Carla Kelly (51 page)

They did, leaving Julia in the parlor with the baby sleeping on her shoulder. She rose carefully and walked Paul to the front door. “This is so you don't have to say, ‘Walk with me, Darling,’ and wake up the baby,” she explained, her voice soft. “Any instructions?”

“Do I do that? I suppose I do. I can't think of any advice for you this time. I'm glad you're staying another night here. I'd feel bad if you and James ended up on a slow train north and were stuck in Gun Barrel overnight. Better to be stuck at the Gillespies'.” He looked toward the stairs. “Good people.”

He shrugged into his overcoat and reached for his Stetson. “It's just the stock show. I'll be back in a couple of weeks.” He picked up his valise and patted it. “I should be able to knock off the Book of Mormon—what is it Parley P. Pratt called it? ‘That Book of Books'?—and then I'll get back into his
Autobiography.”
He touched her nose. “You keep reading.”

Julia nodded. She stood by the front window, her hand gentle on the baby's back, her eyes on Paul's retreating figure, until the Gillespies came downstairs again. She smiled at his jaunty, swinging walk, the product of many years in the saddle, and wished him well in Denver.

Paul came back two weeks later, as promised, bringing with him elaborate and expensive booklets extolling the virtues of any number of prize bulls, a present for James from Denver, and one for Julia too.

“I looked all over Denver, and sure enough, found a Meccano set,” he explained as James ripped through the wrapping and then clapped his hands in delight. “Now you can build me a footbridge over the river.”

“That's too big,” James said seriously.

“When it continues not to rain this spring, you'll probably be able to jump over it.”

“You look tired, Boss,” Doc said. “I'll take care of Chief.”

“I'll let you. I
am
tired.”

“Too much hoorahing in Denver?” Matt asked, his voice solicitous but his eyes merry.

Paul glanced at Julia and his face reddened.

“That's what I thought,” Matt said innocently.

“Matt, you're irritating me,” Doc said. “How about we both take care of Chief? Julia? Do you want this basket to go to Blue Corn?”

She nodded, keeping a straight face. The door closed.

“Sorry about that,” Paul muttered.

“Mr. Otto…”

He groaned.

“Mr. Otto, you can do whatever you want with your free time,” she assured him, “as long as you're not contagious.”

He made himself comfortable at the table. “I think I'll change the subject,” he said, laughing and shaking his head.

“A sandwich? French apple pie?” she asked, amused.

“How about both? I mean it. I missed your cooking.” He reached in his overcoat pocket and held out a small package. “Here. Maybe this'll make up for my forgetfulness at Christmas.”

“Paul, you're my employer,” she reminded him. “I don't need presents.”

He took it back, and she slapped his arm. He offered it to her again, his eyes bright. “I missed you so much that I went into a slick emporium with ladies in wide hats and found this in the housewares department.”

She opened the box and held out a two-cup glass measuring cup. “This is so fine,” she said. “Two cups?”

“Why not? You cook for a herd here. Sit down. Keep me company.” He reached into his vest pocket this time. “Just promise not to tell Charlie McLemore or any of the other ranchers that I ever set foot in a housewares department. Here's this too.”

He held out a smaller package. “Once I got over the shock of housewares, I wandered into the book section.”

She opened the little package and took out a slim, leather-bound edition of Shakespeare's sonnets. “Thank you, Paul,” she said, turning the pages with their gilt edges.

“I read a few on the way home. Not bad.” He took another bite of the pie in front of him. “Finished the Book of Mormon too.” He chewed through another bite. “Brother Gillespie said I should pray about it when I finished.”

“Did you?” she asked, impatient for once with his silence.

“Didn't have to,” he told her. He shook his head. “Why would I?”

“Oh,” was all she could think to say.

“You finish it yet?” he asked after the silence seemed to rise up from the floorboards.

“Almost. I'll … I'll more than likely pray about it,” she said.

“You should. It's your church. Be nice to know if it's true or not.”

He sounded so satirical she almost didn't want to look at him.
I hope I don't sound too disappointed,
she thought. Julia couldn't deny he had every right to make up his own mind about things, even if his mother's family did sacrifice so much for the gospel.

“I'm still reading Parley Pratt's autobiography,” he added, as if sensing the disappointment she had hoped she was disguising. He reached in his pocket again and took out a letter. “This is really for James. I'll give it to him when he's less busy.” He pointed to the address. “It's a letter to him from Danila Rudiger. She's in school now.”

Julia couldn't have been happier to change the subject. “The Rudigers? You stopped and saw the Rudigers?”

“Yeah. That's why I was a bit late in getting home.” He held out his empty plate. “Any of the pie left?”

