Stephen Bly's Horse Dreams Trilogy: Memories of a Dirt Road, the Mustang Breaker, Wish I'd Known You Tears Ago

by Stephen A. Bly

  “I don’t imagine the countess ever had to scurry anywhere.”

  “I think she scurried out of Mexico when the French were driven out.”

  Develyn laced her fingers in front of her rib cage. “Maximillian von Hapsburg was executed in Mexico in 1867. Napoleon III had pulled the French troops out before then. They didn’t build this mansion until the 1890s. They were up to something for those twenty-five years. Perhaps they ran contraband out of Africa.”

  “Oh, so the schoolteacher is coming out. I prefer something more refined. Perhaps there was court intrigue. Or supporting the wrong side in the revolution.”

  “What revolution?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Casey grinned.

  “I just wonder how old she was when she moved to Wyoming. I will have to Google this next time I’m online.”

  As if practicing karate, Casey led the way, slicing through occasional cobwebs. The second floor consisted of six large, empty rooms.

  “This one leads out to the tiny balcony over the front door.”

  “That makes this the ladies’ parlor, the sitting room,” Develyn explained.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Many houses from that era were built this way. The ladies in the house would sit here and read or sew as they awaited dinner.”

  “Where would the men be?”

  “Down in the drawing room, the one with all the shelves, smoking pipes and cigars.”

  “Devy-girl, did you ever smoke a decent cigar?”

  “I’m not going to fall for that bait.”

  “I think this is the biggest house I’ve ever been in.”

  “I’m still amazed that it survived this well. Other old buildings we’ve seen in Wyoming are about to fall over,” Develyn added.

  “With that rim of the canyon so close to the house, it gets dark here early.”

  “Yes, and they must have had only kerosene or oil lamps. All this natural gas so close, but undiscovered.”

  “That’s just like me!”

  “Natural gas?”

  “Great value so close, yet undiscovered.” Casey marched through the rooms again. “Listen, Ms. Worrell, I do have two serious questions. How in the world do we get out of this canyon before it’s pitch dark?”

  “And the second question?”

  “How did they get up to the third floor? There’s no stairway.”

  “Perhaps the stairway collapsed.”

  “If it did, there should be some ruins, or a hole in the ceiling where it used to go through … or something.”

  “There has to be stairs somewhere.”

  “You find them.”

  Casey and Develyn circled the rooms two more times, then returned to the central parlor. “This room on the south side must have been the main one,” Dev said. “It has the dumbwaiter. Maybe they never finished those rooms upstairs.”

  “Then why the curtains on the windows? And even if unfinished, there would be a stairway someplace. No one would haul building materials this far for a façade … would they?”

  “Oh, you know the Countess LaSage. She always seemed a little strange.”

  Casey waltzed around the empty room. “Do you remember the time she showed up at the costume ball dressed as an eggplant?”

  Develyn slipped her arm into Casey’s. “Or how about the time she fired her entire kitchen staff because of burnt toast?”

  “Speaking of burnt toast.” Casey waved her thick black braid. “How about the time she appeared as a ghost at the back door and scared the heebie-jeebies out of that blonde choregirl!”

  “Choregirl? Don’t get personal,” Develyn said.

  “The dumbwaiter!” Casey shouted.

  “The dumbwaiter, what?”

  “That’s how they got to the third flour. It’s like a citadel in a castle, the fortress within a fortress. Does the dumbwaiter go up from here?”

  Casey and Develyn scampered to the open cupboard with ropes. When Casey tugged on the rope, the shelf rose higher and higher.

  “It does go up!” Casey exclaimed.

  “I’m sure they could transfer goods from every level. But it’s not an elevator.”

  “But it could be a temporary one.”

  Develyn pulled off her straw cowboy hat and scratched the back of her head. “What are you talking about?”

  “One of us should get in there while the other one cranks her up to the third floor.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Dev, how many times do we get a chance to take our life to a new level?”

