[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm

by Janette Oke

  Now she fidgeted with the cutlery and rearranged the water glasses. Was the crystal too much?

  She heard the voices drawing close and guessed that Mr. Kingsley was gradually leading his son toward the dining room. There was no more time for fussing. She reached up to tuck a stray curl away, and then they were in the doorway. Mr. Kingsley pushed his tall son ahead of him while he chortled in pleasure.

  “My little surprise,” he bawled gleefully. “Got us a cook.”

  Christine felt her cheeks burn. The young man was more handsome than she had remembered. He studied her openly, his eyes indicating his own pleasure.

  “You remember Miss Delaney?”

  Mr. Kingsley had not ceased slapping his son on the back. Rather worse than the tapping pencil.

  Boyd nodded. Christine noticed the twinkle in his eyes. “Who could forget?” he said with a courtly little bow and a smile at her.

  “Who could forget? That’s good. Who could forget?” Mr. Kingsley thumped his son’s back again. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. You won’t forget the chicken and dumplings. No siree.”

  “Excuse me,” said Christine, flushed and a bit uncertain. “I need to finish dishing up.”

  “May I help?”

  Boyd’s question surprised her. “No. No, thank you. I’ll just ... I’ll ...” She gave up and hurried from the room.

  “Let’s sit down,” she heard Mr. Kingsley say. “She’ll be right in.”

  Christine managed to get the rest of the food into serving bowls without spilling or dropping anything. After finally sitting down herself, she looked to Mr. Kingsley, wondering if he would offer a table grace. But he just said, “What are we waiting for? Let’s eat!” as he grabbed up the nearest bowl.

  It was a rather boisterous meal—though Christine had very little to contribute to the conversation. She wished she could have eaten in the kitchen as she had done before. She heard many lively stories about university life. Then she realized that few of the stories had anything to do with classes or studies. Mostly they were of sporting events and dorm pranks.

  “So how are your courses coming?” Mr. Kingsley eventually asked. “Still think you’re going to like law?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I dropped that field.”

  Mr. Kingsley lifted his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you told me.”

  “Sorry. Guess I was just so involved ...” But there didn’t seem to be any true contrition in his tone.

  “When did you make the switch?”

  “First of the semester.”

  “And what did you switch to?”

  “I don’t know—yet. Still haven’t decided. I think journalism might be interesting.”

  Mr. Kingsley nodded, his eyes questioning. But his voice was still even, interested, as he said, “Journalism?” He nodded. “Sounds good.”

  Boyd turned to Christine and complimented her on the dumplings.

  Mr. Kingsley interrupted with, “The girl’s a wonder in the kitchen.”

  “Sure beats those second-rate restaurants you usually take me to,” joked Boyd.

  Christine flushed again.

  “Have you had any courses in journalism?” Mr. Kingsley picked up the previous conversation.

  “Not yet. Didn’t want to jump into it in the middle of a semester.

  “But you were taking classes—right?”

  “Oh ... right. I finished up a couple of arts classes.”

  “Arts?”

  “General. They will apply to almost anything I decide to take.”

  “So you’ve only got a couple classes?”

  “Well, I have another one from the first semester.”

  “I thought you took a full load your first semester.”

  “Well ... yeah ... I started out that way. Some of them were just ... useless rubbish. I dropped a couple. Ended up with only one I could use.”

  Christine felt very uncomfortable. She wished she did not have to sit in on this exchange. Even so, the two seemed most amiable. No criticism on the part of the father. No apology or embarrassment on the part of the son.

  “Takes a while to settle into university life,” Boyd went on. “You sort of have to find your way.”

  Mr. Kingsley agreed, seeming quite willing to accept his son’s word for it.

  “Well—next year you’ll know what to expect. More what you want. You can work it out then.”

  Boyd nodded and asked for the plate of chicken.

  “Save plenty of room for dessert. I had Miss Delaney make your favorite. Chocolate cream pie. I got a whiff of it. You’ll want more than one piece, I’m sure.”

  After the meal the men stretched out in front of the blazing fire in the drawing room, and Christine hurried off to clean up the kitchen. She had no objection to riding the city’s electric streetcars, but she did not feel comfortable being out alone too late at night. Had she still been in the North she would not have given the late hour a second thought. Christine felt much safer in the North than in the unfamiliar city.

  “Come. Come sit and visit,” invited Mr. Kingsley, extending a hand to her when she stepped into the room to bid them a good-night.

  “Oh ... no. Thank you. I must get on home. I’m not even sure how late the trolley runs.”

  “Trolley? No trolley. No need. Boyd can take you in his car. Come and sit awhile.”

  Christine felt she had no choice in the matter. Reluctantly she laid aside her coat and went to join them. The younger man slid over on the couch and patted the seat beside him. With flushed cheeks, Christine accepted the invitation.

  “So ... has my father been treating you all right?” teased the young man. Mr. Kingsley laughed outright. Christine did not attempt an answer, feeling that none was really expected.

  “I tried to get her to move in here,” said Mr. Kingsley. “Room and board in exchange for a meal now and then.”