“Tell me first if Ursula has had her baby yet.”

“Ye of little patience! She had a baby girl about a week before I knocked on their door. Pretty little thing. Everyone's fine. Karl has more orders than he can fill, and my friend who hired him is looking for another carpenter, since business is so good.”

“You did a good thing,” Julia said, getting him more pie.

“
We
did a good thing,” he reminded her. “Ursula served me real tea with lemon in it.”

“Good for her.”

“I'll tell you something else too, if you won't let it go to your head.”

“Speak on, sir. I'm a hard person to surprise after life on the Double Tipi.”

She was wrong, almost as wrong as she had ever been in her life.

Paul took out his handkerchief. “Just to be on the safe side, mind you. Ursula named her after you.”

Julia grabbed for the handkerchief.

“Of course, she pronounces it Yulia,” he said, his voice soft. “And you should see that afghan your mother crocheted and the nightgowns and diapers she and probably a whole bunch of really determined ladies put together on short notice.”

“The Relief Society,” Julia said, when she could speak. “Joseph F. Smith—he's our prophet—once said there is no force on earth like a woman who is truly convinced. I think he was speaking of the Relief Society.”

“You'd know.”

Julia laughed and handed back his handkerchief. He put it back in her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers and running his thumb across her knuckles.

“Best keep it another minute or two.” He had trouble speaking. “Ursula wanted to know your mother's name for a middle name, and I thought … well, I thought Iris might serve just as well. Welcome to the world, Julia Iris Rudiger.”

She couldn't help the tears that dropped on his hand. What made the moment even more exquisite was his other hand on her head like a blessing.

fter a lengthy conversation with his ranch hands around the kitchen table in the morning, everyone stuffed with cinnamon rolls, Paul mounted up and returned to the line shack. When he came back a week later, she heard him pacing back and forth in the parlor until late into the morning hours. The next day, he was packed and headed back to Denver. “Business,” was all he would tell even Doc. All Julia got was a hand on her shoulder as she stood by the kitchen window again. She waited for him to say, “Walk with me, Darling,” but he didn't.

Something had changed. There was no one to talk to about it because she knew she had no business inquiring after her employer, not then and not ever. At times during the long two weeks that took them into early March, she thought Doc was looking at her with sympathy. Perhaps she was overreacting; there was no sense in trolling for explanations when none could be offered. She kept her feelings to herself.

There was nowhere to go but to her knees. For the first few nights, Julia knelt by her bed and did nothing more than rest her head on the coverlet. This was nothing new; she prayed every night. She couldn't think of words this time because she didn't know what she wanted from the Lord except some sign that He cared about her confusion.

One night, kneeling there and saying nothing, she remembered Sister Duncan in her Salt Lake ward, a kind woman who seldom spoke. Sister Duncan's life had been one of particular hardship, filled with sorrows that Julia knew would have provoked tears and maybe anger from anyone less stoic. She never saw this in Sister Duncan. Then came the terrible week when her oldest son was killed in a mining accident on the other side of the state. Sister Duncan, already a widow and relying on that son for some of her support, was just as quiet during the funeral, eyes ahead, trained on her son's coffin.

A week later, Julia had gone with her mother to Relief Society. The meeting was nearly over, and they were bearing testimonies, when Sister Duncan stood up. She grasped the chair in front of her for support. Her face was calm but determined as she kept her eyes trained forward. “Comfort me, Jesus,” she said, and sat down.

Kneeling beside her bed now, Julia remembered how embarrassed she had felt for Sister Duncan. Comfort me, Jesus? That sounded like something a backwoods person would say at a Southern camp meeting, where people rolled around and hollered.

Heavenly Father, forgive me for being so stupid,
Julia thought, pressing her face against the quilt she had brought from home. “Comfort
me,
Jesus,” she whispered. Her eyes filled with tears, and she stayed on her knees until she had the strength to rise.

She sat on her bed then, looking down at the floor. Two Bits scratched on the door, something he always did when Paul was gone. She opened the door, and the kitten came in, twining around her ankles and purring. Julia picked up the little morsel and got in bed, holding Two Bits close to her, touching the velvety spots at the base of his ears and then gently tickling him under his chin.

“Thanks for keeping the kitchen free from frozen snakes,” she whispered. “You're a prince.”

Two Bits thundered on. Julia blew out the lamp and settled herself for sleep. Two Bits curled himself into the hollow between her neck and shoulder, turning once. Julia lay there, thinking this must be precisely where the kitten slept with Paul Otto. She sniffed the kitten's fur. The scent of bay rum was faint but powerfully evident. She felt the breath go out of her in a sigh more serene than anxious.