CHAPTER 20
IF POSSIBLE, SO FAR AS IT DEPENDS ON YOU,
BE AT PEACE WITH ALL MEN.
Romans 12:18 NASB
You’d think she could have at least been in the wardrobe tent sewing for Ma Clemmons on the day it happened. But no, it had to happen one of the times Ma had given all the girls a day off and they’d gone into the city. It had to happen on the one day Belle decided to hightail it over to the stables rather than going with the rest.
So there she was, knee deep in manure, her hair falling out of its braids, her boots caked with filth, with sweat rolling down her face as she shoveled refuse onto a wagon when Shep called, “Hey, Belle!” and Belle looked up and there was Momma, staring at her with the same old What hath God wrought? expression Belle had seen so many times before.
It figured. Just when she had decided to revel in her successful debut and stop worrying so much about what was going on back in North Platte; just when she had decided to stop obsessing over Blaze; just when she was beginning to feel all grown up and almost independent; just when she was beginning to be content—there was Momma, her gloved hand holding a parasol at exactly the right angle to shield her face from the hot July sun, and her other hand on Orrin Knox’s arm. Orrin Knox? What was he doing there? And where was Daddy?
Speechless, Belle stood openmouthed until a fly buzzed so close it nearly flew in. She waved her hand in front of her face, plunged the shovel deep into the mess at her feet, and stumbled forward.
“Momma!” She pulled off a glove and wiped sweat off her forehead. “I . . . uh . . .” She gulped. “Hello.”
Momma leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. She looked Belle up and down. “I’m glad to see you’re well.”
“Couldn’t be better,” Belle said. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Your Father has pressing business. When I learned Orrin was planning a trip, I convinced him to let me come along.”
Orrin cleared his throat and nodded, then reached out to shake Shep’s hand.
As he returned the gesture, Shep nodded at Momma. “Ma’am.”
Momma nodded back. She looked much older than Belle remembered. There was even a bit of silver showing at her temples. Was that new, or had Belle just never noticed before?
“Mr. Knox and I arrived in the city only a little while ago,” she said. “As you are obviously busy”—she stared at the pile of manure with barely disguised repugnance—“I’ll take the opportunity to get settled and perhaps rest a bit before this evening’s performance.”
Shep spoke up. “If you need a hotel recommendation—”
“We’re at the Brunswick,” Momma said, and looked at Belle. “On Fifth Avenue. Near—”
“Madison Square Park,” Belle finished the sentence for her. She knew a few things about the city of New York. “You’ll want to eat at Delmonico’s,” she said. “Delicious steak. Shep treated Helen and me to dinner there not too long ago.” She enjoyed the surprise on Momma’s face.
“The restaurant in yer hotel’s good, too, ma’am. Stays open real late fer the theatre crowd.” Shep laid on his cowboy accent. “I’ll see to it the boys give ya’ reserved seatin’ t’night.” He motioned at Orrin. “You, too.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Momma said.
“It won’t be no trouble. People do it all the time fer fam’ly and special friends.”
Momma said thank you, then turned to Belle. “Perhaps you and I can have a late supper. Unless you’ll be too tired after the performance?”
“I’m not doing my act tonight. Diamond needed a rest. The last couple of weeks of two performances a day have taken their toll on the old boy.”
Momma frowned. “But . . . you can’t use another horse?”
Did she really think it was that easy? “It would take weeks— maybe months—for me to train another horse,” Belle said. “And that assumes I could even find one suited for the act. Horses have different temperaments, different personalities. It’s a lot more complicated than just roping one and riding into the arena.”
“I didn’t mean to imply . . . I mean . . . I suppose I should have realized.” Momma took a deep breath. Almost a sigh. “If you aren’t in the performance, perhaps we could have an earlier supper.”
Belle pointed to the pile at her feet. “I have to finish this.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Shep said, and reached for the shovel. Belle resisted. “No. I’ll do it.” She stared at him meaningfully, then forced a smile at Momma. “But I can finish up in plenty of time for us to eat early rather than later.”
