Loveland

by Andrea Downing

  “Isn’t there some Indian thing about, well, when someone saves your life, you belong to them? Or is it the other kind of Indian—the Asian one? I forget.”

  “Alex, I don’t think you’re ever gonna belong to anyone.”

  And she laughed and said, “Well, I guess we’ll see.”

  Chapter Two

  On the drive down to the main house Alex made him stop again.

  In 1876, the ranch had been nothing more than a straggle of buildings. But Oliver Calthorpe could not rest easy until the Faringdon rivaled Moreton Frewen’s mansion up in Wyoming with its two stories and grand staircase. Alex had adored her small room with its view out to grasslands and pine, but as the years went by, the second story was added, along with a veranda running right around. French doors had led from the main bedrooms onto this walkway with steps down to what would eventually be mature gardens.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jesse, what the hell has Oliver done?”

  “Improving things is what he’s calling it,” was his reply, though he obviously knew exactly what she meant.

  The changed house was larger, more imposing, and had been stone clad. Instead of the old wooden terraces, there were now brick paths around the house, and the gardens, of course, had matured and were more formal. Stone painted blackamoors were posted either side of a path for horses to be tied. The house looked totally out of place in its surroundings and she could see a footman now waiting for their arrival. And there were Oliver and Tom.

  “Well, here you are,” said Oliver helping her down from the buggy. He held her at arms’ length. “Looking lovelier than ever. Doesn’t she, Tom?”

  It was when she was hugged by Tom that Alex knew she was truly back. She wanted to stay in his embrace, feeling the comfort of home there, but had to pull away so as not to upset Oliver, who had given her a quick kiss on the cheek. But it was to the patient and gentle Tom she looked for assurance. A lithe, well-built man, now in his mid-thirties, he and his wife Annie had been virtual parents to the young girl, constantly concerned about her well-being, and Alex had enjoyed their company far more than her uncle’s.

  “We’ve all missed you so, Lady Alex,” he said.

  “You haven’t changed,” she replied. And he hadn’t, although she noted the gray creeping into Oliver’s hair and moustache and thought how much older he looked now.

  “Annie’s dying to see ya,” Tom went on.

  “I’m so happy to be here. To be home,” she replied. “I’ll go to see her first thing in the morning. The children must be grown so.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  She studied him a moment to see if there was any sign of what he knew, if Oliver had said, if Helene’s letter had arrived, but his face was just the same as always, kind and patient and wanting nothing more than her happiness.

  “I’ll be at the Homestead first thing tomorrow,” she repeated. Then she followed Oliver into the house.

  Oliver Calthorpe had not been suited for either the military or the Church, traditional occupations for the second sons of the aristocracy. In 1861, he had left England for the war-beleaguered east coast of the United States and headed to Texas to learn the ranch business. But Texas, too, had seceded from the Union and rather than get drawn into a conflict to which, as an Englishman, he attached no significance nor had the stomach to pursue, he moved north, first up through Kansas and into Nebraska, finally ending up in Fort Collins in the Territory of Colorado. By now he had had a vision, and although the wars with the Indian nations continued, he knew they could not last. Denied by primogeniture to any slice of England, and with a remittance from his brother, which barely covered his costly tastes, he had decided to build his own empire in Colorado at shareholders’ expense. He had returned to England in late 1867 on a double mission—to consult with his brother, the duke, about their sound investment, the ranch he had started between the Thompson and the Cache le Poudre rivers, and to claim the woman he had left behind. He had proven successful at only one of these objectives.

  Alex regarded her uncle with mixed feelings as she entered the drawing room, and wondered if she would ever see him in an avuncular role. Her uncle was not an aggressive man, despite a stature and deportment some might have found forbidding, yet she found it difficult to warm to him in any manner, to form the relationship which should have been shaped some years ago.

  “Uncle...”

  “Alex...it’s so wonderful to have you back here. We’ve missed you so...”

  “Have you?” She held her hands together in front of her as if she might wring the words out. “I believe we should clear the air...”

