Waiting on Waylon

by Jo Noelle

  If he could turn back time, he would stop them now. Maybe he would turn the herd toward a different pasture. He would at least tell his father he loved him. Waylon’s chest tightened again. He wanted to call out to his father, to warn him of the rustlers, to save him, but the reenactment continued.

  His pa was first to go through the narrows with the front of the herd. Then at once, Waylon heard several gunshots in front of him. From here, he could also see the men attacking from the rear. The cattle at the back startled and quickened their movement, pushing and crowding the ones in front.

  Waylon looked at himself in the scene. He pulled his gun and made the decision to signal their cowboys to push the cattle ahead. They couldn’t stop here. It would be easy to pick off every man he had.

  Waylon wanted to quit the dream. He knew that after the large boulder, he’d see his father’s horse wandering up the hill and his dad lying dead on the ground.

  And it happened just that way again.

  Waylon took aim and shot at the men hidden in the rocks, killing two before anyone else could get through the narrow. He whistled and directed his dogs toward the only rustler alive, but the man was able to leave before the dogs could get near him. In the end, the rustlers were dead, save one who rode off. He had wiped that man from his memory until seeing it all from this perspective. He had been focused on his father and protecting his men and hadn’t remembered seeing the shooter’s face.

  Now he saw him clearly. He only had one eye. His left eye socket was vacant with shriveled, wrinkled eyelids sagging around it. An angry red scar pulled from the corner, across his cheekbone, and to the top of his ear. The man faced him and sneered at the scene beneath him before riding away on a dappled gray Appaloosa. Waylon knew that face—Lonny “One Eye” Curtis. Why had he not remembered seeing him?

  Of course, he hadn’t known him back then but became aware of him the next year, during the Big Kill-Off. The temperatures plummeted to sixty-five degrees below zero. Cattle froze to the ground and starved to death. The mining towns round about relied on the local beef to feed the workers. Since there really wasn’t another food source, prices climbed, and folks began to starve, too.

  Lonny moved in with refrigerated railcars filled with frozen beef to sell at four times the regular price. He bought up ranches on hard times for pennies on the dollar, cashing in on the tragedy. He only stayed until spring then moved on to Denver.

  The angel interrupted his thoughts. “Do you know what you see, my friend?”

  Yeah. Waylon knew. “He was stealing cattle, butchering them, and selling them as frozen meat.”

  “Sí. You weren’t the first.”

  “Nor the last.” Anger roared through Waylon’s veins. The pain and destruction tied to this man was enormous. “He’s a very wealthy man now. Is he still doing this?” Waylon thought he knew this answer already, but waited to hear it just the same.

  “Sí. He has men who do that now.” The angel nodded back to the deadly scene at their feet. “Mr. Curtis takes the money and directs the killing.”

  Waylon thought about the ranchers around him who had been put out of business and their property burned or bought cheap, of good men who had been murdered. Waylon lived in one small part of Colorado, and this could be going on in many areas. The man was trying to get a monopoly on beef.

  “We watch the end now.” The angel directed Waylon back to the scene.

  His ranch hands had killed the rustlers who had come from the back as well. There were a few injuries to his men, but the herd was safe.

  “Death.” The vaquero pointed. “He comes for those men’s souls.”

  A shadowy man in a great coat, black as obsidian, traveled from one dead rustler to the next. He walked above the ground, and his spurs rang like the tolling of church bells. He bent over each man and tugged his soul out like pulling off a dirty sock. When he had them all, he rolled them like a bundle. Then he swirled his hand over the earth, and a crater opened with fire licking up the sides. He tossed in the lot, then watched as their souls popped like corn in a kettle. Death kicked the dirt on one edge. It all closed up again, and he was gone.

  Then with a wave of the vaquero’s hand, everything stopped. The cattle stood like statues—some in mid-bellow and others in mid-step. Time was frozen the moment Waylon turned back with his father’s body. Water didn’t even run down Goose Creek.

