16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

T hey were on another dirt road with a grassy center stripe when Isa stopped Mirage. Sol's house was just out of view. To their right, an immense grassy pasture of Hereford cattle ran parallel to her brother's property. Junior reined in beside her, evening sunlight gleaming off his clean-shaven jaw. He'd paid a visit to the barber shop in Dogwood while she used the hotel's only bath, and the urge to kiss him had persisted since he'd returned to the hotel to collect her. She had posted a letter to Miss Pickney, and they'd made their way to her brother's house.

Several hugely pregnant cows lifted curious heads to watch them on the other side of the fence.

Junior and Isa's journey together was over.

"Come here. I want to do something," she said, nudging her horse closer to Champion. Mirage's black ears slung temperamentally back.

"Why?"

"Just do it." Impatiently, Isa leaned closer, her saddle creaking.

His mouth turned sweetly up as he did her bidding, and he leaned to meet her between their two uncomfortably close horses. "What happens on the trail, stays on the trail?" he asked, his voice deep. Compelling.

Isa pulled her hat off and grabbed him by the jaw. In response, he cupped the back of her neck. Their lips met in a kiss that was at once hot and deep, as if he'd been waiting all day for the opportunity. His tongue thrust, a slow penetration, an even slower withdrawal. Dizzily, Isa wondered how she could begin a kiss just for him to effortlessly steal control away.

She pulled away, but Junior's hand on her neck prevented her from going far. His fingers flexed, massaging the delicate skin of her nape. The confident, languid touch spread all the way to her toes. The deep blue of his eyes burned. They asked: why?

"In the event we don't get another chance," she explained, lips damp, eyes glazed.

"In that case…" He brought her in for another toe-curling kiss.

SOL CAUGHT SIGHT of their horses riding in five minutes later, and he hollered so loudly that every horse, mule, and bovine came to attention. An old hound dog on the front porch clambered to his feet, baying at the intruders.

"Legs, is that you?" Sol shouted, abandoning the wagon wheel he'd been repairing. Isa's oldest brother was tall and whipcord lean with the broadest, most genuine smile in the whole world.

Her heart lifted, and she called, "Did you miss me?"

"Is water wet?" Sol started her way, paused, and peeked beneath the wagon bed. "Come out and say hello to your auntie."

Three heads poked out from beneath the buckboard: a dark-haired boy and two towheaded girls. The older children scurried out and ran toward Isa on long, skinny legs, a trait typical of Williams descent. The youngest, an ash-blonde toddler in a pinafore, lifted her hands and whined plaintively. Sol lifted her up high and settled her on his shoulders. Fatherhood suited Sol. He loved children with a fierceness they could sense. They flocked around him, begging for attention and the candy in his pockets.

"I'll take your satanic steed." Junior held a hand out for Mirage's reins.

"Thank you." Hoping her lips weren't as swollen as they felt, Isa handed them over and dismounted. She met her niece and nephew halfway across the yard. Sol jogged, the little one on his shoulders bouncing comically. The hound dog, Hog, trotted behind, his long, thin tail wagging.

"Timothy, Ally, how you two have grown!" Isa gasped, gathering the children in for a hug. "How old are you now?"

"Sixth!" Timothy lisped while Ally chirped, "Five!" Her blue eyes were the same shade as her mother's.

"Why, I hardly recognize you." Isa widened her eyes dramatically. "You were only knee-high to a grasshopper the last time I saw you. And now you're both a whole foot taller."

Sol pulled Isa up from her crouch and dragged her in for a hug. In her ear, he rasped, "Lord, where have you been? I got on my horse a few different times to see if you and dunderhead had gotten lost. Poppy had to stop me."

"Dunderhead?" Junior parroted. He led their horses and Red to the trough beside the well pump.

Isa squirmed out of Sol's crushing hug, discomfited by climbing guilt. "Our horses were stolen—"

"What?" Sol gaped at her.

