“Guess you ain’t never heard a hard to get,” Mourning muttered as Jeremy
disappeared into the dark.
Olivia did not respond.
“That talk about makin’ a hames – that ’nother one a them Irish things?”
Mourning asked as he rose.
“I guess so. I never heard that one before, but it must be.” She turned away to
clear up the dishes and then scooped up some ashes from the edge of the fire for
scouring the frying pans.
“I gotta get to diggin’ a garbage pit,” Mourning said, more to himself than to
her. “Now that we lucky ’nuff we got garbage.” He rose and stretched. “You get
some water boilin’ while I finish butcherin’ that animal.”
Olivia built up the fire, filled the two biggest pots with water, and wandered
about with a lantern searching for rocks large enough to hold the meat under the
brine. Neither she nor Mourning was inclined to conversation. When they had
finally finished with the meat, Olivia said good night, left her dress in a heap on
the floor, pulled her nightdress on, and collapsed onto her bed. She lay looking
up at the dark clouds and feeling vaguely angry with Jeremy, though she could
find no justification for this emotion. He had behaved like the perfect neighbor –
seen that they needed help and stayed to offer his. Had even brought them a gift.
So why did she feel so insulted?
He must have a lady friend. So why couldn’t he just say so? Nothing would
be easier than tossing her into the conversation. “Me and my girl don’t plan to
farm.” “My girl really loves riding Ernest.” Then it would be different. Olivia would know. She wouldn’t be left thinking that she must be so ugly, boring, or
stupid that he wouldn’t give her a second look, not even out here, in the middle
of nowhere.
Lord in heaven, how many girls were there for him to choose from? If she
were the last one on earth, would he still pay her no mind? Why? What did he
think was wrong with her? He’d never heard of Crazy Nola June or Old Man
Killion whoring with Jettie Place.
The air had turned cold. Shoot, why was she losing sleep over some stupid
man with a chest like a chicken? There was hardly anything left of the night and
they had so much to do tomorrow. Mourning said they had to get the rest of the
roof on. She snuggled under the comforter and fell into a restless sleep.
A loud clap of thunder awakened her, just as a light sprinkle turned into a downpour. She was soaked before she got out of bed. She grabbed the wet
bedding and tried to wad it up on the narrow kitchen counter, which was under
the finished part of the roof, but her quilt fell to the floor. She picked it up and
even in the dark could see the muddy streaks. How would she ever get it clean?
It wouldn’t even fit into the wash tub.
Where was Mourning? Had he taken the wagon into the barn? The rain let up
a little and she peeked out the door, but could see nothing. “Mourning!” she shouted. “I’m an idiot. Come in here if you want.”
