Softly Falling

by Carla Kelly

  A plan. Lily felt Jack sigh, and she had to swallow a few times when he kissed the top of her head. She turned the page and cleared her throat. “ ‘Eclipses for the year 1886. There will be two eclipses this year, both of the sun…’ ”

  They read for two solid weeks, arguing the merits of Baker’s Breakfast Cocoa again, because it made everyone laugh. Amelie read the paragraph called Children’s Reading, repeating twice the admonition to “ ‘Have good books about the house, and no others. Read them yourselves and talk them over.’ ”

  “We have succeeded admirably,” the shy child said, which made Lily turn her head and struggle, relieved only when Jack rested his hand on her neck. “We’re luckier than anyone in Wyoming right now because we’re on holiday.”

  Sometimes they just slept in their little circle of friendship. More and more, it was hard to make much effort. Pierre told them his story about why animals hibernate. Is this what we’re doing? Lily asked herself, as she dozed with Jack’s arms around her. Then she woke up and read some more.

  Their icy, deadly world fell away after they finished Stretch’s almanac and began Ben-Hur, or A Tale of the Christ. They were in Roman Palestine now, with heat and warmth, never mind a story about a man tormented by his own demons, soured by trials. They were warm, and nothing else mattered.

  And then one afternoon, two days after another blizzard, Jack stopped her in midsentence.

  “Listen.”

  They listened and heard a strange sound.

  “What is it?” Chantal said, fearful.

  Lily felt Jack breathe in and out, in and out. “That’s icicles dripping, honeybunch,” he said, his voice trembling.

  CHAPTER 46

  Spring was a dreadful tease. Another blizzard stopped the icicles from dripping. One horse, already ill, died in the barn. Finding himself stuck in the barn during the blizzard, Francis killed careless mice that he thoughtfully presented to Madeleine at the back door. She shrieked, and Fothering finished them off.

  Jack wasn’t certain whose idea it was, but he and Lil started to sleep next to each other. He had come to her side of the room late one night, disturbed by her muffled sobs, and held her until morning. After that, there wasn’t any reason to stay on his side of the cookshack, not when Lil needed him. No one made any comment except Pierre. “High time,” he said, when they were outside hauling in more wood.

  They were all noticeably weaker. Chantal didn’t dance anymore, and Amelie seemed content just to sit in the tiny patch of sunlight of the mostly iced-over window, moving only when the sun moved. Everyone walked slower. Jack prayed for spring to hurry up.

  Then came the morning when Luella simply could not face another bowl of beans. She had been a stalwart child, creative and smart, even after suffering the loss of her mother and her father’s lengthy absence. There she sat, staring at her bowl of beans as her tears dropped into it.

  God bless Madeleine. She hurried to Luella’s side, arms tight around the child who had borne so much. “Let me see what I can find in my kitchen,” she whispered.

  She returned after considerable clashing of pans and opening and closing of drawers that everyone knew were already empty. She held out her closed fist to Luella, who had perked up during Madeleine’s noisy search. She turned over her hand and revealed a sugar cube.

  Luella gasped. “For me?”

  “Pop it in your mouth, mon cherie.”

  She did and closed her eyes in pleasure. She opened them quickly though and took out the sugar lump, much smaller now, but still a sugar lump. She held it out to Amelie. “I can share.”

  “No need!” Madeleine exclaimed and opened her other hand. “See? One, two, three for my dear ones too.” The cook looked at the others. “I have six more cubes. I don’t really care for sugar cubes myself, but who would like one?”

  The others assured her that they didn’t like sugar, either, too sweet and cloying. Madeleine gave them such a look and then turned to Jack. “You really didn’t hire smart people.”

  “I know, but if no one likes sugar, let the children have it,” he said, humbled to the earth by the goodness of the men and women he had shared a winter with in a ten-by-twenty-foot room.

  “That’s it, Lil,” he told her late that night, his arms tight around her. “Will and I are going to Wisner tomorrow, provided it doesn’t storm. We have to find more food.”

