Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  Her response was barely audible. She stood up and hugged the quilt closer. “No. I can’t eat just yet” Like a prisoner she said, “I’d like to go back to my room now.”

  “Fine.” He stood up.

  Jessica moved as far as the door. The length and thickness of her hair amazed him. He never guessed such luxuriance could be bound and hidden beneath her helmet She was watching him intently, as if gathering the courage to ask a favor.

  “What is it?” he wanted to know.

  “Will you walk me to my room?”

  He knew then she couldn’t bear to pass by the parlor door alone. “Of course.”

  Rory followed her back through the house.

  JESSICA FOUND THE sewing basket in a low drawer in the armoire. It was full of thread, a tattered piece of calico stabbed with pins and needles, scissors, and scraps of paper patterns. Seated on the floor in front of the drawer, she paused briefly to study the jumbled contents. Had Martha Burnett known the last time she put the sewing basket away that she would never use it again? Or had Rory’s mother, like Whitey, been taken without warning, her possessions left in a suspended state, waiting for someone to bring them to life again? Waking up of a morning didn’t necessarily mean a person would live to see another day. The sudden, overwhelming realization weighed heavy on Jessica’s heart.

  Thrusting aside her dark thoughts, she set out to alter one of the calico dresses from the armoire. She chose one with a predominantly blue background. The print made her imagine the Colorado sky covered with tiny flowers of many shapes. Jess moved to the rocking chair and wadded the voluminous material in her lap as she worked. The sound of men shouting to one another as they worked with horses in the corral mingled with a slow, ominous pounding—hammer against nails—as Woody Barrows and Fred Hench put together Whitey’s coffin. The sad symphony went on forever.

  When her work was finished, Jessica stood and held the dress against her. Even after tucking in the waist, shortening the sleeves, and turning up the deep ruffled hem, the calico was still far from a good fit. The sounds outside had faded, the men had answered the call of a dinner bell. She ignored it. No one came to get her.

  Once she had donned the blue calico, she walked over to the dresser and reached up to slip the beads off the mirror. They felt cold against her hand. Jessica closed her fist around them and recalled Scratchy’s invitation: “Use anything you want.” She moved the strand through her fingers and pictured Martha Burnett as a strong woman, one definitely brave enough to survive the rigors of the harsh environment and the demands of life as a rancher’s wife. Perhaps some of the woman’s strength, or at the very least, a reminder of it, would come to her if she wore the beads.

  Finally, Jessica unfastened the clasp and lay the strand of beads against the bodice of her gown. She then chose another everyday dress with a yellow background for Myra. She thought her friend would fill it out amply. The only thing the dress needed was a new hem. Cautiously, wishing to avoid contact with Rory or any of the men, Jessica stepped out into the hallway and quickly walked to Myra’s door. She found her friend still propped against the pillow with a tray resting across her lap. The plate was empty, a cup of coffee half-full.

  “I found something for you to wear. When you think you can stand, I’ll measure it and hem it for you,” Jess volunteered.

  Myra’s smile of greeting faded. “I’m afraid that might be in quite a while. My ankle’s not only swollen, it’s black and blue.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  Myra shook her head. “Oh my, no. Mr. Livermore, the one they call Scratchy, has seen to everything. Did you have dinner?”

  Jess shook her head. “I told them I couldn’t eat yet.” She crossed the room and hung the dress on a hat rack.

  “The food is barely tolerable, but surely it’s been hours since you’ve had anything. Jessica, you have to eat.”

  Clutching her skirt, Jessica turned to face her companion again. “Not yet, Myra. Please.”

  “I wish I could go with you to pay my last respects to that dear boy.” Myra crossed her arms and stared at her swollen toes.

  Jessica felt a rush of anger. Myra’s words only served to increase her guilt. “I’ve never known you to go to a funeral in your life, Myra Thornton. You’ve always said you don’t believe in them. You said the body is only an empty shell, that the spirit is what lives on, and that funerals are only for the living.”

  “And I still believe that, but somehow burying the dead seems more natural out here, more in keeping with the comings and goings of life. These men aren’t worrying about what they’ll wear to the funeral, who they’ll see, or more importantly, who’ll see them. They haven’t altered their routine one whit. This afternoon they’ll see a friend through the final stages of his life on earth and then probably go out and rope a few cows or whatever else it is they do. Life goes on, Jessica. I have always believed that, but nowhere has it ever been more apparent to me than here. I wouldn’t feel hypocritical seeing Whitey buried, but unfortunately I can’t walk.”

  Jess rubbed her upper arms. Since last night she had been unable to rid herself of an all-pervasive chill.

  “Jessica.” Myra watched her intently. Too intently. “I’ve never been one to meddle, but I think you need to go put Whitey to rest. He, least of all, would want you to carry this burden.”

  Meeting Myra’s intense gaze, Jessica sighed. “I don’t think I can do it. It hurts.”

  “Of course it does, but you’re one of the strongest people I know. Look at all you’ve accomplished. You can get through this.”