  “What’s done is done, my dear.” He moved toward his whiskey decanters, then stopped and turned back to her. “We’ve all missed you so,” he repeated awkwardly.

  “It’s nice of you to say that,” she replied, speculating on the truth of his words. For a moment she felt she would like a cigarette, it must be nice to have something like that, but of course it would be unheard of for a lady to smoke, shocking for her uncle, and he was no doubt shocked enough. She took a few more steps into the drawing room and looked about. “I would think I was something of an embarrassment to you. I mean there will be letters to the English families, your friends—if they don’t already know, they’ll all know soon enough.”

  “Soon enough. We’ll ride the storm.” His voice had a positive note to it but she wasn’t fooled by it.

  “I’m sorry—if it helps. I’m sorry if I’m a burden but I can’t tell you how happy I was when Father said he was sending me back. I love the ranch...but I might be getting some money together soon so perhaps you will want me to leave, move into one of the boarding houses—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” he snapped, suddenly displaying his true colors, “it would only make matters worse. You’ll live here. We’ll carry on as normal, act normal. Where do you intend to get this money anyway? You’re seventeen years old for goodness sake, a lady—work is unheard of.”

  “I want to be independent—you’ll have to understand that,” she said in her most imperious tone. She finally settled into one of the wing chairs by the fire and looked up at him. “Before Helene passed away we went to see a dealer in New York—”

  “What kind of a dealer for goodness sake?”

  “If you’ll let me finish!” She stopped for a second, her eyes blazing up at him before she calmed again. “An art dealer. He took some paintings I had done in Italy while recuperating. He thought they were very good. He said if they sold he would consider giving me my own exhibition, I could have a career as an artist—”

  “Stop! Stop right there!” Oliver paced and looked back at her, his eyes wide with his fury. “There will be no career, there will be no money from art, and you will act like a proper young lady henceforth. And when your father requests your return—”

  “No! Not any more, Oliver. I won’t be going home. My father has hated me since the day I was born. All my life he has punished me for my mother’s death. And if you won’t have me here because you’re too afraid of him firing you as manager and making you leave the Faringdon, then I shall go to live with Tom and Annie—”

  “You don’t think Tom would lose his job as well? Will you live with that? He has two children.”

  “Well.” She stood up, staring him down, her mouth a firm straight line. “At least I know Tom Yost can get a job anywhere. The question is, can you?”

  Oliver stared back at her, then turned and paced the room. “This is not the way I meant to start.” His tone was quieter. “This is not what I wanted. I wanted…” His voice trailed off. “I thought I could do something for you, that you would be happy here—”

  “You mean you wanted to do something to make it up to my mother. You think that by making me happy you can appease your own guilt?”

  Oliver took a deep breath before turning away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do. You forget I walked in on a conversation between you and
David when he visited all those years ago. It’s never been any secret in the family that both you and Papa were in love with her, that he stole her from you. Maybe you think if you make things up to me...or maybe there is something else, something even more pressing as a reason to tolerate my presence here?”

  “I do not need to tolerate you!” He ran a hand pushing his hair back. “I am happy—very happy—to have you here,” he said in a softer voice. “I don’t doubt there will be problems, but we’ll survive.”

  Alex went up to him and looked at him long and hard. “We’ll survive,” she repeated in his quiet tone. “Well, that says it all, doesn’t it, Uncle Oliver? You feel my presence here is something which must be survived.” And she walked out.

  She would endure living with her uncle as long as it took to become independent, but she would no longer fear her father, would no longer have anything to do with that breed of men who possessed women, who saw her as nothing more than a chattel in the preserved and sealed world of the aristocracy.

  She was back in Colorado now, and she was going to be free.

