The cowboy stopped to let people cheer, and Kennedy said, “Now that’s some fine roping! And now, my friend will come down off the wagon and show you even more, things I won’t let him do up here. Everyone back up and make some room! If you can’t see, climb up on some steps for a better view.”
That was fine for them as were already near steps, but by the time Tom could get there, all the good spots’d be taken. Instead he squirmed up closer, while the cowboy commenced to aim his circles near the ground and then jump in and out of ‘em.
Tom could tell Kennedy saw him moving up, and hoped he wouldn’t call him out on his manners. But the pitchman bellowed, “What I’m needing now is a volunteer! Young man, how would you like to be part of our show?”
Tom looked around at the townsfolk, who’d started clapping and whistling, and stepped up as Kennedy said, “What’s your name, my brave fellow?”
Tom almost rolled his eyes, but at the last second figured it’d be impolite. “My name’s Tom Barlow, Professor.”
He could see the name register, the pitchman’s eyes brightening up as he pointed to a spot in the street. “Well, Mr. Barlow, stand right over there, if you please. Now catch this!” He tossed Tom a broom. “Good! Now hold onto that broom.”
Did Tom imagine it, or did the pitchman give him a little wink?
Maybe so, but he decided not to grip the broom handle all that hard. And when the lasso came snaking out at him, fell down over the broom handle, and yanked it away, Tom made a point of looking real surprised.
And all the while, something was nagging at him about the pitchman’s joke, the one about Tom being part of the show. Not that he wanted to stand up in front of people in a spangly suit or have them gaping at him, so what thought was trying to shove its way forward like Tom had just done?
The show was over, and Tom had made it back to Finch’s shop, before it came clear to him. And then it hit him so hard that he stood stock still in the middle of the doorway until Finch grumbled at him to get on inside and back to work.
Clara Gibbs opened the door when Tom knocked, her belly greeting him way before the rest of her. Wonderful smells surrounded them both as she said, “Come in! I’m so glad you could come. Joshua is just making Freida sit down so he can check her over and make sure she isn’t working too hard.”
From behind Mrs. Gibbs came a sing-song complaint. “Working too hard, did I somehow get too feeble to cook, how many times did I cook for you? And I should sit down so your wife, so near her time, should do all the work, you want to deliver a baby before we eat? Jedidiah, tell him, he should let me get up, the roast could burn, I still need to put in the biscuits!”
Mrs. Gibbs took Tom’s hat and rain slicker and steered him into the sitting room where Professor Kennedy relaxed in an easy chair, seemingly staying out of the battle in the kitchen no matter what his wife said. He sprang to his feet as Tom came in. “Pleased to see you again, my good man! Clara, did I tell you how Tom assisted us with the show the other day? I told him he should join right up, didn’t I, Tom?”
Tom might have twitched a bit before he answered, “That’s right, Mrs. Gibbs.”
Mrs. Gibbs cocked her head. “A man your age might be excused some degree of wanderlust. Were you tempted?”
“Well, now.” He’d rather wait a bit before telling the idea he’d brought with him. “I can’t say as I was, exactly. You’re right about that wanderlust, though.” He paused to listen to the continuing, if one-sided, argument in the kitchen. “When we’re all together, I might see what you think of an idea that came to me, owing to that invite. So thank you for that, Professor.”
The pitchman waved a big hand at him. “None of that somewhat dubious title among friends! Please, call me Jedidiah. Or Jed, if that’s too much of a mouthful.”
Doc Gibbs came in from the kitchen, where he’d either won or lost the argument. “Welcome, Tom! Come say hello to Freida. And speaking of mouthfuls, I’m told we’ll be ready to eat in just a few minutes.”
Tom followed him into the kitchen, where Freida Kennedy, wearing a big frilly apron, seemed to be everywhere at once, looking in the oven, stirring a pot on the stove, reaching in the cupboard for plates. Doc managed to get in front of her there and pull down some plates himself. Mrs. Kennedy picked up the bottom of her apron and whacked him with it. “Out of the kitchen, out! I’ll be gone soon enough, you can have it back when we leave.”
