Jo touched one finger to her lips and whispered back, “You can stay. Try and not be dangerous in any way, please.”
Dave nodded. As long as neither Bludge nor Wax got up here, he felt safe making that promise.
“Jo, come over here, please,” Ma said. “You can help me peel these potatoes and shape the loaves. I’ve already made the pie crust. If you’re interested, tomorrow I’ll teach you how.”
Jo’s eyes lit up. Dave decided pie was the word he’d adopt as the one thing that would get Jo to do most anything.
Then Jo doing most anything caused his mind to skid like a longhorn on a frozen pond. Things flashed through his mind and shocked him right down to his socks. He veered his mind away from “most anything.”
Maybe the pie would calm Ursula down. It’d had that effect on him and Mitch when they were boys.
Dave came up beside Jo. “When Mitch and I were boys, Ma used to holler for dinner, and we’d come tumbling in the room, racing, wrestling, laughing. Mitch was a lot older, so he usually won the races, but I was a scrapper and made him work for it. There we’d be, yelling and shoving, and Ma would set the dessert—be it pie or cobbler or cake—right smack in the middle of the table. Then she’d look the both of us right in the eye, and say, ‘Settle down or the pie doesn’t stay on the table, and you’ll be going without dessert for a week.’”
Ma laughed fondly. “That is what I said word for word most every meal of your lives. It worked like magic.”
“Ma is a fine cook and never put a bad meal on the table. I’d do anything for her dessert, whether as a boy or now as a man.” He dropped his voice so only Jo could hear. “I hope Ma has such a fine touch for dealing with Ursula.”
Jo nodded, looking worried.
Then he asked in a normal voice, “What do you use for flour up here?”
Jo smiled at him, and he thought of “most anything” again and was tempted to bang his head against the wall just to give him a big old lump on his head to occupy his thoughts.
Maybe some pie centered on the table and a couple of sharp words from Ma would calm him down.
“We grow corn and make johnnycakes mostly. We also grow a small field of wheat, but it’s not plentiful and not for every day. We have a grinder that chops both corn and wheat. It’s much coarser than your flour, but it’s good. We used to have yeast—Grandpa would bring cakes of it home from his trading trips—but most of the time we used something Grandma called sourdough. We’ve been using that for years. It raises bread nicely, though I remember yeast bread fondly.”
Jo washed her hands and went up beside Ma, who was working on the counter near the dry sink. Ma smiled at her. “Sourdough. I’ve used that before, but not since we began keeping yeast on hand. I’d say you can teach me a few things, too.”
Ma went on, “Why don’t you tell me some of the stories from your second Good Book. The one you started, ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf,’ is one I’ve heard of, though not for years.”
Mitch came in just in time to hear Ma ask to be told an old fable. Dave hoped his big brother could keep his mouth shut long enough for them to help these poor deluded women understand they were mixed up. Parable, fable, honestly, they were alike just enough a child could get confused. But adding to the Bible was a huge sin. The Nordegren women needed the Wardens to straighten them out so they had a hope of getting into heaven.
Ma looked over her shoulder at Mitch, and her eyes glowed with joy. It reminded Dave that she’d always liked Mitch best. And it appeared that was still the truth. He wondered which critter in their herd was qualified to stand in for the fatted calf, ’cause Ma looked ready to kill it and roast it.
Jo was right. This was the story of the “Prodigal Son.” And maybe Mitch had left all his troubles back east. But what if he’d brought them along when he came home? That made him a whole lot like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
But if Dave started fussing about Mitch’s troubles and then it turned out nothing was wrong . . . that would make Dave the boy who cried wolf.
He shouldn’t be upset with Mitch, but he hadn’t liked how close he’d been standing to Jo earlier. It made Dave think of things out of his reach, and that was nothing but a fox giving up on grapes and declaring them to look sour.
“What happened out there, Wax?” Bludge nearly stabbed Wax to death with his cold-as-sleet blue eyes. He sat behind a massive desk in an office that was near in size to the ramrod’s whole house.
