Peeking into the oven, Dianne saw that the biscuits were nearly brown. There was also a peach cobbler that was crisping nicely and would be ready about the time they’d finished with the dumplings.
“Table’s set, Mama,” Micah said as he and Lia came into the kitchen.
“Good. Pour some water for each person and then let Papa know we’re ready to eat.”
Dianne pulled the biscuits from the oven and arranged them in a serving basket and covered them with a cloth. “Lia, take the butter and jelly dishes to the table.”
Lia didn’t say a word but did as she was told. Dianne could tell that her daughter wasn’t feeling well, but Lia had learned to bear it well. The poor child had heard every word her grandmother had ranted about asthma and the child only pretending to be sick. How could a grandmother do that? Talk like that in front of a child—a sick child. The doctor had even told Dianne that children died from this condition. Perhaps it was time Dianne shared that news with Mary Selby.
After the food was arranged on the table, Dianne took her seat and directed the children to do likewise. Mary studied the table critically.
“I see there are no pickles.”
“I wasn’t certain that anyone would want pickles. Especially since there really isn’t anything to eat them with,” Dianne replied. “If you like, however, I can fetch some.”
“Goodness, no. This is already taking a good portion of my winter reserves. I won’t waste additional food.”
Dianne looked to Cole. She wanted so much to mention that if they weren’t forced to live at the farm, Mother Selby wouldn’t need to worry about the food reserves. But she said nothing. Instead, she waited for her husband to offer grace.
Cole’s prayer was simple and to the point. There was little passion in it, but at least he was willing to offer it.
They ate in silence. The children had learned to say nothing at the dinner table. Early in their stay, Mary Selby had told Cole emphatically that children should be silent in gatherings that included adults. Dianne knew her husband didn’t approve or agree, but he also refused to defend his family. Dianne had long ago given up arguing the point. Mealtimes used to be a great pleasure at the ranch. The family would gather and discuss the day’s work to be done or what had been accomplished. The children would join in talking about their studies or what they’d seen down at the creek.
The dumpling stuck in Dianne’s throat as she let the memory wash over her. How happy she had been. Could it really be possible that she might never enjoy such a life again? I can’t let that happen. I have to fight this lethargy. I have to get my family home.
She looked across the table to her husband. “How is the harvest going?”
Cole seemed surprised that she’d actually taken interest in the farm. “Despite the drought, it hasn’t been that bad. Ma should realize a good profit.”
“That will enable us to plant more acreage come spring,” Mary said.
Dianne looked at Cole, hoping he might broach the subject of their return to Montana in the spring. But he didn’t have a chance. Luke piped up instead, breaking the rule of silence.
“We’re going home in the spring.”
Everyone stopped eating and looked at him. His siblings seemed astonished that he had dared to talk at Grandmother Selby’s table, while Cole looked embarrassed. Mary Selby, however, narrowed her eyes and looked to Dianne instead of Luke.
“You’ve been filling his head with lies, haven’t you?”
The accusation was the only spark Dianne needed. “I’ve told my children no lies. Their father said we would stay through the winter, and so we will. We will return home in the spring.”
Mary looked crestfallen as she glanced from Dianne to Cole.
“Surely this isn’t the truth.”
Cole drew a deep breath. “Ma, let’s not argue over dinner. I have responsibilities back in Montana. I’ve never said otherwise.”
Mary put her napkin on the table. Drawing her handkerchief from her pocket, she pressed it to her eyes. “I can’t believe you’d desert me. You know I’ve come to depend on you.”
“We depend on him too,” Dianne said, unable to hold her tongue, “but that seems of little importance to anyone here.”
“This is just too much for me. I’m going to lie down.” She moved quickly to exit the room before anyone could try to stop her.
Dianne stared at Cole, wondering if he might comment on his mother’s reaction, but instead he focused back on the meal.
“Papa, we are going home in the spring, aren’t we?” Luke asked.
Cole looked up. “Son, we’ll do our best.”
The answer left Dianne chilled to the core of her soul. There was no affirming promise—no positive response. Just a noncommittal “We’ll do our best.” To Dianne it sounded an awful lot like no.
Cole couldn’t bear the look on his wife’s face. Knowing the food would only sour in his stomach if he ate another bite, he pushed back from the table. “I need to check on something in the barn.”
He knew Dianne would follow him out, so he turned to add, “I’d like to be alone.”
He hated the rift that had grown between them over the past five years. He knew he had put off going back to the ranch, and he knew it hurt her. Still, it was hard to explain to Dianne that he feared the ranch. Feared starting over. What if he were unable to make it all work? What if he failed miserably? He’d known little about ranching when he’d first arrived in Montana, but now that he did know more, it was almost more terrifying.
I can never give her what she had, he thought as he pulled back the door to the barn. The musty, sweet smell of new hay filled the air. Cole had worked hard to get that hay harvested. There was a sense of pride that filled him at the sight of his accomplishment. The drought had lessened the crop to be sure, but he still felt confident there would be more than enough to see them through the winter.
Climbing up into the loft, Cole took a seat on an old wooden stump. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered aloud.
