Aiming for Love

by Mary Connealy

  Dave barked out a few orders, and two of the men rode for the trailhead.

  The cows kept flooding in. His wide green valley was filling up fast. “Ma, you know I’ll do anything, give anything, even my own life to keep you safe, but I don’t have room in this valley for a thousand head of cows.”

  “I know, Dave. I know.” Ma turned to give Jo a sharp-eyed look. “Jo, how old are you?”

  Dave wondered if Ma might sneak a question past the quiet woman, who still tugged against his grip pretty much constantly.

  “I don’t rightly know. Twentysomething, I think. I sorta lost track.”

  A whole string of sentences. Dave was impressed.

  “And do you see that my son means you no harm? He has a firm grip on you, and honestly, if he’d wanted to hurt you, he could have by now.”

  Jo looked down at her wrist, then up at Dave, not looking like she was feeling safe.

  “How long have you lived up here?”

  Jo scrunched her nose up when she looked at Ma as if the question made not a lick of sense.

  “I’ve always lived up here, uh . . . ma’am.”

  “Call me Ma.”

  That got Dave’s attention. No one called her Ma but him.

  “I only ’member the littlest things about my own ma. She died when I was about . . . five or so. It don’t seem right to call someone else Ma.”

  “Just do it.” Ma’s voice left no room for discussion.

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “And are you a woman of your word?”

  “Whazzat mean, M-Ma?” She sounded as if Ma could barely pass through her throat.

  “It means if I ask you to do something and you say you will, can I trust you? Or will you say anything to get Dave to let loose of you and then run for the woods in those . . .” Ma’s eyes slid down Jo’s body. “. . . in those dreadful trousers.”

  “Don’t rightly know about saying anything, but if I say something, I’ll do it. We live by the Good Books up here, and I’ll be keeping to them.”

  Dave shook her arm gently, and said quietly, “‘Thou shalt not steal.’”

  Ma flipped flapjacks and bacon, crouching by the fire. “Good Books? Books? There’s only one book that’s called the Good Book.”

  “Then we’re mighty lucky we got two of ’em. Them’s the only books we got.”

  Dave flinched at her heavy accent and strange slurred way of speaking. He sort of wished she’d go back to just saying no. “The part that says not to bear false witness, which I take to be lying, is right next to the part where it says ‘thou shalt not steal.’ I don’t think we can trust her, Ma.”

  “I didn’t steal the cup.”

  Dave decided to hold on to her anyway.

  Ma started putting the hot cakes on a plate and hollered, “Come and get it!”

  Dave stepped back as the men came. Ma flipped, emptied the griddle, added more batter, flipped again. She kept shoveling out flapjacks as the men grabbed plates. Somehow Ma had butter and jam to spread. The woman really had packed up the whole house.

  She fed them, cooking so fast her hands were nearly a blur. The men ate a couple of big stacks of cakes each. Then they headed back to work as Ma thrust a plate into Dave’s hand.

  “I don’t reckon I can eat and hang on to her at the same time.” Dave frowned at Jo, for the first time seriously tempted to let loose. His ma’s flapjacks were his favorite.

  “You sit here beside me.” Ma handed a tin plate to Jo. “I’m watching you, so don’t run off. Dave, you sit on the other side of her.”

  Ma patted Jo on the shoulder. “Much as it pains me to admit it . . . I don’t think we can trust you. But if you get one bite of these flapjacks, I think you’ll sit down and finish them, so Dave can let go for a while.”

  More cows poured in, they just kept coming and coming. More hands arrived. But it looked like they’d be awhile dismounting, so Ma filled a plate for herself and took this chance to eat.

  Dave wanted his flapjacks bad, so he guided Jo to the spot Ma had pointed to and plunked her down just as Ma handed Jo a fork. Jo glared at Dave, ignored the fork, and picked up a pancake in one hand . . . one really dirty hand . . . and took a bite.

  Her eyes went wide as she chewed. “What is this?”

  Ma’s food had taken Jo prisoner.

