The River Girl's Song: Texas Women of Spirit, Book 1 Page 2

  “Your thirst has cost you dearly, Jeb Bowen.” Grandma Louise’s Swedish accent grew heavier, as it always did with strong emotion. “While you drank the Devil’s brew, your wife bled out her last hours. You could have spared a moment to bid her farewell. After all, she died to bring your child into the world.”

  Jeb stepped closer to Grandma Louise, and his lips twitched. Zillia knew he fought to hold back the spew of foul words she and her mother had been subjected to many times. Whether from shock or some distant respect for the elderly woman, he managed to keep silent while he pushed past Grandma Louise and into the bedroom.

  Zillia stepped in behind him. Somehow, in the last quarter of an hour, Grandma Louise had managed to scrub away the worst of the blood and dispose of the stained sheets and petticoats. The blue quilt was smoothed over her mother’s body, almost to her chin. Her hands where folded over her chest, like she always held them in church during prayer.

  Tears threatened to spill out, but Zillia held them back. She wouldn’t cry in front of Jeb.

  The man reached over and touched Mama’s cheek, smoothing a golden curl back into place above her forehead. “You was a good woman, Marjorie,” he muttered.

  “Jeb.” Zillia stretched out her hand, but she didn’t dare to touch him.

  When he turned, his jaws were slack, and his eyes had lost their normal fire. “You stupid girl. Couldn’t even save her.”

  Zillia flinched. A blow would have been better. Surely the man isn’t completely addled? Not even the doctor could have helped Mama. She shrank back against the wall, and swallowed words dangerous to her own self.

  Jeb stared at her for another moment, then bowed his head. “I guess that’s that.” He turned on his boot and walked out of the room.

  2 River Lullaby

  The late July sun hid its face the morning they laid Mama’s body to rest. Jeb stood alone by the head of the grave, staring at the sky like he thought it would fall down and swallow him up. He clutched a battered New Testament given to him by Pastor Fowler, since he’d left the family Bible at home. When the pastor nodded to him to read his verse, Jeb shook his head and stared down at the plain wooden coffin sunk deep into the grave. His eyes matched the dark hollow in the earth, and his shoulders trembled within the old suit that had once belonged to Zillia’s papa.

  Zillia would have felt sorry for the man if she hadn’t seen him bully her mother throughout the last two years. Mama never made excuses, only said, “don't ever let a man treat you like that, Zillia.” Her heart would have broken in two if she had known about the slap.

  Then why did you let him hurt you? Zillia leaned forward to gaze at the coffin. Jeb had come into their lives a few months after Papa passed, a handsome stranger, brash and full of promises. Mama had been so lonely, so scared to be on the farm without a man’s help and protection. Any other man would have been better.

  The baby, still without a name, stirred in Zillia’s arms. She hoped to goodness he stayed quiet for the service.

  Almost everyone in the town came to the funeral. They sang the somber, beautiful hymns warbled at every funeral, about the ‘sweet by and by’ and the chariot swinging low. Zillia hadn’t seen any chariots. What good was it for Mama to be so far away, even if she was on some ‘beautiful shore?’ She needed her here and now, to help care for the infant and tell her what to do. Her face burned with unshed tears. If she allowed herself to cry again, she might not be able to stop. So she focused on the blurred faces surrounding the grave.

  Grandma Louise and Grandpa Walt were there, of course, singing through their tears. They loved Mama too, though she wasn’t kin. Soonie and her brother, Wylder held the hands of their two cousins who had also been adopted by Grandpa and Grandma.

  Wylder shifted and stared down at his feet. Zillia hadn’t talked to him since before the birth, and she longed to hear his reassuring voice. Next to Soonie, he was her best friend and confidant. He glanced her way, and one corner of his mouth turned up between his carefully trimmed mustache and goatee. How she longed to be cozy and safe by the Eckhart’s fire, surrounded by laughter and song instead of darkness and death.