Doc backed away, grinning. “Before you exile me, may I introduce — or rather, reintroduce — Tom Barlow? I would think you crossed paths in the past, but you may not have actually spoken.”
Mrs. Kennedy dusted flour off her hands and used both of them to grab one of Tom’s. “I’m so glad to meet you properly, you’d think I’d have met everyone in Cowbird Creek, but somehow I missed people. And to hear what you did at the funeral, I could kiss you, but I’d maybe frighten you right out the door and dinner almost ready . . . .”
Tom bowed as best he could with his hand captured and waited for her to let go of it. Which she did, shooing him and Doc out to the sitting room. “Out, go sit, keep the others company, I’ll call you any minute.”
True enough, he had just sat down when Freida came in without her apron on. “Come eat, all of you, don’t let it get cold, you can talk at the table.”
Over the roast beef and boiled potatoes and corn pudding, Doc and his missus took turns reciting lines from what the preacher had said to get Tom — and both of them, seemingly — so riled. They hammed it up to make it sound even worse, maybe to give Tom more of an excuse for losing his temper and his manners. Then they prodded Tom to repeat what he’d said, prompting him when he forgot. Mr. Jed and Mrs. Freida — she’d insisted he use her given name too, and then Doc’s missus had done the same — clapped as hard as the watchers at one of Mr. Jed’s medicine shows.
Before someone could start a new subject, Tom asked, “Mr. Jed, Mrs. Freida, are medicine shows the only kind of work where folks travel around in a wagon? Have you ever met any other kind?”
The older couple looked at each other and then back at Tom. Mr. Jed did the answering. “Can’t say as I have. Though there’s no special reason I’d have come across them, if they did.”
That wasn’t exactly encouraging, but if his idea had a chance, these were the people who could tell him so. “I’d take it as a great kindness if you folks could tell me whether something that’s come into my head is pure moonshine, or if it might just work. But it’ll take some explaining.
“I’ve been working at Mr. Finch’s cordwainer shop, doing what he’d rather not, and I’ve found my way back to something I’d forgot about . . . .” He told about his wanting to draw Jenny — not getting into how he’d met her or what she did, though what with all the talk about the funeral, they might guess — and how he’d used leather for it, and how pleased she’d been with it, and everything that came after. It took a lot of telling, and he felt how unmannerly it was to go on so long with no one else getting a turn, but they all listened, even the two who knew it already. Finally he got to what was new even to Doc and his missus. He took a deep breath and pushed out the question. “It’s what Mr. Jed said before that got me wondering. Do you think a man as fixed up saddles like I’ve been doing could travel from place to place doing it?”
Mr. Jed played with his big mustache for a second and asked, “Do you by any chance have a sample of your work with you?”
Tom thanked his stars he’d thought to bring the leather he took to ranches when he made his pitch. Just a few days before, he’d added some bits of silver trim left over from his last job. He pulled it out of his vest pocket, unfolded it, and handed it over, chewing his lip and then making himself quit.
Mrs. Freida and Mrs. Clara got up from their chairs and looked over Mr. Jed’s shoulders (Mrs. Clara leaning on his chair), pointing to this design or that, making little noises that sounded like they liked what they saw. Mrs. Freida stroked a finger along the silver. And all the while, Tom waited for Mr
. Jed to say something.
Finally he picked up the leather and handed it back to Tom. And said, “Young man, that’s some fine work.”
Tom breathed out so hard he thought he’d send his chair over backward. “Thankee, sir.”
Kind words or no, Mr. Jed looked pretty serious. “So you want to travel around fixing up cowboy’s saddles. That’s an interesting and ambitious project. But there’s something you don’t seem to have thought of.”
Tom gulped. “What’d that be, sir?”
Mr. Jed played with his mustache some more, until Tom was about ready to pull his own hair out with waiting. And then, real slow, Mr. Jed said, “I don’t believe you’ve thought about . . . footwear.”
Tom goggled at him. “About what, now?”
