Bittersweet

by Nevada Barr

  Imogene and Sarah were near the steps opposite the musicians’ stand. Sharing their blanket were two of the bishop’s girls, Fanny May Enor and Emma Hazlet. When the call to choose partners came, the two girls feigned great indifference and talked animatedly between themselves, watching the comings and goings of booted feet out of the corners of their eyes. Under the pressure of being chosen or left to sit, Sarah grew as nervous as the schoolgirls and confined her eyes to her folded hands. Boys nudged each other and giggled, but they were the choosers, and those fearing rejection could choose not to take the chance. Girls had only the power to veto, and for the ugly and the shy it was no consolation.

  Couples passed, climbing the steps arm in arm, some stopping to plunk small children in a box behind the accordionist for safekeeping before taking to the floor. On the blanket spread by the steps, only Imogene was at her ease with the frilly dresses and bouncing lights. And only Imogene was asked to dance. Mac entrusted his hat to Sarah and led the schoolteacher onto the floor.

  Toe-tapping music and swaying lights finally overcame even the most reticent swains, and by moonrise all the girls were dancing. Evelynne Bone had even taken a stately turn around the floor with Judge Curler before one of the wags watching told her he was called “Judge” only because he could drink more than any two men and still look sober. Disappointed in love, Evelynne had retired to spend the rest of the evening pleading a headache.

  Nearly everyone danced. There weren’t enough women, so some of the men tied handkerchiefs around their arms to signify that they were “ladies” for a square, and, out of the way, under the lanterns, the children danced their own versions of what they saw. A burly shopkeeper, with his partner literally on his arm, danced a dignified square with his four-year-old daughter.

  The moon, three-quarters full, flooded the meadow with silver light, and the dance floor, with its colored lanterns, shone like a fairy ring.

  Sarah and Imogene were resting after a square, clapping in time with the music, watching the stars rise over the black bulk of the mountains, when suddenly Sarah stopped and clasped her hands to her breast. Beyond the dancers, pale and otherworldly in the moonlight, Nate Weldrick rode up the dirt track from town. In the cold light, the claybank stallion showed a dull pewter.

  “Sarah? What’s the matter?” Imogene asked. Sarah pointed a rigid finger toward the approaching horseman.

  Nate rode out of sight behind the pavilion, reemerging into the moonlight a few minutes later on foot. Both women had forgotten the noise and the lights and the dancing.

  “Miss Grelznik! You two moonstruck? This is the third asking.”

  They looked up into Fred’s friendly face. He had his arm thrust out in a welcoming hook. “I haven’t had a dance yet. Come on, as soon as they get swept, we’ll be setting new squares.”

  Distracted, Imogene shook her head. “I’m tired. Thank you, though, Fred.”

  “Not enough dances in this part of the country for anybody to get tired. Especially the gals. In some counties it’s the law they got to bring an extra pair of shoes, because the boys are going to dance them through one pair before midnight.” Fred had pulled Imogene up and walked her halfway to the dance floor. The music started, and holding her arm firmly, he ran to form the side of a square.

  Imogene swirled around the floor, her feet attending to the calls, her eyes and mind on the darkness beyond the lanterns.

  Fanny May and Emma were gone to the dancers, and Sarah sat alone. She watched Nate as he worked his way around the circle of people. Spots of color burned high on her cheeks. Nate’s eyes raked over the rows of blankets, searching from face to face.

  Sarah pulled her knees up and hugged them, forcing herself to concentrate on the kaleidoscopic patterns of the square dance.

  “Sarah?” Nate was beside her, his hat in his hand, the familiar smell of pomade mixing with pine pitch, sweat, and the fresh smell of the night. “Sarah, could I have the next dance?”

  Sarah shook her head, her eyes steadfastly on the dancers.

  “Mind if I sit down? I been riding all day.”

  “No…I mean…please…” Sarah hugged her knees tighter.

  With a grunt, he sat down anyway, his feet stuck awkwardly in front of him where his boots wouldn’t spoil the blanket. “It’s a pretty night, no denying that.” He watched her covertly, her smooth cheek rosy in the soft light of the paper lanterns.

  “You look even prettier than when I saw you last time.” He laughed. “It’s been a while.”