  Chapter Three

  In the early morning Alex stood at her window to see the men preparing to go out on herd. Pale light filtered through a mist giving her the impression the scene in the distance was behind a sheer curtain; it made her feel for a moment like a voyeur. She could make out Jesse knocking the dust from his hat as he headed back into the rear yard, and the old wrangler Joe who was checking the shoes on one of the horses. There was Garrett, another of the older punchers, who she had always thought had a sadness he carried around with him like a gift he wanted to hand back. Just saddling up was Garrison, their rough string rider, who had loaned her his horsehair lariat to learn how to rope. Reb and Terry seemed to be arguing about something, which wasn’t unusual, and then there was Cal Jenks, Jesse’s best friend, who had taught her guitar and always called her “Ladilex.” Her spirits lifted and she flew down the steps and out to catch them before they rode off.

  Dressed in a long black frock coat for riding, with David’s most recent pair of cast off jodhpurs hitched up, she saw Jesse come out with Cal, glance her way, and then settle his lanky frame back against the office wall, pull his hat down, and cross his arms.

  Alex stopped to fix back strands of hair escaping from her plait. She caught Cal’s eye but there was no sense of recognition from him, only a look of bewilderment as he strolled over to Garrison and gave the other puncher a poke in the ribs.

  “Hot damn,” he mumbled.

  Alex stopped and looked the men over. No one said anything for a moment, and then she burst out laughing, guessing neither Jesse nor Tom had let on.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Do you think I’m part of some great conspiracy against the laws of nature? Have women still not got legs in Colorado?”

  There was a moment’s silence before Cal said, in a tone almost identical to Jesse’s the previous day, “Ladilex?”

  “You blackguard.” She turned to Jesse. “You didn’t tell them! Ah, but I see you did tell Joe to put a sidesaddle on old Dainty. Very funny, Jesse. Very funny indeed.” She shook hands with her old friends, said hellos to some new punchers, and gave Cal a hug and a prod for not recognizing her.

  “You learn to cook, sew and clean yet so’s we can get hitched?” he teased. He slowly chewed on some chicle, his dark eyes the only sign he was suppressing a smile.

  “Are you proposing, Cal Jenks? If I said yes you’d run so fast we wouldn’t see you for dust. Your hat would be the only thing left of you between here and Tennessee.”

  Cal chewed thoughtfully. “Ah, heck, I reckon I can’t leave yet, Ladilex. I ain’t never finished the ballad I been writing you. You remember? ‘Out on the prairie where the columbine grow...’ One must always finish one’s work, ain’t that right, Jesse?” He dragged out the word one, trying to mimic Alex’s accent.

  “I reckon one must, Cal,” Jesse replied, pushing his hat back.

  “You two are as impossible as you ever were, I see. One simply cannot tolerate this!” she jested right back. “I reckon I’ll have to just ride off!”

  Cal laughed. “Aw heck, you sure we speak the same dang language, Ladilex?”

  “No, but we can try. So how far have you got with this ballad then, Cal—are you having fun?”

  “Fun? Fun? Heck Ladilex, you call that fun? Why tailin’ down a steer or ridin’ drag ’cross the Llano is a hide more fun than writin’ you all a ballad. How many words you all think there is to rhyme with Ladilex? You think of one.”

  Alex laughed as the other punchers saddled up and moved off, leaving her alone with Cal and Jesse. She turned and loosened the girth on the sidesaddle. “Why don’t we just get rid of this damn thing?” she asked the wrangler Joe.

  “Because,” responded Jesse, “sometimes we do have real ladies who visit and need it. You keep cussin’ like that we’re gonna have to wash yer mouth out, missy.”

  “Ha!” was Alex’s good-natured reply. She started to take the saddle back into the tack room but Joe went to take it from her. He had soft brown eyes and a long moustache, and smelled of the woody scent of the tobacco he used for rolling.

  “Now lemme see if I remember what you said to me first time you arrived? I wasn’t to call you Ma’am as in ham ’cause that was what you called the Queen. I had to call you Marm with an R in it. Was that right, Lady Lex?”

  “That’s right, Joe. But quite honestly I think I’d prefer it if everyone just called me Alex.”

