Ivy stares at him. “You lied to that man. You have ridden that horse since I’ve known you. He is not untrained.”
“All down but nine. Sold him before, haven’t I? Can sell him any old time I’m short.”
“Until you are murdered over it,” Sam murmurs.
“Way the two of you carry on—look,” he says to Ivy, “had to get cash for my life on my first drive. Sold him to a rancher on the way and aimed to ride remuda stock. Four days later, he shows up. On his own. Then I sold him at a stopover. That man brought him back the next day, cussed me out something terrible, going off about how I sold him diablo caballo. Never asked for his money back. Made better pay on him than the job. He’s in apple pie order and a powerful fine looker, see?”
Ivy shakes her head.
“Done it a handful now. Sam thinks I’m scooping in, but this is Simon pure. Never talk that horse up to sell him. Never steal him back. Comes on his own or they bring him for the chance to abuse me. Should hear the language. Tell them he’s a nackle-ass rip and they still reckon they’re getting a dandy. Not my fault.”
“And what if someone gets so cross with him they shoot him?” Ivy asks. “Or you? Have you never thought of that?”
Melchior makes a face as if she is only being difficult. “No fellow’s going to shoot that horse. Too savvy. Unnerves folks.”
“He—what? He is not a lion—”
But Melchior watches decorations going up, fingering coins in his pocket. “Aiming to catch that maker while it’s daylight? Wedding’s tomorrow. Might miss him. Two of you ought to have a pair of those sungoggles while we’re over. Spandy, those. Going to the fandango tonight?”
“What if this man does want his money back?” Ivy asks.
Melchior lifts a rolled cigarette from his waistcoat pocket. “Hand it back.”
“You will? How will you do that if you mean to give it all to Oliver?”
“Cards for it, get it back—sard, Ivy, you’re particular on this as Sam.”
“We would never want that, would we?”
He strikes a match.
Ivy would not mind support from Sam on the matter, yet it seems he has been through this conversation before. And what can be done now anyway?
They start toward the workshop, though Melchior grows distracted by stopping to ask locals what sports will be held for the fandangos. More chances for income through gambling. Perhaps the wedding will be some use after all, if Melchior does not bankrupt them.
When he turns off for a second time, Ivy says, “Sam?”
“Ivy?”
“How did you stand him on the trail for weeks on end?”
“He is fine company over steers and the assorted criminals and drunks banding together for a drive. This particular one, anyway. We were stuck together working drag for most of the trail—him because he had that savage horse and the foremen despised him, I because of being ‘green.’ I suppose it was natural we should strike up a friendship.”
“So much in life is, after all, relative,” Ivy whispers. Something her father used to say and of which Ivy is increasingly reminded.
“It sounds absurd to you, who see all the worst in him, but he is the best friend I have known out here. He saved my life. And he paid my way out of jail. I did not imagine....” He trails off, glancing at her. “I have spoken to him about his behavior toward you—”
“Sam.” She rounds on him. “You did not. I can fight for myself with him.”
“I beg your pardon, Ivy. It is difficult for me to sit by. The way he speaks before you would never be tolerated in my family. My grandfather disowned for less.”
She looks at him, staring at the dirt road between them. She wants to say she is sorry he is so far from home. To ask why he came here at all. To tell him she is sorry Melchior is the best he could do out here for a friend.
She says only, “Thank you.” Then takes his arm as they continue along the street.
Sam smiles as he glances down at her hand.
Melchior dashes up behind to tell them about the shooting contests and races planned. As if he has a horse.
They find the front wall of Oliver’s workshop lifted to let in sun and, apparently, invite well-wishers. There was no one about the two previous times Ivy visited. Now half a dozen people are inside and out, leaving parcels or speaking to the maker.
Oliver—startlingly fair, draped in clocks, pins, gears, buttons, glinting glass, and humming machinery—welcomes everyone with thanks and a broad, eager smile, trying to press devices on many in return. All offers are declined.
Ivy, Sam, and Melchior wait several minutes before getting a chance to speak with the maker in the cluttered workshop.
“Good morning, good morning!” he finally shouts, catching sight of them.
