The Passionate and the Proud

by Vanessa Royall

  “Niece, hah!” scoffed Alma Bent, busy trying to revive her husband. “That girl is a man’s kept woman if I ever saw one. Did you see that dress she had on? It must of cost a hunnert bucks! Oh, Festus, you idiot! Ain’t nothin’ never goin’ to go right for you?”

  “Do you reckon that man was a prizefighter or something?” asked Leander Rupp of no one in particular. “What the hell would Landar want with a man like that?”

  Emmalee, who overheard both comments, had to admit that the same questions were on her mind.

  “The Chinese are helpin’ with the Continental Railroad,” mused Vestor Tell, “but Landar’s Folly is hardly the best place on earth to lay track.”

  A small spate of laughter followed Tell’s remark. But it did not last long.

  “See the way that head Chinese boy looked?” asked Elvira Waters. “I heard once that them Orientals use a knife so good they can cut you right down the middle, head to toe, an’ you’ll walk on maybe another twenty feet before you realize it and fall apart.”

  “What are Creel and Landar doing up there in the hills anyway?” Cloris Hamtramck wanted to know.

  So did a lot of other people, but the matter did not seem to affect them directly, and when life is hard things that have no immediate effect are pushed aside. Emmalee went back into the store, bought flour, yeast, and a little sugar, looked at the big sign for the Christmas party that Hester had made, approved it, and then went out to mount the dapple-gray and ride home. She saw Myrtle coming toward the store. It had been a couple of weeks since she’d seen the older woman, so Emmalee stopped to chat.

  “You missed all the excitement,” she said.

  “Yeah? What happened?”

  “The wagon train came and Ebenezer met it. There were over twenty Chinese. Also a man and a girl. They left for Landar’s Folly.”

  Myrtle looked surprised. “A girl?” she asked. “I didn’t know there was gonna be a girl.”

  She realized that she’d revealed too much, and stopped talking. But it was too late.

  “Then what do you know, Myrtle?” demanded Emmalee, as pleasantly as she could. She remembered Myrtle, Hester, Ebenezer, and Garn leaning conspiratorially over the table in the general store.

  “Just surprised a girl would come all the way out here,” the old woman answered lamely. “That all right with you?”

  “I’m out here.”

  “Hmmm,” said Myrtle.

  “What are Garn and Ebenezer up to?” Emmalee asked, having decided a frontal assault was as good as any and better than most.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “But you do.”

  “Even if I do, it doesn’t concern you.”

  Emmalee felt left out. And intensely curious.

  “How’s things with you and Randy?” inquired Myrtle, changing the subject.

  “Fine.”

  “Remember what I told you way back there in Kansas? That it ain’t no picnic to be alone? I guess you finally came to that conclusion.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “There’s one other thing though.”

  “Yes?”

  “The fit’s got to be right.”

  “The fit?”

  “Yep. In every way. So if you’re planning on getting hitched, I guess the fit must be right.”

  Emmalee guessed that Myrtle meant the way that a woman and a man matched up, in ideals, dreams, ambitions, and desires.”

  “I think it is,” she said.

  “Good,” said Myrtle. “I hear you borrowed money off Tell too. Why’d he go and get so agreeable all of a sudden?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then watch your step.”

  “I aim to.”

  Saying so long to Myrtle, Emmalee mounted the gray and headed back home. On the way, she met Torquist and the farmers taking the empty wagon back into Arcady. She waved to them and they responded, looking considerably less grim than they had in the village, as if a load had been taken off their minds. As she rode by Torquist’s farm, Emmalee could not restrain her curiosity. She guided the horse past his big new house with the lean-to on the side, that lonely appendage from which she’d recently escaped, and down toward the barn. Its doors were closed and—Emmalee saw with amazement—padlocked. But she eased the gray right up next to the barn and stood up on the saddle, peering into one of the narrow ventilation slits that Torquist, always forward-looking, had installed.

