by Cindy Myers
“Where can I find them?”
“There won’t be anyone there today. You can leave the boxes with me and I’ll see that they get them.” She followed Maggie to the Jeep and helped her haul the boxes into the store. “Is there anything else you need up at the cabin?” she asked. “Are you staying warm enough?”
“I’m becoming a pro at starting a fire in the wood stove, and I’ve figured out the gravity-fed water system,” Maggie said.
“That’s the spirit,” Lucille said. “You’ll be a real mountain woman before you know it.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She couldn’t see herself living in the cabin full time, though maybe she’d keep it and visit in the summer. It could be her special retreat—someplace Carter had never been. The idea pleased her.
“That was a nice get-together last night for your dad,” Lucille said. “He would have gotten a kick out of it, especially when Big Mama stopped by.”
“Oh? Did he like bears?”
“He liked all kinds of animals,” Lucille said. “He had a cat for a while. He just called her Mama Cat. But I think some wild animal got her and after that he said the wilderness was no place for a pet.”
“Instead, he made a pet out of a bighorn sheep.”
“So you’ve met Winston.” Lucille chuckled. “One of Murph’s wilder eccentricities.”
“Last night it sounded as if people really liked my dad,” Maggie said. “But did they think of him as, well, odd?” Was that what her mother had meant when she said Jacob hadn’t been well after the war?
“Not odd, exactly,” Lucille said. “He was one to stick up for the underdog. You know how he came to build Danielle and Janelle’s chicken coop, don’t you?”
Maggie shook her head.
“There were people in town who didn’t approve of the girls’ ‘lifestyle.’ Most of the time it was low-level harassment—graffiti spray-painted on the back wall of the café; one time someone egged Janelle’s car. But then someone set fire to their chicken coop. They lost most of their chickens and half a tool shed, too. Murph showed up two days later with a load of cinder blocks and tin. He built a fire-proof chicken coop and a new shed, and let it be known around town that if he ever found out who was giving the girls grief, that person would come to wish he’d never been born.”
“And the trouble stopped?”
“Pretty much. Once Murph stepped up, others began to speak out in defense of the girls, too.”
“People were that afraid of my father?”
“Mostly they respected him. He was a man who kept his word, whether he was promising to help you roof your barn or defending his friends.”
Then why hadn’t he kept his word to his wife and daughter, and honored his wedding vows and stayed to look after Maggie?
As far as Cassie was concerned, the sooner Maggie Stevens went back to wherever she was from, the better. She had as much business staying up there in Jake’s cabin as a ptarmigan deciding to winter at the beach. If only she’d showed up in winter. Then the first blizzard to dump a couple of feet of snow up there would no doubt send her packing. Instead, she’d arrived on the cusp of summer, the prettiest time of year in the mountains.
Cassie could only hope the altitude would get to her. Or she’d miss her home in Houston and decide to head back. Then Cassie knew exactly what she’d do; what she should have done long before now. She’d drive up there and search the cabin. Jake had that book and Cassie would find it.
These thoughts filled her mind as she prepared to chair the meeting of the Eureka County Historical Society the Friday evening after Maggie’s visit to the library. She distributed copies of the night’s agenda and the minutes from the last meeting around the long table in the conference room at the back of the library. Today’s main topic was a proposal to revamp Hard Rock Days to more appropriately reflect the heritage of the county. Cassie had drafted the motion herself and was quite proud of the work.
Bob was the first to arrive. No surprise there. “No refreshments yet?” he asked, frowning at the side table, which was empty of everything but the water pitcher.
“Tamarin is in charge of refreshments this month and she hasn’t arrived yet,” Cassie said.
Bob pushed his lips out as if he’d just eaten something sour. “I hope she doesn’t bring any more of that low-fat crap like last time,” he said. “We ought to invite Danielle and Janelle to join. Then we’d have really good refreshments.”
