by Heidi Lang
“You kids.” Their dad chuckled. “And you know, I shouldn’t have made that van people comment. We’re van people, after all.”
“And I liked all the other van people we’ve met,” Patrick said.
“I suppose it’s like any group, a mixture of good and bad.” He restarted the van, then headed back on the road. “Did you know that a group of frogs used to be called a harmony?”
“Really?” Claire said.
“Really. So you’re not that far off.”
“I thought I’d made that completely up.”
“Interesting how that works, huh?” He glanced in the rearview mirror, changing lanes.
“What’s a group of frogs called now, Dad?” Patrick asked.
“An army.”
“A suffocation of frogs sounds a lot cooler,” Patrick decided. “I’m going to call it that from now on.”
“Me, too,” his dad agreed. “You remember your grandfather’s motto?”
“Never let the facts get in the way of a good story,” Patrick recited.
“Exactly. If I teach you nothing else in this life, I hope I’ve at least taught you that.”
They drove in silence for a little while as the sun began drifting down below the trees.
“How do you all feel about Utah?” he asked suddenly.
“Utah?” Claire said.
Patrick shrugged. “I’m fine with Utah.”
“Doesn’t Aunt Jan live in Salt Lake City?” Claire asked.
Silence thickened inside the van. “Yes,” her dad said finally. “I was thinking that maybe we’d pay her a visit.”
“Really?” Claire asked.
“I thought it might be nice to reconnect.” Her dad tapped the steering wheel. Claire was beginning to realize that it was more a nervous gesture than a possessive one.
Their aunt used to come over for Thanksgiving, and sometimes she’d stay through Christmas. And then one year she just . . . stopped. She still sent birthday cards with cash in them, and when Claire broke her wrist, her aunt had sent flowers. Which was nice, because Claire had never been sent flowers before.
Her aunt would be practically a stranger now. Still, Claire couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement, because even if her aunt didn’t have flowers for her this time, she’d definitely have indoor plumbing. But . . . “Why?” she asked her dad.
He shrugged. “Sibling relationships, and family, and all that.”
“All that,” Patrick said wisely. “But, I thought she was cursed by a witch?”
“Yes, well. Maybe she’s better now. I’ll give her a call tomorrow and make sure it’s okay if we swing by. We wouldn’t be arriving for another day or two anyhow.” He pursed his lips. “Maybe don’t mention that whole curse thing if we go there. She’s probably pretty sensitive about it.”
“Where are we going tonight?” Patrick asked.
“There’s a truck stop a couple hours down the road. We could sleep in their parking lot.”
“Doesn’t that just sound the funnest,” Claire sighed.
“I think they have showers.”
“Deal,” Claire said immediately.
“I thought that might be an easy sell.”
They drove in silence a little farther, the familiar rumble of the diesel engine rattling below their feet. They’d been camping for less than a week, but Claire was surprised to realize that she’d actually missed being on the road.
“Are you two burned out on stories?” her dad asked. “Or did you want to hear the next part of Wrong Way’s tale? This time it’s about the baby calves.”
It almost felt like an apology. “We’d love to hear it, Dad,” Claire said. Patrick nodded.
Her dad smiled and began his story.
CHAPTER 27
“Edgar grew to love Rye and Sourdough. It was the first time in his life that anyone had ever depended on him, and it made him feel equal parts terrified and like he was finally in the right place at the right time, like his talents had somehow lined up. He might not be good at baking bread or discovering the secrets of a woman’s heart’s desire, but he sure was good at caring for those baby cows.
When they made it out to Kansas City, in Kansas, not Missouri, Johnny pulled him aside. “Look, Edgar, Kennedy made some inquiries, and . . . those calves are worth a lot of money.”
“They are?”
“Oh, yes.” Johnny rubbed his hands together. “Apparently twin calves of black and white will fetch you a fortune out here. As much as the rest of the herd combined.” His eyes gleamed like brand-new pennies. “We are going to be rich, my friend!”
