Carla Kelly (31 page)

She sat in the straight chair, not trusting the motion of Paul's swivel chair so early in the morning. Since he had left the letter on the desk, Julia knew he meant for her to read it too. She picked it up, read it, then set it down, nearly overcome with the love Paul had for her.

Dear Folks, for so you are
, he had written.
I doubt anything I write here will surprise you. Julia feels a little tender about sharing this news, for reasons we all know too well. Somewhere in the middle of February, you’ ll find yourselves with another grandchild
.
Babies are plentiful in this world, but this one will be ours, on loan from the Lord, so there is no more special child in all the universe. Julia is doing fine, except for nausea. Even with her hand over her mouth, she keeps me in line. I've never thanked you for rearing such a woman, and for your own courage in not objecting when she declared she was going to cook for a Wyoming rancher. I'm certain you had many objections. I doubt I would be brave enough to let my child go into the wilderness. I thank God every day that you did. My life B.J. (before Julia) was a barren desert, sort of like that stretch of parched misery between Rock Springs and Rawlins. Those days are over, and I thank God for that too. Life will never be easy on the Double Tipi. I wish I could tell you it will be, but I would be lying. What it is, is heaven on earth for all the Ottos lucky enough to call it home, as we do. Thank you for your daughter. Her life brings life to me. Love, Your son Paul.

“Will that work, sport?”

Julia looked up into smiling eyes, even if his hair was a regular tumbleweed and his moustache rumpled. “It'll work,” she replied, shy at so much love on paper. “Thank you.”

“Any time. You're my special girl.”

He slapped the lintel of the door, and she listened to his measured tread heading toward the kitchen. She inclined her head and waited, first for a ferocious yawn, then there it was: “Redeemer of Israel” this morning.

Even with nausea and exhaustion, Julia felt herself drawn into the predictable and ordinary rhythm of ranch life. She knew it well from her previous year on the Double Tipi, but there was an added layer to it now, as she relished being mistress of her home.

She swallowed her discomfort and did what was expected of her without complaint, because Paul never complained, even the afternoon he came home with a large flap of skin dangling from his forearm, the result of a slip with the fence stretcher. His face impassive, he let Doc stitch him, then grimaced, reached over, and tugged her down in a chair with the comment, “You're starting to wobble, sport.”

She knew how much he liked her cooking, even though morning sickness that lasted all day sometimes left her trembling with nausea.
Ottos don't wobble
, she reminded herself as she held her nose, cooked his favorite food, and broiled the everlasting steaks.
I can always die when the meal is over
.

Charlotte helped everywhere she could, but Julia understood her distraction when Matt Malloy came around the kitchen on any little excuse. His attentiveness provided enough diversion to keep Julia's mind off her own discomfort.
If I drank that much coffee, I’ d spend every waking moment in the backhouse,
Julia thought.
Lovers must have kidneys of steel
.

The matter resolved itself nicely in mid-June, when Paul took Matt walking by the horse corral one evening to announce a new position for him as ranch foreman, a raise in pay, and the additional bonus of the old bunkhouse refurbished as a home. Sitting on the front porch with her knitting, Julia watched the whole job interview, from the handshake right down to Matt's purposeful return to the kitchen through the side door, a few quiet moments in the kitchen with Charlotte, then a whoop, followed by more silence.

“It appears that the Irishman's wooing has been successful,” Doc said from his perch on the front steps.

“High time,” Julia said, casting off.
What about you
? she wanted to ask, even though she knew better.

“Doc looks so sad,” she told her husband that night after prayer. She made herself comfortable against him as she settled herself for sleep.

“That may be, but I wouldn't meddle in Doc's life,” Paul said. “Just because you're happy doesn't mean everyone is.” He sighed. “Or maybe can be.”

“You used to think that,” she pointed out.

“So did you, I believe,” he said, toying with the tie to her nightgown. “Were we two nincompoops?”

“Ancient history, cowboy,” she said. “Do you have designs on me right now?”

“Any objections?”

“Just watch the motion, Romeo.”

“My specialty.”

