proved
futile. Her brains must have turned to mush.
Guaranteed to give you a real kick in the head.
She understood now exactly
what Tom meant.
“You best get your sorry ass
up, girl, and get out of that bed.”
Lucille cringed at the sound
of the voice. She knew it all too well. With effort she managed to pry one eye
open enough to see Charlotte standing at the doorway, her heavy form sagging
against the jamb.
What was Charlotte doing in
her bedroom? Why was she ordering her out of her own bed?
Lucille closed her eyes
again as doubts crept in. Beneath her shoulder, she felt not the soft quilted
coverlets of her bed, but a coarse woolen blanket. The pillow beneath her head
was filled not with soft eiderdown but straw.
This is not my pillow. These are not my blankets. This is not my bed.
She pulled the covers up and
ducked beneath them, as if to hide from the shame—and shock—of waking up
somewhere she shouldn’t be.
Memories from the night
before flooded her mind.
The pounding in her head
worsened, and Lucille clutched the covers tighter as heavy footsteps stomped
across the floor. Charlotte snatched at the blankets.
“You hear me? I said get
your lazy ass out of that bed. I’m worn out, and I’m damned tired of listening
to you snort and snore.”
“I don’t…”
“Yes, you do. Now, get the
hell up. You need to get home.”
She lowered the blanket and
opened her eyes enough to peek out from behind it. “Where’s Tom?”
“I don’t know that it’s any
of your business, but I reckon he’s back at his bunkhouse.”
Lucille nodded, but even
that slight movement brought excruciating pain. Never before in her life had
she been drunk. Consequently, she’d never had a hangover, and to be blunt about
it, neither had she ever had an ounce of sympathy for those who did suffer the
after-effects of a serious bout of drinking.
Back in the day when her
family still owned the mercantile, there’d been many mornings when bleary-eyed
miners and cowpokes had staggered in, looking to try one sure-fire cure after
another.
Did any of them work?
Squinting against the harsh
light, she tried to remember some of those cures. She doubted any medicine
would be strong enough to stop the pounding in her head or quell the roiling of
her stomach.
Lucille clasped a hand to
her mouth. At the same time, Charlotte thrust a basin toward her.
“I figured you were going to
need this.”
“Thank you.” She barely got
the words out.
Charlotte laughed. “You sure
don’t know how to hold your liquor, girl. If you’ve got any thoughts about
fixing up with Tommy, you’d better learn how to drink.” She looked at Lucille,
then moved the basin aside.
With great effort, Lucille
managed to get her legs to move, gradually easing them toward the side of the
bed. Next she planted her feet on the floor. Grabbing at Charlotte for
support—only because there was nothing else to reach for—she finally pulled
herself up. “Trust me, I’ve got no interest in your son.” She blew out a
breath, still tasting the sickly sweet liquor on her lips and tongue. What a
fright she must look! She pressed her hands to her head, surprised to find her
hair falling loose and free.
What happened to my hair pins?
“Are you saying you’re too
damned good for Tommy?” Charlotte’s blue eyes bore down on her. “You know, he
could have any woman he wanted. Why he bothered bringing you home is beyond me.
He could have had any one of those gals at that dance.”
“To set your mind at ease,”
she said, “I don’t give a hoot about your son. As far as I’m concerned, if I
never see him again so long as I live, that will be fine with me. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I need to gather my belongings and get home.”
“Well, aren’t you the prissy
one?” Charlotte rolled her eyes, then tugged at her ear. “And what’s wrong with
my boy?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him.”
Lucille choked back heated thoughts. No,
there’s not a thing
futile. Her brains must have turned to mush.
Guaranteed to give you a real kick in the head.
She understood now exactly
what Tom meant.
“You best get your sorry ass
up, girl, and get out of that bed.”
Lucille cringed at the sound
of the voice. She knew it all too well. With effort she managed to pry one eye
open enough to see Charlotte standing at the doorway, her heavy form sagging
against the jamb.
What was Charlotte doing in
her bedroom? Why was she ordering her out of her own bed?
Lucille closed her eyes
again as doubts crept in. Beneath her shoulder, she felt not the soft quilted
coverlets of her bed, but a coarse woolen blanket. The pillow beneath her head
was filled not with soft eiderdown but straw.
This is not my pillow. These are not my blankets. This is not my bed.
She pulled the covers up and
ducked beneath them, as if to hide from the shame—and shock—of waking up
somewhere she shouldn’t be.
Memories from the night
before flooded her mind.
The pounding in her head
worsened, and Lucille clutched the covers tighter as heavy footsteps stomped
across the floor. Charlotte snatched at the blankets.
“You hear me? I said get
your lazy ass out of that bed. I’m worn out, and I’m damned tired of listening
to you snort and snore.”
“I don’t…”
“Yes, you do. Now, get the
hell up. You need to get home.”
She lowered the blanket and
opened her eyes enough to peek out from behind it. “Where’s Tom?”
“I don’t know that it’s any
of your business, but I reckon he’s back at his bunkhouse.”
Lucille nodded, but even
that slight movement brought excruciating pain. Never before in her life had
she been drunk. Consequently, she’d never had a hangover, and to be blunt about
it, neither had she ever had an ounce of sympathy for those who did suffer the
after-effects of a serious bout of drinking.
Back in the day when her
family still owned the mercantile, there’d been many mornings when bleary-eyed
miners and cowpokes had staggered in, looking to try one sure-fire cure after
another.
Did any of them work?
Squinting against the harsh
light, she tried to remember some of those cures. She doubted any medicine
would be strong enough to stop the pounding in her head or quell the roiling of
her stomach.
Lucille clasped a hand to
her mouth. At the same time, Charlotte thrust a basin toward her.
“I figured you were going to
need this.”
“Thank you.” She barely got
the words out.
Charlotte laughed. “You sure
don’t know how to hold your liquor, girl. If you’ve got any thoughts about
fixing up with Tommy, you’d better learn how to drink.” She looked at Lucille,
then moved the basin aside.
With great effort, Lucille
managed to get her legs to move, gradually easing them toward the side of the
bed. Next she planted her feet on the floor. Grabbing at Charlotte for
support—only because there was nothing else to reach for—she finally pulled
herself up. “Trust me, I’ve got no interest in your son.” She blew out a
breath, still tasting the sickly sweet liquor on her lips and tongue. What a
fright she must look! She pressed her hands to her head, surprised to find her
hair falling loose and free.
What happened to my hair pins?
“Are you saying you’re too
damned good for Tommy?” Charlotte’s blue eyes bore down on her. “You know, he
could have any woman he wanted. Why he bothered bringing you home is beyond me.
He could have had any one of those gals at that dance.”
“To set your mind at ease,”
she said, “I don’t give a hoot about your son. As far as I’m concerned, if I
never see him again so long as I live, that will be fine with me. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I need to gather my belongings and get home.”
“Well, aren’t you the prissy
one?” Charlotte rolled her eyes, then tugged at her ear. “And what’s wrong with
my boy?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him.”
Lucille choked back heated thoughts. No,
there’s not a thing
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