Ivy tries to smile, wondering what time it is.
“We hope you are well, Mr. Kjellstedt.” Sam holds out his hand and Oliver wrings it, beaming.
“Well as a flea with three cats. You’ve come to check progress? Hmm?”
He trots away, waving them into the shop. Ivy finds it remarkable how much he looks like an eccentric child’s toy. All gleaming bits and swinging chains and constant motion.
Isaiah sits inside, near a blazing forge which had not been lit on Ivy’s previous visits. He gives her a smile, but goes on working without a greeting so as not to interrupt the maker.
“We had enough to start a frame and axles. Can you see how spectacular? How beautiful she’ll be? The most sophisticated small steam engine in the world, I daresay. Goes without tracks, without rest, without needing to be grazed and watered. She’ll run like a titan. Wagon roads, rocky ground, sandy desert, she’ll even be able to cross water, oh, three, maybe four feet deep.”
Relief washes over Ivy to know the man and his assistant have begun construction. Just as fast, a sinking feeling overwhelms her. She can see none of Oliver’s vision. She hoped, if progress was made, there might be wheels, a bit of a body. She sees a few very long pieces of steel stretching from one end of this corner of the sprawling workshop to the other. Across these lie a few enormous steel rods. That is ... all.
The maker goes on at breakneck speed about the virtues of the steamcoach, as if trying to sell them a finished model: “Will revolutionize modern transportation in a way yet unimagined. How the steam ship revolutionized the seas, the Transcontinental Railway—like the dirigible, electricity, steam-heated plumbing. Do you know? Can you guess how important this could be?”
“Oliver?” Ivy says as the little man pauses, glancing around at them with the wild anticipation of a child waking on Christmas morning. “I meant to have a thousand dollars for you today to start with materials and your time. I’m afraid we have ... about one hundred and fifty. Will that keep construction going while we earn more?”
For a moment he goes on beaming at her, pale eyes giddy behind his spectacles. Slowly, the smile fades. He removes the glasses, polishing them on a handkerchief.
“Ah, well, you see, miss.... There’s a freighter coming in. They won’t give exact word on time—not supposed to come at all and being in difficulty if the authorities found out. Steel and iron and tools and parts from Chicago.... And I don’t believe there will be a great many opportunities for another like them.”
Ivy swallows. “How much will you need to buy their stock?”
“Miss, it would have taken four or five hundred in normal days with the rails coming in and freighters only the last bit of the way to Santa Fé. Now....” He replaces the spectacles, eyes downcast.
“Three or four times that?” Melchior suggests in the silence.
Oliver nods. “Perhaps a good deal more.”
Ivy clears her throat. “When, by your best guess?”
The deflated maker rubs an ear with his thumb. “A week? Two or three?”
“We will get you the money.” Ivy swallows, throat dry—unaccustomed to lying.
Oliver’s smile returns. “That would be lovely. We should really be abl
e to get her underway then.” He glances at steel beams as if seeing a magnificent sight whole before him.
“One-fifty for now then? Will that suffice?”
“Thank you. We do appreciate it.”
She glances at Melchior, who, with reluctance, pulls the silver coins from his pocket.
Sam lifts his hat. They all wish the man good day and congratulations, telling him they look forward to participating in the fandango—more lies—then take their leave. Ivy’s heart races and her palms sweat as she walks away.
Back at the boarding house, Señorita shows Ivy her teal dress has been cleaned remarkably well, yet the mangled sleeve and other rips.... The girl chatters eagerly, pointing out damage.
Ivy nods dully, thanking her. It appears beyond repair. A wreck of its former self and no more a dress for a wedding than this new yellow one which she has already begun alterations upon. Compared to this, the old teal dress from Boston still seems like the cut and fine silks and satins of an evening gown. All relative.
She goes back to working on her yellow dress for the afternoon, mind speeding over one pointless idea after another for income. She needs more than ever. Faster than ever. Baking pies will not cut it. And this while Oliver is getting married and Glendaleen ... what of the bride? She disapproves business practices of her betrothed. What if Glendaleen—Ivy shudders as she sews—gets Oliver to charge them even more for the steamcoach? A horrifying prospect which paints visions of Ivy leaping to her feet in church at the moment the question of objection to the union is raised: Yes!
