“That’s alright, Etta, I can manage,” said Lenora, shaking inside but doing her best to lower her yards of barege skirting over the side of the wagon without catching the flounces on anything sharp. Once she was safely standing on two feet, she turned to Olathe.
“I’ll be several hours in town,” she said stiffly. “Thank you for looking after my horses.”
Olathe only nodded.
Lenora turned to Mrs. Nolan. “One minute, Etta, and I’ll get my basket.” Lenora stepped close to the wagon and on tiptoes reached over the side for her shopping basket, grabbed it, and then took Etta’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Once they were outside the barn and out of Olathe’s hearing, Lenora turned to Etta. “My, after all that I’m glad he didn’t turn my horses and wagon away too.”
“He needs the money you pay him to feed and water them.”
“I know, but still ...”
“Try not to let it ruin your day, dear.”
“It pretty much already has.” Lenora turned back toward the barn to see if Olathe was staring after them. He wasn’t, yet she could still feel his ugly glare on her back.
“Maybe they’re right about the widow’s weeds,” Lenora said quietly, half to herself.
“What do you mean by that?” said Mrs. Nolan, guiding them toward the center of town.
“Maybe I should be wearing mourning clothes. Some around here are offended that I don’t. But honestly Etta, I don’t feel like a widow. I still don’t have any proof.” Lenora’s voice began to crack, shaken more by Olathe’s cold reception than the issue of when to wear mourning black. One thought merely fanned the flames of the other.
“And what if you wore black? What would they say then?”
Lenora thought a moment. What would they say? Her mind had never trod that path. If she wore black, like some thought appropriate, wouldn’t they stop talking about her altogether? The two women stepped gingerly onto the planks of the stepping bridge that crossed narrow Clear Creek, being careful not to catch their heels in the wide spaces between the planks. They stepped onto the boardwalk, clutching their skirts with one hand to keep them from dragging on the edge of the step up.
“That I was mourning my husband.” Wasn’t that the logical answer?
“Maybe.” Mrs. Nolan clasped Lenora’s hand in hers. “Or maybe they’d say, ‘Scandalous, isn’t it? Look at that shameless Mrs. Rose. Husband missing only a few months and already she’s wearing black.” Mrs. Nolan rolled her eyes in exaggerated shock, throwing her head back for dramatic effect. “Why is she in such a hurry to start the one-year mourning period? Couldn’t she wait till they’ve found his body? Probably has set her cap for some other fellow already. Outrageous! The wanton woman, her husband not even buried yet.’”
Lenora’s heart nearly skipped a beat and her pulse quickened. Mrs. Nolan hadn’t directly spoken of her growing interest in Deputy Davies, but her oblique reference had touched a nerve. She stopped walking and turned to face her friend.
“Etta, I haven’t set my cap on anyone. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course I believe you.”
Lenora let out an enormous, shoulder heaving sigh.
“But I also believe that Deputy Davies is smitten with you.”
Lenora clasped her hands together and cast her eyes to the ground. Was it so obvious? Had she encouraged him by allowing him to interrogate her in public? Was she deceiving herself that the attraction was only on his part? She hoped she wasn’t guilty of playing fast and loose with his heart—and her own reputation—out of loneliness and fear.
“Pretty much the whole town thinks that way,” added Mrs. Nolan.
Lenora had an idea this was so, but hearing it from Etta left no doubt. “What will I do?” Lenora almost whispered the question.
“Do? There’s nothing to do. The cat is already out of the bag. No use tying it with string now.”
The two women started walking down the boardwalk again, and then suddenly Mrs. Nolan stopped. “No,” she said, putting her hand to her chin in thought, “that’s not right, either.”
Lenora stopped too and looked into the very dear, very kind eyes of her friend.
“Lenora, can’t you see how unwise it is to dance to their tune?”
“What do you mean?”
The stagecoach went past just then, clattering briskly through the center of town, trying to stay on schedule while it sent up small storms of fine, choking dust. Lenora reached into her reticule for one of her lace-edged hankies to cover her mouth. Mrs. Nolan waved the dust away with her hand.
