~ Flood, Drought and Trudy Pyburn ~

by

Margery Casares

Pyburn County, Texas 1870

Sunday Afternoon: Late Summer

Trudy Pyburn, sun-treaked hair plastering her face, clothes dripping wet, ran as if a demon chased her. She dashed by the picnic table and up the side steps into the house.

Moments later, she slammed out the door carrying her father’s shotgun, and leapt down the steps. She headed toward the thickets of honey locusts growing along the bank of the pond.

Jumping up from the table under the large oak, spilling his tea in his plate, Frank yelled, “What the hell? Tom, catch your sister before she does something we’ll all regret.”

Tom, already on his feet, dashed past trellises of roses showering the ground in a cloud of faded pink petals, their faint scent lingering in the hot air.

Ignoring the reproachful look his swearing brought to his wife’s face, Frank Pyburn wiped his mouth on a napkin. His wide shoulders cast a shadow over the table, his eyes burned, and he narrowed them against the glare of the midday sun. “What do you suppose Trudy’s up to now? I tell you, Maria, we’ve lost all control of that girl. Tom never gives us a minute’s trouble, but Trudy is as wild as a woods colt.”

His wife sighed, fanning herself with a paper fan she’d brought from church. Her olive skin glowed damp and appealing, and she turned her soft, dove-gray eyes toward her husband. “You’re her father, Frank. You’re the one to discipline her. She pays no attention to anything I say.”

Maria’s dark hair, coiled into the severe knot he hated, did not detract from her aristocratic beauty. Her bewitching eyes and gentle smile still caught at his heart.

He averted his gaze from her, slapped his napkin on the table, and opened the neck of his dress shirt in response to the oppressive heat. “The whole confounded town is talking about her. She should get married; that’s what Reverend Hansen says. I’ve decided to see to that, Maria. I’ve sent for Will Hardy.”

“Will Hardy?” A shadow of a smile touched his wife’s lips.

Frank removed his belt and gun from the chair and buckled it around his waist. He paced while Maria stacked their plates, her eyes reflecting her disappointment at the remains of their mostly uneaten meal.

She touched a limp handkerchief to her damp face. “Consuela sets such a nice table, even when we eat out here,” she murmured, reaching to gather up the dishes.

“Leave that, Maria,” Frank said. Realizing his impatient tone might offend his wife, he added, his voice calm, “That’s what I pay Consuela to do, dearest.”

Maria looked at the hot cloudless sky and spoke as though she felt she must make polite conversation, “This drought has left everything so dry. Perhaps it will rain soon.”

Tom, his dark hair curling around his tanned face, came into view carrying his struggling sister over a broad shoulder. Holding the shotgun in one hand, he kept her pinned to him with the other. Trudy screamed and hit him with her fists. Reaching the table, Tom wrestled her to her feet and stepped back to avoid a kick. He blew out his breath and swiped at the damp stain Trudy’s wet clothes left on his shirt.

Frank took hold of his daughter’s shoulders, forcing her to face him. He released her and ordered, “Into the house, Trudy!”

She flinched and hurried to follow him. Her mother and brother accompanied them to the front parlor.

~ * ~

Frank gestured toward a chair. “Sit down, young lady.”

She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. Glory be damned! Her daddy yelled at her. She couldn’t remember the last time he was mad enough to raise his voice. Lately, he was mad at her a lot though. Her breath slipped out in a soft protest. “But my clothes are wet, Daddy.”

“Sit,” he repeated. His dark blue eyes narrowed. His stormy look and the runaway pulse beating in his neck moved her to the chair he indicated. She plopped down on the cushion with a squish that did not go unnoticed by her mother.

Trudy folded her hands and glanced at her father. He glared at her now. Oh, mercy! She was in trouble this time.

Her mother and Tommy sat nearby while her father took a deep breath and fixed his angry gaze on her.

Trudy wiped mud from her face. She pushed strands of wet hair out of her eyes, wrinkled her nose at the musky odor of pond water saturating her clothes, and ran her tongue over her lips.

The silence added to her discomfort. She wanted him to yell at her again, or something. But for the longest time, all he did was stare at her wet, torn clothes. She could tell from the two deep creases denting each side of his mouth that he clenched his teeth. She blew out her breath and threw herself against the back of the chair.

Frank Pyburn ran his fingers through his hair, so much like hers. She’d inherited his blond Nordic looks rather than the sultry Hispanic beauty of her mother, as Tom had. Trudy gazed into her father’s brilliant cobalt eyes, the color of her own.

“I want an explanation of this outrageous behavior, Trudy.”

She avoided his gaze and clasped her hands in her soggy lap. “I was riding Baron. I wanted to get him used to the saddle and…” She shifted in the chair, pulling at the wet riding skirt stuck to her legs, dripping water on her mother’s treasured Axminster carpet.

“And?”

“...and he threw me in the pond.”