Her nausea lessened as July wore on, to the point where the horseback ride to Gun Barrel endangered no bushes by the side of the trail. They stayed in Gun Barrel long enough to place an order for a buckboard, complete with springs. Paul asked the liveryman to keep his eyes open for a smooth-walking horse to pull it.

Marriage had not hurt Paul's negotiating ability. One long, Mr. Otto look changed the “I can't have it to you any sooner than late September,” into “August 15? Certainly.”

Word must have got around in the Cheyenne Sunday School, Julia decided. It couldn't be her imagination that most of the sisters eyed her waist. She did her best to suck in her stomach, but the effort wasn't successful.

“If you keep trying to do that, you'll start breathing out of your ears,” Paul warned in a low voice.

She laughed out loud, then gave him a sunny smile, which led to a massive throat clearing from their Sunday School teacher.

“Do I have to separate you two?” Brother Mitchell asked.

“Too late,” Paul said cheerfully, which made the class dissolve and answered any questions that the slower among them might have wondered about.

“It's a good thing you were never able to inflict yourself upon an actual school,” Julia scolded as they hurried to the depot after church. “You'd have gotten rid of many a schoolmarm.”

She looked at him, expecting at least a chuckle, but his face was serious. He took her arm and moved her toward a café, with its large front window.

“What's the matter?” she asked, critiquing the menu board outside the café because she would always be a cook. Maybe he was hungry.

“Just keep looking at it,” he told her. He leaned forward a little and stared into the window's reflection. “Well, well.” He took her arm again and continued toward the depot. “I do believe we've been followed.”

“What?” she exclaimed.

“Don't look around, but McAtee is a block behind us.”

Julia gulped. “No! Do you think he knows we came out of the Odd Fellows Hall?”

He shrugged. He stood there a moment, indecisive, a trait she was not familiar with in her husband.

“Let's go say hello to him,” Julia suggested. “I've never met the man, and you'll have to admit my introduction to Mr. Kaiser was successful, as far as it went.”

“True. All right, Julia. About face. Let's call his bluff.”

They turned around and stood there. McAtee was nowhere in sight.

“We didn't both imagine him,” Paul said, frustrated.

“
I've
never seen him,” Julia said. “Well, that's a sour look from my best guy.”

“I didn't imagine him,” he said pointedly. He shook his head and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Or maybe I did. He's getting on my last nerve, rather like Amalickiah.”

The journey home was quiet. When they were nearly at Gun Barrel, Paul took her hand. “I know we've been stopping in Gun Barrel overnight, because I don't want to tire you, but would you mind if we push on? It's summer, so it'll still be light.”

“You know I don't mind.” She patted her middle. “Neither will Junior.”

When they left the train, Julia headed for the depot office. Paul lingered on the platform, watching the cars. He walked toward the front of the train and stood there, half-hidden by a post, as passengers got off and on. In a few minutes, the conductor called “All Aboard!” and the train started to move. Paul remained where he was, watching the cars as they moved slowly past.

She saw him nod as the last two cars flashed by on the way north to Wheatland, then Glendo, Orin, and Douglas.

Paul pushed himself away from the pillar where he had been leaning and strolled toward her, hands in his pockets. He didn't try to hide his unhappiness. “He was in the second to the last car, just staring back at me and grinning.”

She put her hand on his arm.

“He'll probably get off in Orin, and then ride cross country to his ranch near Rawhide Buttes.” He slapped his hat against his leg. “How did he know we were in Cheyenne?”

“It might have been a coincidence,” she said as they left the depot. “People go to Cheyenne all the time.”

He nodded. “Maybe. Let's write a letter to the Shumways tonight and tell them our fears. It'll pay to be extra vigilant until we find out if the whole thing today was a fluke.”

Paul was steering her toward the livery stable. “Julia, I'm officially worried. I want to get home. Ready to ride?”

They rode steadily into the afternoon and early evening, stopping only when Julia requested a break.

All was in order on the Double Tipi, even to Julia's less-practiced eyes. She glanced at her husband as they rode past the house and toward the horse barn, relieved to see the calm return to his eyes.
You would never be happy anywhere else, Paul
, she thought, letting him help her from the saddle and hoping no one was close enough to observe the way he held her against his body as he lowered her to the ground.
And if you weren't happy, neither would I be
.