  Waylon and his brothers took their father’s body back home while the ranch hands continued to take the herd to the summer pastures. Facing his ma, telling her what had happened, and seeing her sink to her knees in grief was more than his soul could carry. He felt broken all over again.

  That’s when he knew he’d never marry. Grief in marriage from the loss of your spouse was inevitable. One or the other would suffer it. He wouldn’t inflict that on another soul.

  Loathing continued to build in Waylon’s chest. He had still murdered those men. He remembered feeling glad that they were dead. Truth was, he still did. Waylon didn’t look at the vaquero. “Why would the Lord want me to see this?”

  “You see this at night in your dreams, verdad?”

  Waylon nodded, his head downcast, tears running down his cheeks.

  “He wants you to heal, and you must know who that man is for what’s to come.”

  A spark of hope lit Waylon’s chest, but he quickly snuffed it out. He didn’t deserve to heal. “What’s coming?”

  “You will know soon.” The angel held up his hand to stop more questions.

  The two men sat together in silence.

  “The Morgan Ranch wasn’t their first target. There had been a lot of blood following them,” the vaquero said.

  Waylon hoped some good would come out of that tragic day. He recognized the man and would be alert to do...something…when the time came.

  “El Señor is the only One who can help you heal. You read the Bible? Isaiah said that Jesus was ‘a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from Him.’ Seems like that’s fitting of you since that day.”

  Waylon knew the vaquero was right. He had hidden from the Lord, but he didn’t know what else to do.

  “You’re getting a special glimpse today, my friend. You get to see what would have happened if you had not drawn your gun.”

  Suddenly the whole scene below was sucked back behind the rock, and everything reset to before the rustlers began shooting. As before, shots sounded, and Waylon came around the rock to see where his father fell, but this time he didn’t draw his gun. Over a few minutes, he and both of his brothers fell from their horses dead, and every hired hand was killed.

  The rustlers pushed their cattle on, over the bodies of the fallen, and there wasn’t much left to see.

  The vaquero pointed. “Again, Death—he comes for the souls.”

  The shadowy man gathered the souls, this time picking them up by their armpits and laying them against his shoulder as a man would lift and hold a child. When he had them all, he looked toward the sky and rose into the clouds.

  It was more than a week before the Morgan men were missed and then found and returned. Waylon’s mother wasted away in her sorrow and died the next winter.

  The vaquero let Waylon sit in silence as he thought about the two events.

  His parents prided themselves on their good name. They taught their sons to live in a way that brought honor and not shame to the Morgan family. Waylon was torn between the man he’d always strived to be and the man he thought he was. He knew that in his business, he might have to kill again. He didn’t want to stain a wife or children if he was a murderer.

  The vaquero shook his head as if denying the thoughts Waylon was having. “The Bible says, ‘If a thief be found breaking up, and be smitten that he die, there shall no blood be shed for him.’ You’re a good man, protecting your family. You didn’t seek blood.”

  He didn’t. He would have turned from it, but it wasn’t possible. He did what he had to do. Warmth spread from Waylon’s heart
and engulfed him with fire, purging the guilt and replacing it with sweet understanding and deep gratitude.

  Waylon thought about Miss Leete. Maybe it would be possible to have a family. But he’d spent countless midnight hours giving up the dream of having a wife and children, and he wasn’t sure if he could reclaim it.

  “There’s more to what Isaiah said. ‘He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities...and with His stripes we are healed.’ Jesus offers you His grace.”

  The vaquero began to turn his horse away. “I’ve checked your cattle. They’re all fine. Go home. I’ll take care of the herd. I’ll stop off in South Fork before I come back to the ranch.”

  Waylon turned back, then stopped when the vaquero called him.

  “Be healed with His stripes, mi amigo.” The angel glowed brightly, rivaling the rising sun, then flashed and was gone.

