Yellowstone Memories (19 page)

“A real doll. Yessiree.”

“Who are you talking about?” Justin asked in irritation. “Lia?”

Frankie sat halfway up in his bed. “Who?”

“Lia. Cynthia’s friend.” Justin blinked up at the ceiling again, trying to recall Lia’s crazy story about driving from Bozeman. Wondering if it had really happened or if he’d dreamed the whole thing.

But the ice in her eyes before she walked away hurt too deeply to forget.

“If you’re talkin’ about that skinny dame, no thanks. She’s as shapely as an empty potato sack and kinda sad-lookin’ eyes. But Cynthia. Cynthiaaaa!” Frankie let out his breath like a dying man and flopped back down on the bed. “She’s eighteen like me, but I told her I was twenty. You shoulda got a peek at ‘er. That hair! That … that … angel face! She’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”

Frankie shook a finger in the air for emphasis. “I tell you what I’m gonna do.” He pushed himself up on one elbow.

“You’re gonna shut your trap, that’s what,” snapped Justin, not in the mood for Frankie White’s love laments. “And besides, you said all that nonsense about the last five dames you saw. Including the farmer’s wife.”

“Aw, knock it off, goon. You ain’t even heard what I’m gonna do.” He settled his cheek on his palm, raising his voice over Ernie’s sputtering snores. “Lucky for me, Bruno Hodges got himself all whacked to pieces with a machete so bad Doc had to practically stitch his leg back on. So who’s gonna take ‘em on their hike over to Fremont Lake instead? After all, this
is
Yellowstone.” Frankie leaned forward. “And her uncle’s a real famous photographer. He spent a whole day down at the falls takin’ pictures.”

“Whose uncle, Lia’s?”

“No, dimwit!” Frankie socked him with his pillow, making Justin see starry spots. “Cynthia. Do you need me to write it down for ya? Forget about that other gal.” He plopped the pillow down. “Anyhow, I’m gonna impress the socks off Cynthia’s uncle. He’ll never believe what I found up in the mountains.”

“What, another crummy bird’s nest?” Justin growled. He held back his fist from knocking Frankie White in the nose. If he lobbed that pillow at him again, he’d do it, too.

“Naw. Way better.” Frankie’s voice fell to a whisper. “You ever heard of the Thoen Stone?”

“The what?”

“The Thoen Stone. A message scribbled on a rock—somethin’ about Ezra Kind and gold from the Black Hills and Indians hunting him. Some guys in South Dakota found the message back in the 1800s.”

“What’s this got to do with you?” Justin’s hair prickled, not liking where Frankie’s blabbering was going.

“Everything. I found a letter.” He scooted closer, his eyes so wide and earnest in the dark that Justin’s heart skipped a beat. “In an old jar. Down in a bunch of rocks along the riverbed at the start of that trail we were cuttin’ last week.”

“You shouldn’ta kept anything, Frankie. You shoulda turned it in to Lieutenant.”

Frankie ignored him. “The letter’s written by a Jeremiah Wilde, tellin’ his cousin how the Sioux Indians killed a fella named Kirby Crowder—and took all his gold. He thinks it’s the same gold that belonged to Ezra Kind, ‘cause nobody ever found it—and because of the legends and stuff. Somethin’ like two hundred pounds of nuggets. Do you believe it?”

“Not for a second.”

“It’s dated July 1893, and the paper’s falling apart.”

“Liar.”

Frankie hesitated, and the bed creaked as he leaned forward. “Jeremiah Wilde said he thinks it’s up on Gallatin ridge,” he whispered. “Near that field full of bellflowers. Is my luck good or what? I made a copy of the map, and I’m gonna ask Cynthia’s uncle about it. He’ll know if it’s real, won’t he?”

Justin shoved him away. “Go away, Frankie. I’m going to sleep.”

“Not me. I’m gonna lay here and dream about Cynthia. Think she’ll date me if I find the gold? Say, why don’t you come with us on our hike? You can … I dunno. Carry my canteen or something. Imitate bird calls.” He chortled to himself, plopping down on the pillow and looping his arms under his head. “Too bad you’re helpin’ out the Green River crew tomorrow, eh, Fairbanks? And on a Saturday! Haulin’ logs or some such nonsense? Ah well. Your loss.”

“You leadin’ a group? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.” Justin reached over to shove Ernie and stop the snoring.

“Well, say hi to Mr. Tour Guide. I’m now the official Yellowstone expert in residence. At least that’s what I told Mr. Parker, Cynthia’s uncle. What I don’t know, I’ll make up. Simple. And he won’t care when I dig two hundred pounds of gold out of a cave somewhere.”

