[Troublesome Creek 01] - Troublesome Creek by Jan Watson Page B

whack against the bench would send the beady-eyed, nosy little creature scurrying away. Lastly, she propped the door open so the sun and breeze could freshen and dry the toilet.
    She dreaded the thought of more work waiting for her back at the house. The porch needed mopping; the steps needed scouring. And the rinse water needed emptying into the barrel kept to store water clean enough to use again for baths or to clean the house. Nothing was wasted.
    As she worked, Copper pondered things she’d heard Mam and Daddy say. She’d caught snippets of conversation before— “finishing school,” “old enough,” “better for her,” and the dreadful “young lady”—but she’d always thought Daddy’s will would prevail. She’d never fretted about it. But since her fifteenth birthday, things had subtly shifted. She was afraid Mam was wearing Daddy down.
    She was glad she’d met with John last night. He would help her find a place to hide out when she needed it. One thing was sure and it grew surer as each day passed: Copper Brown was not going to boarding school. She was not leaving Troublesome Creek.

     
    A hint of fall tinted the air the next day when Copper went out to milk. She was sure she could smell burning leaves, though they were just beginning to turn, and the early morning air had a crispness about it, but that wouldn’t last much past sunup. It was so quiet she could hear the creek burbling down its bed, and the mountains that surrounded their cabin stood like noble sentries, guarding her day. Oh, she loved this place.
    Her favorite Scripture played like a familiar melody in her mind: “Even them will I bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer.” She couldn’t wait to get up there where the morning’s hush would surround her with peace so palpable you could wear it like a shawl.
    She found her cow at the stable door waiting for breakfast. “Come on, Molly.” She pestered the fat cow, holding her feed bucket just out of reach, making the lazy animal enter the stall before she got a bite. “That’s a good girl. Have some.”
    Molly licked the corners of the grain box with her big rough tongue, enjoying every morsel of her breakfast, then nibbled at the hay sticking out of the manger before leaning her head against it and falling asleep. The cow snored like a man. There was something hypnotic about the pull and swish of milking: the same movements over and over ’til all four teats were stripped, Molly’s udder was empty, and the bucket was full.
    Copper patted the cow’s round, fawn-colored side. She remembered the malicious Beulah who would wait until the milking was nearly done, then shift her weight and stick one manure-clotted foot right in the bucket or swing her tail hate-fully, catching Copper upside her face. She’d take Molly over Beulah anytime, especially today, when she was in a hurry to finish her morning chores. She had to act as if she wasn’t, though, as if it were any other Tuesday.
    She carried her full bucket to the springhouse. Daddy’s daddy had built it out of thick blocks of limestone over a spring that bubbled up icy cold from the ground; it was always cool. There were square openings in the stone floor through which you could lower the milk or whatever else needed to be kept cold into the water below.
    She poured the milk through a strainer into another bucket, tapped the lid on, hung the bucket on a rope, then gently lowered it into the water. They always had fresh milk, plenty of butter and cheese, and every third day, Mam gave the milk to whoever came to the door for it. Aggravated as she was with Mam, Copper had to admit that she was awfully good to people. She kept a little purse tucked away in the chiffonier and every so often, when Brother Isaac—who had taken over the pulpit when his father, Nathan, died not long after he had returned from Lexington with this teaching certificate—told her of a need, she’d take it out and press