Page 17 of Wagon Train Hope
Air released from her lungs in a rush. “I started missing him before he passed. He was sick. In pain.” She rocked her head back and forth. “I would tiptoe into his room and watch him moan in his sleep. Sometimes, I’d touch his hand, wishing he would come back and be my pa again.”
Nothing could stop him from reaching for her this time. Not propriety. Not concern over offending her. And not his own criticism of her wild ways. He squeezed her arm.
“I’m so sorry.”
The heat of her flesh warmed his palm. Raced up his arm to his chest. He didn’t know how to respond to his reactions and was saved from figuring it out when Bertie tramped through the grass toward the river, calling his pets.
“You come get drink.”
Walt lowered his hand.
Irene twitched and faced her brother. “Thanks,” she murmured over her shoulder.
Did she mean thanks for his touch, his words of sympathy, his fishing with her, or?—?
Pushing aside the fishing pole, he sat up. Bertie and his menagerie trotted toward them. Bertie’s face was so full of joy that Walt smiled.
“He sure appears to be a happy person,” he said.
“Ma calls him her gentle giant.”
A memory flashed across Walt’s thoughts. “I remember him before he got sick.” Awe deepened his voice at the strength of that memory.
She squirmed around to face him. “You do?” It might have been awe in Irene’s voice, too. “I’ve never known him as any way but how he is now. What was he like?”
“I always thought he was a lot older than me. But now I realize that he’s only one year older. I guess he was big even back then. We were visiting at your place. There was a mama cat and four little kittens in the woodshed. Carson and Cecilwere both little.” He chuckled. “I was maybe four. So much bigger. Right?”
“Indeed.” The flash in her eyes said far more than her solemn look.
“Bertie put one kitten in Carson’s lap and took his hands, showing him how to hold the cat gently. Then, he did the same for Cecil. Then he gave me a kitten that was black with white socks and collar. I held it the way he’d shown the others. Irene, your brother was kind and gentle back then.” Before the fever had left him like he now was.
She nodded. “He still is. And still fond of his pets.” Her breath stuttered over her lips. “Thank you for telling me. No one has ever said what he was like before—” She flicked her hand toward Bertie, who squatted at the edge of the water, talking to his pets. “I’m glad to know that in some ways, he’s still the same.”
They watched Bertie. He splashed water at his goat and laughed when Alice bleated and butted him playfully.
“Hi, Irene. Hi, Mr. Walt.” Bertie trotted over, leaving his cats bathing themselves, Limpy splashing in the water, and Alice on his heels. “Got some fish?”
Irene pointed toward the bucket. “We’ll eat well tonight.”
Bertie squatted and poked at the fish. “They need cleaning.”
“I’ll get right to it.” Irene pulled a knife from inside her riding boot.
“I’ll help.” Walt pulled his own knife from inside his boot.
They laughed at each other.
Side by side, they scaled and gutted the fish, working in a matching rhythm that was as natural as his breathing.
Truth jolted through him. As surprising as it was contrary to his previous thoughts, it had been rather pleasant sharing the afternoon with her and talking.
The fish cleaned, they carried them back to camp. Irene handed the bucket to her ma. “Do you want me to fry them?”
“If you like.”
“I’d love to. When should we plan to eat?”
Marnie shielded her eyes and looked in the direction Cecil and Joe had gone. “There’s no telling how long they’ll be. Let’s wait as late as we can.”