  Sarah’s little teeth nibbled at her upper lip.

  “Of course, you were in a bit of a tizzy then.” He laughed again, remembering.

  “Wolf died.” The words burst from her, loud enough that the people nearest turned to stare.

  Nate stopped laughing. “Wolf died?”

  “Your son. My Wolf. He’s dead these six months.” She watched him closely, her eyes fixed on his.

  “Jesus.” Nate rubbed his hand over his face. “Jesus, I’m sorry. That’s too bad. He wasn’t a bad kid. What did he die of?” he asked gently.

  “He died because he was put out in the rain with no coat! Put out like a dog! He got a chill and he died,” Sarah said coldly. “Because of you.”

  The dance finished and Imogene fled from the floor. In the spill of yellow light she could see Nate talking with Sarah. She reached the blanket just as Sarah sprang up and ran off into the dark confusion of wagons. She started after her, but Nate Weldrick caught her arm. “Miss Grelznik, Sarah will wait a minute. I got to talk to you. She’s running away from me, thinking I killed that boy. You know that ain’t so.”

  Imogene tried to pull away, but he hardened his grip and held her. “I got money now,” he went on. “That’s where I been. I got money and I bought a little spread south of here. Big enough to raise a family on and make a living. I been building her a cabin and it’s done now. You tell her, by God!”

  Imogene wrenched her arm free. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “You know.”

  Mac came out of the darkness from the direction of the wagons at the same time that Fred reached them from the dance floor. Mac spoke first. “I found little Sarah crying her heart out, all hid back there in the dark.” His eyes lit on Nate. “Nate. You’re back. It’s about damn time. Have you been annoying Sarah?”

  “Yes,” Imogene said.

  Mac’s face darkened and he took Nate by the arm. Mac’s remaining thumb and finger were as strong as a crab’s claw. “Come on, Nate. You bother either one of these ladies again and I’ll set the law on you. Hell—I may pin your ears back myself.”

  Nate stood his ground. “You tell her, Miss Grelznik.”

  “Come on, son,” Fred said. “You’re making a stink.” Nate went, walking between the two men. They stopped on the far side of the wagons, out of earshot of the revelers. There were angry gestures and Nate broke away to join a group of young idlers who had been watching the festivities from a distance and passing a bottle between them.

  Mac left Fred and spoke briefly with a big-shouldered, big-bellied man leaning against one of the pavilion posts. Mac pointed to Nate, then picked his way back to Imogene’s side.

  “I had a talk with Sheriff Graff. There won’t be any more trouble. He said he’d keep an eye on Nate. If Graff says he’ll keep an eye on somebody, it usually means both eyes and his boot heel. I don’t think Nate’ll make trouble; he’s not a bad sort,” Mac reassured her.

  Imogene found Sarah leaning against the side of Ozi Whitaker’s carriage. The schoolteacher led her back to the dance. They abandoned the blanket by the steps to sit in the cool darkness with the bishop and Mrs. Whitaker; the other teachers had gone back to town. Sarah was quiet and withdrawn, but Imogene chatted with the girls when they spun by, breathless and shining from the dancing, to fling themselves down a moment. Mac stood apart, gossiping with his cronies and watching Nate.

  Nate Weldrick watched Sarah and drank. The bottle occasionally flashed in t
he moonlight as it passed from hand to hand or, empty, was tossed into the meadow grass, a new one then being dredged from one of the saddlebags. And Sheriff Graff watched the knot of men who’d come to the dance and kept themselves outsiders, drinking and joking beyond the circle of light.

  When enough liquor had been consumed, a fistfight broke out. The sheriff broke it up as quickly as it had begun, arresting four men, Nate Weldrick among them.

  Mac came over to the bishop’s party after Nate and the others had been escorted back toward town, and asked Imogene for a word in private.

  “Weldrick’ll be cooling his heels in jail for a day or two,” he informed her. “He give me this to give to Sarah. Seeing as how he upsets her, I figured you’d better have a look at it and give it or not give it as you see fit.”

  Imogene thanked him, and as soon as she was alone she unfolded the note and read it.

