Carla Kelly (29 page)

She felt the usual lift she always felt at the turn of the seasons, but it was followed by a sudden longing to see that annual change from her own bedroom, and not this small, newspaper-covered room. She dressed quickly, thinking of Iris, who, when they were children, would pester her for rides on the sled once the hill by their school was snow-covered. Over and over they would clutch each other and scream all the way to the bottom. In a few years, Iris would be hauling her own children up and down hills they would see as mountains.

A glance at the calendar in the kitchen reminded her that it was Sunday. James wasn't up yet, and no one had come in from the bunkhouse, so she sat at the table. Maybe she could pretend she was home and getting ready for Sunday School. She clasped her hands in front of her, nearly overwhelmed by a powerful yearning to walk beside Iris and her mother on the way to the meetinghouse; to listen to two and a half minute talks by terrified youngsters; to try not to laugh when Sister Flowers led—or maybe dragged—the congregation in a practice hymn dug up from what her father called “the sealed portion of the hymn book.”

Maybe I didn't think I would miss church,
Julia thought as she sat so still. With snow outside and the seasons shifting, suddenly church mattered very much. Before she left for Boston, her father had made inquiries at the Church headquarters, arming her with the exact location of Boston's one branch. He had also asked around and sent letters to Church members living in Boston, asking them to keep an eye on her. And they had. She had never missed a Sunday in the Boston Branch.

This was different. He had made no such inquiries to pave her way in Wyoming. She had wondered about that on her train ride to Cheyenne, why her father had not made things easy for her this time.

The answer was obvious to her now. Papa expected her to make her own inquiries now, if she chose. It was her decision.

She shivered a little and lit the Queen Atlantic. By the time the men straggled in from the bunkhouse and James had set the table, the bacon and eggs were ready to eat and she was just ladling the Cream of Wheat into a serving bowl.

In addition to eggs, she prepared a generous bowl of Cream of Wheat—well-sugared—for the Indian in the tack room. Doc volunteered to accompany her, taking the breakfast in its pail as she carried the bowl and spoon.

“You don't need to do this,” he told her, as they crossed the snow-covered yard.

“I want to,” she assured him. “If he's on the Double Tipi and he eats, then he's my responsibility.”

Doc laughed and opened the door to the tack room for her. She stood a moment in the entrance as her eyes became used to the gloom. The room smelled of leather and old saddles. Welcome heat came from the pot-bellied stove in the corner, opposite a rustic bed where the old man sat, a buffalo robe around his shoulders.

“Does he speak English?” Julia asked Doc.

“Don't think so,” Doc told her. “Mostly he just smacks his lips if he's satisfied.”

Julia carefully ladled Cream of Wheat into the bowl, added more sugar, which elicited a murmur of approval, and handed him the bowl with the spoon in it.

He accepted it with both hands and a nod. Julia watched with interest as he ate the bowl's contents and held it out for more. He smacked his lips and then spoke to them. When neither of them answered, he repeated himself, shrugged, and accepted the fried eggs.

“Any idea what he said?” Julia asked.

“Not a clue. We'll have to wait for Paul to return.”

As the next week passed, Julia found herself looking for Mr. Otto. The weather turned warm again, but the nip of autumn was in the air, especially in the evenings when she and James sat in the parlor. She spent most evenings at the small parlor table with James, showing him how to write his ABCs. He wasn't quick, but he was interested and dogged in his persistence.

When James slept, she stayed in the parlor, adding on to the lengthening letters to her parents and Iris. She wondered at first if there was enough to write about, but there was always something, even if it was as simple as the Indian's huge, toothless smile after she served him baked beans. There was more to write about when Doc and Matt took her riding.

She didn't tell her parents about the riding skirt she acquired. Doc had taken her to the newer tack room, where Kringle generally sat, muttering in German and repairing the ranch's harnesses. Doc had pulled down a small trunk from the shelf.

“There's something here for you,” he had said. “It … uh … belonged to his wife.”

“I shouldn't.”

“I don't know why not,” Doc countered. “Paul wanted you to learn to ride one of his ranch horses so you could visit the Rudigers. It was his idea.” He opened the trunk. “You think about it. I'll go saddle my horse.”

She thought about it and looked inside, her eyes opening wide at the exquisite lace night gown and robe on top. Carefully, she worked her way through the trunk, stopping halfway down at a serviceable pair of divided-skirt breeches that didn't even look used. She took them out and held them up to her waist. So far, so good. The leather jacket that accompanied the skirt was a little loose but fit well enough when she put on a flannel shirt from deeper down in Mr. Otto's clothing pile, back in the ranch house. She didn't have any boots, and there weren't any in the trunk, but her father had insisted she bring along some sturdy lace-up brogans.

Doc or Matt took her out riding every day. By the end of the week, Julia—accompanied by James, mounted on his small horse—felt brave enough to pack a tin of stew and a walnut quick bread with brown sugar glaze to the Rudigers’ shack. They drank hot water and finished up the lady fingers she had brought over earlier.

Two days later, Doc told her to address her letters because he was taking Mr. Otto's horse down to meet the Cheyenne & Northern at Gun Barrel.

“I'll mail them for you before they get so heavy they need a crate,” he teased.

“Mr. Otto's coming back?”

“Yep. At least, he told me when he left to be there at the depot on the twenty-eighth. If he's not there, I'm to leave his horse at the livery stable. Want to come along?”

Julia shook her head, suddenly shy at the idea and not so sure Mr. Otto would appreciate seeing her in his former wife's clothing. “Maybe you could explain to him how I got my riding gear,” she said as she addressed the letters.

