by Judy Alter
When I rode through the gate at Luckett's I was overcome with a sort of nostalgia. This was the place I'd grown up, the place that held all the memories that mattered to me—except maybe the 101 and Buck—but the place that had shaped me. And now, I could scarcely bear to come back there.
My mood, already darkened by Buck and, more recently, by my encounter with Bo, did not lift, and I thought perhaps there was something about life that doomed us to unhappiness. Vaguely I remembered the sheer joy each day had brought when Buck and I were new to each other. Now that joy seemed a faraway dream.
No one came to greet me when I rode up to the house, but when I shouted "Hello the house!" Papa came slowly out the door. When he saw me, a great smile spread over his face.
"Tommy Jo! Get down off that horse and come here right this minute." He held his arms open wide, and I went willingly into them.
"Papa! I've missed you!" It was a treat to be able to say it truthfully.
"I've missed you, too, Tommy Jo. But we surely have been proud following the show and hearing all about you. Where's Buck?"
"He stayed at the 101. Things to do. We're getting ready to take the show to the vaudeville stage, and he's got a lot of planning to do. Besides, I thought I'd get a better visit if I came alone."
Papa hugged me, and I swear he turned his head to hide a tear. "Come inside," he said. "Your mama's in bed, but she'll be glad to see you."
"In bed?" I asked.
"She spends most of her time there now," he said gently. "Seems like she just doesn't have the energy to get up and move around."
"Papa!"
"Shhh, Tommy Jo. It's all right. She's not unhappy." That seemed to be all that mattered to him.
Seeing Mama was a shock to me. She had lost weight until her face looked drawn—gone was the beauty that I remembered from my childhood. Her skin had an unhealthy paleness, and her eyes were dull, their brightness forever dimmed. And her hair, that lovely dark hair, had turned not only gray but limp and lank. It hung about her face, though I could tell that someone—Papa?—had tried to comb it. It was neat and clean, but that was all you could say for it.
"Mama, it's me, Thomasina." In my effort to awaken something in her, I reverted to the name she'd given me at birth and had always insisted on calling me.
"Thomasina?" She reached a hand toward me, and I bent down until she was stroking my forehead. "Have you been out riding on the prairie?"
"Yes, Mama," I said. Well, it was the truth. I had ridden on the prairie to get there.
"I'm glad you're home safe, darling. Remember the day you killed that bull?"
I thought Papa would choke behind me, but I managed to say softly, "Yes, Mama, I remember."
"You mustn't do that again, Thomasina. You've been to the convent now."
"Yes, Mama, I've been to the convent." Tears were welling up in my eyes.
Papa murmured something about dinner and left the room, and I sat there by Mama's bedside, holding her bony hand, for an eternity. Once in a while I had to brush a tear away, but mostly I managed to smile and talk brightly to her, though I generally had to pretend that I was eight years old again.
When Papa stuck his head in to say that dinner was ready, I asked, "Mama? Will you come to the table?"
"Oh, no, dear. Your papa will bring me something. I... well, I'll just stay here."
"She gets up sometimes and acts like she's all right," Papa told me over a meal of beef stew and bread—he had turned into a credible cook with Mama's illness. "But she more and more just stays in bed. I—I don't know what to do other than let her do what she will."
"I don't guess there is much you can do," I said, wanting in a funny way to lift his guilt just a bit. "How do you do your work around the ranch?"
He laughed ruefully and nodded toward the desk, which had always been at the center of the house and was still cluttered with papers. "More and more, that's the kind of work I do. I've got hands to do the riding and roping—what you used to do for me." His voice grew a little wistful, but then he was quickly back to the present. "Luckett doesn't seem to mind, and the ranch's still turning a handsome profit."
I had worried some about Papa losing his job because he couldn't pay enough attention to it, and I was glad that didn't seem to be a danger.
As if he'd read my mind, Papa said, "Luckett says I got a place here as long as I need it, long as I live." Pride was evident in his voice, as well it should be, for Luckett's generosity was a reward for work well done. "You'll always have a home to come back to, Tommy Jo."
