“Of course not.” She chuckled, “But it’s gonna be hard.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Belle was almost asleep when a very low moo sounded from the other side of the tent.
She laughed. And mooed back.
Liberty Belle’s romantic dreams of the Wild West were challenged by several immediate and very strong doses of reality. Feeding several hundred people three meals a day was a complex task, and Belle soon learned that she was not the exception to any of the rules. When she first slept through the predawn clanking of the cook’s triangle, Helen gave her a good-natured shake and helped her get up. A couple of days later, when Belle was still moaning about the predawn rising, Helen was still patient but obviously less amused. Finally, she shook Belle awake with a “Look, honey, if you want to skip breakfast, then skip breakfast. I’ll see you later.” And she left. Belle rolled over and fell back to sleep.
Anybody could oversleep. It didn’t seem like anyone should care. But when Belle presented her first-shift breakfast ticket during third shift, the waiter said, “See you at dinner,” turned his back, and walked away. Belle skittered out of the dining tent to a rousing chorus of snickers and jibes.
All right, she thought, I’ll just go over to the office and get new tickets for the later shift. Except the clerk she talked to in the office laughed in her face. “If you can get someone to switch tickets with you, go right ahead, but this ain’t no hotel, and I’m not your concierge.”
That night, when she asked Helen to keep getting her up until she learned to hear the triangle, Belle promised not to moan and groan like a lazy child. The next morning Helen clanged a cowbell over Belle’s cot. And mooed. Helen, it appeared, was one of those annoying people who had a sense of humor in the morning. Belle was not. But the threat of a cowbell must have shaken something loose, because in a couple of days Belle was hearing the cook’s triangle. Helen hung the cowbell high up on the tent pole. Just in case, she said.
Another thing Belle had to learn was what it meant to work. Uncle Charlie might have let her be a ranch hand, but he’d also watched out for her. She had never realized just how much leeway she’d been granted—until now, when workdays were sixteen hours long and everyone had to do his or her part. With hundreds of animals to care for and two performances a day, there was no time for anyone to linger anywhere. Belle loved being part of it, but she’d never been so tired in her life. There was a rule against the performers sleeping with their boots on. If it hadn’t been for Helen Keen pulling them off while Belle slept, she would have broken that one more than once.
And then there was Blaze. Some of the wranglers were using the time in St. Louis to check out the new horses Bill Cody had purchased in Nebraska, and as far as Belle was concerned, not a single one of them deserved a mare like Blaze. They handled her without giving any quarter to the mare’s high-strung nature. By the end of Belle’s first week in St. Louis, it was fairly common knowledge that the chestnut mare was a humdinger of a bucking bronc. Belle couldn’t stand the idea. Of course no one would listen to her. Not even Shep.
“I hear what you’re saying,” he said one morning when Belle appealed to him for help. “And in a different world, maybe she would be a fine saddle mare. But the reality is, she’s not in a different world— she’s in the Wild West, and she’s the perfect combination of kindness and spirit to make a great bronc. She doesn’t pitch all over when the boys saddle her up, she leads well—and she can be counted on to tear up the place trying to unseat her rider. That makes her worth a lot more to Cody as a bronc than as an untrustworthy mount for one of the wranglers.”
“She could be trusted if they’d quit sawing at her mouth like that.” She waved toward where Ned Bishop was taking his turn trying to ride Blaze. Impulsively, she shouted to Ned. “Stop sawing on her mouth like that! She’ll go easy if you just give her a minute!”
Bishop pretended not to hear her. He tugged on the brim of his hat and said something to the wrangler standing at Blaze’s head. The wrangler stepped away. Blaze hesitated.
“See that?” Belle insisted. “She’s just waiting for someone to treat her right. She’s not a natural—” At that moment Nate pulled back on the reins even as he kicked Blaze in the side.
