Carla Kelly (6 page)

Mr. Otto made a few more purchases, chief among them several bottles of liniment. She must have stared at the size and number of the bottles because he said, “We're heading to the high pastures in a few days,” as if that explained it.

As they waited for the clerk to wrap the bottles, she glanced behind the counter. “Maraschino cherries, if you please,” she said to the clerk. “All of them.” She knew that her employer was staring at her; he seemed to do that more than she liked. “Miss Farmer always said that one cannot have too many maraschino cherries. You would be amazed what they do to an ordinary dish.”

“Bananas too?”

She looked behind her.
Is there a short man in this state?
she wondered. Mr. Otto was tall, but this man positively loomed.

Mr. Otto was grinning now, and the tall man seemed to be waiting for an answer. She swallowed. “You can stick maraschino cherries all over a banana with toothpicks,” she said.

The tall man whistled. “ ’ Pon my word, but that would snag your bowels!”

“I think you take them off before you eat the banana, you sorry-eyed simpleton,” Mr. Otto said with a perfectly straight face. “Don't get off your place much, do you?”

Julia gasped and looked from one man to the other. She stepped back until she was pressed against the counter.

“Hey, Chief, when was the last time I called you a horse thief and a Captain Sharp?” the tall man asked. Anxiously, Julia looked at him for some sign of humor, but she saw none.
Mr. Otto, don't say another word!
she pleaded silently.

Mr. Otto was not susceptible to thought waves. “The last time?” he asked. “It's only been every roundup since I sold you a horse you couldn't ride.”

Julia looked around her, wondering why no one was intervening. The clerk was just calmly wrapping the maraschino cherries.

“No one could ride that Satan spawn, and you know it.”

“I can.” To her astonishment, Mr. Otto turned away from the tall man.

Someone has to do something,
she thought in desperation. Her eyes widened as the tall man pulled back the light coat he wore and exposed his gun. She took a deep breath and tugged on her employer's duster. “Mr. Otto, he has a gun!” she whispered as loudly as she dared.

“He shoots about as well as he plays cards, Darling. Get a total on that, Parsons, unless you have a crate of maraschino cherries out back you haven't mentioned to my cook here.”

“You've gone and done it now.”

Julia whimpered. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until she felt a sudden breeze on her face. She opened her eyes. Mr. Otto was fanning her with his hat and speaking over his shoulder to the other man.

“I suppose I
have
gone and done it. Told you I was getting a cook, McLemore,” Mr. Otto said, his tone as even and conversational as before. “She's a graduate of a Boston cookery school and probably knows more ways to cook eggs than you have fleas. McLemore, this is my new cook, Julia Darling. Are you all right?

She shook her head weakly.

“Darling, this is…. Oh, what is it?” he asked the other man.

“Charlie,” the man said patiently. He stuck out his hand. “Charlie McLemore. Paul can't remember a first name to save his sorry self. Shake, miss. I'll double whatever he's paying you.”

“I'm already shaking, Mr. McLemore,” she said. “Are you two
friends?”

“Except when we play cards at roundup,” Mr. Otto said. “You didn't think…. McLemore, you keep your money right there in your pocket. This is
my
cook.”

McLemore released her hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss Darling.” He winked at her. “Bet you haven't seen the kitchen at the Double Tipi yet.”

“No,” Julia said, mystified. She looked at her employer. “Is there a problem with the kitchen, Mr. Otto?”

He shrugged. “Kitchen's a kitchen, Darling.”

“Told you the chief was a Captain Sharp,” McLemore said cheerfully. “If you change your mind, I'll pay you $80 a month. I'm easy to find. Paul and I share a boundary.” He winked again. “I eat his beef, and he eats mine!”

“Is that
legal?”
she asked, and both men laughed.

Mr. Otto turned back to the clerk, who was listening with some interest. “Looking at McLemore just reminded me: I need a twenty-pound bucket of lard. Yes, we eat each other's beef.”

McLemore grinned at her and took his own purchase from the clerk. “G'day, Miss Darling. I'm just five miles north and west!”

She watched him go. “Mr. Otto, about your kitchen…”

If he heard her, it didn't register. Mr. Otto picked up the lard bucket and handed her the maraschino cherries all neatly done up in brown paper.

“I thought you were going to shoot each other, Mr. Otto,” she commented as her employer put the groceries in the wagon bed.

“Then you've been reading too many dime novels,” he said, and pulled out his watch. “Anywhere else you need to go?”

“I would like to open an account at a bank.” “Good idea.”

“And I
don't
read dime novels!”

He pointed down the block. “I bank at National. It's either that or First Thrift here in Gun Barrel. National okay?”

She nodded.

“What were you going to do if he had pulled out his gun, Darling?” he asked as he strolled along.

She glanced at him.
He does have a sense of humor,
she thought. “At first I was going to leap between you two, but since I'm only getting sixty a month, I thought I would duck, instead.”

He laughed. “Prudent.”

“Then I checked my watch and realized that if you two killed each other, I still had time to catch the afternoon train to Cheyenne.”

“Wise of you.” He opened the door, and they walked into the bank. As soon as Mr. Otto crossed the threshold, a bank official started toward them, almost at a trot.

The men shook hands. “This is my cook. She wants to open an account, Baldridge.”

She tried not to smile as the bank official led them behind a low gate and indicated two leather chairs. He pulled out an application and handed her a fountain pen.

Mr. Otto crossed his legs in that expansive way of Westerners. Julia took off her gloves and filled out the application while Mr. Baldridge fluttered close by—she could think of no better word to describe his hovering. Since he was there and she was curious, she asked him a few questions about interest and quarterly compounds. She resisted the urge, strong within her, to ask about bonds. She signed the application and handed it back.

