by Natalie Dean
It was easier to put up her arguments during the day than it was at night when she laid alone in her bed. There could be some proof in what Lizbeth had said. The first time she’d met Lester at the construction site had been accidental. She had only been trying to calculate the total cost of buying land, putting up a shop, and filling it with inventory. She was searching Mr. Bowman for labor estimates.
The initial framework at the building site had been completed, and most of the work crew were on the roof, nailing down boards. Lester was measuring the open space left in the skeleton frame for windows and doors. She couldn’t help but stand perfectly still as she watched him. She had never seen him when he wasn’t fully animated.
When he was absorbed in quiet reflection, as he was now while he worked, his face had a peaceful quality that seemed to draw in all things naturally gentle. A few sunbeams danced around the spot where he was working. A butterfly flittered past. A tramp dog leaned close to him, panting. He murmured a few words at the dog, which looked at him mournfully for a moment, then rolled back to one side and went to sleep. If he had been trying to chase it away, he hadn’t been effective.
“Mr. Samuelson,” she had called. “I was hoping to find your boss. I had some business matters to discuss with him.”
He had turned slowly, as though it took him a while to get back to the real world. When his eyes met hers, they had twinkled then crunched together at the corners as he grinned. “And to think, I thought you were honoring me with your presence. My lady, I will escort you if you’d like.” He held out his hand gallantly, but he almost seemed to be mocking her.
“That won’t be necessary. You could just point out the way, or if complicated, give me instructions.”
“He’s in his office, that little shack on the corner where they do payroll. Are you sure I can’t interest you in anything? A glass of tea, maybe, and some biscuits? Don’t worry. I have not sullied the kitchen with my hands. Every Sunday, Greta packs me enough food to eat for the rest of the week.”
She accepted his invitation to sit on the bench and quench her thirst. “How is Greta?” she asked.
“Her usual mean, bossy self. She wants to know if you’re willing to help with the new shelter.”
“Greta is neither mean nor bossy, but of what possible use could I be to the shelter?”
“She’s of the opinion you could instruct them in business. Imagine the wild west filled with impeccable, independent Hannah’s.”
“I think you will be disappointed if you put me on a pedestal, Mr. Samuelson.”
“I wouldn’t do such a thing. Pedestals are quite uncomfortable. I was thinking you’d look fine on a horse.”
“A horse? Really, Mr. Samuelson. I don’t have time for such vulgarities. I’ll be on my way now. Please give Greta my heartfelt greetings and let her know…” She hesitated. “Let her know I’ll try to fit in a few hours a week to help with the orphaned children.”
She had encouraged him. She had opened the door a tiny bit, and he had stuck his foot through. Unwillingly, she found herself drawn back to the work site, over and over, pretending an interest in Greta’s work and discussing ways to improve the shelter. But it was the easy, unrestrained laughter that she sought, the light teasing voice, and more, that astonishing calm that surrounded him when he was unaware anyone was around except the insects, birds, and snuffling animals.
Hannah squeezed back the thoughts, focusing on her present opportunity. She was determined to enjoy her visit to the ranch and discovered she actually did. It was a nice vacation from the fast pace of the robust town that found a hundred new ways to entertain itself with each flood of men receiving their paychecks for the work they had done, some black with coal dust, some sparkling with gold. Sharp scented timber men, trappers smelling like musk, cowboys with the dirt and muck still strapped to their boots. All eager to spend their money. All ready for a good time.
The deep valley hung in perfect balance between the rusty mountains and turquoise sky. The flowers nodded in greeting and the horses snorted and shuffled, straining to reach bits of grass along the way. The heavily loaded wagon groaned as it hit the rocky lumps protruding from the trail.
Occasionally, they passed houses made of sod, with thatched roofs waving with prairie grass. “Lumber is expensive here,” Jeremy explained. “It has to be brought down from the higher elevations. We save money by using sod or stone.”
“And your ranch?”
“We used a lot of stone. But I also had lumber brought down to trim it.”
The ranch house was really very elegant, even surrounded by sod buildings. Each building served a specific purpose and maintained a specific order. The bunkhouse was adjacent to the horse stables, with a tidy fence between the two, wrapping back to form a corral. There was a kitchen that extended out into the yard, with a wooden canopy over it, and a stone and mortar open range in the middle. There were several small huts with tiny flower gardens in front of them, and plants swinging from buckets by the doorways.
The house itself was built primarily of stone but had a wooden roof with supporting beams made out of whole logs. The windows were likewise well-braced with thick, heavy frames and a large wooden porch spread in front of the entrance.
The inside had an open spot between the two floors where a giant chandelier hung to light up both the upper balcony and the living room. The stone walls were cool to the touch, shading out the prairie sun, but a fireplace served as a reminder that when the winter winds came, there would be warmth. There were several people in the house, most of them men. Jeremy introduced them, but the names flew out of her head as quickly as she met each one.
That evening she met their guests, Mark and Lucy Campbell. They had an eleven-year-old daughter and a seven-year-old boy who Lucy habitually clung to, straightening their hair and posture. She was a small woman, with anxious eyes and work-hardened hands. She had married her husband before he had come west to carve a stake for himself in cattle country. They were among the first ranchers in the area and had battled with hunger, and battled with the elements. Their seniority gave them the main distribution rights for water and land.