Mr. Jed busted out in a grin. “Footwear. Boots. Made of leather, and every cowboy has at least one pair, even a cowboy so young and broke he uses a borrowed saddle. Why aren’t you planning on fixing up boots? You could even do boots to match saddles, for those who can pay for it.”
“And let’s not forget the ladies,” said Mrs. Clara. “I can well imagine that many a wealthy matron or dressy young woman would fancy scrolls or diamond shapes or bits of silver on their shoes.”
“Of course they would!” Mrs. Freida put in. “Ladies love something new, I should know, with all the dresses I’ve made. Just get one pair out where people see it, you could be the new fashion!”
Mr. Jed beamed at his wife. “Right you are, my dear.” He turned back to Tom. “And most any town, and anywhere else that has cowboys nearby, will have a blacksmith who can melt silver.”
It was all more exciting than anything Tom had felt since — well, since before he lost his leg.
But Doc wasn’t joining in. He looked solemn enough that when he finally went to talk, Tom was near certain he’d say that a cripple couldn’t go roaming around the country to do any of this. But he could! This wasn’t like running off for a cowboy. He could ride and tend a wagon . . . . But he’d let Doc speak his piece, and try to answer back with the respect Doc was owed.
“Tom,” Doc was saying, “You know I admire your work. And I entirely agree that your skills could find more scope than what you’ve already achieved. But this is an uncertain life you think of leading. There could be long stretches where you would earn very little.” He looked Tom in the eye. “That risk may not be too much for a young man on his own. But would I be wrong to guess that you have something more in mind?”
Tom couldn’t sit still no longer. He got up and paced. “Nossir, Doc, you ain’t wrong. I aim to take Jenny with me, if she’ll marry me and come along.” He looked at all of them, willing them to understand. “She’s real tired of living where people look down on her, to where she’s about ready to run off on her own, or with another girl of the line, and go plying her trade from one town to the next. Going with me can’t hardly put her in more danger’n that. And I’d do whatever I had to do to take care of her. Put aside the leather work, do any work I could find, whatever it took.”
Mrs. Freida patted her husband’s shoulder. “She must be a woman of spirit, yes? Such a woman, she wouldn’t be afraid, I wasn’t afraid to go with Jedidiah, was I? Uncertain — you should know, Doctor, we can any of us be struck down without seeing it coming, we have to live anyhow, don’t we?”
Mr. Jed covered Mrs. Freida’s hand with his much bigger one. “Yes, my wise wife, but I had attained some degree of prosperity before I made so bold as to invite you to share my wanderings.” He waited for Tom to pass in front of him in his pacing and said, “Sit back down, Tom, and I’ll tell you about an alternative you and our good host might both find acceptable.”
“Good, I’ll get the pie, everyone wants coffee?” Mrs. Freida bustled off to the kitchen without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Clara following after and slower. Tom hoped he could manage to choke down his pie, tight-strung as he was feeling. Whether it was Mrs. Clara or Mrs. Freida who’d made it, he’d hate to insult either one — nor to waste a good piece of pie.
When Mrs. Freida and Mrs. Clara had put giant pieces of blackberry pie — with custard! — and big mugs of coffee at every place, they sat down and watched Mr. Jed like he was up on his wagon announcing the strangest act yet. He seemed to like it, puffing out his chest some as he got back to talking.
“I am, you may have noticed, a gregarious fellow. And of course, my profession requires me to engage townspeople in conversation, and to put them at ease by encouraging them to talk about their own concerns and interests. So it shouldn’t surprise you that I’ve met many a farmer, many a butcher, many a blacksmith . . . and a fair number of leather workers. There is one such gentleman down in New Mexico Territory who has quite an admiration for the artistry and appeal of Mexican saddles with their elaborate embellishments, including the silver trim that few craftsmen north of Mexico know how to create. He had, when I passed through his area not six months ago, an increasing amount of business, and might well be in need of assistance — particularly if the new arrival had your skills. And while he may not have thought of embellishing boots and shoes, I think it likely he would welcome the idea. I can give you a letter for him, recommending your services.”
