A Gown of Spanish Lace

by Janette Oke

  Sam shifted on his log seat again.

  “Jest askin’ fer a little information—man to man,” Laramie replied coolly.

  The father appeared to calm himself. He returned to his cards, laying a ten of diamonds on a jack of spades.

  “Pa?” Laramie prompted.

  Will shoved back from his card game and looked up at the tall young man. He nodded toward another log section that stood upright near the table, and Laramie knew he was to take a seat. Obediently he pulled the log forward and straddled it.

  “We gotta git us some more chairs,” growled the big man.

  “The girl,” reminded Laramie.

  “Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” said the father, and Laramie felt his cheeks grow hot. It was a new experience for him to flush with anger. His father misunderstood the reddened cheeks and haw-hawed heartily, slapping Laramie on the back and making ogling eyes at Sam.

  Laramie’s flush deepened. So this was how it would be with a girl in camp.

  He fought for calm. He had to remain cool and level-headed.

  “She’s pretty,” he agreed so as to distract his father, but he tried hard not to think of the head of tumbling curls, the frightened eyes.

  “How long she gonna be here?” asked Laramie.

  Will looked up and exchanged glances with Sam. “Well, now,” he drawled in his raspy voice. “That there depends.”

  “What’s she here for?” asked Laramie.

  “Boy—you sure are full of questions, now ain’t ya?” said the big man. He was beginning to sound irritated. Laramie knew better than to make his father angry.

  “I jest figure—bein’ part of the gang—”

  “I don’t need to talk things over with the gang,” cut in his father.

  Laramie paused. He was inclined to rise and walk out the door. His father was not being at all cooperative.

  Yet he needed some answers. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and decided on another approach.

  “Well—bein’ yer son—”

  He had never done that before—never inferred that he should be treated differently from any other gang member simply because he was the boss’s son.

  His father did not take kindly to the words now. His dark eyes lifted, and a scowl deepened the creases on his cheeks above the line of his dark beard. “An’ I say,” he thundered, his fist coming down on the table and making his cards dance, “when the time comes fer you to be given privileges, it’ll be because I give ’em to ya. Ya hear?”

  “Yes sir,” answered Laramie, and he touched his hat in unconscious subservience.

  “Now git out there an’ follow yer orders,” barked the big man.

  Laramie nodded and left the room, more troubled than ever.

  “Ya really think this is gonna work?” asked Sam as he poured them both a cup of strong coffee after the boss had calmed down some.

  The big man looked up and his eyes began to twinkle. “ ’Course it’s gonna work,” he growled pleasantly. “He’s riled up already.”

  It was midmorning before Laramie felt in control enough to take the fresh pail of water to the south cabin. He deliberately made plenty of noise with the bar on the door to give her lots of warning that he was coming.

  She was at the table, sitting on the log stool that had been provided. An open book was spread out before her, and she nervously looked up from it as he pushed open the door.

  Her hair was no longer spilling about her shoulders but had been pinned up behind her head. It made her face look even smaller, her eyes larger. They were dark blue and as open as her book. She looked both scared and confused. Laramie looked away quickly, feeling that he was looking into her very soul and thus invading her privacy.

  “Brung yer water,” he said for something to break the silence, even though he knew it was quite evident what he had brought.

  The plate was on the table. Some of the food had been eaten—but not as much as should have been. He supposed that, under the circumstances, she found it hard to have much of an appetite.

  He checked the fire but found that she had recently added wood. At least she could take care of herself, he thought.

  He wanted to check to see if she had other needs, but he knew he had to get out of there quickly. He was most self-conscious in her presence. She sat there watching him, saying nothing—just looking alone and scared and out of place.

  He was at the door before she spoke. Her voice was low and soft—and trembly.

  “The slop pail,” she reminded him.

  He stopped in his tracks and looked at her. Her voice had surprised him. He was used to male voices that were little more than dark growls.

  “The slop pail is almost full,” she explained. “It is all I have for—”

  She stopped and looked down in embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed. “For…everything,” she finished softly.

  He nodded and lifted the pail.

  His anger flamed again as he carried the pail down the path to the edge of the bush and dumped it. “What a way for sech a little bit of a thing to live,” he exploded. “It’s jest plumb crazy.”

  He had to renew her wood supply. He was glad for the chore—it gave him reason to swing the axe in his frustration. He cut far more than he needed. By the time he was done he was sweating in spite of the cold winter day. He put down the axe and pulled his sleeve across his brow, knocking his Stetson into the snow. He had forgotten it was up there. With soft curses he reached down and retrieved his hat, whipping it against his knee to shake off the snow.

  He still hadn’t figured anything out. He had gotten no answers from his father. Nor was he likely to. He didn’t know why she was there or how long she was expected to stay. He only knew that they had a girl in camp and that he was expected to guard her. She was living in deplorable conditions. Even a man would hate the bareness, the crudeness of the cabin, the isolation.

  Then an unfamiliar idea crossed his mind and caused him to flush slightly. Was that why he was riled? If it had been a man in there, he wouldn’t have given him a thought—except to watch him carefully and guard his own back. But a girl. It wasn’t a case of just guarding her; he had to somehow—care for her. And he had no idea how to go about it.

