The River Girl's Song: Texas Women of Spirit, Book 1 Page 3

  Her first instinct was to climb on Sometimes and gallop into town to send the sheriff after Jeb. But the man had a million excuses up his sleeve, he’d probably think of an explanation. The items did belong to his dead wife and he had a legal claim to them. And she couldn’t leave Orrie by himself. She kicked the goat bucket and stood for a moment, breathing heavily, as it rattled down the hill and hit the side of the feeding trough.

  Goats bleated from the yard, their swollen teats almost brushing the ground.

  Zillia hurried into the house and climbed the ladder. Orrie stared up at her, eyes glassy with tears. His body heaved with sobs.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I know you’re hungry.” She gathered him into a sling she’d fashioned from an old apron. He nuzzled against her shoulder while she climbed back down the ladder.

  The water jug under the table was still there. She poured some into his bottle. “This will have to do until I finish the milking.”

  A thought hit her as Orrie pulled greedy draughts from the bottle. She scaled the ladder once more. In a dark corner of her room Mama’s old trunk lay hidden under a pile of quilts. Once Mama realized the mistake she made taking those vows before God and the church with that foul man, she made Zillia promise to never tell Jeb about it.

  Zillia opened the chest. It contained some of Mama’s dresses, too nice for every day or really most days in River County. There were clothes Zillia had outgrown, saved just in case Mama had another little girl. “Which you aren’t,” she said to Orrie. Watercolor postcards with lacy borders from the relatives East, all dated from many years ago. Papa’s century old rifle, which needed cleaning but worked just fine. Under everything else she found it; a small bundle wrapped in burlap.

  “It’s still here.” Clasping it to her chest, she let out a deep breath. “We’ll be all right for a little while, Orrie.”

  She tucked the bundle into her apron pocket and went back downstairs. The chickens had flapped over to join the goats in their ruckus, deafening even from the house. “I’m coming!” she yelled.

  Sun blazed over the fields and the air shimmered over waves of grass before she finally began the fifteen minute walk to Soonie’s house with Orrie bundled up in her arms.

  Wylder was repairing a wagon wheel in the yard when she approached the Eckhart’s log cabin. He hoisted the giant sledge hammer above his head as though it were a toy, slamming it into the wooden peg that held the wheel secure. His blue eyes shone brighter when he turned and saw her.

  Zillia realized she’d been staring and her cheeks grew warm. She studied her bare toes in the dirt. “He’s gone.”

  “Jeb? Where’d he go?” Wylder leaned the hammer against the wagon and wiped sweat off his forehead.

  “I don’t know.” Tears trickled down her cheeks and, to her dismay, over the bridge of her nose. The flour she had dusted over her freckles would be washed away.

  Wylder stepped closer. “I’m sure he’s just out drinking. He’ll be back.”

  “He took almost everything,” she sniffled and tried to stand up straighter.

  “That no good—“ Wylder’s face darkened. “Well, I’m not going to say what I think.” He turned away and stared out at the barn yard.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry. Is your grandma here, or Soonie?”

  Soonie stepped outside the cabin door and into the yard. “Zillia, what brings you by? Why are you crying?”

  “Jeb cut out,” Wylder explained before she could reply.

  Soonie said a word in Comanche that didn’t sound ladylike. “No good evil man!” She stomped her bare foot on the dirt and opened the door again. “Grandma! Zillia’s here!”

  Grandma Louise bustled outside. She took one look at Zillia and ushered her into the kitchen. “Come on in, let’s hear about it.”

  Zillia was directed to a rough, wooden bench and handed a cup of cold water.

  Soonie took charge of Orrie. She fussed over him and kissed his chubby cheeks. “Oh, you get more handsome every day, Tahnee.”

  “What does that mean?” Zillia asked.

  “Little one.”

  Soonie’s mother had been half Comanche and had grown up on a reservation. Soonie embraced the ways of her mother’s people. She wore buckskin clothing at all times except for Sundays, and moccasins instead of store-bought shoes. Sometimes Zillia would see Soonie on her pony streaking across their field, hair whipping behind her like a living thing.

