Lauraine Snelling - [Wild West Wind 01]

by Valley of Dreams

  When all four of them had sat down at the table, Mavis smiled at each one of her children. “Thanks for the help. All of a sudden I got behind. Lucas, please say grace.” She bowed her head.

  Ransom caught a frown flit across his brother’s face before he bowed his head. Why would that be? He’d also caught a glare from Gretchen. She was not happy with her other brother, that was for sure.

  As soon as the amen ended, Lucas reached for the steak platter right in front of him and helped himself before passing it to Ransom. Suddenly aware of the silence, Lucas looked at his mother, who nodded toward Gretchen. “What’s wrong?”

  “Weren’t you supposed to be here to milk the cow?”

  “Sorry, but I was bringing the applewood down for the smoker.”

  “You never milk anymore. I got home late, and poor Bess was bellering at the barn door.”

  “That’s not quite true, but . . .” He paused and stared at her. “How come you got home late?”

  “Jenna passed me a note and Mrs. Micklewhite saw. We had to stay after school and clean the whole classroom.” Gretchen poured some gravy on her potatoes. “I warned Jenna.”

  “What?” Mavis asked.

  “That I won’t be her friend anymore if she passes me notes again.”

  Ransom and his mother exchanged looks of surprise.

  “I don’t ever want to have to stay after school again.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Lucas, you always have excuses for not milking. It was your turn.”

  Ransom dished himself some potatoes, passed the bowl to his mother, and reached for the gravy. It was beginning to look like Lucas had offended them all.

  “Hey, I said I was sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t mean a thing to you. You just go on doing what you want.”

  “Gretchen.” Mavis frowned.

  “It’s not fair, Ma, and you know it. He makes sure that whatever he is doing takes longer, just ’cause he hates to milk.”

  “I don’t hate it.”

  “Yes you do. I heard you say so.” Gretchen glared daggers at her brother.

  Ransom kept his mouth shut. It was time someone else said something to Lucas besides him.

  “Men shouldn’t have to milk cows. That’s women’s work.”

  Mavis’s eyebrows arched into creases. “Oh really?” She narrowed her eyes. “Since when did that matter in our family?”

  “She’s grown up enough now to understand things like that.”

  “Well, I thought I reared you all to help where help was needed,” Mavis said, “none of this men’s work and women’s work. When the work needs to be done, we do it together.”

  “But, Ma, that’s not the way the world works.”

  “That’s the way it works here, and we will hear no more about this.” Each word was clipped, as if cut with one of the newly sharpened knives. “If you don’t want to milk anymore, then you’d better figure out a different plan. Talking to the two females in this house might be a good place to start. We believe keeping one’s word is important.”

  “Can’t a man eat in peace in his own house?” Lucas slammed his hands flat on the table.

  Mavis leaned forward. “This is our house, Lucas Engstrom, not just your house. And now, I think this has gotten out of hand. We will all calm down and finish our supper and enjoy our chocolate pie for dessert. Any questions?”

  Ransom thought for sure Lucas was going to storm out, but he clamped his jaw shut and nodded. Surely this wasn’t the end of the matter.

  20

  ON THE TRAIL

  The sun peeped over the horizon.

  Cassie and her mismatched group creaked out on the road, setting the pattern for the coming days. After long days on the trail, they set up camp before dusk and ate the leftovers from Mrs. Hornsmith and whatever meat they’d shot or snared. In the mornings they ate a cold meal and drove as far as they could, following the instructions the pastor had given them. They bypassed the towns when they could, stopping only once to refill their water barrel at a local pump.

  Runs Like a Deer became stronger and started riding up on the seat beside the wagon driver, bracing her splinted leg on the footboard.

  Cassie watched her talking with Micah and realized that the Indian woman saved special tidbits especially for him. One day Cassie caught a knowing look from Chief that made her smile. Might a budding romance be happening right before their eyes?

  When she mentioned something about Runs Like a Deer to Micah, he looked at her in confusion.

  “She’s getting stronger,” was all he said.

