Nevada Barr - Bittersweet

“Sarah, the ground is rock-hard, we’d have to go at it with a pickax. Let’s worry about it in the morning.”

“We can’t leave him here-Matthew might see him.”

“We’ll cover him with sacking. Coby or I can take him out and dump him in the ravine behind the hill tomorrow.”

“No. Matthew might see you doing it.”

“He has to know sometime, Sarah.”

“He does not.” She rocked back on her heels and looked at him defiantly. “And don’t you go telling him.”

“I don’t think we ought to lie to the boy.”

“It’s not lying!” Sarah said heatedly. “It’s just not telling him something there’s no need in his knowing, something that’s just hurtful.”

“What is it, if it isn’t lying? What are you going to tell him? He’ll look for Moss Face and wait and hope every day. If you don’t tell him, I will.”

“He’s my son,” Sarah declared. “If you had a child of your own, maybe you’d know. Matthew’s my son, and don’t you dare say a word to him about this.”

He turned and left her.

Sarah lit her way to the shed. Behind one of the wagons, on the back wall, half a dozen burlap sacks were hung on a nail. Taking three of the sacks, she made her way back out to the chicken coop and Moss Face. In the house, a light burned in the bedroom window and she could see Karl’s shadow moving behind the curtains.

The sacking disguised the coyote, making him an impersonal bundle, and Sarah was able to pick him up. Cradling him in her arms, she started out through the sage, away from the house. Uneven ground, darkness, and the snagging arms of the brush made her weave a little, but she held onto the dog and trudged up the hill. Over the crest, half a mile from the stop, a ravine had been cut by the short, fierce floods that had washed down over the years. By starlight it yawned black and sinister. It was close to fifty feet deep and partially filled with a dense tangle of sage and deadwood.

A few feet from the lip of the gully, Sarah stopped, her breath streaming out in clouds. She dropped her burden over the gully’s edge and watched it tumble into the black, choking arms below.

Karl was gone when she got back. She checked the kitchen and the bar and looked in on her sleeping son. The hall clock struck half past four. Sarah sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled off her coat. There was a dark smear of blood on the front. She dabbed at it, but it was dry.

For half an hour she sat in bed with the lamp burning, waiting, listening. It was nearly daybreak when she blew out the light and lay back.

In the morning, as she was clearing up the breakfast things, she saw Karl through the dining room window. He went to the barn, spoke briefly with Coby, then saddled up and rode out to the south. Coby came in shortly afterward. Karl had gone out hunting, he said. Sarah set Coby to work cleaning the weeds from around the icehouse and cutting lumber for the new shelves she planned to build there. Matthew wanted to go look for Moss Face, but Sarah forbade him, giving him chores to do in the kitchen. She was curt and he sulked most of the morning.

The Reno coach arrived around two o’clock and Sarah went to meet it. Bareheaded, ears crimson with the cold, his bright blue eyes gone milky, McMurphy stared owlishly down from the high seat. Mac was older, bent and more gnomish then ever. “Mac!” Sarah cried.

“Sarah?” He blinked several times. “Sarah!” He climbed stiffly down and she ran to hug him.

“Oh, Mac! It’s been forever. Since Imogene…But come in. You’re so cold, your hands are like ice. Why didn’t you wear a hat?” Sarah forgot Liam, Beaner, and the passenger, to take Mac indoors. Both of Mac’s eyes were streaked white with cataracts, and though he pretended to see as well as any man, he held firmly to Sarah’s arm.

“Wait a damn minute!” The door of the mudwagon was thrown open and a dirty yellow dog bounded out, followed by the lanky form of David Tolstonadge. “Man’s own sister ignoring him for a dried-up old man not worth his boot leather! There’s a fine howdy-do!” David reeled and steadied himself with a hand on the wheel. “Congratulations, Mrs. Saunders!” he roared. “Why the hell didn’t you invite me to the wedding? I’d’ve dropped the railroad and come, hell or high water. Where’s Karl? Me and Mac been celebrating all night. On two counts-you getting married and Sam Ebbitt being sure as hell dead, unless you’ve gone Mormon on me.”

Sarah left Mac to embrace her brother and tug his beard. “You’ve been so long,” she cried. “Years and years. It’s so big out here. It’s always so far. I’ve missed you. It’s been so long.”

David growled, bearlike, as he always did, and burrowed his great reddish beard against her neck until she screamed.

“Leave Momma alone! Leave her alone, damn you!” Matthew’s face was purple; he was on the top step, his little body tense with rage, shifting his feet, not sure what to do.

“Honey, honey.” Sarah ran to him, laughing, concerned, and pleased. “It’s okay. Momma’s okay. Oh, honey, I’m okay.” She held him, and his anger started turning to embarrassment under the smiles of the company. He struggled to get away.

“I’ll be damned,” David exclaimed. “My nephew, I’d lay money on it. Some kind of hell-raiser. Did you see that?” he asked no one in particular. “He was ready to tear into the whole lot of us.” He whooped. “He’s going to be hell on wheels, give him ten years.”

Matthew still squirmed uncomfortably, but the look of a cloud about to burst had left his face; the big man was obviously pleased with him. David loped over and thrust out a hand. Matthew shook it warily, his little hand vanishing from sight in his uncle’s. Letting out another whoop, David caught the boy under the arms, tossed him into the air, and smothered him in a bear hug. When he set him on the ground again, Matthew was shaken up but smiling a little.

“That’s how maybe he sees that the ice is broke,” Beaner said.

“Dave’s got a way with kids,” Liam grunted. “Move it, Beaner. Let’s get these horses stabled.”

“You two come in out of the cold as soon as you’ve done. I’ll have coffee ready,” Sarah called as Liam shook the reins. The horses were reluctant to drag the mudwagon even the few feet to the barn.

Liam watched Sarah lead Mac into the house. Manny darted up behind to weasel in the door with his master, and Matthew came last, still on his guard. “She ain’t half so shy as she used to be,” Liam said. “I remember when old Mac retired and I started this run, it was more than you could do to get two words out of her. She hid out most of the time folks was here, and just did the cooking.”

Indoors, David told them he’d been sent up from Los Angeles to work on a new railroad spur being constructed ninety miles south of Reno. He’d taken a room over the Bucket of Blood in Virginia City. On his first day off he’d taken the train into Reno to get news of Sarah and Imogene. It was more than two years since he had seen them.

“I ran into Mac at the Silver Dollar,” David said. “He told me Imogene was dead and Noisy’d heard you and Karl had gotten married. Sare, I ain’t heard one word from you in two years, how come? Last you wrote, the kid had come. You made no mention of Imogene’s dying-she was a hard-bitten old gal but we got on well enough-and where the hell’s the groom?”

Sarah stood, her head bowed under the onslaught of questions. When David paused for breath, she handed him one of the cups of coffee she’d been holding while he paced and growled in front of the fire. “You haven’t written, either,” she reminded him.

“I don’t write anybody, Sare, it’s a different thing altogether.”