  Grandpa Walt came in from the back room. He folded his thin, tall body into a wooden chair and nodded in Zillia’s direction. “So Jeb headed for the hills?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Zillia, managing to gulp back her tears this time.

  “Your ma’s family know she died and left you and the little baby?”

  Zillia shook her head. “None of them approved when she married Jeb and no one has written since the wedding, not even to me. I never wanted Mama to marry Jeb. I didn’t like him either.”

  Grandpa Walt’s kind blue eyes studied her face. “They’ll take you in, if you tell them what happened. They couldn’t turn their backs on family.”

  If only he knew. After Mama had written her family to tell them of her sudden marriage, only one letter had come back. A cold, hateful letter. Her parents had both come from proud, affluent families and Mama’s relatives could not accept that she’d married a stranger without consulting them. Zillia folded her arms. As much as she loved Grandpa Walt, she wouldn’t be speaking of family business to anyone else.

  Grandma Louise stopped by to stroke Orrie’s downy hair. “Zillia, you’re sixteen years old. You’re a good, strong girl, but you can’t be expected to care for this little baby and the farm all by your lonesome self. You have the goats, chickens, vegetable garden, the corn crop, horses...”

  “Just the mule,” Zillia said softly. “No horses anymore.”

  Grandpa Walt clutched his few remaining tufts of hair. “I’m not a swearing man, but by golly, what a monster!”

  Zillia pulled out the burlap package. “He didn’t take everything. That’s one reason I came today.” The rough cloth fell open to reveal six silver spoons and a golden brooch. “Could you sell these for me? I think they’d fetch enough to pay the harvest crew this fall, and have some money left over for food and other needs. I would take them into town myself, but I don’t want anyone to know about this.”

  Grandma Louise dropped a kettle on the floor, and water splattered the room. “Look what you made me do, you and your crazy talk! You cannot live out there all on your own! You will come stay here, with us.” She bent to wipe up the water with her apron. “Besides,” she said between swipes, “Your family in Virginia will send for you when they find out what happened.”

  “If I don’t stay on the land, some squatter will come along and claim it for themselves, you know that. And your house is full with little Will and Henry.” Zillia knelt down to help sop up the water with a cloth from the table. “I’ll be eighteen in less than two years, of age to put my name on the deed. Only my mother’s name is on it now, Jeb never went to the bank to have it changed.” She froze. Where was the deed? Did Jeb take it?

  “Bet he’s regretting that,” Grandpa Walt muttered.

  “He’s a proud man, but so lazy.” Grandma Louise shook her head. “Probably thought he had all the time in the world.”

  “I will write my Grandma Rose.” Zillia wrung the towel out in a washtub. “But for now, please don’t tell anyone in town Jeb’s gone.” A sickening thought hit her. “Really, he could come back at any time.”

  Grandpa Walt shook his head. “That man? I bet he was drunk last night. Might of took everything without even thinkin’. Once he realizes what he’s done, he won’t be showin’ his face in these parts, not if everyone’s lookin’ down on him.”

  Grandma Louise nodded. “I think that’s why he didn’t give the baby over to Jemima. He didn’t want people to wonder why he couldn’t care for his own child.”

  Wylder came in the house. He smelle
d like soap and his arms glistened with water droplets.

  “Zillia is asking us not to spread Jeb’s disappearance around town just yet,” Grandpa Walt said to Wylder.

  “The man should be shot.” Wylder’s voice had a dangerous edge to it. He went over to the fire and jabbed at the coals with a stick.

  Little Will, Soonie’s cousin, played with one of the brightly painted Swedish horses that usually graced the mantelpiece. Henry, the older cousin, came over to see Orrie. “Why does he smell so funny?” he asked Soonie.

  Soonie sniffed his head. “Why do you smell so funny?” She looked over at Zillia. “I think it’s time for someone’s bath.”

  “No baths!” The little boy ran out of the room.

  “Zillia’s going to need some extra help around the farm.” Grandpa Walt nodded towards Wylder. “I was thinking you and Soonie could give her a hand for a few hours here and there.”

  “Of course!” Soonie beamed. “I love the goats.”

