Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  After Jeb gave Meg a few preliminary instructions and warnings about recoil, Meg fired her first shot. She missed. Jeb explained how the weight might drag her arm down and he stood close behind her, holding her arm up and level. She didn’t flinch or move away, and her hair felt soft against his cheek. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but backed away to give her room. She shot again and hit the bottom rock.

  “You’re a quick study,” Win said from his spot in front of the mules. “I swear, you learn to play Twenty-One and you could become as legendary as Eleanor Dumont.”

  “Who’s Eleanor Dumont?” Meg cocked the hammer with both thumbs. Then she leveled out her aim, closed one eye, and fired at the rocks again. She hit the ground in front of the pile.

  “She’s a famous lady gambler in California. One of the best card players you’ll ever find.” Win eyed the pile of rocks. “Her lover conned her into buying a cattle ranch, and she lost her fortune. She was quite the marksman. Unloaded both barrels of a shotgun on him. He dropped dead on the spot.”

  Meg took aim again. “Gus would say he had it coming. He doesn’t like scammers and cheats.” She fired. This time she shot too high and missed the rock pile.

  “She was a character,” Win said, patting the nose of one of the mules. “I saw her once in a gambling house. Folks flocked all around her, watching her play. They called her the ‘Mustache Madam.’ ”

  “Why on earth was she called that?” Meg asked as she cocked the hammer again.

  “Ha! Why do you think? She had a—”

  “Win, quit distracting her. This is serious.” Jeb scowled at him. Turning to Meg, he said, “Make sure you look past the end of the barrel, not at the hammer.” He showed her with his own gun. She nodded and aimed again, closing one eye. “And don’t close your eye like you’re shooting a rifle,” he said. “Keep them both open.”

  She nodded again, took aim, and fired. This time she hit the pile square on target. “Maybe she shot her lover ’cause he was the one who nicknamed her Mustache Madam.” Meg lined up her next shot. “Having a name like that’s worse than losing a fortune.” Again she hit the pile square on.

  Win let out a low whistle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You seem to have the hang of it,” Jeb said to Meg, “and can carry on a ridiculous conversation at the same time.” He shot Win a quick scowl. “Just be mindful where the barrel is pointed. It’s a lot shorter than a rifle . . . turns faster.”

  “I will.” Meg looked up at Jeb and smiled. “Thank you for the lesson, and the gun.”

  “Let’s hope you never have to use it,” Jeb said.

  Gray Wolf and Sharp Eye appeared on the hillside. Win signaled to them and they proceeded down the hill. The two Arapaho greeted them amicably. When the conversation turned to business, Win told Gray Wolf about hauling freight, Clint’s stage service, and the scientific expeditions. “We want to live side-by-side with you, with no trouble between us. Clint wants to trade with you, and says rifles and ammunition will help you defend your village.”

  Gray Wolf closed his eyes. Jeb wondered if he was weighing the risks to his people, considering his options, or perhaps simply praying. When he opened his eyes, Gray Wolf said, “The spirits tell me we must remain invisible to the blue-coat soldiers so they do not take us to a reservation where there is sickness and death. Blue coats come to white people when they are in trouble. If our white friends have no trouble, the blue coats stay away.”

  Jeb respected Gray Wolf’s cunning and intelligence. He was no fool, Jeb thought, and a logical thinker. What better way to protect his village than to have an alliance of peaceful white folks act as a buffer between his people and the US cavalry? Gray Wolf’s greatest fear was being discovered. In the foothills above Paradise, he could remain safely hidden.

  Sharp Eye added an element of practical reality. “Rifles will make the fight equal if we need to defend ourselves.”

  Win said he didn’t see the harm in supplying rifles to Gray Wolf’s people so they could hunt and protect themselves. Jeb agreed, and felt better about Meg living in Paradise with Gray Wolf on their side.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: MEG

  Paradise, September 1865

  Georgia enthusiastically welcomed Meg back to Paradise. She said she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed female companionship until she had it briefly, and then lost it again. Meg fell into her new friend’s warm embrace, feeling like a lost child who’d just been found.

