extended his hand and gripped the gnarled one, several shades darker than his own. “Mr. Walker, my pleasure.”
“Welcome,” the man said simply. No questions, just as Vanessa had promised. Well, none yet, anyway.
“Where’s E-ni-si, in the kitchen?” Vanessa asked, linking her arm with her grandfather’s. The man grunted and nodded, gesturing for them to accompany him inside.
Clay held the door for both of them and entered last. Vanessa threw him a reassuring smile over her shoulder. “Smell that? Du-da’s been cooking it out back in the pit for a couple of days. Mouths are watering in the next county, I bet.”
The grandmother stood in the doorway of the kitchen regarding Clay with frank curiosity. She was a beautiful woman, probably around sixty-five, though her face was virtually unlined and her hair barely striped with strands of silver. This was how Vanessa would look in about forty years, Clay thought. He offered the woman his best smile.
“Clay Senate, my grandmother, Rebecca Walker,” Vanessa said. “E-ni-si, Clay and I will be working at Cherokee for a week or two, at least until the festival.”
“Then you both must stay here,” the woman said with a decisive nod. “Please make yourself at home, Mr. Senate. We will feed you first, then my granddaughter will show you where you will sleep.” Then she looked directly at her husband, a question in her eyes. The old man shook his head.
Clay assumed the unspoken query had to do with his reason for being here, that he had not come to offer for their beloved Vanessa. He experienced a surprising little stab of regret at their obvious disappointment. He seriously doubted Vanessa brought many men here, probably for that very reason.
A sharp tug on the back hem of his jacket distracted him. Clay turned slowly, expecting to see a dog. Instead it was a child. Bright brown eyes peered up at him, disappeared behind impossibly long black lashes for a blink, then reappeared. “You Daddy?” she whispered.
Clay’s heart melted. He squatted to her level to answer. “No, not Daddy. My name is Clay.”
She frowned. “Like red dirt?”
He smiled. “That’s right.”
She poked her pink-clad chest. “I’m Dilly.”
He nodded. “Delinda. Like beautiful?”
She smiled back. “That’s right.”
Vanessa scooped her up in a hug and swung her around. “Hey, squirt. What’s happening?”
“Bitsy had kittens. You wanna see?” She twisted in Vanessa’s arms and craned her neck at an impossible angle to include Clay. “You can come, too, but you can’t touch ’em.”
“I promise,” Clay assured her. He had never met a cat he liked and touching one was about the last thing he would want. Still, he followed Vanessa to one of the outbuildings with her little cousin riding on her shoulders, listening as they sang a silly little song about counting cats.
“She’s charming,” he commented to Vanessa as the little girl squatted to run her fingers over the mother cat’s head. “So she lives with your grandparents?”
“Not all the time. She stays the weekends with my cousin Cody and his wife, Jan. Cody is Brenda’s brother. When I take a few days off, Dilly stays with me.”
“Who has custody of her?” Clay asked.
Vanessa frowned. “We do. All of us.” Then she shrugged. “Oh, if you mean legally, on the books, Cody and Jan, but they both work. I guess when she starts school, she’ll stay with them most of the time since they live in town. For now, though, this is a good place for her to spend the bulk of her time.”
Clay could not imagine the child not having a permanent home. Strange that he should feel such an affinity for this kid, only having just met her. Maybe it was because they had something in common—mothers who had died too soon.
“She’s lucky to have family,” he said, wondering what it would have been like if he had been absorbed into his mother’s tribe after her death. For one thing, he probably wouldn’t be feeling like such an outcast at the moment.
“Here,” Dilly whispered, rubbing his hand with a tiny ball of fur. “Don’t squeeze, though.”
Instinctively, Clay opened his hand and accepted the tiny white kitten as she laid it in the palm of his hand. “I thought you said we couldn’t touch them.”
She tilted her head to one side, her small fists resting on her jean-clad hips. Then she reached up and placed her small hand on his wrist, just touching. “Me and Bitsy trust you. Put her back at her mommy’s tummy when you get done. That’s her dinner.” In a bouncing flash of pink and denim, she skipped away and disappeared.
Vanessa relieved him of the wriggling fuzzy kitten and placed it back in the nest with the others. “I’m guessing you’re done, Mr. Red Dirt?” she said with a laugh.
Clay brushed his hand against his coat. “I guess so. Is she always that mercurial?”
That question raised her eyebrows. “Mercurial? What a perfect description of Dilly. And most four-year-olds, come to think of it. You haven’t been around kids much, have you?”
Not ever. There was the Cordas’ new baby, but it was too small to be called a kid yet. It looked so fragile, he always declined to hold it when the opportunity arose. Joe and Martine might trust him with their lives on a mission, but he sort of doubted that faith extended to their infant.
He rubbed the area just below his shirt cuff that still felt the featherlight imprint of the little girl’s fingers. Somehow, the child had touched more than his wrist with that gesture of her trust.
As they walked slowly back to her grandparents’ house, Clay found himself wondering what the future would hold for young Delinda and whether she would ever feel stigmatized by sins of her father. Was it in anyone’s power to save her from that?
The meal was superb and the food plentiful. Clay had to work hard not to overeat. The tender pork with its spicy sauce went well with what tasted like German-style potato salad and the fried, flat bread he couldn’t seem to resist. He had thought the food might be totally comprised of Native American fare, but it was a delicious mix of what he was used to and what he had only heard about. Fry bread, for instance. Until today, he had made it a point never to go where they made it. Perhaps he’d had it once when he was very young and the memory was lost.
“Eat more, please. A large man needs filling.” Rebecca Walker expressed her pleasure in his enjoyment of her cooking with a warm smile. “We have pie. Do you like peaches?”
“Peach is the best,” Dilly declared, jumping with anticipation.
He didn’t like peaches at all, but said he did just to keep the smiles going.
Mrs. Walker was so like Vanessa, but minus the almost frenetic energy, the endless pressing for information and the ready laughter of the younger woman. And the concentrated version of Vanessa that was little Dilly.
Had his mother been like Rebecca Walker? Clay hoped so, because she appeared the soul of contentment.
He