Momma nodded. Orrin Knox broke the next awkward silence by clearing his throat and pulling a piece of paper from his inside coat pocket. “I’m finally going to get to do some of those articles on Nebraskans in the Wild West. I’ve made a preliminary list of names, although I’m not certain how complete it is.” He looked expectantly at Shep.
“Talk to Bill Riley,” he said and pointed toward the Wild West office. “He’s the contracts manager. He can get you a complete list.”
“I’ll do that,” Orrin nodded. “Thank you.”
“Well then,” Momma said, “that’s settled.” She smiled at Belle.
“Is five o’clock all right with you?”
“Fine. Whatever you want.”
“Five o’clock it is, then.” With a nod in Shep’s direction she took Orrin’s arm. Together they headed for the entrance.
Belle took a deep breath and blew it out. “Whew.”
“That wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” Shep said.
Belle brushed hay off her sleeve. “Oh, no,” she said. “I could have been . . . let’s see . . . mud wrestling one of the Pawnee.” She nodded. “Yeah. That would have definitely been worse.” She looked down and pried a clod of mud off her pants. “Just look at me.” A tear slipped out. She stomped her foot.
“Oh, come on,” Shep said, and slung an arm around her shoulders.
“All in all, it wasn’t so bad. She didn’t yell. It looked to me like she was doing her best to smooth things over with you.”
“Momma doesn’t have to raise her voice to yell.” Belle sighed, then looked up at him. “And what’s so funny about the Brunswick?
I saw the look on your face when Momma mentioned where she was staying.”
Shep grinned. He winked at her. “My uncle owns it.”
Dear God in heaven, what am I doing here? Willa strengthened her hold on her parasol with one hand and Orrin Knox’s arm with the other. She could sense Irmagard glaring at her as she and Orrin walked away.
What did you expect? You gave her no warning, and after all your objections to the Wild West you caught her at one of the worst possible moments. You can’t blame her for being on edge. She said she’d come to supper with you. By then you’ll be rested and she’ll be prepared. It’ll go much better for both of you. Remember what Charlie said. “God has a plan. We just have to figure out what it is.” Stop panicking, and pay attention to what’s around you. It might help later when Irmagard comes to supper.
They walked past a large tent with a framed photograph of Annie Oakley displayed on an easel. The tent floor was carpeted, the furnishings much more elaborate than anything Willa would have expected. Across the way, another equally large tent was obviously Buffalo Bill’s home away from home. Willa would have recognized the desk Louisa had given Bill even if the place weren’t the predictable “dead zoo” with trophies hung from every available pole. She shuddered inwardly, remembering Louisa telling her that Cody always hung what he claimed to be Yellow Hand’s scalp in his tent. She wondered at the irony of Cody’s reputation for treating the Indians he hired so well and his hanging a scalp in his tent.
Two cowgirls walked by. One, a lovely brunette, made eye contact right away and nodded. “Ma’am.” The other girl mumbled “Howdy” but made no eye contact. The brunette stopped. “Can we help you?” she said and stuck out her hand. “Helen Keen. Welcome to the Wild West.”
Lettin
g go of Orrin’s arm, Willa switched the parasol to her left hand and shook Miss Keen’s hand. The girl had a strong grip and a steady gaze. “How do you do,” Willa said, without offering her name. “Mr. Knox and I were just leaving.”
Seemingly unaffected by Willa’s icy demeanor, Miss Keen smiled warmly and pointed toward a grove of trees. “If you walk that way,” she said, “you’ll go by the buffalo pens and the Indian village.” She grinned. “Makes for a more interesting exit.”
Orrin tipped his hat and stumbled through “I . . . ahem . . . the Register—my newspaper . . . I’m a reporter. Sent to . . . ahem . . . report on—”
“Reporters are always welcome,” Miss Keen said, “as long as they don’t sling mud.” She cocked her head and looked him over. “You aren’t a mudslinger, are you?”
Orrin looked shocked. “Why . . . ahem . . . no. Of course not.”
Miss Keen looped her arm through her friend’s. “Dora and I have to get ready for the twelve thirty.” She glanced at Willa and then looked back at Orrin. “Will you be in the stands?”
