Chapter Text
It was too late for the rain – the corn had withered and died weeks ago, was nothing now but desiccated stalks barely above ankle-height. They’d scratched her shins to hell, but Lucy didn’t care. The shallow cuts didn’t throb nearly as much as her still-tender stitches.
Thick, black clouds roiled across the sky, the fields lit up like midday for all the lightning. Thunder shook the ground beneath her bare feet. What should have been a relief from the oppressive heat was little cooler than bathwater; even the heavens were baking.
The downpour was so substantial that when she glanced back over her shoulder, she couldn’t see so much as a dim outline of the farmhouse. Good. It could be ages before Monty realized she was gone.
Lucy’s palms ached at the force with which she squeezed her nails into them. Her dress whipped around her shins as the storm howled around her, and she tilted her head back, opened her mouth to scream along with it.
Spreading her arms, she closed her eyes against the lashing deluge. The raindrops trickling to the corners of her lips tasted like salt. “Please,” she whispered, the word lost in a roll of thunder.
With the corn dead, she was the tallest thing for miles. She stretched onto her toes, reached grasping fingertips as high as they could go, and begged again. Please.
The lightning zigzagged stubbornly within the clouds, deaf to her pleas. Just like always.
###
Lucy woke to Monty fumbling at her nightgown. She was sticky with sweat, the open window not doing much to help, not when the air outside was nearly as stifling as it was indoors. A few of the neighbors had taken to sleeping on their porches or even their lawns – she’d suggested they try it, but Monty had refused on the grounds that it wasn’t decent, them seeing her in little more than her knickers. Sleeping fully clothed sounded worse than sleeping inside, so she hadn’t asked again.
“So g’damn pretty.” Monty’s eyes shone in the gleam of the moonlight, damp with corn whiskey. His fingers scrabbled clumsily at her hem, tugging, insistent. “Take this off.”
Lucy let her head fall back to the pillow. Her words, when she spoke, were muzzy with sleep. “You’re drunk, Monty.” She didn’t know how he did it in heat like this – didn’t even know where he got such a steady supply this deep into Prohibition.
Monty tightened his grip, and she heard fabric tear. Wonderful. Another thing she’d have to fix in the morning.
“So?” he grumbled.
So she’d hike up her skirts and he’d be too wasted to get it up and he’d blame her for it. So she’d have another mysterious bruise to explain away. So she’d endure more whispers and titters at how clumsy she was and it would still be better than people knowing the truth.
One didn’t need the touch of God to divine the future, not when life was such a well-worn rut.
In the morning, she bent over her nightgown with a needle and thread, squinting through a swollen eye. Stitch by stitch, she mended the fabric. If only her own frayed edges were so easy to put back together.
###
It was well into the afternoon by the time Lucy got the chance to get off her feet. She dropped into a wooden chair that rocked beneath her. One of the legs was a smidge too short – Monty had promised to fix it, but it had been months since she’d first pointed it out. It would more than do for now, though.
Her hair was plastered to the back of her neck from the unbearable heat of the stove; her hands were cracked from the washing. Her soles ached from the hours of standing, her trek out to the fields to deliver Monty his lunch. She tugged off her house flats and rubbed at her heels, even as her shoulders protested the movement.
Too much to do. Always too much to do, and no money to do it with.
She had the door and windows open for the circulation – it let in dust along with the cooler air, and she’d have to sweep as soon as she could convince herself to get back up. Movement out in the distance caught her eye: the figure of someone tall, a sack slung over their shoulder, a dog plodding at their side. Unease frissoned through her. They didn’t get many strangers around here.
Half-rising, she struggled to remember where Monty kept his gun. She didn’t really know how to use it, but she figured pointing it at someone couldn’t be too hard. Even as she slid back into her shoes, however, the figure stopped.
She could barely make him out through the shimmering heat waves rising through the air. He appeared to be doing some bizarre dance, herking and jerking from one side to the next. Then, abruptly, he stopped and crumpled to the ground.
The dog began barking its fool head off.
Grabbing a cleaver from the knife block, Lucy dashed onto the porch, shaded her eyes, and clutched at the railing so she could lean out as far as possible without technically leaving the property. The man – for it was a man, she saw that now – lay inert, facedown in the crisp grass, the dog nipping at his fingers to try and rouse him.
Lucy hesitated only a moment before disappearing back into the house. Abandoning the cleaver on the counter, she reached instead for a glass and filled it with lukewarm water. Heatstroke, she reckoned. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had underestimated the Nebraskan summers.
Dust clouds puffed up with each step as she practically jumped off the porch and half-ran to the man. He was prone, which made things more difficult. The dog didn’t help matters either, circling and whining and pushing its face close to his.
