A Gown of Spanish Lace

by Janette Oke

  Another pin. This one small, with a blue stone in the middle that caught the afternoon light.

  Another hankie—then an oval on a long gold chain. He turned it this way and that as he surveyed it carefully. He noticed a little clasp. Carefully he pressed on it and it opened. It held a small lock of downy hair. Whose hair? Why had his mother carried it in this strange little oval? He studied it for a long time before he closed it and laid it aside.

  A scrap of lace. He turned it over in his hands, discovering no purpose for the bit of cloth. Yet he did not discard it—but put it gently on the growing pile. Another hankie, elaborately embroidered. It looked like a pair of intertwining rings. What had that meant?

  And then he was lifting the tintype. He turned it to catch all advantage of the light. It showed a woman. A woman whose face still shone out at him in spite of the fading of the years—whose eyes were turned lovingly upon a baby boy she held in her arms. Could it be him—with his mother?

  Her face was so sweet—so gentle. He had never seen such an expression before. For long moments he studied the picture. Something about the woman’s likeness reminded him of the girl in the cabin. What was it? Was it the expression? The features? Maybe the eyes.

  Carefully he placed the tintype on the bottom of the small chest and began to return the other items. Then he went to the corner shelf, lifted up the tiny gown that Sam had said was his, and gently added it to the other items in the chest.

  His whole being was shaken by the experience. And yet he knew so little. He understood even less. Who was his mother? What had happened to her? If she had remained with him, would his life have been different? Somehow he felt it would have been, even though he wasn’t sure just how.

  He closed the lid of the little box and turned his attention to the Bible. He opened the cover and read of one King James, who had authorized the version. It meant nothing to him. He continued to turn the pages.

  He came to a page with a list of names, entered in precise and careful penmanship. His eyes quickly scanned the contents. It looked like a family record of some kind. He checked the heading at the top of the page and saw that it was titled Births. He skimmed down the page and read the last few lines.

  Tilford James Bradley, 1812–1816

  Margaret Rose Bradley, 1814–1842

  Weyburn Oliver Bradley, 1817

  Mary Louise Bradley, 1820–1820

  Lavina Ann Bradley, 1822

  Conrad Timothy Bradley, 1823–1824

  Ethan David Bradley, 1826

  There was a space and then the line announcing,

  Burke Timothy Lawrence, August 10, 1860

  Laramie wondered about the last entry. Why so much later? Why a different name?

  Laramie turned the page. The headline at the top announced Marriages.

  Margaret Rose Bradley & Thomas Cullen Roberts, 1833

  Lavina Ann Bradley & Turner Donair Lawrence III, 1840

  Weyburn Oliver Bradley & Jane Titford Gray, 1841

  Laramie flipped another page. This one was labeled Deaths, and he quickly let his eyes scan down the page, noting the names he had read previously, now with little notations behind the dates. Died of natural causes—in childbirth—whooping cough—pneumonia. It seemed that his forebears, if indeed that was the record he held in his hands, had more than a little difficulty.

  He turned the page again and found a table of contents and then on into the printed pages of the book. But the pages held more than print. Here and there he found, in the same careful handwriting, brief notations or comments about passages. The truth dawned. The same person who had recorded the births, marriages, and deaths was the owner of the Bible. His mother? It was among her things. If he was to believe Sam, then this Bible had belonged to his mother and her name might appear in the book he held.

  But it didn’t add up. His name was Russell. Laramie Russell. His pa’s name was Will Russell.

  Then Laramie smiled a cynical smile. It would seem his pa had seen fit to change his name. Perhaps more than once. There was nothing new about that. Laramie supposed there wasn’t a man in camp who went by his given name.

  Was there a chance his pa had once answered to one of those other names?

  “So he was once Bradley or Roberts or Lawrence or maybe Gray,” he mused aloud. “Quite a different handle than Russell.”

  Laramie slowly closed the book and promised himself that he’d do some more investigating into what it held as soon as he had the time. His horses needed to be fed and rubbed down. He’d have to satisfy his profound curiosity later.