  Boyd looked at her closely, making her blush further. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

  “Well, it didn’t sound like a good plan to her. She turned me down.”

  Christine could feel two sets of eyes trained upon her. It made her most uncomfortable. “I just didn’t think it would look right,” she managed.

  “Told her she could bring some other woman along,” the father explained.

  “I really have no ... no other woman to bring,” Christine defended herself.

  “You could always bring 01’ Bones,” Boyd put in.

  At Christine’s frown, he quickly amended the comment. “Whoops. Guess I should say Miss Stout.”

  Miss Stout? 01’ Bones? Christine was shocked at the young man’s lack of respect, but his father only chuckled.

  “I do not believe Miss Stout would be interested in making a move to accommodate me,” Christine said, trying to keep her tone matter-of-fact.

  Boyd smiled and shifted, stretching long legs across the heavy carpet. “Oh ... I think Miss Stout would use any excuse available to be able to move in here,” he said, raising an eyebrow somewhat cynically.

  “I really must be going,” Christine said as she stood to her feet.

  Mr. Kingsley nodded. “Reckon the boy is a bit tired tonight too. He’s had a long day of travel.”

  Soon the two were out in the cool night air, headed toward Boyd’s automobile. Christine took a deep breath. It felt good to be fairly hidden in the darkness.

  Boyd opened the car door and helped her into the vehicle.

  “How many times a week do you favor us with a meal?” he asked as he started the engine.

  “Oh no. This was a ... a single event. Your father wanted to surprise you with a meal at home on your first night.”

  “I’m disappointed,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “It was a delightful surprise, and I was hoping it would be repeated—regularly. You’re quite sure we can’t persuade you?”

  Christine stammered for a reply. She couldn’t find much to offer in the way of an argument. He was so gentlemanly. So confident and smo
oth. She felt like a backwoods bumpkin by comparison.

  The car purred effortlessly along the empty streets. He asked, “What do you find to do in this cow town? What do you do for entertainment?”

  “Entertainment?”

  “Don’t tell me my father doesn’t leave you time for pleasure? Surely he doesn’t work you all the time.”

  “Oh no. I have every evening free.”

  “And you... ?” he prompted.

  “I read.”

  “Read?” The way he said the word made it sound like nothing could be more boring.

  “I love to read,” she said defensively.

  “You know,” he said with a laugh, “if you’ll allow me, I guarantee I can find something for you that’s a lot more exciting than that.”

  Christine did not answer.

  They pulled up in front of her boardinghouse, but before she could express her thanks and open her door, he reached over and took her hand. “How about it?” he pressed.

  “I ... I really must get in.”

  He had not let go of her hand, and she knew her heart was racing.

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Well ... it would ... would depend,” she said. “I wouldn’t ... I couldn’t give a final answer. I’ve no idea what you might have in mind. I’d have to decide ...”

  His chuckle interrupted her words. “So it’s not a straight-out no. That’s a comfort.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Then I guess it’s up to me to find something you’d agree to do. Right?”

  She nodded, then realized it was too dark in the auto for him to see her. “Right,” she managed.

  He lifted her hand and gently kissed her fingers. “I accept the challenge.”

  Christine hurriedly withdrew her hand and scrambled from the car. She was visibly shaking as she made her way up the walk. She did hope she would meet no one in the hallway on the way to her room.

  CHAPTER Eight

  Henry was sure his initial disbelief was showing on his face. He looked quickly again into the mirror, expecting to see her reflection revealing the same shocked recognition. Instead, he saw a perfectly poised barber going about the business of a haircut. There was nothing in her expression to indicate she remembered their earlier meeting.

  Am I mistaken? Henry asked himself after another glance. Surely not—unless she has a twin.

  Only the snip of the scissors interrupted the awkward silence. Now and then Henry lifted his eyes to the mirror. She efficiently worked on, her expression betraying nothing.

  “You’re the first barber I’ve ever had that didn’t talk my ear off,” Henry said. He wanted to hear her voice again—make sure it was the one he remembered.

  In the mirror he watched her shrug. “Sorry. I’m not given to small talk. Particularly on male topics. I’m not much for discussing hunting or fishing or ball games or motorcars.”

  He let the silence hold for a minute before he said, “Suppose you’ll have to pick up on some of that stuff before too long with your son getting close to that age.”

  He thought he saw her shoulders stiffen and wondered if he had said the wrong thing. When she spoke again her voice was distant. “If you want a haircut—that I can do. If you want a chat, go to Jessie’s Grill. Dozens of people in and out of there willing to spend the morning over coffee and gossip.”

  Yes, her voice did sound the same, even with its edge of coolness.

  He felt he should apologize—yet he wasn’t sure for what. So he said nothing. He certainly had not intended to pry. Or had he? Yes, he admitted silently. I would gladly pry. I would like to ask her how she is doing. If she got over the death of her husband. If her little boy is missing a father. If she is making it on her own. Why she is cutting hair in a mens barbershop by the name of Sam’s.

  Then with a quickened heartbeat he realized he would also like to know if she had ever married again.

