Carla Kelly (43 page)

“Yes, I told you that, didn't I? Probably back when I was trying to impress you,” Julia said as she wondered when talking to Mr. Otto had gotten so much easier.

“Probably. Anyway, the bank manager, or whoever he was, wasn't about to ‘divulge sensitive information,’ as he said. What a pompous … windbag. Maybe he doesn't like stockmen.” Mr. Otto shrugged.

“Um, you could have looked in a telephone directory,” she said.

He just raised his eyebrows. “Never occurred to me. Darling, you know very well my limited access to newfangled contraptions. I went back to the hotel, had a very fine lunch—though not as good as your chicken fried steak and Duchess potatoes—a bath, and sent my suit to be pressed. I've been on the road with it for way too many days.”

“And no closer to my address?”

“That's when I got smart.” He went to the closet and retrieved a small package from his overcoat. He pointed to the label. “This present from your folks was waiting for you at the Double Tipi when I got there. There was a mighty fine return address. I am brilliant, although it takes awhile.”

Julia laughed and took the gift from him. “My father said they had sent my gift.” She shook her head and couldn't help the tears. “I forgot to bring theirs along, when I left so fast.”

“Hey now,” he said again softly. He took the napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “You're the best gift they could have.” He held her hand and leaned closer. “Julia, what happened?”

“It was an unfortunate complication of pregnancy. There wasn't anything the doctor could have done,” she said when he had both of her hands clasped in his. “Luckily this condition is rare. Poor, poor Iris.”

“How are
you
dealing with this? Honestly, please.”

“By wearing myself out each day and going to bed so tired that I couldn't stay awake if I tried,” she told him, well aware how futile it was to dissemble around Mr. Otto. “I remind myself that I'll see Iris again, and we'll be together forever, but I'd rather see her right now.” She felt her cheeks turn rosy. “That doesn't make me much of a Mormon, but that's the truth.”

He didn't release her hands as he thought about what she had said. “It makes you a sister grieving for a sister. No harm there, no matter what you're supposed to believe.”

She nodded and moved her hands slightly, making him release his hold on her. She took a deep breath. “This is hard to say.”

“Say it anyway, Darling.”

“My parents…” She leaned forward, unable to speak. He kissed her forehead. “They needed me even more than I needed them.”

He didn't say anything but gazed at her thoughtfully. She allowed the silence, which calmed her and let her think clearly as she breathed in and out. As her mind cleared, she wondered what Mr. Otto was doing in her kitchen in Salt Lake City.

“Mr. Otto, why—?”

“—am I here?”

“Were you afraid I wouldn't remember the contract?” she asked.

“I had no doubts. It was far more than that.” He leaned back in the chair, making himself comfortable, just as he always did in the Double Tipi kitchen. “I told you I had found that scripture.”

She nodded. “I found it too. Mosiah, chapter three.”

“Mo-sigh-ah. So
that's
how you pronounce it. Mosiah. I found it on the way to Chicago.” He hesitated, looking unsure of himself then. “Things got … complicated in Chicago, but on the way home, I started reading again and came to Chapter 18 in Mosiah.”

“I haven't got that far yet.”

“You will,” he told her, his confidence back. “It's really good. Someone named Alma is hiding out from King Noah—he's a piece of work—and Alma's baptizing folks right and left.” He reached inside his suit. “It was so good I wrote it down. Here.” He handed her a piece of paper. “A nice lady on the train took a page from her little girl's Big Chief tablet.”

She didn't think anyone had ever taught Mr. Otto cursive, but she was used to his careful printing. “Chapter 18, part of verse eight and some of nine: ‘ … and are willing to bear one another's burdens, that they may be light; yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn, yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort…’ “She looked up. “Mr. Otto, you knew I needed you.”

She had embarrassed him. He barely glanced at her as he put the paper away again. “Along about Rock Springs—what is it about that awful town?—I had a few more second thoughts. I mean, it takes a lot to upset you, and granted, Mormons seem to have a handle on stuff.” He looked decidedly uncomfortable, but his resolve seemed to strengthen. “Then I thought, ‘She doesn't need to ride back to Cheyenne alone.’ “

“How true,” she said softly, remembering her sorrow on the way to Salt Lake. “You were right.” She smiled at him. “You must be awfully tired.”

“I am,” he admitted. “Doc had left me a note at the livery stable, telling what happened. I rode to the Double Tipi, made sure everything was in order there, told my little lie to James, retrieved your package, and rode back to Gun Barrel the next day.” He sighed. “Yeah, I'm tired.” He managed a smile, “Or maybe, ‘yea, behold, I am tired.’ “

“I favor ‘yea, behold, verily’ myself.”

Julia looked around Mr. Otto at her father standing in the door, a question in his eyes. He came into the kitchen holding out his hand as Mr. Otto got to his feet.

“You must be Mr. Otto. You're precisely as she described you. I'm the father of this little cook.” The men shook hands. “I was going to plunk her on a train in a few days, whether she wanted to go or not,” Papa said, putting his arm around Julia. “I couldn't help overhearing you. Mosiah eighteen?” He passed his free hand across his face, and Julia saw all his bleakness even as he tried for a light tone. “As a family, we're on the receiving end of that one right now. Honestly, it's more fun to give.”