I laid an appreciative hand on his arm and didn't tell him Louise's house was now the home I retreated to when I needed solace and comfort. We never did mention Louise the whole day I was at home, although Papa must have known that I had been there.
"Buck let you ride down here alone?" Papa demanded as I prepared to leave the next morning.
"He didn't have a choice," I said, stiffening a little. "I left without telling him. Besides, Buck doesn't tell me what to do."
"Someone," Papa muttered, "ought to see that you have some common sense. I'm gonna call Wilks to ride with you, least partway. Roads ain't safe for a woman alone."
"Papa," I said firmly, "I'll leave while you're calling him. I want to go alone. I need to think." I looked at his worried face and laughed, as though to banish his fears. "I'll be fine, really I will."
I hugged him and was gone. When I was almost to the gate, I turned to look, and he was standing by the house, still waving one big arm.
* * *
That ride back to the 101 may have been the bluest time of my life. I sank into self-pity as I thought about all that was wrong with my life and those around me—Buck and our growing distance over the complicated issue of children, Mama growing weaker by the day and Papa being so brave I sometimes thought he was blind, Louise letting me know that I had to sort it all out for myself, and even Bo, letting me know in his own gentle way that he still loved me. I had, I thought, made a royal mess out of a lot of things.
My mood seemed to darken with every mile I rode, and I recognized that I'd be in a foul mood by the time I reached the 101. Somehow I got to thinking about what Louise would have said about that, and I had the proverbial moment of inspiration—Louise would have raked me over the coals with her tongue. I'd have gotten no sympathy from her. Life, she'd have told me, is what we make of it, and if mine was in a blue period it was up to me to pull it out, by the bootstraps if I had to. Well, I was mixing metaphors in my mind, but I suddenly knew clear well what the message was and where the truth lay. I had flat been feeling sorry for myself, and it was time to change directions.
I rode long and hard and reached the 101 at midnight, having stopped only long enough to water and rest my horse. When I rode up to the house, Buck was sitting on the porch railing staring down the road. Was he watching for me?
He was casual. "Hey, Cherokee. How's everything in Guthrie and at the ranch?"
"Fine," I said cautiously. "Louise and Papa said to tell you hello. Mama's just the same, maybe a little worse."
"I'm sorry." He stood up and came slowly down the stairs. "I missed you, and I caught holy hell from the colonel for letting you go alone." He stood close to me but didn't reach out a hand in my direction. There were none of those intimate gestures by which he had so often possessed me. It was like Buck knew he was dealing with something new between us.
I grinned just a little. "Did you tell him it wasn't your fault? I'll be sure he knows."
"I told him," Buck said slowly, "that you could take care of yourself and that I damn sure was not going to go with you when I wasn't wanted."
I raised my eyes to meet his. "Thanks, Buck. It wasn't that I didn't want you. I just—"
"I know, Cherokee, I know." And now he did reach out toward me, not with a tentative hand or a gentle gesture but to pull me toward him with two strong arms. I buried my head in his shoulder as he hugged me and said softly over and over, "Cherokee, I missed you."
; "I missed you, too," I said, and realized that it was true.
"You two gonna stand out there all night," the colonel demanded loudly. "Buck, put up that girl's horse. I got to talk to her."
"Yes, sir," Buck said, laughing. "Anything else, sir?"
"I'll let you know," the colonel grumbled. "Cherokee, you come in here."
He didn't, of course, have anything much to say. He just wanted to make sure that I was back in one piece and ready to go to work. I convinced him.
Late that night Buck and I lay in bed talking. We had had our private reunion, and I had only fleetingly wondered if the chances of pregnancy were in any way mathematically related to the amount of passion involved. But now, spent, he seemed to want to talk. We'd talked some about the coming vaudeville season and a little about Mama and then it occurred to me that I hadn't asked about one thing that had really stood between us—Belle and the baby.