  She said nothing, but he felt her fear. “I’m tough, remember?” he whispered in her ear.

  The morning dawned clear and cloudless, probably twenty below, but this might be the day it soared to zero. A man could hope.

  “You’re in charge, Lil,” he told her as she walked him to the horse barn.

  “Not Pierre?”

  “He doesn’t like to be in charge, and you do.”

  She looked at him, hand on hips, and then laughed. “I suppose I do. Very well.” She took a small wad of bills from her pocket. “Here’s a little of the money I brought from England. I still have a bit more. See how far it will go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “For richer or poorer,” she reminded him, pressing the bills into his hand. “Don’t argue with your sweet wife.”

  He decided to be prudent, considering the warning, and kissed her instead. Will was busy saddling his horse, so the barn was almost private. He kissed her with all the fervor of his heart because he loved his wife. Maybe it was even more than love; maybe what he felt was something nameless, something earned through shared misery, deprivation, and true struggle.

  “Lil, you’re good at that,” he told her after a second kiss just to make sure that first one wasn’t a fluke. “Think what we could do if we ever had a room to ourselves,” he told her, kissing her cheek more chastely because Will might be watching.

  She lowered her eyes so modestly. He looked around. Will was studying something in the barn, so he put his finger under her chin. “Lil, I love you.”

  She put her arms around his neck. “Probably not the smartest thing you ever did,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  “Hey, boss, we need to ride,” Will said. He chuckled. “She’ll keep.”

  His Lil laughed and gave him a shove. She waved to them both, then hurried inside.

  They hadn’t ridden far when Will asked, “Why’d you want me along? I know Pierre is your top hand.”

  “Mostly I wanted you along to tell you how I appreciate what you’ve done this winter,” Jack said.

  “I wasn’t much of a cowhand when it started, was I?” Will asked, going right to the heart of the matter.

  “You weren’t. That changed, and for that I thank you.”

  He glanced at the younger man, warmed to see a job-well-done smile on his face.

  “You know something?” Will said after a mile of silence, while they both took in the sight of irregular mounds of snow that must contain cattle. “I was starting to become like Lily’s father, a remittance man. Not sure if my cousin Oliver ever told you, but I’d been sent here because no one knew what to do with me.”

  “Mr. Buxton made me hire you,” Jack admitted. “It bothered me at the time, but I’m over it. Not sure what’s going to happen this spring, but I hope you’ll stay on.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They rode in what felt like satisfied silence for the mere four miles from the Bar Dot to Wisner. All winter that four miles might as well have been four hundred miles, and even now they struggled through mounds of snow. Jack looked toward his own property, with the high gate leaning but still intact. Snow covered most of the fence line.

  “We’ll stop on the way back. I have to know what’s happened.”

  “You’re a better man than I,” Will said frankly. “I’d have stopped first.”

  It was a long four miles, and slow going. Jack stared into the glare snow that still covered the land, snow whiter than white, and with a brilliance that hurt his eyes. Still, it was better than cold and dark. He rubbed his eyes, wondering why they felt like trail dust had blown into th
em. He smiled to himself. Maybe Madeleine had a white salve for eyes too.

  Wisner looked more put-upon and overwhelmed than any Wyoming town he had ever seen. Great walls of snow clogged all the alleys.

  “That’s not going to melt for weeks,” Will commented.

  They went to the train depot, struggling through waist-high drifts to find a place to hitch their mounts. The stationmaster looked up in surprise.

  Jack noticed he was reading a Cheyenne Tribune dated November 14. “Old news is good news?”

  The stationmaster folded his paper. “We’ve been trading papers all around town.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m glad to see the Bar Dot boys are still alive.”

  “Can you send a telegram? The wire still up?”

  “It’s been our only link with the world, Jack.” He took out a pad. “Shoot.”

  “I can write it,” Jack said and took the pad. “Learned to read and write this winter.” He felt his face grow warm. “I also got married.”

  “My word, you’ve been busy,” the stationmaster said. “That high yaller gal?”

  “My wife,” Jack said in his foreman’s voice. “No more of this high yaller stuff. Got that?”

