Page 20 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
She was also dressed like a street orphan in one of his old shirts. The sleeves were chopped off at her elbows and strips sewn onto the bottom to make it a dress that fell to her knees. She was all tangled hair and filthy feet and front teeth that were too big for her face. Marigold would have to squint real hard to see that Nettie cleaned up pretty as her mama.
Like Levi, Nettie jerked to a stop a few feet out of his reach. Her smile faltered between hope and apprehension.
Every time they ran out to greet him this way, Virgil had a thought to open his arms, but they were skittish as feral cats. Big gestures might scare them away for good, but here came another askance glare from Marigold. One that suggested he could do better. What the hell did she know about any of it?
Then again, what did he?
While he bit back a sigh, Marigold moved to crouch in front of his daughter.
“You must be Nettie.” She threw a smile toward Levi to include him. “I’ve been excited to meet you and your brothers.”
Nettie’s eyes were like Clara’s, more blue than gray. They grew turbulent and anxious as she asked, “Are you our new mother?”
“Marigold,” Levi provided with a complete lack of enthusiasm, as though she was the fool’s gold of mothers. “She’s a housekeeper.”
“But you said Leyohna is a housekeeper. That’s why she can’t stay forever.” Nettie’s mouth trembled with betrayal.
All of Virgil set like wind-baked clay, making his throat dry and the rest of him feel brittle. The children needed a mother. He’d known that from the moment they turned up. Leyohna had been a stop-gap, one who Nettie had taken to with immediate and deep affection.
He gave the back of his head a scratch, ready to blurt out that he ought to check on the day’s yield when Harley’s high-pitched squeal sounded.
The two-year-old staggered out on his fat legs, toddling like a drunken sailor. He wore only a cotton shirt that had shrunk so small on him, it rode above his belly button. His worm and cork bobbled in the breeze as he came at Virgil swift as a whiskey jack looking to steal his lunch.
Could Virgil keep himself from wanting to smile? He had tried. Once. It was a losing battle. Harley’s round cheeks and kissy lips and black, curly hair were straight from a picture book of baby angels. Only a monster could resent him.
The boy’s eyes were brown but held the shape of Clara’s. They were wide and appealing as he hugged Virgil’s leg and looked up at him. His smile was Clara’s, too. Hell, the dimples on that little brown ass were exactly as Virgil remembered, just like the shape of those ears.
But there was nothing of himself in this kid because Virgil hadn’t made him.
…
“This is Harley.” Virgil set his giant paw of a hand on the boy’s tightly curled hair.
The boy shone a grin way up at his father, but Virgil wasn’t looking at the baby. He was glowering at Marigold, daring her to say something about that boy’s brown skin.Daringher.
It was none of her business, though.
“Hello, Harley.” Marigold tried to catch the boy’s attention, but the baby was focused on trying to reach into Virgil’s pant pocket.
“Peas?”
“Yes, I’ve brought you all a treat,” Virgil said in the closest thing to an indulgent tone he was probably capable of. He dug into his pocket and came up with three lemon drops wrapped in paper.
The older children each darted closer to take one.
“Thanks, Pa.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Peas?” Harley’s little hand was flexing urgently as Virgil unwrapped one.
Marigold was about to say he couldn’t give such a large, hard candy to a baby when Virgil popped it into his own mouth and gave it a crunch, wincing as though he’d broken all his teeth. He dabbed his fingertip to his mouth to collect a piece and fed it to the baby.
Harley closed his lips over it, and he smiled. “Hmmm.”
“Your hands are filthy,” Marigold protested.
“It’s a bit of rein oil. Hasn’t killed anyone yet.” He brushed his hand on the seat of his pants and looked toward the cabin. “Leyohna, this is Mrs. Davis.”
