Unbridled Dreams (15 page)

A few days after the Wild West train left North Platte, Otto walked into the parlor and settled into his chair, newspaper in hand. “Where’s Irma?” he asked. “She’ll want to hear this.” He held up the newspaper. “Orrin Knox has written an article on suffrage.” Otto chuckled, “And he’s
for
it.”

“She’s gone up to her room to write Monte,” Willa said, and picked up her needlework. “She said she was feeling tired and wanted to turn in early.” Otto only nodded and opened the paper and began to read aloud. It was maddening how oblivious the man could be to trouble. Leaning her head back for a moment, Willa closed her eyes and tried to listen. If he asked her opinion—which he would not—temperance was a far more critical cause than getting women the vote. No self-respecting lady would go anywhere near the polls unless something was done to end the disgusting amount of public drunkenness that plagued Election Day.

As Otto droned on, Willa turned her attention to her needlework. She loved doing needlepoint, but this new fad of decorating patchwork with countless embroidery stitches in endless designs was more than a little taxing. It was called “crazy work,” and Willa suspected she knew the reason. A woman could go crazy before she finished even a small sample. She’d been working on the same section of her mantel scarf for weeks.

As the sun went down and flickering lamplight replaced the light of day, Otto finished reading aloud, laid the newspaper aside, and buried his nose in a book. Willa pondered how to broach the topic she’d been worrying over for most of the day. The opportunity arose when Otto stopped reading and reached for his pipe.

“I’ve been thinking,” Willa said, “that perhaps I should tell Louisa I can’t go with her to Chicago after all.”

Otto frowned. “Why on earth would you do that?”

Willa nodded her head toward the upper level. “It’s been several days since that train left, and I don’t think Irmagard has eaten a decent meal once. She simply isn’t herself. She says she’s tired almost every afternoon. She’s taking
naps.
”

“I agree that Irma’s been a little quieter than usual these past few days. But when you consider that her best friend left on an adventure she’s long wanted for herself, that’s understandable. I also think the reality that neither Monte nor Diamond will be on the ranch this summer is just now beginning to sink in. I’d think it odd if she weren’t a little depressed.” Otto shrugged as he tamped the tobacco in his pipe. “She’ll come around.”

“I’m afraid it’s more than ‘a little’ depression. You haven’t witnessed her attitude toward me.”

Otto paused midpuff. He frowned. “If she’s been disrespectful, I’ll—”

“No.” Willa shook her head. “It’s nothing like that. She hasn’t complained about anything. She’s been . . . agreeable.”

Otto gave a little half-barking laugh. “Well, there’s a sure sign there’s something seriously wrong.” He finished lighting his pipe.

“Don’t joke.” Willa got up and crossed to the window seat, where she perched in profile to her husband and stared out the window. “If she says ‘Whatever you want, Momma’ one more time, I think I may burst into tears.” She looked back at her husband. “I’m worried. Truly, seriously worried.” She paused. “She’s beginning to remind me of Olive—toward the end.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Irma’s nothing like your sister—may her dear, tormented soul rest in peace.”

“She is
very much
like my sister,” Willa insisted. “The hair . . . the eyes . . . and, what frightens me most . . . the tendency toward moodiness.” She blinked her tears away. She would not cry. Otto hated it when she cried. Worse than that, he never listened to what she was
saying
if she cried. Willa once again looked back outside at the piece of ground they called the yard—although it was little more than a picket-fence-bordered pasture.

Otto set his pipe down. He got up and crossed the room. Sitting beside her on the window seat, he put his arms around her. “Now, Momma,” he said gently, and kissed her hair. “You must not let memories haunt you this way. It happens every April around the anniversary of Olive’s death. You remember that, don’t you? It’s unfortunate that Irma’s in one of her moods, but let’s not blow it out of proportion. And let us also remember that your sister was a delightful woman in many ways. Her tragic end doesn’t negate the fact that her stage career gave great joy to many, many people. To quote the Good Book you are so fond of reading, my dear . . . think on
those
things
.
”

Willa shook her head. “You didn’t see her in those final weeks. She stopped caring about her wardrobe. She let others make decisions for her. She complained of being tired all the time. And all the while she was sinking deeper and deeper until—” Burying her face in her hands, Willa began to cry as old wounds wrapped themselves around present fears.

Otto held her tight. “
You
are overreacting.
Irma
is going to be
fine.
” While Willa cried, he kept talking. “The past is past. We cannot change it. It can only harm us if we choose to let it do harm. You
can
choose what you think on. Doesn’t the Bible say that?”

Willa blanched. He was right of course. Philippians chapter four, verse eight gave a long list of things a person should think about— and none of them had anything to do with mucking around in the past. Willa nodded.

He gripped her by the shoulders and pretended to scold. “Then think on those things. The good things. Because you
are
going on this trip with Louisa Cody, Mrs. Friedrich. You are going to buy at least a dozen new hats and indulge every whim and—” he lifted her chin and made her look him in the eye—“you are going to trust Irma to me.”

Doing her best not to sound disbelieving or challenging, Willa asked, “Are you certain you can manage such a thing? The bank demands so much of you. Such long hours.”

It was a while before Otto answered, and when he did it wasn’t much of an answer. “I’ll take Irma to eat at the hotel on Monday. On Tuesday she and I will escort you to the train. Then we’ll drive out to the ranch for supper. And by Wednesday, I’ll wager Irma will be writing you about how much fun she’s having.” He paused. “Trust me, Willa. Everything will be fine.” He pulled her into his arms.

Trust him. How could she. How many times had she done so and
been hurt.
But she returned his embrace. Whatever his character flaws, Otto Friedrich adored his daughter. That, Willa realized, she
could
trust.