“It’s like that story in the Bible. Luke, I think. Jesus talked about the naysayers. ‘We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned to you, and ye have not wept.’”
“I don’t hear any music,” said Lenora morosely, a single tear beginning to roll down her face. She wiped it away with her now-dusty hanky.
“No matter what our Lord did, the unbelieving criticized Him. And when John the Baptist came, foregoing bread and wine, they said he had a devil. But when Jesus ate and drank with publicans and sinners, they called Him a glutton and a drunkard. So you see, there was no pleasing those people.”
Mrs. Nolan waited while Lenora composed herself. When her tears had stopped, Mrs. Nolan took her hands in hers.
“Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
“I think so. Nothing I do will be acceptable if they don’t approve of me.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Nolan. “You do understand.”
“This is not about widow’s weeds, is it Etta? It doesn’t matter whether I wear black or not.”
“Exactly.”
Lenora nodded silently, her face screwing up into a deep grimace of grief. Then the dam burst. “I am so confused,” she said, speaking in a fevered whisper and shaking with sobs. “I don’t know whether to act like a patient wife, waiting for his return, or like a widow, accepting that he’s dead. This really is making me crazy! I don’t even know how to dress when I come to town! What do I do Etta? What do I do?”
“Here, Lenora, come with me,” said Mrs. Nolan quietly, guiding Lenora off the boardwalk and into a secluded spot, shaded but weedy, between the tobacconist shop and the barber’s. Mrs. Nolan took care to keep her back to the street, shielding Lenora from onlookers. The old woman opened her reticule and fished around for a handkerchief while Lenora hugged her middle, gasping for air and trying to muffle her sobs.
“What do you do? You keep standing on the truth,” said Mrs. Nolan, finally finding the hanky and handing it to Lenora. “That’s all we’re called to do anyway. Walk in the truth. People will believe whatever they want about us. We just keep standing on the truth until He makes our righteousness shine forth as the noonday sun.”
After a few tense minutes Lenora managed to calm herself. When she was able to breathe again, she said, “Thank you, Etta, I’ll remember what you said.” Her voice quavered a little, and her face, she knew, looked wretched, pink and puffy. Oh well.
Mrs. Nolan threw her arms around Lenora and hugged her. How good her embrace felt.
“One more thing,” said Mrs. Nolan, releasing her hold. “Take one day at a time. As much truth as you have for today, walk in that. Try not to worry about tomorrow. Each day has enough problems of its own, remember? Don’t worry about tomorrow’s problems today.”
“I will,” mumbled Lenora, “I mean I won’t,” she corrected herself, smiling weakly, though she wondered how she managed to do even that.
“Lenora,” said Mrs. Nolan, more quietly, “Do you like him? The deputy?”
Lenora’s first instinct was to flame up in embarrassment and hold her tongue. She hadn’t expected the conversation to turn this direction and was unprepared. There was, it seemed, no hiding her true feelings or anything else from this intuitive woman. And after releasing so much tension by sharing her confusion with Etta, it seemed that sharing her angst about Deputy Davies would not be unwise. She paused to allow her herse
lf to sort her thoughts. Searching for her true feelings about the deputy was like plunging into deep waters for a gold coin. The truth was buried somewhere, but she would have to swim blindly through the murk and feel around in the mud to find it. Reflexively she looked around to see if anyone was nearby enough to hear them. Seeing no one about, she answered, keeping her voice very low.
“I didn’t at first. But I think I do now. He’s ... kind. And he’s been very helpful since James left.” She thought of Sheriff Morris and how the deputy had begun to ally himself with her against a common foe, but there was no good reason to explain the details to Mrs. Nolan. Her heart burned within. Yes, she was fond of Deputy Davies, but it seemed unholy to say so directly.
“He has a good reputation in Fort Laramie.”
“How do you know that?” Lenora’s eyes were sufficiently dry, and her hanky was too damp and dirty to use, so she slipped it back into her reticule and pulled the drawstring tight. She felt sturdier now.