  “Is that what that saying means? Just who do you think should crawl in that hole?”

  “Naturally, the strongest one should pull the ropes and the lightest one ride.”

  “You want me to risk my life in a tiny coffin held up by one-hundred-year-old rotten ropes?”

  “I want you to have the joy of discovery.”

  “What am I going to discover?” Develyn folded her arms across her chest.

  “Fabulous jewels … or … dead bodies … or both!”

  “I don’t think I like this, Casey.”

  “You know it has to be this way. I can’t crawl in there. I’m just too, eh …”

  “Shapely?”

  “Yes, and you’re too much of a wimp to pull me up. The only way we’ll find out what’s up there is for you to hop in.”

  “Or we could leave and just assume it is as empty as the rest of the house.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that to you.”

  “To me?”

  “Devy-girl, you know for a fact all winter long you’d lay awake in your king-sized Indiana bed and …”

  “Queen-sized …”

  “… and say to yourself, ‘If only we had checked out that third floor. My entire life would have been different. If I had only listened to that attractive and very charming African-Irish-Mexican-Native American bronze bombshell.”

  “That’s what I’m going to think all winter long?”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure of it.”

  Develyn hiked over to the dumbwaiter and peered in. “Casey, this is beyond crazy.”

  “Of course it is. What’s your point?”

  “I could hurt myself. What if the ropes break?”

  “You can only fall one floor. That’s no worse than jumping off the roof of your house. Everyone’s done that.”

  “I never did that.”

  “What do you do on Halloween in Indiana? Anyway, trust me. You won’t get hurt.”

  “Why is it that every time I’ve been told, ‘trust me,’ I’ve been hurt?”

  “That’s because of the people you used to hang around with. Now that you have raised your quality of friendships, you will have to develop more trust.”

  Develyn pointed to the shadows in the yawning mouth of the dumbwaiter. “What if there are spiders up there?”

  “Yeah, well, if you just want to speculate on the unknown … what if Leonardo DiCaprio is up there waiting for you with champagne and caviar?”

  “Eh … DiCaprio doesn’t do it for me. He’s way too young.”

  “Would you prefer Mel Gibson with grande-breve latte and a low-carb Subway sandwich? Or Sean Connery with Ensure and a bowl of Jell-O?”

  “I’ll take Mel.”

  “There you go. Hop in, Ms. Worrell. Mel awaits you.”

  “Do you promise me nothing totally gross will happen?”

  “I cannot imagine anything disastrous.”

  “I can.” Develyn crawled into the dumbwaiter and tucked her knees under her chin. “What am I supposed to do when I get to the third story?”

  “Holler down what you see.”

  “You want me to lower the dumbwaiter down and pull you up?” Develyn asked.

  “No way. You aren’t going to get me in there!”

  “Not even for DiCaprio?�
� Develyn teased.

  “Not even for DaVinci.” Casey tugged on the dusty, rough hemp ropes.

  The little closet darkened, the air stagnated and the pulleys squeaked as Develyn lurched upward.

  I don’t like to be confined. You know that, Lord. In the middle of the boonies of Wyoming I crawl into a box smaller than a coffin. This is insane. This is not working. I’ve got to get out of here. Right now!

  Just as Develyn kicked her feet forward, the squeaking stopped. The dumbwaiter slammed against the top beam. Her feet forced a cabinet door open, and twilight broke across her. She crawled out into a huge room that looked as if it encompassed most of the entire third floor.

  It’s furnished! This room … this suite is still furnished!

  She heard Casey yell something, but it was so muffled she couldn’t distinguish the words. There was a thin layer of yellowish dust over everything in the room.

  She surveyed a high bed with tall white posts trimmed in gold, wardrobe closet, dressers, a sitting desk, and big leather chairs. A silver and black dress with full skirt hung, yellow-dusted, on a wooden peg in the far wall. She found oil lanterns, a cherry-wood pen set, with black ink … long dried. Oriental rugs spread across the wooden floor. Pewter-framed photographs stood as a witness to former occupants. On the wood paneling at the far side was an oval oil portrait of a beautiful dark-haired lady in royal attire. Develyn tiptoed over and studied the brass plate at the bottom of the frame.