  4

  Jo had a faint memory of food something like this. Grandma died when she was eight. She remembered Grandma making food with this dry, powdery white stuff that looked like snow . . . flour. She and her sisters ground wheat and corn and called it flour, but it was coarse, nothing like this. The lady . . . Ma . . . would tell her what she was eating, but it went against so much of her training to talk easily with strangers.

  Jo didn’t know what question she’d ask anyway.

  Instead she ate. She’d been awhile since last eating. They usually ate in the morning and at night, though Ursula said a middle of the day meal was proper, too. But Jo was usually out hunting and heaven knew what Ilsa got up to.

  Ma added eggs and milk to the fine flour. Jo knew those because they had chickens and a few gentle milk cows. When Grandpa died, he’d had a bull and a few cows to provide them with milk. Now the herd had grown a bit, but they were pets. Nothing like this huge herd of spooky, galloping critters.

  Jo could hunt and dress a deer faster’n wildfire, so she could probably butcher a cow, too. It couldn’t be much different than a deer, only heavier. But she’d gotten attached to their cows, so she didn’t want to eat them. They had chickens, and Jo felt no such attachment to them. Between milk and eggs, and a chicken now and then for the pot, a good-sized garden, wild berries, nuts, the roots they dug that Grandpa had called Indian potatoes and such, and the food Jo hunted, they had aplenty.

  She gulped down the . . . what had Ma called them? Flapjacks? Strange word. Flap like wings.

  Now, how would she get away from here? And how had Dave Warden Boss caught her? Ilsa was better in the woods, but Jo was almighty good. She was shocked that he’d walked right up behind her and grabbed her.

  And she thought she was as silent as a ghost.

  Ma sat down beside her with her own plate and fork in hand.

  It was odd having an older woman around. Well, what about this wasn’t odd?

  “Dave’s father and I have brought more cattle up to this highland than this pasture can feed.”

  Jo didn’t know much about that. The cows seemed to be happy.

  Ma smiled. “It occurred to me that you know this land, don’t you?”

  The spark in Jo’s chest might be the sin of pride. She’d heard of that one. “I reckon I know this land better than anyone alive, save the animals. Well, and maybe my sister Ilsa.”

  Jo seemed to be just chirping away like a little bird. Having strangers to talk to was so interesting. Her true besetting sin, Grandpa used to say, was curiosity.

  “Do you know where there are other open, grassy fields like this one?”

  Jo felt Dave—that’s what his Ma called him so she reckoned she would, too—jerk up straight so suddenly it was like he’d sat down on a sharp rock.

  Ma swept her hand, still holding the fork, at that ever-growing herd. “If we don’t find more grass, these cows will eat all of this and then go hungry.”

  “It grows back.” Jo was surprised Ma hadn’t noticed that.

  A smile bloomed on Ma’s face as if she found Jo’s news about grass funny. “It does, but I’m afraid there are too many cows. It can’t grow back fast enough. Dave and his pa and several of the hired men have been up here exploring, though clearly they didn’t look around nearly enough because they never saw you. The trail up here is a fierce one the cows can barely climb. When they got up here and saw this open meadow, they didn’t scout much beyond this area. They didn’t find other open meadows. Do you know of any?”

  Jo hadn’t let up on her eating, but with Ma looking at her all hopeful-like and Dave paying such close attention, she felt a sweep of that pride again. “
I do know other places, plenty of ’em, some hard to get to, but they’re here.”

  “Can you guide us there? Show us? We’d be grateful, and in return, well, I can . . .” Ma seemed to be at a loss. Then she focused on Jo’s eating. “I can teach you how to make flapjacks and leave plenty of flour and eggs for you.”

  Jo took another bite of flapjacks. “How much is plenty?”

  Ma smiled wide. “You really need me, Jo. Don’t you?”

  “I take good care of myself, but I think I need you if I’m going to make flapjacks.” Jo frowned over the misty memories. “My grandma used to make such as this, though she called them something else.”

  “So, you’ll show us the pastures, and I’ll teach you to make flapjacks. I’ve heard them called hot cakes and pancakes.”

  “Pandekage . . . I think that was it.” She mulled over the word. “The pan part sounds right. Pandekage . . . pancake . . . that’s enough like pancakes to be right.”