  Jess felt cold, bitter laughter well up inside her. It bubbled close to the surface and threatened to escape. “Everything I ever accomplished was washed away in the flood last night.”

  “And now you’re ready to turn tail and run home.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Myra.” Voicing her doubt out loud helped very little.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, either, dear. You’ll have to search deep inside yourself for the answers.”

  “I’ll try,” Jessica promised. “You take care of yourself. If you need help, please call out. I’m just next door.” She took the tray off Myra’s lap, and still too much of a coward to return it to the kitchen and risk seeing anyone, she set it on the washstand and left just as the older woman was nodding off to sleep again.

  AFTERNOON SHADOWS had lengthened in the yard when Jessica heard low voices somewhere in the house. Soon the talk died away and she heard footsteps on the low, wide porch that circled the house. Standing beside her window, she could observe without being seen. Rory, tall and commanding in a clean white shirt, leather vest, and striped wool trousers, crossed the porch. His dark hair looked damp and neatly coaxed into place. Scratchy followed close on his heels. Behind them came the other four, two on each side of a plain pine coffin.

  Jessica leaned back against the wall and pressed her palms against the cold adobe surface. She stared up at the ceiling until the footsteps faded. Her vision blurred, her heart raced, her mouth was dry. “I’m sorry, Whitey,” she whispered into the emptiness.

  At first she thought she imagined the sudden calm that came over her, but when her pulse slowed and she gradually regained control of her senses, Jessica realized she was experiencing a state of overwhelming peace. She knew what she had to do. Without hesitation she walked to the armoire and slipped the one black gown off the hook. It was well made, of black bombazine, with simple lines. She removed the bead necklace, quickly unbuttoned the calico, tossed it on the bed, and pulled the black gown over her head. Thankfully it buttoned easily.

  The gown was inches too wide around the waist, so Jessica dug in the bottom drawer until she found a length of burgundy fabric she had seen earlier. She cut it in half and then banded it about her waist, pulling up the excess material. The drawer provided a
pair of black stockings, but they were hopelessly too large, so she abandoned them. Then, realizing she didn’t know what Scratchy had done with her shoes, she tugged more of the skirt out of the waistband to lengthen it and hide her feet.

  There were no pins to be found, so she was forced to wear her hair down. Sometime during the panic last night she had lost her glasses. She picked up the necklace and put it on again. There was nothing left to prevent her from leaving. She was ready.

  Her bare feet made no sound as she darted down the hall and out the door. She paused on the edge of the porch, shading her eyes, and found the men easily. All six were silhouetted against the sun on a low rise not far away. Lifting her skirt, Jessica ran across earth that had been churned soft by horses’ hooves. When she reached the edge of the barnyard where the ground was hard and peppered with stones and twigs, her tender soles made the going slower.

  By the time she reached the top of the knoll, she realized Rory Burnett had chosen to bury Whitey in his own family graveyard. As she drew closer she could hear Rory’s words riding on the breeze. “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein . . . ”

  The area surrounded by a crooked wrought-iron fence contained four headstones, all with the name Burnett engraved upon them. Not far away an open hole gaped in the earth, mounded dirt beside it, an abandoned shovel planted in the center of the pile.

  She drew near, ignoring the rough stones against her feet. Rory’s voice was loud and strong as he read from the open Bible in his hands. “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? Or who shall stand in his holy place?”

  Although no one looked at her, she knew they were all aware of her arrival. As she silently stood behind Woody Barrows the ring of men parted to admit her. Stepping forward, Jessica kept her eyes on the pine coffin deep inside the grave and clenched her hands at her waist.

  She concentrated on the words Rory read and the confident, soothing sound of his voice. “He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully. He shall receive the blessing from the Lord and righteousness from the God of his salvation.”

  Jessica looked across the open grave at Rory when he paused. She watched him close the Bible. Although he didn’t acknowledge her with more than a brief glance, she was relieved that his gaze held no condemnation.

  Rory looked around the small knot of mourners about the grave, the men Whitey considered family. “Whitey’s hands might not have been clean, literally, but he had a pure heart. He wasn’t vain or deceitful.” He paused again, stared down at the Bible, then went on. “Whitey wanted nothing more than to be accepted as one of us. I think we did that. I sent him to do a man’s job, as much as I regret it now. Today I’ve done a lot of thinking about my decision and the choices Whitey made out there in the desert. I did what I thought right. He did what he thought best. That’s all any of us need worry about.”

  Jessica shot him a worried glance and found him watching her intently. The words might have been issued over Whitey’s grave, but she knew Rory Burnett was speaking to her heart.

  “No one knows what God’s will is. My ma used to say that the Lord always has good reasons for what He does. We can’t pretend to know what those reasons are. I think that’s more than true in this case.”

  Fred Hench nodded in agreement.

  Tinsley murmured, “Amen.”

  Rory lifted a handful of red earth. “As far as any of us knows, Whitey didn’t have any family to speak of, so his trail’s ending here with my own kinfolk. Vaya con Dios. God go with you, Whitey.” He tossed the soil onto the coffin.