Saturday evening, April 24, 1886
Dear Monte,

Happy May Day! I suppose this letter will arrive about the time
Minnie and I are making the rounds in town with our silly little bouquets.
In case she didn’t tell you, Minnie is coming to stay with me
while Momma is gone. I will write more of that later.

How is Diamond? Is Lady Blaze turning out as I predicted? Do
you think you will like living on a train? You must write and tell me
every detail of what you are doing. You said there are no performances
on Sunday, so I expect a letter to arrive here no later than the fifth
of May. That will give you TWO Sundays to get one written. That
should be more than enough time.

I am trying to be patient while Momma goes on and on about
how wonderful it’s going to be for me in Omaha this fall. I ask you,
Monte, what am I going to learn at a “finishing school” anyway?
Don’t you think I’m “finished” quite well enough?

I clipped the latest headline and article so you could read the
big news from at home, which is: people are finally going to have to
stop letting their pigs run free in the streets or be fined. Orrin Knox
is being credited with beginning a successful campaign to clean up our
fair city. He has also suggested an ordinance requiring the burying of
kitchen scraps—a good idea in my opinion, if the pigs are no longer
to be allowed to run free and gobble them up. There has been talk of
his running for mayor in the next election. The whole thing must seem
very trite to you now that you’ve visited REAL cities. (I will admit,
though, that Orrin’s campaign has done a great deal to make a stroll
along the boardwalks less odiferous.)

Does Helen Keen really ride sidesaddle in the production? Are
you in any acts with Shep Sterling?

Irma stopping writing. She had promised herself not to ask about Shep at all. At least not until he wrote to her. To keep that promise she was going to have to rewrite the entire letter. With a sigh, she stood up, pleasantly surprised when the effort produced not even one twinge from her injured ribs. Dr. Sheridan had said it would take a few weeks for her to be back to normal, but she was already feeling much better.

Tomorrow was Sunday, and as Irma turned out her lamp and slid into bed, she wondered what the Sabbath was like for the Wild West performers. She wondered if Monte really was going to church as promised. Did Shep go to hear the cowboy preacher, too? Did he miss her? Why hadn’t he written? And would she ever stop daydreaming about those kisses?

“It’s nice of you to take me out,” Irma said on Monday as her father pulled a chair out for her in the dining room at the Mayfair Hotel. As Irma spread her napkin on her lap, her stomach growled.

She laughed. “I don’t know if you heard that, but my stomach definitely approves.”

“Good,” Daddy said. “You haven’t been eating well. Your mother and I—especially your mother—have been a little concerned about you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Your mother says you haven’t been yourself. She says”—Daddy grinned as he snapped his napkin open and, with a flourish, tucked it into his collar—“that you’ve been
agreeable.
” He chuckled. “It’s most disturbing.”

Irma frowned a little. “Momma is worried because I’m . . . agreeable?”

“You must admit,” Daddy said, as he signaled for a waitress, “it’s not quite normal for you to get along with your mother.” As the waitress approached he asked, “Do you want coffee?”

Irma nodded and Daddy ordered them each a cup. When the waitress was out of earshot she said, “I don’t suppose I have been myself. Everything’s changed so much.” She bit her lip. “And I don’t like most of the changes.”

“Your mother’s been so worried that this past weekend she very nearly cancelled her trip to Chicago.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Irma sat up straighter. “Minnie and I are going to have a nice time together.” She added cream and sugar to her coffee. “Which reminds me. I wanted to ask you if I might have a luncheon while Momma is gone.”

Daddy frowned. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“Why not? We’ll do all the work. You won’t even know it happened. I’m not talking about one of mother’s productions. This would only be Minnie, Edd Peterson, Orrin Knox, and me. And maybe Violet Dawson. She likes Edd.”

“Could we please get back to the topic at hand?” Daddy said. He smoothed his mustache and goatee, then leaned forward and said quietly, “You must make every effort to show Momma that you are going to be just fine.”

Was he really going to blame her for Momma’s mood? Irma looked down at the scroll design around the edge of the hotel china. She was doing the best she could. She and Momma had talked for nearly half an hour yesterday about Reverend Coe’s sermon. And she’d helped with dishes and even asked Momma to show her how to do that fancy embroidery stitch she was doing on her mantel scarf.

And this morning at breakfast she had— “You can look up, Irma,” Daddy said. “I’m not scolding you. I’m only trying to help you understand that it helps no one for your mother to worry to the point she considers canceling her own holiday.”

“What does she think I’m going to do?” Irma said. “Throw myself off a cliff because I didn’t get my way? I’m not a child. I’ll be fine. And could you please give your permission for the luncheon?”

Daddy dropped his spoon. When he bent to retrieve it, something fell out of his pocket. It was a train ticket. He laid it on the tabletop, then reached into his pocket and took out two more. When Irma didn’t look at them, he pushed them toward her as he said, “I think it would be very reassuring for your mother if she heard you and Minnie wanted to
have
a luncheon. Tell her all about it. It’ll put her mind at ease.” He took a gulp of coffee. “Just last night I promised Momma that I would take a personal interest in doing everything possible to cheer you up,” Daddy said, and tapped the tickets with his index finger. “She and I both know what it’s like to be young and to have more than one disappointment come all at once.” He leaned back as the waitress delivered plates of roast beef and potatoes swimming in gravy. “When Momma said that Minnie was coming to stay with you, I had the idea that perhaps you girls would enjoy your own little holiday—say for May Day? Something special.” He looked pointedly at the tickets. “Of course you can choose to have a luncheon instead. If that’s really what you want.”