Free Mud Creek by Cheryl Holt Page A

will come by.”
    “Over the past four days, we didn’t see another soul except for Mr. Blaylock.”
    “Maybe he’d take us in.”
    Helen frowned. “We don’t even know him. I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”
    “We’ll keep walking then, until we stumble on someone else. We’ll hitch a ride.”
    “And ask them to deliver us where?”
    “Anywhere but here.”
    Helen sighed with dismay. “We’re not leaving, Violet. We’re at the end of the line.”
    “We’re not! Don’t say that.”
    “Why shouldn’t I? It’s true.”
    “There must be an alternative. We just have to find it.”
    “No, there’s no alternative. There’s no white knight to rescue us. We have to rescue ourselves. We’re tough, and we’ll be fine. Albert’s provided us with this cottage and—“
    “This shack, you mean.”
    “No, I mean cottage . We’ll fix it up and be happy in it. Look at us! We’re still together. We’ll always be together, but we’re starting over—from scratch. Now come on. We have a lot to do before he returns.”
    Helen grabbed the latch on the door, flicked it open, and they stepped inside.
    *    *    *    *
    “What did I tell you?”
    “I don’t remember, Walt. I’m sorry.”
    Walt Jones stared at Florence. His temper was at such a sharp precipice that he nearly backhanded her. She was so preoccupied that drastic measures were required—such as a clop alongside the head—to get her attention. But she’d become such a trembling fool that hitting her was like kicking a puppy.
    “Supper should be on the table at eight,” he snapped.
    “I know,” she claimed, but he doubted that she actually recalled his instructions.
    “I’m dog-tired when I drag myself in. I want my meal hot and ready.”
    She simply gaped at him with those vacant eyes of hers.
    She’d never been a strong woman, but he needed a dedicated partner. Not a constant hindrance. Was it too much to ask that she take care of their home? Was it too much to expect that she cook and clean like any other sane, competent wife?
    He was responsible for every chore in the entire world, and often, the stress seemed too much. Couldn’t she handle one tiny detail—such as having supper on the table when she was supposed to?
    She’d grown so troubled that, when she was alone, he was terrified. She might light the stove, forget about it, and burn the house down. Then what would they do?
    “When I sit down to eat,” he continued, “what should be on my plate?”
    “Meat and potatoes.”
    “That’s right. That’s what I should see. Every damn night, Flo.”
    “There’s no need to curse at me, Walt. I’m trying my best.”
    “Well, it’s not good enough. If you’d mind your duties, as the Lord intended, I wouldn’t have to chastise.”
    She slumped and studied the floor, and he knew he’d lost her.
    For the remainder of the evening, she’d stand like a statue, awash in misery, until Carl or Robert led her to bed. They were too young for the myriad of tasks he’d forced them to assume, and they worried about her when they couldn’t waste energy fretting.
    Summer was short, and they never managed to store sufficient food for the long, bitter winter. There was no respite from work. There was no let up.
    From the time he was a small boy, reading dime novels in his father’s store in Maywood, he’d dreamed of being a homesteader. Yet the reality had proved more daunting than he’d anticipated.
    He was carrying the whole load, with occasional bursts of assistance from Albert. In New York, Walt’s role as husband and father had been simple enough.
    Out here, the choices were harrowing, and he couldn’t deal with so many impossible burdens. Florence was one more that was too heavy, and the situation couldn’t fester.
    She had to buck up, to stop complaining and do her share, but she refused to try. He’d love to be rid of her, but what were his options? A man couldn’t abandon his wife. He couldn’t turn her out on the