“I can’t think those girls would be interested in the history of the county,” Cassie said, disguising her horror at the idea. At least Bob, as disgusting as he was, had lived in the area fifty years. He knew more about mining in the area than almost anyone and was practically a historical artifact himself.
Tamarin Sherman and Shelly Frazier arrived together, with a pan of brownies Bob pronounced acceptable. The newspaper editor, Rick Otis, came with his camera slung around his neck, notebook in hand. As if anything ever happened at these meetings worth photographing.
Last to arrive was Lucille, that awkward grandson of hers shuffling after. “Lucas is very interested in history,” she said, more by way of explanation than apology. “And his mother is working tonight.”
“She got a job already?” Shelly smiled, showing a network of shiny braces. Honestly, Cassie thought. Why did a forty-something woman bother with braces? “Where is she working?”
“She’s waiting tables at the Dirty Sally.” Lucille wore a pinched look, as if it hurt to say the words. And no wonder. Every low-life in town hung out at that bar. Jacob Murphy had been a regular.
Lucas helped himself to a brownie and slid into a chair next to his grandmother. The child was the oddest looking boy Cassie had ever seen. He caught her staring and glared at her. She quickly looked away. He had atrocious manners, too.
“I think everyone’s here, so let’s get started,” she said. She pounded the little gavel on the table and checked her watch. “We’ll note that the meeting officially began at 7:04 p.m.”
Shelly scribbled away on her steno pad, and Rick snapped a picture that Cassie was sure showed her with her mouth wide open. Damn freedom of the press. Couldn’t a person conduct business without having someone take her picture? She smoothed the front of her dress and continued, taking them quickly through approval of the minutes from the last meeting and discussion of the old business of a report from the State Historical Commission on new procedures for applying for historical designation for buildings.
“Rick, I want this information in the next issue of the paper,” Cassie said. “Eureka has several buildings that would qualify for historical designation, if the owners would just put in the application. The Historical Society would be happy to help them through the process.”
“Some people don’t want that plaque on their homes,” Rick said. “They don’t want to have to answer to the government every time they want to paint the porch or change out a light fixture.”
Cassie’s own home had a prominent plaque by the front door, one that was a source of great pride to her. “Those regulations are in place to prevent people from changing the historic nature of the structure,” she said. “People shouldn’t think of them as intrusions, but rather as safeguards to the value of their home.”
“I always said you’d make a good politician,” Rick said, grinning. At her look of fury, he chuckled. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. I’ll put the article in the paper and tell readers to contact you if they want to know more.”
“Fine.” She studied the agenda, regaining her composure. If it were anyone but Rick, she’d complain to his supervisor. But Rick had no supervisor. He owned the paper, edited it, and since Angela Zerbock had married and moved to Gunnison, he was the only reporter, except for the highschool boy who covered school sports. And people liked Rick. They didn’t feel that way about Cassie, she knew.
But as her grandmother had been fond of saying, life was not a popularity contest. People who were willing to be unpopular were the ones wh
o got things done in this world. “Let’s move on to new business,” she said. “The proposal for a new addition to Hard Rock Days.”
“I still say we ought to have a beauty contest,” Bob said. “A Miss Hard Rock Days. A bunch of pretty young things strutting around in bikinis would bring in the crowds, I tell you.”
“That’s sexist and ageist,” Tamarin said.
“We could make the prize a scholarship,” Bob said. “That would make it all right.”
“No beauty pageants,” Cassie said. “My proposal is that we devote part of the day to honoring the pioneers who settled this area. We could produce an original play that tells the story of Eureka County. It’s the kind of thing people would return to see each year.”
“You don’t think it’s a little late in the year to be making changes to the festival?” Rick asked. “You’ve only got two months.”
“This won’t take any time at all to pull together,” Cassie said.
“A play might be fun,” Shelly said.
“Period costumes would be easy enough to find,” Tamarin said.
