Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  He crested the hill and Paradise came into view. Galen loped down the hill and into the vacant yard. No one came out to greet them. He brought Galen to the barn and unsaddled him. Trudging to the quiet station house, he had second thoughts about coming home.

  Gus was hovering over Meg when Jeb opened the door. They both looked up, and their expressions changed from concern to relief. “Oh, Jeb! Thank goodness!” Meg cried. “We’re having quite a time!”

  Gus held a blood-soaked towel to Meg’s hand.

  “What happened?” Jeb dropped his saddlebags at the door.

  “I saw you coming and wanted to pull the pie from the oven before coming out to greet you.” Meg nodded at the knife on the counter. “I pushed that aside to make room for the pie, but the knife got caught and stayed right where it was.” She showed him the deep cut in the palm of her hand. “I feel stupid.”

  The cut bled badly, despite their efforts to stop it. With the use of only one hand apiece, she and Gus had been trying to get a washbasin filled, and were having a clumsy time of it. Jeb pumped water into the basin and set it on the table.

  “Let’s take a look.” Jeb held her hand over the basin. Blood dripped steadily into the water, at first spreading out like pink smoke before the water turned red. He rinsed the cut carefully and gently.

  Meg glanced up at him. “I’m sure this wasn’t the homecoming you’d hoped for. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t mind.” He smiled slightly. “It’s good to be home. I think you need a couple of stitches. It’ll heal faster if we can get it closed up a little. Are you up to it?”

  “Do what you think is best.” Her face lost its color.

  “Hold this on the cut, then. Press as hard as you can.” Jeb hadn’t been forgotten after all, he realized as he gathered what he needed. He found the thinnest sewing needle he could in Meg’s sewing box, and good thread. Gus poured Meg a glass of whiskey, which she turned down. She put her hand up on the table and turned her head away. Jeb stroked the back of her hand—a trick he learned from his father to shift sensation from one part of the body to another. Even with her head turned away from him, he could see her flush.

  Gus sat down in front of Meg. “Did I ever tell you the story of the two-headed goat?”

  “Yes, but tell me again.”

  Gus started spinning a yarn so outrageous Jeb wanted to set down the needle to listen, but it was clear the intent was to distract Meg, so Jeb worked as quickly and gently as he could. Just about the time Jeb tied his last knot, Gus wrapped up his tall tale.

  “You change that story every time you tell it.” Meg squeezed Gus’s hand with her free one and laughed. She turned to discover three neat stitches in the palm of her hand. She looked up in surprise. “I barely felt it. Thank you, Jeb.”

  Jeb shrugged modestly, pleased that he had not inflicted pain. He wrapped up her hand with a clean bandage. “Thank Gus. He was a good distraction.”

  Gus slapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome back. Get those college boys off?”

  “Yep, they’ll have plenty of cataloging to do in Illinois.” He decided against mentioning Win, and neither of them asked.

  With a large, clean bandage tied to the palm of her hand, Meg returned to her dinner preparations.

  When they sat down to dinner, Jeb moved purposely to sit next to Meg. He’d never paid much attention to where any of them sat before. Across the table, Gus watched them both.

  “It’s time to start breeding,” he said. His declaration startled Meg; her knife clattered on her plate. With a half smile, Gus continued. “Jeb, remember that fair-haired reinsman, Davis? His brother’s got a stallion in Cheyenne. I got a couple of fillies almost ready. I’d like you to come with me; see if you agree that the stud’s worthy.”

  Jeb nodded as he bit into a warm biscuit. “Be glad to,” he said with his mouth full. “Fine meal, Meg.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Meg smile.

  An early winter storm blew in, postponing the trip to Cheyenne and catching everyone in Paradise off guard. Blackie worked inside only in the dead of winter, and had his outside furnaces going full strength when the temperature dropped suddenly and it started to snow. Meg quickly cut back her herbs and covered her garden with straw. She was in the middle of bundling the cuttings to hang when a stage arrived unexpectedly.

  Nine passengers burst into the way station, stamping their frozen feet and blowing into their cold hands. Jeb came in with them.