  But he asked none of those questions. Silently he watched her finish the last few snips. She did indeed give a great haircut. And sadly—to his way of thinking—it was also one of the fastest he had ever received. He waited for her to remove the cape and apply the little brush to the nape of his neck. He stood and reached in his pocket for money. He was so tempted to add a bit to the cost, but he checked himself. He had the feeling she would not understand nor accept what looked like a handout. He gave her the coins and their hands brushed ever so slightly. Something deep inside responded—as though he had some strange right, some connection to this woman. Hadn’t he earned it ... in a way?

  But no. Certainly not. He had only done his duty as an officer of the law. He had held her ... let her weep. Wiped her tears, even offered to brew her some tea, which she had promptly refused. But he had earned no rights. He had no claim on this attractive, vulnerable young woman whose face had been before him so many days on the trail. Had filled so many of his dreams out under the frozen stars. No claim at all.

  And the little boy. Henry had held him as a baby. His mother had passed the infant to him while she went into the next room to get him a dry diaper. It was one of the few times in his life he had held a baby. In Indian villages, babies in most instances were in their cradleboards, tied securely to the back of a, mother, older sister, or grandmother. Yet holding that little child—he remembered now that she had called him Danny—looking into his eyes and knowing he would never have his own memories of the father he had just lost, had affected Henry in a deep, unexplainable way. Even now he felt the strange longing to somehow reach out to this child. But how? He was sure any move he made would be totally misconstrued.

  He placed his Stetson on his head and gave her a nod. “Good cut,” he said, not daring to accompany the brief compliment with a smile.

  “Thanks,” she said simply, and she didn’t smile either.

  He had never seen her smile. Only weep. Oh, she had crooned words of love to her baby, but even then the tears were still falling down her cheeks. He longed to see her smile now—to know that things were all right in her world. But he turned without another word and left her little shop.

  His two junior officers turned to look at him when he entered the small building that housed the RCMP office. Laray was the one who spoke first.

  “See you got yourself a haircut.”

  Henry turned to place his Stetson on the shelf and rubbed his neatly clipped head. “Yup.”

  He took his seat at his desk and pulled some papers forward.

  “So—what did you think of Sam?” Rogers pursued the interrogation.

  Henry studied the form before him, though his brain was not making sense of any of the words. The two men had no idea what he was feeling inside. What intense emotions had been stirred by this chance meeting. Nor could he share his thoughts and emotions with them. He struggled to keep from showing the agitation that he felt. One hand reached up to run a finger along the line of his mustache.

  She was not Sam. He knew that. He had done paper work at the time of her husband’s accident. He knew her name well. It had been on his lips, whispered in his prayers, many times over the years. But he said nothing about the name. “She does a good job,” he answered offhandedly.

  Henry felt the exchanged glances. The fellows were expecting something more.

  “Come on, Sarge,” said Laray. “Every young buck for miles around gets his hair cut at least twice as often as he needs to. Including me.” He laughed loudly.

  “He’s been trying for more than a haircut,” put in Rogers. “So far he hasn’t gotten to first base.”

  “She’s as pretty as a picture—and as cold as an icehouse in the middle of a blizzard,” Laray observed. His laughter had died now. Henry thought the young man likely wasn’t used to getting the cold shoulder.

  “Even the uniform doesn’t turn her head,” Rogers went on.

  “I asked her out once—ever so politely—and got told straight off that her place was a place of business. Period. No social engagements were arranged there.” Laray was mimicking he
r by the last sentence.

  Henry felt himself scowling. Was that what the young woman had to face in her shop? Offensive, heavy-handed flirts? No wonder she was distant and had no time for chatter.

  He bit down on his tongue. He was so close to reprimanding the two men. Telling them to keep their hands off. To treat the young woman as she should be treated—as a lady.

  “Next time I go, I’m gonna ask her for a shave too,” said Laray, rubbing his hand up and down his cheek.

  Henry could no longer hold his anger in check. “Look,” he said, too sharply. “Treat her with respect—or stay out of her shop.”

  Both heads jerked in his direction. Henry could see questions in the two sets of eyes. Just male banter. Nothing harmful in that.

  He eased back in his chair.

  “She’s ... she’s a citizen of the town ... with rights,” Henry went on more evenly now. “We don’t want any complaints brought. Especially against the Force.”

  The two faces before him looked rather sober, and they both nodded. Rogers even flushed.

  “I think she’s plenty used to it,” Laray said a bit defensively, but he was no longer cocky. “Fellows are talking all the time about how they tried this or said that.”

  “Well ... I don’t want that kind of talk coming from this office,” Henry said, his words firm. As the one in charge he was expected to give orders. The two subordinates nodded, eyes on their desks.

  “What I don’t get,” said Laray after some minutes, “is where wooing a gal stops and ... and stepping over the line takes over.”

  Henry reached up and rubbed at his head, feeling once again the smoothness of the new haircut.

  “Okay,” he said, looking at Laray’s expression of honest concern. “I admit it’s a tough call ... at times. Maybe I have to go back to what my mother taught me. She says you don’t want to mar—to damage—a good relationship. So you think, MAR. Motive, approach, and response. MAR.”