Crew and The Goat Lady – Ch 3
Tanya Fischer
Crew discovers the strength and troubles of the injured Della, a woman whose loneliness rivals his.
Author’s Note: This is a short story based on a character from “Letters to Dogwood“. It is recommended that you read the book first before delving into Crew’s story. I wrote this because it was requested by a reader and it made me realize that everyone deserves someone, even if they aren’t your typical good guy or hero. Love comes in all shapes and forms, personalities and quirks. And considering that Crew has a heart of gold, he deserves someone just as interesting as he is.
-Tanya
Chapter Three: Trouble Brews
The woman he had dragged out of the well was the most god-awful thing he’d ever seen.
He’d pulled drowned rats out of barrels in better condition than her. She also smelled terrible; from the corner of his eye, Crew saw Smokey turn around with his upper lip extended. He would have smiled if the woman didn’t look half-dead from exposure to cold. Her teeth chattered behind blue lips, and the white scars that riddled the right side of her face were purple at the edges.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said against his jacket while the dog jumped against her skirt.
The wind was biting, and she was soaking wet. Remembering Lucy’s warning about being clear with his intentions, Crew took two steps back.
“Ma’am, it’s too cold to be wearin’ a wet jacket. Take yours off, and you can wear mine.”
Trying to concede to his direction, she wavered, stumbling. She wasn’t putting weight on her left leg. He steadied her after passing over his coat, and she slid her hands into the sleeves, trying to talk. All he could hear was her clacking teeth.
“Let’s get you warm. Get on my horse. Smokey will take you to the house.”
Crew forgot all about being transparent with his intentions and swooped her up in his arms. If he scared her, she gave no indication, so he settled her gingerly on the saddle. After appraising that she wouldn’t fall right off, he grabbed the harness and led them back to the shack—horse, woman, and dog following behind.
The black and white dog danced around his ankles and chased any remaining birds that hadn’t migrated south.
The homey little shack’s smokestack emitted the faintest wisps of smoke, and his eyes roved for fuel, snagging on a pitifully small cord of wood stacked against a nearby pine. Tying his gelding up at the cabin’s porch post, he held a hand up to the woman, who grabbed it with cold, stiff fingers. He was forced to catch her so she wouldn’t fall in an ungraceful heap at his feat.
“S-sorry,” she mumbled, shaking like a leaf.
“That’s all right, ma’am,” he said, worried about her dubious motor skills. “Let’s get you warmed up.”
She didn’t say a word when he picked her up again, carrying her beneath the roof’s overhand and trying the front door.
It opened easily.
He noticed the latch was loose and dangled off the board. After carrying the drenched woman across the threshold like a bride, he saw a two-by-four board propped against the doorframe, presumably to lock her house up at night.
The single room was dim but tidy, with a cookstove, countertop, and reservoir to the immediate right. A worktable that doubled as a dining table with two chairs was pushed against the wall by the door, a single mug and plate sitting empty and forlorn on the tabletop. To the left was a single bed covered with piles of colorful woolen quilts, a rocking chair and a sewing basket in the corner closest to the window, and a washstand with a mismatched pitcher and enamel basin between them. The dog snaked between his legs and padded across an enormous, worn rug to lap desperately at a pan of water on the floor.
It put a worrisome thought in his mind.
“You didn’t happen to drink any of that well water, did ya?”
“No.”
“Good. Dyin’ of dysentery ain’t fun.” He shouldered the door closed enough to keep out the wind but kept it cracked, a stripe of light spreading across the floor and cabinets. Pulling a dining chair out with a boot, he was able to set her on it and tried not to notice that her skirts had soaked his left sleeve with an unpleasant odor.
“Which way of dying is the m-most fun, would you say?” she stammered through clumsy lips.
Crew looked down at her, surprised. She was trying to smile, but it looked like a grimace. Was she teasing him? He thought about it just in case she wasn’t. “In your sleep, I reckon.”
Her laugh was another surprise.
“I’m Della,” she said, holding her hand out. It was black with grime, the fingernails broken, and she promptly yanked it back. “Oh, I may need to wash up before we make proper introductions.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Crew.” And, recalling the reason he was on her farm in the first place, added, “I came up here to ask about buying some livestock off ya.”
“And I’m so glad you did,” Della said, the sincerity in her voice making his insides feel peculiar, all twitchy and warm. “I don’t know if anyone would have found me.”
“Well, if it hadn’t been for your dog, I prolly would’ve just gone back to the ranch.”
“That’s Iris.” Hearing her voice, the dog whirled and ran to the woman, jumping in her owner’s lap even though she was far too large to fit comfortably. Della laughed. Her lips looked less blue. “Good girl. When I fell in that hole, she never left my side. Not once.” Her voice broke, and she buried her face in the white band of fur around the dog’s neck, who reciprocated by washing the woman’s hands in doggy kisses.
Feeling awkward and strangely touched by the scene, Crew mumbled something about lighting a fire. Although it was warmer inside than out, it was still several degrees below comfortable. He stoked the dying fire in the cookstove, adding three pieces of firewood and kindling. There was an empty pot on the stove, and he filled it halfway with water to heat, then closed the stove’s damper. It would be warm in the house in no time. While he did this, Della had found her voice again and told him all about her misadventures, from scouting her unused land to spending hours in the well, sure it would be her grave.
“…and then I heard your voice. I have never been so happy to hear anyone in my whole life,” she was saying while he poured steaming water into the enamel basin. “Oh, Mr. Crew, you don’t have to–”
“Just Crew, ma’am,” he interjected. No one had ever told him they’d been happy to hear his voice before.