  Jeb’s family stood across from her. Jemima Trent, Jeb’s sister, didn’t bow her head during prayer. Glittery eyes watched Zillia and the baby under her thick bangs and black netted veil. Her four sons, referred to as ‘them Trent boys’ even though every one had passed eighteen, were subdued from their normal unruliness, with battered hats held in meaty hands. Their uncharacteristic reverence could only be due to the presence of their mother and Pastor Fowler.

  Abel Trent, the youngest of the brothers, gave Soonie a wink.

  Zillia gasped and glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. Could you go to hell for winking at a funeral? On the other hand, Abel probably didn’t think he had much to lose, with far worse trespasses on his record with the Almighty. But he could have some respect for his own aunt. She gave him an indignant glare.

  He stared up at the sky, like he didn’t notice.

  The service closed while friends and family members dropped in handfuls of dirt and paid their last respects.

  Zillia stepped out of the line to watch from the side. I can’t do it. Mama hated dirt.

  The pastor’s wife, a tall woman with flaming red hair, came to where she stood and patted her hand with a wordless smile.

  When the service finally ended, Pastor Fowler came over to shake Jeb’s hand. “We are very sorry for your loss. Please let us know if we can help.”

  “We’ll get by, Pastor.” Jeb stood up straight and looked him in the eye. As pathetic as Jeb was, he had a proud streak and hated when other folks thought badly of him. No one, except Soonie’s family to a small extent, knew his true nature.

  The thought of residing in the same house with the man made Zillia positively ill. But where else could she go? She couldn’t leave the baby with only his father to care for him. A shudder ran across her thin shoulder blades.

  People began move away from the gravesite. Zillia tucked her shawl around her sleeping brother and hurried towards the wagon. A brush of skirts followed her, and she turned to face Jemima Trent. The woman’s smile was pinched, as though her face was unused to the expression.

  “You poor dear.” A claw-like hand clutched at Zillia’s arm. “Having to mind that baby all by yourself! How are you managing?”

  Zillia’s first instinct was to step back out of the woman’s reach, but she stood firm. “I... we’re all right. Mama was only a few years older than me when I was born. If she managed, then so can I.”

  Jeb moved over to stand beside her. “Hello, Jemima. What do you think of the little runt?”

  Without asking, Mrs. Trent yanked the baby from Zillia’s arms. He opened his eyes, stared at her, and began to wail.

  “He’s a goodly one,” Mrs. Trent yelled over the screams. “Not all puffy and red like some of them babies. I always wanted another child, after Samuel died. We have plenty of room, Jeb, I could care for the lad and raise him up right.”

  Jeb’s eyebrows sank together over his beak-like nose. “Hmmm... I’ll give it some thought. Might be for the best.”

  Memories rasped into Zillia’s mind. Abel Trent coming into school, time and again, with bruises and black eyes. He’d always have an excuse. Some beatings came from his brothers, but she’d seen Mrs. Trent’s temper in action. Her sons had been subjected to more than just venomous words. Zillia snatched her brother back.

  Mrs. Trent’s eyes popped open. “Well, I never!”

  “You won’t get him!” Zillia wrapped the baby back up in her shawl. “He’s mine, from my mother, and he will never be yours! I’ll be cold and in my own grave before you take him!”

  The folks who still remained turned to see what was going on.

  Grandma Louise was by her side in an instant, patting her shoulder. “Calm down, no one’s taking the baby,” she soothed.

  Jeb stared at Zillia for a moment and his scowl deepened. “Fool women,” he mutte
red.

  “But... Jeb...” Mrs. Trent held out her hands.

  “If she wants to stay up a few nights with that squalling child, let her,” Jeb growled. “She’ll get tired of it soon enough.” He walked off in the direction of the saloon.

  Zillia’s heart beat under the baby’s tiny head, while he squirmed to be free from his blanket. Why hadn’t Jeb made her give the infant to his sister? Could it be he actually cared for his son and wanted him close by? She frowned. She’d never seen Jeb make a decision to benefit anyone but himself.

  ###

  The next few days were a blur of smells and sounds. Soured milk, the baby’s soiled clothing, and Zillia’s own unwashed body and hair. Constant cries filled her ears and mind. Silence became a novelty.

  On the third night, Jeb stormed into the kitchen while Zillia tried to calm the screaming child.