“I know, sir,” Mr. Otto said. “I figure you've had a walloping handful of commiseration, and that can be tough. I'm sorry for what happened to Iris. It shouldn't have.”

Papa nodded, unable to speak.

“It's true I didn't want Darling here to—”

Surprised out of his mood, Papa chuckled. “You really do that, don't you?”

“What?” Mr. Otto asked, mystified.

“Call her Darling. She mentioned that in one or two letters. Maybe all her letters, come to think of it.”

It was Mr. Otto's turn to lack for words. “Guilty as charged,” he said finally, with a certain amount of deference in his voice that Julia had never heard before. “I call everyone by their last name, with a few exceptions. My pa did. Maybe that's why I do it.”

“Not here,” Papa told him.

“No?”

“No. There are three Darlings in the house; imagine the confusion. You may call her Miss Darling while you're here.” Papa didn't say it with any force but exchanged a long look with Mr. Otto.

“Miss Darling it is, Mr. Darling,” he said promptly, not looking at Julia. “If I forget, maybe I can call her Supreme Ruler of the Queen Atlantic or She Who Insisted on a Cat.”

“Nah,” Papa said. “How about Julia Almighty? That was Iris's favorite.”

“You two!” Julia exclaimed, the teasing mention of Iris's name a soothing balm rather than something to avoid out of fear of the pain it would cause.
We can get through this,
she thought. “You say you came for another reason?”

Mr. Otto turned serious. “I did. Miss Darling, I need to talk to your father…”

He hesitated, and Julia felt her stomach tighten as the strangest thought came into her head. Surely he wasn't going to propose. She glanced at her father and saw the wariness come into his eyes.
He's thinking the same thing,
she thought in alarm.
Mr. Otto can't possibly be—not that. Papa would never approve of a nonmember. Not ever.

Would I?
Julia asked herself suddenly. She didn't know where to look except down at her hands as she held her breath.

But Mr. Otto was speaking again. “It's hard, sir, and maybe this isn't the right time.” He took a deep breath. “I'd better just come out with it. I need a favor. I want … I need your help to find my mother's people.”

he whole story came out over cinnamon raisin French toast and maple syrup because Papa wanted Mama to hear it too after Mr. Otto had begun.

“Do you mind waiting?” Papa asked. “I'll get my wife.”

Mr. Darling went upstairs, taking them two at a time, which brought tears to Julia's eyes again, thinking how slowly, hand over hand on the banister, he had tread them last night. She couldn't help herself. She reached out and touched Mr. Otto's wrist. “You're going to give him something to do. Bless your heart.”

“I have to,” he said simply. “After what happened in Chicago—trust me, that can wait—I kept thinking of your comment that maybe people here are still missing Mary Anne, wondering what happened to her. Maybe they're still wondering if there was something more they could have done. Anything! I know that feeling.”

He stopped, his face bleak, haunted even. Julia cupped both hands around his face, knowing how improper this was but thinking of the words on that Big Chief tablet paper.
Can I comfort you?
she asked herself. “Mr. Otto, what happened?” she asked, hoping if she kept her voice low and even, he would answer her.

He did, but only to reply, “It can wait,” again, in a more stubborn tone.

She took her hands away. “All right then, but please don't keep it all inside.”

“Maybe that's why I came to fetch you, Darling. It's a long, solitary ride.”

“How well I know now.”

Julia gave herself a mental shake and sliced the rest of the cinnamon raisin bread.

Mr. Otto watched her, happy to change the subject. “Maybe I shouldn't have eaten all that bread.”

Julia opened the breadbox and pulled out another loaf. “You know I never make one of anything,” she reminded him and sliced the new loaf.

Coated with beaten egg, cream, and a dab of sugar to brown it, the first slices of French toast were ready to be plated when Papa and Mama came downstairs, looking more interested than Julia had seen in a week.

“So you are
the
Mr. Otto,” she said, taking his hand gently.

“The one, the only,” he said. He looked at Julia. “I'd have known this was your mother in a roomful of mothers, Da … Miss Darling. You two look alike.” Apparently he couldn't help himself then. “Mrs. Darling, did
you
ever dump gravy on a preacher's head?”

Mama gasped but then burst into laughter. “Oh, tell me Julia didn't,” she said, when she could talk.

“She did. He deserved it.” He winked at Julia, which made her cheeks go rosy. “You mean you never wrote your mother about that?”

“Mr. Otto, even from a distance, I like them to think I am mature and well-mannered,” she scolded but couldn't think of anything else to say, not with Mama still laughing and Papa trying not to.
Bless your heart. I'll forgive you this time,
she thought, grateful for the mood he had set, whether it was deliberate or not. “Breakfast is ready!”

Papa asked the blessing on the food, and her parents sat down with Mr. Otto, who looked at her. “Keep'um coming, Miss D,” he advised. “Just like you do at home.”

She kept them coming, pleased to hear Mr. Otto describing, in his colorful way, the events leading up to the gravy episode and why he decided to trust her with the Otto family secret. She glanced at her mother, who was listening and eating. Julia sighed with relief. Mama had shaken her head at nearly everything she had tried to cook, and here was Mr. Otto, making her laugh. He glanced at Julia once to indicate her mother's empty plate with a slight nod. Julia quickly slid another piece of French toast onto her plate, and Papa passed the syrup just as quickly.