He shook his head. “Not until this evening.”
“It was nice to meet you. If you stop in the office just inside the front gate as you leave, they’ll help you arrange all the interviews you could want.” Wishing them a good day, Miss Keen and her friend headed off toward—wherever it was they went to prepare for a performance. Willa wondered momentarily how one went about managing wardrobe for a troupe of this size. The thought of wardrobe drew her attention back to Irmagard dressed in filthy pants and mud-caked boots shoveling manure into a wagon. Shocked as the child had been to see her mother, two things had been abundantly clear. Irmagard was truly happy. And Shep Sterling was in love with her.
Dressed in the same ensemble she’d worn to St. Louis, Belle stood on the sidewalk staring up at the imposing entrance to the Brunswick. She was so nervous she almost felt sick. Were she and Momma really going to sit through a meal in the hotel’s dining room and pretend everything was fine? Swallowing hard, Belle headed up the pink granite steps. A doorman bowed and opened the door, admitting her to an elegant lobby. For a moment she hesitated again, observing the soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and highly polished mahogany walls. Taking a deep breath, she approached the hotel desk. “My mother is staying here,” she said, “and I was to meet her for dinner.”
“And her name would be . . .?”
“Mrs. Otto Friedrich.”
The clerk referenced a massive leather-bound book, running his finger down the list of names, then checking the row of small boxes behind him. There was a note tucked into one. He opened it, read, then turned around and, with an ingratiating smile, waved a bellboy over. “Show this young lady up to the Rubens Suite, William.”
Suite? Momma has a suite? Maybe Daddy was more successful than Belle realized. Or maybe Momma is trying to impress everyone.
William was leading the way to the ornate brass cage beside the grand staircase. Belle balked. Shep still teased her about it, but she couldn’t bring herself to trust a fancy box to haul her around. “I’ll use the stairs,” she said. “You don’t have to take me up.”
William shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s 505.”
Willa glanced at the clock on the mantel. Four o’clock. They would hardly have time to eat before it was time to leave for Staten Island. But then, perhaps less time was better. She gazed around her, once again marveling at the elegance of the suite. She still didn’t quite understand exactly why she was here. The hotel manager had knocked on her door a couple of hours ago and said they wished to offer her a suite. When she declined, they insisted. Something about hotel capacity being lower than expected and a desire to be especially gracious to out-of-town guests. Her rate wouldn’t change. And would madam care to dine en suite instead of keeping her reservation in the dining room?
Flustered, Willa had accepted the invitation, but as Irmagard’s arrival grew near, she began to pace. Certainly a private discussion was warranted at some point. But here? The elegance was almost oppressive—heavy drapes, silk wallcoverings, plush carpets . . . and those flowers. Did hotels always grace their suites with such magnificent bouquets? Crossing the room, Willa cupped an open rose in her hand and leaned close, inhaling the fragrance.
Please, God, let this go well. Please help me control my emotions.
If Irmagard asked about Otto, Willa had already decided she would tell the truth. Business had taken him to Denver. And then she would change the subject and ask about the boots he’d had made for his daughter. Did they fit? Was she pleased? Daddy would want to know.
Daddy. Otto. Without warning, Willa began to cry. Again. Please God. I need things to be all right between Irmagard and me. I don’t know what I’ll do about anything else, but I do know there are worse things than having a daughter who wants to be a cowgirl. Please don’t let me start a fight. Please help me understand her.
When the knock finally came, Willa smoothed her gray skirt and glanced in the mirror. There was no hiding the stress she’d been under. Tension showed in every line of her face. Hopefully Irmagard wouldn’t notice. With a last glance in the mirror to tuck up an errant strand of gray hair, Willa went to the door. She had practiced what she would say, but when she opened the door and Irmagard offered a hug, every word of it went out the window. Closing her eyes, Willa savored the hug before kissing her daughter on the cheek. “I am so relieved to see you.” Her voice wobbled. “To see for myself that things are all right.”
“Of course they’re all right,” Irmagard said and stepped into the suite. She looked around her.
