A Gown of Spanish Lace

by Janette Oke

  “After you’ve finished yer breakfast we’ll go fer a walk,” Laramie continued. He had done a lot of thinking throughout the night. White Eagle was right. He had to try to keep her strong. Keep her healthy. Who knew what the future might hold?

  She nodded silently, but he thought he saw a little sparkle come to her eyes. Was it fear—or anticipation?

  When he returned later he was surprised to see she had eaten more than usual of what was on the plate. She stood, dressed in one of the calico gowns from the trunk, staring out of the window.

  “It’s rather cold,” he observed. “You’ll need all the warm clothes ya got.” He hesitated, then pointed to the corner. “I would suggest thet ya wear those moccasins ’stead of those shoes.”

  She changed footwear quickly, her back to him. He walked to the window and stood looking out so she wouldn’t be embarrassed by his presence.

  She was soon bundled in her heavy coat, her hat firmly in place over her pinned-up curls. He knew the flimsy bit of felt and ribbon would be absolutely no protection against the elements, but he didn’t say so.

  He pushed the heavy door open and preceded her out into the wintery sunshine. Though it was weak in warmth, it was bright as it reflected off the whiteness of the snow. He saw her squint against it and remembered it had been some time since she had seen the full light of day.

  They had taken only a few steps when the door of the big cabin burst open and three of the gang members stepped out into the light and headed for the barn.

  Instinctively Laramie glanced around for cover. There was none. There would be no way to avoid a meeting.

  Laramie heard the rough words, the coarse laughs, and then three heads came up and three pairs of astonished eyes stared in his direction.

  “Well I’ll be—” exclaimed James and followed his comment with a muttered curse.

  Curly, a bottle dangling from his limp hand, could only stare, openmouthed.

  But it was Skidder who drew the attention of Laramie. After his initial shock, his eyes narrowed and an evil grin began to spread over his face. “A ‘prisoner’?” he guffawed. He spilled out a stream of profanity. “Prisoner, ya call thet? I’d bet my Winchester thet Daddy done gone and got his boy a pretty little filly.”

  He hooted again and slapped his thigh.

  Laramie felt the heat rushing to his face.

  All three of the men grinned, James fidgeting nervously and Curly twisting his near-empty bottle in bare hands.

  Laramie chided himself for his carelessness. He had stepped out of the cabin right into a nest of hornets. He glanced in silent apology at Ariana’s downcast eyes and burning cheeks. Skidder, who was known to be drawn to women, was bound to make an issue over a girl being in camp. But how big an issue? Would he be smart enough to back off? Or would he force Laramie into unwanted action?

  For the first time in his life Laramie felt his fingers itching for the security of the cold butt of his forty-four.

  Chapter Ten

  What Now?

  Laramie had heard the girl’s sharp intake of breath and sensed her stiffen at the crude comments of the men before them. It was all he could do to hold himself steady. Inwardly he willed Skidder to keep his head and just move on. What would he do if the rough outlaw decided to push further?

  “Reckon you boys got business at the barn,” Laramie drawled softly. But his hands hung loosely and his stance had changed.

  For a few moments the whole winter world seemed to hold its breath. Skidder stood poised as though deciding whether to have a bit more fun at Laramie’s expense, or get himself out of the area in one piece. Common sense finally won and he nodded, still leering, and moved off toward the barn.

  Laramie waited until the three were several steps away before he relaxed, nodded to the girl, and motioned for her to continue.

  Her face had blanched white; her large eyes had widened. He could see that she trembled slightly, and he knew she was fully aware of the danger that had just passed.

  “I…I’m not sure…” she began in a trembling voice.

  “He won’t be back,” he said with more confidence than he felt.

  She looked unconvinced.

  “I think I’d just like to stay in,” she managed hesitantly.

  He nodded. He would not argue further. It was unfortunate that they had been spotted. He should have been more cautious. Now the others knew there was a girl in the camp. Now there would be no rest—and sure trouble.

