barn, but a tiny bit of earth had remained to remind her of how the spade had been used. Yesterday.
Cally found herself sitting on the ground, her knees drawn up to cradle her face. In spite of how upset she had been, she hadn’t cried the night Pa had been arrested. She couldn’t remember even wanting to cry before that, though tears had threatened a few times since. But now the floodgates had opened, and she was powerless to stop the tears. Sorrow, loneliness and fear washed over her in turns.
Once she raised her head to let the breeze cool her damp face, hoping that would help her regain control. Royal, responding to what he saw in her face, whimpered, nuzzled her shoulder and licked at her ear, causing her to burst into fresh tears.
She didn’t know how long she sat like that, in the middle of her yard with the offending spade discarded half a pace away, but in the end exhaustion won where willpower had failed.
She awoke later from a light doze and raised her head. “Potatoes,” she reminded herself, stretching her stiff shoulders. “Lord, Royal, what if Haywoodhad ridden in and seen that? He’d be hauling me off to town hog-tied to the saddle, I reckon.”
She came unsteadily to her feet and took a deep breath. “If that wasn’t the silliest thing.” She rubbed her cheeks to make sure there were no more tears and brushed at her damp knees. She felt foolish, but in a strange way it had been good to cry. She felt released from a kind of tension that she had felt since Pa had been arrested.
The spot of dirt from her father’s grave didn’t bother her when she caught up the spade and headed for the garden. Digging the potatoes felt good, too. She inhaled the scent of the rich soil as she brushed it away from each one. Big ones and little ones went into the bucket, and she carried them to her cellar where she spread them on a piece of woven wire. Then it was back to her garden for another bucketful.
The soil in her garden was much more mellow than where Haywood had dug the grave. Of course the garden was fertilized and cultivated every year, and there was no apple tree sapping the moisture like on the hill. For some reason, it didn’t hurt to make comparisons now. The cry and her garden had healed her, she decided.
She dipped the spade into the edge of the hole left by the last plant she had dug and lifted another clump of potatoes, watching them separate from the rich, dark brown dirt. Dirt the color of Haywood’s eyes.
The thought startled her. This garden that she loved so much shouldn’t remind her of him! He should have been the furthest thing from her mind.
She sat down beside her half-filled bucket to rest. She looked toward the hill where the two crossesstood. “Did you really ask him to look out for me, Pa?” she whispered. “Him? Pa, I can’t believe you’d do that to me.”
But in her heart she knew he had. Haywood wouldn’t lie about that.
Andrew settled into his comfortable chair. He eyed his sketchbook but it didn’t even tempt him this evening. It had been three days since he had visited the DuBois farm. The Gwynn sisters had come by again today asking when he would bring Cally in to meet them. He had hedged a little, not wanting to admit how obstinate the girl was. He had been certain she would come in herself by now.
He kicked a footstool into position and propped up his heels. Why did he keep thinking Cally would behave the way a normal young lady would? If he expected her to cooperate, he should have asked about a job at the livery.
He sat up suddenly. Or Lafferty’s feed store! Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? He would ask tomorrow and, with any luck, could ride out to the farm with a new, perhaps more tempting, offer.
Smiling, he grabbed the sketchbook, turning the picture of the Gwynn sisters to the back, and started a quick sketch of Cally with baggy clothes and floppy hat The outline complete, he concentrated on her face.
His mind had been occupied too much
Cally found herself sitting on the ground, her knees drawn up to cradle her face. In spite of how upset she had been, she hadn’t cried the night Pa had been arrested. She couldn’t remember even wanting to cry before that, though tears had threatened a few times since. But now the floodgates had opened, and she was powerless to stop the tears. Sorrow, loneliness and fear washed over her in turns.
Once she raised her head to let the breeze cool her damp face, hoping that would help her regain control. Royal, responding to what he saw in her face, whimpered, nuzzled her shoulder and licked at her ear, causing her to burst into fresh tears.
She didn’t know how long she sat like that, in the middle of her yard with the offending spade discarded half a pace away, but in the end exhaustion won where willpower had failed.
She awoke later from a light doze and raised her head. “Potatoes,” she reminded herself, stretching her stiff shoulders. “Lord, Royal, what if Haywoodhad ridden in and seen that? He’d be hauling me off to town hog-tied to the saddle, I reckon.”
She came unsteadily to her feet and took a deep breath. “If that wasn’t the silliest thing.” She rubbed her cheeks to make sure there were no more tears and brushed at her damp knees. She felt foolish, but in a strange way it had been good to cry. She felt released from a kind of tension that she had felt since Pa had been arrested.
The spot of dirt from her father’s grave didn’t bother her when she caught up the spade and headed for the garden. Digging the potatoes felt good, too. She inhaled the scent of the rich soil as she brushed it away from each one. Big ones and little ones went into the bucket, and she carried them to her cellar where she spread them on a piece of woven wire. Then it was back to her garden for another bucketful.
The soil in her garden was much more mellow than where Haywood had dug the grave. Of course the garden was fertilized and cultivated every year, and there was no apple tree sapping the moisture like on the hill. For some reason, it didn’t hurt to make comparisons now. The cry and her garden had healed her, she decided.
She dipped the spade into the edge of the hole left by the last plant she had dug and lifted another clump of potatoes, watching them separate from the rich, dark brown dirt. Dirt the color of Haywood’s eyes.
The thought startled her. This garden that she loved so much shouldn’t remind her of him! He should have been the furthest thing from her mind.
She sat down beside her half-filled bucket to rest. She looked toward the hill where the two crossesstood. “Did you really ask him to look out for me, Pa?” she whispered. “Him? Pa, I can’t believe you’d do that to me.”
But in her heart she knew he had. Haywood wouldn’t lie about that.
Andrew settled into his comfortable chair. He eyed his sketchbook but it didn’t even tempt him this evening. It had been three days since he had visited the DuBois farm. The Gwynn sisters had come by again today asking when he would bring Cally in to meet them. He had hedged a little, not wanting to admit how obstinate the girl was. He had been certain she would come in herself by now.
He kicked a footstool into position and propped up his heels. Why did he keep thinking Cally would behave the way a normal young lady would? If he expected her to cooperate, he should have asked about a job at the livery.
He sat up suddenly. Or Lafferty’s feed store! Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? He would ask tomorrow and, with any luck, could ride out to the farm with a new, perhaps more tempting, offer.
Smiling, he grabbed the sketchbook, turning the picture of the Gwynn sisters to the back, and started a quick sketch of Cally with baggy clothes and floppy hat The outline complete, he concentrated on her face.
His mind had been occupied too much
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