Carla Kelly (37 page)

He shrugged. “I didn't ask for an opera. Just that song.”

“I'll sing it for you, Mr. Otto,” she told him, glad it was still dark and he couldn't see how rosy her cheeks were. She sang the first three verses, touched when her boss began to hum along.

“That's all I remember. I think there are a few more verses,” she said.

“If you have a minute this morning, could you write them down? I'm riding line this week, and I'd like to learn the words. Could you sing them again?”

She did as he asked, thinking how hungry he was for any connection to his mother.
What could it have been like for you, Mr. Otto, to have heard that song from a woman who, for all intents, was an Indian?
she asked herself.
And what was it like for Mary Anne, who only remembered bits and pieces of another life?

“How old were you when she died?” Julia asked, hoping she was not intruding on his privacy.

“She died in 1884, when I was almost eleven. I suppose I was about James’ age.”

“Except you had a father.”

“I did,” he replied. “Pa and I just kept on doing what we always did. By then, I was his best hand. Little River cooked for me for twenty-five years until I put that ad in the newspapers.” He yawned. “Twenty-five years of bad food.” He chuckled, and it sounded self-conscious. “Hard to imagine such a stupid man, eh, Darling?” His voice turned wistful then. “I don't know. Maybe I wanted to keep Little River around because she was a link to Mama's Shoshone side, which was really all we knew, at least, until you came.”

Julia leaned forward. “Mr. Otto, I'd really like to write my father and tell him everything you've told me about your mother. If any of your people survived that handcart journey—and I know many did make it to the valley—think how delighted they would be to know what happened to your mother? They probably have been mourning her for years.”

“I hadn't thought of it like that,” Mr. Otto said after a lengthy pause. “There might be brothers or sisters left.” He reached out then and touched her hand, his fingers warm. “Let me think about it. You think your father could help?”

“He knows so many people in the Church offices,” she told him, impulsively turning her hand over and clasping his before she even realized what she was doing. It seemed to be almost second nature. “My dad's a clever man. He'll find a way.”

“Kind of like you, eh?” he said. He let go of her hand then. “He doesn't even know me.”

“Doesn't matter. He'll help. I know he will.”

“Let me kick the idea around. Meanwhile, in the morning, would you go over those figures in my ledger that we looked at last week? I have a pile of receipts, and I know they need reconciling.”

He was all business again; so was she. There was nothing to do then but go to bed. Mr. Otto started down the hall. Before he had reached the archway leading into the parlor, Two Bits was out of his box and on his trail. Julia smothered her laugh and closed her door quietly.

She was up again before sunrise, preparing cinnamon rolls and frying ham. Matt Malloy brought in the cold air with a bundle of kindling. The sudden clatter in the wood box woke up Two Bits, who must have found his way back to his blanket-lined box, or else Mr. Otto had deposited him there earlier. Hands on her knees, she bent over the box and scrutinized its occupant.

“Honestly, Two Bits, you'd better start remembering your place here,” she said, bending lower to scratch between the kitten's ears. She felt another gust of wind and cold.

“Are you starting to talk to animals?” Mr. Otto asked, unwinding his muffler and tossing it over the rafter. He must have interpreted her gaze well because he changed his mind and put it on the same peg with his coat. “Most of us don't start talking to the critters until at least February.”

“I was simply advising Two Bits to let you sleep in peace,” she replied.

“That'll do oceans of good, Darling. Cats don't come when you call them either.”

Mr. Otto sat at the table, reading some back issues of the Cheyenne newspaper Sister Gillespie had given him and sipping his mug of coffee while Julia finished preparing breakfast. While the oatmeal baked in the oven, Julia sat beside him and copied all the verses of “Redeemer of Israel” that she could remember and handed it to him.

He looked over the words, smiled his thanks, and pocketed the paper. “It's high time James learned something besides ‘Sweet Evalina,’ “he told her.

She wasn't going to bother him, but he put down the paper as though he wanted to talk. “Have you decided to let me share your story with my father?” she asked.

“Still thinking.”

“Mr. Otto, nothing bad can come of this,” she reminded him. “Here I am, telling you what to do again. I'm sorry.”

He was close enough to nudge her shoulder, which made her feel supremely better. “No need to apologize. It's just that I—we—spent so many years not sharing our story with anyone. We were pretty isolated here.”

“No harm will come.”

“I guess I know that.” He nudged her again. “As for telling me what to do, didn't I give you permission to do that yesterday?”

“I figured that was a one-time opportunity,” she said, curious about his mood.
We sound remarkably like my parents at the breakfast table,
she thought, intrigued with the idea and comfortable with how natural it felt.