  Carefully he picked up the well-worn volume and the chest. His eyes scanned the room quickly. Then he walked to his wooden bunk, lifted it over a way, and knelt on the floor. With a small amount of coaxing, one floorboard groaned reluctantly upward. He slipped his treasure into the hole beneath, beside his money poke and extra Colt. It wasn’t safe. There was nothing safe in the camp. But it was the safest place he knew.

  He moved the bunk back into position and picked up his Stetson, anxious to get his chores out of the way.

  Laramie had finished with the horses and would have returned to his cabin and lit the kerosene lamp, but hunger drove him toward the main bunkhouse.

  As he passed the south cabin the smell of cooking food caused him to stop midstride. He decided to check on Ariana to see how she was managing with the provisions he had brought her. Perhaps there had been something he’d forgotten.

  He knocked, then called out and heard her move to the door and unlatch the hook.

  She looked surprised, since Laramie never came in the evening except to bring her plate of food—and now the arrangement was for her to make her own meals.

  “Jest came to see how ya made out with the cookin’,” he quickly explained.

  “Fine,” she responded, indicating the empty plate she had just left to answer the door.

  He moved past her and into the room. “Smells good,” he observed.

  “Just stew,” said Ariana, her heart thumping with uncertainty. What did he want? She saw his eyes wander to the biscuits still on the cooking sheet.

  “They didn’t turn out too well,” Ariana confessed. “I need to practice with the reflector.”

  “They look a heap better than Rawley’s,” he observed.

  Ariana noticed the slight twitch of his nose.

  “Help yourself,” she offered.

  He did, without hesitation or apology.

  “There’s a little stew left—”

  “Do ya mind?” he asked and glanced at the plate on the table.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered quickly. “I only have the one plate, but I’ll wash it—”

  “No need. I’ve et off worse things,” he responded and picked up the plate. He moved to the stove, where the stew still simmered, and dished out the remainder of the contents.

  Ariana stood mute as she watched him squat on the floor, his back up against the door.

  “You can sit at the table,” she said quickly. “I’ll—I’m finished.”

  But he shook his head. “I’m used to sittin’ most anywhere.”

  Ariana had never seen a man eat so hungrily. She found herself wondering when he had last had a decent meal. She roused herself and moved to rinse the one cup so she could pour him a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you,” he said, looking a little embarrassed at the unfamiliar courtesy.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t make more,” Ariana apologized as he cleaned up the plate with a biscuit. “I didn’t—I was trying to—to not use the supplies—”

  “I can git more,” he stated briefly.

  “But you said—” began Ariana.

  He smiled. A lazy, good-natured smile. “True,” he replied, “but there are other stores.”

  Ariana still didn’t understand his meaning, yet she couldn’t help but wonder if the food had been obtained with the help of a pistol rather than a gold piece.

  He set aside the emptied plate. Ariana supposed that he must sti
ll be hungry. She had eaten two servings herself.

  “Do you want those other two biscuits?” she inquired.

  He nodded and moved to get up, but she brought the biscuits to him. He washed them down with great gulps of coffee.

  The warm food seemed to relax his usually tense body. He even lifted off the Stetson and placed it on the floor beside him. Ariana noticed that his hair was curly. He was also in need of a good haircut. Then her eyes noticed a scar on his forehead—just at his hairline. She was wondering about it when his words drew her attention.

  “What does lal mean?” he asked her suddenly.

  “Lal?” she echoed.

  “Lal. Jest like thet. L-A-L.”

  “Where did you see it?” She was forgetting some of her caution.

  “On one of them hankies in thet little box.”

  “Oh,” said Ariana, “then it likely was a monogram.”

  “A monogram?” He sounded puzzled.

  “One’s initials.”

  The frown still puckered his brow.

  “The first letters of your names,” went on Ariana. “Mine would be AYB. Ariana Yvonne Benson.”

  He seemed to be pondering.

