“I’m not Rusty’s filly, and he sure as hell isn’t my stallion.”
“He usta be.”
“Not anymore. I’m only here for a visit,” she said, ruffling his gray hair.
“Iffen you say so,” he remarked with a grin.
“What happened here?” She indicated with a sweep of her hand the ranch’s deplorable condition.
“Thass not fer me to say.”
“Where’s Rusty?”
“He and a couple of the hands’re out mendin’ fences. ‘Spect they’ll be gone most of the afternoon.”
“I’ll get moved in then.” Noticing that he was grinning again, she added, “For my visit.”
“Whatever you say, girlie. I’m goin’ inta town. Gotta go ta the feed store and buy some supplies. Might stop off fer a beer or two. Prob’ly won’t see you till tomorrow.”
She nodded.
“Need some help unloadin’ that little bug?” he asked, glancing at the T-bird.
“No, thanks. I’ll just bring in a little at a time, as I need it.”
“It’s good to see you here,” he said just before he hopped into a beat-up pickup truck that she’d thought was part of the yard junk. As he bent to ease himself into the driver’s seat, she noticed two clear marks in the back pockets of his jeans—a circular one outlining his can of loose-cut tobacco and a rectangular one outlining his much-played harmonica. “Both you and Rusty,” he emphasized. “Yer both a welcome sight.” With those words, he revved up the engine, which took some loud gunning of the gas pedal and shaking of the metal frame, before he took off with a wave out the window.
Charmaine went inside and found conditions just as bad there. A thick layer of dust covered everything. The large great room with its stone fireplace and handcrafted folk furniture made of bent twigs, deer antlers and steer skins. The rustic dining alcove off the kitchen with its built-in corner cupboard and a pedestal table and benches that could seat twenty, easily. The pantry that was half-filled with canned goods, many of which probably had exceeded their expiration dates. The foggy windows that hadn’t been cleaned in years.
The only reasonably clean rooms were one of the three bedrooms, the single bathroom, and the kitchen… the key word being “reasonably” since soiled dishes were piled in the kitchen sink, wet towels lay on the bathroom floor, and the bed remained unmade with dirty clothes making a trail bespeaking a bone-weary cowboy falling dead on his feet to the mattress at night.
Well, something would have to be done if Charmaine was going to stay there for one day, let alone several weeks. Rusty might be able to live this way, but she couldn’t. Besides, Charmaine was a hard worker, trained from an early age to cook and clean and keep busy during the daylight hours when her mother slept. If she hadn’t taken care of herself, no one else would have.
First, she gathered up the bed linens and blankets from two bedrooms and all the dirty towels. She took them to the laundry room off the pantry and started her first load of wash. Then she brought in the perishable groceries that Tante Lulu had sent, along with some she had emptied out of her own fridge—milk, orange juice, fresh vegetables, some meats, even some crawfish from a neighbor. Charmaine set the dishes and pots and pans to soaking in scalding hot, sudsy water in the big enamel sink, then left two loaves of frozen bread dough out to rise on the counter in greased loaf pans before preparing a quick crawfish étouffée. She wasn’t attempting to please Rusty. It was one of her favorites. At least that’s what she told herself. She made enough for a half dozen people, in case some of the ranch hands would be eating there, too. Heck, maybe Rusty wouldn’t even eat with her. She shrugged. In that case, she would be eating the Cajun dish for days.
By then, the first load of laundry was done. She put that in the dryer and started on a second load. The sweet scent of detergent filled the air, giving her an odd satisfaction. Some folks probably felt like this when they hung their clothes out to dry on the line.