“I’m trying to help,” she told the animal, pushing her aside as gently as she could. Sticking both hands under one of his shoulders, she heaved. He rocked slightly to one side, and she shoved her knee in the small gap between him and the ground, prodding and hauling and straining until she’d managed to get him onto his back. Her dress clung to her in uncomfortable places, damp with sweat under her breasts and her armpits and the small of her back.
That glass of water looked mighty inviting. But she forced herself not to take even a sip, instead folding her legs underneath her and settling the stranger’s head in her lap. He was older, his forehead lined with wrinkles, traces of gray at his temples, but she saw no sign of a wedding ring. Strange, for someone of his age not to have a family.
His clothes were dusty and well-worn; the style and cut of them were the same as Monty’s, suggesting he too came from a farm. A fine layer of dust covered his whole body. He’d probably been walking all day. Hence the heatstroke.
The dog yipped nervously.
“Okay, all right, hold your horses.” Lucy dipped her fingers into the water and let a few drops fall onto his face, his lips. “Wake up. I can’t give you any of this if you’re unconscious.” She jogged her legs upward, his head bouncing sluggishly against them.
She flicked more water onto him, heart starting to pound. He couldn’t be dead… could he? Mouth dry, she leaned forward until she could press her ear against his chest. It left his face practically buried in her bosom, but if he was dead, that didn’t much matter, did it? Thankfully, she heard a sluggish beat behind his ribs.
When she sat up, she looked down to find startling hazel eyes staring up at her.
“Oh, golly!” She placed a hand to her chest to slow her own racing heart and let out a stuttered laugh. “I didn’t realize you’d woken up.” For a moment, all she could do was stare at him. The dirt caked on his face made the green in his eyes stand out all the more – they were beautiful; movie-star eyes, her mother would have said.
She didn’t even remember the glass of water until he opened his cracked lips and nothing but a hoarse rattle came out. “Oh, here!” Quickly, she lifted the cup to his mouth and allowed a small stream of water to trickle down his throat.
Practically as soon as he swallowed the first mouthful, he shot up, seized the glass from her, and drained it.
Lucy made a small sound of protest. “You should go slower, you’ll make yourself-,” the last drop disappeared down his throat, “-sick.”
The man wiped a sleeve across his mouth, sucking down air as heartily as he’d sucked down the water. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. I thought I was a goner.”
His drawl said Texas, and Lucy couldn’t help but wonder why he’d left for Nebraska, of all places. She didn’t get the chance to ask before she saw another figure in the distance, this one familiar.
Monty. He was coming up the road with a set to his shoulders that said Lucy was about to be in a whole heap of trouble.
Scrambling to her feet, she brushed the dirt from her dress and her knees. What had she been thinking, allowing herself to be caught alone with another man? Hurriedly, she reclaimed the glass from the stranger and clutched it. A pitiful lifeline, but the best she had at the moment.
The stranger stood more slowly, one hand to his temple. He was a little shaky, but his dog pressed against his leg, and he put a hand to her head to help stabilize himself.
Monty came to a halt, red-faced and panting, jaw tight. “What is this?” he snapped. “Who is he? ” and he stabbed an accusatory finger in the stranger’s direction.
Lucy’s knuckles went white around the glass. “I-I don’t know,” she admitted.
Monty looked apoplectic, but before he could say anything, the stranger cut in. “There ain’t no cause to get upset. Your wife here saved my life.”
“That’s right. He had heatstroke, and he needed water. So I gave him some.” She drew back her shoulders and stared Monty in the eye. If he wanted to throw a fit over her playing Good Samaritan, he just could.
Slowly, Monty’s face returned to its normal color. Inhaling deeply, he straightened his collar and smoothed back his hair. “Right, of course. Pardon me, sir, it’s been a long day of work and my temper isn’t what it should be.”
Lucy fought the urge to roll her eyes. His temper was exactly as bad now as it always was.
“Regardless, I won’t take up any more of your time.” The stranger doffed his hat to her. “Ma’am. Thanks again for your generosity.” He whistled his dog to heel.
A pit opened in Lucy’s stomach. She didn’t want him to go so soon, didn’t want to be left alone with Monty like she always was – nor could she think of a good excuse to get him to stay. To her surprise, her husband was the one who came to her rescue.
“Now, hang on a minute.” He waited until the stranger had paused before asking, “You ever worked a farm before?”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. She would appreciate help around the house, that was certain, but this season’s crops were mostly dead. They wouldn’t have anything to harvest or bring to market. Most importantly, they wouldn’t have any money with which to pay a farmhand or food with which to feed one. “Monty…”
He shot her a look telling her to be quiet, so quiet she became.