"—and we had to waste a day getting them back because Navasota's law enforcement is as useless as tits on a boar."

"What are tit-th?" Timothy asked curiously from hip level.

Sol groaned. "You haven't been home two minutes, and already I'll be in trouble with the missus."

Isa grimaced and tugged on her niece's dirty bare foot, which had migrated over Sol's chest toward her face. "Hello, Autumn. You were just a baby when I last saw you." Perched like a canary on her daddy's shoulder, Autumn pulled her foot away shyly. Isa glanced toward the house. "How is Poppy? And the new baby? I'd like to meet her."

Washed in a paternal glow, Sol clapped Junior on the back with a beatific expression on his face and led them up front porch steps lined with carved pumpkins. They walked into the little Folk Victorian home with its cozy parlor and whimsical details while Sol rhapsodized how Poppy had delivered the newest edition without any trouble.

"The midwife got here in the nick of time," he said, pulling Autumn from his shoulders so she didn't bump her head on a doorway.

Poppy, small in stature with cinnamon hair and kind blue eyes, was in her back sewing room. A baby slept in a basket at her feet.

Sol poked his head in and said in a low, excited voice, "Look what the cat dragged in."

Fuller of face and figure from recent pregnancy, Poppy looked up from her mending. Shock drained her cheeks of color as she stood. "Isa, you're home! Sol, I told you she'd be here any day now. He's been pacing the yard since receiving Miss Pickney's wire."

Enduring another tight embrace, Isa winced over Poppy's shoulder. "I'm sorry for worrying you. Truly."

Behind them, Junior gave an account of the events of the past week, and Poppy mirrored Minnie's earlier gasps and little murmurs of disbelief. Meanwhile, Isa crouched over the basket. Something fuzzy and warm grew around her heart at the picture the newborn made in her cushion of blankets. Tiny rosebud lips made sucking motions. Silky hair glowed orange in the light from the little window.

Another perfect niece to love .

"She's beautiful, Poppy," Isa whispered, running the pad of her thumb from the bridge of her niece's upturned nose to the thatch of downy hair. The soft spot on the baby's head was like velvet; the tiny skull bones wouldn't fuse together until well after childbirth. Isa marveled at the phenomenon of the human body. She had never smelled anything better than a baby, not even Junior when he was freshly shaved.

"We named her Agatha," Poppy said.

"Agatha, how distinguished." As though summoned awake, Agatha scrunched her face and stirred, swiping her fist back and forth across a rooting mouth. Isa chuckled. "Looks like it's suppertime."

"It's always suppertime for this one," Poppy said wryly, crossing the room to bend and pick Agatha up. "She has her daddy's appetite."

"Her auntie's, too," Junior drawled, grinning at the way the babe's back arched in an enormous stretch. "Izzy was chewing on something the whole way here."

"And you smoked like a chimney." Isa childishly stuck her tongue out from behind Poppy's back. Autumn, perched on her daddy's hip, giggled.

ISA'S EYELIDS DROOPED after a supper that Sol had rustled up while Poppy fed the baby. She wondered if Junior was as dog-tired as she was. A glance at the pallet in the parlor revealed his stockinged feet sticking out of one end of the privacy screen he lay behind. Isa smiled the whole way upstairs. She had her own room, one that Poppy insisted they keep empty for Isa despite their growing family. Sol had built it with his sister in mind when she was sixteen, and its built-in bookshelves and lead casement window never failed to make her sigh with pleasure. Her sister-in-law's thoughtfulness was why Isa was closer to her than any of her blood sisters.

Poppy and her baby were curled on Isa's blue patterned Crazy Quilt when Isa opened her door, but upon seeing the younger woman's jaw-cracking yawn, the new mother made to slide off the bed. "I'll go so you can get some sleep."

"No, no." Isa rushed to the bed and curved a protective arm around Agatha's little body. "Stay a while. I haven't seen you in almost a year."