  Construction of the station began immediately, everyone pitching in. Jeb and Win felled trees and used the mules to drag them to the building site. They built a small, temporary corral before starting on the main building. Meg gathered fieldstone while Mick mixed up some cement and, with help from Angus, built a respectable fireplace. Jeb laid the floor using milled lumber they brought with them. The outer walls of the building were made from hewn logs, and no one could hew logs better than the blacksmith.

  Blackie wielded an adze with folklore strength and speed. He had logs squared and notched almost as fast as they could get the rough timber to him. He seemed to enjoy the task, too, and worked like a locomotive. Even Jeb, who was so strong, said he felt small working next to Blackie, and it was all he could do to keep up with him.

  For the station’s large main room, Jeb built a long, sturdy table and benches for travelers to rest and eat a meal. In the attached kitchen in back sat a cook stove, an unexpected luxury from the Carters, who already had one of their own. Mick had traded with a settler who needed food and clothing far more than he needed a heavy, cast-iron stove. Mick said he was happy to get it out of the way and into use. They built a washroom off the kitchen, and private quarters for Meg and Gus. It was perfect—as perfect as the land and the community for her horse ranch.

  Win didn’t seem to see it that way. He often looked up from his work to gaze at the horizon, as though it were calling to him. Finally, he got so antsy he rode up into the hills. Meg watched him ride away, disappointed, yet sympathetic. She knew what it felt like to yearn for something not quite within her grasp.

  One of Georgia’s chickens went lame, so Georgia killed it, saying it was time for a chicken dinner anyway. Meg offered to make a meal for everyone. She’d been reading Dr. Miller’s household management books and was ready for the challenge, she said. Could she try? Georgia handed over the chicken and said she was going to spend the afternoon writing her sister a much overdue letter, and to call if she needed help.

  Meg soon realized the task was more daunting than she’d thought. Jeb appeared in Georgia’s kitchen just as Meg released a flurry of cuss words in frustration.

  “What have you got there?” Jeb asked.

  “Ach! More than I bargained for, I’m afraid. I’ve got Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, Catherine Beecher’s Treatise on Domestic Economy, and The American Frugal Housewife. I was sure I could find something in one of them that would explain what to do with this.” Meg lifted up the headless chicken. All three books were open on the kitchen table.

  “It’s hard to read about something that’s more easily shown,” Jeb said, “particularly the first time.”

  “That’s it exactly. None of these cookbooks describes it in a way that makes sense.”

  “Chickens are hard. Ma never handled chickens very well, so I got pretty good at cleaning and plucking them. Want to watch me? I’d be happy to show you.”

  “Oh, would you, Jeb? You’re very kind.”

  “No problem. Let’s take it outside.” Jeb took the carcass, Meg following. They sat down on the back steps together. He showed her how to grasp the chicken so she could pluck the feathers more easily. Meg took the chicken and tried it. “You’re pretty amenable to domestic work. I thought you were a girl born into privilege.”

  “Well, if Gus and I are going to run a ranch together, somebody has to cook. It won’t be Gus, that’s for sure, and who knows how long it will be before we can hire someone like Fanny.”

  “Who’s Fan
ny?” Jeb asked.

  “She was my aunt’s housekeeper for a time. My mother had just hired her a few months before she died.”

  “How did your parents die?”

  “My father was a banker. He was in Lawrence on business when pro-slavery men burned the Free-State Hotel and sacked the city. He was there to invest in the anti-slavery newspaper, and my mother went along to care for him, as he had not been well. I’m not even sure how they died, but Gus said knowing the details wouldn’t bring them back. I imagine he was protecting me.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Fanny stayed on for a while after my aunt and uncle moved in. I used to help her with the washing, because I preferred her company to my aunt’s. When we finished, I’d read to her while she sewed or worked in the kitchen. She never learned to read, but loved to listen to stories.