  Driving through rain on the second day, Cassie wished she had stayed in the wagon. Water was dripping off her hat and down her neck, in spite of her wool coat. They all needed raincoats, but not only was there no money, there was no town nearby where they could find a store.

  When they stopped, Chief and Micah rigged up a tarp attached to the wagon and built the fire at the edge of it, using wood they’d brought along that was dry. Hot coffee tasted mighty good, and being the last they had, even better. Cassie heated the beans on the stove in the wagon, and they all ate under the cover of the tarp.

  “At least it isn’t snowing,” she said to Chief.

  “Not yet.”

  “You think it will?”

  He shrugged. “Possible. You like a cat.”

  “A cat? How’s that?” She shivered at a gust of wind.

  “Hate being wet.”

  Micah and Runs Like a Deer joined in with Chief’s laugh.

  Cassie tried to laugh with them, but laughing was difficult through clenched teeth. She shivered again. “Sorry. I’m going inside.”

  “You want me to bring you more wood?” Micah asked.

  “Thank you, no. I can manage that myself.” But he beat her to the door and, after opening it for her, followed her inside, carrying an armload, some needing drying. He added wood to the stove, put the lids back in place, smiled at her, and left.

  “Thank you,” she said as he stepped out the door.

  His nod said he’d heard her.

  Cassie rubbed her hands together over the stove, and then rubbed her upper arms to get the circulation going. Hanging up her coat and scarf, she hooked her hat on the peg by the door. She pulled a sweater she’d found in a cupboard over her head and then removed her damp shirt from underneath it. The wool, although a bit moth-eaten, warmed her within seconds. She pulled her quilt out of the cupboard, wrapped it around herself, and then sat down at the table, where the lamp spread a pool of light as soon as the match touched the wick. Within minutes she’d stopped shivering and could feel the warmth from the stove on her face. It was too early to go to bed, and while she could hear her companions talking outside, she had no desire to join them.

  Instead, she drew out the drawer that was stuffed with the papers she’d found in various hidey-holes and removed a stack to look through. Bills, some marked Paid and others said Due Now in large letters. Please Pay and Overdue marked others. All of those she stacked in one pile. They would make good fire starter. She paused. If she was half owner of the show, like Jason had said, was it her responsibility to pay these bills? Would creditors come after her? What would her father have done?

  Her father wouldn’t have let the show get into trouble like it did, that was for sure. She thought of all the tents and wagons and animals and all the supplies left behind. Who had all that now? Did some other show come in and buy it up? Wouldn’t that money go to pay the bills? But how could it, if she had the papers with her? She rubbed her forehead. There was no one she could ask. But there might be someday. The stack of bills didn’t take up a lot of room, so they would stay.

  She returned to her sorting, draping the quilt over the back of the chair now that she was warmed up. Letters discussing travel plans and locations where the show would be performed went in another pile. For some reason she decided to keep those. On her third stack, she opened an old envelope and found the bill of sale for the wagon. Her father’s signature se
aled the transaction. That she put in the separate to-be-kept-for-sure pile.

  Leaving the piles on the table, she climbed up on the open end of the bunk bed, ignoring all the things they had stored on the top bunk and reaching for the three drawers that butted up against the ceiling. Pulling them all out, she had to give a hard jerk on one that was stuck, but it gave up, screaming as it broke free. She climbed back down and moved the drawers to rest on the woodbox. Which reminded her she should add some wood to the fire. She dug two pieces out from the now covered box and stuffed them into the stove, impatient to get to the drawers. They looked like they’d not been opened for many years. Probably too difficult for Jason to climb up there.

  Back at the table she quickly realized these were from the days when her mother was alive. She found letters from Norway, programs from the early shows, a daguerreotype of a young girl and her horse. Another of a very sober-looking couple, her mother and father on what must have been their wedding day. Mother was wearing a traveling suit of a light color, and Father was dressed in a dark cutaway coat with vest and cravat, both of them high fashion for the day. Had she possibly seen this picture as a little girl when her mother was telling her of her life in Norway? She didn’t remember it. She sank down on the lone chair and leaned closer to the lamp to study their dear faces. What a dashing couple they were.