"If you insist." Poppy smiled. Faint blue crescents bruised her eyes, offset by the small lines creasing the corner of her eyes and mouth; being married to a man like Sol meant lots and lots of laughter.

"She is going to despise the nickname Sol gave her," Isa mused, stroking her niece's fiery fuzz. "Carrot Top. School children will tease her mercilessly."

"Perhaps. Did you dislike being called Legs?"

Isa sighed. "I've grown accustomed to it. I remember thinking it was a horse's name and would strike anyone who called me thus, but Sol was inexorable."

"That's an excellent word for him."

"It's how he got you to marry him."

Poppy laughed, and the baby jolted. "Your brother can be very stubborn and persuasive."

"When did you finally give in?" Isa asked seriously. Poppy had come to Dogwood for a summer visit, and Sol had pursued the young, widowed seamstress with dogged tenacity.

Kissing Agatha's crown, Poppy frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose I stopped resisting once I realized what a good person he is. Sol never lied or played me false; he was always who he claimed to be. He acted kind because he was kind. And he said he loved me because he did love me. The way he treats people… he's like an angel in disguise. It still shocks me that he's real." A film of tears magnified Poppy's eyes, and she wiped them away with her cuff, chuckling. "This happens every time I have a baby. I spring leaks."

Isa shuddered at the notion of being out of control of one's emotions. "He's always been that way. Cared for other's happiness. Even when I was little, he made time for me and made me feel special."

"Did you know that he rides to Lufkin every year?"

Isa stiffened. "To see Kat?"

"Yes." Poppy winced guiltily. "I'm not supposed to say anything. He gives your sister a gift and well wishes from the family. I think it's wonderful."

"I wasn't aware she was still alive." Isa pensively rubbed the tiny foot in her hand. "Does she ask after her children?"

Poppy hesitated. "She didn't used to. But, about three years ago, Sol said she started acting curious about Timothy."

"Not the others?" Isa and Sol's parents were currently raising Katherine's three other children.

"I cannot be sure."

"Ah." Isa sensed her friend's cautious diplomacy. Poppy's inherent mansuetude wouldn't permit cruelty, which meant Katherine never asked about the others. How disappointing.

"She asks about you, as well," Poppy added, still with that hesitation.

"Oh?" No one as Machiavellian as Katherine would ask about an estranged family member without reason.

"Sol tells her of all your accomplishments. How you went to college, that you're adept in mathematics…that you're beautiful."

Isa snorted and waved the latter away. Beautiful . What a lark!

Surprising Isa further, Poppy nudged her shoulder. "Of course you're beautiful. He even told Kat that you were more beautiful than she!"

Isa gawked. "What a thing to say to a woman whose beauty is the centerpiece of her existence!" Oh, Sol.

"She had asked." Poppy shrugged. "Kat had asked him not about your studies but if you had ended up pretty. So, he set her straight. You haven't grown up pretty—you have grown up beautiful."

Although secretly touched, Isa nonetheless scoffed, "Looks never last. It's your brain that makes you interesting."

The baby chose that moment to break wind, which made the two women break into furious giggles. Then, almost as if she were afraid to, Poppy asked, "Were you afraid when those men stole your horses that night?"

Isa settled to her back, thinking. "I didn't know what was happening at first. It was so dark, and they were quiet. Junior woke up before me and pulled his pistol. He told me to stay down, but I don't recall feeling worried." She stopped talking for fear that Poppy would hear how besotted she was.

"Hm."

"He's different," Isa blurted. "Have you noticed?"

"Yes, he's far happier. Almost the way he used to be." Poppy sounded genuinely glad at the fact.

"What?" Brows snapping together, Isa rolled on her side to see if Poppy was exaggerating. "He's moody as a wounded bear half the time. He certainly isn't half as fun as he used to be." She knew why, but did anyone else?

"On the contrary, today is the most I've seen him laugh since he joined the Texas Rangers."