  Lord, I feel like I’m intruding. This is the countess’ private room. These are her things. This was her life. It’s like a time machine. I halfway expect her to walk out of the closet and ask what I’m doing here. What am I doing here?

  She heard bangs and shouts from the second floor.

  Casey! I have to find the stairs.

  A polished mahogany door on the west side of the room revealed a steep staircase. Develyn crept down the darkened stairs. The only light came from the open third-story door behind her. When she reached the bottom, she groped the wall and found a cold brass door handle. She turned it slowly and flung it open. “Ta-Dah!” she hollered.

  A strong arm slapped around her shoulders, threw her against the wall. A hunting knife waved in front of her nose. Then the strong arms dropped away from her.

  A wide smile appeared. “Devy-girl, you scared me to death.”

  “I scared you? Casey, where did you get that knife?”

  “I always carry a knife.”

  “Where do you carry it?”

  “Don’t ask.” Casey peered up the stairway. “Is Mel Gibson up there?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Are there spiders?”

  “I didn’t see any.”

  “What is up there?”

  “You’ll have to come see. Why didn’t we find this doorway?” Develyn asked.

  “The door handle must have fallen off. Or got stolen. With recessed hinges, it just looks like the paneling.”

  “All her things are still up there,” Develyn whispered.

  “The countess?”

  “I believe so.” When they reached the room, Develyn waved her arms. “Just look at everything.”

  Casey shoved her cowboy hat back. “Is that her picture?”

  Develyn folded her hands in front of her, like a schoolteacher on the first day of class. “No, I believe that is Empress Eugenie. She was the …”

  “… Scottish/Spanish royal who married Napoleon III, and went into exile with him to England after he was defeated by Otto von Bismarck at the Battle of Sedan on September 2, 1870,” Casey finished.

  “Eh … yes, I think so …” Develyn murmured. “How did you know that?”

  “I watched Jeopardy a lot when I was a kid.” Casey stalked around the room. “Wow, is this cool or what?”

  “Miss Cree-Ryder, I think you’re a straight-A student hiding behind a rough-and-tumble wilderness girl routine.”

  “I didn’t get straight A’s,” Casey shrugged.

  “It wouldn’t have surprised me …”

  “I got a lousy B+ in trig on my last quarter, thanks to good old Mr. Whitney.”

  “Tough subject?”

  “Nah, I seldom needed to crack a book. I think it had something to do with letting the air out of the tires of his old VW … and the dead raccoon in his trunk.”

  “You did that?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that. Let’s just say he deserved it.” Casey strolled to the dresser. “Shoot, he probably deserved to be in jail.” She plucked up an ivory-handled brush and blew dust clouds off it. “Maybe we should finish looking around. Because I still don’t have a clue how to get us out of this canyon, a fact that doesn’t seem to concern you at all.” She brushed her bangs and grinned in a dirt-filtered mirror.

  “We’ll use the secret trail up the back of the canyon.”

  “What secret trail?”

  “There is always a secret trail out of a box canyon. Didn’t you ever watch those B westerns when you were a kid?”

  “What’s a B western? Ronald Reagan was president when I was a kid.”

  Develyn studied the dress hanging on the wall. “You know what, Miss Cree-Ryder? We ought to stay here tonight.”

  “In this house?”

  “In this room.” Develyn opened a bright red and green Chinese fan in front of her face. “I don’t think the countess will mind.”

  Casey picked up a glass lantern and sloshed the oil. “Do you have a match?” She tugged open a drawer. “Oh … here!” With a flip of the wrist the long stem match was lit, then the soaked wick of the lantern. “We didn’t exactly come prepared for an overnight stay. We really need to go.”

