10

Fleeta was itching to get to work on the magnolia carving. When a piece particularly captured her imagination, she often found herself mentally lining out the design even as she went about daily tasks. While she stacked and hauled firewood, she’d imagine how a petal might curve across the swell of the stock. As she milked the cow, she’d envision a woody stem disappearing into the trigger guard. But before she could start on Hank’s shotgun, she had a few final details to work into the carving of Vernon’s hound dog, and she wouldn’t rush one job just because she was eager to start another.

She did take enough time to draw a rough sketch, so that Hank could give his approval before he left for South Carolina. He and Judd had finished scouting timber and were stopping by before heading back the following day. Fleeta wasn’t used to feeling nervous, but somehow this project had her on edge. She washed the supper dishes while Aunt Maisie sat nearby, dish towel in her hand, trying to be useful. Fleeta supposed it was hard on her not being hale and hearty. Lost in thought, Fleeta let a plate slip and almost broke it.

Aunt Maisie stood and shooed her out of the kitchen. “Go on in the sitting room and wait for your company before you make a mess. You’re nervous as a cat in a roomful of rockers. I’ll finish this.”

Fleeta tossed her dishrag onto the counter and gladly abandoned the kitchen. She’d never enjoyed anything related to food preparation anyway. She sat on the sofa and glanced at Simeon, who sat sideways in an armchair, nose buried in his new book. Uncle Oscar sprawled across the floor in front of the fire, hands resting on his chest, softly snoring. The man could sleep anywhere. The other boys had gone out to the barn after supper. Supposedly they went to fix the hand plow, but Fleeta knew they had a pack of cards out there. She pulled out her magnolia drawing and tried to focus on it while she waited for Hank.

About the time Fleeta became fully absorbed in her drawing, there was a shuffling and then a knocking at the back door. Judd had known the family for years, so of course he would come to the back door. Fleeta jerked her head up and suddenly wondered if she looked presentable. She’d been so worried about her artwork that she hadn’t given even a passing thought to her appearance. She jumped up and looked in the small glass over the mantel. Her hair had worked loose from its braid, and there was a smudge of something on the front of her shirt. She looked around wild-eyed as she heard Aunt Maisie greeting their visitors. She darted into the hall and quickly redid her hair, then lifted the spot on her flannel shirt to her mouth and licked it. Yup, jelly from supper. She sucked at it and hoped that would do the trick.

Uncle Oscar must have awakened, because she heard him greet Hank and Judd.

“Fleeta was right here a minute ago,” he said.

“She’s in the hall,” Simeon said, and Fleeta wished for once the boy really had been as oblivious as he seemed.

She lifted her chin and reentered the room. “Good evening,” she said. “Won’t you gentlemen have a seat?”

Uncle Oscar knit his brow, and Judd smothered a laugh. Simeon just stared, then shrugged and resumed reading. Hank smiled and sat on the sofa, much to Fleeta’s relief.

“I have your drawing right here,” she said, offering the paper to Hank, who took it and gave it his full attention.

“I like the balance,” he said at last. “Will the carving affect the grip at all?”

Fleeta sat beside him—although not too close—and pointed out where she had added a seedpod with its natural hash marks to improve his grip.

As they talked, Uncle Oscar pulled out his knife collection and began showing it to Judd. The other two men drifted into the dining room, where Oscar could lay out his collection more easily.

“You’re quite an artist,” Hank said, turning admiring eyes on Fleeta. She flushed. He was much too close, but she didn’t know how to move away without it being awkward.

“It comes natural, I guess. But what I really want to do is make a gun from start to finish, not just decorate one.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Tools mostly. Gunsmithing tools are expensive, but with what you’re paying me I’m a heck of a lot closer than I was.” She didn’t want to mention that she couldn’t leave Aunt Maisie and the rest of the family while they were in earshot.

“Glad to be of help,” Hank said. He looked into her eyes, and for a moment Fleeta forgot to be uncomfortable. “You’re not like other girls.”

“I should hope not. Girls wear me out.” Fleeta widened her eyes. “I mean . . . what I meant to say is . . .”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Hank said. “Girls wear me out too. But then I’ve never met one who could shoot, hunt, carve a gunstock, and rescue lost flatlanders, all while looking equally fetching whether wearing a flannel shirt or a green skirt the color of pines in winter.”

Fleeta moved her arm to hide the spot on her shirt, too flustered to think straight. “Elnora says I should be more ladylike, and Aunt Maisie says I should be thinking about marriage and children, but I’d rather be a gunsmith.”

Hank touched the end of her braid where it had fallen over her shoulder, and Fleeta could swear she felt electricity shoot into her scalp. “Are those things mutually exclusive?”

She shrugged, using the motion to shift away a little, trying to get room to breathe. “Maybe not, but I don’t have time for everything, so I’ve decided to prioritize. Starting my own business is at the top of my list.”