  “Would you show us the grassland then?” Ma asked with a sweet voice and yet a strange, intent look in her eyes, as if finding that grass was terribly important.

  “I don’t like having you take over this highland. Your cows are bound to scare the deer.” Not to mention scare Ursula. “But now that you’re here, I don’t think it’s right to let your cows go hungry when there’s plenty of grass. Sure, I reckon I’ll show you.”

  Dave stood, swiftly, gracefully, his plate empty and his expression excited. “Can we go now?”

  Ma stood more slowly and went back to her cooking. “Not quite yet, Dave. I won’t leave here until I see your pa. Surely, he’ll be along soon. The cows have to be almost all here—the hired men are. Of course, my husband would insist on bringing up the rear, but he’s got to be coming soon.”

  The cattle numbers had slowed. They were still moving fast, but they weren’t bursting out of the woods as often. A few seconds passed between each of them. Snow clung to them, so they must be coming up through a storm that hadn’t reached this height. Jo had stood on the top of her mountain many times and seen clouds and rain below her, just as sometimes there were storms up here, and she’d look down from a snow-packed spot to see green grass below. She’d even looked down that trail and wondered what was down there.

  Now she knew. People and horses and lots of cows.

  “Why is he taking so long?” Ma muttered, and Jo heard the worry and affection in her voice. Her grandparents had fussed at each other sometimes, though not with quite so much affection. Still, she’d heard Grandma’s complaints as a way of showing she cared what Grandpa was doing, and it made Jo ache inside and feel lonelier than she ever had.

  Was she so interested in people because she was lonely? How could that be when she had her sisters?

  Finally a big black stallion vaulted out of the trees. It was moving too fast. Jo saw a man slumped over the horse’s neck. The big animal seemed almost to be running away, charging across the valley straight for their camp.

  Ma cried out.

  Dave started running for the horse. “Whoa. Midnight, whoa.”

  The horse’s head came up and saw Dave. It slowed.

  Jo saw red dripping down the man’s arm, where it dangled, limp. The man slumped so far forward his head almost reached the horse’s neck.

  The horse, which seemed to be running wild, slowed more and broke into a slower pace, which juggled the man around. Ma cried out in fear. Dave dashed with speed so fleet it put Jo in mind of a deer.

  The horse dropped to a walk. How had the man, who looked unconscious, hung on?

  Dave reached him and caught hold. Ma ran toward the man, too. Several of the hired men rushed forward. Dave shouted something about the trail, and four of them veered off and raced toward the place the slumped-over man had entered the high valley.

  Worriedly watching, Jo saw Dave doing something with the hand not dangling. Ma led the horse onward toward the fire. As they reached it, a string came loose of the man’s hand, where it had been tied to the saddle, and he slumped sideways into Dave’s arms.

  Dave eased him onto the ground as Ma led the horse a safe distance away. Jo saw all the blood and wondered how the man could still be alive.

  Then he moaned and tossed his head. Dave and Ma knelt beside him, and only one possible thing, a terrible thing, came into Jo’s head.

  A thing she really hated to do.

  A thing she really had to do.

  She took off running for the woods.

  5

  Think I got away clean.” Quillon Warden’s groggy voice didn’t sound that clean. “Long way behind.” He gasped for breath. “Saw men coming. Th-they got a bullet into me. Snow’s heavy, wind howling down there. R-rode away from the trail and circled back. H-hope my trail is covered.”

  Dave pulled off Pa’s shirt, then his woolen undershirt. His whole side was soaked in blood. Ma brought hot water and began washing the blood away so they could see the wound.

  “I told you to get away, Quill.” She leaned down and rested her lips on his forehead for a long, shaking moment. “Why’d you have to bring so much? We can rebuild anything as long as we are alive to do it, you old coot.”

  “Sorry, Izzy girl. I’m here now.”

  “I’ve staked men at the top of the trail to keep watch for anyone coming after you, Pa.” Dave saw the bullet wound in Pa’s belly and felt gutshot himself.

  “I’ll get bandages.” Ma leapt to her feet, took one step toward the mountain of supplies the men had unloaded from the packhorses, and stopped.

  “She’s gone.”