  She put the picture down and went back to sorting. A small velvet box in the bottom in a corner caught her attention. She opened it carefully to find a ring in the slot. Holding it to the light, the stone seemed alive in the glow. An opal ring. Her mother’s opal ring. She slipped it from the nest and onto her third finger on her right hand. She now had something precious of her mother’s, something she’d dreamed of all these years. Not that she needed a memento to remember her by, but a treasure. Not for the value of it, if there was any, but something her mother wore and loved.

  Putting it back in its nest, she closed the box and resolved that when she finished sorting, she’d pull her trunk from under the table and secret this down in a corner where it would be safe. Or should she put it back in the same drawer? Obviously no one ever went up there.

  She found camisoles, shirtwaists, and various belts, gloves, and even a fan. She shook them all out, wiped the drawer, and packed them back where she’d found them. A packet of fancy hatpins reminded her how much her mother had loved hats. Although she’d never worn a western hat in the show, she had in the parade, but her real joy was fancy hats with feathers and silk flowers and ribbons and all manner of vibrant decorations. Cassie left the ring box on the table and climbed back up to put the drawers in their slots.

  When the wagon chilled off, she got up and put more wood in the stove, opening the vents to help it catch more quickly. A knock at the door and Chief asked if Runs Like a Deer could come in to bed.

  “Of course. It’s not locked.” She knew she sounded cranky, but instead of apologizing, she fetched another pack of papers from one of the lower drawers and started sorting it. She said good-night to Runs Like a Deer and kept on sorting. Some for the fire starter, some, like the bill of purchase for a black-and-white pinto gelding, also bearing her father’s signature, went in the to-keep pile.

  A five-dollar bill fell out of a folded paper. She read the paper and added it to the burn pile. When the room cooled again, she put the to-be-kept pile in one drawer and put the to-burn papers in the woodbox by the stove. Stretching, she caught back a yawn. Morning would be there before she was ready. Wrapped in her quilt and swinging into her hammock, she thought of the papers her father had signed. At least they were with her and not at the mercy of some unknown person.

  “Thank you, Lord,” she whispered, “for the man who was my father, for these papers to help me remember what a fine man he was. I’m not sure how he could be friends with Jason Talbot, but maybe when my father was alive, Jason was a better man.”

  BAR E RANCH

  I am not getting angry with Lucas today.

  Ransom stared at the ceiling. He could hear his mother in the kitchen already and Gretchen slamming the door on her way to the barn. By the time he was dressed and pulling his boots on, his mind had gone up in the woods to cut trees. One person could not use the crosscut saw alone. Had Lucas set the elk shoulders in the brine? He banged on his brother’s bedroom door as he went by.

  “He’s out cutting up that apple tree to fit in the smokehouse. He’s already started the fire in there,” Mavis said, answering his question.

  Great, so now I owe him an apology for thinking him a lie-abed? Ransom shrugged into his coat.

  “Breakfast is nearly ready.”

  “Call us.” His breath clouded white when he stepped out the door onto the back porch, which stretched half the length of the log house. Pulling his leather gloves on, he strode across the frost-crisped grass to the woodpile.

  “You’re just in time.” Lucas settled the now limbless apple log into the log holder and grabbed the short crosscut saw off the woodshed wall. They took the opposite sides and fell into the pulling rhythm. He remembered his father yelling, “Just pull. You push and you’ll bind the saw up.” So people often called it the pull-pull saw. As they ripped the log into foot-and-a-half lengths, he watched his brother.

  “You going to help me cut pine trees after breakfast?”

  “I will, and then we have two places where the fences need repair.” Fixing fence, like so many other ranch chores, was always easier done by two pairs of hands than one.

  Lucas grabbed the other log and set it across the two Xs of the stand built especially for this job. They were chopping up the bigger branches by the time Mavis called them to eat.