It was hard not to look at her, but he tried his hardest to keep his eyes on what his hands were doing.
Don’t scare her, he thought to himself.
“How’s your ankle feelin’?” he asked, changing the subject. He hoped it wasn’t broken. Setting human legs was a mite different than an animal’s.
Della pulled her skirt up, revealing a sturdy boot. Wincing, she rotated the foot, then leaned forward to put a little weight on it. “I don’t think it’s broken, just badly sprained. It feels hot.”
“Can you get your boot off?”
She did with the utmost care, pulling so slowly the boot barely moved, gasping when it finally came off. Pungent water came out with her foot. When she took the other boot off, Crew leaned down and grabbed them.
“I’ll take these outside to dry.”
“I expect they are ruined beyond repair,” she sighed, shaking her head. She had dark brown hair in a single braid. How old was she? There was a maturity to her face that put her closer to forty than thirty, but her braid made her look younger.
Frowning, he asked, “Where’s your feed?”
Eyebrows raising, she answered, then, “Why?”
“Because you’re in no condition to feed the animals, I ‘spect.”
“Well, you don’t have to do that–”
And what, have no one feed her animals? “Why don’t you get washed up and get in somethin’ dry? I’ll be back.”
Crew walked out of the cabin, fighting a smile at her stupefied expression and open mouth.
The first thing he did was find some boards and old garden stakes from behind the barn, rode his horse back to the well, then covered and staked it off. It’d be a damned shame if someone or something else fell in. Then, he fed the livestock, chopped wood, gathered water from the rain barrel, left it beside her door, and scouted for a straight, sturdy stick. He found one about waist-high and trimmed it with his hunting knife, whittling off its bark and smoothing the knobs.
This would help her get around the house for a while.
It was growing dark when he knocked on the door, and the wind was colder, nipping at his skin through his flannel shirt.
“Come in,” he heard her call through the door.
Before he opened the door, he jiggled the loose latch. It looked as though it had been violently wrenched, loosening it from its mount on the door. He remained in the doorway, his mind on the tools in his saddlebags. It wouldn’t take anything to fix that latch.
“I put your coat by the stove. It should be dry now,” Della said from his left. She was sitting in the rocking chair, her left leg elevated on the bed. Iris bounded from her owner’s feet and circled Crew’s legs.
“Thank you, ma’am. Here.” He brought her the walking stick, then turned before she could comment. “You got anyone to come check on you tomorrow?”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She was running her fingers over the walking stick.
His mouth turned down at that, but he hid it by bringing the water in. A lamp, low in oil, was on the center of the work table. “Maybe I can come back tomorrow.”
“Well, what were you looking to buy?”
“My boss needs a lamb and a kid for his three younguns for Christmas. Got any?”
“I do, in fact.” Della went into some detail about a little brown and white doe and a lamb that was newly weaned and friendly.
They talked back and forth for about an hour when Crew noticed it had grown dark outside. “I’d better go,” he said with some reluctance, donning his hat and standing.
“Oh, are you sure? Are you hungry? I was just about to make supper.”
With a bum leg? He didn’t think so.
“Just tell me where everything is.” He wasn’t the greatest in the kitchen, but despite her insistence that he not bother, he made an edible supper, slipping treats to an attentive Iris when Della was busy with her mending.
When they ate, it was to Della chatting and Crew listening in comfortable silence, grunting here and there in agreement.
Once he’d cleared their dishes and was busy washing them, she chewed a nail and asked, “Do you have a long way to travel? I only have the one lamp, or I’d lend you one.”
“Not too far,” he lied. He didn’t see well enough in the dark to enjoy traveling in it. He’d probably bunk in her barn instead and wondered what Lucy would say. A part of him knew it was polite to ask first, but a bigger, quieter part just wanted to put his horse up for the night and set up a bedroll in peace. He also didn’t like that she was alone, lamed, and her door was practically falling apart. “I’ll be back in the mornin’.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” she said, and there was a hesitance in her voice that narrowed his eyes. Was she scared to be alone?
“Can you lock the door by yourself?” He eyed her elevated leg doubtfully.
“Of course,” she assured him, shooing him out. In the lamplight, she was attractive when she smiled; strong-featured and handsome instead of pretty, but she had kind, gentle eyes.
So, not believing her for a second, he nodded and shut the door behind him. Iris yipped on the other side as though she wanted out, but Della shushed her. Crew untied and mounted his horse, and, in case Della was watching, he traveled down the lane before backtracking and circling around. Luckily, Smokey had better eyesight than Crew in the dark, and the barn eventually loomed before him.
Crew had just whipped his bedroll out when he heard the dog barking.
Then, he heard several hushed whispers passing the front of the barn.
Slowly standing from his crouch, he listened. Iris’s barks were growing increasingly frantic, more aggressive in tone than the warning barks of that afternoon. When one of the whispers turned into male, adolescent laughter, Crew clenched his jaw.
“Hey, Goat Lady!” one of the voices shouted. “Did you have time to think about our offer last night?”
The group of young men laughed. There was a loud thunk as though one of them had thrown a clod of dirt against the side of the cabin. The only response was Iris’ successive barks. Crew wondered if Della was in her bed, cowering and hoping the group would leave. He wondered if she’d managed to bar the door after he’d left.
Like a key in a lock, he imagined a group of strong young men breaking the latch on her door, trying to break in.
Feeling the same cold fury rise in him as when he’d pulled a gun on his boss’s father six years ago, Crew walked over to his saddlebags, felt around, and pulled out the long, cold barrel of his Henry repeating rifle.