by Judy Alter
"Don't get yourself in an uproar" came a lazy drawl around the corner of the barn. "I got other things on my mind this morning."
"Like what?" I asked peevishly.
"Like fifteen wild horses your pa brought in here yesterday."
"My pa?" I echoed faintly.
"Yeah, your pa. They're horses for one of them shows you set so much stock by, but I got to feed 'em for a week 'fore they're shipped off."
"Where are they?" I demanded, my confidence recovered. "I want to see them!"
"Whoa, Tommy Jo! Hold on now. They're in that pasture I keep out from town aways."
"Let's go," I said, wondering why on earth he was just standing there looking at me instead of getting his horse. 'Course, Bo had no way of knowing that visions were dancing in my head, visions of Devildust, the one wonderful wild horse I'd once tried to ride.
"No practice this morning?" he asked, grinning as though he'd caught me being outright lazy.
"Maybe," I said, "practice of another kind. Are you coming with me, or am I going to ride out there alone?"
"I'm coming with you," he grumbled, "'cause I'm worried about what you'd do if I left you alone."
Turning Sam toward the road, I spurred him into a gallop and left Bo behind, shouting wildly for me to wait for him. Instead, Sam and I ran the entire two miles out to Bo's pasture—behind us, faintly, I could hear Bo shouting. He was still far behind when I tied Sam to the pasture fence and stood, staring at the horses that frisked around the small pasture, made lively by the cold air.
Still sputtering, Bo jumped off his horse and was beside me—for a slow-moving man, he was amazingly graceful when it came to getting on and off a horse—and began to complain. "Lord, Tommy Jo, you ain't got no more sense than a peafowl, come riding out here like the Devil was on your tail."
"No Devil," I laughed, "just the memory of one wonderful wild horse. Magnificent, aren't they?"
"Wild and untamed and pure trouble, that's what they are," he replied, but I could see the admiration in his eye.
"The red one," I said. "That's the one." I pointed to a medium-sized horse. "He's been gelded, hasn't he?"
"Yeah," Bo said, "but he looks proud-cut. Ain't tamed him down one bit." He eyed me suspiciously. "The one for what?"
"To ride," I said without hesitation.
Bo turned away, as though he wished he hadn't heard what I said.
"Bo, if you tie him to a post and help me, I can ride that horse." I tried to be my most persuasive, but I hadn't learned about looking deep into his eyes, and there was sure no way I could look helpless.
"You got to be kidding! I am not going to let you get on any wild horse!"
But of course, that's just what he did. Tied that horse to a post and held him while I got on. This time I remembered a much earlier lesson, and I went slow, talking softly to the horse, giving him time to get some sense and scent of me. Then, when I gave the signal, Bo turned him loose.
That horse bucked every way but loose, as the cowboys always say. He went straight up in the air and landed, all four legs stiff, in a spine-jolting collision with the ground. Then he fishtailed, twisting and turning, while I held on for dear life and hollered as loud as I could. This wasn't an arena, and there wasn't a pickup man to come behind me. I was on my own, with only Bo for an audience and no sure way to get off that horse.
After what seemed an eternity, the horse suddenly stopped and stood perfectly still in the arena, his head down in defeat. Touching my heels to his flanks, I moved him around in a circle. Finally, I brought him back to the post where Bo stood. Tossing him the reins, I climbed off. The horse stood perfectly still.
"Well," Bo said softly, "you ruined one good bucking horse, that's for sure."
"What do you mean?" I asked indignantly, still panting from my ride. I was sure that sweat—Mama would have said perspiration—was pouring off my face and head and that I looked a mess, but I expected congratulations on my ride.
"He's been ridden," Bo said. "Doubt he'll ever buck again quite the same. Look at him."
Grinning, I looked at the horse. He stood still, sides heaving, head down, the perfect picture of defeat.
"But I rode him!" I cried. "You wouldn't have done it! I rode that damn horse!"
