Out of Innocence

by Adelaide McLeod

  Hank leaned on the kitchen door watching her.

  “Morning comes early around here,” Belle sighed.

  “Before I go up to bed, tell me one thing. Are Scottish people really tight with their money? Or is that a bum rap?”

  “Tight? Like the paper on the wall and proud of it. A Scot will pinch a penny hard enough to make the Indian scream, but he’ll turn around and give you the shirt off his back." Belle blushed and turned away when she realized his eyes were fixed on her.

  The dogs barked as Roy Blackwell rode into the barnyard. Belle watched him through the kitchen window. What did he want? His bulky frame clumped up the path toward the house like a grizzly bear. Brandy snapped at him and he gave Brandy a kick that sent him flying through the air. Furious as Belle was, she was hesitant to do anything. Fear surged through her as she thought about being inside the ranch house alone with him. He banged on the door--he meant to come in. Belle grabbed the rifle from the pantry, tiptoed out the back door and hid behind the ice house. Her heart pounded in her chest. This guy was daft, Harold said so; Harlow had said so, too.

  He was in the house, rummaging around. The screen door banged, he stood squinting at the icehouse, the smithy shop, the barn. He was holding a bouquet of flowers. Finally, he lowered his hulk on the boulder by the creek only a few feet away from her.

  “Belle Pruett, wherever you are, come on out,” he shouted. “You remember me. I danced with you up at Bunches. I know you’re home. I saw you out by your cream separator as I was coming up the trail. You can’t hide from me; I’ll find you. I ain’t going to hurt you any. Come on out, girlie.” His massive frame reminded her of Du Cartier and she cringed. She was afraid to swallow; it would make too much noise.

  “Hey, what are you doing up there?” It was Hank and another man coming up from the river.

  “Oh, thank the good Lord,” Belle thought.

  “What do you want here, Roy?” Hank asked.

  “None of your business. Belle Pruett ain’t your woman,” Blackwell said as he spat tobacco juice on the ground in Hank’s direction.

  “Just get on your horse and get off the ranch.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me, and my Smith and Wesson. Go on. Get going.” Hank motioned with the barrel of his gun. “And don’t come back.”

  Belle stepped out from behind the ice house. Blackwell looked at her as he heaved his frame onto his saddle. There was a glare of madness in his eyes. “There’ll be another time. You don’t pull a gun on me and live to tell about it,” he mumbled as he turned his stallion, gave him some rein, spurred him and disappeared in the dust.

  “I saw Blackwell ride in from across the river and thought we ought to come over and check on you,” Hank said.

  “I’m glad you did,” Belle said as she tried to regain her composure.

  “Belle, meet John Larkin. He works with me. John, this is my landlady, Belle Pruett.”

  “There’s something about that man that gives me the creeps,” Belle said as she shook John Larkin’s hand.

  “Your instincts aren’t lying to you. He was in the Blackfoot Insane Asylum,” Larkin said. “I didn’t know they let him out until I saw him yesterday in Horseshoe Bend. He got into a fracas over near Montour. They threw him in jail because he was suspected of murder. A young girl named Nellie Blake was found out in a field with her neck broken. He’d been seen in town talking to her just hours before.”

  “Why isn’t he in prison?” Belle asked.

  “They said they didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute him, but the word is that his old man bought him out of it with money under the table. He owns that big wheat ranch above Montour.

  “Roy’s never been all there. I can remember when he was just a kid, he tied a couple of tomcats’ tails together and threw them over the clothesline just to see them fight,” John said.

  Belle didn’t want to hear any more about it. “How about some coffee?” she asked. “I made a cherry pie this morning.” She motioned toward the house.

  “Sounds good to me,” Hank said.

  “Ma’am, I don’t want to sound critical,” Larkin said, “but you don’t have no business carrying that rifle around.”

  “Why’s that?” Belle asked.

  “There’s not a man that couldn’t take it away from you. You’d be better off if you hid it away. Women aren’t meant for shooting guns. They haven’t got the stomach for it.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, before I hide it away, I’d better make sure the chamber is empty. I’ve got children, you know.”

  “Here, let me take care of it for you ma’am. You go ahead and fix your coffee. Have you noticed, Hank, women always close their eyes when they try to shoot a gun?”

  Belle jerked the gun out of Larkin's hands. “Close our eyes do we? See that old pail sitting against the shed? How far’s that, Hank?”

  “About fifty yards, give or take,” Hank said.

  “Ha. I’ll lay you a hundred to one you can’t hit that,” Larkin said.

  “Hundred to one what?” Belle was fired up.

  “Ten dollars to your ten cents.” Larkin pushed his lowered lip out with his tongue, as he squinted at Belle.

  “You heard him, Hank,” Belle said as she raised the rifle to her shoulder, took aim and squeezed the trigger. The shot blasted, echoing against the mountains as the pail tipped over in the dirt. “Well, I’ll be danged,” Larkin said.