Hank tapped the drawing in front of them. “Well, you certainly have a knack for this, and if my contribution helps you get started in business so that you have time for . . . other things, then I’m glad.”

Fleeta felt like he was saying something more but didn’t dare ponder what exactly that was. She settled for saying, “I’m grateful for the work.”

Hank nodded. “We’re leaving tomorrow at first light. We’ll be back the week before Christmas. Think you’ll have my stock carved by then?”

“I’m planning on it.”

“Good. Good.” He took a deep breath and shifted closer. “Fleeta, I’ve been thinking—”

“Hank, you ready? We need to get a good night’s sleep.” Judd strode back into the room, looked at the two of them, and cocked his head. “Or maybe you’uns need a minute more?”

“No, I think we’ve settled everything,” Fleeta said, releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Unless you have any changes?” She looked at Hank.

Hank ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “No, I guess not.” He glared at Judd. “I suppose we’ll be back soon enough.”

Judd looked as though he was trying hard not to laugh. “That we will. Or maybe even sooner.” He winked, and the two men headed out.

One afternoon the following week, Fleeta found herself elbow-deep in the family’s laundry when Albert stuck his head inside the doorway.

“I was over at Bud’s shop this morning, trying to trade for that shotgun he’s had on the wall for a coon’s age, and he said for you to come by soon as you can.”

“Did he say what for?”

Albert shrugged. “Nope, just said he wanted to talk to you.”

It was all Fleeta could do not to drop everything and run over there that minute. But it was a good hour on foot, and she hated to ask Uncle Oscar or one of the boys to take her, especially since Albert had just been. Of course, she knew how to drive, but Aunt Maisie—who swore she’d never learn—wouldn’t let Fleeta go anywhere in a car by herself. Not to mention the fact that she was supposed to get this blasted laundry done today.

Fleeta sighed and cranked another work shirt through the wringer. She knew some folks had electric wringers, but Elnora said having a machine at all was a luxury. Fleeta hadn’t paid much attention to such luxuries until Aunt Maisie’s latest downturn. It seemed like she’d never get well and truly better—she stayed so pale and got tired so quick. Fleeta certainly wasn’t going to abandon her family when they needed her, yet the longing to know what Bud wanted was about to drive her crazy.

Finally she finished wringing out the last shirt, dumped it in a basket on top of the others, and braced herself to hang it all out on the line. Though it was December-cold outside, at least the sun was shining. She glanced at the clock and frowned. Even if she left for Bud’s right now, walked the five miles as fast as she could, and didn’t stay but five minutes, it would be dark before she got halfway back home. It just didn’t pay to be a girl.

The wind bit at her fingers as she pegged out shirts and pants, her mind turning over and over as she pondered how to get to Bud’s. As she picked up her empty basket and headed toward the house, Albert’s pet jay swooped past her. She followed Jack’s flight until he landed on the seat of Albert’s beat-up old motorcycle out in the barn and snatched up a silvery bolt left lying there. Her cousin had finally gotten the machine running and had been riding it madly up and down the dirt roads since Thanksgiving. Uncle Oscar complained that it scared the livestock, and Elnora said he would surely break his neck. But to Fleeta, it looked like freedom.

She wondered . . . Stashing the laundry basket inside the house, Fleeta piled on another layer of clothing—a pair of Albert’s pants over her own, another flannel shirt, a heavy coat, wool mittens, and a scarf wrapped around and around her head. She lumbered out to the barn, eye out for any stray family members.

Albert had shown her—with great pride—how to work the motorcycle, and she’d gone for a brief and tolerably sedate ride on the back with her arms around Albert’s waist. It had been exhilarating and a little bit terrifying. Could she do this by herself? She thought about Bud and her dream of smithing guns. Yes. She could do this.

Fleeta straddled the banged-up motorcycle, noting how Albert had polished the teardrop-shaped gas tank with the word Indian across it. She mentally traced her way through the start-up sequence before setting her foot on what looked like a bicycle pedal to the right of the machine. Thank goodness all her gun work had made her mechanically inclined. Satisfied that she knew what to do, Fleeta braced her foot against the pedal and thrust down with all her might.

Nothing.

She frowned and tried it again. Still nothing. Clearly she’d missed a step. Frustrated and a little bit intimidated by what she was attempting, she decided this must be a sign that God didn’t want her taking Albert’s motorcycle.

She felt like kicking something.

But instead of getting off the motorcycle and kicking a tire, she kicked that pedal one more time and the machine roared to life. She revved it using the right handlebar control, which was a little awkward with mittens, and felt a grin spread across her face. It was pure bliss to be in control of a powerful rifle, but this—this was heaven. She giggled and then laughed aloud, put the motorcycle in gear, and flew out of the barn like Jack chasing after one of Albert’s treats.