“Good girl!” Thaddeus cried out jubilantly. “Git, git, git! Now, git!”
Time and again he laid the leather strop down on her back more insistently. Titus watched foam fleck at her nostrils as her front hooves pawed at the muddy ground, flinging clods back toward Thaddeus, spraying Titus with more dark, damp, fragrant earth each time she plunged a hoof down into the soil.
“Git, git!” he bellowed behind them both. “Git, Titus. Lean into it, boy!”
They lurched forward another two feet. The strop laid down on her back, again. Thaddeus coaxed her with his almost constant chatter. Then a yard more and they were out of the chewed-up ground. He and the mule now churned bare feet and monstrous hooves on grassy furrows—bull nettles and the Spanish needles that thrived in newly turned ground. He fought for a grip with his right foot as the mule shuddered with fatigue, then leaned back into the fight.
“You got it! By Jupiter—you done it!”
The words rang in his ears as the mule shot past him and Titus stumbled into the damp grass, the leather and chain and harnesstree jangling over him, pulling him along as Thaddeus leaned back against the reins, bellowing his orders to bring the mule to a halt.
Her massive sides heaving in throbbing quakes, she stood a few yards from the youth, frost rising in a ragged halo around her big head as she turned to wearily regard him. Then blinked her eyes once before she looked away from Titus.
Suddenly his father was on him, pulling him up by the back of his collar, pounding him on his shoulder, yammering as he shook Titus by the shoulders in exultation. Then Thaddeus Bass gripped his son’s shoulders in those big, meaty hands of his and put his face right up to his boy’s.
“Don’t you damn well ever forget what you just done—you hear me? Don’t you ever go and forget what a man and a animal can do together, when they work together, son.”
Gulping down more of that moist earth on his tongue, Titus nodded, staring back at the fiery intensity burning in his father’s eyes. Minutes ago he had been frightened to the core by those eyes. But that anger, that iron-nail- spitting rage in his old man’s eyes had disappeared, and now Titus saw only mirth and joy and jubilant self- satisfaction.
Thaddeus tousled his son’s hair, smeared some of the dirt from one of the boy’s cheeks. “C’mon, Titus—let’s go get you both some breakfast.”
As he walked back beside that great, sweating animal, Titus wondered if he would ever be as satisfied with his lot in life as was his father.
2
How he loved the smell of her. A dusting of flour. The sweet mingling of creamy milk, maybe some rich yellow butter. Perhaps a dash of vanilla beans, or crumbling of cinnamon sticks, even the faintest hint of ginger. Most always the stirring tang of yeast whenever he dared get that close.
Never was there any smell of soap or laundry to her. Much less the earthy odor come of butchering farm animals that clung to other girls he knew. No, none of that—not even the stale, sourish fragrance of dust and sweeping and mopping out the floors rose from her skirts or hung about her hair when he chanced close enough to smell of it. Instead, Amy Whistler had the smell of baking about her, the promise of bread rising and pie crusts turning golden, of corn fritters and johnnycakes and nothing more grand than swollen butter-yellow corn kernels frying in a great iron skillet over the flames of the fireplace. Parched corn. How he had come to favor her parched corn.
“You set yourself on the porch there, Titus,” she told him, grinding her hands into her apron, a tiny cloud of flour puffing about them. “I’ll be out straightaway as soon as the dough is pounded and set to its second rise.”
He watched her retreat back into the shadowy interior of the cabin lit by the glowing fire and those candles waxed atop iron pegs driven into the logs all about the big room, their fluttering giving the place the appearance of constant movement. Then he drank deep of the smell of cool milk and fragrant butter, fresh from the springhouse, and turned with a sigh.
Amy Whistler didn’t grow food to eat in the ground like his father, by God. But from her hands she grew things nonetheless. Tasty and seductive concoctions, confections, and elixirs. Whereas a man who coaxed green vines and tender shoots out of the rich black soil might be called a wizard, Titus had long ago decided she was an angel.
It was more than merely the fact that she was two years older than he. Titus was in awe of the way her hands felt when she let him hold one of them. And only then when they were off and out of sight of her cabin, far from her younger brothers and sisters in that great Whistler brood. How they did flock around Titus every time he wandered down the lane or crossed the country as the crow flew to pay a call on their eldest sister. Out of sheer orneriness did they cling to his legs and arms when he came visiting, beseeching him to play their games with them, to swing on the rope from the great maple that stood squarely in the middle of the yard, or fashion some thing wondrous and new with his folding knife and a sliver of kindling from the woodbox by the door.
Most of them eventually wandered away this evening, as they always did, shooed from the porch by their mama and told to be off to play until sunset. Yet four stayed on, remaining every bit as silent as the bristles on the back of a sleeping hog, standing stock-still no more than a yard away from Titus, all of them staring like statues at him. Watching with such undistracted intensity as if he were going to change shape right before their eyes, sprout wings, and take flight—something that would eventually merit all their rapt, undivided attention. The youngest among them sucked on a thumb. Another repeatedly swiped at a runny nose. A third stood statuelike with his hands stuffed down inside his hand-me-down canvas drop-front britches with new patches repairing old patches. And the last brushed a thick rosy twist of her dusty-red hair in and out of her mouth, sucking on the strands as her green eyes studied Titus.
His eighteen-year-old angel had that same hair, those same eyes. For a moment that remembrance made him smile, to think how little he had noticed Amy Whistler in those days so far behind them now, when Amy had been this young. Hard to believe ten years had passed since he first remembered noticing the girl—not for the beauty of her hair and eyes, but for her lean, hard fists and quick feet. Far from being demure, Amy struck back whenever she felt aggrieved: swinging those tight little fists at an offender’s nose, lashing out with her bare feet to wallop some bully’s shins. No, Amy Whistler was not just a tomboy—she had quickly become one of the boys.
For years the two of them shared the same secret fishing spot, enjoyed the same rope that swung them out over the summer swimming hole, where they let go and dropped into the cool creek of a hot, muggy afternoon, or tracked the same fox and deer, raccoon and turkey, he with his grandpap’s rifle, she with her father’s in hand.
Then one day on the banks of their swimming hole a few years ago, when Amy found Titus gazing at her with unabashed amazement, she had little choice but to own up to the fact that she was no longer a child. While other girls her age had blossomed early, as they so often did on this Kentucky frontier, for the longest time Amy’s figure remained boyish, thin and bony, almost as angular as Titus’s … until she blossomed with a vengeance.
In the short weeks of that single summer years ago, it seemed Amy went from skinny and hard-boned to rounded, filled-out, and more than painfully shy about the sudden changes in her late-blooming body. By the time another year had passed, however, she had come to accept the inevitable march of time, wholly embracing her new station in life. With the arrival of each new summer it seemed Amy Whistler grew more beautiful, acquired new curves, learned more about the way she could hold a boy with her eyes, came to speak to the object of her attentions in that just-audible whisper, or could stand silhouetted by the falling sun to accent her ample figure just so.
It was in this last year Titus found his own body awakening. Oh, for certain he was still as skinny and angular and unsure of just what his muscles might or might not do to embarrass him from day to day—but the greatest changes occurred within. Those first stirrings of manhood. An awakening of the sweet juices of youth that fired his veins—in very nearly the same way as had the thrill of the hunt and the flush of conquest for all those years spent in the woods, along the game trails of this Kentucky hill country.
It wasn’t just that Amy had changed into a woman right before his eyes … it was that now Titus looked at her differently. No longer as merely a best friend, a companion, a confidante who kept his secrets from all others.