  The driver removed his hat. “Miss, I am sorry to impose, but there’s quite a storm on its way. Had to come this way; drifts are blocking the road to Lyonsville. I’d like to keep my passengers here overnight, if you don’t mind.”

  She glanced at Jeb, who waited for her answer. After an unruly passenger had backed her into a corner, Gus, Win, and Jeb took up the habit of always making sure one of them came in with the travelers. Meg scanned the group of seven men and two women. “Of course we don’t mind. You’re all welcome.” She nodded to Jeb, who then left to help Gus.

  In the barn, Jeb unhitched the team from the snow-covered stagecoach. One of the stranded passengers unloaded a fiddle from the luggage rack. No doubt there would be music later that evening—a chance to dance with Meg. Jeb had to collect his thoughts. He told Gus to go on ahead. He fetched a clean shirt from the bunkhouse and took a few minutes to wash up while he searched his memory.

  In Denver a few years earlier, while driving freight for Clint, Win sat down next to Jeb at a poker table with a gleam in his eye. Jeb was having a run of good cards, but as much as Jeb tried, Win wouldn’t be ignored.

  “Jeb, old friend, I got someone set up for you upstairs. You go find Carla; she’s got something for you.”

  “Nah, not tonight. I’ve got luck on my side right here.” Jeb tossed a card. The dealer drew another for him.

  Win wouldn’t relent. He’d already talked to Carla, he said, who’d agreed to spend time with Jeb. He had already paid her. She was leaving in the morning. “You’ve gotta do this tonight,” he said.

  “Win, drop it. And shut up—I’m trying to play out this hand.” But Jeb lost track of what the others had bet. He folded and excused himself from the table. He and Win stood at the bar. “Thanks a lot. How am I supposed to keep track of the cards with you buzzing in my ear?”

  Win was undeterred. “She’s upstairs, Jeb. My treat.”

  “Jesus, Win.”

  “You’ll thank me. Now go.” Win jerked his head toward the stairs.

  Jeb glared at his friend. Win could be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but he was also right annoyingly often. Jeb walked up to the room where Carla was waiting.

  Carla was a midget—a third of the size of Jeb. She was plump and about ten years older than he, although it was a little hard to tell. She wore only a lace robe, through which Jeb could see her dark areolas and pubic hair. The room smelled of soap and perfume; she had her own little bathtub, which she had just used. Jeb couldn’t have fit in it even if he curled up in a ball. She saw him looking at it and smiled.

  “When was your last bath, honey? I don’t let no dirty fellas touch this jewel,” she said in a high, squeaky voice. She leaned back in her bed and stroked her breasts seductively. Jeb did not find her appealing. That goddamn Win.

  Jeb wanted to leave, but didn’t want to offend. “Uh, today . . . when we got in . . . but I’m not . . . I mean . . . I don’t think . . .”

  “Well, good.” Carla sat up, apparently understanding his hesitation. She poured two shots of whiskey from a bottle at her bedside. “Your friend and I sat up here talking for most of his hour. He paid me good and asked if he could send you up for a little chat, as he put it. I said as long as I get paid, it don’t make no difference which end does the work, and my lower half could use a rest.”

  Jeb smiled slightly, relieved. Win thought whores were fascinating creatures, although Jeb had never found them particularly intriguing. He removed his hat, and as there was no place to sit except for the bed, to
ok off his boots so he wouldn’t get the linens dirty. As he sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, Carla handed him his glass of whiskey and stroked the inside of his thigh with her tiny hand. It looked so much like a child’s, he almost recoiled. But an idea came to him—one that surprised even Carla.

  “You sure you’re leaving tomorrow?”

  “I’m sure.” Carla grinned wickedly, doing her job. “You wanna have some nasty fun with Carla? Something you don’t want your friend to know about? I do most anything, but you’re gonna have to pay extra.”

  Jeb had less interest in the nasty fun Carla was referring to and more interest in something else he thought she might be able to teach him. Would she teach him to dance? She asked if he was joking at first, but after he convinced her he was sincere, she spent the hour showing him what she knew.