He was quiet that night, looking at his ranch hands at the dining table. She knew what he was doing: measuring each of them, as if wondering who informed Mr. McAtee they were going to Cheyenne. She sipped peppermint tea, which never failed to settle her stomach.

“Not much of a meal, Julia,” Paul said after the others left. Charlotte had cleared the table, and the two of them were still sitting there. “I thought you were supposed to be eating for two.”

“Until my stomach settles, I'm just eating for your little Cherokee, and he likes consommé princesse,” she said. “Doc says—no, I'm going to call him Dr. McKeel, when he's my doctor—Dr. McKeel says we'll be fine.” She took his hand. “It's you I'm worried about.”

“Not James?”

“No. We'll write that letter to the Shumways, and they'll keep him safe. I want to know what you're going to do to Mr. McAtee.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I'm not sure. He may have been in Cheyenne on perfectly innocent business. It may be I am starting to suspect people who would never, never be anything but loyal. He may have had nothing to do with that note in your bureau. James may have been wrong. I wish I knew.”

They went up the stairs together. While she prepared for bed, he stood a long time looking out the window. “I always feel better on my own land,” he said. “Ready for prayer?”

He was quiet that night, his arms around her. She thought he was asleep, until he whispered in her ear, “Julia, let's set aside McAtee for a while and call a brief meeting of the Double Tipi corporation. Is the executive officer willing?”

“Certainly,” she said, smiling in the dark.

“Good.” He patted her belly. “Newest board member is obviously present, as well.”

“Obviously.”

“I'm wondering what my executive officer would think if we pulled off the open range and kept our stock exclusively on Double Tipi land.”

“Why would you pull off the open range entirely?”

“It's something your brother David said when we were in St. George.”

“David?”

“Yeah. He asked me how long I thought the open range would last, even in Wyoming. I told him I see it shrinking every year—more and more homesteaders trying to stake out the last open land in the West. He asked me, ‘What are you going to do about that?’ I didn't have an answer then.”

She turned around to look at him. “I'm so new at this. Behind fences, you can't support so many cattle.”

“True.” He touched her face. “You're pretty in the moonlight. Any light for that matter.”

“That has nothing to do with corporate business.”

“Actually, it does.” He kissed her forehead. “I don't want this land to grind you down. That roundup was too much. Oh, I know you'd never be treated that way again, now that you've more than proved yourself, but life could be simpler on our own land.”

“You can't shut out the world, Paul,” she said, her hands gentle on his face.

“I can, a little. Besides that, my two beautiful Denver bulls are giving us some wonderful boys and girls. I'm developing the best herd around here; I could see that at the gather. I want it on my land, and not at the mercy of the open range. If I keep breeding superior stock, our reduced herd will pay out better than our current herd.”

She thought about what he was saying. “Executive officer agrees. Sounds like you can still keep me in flour and sugar. Maybe one new dress a year.”

“And then some. Times are changing, sport. The day when the Peter and Mary Anne Otto family could hide from the rest of Wyoming Territory are gone. The Paul and Julia Otto family is here to stay, with superior beef that refrigerated cars can take to the farthest markets.”

“If you're going to stay behind fences, will you need more winter forage?”

“Julia, you're proving to be an excellent executive officer. I will, indeed. The Sybille Ditch is making the bottomlands bloom, just like the Pathfinder did in Nebraska. I could contract for more hay from the farmers around Gun Barrel and Wheatland. Maybe even grow my own hay.” He chuckled. “Be a da… blamed farmer.”

“I'm in favor. But the executive officer reminds you not to cuss. How will you go about this?”

“Mind my mouth. Oh, you mean… Things are running well here. I'll take Doc and visit some of the farmers.” He pulled her closer. “You'll be safe here.”

She could feel his hesitancy, and gave his moustache a tug. “All right, Paul. What
else
are you going to do?”

“My word, you know me well,” he exclaimed. “We'll go north to Lusk. I'm going to make a discreet inquiry—feel out McAtee's circumstances. There's something not right about this whole odd situation. What those ranchers did to James's family is not the first time something of that nature has happened in Wyoming. For years, everyone has turned a blind eye to such evil.”