Page 89 of Charlotte's Reckoning
Charlotte carefully made her way through the woods, on alert for snakes and giant bugs. After about 100 yards, she looked back. No longer able to see the cabin, she stopped, second-guessing herself, afraid to go farther and risk getting lost. But in the silence of the woods, she heard the faint sound of rushing water.
“I knew it,” she declared.
She followed the sound and the willows until she reached a gently sloping bank leading down to a creek. The silvery reflection of the sun on the water must have inspired the name—Silverbend Creek. It ran northwest of town, cutting across the Jacksons’ extensive cattle enterprise.
Hurrying eagerly to the water, she cupped her hands and drank. With her thirst quenched, she sat back, closed her eyes, and listened to the soothing burble of the creek. The challenges the cabin posed soon intruded on her peace. With the pump broken, she’d have to haul water a bucket at a time. It would be an arduous task unless she cleared the path to the creek. The one to the road also needed clearing. There was so much to do. She wrestled with the agonizing question of how to use her few coins: machete, sickle, or food?
On her way back to the cabin, the rope handle of the full bucket dug into her palm. Pausing to switch hands, she noticed banging in the distance. Charlotte cautiously made her way closer and was stunned to see several men, at least three of them, working on her cabin. One of them was on the roof, hammering away.
She looked for Jenny but didn’t see her. As she emerged from the trees, a vast, hulking man in a battered black hat exited the cabin.
“George? Is that you?”
When he looked up and saw her, a wide grin spread across his face. “Good to see you, Miss Charlotte.”
She smiled back at him, delighted to see one of her former guards. George Gleason’s kindness toward everyone he encountered had left a lasting impression on her. He looked the part, but his friend-to-everyone demeanor was all wrong for a man hired as muscle in a brothel, which explained why he hadn’t been employed with them long.
“Jenny Jackson sent you,” she guessed.
“She did. Said you were in a bind.” He looked around, frowning. “I think that’s what folks call an understatement. If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, why are you living out here in the woods and not at the Red Eye?”
“Fenton died, and a man claiming to be his brother showed up to stake a claim. Did you hear?”
He nodded. “I didn’t make it to the funeral. Sorry.”
“He wasn’t always kind to you, George. I understand.”
“No, but you always were. You took up for me with him, too. This”—he waved his arm out to the side—“is my way of saying thank you, and being neighborly. So is the basket of biscuits, apple butter, and country ham Ma sent you. They’re inside.”
Hungry enough to eat the basket, her mouth watered, but her curiosity also had to be satisfied.
“What have you been up to since you left us, George?”
“I manage the Harper Farm. That’s Miss Jenny and Will’s place, which is only a few miles from here as the crow flies.” He motioned her over. “Let me show you what we’re working on. Russell’s fixing your roof and shoring upsome weak areas.” A man appeared from the front carrying several pieces of lumber. “That’s Wyatt. He’ll be replacing the rotten boards we found, inside and outside. Gage and Levi are clearing the yard around the cabin. They’ll get the path to the road too. It’s been let go for quite a while. If they don’t finish today, they’ll come back.”
“I can’t thank you enough. I hate to ask, because you’re doing so much already, but do you think you could look at the pump inside?”
He delivered more bad news. “I already checked it. Your well is dry. We’ll have to dig a new one, I’m afraid, but we’ll see to it as soon as we can.” The big man eyed her bucket. “You’ll be hauling water from the creek in the meantime.” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “I noticed a rain barrel out front that might save you a few steps, but it needs a good scrubbing.”
“I can do that. I’m grateful for all you’re doing, George.”
She worked inside, scouring every surface, especially the floor, while they cleared brush and hammered what sounded like a thousand nails. By suppertime, with a sound roof over her head and the cabin not at risk of collapsing if the wind blew, they called it a day.
George stopped at the front door before leaving. “This whole thing needs to be replaced,” he told her of the front door. “The hinges and lock, included. But I’ll need supplies from town. Until then, I’ve got it rigged with fence wire.” He looked at her with worried eyes. “A woman alone doesn’t sit well with me. You got a gun?”
“No. I suppose I’ll need to buy one.” That was another expense she couldn’t afford.
He walked outside without a word and returned a minute later. “Know how to fire a shotgun?”
“I’ve fired one once or twice, but can you remind me?”
“It’s loaded with two cartridges,” he advised then went through the motions with experienced hands. “Pull down on the lever, brace the butt against your shoulder, and fire with both hands. Be prepared for a kick the first time.” He hesitated before handing it to her. “You could come home with me—”
“I couldn’t impose.”
“Ma and Sarah won’t mind.”
“They will if they find out who I am. An innocent young girl like Sarah doesn’t need her name to be mentioned alongside mine. I’ll be fine, George. Especially with this,” she said, lifting the shotgun from his grasp. “I’ll return it—”
