Part 25 (1/2)

It seemed to be coming from the front. She put down her dressmaking shears, got to her feet, and approached the now sparkling windows.

A boy of about ten, clad in clean but patched dungarees, was swinging on the front gate.

Squeak.

”Well!” She supposed he must belong to their other neighbors, the Rikers, since the Shaws' two children had grown up and left home long ago, according to Zee.

Creak.

Zee had told her not to expect any neighborly treatment from the Rikers. ”Hymn-singing hypocrites the pair of 'em. Adah's one of them Temperance Union busybodies. I ain't exactly their flavor of the month since I stopped 'em smas.h.i.+ng up the Last Chance Saloon.” She grimaced. ”Ernie's just as bad. He's president of the bank.”

”Banking's not necessarily a bad thing,” said Christie.

”It is if you call in the loans of folks who are desperate and steal their homes off 'em.”

”That doesn't sound very Christian.”

”It ain't.” Zee hugged her. ”There's more charity in your little fingernail, darlin', than in their whole sorry carca.s.ses. My guess is they'll give us a wide berth, which suits me just fine.”

Zee hadn't mentioned the Rikers had a son.

Squeak.

Christie tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, smoothed her ap.r.o.n, and went out to talk to him.

Creak.

”h.e.l.lo, young man. Would you please stop swinging on our gate?

You'll have it off its hinges.”

The stare he gave her was disconcerting. ”No.”

Squeak.

She blinked at him. ”I beg your pardon.”

”No.”

Creak.

She frowned and considered what to do next. ”Do your parents know you are not in school?”

Squeak.

”You're the Rikers' boy, aren't you?” She folded her arms and waited.

166.

Creak.

”I said you're the Rikers' boy, aren't you?”

”And you're the h.e.l.lcat's wh.o.r.e.”

She sucked in her breath. For a child to even know such a word . . .

”Don't speak to me like that.”

The boy stopped swinging and stepped down from the gate. He fixed that unnerving gaze on her again. ”Why not? It's true. You're the h.e.l.lcat's wh.o.r.e,” he repeated. ”And everyone knows it.”

Her face felt hot. ”I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, young man, or I'll put you across my knee.”

He smiled and she was suddenly reminded of boys who pull the wings off flies. He was trying to goad her, she realized. Sticks and stones, she told herself. Sticks and stones. She kept her breathing slow and steady.

”A killer and her wh.o.r.e, living as man and wife,” continued the boy, watching her closely. ”It's disgusting.”

Now Christie's dander was well and truly up. Where's a broom when you need it? A good swift smack will have to do. She marched toward him, raising her hand, but he stepped back and darted off.

He had run barely ten yards before he turned and yelled at her, ”Why don't you go back to the brothel where you belong? You're both going to h.e.l.l anyway.”

Still boiling with angeran unfamiliar sensation and one she could do withoutshe shaded her eyes and watched him hare off down the road.

Christie marched indoors and headed for the kitchen. There, she shucked her ap.r.o.n and grabbed her bonnet. She had barely finished tying the ribbons under her chin before she was outside again and on her way to the Rikers' place.

It was smaller than the Shaws' rambling old spread, but larger than the Old Barn. Its inhabitants clearly had moneya nice porch ran across the front of the house, which was painted white with a green trim, and the roof was s.h.i.+ngled. As she crunched up the stony path toward the front door, between the tubs that someone had planted up with bay trees, she could hear dogs barking.

She knocked at the ornate front door and waited. The parlor's lace curtain twitched. Moments later, a stout woman was standing in the doorway, staring down her prominent nose at her.

”Mrs. Riker?” Since the boy was about ten years old, Christie 167.

supposed his mother couldn't be more than thirty, but the staid dress of black broadcloth added ten years to her age.

”Yes.”

”I'm Christie Hayes, your new neighbor. Pleased to meet you.”

Adah Riker stepped back and began to close the door.

”Hey, wait a minute!” said an indignant Christie. ”It's about your son.”

The door paused, seemed to think about what it should do next, then opened again.

”Joe?”

”Is that his name? Small boy, about ten years old, curly hair, brown eyes, freckles, wearing dungarees.”