  “One day, my aunt came into the kitchen and found me sitting on the counter reading a silly romance novel out loud while Fanny peeled potatoes. We were having such a good time. My aunt grabbed a broom and started beating us both with it. I never understood why. But I screamed, Fanny screamed, and my aunt chased us around the kitchen, calling us all sorts of terrible things. Poor Fanny was fired immediately.

  “But Fanny never let anything get her down. Gus let her stay at the stables until her beau came to fetch her from Chicago. While she waited for him, we finished reading our book together. I also taught her how to write her name.” Meg stopped abruptly. “I think I’m talking too much.”

  Jeb smiled. “Not at all. Win says I’m too quiet.”

  “Maybe folks don’t ask you the right questions. Tell me about you and Win growing up.”

  “Well, Ma used to read to Win and me all the time. We can read and write, of course. But it was real entertaining to have her read aloud. She was good at it. When we were little, she read stories about pirates and sailing the high seas. We had our own sword fights before going to bed.” One of the downy feathers wafting around them landed in Meg’s hair. Jeb removed it—able to manage the delicate task even with hands as strong as his.

  “Your childhood sounds lovely.” Meg suddenly felt shy. “Gus says there’s no easy way to lose a parent. I’m sorry you lost yours, too. But they certainly raised you both well.” Her voice trailed off and she busied herself by brushing away the down that had landed in her lap, feeling oddly elated.

  Win came around the corner. “You two properly chaperoned?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: WIN

  Paradise

  Win had seen them sitting on the back step together. When Jeb reached up to remove a downy feather from Meg’s hair, he was struck by a pang of jealousy for which he had no explanation. After all, it had been his choice to leave them alone.

  Meg jumped in surprise, but Jeb, always annoyingly calm, just smiled. “Welcome back,” Jeb said. “Do you have news for us?”

  “Yes, but it can wait.” Win dismounted and removed the tarp from a makeshift travois. “I’m not sure that chicken will feed seven of us for dinner. I shot an elk.”

  Georgia appeared, saw the elk, and announced it was time for a housewarming. The men started a fire to roast a hindquarter and began cutting much of the elk meat into strips to jerk. Angus brought over a bottle of whiskey, and Blackie brought a horseshoe to hang on the station door for good luck. Both helped hang the meat strips on a drying rack.

  Meg prepared her chicken stew anyway. Georgia baked up a sweet potato pie and biscuits. When the work was done and the hind leg roasted on a spit, Angus uncorked the whiskey. He handed glasses to everyone and they all toasted to the new way station, soon to be open for business. Meg raised her glass to Georgia in a gesture of feminine solidarity and drank the whiskey down with surprising familiarity. Win felt his jaw drop.

  Georgia leaned back in her chair with a smile. “Where’d you learn to drink like that, honey?”

  “My friend Gus poured me a small glass on special occasions, saying he shouldn’t drink alone. He managed a stable and never had a day off, but every once in a while, he’d have a quiet night and we’d toast to better days,” Meg said, adding quietly, “I think mine have arrived.”

  Georgia nodded appreciatively. “Usually women act scandalized if I enjoy a little libation. I swear, you are one pleasant surprise after another.”

  “Well, the stew isn’t so pleasant. Something went wrong. I’m sorry I wasted your chicken, Georgia.”

  “Aw, honeybee, don’t fret.” She patted Meg on the shoulder. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

  Win decided it was time to share his news. “I ran into Sharp Eye today. He was hunting, too. He helped me dress and quarter the elk so I could pack it out. I thanked him with a shoulder.”

  “I was wondering if you had shot a three-legged animal, or if you had help.” Jeb leaned against the new, heavy, oak table he’d built. “What did he have to say?”

  “Well, I can see that our relationship with the Arapaho is going to be interesting,” Win said, “because Sharp Eye wants his son to learn to read and write English.”

  Angus snorted. “Hell, most white folks can’t do that.”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Meg said. “They wouldn’t have to sign something they couldn’t read for themselves.”

  “Well, I’m glad you feel that way, Meggie, ’cause I told Sharp Eye you would teach Running Elk how to read and write.”