“Have you talked to the drama society about this?” Lucille asked. “They would want to be involved.”
“I haven’t talked to anyone yet,” Cassie said. “But, yes, I would think the drama society would be involved.”
“Have you written the play yet?” Rick asked, pen poised over his notebook. “And who do you want to play Festus Wynock?”
Cassie flushed. “Of course my great-grandfather would figure in the play, as would all the founders of the area. I’ve made some notes, but I’m certainly open to suggestions.”
“When would we run the play?” Shelly asked. “We’ve already got the dance Friday night and the Hard Rock Games all day Saturday, and the awards banquet Saturday night, and the 1890s baseball game Sunday afternoon.”
“There’s no need to have the games go on all day Saturday,” she said. “I thought we could eliminate the water fight.”
Loud cries of protest rose up around the table. “Not the water fight!” “That’s the most exciting part of the day!”
“What’s the water fight?” Lucas asked.
“Teams of men or women go after each other with fire hoses,” Rick explained to the boy. “The last team standing wins. It takes place right on Main Street. It’s a blast—literally.”
“What does that have to do with mining?” the boy asked.
“Exactly.” Cassie seized on this objection. “It’s an excuse for spraying a bunch of water around. It’s a waste of resources and it’s dangerous.”
“You know as well as I do that one method of mining was to use high-pressure water to blast the ore out of the side of river banks,” Bob said. “That’s what the water fight recalls.”
“Except that method wasn’t used much around here,” Cassie said. “So it has no place in a celebration of our mining heritage.”
“You can’t get rid of the water fight,” Rick said. “It’s the most popular event at the games. And the biggest fund-raiser, since some of the teams are pretty large and each individual has to pay to participate.”
“You could present the play Sunday after the ball game,” Lucille said. “It would be a nice way to end the festival. ”
“It really should run all three nights,” Cassie said. “To make it a centerpiece of the event.“
“Try it on Sunday the first year and see how it goes,” Lucille said.
“We don’t even know if it will be any good,” Tamarin said. At Cassie’s scowl, she stammered, “I mean, I’m sure it will be good, but people want to be entertained, so you need to be sure and put humor and stuff in it, and . . . and stuff like that.”
“I still say young women in bikinis beat out old codgers pontificating about the past,” Bob said. “And I say that as a codger who can pontificate with the best of them.”
“Rick, don’t write that about Cassie suggesting doing away with the water fight,” Lucille said. “It’ll just get everyone up in arms for nothing.”
“I’ll admit I’m tempted,” Rick said. “Except I don’t have anyone to help me deal with the avalanche of angry letters to the editor I’d be sure to get. But I will mention the play. It’ll be a good way to gauge what kind of interest you’ll draw.”
“Fine.” Cassie slammed down her gavel, more out of frustration than out of any parliamentary need. “We’ll table the idea of the play until next time, and I’ll talk to the drama society and see if they want to take this on. Do we have any other new business?”
They all looked at each other, then at Cassie. “I move the meeting be adjourned,” Lucille said.
“I second!” Shelly and Tamarin spoke together.
“Well, that was painless enough.” Rick rose from his chair.
Cassie wanted to point out she hadn’t officially adjourned the meeting yet, but everyone was already standing and milling about. She tapped the gavel on the table. “Meeting adjourned,” she said, though by this time no one was listening.
Chapter 10
By the start of her third week in Eureka, Maggie felt less intimidated by the isolation of the mountaintop cabin. Every morning she built a fire in the woodstove to chase away the dawn chill that lingered even in June at this altitude.
She cooked breakfast, feeling very much like a pioneer woman as she made a cheese omelet from eggs Janelle had sold her—eleven perfect brown ones and one blue one from the estimable Arabella. She smiled as she cracked the shell on the side of the counter and watched the rich yellow yolk spill into the bowl, thinking of the hens snug in the fireproof chicken house her father had built in defiance of bigots. That was one good thing he’d done, though the threats that had accompanied the construction still made her uneasy.