  Ariana paced back and forth across the squeaky boards of the cabin, trying to sort through her troubled thoughts.

  On the one hand she felt terror. On the other hand she dared hope. For what? She wasn’t sure. But the young man, though hardly to be considered friendly, had not really been menacing.

  But he was the boss’s son. He was her prison guard.

  He was strangely quiet. Hardly seeming to acknowledge her presence. She had the impression he did not care much for his assignment. Did not want her in the camp any more than she wanted to be there.

  Ariana trembled slightly. No, it was not realistic. Sam might have been persuaded to be an ally, to help her—but not this cool, distracted young man with the steely blue eyes.

  She shivered again at the very thought of the silent, cold look that he had turned upon her, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

  She was helpless and at his mercy. At the mercy of the entire camp of loud, offensive men. She still had no idea why they had taken her, but she prayed as she paced that the awful ordeal might soon end.

  Chapter Eight

  Guardian

  Laramie stacked enough wood against the wall of the cabin to keep the fire stoked for many days—even if the temperature continued to drop. Cautiously he surveyed the room with each trip he made. He noticed that the girl had very little in material comforts.

  She had rinsed out the scrap of towel in the basin and hung it to dry by the iron stove. She must have brought a comb with her in that little bit of a cloth bag, for one lay on the shelf by the pitcher. There was no soap, no mirror, no garments, except for the heavy coat hanging on the peg, hat and gloves tucked up beside it. On the floor was a pair of fur moccasins. He was sure they were much too big for the small feet tucked under the ta
ble.

  Apart from that, the room was bare. Bare and miserably dirty. His own stark quarters were in better shape. At least he could sweep them out and chase down the cobwebs with the broom.

  For the rest of the day Laramie watched for an opportunity to speak with Sam alone. He would get no answers from his father—he knew that now—but Sam might be another matter.

  He thought of Sam as a reasonable man, and had always been on good terms with him. It was Sam who had taught Laramie his basic letters and sums. Laramie figured that Sam was likely the only one in camp who could have done so.

  No, that wasn’t true. Laramie remembered being surprised one time to find Shadow reading fluently. Who knew what other secrets the men of the camp might have? No one ever asked them to share about their past.

  But Sam, as his father’s right hand, might have some valuable information. If Laramie could just ease it from him.

  It was almost sundown before Laramie found himself alone with the little man. They were both in the crude barn, preferring the company of their mounts to the company of the men in the smoke-filled, smelly cabin.

  Laramie let his eyes travel around the dark enclosure to be sure they were alone.

  “Sam,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “ya know I got me this here new duty.”

  Sam nodded and rubbed the curry comb over his horse’s withers.

  “Well—I don’t rightly know how to take it on,” went on Laramie.

  He waited. There was no response.

  “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout lookin’ after…after a woman,” he added. “Know far more about carin’ fer a horse.”

  Sam chuckled, then said, straight-faced, “Reckon there’s not much difference.”

  Laramie waited.

  “Ya gotta feed ’em an’ keep ’em warm and healthy,” commented Sam.

  Laramie stopped his brushing. “But—it’s the healthy part what gets me,” he observed in a soft drawl.

  “Meanin’?” asked Sam, not missing a stroke.

  “Well—fer starters—how long ya think she’s gonna be here? Thet might have a heap to do with what she be needin’ to stay healthy and all.”

  It didn’t look as though Sam was going to be drawn in. He shook his head to indicate he had no information, or else would give none.

  “Well, it seems to me thet she’s needin’ more’n a basin and a slop pail,” argued Laramie.

  Sam chewed on his mustache.

  “Well—she did ask me fer a tub of some kind,” he replied with little concern or emotion.

  “A tub?”

  “She wanted to bathe—wash her hair an’ her clothes, she said. Womenfolk do thet. Right in the dead of winter,” Sam noted with some astonishment.

  Laramie nodded. He led the brush over the chest of his horse and on down the left front leg.

  “Where we gonna git a tub?” he asked.

  Sam shrugged. “I’ve no idee,” he answered.

  “But thet was what she asked fer—a tub?”

  Sam nodded and spit into the straw at his feet.

  “Then I guess I’ll jest have to ride on out and find us a tub,” mused Laramie to himself.

  Sam’s head came up. “Ya can’t do thet,” he exclaimed. “Yer pa’d have yer hide.”

  “He told me to take care of her,” said Laramie, his hand continuing the even strokes with the brush.

  “He said to guard her,” growled Sam. “Not—fuss.”

  Laramie let Sam’s words drift into the air of the steamy barn, and then he turned to the older man.

  “I really don’t see much difference,” Laramie said softly, “her being a woman. Ya can’t do the one without the other.”

  Mrs. Benson rose from her knees and wiped her eyes one more time. One day had slowly passed into another, day after day, and still there was no trace of Ariana.

  She had grieved and hoped and wept and fretted and prayed. She had tried with all of her heart to trust. She had pleaded with God. Had begged for His intervention. She had even bargained—offering her own life in the place of her daughter. Still, the searchers returned empty.