Deadly hush. All eyes turning toward her.
And why is that, young lady?
What could she answer that would not stir greater misunderstandings?
Selfish, of course, and her face burns thinking of her mother. Still, why now? Of all years, all months, all days, did the only maker in New Mexico Territory have to get married tomorrow?
By evening, the city has come alive with the pre-wedding fandango. The streets burst with lanterns, cooking fires, musicians, dancing, and games as the sun glides down a cobalt sky. The Plaza glows with one hundred paper orbs dangling from cottonwood trees over a dozen long tables lined with food from fresh flour tortillas to a whole roast pig. Saloon owner Cody Shannon rolls a huge keg of beer down the street to much cheering and offers of assistance. Cigarette and pipe smoke mix on the air with the aromas of cooked meat, chiles, garlic, agave nectar, lime zest, cinnamon, beer.
Self-conscious in her still unfitting dress and no proper spine support from a corset, left arm aching, Ivy feels reassured by the number of cowpunchers and ranchers in their work clothes. The local Mexicans seem overdressed by comparison: white shirts, black trousers, vivid reds and yellows, flowers in the women’s hair and beautiful circle skirts flowing like water, a vivid variety of rebozos and sarapes in every imaginable color.
Standing out of the way of musicians, running children, and a stray burro beside Sam, Ivy catches a glimpse of Oliver and Glendaleen on the edge of the crowd. She feels slightly sick at sight of the woman and turns away.
A beaming man takes a metaphorical stage as musicians fall silent and dancers pause, bowing or curtsying. He turns, holding up his arms as attention shifts to him. With many sweeping movements and cheers from the crowd, he expounds over ... something.
Ivy glances at Sam, who shakes his head.
Melchior almost crashes into them, a clay mug of warm beer in one hand, catching Sam’s shoulder with the other. “Want one?”
“Thank you.” Sam accepts the mug pressed at him, but does not drink. “Would you be so kind as to help us with the announcement, Mel?”
“On about the dance competitions. Partners and groups and squares and all the Mexican dances. Purses in it, but....” Melchior all but curls his lip as he explains. “Holding partners shooting. Savvy one? Can’t throw knives, can you?”
“What do you think?”
“Shift anyway.” Melchior tries to drag him off while Sam resists, looking to Ivy.
“Go on.” Ivy watches plates heaped with pork and tortillas pass. But not only those: cabbage, fresh grilled sweet corn not submerged in hot sauce, and green soup in earthenware bowls. “I will be all right, Sam. I won’t remain out long.”
Melchior tugs him away as the announcer finishes his speech about the dance challenges. More applause and cheers. A group of little boys dash past. Dogs bark. A crowd surges around the beer keg. The band strikes up, others joining on the side with whatever instrument they possess, along with dozens more clapping as couples take to the floor—all twirling skirts, rapid music, spinning, stamping.
Ivy hunts for something green. She knows how to waltz and two step, of course. Her mother favored old fashioned English country dancing and Regency styles quite out of date with young people in Boston, where polka was the fashion in Ivy’s girlhood. Ivy and Kitty enjoyed both old and new steps. Yet this ... this is neither. No one wears gloves. No one respects body space. And there are certainly no hoop skirts; no crinolines or even layered petticoats to create barriers.
As she passes long tables of food, several women press dishes at her, greeting her in Spanish. None with green vegetables besides chiles or spring onions. Where did that cabbage come from? And the soup?
Ivy declines a chicken taco with queso fresco and heaps of grilled peppers as politely as she can when she spots an old woman with a cauldron. She struggles through the crowd, so distressed by many bumps and jostling from men, women, children, even dogs, that she almost flees without dinner. Bursting from a crush beside the cauldron, she opens her mouth, but the woman ladles out a scoop into a bowl, squeezes on lime, drops in a wooden spoon, and passes the bowl to Ivy without a word.
“Gracias.” Ivy gasps, face sweaty and hair coming undone as the woman nods, smiling.