"Don't swear, Tommy Jo. It don't become you." He shook his head. "But you're right—I wouldn't have ridden him, and you did. You rode a wild horse, but I don't know what that makes you. It sure don't make you a lady." Without another word to me, Bo Johnson mounted his own big bay horse, gentle as they come, and turned back toward town, leaving me to follow as I would.
Papa was at Louise's when I returned, exhilarated because of my ride but vaguely out of sorts because of Bo, not that I was smart enough to recognize that mix of emotions in myself. But Papa didn't make me any happier.
"Tommy Jo," he said, his expression inscrutable. He sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, looking perfectly at home. Louise washed dishes in the background, and I couldn't interpret her expression either.
"Papa," I acknowledged.
Suddenly he stood, and taking me completely by surprise, he gave me a strong bear hug. "I've missed you," he said.
And then I was in his arms, crying gently. "I've missed you, too, Papa," I said. Well, it was almost the truth. In some ways, not having to worry about Papa was a big relief, but I knew a girl couldn't shed her father as easily as that. And I really didn't want to.
We talked then, long and hard, about what I'd been doing, about Mama, about the Miller 101, even about Bo Johnson. Somewhere in that conversation, Louise slipped away, and when I looked to her for help, she was gone.
"You got to come see your mama," he said, reaching across the table to touch my arm. "She—she thinks I drove you away."
"You did," I said, but I said it as gentle as I could, and he just shrugged.
* * *
At Christmas I went home to see Mama. At first I thought she was just the same, as though I'd never gone away, except that she was a little more withdrawn, a little less aware of what went on around her. But she greeted me with a tight hug and tears in her eyes. "Thomasina! Oh my darling, I've missed you so!" And her arms went around me again.
"I've missed you, too, Mama," I said, returning the hug. "There are so many things I've wanted to tell you."
"We have forever to talk about them, dear," she said, and then, vaguely, "I must look to the dinner."
Papa had stood silently, his look almost accusing. "She hasn't been the same since you left. I—I didn't want to tell you in Guthrie, in front of Louise, but... you broke her heart, Tommy Jo, just broke it in two."' Papa, who never cried, looked like he might sob.
There was no way I could tell him, no way I could ever make him understand that he'd broken her heart long ago, and that I'd had to leave before he broke my spirit, just as he'd broken her heart. I couldn't say that it wasn't fair that she looked to me to make right what he'd made wrong, and that I loved my mother desperately but could not spend my life living out her sorrows.
"Mama? Let me help you." I burst through the swinging door—something new Papa had installed—into the kitchen.
Mama stood in the middle of the room, her apron tied at the neck, a spoon in her hand. "Help me? Oh yes, the dinner." Jerking herself back to the present, she turned to the stove and began vigorously to stir the contents of a pot. I looked over her shoulder, into a pot of water.
Fear clutched at me. "Mama? What are we having for dinner?"
Eyes clear and bright, she said indignantly, "It's Christmas, isn't it? We' re having turkey and dressing and mashed potatoes and mincemeat pie."
The menu of my childhood, except that as I looked around the kitchen, I could see none of it. There was no turkey in the oven, no pie cooling in the pie safe, no potatoes simmering on the stove.
"Oh, Mama," I wailed, wrapping my arms around her and holding on for dear life. We stood that way for a long time, tears running down both our cheeks, until gently I said, "Mama, you go i
n and visit with Papa. I'll fix the dinner."
There was a turkey in the icebox, a small one that wouldn't take too long to bake, and the potatoes were in the bin, the mincemeat made and in the icebox. It took me five hours to make dinner, but we ate a fine meal. I had lots of time to think while I was out there working in the kitchen—Mama's early lessons and Louise's more recent training stood me in good stead—and I determined, first of all, that dinner would not be strained nor awkward. It was a holiday!
"Papa," I said, as I lit the candles, "will you ask the Lord's blessing?"
He prayed that the Lord would make us thankful for the meal that we were about to receive and that the Lord would help us to love one another, in spite of our weaknesses. I know he had Mama in mind, but I thought his prayer was particularly appropriate to him.