  But this morning as she wept before the Lord, a strange peace had entered her aching heart. She couldn’t explain it. Wasn’t even yet sure if she could fully trust it. But something seemed to be assuring her that Ariana, wherever she was, was in God’s care. Her mind had told her that ever since that first dreadful night, but now her heart was answering yes.

  “God,” she whispered softly into the quiet of the room, “help me to trust. Help me to go on with life. Help me to forgive those who have tried to find her and have now gone back to minding stores and caring for businesses. They tried, Lord. They tried everything they knew. They couldn’t go on searching forever. They have lives—families of their own—to tend to. Help me to leave Ariana…in your hands.”

  She blew her nose and straightened bent shoulders. Somehow she would find the strength to go on. She knew that strength must come from God.

  “Where’d ya git thet thing?” asked Sam, his eyes round with amazement.

  Laramie reined in his horse, bringing the pack horse to a halt as well. The tin tub bumped up against the outstretched boughs of a spruce tree, and Laramie pulled the lead to ease the horse over so there would be no chance of damage to his important cargo.

  “Found it,” he said simply as he swung lightly down from the saddle.

  Sam lifted his hat and scratched his balding head.

  “Yer gonna take a heap of teasin’ iffen the fellas see ya with thet,” he observed.

  Laramie simply shrugged his wide shoulders and busied himself with untying the ropes that held the tub in place.

  Sam chuckled. “Ain’t seen nothin’ like thet since I was a kid,” he observed as he ran his hand over the cold metal.

  “Can’t figure how one carries it when it’s full of water,” mused Laramie as he lowered the tub to the snow. “It’s heavy as is.”

  “Ya don’t,” explained Sam patiently. “Ya put it where ya want it an’ then pour the water in.”

  Laramie looked surprised. “How do ya git the water outta it?” he asked innocently. “Thing ain’t got no drain spout.”

  “Ya dip it out,” Sam answered.

  Laramie stood to his full height and rubbed the back of his hand across his brow.

  “Seems like I got me a powerful amount of work here,” he said softly. “Sure hope she don’t count on using it too often.”

  Then he turned back to his saddlebags. “Got a few other things, too,” he informed Sam in conspiratorial tones.

  “Like?” asked Sam.

  “Some soap. Couple towels. This here—what ya call it—wash towel.”

  “Washcloth,” Sam corrected.

  “Some hair soap.”

  “Where’d ya git all thet stuff?” asked Sam again.

  Laramie gave the older man a smile. “You got yer secrets—I got mine,” was all he would say.

  “Seems ta me yer taking yer guardin’ duties awful serious-like,” muttered Sam.

  Laramie made no comment.

  Ariana was both surprised and delighted when the tub arrived—without comment—in her small room and was deposited close to the big iron stove. Silently she watched as Laramie filled both the kettle and the basin and placed them on the stove. Then he emptied a saddlebag of its contents, spreading the small items on the table.

  “Thank you,” said Ariana softly.

  Laramie picked up the pail to go for more water, outwardly calm, though inwardly in turmoil. He had never been thanked before in his life. Her words caught him off guard. He nodded his head toward her but did not look her way. “I’ll git more water,” was his only comment.

  After he left, Ariana moved to look at what he had left behind on the table. Soap, a hand mirror, towels, a couple of washcloths, a bottle of shampoo advertised to make “one’s tresses silky and perfumed,” and a pair of ivory-tipped manicure scissors. In spite of her circumstances, Ariana had to smile. At leas
t these few things would help to make her feel more human.

  On the other hand, the simple items brought new worry to her already troubled heart. It looked as though they were expecting her to occupy the cabin for some time to come. The very thought made Ariana want to put her head in her arms and weep. Instead, she stiffened her back and tried to turn her thoughts to other things.

  While Laramie was hauling and heating the water for her bath, Ariana was looking for some way to hang one of the towels over the fully exposed window. Even though the pane was so dirty one could hardly see out of it, she didn’t want to take any chances with someone seeing in.

  But there were no nails, no pegs, no way of assuring any privacy. She still stood there, a frown on her face and the towel in her hands, when Laramie rattled the door again. Along with the pail of water, he carried another dented kettle and a big pot. He added these items to the stove top and filled them from the pail. The little stove was now so crowded that Ariana feared to move any of the pots lest she send one of them tumbling to the floor.

  He turned to leave again, water pail in hand.

  “I…” dared Ariana, her voice tight with nervousness. “I was wondering…”

  He turned back to her.

  She pushed aside her fear with grim determination. “The window,” she said, pointing to it, “is there…can we…it needs to be covered…someway. If I had a hammer and some nails…” She held up the towel in her hands.

  He made no reply but seemed to understand her faltering words of concern. He nodded and left again.

  When he returned he not only had another pail of water but a hammer and some rusty nails. He set the pail on the small shelf and proceeded to the window, where he pounded the nails into the dust-covered logs. Ariana watched silently. When he had completed the task, she handed him the towel, which he hooked in place, making a makeshift but workable curtain for her window. He stepped back and eyed it carefully; then seeming satisfied he nodded his head.

  “I’ll be back to put the water in the tub,” he said as he was about to leave.