  “I’ll make the coffee now, if you think I’m capable.” Belle screwed up her face at Larkin before she laughed. “Just leave my winnings on the table. “

  “Ma, we have elocution class tomorrow. I have to give a recitation at school,” Tommy said.

  “How about Rabbie Burns?”

  “I tried it before. Nobody could understand it, not even the teacher. Too many funny words.”

  “They don’t know good poetry when they hear it,” Belle said.

  “How about one of Kipling’s Barrack-Room Ballads. Ballads are fun to recite. “

  “I’ve done Kipling before.”

  “Elizabeth Barrett Browning?”

  “That’s girlie stuff.”

  “Tennyson’s 'Charge of the Light Brigade'?”

  “Okay. I like that one. Can I practice in front of your bedroom mirror?”

  “By all means.” Belle tried to hide her amusement. She could hear him from the parlor as she dusted the furniture.

  “While horse and hero fell,

  They had fought so well,

  Came thro’ the jaws of Death,

  Back from the mouth of Hell,

  All that was left of them,

  Left of six hundred."

  He wasn’t bad. She loved the way the words like “hell” and “death” came out so guttural, so dramatic. He was a Mackay; he was the boy she had carried under her heart, flesh of her flesh.

  Belle slept lightly as the rain sang on the roof. As she opened her eyes, a jay flickered blue in the locust tree. The morning air was tantalizing. Belle pulled the curtain back so she could see the bunk house. To stop thinking about Hank Gallagher was as impossible as holding back the sunrise. Shafts of morning light streamed through the bedroom window glistening in her hair as she brushed it in front of the dresser mirror. The spray of freckles across her well-shaped nose had never faded. Smiling at her reflection, she liked the way she looked. In the drawer, neatly folded, was a new waist Flo had sent up from the Golden Rule waiting for a special occasion. This was that occasion. Buttoning it and pulling on her cotton flannel skirt, she hurriedly hung out the flag before Hank had a chance to disappear across the river again. She’d soften him up with buttermilk hotcakes at breakfast, and then come right out and ask him. No matter what he said it would be better than the agony of not knowing. Confronting him seemed easy last night, but now in the cold light of day, she shuddered just thinking about it.

  The door of the bunkhouse slammed. Belle could see Hank walking down the hill. She liked the rhythmic way his broad shoulders swung. He
had the grace of a mountain lion. “Now, there’s a man that would look good in a kilt,” she thought.

  “Good morning, Mr. Gallagher,” she called. “Have ye time for breakfast?”

  “I don’t want to be a bother. But I’d drink some coffee if it’s not too much trouble.” Hank slid into a chair as Belle put a cup on the faded oilcloth and filled it as she silently rehearsed what she was going to say.

  “You made quite an impression on John Larkin,” Hank said.

  “I’m afraid he got my dander up. He sure talks down to a woman.”

  “And that doesn’t go over with you. He’s not likely to try that again.” Hank’s eyes were flirting with her over his coffee cup.

  Belle took a deep breath. It was now or never. “That day up at the Bunch Resort--" she started.

  “Ah-hah. Then you do remember? Ha! I thought so.” Hank grinned as he leaned back in his chair, intent on what was coming next. She could sense his excitement.

  ‘‘Aye. I remember ye all right. I’ve got to know--why did ye leave so abruptly, why didn’t ye at least say goodbye?”

  Hank leaned back in his chair and he pressed his lips together before he spoke. “Well, there you were, the girl I’d looked for all my life. But you made it very clear that you were married. Remember how you corrected me when I called you Miss Pruett? I’ll admit I had some lecherous thoughts about running away with another man’s wife until those little tikes came looking for you”--his tone softened--“I could see what a nice little family you had. I did what a man of any decency would do, I left.”

  “Oh,” Belle said, so relieved, she giggled. It was a perfectly logical explanation. “Who would have thought you were one of the good guys?” All of her reserve collapsed.

  “I’ve been careful to never let it show,” he said. “But you’re the one. You sure made these last weeks . . . difficult.”

  “Me?” She tried to act surprised but knew exactly what he meant.

  Hank walked around the table and took her in his arms. Belle melted. “Here’s my heart, Belle,” he whispered as he placed her hand against his chest. “It’s yours, m’darling, it’s yours forever.”

  The tension between them was gone. It had been a long time since she’d been in a man’s arms and never in her life had she felt what she was feeling for Hank Gallagher at that moment. He kissed her and then he kissed her again--Belle was in love.

  It was Sunday. The children were picking the last of the cherries. Hank and Belle walked up the gulch to steal a few minutes together. He followed her as she climbed through the grasses until she reached the boulder under the hackberry tree.

  “This is a wonderful spot,” Hank said. “You can see Valley County from here.”

