Daisies In The Wind (22 page)

No wonder Wolf Bodine is taking her to the
dance tonight, Rebeccah thought in dismay. She must be the most
sought-after young woman in the territory.

Well, fine. They will make a charming
couple.

And I am going with that oaf, Waylon
Pritchard.

She suppressed a sudden urge to both laugh
and cry at the same time. How did she come to this perfectly
abominable state of affairs?

It took her nearly an hour to complete all of
her purchases, what with people talking to her, asking her
questions, advising her about how to deal with this pupil or that
one, and informing her about who was preparing which refreshments
to be served at the dance that evening, and on and on until at last
she made her escape, lugging her parcels out to the buckboard. She
could not stop reflecting on the friendliness with which she’d been
treated. After all the warnings Wolf Bodine had thrown at her about
what to expect, she had never dreamed of this kind of
acceptance.

Then she remembered something Abigail
Pritchard had said: Wolf Bodine had spoken on her behalf. Caitlin
had told her the same thing. Between his backing and Caitlin’s, and
Abigail Pritchard’s vocal approval in the store today, the citizens
of Powder Creek were responding with warmth and welcome.

After being alone at boarding school nearly
all her life, accustomed to lonely isolation, Rebeccah hadn’t quite
known how to respond to all their questions and remarks and advice,
but she had smiled and nodded and tried to listen to everyone at
once. Her head was spinning by the time she set out for home, but
there was a curious warm spot in the center of her heart.

At precisely seven o’clock that evening
Waylon Pritchard drove into her front yard in a fancy buckboard
drawn by two high-stepping matched gray mares. Rebeccah watched
from behind her new blue lace curtains as he clambered out and the
wind blew his hat off his head. He reclaimed it from the grass and,
scowling, dusted it off on his pants leg. His expensive Sunday-best
suit, derby, and polished shoes could not disguise the burly
oafishness of his appearance, nor the obvious reluctance with which
he stomped up to her front door. Rebeccah drew back from the
window, stifling a giggle.

If ever a man looked like he wanted to be
anywhere else on earth but here, Waylon Pritchard looked that way
right now.

She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. His
mother had obviously compelled him to be her escort tonight, no
doubt much against his will.
I’ll try to be gentle with you,
Mr. Pritchard
, she promised silently as she patted her upswept
hair.

The delicate muslin of her peach skirt
rustled as she opened the door in response to his one short knock.
For a moment as he took in her elegant appearance, the grim look
faded from his large, slack-jawed face. His eyes actually widened
with appreciation, and he swept off his hat in a hasty gesture.

“You look right pretty, ma’am,” he said, and
then his eyebrows swooped down, and he peered out anxiously at her,
as though expecting her to make some viciously unkind remark in
response.

Rebeccah remembered the tongue-lashing she’d
given him in town that first day and decided it would be cruel to
intimidate him any further. He was obviously a victim of his
parents’ strong wills as it was. “Well, thank you, Mr. Pritchard,”
she replied in her mildest tone. “You look quite presentable
too.”

He smiled tentatively at this promising
beginning. “We’d best go, or we’ll be late and miss the Virginia
Reel,” he said, and once more peered at her suspiciously, in
anticipation of some stinging retort.

Rebeccah nodded. “Dear me, we wouldn’t want
to miss that.”

It was a misty night, with no moon or stars
visible, and a light breeze, which tickled the back of Rebeccah’s
neck as they drove along. She had pinned her hair up in a high
chignon, leaving only a few dark tendrils curling daintily about
her face, and the cool breeze felt good above the soft lace of her
shawl. She and Waylon made polite conversation, mostly about his
brother’s medical ambitions, his family’s ranch, and the rigors of
shipping cattle to the eastern marketplace, but as the rig pulled
up before the schoolhouse, alongside dozens of wagons and
buckboards and buggies, he suddenly leaned forward with an
anguished moan, stared hard at a couple walking across the open
grass, and then cried, “I don’t want to go!”

Startled, Rebeccah gaped at him. Then she
followed the direction of his glance and saw a young woman with
pale hair and a bright red dress sashaying into the schoolhouse on
the arm of a red-headed cowboy.

“Who is she?”