  Now the opportunity to dance with Meg arrived and he wanted to practice what Carla had taught him. In the chilly barn, he closed his eyes and tried to remember her instructions. He imagined her standing in front of him.

  “I could show you quadrilles or reels, but they ain’t as much fun as this here dance. A gentleman showed me this once—very genteel. Listen to the tune and count the beats. If you can count a 1-2-3, 1-2-3, you’re in good shape. Here’s how you start . . .” Carla showed Jeb the steps. “Nope, start with your other foot.” He tried again. “That’s it, you’ve got it.” They waltzed around her room for a while, Carla counting and humming. “Anytime you can count to three like that, do this and you’ll be fine. Say, you’re pretty smooth. You’re gonna do just fine.”

  Jeb checked the barn door to make sure it was closed. He counted slowly and stepped deliberately until he moved easily around the floor. When he felt confident, he ran his fingers through his hair to comb it and walked up to the way station. It was snowing heavily now, and the wind plastered the snow against the side of the station.

  He walked into a crowd of people. Blackie, Angus, and Mick had come over. Georgia was helping Meg in the kitchen, and the two women passengers were bundling the rest of Meg’s herbs and tying them to a drying rack. Blackie was stacking extra firewood by the fireplace. Meg looked up from her work when Jeb walked in and smiled. He hoped he didn’t look like he had just been dancing in the barn, as ridiculous as that sounded.

  As Jeb predicted, after dinner, the music began. After a couple of foot-stomping tunes, the large table was pushed aside. Gus took Meg by the hand and led her into the center of the room. Georgia and Mick followed. The couples from the stagecoach got up, too.

  The fiddlers played a quadrille—at least that’s what Jeb figured, since the four couples squared up into two groups. Gus and Meg looked like they were having fun. Gus’s jaunty step reminded him of Bill Foster from the wagon train.

  When the dance ended, the squares dissolved and the musicians began to play a slow waltz. It was obvious that Meg and Gus had waltzed together before, because Meg grasped the cuff of his left sleeve and held it with her hand in the right position. Anyone who didn’t know them would have to look carefully to see that Gus wasn’t holding his dance partner’s hand in his own.

  Gathering his courage, when Gus and Meg came around, he tapped Gus on the shoulder. Gus turned over his partner so promptly Jeb was startled to find himself holding Meg in his arms. His heart beat so fast he feared it would mess with his counting, but somehow he managed to spin her onto the makeshift dance floor and they were on their way. The next tune was also a waltz and Meg happily agreed to remain his partner. This time, Jeb relaxed enough to enjoy the experience. He wondered if he would appear too forward if he proposed.

  After the second waltz ended, Jeb escorted Meg to Gus, who had two glasses of punch waiting for them with a warning to be careful, as Angus had concocted it.

  A gentleman passenger appeared in front of them and requested that Meg join him in the next dance. She politely accepted. From the side of the room, Jeb and Gus watched her form a square with an older couple.

  “I can’t believe you turned her down when she asked you to marry her,” Jeb joked.

  “It was a child’s yearning to cling to the only love she could count on . . . I think she’s growin’ out of that, don’t you?” When Jeb didn’t answer, Gus nudged him with his elbow. “What are you waitin’ for?”

  “She comes from wealth. She may have expectations beyond my means. And, to be honest, I don’t know how I stack up. She and Win got along pretty well.”

  “Interesting group, rich people. A lot of them act like they’re better than the rest of us.” Gus watched the dancers. “Meggie takes after her ma, though. Her ma was never the snooty type. She saw qualities in people that were far richer than their bank accounts.”

  “You thought a lot of her mother, didn’t you?”

  “Yep, she was fine,” Gus said. He smoothed his mustache. “Now, about this business with Win. He’s is a fine fellow and a good friend, Jeb. But he takes the long way home. Meggie deserves someone who’s content right where he is.”

  “So, you think she’d say yes if I asked her to marry me?”

  Gus chuckled. “I’d say your chances are pretty good. Just don’t screw it up.”