  “I... I can pay you.” Zillia sat back down and picked up her bundle. “I don’t want to be beholden to anyone.”

  “Nonsense.” Grandpa Walt took the broach and held it up to the light. “Your pa helped with the big barn three years ago after the fire and never asked for a penny. Your ma and pa always came to our aid when we needed them. Neighbors help each other out. Besides,” he gazed at her from under bushy white eyebrows. “You’ll only be here until your family writes. Then you and Orrie will be heading East.”

  “East?” Wylder’s eyes narrowed.

  “We’ll see.” Zillia lifted her chin. The letter to Virginia would never be sent.

  October 1886

  4 Sunday

  The edge of the wooden pew pressed through the thin fabric of Zillia’s summer dress. Sweat trickled down her brow, soaking her sunbonnet’s brim. Ladies’ hats bobbed up at the beginning of each hymn, then sank down with the solemn “Aaamennn.”

  Zillia’s fingers trembled around the worn cover of the Methodist Hymnal. When she tried to read the tiny type, her eyes blurred. Orrie still hadn’t decided to adopt normal sleeping patterns, and she’d had no time for breakfast before church.

  Music swelled through the small but ornate sanctuary, over the pews and altar and up to the two stained-glass windows donated by the mayor. Zillia tilted her head to see the carefully cut dove, frozen in flight for eternity, about to settle on the head of Christ after He was baptized. Could God hear their song? Surely He stepped a bit closer to Earth to listen when His people sang.

  The old-fashioned words sounded beautiful and mysterious, but she rarely understood them. Should she sing to God when she didn’t know what she was saying?

  She shrugged. They wouldn’t allow those songs in church if God didn’t like them.

  Pastor Fowler stepped up to the pulpit. After the last strains of music died away, he beamed at the organist. “Miss Annette, you did a lovely job today. Thank you.”

  The lady turned as pink as her organza dress and floated down the aisle to her seat, where she settled down like a content chicken.

  The Methodist tradition was to switch out the pastor every few years. Pastor Fowler had only been in the position for a couple of months. So far, the town seemed to accept the new man of the cloth, though sometimes he scandalized folks with scriptures no pastor had spoken in The Bastrop First Methodist Church sanctuary. Last week’s sermon about fallen angels coming to earth to produce giants had been especially unusual. But folks couldn’t deny the words from their very own Bibles, so most resigned themselves to learn the new thoughts. Soonie and Zillia would sit forward in their pew to listen to the fresh ideas, and often discussed them after church.

  Though Pastor Fowler’s face was serious when he looked out on the congregation, his eyes twinkled. Despite a heavy application of grease, a few hairs still stuck up on his head like silvery blades of grass. He flipped through his Bible and adjusted his spectacles. “Today we will study Proverbs 14:34. ‘He that opresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker: but he that honoureth him hath mercy on the poor.’” He turned to another section. “I have also chosen for us to read 2 Corinthians 9:7.”

  The man paused while his congregation searched for the verse. When pages stopped flapping, he started to read again. “’Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not out of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver.’

  “Two examples, from many I could have chosen, describe the importance of giving to the poor.” Pastor Fowler looked over his Bible and caught Zillia’s eye. “The poor will always be among us, and God wishes us to honor Him by honoring them.”

  Zillia fought the urge to scrunch down in her seat like a little girl. If she turned her head, she knew every eye in the church would be fixed on her.

  Four months had passed since Jeb left. Mama had planned to sew two new dresses for Zillia after the baby was born, but the cloth hadn’t even been purchased. Her skirts were inches too short, even after she let them out. Patches adorned her elbows, and her shoes threatened to split apart with each step. Every Sunday she fought her pride to walk out the door and go to church, where, years ago, she’d been the best-dressed girl in the congregation.

  A few bundles had arrived from ‘charitable’ people in the town. Aprons stiff with food stains, and petticoats with holes too large to patch. Most ended up in the rag basket.

  She laced her fingers together, forcing her hands into her lap to keep them from covering her face. Pastor Fowler probably hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. But this sermon would be sure to generate more ‘helpful’ bundles from people who would then go on their way, feeling righteous and generous.