  And she saw them.

  Great gleaming spools of barbwire stacked high, at least a hundred spools, to fence off the farmers’ land from that of the ranchers. She recalled Otis’s anger at the mere mention of barbwire, his fury at the way it cut up grazing cattle and ruined the lay of the land. And here it was, in Olympia, enough wire to fence all the farms around.

  Emmalee sighed and rode back home to tell Randy.

  It looked like trouble would be coming along with Christmas that year.

  Deck the Halls

  Hester’s new hotel, designed to be the showcase of Arcady, was aglow with light and color. Olympians who approached it in the frosty, falling darkness on Christmas night, themselves recovering slowly from holiday dinners of roast pork, biscuits, and gravy, saw the gleaming whiteness of new paint in lantern light outside, and the great hall downstairs was festive with tree, streamers of colored paper, and Chinese lanterns. The memory of the Queen of Natchez had given Emmalee the idea for the lanterns.

  Emmalee and Randy had exchanged gifts in the morning at the new house. He gave her a pair of delicate, gilded barrettes. She presented him with the posthole digger he wanted, and which she’d had to sell four of her ten chickens to afford. After that, they’d gone into town to help Hester decorate the hall for the evening dance.

  “It looks great, even if I do say so myself,” Hester pronounced. A row of tables along one side of the big room held bowls of fragrant punch and all manner of cakes, pies, and cookies baked by farm women and ranch women alike. Next to the area in the far corner, which was reserved for the band, stood a bar at which pioneers might partake of something a little more powerful than punch. There were chairs for those who might wish to be seated along the other walls, and the center of the room was open for dancing. The Christmas tree, cut and dragged down from the Sacajawea by a dozen eager children, stood near the entrance and colored streamers, along with the Chinese lanterns, hung from the ceiling.

  “We might of got us a bigger tree,” one of the boys had reported after coming back down from the hills, “but we saw this Chinaman with a yellow headband waving a gun at us, so we turned back.”

  His comment had been noted, discussed, and then set aside, like so many of the other inexplicable tidbits relating to Landar’s Folly.

  Members of the band arrived first. Otis was going to play the washboard, which he carried in under his arm. He put the washboard down in the corner, drew Emmalee off to one side, and presented her with a genuine silver snuff box.

  “I know it ain’t exactly what you might fancy,” he told her, almost bashfully, “but I wanted to give you a little somethin’. Just to show we’re friends.”

  Emmalee felt embarrassed. She had no gift for him. But she fixed him a big drink of lemonade and corn likker, which made him happy enough.

  Accompanying Otis on fiddles were Bates Knell, rancher, and farmer Virgil Waters. Lambert Strep came with an old accordion and rancher Royce Campbell, who—it was said—had once been a seagoing pirate, brought his guitar. Randy told them the square dances that he knew, and the men went off to rehearse a bit before the crowd arrived.

  A big group was expected. Emmalee’s idea, supported by Hester Brine’s indefatigable publicizing, had spread word of the party throughout Olympia. Only the bedridden or the very young would be absent. And the contingent from Landar’s Folly, of course. The Chinese foreman came to town once a week on Tuesday mornings, regular as clockwork, entered the general store, pointed and grunted when he saw what he wanted, paid cash, and departed. Everyone called him Yo-
Bang, which derived from the color of his headband, but they did not call him that to his face.

  In a way, Emmalee was glad that Garn Landar would not be coming to the party. His absence eliminated the possibility that anything untoward would occur between Garn and Randy, or between Garn and Emmalee herself. Also—and Emmalee was a little surprised at herself for realizing it—if Garn was not present, he could not spend time with Lottie. In some vestigially possessive part of her soul, Emmalee did not care for the idea of Garn having anything to do with Lottie. She still had no idea why the Pennington girl had been riding Garn’s horse that time, but every now and again she wondered just what was going on between them.

