Carla Kelly (38 page)

She had never asked the Lord and had let the matter gnaw at her on the train ride to Cheyenne. She rested her head against the book and allowed herself the luxury of thinking with her heart. Maybe she had never questioned the matter because it had always felt right. Maybe she had been flogging herself for nothing.

She put the book on the end table, content now to stare at the ceiling, covered with old newspapers. She thought about the preacher with cream gravy on his head, and her smile widened. She thought about the Gillespies and the Cheyenne Sunday School with its row of spittoons and Custer dying every Sunday behind the portable podium. She thought about Mr. Otto clutching her hand as they sang “Redeemer of Israel.” She closed her eyes, grateful to be precisely where she was, even if she was far from home and doing something unheard of—earning her living.

“I'm supposed to be here, aren't I, Lord?” she asked quietly. She let out her breath as a warm feeling seemed to settle softly on her, like the spun sugar on Iris's wedding cake. “Is it for my own good or someone else's? Could it even be both?”

Sunday night's snow didn't stay long, mainly because the wind swept it away and deep cold settled in. She left her bedroom door open now to take advantage of whatever heat the Queen Atlantic radiated even after she banked the fire each evening. Not one to turn down an invitation, Two Bits kept her company, curling tight into the warm hollow of her shoulder and neck and putting her to sleep with his extravagant purr.

Initially, James was suspicious of a book with an actual ending. “I like things to stay the same,” he told her one night.

“You and most people,” Julia said as she turned the pages. “How about this? I'll read your own book and give you a good ending, but then you have to listen to another story from this book.”

He grudgingly agreed. By the end of the week, he left his tattered pages in the apple crate where he kept his clothes and asked for two stories from the book Sister Gillespie had so kindly given him.

“And do you know, I think when Mr. Otto returns, he will have a new song to teach you,” Julia said as she closed his new book.

“Mr. Darling, that is too much at once!” he declared to her amusement.

“It's called progress, James,” she reminded him.

“Jee-rusalem crickets,” he sighed, in perfect imitation of Mr. Otto.

There was nothing funny about James in the middle of the night when he started to cry. She sat up in bed, her heart hammering, remembering that Mr. Otto usually comforted the little boy. Now it was her turn.

Julia went quietly on bare feet to James and knelt beside his bed. The cold seemed to come up, even through the rag rug.

“James?” she asked, keeping her voice quiet, because she wasn't even sure he was awake.

He reached for her, sobbing, so she pulled back the covers and got in bed with him, probably the same as Mr. Otto had done. She held the little boy close until his breathing became regular again. His face was pressed into her shoulder, and she felt the gentle flutter of his eyelashes.

“James, what is it that scares you?” she whispered.

After a long silence, punctuated with a sob, he whispered in her ear. “The wind. It was windy like this.”

That was all.
Windy like this when?
She wanted to ask,
When you lost your parents? When they turned you out? Will we ever know?
She cradled him close and kissed his head.
Does it even matter?
She couldn't help but think of Mary Anne Hixon, lost in the early snows, searching in vain for a handcart company to find her. Did she cry out at night in the Shoshone lodges?
And what about you, Mr. Otto, after she died, and you no older than James? Is that why you seem to find it easy to comfort this small boy? I can do no less.

On Thursday, the wind blew from the south and warmed the land and then turned with a vengeance and struck from the northwest again, driving the last of the leaves off the trees, the ones that had clung tenaciously through last weekend's snow. She took an extra blanket to the tack shed for Blue Corn when she brought the noon meal.

She was pulling a raisin pie out of the Queen Atlantic when someone banged on the door. Startled, she hurried to open it. His hat bound tight with a muffler, Charles McLemore came inside and leaned against the door to hold it shut.

“Mr. McLemore! I know you haven't come for my warm liver salad,” she said as he unwound the muffler and took off his hat. He kept his coat on but came closer to the Queen to rub his hands together.

“Nope.”

“You'll stay for dinner?” she asked, perfectly aware of his wary expression. “It's fried chicken and cream gravy, with canned corn, and this particular raisin pie.”

“Maybe,” he said, sounding no less wary than he looked. “Is Mr. Otto about?”

“No. He's at the line shack,” she said, filling a mug with coffee and setting it before him at the table. He warmed his hands around the cup, took a sip, and then another. The wary look went away.

He reached in his pocket, pulling out cigarette papers, a pouch of tobacco, and lint before he came to a dull yellow envelope. “I was in Gun Barrel this morning, and the operator at the Western Union collared me. He received this telegram for Mr. Otto a few days ago.” McLemore held it out to her. “He thought it might be urgent since no one sends a telegram unless there's trouble.”

How well Julia knew, thinking of the telegram Papa had received from his brother four years ago, announcing the death of their father's second wife. She put the telegram on the table.

“He'll be home on Sunday, I think,” Julia said.

“The line shack?”

Julia nodded. “Should we deliver it to him?” “I would. Have Matt ride it up.”