“Really?” Edgar laid a hand on Rye’s soft black head, and his other hand on Sourdough’s wet pink nose.
“I know, it’s quite surprising. Good thing we didn’t leave them to die after all, eh?” Johnny clapped Edgar on the back.
Edgar could feel his calves staring up at him with their big cow eyes, and his stomach sank. How could he sell them? “Who would buy them?”
“Oh, someone looking for a good set of leathers, no doubt.” Johnny shrugged like he didn’t care. Because he didn’t.
But Edgar cared. Edgar cared a lot. He looked into the eyes of his two young charges. They looked back at him, all innocent and trusting. Sourdough wiped his nose on Edgar’s pants. Rye licked his hand. “The way I see it,” Edgar said slowly, turning back to Johnny, “I delivered these calves myself. So they belong to me.”
Johnny frowned. “What are you saying? That you don’t plan to split the profits?”
“I’m saying that I don’t plan to get the profits. I’m not selling them.”
Johnny’s frown turned into a scowl. “You can’t do that, Edgar. We did this cattle drive together, you and me and Ken. All the long, hot days baking in the sun and covered in horse hair. All the sleepless, chilly nights. The rain and the mud and the constant threat of predators. We faced all that together then. We split it all together now.”
Edgar knew, then, that he would be severing his friendship with Johnny forever. His only friend in the States. But those calves looked to him for protection, and that was worth more than any money. More, even, than the hand of the beautiful Evangeline Rose. Edgar made up his mind that he would give up his chance at a fortune, if it meant keeping his calves safe. “You and Ken can split my share of the rest of the cattle drive,” he said. “And I’ll just take these calves.”
“That’s not a fair deal, and you know it.” Johnny spat.
Edgar looked at him a long, long time. “It’s the only deal I’m willing to make,” he said. “Take it or leave it. Because friend or no, I will fight you on this.”
“Friend? We ain’t friends,” Johnny said. “Not anymore.” He looked back over his shoulder, at where Ken was talking to the man who’d hired them. “But on account of our past friendship, I’m going to give you a head start. You understand me, Edgar?” He looked Edgar close in the eye. “Ken’ll kill you herself with the knives she has hidden in her long, long hair. She’ll kill you and your little cows. So you’d better run, and run fast. Take both horses. You’ll need to rotate out if you’re gonna have a chance. And when we catch up with you, I’m gonna claim you stole them, you hear me?”
“I hear you loud and clear. And . . . I’m sorry things had to end this way.”
“Me too, Edgar. Me, too.” Johnny hesitated, and then he clapped Edgar on the back again. “I don’t want to have to kill you.”
“I don’t want that, either.” And even though Edgar felt like his bones were made of lead, he got Rye, Sourdough, and both horses ready to go.
“Why do you do this?” Johnny asked suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Everything you do, you do it wrong. No matter which way is the easy way, it’s like you are compelled to do the opposite.”
Edgar shrugged. “What can I say? Easy is boring.” He tipped his hat to his former friend and disappeared into the dust of the trail.
But one thing bothered him, as he raced through
that day and into the night. Johnny hadn’t said if we catch up with you, but rather when. And it was that when that spurred Edgar on long after he thought he might collapse. He stopped only when Rye or Sourdough needed a break, but otherwise, he kept moving.
On the third day, he came across a sign with his face and the faces of Rye and Sourdough. WANTED, the sign read. DEAD OR ALIVE. EDGAR “WRONG WAY” JACOBUS, FOR THE CRIME OF CATTLE RUSTLING.
“You see that, Rye?” Edgar, now Wrong Way, said. “That’s how a person earns a name.”
“Moo,” Rye agreed.
“I knew you’d understand.” Wrong Way patted his calf on the head, then spared an extra pat for Sourdough. “Can’t have you feeling left out, now can we?”
Something about seeing his face in print like that, his face with a new name, made Wrong Way understand what it was that Evangeline’s heart desired. He’d traveled under the baking sun, and he’d traveled under the wide blue sky. He’d experienced thunderstorms, and lightning, and torrential rain, as well as wind that whipped around so fast it stole three of his best hats. He’d been hungry, and tired, and thirsty.
