A Woman Named Damaris by Janette Oke

Author:Janette Oke [Oke, Janette]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: ebook, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2010-11-12T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Confusion

Damaris hurried to carry in the wood and water, for Mrs. Stacy was already working in the big kitchen preparing the evening meal. Damaris knew all of the boarders by name—though she never called them by such except when speaking with Mrs. Stacy. Damaris served them, as quietly and efficiently as she could, then moved on, careful not to be involved in any type of conversation.

For the most part, she did not mind the job, but on one occasion she was more than thankful that the sheriff was a live-in at the boardinghouse. Most town drinkers knew that Sheriff Gordon took his meals at Mrs. Stacy’s. Damaris had often smelled whiskey as men entered the dining room and took their places. It never failed to make her quake and wish to flee the room. But she gradually had come to realize not all men drank until their money was totally gone. Unlike her pa, these men with whiskey on their breath still had enough to pay for their supper, and often tucked even more money back into their pockets. And never did they drink so much as to be troublesome—except one time. Damaris recalled that evening as she did her chores.

No matter how hard she tried to dismiss it from her memory, it always came back.

Damaris had smelled whiskey the minute the fellow entered. He was a stranger, so perhaps he didn’t know that the sheriff was sitting at the corner table facing the door, right where he always sat.

“Look after the gentleman over there,” Mrs. Stacy said, nodding toward the stranger.

Damaris trembled. She had been taught to be obedient, so she moved forward as bidden, but her whole body tensed to meet whatever assault might greet her.

At first the man seemed quiet, and Damaris hoped that he’d had enough to drink to already make him drowsy and in a stupor.

“Can I help you?” she asked, unable to bring herself to add “sir,” as she had been taught.

He mumbled something in reply without looking up.

“Can I help you?” Damaris asked a little louder.

“Wha-a?” he asked with a slurred voice. Then he lifted his head and stared at Damaris.

Damaris felt her body lean back, but her feet did not move.

“Would you like—?” she began, but the man grasped her wrist with his dirty hand.

“Yeah—I’d like—” he sneered.

Before he finished his sentence, the sheriff was standing beside Damaris, his shiny badge flashing conspicuously on his leather vest.

“Mister,” Damaris heard the sheriff say in a cold, menacing voice she had never heard him use before, “I don’t think ya really want to eat here tonight.”

Each word was slow and deliberate. The sheriff’s eyes drilled into the red eyes of the man at the table, pinning him to the spot.

The grip on Damaris’s hand gradually relaxed and the man drew back his hand.

“Weren’t meanin’ no harm,” the man grumbled. “Fella can’t even have any fun.” But he did not argue further.

He stumbled from the room, and the sheriff returned to his table. Damaris shifted uncomfortably, feeling that all eyes were upon her.

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