It made him ache within to see his family in its present state. Dianne had lost a great deal of weight, and there was a perpetual sadness to her. It was like watching something precious die. He’d wanted to talk to her about it a million times, but many of the times when he’d started to approach her, she’d said something caustic and his compassion and concern had gone right out the window. Other times she just seemed too depressed … and her only solution was to return to the land she loved. When Cole would try to explain why he didn’t feel they could do that, Dianne would nod knowingly and give him a look that suggested he’d just signed her death warrant. Neither response was one he could deal with, so most of the time he avoided her altogether.
The truth was, he wasn’t much happier here on the farm than she was. He didn’t like farming. He didn’t like harvest time. The wheat rust burned and irritated his eyes and skin for days on end. The corn stalks were scratchy and gave him a constant itch until bath time. The humidity had abated somewhat, but the fierce heat of August had lingered into September, and neither was to his liking. Kansas farming simply wasn’t in his heart.
“But neither is failing to rebuild the Diamond V to its former glory.” In Cole’s mind he could only imagine the constant comparisons to the old way Uncle Bram had set things up and the new way in which Cole would rebuild. It was the reason he’d happily turned over the plans to Koko and George. When George had suggested he and Jamie could put together a cabin for Cole and his family, it was easy to say yes.
But now … If he returned to the ranch and tried to rebuild, he would probably make Dianne more happy than sad. But what of his mother? He could hardly leave her here on the farm, and on the few occasions when he’d actually tried to approach the idea of selling, she’d quickly refused to consider it.
I feel torn in two, God. I want to do right by my wife, but my mother is alone and needs help. I feel bad for the way my children have had to endure life here, but at the same time, I know t
hey’ll be stronger for it someday. I need to know what to do, and nothing is coming clear.
Burying his face in his hands, Cole sighed. Nothing had gone right since coming to Kansas. His father had died, his mother had set demands upon him that seemed impossible to live up to, and the only people he knew he couldn’t live without were quickly becoming strangers to him.
“Oh, God, help me.”
CHAPTER 11
MORGAN COULD EASILY SAY THAT OUTSIDE OF FAMILY, HE’D never met a man he liked more than Teddy Roosevelt. The man had a passion for living that Morgan found contagious. After days in the woods, tracking goats and enduring grueling climbs up sheer cliffs and down razorlike rocky paths, Morgan had figured the man who hoped to soon be mayor of New York City would give up. But he didn’t. Neither Roosevelt nor his man Merrifield was inclined to stop.
The first two days, incessant rain poured from thick dark clouds. The only good thing about this was that it put out a small fire that a group of Flathead Indians had started in the woods nearby, possibly to clear some brush. The smoke had been a bitter companion on the first leg of the journey, so Morgan wasn’t all that upset with the rain.
When the rain finally stopped, it hardly made a difference, as tall stands of spruce, fir, and hemlock nearly blocked the sun from their sight at times. It made tracking difficult, although Morgan knew no respectable goat antelope would be down this far. They came across tracks of cougar and bear, and vast herds of deer could be seen for the taking. They ate well on venison steaks each night, but the goats continued to elude them.
They camped one night along a glorious stream that plunged and danced in foamy white rapids as it made its way to the valley below. Here, Morgan pointed out water wrens—thrushlike birds that actually made their home along and in the shelter of this brook. Roosevelt was greatly impressed with them.
“They warble sweetly,” Roosevelt said, “yet they live right in the torrent.”
Morgan thought it rather an interesting point. “Perhaps they thrive on the excitement and exhilaration of that torrent.” Some folks were like that too. He thought of his sister. Dianne always seemed to be at her best when the chaos of the world was dealing its worst. He’d seen her in their younger days happily helping with a cattle drive, completely calm and collected even when facing a stampede.
“Well, these moccasins are done for,” Roosevelt declared as he looked over the tattered pieces. “When I hunted in the Big Horn Mountains, moccasins such as these were sufficient. But this territory is quite unforgiving, and my feet have paid the price.”
“I hope you brought some boots with you,” Morgan said, feeling bad that he’d not made himself more clear on what to expect.
“I do have a sturdy pair of shoes with a nice stout sole that has been studded with nails. Merrifield, however, is less fortunate. He has only a pair of cowboy boots. Sufficient for our days on the ranch, but certainly no good for climbing.”
“I would offer you my spare pair, but I can tell Merrifield’s foot is much larger than mine, and they’d never fit.”
“We shall bear it the best we can,” Roosevelt said, still not discouraged by the conflict that had been presented.
When they broke camp the next day, Morgan knew they would need to move rapidly to higher ground. From here on out the journey would only get harder, and it might not be long before snows set in. They packed a light lunch in their pockets and gathered their rifles.
“I thought we would have at least found tracks by now,” Morgan told Roosevelt. “I’ve been here before and the goats are definitely native to this land.”
“This place is quite beautiful,” Roosevelt said. “It makes the hunt all that more acceptable. I shall be disappointed if we find no goats, but I shall not fault this land. Although I must say this task is as hard as any I have ever undertaken.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Merrifield said.
They continued to climb higher up the rocky mountainside, skirting ledges and helping each other across crevices. From time to time a rocky slide would start because of their disturbance, but always they managed to secure themselves to something solid to avoid being swept away.