  “Can’t you make him shut up?” Sweat stained Jeb’s long underwear. Scars created uneven patches in his graying beard.

  The baby gave him a slanted look and cried louder.

  “I don’t know how to make him stop.” What would Mama have done to calm him down? Maybe just being his mother would have made a difference. Zillia craned her neck to check the ornately carved clock on the mantelpiece. 2:30 am. The baby had been fussing for over an hour. More than once, she had nodded off and woken up again with the baby in her arms, still crying with no indication he would ever stop. Plenty of chores awaited her in the morning. Jeb had yet to hold his child for one single minute.

  Grandma Louise had given her a hasty tutorial on diaper changing and fixed up a bottle normally used for orphaned goats. Zillia had been worried about giving her brother goat’s milk. “Won’t that upset his stomach?”

  Soonie had shrugged. “My cousin lived on horse’s milk after my aunt passed away. And he hasn’t been sick a day in his life!”

  There had been little choice. No woman for miles had given birth recently to be a wet nurse. So far, the baby seemed to be doing fine with his alternative diet. At first Zillia had to dip her fingers in the warmed goat’s milk for the baby to suckle, but he soon learned the bottle would bring better results.

  Mama had spent months sewing garments for the child. If Zillia kept up with the washing he would be clothed. Grandma Louise promised to help shop for more supplies soon.

  For two days after the funeral, women from town streamed in with condolences and baked goods. Most of the ladies came with pure motives, but some were ready to pounce on any juicy tidbit of information to take to town and pass around. People were hard up for gossip, and Mama’s death and the poor baby left behind would be news enough to last all week, at least.

  Jemima Trent had plunked her meat pie on the table and proceeded to inspect the house from corner to corner, all the while giving the baby greedy looks.

  Zillia gave one syllable answers to their questions, and mostly just stood to the side, rocking the baby’s cradle with her foot when he’d allowed her to put him down. She was thankful when the afternoons waned and the women would give up and go home to tend to their own families. After Jeb had eaten his fill, the rest of the food went to the chickens. Zillia couldn’t swallow a bite.

  These thoughts were interrupted by Jeb’s scowl. “Are you even listening to me?”

  An uneaten apple pie sat on the table at eye-level, and Zillia pictured herself hurling it into Jeb’s face, the bits of crust and fruit sliding down over his neck. A tiny smile escaped her lips.

  Jeb folded his arms and glared at her. “So you think it’s funny now, huh? Look, if Little Jeb won’t keep quiet, take him outside. I gotta sleep. This is making me crazy.”

  “Outside? What about coyotes? And snakes?” Zillia never went out after dark, and anyone who ventured in the night needed a gun. Wild pigs and cougars, which could be more dangerous than coyotes, had also been spotted in the area.

  “Nothing’s going to come near that squalling!” Jeb slammed the bedroom door.

  He doesn’t care if we live or die. If only Papa were here. He’d have never let us be treated like this. And Mama...

  Warmth drained from her face and she had to convince her numbed arms to hold, hold on to her brother. She slumped into the rocker and gathered him close, despite his wails.

  A banging came from the wall. If he comes back out, he might hurt me again. Her hand crept to her bruised face.

  Zillia managed to stand. A quilt from the back of the rocking chair, wrapped around her shoulders, served for a shawl. She stepped into the summer night, the baby nestled in her arms.

  The cricket’s song swelled with the sound of the river, a constant rush below the line of trees and the twenty foot bluff that kept the farm from floods. She had missed seeing the light dance on the water after three days of being cooped up inside. How could the crickets sing such a happy melody when the rest of the world seemed so wrong?

  She sang to her brother, and gradually he quieted, his big eyes shiny with starlight, and a serious, very non-baby look on his face.

  “Hush-a-bye,

  Don’t you cry,

  Go to sleepy, little baby.”

  How cozy she used to feel as a little girl, in her Virginia nursery with its pink-papered walls and little canopied bed. Mama would sing to her even after she was far too old for lullabies. After Papa died two years ago, her mother started singing all the old songs again, and the melodies had comforted them both. Maybe tonight Zillia sang it as much for herself as for the little one, now asleep in her arms.

