The Loves of Ruby Dee

  THE LOVES OF RUBY DEE

  Curtiss Ann Matlock

  Chapter 1

  The afternoon Ruby Dee came to them was one of those hot summer days peculiar to the high plains, when heat shimmers up off the land and blurs a man’s vision, so that he might mistake what he sees at first glance. That he was mistaken was Will’s first thought when he saw coming down the dirt road what looked like a convertible tugging along an aluminum camper, going as if hell-bent to outrun the rooster tail of Oklahoma red dust billowing up behind.

  Will thought he’d either had too much sun or that being bucked off the horse had addled his vision.

  They were out in the blazing sun, at the training pen, working on the wild stud horse Will had caught over in New Mexico. Lonnie and the old man were giving instruction, but it was Will on the horse, taking his life in his hands. That was the way it always was: his brother and his dad throwing out opinions and Will doing all the real work.

  The old man sat in his fraying green-and-white lawn chair, leaning forward on his cane and calling gruffly through the rails. “Don’t give him time to think, boy—kick him and hold on.”

  The old man had always figured, get on a horse and show him who was boss right off. Force was his way. He got aggravated to distraction every time he watched Will work with a horse. Will didn’t know why the old man insisted on coming around and watching. His watching aggravated Will to distraction.

  Lonnie sat humpbacked on the top rail. He had his straw Resistol pushed back a fraction, dark hair falling on his forehead, and a pinch of Skoal in his bottom lip. He watched the horse real sharp and couldn’t resist humming low. Lonnie was one for slipping his opinions in unnoticed, and he especially didn’t want to be noticed contradicting the old man, but he couldn’t help adding his two cents’ worth—in this case the humming meant to soothe the animal. Lonnie’s way was to sweet-talk—animals or humans.

  Will’s way generally fell somewhere in the middle. He worked patiently and firmly, aiming to teach new behavior, not simply to overpower instincts. He’d been working with this horse—a stocky blue-black roan mustang with a lot of quarter blood—for two weeks. He’d had a saddle on him a number of times, but this was the first day he had been on the roan’s back. This animal was totally different from some hand-raised colt, which was why Will was so fascinated with him. With this horse, Will had to keep his wits sharp.

  “Okay, now, buddy, we got to take a step.” Speaking in a low, rhythmic voice, he lifted the soft cotton reins and moved his legs to give the horse the feel. Then he clicked to him and pressed his legs into his belly, gently. He was pleased with how quiet the stud was, him being wild and all.

  The roan took two nervous steps, and the next instant he reared, pawing air. Will leaned forward; the horse came down, ducked his head and went to sun-fishing. Will was thrown in the dirt on about the third curve.

  The first word he heard, when he could hear, was the old man saying that he ought to have learned how to stay on a horse by now. Lonnie was laughing fit to be tied.

  Will hauled himself up off the ground. He supposed his first lesson was that the ground was a lot harder at forty-two than it had been at thirty-two. There was a ringing in his ears, and his right shoulder felt like it could rub his left. He looked around for his hat and felt pretty foolish. He could hardly believe he had been thrown. He hadn’t been thrown from a horse in a long time—years.

  The horse stood across the pen, watching him. Will paused to catch his breath. Sweat burned his eyes. The old man groused that he’d better get at it.

  About that time, Lonnie said, “Wooeee...will you look at that?”

  He was staring off toward the road, and his expression was enough to make Will climb up beside him, throw a leg over the rail and look, too. And that’s when he saw what certainly was a strange apparition in their part of the country.

  Will shifted his hat lower over his eyes and peered harder, but the sight didn’t change. It was definitely a convertible flying across that dusty dirt road, and when it turned up their drive, he could see it wasn’t anything new, but a classic ‘60s Ford Galaxie, pale yellow, gleaming in the sun. The Airstream camper behind it was at least as old but not in nearly such good shape. Though the door was tied shut, it flopped with every bounce of the trailer.

  Lonnie let out a faint whistle. “You suppose that’s the housekeeper you hired us, Will?”