  Secretly he wondered if she would even be safe in the cabin—but he didn’t mention that to her as he led her back down the snowy trail.

  He would do what he could.

  Ariana was surprised later in the day when the young man returned and brought with him a hammer and a large hook and eye. He spoke not a word as he nailed the two pieces firmly in place. She watched from her spot at the table, her book open before her, but she said nothing.

  When he had finished he lifted his eyes to hers. “Keep it locked,” he said simply. “Don’t ever open it—’less it’s me—or Sam.”

  Ariana nodded at another reminder that she was constantly in danger.

  She let her eyes fall back to the pages before her. “Trust in the Lord,” she read—then reread—and it brought her a measure of comfort.

  She had been going through the Bible since her time of captivity, selecting all the passages that confirmed that truth. She was amazed at how often she found them—and at the heartrending circumstances in which they were spoken. She was excited to read how God acted on the behalf of those folks long ago. Surely she had great reason to trust such a powerful and merciful God.

  “What’s yer name?”

  The question surprised Ariana. The young man often came and went without any conversation taking place between the two of them. Now he was stacking an armload of wood inside her cabin. He wasn’t even looking her direction.

  “Ariana,” she said after hesitating.

  “Ariana,” he repeated, and Ariana was surprised at how her name sounded on his tongue.

  He continued to stack the logs by the cabin wall.

  “And yours?” she dared to ask.

  “Call me Laramie,” he replied.

  Ariana did not repeat his name aloud but she did mentally. In some strange way it seemed to suit him.

  She watched the even flow of his movements as he tucked the logs in place. He looked ordinary—yet she could not forget the change she had seen—had felt—when they had been confronted on the trail. Here was a kind of man she knew absolutely nothing about. So different from those she knew in her own small town. The very thought made her tremble.

  Mrs. Benson put another check mark on the wall calender before she loosed her braid and shook the silvering hair out to spill down her back. How long had it been? Thirty-one days. Thirty-one days and no word—nothing. She knew everyone in town had already given up. She wondered if her husband had joined their ranks. But no—not yet. He still included his petition for the safety of their girl in each of his spoken prayers. And how many times each day, like she, did he send up silent but fervent petitions? They both still clung to hope.

  Hope in a sovereign God—that was all they had.

  But surely—that was enough.

  “You must be tired of reading the same book,” Laramie casually observed as he set the extra pail of water on the shelf for her weekly bath.

  Ariana looked up. His words surprised her. He so seldom spoke to her—and she never initiated a conversation.

  “It’s the Bible,” she said.

  “The Bible?”

  “One can read it over and over and over—and still never stop learning or run out of fresh truths,” she dared to continue, sensing that he was puzzled by her answer.

  “I see,” he said, looking at her, but she felt that he really didn’t.

  He changed the topic with, “I’ll bring yer supper. Ya want it after yer bath—or before?”

  Ariana thought of the tasteless food. She took a deep br
eath, then dared to bring up what had been on her mind for the past several days. “If I had a couple of pots—and some supplies—I could do my own cooking and you wouldn’t need to bother—”

  “No bother,” he cut in quickly.

  She felt disappointment seep through her at her unsuccessful bid to prepare her own meals. She was sick of the sloppy beans and tasteless biscuits.

  He seemed to reconsider.

  “ ’Course—iffen you’d like to do yer own cookin’—guess it wouldn’t hurt none,” he said tentatively.

  Ariana almost smiled in her delight.

  “Make out a list of what yer needin’,” he invited.

  Ariana was perplexed. “I…I don’t have a pencil or…”

  It was his turn to look frustrated.

  “Reckon there ain’t one in camp,” he confessed. Then he shrugged broad shoulders. “Suppose ya need the usual grub stake. I’ve picked thet up plenty of times. I can git it for ya.”

  Ariana let her eyes travel to the trunk against the wall. “You don’t suppose there is anything like…a pencil…in there?” she mused, nodding her head in its direction.