“That’s park property. You’d never get away with it.”

“They don’t have to know a thing.”

Justin could almost see Frankie puff up his chest with pride, even in the dark. “Lieutenant gave me permission, so long as we stay on the lake trail,” Frankie rattled on. “Said I needed an activity to exercise dependability—whatever that’s supposed to mean. Don’t matter to me so long as I get to be with Cynthia.”

“Oh brother,” Justin muttered.

Frankie’s voice trailed off in a disgustingly soft sort of way. “She’s never seen snow. Can you believe it? Grew up in Florida. I wish I could show her some.”

“You’re an idiot. They’d never make it past the first ridge.”

“Yeah well, a fella can dream, right?”

“Sure. Right into a lightning storm. I can see it now. The weather around here changes in a minute, and what are you gonna do if you cross a moose or a bear? You’d wet your pants like you did last time.”

“Real funny, Fairbanks.” Frankie’s voice hardened. “What are you, some kinda worrywart? Everything’s gonna be great. Anyhow, Lieutenant said Charlie Pryde’s supposed to come, too, since he’s got some know-how with plants and stuff, but Charlie hates it here. Once we get outta Lieutenant’s sight, he can take off and do whatever he wants, and I’ll find that gold myself. You’ll see.” He stretched and let out a long yawn. “I’ll handle things swell.”

“You. Handle things swell.” Justin massaged his closed eyes in disgust. “Those girls don’t have a lick of hiking experience, Frankie. Better go easy on ‘em. I know Lia wasn’t feeling so hot when she got here.”

“Well, she doesn’t have to go then. Whatever. I’m just doin’ this to score some marks with the lieutenant of course.” Frankie’s words held a smirk. “I gotta make up for all my demerits. Only person who’s got more than me is Charlie, and he’s probably gonna skip this ol’ camp and hitch a ride back to New York. He’s homesick somethin’ terrible like the rest of us.”

“Speak for yourself. I think this place is swell. And if your record’s that bad, Frankie, you oughtta volunteer to help me at the spike camp tomorrow instead of fooling around with some gal and her folks you don’t even know.” Justin snorted and smooshed his pillow into a thick roll. “You and your ridiculous notions. Letters in a jar? Gold? I don’t know how you get any work done at all, always lookin’ for stuff.”

“I don’t, really.”

Slacker
. Justin shook his head and turned on his side away from Frankie. “Now shut up and let me get some sleep, or I’ll shut you up.”

Frankie lay still awhile, quiet, until Justin thought he’d fallen asleep. Then a muffled whisper. “She was looking for ya. That skinny gal.”

Justin’s arms and legs tensed, and his fingers clenched the wool blanket tighter. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. Seemed like she was tryin’ to find ya these past couple days, but you was hidin’ out in a cave or somethin’. Who knows? Maybe she’s sweet on ya.” Frankie yawned. “But that Cynthia’s somethin’ else. She wears Emeraude perfume! Did you know that? It’s pure heaven.”

“What do you know about heaven?” Justin growled, his teeth gritted at Frankie’s “sweet on ya” comment. “You don’t even go to chapel, although you oughtta. I bet you five bucks somebody back home is prayin’ for ya to pick up a Bible and get a lick of sense in that empty head of yours, but you’ve been blowin’ ‘em off for years, thinkin’ you can handle things on your own. Well, you’re a fool, Frankie. Life’s a lot tougher than it looks.”

He swallowed hard, thinking of Lia. Tracing the scar on his forehead with his fingers. “Don’t wait so long like I did. It’ll take me a lifetime to clean up my mess, if I ever can.”

Frankie rattled on, not appearing to hear. “Cynthia smells like rose petals. And … and … orange peels.” He waved his arms in the air and let his breath expire dramatically. “I’m in love, Fairbanks! Slap me. Am I dreaming?”

“Oh, I’ll slap you all right. With pleasure.”

And Frankie yelped to get out of the way.

J
ustin had just speared a bite of flavorless hotcake in the noisy mess hall when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped, nearly knocking over his coffee. Bad coffee, thick as tar and nearly too bitter to swallow.

When he turned around, there stood Lia Summers in a close-fitting yellow hat, patiently clearing her throat and hands folded neatly in front of her.

Two of the guys next to Justin looked up at her briefly, but their eyes wandered back to the pink-cheeked girl in the doorway, her daylily-orange hair fashionably curled under her hat. Laughing with someone on the other side of the doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, Justin.” Lia looked around nervously. “I know you’re in a hurry, but Lieutenant Lytle said I could speak to you. I’ve been trying to find you for two days.”