  In another way, Emmalee was rather disappointed that Garn would not be coming. So many of their early encounters, whether they had been verbal, raising her ire, or hot and physical, raising her to passion, now seemed far away, incidents and events out of another time. She’d been much younger then, in attitude and demeanor if not in age, and her actions had been those of a girl. Now she felt much more grown up and womanly, and if he met her and talked to her now, well, he would see that. She was not the more reckless, impulsive Emmalee of last spring and summer. She could handle him now, she felt, put him in perspective. And she wanted him to see the relationship she had with Randy, which was so steady and considerate and…mature.

  If Garn observed that relationship, Emmalee felt, then he would understand once and for all how different from her he really was. He who once had the gall to suggest that they were like each other!

  The only thing that bothered her, in these deliberate ruminations, was why she ought to be concerned at all with what Garn Landar thought. In the end, she ascribed her concern to the fact that things had ended so badly for them—that awful scene among the boulders above Denver—and that she was a sensible, forgiving sort of person who just did not want to see things end badly. She didn’t care for the detached way he looked at her now. It probably meant that he had repented his transgression, she concluded, which was good. But there was no need for him to treat her so coolly, was there?

  On the other hand—and this was the part she tried to keep herself from thinking about—Garn had seen her with Otis on the riverbank that night. Nothing had happened between her and Otis, but how was Garn to know that? What must he think of her now?

  I don’t care what he thinks, she told herself, pouring a glass of punch. That’s just the point. She decided to forget all about it; she walked over to help Hester cut cakes and pies.

  Country people always arrive all at once for a social event, as if to come either too soon or too late would somehow betray the uniqueness of the occasion and ruin the event itself. Also, they did not have all that many affairs to attend. At any rate, the hotel was practically deserted one moment and jam-packed the next. To their credit, the opposing camps appeared to be trying to honor the occasion, if not each other, with an appearance of civility. Even Horace Torquist managed to smile, although he contrived to avoid Burt Pennington and both the corn likker and mild, wine-flavored punch.

  Talk came more easily to the women of the two groups than it did to the men, but a drink or two helped, and when the small band started up the mood in the place lightened considerably. The members of the band had never played together before and their opening number, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” was a little shaky. Yet it was recognizable, and the people applauded, which gave the players confidence. They launched into a rousing version of “Oh, Susannah!”

  “Guess I’d better get on over there and get ready to call a square,” said Randy, who’d been standing next to Emmalee and drinking punch.

  He left to join the band. It occurred to Emmalee that she didn’t have a partner for the dance. Even worse, she saw Lottie Pennington coming toward her through the crowd. Lottie wore lavender, which suited her exquisitely, setting off that shining red hair. For once, Emmalee was not distressed. She knew she looked good in a long-skirted gown she’d sewn herself, powder blue with gold piping to match the barrettes Randy had given her.

  “Why, it’s Emmalee Alden, what a surprise!” exuded Lottie. She inspected Emmalee carefully. “I must say, marriage agrees with you. When is the baby due?”

  Emmalee smoldered but held her temper. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m not getting married until next summer.”

  “Oh, my goodness. I’ve offended you.” Lottie looked cheerful.

  “Of course not. Think nothing of it. Have you a beau these days?”

  Lottie averted her eyes cagily, then looked back at Emmalee. “Isn’t it bad luck to say? It’s a jinx to put your mouth on it.”

  The expression meant that a person ought not discuss a bit of luck or a fond desire, lest a dream go glimmering.

  “So some say.”

  “Did you organize all this?” asked Lottie, feigning awe and looking around the teeming hall. “All the work! I’m so impressed. And there’s your fiance getting ready to call a square dance, isn’t he? He’s most attractive.”

  This sentiment was genuine on Lottie’s part, but she managed to convey an impression of surprise that Emmalee had managed to snare such a man.

  “I hear that you’re living in the same house with him,” she hissed.

  “It’s not tnie. I have a cabin on my own land.”