“Coral.” He bit the name out tragically.
“Coral Mae Taggett. My sweetheart.” Waylon groaned and snatched his
derby off his head in a furious motion. He began squashing it in
his big, calloused hands and grinding his teeth at the same time.
“Why is she doing this to me? She no more wants to be here with
that pompous weasel, Clyde Tyler, than I do with y—” Here he broke
off, coloring furiously.

“You are by far the rudest, most
addle-brained lout of a simpleton—” Rebeccah exclaimed, but as an
abjectly miserable expression settled into every crease of his
bristly face, she stopped herself.

“Oh, never mind!”

To her disgust Waylon Pritchard still
appeared ready to burst into tears. “Don’t give it another
thought.” She sighed, and without thinking, reached out to pat his
hand. “I know perfectly well that your mother forced you to escort
me to this stupid dance. But why in heaven’s name didn’t you just
stand up to her and say no? And why didn’t you ask Coral in the
first place, if she means that much to you?”

Waylon’s head drooped. He covered his face
with his hands and spoke through thick fingers. “You don’t
understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” she ordered, curbing
her impatience with an effort.

“My ma and pa both think Coral is beneath me.
Because she works as a dance-hall girl at the Gold Bar Saloon.” He
tore his fingers away from his face and peered at Rebeccah with
earnest, miserable eyes. “But she’s not bad or indecent, as Ma
always says. She’s not! She’d like to quit, but she makes more
money serving drinks and dancing with the men than she could
working as a clerk in the feed mill or a maid at the hotel, and she
needs money because she has a little sister living with relatives
back in Missouri, and if she doesn’t keep sending money, they won’t
be able to afford to keep her, and ... and I’d like to marry Coral
and have her little sister come live with us so I could take care
of both of them but ... but ...”

“Yes?” Rebeccah prodded, her eyes intent.
“Why don’t you do it, then?”

“Because Ma and Pa won’t let me!” he burst
out.

She sat back and slowly shook her head.
“Waylon Pritchard,” she said softly, “you are by far the most ...”
She drew in a deep breath. A tongue-lashing wouldn’t do. He was
weak and timid and wholly browbeaten by his parents. What he needed
was to be bucked up, not torn down. “Waylon,” she continued more
mildly, “you’re a grown man. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Then you’re old enough to do what you think
is best. If you love Coral and you want to marry her, just go ahead
and do it. No one can stop you.”

“They’ll be mad at me.”

“So? They’ll get over it when they see that
it’s not going to make you change your mind. And if they don’t ...
well, would you rather live at the Triple Star all your life with
your ma and pa? Or worse, marry some woman they select for you,
someone you don’t care a plug nickel for? Or would you rather be
with Coral?”

“Coral says the same things,” he muttered
heavily. “But it wouldn’t be easy. I’d have to move out and find
work as a hand on someone else’s ranch. I wouldn’t be able to buy
Coral any of those fancy fripperies she likes or pretty baubles
like I always bring her.”

“Do you think that’s what Coral cares about?
More than being with you?”

“Why, no, I didn’t think that. At least not
until now.” He scowled bitterly in the direction of the
schoolhouse, from which boisterous music poured out into the
pine-scented night. “But if she’s willing to come to this dance
with Clyde Tyler, maybe she doesn’t really love me at all.”

Rebeccah sighed. “I’ll wager she’s mad at you
for bringing me and not her. Did you tell her you were going
to?”

He nodded, still scowling.

“Was she furious?”

“She threw all them pretty wildflowers I
brought her straight at my head.”

“Waylon Pritchard, what you need to do is
march straight into that schoolhouse and ask Coral Mae Taggett to
dance.”

“Right in front of everyone?”

“Right in front of everyone.”

“But Ma and Pa will be there!”

She gritted her teeth in frustration. One
glance at his shocked face and darting, anxious eyes destroyed the
rest of her patience. “Fine,” she snapped, and hitched her shawl
across her shoulders. She didn’t wait for him to assist her from
the buckboard, but jumped lightly down by herself. “Then I suggest
you go stand in a corner somewhere and wring your hands all evening
while you watch Coral dance with Clyde Tyler. Don’t expect me to
dance with you, either, because I won’t stand up with a man who’s
too scared to stand up for himself,” she flung at him, and began
stalking toward the schoolhouse.