But out there on the open road was the first time Edgar had ever felt alive, truly and completely. It was as if he’d gone into this country one person, and by journeying all those miles, he’d become someone else. And along the way, he’d realized something.
There was nothing wrong with the bread he used to bake for his uncle. It was perfectly good, as long as you didn’t try to eat it. Just like there was nothing wrong with a woman like Evangeline Rose, unless you tried to force her into a boring life married to a man like Dirk. That would never be a fit for someone with her wild heart. But give her a chance at a new life, and she could earn herself a new name, too.
She could reinvent herself however she wanted.
But once again, Edgar was going about everything the wrong way. Only this time, there’d be no fixing it.
* * *
“Wait, what do you mean, no fixing it?” Patrick demanded. “Doesn’t Edgar rescue Evangeline Rose from Dirk?”
“Did she need rescuing?” their dad asked.
“Well, yeah.”
“Don’t you think she could have left Dirk herself, if she’d really wanted to? Remember, this is the woman who fought off Johnny’s brother with a bag. She was strong enough to do anything, go anywhere, if she truly wanted to.”
Patrick frowned. “But . . . if she’s our great-great-great-grandmother, she has to marry Edgar. He has to get there in time to stop the wedding.”
“Is she our great-great-great-grandmother?” Claire asked. She couldn’t remember if her dad had ever actually confirmed that.
“Hmm, good question,” he said.
“Noncommittal answer,” Claire shot back.
He grinned. “You’re getting better with your words all the time. How about this for an answer: stories don’t always end the way we’d hope.”
Patrick’s frown deepened, and he looked out the window.
“But, in this case, since I can see the lights of the truck stop ahead, I’ll skip a little and tell you that Edgar does manage to stop the wedding. Just like every movie ever made, he arrives in town just as the church bells are ringing, sprints down that aisle in the nick of time, tells Evangeline he has the answer, defeats Dirk in a vicious bread-versus-pistol duel, and then carries Evangeline away. It was only afterward that he realized his mistake, and by then it was too late.”
Their dad pulled into the truck stop parking lot and found a spot near the back, then shut off the engine. “But for better or worse,” he concluded, “Edgar whisked Evangeline Rose away to the land of lakes, to Michigan, and there us Jacobuses have been ever since.” He opened his door and hopped out. “Grab your toothbrushes, kids. It’s time to get ready for bed, yeah?” He closed the door behind him.
“But . . . what was it Evangeline really wanted, then?” Patrick asked.
“I don’t know,” Claire said. “And it sounds like maybe Dad doesn’t, either.” She thought about her dad’s story as she followed her brother out of the van. Now that she’d told her own story, she knew it wasn’t really a lie. She’d made everything up, but there had been a meaning to it, a deeper truth.
Maybe her dad’s stories worked the same way. Maybe he was trying to tell them something that he’d never be able to explain any other way.
CHAPTER 28
“Wow, look at all those mountains.” Patrick pressed his nose against the window as they made their way into Salt Lake City.
“It feels like we’re cupped inside them, like they’re a giant hand,” Claire said.
“That’s awfully romantic of you, Claire-bear.” Her dad’s back was unnaturally straight, and he kept making his thinking face, puckering his lips, his forehead creasing.
“Are you nervous?” Claire asked.
“Nervous? Me? Ha!”
“Definitely nervous,” Patrick said.
“Did Aunt Jan say we could visit?” Claire asked.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course.”
“So you talked to her?”
“Of course,” he said again, but distractedly.
Claire imagined the feeling of a hot shower and plenty of soap. And . . . a bed. “Do you think we could stay in her house?”
“What?”
“I mean, I love the van—”
“You do?” Patrick gaped. “Did you really just say that? Dad, did you hear what she said?”
“I heard, I heard.”