  “Thought you’d looked.”

  Ariana shook her head. “No, not at everything. I…I felt like I was…intruding. I just looked partway and then I…I found…I felt that I…that it was…private.”

  He nodded, seeming to be pleased at her respect for privacy.

  He crossed to the trunk and lifted up the lid. “Maybe we should look,” he said. Ariana joined him as he began to lift out some of the dresses. “Never seen ya wear this one,” he said of a blue check. “It looks kinda pretty,” he added, almost to himself.

  “No,” said Ariana in a voice not much above a whisper. “I just took one…change of clothes. I…I use them…and my own, and wash them turn by turn. I…I…appreciate the chance to…change…but I didn’t think that I should…use all her clothes.”

  He looked surprised but made no immediate comment.

  “These were—my ma’s, I’m told,” he said frankly. He stopped in some confusion, then said, “She’s gone an’ won’t be needin’ ’em.”

  “I’m…so sorry,” breathed Ariana.

  He came to the blanket, lifted it up, and deposited it on the floor beside him. But Ariana could sense his surprise at the sight of all the baby garments.

  Then rather roughly he began to lift out the tiny things and lay them on the floor beside the blanket. He stopped short again after lifting up another handful of small clothing.

  He peered into the trunk. A little chest lay on the bottom, and beside it a book with a black cover.

  “Look!” Ariana exclaimed excitedly. “A Bible.”

  But Laramie was looking at the chest.

  Carefully he lifted it up and opened the lid. In it were a number of small items. Brooches—hankies with lace trim yellowed with age—a tintype—buttons—lace—little bits of this and that which he did not take time to sort. He closed the lid again.

  “The little chest…it must have been…your mother’s,” she said softly. “You should…keep it. It’s a treasure….”

  He looked uncomfortable. He abruptly put the box down on the floor by his knee.

  “Didn’t see any pencil or paper in there,” he said gruffly. “Guess it’s not much good to you.”

  She reached down into the trunk. Almost tenderly she lifted up the Bible. She could tell from the covers that it had been well used, but she did not open it.

  “You must take this, too,” she said in a whispery voice. “I know your mother would want you to have it.”

  He did not argue but watched as she placed the Bible on top of the little chest. She had known as soon as the chest appeared that he would take it—would need to take it.

  Quickly he rummaged through the rest of the belongings, but there was nothing else among the baby garments. An impatience seemed to have taken hold of him.

  Ariana understood his mood. She stepped back. “I’ll put the things back,” she offered. She was sure he couldn’t wait to carefully study each item from the chest in private.

  He nodded and picked up the newly discovered items, clearly anxious to be on his way.

  Laramie did not forget about the supplies. Sam brought her meal the next morning—thumping on the door and calling out in a louder than necessary voice to identify himself.

  When she unhooked the latch to let him enter, he came in growling.

  “Day not fit fer man or beast, yet he decides he has to run off. He’ll freeze hisself to death, thet’s what. You’d think there was a train of gold or a—”

  He stopped and looked nervously toward the young girl as if he had said too much.

  “Said he needed supplies,” continued the man with another growl. “Don’t know what he’s needin’ thet wouldn’t wait.”

  He cast a glance at her and Ariana felt embarrassed. Was he blaming her that Laramie had ridden off in the cold? Maybe he was right. She hadn’t given any thought to the weather when she had made her request. She had been selfish. She’d had no idea that the food staples would not be obtainable in the camp.

  “Yer breakfast,” said Sam more softly.

  “Thank you,” replied Ariana.

  “Don’t know why you’d thank me fer it,” Sam said. “Thet stuff ain’t hardly fit to eat. Ole Rawley ain’t much of a cook. Beans an’ biscuits. Beans an’ biscuits. Thet’s all we ever git—an’ they ain’t even good biscuits.”

  He set the plate on the table with a grimace and turned toward her. “See yer still readin’ thet book. Must have it near worn out by now,” he observed in a lighter tone.