“I’m so glad Jeremy is out and about, meeting young women,” Lucy said. “We were beginning to worry about him. Out here, a man needs a woman to drive the loneliness away. The loneliness can drive you mad.”
“It’s true,” agreed Mark. “Back in ’56, when there wasn’t much more than a few trappers and some Apache tribes, we were staking out our territory when a woodsman came screaming down into the plains, completely off his top about dragons roaring through the brush. We finally figured out he had come close to a wagon train and hearing the sounds had plum struck him down with terror. He was completely daft and remained that way a good time longer. Don’t know how long he’d been out there with no company at all, but it’s an unhealthy condition for a man. Mighty unhealthy.”
As they sat listening, Jeremy squeezed her hand. They were in a very comfortable setting with the Campbell’s in matching stuffed chairs and the two of them on a settee that brought them very close together. Between the fine evening clothing, the tasteful tea setting, the rich, imported wine and a balmy breeze lifting over the prairie, she felt warm, wanted and surrounded by the genteel society she had once thought lost.
Once it grew late, she went out on the porch with him and gazed at the brilliant stars spreading from horizon to horizon, tucking her arm into his. “It’s all very beautiful,” she told him.
“It is. I think I might like to share it with a beautiful woman.”
She leaned against him, drinking in his strength, his solidity. “It’s much to take in right now. I would like to come back. I would like to get to know you better, and I’d still like to take things slowly. Would you be comfortable with that?”
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her earlobes and kissing the long line of exposed flesh along her neck. “You can have as much time as you like. Just as long as you agree to conti
nue seeing me. Take the whole summer. I’ll be waiting. I’m not going anywhere.”
She turned, pressing her body up against his, tasting once more his delicious kisses and feeling his close embrace until her head began to spin dizzily. “There is Lizbeth. I must say goodnight to you, Jeremy. We’ll discuss things more another day.”
He let her go with an unvoiced protest on his lips. She hurried up the stairs, her heart beating. He was sweeping her into a fairy tale. He was sweeping her into something she had quit believing in. When she laid in bed that night, her thoughts danced round and round like sugar plums at Christmas.
“Lizbeth,” she asked excitedly. “What do you think of living here?”
“Here? What about your shop? Would you abandon it?”
“We could work from the ranch. The cattlewomen all have money. We’ll have a private parlor.”
“No ma’am, I think I don’t want it. I want to live in Boulder.”
The words were disquieting, but Hannah went to sleep thinking, she’s just a child. What does she know? Of course Boulder seems more exciting. It’s busier.
Chapter 5
Lester rarely took a real day off. During the week, he hired out his carpentry skills and on weekends, rode to the settlement to visit his sister and to explore the mining camp. The camp exploded with covert hostility. Most of the miners had no real sympathy for the settlers, who they felt meddled unnecessarily in their affairs. Nor did they care much for the ranchers, who claimed enormous tracts of land and kept a steady income going that did not rely on the back-breaking work of shoveling dirt and sifting through mud and water.
They were far more enthusiastic about embracing the roving gangs that wandered lawless through the Wyoming/ Colorado territory, inflicting their own punishments for those who did not meet their codes. Lester understood the miners. Most had a sense of honor and trust and despised betrayal. They felt it was their right to mete out justice, especially for murder and theft.
The problem was, they were easily riled. When the gangs came through, they fed the miners’ resentments, their prejudices, and their superstitions. They fed on misery. The mine that had produced so much in its initial years, was nearing the end of its run. The mining shafts were dangerous, propped by flimsy beams and crumbling walls of rock that had been cracked, chiseled, and gouged. Lung infections were common and accidents frequent. The miners turned their angry, overworked eyes to the settlers who already owned land, had built homes, and developed businesses. It should have been them, who had come here first and brought affluence to the wilderness. And yet, their dwindling resources were telling them it was time to move on.
Lester didn’t consider himself a true missionary. He never preached. He relied primarily on his flute for self-expression. His purpose in the mining camp was in learning about the people there – their needs, their fears, their hopes, and dreams. Sometimes he found mothers who had lost their husbands due to the hazardous work, and sometimes he found fathers who had lost their wives in childbirth or to pneumonia. His purpose was to ease their despair and help them find suitable support for raising the half-orphaned children. Generally, he referred them to the settlement school and the helping hands of the Haldeman’s.
Lester urged his horse into a quick trot. Sometimes a fellow just had to get away from it all for a while, clear his head and gain perspective. The rapid clip of the hooves seemed to bound over the endless grief and hardship of those who had reached out to him for solace. They drew him higher and higher into a stone-ridged plateau with a lip that stretched around and met a steep canyon wall. He picked a high spot with an advantageous view of the valley below him and dismounted. Spurts of grass sprouted between the generous outcropping of rocks. Thunder Heart lowered his head to sample them.
“What do you think?” asked Lester, scratching the horse behind his ears. “You’re an expert on mares. When she tosses her head, then runs, do you go after her? Or do you wait for her to come to you?”
