Daisies In The Wind by Jill Gregory Read Free Book Online Page B

didn’t need him, she told herself
coldly. She didn’t need anyone.
    A coyote howled nearby. The wind rattled
through the trees. From behind her an animal skittered noisily
through the brush.
    Rebeccah glanced around, on edge now, then
quickly hoisted her trunk with an unladylike grunt and dragged it
as swiftly as she could toward the door.
4
    There was a kerosene lamp on a counter in the
kitchen. Thankfully Rebeccah had bought matches and candles, and
she rummaged for them among her store-bought parcels. As she lit
the lamp and turned up the wick, she took comfort in the cozy amber
glow that flooded across the room. Somehow the light seemed a
weapon against the gathering darkness outside. And so were the
sturdy log walls of the cabin, she reminded herself, as she picked
up the lamp and began an inspection of her new home.
    The cabin’s interior was no better, but not
much worse, than she had expected after viewing it from
outside.
    Dust four inches thick coated everything: the
floor, the crude wooden counters and shelves in the kitchen, the
window ledges, the battered, camel-backed horsehair sofa that was
the only real piece of furniture in the cabin. And a musty odor
pervaded each room. The place had not been aired in ages.
    Rebeccah took careful stock, trying not to be
daunted by the tasks looming before her. Grimy, yellowed gingham
curtains drooped at the windows. In the kitchen there was a scarred
wooden bench, several three-legged stools, and a long wooden table.
She was relieved to see the cast-iron stove in the corner. Chipped
and old though it appeared, it was a welcome sight, as was the
large fireplace and chimney. Old Amos Peastone had lived a Spartan
existence, it seemed, for the cabin lacked much in the way of
beauty and comfort, but to Rebeccah’s relief he had possessed at
least the basic kitchen essentials: iron pots and pans, a skillet
and coffeepot, as well as dishes and eating utensils stacked on the
dusty shelves. Rebeccah took a swift inventory and found a
voluminous yellow slicker folded inside a box on the pantry floor,
alongside a bucket, a box of safety matches, and coils of rope. Not
exactly a treasure trove of luxury, but in terms of usefulness they
would certainly do.
    She made her way carefully to the bedroom at
the rear of the cabin. It was nearly as large as the parlor and
almost as barren, but it did boast a faded red-and-blue rag rug on
the floor. There was an iron bedstead, a straw mattress, and a worn
blue eiderdown quilt. Across from the bed was a chest of pine
drawers, with another kerosene lamp on top of it, as well as a pair
of brass candlesticks and a cracked enamel pitcher and bowl.
    Welcome home, Miss Rawlings.
    The walls seemed mockingly to echo the words
around her.
    Grimly Rebeccah rolled up her sleeves.
    It was several hours later before she felt
the house was habitable for the night. Exhausted, but oddly
satisfied, Rebeccah surveyed her accomplishments. The floors were
now swept and scrubbed, as were the countertops—and the musty odor
in the cabin had been banished by blustery fresh air from the
opened windows, as well as the pungent aroma of lye soap and
vinegar.
    Much better. There was still a great deal to
do, but as Rebeccah carried her bucket and rags from the bedroom
into the kitchen, she reminded herself not to be persnickety. She
had slept in far worse places than this when she was on the run
with Bear and the gang. They’d camped under trees in pouring rain,
in open fields beneath blizzarding snow, in abandoned mines and
damp caves. They’d holed up in flea-bitten hotels; burned-out,
rat-infested shacks half the size of this cabin—and twice as
filthy—in smoky backrooms of saloons and brothels.
    At least this place is mine,
she
thought, setting down her bucket near the stove and regarding the
scrubbed-down kitchen with satisfaction. All it needed was a little
more elbow grease, some new slipcovers and needlework pillows, her
paintings to brighten up the walls,