“I . . .” Claire paused. “I mean . . .” Why had she said that? But she realized it wasn’t a lie. Somewhere along the way, the van had begun feeling almost like . . . home. “I still don’t like the name.”
“Van-Helsing? What’s not to like?” Patrick grinned.
“Anyhow,” Claire said, “my point is, the van is okay, I guess—”
Patrick’s grin stretched wider—that irritating, irritating grin.
“—but I’d love to sleep in something that isn’t a hammock for a night,” she finished.
Her dad nodded. “Jan has a large house. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to have you stay inside it. But first . . . did you know Salt Lake City has a phenomenal natural history museum?”
“Dad,” Claire and Patrick both groaned.
“Kids,” he mimicked. “It’s too early for dinner. What do you say we head over and just kill a few hours. Eh?”
Patrick twisted around in the front seat. “What do you think?” he asked Claire.
“I think we should make Dad get us ice cream first,” Claire decided.
“Ooh, good point. I also read there’s a train station here,” Patrick said. “Maybe we can go look at it?”
“Is there?” Claire asked.
“Yeah. The California Zephyr goes right through Salt Lake City.”
“The California Zephyr?”
“It’s the second-longest route on Amtrak, from San Francisco all the way to Chicago. And it’s got two stories.”
“That’s, um, amazing.” Claire didn’t get Patrick’s fascination with trains. They just seemed like airplanes that took forever to get to their destinations. “But even more amazing, I’ve heard there are bison out here.”
“Like, giant woolly bison?” Patrick asked.
“As opposed to the small hairless ones? Yes.”
Their dad laughed. “Okay, okay, we’ll get ice cream first, and we’ll check out the bison tomorrow, okay? Best place to see them is in a place called Antelope Island, but it’s a bit of a drive and I think we should save it for an all-day trip tomorrow. We can even camp out there overnight, if you’d like.”
“Is it near the Salt Lake?” Claire asked. She’d always wanted to see that. Ronnie told her it was so salty, you could float a rock right on its surface. Claire was pretty sure that was a lie, but she wanted to test it out, just in case.
“We can visit the Salt Lake there, yes. But first, as promised . . .” He pulled up in front of an outdoor ice cream stand.
“And then the train station?” Patrick asked.
“Well, technically my sister doesn’t live too far from the station, so I guess we could swing by. But it’s not a big station, and I think it’s only open at night. You might be disappointed.”
Patrick shrugged.
“It’s not an especially great part of town, either,” their dad added.
“Does that mean Aunt Jan doesn’t live in a great part of town?” Claire asked.
“She’s in one of those fancy gated communities, the kind with a guard who has to let you in and everything.” His mouth twisted. “So it doesn’t really matter what part of town she’s in, does it?”
“Wow,” Patrick said. “Is she rich?”
Their dad’s face twitched. “Depends who you compare her to.”
“Compared to us?”
He shook his head. “No one is as rich as us. After all, we’ve got Van-Helsing, and we’re about to get some truly spectacular ice cream.” He glanced at Claire. “Notice I didn’t combine any words there. Just used one. Spectacular.”
“I noticed, Dad. You’re getting better.”
“That’s just because I couldn’t figure out how to combine it with amazing.” He got out of the van.
“Spectazing?” Patrick suggested, hopping out after him.
“Amazetacular?” their dad tried.
Claire sighed and closed the sliding door behind her. “I take it all back.”
He laughed. “Come along, my children. No matter what word we choose, know that here you will get everything your little hearts desire. As long as that thing is soft serve with extra sprinkles.”
Claire never saw her dad as excited as he was the moment they stepped inside the natural history museum and up the steps to the lobby. “You kiddos are going to love it here!” He spread his arms wide and spun in a slow circle. “And you hear that? Music!” He did a little shimmy, tapping his feet on the marble floor.
“Dad,” Claire hissed. There weren’t very many people around, but still.
“What’s the matter, Claire-bear? Embarrassed?” His smile was in full force. “How about . . . now?” He curled all his fingers and stuck out his thumbs. “You embarrassed that your old man is . . . all thumbs?”
