“If the sun don’t come up soon,” she thought, “I’ll damp the pillow on our first night.” And then: “I’ll make Hattie Lampson dry it.”
On all the days of the week, Ma never saw the sunrise though she awoke as early; for her the clearness of the day was noticed late and the first heat, which killed the very cry of the chickens, only wore her down by noon. But this morning she saw it gather, roll up and melt the east. The fire of the small, perfectly round sun was suddenly stretched, banded, across the entire horizon. She saw the thin red arms actually wrenched across the back of the earth.
“That’s a bad light. But I don’t care.”
Luke found her hunched in a sun ray, head forward, hair laid flat on her knees.
“You ain’t very energetic for a woman who’s almost married.” He picked up the basin. “You used the water.”
“I’m entitled.” Ma spread the strands. “But you ain’t supposed to talk to me like this. You can’t look at me, like he was out here watching what I do himself — before it’s time.”
“There’ll be fuss enough,” said Luke. “Just let me wash.”
The head of hair grumbled. The cowboy took off his shirt.
“It’s hard enough for me to keep my spirits collected without you around.” Ma turned her back and drew the flowered satchel near.
“You aiming to carry something from the house?”