The banker handed the form to Mr. Otto. “Sir, since she is a woman, a man needs to countersign for her. It appears that she has no husband, and you're the employer.”

Mr. Otto sat up straighter. “I can't imagine what difference that makes,” he said. He took the form, but he ignored the banker's fountain pen. He looked at her. “She appears normal enough. She has a hat in the wagon, but it met with an accident.” He handed back the form unsigned. “Her gloves are clean.”

“Um, I think it's a rule, Mr. Otto,” she said.

“Blamed silly one,” he replied to Julia's gratification. He made no move to take back the application, which was starting to rustle in the banker's hand.

“Sir, she is a woman!” the banker pleaded.

“I'm aware of that, Baldridge,” Mr. Otto replied, his voice crisp as though he were suffering a fool, and not gladly. “I doubt this renders her incapable of reason.”

“Of … of course not, s-sir,” the banker stammered. “I was not implying…” Baldridge turned to her, his eyes so desperate that she felt some pity. “Miss Darling, rules are rules. Can you suggest the necessity of this to your employer?”

“Mr. Otto, it's this way: if I suddenly start to foam at the mouth and then grab a gun and rob the Cheyenne & Northern, I think Mr. Baldridge would not like the bank to be held accountable in any way,” she said. Not daring to look her employer in the eye, she took the paper and fountain pen from the banker and handed them to him. “Sign, sir, if you will.”

He uncapped the pen and rested the application on his leg. “Do you have any plans that way, Darling?” he asked.

“Not at the moment, sir,” she replied.
Hurry up!
she thought.
I think I'm going to split my corset wide open when I start to laugh.

“Very well, if you promise.” He signed his name next to hers and handed it back to Baldridge, who sank into his chair behind the desk. “Does First Thrift have such a silly rule?”

“All banks do, sir.”

“Then it wouldn't make any difference if I took my money out of your bank and put it in First Thrift, would it? Or even that Cheyenne bank where I also do business? How about the one in Chicago?”

The banker's face turned an alarming color. Julia took a deep breath. “Mr. Otto, it won't make any difference. It's a banking rule, and I don't mind.”

He sat there another long moment and then rose. “I suppose we have no choice,” he told her. “G'day, Mr. Bal-dridge. Nice to see you.”

He took her arm this time and steered her toward the door. It looked so far away to her.
I can't make it,
she thought.

She did, though, even when Mr. Otto stopped at the door and turned around, raising his voice to be heard across the bank. “Baldridge, I had a thought. What if the business women at the Ecstasy wanted to open an account here? Who signs for them? Customers?”

She tugged on his arm, astounded at him. “Mr. Otto!”

“I was just curious,” he told her as he let her pull him through the door. He stopped again. “Baldridge, next time you're over there, ask'm, will you?”

The bank was totally silent. Mr. Otto shook his head. “Bankers are so unimaginative.”

She couldn't help herself. She hurried ahead of him until she was away from the bank windows, collapsed onto a bench in front of the newspaper office, and laughed. She laughed until her sides hurt and tears ran down her cheeks.
How can you keep a straight face,
she thought, as she shook her head when he offered his handkerchief. He was nice enough to sit beside her and not walk away as though he did not know her. Finally, she dabbed at her eyes with her lace handkerchief. “Please excuse me,” she said.

“I don't think a man should have to countersign for a woman,” he said simply.

“You really were serious, weren't you, Mr. Otto?” she asked in amazement. “I just take those little annoyances for granted.”

“About that matter, yes.” He laughed then. “I do have a pranking streak.” He rubbed his hands together. “There's just something about Baldridge that brings out the worst in me.”

”Just
Baldridge?” she asked. “Tell me the worst, Mr. Otto.”

He looked at his watch. “You've already missed the train back to Cheyenne, so I don't have to.” He stood up. “Do we dare attempt a meal before we leave town?”

She dared, promising herself that she would eat and be quiet. He took her to a restaurant on the next block north. She turned her head and bit her lip to keep from laughing when a waiter materialized immediately and showed them to an excellent table. She took off her gloves again and accepted a menu. “Aren't you going to order, Mr. Otto?” she asked, when the waiter did not hand him a menu.

“He knows what I want.”

How could I doubt it?
she thought. She ordered vegetable soup and handed back the menu.
Now what do I say?

She cleared her throat, looked up from the tablecloth she had been contemplating, and saw two men approach.

They were dressed much like her employer. They nodded to her and pulled up chairs from a nearby table.

“These fleabags must want me to introduce them to you,” he said. “This is Miss Julia Darling, my new cook from Salt Lake City. Darling, this is Hanrahan and this is Clements. They ranch near Saltash, and you can't trust them farther than you can see them.”

She shook hands with the ranchers, pleased with herself that her employer's assessment of his friends didn't startle her this time. Clements, the one with the blond hair and beet red forehead, turned his chair around to face her.

“You a Mormon?” he asked.

The question surprised her. In Boston, the other students had all wanted the same information, but they had found it out in more subtle ways.

“Yes, I am, sir.”

“Then if I kept whiskey in my house, you won't drink it?”

Puzzled, she looked at him and then at her employer, who had a frown on his face. “No, of course not,” she said. Something about his question irritated her. “I don't smoke either,” she continued, “or chew tobacco or dip snuff.”

Clements threw back his head and laughed. “She'll do, Hanrahan!” He cleared his throat. “Miss Darling, I'll pay you three times whatever this penny-pinching cutthroat is offering you to cook for me and Hanrahan.”

“No, thank you,” she said quickly, noticing how quiet the room had become.