  Will said, “I ain’t hired anyone yet.”

  He jumped to the ground. Lonnie came after him, and the old man struggled up from his chair.

  The three of them stood there and watched the outfit come clanging up the drive like a passel of pans in the wind. When it came to a stop at the side of the house, the dust finally caught up and engulfed the car and trailer, obscuring them. When that dust cloud settled, the woman was out of the car and standing there, in a dress that flowed down over a willowy, womanly body and caught in the breeze near her ankles. The rockabilly tones of Elvis floated from the car, singing “Return to Sender.”

  Will felt like someone had hit him upside the head.

  “Well, now.” Lonnie gave a grin of real pleasure. “I believe I’ll just go make the lady welcome.”

  He strode toward the woman, spitting out his Skoal and straightening his hat as he went.

  Beside Will, the old man gave a snort. He leaned over, spit a brown stream of tobacco, then looked at Will with pale eyes cold and hard as January ice.

  “I told you I don’t want a woman in my house, and I sure as hell don’t want no floozy in my house. You send her back to wherever you found her, boy.”

  Will was forty-two, but his daddy was still calling him boy. And saying it like Will was just another hired hand.

  Will clenched the fist frozen at his side, while the old man turned and, leaning heavily on his cane, stepped away. His bad leg buckled, and Will reached out to grab his arm, but the old man jerked away and headed on his own steam up the graveled path toward his workshop. More than likely he had a bottle hidden in there, and if there was anything more Will did not need, it was to have the old man get soused and start in.

  He looked back at the woman, the convertible and the trailer. She was leaning over into the car, stretching. Graceful moves, as if she flowed over the car. Will saw that she wore western boots, deep red ones. Elvis quit singing. The woman straightened and smiled at Lonnie, greeting him.

  Will hadn’t expected this at all. When he had spoken to her on the telephone, he had imagined someone a lot like Maggie Parsons, who had recommended the gal and set up the whole thing. Maggie Parsons was head nurse at the county health department, and was a solid hundred and sixty pounds of practical no-nonsense.

  With a heavy sigh, he went to catch the blue roan and tie him where the rails gave a bit of shade. He peered through the rails, getting another look at the gal. He looked down at himself and tried to knock some more dust off.

  As Will walked over to join them, Lonnie was making up to her as sweetly as a boy hoping for warm cookies, and she was smiling. Then she caught sight of Will. She watched him come.

  He noticed her hat was well used, not one of those silly things only for show. Then he saw the flashy earrings fluttering and swaying from her ears, just like the hem of her dress, which the wind molded against the curves and indentations of her body. She was a smallish woman, not over five four, and slender. She had full, rounded breasts, though. The surprise came all over Will again. And he thought: We’re needing rain, but we sure don’t need a tornado.

  “This is my brother, Will,” Lonnie said. “I guess you two spoke on the phone. Will, this is Miss Ruby Dee D’Angelo, in the flesh.”

  The gal stuck out her hand. The bunch of bracelets on her wrist jingle
d, and her bright rosy fingernails flashed. “It’s nice to meet you in person, Mr. Starr.”

  Will managed to take her hand and shake it and say a polite hello. Her grip was firm, but her hand soft and smooth. She had a husky voice for a woman, as he had heard over the telephone, but in person it had a distinctive, sultry tone. Her smile was more like just a hint of one, but there was a warmth about her face. Her skin was like fine porcelain, and her eyes were dark. Dark as strong, steaming coffee.

  For a long moment he gazed into those eyes, and by heaven, she looked back. He took note of her, and she took note of him.

  Then Will looked away and shifted his stance to ease himself. She hadn’t looked away. He could still feel her eyes on him, and he felt mighty disconcerted. He felt like something had been put over on him, though he wasn’t certain what it was. He looked over at her car and trailer.

  “There wasn’t any need for you to go to all the trouble of bringing your stuff up here right off, Miss D’Angelo,” he said.

