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Authors: Penelope Williamson
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you’ve already cursed me, like to have shot me, and bled buckets all over my best muslin sheets. But I’m Rachel Yoder. Mrs. Yoder.”
He lay there looking up at her with his eyes so cold they burned. Yet the hand still wrapped around the gun held it gently now, his thumb caressing the butt, slowly, slowly. The silence dragged out and her own hand hung in the air between them until it trembled and started to fall.
And then he let go of his gun and took her hand in his. “You have my gratitude, ma’am. And my apology.”
They remained that way for only the briefest moment, touching palm to palm; she was the one to pull away. “Your gratitude and apology are both accepted,” she said. “While you’re at it, do you have a name you’d care to give me? If only so’s Benjo and I can have a handle to put on you when we speculate about you behind your back.”
She had thought to show her willingness to be friendly by doing a bit of teasing, and then making a little joke at her own expense. But that was a Plain way of going about it; obviously it made no impression on him. He let her wait so long for an answer, she didn’t think she was going to get one.
“You can call me Cain,” he said finally.
She nearly gasped aloud. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand. . . .
Surely no one could be born with such a name. He must have taken it on as some sort of cruel and bitter joke. She thought of the callus on his trigger finger. Cain. The name he killed under.
She knew her thoughts showed on her face. His mouth twisted. “If you don’t like it,” he said, “pick something else. I’ll answer to most anything that ain’t an insult. Is this Benjo your husband?”
“My—” Her voice cracked and she had to start over. “My son.”
He stared at her in that intense way of his, and she could feel the color building in her cheeks.
“So, you’re a widow, are you?”
She opened her mouth to lie; but a lifetime of believing it a sin stopped her. “Yes. My husband died last year.”
He didn’t say he was sorry for her loss, as most outsiders would have done. He said nothing at all. His gaze had wandered to the window again; he seemed to have forgotten her. Beyond the weathered gray fence of the feeding paddock, beyond the black cottonwoods that lined the creek, beyond the snow-clotted meadows and rocky buttes and weed-choked coulees, the mountains beckoned. Surging up against the harsh blue of a wind-tossed sky, they looked splendid, and lonely.
A stillness had come over him. The silence in the room took on a prickly tension, like a strand of barbed wire pulled tight between two fence posts.
“You still haven’t told me where you call home,” she said. She felt a need to put him in some familiar place. Not that she could imagine him walking behind a plow or tossing hay to a band of ewes. She couldn’t even imagine him roping a cow or clinging to the pitching back of a wild mustang.
He pulled his attention from the great outdoors and looked at her. “I don’t call anywhere home.”
He seemed about to say more, but he was interrupted by the rattle of wagon wheels over the log bridge. He swung his gun up and pointed it at the door in a movement so quick she didn’t even realize it had happened until it was over.
His jumping like that set her own heart to clamoring again, and it was pounding still as she stepped up to the window to see more of the road. The Weaver spring wagon rolled into the yard with Noah’s son at the reins.
She turned back to the outsider. He could barely hold up his six-shooter, it was trembling so hard in his outstretched hand. His chest jerked with his rough breathing, fever-sweat sheened his face, his eyes glowed wild. Strangely, he reminded her of an etching in the Martyrs Mirror of a true believer being burned at the stake, his clasped hands raised to heaven in rapturous prayer as the bright and
He lay there looking up at her with his eyes so cold they burned. Yet the hand still wrapped around the gun held it gently now, his thumb caressing the butt, slowly, slowly. The silence dragged out and her own hand hung in the air between them until it trembled and started to fall.
And then he let go of his gun and took her hand in his. “You have my gratitude, ma’am. And my apology.”
They remained that way for only the briefest moment, touching palm to palm; she was the one to pull away. “Your gratitude and apology are both accepted,” she said. “While you’re at it, do you have a name you’d care to give me? If only so’s Benjo and I can have a handle to put on you when we speculate about you behind your back.”
She had thought to show her willingness to be friendly by doing a bit of teasing, and then making a little joke at her own expense. But that was a Plain way of going about it; obviously it made no impression on him. He let her wait so long for an answer, she didn’t think she was going to get one.
“You can call me Cain,” he said finally.
She nearly gasped aloud. And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand. . . .
Surely no one could be born with such a name. He must have taken it on as some sort of cruel and bitter joke. She thought of the callus on his trigger finger. Cain. The name he killed under.
She knew her thoughts showed on her face. His mouth twisted. “If you don’t like it,” he said, “pick something else. I’ll answer to most anything that ain’t an insult. Is this Benjo your husband?”
“My—” Her voice cracked and she had to start over. “My son.”
He stared at her in that intense way of his, and she could feel the color building in her cheeks.
“So, you’re a widow, are you?”
She opened her mouth to lie; but a lifetime of believing it a sin stopped her. “Yes. My husband died last year.”
He didn’t say he was sorry for her loss, as most outsiders would have done. He said nothing at all. His gaze had wandered to the window again; he seemed to have forgotten her. Beyond the weathered gray fence of the feeding paddock, beyond the black cottonwoods that lined the creek, beyond the snow-clotted meadows and rocky buttes and weed-choked coulees, the mountains beckoned. Surging up against the harsh blue of a wind-tossed sky, they looked splendid, and lonely.
A stillness had come over him. The silence in the room took on a prickly tension, like a strand of barbed wire pulled tight between two fence posts.
“You still haven’t told me where you call home,” she said. She felt a need to put him in some familiar place. Not that she could imagine him walking behind a plow or tossing hay to a band of ewes. She couldn’t even imagine him roping a cow or clinging to the pitching back of a wild mustang.
He pulled his attention from the great outdoors and looked at her. “I don’t call anywhere home.”
He seemed about to say more, but he was interrupted by the rattle of wagon wheels over the log bridge. He swung his gun up and pointed it at the door in a movement so quick she didn’t even realize it had happened until it was over.
His jumping like that set her own heart to clamoring again, and it was pounding still as she stepped up to the window to see more of the road. The Weaver spring wagon rolled into the yard with Noah’s son at the reins.
She turned back to the outsider. He could barely hold up his six-shooter, it was trembling so hard in his outstretched hand. His chest jerked with his rough breathing, fever-sweat sheened his face, his eyes glowed wild. Strangely, he reminded her of an etching in the Martyrs Mirror of a true believer being burned at the stake, his clasped hands raised to heaven in rapturous prayer as the bright and
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