Bludge rocked back on a chair that swiveled and rolled. A skinny, short man in a big chair behind a big desk. And he’d bought it and had it hauled in just this year, like everything else around this place.
It was all new. Wax had known it from the beginning, but he hadn’t given it much thought. The whole Pike Ranch was raw, barely built. The barn, the corrals, the bunkhouse, foreman’s cabin, ramrod’s cabin, and this huge ranch house. None of the wood had weathered, nothing sagged. There weren’t paths worn from years of riding in and out.
There was all of that at the Warden place.
Wax was a noticing kind of man, and he’d wondered at Pike’s claims of being set on by nesters. He’d talked like an old-timer, well set in the area. Wax had just thought the man was building a bigger, better homeplace, probably had a small cabin tucked back somewhere. Wax had checked with the land office in Bucksnort, and Bludge owned a mighty big stretch of property. Wax hadn’t thought to ask for how long.
It set right to drive men off of land owned by someone else. And Wax had a way. Folks talked of his eyes. He struck fear into folks, and most of them moved on peacefully.
Wax wasn’t going to shoot a man down, but if his cabin burned and gunmen rode in hard, guns blazing, but no bullets landing, those folks headed on west, and they did it fast. To Wax that was fair enough. They couldn’t live on land someone else owned.
But Wax had been at this job now since the beginning of summer, and they’d been going farther and farther afield. Bludge controlled forty thousand acres, and he wasn’t close to satisfied.
They’d driven off nesters that Wax wondered about.
The money was good, and he’d seen Bludge’s deeds, but he hadn’t seen them lately, and he couldn’t remember the exact borders. Bludge had also split up his gunmen, and in groups that went their own way, without Wax, there’d been a few deaths. Fair fights, they said.
Wax had begun to get very tired of this job.
He needed a stake, and he’d already made plans to stick out the month, take his pay, pick his moment, and quietly ride away. Start a new life.
He needed this month’s pay for his plans to work.
Then a couple of days ago Bludge had pointed to a nester on his land, and Wax had ridden out.
He’d found a well-set-up ranch, years old. With all the signs of being there long before Bludge. Wax wasn’t sure about deeds and such, but the Wardens were a long way from nesters.
“We cleared them out, boss.”
“I want to get someone settled in their cabin permanently. Watch over the cattle left behind. Those cows are on my land, and I’m claiming them. It equals the rent they should’ve been paying me.”
“Are you going to rent out chunks of your land?” Wax knew the answer and should keep his mouth shut.
“Not on your life.” Bludge laughed like a donkey brayed, and it set Wax’s teeth on edge.
He bit his teeth together to keep from giving information to his boss that would only upset things.
Things like there were precious few cattle at the Circle Dash spread.
There were signs that Warden had a big herd. Maybe a thousand head, judging from the pasture size and the fencing and the number of horses, all of them gone, but plenty of signs of how many had been there.
Something else he didn’t mention was that man high up on a cliff where there was no trail. No reason for a man to be up there unless he was trying to stay close, and that didn’t bode well for Bludge’s fight with the Wardens to be over.
“Winter’s comin
g down on our heads, Wax.”
“How are the winters here? How deep does the snow get? How cold are the winds? I spent winters not that much south of here and things are pretty mild.”
“We—we—uh . . . it’s hard to say. It can get mighty deep, and the weather bitter cold, and it can be mild, too. Unpredictable. We’re higher up, of course, than the land south of here.”
Wax was struck by Bludge’s vague answer. Everyone knew what to expect from the winter where they lived.
Bludge didn’t know.
He hadn’t lived here long at all. Was it possible he’d just come in this spring with a herd, bought up a lot of land, built these buildings, and started hiring gunmen to drive off nesters? Or were they nesters at all? Maybe they were homesteaders with an honest claim. But Wax had seen deeds.
Wax was braced to refuse to spend the winter with a couple of back-shooters from Bludge’s crew.