  “You mean, the hankie has my ma’s—what’d ya say—initials on it?”

  “If it was truly your mother’s hankie—then, yes,” said Ariana.

  “So her name was like thet. LAL?”

  “That would be my guess,” responded Ariana.

  He stood suddenly. “Thet’s right interestin’,” he said as he picked up his hat with one hand, the empty plate with the other. “Want me to clean this off in the snow?” he asked her as he looked down at the plate and cup he held.

  “No, no—I’ll take care of it,” she quickly answered.

  He handed it to her. “Mighty obliged, miss,” he said as he placed his hat back on his head. “Been a long time since I had something other than beans.”

  “I—would you—I mean, I could make a little extra tomorrow if…”

  He smiled again and with his finger pushed back his hat. “Well, now,” he said, “I’d like thet jest fine—but I’m not sure I’d be too smart—me comin’ here to et. ’Course iffen I could come up with some plate, might be I could sneak a little out.”

  Ariana let her gaze travel to the room’s one window.

  “I’ll see what I can do to free it up tomorrow,” he said, reading her thoughts.

  She nodded.

  He left then. She heard the beam fall across the door, which meant she was again locked in. Then his voice reached her through the heavy timber. “Don’t fergit to lock yer door.”

  Ariana reached up and slipped the hook quietly into the eye.

  Another week passed slowly by. Ariana continued to make stews and potpies. She practiced with the reflector in various positions, and her biscuits improved each time she made a batch. Laramie consumed them with unbelievable ease.

  He had surreptitiously removed the nails from the window frame and replaced them with hooks so it now locked on both the inside and the outside. Each night he brought his plate around to the window and held it while Ariana filled it. Then he took it, along with biscuits and coffee, and hastened off toward his own tumbledown cabin.

  He had been giving full attention to his mother’s Bible. He didn’t pretend to understand much of it, but the little notations in the margins often shed some light on what he was reading. Still, he had so many questions and he had no one to ask.

  He had also found a name that matched the initials. LAL. Lavina Ann Lawrence. Was that his mother? Laramie wanted to believe it was. Somehow it gave him a strange connection with the woman in the picture, an identity he previously had not had. He looked at the picture night after night until he felt—something—for the unknown woman. Something he had never felt before.

  “Seems ya don’t eat much anymore,” observed Will as Laramie stepped inside the communal cabin. “Ya been dippin’ in someone else’s pot?”

  The words brought loud guffaws from the men lounging about the room. By now everyone knew the prisoner was doing her own cooking. At times the fragrant smells coming from her cabin made stomachs growl in protest.

  Laramie made no answer.

  “Maybe he don’t need to eat,” snarled Skidder. “Maybe he lives on love.”

  More loud laughter.

  “Ya ain’t been round much a’tall lately,” Will went on.

  Laramie got the strange feeling his father was trying to start something.

  “Been in my own cabin,” he said offhandedly.

  “Alone?” asked McDuff, and the whole group of men hooted in response.

  “I sure know I wouldn’t be iffen…” said Skidder with a knowing look, leaving his comment dangling.

  There were more nods and hoots in general agreement.

  Laramie felt the back of his neck crawl. He didn’t like the talk. Didn’t like the crude insinuations. “Anybody want a game of cards?” he asked, hoping to turn the attention of the cabin to other things.

  His invitation was quickly accepted, and a group of the men pulled their log stools close to the rough-hewed table.

  Laramie shuffled the cards, let Shadow cut, then began to deal.

  “What say we up the ante,” said Skidder with a leer. “Winner gits to guard the prisoner.”

  All eyes turned toward Laramie to catch his reaction. He never flinched. Never moved a muscle except for the ones needed to distribute the cards. Even his deep eyes did not betray him.

  He nodded slowly. “ ’Bout time someone else took a turn—but assignments are up to the boss. He decides who does what,” he answered easily.

  “Ya wanna gamble the girl—thet’s yer doin’,” responded Will in his gravelly voice, “long as she stays in camp.”