  “Casey, you’ve always been so negative. Even when we were little girls, you never wanted to sleep in the tent in the backyard.”

  Casey laughed. “I love it! What a hoot you turned out to be, Ms. Worrell. I would have liked to have grown-up with you around, provided we were closer in years. Actually, I was born in a tent.”

  “You were?” Develyn pulled open a dresser drawer and surveyed the neatly folded silk scarves.

  “Over at Wounded Knee, in South Dakota.”

  “You mean, during the siege and all?”

  “The official siege started February 27, 1973, and lasted seventy-one days. I was born after that. Mother got there too late, but said she was going to camp right there until the baby was born. I think it caused a ruckus, but the government was shy about doing anything. I was born in a teepee.”

  “OK, so maybe the tent camping thing was a bad joke. But let’s just stay here. Will your truck and trailer be alright out there on the prairie?”

  “Sure, it’s a trailhead, and there are always some rigs parked there in antelope hunting season.”

  “How about the horses?”

  Cree-Ryder jammed on a huge hat full of silk lilies. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, it’s you, honey. By all means, wear that to the royal ball.”

  “Yeah, right.” Casey pulled off the hat. “We could picket the horses in the backyard and toss the tack on the porch. Uncle Henry will wander around, but he won’t go anywhere without mama.”

  Develyn scooted across the room and grabbed Casey’s arm. “Let’s do it.”

  “Devy, there are two small problems. First, we don’t have any clothes to change into. We’ll get hypothermia or something if we don’t put on something dry. I don’t know about you, but my clothes are still splashed.”

  Develyn tugged open a huge wardrobe closet door. “No clothes? Hmmm. And the other problem?”

  “We don’t have any food, sweetie. Why don’t you phone Quint and have him parachute down a care package from the Imperial Dynasty in Casper?”

  “I am not calling Quint for anything,” Develyn snapped.

  “Is that what this is all about? Hiding out from Quint?”

  “No. Well, not
entirely. I’m not hiding. I just don’t mind having something else to do.” Develyn peered at the dresses in the wardrobe. “Did you ever want to pretend you were a countess?”

  Casey waved her black braid at Develyn. “Why do I get the feeling you will be the princess and I will be your lady-in-waiting?”

  “No, we are sister countesses.”

  Casey pointed to her dark brown skin. “If we are sisters, then our mama has been fooling around.”

  “Casey, this is just pretend. No one can see us, so we can be sisters if we want.”

  “Well, sis,” Casey grinned, “which one of us goes out to tend the horses?”

  “That’s your job.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are younger, and I have to fix up our room. I’ll shake out the quilts and dust a bit.”

  Casey headed toward the stairs. “Perhaps you can ring for the servants to send up supper in the dumbwaiter.”

  Develyn had three lanterns burning, including one at the top of the narrow stairs, when Casey returned. “You’re soaked.”

  “It’s raining,” Casey reported.

  “How are the horses?”

  “Uncle Henry stomped up on the back porch, so My Maria and Popcorn followed him. They’ll be OK. I slapped the hobbles on them. If it stops raining, they will probably eat the tall weeds in the backyard.” Casey surveyed the room. “You’ve been a busy countess.”

  “I shook out the comforter, then swept and dusted, but it’s still musty.” Develyn pointed at the far wall. “I discovered that cupboard is full of firewood.”

  “Oh, do we get to burn the place down?”

  “I lit a match and it did draft up the chimney. I think it works. I think we should build a fire.”

  “You didn’t find any supper?”

  “No, but I found this.” Develyn swung open a closet door.

  “Clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You aren’t expecting us to dress up like nineteenth-century Victorian countesses, are you?” Casey laughed.

  Develyn pulled out one of the dresses and held it to her chin. “Of course I am.”

  “There is no way this Native-American, Mexican bod can fit in one of those.”

  “How about your African American-Irish bod?”

  “I don’t think so.”