He was pleased to see that Ruth, who had obviously been prepared to have her worst suspicions confirmed, was impressed with Morna. It would make his own life a little easier. While the two women went indoors he unloaded the supplies Ruth had brought, gripping the wicker basket between his upper arms to avoid stressing his elbows. When he carried it into the house and set it on the table, Ruth and Morna were deep in conversation, and Ruth broke off long enough to point at the door, silently commanding him to leave again.
Even more gratified, Gregg lifted a pack of tailor-mades from a shelf and went out to the shack where his pulque still was in operation. He preferred hand-rolled cigarettes, but was accustomed to doing without them now that his fingers were incapable of the fine control required in the rolling of tobacco. Making himself comfortable on a stool in the corner, he lit a cigarette and contentedly surveyed his little domain of copper cooling coils, retorts and tubs of fermenting cactus pulp. The knowledge that there were two women in his house, and that one of them was soon to have a child there, gave him a warm sense of importance he had never known before. He spent some time indulging himself in dreams, projected on screens of aromatic smoke, in which Ruth was his wife, Morna was his daughter, and he was again fit enough to do a real day’s work and provide for his family …
“I don’t know how you can sit in this place.” Ruth was standing in the doorway, with a shawl around her shoulders. “That smell can’t be healthy.”
“It never did anybody any harm,” Gregg said, rising to his feet. “Fermentation is part of nature.”
“So is cow dung.” Ruth backed out of the shack and waited for him to join her. In the reddish, horizontal light of the setting sun she looked healthy and attractive, imbued with a mature competence. “I have to go back now,” she said, “but I’ll be here again tomorrow, in the morning, and I’m going to stay until that baby is safely delivered into this world.”
“I thought Saturday was your busy day at the store.”
“It is, but Sam will have to manage on his own. I can’t leave that child to have the baby by herself. You’d be worse than useless to her.”
“But what’s Sam going to think?”
“It doesn’t matter what Sam thinks—tell him you’re poorly,” Ruth paused for a moment. “Where do you think she’s from, Billy?”
“Couldn’t rightly say. She talked some about New Orleans.”
Ruth frowned in disagreement. “Her talk doesn’t sound like Louisiana talk to me—and she’s got some real foreign notions to go with it.”
“I noticed,” Gregg said emphatically.
“The way she only talks about having a son? Just won’t entertain the idea that it’s just as likely to be a girl.”
“Mmm.” Gregg had been thinking about muzzle velocities of revolvers. “I wish I knew what she’s running away from.”
Ruth’s features softened unexpectedly. “I’ve read lots of stories about women from noble families … heiresses and such … not allowed to acknowledge their own babies because the fathers were commoners.”
“Ruth Jefferson,” Gregg said gleefully, “I didn’t know you were going round that homely old store with your head stuffed full of romantic notions.”
“I do nothing of the sort.” Ruth’s colour deepened. “But it’s as plain as the nose on your face that Morna comes from money—and it’s probably her own folks she’s in trouble with.”
“Could be.” Gregg remembered the abject terror he had seen in Morna’s eyes. His instincts told him she had more on her mind than outraged parents, but he decided not to argue with Ruth. He stood and listened patiently while she explained that she had put Morna to bed, about his own sleeping arrangements in the other room, and about the type of breakfast he was to prepare in the morning.
“And you leave the whisky jar alone tonight,” Ruth concluded. “I don’t want you lying around in a drunken stupor if that child’s pains start during the night. You hear me?”
“I hear you—I wasn’t planning to do any drinking, anyway. Do you think the baby will arrive on Sunday like Morna says?”
Ruth seated herself in the gig and gathered up the traces. “Somehow—I don’t know why—I’m inclined to believe it will. See you, Billy.”
“Thanks, Ruth.” Gregg watched until the gig had passed out of sight beyond a rocky spur of the hillside upon which his house was built, then he turned and went indoors. The door of the bedroom was closed. He made up a bed on the floor with the blankets Ruth had left out for him, but knew he was unready for sleep. Chuckling a little with guilty pleasure, he poured himself a generous measure of corn whisky from the stone jar he kept in the cupboard and settled down with it in his most comfortable chair. The embers of the sunset filled the room with mellow light, and as he sipped the companionable liquor Gregg felt a sense of fulfilment in his role of watchdog.
He even allowed himself to hope that Morna would stay with him for longer than the six days she had planned.
Gregg awoke with a start at dawn to find himself still sitting in the chair, the empty cup clasped in his hand. He went to set the cup aside and almost groaned aloud as the flexing of his elbow produced a sensation akin to glass fragments crunching against a raw nerve. It must have been cool during the night and his unprotected arms had stiffened up far more than usual. He stood up with difficulty, was dismayed to see that his shirt and pants were a mass of wrinkles, and it came to him that a man living alone should have clothes impervious to creases, clothes like those of …
Morna!
As recollections of the previous day fountained in his head, Gregg hurried to the range and began cleaning it out in preparation for lighting a fire. Ruth had left instructions that he was to heat milk and oatmeal for Morna’s breakfast, and provide her with a basin of warm water in her room. Partly because of his haste, and partly because of the difficulty of controlling his fingers, he dropped the fire irons several times and was hardly surprised to hear the bedroom door opening soon afterwards. Morna appeared in the opening wearing a flowered dressing gown which Ruth must have brought for her. The familiar, feminine styling of the garment made her prettier in Gregg’s eyes, and at the same time more approachable.
“Good morning,” he said. “Sorry about all the noise. I hope I didn’t …”
“I’d caught up on my sleep anyway.” She came into the room, sat at the table and placed on it a second of the slim gold bars. “This is for you, Billy.”
He pushed it back towards her. “I don’t want it. The one you gave me is worth more than anything I can do for you.”
Morna gave him a calm, sad smile and he was abruptly reminded that she was not a home-grown girl discussing payment for a domestic chore. “You risked your life for me—and I think you would do it again. Would you?”
Gregg looked away from her. “I didn’t do much.”
“But you did! I was watching you, Billy, and I saw that you were afraid—but I also saw that you were able to control the fear. It made you stronger instead of weaker, and that’s something that even the finest of my people are unable …” Morna broke off and pressed the knuckles of one hand to her lips as though she had been on the verge of revealing a secret.
“We’ll have something to eat soon.” Gregg turned back towards the range. “As soon as I get a fire going.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
He shifted his feet. “What question?”
“If somebody came here to kill me … and to kill my son … would you defend us even if it meant placing your own life at risk?”