  Laramie nodded his consent without giving his true feelings away. He studied the cards in his hand. He wished he hadn’t gotten himself cornered. Now he was in deep, for sure. What would happen if—? No, he wouldn’t even think about it. This was one card game he had no intention of losing—the stakes were too high.

  “Ya really think this is gonna work?” asked Sam after the cabin had cleared of all but him and his boss.

  Will’s chuckle was not a pleasant sound. “Ya saw ’im,” he snorted. “He acted like he couldn’ta cared less—but I’m thinkin’ thet if someone else had won thet card game, there’da been gunplay.”

  Sam was surprised. “An’ you’d—you’d welcome thet?” he asked, dumbfounded.

  “It wouldn’ta been the Kid we’d carried out,” said Will simply.

  “No—but it mighta been a good man. An’ we got a little trip to make ’afore long, to my recollection.”

  The boss nodded.

  “I want this here thing settled before we make the next raid,” he said, scowling. “It’s drug on far too long already.”

  Sam nodded. “The boys have been more patient then I woulda expected,” he agreed.

  “Mighta worked out a lot sooner iffen he didn’t keep her hidden away in thet cabin,” growled the big man. “No one even gits to see what she looks like.”

  “Tell ’im. Tell ’im. Yer the boss.”

  “Yeah, but what do I tell ’im? I told ’im to take care of her. The weather’s been mean as a rattlesnake. What reason could I dream up for ’im to make her come out in the cold?”

  “Well, the weather should be on the upturn anytime now. Been winter far too long,” observed Sam.

  “Hope so,” exclaimed the boss. “I’m sick an’ tired of these here beans.”

  Sam stopped chewing on his plug of tobacco long enough to give that some thought. “Ya reckon he eats with the girl?” he asked at last.

  “I’ve watched him comin’ an’ goin’. He don’t hang around there long enough to eat,” growled Will. “He’s in an’ out like he was plumb scared of her or somethin’.”

  “Well—he don’t seem to be losin’ no weight,” observed Sam. “Funny, ain’t it?”

  “I’ve got to g
et her out of there,” Laramie told White Eagle.

  His tone of voice and eyes gave away his intense feelings, even though he worked to keep his face expressionless.

  “Something wrong?” asked the young brave.

  “Yeah…yeah, things are…are…I don’t know. I can jest feel the tension mountin’. I…I can’t keep her safe…there anymore. Even the lock…”

  He began to pace again.

  It wasn’t just the banter of the boys. Something had been happening since Laramie had been spending his days and nights reading his mother’s Bible. Something he didn’t understand. It was just there—deep within him. He was beginning to see that this life of his—this way of living was all wrong. And bringing her to the camp and keeping her there against her will—that was about as far wrong as they could get.

  “How?” asked White Eagle, his simple question forcing Laramie back to the present.

  He stopped his pacing. “I’ll need yer help,” he said, looking straight into the eyes of his friend.

  “White Brother have my help,” promised the Indian solemnly.

  “Look, White Eagle. This will be dangerous. I know that. You must know that. My pa—he’d shoot to kill. He said so. In front of the whole gang. He’d not hesitate—”

  White Eagle nodded. “You have gun,” he interjected.

  Laramie was shocked. “But I couldn’t use it—couldn’t shoot my own pa,” he said quickly.

  White Eagle looked thoughtful. Then he nodded again. “You more Indian than White,” he told Laramie. “Have honor.”

  But Laramie brushed aside the words. He was deeply sorry about the fact that White Eagle felt as he did about the white race, but perhaps some of the animosity had been deserved. He wished things had been different.

  He took a deep breath. “I’m not asking you to risk your life,” he continued.

  “I owe White Brother,” replied the brave.

  “No. No,” responded Laramie. “You don’t owe me. Sure I helped you out—”

  “You save my life.”

  “Okay—I saved yer life—but thet doesn’t mean—”

  “White Eagle owe,” the brave said firmly.