  “Yeah, well, that’ll go down real well with your uncle,” put in Jesse. “Like giving him a canteen of water taken downriver of the herd.”

  Alex giggled as she pulled off the saddle. “Suit yourself, then, Mr. Makepeace.”

  “Lady Lex,” Joe said. “You all still don’t look like ya can handle a 40 lb. saddle none. Last time we seen ya, we didn’t know whether to eat ya or feed ya to the birds. We thought the dang horse was gonna get you in one gulp.”

  “Well, I may be small, Joe, but I’m pretty tough.” And she strode off to get the other saddle.

  Jesse continued to lean against the office wall as Cal sauntered over and shouldered up next to him.

  “You kept this pretty durn quiet.” Cal scraped a line in the dirt with his boot heel. “I mean, it’s sorta plain indecent the feelin’s I got right now. Sorta like incest or somethin’.”

  Jesse laughed and waited until Alex came out and saddled up. She gave him a quick smile and a wave before riding off.

  It wasn’t until he got to the tack room that he knew the reason she hadn’t stopped to chat. His saddle was gone and in its place was the lady’s sidesaddle.

  ****

  Alex pulled up her horse a distance from the Homestead to watch Annie Yost going about her chores. She recalled how she had instinctively known she could trust Annie and what she thought her to be was most definitely what she was: honest, caring and giving. Annie was a handsome woman, not plain, nor markedly beautiful, but with a kind, open face which invited both confidence and confidences. The foreman’s wife had been a surrogate mother to Alex during her earlier stay at the ranch. Now she hugged her and held her, the damp from Alex’s tears on her neck, and stopped herself from crying; she stood there in the yard with the girl in her arms.

  “I’m sorry.” At long last, Alex pulled away. “It’s so stupid of me really. I’m here now and I’m so happy.”

  “Well, you don’t seem happy,” laughed Annie. “Let me look at you.” She held Alex at arm’s length while the girl sniffled, searched for a hankie and blew her nose. “My goodness, but you are a beauty. It’s as Madame said, that’s for sure.”

  “I suppose Tom told you about Helene?”

  “Yes. We were both very sorry to hear. She was a very fine woman.” She put her arm around Alex and led her into the house. “Notice any changes?”

  “Oh, goodness! Look, a proper staircase up and a whole banister and everything. It’s wonderful. And you’ve opened up the back
too. Oh, look!”

  The Homestead had been the original ranch house for the Faringdon, or Double F Ranch, as it was sometimes called. When Oliver had decided to move his headquarters to what he considered a more impressive location with trees and nearby pond, he had handed over the well-proportioned log cabin to his foreman. Tom and Annie had made it a home, bringing in hewn pine and leather furniture and the necessities of kitchen stove and ice box. When Alex had first seen the house, she had loved the place immediately and without reserve. There was a stone fireplace, in front of which were some comfortable seats, and a dining table with hewn benches on which to sit. The kitchen area was off to the left and Tom had built cabinets and cupboards either side of the sink and stove. To the right was a door leading to what was once a downstairs bedroom but which, Alex had come to know, was now Tom’s study. Built into the roof of the house there was a loft floor, which had been divided into three bedrooms. But what she liked best was the informality, the relaxed hominess of the place; this appealed to Alex immensely.

  Tom had obviously made improvements to the Homestead during the past five years. Not only had he made a sturdy stairway up to the bedroom floor, where before there had been just a ladder, but he had knocked through to the rear of the house so Alex could now see through this back door to a large wooden table and a cook-out area, and a swing hanging from a tree down toward his barn.

  “Oh, it’s wonderful,” she said looking out.

  “And see.” Annie’s face beamed. “He’s also knocked through to the wash house and privy so we don’t have to get our feet wet in winter.” They both laughed.

  “I can’t wait to see the children. They must’ve grown so.”

  “They’ll be home after school. J.J.’s just coming up to seven now, of course, and Sue Ann, well, she’s quite a young lady I guess. Gonna be ten this summer. Alex, can you believe it?”