She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and walked onto the stoop to ring the triangle. Matt and Doc were there in minutes, James tagging along.

Charlie nodded to them. “This here's a telegram for Mr. Otto. It's been in the Western Union office for two days, and the operator saw me.”

“Did he tell you what was in it?” Doc asked.

McLemore shook his head. “You know he can't do that.” He put his hat back on and picked up the muffler again. “It's your worry now. I've got to go.”

“Can't you stay for supper?” Julia asked.

McLemore held up both hands. “Oh, no! I remember the last time.”

“McLemore, you're a fool,” Matt said without any rancor. “That meal was a fluke. This is the real deal. Tell him what it is, Julia.”

“I already did,” she said, “but if Mr. McLemore has something better waiting at home…”

“Canned beans and them little Vienna sausages, I'll wager,” Matt said.

With her tongs, Julia reached in the warming oven and took out a leg and a thigh, which she wrapped in waxed paper and popped into a bag, along with two biscuits running with butter and honey, and a slab of the raisin pie, all fragrant and moist. She handed him the bag. “Take this with you, Mr. McLemore. It won't poison you.”

He grinned at her and left, bag in hand. Doc looked at Matt. “Since you're up next to ride the line, I think you should saddle up and take that telegram. Be prepared to stay, if Mr. Otto has to leave.” He picked it up, looked at the envelope, and then turned it over. “Someone wrote Chicago in pencil,” he said. He shrugged. “Could be cattle business, but why would that rate a telegram? Nope. Matt, get ready to ride. Julia will fix you a dinner to take along.”

She did as Doc said, praying it wasn't bad news as she wrapped up another meal in waxed paper and threw in enough for two men.

“Leave us enough for dinner!” Doc teased. “Hey, don't look so worried! Mr. Otto's a big man. Whatever it is, he can take it.”

“I know. I know. Longtime rancher,” Julia grumbled. “But that's what women do, isn't it?” he asked. “Worry, I mean.”

Matt rode away in less than thirty minutes, telegram in his pocket and his burlap sack of food slung across the front of his saddle.

“The sun's going down,” Julia fretted.

“It always does,” Doc replied. “Is your hobby worrying? It's a clear night and the moon is out. Mr. Otto will probably show up tomorrow morning, and we'll wonder what all the fuss was all about.”

It was more than that. Julia had just managed to get to sleep near midnight, when she heard the kitchen door open. Two Bits barely moved when she set him to one side and pulled on her robe.

“Matt?” she asked. “Did you find him?”

“It's me.”

Mr. Otto stood by the Queen Atlantic, trying to warm his hands. She sighed with relief, grateful that Matt had delivered the message and that Mr. Otto had found his way home in the dark.

“Let me build up a fire,” she said, reaching into the wood box for kindling and paper.

He didn't say anything but sat down at the table and slowly unwound his muffler while she started a fire. When it was crackling to her satisfaction, Julia sat down at the table, wishing he would look up. He kept his eyes on the table.

“I hope it isn't bad news,” she ventured.

“It is. Darling, I'm leaving at first light.” He passed his hand in front of his eyes, keeping his head lowered.

He gave her no opportunity for conversation, and she knew him well enough by now not to offer any. She sliced off a slab of raisin pie and set it before him.

“Wou—would you like anything else?”

He shook his head and picked up his fork. She stood there, indecisive. That he was in some sort of pain was unquestionable. That he had not asked for any help from her was also obvious. She stood by the table another moment, wanting to touch him and numbering all the reasons why she should not.

As she stood there, she thought of Nephi and chapter four.
And I was led by the Spirit.
It was enough. She put her hand on his shoulder, just a brief touch. He still wore his overcoat, and she doubted he could feel it.

As she started to raise her hand, Mr. Otto put his hand over hers, squeezed it gently, and released it. He looked up at her. Even in the dim light of the kitchen, she could tell he had been crying.

“Mr. Otto,” she breathed.

Just as quickly, he shook his head and turned his attention to the pie. She stood there another moment and quietly returned to her room. When he started to sob, she put the blanket over her head to drown out the terrible sound.

Julia surprised herself by eventually falling asleep, and she nearly missed Mr. Otto. The sun hadn't yet clawed its way over the hills rimming the ranch, and the wind had not abated, but his valise was packed and waiting beside the kitchen door. When the door opened, he came inside with Doc, dressed as he had been last midnight. Julia doubted he had even changed clothes.

“Do you have time for breakfast, Mr. Otto?” she asked, her hand on the oatmeal pot.

He shook his head. “Can you butter me some of those biscuits and put some ham or something between them?”

“Certainly. Take the rest of the pie too.”

Deeply mindful of him sitting at the table, Julia prepared the food as he talked to Doc.

“I should be back in two weeks at the latest. Matt's set for a week on the line, but I told him to come back anytime if the wind gets on his nerves. The fences are sound. Just do what you do, Doc. I don't anticipate anything out of the ordinary here. Everything's in order.” He was brusque, terse, and organized.