Belle grimaced. “Don’t kick her like that,” she yelled. “Just nudge her a little and—”
It was too late. Blaze exploded in a frenzy of bucking and twisting that unseated Bishop in less than half a minute. While other wranglers snagged Blaze, Bishop got up, dusted himself off, and lumbered across the corral. Ducking between the poles, he walked over to where Belle stood with Shep and said through clenched teeth, “Don’t you ever tell me how to ride a horse again! I don’t know who you think you are, Liberty Belle, but to me you’re still a spoiled brat whose Daddy bought her a ride on the Wild West train. And—”
Bishop didn’t finish whatever it was he was going to say, because Shep stepped between them, spread his hand across Bishop’s chest, and propelled him backward away from Belle. Whatever Shep said took the spunk right out of Bishop, who glanced at Belle once and then turned around and strode away. The idea of Shep protecting her was nice . . . but every time Belle practiced her own routine in that corral she still thought about Blaze and wished things were different.
The long hours and the disappointment on behalf of Blaze were hard to take, but those were nothing compared to the frustration Belle felt as, day after day, she and Diamond went through a rigorous practice session that no one who mattered seemed to notice. Oh, once in a while a few watched, and once in a while they even shouted a “yeehah” of approval. But no one said a thing about her actually riding into the arena for a performance. Neither Nate Salsbury nor Buffalo Bill seemed to have any interest in checking up on her. Apparently her most cherished dream was going to have to wait to come true.
For all her difficulty adjusting to her new life, Belle realized that if she made the effort to look for it, there was good even in the things she didn’t like. Rising before dawn meant she was part of the early shift for breakfast, when the coffee was fresh and the bread still warm. The fatigue from working long hours meant she slept soundly instead of fretting over things like what was going on at home and what was going to happen to Lady Blaze. There was even one good thing about the encounter with Bishop, and that was the memory of Shep’s inserting himself between the two of them so as to protect her. And if Salsbury and Cody weren’t watching her progress with Diamond, at least that gave Belle freedom to avoid Salsbury’s instructions about working in the wardrobe tent—which, Belle convinced herself, he never would have done if he truly understood how much she loved horses and hated sewing. After all, if Helen Keen could work in the stables, why couldn’t Liberty Belle? It seemed a perfectly reasonable argument to her.
Belle was untangling Diamond’s mane one day when Shep ambled up.
“I was over at wardrobe just now,” he said. “Ma Clemmons mentioned you haven’t checked in with her yet.”
Belle shrugged. “I have to ‘prove competence’ before the boss lets me in that arena, and working in wardrobe isn’t going to do a thing for my performance skills.”
Shep nodded. “I understand how you could think that. The thing is, your act isn’t the only thing to be proven around here.” He scratched his scruffy beard. “There’s plenty of people in the troupe who agree with what Ned Bishop said the other day.”
“And why should I care about that?” Belle said.
“Because it’ll make for an easier time for everyone if we all get along.”
“Ned Bishop can talk all he wants. I’ll prove I deserve a spot. As of this morning I can do everything Helen and Dora and Mabel do in that arena. You can ask Monte if you don’t believe me. He saw me pick this very kerchief up off the dirt from Diamond’s back. At a gallop.” She yanked on the red scarf knotted around her neck. “Of course, until Mr. Salsbury or Bill Cody see it, I don’t suppose it will matter how hard I work.”
“Just because they aren’t baby-sitting you doesn’t mean they don’t know how you’re getting along,” Shep said. He took his hat off and raked his hand through his hair. “Guess you might as well know that before he left, Nate asked me what I thought about putting you in the show when we get to the next stop.” He pretended to shape the crown of his Stetson as he said, “I told him I didn’t think you were ready.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Belle snapped.
“Now calm down and just listen to me a minute.” Shep put his hat back on. “I know how it feels to be trying to earn everyone’s respect. I grew up reading dime novels and dreaming about the West. A little over four years ago I was in Ohio on a business trip when I learned that Buffalo Bill himself was in town performing on stage. Of course I had to go.
“From the second that man walked onto the stage until he took his last bow I was completely mesmerized. I had to meet him. When I finally got a chance to buy him dinner, he told me that being a cowboy was a learned skill, just like banking or building bridges or bookkeeping. I took that for encouragement. So I emptied my bank account and headed west, and for the first few months I was the laughingstock of every outfit I tried to join, but I kept at it for almost three years.”