  "And the orchard, to keep an eye on the cherry pickers,” she said.

  “I didn’t know there was a tree growing up here.”

  “It a hackberry, an ancient tree. It’s an elm of sorts. Not much of a tree really. Gnarled and misshapen, it gets little water on this barren mountain, yet somehow it survives.”

  “It’s like the love I’ve kept in my heart for you, dear girl.” Hank wrapped her in his arms.

  “What a lovely thing to say.”

  “Belle, shall we seal our troth with a kiss under your hackberry tree?"

  “What better place?”

  His kiss was soft and tender. She could feel her heart beating against his. Suddenly she realized that all of her girlish fantasies about love were no longer that. This man named Hank Gallagher who rode a pinto pony and played a guitar--Hank Gallagher, an engineer on the new highway, was her destiny.

  “There’s a rodeo next Saturday in Horseshoe Bend,” Belle said to Hank over breakfast.

  “So I heard,” Hank said, as he reached for the coffee pot.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what.”

  “Are ye planning on going?”

  “Think so. Nothing like a good rodeo.” His eyes snapped and he got that silly grin on his face.

  Belle waited. “I thought I’d go, too, and take the kids.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Well.” She really didn’t want to do the asking but she had no choice. “Do you want to go with us?”

  “Well, I guess I could,” he snickered. “I was planning on asking Rosie.”

  “Will I ever live that down?” she laughed.

  On a sweltering July day, Hank loaded the picnic basket full of Belle’s delicacies in the Tin Lizzie. With Belle at his side and the children in the back seat, Hank drove to Horseshoe Bend. The rodeo was a homespun event with local bronco-riding cowboys.

  Belle waved across the arena to Colleen and Gracie who sat under their colorful parasols. It looked as if they bought a whole bolt of blue and white checkered gingham from the dry goods store. All of their offspring were dressed in shirts and dresses made of the same cloth. There was no question whom they belonged to. The women’s dresses, too, even the bows that decorated their big straw hats matched the rest. Those Irish women were the limit.

  Dust flew as the critters hammered the dry earth into powder. The events were exciting. This was Belle’s first rodeo. As much as she was enjoying it, her thoughts drifted to the dance that would follow at the Odd Fellow’s Hall. Belle couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do than dance with Hank, feel his arm about her waist and have a reason to stare into his eyes.

  She wore her straw bonnet, the big one, with its velvet and tulle flowers and a chiffon scarf that held it on and tied under her chin in a wide bow. She knew she looked good in it and suddenly that had become terribly important.

  A blaring bugle announced the exciting bronco-riding event. Men danced with danger, as they rode wild mustangs, getting bucked off, lying in the dirt at the mercy of the steeds’ hard-kicking hoofs. Hannah buried her head in Belle’s skirt when her fear for the riders got the best of her.

  It was followed by a calf-riding event that school-age boys entered; T.J. was one of them.

  Out of the chute the calves lumbered, lurched, humping their hindquarters, objecting to the riders on their backs. They balked as they ran.

  T.J.’s calf, the biggest one of the lot, decided he didn’t want to participate and no matter how T.J. coaxed, the calf just stood there. As the other calves approached the goal, T.J.’s calf turned around and headed back toward the chute and there was nothing T.J. could do to stop him. The crowd was more interested in T.J. than they were in the boy who won the race and the laughter sounded like a thousand magpies on the hot summer air. T.J. was mortified. He got off the calf and ran down to the river and out of sight. Belle got up to follow him, but Hank took her arm and held her back. “Give him a minute, Belle. He needs to sort this out. He’s embarrassed."

  “Aye, you’re right.”

  It was an hour before T.J. nudged his way in the crowd and stood beside Belle. Hank leaned toward him and gave him a slap on the rear before he said, “Man to man, T.J., you stole the show.”

  “I did?”

  “Sure you did. It was the funniest thing that’s happened all day. You couldn’t have done it better if you’d practiced. See the humor in it. Doesn’t pay to take life too seriously. If folks, especially the other boys, say something to you about what happened today, your best tact is to laugh.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Try it, I guarantee it will work. Humor can carry you through some rough spots. If we learn to laugh at ourselves, we will never cease to be amused.”

  T.J. nodded.

  Belle felt a warm glow and it didn’t come from the sun. This was the first time a man had talked to T.J. like that. There were manly ways of thinking he needed to learn if he was going to get along in the world.

  T.J. disappeared down by the river again but this time with his schoolmates. Belle could tell from the look on his face that he had things under control.

  After dinner in the lodge hall, Hannah stood on Hank’s feet as he waltzed about the room. “One, two, three, one, two, three,” he whispe
red as she coyly looked up at him.

  If any of the neighbors didn’t know about Belle and Hank, they found out that night. He caressed her with his eyes and she flushed like a school girl. “I don’t want this dance to end,” she whispered in his ear.