"How're Belle and the baby?" I asked.
"Baby's fine," he said. "She's really... well, you'll just have to see, Cherokee, but she's the smartest little thing, for one so tiny."
Just as I was about to accept that I still had Belle and Sallie as rivals for his affection, he added, "But Belle is really getting on my nerves. She's after me every minute: Would I do this, would I hold the baby because she's so happy when I hold her, could I talk to her about what she should do with her future. Lord, Cherokee, I didn't take that girl to raise!"
I smothered a grin. But then I asked more seriously, "Would you take Sallie to raise?" The wild thought had gone through my brain that we could adopt the baby, solve Belle's problem for her, and give Buck the child he wanted, all without interrupting my career. 'Course I hadn't thought about what raising a child could do to a career.
Buck began to stroke my hair with one hand. "Cherokee," he said, "I know what it cost you to say that, and, yes, I have thought about taking that baby to raise. But I don't think it would work right. Belle... well, she's unpredictable. Maybe flighty is the word. But she'd always know who had her baby, and she'd never let us alone. Sallie would never really be ours, and I don't think that'd be right for us or for the baby."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, I'm real sure."
I went to sleep that night in Buck's arms, happy to be with him again. I was about to banish that little black cloud that floated over my head.
Chapter 10
We began serious work for the vaudeville show.
"You know," I said one day, "we can really take advantage of Guthrie as a high school horse. He's trained to do tricks that would be terrific on the stage and don't need the space of an arena."
Buck grinned. "You're right. We can work a whole segment of the show around that. But Cherokee, you still gotta rope. The audiences will expect it."
"What," I asked, "do I have to rope?"
"Me," he said with a grin.
The little black cloud was gone, Buck and I were happy, and Belle had left for Chicago where she said a friend would take her in until she could get on her feet. Buck missed Sallie desperately, but he was clearly relieved to be rid of Belle, and he did not go back to talking about when we would have our own child.
* * *
The colonel was sending three railroad cars on the vaudeville circuit—one for the troupe, one for the stock, and one for stage props. He himself was staying behind. "Got to see where we stand," he explained, "plan ahead for the next season. I want..." He looked almost sheepish as he continued. "I want to see if we can't take the show to Europe in a year or two."
"Europe!" I echoed. "Am I really gonna get to rope for the king? And use my convent French?"
The colonel grinned. "You might, Cherokee, you just might. But I have to work on my brothers, convince them I won't lose the ranch for the sake of the show. Buck will be in charge when you all are on the road."
Buck was trying to look humble and doing a poor job of it. One look at him told me he already knew that the colonel was going to make that announcement. It didn't bother me, for I certainly wanted someone else to be in charge.
"But Buck," the colonel went on, "you remember that Cherokee is the star of the show. She's got a say in things, too."
Buck grinned at him—maybe too quickly—and said, "That won't be a problem, Colonel. Cherokee and I pretty much see things the same way."
I nodded my head in agreement. Right then, it seemed like the truth to me. Funny how love, or stars, or the moon, or something can blind us.
I practiced every day—twirling a loop, building a larger one that Buck and I could walk in and out of, putting Guthrie through his paces of kneeling, playing dead, rising on his hind legs—all the kinds of things I thought would work in vaudeville. A part of me missed the rough stock and the relay races and the excitement of the Wild West events, but I told myself this was only a brief vacation. Come spring, I'd be back on the bucking horses, throwing big loops and roping calves.
One day I caught Buck behind the barn—literally—with his guitar. I'd been currying Guthrie and thought I heard singing from somewhere—I think it was "Home on the Range." Puzzled, I let myself out of the stall and followed the sound. There was Buck, sitting on a stump, strumming his guitar and singing all by himself.
I listened for a minute without letting him know I was there. He wasn't Enrico Caruso, but he had a nice voice, soft and gentle, sort of like what you thought a real cowboy might sound like if he sang. 'Course I'd never known a real cowboy to sing, but the audience wouldn't know that. When Buck came to the end of the song, I clapped.