  The wiry man with the deeply grooved face put his hat on and took up the shovel. The others bent down to scoop up a handful each and tossed it into the grave. Almost in unison they put on their hats. A pair of boots lay on the ground beside Scratchy. Jess hadn’t noticed them before, but she recognized the tooled leather and curled toes. Whitey’s boots. She blinked back tears.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and watched while the grave was slowly filled with earth. No one moved to leave. No one spoke. The hollow sound of dirt hitting the wooden coffin echoed as loud as last night’s thunder in her ears. She studiously avoided eye contact with Rory Burnett; still, she could tell he was watching her.

  Scratchy looked her way and smiled. She nodded to him and then watched Barrows collect a simple cross made of two pieces of wood. He held it steady at the head of the grave as the gaunt man pounded it into the loose soil with the shovel. As Scratchy set the boots in the center of the fresh mound as a last farewell, the men turned away, one by one, and walked back down the knoll toward the ranch house.

  They were all alone now, just she and Rory, beside Whitey’s grave. Rory stood at ease, the Bible still in one hand. The book looked old and worn. She let her gaze drift away from the Bible to his eyes.

  He was watching her, waiting until she was ready to go. She stepped back and let him come round the grave to join her on the journey back down the hill. When she moved, his gaze lowered to the hem of her skirt.

  “You’re barefoot.”

  She pulled back the wide ruffle of the skirt until her pale feet showed. “Scratchy has my shoes.”

  When she looked up again, he was standing in front of her, close enough to touch her, far enough away to be polite. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by his nearness, she felt comforted. He was holding out the Bible.

  She took it. He knelt down before her. “Lift your foot.”

  She lifted her right foot. He cupped it gently in his hands and brushed the dirt off her sole then inspected it carefully. “Now the other,” he said.

  Jess did as he asked.

  When he was through, he said, “It doesn’t look like you cut them up. Feel any stickers?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m fine, really.”

  He stood up, but didn’t offer to take the Bible from her. She held it close and stared at the buttoned front of his white shirt. Finally she looked up again.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” His eyes were dark, searching.

  She knew he wasn’t asking about her feet. “I think so.”

  “Come with me,” he said. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he held out his hand.

  Jessica hesitated only a second before she took it.

  Chapter Eleven

  HE LED HER TO a gathering of boulders on the far side of the knoll. From there, a panoramic vista of open plain, mesas, and the dark shadow of Sleeping Ute Mountain stretched out to the horizon line. Rory sat on the top of a low slab of rock while Jessica leaned back against it. Together they watched a covey of quail scurry down through dry brush. He glanced over, found her watching the quail intently, and couldn’t take his eyes off her. He had never seen anyone looking as forlorn or as beautiful. The oversized, somber black dress, so pitifully gathered and tied around her waist, made her seem even more vulnerable. He recognized his mother’s beads around her neck.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  She started visibly. “I was just wondering how those quail could disappear so completely and quickly.”

  He followed her gaze toward the scrub brush scattered over the hillside below. There was no trace of quail.

  “If I only had the power, I’d do the same thing,” she added.

  When she blinked back tears, he found himself wanting to take her into his arms and rid her of her pain. He would make it his own if need be—but he didn’t even try, knowing she would be furious at him for calling attention to her weakness.

  Instead he said, “I didn’t take you for a quitter.”

  She turned to him. He could see the shadows in the near-translucent skin beneath her red-rimmed eyes. Although she hadn’t shed a tear since they left the gravesite, her eyes glistened. “I have
nothing left. Everything is gone.”

  “You have proof that saurians existed in this area. Your boss doesn’t know you’ve lost everything yet—”

  “No, but before I can go back in the field, I’ll have to write and ask them to send the funds to replace everything. But some things are irreplaceable. My notes, the crate of fossils that Whitey and I . . . ” At the mention of the boy’s name, her voice faded away. She stared out at the plateau again.

  “Surely when you let them know you had already found plenty of fossils, they’ll replace everything you lost.” Jessica rubbed her forehead with her fingertips and then spoke slowly and carefully. “When I tell them about the tracks and then about the few mismatched and muddled fossils in the riverbed, and when I go on to explain that I have managed, through my own stupidity and stubbornness, to lose not only the supplies but all of the equipment, not to mention a man’s life . . . well, I have no doubt but that they’ll insist I return immediately. Gerald Ramsey will have no choice but to do what he wanted in the first place; he’ll send a man to do the job.”

  She worked a small pebble near her big toe out of the dirt. In a sarcastic tone she added, “He’ll probably send my former assistant, Jerome Stoutenburg, if no one else is available.” With a lithe movement, she hefted herself onto the rock and sat beside Rory. Her bare toes, dusted with the red earth, peeked out from beneath the ruffled hem of the black dress. “At this point I wouldn’t doubt that he could do a better job of it.”

  Her spirits were lower than he thought. Not only did she still feel responsible for Whitey, but she considered herself a failure as well. He knew Jessica Stanbridge tried so hard not to give in to emotion that offering her sympathy and condolence would not work, but goading her might.

  “That’s about the sorriest speech I’ve ever heard,” he said with a snort.