“Wax, I want you to hold the Warden place alone. Treat it like a line shack. You’ll have to move fast before the snow gets any deeper. I don’t expect trouble there, but I might have it closer to home and want plenty of men around this place.”
“It’s already so deep it’ll be a fight to get back there unless this lets up.”
“Can you do it?” Bludge said it in a way that called Wax a weakling, maybe a coward. Since he was neither of those things, Wax didn’t let it bother him overly—if you didn’t count wanting to knock Bludge’s teeth down his throat, and Wax didn’t count it because he didn’t do it.
“I’ll need supplies and a couple of packhorses.” Wax was careful not to sound eager, but getting out of here, alone, for the winter, well, it suited him. The Wardens had a tight, well-set-up cabin. He might make it through the whole winter without having to quit this job. It was only October, and if things snowed in like they looked to be going to, Wax might earn a whole winter’s pay before he quit in the spring, and do precious little, what with their being few cows to tend. And without having to scare off any more nesters.
“Sure, get what you need. We’re done with most of the nester trouble for the year. Things get pretty sleepy around here in the winter.” Bludge had a look on his face Wax didn’t like.
Running his fingers over his stiffly waxed moustache and the goatee that came to a point below his chin, Wax wondered why Bludge would send his toughest gunman away like this. Was he still expecting trouble from the Wardens? Did he know they were a hardy bunch and wouldn’t give up that ranch without a fight?
Wax didn’t doubt it. But they were snowed away, or would be soon. Any trouble wouldn’t come until spring.
He thought again of the man he’d seen high up on the side of that cliff and knew he was one of them. Things weren’t going to be simple. But Wax expected a quiet winter and to be gone as soon as he picked up his pay in the spring. He’d head for California and a new life with a new name. His own name.
“I’ll head right out if that’s all right, boss. The snow’s let up some for now, but if I wait even until morning, I might not make it.”
“Go.” There was nothing about Bludge’s tone to like. But Wax didn’t mind going, so he jerked his chin in agreement and backed most of the way to the door, trying to look like it wasn’t because he didn’t care to turn his back on the boss.
Then he wheeled and went out, ready to get away from all of them. Hoping he hadn’t already left too late. Hoping he wasn’t heading to the worst possible place to spend the winter.
18
As they gathered at the table, Ursula began their usual prayer with her singing.
“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.”
Ilsa and Jo never sang along. Ursula’s voice was too beautiful. They both preferred to listen.
“Praise Him, all creatures here below.”
Ma set the pie in the middle of the table just as Dave said she always did before a meal, then turned to listen to the song.
Ursula sang with her eyes closed as was proper for a prayer. But Jo, who usually did, too, watched the Wardens to see how they’d act.
“Praise Him above, ye heavenly host.”
Mitch and Dave straightened and watched as Ursula sang. Both of them seemed frozen in place. And it was a beautiful song, so Jo understood.
“Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
Ursula’s voice faded, and she kept her head bowed. Jo bowed hers, eyes closed, late but still in time to pray in her heart for things to go well. For Ursula to let go of her fear. For Quill to get well. She always prayed for her parents. They were dead, it had to be true. Yet, Jo had always asked God to care for them wherever they were.
Jo opened her eyes in time to see Ursula raise her head. Everyone in the room watched her in silence.
Ma spoke first. “You have the most beautiful singing voice I’ve ever heard, Ursula. You have blessed us with ‘The Doxology.’”
Frowning, Ursula said, “Blessed you with the what?”
“That song. I know it well. It’s a very common way to pray before a meal. It’s got a title: ‘The Doxology.’”
“I’ve never heard its title before,” Jo said. She glanced at the table, loaded with steaming-hot food. The delicious smell made her mouth water. “Can we eat?”
With a smile, Ma said, “Of course.”
The meal was the best Jo had ever had, even better than the food Ma had cooked before. But it was awkward because Ursula took her plate and stood in a corner.