By now, Morgan actually feared he might not be able to locate any game for Roosevelt. The northern reaches of the Coeur d’Alenes were well known for the quarry they sought, but the trip was becoming increasingly more difficult, and the Idaho temperatures were turning brisk. Especially at night.
Morgan was about to devote himself to prayer on the matter when he finally spotted a goat on the rocks above. He examined the ground around them. “Look here!” He pointed to the large rounded hoof prints at the edge of the trail. “We’re on the right path.”
The deeply worn path had been created by the herds in search of the clay licks. The goats loved the salty taste and would continually come back to these places for as long as they proved safe. Morgan was encouraged by the signs around them.
They moved up the path for another hour before coming to a tremendous slide where rock and gravel lay strewn across the path, along with the trunk of a large pine.
“We can rest here a bit,” Morgan suggested, hearing the winded breathing of his companions. The men quickly agreed, and Roosevelt dropped to the ground to ease his back against the tree.
“Ah, a comfortable chair to be certain.”
Morgan smiled. He loved the man’s spirit. A noise above caught Morgan’s attention. He glanced cautiously, not making any sudden move. It was a goat.
“There!” he said in a low whisper.
Roosevelt was in no position to fire, but he strained to see the animal and then to adjust his position. Pebbles broke loose beneath him and the goat startled.
Roosevelt managed to fire off a shot, but it went low, missing all vital organs and instead only hitting the leg of the goat. It seemed not to matter to the animal at all, as it scampered off quickly, seeming to head straight up a smooth-faced rock wall. Morgan was not one to leave an injured animal to fend for himself, so he took off after the beast, and to his surprise, so did Roosevelt.
They must have scrambled after the goat for over an hour before the animal showed any signs of slowing. Morgan was able to track the blood let off by the animal, so he slowed his pace just a bit in order to let Teddy regain his breath.
“We’ll get him,” Morgan promised.
“Indeed we will,” Roosevelt said in a manner that suggested any other option was not acceptable.
By the end of the day, however, they had only managed to get another shot fired at the tenacious beast, and again, Roosevelt only managed to skim the animal, this time slicing through its back, apparently missing the spine. A night of rest put them in good spirits to track the wounded goat and capture it once and for all. And the following morning that was exactly what they did. Morgan had never seen a man prouder of his accomplishment.
“It’s a fine specimen,” Roosevelt announced, and Merrifield agreed.
Morgan enjoyed their camp that evening. With at least one goat kill under his belt, Roosevelt was more confident, even cocky in his actions and attitude.
“I consider this a good sign,” he told them as they built up the fire for the night. “It didn’t come with ease, but good things seldom do. I believe I’ll return to New York and win that election. I’m the right man for the job—none better.”
“None better to be sure,” Merrifield said with a nod.
“And will you make great changes there?” Morgan asked, trying hard to suppress a yawn.
“I intend to see the city completely remade. I’m tired of and sickened by the corruption. We’ll make it a better place, I assure you, Mr. Chadwick.”
Morgan smiled and stretched out beside the fire. No doubt the man would do just what he said, for Morgan couldn’t imagine anyone saying no to Teddy Roosevelt.
Roosevelt smiled. “I will be as those wrens in the stream. Conscious of my surroundings but unwilling to be defeated by them.”
“Why can’t we talk about
Papa?” ten-year-old Winona asked her mother.
Ardith rubbed her head. “I told you, I don’t want to discuss him. He’s dead and gone and that should be that. I won’t have you continuing to pester me with questions.”
“But sometimes I can’t remember him,” Winona said, her face crestfallen. She pushed back her long black braid. “I can’t remember the way he looked.”
“Good,” Ardith snapped. How she wished it might be so for her. Levi’s image still managed to haunt her sleep most every night. She saw Winona’s wounded expression and regretted her tone. Softening the edge to her voice, Ardith continued, “It’s best you just forget. Forgetting will help ease the pain, and your papa would not want you to hurt over him anymore.”
“But I don’t want to forget,” Winona said, jumping up from her bed. “I loved Papa. I wouldn’t want him to forget me if I died.”
“But you didn’t die. He did.” Ardith forgot all intent to be tender. She knew her voice had risen to a level that could probably be heard by Mara and her brother, but she no longer cared. She was tired of the child’s constant desire to drag her into discussions about the dead man. “He’s dead,” Ardith said, unable to stop herself. “He’s dead and gone and never coming back. The sooner you get over his memory, the happier we’ll all be.”
Winona’s lips trembled as her face puckered and tears began to fall. “You’re a mean mama. I hate you!”
Ardith slapped her daughter across the face. It was the first time she’d ever laid hands on her in this manner. The action caught them both by such surprise that they fell silent for several minutes. In her heart, Ardith wanted to apologize to Winona. But truth be told, the look on the child’s face had reminded her too much of Winona’s father. The thought caused her to tremble so violently she had to move to the chair in order to support her shaking body. Easing down, Ardith drew a deep breath to steady her nerves.
Tracie Peterson - [Heirs of Montana 04] Page 11