Isa pondered this. She wished to confide in Poppy what she'd discovered about Junior, but it wasn't her secret to tell. Instead, she said quietly, "He was so different when he came to collect me at Miss Pickney's. Colder. I've badgered his old self out of him on occasion since then, but even so, I wonder what changed in him. I thought it was me."

A gentle hand settled on Isa's shoulder. "It wasn't you. He's come home while you were at college, and Sol and I noticed a change even then. Ben is especially worried. Sometimes, he and Sol will go out on the range and talk for hours, fretting."

Isa tried to suppress the relief she felt. "Did Junior ever tell Ben what could be wrong?"

"I don't believe so. Sol supposes it's just the rigors of upholding the law."

Ben would have plenty to say about the healed bullet wound in Junior's side and the hemialgia he occasionally experienced. Everyone knew Ben worried as if he were Junior's father instead of his brother. Isa squirmed in discomfort, knowing about Junior's dishonorable discharge. Why had Junior told her and not Ben?

"I think the difference in him now"—Poppy gathered up a fussing Agatha and rose from the bed—"is that you're home. I think that makes him happy."

They bid goodnight, and Isa was left alone in her room, wide awake and more confused than before.

"ISADORA, WHY HAVEN'T you married yet?"

Mrs. Williams and Isa wiped down jars of canned pears from their water bath. No one who looked at the two women would suspect that they were related. One was short, squat, and coarse-faced, and the other was tall, lean, and had long, fair hair—a stark contrast to the other's graying updo.

"And why would I ever wish to marry?" Isa asked evenly, polishing a lid with unnecessary force. The comfort of being in her small, run-down childhood home soured into something cagier. Wariness grew unbidden. She dearly wished Sol had joined her at their parent's sharecropper farm. Even Junior's irritating presence was preferable to being alone with her mother. Isa pondered how strange it was being away from Junior after several days of uninterrupted togetherness. He'd left Sol's house first thing that morning to visit his brother, and it felt…odd.

A noise Isa recognized better than her own name snorted from her mother's hooked nose. "I knew you was stubborn, but to tell your suitors ‘no' a dozen separate times? I don't know what goes on in that head o' yours, child. It's best to accept one of those offers afore that bloom of youth is gone."

"Why does everyone keep expanding upon the number of men who have asked my hand in marriage?" Isa mused aloud.

Mrs. Williams wasn't listening. "Bein' an old maid is fine and good if you're an ugly woman, but you're not. You got lots to offer a man."

"Because of my face ?" The object in question scrunched as though it had sucked on a lemon. Isa popped her mother's broad backside with her polishing towel. The older woman yelped and made a threatening lunge for the broom, but Isa was already dancing away. "What does any man have to offer me ?"

"I knew it would come to that," Mrs. Williams moaned. "Can't say as I'm surprised you'd need some man to invent the wheel before you'd consider him."

Amused, Isa tucked several jars between arm and bosom and strode to the dry larder, her mother clucking for her to be careful. "Maybe I'll choose a man the way men choose women. A suitor with no brains, just a pretty face. If I'm lucky, he'll be rich as well."

From across the kitchen's worn, sagging floor, Mrs. Williams muttered, "Money ain't everything." Then, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you just described that young rascal, John Junior."

Isa almost dropped a jar. Luckily, the dark room hid her fumbling. "Him? Ha! He'd make a terrible husband."

Mrs. Williams cackled. "And you think you're such a fine catch? Half the time, you can't decide if you're a man or a woman. Goin' to college, ridin' astride, scrappin' in the dirt with your cousins and brothers. 'Sides. That one's already taken. You'd better pray the Stones have another brother holed up somewhere."

"What do you mean, ‘That one's already taken'?"

The woman was truly disturbed to mistake the eldest Stone brother for the youngest. Isa's mother acted more and more like Granny every year, Lord rest her soul. But Mrs. Williams had turned a deaf ear. Her skirt hem swayed as she bent to dig into the cluttered cupboard, grousing and banging pots and pans.