  Chapter 11

  Vivian Leete

  Vivian folded another dress on top of the four in the box. She had six dresses to sell at the mercantile. The last one was unlike the serviceable wool dresses she made first. It had taken a few extra days, full of ruffles and cream-colored lace, a dress for a special occasion. She hoped they sold quickly, so she could buy more lengths of fabric.

  This year was the first Christmas she would spend with a family. Although it wasn’t her family, she was sure it would be special, anyway. Once she had thought they might be her family, too, but she’d been watching Waylon. She made him nervous. She might even make him avoid his mother because she was there.

  Vivian decided that come spring, she could have enough money saved up from making dresses to afford a small room where she would continue as a seamstress to support herself. She had seen a sewing machine once though it cost more than she could make in several years. Still someday, she would like one.

  Other dreams were beyond her reach. The dresses would have to be taken to Creede, but she wouldn’t go alone with Waylon. She wouldn’t be fooled by tender looks again. Vivian sighed. Maybe the mercantile would have lemon drops. If not, she’d even go to the dry goods store and risk seeing Benita to get them for Christmas. She would celebrate the little joy she had and not give in to sadness about what she didn’t have.

  Vivian set the box of dresses down by the sofa.

  “Grab that paper and pencil over there, would you?” As soon as Vivian had them in hand, Seffi continued, “Make a list for us, please. Number one. Fetch the canning jars from the top shelf.”

  Vivian’s head dipped low. How would she tell Seffi that she couldn’t write—or read? She didn’t want to lose her friend’s respect.

  “Number two. Move a sack of flour to the pantry barrel.” Seffi moved to sit beside Vivian at the table. She looked at the blank page and then at Vivian. “Did the children’s home not have a teacher?”

  Vivian shook her head but didn’t look up.

  Seffi’s arm wrapped around Vivian’s shoulders. “We’ll take care of the reading and writing this winter. It will give us something to do on the long, cold days we spend inside.” Seffi took the page and wrote the first two items on the list, then added several more below those.

  Seffi looked around the room like she was checking to make sure they were alone. “You said you had a letter from the Brides Train Matrimonial Service. You weren’t able to read the letter?”

  Vivian shook her head. “I tried to remember what it said when the agent who met us at the railroad gave it to me and told me what it said. He seemed surprised to meet me. He held up the letter and told me, ‘This man requested an English lady specifically. I didn’t think I’d be able to find one if I tried, and you dropped right into my hands. He’s been waiting for you.’”

  More to herself than to Vivian, Seffi said, “I wonder why Waylon requested an English lady. How did you know how to get here if you couldn’t read the letter?”

  “I thought I got lost once, but a man at the rail station in Colorado Springs told me to take the first train and get off at the fourth stop, that my husband was waiting for me. That’s where you found me.”

  “Oh, dear.” Seffi stood and paced over to the sink and back and again. “He said...but I thought...and then you were there…what if he’s not your...oh, dear. You’re just what my son needs, and, well, it’s done.” Seffi whirled around to face Vivian. “I was finishing up some business in the train station when a Mexican cowboy told me you needed my help.”

  Seffi sat and patted Vivian’s hand. “It doesn’t matter. I know what I’ve seen, so we’ll just move forward, and then you’ll already be married should anyone come asking.”

  Vivian doubted the last part and didn’t understand what her friend had decided at all, but she was glad she’d worked something out. A Mexican cowboy? It couldn’t be the same one, could it?

  Waylon returned to the ranch a couple of days before Vivian expected him back. The next morning at breakfast Seffi said, “Vivian needs a little help from you today, Lon.”

  Vivian handed the to-do list to him. As he read, he often looked toward her. She felt a little guilty, knowing that she could have done most if not all of the things on that list. The last item was “Take the dresses to Mr. Jackson at the mercantile.”

  For the rest of the day, Vivian enjoyed the extra contact she had with Waylon as he worked on the list. Seffi was a sly one. Vivian would have to thank her.

  As Vivian was finishing the dishes from breakfast, Waylon entered. “Where would you like the jars, Miss Leete?”