“Give me good advice whenever you want,” Mr. Otto said as he went to the washstand and lathered up. “I might not take it, but I'll listen.”

“Mr. Otto, I'll give you these rolls to take…”

She stopped. Two Bits stood between her and the wood box, hissing so loud he could barely maintain his balance. She laughed, glancing at the box just as a rattlesnake slid out from behind it. Two Bits hissed louder, the fur standing up on his back.

As she stared, too frightened to scream, Two Bits leaped sideways, flopped on his stomach, righted himself, and planted himself astride the rattler, just behind his head.

“Paul! Do something!” she yelled.

Startled, he turned around, wiping soap from his face. With no hesitation, he yanked her cleaver from the knife block. Picking up the hissing, struggling kitten by the scruff of his neck, he slammed the cleaver just behind the snake's head. Leaving the viper to writhe in its death struggle, he turned Two Bits around to look the kitten in the face.

“I just thought you needed some help, Two Bits. Calm down, little guy. Julia?”

In another moment, he had one arm around her, holding the spitting kitten at arm's length with his other hand. “Just a minute, little buddy. I'm not setting you down until that snake realizes it is dead. Darling, you're not much in a snake crisis.”

She shuddered, disengaged herself from his grasp, and sat on the table. Mr. Otto put Two Bits in her lap and used the ash shovel by the Queen Atlantic to scoop up the snake's head and toss it into the range. He grasped the snake by the tail and tossed it outside but not before holding it up.

“Just a youngster. Are you all right?”

Julia nodded. “How on earth…?”

“Did it get in here?” Mr. Otto gestured to the wood box. “This happened once before. A snake, frozen solid, gets carried inside with the kindling. It warms up and decides to look around for a meal.”

She must have looked every bit as alarmed as she felt. “I'll tell the men to look carefully at any wood they bring inside,” he said in his most soothing voice. He couldn't help a grin. “Two Bits was all set to fight to the death. Imagine what he'll do when he's two months old! Could be he'll get tired of this boring place and bail out.”

Mr. Otto left after taking food to Blue Corn. He picked up the burlap sack of food Julia had readied for him. “I'll be back in a week, and then it'll be Matt's turn to ride fence.” Mr. Otto peered closer. “You still look a bit shocked. Just keep Two Bits between you and the wood box.”

He tightened his grip on the sack. “Hum that tune for me one more time, Darling.”

She did. He thanked her and patted his pocket. “I'm taking along the Book of Mormon. Should get some reading done.” He opened the door. “What about you?”

“I'm reading it too, Mr. Otto.”

“If I find that passage first, you might owe me an extra six months here.”

“And if I find it first, you'd better promise me…” She stopped. He looked serious and hopeful at the same time. “ … no more snakes in the wood box.”

“Done, madam,” he said, closing the door quietly behind him.

ulia made popcorn that night, shaking it in a wire basket on top of the Queen, with one of the stove lids removed. The wind roared outside, but no more snow fell. She couldn't help but think of Mr. Otto, all by himself in a shack somewhere on the fence line.

Doc must have read her thoughts. “He's used to it, Julia,” he said, reaching for another handful of popcorn. “We all are. It's a good time to think and solve most of the world's problems.”

The popcorn was finished popping, so she deftly removed it and poured it into the large bowl on the table. Matt added melted butter, and Doc salted it.

“Any more?” she asked. “No?”

“Sit down, Julia,” Doc said. “No need to pace the room. He's fine.”

You're seeing right through me,
Julia thought, embarrassed.
I have no business worrying about someone who is so capable.
She sighed. “Why does he do it? It's hard to live here.”

Doc filled a bowl and handed it to her. “Maybe because he doesn't know easy.”

“But you know,” she persisted. “Why do you stay?”

Doc thought a moment. “I feel safe from myself here. What about you, Matt?”

“Who else would have me?” the Irishman said with a half smile.

And who else would have me?
Julia asked herself, when sitting in bed later. She brushed her hair until it crackled, frowning to think that her relatives back home must be humoring her, working in someone's kitchen for hire. They probably wondered when she would come to her senses and settle down.

“Mama, thank goodness for Iris, eh?” she said, and managed a wry smile. “Iris can be counted on to do the right thing.”

Julia reached for the Book of Mormon. She tried to concentrate on First Nephi, really she did. Not until chapter four did she begin to pay attention.
And I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do,
she read. She read it again, and then said it out loud, not thinking of Nephi, but of herself. She put her finger in the book to mark the page, knowing she had never asked the Lord if coming to Wyoming was a good idea. The bishop had suggested she pray about the matter, but she hadn't.
Maybe I was afraid Heavenly Father would say no,
she thought.