if either one of us could be embarrassed by anything the other one said. I want you to know that my greatest battle in life has always been self-control. I know that is one of the fruit of the Spirit in the Bible. But it does not come easy, even after five years of trusting the Lord.”

“How does that fit with my kiss on the cheek?” he pressed.

“After I left my husband, Dr. Gordon, I spent a number of years with little self-control. I went where I wanted, did what I pleased, chased all my whims and dreams, and dragged Amber around with me. If it felt good to me, I did it.”

“And?”

“And you kissing my cheek, Sam Fortune, feels good. Really good.”

“What's wrong that?”

“Because I won't want you to stop with the cheek! The next thing I know I'll want to kiss your lips, and then . . . well, you see what I'm talking about? I have no sense of moderation. I'm beginning to sound like Dacee June, aren't I?”

Sam slipped his hand into hers. “Do you yell when you get mad?”

“What?”

“When you get angry, do you stomp and yell?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Answer my question,” he insisted.

“Yes, I have a tendency to get loud and theatrical when I'm angry,” she announced.

“Good, so do I.”

“What's good about it?” she challenged.

“Then you'll understand that I can love you, even if I'm yelling at you. Some women don't understand that.”

“Are you trying to say that you love me, Sam Fortune?”

“Of course I am.”

“Good,” she triumphed.

“Why?”

“Because I love you too. And since your family is going to force us to get married, it's nice that we love each other.” She raised up their hands and brushed a kiss across his fingers.

“What are we goin' to do about the screamin' when we're angry?” he asked.

“I believe we should live on the edge of town.”

“I think you're right. How about a place along Whitewood Gulch, beyond Ingleside?”

“That might be a long walk to get to Rebekah's. I need to talk to her every day.”

“You can call her on the telephone,” Sam suggested.

“There will be telephones up Whitewood Gulch?”

“There will be telephones anywhere I want them to be. Of course, I don't have the money to build such a place for a while.”

“We can wait,” Abigail assured him. “In the meantime, we could live above my store.”

“Yes, that's nice.” He raised her hand and mashed a kiss into her fingers. “I can have my own room.”

“When we're married, you do not get your own room, Mr. Fortune. You'll have to share.”

“But, I hear you're self-centered.”

“Too bad.” She lowered their hands to the top of her thigh.

“Will we rent out my room to someone else?”

“No, we'll combine the entire second floor for an apartment, until we build a place on Whitewood Creek.”

“I trust we won't have to wait very long.” He slipped his hand from hers and ran it out to her knee, then squeezed gently.

“For the marriage or for a house?” She put her hand on his knee and squeezed tight.

Sam chewed on his tongue. “Both.”

“Well, I don't think Bobby and Jamie Sue will be coming back until Christmas.” Abigail ran her tongue across her top lip.

“That will work. It's the logical thing to do.” Sam tugged his tie loose. “We can get to know each other better . . . make some plans . . . save up some money . . . get this phone exchange company up and running . . . and then have a Christmas Eve wedding service.”

Abby took a linen napkin and wiped the perspiration off her forehead. “Oh, that sounds wonderful! Romantic! Sounds like something Dacee June or Rebekah would do, doesn't it?”

“It certainly does.”

“I suppose we can tell everyone we're engaged.” She reached up and unfastened the top button on the high, lace collar of her blouse.

“Yes, that should satisfy them for a while.” He took the napkin from her hand and wiped the back of his neck.

“I think Dacee June would spend all fall planning the wedding for us.” Abby reached over and unfastened the top button of his stiff, white shirt collar.

“Undoubtedly.” Sam searched the food scattered around on the table. “There's not a scrap of paper anywhere on this table, is there?”

“No . . . I don't see anything. I suppose you could use one of these linen napkins.”

He leaned closer to her and slipped his arm around her waist. “The hotel might frown on that.”

“How about that paper doily under the candelabra?”

Sam hugged her tight then released her. “Yes, that would work.”

Abby pulled out a lace-edged, round paper doily, folded it in half, then handed it to him. “Do you have a pencil?” she asked.

“Yes. It's a legacy from being a businessman. Dacee June makes sure I carry a sharpened pencil at all times.” He cleared a spot on the table, took the folded doily, then began to write.

“I'm grateful to Dacee June for that. She seems to really enjoy working at the telephone company.” Her left hand remained on his right knee.