  Dave, still on his knees, whirled around. He scowled at the spot where Jo had been. He should’ve never let loose of her wrist. But he hadn’t had much choice.

  “Well, she said there was other grass up here. She may not be willing to show it to us. But if it’s here, we’ll find it.” Ma brought bandages back, sounding downright grouchy. As a rule, Ma was a kindhearted woman. But it didn’t set right with her to trust someone and have that trust betrayed. Dave didn’t feel betrayed because he’d expected her to run off first chance she got.

  Strangely, he was a little disappointed though . . . that she’d seen a man shot and used that distraction to run. It didn’t speak well of her character. And he was still worried about her. A woman up here alone couldn’t survive. Now he was going to have to hunt her down.

  She’d sure liked those flapjacks. Maybe he’d take a plate of them and set them out to bait a trap for the half-wild woman.

  He turned back to his wounded pa, fearing the worst.

  Jo slammed into the house, gasping for breath. Ursula leapt out of her chair where she sat reading.

  Jo noticed she gripped the big Bible with both hands, like she was prepared to bash someone with it. Jo wasn’t real sure if a person oughta whack someone with the Bible, but Ursula had little fight in her, only fear.

  “There are people in the lower meadow. Lots of people. And cattle.” Jo gasped for breath from her long desperate run.

  “You saw people?” Ursula’s eyes went wide. Her grip on the Bible tightened till her knuckles turned white. Ursula was the image of Grandma, except younger of course. She had white blond hair from Grandma’s Danish blood. Blue eyes, and tall. She’d’ve been a Valkyrie if she’d lived a hundred years ago. A woman warrior. Or so Grandma said of herself and Ursula. Maybe Grandma would’ve been, but there was nothing warrior-like about Ursula. She’d taken all of Grandma’s dire warnings to heart, and people invading their highland home terrified her.

  Jo was cut on smaller lines like Ma, the same coloring as Ursula except her hair was more yellow than white, but Ursula was almost a head taller than Jo.

  “I talked to them.” Jo might’ve kept silent about it except she couldn’t see how to do that and get Ilsa to help.

  Ursula held the Bible up to cover her mouth. From behind it she said, “No, Jo, you shouldn’t have.”

  “One of them, he was named Dave, caught me. He sneaked right up on me from behind while I
was watching them from the woods.”

  “Someone sneaked up on you?” There was stunned horror in Ursula’s voice, and Jo knew just how she felt. “Are they following you now?”

  “No, I escaped.” She remembered how Dave had talked, as if . . . as if he was worried about her living out here alone. What was there to worry about in that? She was a lot safer here than down where there were people. “But I have to go back. I came running because one of them is hurt. I need Ilsa.”

  “What?” Ursula set the Bible down firmly on the table and strode straight at Jo. “No, you can’t take her and expose her to them. She’ll die. You’ll both die.”

  Jo stepped out the door and yelled, “Ilsa! Ilsa, I need help.”

  She hoped her sister was close enough to hear. It was a long stretch of minutes. Ursula didn’t come out. She was no doubt hiding under the bed.

  Then, so suddenly Jo found a smile, Ilsa swung out of the thick trees on a long vine made of woven roots—Ilsa had them strung all over in the treetops. She waited until the rope was low and dropped lightly to the ground.

  “What’s wrong?” Ilsa was dressed in leather much like Jo. All their fabric and all their clothes had worn out years ago, and they’d made coats and clothes from buckskin. Grandpa had taught them how.

  Ilsa had dark hair that danced and curled as if it had a joyful spirit all its own. Black Irish, Grandpa said. Dark hair and shining blue eyes. She’d been so young when Ma and Pa disappeared, and still young when Grandma died. Grandpa had no idea what to do with such a youngster. Ursula took over the care of her and was her mother in most ways. But Ursula had been young, too. She had no idea how to be a mother. So, between her and Jo, they’d let their little sister run wild in the woods until she was more animal than human, but in a beautiful way Jo loved.

  And Ilsa had a touch with healing. She’d learned it from Grandpa, who’d learned it from native folks, he’d said. And Grandpa had been ailing the last stretch of his life, so Ilsa had done a lot of doctoring.