"Ma!" Isa shouted from the larder's doorway. "Junior isn't ‘taken.' You know better than to spread untruths." Gossip was the better word for it, but her mother pretended she never partook in such an unchristian pastime.

"Sure is!" Mrs. William's voice echoed in the cabinet, and her grunt was loud when she straightened. "Since his visit this summer, accordin' to Poppy. His ma's been crowin' to everyone about Miss Kristy something-or-other. Hear she's a pretty little thing, too. Don't think our Poppy approves of her."

Isa's mother continued in this vein until all the jars were in neat rows in the dry larder and cupboards. Meanwhile, Isa worked soundlessly. It felt like she'd been knocked upside the head with a frying pan, dumb to everything but the sound of her mother's droning voice. By the time her pa and cousins came in from planting greens and root vegetables in the field, Isa knew everything about Junior's fiancée, from the many bows she wore on her dresses, to the frequency of her church outings with Mrs. Loretta Stone. Junior's mother had taken one look at the girl's southern belle pedigree and was smitten, pulling her beneath the wing of the Stone name. As per the grapevine, Junior was never home long enough to properly court his fiancée, so the wedding had no set date.

And Poppy knew.

Why had her sister-in-law not said anything? They had talked about Junior at length last night. It would have been a perfect opening for this type of juicy information. And Lucy, with all her letters. Why hadn't her friend written of this news in all their weeks of correspondence?

Outwardly, Isa was cool as a cucumber. She teased her cousins playfully when they entered the kitchen, laughed at her father's favorite jokes, and caught up with the family until the sun began to sink lower in the sky. When it was time to leave, she hugged her tall, skinny pa's neck and pecked her mother's cheek. A smile was carved as deeply into Isa's face as one of the jack-o'-lanterns on Sol's porch.

The broad smile slid off like butter in a hot pan during the ride back to her brother's house.

Junior had made no mention of a fiancée during their week-long journey home. He had kissed her. Touched her. Held her. Even told her his deepest secret whilst acting every part the available bachelor.

Yes, but he'll never be available for you, will he?

Mirage's ears twitched back as if sensing her rider's tumultuous mood.

God .

Why was history repeating itself? Hadn't Isa sworn to never feel so downtrodden and lovesick again? There were rocks in her belly, so she reined in and dismounted. She strode to the expansive pasture of Hereford cattle, clenching her stomach with her hands the whole way. It was close to the site of that last forbidden kiss. Sickened by the reminder, Isa hitched the black Arabian's reins to a fencepost and tried to control her breathing. Fingers digging hard into her stays, Isa paced the fence line.

"Pull yourself together, Williams," she said through spasms from belly to chest. "You have endured it before. You can do so again."

She would speak sense into existence.

After a minute, Isa's heart began to calm. After five, her breathing evened. Deepened. There we are , she told herself, relieved that she wouldn't have an apoplexy right there on the road. Her science professor—the one who had so admired her brain—had recently written to her about the newfound concept of muscle memory, a theory of how the brain retrieves and stores information. With repetition and continued practice, a muscular movement will become more efficient. Much like aiming and shooting at a target. Or riding a horse. Could falling out of love with Junior become easier the second time around? An evoked muscle memory? At sixteen, it had been nearly impossible.

One simple truth had forced the agonizing feelings into submission.

"Loving him means wanting the best for him," she whispered aloud. "Even when he's a damned, cowardly liar ."

Isa stood beside the field for endless minutes, thinking. Beneath her manufactured strength was a simmering rage. She tamped it cruelly down.

Had he promised himself to her?

No .

Had he told a lie?

A lie by omission is still a lie.

And Poppy had known. That hurt nearly as much as Junior's deceit. Isa's brain whirred, straining to make sense of these unnervingly strong emotions. If she wasn't in love with him, she wouldn't feel so betrayed. But she wasn't in love with him. Was she?

There was no reprieve from these looping, miring thoughts. There were no answers. Not even when the birdsong stopped and the crickets began.