  In twenty stringent words, Jack wrote Mr. Buxton of his wife’s death, and their struggle to stay alive. He pushed the note through the clerk’s window. “Send that care of the Plainsman Hotel. Mr. Buxton usually stays there when he’s in Cheyenne.” He handed over some of Lily’s money and nodded to Will, who had appropriated the old newspaper.

  “Any idea when a train will come through?” he asked.

  “Any day now,” the stationmaster said, apology in his voice, whether for the train or for his comment about Lily, Jack neither knew nor cared.

  They slipped and slid across the street to the mercantile. Mr. Watkins had been watching them cross the street. “You’re looking about as independent as a hog on ice,” he joked. “The Presbyterian minister broke his leg doing that last week. Glad you’re alive, boys. What can I do you for?”

  Jack stared at the empty shelves. “We’re about starving on the Bar Dot. Got anything at all?”

  “I might,” Mr. Watkins said. He reached under his counter and brought up, one by one, eight tins of sauerkraut.

  Jack had never cared much for sauerkraut, but his mouth started to water. I could eat all of these right now, he thought. “How much?”

  “Three dollars a can.”

  Will stepped back in surprise. “That’s highway robbery!” he exclaimed.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Shocked, Jack stared at the money in his hand. Twenty-four dollars for eight tins of number one cans? Lil taught a whole month of school for twenty-five dollars, and the money she had given him represented nearly everything she had brought from England. He leaned across the counter, his eyes boring into Mr. Watkins’ face.

  “I don’t mind a man making a profit, but this winter is fixin’ to end. When it does, you’d probably like the good will of the ranchers.”

  “You threatening me?” the merchant asked, starting to sweep the cans out of sight.

  “Just stating a fact, sir. I’ll give you a dollar per can. I’m betting that when times are good, you sell them for a nickel each.”

  Mr. Watkins lost the staring match. “All right. Eight dollars.”

  “Throw in some peppermint, if you have any.”

  “For fifty cents,” Watkins said, not surrendering easily.

  “All right.” Jack slapped down eight dollars and counted out fifty cents, which only bought a small bag. There was enough for the children.

  On the sidewalk again, Jack looked toward the Great Wall, which sat by itself, a little distance from the main street. “How about it?”

  “Need you even ask? Let’s see what the Chinaman has.”

  A much thinner Mr. Li didn’t have much except a sorrowful face and a piddly bit of rice with a mysterious brown sauce on top. For a dime, it was heaven on earth. Jack didn’t care if anyone was watching. He ran his finger around the rim of the plate.

  “Almond cookies?” he asked Mr. Li.

  “One, maybe two, old and stale,” the Great Wall owner said. “For your pretty missy?”

  “The very one.” No need to threaten Mr. Li about his manners. He obviously knew a pretty missy, no matter her color.

  “I married her this winter,” Jack said.

  Mr. Li’s smile made his eyes nearly disappear. “For you, three cookies!” He put them into a little bag and bowed. “You gonna have pretty children.”

  “Best plan I’ve heard all day,” Jack said, knowing better than to look at Will, who was probably enjoying this hugely.

  “Pretty children, eh?” was all his less-than-top hand said as they rode away from Wisner.

  The afternoon sun shone with a ferocity now that made Jack look down at his saddle horn. He blinked his eyes, trying to remove what felt like gravel now. Rubbing made it worse. He opened his eyes wide, and then wider, panicking to see only haze and shadow. When Jack put his hands on the saddle horn and pulled leather, he heard Will’s sudden intake of breath.

  “Boss, what’s wrong? You don’t pull leather.”

  Eyes closed, he handed his reins to Will. “You lead. I can’t see.”

  He heard Will’s breath coming faster. This was no time to be anything less than a foreman. “I’ll be all right soon,” he lied.

  “Th . . . th . . . the Bar Dot?”

  “My ranch. Bar Dot’s too far.”

  Jack bowed his head over his chest. He wanted to groan with the pain, but knew Will couldn’t manage that. He opened his eyes and saw nothing. “Lil,” he whispered. “Lil.”