Mrs. Nolan made a fluttering motion with her free hand. “A birdie,” she said, smiling.
Now that Lenora’s face was dry, Mrs. Nolan led her back onto the boardwalk, and in a minute they arrived at the door of Wells Fargo. They hugged again, promised to stay in touch, and then Mrs. Nolan went on her way to the mercantile. Lenora pushed open the heavy, oversized door of the bank, and taking a deep breath, walked in.
Chapter Seventeen
All eyes in the room swiveled toward the young woman in the flouncy cream dress with the elaborate bustle. Lenora tried to pretend that she wasn’t the focus of their rude stares, but the pounding in her chest and the blood rushing loudly behind her ears threatened to give away her pretense of calm. She hoped the fear in her eyes did not betray her. Everyone stopped talking at once as time stood still. Lenora felt the burn of all those eyes on her and regretted the obscenely loud clack of her hard heel, high top boots as she walked across the shiny oak floor of the cavernous bank lobby.
Dear God, Am I always going to create a scene wherever I go? How shall I ever survive this?
In a moment a tall brown blur appeared over her right shoulder. She turned her head, and there was Deputy Davies, smiling and tipping his hat.
“Mrs. Rose,” he said, as cool as you please, “in that white dress you’re prettier than a bouquet of Pearly Everlasting.”
Lenora was too surprised by his presence and too aware of the big-eared audience to speak. Yet her only conscious thought was that her dress wasn’t white. It was the color of freshly skimmed cream. Snow was white. But fashionable women forgave mere men such ignorance. She said nothing, cognizant that everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing to listen. But deep within, her heart was talking. How comforting it was to find a warm and friendly face in this chilly sea of criticism. Luke’s presence strengthened her, and when she looked into his soulful, chocolate eyes she saw the same compassion and caring she’d seen when he had come to the ranch to check on her weeks before. She felt herself grasping for his lifeline of friendship.
“I’m glad to see you today,” he said, removing his hat. “I need to speak to you about the investigation.”
Luke’s voice was the only sound to be heard in the bank. Even the flies seemed to stop their buzzing to eavesdrop. Surely he was aware that all eyes and ears were strained to catch any crumb of gossip he might toss. She might have been happy to see the deputy’s smiling face, but she cringed at the thought of speaking to him in public. It could only make matters worse. But if he had news about James’ disappearance, she needed to hear what he had to say. And seeing the cold reception from so many already this morning, she was reluctant to cut the thin thread of human warmth he dangled in front of her.
“Deputy Davies,” she whispered, leaning in to him slightly, “this is hardly an appropriate venue for a tête-à-tête.”
A hint of a smile lifted the side of his mouth. “If you mean this isn’t a good place to be whispering, I agree with you,” he whispered back. His eyes twinkled as if the two shared a delicious secret.
Lenora straightened herself. “I have important business I must attend to here at the bank, Deputy Davies,” she said, choosing her words carefully knowing the whole room was weighing them.
“I’ll wait for you.”
Lenora’s first instinct was to object. People were watching. But she and Luke were already creating a scene just by speaking calmly of ordinary things in broad daylight; arguing here in the bank would only add grist to the gossip mill. Above all she didn’t want to meet him at the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Morris might be at his desk, a thought that heightened her anxiety before she had spoken a word. But there was worse. If Sheriff Morris was not at his desk, she’d create an even more salacious scandal by conducting business with the deputy, alone, behind his closed office door. Finally, she didn’t care to be anywhere near Sam Wright, who had been locked up at the sheriff’s office, awaiting trial, since Ulysses’ bloody murder. Considering all these pitfalls, having Deputy Davies wait outside the bank so that they could speak on the street after her business with Mr. Morehouse seemed the least gossip-worthy scenario.