  “Oh, it wasn’t any trouble,” she said, a trace of amusement in her low, husky voice. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to bring my trailer. I don’t have to do any packin’ then.” She added in a practical tone, “It saves goin’ back for it, and you did say you were needin’ someone right away.”

  Will had said that, as best he could recall. The night he had spoken to her, he had been under the influence of another big fight with the old man, another cold ham sandwich and another six-pack of Red Dog.

  The trailer had definitely seen better days. Along with the brown stains edging the windows, dents— looked like from hail—covered it. In contrast, the Ford convertible looked almost showroom-new. A Galaxie with sweeping lines, a sexy machine—as sexy as the gal, Will thought, his gaze lighting on her for a second before moving on to the dusty tires. There was nothing new about the tires. The front one was nearly bald.

  There was a little dog, a black and white collie mutt, front feet up on the driver’s door of the car, wagging its tail. Will recalled then that she had told him she had a dog. He had told her that would be fine. That had certainly been the Red Dog talking.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” she was saying. “I had a flat tire and I got lost a couple of times. Oh, the map you sent was perfectly clear. But you know, things don’t always look in real life like they do on a map. I’m not very good with them, I’m afraid.”

  “They’re skimpy on state signs when you get out this way, too,” Lonnie put in. He always could make conversation.

  “I’m sorry about your flat tire,” Will said, feeling something was needed on his part.

  “Oh, I did just fine. I keep Fix-a-Flat in the trunk. It works real well.”

  She put a hand on the car and leaned on it. Her rosy fingernails were stark against the pale yellow.

  She had a way of moving that drew a man’s eye. That drew his eye and made the rest of him want to follow right along.

  Lonnie walked around the front of the car, admiring it. “I’ll say this is some pretty cool machine you’re drivin’, gal.”

  Lonnie’s calling her “gal” sent irritation crawling all over Will.

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased as punch. “I got it directly from the man who bought it new. It was garage-kept, and it has the original engine and only sixty-five thousand miles. I enjoy it, but I sure should have put the top up before comin’ down y’all’s road. The top’s kinda broken, and it isn’t too easy to get up. I have to get out and pound this thingamajig.” She pointed to the thingamajig and fiddled with it.

  Lonnie jumped right in, saying he would be glad to look at it for her. Will thought that looking at it was about all Lonnie would manage to do. Ask Lonnie for a screwdriver, and you had to describe it to him.

  Will broke in. “Miss D’Angelo’s had a long drive, Lonnie. I imagine she could do with a cold drink. We can go inside, out of the heat, and discuss things.”

  Her dark, coffee eyes swung around to him. She regarded him steadily. “Yes. That would be nice.”

  With Lonnie leading, they went inside through the back door. When he realized he was staring at the girl’s swaying hips, Will averted his eyes downward. His gaze landed on the dog that went along at her heels.

  In the kitchen she looked around, frankly curious. She went to the counter top and ran a hand over it.

  Suddenly Will saw the kitchen as she saw it. A big, drab room, yellowing with age and neglect. The curtains were long gone, the walls and cabinets once white, and now dirty ivory from cooking grease and smoke, the gray linoleum wearing through in places. The only so-called wall decorations were the big, plain clock and the “Western Horseman” calendar. The green vinyl chair seats supplied the only color, and they were patched with silvery duct tape. The old man had spilled coffee grounds and left his coffee and spit cups on the table.

  Will thought of her car and all the stuff piled in it, and he looked at her dress. Color, all of it, vibrant and warm.

  “Will, do you wanta beer?” Lonnie was bending into the refrigerator.

  “Dr. Pepper,” Will said quickly. He cast a questioning eye at the gal. “We have some Mountain Dew, if you’d rather have it.”

  “I like Dr. Pepper just fine.” Her face was solemn as a judge’s, her brown eyes looking straight at his.

  Will said, “Lonnie will get our drinks,” and gestured toward the alcove on his right and stepped aside. “My office is through here.” Lonnie was coming from the refrigerator, three cans in hand. “Put those Dr. Peppers in glasses, Lonnie. With ice,” Will said, and turned to follow the girl through the small alcove and the open door. He pushed the door closed behind him.