“And you punched cattle in Texas,” Belle said with a smile.
“Oh, I punched cattle in several states.”
“So while I was landing in the dust in my Uncle Charlie’s corral—”
Shep nodded. “Yep. I was flying through the air after being thrown or bucked off or maybe just falling off a horse or a steer or, occasionally, an old buffalo.” He looked down at her and smiled. “So when I tell you I understand how hard it is to keep waiting, I do understand. But there’s more to being part of the Wild West than the skills you use in the arena. When I showed up to audition, I told Bill Cody I didn’t care if he ever let me in the arena—I was willing to do anything to be part of his troupe.”
“But he must have made you King of the Cowboys right away.”
Shep scuffed at the ground with the toe of his boot. “Yep, sometimes it’s just a matter of being in the right place at the right time— but the point is, I didn’t care what I did. I just wanted to be part of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.”
“Well, I do care,” Belle said. “I didn’t join the Wild West to be a seamstress.”
Later that night Belle poured out her frustrations over not being accepted by the troupe. “No matter what anyone thinks,” she said, as she and Helen got ready to turn in, “I’m not just ‘Daddy’s little girl’ who always gets what she wants. I did work on a ranch. I spent over two months every summer with Uncle Charlie. I know how to—”
“Two months? Every summer? Really?” Helen put her hands on her waist in mock amazement. “Well, sure as shootin’ yer a real cowgirl now.” She plopped down on her cot and began to pull off her boots. “I’d like to visit your Uncle Charlie’s ranch sometime, by the way, ’cause he’s figured out something I’ve never heard of before.”
Belle frowned. “What’s that?”
“How to run a ranch when your hands don’t get up until midmorning.” Helen set her boots under her cot and let down the tent flap.
“All right,” Belle confessed, as she pulled her own boots off. “So they didn’t always get me up with everybody else. But I still worked hard.”
Helen’s voice gentled. “I’m just tryin’ to help you understand what’s going on here.” She pointed out of the tent. “You’re kind of a mystery woman to everyone. The boss man himself knows you and your family, and frankly that’s not necessarily a plus.”
“Why not? Is that why everyone’s been so standoffish? Because I know Buffalo Bill?”
Helen hesitated. “You do know that most people in this country would rather meet the Honorable William F. Cody than President Cleveland? And not only are you invited to supper at the hotel on your first day in town, but then the great man himself and his partner schedule a special audition. And you don’t do all that great in the arena, but they hire you anyway—with plans to put you in a special parade. And it doesn’t take a genius to realize that, if she doesn’t mess up, Liberty Belle will be a headliner when we open at that garden place in November.”
Belle frowned. “I can’t do anything about any of that.” She snatched up her brush and ran it through her hair a couple of times, then gestured as she spoke. “I’m trying to be nice. Really, I am. I know I messed up asking to switch breakfast shifts. I just didn’t think how that would look.”
“ ’Course you didn’t,” Helen said. “Because most of your life your little world has revolved around you.” She began to change into her nightshirt. “And if all the special treatment with Buffalo Bill himself ain’t enough to make folks a mite jealous, you’ve got the Shepherd jumping through hoops like nobody’s ever seen.”
“I do not have Shep Sterling jumping through hoops,” Belle protested. “I’ve barely seen him since I’ve been here. Except for this morning when he delivered his version of the lecture you’re giving right now.”
“Excuse me, honey,” Helen said as she slid beneath the covers, “but wasn’t that Shep spending most of his day off polishing your saddle and grooming your ride before your audition? And if I’m not mistaken, wasn’t that Shep sitting with you at supper every night this week? And didn’t he sit with you in church Sunday?”
“He and Monte are friends,” Belle said. “It’s only natural he’s around us a lot. Monte promised Daddy he’d watch out for me.”
“Right,” Helen nodded, then said, “Well, it’s a good thing Shep isn’t that nice to everybody. He’d never find time to actually ride a horse.”
Belle sat back up. “It isn’t fair for people to judge someone they don’t even know.”