  “When you wake,

  You shall have

  All the pretty little horses”

  A peace settled over the closed eyes and perfect cheeks. His small white fingers with tiny slivers of nail curled tightly around her hand. Zillia bent down and kissed his forehead.

  Years ago, Mama had taught her the constellations, both winter and summer. Zillia’s favorite pattern, the mighty hunter, wouldn’t be visible for several months yet. She missed him.

  “You are mine, far more than you will ever be Jeb’s,” she whispered fiercely. “He won’t be naming you after his nasty old self. I’m calling you Orion.”

  Her half-brother smiled in his sleep, as though he approved.

  The mournful cry of a whippoorwill warbled though the pines. Zillia stroked Orion’s impossibly soft curls and nodded. Only the whippoorwill had it right.

  3 Miserable Morning

  A tiny presence generated its own heat and added warmth to the bed. Zillia stirred, and the other body moved in response. She picked up the quilt that covered them. Little Orrie was cuddled beside her in her feather top bed, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful cadence.

  She slipped the covers back and eased out of the bed, trying not to disturb his slumber; then placed pillows around him just in case. Can a week-old infant roll over? Soonie’s cousins were the only children she had spent any time with and they had come to live with Grandma Louise when they were two and five. When she’d held infants in the past, they seemed so fragile in her clumsy hands. She had quickly passed them on to someone more competent.

  After an attempt to move the heavy cradle up the ladder to her attic bedroom, she had given up and tucked Orrie in beside her. At first she worried about rolling over on him, but somehow she sensed his position, even when she was asleep. He woke fewer times in the night than when he slept by himself. She liked having him close, it seemed safer.

  Her fingers fumbled to pull her thick, curly hair up and back for a new day. Boards creaked under her feet while she stumbled to the small washbasin and splashed lukewarm water on her cheeks. She paused for a moment at the reflection in the oval mirror that hung above the bowl. Could that really be her face? The week of sleepless nights had produced thick bags under her eyes, like dark beetles, waiting to jump out.

  Mama would have helped her fix her hair and dabbed cream on her skin. “A ladies’ complexion is of great importance,” she would have said. Mama had been blessed with flaxen hair that always stayed where it was sup
posed to, and a face like the angels on the colored plates of the family Bible. Zillia had been given Papa’s brown locks and skin prone to freckle, much to her despair.

  Better get the fire stirred up and water boiling. Orrie will be up and crying for his milk. She sighed. She’d have to milk the goats first.

  Chores tussled in her mind for attention. So many things had to be done just to keep everyone alive. Should she risk a slap and beg Jeb to do the milking today?

  The ladder rungs seemed harder to descend this morning. She slipped down the last few and shuffled over to the stove.

  Empty space met her hand when she reached under the table for the large kettle. Funny. I know I put it there last night. She rubbed her eyes and scanned the room. Only bare spaces met her gaze, instead of the items that had been in the same places for years. The clock. Her own china music box with the milkmaid. The set of brass fire tools. All the dishes in the pie safe. Gone.

  A quick survey of Mama’s room confirmed her fears. The spare sheets and quilt, ones not ruined during the birth, had been stripped from the bed, along with the feather top. Her mother’s jewelry and trinkets, including the garnet ring that was to be Zillia’s some day.

  Anything of value that could be moved by one person, gone.

  “Jeb!”

  Orrie’s thin cries drifted down the loft ladder, but she ignored them and ran outside in her nightgown. Dawn streamed into the farmyard.

  The buckboard wagon her parents had purchased their first week in Texas was missing. The small thresher, and many of the farm implements. Anything that could fit into the wagon. Gone.

  She rushed to the stables. Romulus and Remus, the beautiful matched team, had disappeared from their stalls, along with Eli, Jeb’s riding stallion.

  Sometimes, the mule, made a snorting noise in his corner.

  “How could he leave us, Sometimes? Where did he go?” Orrie’s last feeding had been at 3 am, which meant Jeb could have been gone for hours. How did that clumsy man pack up the house and leave without waking me up?