  Sarah,

  I gave Wolf my own coat and set him in the dry. You ask Miss Grelznik what happened to them because I sure don’t know. I left him dry and wearing my coat is all I know. I got a place now, I got it for you and me. I want you to marry me. You can get unhitched from before if he is real and not dead already which I ain’t so sure of. You ask Miss Grelznik about the coat and I’ll propose proper when this is done.

  Nate Weldrick

  P.S. I’m real sorry about Wolf. Also, I love you and I ain’t never said that to nobody.

  The hand was steady; he’d written it before he was drunk. Imogene folded it carefully and put it in her pocket.

  “Do-si-do and swing your partner. Swing your corner ’round and ’round,” the fiddler called. Wearily, Imogene turned her back on the music to return to the bishop’s blanket.

  “Sarah, would you go for a walk with me? You have been sitting a long time.” Imogene linked her arm through Sarah’s.

  The dance was beginning to break up, and the early-to-bed people were folding their blankets and packing picnic baskets back into the wagons. Imogene stopped at Fred’s wagon to get their shawls.

  Away from the dance floor, in a swale in the meadow, a lone boulder pushed its face into the moonlight. Imogene led Sarah to it. Strains of the banjo and fiddle floated across the meadow with the light, high sound of women’s laughter, thrumming above the beat of leather boots.

  Imogene spread her shawl over the rock to protect their dresses. “Sarah, would you be happier married?”

  Sarah thought for a moment before she replied. “I should, I know.”

  “Do you want to marry Mr. Weldrick?”

  “He put Wolf out in the rain.”

  “What if he hadn’t? I mean, what if he’d not been responsible for what happened?”

  “I would marry him. If I was sure. The six months are almost gone.” She said the last defiantly. Imogene didn’t understand but was too engrossed in her own thoughts to pursue it.

  A night bird swooped low overhead, its wings whistling as they cut the air. Imogene listened and it was gone. She pulled the note from her pocket and stood to shake the dampness from her skirts. The moon was at her back, full on Sarah’s face. Imogene looked at her, young and soft in the moonlight. Between her thumb and fingers she held the bit of paper with Nate’s proposal and his declaration of innocence.

  “My dear, would you love Mr. Weldrick?”

  Sarah was quiet for a long time, then she replied, “No.” She shook her head slowly. “I love you, Imogene.”

  Imogene started to cry and, hugging Sarah fiercely to her, she crumpled Nate Weldrick’s note in her hand.

  29

  DUST MOTES DANCED IN THE SUNLIGHT AND THE ROOMS WERE UNNATURALLY still. All the girls but those who’d stayed for the dance had gone home for the summer. The others were in church, and Bishop Whitaker’s School was empty but for Imogene. She sat at her desk, looking over the neat rows of inkwells, chairs, pencil trays. After two years of use, everything still looked new and smelled slightly of furniture polish. She sat motionless, her chin resting on her folded hands, sunlight pouring in through the open door of the recitation rooms on the east side.

  “I thought I’d find you here.” Kate Sills appeared in the doorway, her neat Sunday hat pinned squarely on her head, her white gloves immaculate. “I met the bishop’s wife before the service; she told me you’d handed in your resignation.”

  Imogene smiled wanly. “Oh dear, I’d hoped to slip away without good-byes. I’m glad I didn’t. We’re leaving Reno, Kate.”

  “You love Bishop Whitaker’s.”

  “I love Bishop Whitaker’s. But we’re leaving today, on the morning stage.”

  Kate unpinned her hat and set it and her gloves on a desk. “You’re certainly not doing things by halves, are you? Where, may I ask, is the morning stage bound?”

  “Round Hole—among other places.” Imogene laughed. “I’m going to be an innkeeper, Kate.”

  “At Round Hole? The stop on Smoke Creek? Imogene, you must be unbalanced! Have you ever seen the Nevada desert? It is truly a land God forgot.” Kate gave Imogene a hard look. “You’re in trouble. Let me help. I am not without influence in this town.”

  “I’m not in trouble. Sarah hasn’t been very well—even before Wolf died. Innkeeping is something we can both do. Something we can do together. I used to think teaching was my life, but it takes me from Sarah and she needs me.”

  “We need you too, Imogene. You have a gift for teaching.”