He held up his hand as Tom started to bristle. “I am by no means saying you must abandon your dream of choosing your own path and maintaining your independence. The journey south would provide a means of testing whether that is a practical way to support yourself and your bride. If your experience on that journey suggests otherwise, my acquaintance could possibly provide at least a temporary refuge from the uncertainty that so troubles our host.”
Tom’s insides loosened up enough for the pie to start looking — and smelling — plenty tempting. He took a big forkful, Mrs. Freida giving him a nod of approval to see it. Mr. Jed, a man Tom figured enjoyed the sound of his own voice, had more to say. “I suspect he also has a broader selection of tools available to him, which you might enjoy using.”
Tom forced the mouthful of pie down. So much for Mr. Jed’s praising Tom’s work, if he’d looked at it and seen what Tom couldn’t do. And Tom already hankered after more tools. Which might be easier to get hold of, once he didn’t need to keep his work a secret no more . . . .
Mrs. Clara took a good-sized bite of her own pie, chewed it up pretty quick, and said, “I have my own concerns, as to which I hope any of you might have possible solutions. What is Jenny to do to contribute to the success of this enterprise? What skills does she have, other than those you would not want her using?”
No one spoke up. Tom tried to come up with something Jenny could do that would help them on the road. She might be able to patch their clothes, but not to sew for other folks. Aside from what she’d be keeping for him, she was mainly good at looking pretty and charming folks . . . .
He slammed his fork down as the thought finished coming. “Mr. Jed! Don’t you think a pretty girl could make a cowboy sit up and take notice? And if she’s used to getting strangers to like her, couldn’t she get ‘em interested in buying whatever she was selling?”
Mr. Jed sat up even straighter’n usual. “By gum, Tom, that’s a good thought! A girl like Jenny could wrap those cowboys round her little finger.”
Mrs. Clara, her breath a little short and her hand on her belly, added, “I’d venture to say the same would be true of men in town, so long as her dress and manner were proper enough not to upset their wives.” She stopped to breathe. “Which would be quite handy if you were selling footwear to men other than cowboys. And with a little more polish — which a bright girl like Jenny could pick up by observation — and a suitably deferential attitude, she could be helpful in selling shoes to women as well.”
Doc looked a good bit more cheerful at the way things were heading. But when he spoke up, it was to say, “I believe we’ve gone as far as we can in this discussion without including a missing participant. As the one man who can enter Madam Mamie’s establishment without onlookers universally assuming I come as a custom
er, I volunteer to go ask if I may bring Jenny to join us. Does anyone here have any objection?”
Chapter 24
Jenny sat curled up in an easy chair in the small lounge, trying to read a book. She’d maybe have understood more of it if she used the Dictionary, but after all the fuss about it, she hadn’t had the nerve to touch it again. She sighed and looked up when footsteps came near, knowing it was most likely Mamie coming to fetch her for one of the few Sunday customers.
She was partway right. Mamie stood there looking at her, but there was no fellow behind her, and she wasn’t wearing either her impatient where-were-you frown or the smile she used when customers might be about to see her. Instead, she looked kind of serious and kind of puzzled, like she didn’t know which look belonged to the occasion. What was going on?
Then Jenny saw Doc behind Mamie, and her heart jumped in her breast. Something must’ve happened to Tom, and Doc was here to break the news, along with her heart.
After a century or so, Mamie said, “It seems Doc Gibbs is here to convey an invitation.”
That didn’t mean an invite upstairs, did it? Doc had sworn off such things when he got married. Jenny looked at Doc. “What’s she mean?”
Doc had been looking kind of serious too, but now he smiled. “She means, Miss Jenny, that Tom is at Clara’s and my home for Sunday dinner, as are Jedidiah and Freida Kennedy, and that a subject has come up on which we would like to hear your opinion.”
Jenny looked at Mamie, who said, a little exasperated, “I suppose you’d better go along, if you care to. And tell me what it’s all about when you get back!” She turned toward Doc. “Unless you’re planning to swear her to secrecy.”
What Frees the Heart Page 17