Jo was surprised to feel embarrassment for her big sister. She hadn’t spent much time worrying over what anyone thought of her. It had just been her sisters, and they were all used to each other. But Ursula’s behavior was odd and shameful. So rude, so ignorant. All her fears were nonsense and unchristian. Facing other people was hard for Ursula, but it had to be done.
Once the meal was finished, including a pie so delicious it almost brought tears to Jo’s eyes, and before Ursula could escape to her room, Jo said baldly, “We don’t know how to read.”
Ilsa had missed all of this with her doctoring. Now they sat, six of them at a table for four. There’d only been four chairs, but Mitch had settled into a rocking chair he pulled close, and of course Ursula stood. Quill had stayed in bed, so she didn’t count him.
“We do too know how to read,” Ilsa said, sounding surprised and a little insulted. “Why do you say that? We can read both Good Books all the way through. We’ve done it many times.”
“There aren’t two Good Books,” Mitch snapped.
Ma swatted him on the back of the head. “Hush. Just you hush.”
Mitch looked up at her, one brow arched. Jo could see the man had a whole lot he wanted to say, but to his credit, he minded his mother.
Dave said quietly, “You have the stories memorized. That’s a handy thing, but you just know them in English and say them, probably from hearing them read . . . uh told . . . to you over and over. You didn’t even know it’s written in a foreign language.”
“It’s written in what?” Ilsa asked. “What does ‘foreign language’ mean?”
“It’s a language other than the one we speak.”
Furrowed brow, a slightly tilted head, Ilsa was the image of a confused woman. “You mean some people don’t speak English? And we couldn’t understand what they were saying? Why don’t all people speak the same?”
“I reckon we know both Bibles that way, too, then. We read from one of them most every night.” Jo thought of how she’d been out watching the Wardens before they’d seen her, then she’d been with the family as much as she could. She hadn’t read the Bibles in days. Of course, now it appeared that she hadn’t ever read the Bibles.
Hastily, Ma said, “That’s a wonderful and impressive thing if you have so much of the Scripture memorized.”
Nice as Ma was, Jo was left feeling mighty stupid.
Ma went to pick up the Bible and opened it, lovingly, gently turning to a place quite a ways from the front. They always started at the front and read their way through. Each of th
em taking a turn. Each of them read one chapter every night. They’d been reading Psalms lately. It was strange to see Ma pick it up and open it in such a disorderly way. They’d marked the book with a slip of paper that had always been in it. Now Ma just picked any old spot.
But then if Ma could truly read, she could start in anywhere. Jo was still a little suspicious about whether or not the Wardens were right. After all, Jo had been reading for years.
Ma sat at the narrow end of the table, with Dave at the other narrow end. Jo and Ilsa faced each other. Ursula stood near the door to her room, but she didn’t leave.
Mitch rocked near Ma’s left elbow.
“Well, will you look at this.”
Jo leaned to see what had caught Ma’s eye.
It was a strange section she had always flipped past. Several pages had handwriting on them. It had seemed disrespectful for someone to write in the Bible like that.
“What is it?”
Ma drew one finger down the page slowly, studying. Her finger stopped right near the bottom of the writing. “Here are your names and the dates you were born.”
Ma looked up. “This says, Josephine Sigrid Nordegren. It has the day you were born. You’re twenty-four years old.”
Smiling, Ma said, “Ilsa is nineteen.”
“Is my name more than just Ilsa?” There was a strange, frightened look on Ilsa’s face, and Jo understood it. It was odd to think they hadn’t known their whole names.
“Yes, it’s Greta. Ilsa Greta Nordegren. You must be Swedish. I think those are Swedish names.”
“Danish,” Ursula said. “Now that you say Swedish, I remember Grandpa teasing Grandma about being a Swede. She’d get huffy in a way that was funny, an old joke between them, and say she was not a Swede, she was a Dane and Danes were far better than Swedes.”
“And you’re Ursula Susan. Susan is your mother’s name. The date she married your father is listed here.”
Nodding, Ursula said, “I always knew I bore my ma’s name, and I knew my sisters’ middle names, too. I remember my ma telling me what she’d named each of us.”
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