  CHAPTER 47

  There’s a simple explanation, I am certain.”

  “They should have been back by now! Don’t you tiptoe around me on little cat’s paws.”

  Lily looked down at the floor, wondering if she would leave a deep trough in front of the window. She peered through the darkness, telling herself that if she walked another mile in front of the window, Jack would surely appear. Ashamed of herself, she looked up at Fothering, who was only trying to be nice.

  “I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Lily said. “It’s just . . .”

  If Fothering hadn’t held his arms out, she wouldn’t have thrown herself into them, sobbing. He only winced a bit and assured her that his arm had nearly healed.

  She looked over his shoulder and saw her children staring at her with fear in their eyes. With an effort, she forced herself into calmness. “Silly me,” she said. “Here I am worrying about two men perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.”

  “It scares me when you cry,” Luella said, her lip trembling.

  So endeth the tears, Lily thought later, after the children were asleep. Pierre beckoned her to the classroom table and she sat down. “I’ll track them in the morning,” he whispered. “We’re not in a blizzard, so there is probably a logical explanation. Maybe they stayed in town.”

  “That’s probably what happened,” Lily said, mainly because she knew he wanted to hear that. “I’m going with you.”

  “No, Lily, that’s not—”

  “A good idea? At what point in this winter has there been a good idea?” When he said nothing, she tried out Jack’s foreman expression and achieved results, because Pierre agreed after one stare.

  “We’ll leave after chores,” Pierre told her, his face stern. As he walked away, she wondered if the sternness had more to do with his own emotions than her intrusion into his man’s world. She told herself that if something had happened to her husband, she would be intruding in that man’s world more and more.

  She lay down to sleep, but closing her eyes only meant reviewing the whole, dreary winter. She already had nightmares about the schoolhouse blizzard. All Jack had to do to banish them was to put his hand over her moving eyelids. She had returned the favor a few times. Where was he now when she needed him?

  Exhausted from worry, she tried to find a c
omfortable spot on the floor. She gave up when she realized that the only thing that had made the floor even remotely accommodating was Jack lying beside her.

  “I love you,” she whispered, not wasting a minute trying to think back to when it began, mostly because her mind was starting to play strange tricks on her resolve. She was exhausted and hungry and weak and did not need any more winter, not when her life was falling apart.

  She woke up to another cold morning, one of too many. She sat up and looked around, hopeful that Jack and Will had come back late last night and crept to bed, to not disturb anyone. Nothing. All winter she had felt crowded and hemmed in. Two men were gone now, somewhere out in the cold. She liked one and adored the other, and the crowded cookshack seemed empty.

  She ate breakfast because it was put before her and then darted for Jack’s old house with the roof gone while Pierre saddled up. She pawed in the hardened snow, searching for Ivanhoe. Maybe if she could find the book, Jack would appear, because he insisted on the ending.

  The lean-to seemed like the last place for Ivanhoe, but there it was, crammed underneath a pot, thrown there by some force of wind or snow. Her heart rose at the sight of Sir Walter Scott’s dear book, the story of old England that had brought them together. Sakes alive, it was even dry. She tucked Ivanhoe in her coat pocket and went to find Pierre.

  Clouds scudded across the sun as they rode, and Lily couldn’t help staring toward the northwest. A veteran of Wyoming winter, she knew a blizzard cloud now. She relaxed. They were clouds and nothing more.

  “We’ve seen the worst of it,” Pierre told her. “We might have another storm or two, but I think the worst is over.” He reached over and put his gloved hands on hers. “He Stands with Feet Planted is not going to blow away when spring is here.”

  “I’m not going to leave in the spring, you know,” she said, trying to keep her voice conversational and calm. “Even if he is alive and well and doesn’t need me, I’m not leaving.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” he said.

  They covered the two miles to Jack’s ranch with laborious effort, skirting huge snow drifts and avoiding uncovered cattle carcasses. She rode through them, dry-eyed, because she had bigger worries.