“He won't mind, Julia. Before he left, he mentioned the trunk. The boss is not a sentimental man.”

Doc was back on the Double Tipi that evening, without the boss. Two more days passed, and then Mr. Otto returned. She and James were in the parlor at the time. The boy heard him first, leaping up from the game of pickup sticks that Willy Bill had whittled. Julia followed, opening the kitchen door to see Mr. Otto coming across the yard. Matt was leading his horse into the barn.

He smiled to see them standing in the doorway and then laughed out loud when James ran to him and put his arms around his waist.

“I wasn't gone that long!” he exclaimed as they walked together into the kitchen.

“Yes, you were. Mr. Darling is teaching me my letters.”

Mr. Otto looked at Julia, appreciation in his eyes. “Well, I expect Mr. Darling is a fine teacher, James.”

Julia smiled and held the door open wider. “I hope you're hungry, Mr. Otto. Main course is chicken and dumplings. Alice Marlowe has been ruthless among her flock, weeding out the slackers.”

He set his Stetson on James's head and took his long duster off, draping it carefully over the chair at the head of the table. “Darling, take a look in the left pocket.”

Julia did as he said. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “You found one.” She gently lifted out a tiny kitten, its eyes barely open. “A mighty small one.” She sat down and put it in her lap so James could touch the little creature. “James, give this kitten a few months, and you'll be out of the mousing business.”

The boy lightly petted the kitten's head. “I don't mind.”

Mr. Otto went to the Queen Atlantic and ladled out his own bowl of chicken and dumplings. He sat beside Julia. “I wanted a larger one, but blamed if they aren't going for five dollars in Fort Collins, and I have my tightwad moments.” He tugged on a velvety ear. “Got this little guy in a bar in Cheyenne for two bits. Seems the mother ran afoul of a beer wagon and left a few orphans.” He grinned, and she was delighted to see how boyish he looked. “I've been calling him Two Bits. You can name him what you want.”

“Two Bits will do,” Julia said. “Unless we like Gulliver, because he's had some travels. You're sure it's a boy?”

“No, but I'm optimistic.” Mr. Otto reached in his shirt pocket. “I've been feeding Two Bits with an eyedropper every two hours. My word, he's a lot of trouble.”

Julia lifted up the kitten, which fit comfortably in the palm of her hand. “I'll take over the menu, Mr. Otto.” She smiled at him. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Anything to keep the cook happy.”

She looked closely at Two Bits, who had already settled down in her palm, his eyes drooping. “How will I know when he's hungry?”

“He'll set up a real racket and start nosing around.” He touched James's head. “James, there's a small tin of milk in my saddlebag. You can get that for Mr. Darling. I fed him last at the Rudigers, so he has an hour to go.” He grinned at Julia, and she was struck all over again how much younger he looked. “He'll start up just about the time you want to go to bed. Good luck there.”

Julia set the kitten in her lap again. “You stopped at the Rudigers? And?”

His grin widened. “He's got a job in Fort Collins, and I'm now the owner—well, after we sign some papers—of 160 acres I don't really need.”

Julia touched his sleeve. “Mr. Otto, you're a good man.”

He shrugged, but she could tell he was pleased with her praise. “Nothing to it, really. Told you my friend in Fort Collins needs a reliable carpenter. We'll get the Rudigers to the depot in Gun Barrel by Friday. Bledsoe has a little house waiting for them. After that, it's up to Rudiger.”

“All he needs is a chance.”

“You're right.” He was sitting close, so he nudged her shoulder. “Mrs. Rudiger gave me hot water, like you said, but she served it with someone's walnut bread. Good stuff, Julia.”

Good heavens, he called me Julia,
she thought, pleased.
I'm sure that will pass.
”I'll serve you some too.”

She sent James to find a small box and some clean rags for Two Bits. While Mr. Otto ate, she set her own loaf of walnut bread to bask in the warming oven. By the time he finished his second bowl of chicken and dumplings, James was back with a well-lined box. Julia set the sleeping kitten in his new home, close to the Queen Atlantic. James sat cross-legged by the box, watching Two Bits.

Mr. Otto had no trouble demolishing a generous slice of the walnut bread. “Get yourself a slice,” he told her. “No need to leap up and start doing whatever it is you do. You're pretty good company, Darling.”

She knew that “Julia” couldn't last. She got herself some dessert too, and they ate in companionable silence. Finally Mr. Otto put down his fork and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied air.

“I found you a church, too.”

She didn't know why the tears welled in her eyes just then, but they did. Mr. Otto dropped his chair down and flicked at her face before she even realized.

“A simple thank you will suffice, Darling,” he told her, his voice kind.

“Thank you,” she whispered, barely able to get the words out, surprised at her own reaction. It was just church, after all. “Was it hard to find?”

“Not really, once I got a little smarter,” he said, tipping back again. “I asked around the saloons first—I mean, if you're in one, why not ask?—but that got me nowhere.”

She couldn't help smiling at his honesty.

“Then I got to thinking—if you want a church, ask a minister. Well, the ministers were less than helpful. Mostly I got an earful about Mormons.” He tipped his chair down again. “Do Mormons really have horns?”

Julia just rolled her eyes at him. He chuckled and tipped his chair back again. “My next tactic was to hit the professionals, and I got lucky there.”

“We do believe that the glory of God is intelligence,” Julia said.

“Smart of you. I had to talk to my lawyer about a land deal with Rudiger, so I asked him what he knew. Jackpot! He told me about an attorney in town who belonged to some farfetched little group. I figured that was your bunch.”