picture of Mr. Thornton in his long, dark coat seated in front of Miss Offenbacher’s desk. That scene flashed up again and again, and with it always came the same quick flicker of nightmare terror as when, at first glimpse, the man had looked so much like Georgie’s Mr. Bean.
Other images stirred up other feelings. The feeling of hope when he had first seen the Thorntons’ big, old tree-sheltered house. And the bewildered excitement that had flared when Hy stumbled out of the cabin. Dusty old Hy with his tumbleweed hair, broken leg, and leathery face. A face that had caused one of those vibrations that promised, but didn’t always produce, a buried memory. But with Hy the memory had burst free, and Gib had known for sure and certain that he had not only seen this man before but also heard that creaky voice and strange honking laugh.
Other pictures ... the huge old barn with its four horses. Its four beautiful horses. Thinking about the horses, Gib shivered even though the night was warm and there were plenty of blankets on the squeaky cot.
And then there was the mouthwatering image of the Thorntons’ kitchen with its long table loaded down with wonderful food. Oven-roasted meat and fresh vegetables and freshly baked bread. And peach pie for dessert. Never in his life had Gib eaten anything so delicious as that thick slab of peach pie. Full as he was now, he still enjoyed reliving the eating, tasting all of it over and over again in his imagination and comparing it to the grainy soups or mushy stews that, along with a slice of bread, were all there was to a Lovell House supper.
The kitchen scene went on and on, around the table and back again. Mr. Thornton first, gray-bearded, dark-suited Mr. Thornton, who sat at the head of the table and read a paper and spoke very little. And then the beautiful lady in the thronelike wheelchair, who, just as Gib had guessed, was Mrs. Thornton.
Mrs. Julia Thornton, who had grown up here on the Thornton land when it was the Rocking M Ranch, and who had owned and ridden the black mare. And who smiled at Gib every time she noticed him staring.
During the meal Mrs. Thornton and the other women, Mrs. Perry, the cook, and the tall gray one, whose name was Miss Hooper, had done almost all of the talking. Quiet talk, mostly about things like a church supper that was being planned and a new batch of baby chicks that had hatched that morning.
There were vivid mind pictures, too, of the girl called Livy—or sometimes Olivia. Seen at the other end of the table, without the element of shocked surprise that had accompanied her sudden appearance at the cabin door, she had at first seemed rather elegant, too. Or interesting, anyway. Interestingly unlike anything Gib had ever imagined in his daydream families. The girls he had pictured had tended to be vaguely shy and pale, not at all like this head-tossing, high-spirited person with her frowning dark blue eyes.
During dinner Gib had watched her cautiously from time to time, but whenever she saw him looking she frowned and tossed her head in a way that jiggled her big white hair ribbon and the thick mass of brown curls that hung down her back. She didn’t say anything to him, though. Most of the time she didn’t say anything to anyone, but now and then she talked to the women, particularly when they were discussing the baby chicks.
“I helped one of them hatch,” she’d said. “Its shell had a sticky skin inside it that wouldn’t break and the chick couldn’t get out so I peeled a little of it off and it came out all wet and sticky and—” She broke off suddenly, looking at her father, who was frowning at her over the top of his paper.
“Olivia,” he said sharply, and then, turning to the gray-haired woman, he went on, “Miss Hooper, don’t you agree that discussions of such barnyard procedures are hardly appropriate during a meal? Perhaps a lesson on suitable dinnertime conversation would be in order.”
“Yes,” Miss Hooper
Other images stirred up other feelings. The feeling of hope when he had first seen the Thorntons’ big, old tree-sheltered house. And the bewildered excitement that had flared when Hy stumbled out of the cabin. Dusty old Hy with his tumbleweed hair, broken leg, and leathery face. A face that had caused one of those vibrations that promised, but didn’t always produce, a buried memory. But with Hy the memory had burst free, and Gib had known for sure and certain that he had not only seen this man before but also heard that creaky voice and strange honking laugh.
Other pictures ... the huge old barn with its four horses. Its four beautiful horses. Thinking about the horses, Gib shivered even though the night was warm and there were plenty of blankets on the squeaky cot.
And then there was the mouthwatering image of the Thorntons’ kitchen with its long table loaded down with wonderful food. Oven-roasted meat and fresh vegetables and freshly baked bread. And peach pie for dessert. Never in his life had Gib eaten anything so delicious as that thick slab of peach pie. Full as he was now, he still enjoyed reliving the eating, tasting all of it over and over again in his imagination and comparing it to the grainy soups or mushy stews that, along with a slice of bread, were all there was to a Lovell House supper.
The kitchen scene went on and on, around the table and back again. Mr. Thornton first, gray-bearded, dark-suited Mr. Thornton, who sat at the head of the table and read a paper and spoke very little. And then the beautiful lady in the thronelike wheelchair, who, just as Gib had guessed, was Mrs. Thornton.
Mrs. Julia Thornton, who had grown up here on the Thornton land when it was the Rocking M Ranch, and who had owned and ridden the black mare. And who smiled at Gib every time she noticed him staring.
During the meal Mrs. Thornton and the other women, Mrs. Perry, the cook, and the tall gray one, whose name was Miss Hooper, had done almost all of the talking. Quiet talk, mostly about things like a church supper that was being planned and a new batch of baby chicks that had hatched that morning.
There were vivid mind pictures, too, of the girl called Livy—or sometimes Olivia. Seen at the other end of the table, without the element of shocked surprise that had accompanied her sudden appearance at the cabin door, she had at first seemed rather elegant, too. Or interesting, anyway. Interestingly unlike anything Gib had ever imagined in his daydream families. The girls he had pictured had tended to be vaguely shy and pale, not at all like this head-tossing, high-spirited person with her frowning dark blue eyes.
During dinner Gib had watched her cautiously from time to time, but whenever she saw him looking she frowned and tossed her head in a way that jiggled her big white hair ribbon and the thick mass of brown curls that hung down her back. She didn’t say anything to him, though. Most of the time she didn’t say anything to anyone, but now and then she talked to the women, particularly when they were discussing the baby chicks.
“I helped one of them hatch,” she’d said. “Its shell had a sticky skin inside it that wouldn’t break and the chick couldn’t get out so I peeled a little of it off and it came out all wet and sticky and—” She broke off suddenly, looking at her father, who was frowning at her over the top of his paper.
“Olivia,” he said sharply, and then, turning to the gray-haired woman, he went on, “Miss Hooper, don’t you agree that discussions of such barnyard procedures are hardly appropriate during a meal? Perhaps a lesson on suitable dinnertime conversation would be in order.”
“Yes,” Miss Hooper
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