  “Me?” Meg furrowed her brow and folded her arms across her chest. “What made you think I could do such a thing? I don’t know the first thing about teaching anybody anything!”

  “Sure you do,” Jeb said. “You taught Fanny; you’d be good at it.”

  “Why his son?” she asked. “Why not Sharp Eye himself? He already speaks a little English.”

  Angus snorted again and laughed out loud. Win spread his arms out and stated what he thought was obvious. “Meg, they have some pride, for God’s sake. You don’t really expect grown men to learn from a girl.”

  Everyone else seemed to think Meg teaching Running Elk to read was a good idea except Meg. She didn’t stay perturbed, however—a quality Win admired in her.

  The next day, as Win and Jeb prepared to leave for Denver, Meg brought warm gingerbread wrapped in a cloth out to them. Win made the mistake of hesitating slightly, and she noticed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Win, it’s fine . . . tastes just like Georgia’s. She said so.”

  Jeb reached down from his seat on the wagon and plucked it from Win’s hands. “I’m sure it’s delicious. Thank you, Meg.”

  “Just teasing, Meggie. Thanks.” Win gave Meg a quick kiss on the cheek, in part to annoy Jeb and in part to bolster her spirits, as she looked a little nervous now that they were leaving. He jumped up next to Jeb. With a whistle to the mules, Jeb steered the team south to Denver.

  “You two have a safe trip. Come back soon,” she called, waving good-bye. Just before she turned to go inside her new station house, Win saw Meg touch her kissed cheek.

  Once under way, Win breathed in the crisp morning air and said, “Well, my friend, this is certainly turning out to be a hell of an adventure. I never expected I’d be trading with the Arapaho. I figured there was a better chance we’d lose our hair out here.”

  “If you were worried about your scalp, why didn’t you get a nice, safe job in Rockfield?”

  “ ’Cause thinking about losing my scalp makes me feel alive, and feeling alive feels good.”

  “Can’t argue with that logic.” Jeb shook his head. “You’re so full of shit.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: JEB

  Cold Springs, Colorado Territory

  Jeb was headed back to Paradise with Win less than a week after leaving Meg at her new way station. Mick had telegraphed an order to Clint, announcing the early arrival of an expedition crew. They were running low on essentials. Jeb asked to be assigned the job. He looked forward to surprising Meg with their early return.

  They made it as far as Cold Springs before deciding to stop for the evening. Jeb and Win were on t
heir way to find a meal when a stagecoach pulled in and emptied its passengers in front of the new Cold Springs hotel. Everyone shuffled inside except one. A man in his early sixties remained outside in the last of the evening light and watched the setting sun flare up from behind the peaks, painting the few scattered clouds overhead with brilliant red and gold. He wore a crisp, white shirt and a dark suit with a vest, but there was no mistaking him for a businessman. His barn boots and hat gave away that he was a horseman. The left sleeve of his coat was stitched to itself below the elbow to keep it from flapping about. Not as tall as either Jeb or Win, but lean and wiry, the man had no doubt spent years working hard, both in and out of the saddle. He sported a long, bushy, white mustache, which matched his eyebrows. He watched the evening sky until the red and gold faded into dusky purple.

  Spirits must be at work, Jeb thought. Win was already walking over to the man. “Excuse me, sir, but are you Gus Steensland?”

  The man turned sharply. “I am.” His piercing blue eyes studied Win first, then Jeb. They held a flicker of amusement and youthful vigor, despite the weathered creases around them. “Only two men in this territory would give a damn who I was. You must be the wonder boys.” Gus offered his hand. “From Meggie’s letters, I’m guessing you’re Avery,” he said to Win.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Steensland,” Win said as they shook hands.

  “Jeb Dawson, sir.” Jeb extended his hand as well. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Meg’s told us a lot about you.”

  The comment produced a cock of the head and a wry smile. “If it’s half of what I’ve heard about you two, it’s still too much.” Gus looked around. “Meggie with you?”

  “No, sir, she’s at the st—Wait, how did you get here so fast? Meg only just sent her letter,” Win said.