Judith Bowen - A Home Of His Own

“You wouldn’t!” Phoebe handed him the plate. She’d forgotten to bring cutlery, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“Oh, yeah, I would.” He scooped the potato salad up with a piece of ham and chewed hungrily. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his mouth half-full, waving around the chicken yard. He bowed slightly and took a step backward. “What’s this?” he asked, tasting the bean salad gingerly. “Bean salad?” Before she could say anything, he’d tipped it off his plate, onto the ground. “I hate that stuff. Treat for the hens tomorrow,” he said, grinning at her. “But thanks all the same.”

She held out the jacket and he took it with a smile. “Good girl. You thought of everything. Let’s sit down.”

Phoebe looked around. The chickens were all inside their shelter, roosting for the night. “No thanks. Come on.” Phoebe led him out of the enclosure, shutting the gate behind her, and they sat down on the dewy grass between the chicken coop and the garden.

“I brought you some fruit, too,” she offered. “In case you get hungry later.” She gestured toward the bag, then gripped her knees with her forearms and watched him eat. He popped the lid on the milk jug and drained half of it in one long swallow. Phoebe smiled to herself. She was pleased she’d remembered to bring food. And the jacket. She’d done the right thing.

When he finished, he patted his shirt pocket absently. “Damn, I forgot. I quit smoking.”

“You did?” Phoebe was happy to hear that.

“Well, sorta.” She could hear him grinning in the semidark. “I ran outa smokes. And money, too.”

“I’ll feed you, but I won’t buy you cigarettes,” she said firmly, leaning back, then felt his hand on hers in the grass.

“C’mon, Phoebe. I haven’t got much time. Let’s talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?” She felt shy suddenly.

“You. Me. Everything.” He hunched closer to her and she felt the warmth of his shoulder against hers. She shivered and he put his arm around her. It reminded her of the time he’d first kissed her in the orchard.

“Cold?”

“A little. It’s damp here.” She wasn’t shivering because of the damp and she knew it. “Let’s go over behind my uncle’s house,” she whispered. “There’s a hammock.” She needed to buy a little time, and it worried her that anyone could look out the back of the house and spot them sitting there on the grass. Still, she surprised herself with her own daring, suggesting a more private tête-à-tête. “My aunt and uncle are away.” She glanced first toward Lewis to gauge his reaction, then at the darkened side of her own house. People slept with the windows open on summer nights. She’d die if her mother heard her talking and came out to investigate. Or if Trevor came home and caught them.

“Okay.” He stood and slung the jacket over his shoulder, then stooped to pick up the milk and the bag of fruit. He took her hand and pulled her up beside him. They left the plate in the grass. “Lead the way, princess.”

Princess Phoebe. That was a good one.

LEWIS MUNCHED on the apple. Phoebe could hear the strong crunch of his teeth every time he took a bite, although she could barely make him out in the near pitch-dark.

It had to be close to midnight. They were still in Uncle Joe’s hammock, behind his house. They’d sat on it for a while, swinging their feet. Then—she wasn’t quite sure what had brought on the change—they’d swung their feet up and lay down side by side. Other than sliding his arm around her, so that she could rest her head on it, and occasionally hugging her, he hadn’t tried anything funny. Not that Phoebe was worried; she was quite confident she could take care of herself if the need arose.

But his quiet, just-friends behavior surprised Phoebe, considering their hot kisses that afternoon. Maybe she ought to give Lewis more credit than she had so far. Maybe he wasn’t just out to get whatever he could, whether from a girl or from the system he seemed to despise so much.

“Tell me about your mother,” she said. “Don’t you worry about her living out there alone?”

Lewis thought about the question for a few minutes. Then he sighed. “I do. It’s just that…I don’t have much in common with them. Billy’s more like an aunt or something than a sister. She’s sixteen years older than me and she never talks, never says boo. You know what she’s like. Ma? Well, she’s kind of weird.…”

His voice trailed off. Phoebe realized he was being excruciatingly honest with her. He was right; his sister and his mother were pretty weird. Still, they were his family, he must feel something for them. “Did you send them money? Before…you know?” Phoebe knew that neither woman had an outside job.

“Before I went to jail? Yeah.” Lewis seemed a little agitated. He swung the hammock vigorously with a foot he had extended to the ground. It was fairly cold now, and Phoebe felt clammy from the dew settling in the air. She was glad she was snuggled up beside Lewis. His body was warm, even hot, and he didn’t seem disturbed by the damp. “I gave them money when I was working. Even that rustling business…” He laughed, a short humorless sound. “That was to try and get a decent stake for them. I sold a couple of the steers we stole and made some serious money. I knew it couldn’t last…”

“It was stealing, Lewis,” Phoebe said. “It’s wrong.”

“You can say that. You’ve never been hungry,” he responded bitterly. “You don’t know what it’s like to have do-gooders coming out to visit, figuring if they leave off a bag of grub they’ve got a right to take up your time. Like they own you. Or the religious busybodies…”

Phoebe raised her head to look fully at him. “I hope—”

“No,” he broke in. “Not you or your folks. Your ma’s a pretty nice lady. I know Ma and Billy think the world of her.”

Phoebe lay back down, mollified. He had a point. What about the other side of it? It was one thing to help people out, but what was it like to be always having to accept help?

“How about your dad? You ever hear from him?” Phoebe had never heard anything about a man in the Hardin family, other than Lewis.

“Could be dead for all I know.” Lewis shrugged. “Some drifter, probably. I have no idea who my father is. Do you believe me?”

Phoebe was stunned. “Oh, Lewis…” She turned to him, into his shoulder, and her eyes sought his in the semidark. It had grown lighter now that the cloud was moving off the moon.

“You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Phoebe. All I know is, every once in a while, back when I was growing up, Ma or Billy would find an envelope stuffed with cash in the mailbox. Used to be just like Christmas.” She heard his smile. “I’d get new clothes, Billy would order a bunch of seeds from the seed catalog, Ma would buy a new coat, if she needed one. Or a pair of boots. I never knew where the money came from, but I used to pretend it was my father, looking after us, you know? Maybe it was. But maybe it was just some do-gooder. It was always cash. No return address.”

Phoebe nodded.

Lewis laughed that bitter laugh she was beginning to recognize and dread. “I figure the bastard must be dead. Hasn’t left us any money for quite a few years now. If it was him in the first place.”

Phoebe didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t imagine life without her parents. They were both so understanding, so supportive. A father, especially. How could Lewis have managed with no father in his life? A lot of people thought Harry Longquist was gruff and grumpy since his accident, but Phoebe knew better. He was an old softie inside. It sounded like Lewis had brought himself up, really. She remembered that spare room fashioned out of a box stall, the first time she’d ever seen him. He’d been trying to build up his muscles, working out with that makeshift punching bag. She could still see the sinews in his skinny back, hear the shout of frustration when he gave it up.