“Last time I checked the real world, Miss Belle, it wasn’t filled with justice and light. People aren’t always fair. The Wild West is a small town of mostly frontier people plopped down right in the middle of what amounts to a foreign country, because, believe me, St. Louis and all the other big cities we’re going to play are foreign countries to people like me.”
“What d’you mean, ‘people like you’?”
Helen sighed and lay back on her cot. Propping herself up on one elbow, she said, “I was eight years old when my mama died. It was Daddy and my five brothers and me on a spread that was about the size of a raindrop in the great ocean of Texas. Today that raindrop is a decent-sized pond. And it got that way because, in addition to cooking and mending and washing laundry, I spent a good part of every day baby-sitting orphaned calves and doing whatever I could to help my daddy hang on to his little piece of Texas. I rode spring roundup and dragged calves out of the mud and roped steers, and I did it when I was so tired I could hardly stay awake in the saddle. And you can be darned sure that if it would get me a little piece of this heaven called the Wild West, where all I have to do is look pretty when I ride my horse and peel potatoes or iron or mend or do laundry a few hours a day, I’d be willing to do it. Any of it.
“I’m lucky enough to get to work in the stables, and I like that. But the truth is, if I couldn’t work there, I’d sew until I was blind and never say a word against it.” She lay back. “Most of the people outside this tent have stories a lot like mine. We’re all waiting to see what’s behind the fancy name and the pretty face of Liberty Belle.”
“Well, look who’s here.” Ma Clemmons looked up from the wardrobe tent worktable.
Helen nudged Belle forward. “Nate said she should report to you once she got settled.” She winked at Ma. “It took her a little longer than some. But she’s settled.” With an encouraging pat to Belle’s backside, Helen left.
Ma tucked a wisp of white hair behind her ear as she said, “You like sewing?”
Belle shook her head. “No, ma’am. But I know how, and this is where Mr. Salsbury said I should work.” She hesitated. “My momma was adamant that all ladies need to know how to sew. She started me on buttons when I was a
bout four. Hemming at six. I made a nine-patch doll quilt when I was ten.” Belle decided it best not to elaborate on the relative success of the quilt.
Ma unrolled a length of dark blue calico and cut off a piece. Smoothing it so it would lay flat, she positioned a pattern piece on the fabric before walking over to a cabinet standing at the end of a row of treadle sewing machines. Opening the cabinet, she pulled out a square black metal tin and handed it over. “Buttons,” she said, and motioned to a basket of men’s shirts. “Those are clean, but they all need one or two buttons sewed back on.” She motioned toward a worktable piled high with the tools of her trade. “Take whatever tools you need, and if you have any questions, ask.”
She went back to the worktable and, pulling some straight pins out of a little pin cushion she had strapped to her wrist, began to pin the paper pattern in place, talking as she worked. “You’ll be less likely to go blind if you sit over where the tent flap’s rolled up. If there’s a ripped seam, go ahead and put the buttons on, but put it in . . .” She reached beneath the worktable and pulled out an empty basket. “Put it in here when you’re done. Dora and Mabel can take it from there.”
As if on cue, Dora Spurgeon and Mabel Douglas sauntered in and, with a disbelieving glance at Belle, took seats at the two sewing machines.
Ma Clemmons spoke up. “You ladies been introduced?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Belle said and nodded at Dora and Mabel, who mumbled greetings and then turned their backs. After a couple of attempts at starting conversations wherein Dora seemed friendly enough but given to one-word answers or shrugs on any topic and Mabel refused to talk, Belle fell silent. For a while the only sounds in the tent were Ma Clemmons’s humming as she worked. In an hour Belle had sewn on more buttons than she had in her entire life. Her neck and back were aching and her fingers smarting from needle pricks.
Ma Clemmons left on an errand. While she was gone a cowboy brought in a pair of torn britches. Mabel flirted shamelessly. Dora pedaled away at her sewing machine, not even looking up. As the cowboy made his way back toward the stables, Mabel watched from the opening near where Belle was sitting and muttered, “I’d like to be at the other end of that cowboy’s rope sometime.”
Unbridled Dreams Page 18