Thunder Heart snorted, and Lester grinned. “I guess you don’t have that problem, do you? A handsome fellow like you doesn’t meet with the adversity of women. Here’s my problem, I guess. That strapping, wealthy cattleman is more like you, and I’m more like Snake Bite. Given a choice, where do you think all the ponies would go?”
Thunder Heart snorted again and shook his head. “You disagree? Fillies are far less complex than independent women. I swear I don’t know where to begin with them. Sometimes it seems they have their own minds, but sometimes it’s like they have no minds at all.”
He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a small, leather-bound case. Nestled inside its velvet interior was an ornate silver flute. His great-grandfather had carried it over from Germany, and it had been a family heirloom ever since, passed on to the oldest son, who would presumably learn how to play it. His great-grandfather, it was said, had been a magnificent musician, even playing for the Vienna Symphony Orchestra. His abilities, however, had skipped over two generations. Only Lester knew how to play.
He rubbed the flute down with a flannel cloth and put it to his lips. The first note was a sigh of relief. The second, a cry of undefined yearnings and the third, a flight into freedom. The notes cascaded in on themselves, jubilant and triumphant, tender and hopeful. He pushed his limits, trilling each sound until it was a high, frantic pitch, then finding a lilting melody that skipped over the rocky hillside and celebrated the brightness of spring.
He became so entranced in his own music, he didn’t notice at first a quiet invasion. Only when a pair of feet landed close to him did he look up with just a little astonishment. In front of him were three teenaged boys in patched together pants and ropes around their waists, squatting and listening to his song. From the shelf wall above him, more of the youthful congregation were jumping down, leaping from rock to rock fearlessly. He noticed that a few were girls and that one, in particular, looked very familiar.
“Lizbeth!” he said more in surprise than in reproach. “Whatever are you doing?”
She giggled, which only made her look more like a ruffian. She too was wearing baggy pants and a men’s flannel shirt, which she had tucked into a wide belt with a clamp on it for the ropes. Her hair was gathered into a knot at the back of her head, but loose ends had started straying about her face. She tucked them behind her ears. “I’m a dirtbag!” she said and exploded once more into giggles.
“What a terrible thing to say!” This time his reproach was adequate.
“Oh, it’s true,” said one of the young men who appeared to be the leader. He was among the oldest in the group, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and had both a relaxed and a strong, confident air about him. “We’re all dirtbags. That’s what they call us. Name’s Zack Montage, but up here, I’m called Cliff Hanger or Cliff for short.”
Zack sat next to Lester and looked at his flute. “That sure is pretty. Is it hard to play?”
“At first. Do you want to try?”
“I don’t want to break it. That’s the prettiest music I ever heard. It’s like that story about the guy who stole all the children from a village with his magic flute.”
“The Pied Piper? Wasn’t he evil?”
“The village was evil, so he enchanted the children.”
The scruffy group had crowded in closer. Two of them he recognized as being the older children of Trader Cole. They had blue-black hair, golden-brown skin, and eyes that seemed too old and wise for their faces. The boy had close-cropped hair that sprang straight up all over his head, and the girl had her hair pulled back in a single long braid. Both were wearing leather pants, soft leather boots, and loose cotton shirts. Lizbeth was attached to the boy with one hand locked to his and her shoulder rubbing against his shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone,” she urged. “In a few weeks, I can make my own choices, and I have decided what I wish to do.”
“It’s a very bold choice, Lizbeth. There aren’t many who will sympathize.”
“But you will. You’ll help me. So will the Haldem
an’s and the Marston’s.”
“Tell me more about your group. Why do they call you dirtbags?”
“Because,” said Zack. “We were all born here and know every hill, every nook and cranny. We spend all our spare time climbing rocks and scaling cliffs. Our clothes get tattered and dirty, but we just don’t care. It’s a free life we seek, with the freedom of the wind, the sun, and the wilds. You go out to where nobody can see you or hear you to play your flute. You must be a dirtbag at heart, too. Why don’t you join us in a little fun?”
Lester hesitated while his hands caressed his flute. “Don’t worry about it,” said Zack. “Nobody steals a magician’s wand unless he knows how to use it. Your flute will be safe.”
He put it away then and joined them. Their pastime, he decided, was exhilarating. They scrambled up over heaving boulders like mountain goats and scaled the magnificent cliffs with pressure holds that were barely noticeable. When they reached the tops, they jumped, using their ropes to fly through the air and land on delicate precipices. He felt like an eagle. He felt like a song that had burst its way through the cacophony of souls in distress. He climbed, he leapt, he rushed headlong through a dizzying landscape turned halfway upside down and muttering with the upheaval of ancient trauma.
One by one, the rock climbers slipped away until there were none left except Zack, Lizbeth, and Trader Cole’s two oldest children. Lester laid flat on the ground next to his horse, his chest heaving, his muscles tingling with the unaccustomed exercise. The sky still seemed to spin a little, and his thoughts rushed with the afternoon’s excitement.
“I think the stories about you are true,” said Lizbeth. “You can charm the tail off a rattlesnake.”