Justin sat there like a startled mule deer, nodding senselessly.

“I just wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?” Justin’s fork dripped blackstrap molasses.

“For what you said.”

Lia laced and unlaced her fingers, which shook in the dim light of early dawn. Head bowed. She’d wrapped a white scarf around her neck, over her yellow dress, making her look like an out-of-place daisy in a room full of navy-blue-clad guys. Most of them sullen at being awakened on a perfect, sun-clear Saturday for hours of hacking trails through the woods, “cribbing” the eroded banks of the river with logs chinked with stones, and clearing fallen trees by Green River spike camp. Heavy rains had downed a whole ridge, and about a quarter of Camp Fremont’s boys were helping out, either voluntarily (like Justin, for extra pay) or for penance (like Ernie, on account of getting caught on one of his liquor runs).

Justin’s hand clenched the fork so tightly the metal edge dug into his palm. “You mean what I said about … about your …?”

“Papa.” Lia’s eyes suddenly quivered with tears. “I loved him. Do you know that?” She looked over at him fiercely, wiping her cheek.

Justin sat there like an idiot for a second then abruptly scooted back his chair and headed over to a quieter corner, leaving a space for her to follow. Careful not to touch her.

“I know you loved him,” he finally said, lowering his voice and softening it to a husky tone. He stared up at the log corners of the wall, hands stuck in his pockets. “And I meant what I said. I’m sorry as I can be. I was a fool, Lia. All the beatings, and Pop, and …” Justin looked away, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. “I sort of lost my mind, I guess. But I was still a fool.”

“What beatings?” Lia looked irritated, wiping the corner of her eye with her fingers.

Justin started to laugh in disbelief then slowly closed his mouth. “You … you mean you didn’t know? Your pa didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“About my family. Stuff at home.” Justin shrugged, incredulous. “I thought everybody knew.”

“If Papa knew anything, he didn’t tell me. He never was one for gossip.”

Chairs shuffled behind him, and Justin glanced over his shoulder, wishing he could step outside. But they’d shout the end of breakfast in a minute, and Justin would line up for the truck with fifty other denim-clad schmucks, off for another day’s work.

Lia reached for a curl of her hair and twirled it nervously, looking away. The unexpected gesture sending a stab of pain through Justin’s chest.

“I knew you drank though.” Lia didn’t meet his eyes. Her voice so soft over the mess hall noise that Justin had to bend closer to hear it.

“Course I drank. I wanted to forget everything. And what happened with your pa—with … your father—was an accident. A pure accident. I took Pop’s car, loaded up with gin and whiskey, and didn’t know where I was going. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.” He swallowed, crossing his arms tight over his chest. “I wish I’da died instead of your father, Lia. I swear.”

She blinked faster, still twirling that curl of hair.

“Did ya think I downed all that booze because I liked it?” he said a little more harshly than he intended. “You never thought that maybe my life was rotten and I wished I could die, too, like my ma?”

She flinched. “I guess I’d never thought about why you drank, to tell the truth.”

“Only that you hated me.”

Her cheeks colored slightly. “Maybe.”

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, and Lia finally raised her head. Letting her curl of hair go and smoothing it back in place. “I know your father wasn’t around much. Margaret said so once, and Papa, he …” She swallowed. “He knew your father wasn’t well, exactly, but he never shared with me the specifics.”

“Pop ‘wasn’t around much’? Margaret said that?” Justin threw his head back and stared up at the ceiling, not sure whether he should laugh or pound a table with his fist. That was Margaret all right, always trying to smooth things over and believe for the good. One of the best people he’d ever known.

And Reverend Summers, too. If he’d known the whole story about the rages and the beatings, at least he’d had the courtesy not to spill to everybody else.

“Why, isn’t what Margaret said about your father true?” Lia looked up at him, her eyes looking even bluer against the buttercup yellow of her hat. “Maybe he worked a lot, or …?”

“Well, he wasn’t good and kind like your pa, to say the least. Which incident do you want me to tell you about—the time he beat me so senseless I didn’t get up for a day and a half after I jumped on him for tryin’ to hit my ma?”

Lia’s face paled, and her fingers stopped on her hair in mid-curl.

Justin barely saw her. “Or the time he held us all at gunpoint for six hours, dead drunk, because he swore we’d swiped his whiskey stash? I finally took him out with a kitchen chair but not before he put two bullet holes in the wall by my head.”