There seems to be no place to sit, everyone eating with fingers or knives or spoons from clay dishes, or no dishes, while watching dances or card games or talking in groups.
She struggles to lessened chaos at the back of a crowd watching dancers and lifts her spoon, holding the heavy bowl in her left hand though it makes her elbow sear.
“How are you feeling? I see you found Madre Paredes’s huauzontle soup.”
Ivy looks up. A slight woman stands before her, adorned in a crimson skirt and fluttering white silk and cotton top without sleeves, showing bare arms toned with muscle. Strands of close-set, tiny wild flowers twine many times around one wrist while silver bracelets set with turquoise adorn the other. The outfit would be shocking on the streets of Boston, yet Ivy cannot take her eyes from the woman for a moment. Smooth skin gold and copper in flickering firelight, lustrous hair bound with a row of white flowers, dark eyes.
Remembering she was asked a question, Ivy says, “Well, thank you.”
But why was this woman drawn to her to ask at all? Was Ivy crushed worse than she imagined in the crowd? Her stitched arm is covered. She no longer limps.
The elegant woman puts her head on one side, amused. “Are you? Were you well cared for by Dr. Hintzen? He’s a good man, though he charges too much. Then a ‘row,’ according to English, with your cousin over a horse? Everything really all right?”
Ivy gasps: “Rosalía?”
The woman cocks her head the other way, now looking puzzled. “What?”
“You—I did not—I’m sorry—I—” Ivy lets her spoon sink back into the bowl. “I did not recognize you. I apologize—”
Rosalía laughs. “You’re not the first I’ve startled.”
“I thought you ... I....” Ivy trails off. What can she say that is not inappropriate? “What kind of soup did you say this is?”
“Huauzontle—”
A young man in black and red appears beside her, sweeping off his hat. He bows in an exaggerated fashion which Ivy would find put on if she had not seen others doing the same to their female partners. “En el momento que ha estado esperando—”
But Rosalía, again laughing, interrupts him. “Stop it. This is a favo
r.” She takes his hand as she looks back to Ivy. “He wants to win a dance purse so he can buy a horse he covets. Enjoy your soup.”
The man notices Ivy and seems all for an introduction, beginning a bow to her as well—“Will win a purse for a horse, señorita.”—with a wink as if they are well acquainted. But Rosalía drags him off.
“¿Quién es tu hermosa amiga?” He asks, glancing back to Ivy.
Rosalía’s tone is sharp: “Déjala en paz, Íñigo.”
Ivy stares after them until they are swallowed by the crowd. She slips between spectators as the new dance begins, clutching her bowl though forgetting to eat.
The sun has fully set, true night closing in, the scene lit by lanterns and cooking braziers. Rosalía’s skirt twists and shimmers as if part of firelight. White flowers in her black hair glow like stars. Her young partner moves with just as much grace around her, feet, hands, head, all a part of the movements.
Never in fables or life has Ivy seen or imagined such a dance. She longs to pull away the children, hide her own eyes, but she does not move, breathless, as the crowd stamps in time to music with a faster and faster tempo. Red skirt flies like a bonfire around intense figures. Men whistle and clap.
Ivy tears herself away, forcing her thoughts to her soup, though she tastes nothing as she gulps. She leaves her bowl on a table, then hurries alone, out of breath, to the silent boarding house, her face burning.
She sits at the window of her tiny room a long time, watching the fandango as an orange glow above single-story buildings.
“What is done in one culture is not done in another,” she whispers. Her father’s words. That does not always make one wrong and one right. If you travel in Switzerland and do not taste the chocolate, visit Germany and do not sample the meats, wander the South of France and do not drink the wine, why did you leave home?
She closes her eyes, digs her nails into her palms. “I did not want to leave home.”
Curling down on her hard, flat, straw-stuffed mattress, she wonders if risers are even now being drawn to those flames. But what does it matter? No one wants to be worried about Daray’s disease out here. No one wants her advice. Now ... she realizes she may misunderstand them just as utterly as they misunderstand her.
Lightfall One: Clock, Cloak, Candle (Lightfall, Book 1) Page 15