Waylon hurried to catch up with her. “You’ve
got a danged ugly temper for such a pretty gal,” he sputtered as he
pulled open the schoolhouse door for her.

“Thank you!” she shot over her shoulder, and
Waylon wasn’t sure if she was thanking him for his comment or for
holding open the door.

The long, solemn room with its desks, stools,
maps, blackboard, and teacher’s desk had been transformed into a
gaily festooned dance hall rollicking with festivity. A table
draped with a checkered cloth had been set up along one wall, and
it held platters of cakes and pies and cookies, pitchers of
lemonade, homemade cherry brandy, and huckleberry wine. Brightly
colored ginghams and calicos spun in a dazzling blur as the floor
vibrated with dancers. The whirling, stomping couples in their
Sunday best cavorted with more spirit than grace to the fiddlers’
soaring tune, and amid laughter and shouts and the buzz of excited
talk, everyone looked happy, busy, and lighthearted.

Rebeccah at once spotted Coral and Clyde
Tyler spinning across the crowded floor. She studied the girl
closely. Beneath Coral’s vibrant smile and the determined batting
of her eyelashes, she detected pallor, and an air of forced
gaiety.

Waylon Pritchard, you couldn’t see the
Mississippi River if it was coursing up over your knees
, she
thought in disgust. And then she heard Waylon’s voice at her
elbow.

“All right, I’m going to do it. Just like you
said, Miss Rawlings. I’m going to ask her to dance in front of
everyone.”

Before she could offer a word of
encouragement (and before he could lose his nerve), Waylon darted
across the room, shouldering his way through the dancers, and
pounded the red-haired cowboy’s shoulder with his fist. Then
suddenly Clyde was searching for a new partner, and Waylon and
Coral twirled by, holding tightly to each other. Their gazes were
locked on each other’s faces with such rapt expressions that
suddenly, unexpectedly, Rebeccah felt her throat tighten with
emotion.

Then someone was tapping her on the shoulder,
and she spun around, startled into a reaction of instinctive
fear.

“Whoa, sweet thing, don’t look so scared,” a
slender, dark-haired man said, catching her chin in his hand. He
swept his wide-brimmed Stetson off his head with his other hand and
grinned at her. “A lady as lovely as you should never be without a
dancing partner,” he continued gaily. “Won’t you let me fix that
right now?”

He had wavy black hair, magnetic, solidly
handsome features, and incredibly beautiful eyes of a clear
moss-green hue. Over his right shoulder, she saw Wolf Bodine near
the window, looking relaxed, nonchalant, and vividly handsome as he
leaned forward to listen intently to something Nel Westerly was
saying to him.

“I’d be delighted,” she heard herself
muttering grimly, and then she was whisked into a strong grip and
swept across the floor to the tune of “Turkey in the Straw,” and
she had no more time to dwell on the tight pain that squeezed her
heart.

Images rushed by in a blur: Caitlin Bodine,
seated on a ladder-back chair, clapping in time to the music; Billy
Bodine, Joey Brady, and some other boys playing a wild game of tag
among the chattering onlookers; Culley and Abigail Pritchard eyeing
the dance floor in frozen displeasure; Myrtle Lee Anderson stuffing
a wedge of pie into her mouth. Dozens of other faces swirled by,
but she didn’t see and didn’t want to see Wolf Bodine and Nel
Westerly side by side together.

She was out of breath when the dance ended,
her cheeks glowing above the white lace collar of her peach gown.
Her dancing partner—she didn’t even know his name—lightly held her
elbow and guided her off the crowded dance floor and over to the
table where refreshments were served.

“For you, the prettiest lady here,” he said,
handing her a glass of huckleberry wine.

“You’re too kind, Mr. ...”

“Call me Chance.”

“Chance?”

He nodded, took a deep drink of the wine, and
grinned at her, his teeth flashing very white and straight in his
sun-bronzed, boyish face. The green eyes danced. “Chance
Navarro.”

“An unusual name.”

He was watching her sip her wine, smiling a
little. “Yup. I made it up. Like the sound of it, I reckon.”

“What was wrong with your real name, Mr.
Navarro?”

“You ask a lot of questions for such a pretty
lady, Miss Rawlings,” he drawled.