  The office had been made by enclosing the side porch some fifteen years ago, when the old man had dumped the management of the ranch into Will’s lap. That was the same year the IRS had come after them because the old man’s record system had consisted of scraps of paper, half of them torn from napkins, tucked into a small envelope. These days Will managed with the help of a computer. Lonnie served as his top hand, when he wasn’t off playing the rodeos and the girls. But Hardy Starr still owned the Starr Ranch, and he never let anyone forget it. For their work, Will and Lonnie got a salary, just like the other hands.

  The only thing that kept the office from being as drab as the kitchen was the books and magazines that crammed it. This was Will’s domain. Sometimes the old man came in and wanted to see the accounts, acting like he knew what he was looking at, and once in awhile Lonnie poked his head in for a chat, or to bum a ten, but mostly Will was in here alone. He liked it that way. Here he kept a couple of his antique bridles and bits, and he had pictures scattered around, shots of the ranch’s top bulls and Will’s best horses, with their ribbons and trophies. None of them were more recent than five years ago, though. He had seemed to lose interest in all of these things over the past few years. These days, sometimes he had trouble calling up enough interest in anything just to get out of bed.

  Miss D’Angelo glanced around the room, then slowly brought her hand to the crown of her hat. The fabric of her dress stretched tight over her breasts for an instant. Will saw beads of moisture on her pale skin, where it dipped between her breasts. She slipped off the hat and raked her fingers through her hair. It was wavy, and it fell from her fingers like dark honey rippling in sunshine. She let her hand drop as if it were heavy. All of her movements were like that, slow and heavy and languid.

  Will wondered how she would be in bed. Then he snatched off his own hat and tossed it to the desk.

  It gave up a little puff of dust. He, too, raked his hands through his hair. It was soaked with sweat, and so was his shirt. Sweat, around the gal, seemed in poor taste.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go wash up. Just sit down, if you’d like. Lonnie’ll have the drinks in a minute.”

  He went back through the door and pulled it closed behind him. It had not been this awkward when he’d hired the four other housekeepers, he thought. Of course, none of those house
keepers had been like this gal.

  Each of the previous housekeepers had been on the far side of fifty and quite substantial in frame, and one of them had been a man. One of them, the second one, had been almost a man, and Will had had high hopes for her. She had been a solid chunk of a commander in Big Smith overalls. She hadn’t been much for cleaning, but she could flat-out cook, and she’d matched Hardy curse for curse and chew for chew. The old man had been sufficiently impressed by her size not to threaten her physically. But one afternoon he had found a girlie calendar from somewhere and waved it in her face. He had actually chased her with it out across the yard, no mean trick for a man with a cane.

  Ruby Dee D’Angelo, Will thought, was more like the girl on the girlie calendar than a housekeeper.

  “Did you know we don’t have any matchin’ glasses in this house?” Lonnie said. He had two glasses on the counter, filling them with soft drink while he sipped beer foam from a third.

  Will stripped out of his shirt, threw it on top of the washer and stepped to the sink, then stuck his hands and arms under the faucet flow. Lonnie poked at an ice cube in one of the glasses.

  “I hope you washed your hands,” Will told him.

  “I washed my hands. I’m not a heathen. No matter that I live like one half the time, with nothin’ but jelly glasses to drink out of. It seems like people who have two pickup trucks worth thirty grand plus apiece in the garage and are sellin’ some bulls for ten grand apiece could at least afford matching glasses.”

  “What we don’t have is time and inclination,” Will said. “Shit! We don’t have soap, either.” He pumped the silly little plastic bottle furiously, but all it did was spit at him. “Squirt me some of that dish soap, Lon.”

  “Well, when the gal goes for groceries, you tell her to get some glasses, too,” Lonnie said, squirting the green liquid into Will’s palm. “It’s embarrassin’ having to use jelly glasses when people come by.”

  "Yeah...and how often do people come by?”