  Ariana managed a wobbly smile. “The pages—maybe,” she said, “but the message—no.”

  “Message. Thet some secret code?”

  Ariana smiled fully now. “Code? Not to a believer, it’s not.”

  The old man frowned.

  “It’s the Bible,” explained Ariana. When there was no response she continued. “God’s words to His people.”

  “I know what the Bible is,” the old man retorted sharply. “My ma—” He shuffled uncomfortably and said no more about it. “Well—ya jest et up—thet—poor excuse fer breakfast,” said the man, “an’ I’ll be back fer the plate. How’s yer firewood?”

  He turned to study the pile. “Look’s like the Kid got ya enough firewood to last ’til a week from Christmas,” he noted, and Ariana thought he looked relieved. “Guess ya need some fresh water, though.”

  Then he looked at Ariana with some alarm. “Ya ain’t plannin’ on bathin’ today, are ya?”

  “No—not today,” she replied, shaking her head.

  “Good,” he said with feeling. “I sure weren’t anxious to do all thet haulin’.”

  He left with the pail, and Ariana crossed to latch her door before turning to the food.

  As determined as she had been to keep her strength up, she found it difficult to make herself eat the tasteless fare.

  It wasn’t until the next afternoon that Laramie knocked on her door and identified himself.

  Ariana hastened to answer. She was relieved to hear his voice and prayed as she lifted the hook that he wouldn’t have suffered from the ride in the elements.

  He looked fine. She sighed with relief.

  He carried a burlap bag in each hand. “Hope I got what ya needed,” he said matter-of-factly, “’cause I don’t think I’ll be welcomed back fer a while.”

  Ariana frowned at the words but couldn’t sort out his meaning. He deposited both bags on the table.

  “Got a couple pots and this here thing,” he said, drawing a strange piece of metal from the closest bag. “It’s a reflector of some kind. Supposed to make biscuits without an oven.”

  Ariana had never seen one before. She had no idea how to use it but determined to give it a try.

  He had brought a nice selection of basic supplies. There wasn’t much in the line of spices or flavorings, but at least she would be able to do her own cooking. Ariana wa
s thankful.

  “Now—if I just had some meat…” she mused.

  “I’ll git some,” he promised simply and later kept his word, appearing at her door with some venison steak just before the winter sun dipped behind the nearby hills.

  Ariana could not believe how good the stew tasted after her weeks of unsavory beans. She even enjoyed a second helping.

  The biscuits hadn’t done well. They were burned in spots—and undercooked in others. She would need to practice with the new reflector. Even so, they were definitely better than what she had been served from the gang’s kitchen. Perhaps now she could regain some of the weight she knew she had lost and have more strength when the time came for her to escape from her captors.

  For Ariana lived for the day when the weather would improve, and she would find a way to slip away from the four log walls that held her captive.

  Chapter Eleven

  An Ally

  In the privacy of the small cabin he called his own, Laramie lifted the small items from the chest, one by one, and laid them on the rough board table. According to Sam, these were his mother’s things. He felt a strange connection with them—a longing to know more about this woman he had never known. He appreciated Ariana’s reluctance to disturb the contents of the trunk any more than necessary for her own survival.

  The pin he studied was a cameo. It looked fragile and delicate—the white profile surrounded with intricate filigree. It seemed out of place in a rough camp of lawless men. Did she really wear it here? Had she truly ever been in residence in the camp? Laramie found it hard to believe, yet her trunk—her things—were in camp. It puzzled him.

  He withdrew one of the lace hankies. The cloth was soft to his touch—fine and smooth. He had never handled such fabric before. It was embroidered with a little pattern in delicate work, and as he looked closer he could make out letters. L-A-L. He put the letters together and whispered them softly. “Lal.” They spelled nothing as far as he knew. Yet he felt they held a secret. Lal. It was a strange word.

  He tenderly lifted the other handkerchiefs and placed them all in a neat little pile.