  “Would you put them here?” She pointed to the counter. “I’ll wash them next. Thank you.”

  She noticed a gleam in his eye as he said, “The pleasure is mine, Miss Leete.” He set the box down where she’d indicated.

  An hour later Waylon entered the kitchen with a sack of flour draped over his shoulder. He smiled at her where she stood finishing the jars. He raised his brows at her and she opened the pantry.

  “Please fill the flour bucket and store the rest in the barrel in the cellar.”

  When he returned from the cellar, he said, “The flour barrel’s full now, Miss Leete.”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “It’s my pleasure, Miss Leete.” His voice sounded deeper, huskier.

  Only a few more minutes had passed when he returned to the house. “I brought in the box of Christmas decorations and knickknacks, Miss Leete.”

  Throughout the day, he found her and reported the tasks he’d accomplished. “Here’s the ham you wanted, Miss Leete.”

  “I’ve hung the drying line for clothes in the washroom. I’ll get the water next, Miss—”

  “Please, call me Vivian,” she interrupted. “Your whole family does.” Waylon’s smile took her breath away. His eyes brightened with true happiness at the request.

  “It’s my pleasure, Vivian. Thank you.”

  She especially liked the tone of his voice as her name rolled on top of it. Excitement tingled through her, percolating right to her toes. She definitely would not go to Creede with him again. She knew she was weak when it came to Waylon, and she didn’t want to take a broken heart with her when she left in the spring.

  That night after supper, Boone dragged a pine tree through the door and stood it in a tub near the corner in the front room. Seffi pulled objects out of the Christmas box. Vivian was sewing buttons on the last dress and moved across the room to sit close to Seffi as she unpacked her treasures. Soon Vivian abandoned her sewing and joined in. Seffie lifted the treasures and handed them to Vivian, explaining a bit about each one.

  “When I was younger, I had a liking for parasols. One day, my husband came home with this.” Seffi passed the item to Vivian to examine. The miniature parasol was made of gold wire. The panels in between were stained glass, and a dainty pearl sat at the top.

  Seffi continued to pull out the delicate bulbs. The little ornaments were whimsical—golden spiral icicles, an array of colored glass globes, silver starbursts, and a dozen or so little parasols. Vivian hung each
of them on the tree as the men sat near the fire wiring together evergreen boughs to make garland to trim the room.

  “Oh, I have something I could add to the tree. May I?”

  “Of course,” Waylon answered as Seffi smiled.

  Vivian ran to her room and collected the leftover ribbons from the dresses she’d been making and the scissors, then raced back downstairs. She cut the ribbons and began tying them on the tree, adding a bit of red here and yellow there.

  From the bottom of the Christmas box, Seffi pulled out another wooden box and removed the lid. Inside, wrapped in a towel, was a beautiful porcelain doll with golden hair, large gold wings, and a white robe. “This angel is the first thing my husband bought me for Christmas. It was our first year of marriage, and he came home very excited. He brought in a small tree and placed it right in the middle of the table. Then he gave me this box. We placed her on top of the tree even though it was much too large for the sapling.”

  Vivian noted the tender tone of her voice and saw tears rim her eyes.

  “There wasn’t anything else on the tree, but I loved it,” Seffi said.

  Boon and Holt retrieved the small candleholders, fitted each one of them with a slender candle, clipped them at the ends of the limbs, and lit each.

  The buttery glow of the candles lightened the room and gave it a magical feel. The fragrance from the tree and boughs was refreshing. Vivian sat on the davenport in awe of the splendor. More to herself than anyone else, she said, “This is the most beautiful Christmas I’ve ever seen.”

  Waylon stepped down from the kitchen chair after hanging the last of the garlands around the window near Vivian. “Then it’s all worth it.” He touched her shoulder briefly. “Merry Christmas, Vivian.” He stood in front of her, his eyes dark, wearing a smile that softened his face.