"Cherokee! I didn't know you were there." He was clearly embarrassed.
"Did you mind?" I asked, walking toward him.
He jumped up from the stump. "No... yes—no, I'm just still pretty self-conscious about singing."
I laughed. "You shouldn't be. It was good. Every woman in the audience will want to take you home with her—but I won't let them." I linked my arms through his, and he put a companionable hand on mine.
"Thanks, Cherokee. The colonel insisted a singing cowboy was essential to the act, and he elected me. No objections allowed."
"You can sing to me, and then I'll rope you," I laughed.
* * *
That's just how we did it. Buck opened the show by riding across the stage, playing his guitar and singing "Home on the Range,"
"The Yellow Rose of Texas," and a couple of other favorites. He wore an outfit no respectable working cowboy would have been caught dead in—tan pants and a tan shirt with dark brown cording and embroidered flowers on the yoke, a brown Stetson and shiny brown boots that had clearly never been used for anything more strenuous than sitting astride a horse and singing. He was, as Bo would have said, a "dandy." I thought that once as I watched him go through his act and then wondered why Bo came suddenly, unbidden, into my mind.
As Buck neared the end of his last song, I rode Guthrie onstage from the wings, waited until the audience was applauding, and then sailed my rope over his shoulders—he was always careful to hand the guitar to someone just before I threw my loop.
Inevitably, the audience gasped, and Buck pretended to look confused for a moment. This time there was no bell-toned announcer to interpret for the audience, to roar "The little lady's husband, folks!" Vaudeville was much subtler, and the audience was left to make their own interpretations when I slowly drew Buck toward me—both of us still ahorseback—and we met to lean across the horses and exchange a chaste kiss.
Buck rode off, and I did some fairly standard rope tricks, stepping in and out of my own loop and such. Then Buck came back, and I built a loop around the two of us. That of course called for another kiss, and I began to feel that I was in a romantic comedy rather than a Wild West vaudeville show.
We opened in St. Louis at the old Orpheum Theatre. The first thing we did on arriving in the city was go to the theater to look at the stage. Outside the theater displayed posters billing "Cherokee Rose and the Miller 101 Wild West Show—first time on stage! Thrills, excitement, real wes
tern adventure!" The poster had a picture of a girl who looked vaguely like me—only she looked like she was twelve years old.
"That's not me!" I exclaimed indignantly.
Buck was amused. "Have I married myself a child bride?"
"I want my picture to look like me now," I said, "not like I did when I went on that wolf hunt with Roosevelt. Do I look at all like that?"
Buck studied the poster a long minute, then turned to look at me. I wanted to remind him that he should know what I looked like without having to stare at me!
"Sort of," he said. "You don't quite look twelve. Maybe sixteen." He ducked my upraised hand and went on, "It's the blond hair, Cherokee, and—well, gosh, you're gonna make me feel silly. But you look sort of sweet. Maybe innocent is the word I want." Then he took a big step away from me before he said, " 'Course I know you're not innocent, and you're sure not always sweet!"
I knew, no matter what he said, that I had grown and changed a lot in recent years, and I did not look like a twelve- or sixteen-year-old cherub. I was tall, like my parents, and still very fair, like Papa. At twenty-two I was still as skinny as I had been as a kid, and I fully expected to stay that way—after all, Mama was still pretty thin and they say a girl gets those traits from her mother. But I also knew that all the things that had happened to me—Bo, and the loss of Rose, and life on the road, and yes, Buck—had changed me, and that that change showed in my eyes, maybe even in the expression on my face when I wasn't onstage. No, I wasn't twelve years old in spirit any more than I was in body.
That night when I thought Buck was sound asleep, I stood in front of the long mirror in our hotel room without a stitch of clothes on and took a good look at myself. I hadn't reached any conclusions when I heard Buck murmur, "Looks pretty damn good to me!"