Mama really thought she'd cooked the meal. I guess in her mind she'd done the work, and that was all that mattered. When Papa commented on the moistness of the turkey, Mama said, "Thank you, James. I always cook a bird long and slow. Makes them juicy." Actually, I'd cooked it as hot and fast as I dared, but it was still tender and good.
Papa and I did the dishes. "You've worked hard today, Jess," he said, his tone unusually gentle for him. "You rest. Tommy Jo and I'll do the dishes."
She smiled sweetly, thanked him, and settled into the rocker with her knitting.
"Papa? Who cooks for you?"
"Some days I do it. Wilks's wife comes in and cleans the house once a week. And some days your mother's fine, and she does the cooking herself. There's just no telling. It's like she's home one day, away the next."
I bit my lip. "How long?"
"Since your letter saying you were going to Guthrie. She kept saying you'd be home tomorrow... and then tomorrow... and then the next day. And the longer it went without you coming home, the more she kind of went into her own little world."
It is not fair, I wanted to shout, for one person to make her happiness or health dependent on another! Instead, I said, "I should have come and talked to her."
"What would you have said?" he asked, the dish towel dangling from his hands.
"That I had to live my own life," I said firmly, looking Papa straight in the eye.
"You're doing that," he said slowly. "I guess maybe it bothers your mother that you're living your own life with Louise."
"I guess," I said slowly, "that's your problem and not mine."
Our gift exchange was almost gay. Mama was like a little child, thrilled with the brooch that Papa had gotten for her, excited over the shawl that I'd hand-worked with sequins and beads. "My, James," she said, "we'll have to go someplace special so that I can wear this. Perhaps the opera."
"Perhaps," he said softly.
Mama had made me a beautifully worked nightgown and dressing gown to go over it. "For your hope chest," she said. "I—I hope you'll use it soon."
"Thank you, Mama. They're beautiful. The work is so... the stitches so small. You never could get me to do that, could you?" No need to tell her that my hope chest might be just hopes for years, that I had no intention of settling down to be wife and mother as she had. Strangely, Bo Johnson's face flashed before me as I folded the gowns to put them away, but I forced his image back.
Papa was pleased with the scarf I'd knitted for him, and the afghan Mama had made him—"for his evening naps," she said. The afghan represented weeks of work, and I knew then what Mama did when she wasn't cooking or keeping house. Handwork had become her world, and she surely was good at it.
I stayed three days at Luckett's ranch. Papa was off working as soon as Christmas was over, and so I had two days alone with Mama. And I saw what Papa meant about her being different on different days. Once she startled me by saying, "I don't like it that you're living with Louise in Guthrie instead of here with us."
"Mama, it's not Louise. It's Guthrie. I can't live my life out here on this ranch. It's too isolated, too lonely. You know that."
"Yes," she said, with a catch in her throat, "I know that. But what do you do in Guthrie?" Her knitting lay untouched in her lap, and her eyes looked straight at me, intense and clear.
"I help Louise with the cooking for my room and board," I said, "and I practice my roping and trick riding, and I read a lot."
"Roping and trick riding!" Her voice was scornful, and she picked up her needles and began to knit almost furiously. "Won't do you any good, Thomasina. You need to be looking for a husband."
I thought briefly of describing Bo Johnson, just to quiet her, but I decided such deception was unfair. And no more than I could be totally honest with Papa, I couldn't say to her that I didn't want a husband at the cost she'd paid. "Yes, ma'am," I said meekly, "I'll keep looking."
When I left, Mama acted as though I were going out for a ride and persisted in talking about what we'd have for supper when I got home. Helplessly, I looked at Papa. With his nod giving me courage, I said, "Yes, Mama, I'll look forward to supper."
"You see that you come right home," she said sternly, as though talking to a ten-year-old.
"Yes, Mama," I said, hugging her tight and hiding my tears over her shoulder.
"Jess, it's cold. You best go inside," Papa said.
Obediently, Mama turned and went inside, giving me a sad little smile over her shoulder as she closed the door.
"Can you come see her more often?" Papa asked.
"Yes, I can, and I will." It still hadn't occurred to Papa what role he'd played in all this, and now he was all gentle and kind and caring for Mama, without the least bit of recognition of his own part in this tragedy.