  The storm passed and the passengers left. Two nights later in the barn, Jeb sanded a chair leg he’d just turned on the lathe. Working with wood gave him time to mull over everything on his mind. Despite Gus’s vote of confidence, he wondered about Meg’s feelings for Win. They always seemed happy around each other. It bothered him.

  Meg appeared at the barn door. She boosted herself up on the wall of Biscuit’s stall and watched him work awhile. She said she was thinking she might make a pie, and asked if Jeb preferred one made from canned peaches or dried apples.

  “The mention of any pie of yours makes my mouth water, but, if it makes no difference to you, I guess I’m partial to peach.”

  “Peach it is.” She jumped down, but leaned against a support beam, apparently in no hurry to leave. She picked up a piece of sandpaper and began rubbing it on one of the legs.

  “Here, use this.” Jeb handed her a rougher textured paper. “I start with the rougher paper, then, as the wood gets smoother, I switch to this finer stuff.” He showed her the difference between the papers.

  Meg took the rougher paper and tried it. “Oh, I see. How do you know all of this? Did your father teach you?”

  “He taught me the basics, and helped me get started.” He returned to his own work.

  “Hmmm . . . I’ll bet you’ll be able to teach a lot to your own children someday.”

  Jeb stopped sanding as images of making love to Meg raced through his mind so fast that his fingers forgot to work. He felt his face burn. He resumed sanding, not knowing what else to do.

  Meg turned to him, tilted her head, and sighed. “Jeb, when are you going to ask me to marry you?”

  Disappointed in himself for stalling too long, Jeb put down his sandpaper and turned to face her. “I was trying to come up with something special to say. Aren’t men supposed to have some poetic speech ready?”

  “I think you should just ask me.”

  “Will you marry me, Meg?”

  “Yes, I will.” She smiled.

  Jeb smiled back. “Well, that’s good news.” He thought of the question he had wanted to know the answer to before he proposed, although it was a little late now. “This is a bit backward, ’cause I should have asked you this first, but . . .”

  “You want to ask me about Win.”

  “You’re a step ahead of me, today. But yes, I do.” Jeb ran his hand through his hair and leaned awkwardly against a support beam. “I can deal with Win having feelings for you. Hell, I don’t see how he could help himself, you being you. I can’t do anything about it, but there’s no point in pretending I don’t see it.” He looked her in the eye. “But if you have feelings for him—”

  Meg held up her hand to stop him. “Win has always been in your life, and I want him to continue to be. He’s a part of my life, too, just like Gus is a part of
yours. Win won’t come between you and me any more than Gus will. We made a pact.”

  “Who? You and Win?”

  “The day you two left. You rode off, leaving me to say goodbye to him alone. I was a little hurt at first. I had wanted to tell you I’d be waiting for you, if you ever came to your senses, but you didn’t give me a chance. Win asked me if I’d be happy married to you. I told him I would, if you ever got around to asking me.”

  Jeb thought back to the day he and Win parted. That sonofabitch already knew. “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on around here?”

  “So it seems.” She smiled.

  “What was the pact about?”

  “Just foolishness—you know Win. He made me promise to be happy; I made him promise to not be angry at you—that sort of thing. Things people say when they part ways and want no ill will between them.”

  Jeb nodded. He and Win had done the same thing.

  “You’re the one I want to marry, Jeb.” Meg moved closer.

  Jeb wrapped his arms around her. She responded when he kissed her and he wondered why he’d waited so long to ask for her hand.

  “I’ll be right proud to call you Mrs. John Edward Dawson, Jr.”

  Meg pulled away, her eyes opened wide. “That’s your real name? John Edward?”

  “Yep. Jeb is just a nickname, from my initials.”

  Meg furrowed her brow. “Well, then, shouldn’t it be ‘Jed’?”

  He paused. “Yes, of course.” He hadn’t thought about it in years. “There’s a story there. It involves Win.” He waited for her reaction.

  “I suspect you have a million great stories and fond memories of Win. You don’t have to keep those to yourself.” She grinned and spread her arms out impatiently, exactly the way Win would do. “Let’s hear it!”