“Yes,” Willa said in agreement with Irmagard’s unspoken comment. “Isn’t it lovely? When I got back from Staten Island the manager had left a message. Something about special hospitality for out-of-state visitors.” She laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t have accepted, but they said the cost was the same and”—she gestured toward the table in the nook, already set for two diners—“it seemed a good idea.” She paused. “I took the liberty of ordering for us. You still like roast chicken, I hope?”
Irmagard nodded.
“Well then,” Willa said, “let’s sit down. There’s a lovely view of the park out that window.”
Irmagard crossed the room and sat down, her back straight, her head held high.
“You wrote that you’ve been going to church,” Willa said as she crossed the room to the table. “That’s nice to hear.”
“Sunday Joe preaches in the grove by the Indian camp every week. It’s what I imagine the revival meetings in North Platte are like. He’s very sincere. I like that about him. Sunday Joe lives his sermons right in front of us all every day of the week.”
“Your father sends his love. As do your aunt and uncle and cousins.” Willa smiled. “Did the boots fit?”
“Perfectly,” Irmagard said. “They aren’t quite broken in yet. I’ve been keeping them back. For performances only.”
“And the first one was on your birthday?” Irmagard nodded, and Willa hurried to add, “I-I suppose you wondered why you didn’t hear from me. Us.” She looked away. “I thought I’d wait until I came to visit.” She laughed nervously, “I hardly know what would be appropriate for your new life. But I’ll make it up to you while I’m here.”
Irmagard looked down at her plate. She fingered her napkin. She cleared her throat and looked up again. “I’m not coming home with you, Momma.”
A knock at the door announced the arrival of dinner. Willa stood up. “I know that,” she said. “I’ve accepted it.” She held out her hand. “Truce?”
The shock on Irmagard’s face transformed into surprise laced with a hint of suspicion. But to her credit, the child took her mother’s hand and shook it. “Truce,” she said.
CHAPTER 21
OUT OF THE SOUTH COMES THE STORM
, AND OUT OF THE NORTH THE COLD . . .
ALSO WITH MOISTURE HE LOADS THE THICK CLOUD; HE DISPERSES THE CLOUD OF HIS LIGHTNING.
Job 37:9,11 NASB<
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Belle and Momma had just stepped aboard the ferry headed back to Staten Island when a young boy pointed at her and said, “Daddy, it’s her! The Liberty lady!”
Belle smiled and said hello. “I’m flattered to be recognized.”
“It’s the red hair,” the boy’s father said, and extended his hand. “David Carter.” He smiled down at his son. “And this is George— whose mother had red hair.”
Had. Past tense. Just like the boy in St. Louis. Ah, well. At least this boy had a father who made time for him—instead of sending him off with the governess. Belle sat down across from father and son. “This is my momma, Mrs. Friedrich,” she said to the little boy. “She’s never been to the Wild West before.”
Things couldn’t have gone better if Belle had hired someone and handed them a script. George struck up a conversation with Momma that went from bucking broncos to the Deadwood stage, from sharpshooting to Indians and from trick riders to buffalo. He admired them “all to pieces,” with special enthusiasm afforded the “Liberty Lady.”
“My goodness,” Momma finally said. “They should hire you to advertise for them.”
“I hear nothing but talk of horses and cowboys and Indians these days,” Mr. Carter said with a laugh. “George has a stick horse he rides all around the house, and his nanny has been startled more than once by a war whoop.”
“My apologies,” Belle said, laughing.
“No apology required,” the man smiled. “George has almost convinced me we should heed Horace Greeley’s advice and go west ourselves.”
They chatted for a few moments, and when Mr. Carter learned that Momma had never been to New York before, he regaled her with what he called his “visitor’s speech,” sharing details about the Brooklyn Bridge, the statue going up on Bedloe’s Island, and a dozen other topics Momma seemed to find fascinating.
When the ferry landed, the Carters escorted the ladies to the train, and it was during that part of the ride that Momma learned that David Carter was actually Dr. Carter, a widower, whose aunt was helping him raise George.
Unbridled Dreams Page 24