I kissed Papa good-bye and headed for Guthrie, relieved to be away from the ranch. But I could hardly see the road in front of me, for the tears came so fast and hard. I was driving Louise's carriage, with Sam tied behind—she'd insisted, since the weather could turn bad—and I was glad the horse seemed to know its way home, for I was hardly in control of the carriage or of myself.
* * *
I was relieved to be back in Guthrie, where life seemed to go on at a more even pace.
In February, a letter came from Rose. I'd written to her two or three times since we'd left the 101 and been puzzled by her silence. Now, in her breezy tone, she explained that so much had been going on, she'd had no time to write. "I could not stay at home," she wrote. "My father insisted on treating me as a child and was unmoved by my arguments that I'd now ridden in an important exhibition and that trick riding ought to be considered my work. He thinks marriage and motherhood should be my work."
Different people with different opinions, I thought, but the problems were the same. Her father, my mother. Rose went on to say that she was living with a family near Cheyenne and riding broncs in local ranch riding shows but saw little future in trick riding.
No future for girl ropers either, I thought gloomily, though I tried to make my answer to her letter brighter in tone, telling her all about life with Louise and sharing a joke, so I thought, about Bo Johnson. I must have written more about him than I intended.
"I don't know who Bo Johnson is," she replied, "but you best grab him."
I knew who Bo Johnson was—a continuing and growing problem to me. Some days I could barely rope, being around him made me so nervous.
"What's the matter, Tommy Jo?" he'd ask, hands on his hips, a grin on his face as he stared at me. "Lose your sense of balance?"
"No, I did not," I'd reply hotly, whirling Sam around for another try.
"'Bout fell off that horse," he said, and now there was outright laughter in his voice. "Maybe you should call it a day."
And then one day when I did quit early, Bo came up to me as I tied Sam to the rail of the corral. "It ain't workin'," he said. "I don't like you doing this, and I can't help you no more."
"What do you mean, you can't help me?"
"Just that," he said, tight-lipped, turning his face away from me. "You got to find someone else to help you try to be a trick rider." He looked at the ground, his usually cheerful face
as solemn as I'd ever seen it.
"Bo?" I didn't know what I was feeling, but that fluttering sensation was playing havoc with my stomach.
Bo turned slowly to face me, and then, as though he moved in slow motion, his arms were around me, and he bent, ever so gently, to kiss me. Like they say in the novels, I must have been waiting for this moment, because there was no hesitation in my response. I kissed Bo Johnson—hard.
"I can't make you choose, Tommy Jo," he said haltingly. "I can't tell you it's either me or the Wild West shows, but I don't see any way it can be otherwise."
"Can't you come with me?" I asked unbelievingly. Here I'd found a man who loved me, a man I loved, and my dream of roping in a show was standing between us.
"No," he said shortly, "I can't do that."
There's something wonderful about that feeling of new love—it wipes out all the bitter truth that you know lurks just outside the circle, waiting to turn happiness into ashes. That bright new feeling ran all over me that morning, for I heard Bo's words and yet didn't. And when he said he couldn't come with me to the shows, I simply walked back into his arms in that foggy dreamlike state.
His response was so passionate as to scare me a bit, and yet I met him in intensity, for I'd never felt this way about a man before. One arm around me, his lips on mine most of the way, he led me into the barn, and we sank down into the hay, a welcoming soft bower. Vaguely I heard Sam nicker, but time had stopped for me. Bo's lips were on mine as he unbuttoned my shirt and reached a gentle hand inside. I never protested and wouldn't have, but suddenly he was the one who stopped.
"Tommy Jo! We got to go!" All at once he was no longer lying next to me but was standing before me, one hand brushing his hair as though to smooth it, the other making nervous circles in the air. "Louise'll be lookin' for us for breakfast."
If I hadn't felt so suddenly abandoned and thrust aside, I'd have laughed. "Louise? She doesn't pay any attention to when I come and go." That part was true.
He was more nervous than I'd ever seen a man, especially one as slow-moving as Bo. "Come on, let's go."