  Gretchen came flying down the hall and slid into her chair, finishing her second braid as she sat. Ransom said grace, and she dug into her bowl of oatmeal. “I might be late again today.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t remember if Mrs. Micklewhite said one or two days.” She made a face at her eldest brother. “And yes, I learned my lesson. I will not pass notes in class again.”

  “You knew better.” Ransom hid a grin behind a spoonful of oatmeal. He lifted the bowl off the plate for his mother to slide two fried eggs and two slices of fried cornmeal mush onto it.

  “That enough?”

  “For now.” He finished his oatmeal and reached for the warmed syrup pitcher. “We’re cutting pine trees first and then fixing fence after dinner.”

  “So will you watch the smoker and make sure there’s enough wood in it?”

  “I will. You already have the meat hanging in there?”

  Lucas nodded.

  He must have been up mighty early, Ransom thought, taking a drink of coffee. Amazing that he didn’t bang on my door. Lucas had spent his early years trying to keep up with his big brother. The day he won a footrace he’d shouted his glee to the heavens. Ransom may have pulled up a little to let his little brother win, but pride should have kept him from doing so. And yet he’d often taken the discipline of his father because he was the older and should have known better. Both boys well knew where the razor strop hung and what it felt like wielded across their rears when Pa got angry.

  Gretchen drank her mug of half coffee, half milk and grabbed her plate and silverware to dump in the dishpan on the stove. Then shoving her arms into her coat, she kissed her mother’s cheek and flew out the door to where her saddled horse was waiting.

  Mavis smiled. “It was all I could do yesterday not to burst out laughing when Gretchen said she told Jenna that she wouldn’t be her friend if Jenna passed a note again.” She snort-chuckled. “When that girl gets something on her mind, it takes an act of God to change it. A lot like her pa that way.”

  “A lot like Pa for sure,” Ransom agreed.

  “Need a refill?” Mavis asked, coffeepot in hand.

  “And some more of the fried mush,” Lucas said as he held his cup up.

  When his mother held up the pancake turner, Ransom nodded. “If there’s enough.”

  “I
made extra.” Mavis served some to herself and sat back down. “Were there any more apples up on the trees?”

  “Some at the top. The deer got all the ones on the ground.”

  “I thought a few more would be good. I’ve not made apple butter yet, and I hate to use the ones down in the cellar.”

  Lucas looked to Ransom, who nodded. “We’ll bring them down at dinner.”

  “I could maybe make an apple pie if you do.”

  Apple pie was Lucas’s favorite dessert.

  “Do you think there are enough up there to have a cider party?” Both Mavis and Ransom looked to Lucas. He was the last one to have been up there.

  He thought a moment. “Not sure. But if we announced the party, we could ask others to bring their leftover apples to press too.”

  Mavis nodded. “I’ve been thinking I’d like to have a party of some kind here. This would be ideal. There’s nothing like fresh-pressed apple cider.”

  “Ma, it’s not cider until it sits a few days and the bubbles start to rise.” Lucas grinned at his mother. She always canned the first of the presses so it would keep. Apple juice left alone began to ferment. Hard cider was really fermented apple juice, the sugar all turned to alcohol.

  “If you want, you could press some a couple of days early. Let me get a calendar. I’m thinking this Saturday might be good a time as any.”

  “That’s not far away. No time for an announcement at church.” Ransom didn’t have a lot to say on this. They knew his feelings on parties and such. He’d run the apple press. That way he wouldn’t have to carry on conversations with those of the feminine gender.

  “Shame we don’t have room for dancing.”

  “No, we are not moving the hay in the middle of the barn.” Lucas grinned at his mother. “But if the weather holds, we could dance in front of the barn, like we have in the past. Dance enough and you’ll keep warm.”

  “We could have a bonfire.”

  Ransom gave up. He could see that between the two this was indeed a done deal, and while his mother would say there wasn’t a lot to do, he knew differently. He’d learned from experience. He got up to get the coffeepot and refilled all their cups. This could take awhile.