The stranger flicked his gaze between the two of them. “I might have done,” he said carefully.
“Why don’t you have supper with us?” Monty slapped him on the shoulder as if they were old friends. “Gotta be careful with heatstroke. Some time in the shade will do you good.”
Lucy shifted her weight from one foot to another. As much as she wanted this man to stay, she hadn’t planned on cooking for three.
The stranger hesitated but eventually dipped his head. “Thank you, I’d be most appreciative.” Then he offered his hand, first to Monty then Lucy. “Cooper Howard, at your service.”
“Monty, and this is my wife, Lucy.” His hand descended on her shoulder this time, his grip too tight to be anything other than possessive.
Lucy noted how warm Cooper’s palm was – from the heatstroke, she presumed. She had no reason to notice the calluses on his thumb or the way his hand swallowed hers. Yet it was all she could think about as she turned and went back into the kitchen to try and make three meals out of two.
When Cooper stepped in after her and she noticed the dust he tracked into the house, however, she switched tack. “Bath,” she ordered. “My floors are bad enough without you dragging half the road in here.” She’d have to fetch the water, but that couldn’t be helped.
As soon as Cooper saw her with the bucket, he reached to take it from her. “I can draw my own bath, Miss Lucy.”
She quickly moved it behind her back. “Don’t you dare. The last thing I need is you keeling over again. You just sit there and let me take care of it.” She glared at him until he lowered himself onto the chair with the short leg. With a firm nod, she left for the well.
It took more than a few trips to fill the shallow wooden tub on the washroom floor. She could add aching arms to her list of complaints, and she still had miracles to work in the kitchen. Sighing, she took a second to slump against the doorframe, but Monty’s clomping footsteps had her snapping upright before she could blink.
“I’m glad one of us has time to lounge around,” he said as he passed her. “If you’re looking for something to do, you can get supper on the table. It’s getting late.” And he gestured to the shadows slowly creeping into the room.
Lucy tightened her grip on the bucket handle. If she were a stronger person, she’d send it swinging into the side of his head. Instead, she only turned, lit a lantern and laid out rags and soap for Cooper, then retreated to the kitchen.
###
Lucy wiped her hands on her apron. She was a dadgum miracle worker, and it was a crying shame Monty didn’t recognize it. Three heaping plates decorated the table, along with a set of placemats she’d dug out of an old linen closet. A wedding gift from someone – she no longer remembered who.
She’d managed a perfectly yellow cornbread, a few strips of bacon, green beans fried in the fat, and her crowning achievement: a cake, replete with raisins and spices. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like baking, but something about having company had inspired her. It was practically a feast – now all she needed were people to eat it.
Monty showed up before she even had to call for him, drawn by the scent. “Finally,” he grunted, dropping into his seat at the head of the table.
“I’ll fetch Mr. Howard,” Lucy muttered. The glow of the lantern still emanated from the washroom, and as she drew closer, she realized the door wasn’t fully shut. She’d forgotten to remind him of the broken latch – yet another of Monty’s projects he’d neglected to actually take care of.
It would be the simplest thing in the world to call out from where she was. There was no need to take another step forward. Or another. And she certainly shouldn’t be side-stepping the creaky floorboard to keep her presence hidden.
Breath caught in her chest, she pressed right up against the frame and peered through the crack. It was mostly dark but for the lantern, but even so, she could see Cooper’s age had not dulled his strength. Warm light outlined the ridges of his abs and the well-defined musculature of his arms and chest and shoulders as he wrung out a rag.
He didn’t have a stitch on, and despite her better judgment, her eyes traveled lower. Down the length of his torso to his–
“Holy moly,” Lucy breathed.
Cooper’s gaze flicked to hers, caught on it.
Hands flying to her mouth, Lucy practically leaped away from the door. Her face was hotter than the noonday sun, and when she called out, she knew she was being far too loud. “Supper is on the table! Just whenever you’re ready! There’s no need to rush!” Then she fled, one hand braced against her stomach as she desperately tried to compose herself.
Monty was already picking at the food when she took her seat. She was certain her guilt was all over her face, but if he noticed it, he didn’t say anything. Which meant he didn’t notice it because he’d never missed a chance to berate her before, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now.
Lucy stabbed her green beans with more force than necessary. She felt guilty, to be sure, but not for the right reasons. Disloyalty to her husband came secondary to invading Cooper’s privacy. He’d simply been trying to clean himself, and she’d practically violated him. She wanted to apologize, but that would mean bringing it up, and she couldn’t even think of it without blushing anew.
A few minutes later, Cooper joined them at the table. He had on different – though equally battered – clothes, and Monty gave him a disapproving look.