  “I do hope you keep it.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “By all means.”

  “Do you think you’re…well…right for Randy Clay?”

  “He seems to think so,” replied Emmalee coldly.

  “Oh, don’t be upset. It’s just that he seems so warm and friendly and, you know, sort of old-fashioned.”

  That’s why I’m so fond of him, Emmalee thought.

  “And you seem like such a go-getter—so capable and everything.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so.”

  “Oh, I know. It is, it is. But I just meant…”

  The band ended “Oh, Susannah!” and Randy called out, “Everybody ready for a try at a square?”

  He was answered by an affirmative din.

  “Get your partners then, form up, and let’s give it a go.”

  The fiddles whined, accordion, guitar, and washboard joined in, the sound of the washboard accentuating rhythm as a drum would have. Along with everyone else, Emmalee clapped her hands to the beat and could not keep from tapping her foot. The rough music filled the hall, people whirled, and Randy called the dance:

  “…promenade and around you go,

  gonna marry the girl with the pretty red bow…”

  If Randy called all night, Emmalee reflected, she wouldn’t have a chance to dance at all. Even Lottie had someone; she was dancing with her father. Burt’s bald, bullet-shaped pate gleamed in the light. She checked around, looking to see if there might not be a prospective partner.

  “…all join hands and go to town,

  gonna marry the girl in the calico gown…”

  And then, to her surprise, she caught a glimpse of Garn Landar. He was taller than most of the other men, and she saw him making his way slowly through the crowd to the bar. He was formally, elegantly dressed in an expensive suit of blue serge, gleaming white shirt collar, and a cravat of maroon silk with a golden tie pin. But he looked tired and rather preoccupied. Nevertheless, he greeted those he passed in a friendly manner. She saw heads tum to follow him. What’s he doing here? Garn had become a mystery and he drew the attention accorded to one.

  She was wondering if he’d seen her or not—he didn’t seem particularly interested in the party—when she heard somebody behind her say, quietly but effervescently, “Oh, my goodness! Isn’t he adorable?”

  She turned to see Delilah Quinn standing beside her uncle Jacob. She looked fresh, ingenuous, and very pretty. She was watching Randy call the dance.

  “Oh, hello!” she said when she saw Emmalee looking at her. “You’re one of the town girls? I’m Delilah. I’ve wa
nted to come to town since forever! How I envy you living here!”

  “Jacob Quinn.” Her uncle bowed, smiling. Emmalee extended her hand and Jacob took it for a moment into his own. Emmalee gave her name.

  “We’ve been keeping Delilah up in the hills too long, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling again and inclining his head slightly toward his excited niece. “She wanted to have some fun and here we are.”

  Emmalee liked them both immediately. Jacob was strong, straightforward, confident. Delilah seemed forthright as well and attractively guileless.

  “What kind of a dance is this?” she asked, watching the whirl.

  “…Swing your partner, do-si-do,

  gonna marry a girl who won’t dance too slow…”

  “It’s called a square dance.”

  “And that cute man who’s saying the words?”

  “He’s the caller.”

  “I meant what’s his name?”

  “Randy Clay,” said Emmalee. “Don’t you have square dances in…where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Of course we have square dances there,” interjected her uncle, “but Dee’s been in private school for some years. She wasn’t exposed to—”

  “Oh, Uncle Jake! I want to forget about those times. How dreary. I want to have some fun now. Where are you from?” she asked Emmalee.

  “Pennsylvania.”

  “Oh, my! How did you get here?”

  “Oh a wagon train across the country.”

  “Really? How I envy you! I’ve never done anything. And now they have me up in those hills…”

  “It’s only temporary. Dee,” said her uncle.

  “And they’re always working,” Delilah went on, which removed from Emmalee’s mind the chance thought that Delilah and Garn might be…

  “Do you have a beau?” asked the girl, in her frank but thoroughly inoffensive way.

  “I guess you could say I do. I’m—”