Lord have mercy. What a sticky twist of taffy she was entangled in! Considering the gossip swirling around her, her baby, and the two men suspected of being the father, she was hardly in a position to refuse to discuss the investigation of her husband’s disappearance with local law enforcement. But a local law officer was one of the men some suspected had fathered her unborn child! Whether she said yes or no to his request, she walked straight into a storm cloud of suspicion.
But in that moment, when she recognized that she faced two impossible choices, it was as if her very insides were a deep well of water, and somehow she managed to reach down and draw up a bucket of courage. Mrs. Nolan was right. All she could do was also the best thing to do: she must walk in the truth that she had. She knew whose baby was growing in her womb. It didn’t matter what these ignorant people thought about the identity of the father. She would keep walking in the knowledge of that truth even if she had to fight dog killers, cattle rustlers, a shrinking bank account, lonely nights, fatigue, widowhood, depression, the hiss of serpentine tongues, and yes, even the loss of her ranch. She would walk into Mr. Morehouse’s office on the strength of the truth, and she would get the money she needed.
Today.
Not only that, one other person in town knew for sure that Deputy Davies was not the father of her child—Deputy Davies. Perhaps that explained his calm demeanor.
“I might be a while,” said Lenora, glancing at the line at the teller’s window. “But if you would like to wait, that would be serendipitous for the moment. And I would be grateful.”
“I’ll wait.” Luke replaced his hat on his head, tipped it respectfully, turned himself, and walked back to his place at the clerk’s window.
Knowing that everyone in the room was watching her, Lenora quickly averted her eyes from the deputy and stepped to the end of the line. Before long everyone returned to their business and Lenora was being ushered into Mr. Morehouse’s lavish office.
#
As before, Mr. Morehouse invited Lenora to sit down in one of the large, comfortable visitors’ chairs. Nothing about the room had changed, but Mr. Morehouse had taken to waxing the slender tips of his English mustache. Such an idiosyncrasy would have lent a rakish air to another man. But because rakish was a word Lenora would never have strung together in the same sentence with Mr. Morehouse, the effect of the two yellowish-gray daggers pointing east and west like the weather vanes on her barn roof only added to the many distractions about his person she had to consciously ignore. She found this difficult. How far beyond his face would the daggers protrude by their next meeting? She caught herself staring and, embarrassed, forced herself to focus on his eyes.
“How are things at the ranch, Mrs. Rose?” Mr. Morehouse leaned back in his black leather chair as if settling in for a long chat.
Oh no, he wants to socialize again. Due to her long confinem
ent, Lenora had much shopping to do after her meeting with the deputy. She sighed.
“The ranch is doing very well.” Not wanting to draw out this useless discussion, she was about to end the thought on that note, but because she didn’t want to appear disrespectful to James, she added, “Considering that my husband is away, that is.”
Mr. Morehouse nodded and kept his eyes fixed on her, scrutinizing her almost to the point of rudeness. She felt uncomfortable, suddenly aware of how extravagant she must appear to this country banker in her multiple ringlets and frilly clothes, her gloved hands and well-turned out toes. She tucked her expensive leather high tops under her skirt and practiced meeting his gaze with all the aplomb she could muster.
“How many new Brahman your herd drop this spring?”
Calves? Surely Ben must have spoken to her about the birthing and how it affected the size of their small herd. Why hadn’t she bothered to listen carefully? Because she was distracted by the disappearance of her husband, that’s why. She hated to make excuses to Mr. Morehouse. But if she was going to pass herself off as a serious woman rancher, she should be able to rattle off a number. Around spring in the Territory it was all about the numbers. How many born, how many sold, how many rustled was nearly all the obsessed cattlemen ever talked about. Lenora usually got up and left the room when James and the neighbors started jaw boning ad nauseam about the numbers.
“Several,” she said.
Mr. Morehouse nodded, stuck out his lower lip like he was thinking deep, bankerly thoughts.
Oh fiddle faddle. I know more about Brahman than this overstuffed plutocrat.
“Sorry to hear about your dog.” Mr. Morehouse leaned forward over the desk and clasped his hands together.
Crazy Woman Creek Page 17