She tidied the cabin, read, or explored the property. Sometimes she simply sat and contemplated the view out the cabin windows. She felt much like an invalid recovering from a long illness—a little fragile, craving stillness; weak, but feeling herself growing stronger every day.
Often various errands—and a craving for human contact—took her to Eureka. So it was that one Wednesday morning she headed down the mountain but had barely traveled two miles when she met a truck headed uphill. Before she could pass it, it swerved toward the middle of the road, forcing her to stop. She shoved open her door and climbed out, intending to give the driver a piece of her mind, but before she could approach, the driver’s side window rolled down and Jameso stuck his head out. “I’m glad we caught you before you left,” he said.
“Who’s we?” she asked.
But just then the passenger door of his truck opened and Barb stepped out. “Darlin’, when you said you were living on a mountain, you weren’t kidding,” she drawled. “This view is spectacular.” She fanned her face. “But I have to say, the lack of oxygen makes me dizzy.”
“It’s just those high-heeled boots you’re wearing,” Maggie said, and rushed to embrace her friend.
Barb’s arms wrapped tight around her, and to Maggie’s surprise, her friend’s voice was thick with tears when she spoke. “I’ve been so worried about you, woman,” Barb whispered.
“Well, you wasted all the worrying for nothing,” Maggie said. “I’m fine.”
“You’re more than fine.” Barb stepped back to appraise her. “You look fantastic. This new style suits you.”
“New style?” Maggie looked down at the worn denim jacket, faded jeans, and boots.
“Very Ralph Lauren,” Barb said. “And the longer hair looks good on you, too.”
Maggie put a hand to her hair, which she hadn’t cut because she hadn’t taken the time to find a hairdresser in Eureka.
“Now that we’ve all admired Maggie and praised her fashion sense, do you think we could drive on up to the cabin?” Jameso said. “We are blocking the road.”
“You’re the one parked in the middle,” Maggie said, but returned to the Jeep.
Barb climbed into the passenger seat beside her. “Where are you going to turn
around?” Barb asked, eyeing the steep drop on one side of the gravel track and the cliff on the other.
“I’ll have to back a ways,” Maggie said, and proceeded to do so. Two weeks ago, such a feat would have terrified her, but now it seemed no big deal.
She backed about a quarter mile before she found a place to turn around, then led the way up the mountain to the cabin. When they arrived, Winston was on the front porch, his head stuck in the open window.
“What is that?” Barb shrieked.
“Winston, you get out of there this instant!” Maggie called.
The ram had to tilt his head almost sideways to withdraw it from the window. He did so with surprising delicacy and looked over his shoulder at her, his expression accusing. “What is that animal?” Barb asked again.
“It’s a bighorn sheep.” Maggie strode toward the front porch, waving her arms. “Get out of here, Winston,” she called.
“I don’t think he’s going to leave until you give him his cookies,” Jameso said. He stood by his truck, smirking.
“Fine.” Maggie went inside and fetched the Lorna Doones. Winston took the cookies she offered and trotted away.
“You’re giving cookies to a sheep?” Barb asked. Her expression said she feared for her friend’s sanity.
“Not my doing,” Maggie said. “My father trained the darn thing, and I don’t have the energy to untrain it.”
She didn’t miss the look Barb exchanged with Jameso, but marched past them into the house. Barb followed, though Jameso remained outside. “This is amazing,” Barb said, turning all the way around to take in the cabin. “It’s like . . . like the world’s best tree house.”
“That’s exactly what it’s like.” Maggie hugged Barb again. “I’m so glad to see you. I can’t believe you’re here. How did you get here? How did you find me? How did you meet Jameso?”
“One question at a time.” Barb laughed. “I got your e-mail about mailing you your stuff, but I thought it would be so much better to surprise you and deliver it in person. So I rented a U-Haul truck and drove here.”