“Lucy, I want you to do laundry first thing tomorrow,” he said. Then, turning to Cooper, “You’ll stay the night, won’t you? It’s too dark to be on the road.”
Lucy nearly choked on her forkful. She hadn’t expected Monty to make an offer like that – they weren’t a boardinghouse, and he’d always scoffed at company before.
“Oh, I wouldn’t wanna impose,” Cooper drawled.
Was he staring at her? Lucy refused to look. She’d deserve it if he told Monty about her little indiscretion – her little imposition. Slowly, ever so slowly, she peeked at him from beneath her bangs.
He seemed entirely focused on his supper and Monty.
Monty leaned forward. “It wouldn’t be an imposition at all, would it, Luce?” Without waiting for an answer, he plowed ahead. “Mr. Howard – Cooper, if I can call you Cooper – I’d like to hire you on. Employment is scarce around these parts, but I could use some help keeping up with things around the farm.”
Lucy stared openly at him. Keeping up with what things around the farm? Come planting season maybe they would need another set of hands, but with all the crops dead, the two of them should be perfectly capable of caring for the livestock and maintaining what little else needed to be maintained. And she really couldn’t see where he was going to get the money for a salary.
Clearing her throat, she ventured, “We wouldn’t be able to pay much–” Monty’s hand descended on her thigh, nails digging through her dress into her skin to the point of pain. She swallowed down a yelp, gripped her fork so hard the metal made a dent in her palm to keep from reacting.
Cooper’s gaze drifted over to her, and she mustered a tight (but hopefully convincing) smile.
“I assure you, we can afford to give you a fair wage.” Monty removed his hand and brought it back up above the table. “What do you say, Cooper?”
Lucy braced herself. This was it. The moment where Cooper told her husband how he wouldn’t be staying in a house with such a wanton, amoral woman. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip and fixed her eyes on her plate.
The very last thing she expected him to say was, “Well, if you could use an extra hand or two…”
She jerked her head up only to find herself pinned under his stare this time.
She could have sworn the edge of his mouth curled into a smile before he nodded to his plate. “Thank you for supper, Miss Lucy. This is the best I’ve eaten in a while.”
For a second, she just blinked. Monty never thanked her for cooking – it was just an expectation she was meant to fulfill. “It was really no trouble,” she finally managed.
Monty pushed away his empty plate and got to his feet. “There’s a spare bedroom upstairs Lucy will make up for you. Whiskey?” He was already pulling down the two snifters they owned, the last remnants of her mother’s once-sprawling crystal collection.
They’d been forced to sell the rest piece by piece over the past few years of drought. They’d gotten a pittance for it too, probably not even a quarter of what it was worth, but there wasn’t much call for fine glassware when most folks couldn’t even get their hands on a hunk of meat and a loaf of bread.
Cooper arched an eyebrow. “You have whiskey?”
Monty placed a finger to his lips. “Finest around. Only for the discreet.” He produced a bottle from the back reaches of a cabinet as Lucy stood to start clearing the table.
“I assure you, I know all about discreet.” Cooper cast a surreptitious glance at Lucy when he said it, and she felt her cheeks flaming again.
She couldn’t get out of the kitchen fast enough. As soon as she’d dumped the plates in the sink – the washing-up could wait – she sequestered herself upstairs in the guest bedroom. The mattress had to be turned, the sheets applied, the floor swept, and the water basin filled.
The lantern had burned low by the time she finished, and she despaired of getting to bed at a reasonable hour. There were still the dishes, which would require more water from the well, which would have to be heated, which meant clearing the stove again. She could almost cry. In fact, her vision had so blurred with tears she didn’t realize Cooper was standing in the doorway until she almost collided with him.
“Sorry!” she gasped, taking a giant step back and pressing her fingers under her eyes to banish the unshed tears. “About… about… I just mean, I-I should never have…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. If you can’t even speak about it, you really shouldn’t be doing it, she chastised herself.
Then Cooper’s fingers were on her chin, tilting her head up so she had no choice but to stare into his eyes.
“There ain’t no harm in looking,” he assured her.
There was, though, or there would be if Monty found out. He wouldn’t save his wrath for her alone; he’d see Cooper as equally culpable. Shaking free of his grip, she lowered her head. “It won’t happen again.” It was a bitter promise, but it had to be made. She had a ring on her finger and vows on her tongue that compelled it.
The words of that vow rang within her skull as she made her weary way down to the kitchen where Monty was still posted up with his nearly empty bottle of whiskey. The way he looked at her promised another attempt at fulfilling his husbandly duties when they went to bed. So she took her time washing the dishes and wiping down the table, and she even went so far as to fold the placemats before declaring herself done.
For better, for worse.
For rich, for poor.
Till death do us part.