Steal Away Home by Lois Ruby

Author:Lois Ruby [Ruby, Lois]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781481425537
Publisher: Aladdin
Published: 2014-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Like a Real Son

July 1856

Pa was gone to Missouri with legal papers to try to get Solomon back, and so Miz Lizbet had free rein of the house. She made James nervous as a rat, and besides, Rebecca was down with some fever, and Ma doctored and fretted over her until James thought he’d jump right out of his skin if he didn’t get out of the house.

Outside, under the noonday sun, he thought he felt blisters raising on his skin, like dough frying in hot oil. In Boston there was the harbor and the brooding shade of gray buildings. There, your skin didn’t sizzle in the sun like it did here.

James heard something sliding through the tall grass. A rattler! His eyes darted around until he spotted the axe. Two giant leaps back, and he’d have it in his hand, and whop! There’d be two ends of that snake grabbing for each other.

But it wasn’t a rattler. It was only a prairie wolf, small as a househound. The bloody carcass of a rabbit hung from its mouth, and it threw its head this way and that as it tore at the meat. Spotting James, the coward dropped its prey and took off.

“James Weaver!” It was Ma calling from the porch. He pretended to be too far away to hear. But Ma banged a rain bucket with the butter clapper. “James Weaver!”

He came back around the house, not too fast.

“Oh, thank the Lord thee’s here. James, go over to the field and bring me back some wild indigo. Little droopy clusters of yellow petals. Thee will spot them right away.”

“Aw, Ma, picking flowers?”

“James, I don’t believe I’ve seen it written in Scripture that men can’t pick a posy now and then.”

“But, Ma—”

“And pull them out by the roots, son, because we’ll brew a tea of the roots for Rebecca.”

“What in heaven’s name for?”

“It cures fever, son. Lizbet swears by it.”

Miz Lizbet. Somehow she’d been crowned queen. Knew everything. Last week she’d caught him in front of the looking glass, rubbing his fingers over the fifty thousand freckles that had burst out on his face since they’d come to Kansas.

“Would you like to know what to do for it?”

“For what?” He’d spun around, and she stood behind him with her arms folded across her waist.

“Freckles. Back where I’ve been, white ladies just hate it when those ugly spots pop out on their faces. They rub a cut lemon over their cheeks, or buttermilk with fresh green mint crushed in it.”

“Disgusting.” James savagely wiped at his face, as if to tear the freckles—or buttermilk—off.

“But I’ve got another idea, Mr. James Weaver, something that never fails, ever.”

“Something that’s not either lemons or buttermilk?”

“Oh yes, very different.” She started busying herself, as if she’d forgotten what she was about to say, sweeping the infernal dust that always blew into the house.

“What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“That never fails, Miz Lizbet.”

“Oh, that.” She pointed the handle of the broom at him, like Miss Malone’s hickory stick. “I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to do it once a week.

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