  “There are other teachers in the world. Sarah Mary needs me.”

  “As an innkeeper? Just the two of you? You’ll break your backs and your hearts.”

  “It’s a stage stop. Mac says it’s isolated; he goes through it twice a week on his run. It will do Sarah good to live out of town; she’s too easily influenced by what people think.” Imogene gave vent to a small bitter smile. “Or what she thinks they think. We need to get off by ourselves if she’s to get away from that.”

  Kate sat on the edge of the desk, cool and unblinking, regarding Imogene. “Is that all?”

  Imogene sighed and pushed impatiently back from her desk. “The sheriff is letting Nate Weldrick out of jail this afternoon. Mac told me.”

  “And Mr. Weldrick will push Sarah into marriage if you stay.”

  “It would be a mistake. Sarah won’t stand up for herself; she’d be little better than a servant.”

  “So you’re going to push her into innkeeping—stagestopping.”

  “That’s right,” Imogene said without remorse.

  “The desert will make her little better than a slave. It is not work for a woman like Sarah,” Kate said.

  “I’m strong as an ox. I can do the work of a man. Two, if they are small.” She won a dry smile from Kate. “Sarah needn’t work herself to death, I will see to that. You have never seen her around Mr. Weldrick. The man reduces her to a child. In her own mind as well as his. Sarah can’t fight that right now. It would destroy her spirit.”

  Kate heaved a sigh and reached out to take Imogene’s hand. “My thoughts are with you, you know that.”

  “I know it, Kate. It’s one of the many things that will make it hard to leave Bishop Whitaker’s.”

  Dizable & Denning’s representative shared the Wells Fargo office with Judge Curler and Harland Maydley. His name was Ralph Jensen. He was a slim man of middling height, sandy-haired and colorless, with watery blue eyes. He stood behind the counter, one hand splayed over the lease, the other holding a letter. When he’d finished reading it, Imogene asked for it back, folded it in a businesslike way, and put it in her purse. “Mr. Ebbitt has asked us to secure a position,” Imogene lied easily. “He’ll be coming out to join his wife within the month,” she said.

  “We’re in a hell of a fix, with Van Fleet pulling out the way he is, or I wouldn’t send you two out without this husband of yours showing up to do his business himself.” Ralph Jensen pulled on his nose. It was long, the end flattened like a spade, as though he’d tugged it out of its natural shape years before.

  As Imogene rea
ched for the lease, he pulled it back over the counter. “Now wait a damn minute. I’m going to have Mrs. Ebbitt sign this, and you can give me the twenty-seven dollars. Harland or the Judge or anybody can witness. But it’s not legal. A woman signing a lease won’t hold water, even if she has got a letter from her husband with say-so. Take the lease with you and as soon as Mr. Ebbitt shows, have him sign it and send it to me. Understood?” He waited until Imogene and Sarah had nodded like obedient children before he removed his hand from the paper and shoved it and the ink across the counter.

  “Round Hole’s a ways from anywhere,” he warned as Sarah stepped forward to take the pen, and she hesitated.

  “Isolation won’t bother us, Mr. Jensen,” Imogene assured him.

  “This ain’t isolation, lady, this is right damn in the middle of nowhere.” He took in Sarah’s soft uncertain glance, Imogene’s solid answering gaze, and he shrugged. “Go on, you’re holding up the stage. Noisy’ll tell you the particulars and the Van Fleets said they’d stay on a day or two and show you the ropes.”

  The leavetaking was subdued. Lutie and Fred saw them off. Fred was to send their things after them by freightwagon. Lutie and Fred were confused and hurt by the sudden departure, and Harland Maydley, newly promoted to the post of Jensen’s assistant, puffed about officiously.

  The two women climbed quickly into the mudwagon—a coach smaller than a Concord, with an even more jolting carriage. Mac was on top with the driver, Noisy Dave. Noisy was a rubber-faced man of middle years, with thinning blond hair. A belly as big as that of a woman eight months with child hung over his belt. A mustache of startling proportions, a soup-strainer, completely hid his mouth; the tips were waxed and pointed toward his ears. The driver hawked, spat over the side, wiped his mustache, and, with a bellow, shook the reins and the horses pulled the mudwagon down the main street.