  If she ever found herself in a place of prosperity again, she’d give to those less fortunate. But they would never know the giver, and she’d only donate things worth giving.

  Zillia glanced over at Soonie. Her friend’s eyes shone, and she mouthed the words along with Pastor Fowler when he quoted a scripture. Soonie’s happy smile melted into a look of confusion when she saw Zillia’s face.

  I must look like a thundercloud. Mama always said her thoughts wrote themselves into her expressions. After a moment’s concentration, she managed to relax the muscles around her mouth and eyes in what she hoped would be a more pious look. I don’t need anyone thinking I’ve gone mad and can’t care for Orrie.

  At least one person in town already thought she was an unfit caretaker. The second the pastor dismissed the congregation, Jemima Trent charged over to Zillia’s pew, making high pitched noises at Orrie.

  Zillia’s stomach grew queasy like it always did at the sight of the stocky, pig-eyed woman. She smiled. I’ll do my best to avoid a scene in church. “Hello, Mrs. Trent. How are you this morning?”

  “How is my nephew?” Jemima jabbed a red finger at Orrie’s cheek. “You look thin, poor little baby!” Her eyes narrowed at Zillia. “Sister’s not feeding you enough, is she?”

  Zillia choked back her anger and turned to keep Orrie out of the odious woman’s reach. She spoke over her shoulder, not caring how rude it looked. “He’s just fine. The doctor said he’s gaining weight like he should be. Goodness knows I give him plenty of goat’s milk, and I’ve started him on cornmeal mush.”

  “Let me have my little nephew.” Jemima tugged at Zillia’s arm. “He needs to know what it’s like to have a real mother hold him.”

  Zillia jerked away from her grasp. “Excuse me. I need to go now. Soonie will have the wagon pulled around and I don’t want her to have to wait on me.”

  Jemima wrinkled her nose. “You spend far too much time with that injun family. My brother should have sent the baby to me afore he left on that business trip.” She leaned close enough for Zillia to whiff the liver and onions she must have had for breakfast. “I’ll bet he told you to bring him over, didn’t he?”

  “He did no such thing!” Zillia threaded her way through the pews towards the door.

  Before she could move out of earshot, she heard Jemima Trent tell another
woman, “Girl puts on all those Virginia airs, even though she comes to church dressed like a farm hand. Everyone knows that baby would be better off with me. Haven’t I raised four boys already?”

  Swift steps took Zillia outside before she could hear the other woman’s reply.

  Blessed day! Wylder had driven the wagon over, with Soonie, Grandma Louise and the two little boys already settled in. Grandpa Walt had stayed home with what he called ‘ailments.’ She handed Orrie to Soonie and swung up and in with everyone else.

  The church door cracked open, and Jemima Trent waddled down the porch steps. Her mouth was open in some sort of screeching command.

  “Drive, Wylder, please!” Zillia shouted.

  Wylder clucked to the horses, and they lurched away.

  Zillia’s head ached, and her jaw hurt from clenching her teeth so hard. Perhaps I should become Presbyterian. Then I wouldn’t have to see that woman every week.

  ###

  Zillia threw two more handfuls of weeds on the growing pile outside the garden fence. The exposed roots filled the air with a rich, earthy scent. She bent down to pull a few more from around the vines of the late fall squash harvest, moving with care so she wouldn’t disturb Orrie, who slept peacefully in the sling on her back.

  Wylder came back from the edge of the field where he had just dumped a load of dirt clods too baked by the Texas sun to be worth the effort of breaking up. He peered under her sunbonnet. “You look tired. Are you all right?”

  Zillia stared at him. She wanted to yell, “I’m sixteen and I’ve been up all night with a screaming child. I’m trying to prove to everyone I’m capable of running a farm. What do you think? Of course I’m not all right!”

  Instead she remembered her mother. How she patiently stacked firewood and cooked bread, even when her ankles swelled and her back ached. How she’d bake her special treats and help her with lessons and oh, the hundreds of other things she did every day. No matter how exhausted and weary she must have felt, she never complained.