snuggle under her covers. How can we do this without help, Jesus? We need your help.
Smokey’s ears twitched as they passed along the side of the house alerting Weston that he had missed something. Was that a bird? No, it sounded like a dove, but it was sustained. No bird sang like that. The music led him to an open window above him. He didn’t stare, worried that Rosa might appear and see him—or that he might see more of her than he intended. He steered Smokey under the oak tree, where he couldn’t see or be seen and lingered to listen to the auditory salve, to let his prayers join the chorus of praise currently underway. What he had to say couldn’t compete in meaning or beauty, but maybe his prayers would be accepted as part of the harmony.
The heavy drops of rain caught in the giant leaves fell with every breeze. He’d been granted a private concert. Sorrow welled up with the lifting of the melody, wringing out his every pain and letting it drip away.
But as painful as the message was, there was resolution. Hope floated in the final notes before they faded, and the square of warm light went dark for the night. He sat, relishing the shared solitude, and wondered how she knew the song in his heart.
10
D IRT UNDER HER FINGERNAILS, dress sodden at the knees, Rosa knelt and fingered the battered seedlings. The lanky sprouts bent double, but they weren’t broken. A few more days of brilliant sunshine like this one promised to be and they would bypass their former height without a doubt.
“The chickens seem to have come out ahead.” Louise plodded through the marshy yard, wiping her hands on the faded gingham apron. “They didn’t fancy that storm, but with all the earthworms it uncovered, they’re enjoying the feast. How are the crops?”
Rosa shrugged. “I don’t see any roots exposed or many stems broken, so there was probably no harm done. They’re still green. They’ll pop back up, no?” She scanned the long rows she had hoed, proud of the tangles of emerald spreading in the median of each. Their work was paying off, but would it be enough?
“I wonder how George and Mary fared.” Louise pulled broken limbs to a burn pile.
Rosa did too. She headed toward the dilapidated picket fence to help Louise dislodge a large tree limb that had fallen in the night. With a grunt and a step backward, they disentangled the branch, the sudden release causing both to stumble a few feet.
“I don’t know. Come to think of it, I’m surprised Mary hasn’t sent George over to check on us, but he’s probably got his hands full tending Wes’s sheep this morning. They’re likely scattered to the four winds.”
Rosa removed the broken twigs protruding from between the slats. “Why are Weston’s sheep on Uncle George’s farm? It is Uncle George’s farm, isn’t it?”
Straightening, Louise craned her back in what looked to be a satisfying stretch before answering. “Yes, it’s their farm, but just barely. According to Mary, they came close to losing it a few years ago when the property taxes jumped clear to the moon. They scrimped enough greenbacks together to pay them, and George set out to Lockhart with the money, but it never made it.”
“Was he robbed?” Rosa had heard that Texas after the war had been a dangerous place.
“Yes, but it was legal.” Louise shook her head. “Seems that George had developed a taste for poker while in the brigade. He hadn’t had much chance to play since then, and all that money was just burning a hole in his pocket.”
Rosa started to express her shock, but Louise quickly amended, “I don’t want you to think poorly of George. He’s a good man. We’ve all got our weaknesses, and evidently gambling is his. But how was Mary to know? He rarely went to town, so it hadn’t come up before. I’ve known him my whole adult life and would have never thought it of him.
“So, to make a long story short, Wes leased their ranch from them. He took the lease money to the
Smokey’s ears twitched as they passed along the side of the house alerting Weston that he had missed something. Was that a bird? No, it sounded like a dove, but it was sustained. No bird sang like that. The music led him to an open window above him. He didn’t stare, worried that Rosa might appear and see him—or that he might see more of her than he intended. He steered Smokey under the oak tree, where he couldn’t see or be seen and lingered to listen to the auditory salve, to let his prayers join the chorus of praise currently underway. What he had to say couldn’t compete in meaning or beauty, but maybe his prayers would be accepted as part of the harmony.
The heavy drops of rain caught in the giant leaves fell with every breeze. He’d been granted a private concert. Sorrow welled up with the lifting of the melody, wringing out his every pain and letting it drip away.
But as painful as the message was, there was resolution. Hope floated in the final notes before they faded, and the square of warm light went dark for the night. He sat, relishing the shared solitude, and wondered how she knew the song in his heart.
10
D IRT UNDER HER FINGERNAILS, dress sodden at the knees, Rosa knelt and fingered the battered seedlings. The lanky sprouts bent double, but they weren’t broken. A few more days of brilliant sunshine like this one promised to be and they would bypass their former height without a doubt.
“The chickens seem to have come out ahead.” Louise plodded through the marshy yard, wiping her hands on the faded gingham apron. “They didn’t fancy that storm, but with all the earthworms it uncovered, they’re enjoying the feast. How are the crops?”
Rosa shrugged. “I don’t see any roots exposed or many stems broken, so there was probably no harm done. They’re still green. They’ll pop back up, no?” She scanned the long rows she had hoed, proud of the tangles of emerald spreading in the median of each. Their work was paying off, but would it be enough?
“I wonder how George and Mary fared.” Louise pulled broken limbs to a burn pile.
Rosa did too. She headed toward the dilapidated picket fence to help Louise dislodge a large tree limb that had fallen in the night. With a grunt and a step backward, they disentangled the branch, the sudden release causing both to stumble a few feet.
“I don’t know. Come to think of it, I’m surprised Mary hasn’t sent George over to check on us, but he’s probably got his hands full tending Wes’s sheep this morning. They’re likely scattered to the four winds.”
Rosa removed the broken twigs protruding from between the slats. “Why are Weston’s sheep on Uncle George’s farm? It is Uncle George’s farm, isn’t it?”
Straightening, Louise craned her back in what looked to be a satisfying stretch before answering. “Yes, it’s their farm, but just barely. According to Mary, they came close to losing it a few years ago when the property taxes jumped clear to the moon. They scrimped enough greenbacks together to pay them, and George set out to Lockhart with the money, but it never made it.”
“Was he robbed?” Rosa had heard that Texas after the war had been a dangerous place.
“Yes, but it was legal.” Louise shook her head. “Seems that George had developed a taste for poker while in the brigade. He hadn’t had much chance to play since then, and all that money was just burning a hole in his pocket.”
Rosa started to express her shock, but Louise quickly amended, “I don’t want you to think poorly of George. He’s a good man. We’ve all got our weaknesses, and evidently gambling is his. But how was Mary to know? He rarely went to town, so it hadn’t come up before. I’ve known him my whole adult life and would have never thought it of him.
“So, to make a long story short, Wes leased their ranch from them. He took the lease money to the
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