Fiddlefoot Read Free Page B

came swiftly, touching her heart with fullness, as when she saw a child smile. His friendly, impudent handsomeness would melt stone, she thought, and now he came prowling around the table, and, out of cheerful deviltry, put his arms around her and lifted her off the floor, kissing her neck at the hairline.
    â€œNow put me down,” she scolded him. She was aware only then that perhaps there was a sharpness in her voice, and a faint depression touched her and saddened her. It was always this way, when their greeting was over, and the world was as it was instead of made charmed and wonderful by this man she would marry.
    She began laying food on the table and Frank dragged one of the chairs out and sat down. He ran his fingers through his short, tousled hair and yawned, and Carrie said, “Bad trip?”
    â€œIt was all right going out.” He broke off a piece of bread, took a bite of it, and said around it, “How’s the Judge?”
    â€œFine,” Carrie said. Her back was to him and now she turned and said over her shoulder, “Before I forget it, he’ll want to see you, Frank.” He looked up and she said soberly, “About Saber. You own it now.”
    Frank grimaced and looked at his bread. “I’ll have to grow me some mustaches and a belly.”
    Carrie said lightly, “I’d trade both of them for a couple of roots.” As soon as it was out, she regretted saying it. She got out a plate of cold steaks and a dish of cold fried potatoes and set them, along with a pitcher of milk, on the table, and then looked at Frank.
    He was watching her, his eyes serious, and said, “All right. I’ll grow roots, too.”
    Carrie poured herself a glass of milk and sat down opposite Frank. He ate silently, swiftly for a moment, and then said, “I’ll tell you a story.” He raised his fork, and pointed it at her, a frown on his forehead.
    Carrie laughed. “Empty your mouth first.”
    Fork still in the air, Frank chewed a moment on a bite of steak and swallowed it, then waved the fork at her. “I was crossing Roan Creek this morning when I remembered that string of trout pools in Wells Canyon. I cut over to take a look at them—at one pool especially. I’ve fished it ever since I was a kid, and for one fish.” He paused, and lowered his fork. “He’s still there.”
    â€œThe same fish?”
    Frank nodded. “The same fish.” He looked at his plate, scowling. “That got me to thinking.”
    â€œHow fat, dumb and happy he was for staying in the same pool?” Carrie asked dryly.
    Frank glanced up, a faint shock in his eyes, and Carrie thought swiftly, miserably, Why do I do that?
    â€œYeah,” Frank said slowly. “I kind of like him for that, Carrie. I don’t think I’ll try to catch him any more.”
    A faint exasperation stirred in Carrie. Fat, dumb and happy had been her own words, but Frank had accepted them, and they described, she thought bitterly, his opinion of men who stayed in the same place for a lifetime. She felt the old skepticism, the old disbelief in him coming back like a wave of nausea, and it frightened her. It laid its dead hand on every hour of her life, and she hated it.
    She rose now and went to the counter and cut out a wedge of berry pie, put it on a plate, and returned to the table. Sitting down, she said, “Then you weren’t in such a hurry to get back.”
    â€œNo, I wanted Rob buried,” Frank said.
    Carrie looked at him pleadingly. “Don’t, Frank. He’s dead.”
    â€œGood,” Frank said. He glanced up to see the distaste in Carrie’s eyes, and now he shoved the plate of pie away from him. He looked at her levelly and murmured, “I guess we fight tonight.”
    â€œIs that new?” Carrie asked bitterly, softly.
    Frank reached across the table and took her hand, and his eyes were serious, without humor and without