Lou Prophet 2

by Peter Brandvold

  So, biting her tongue, she finished her meal without tasting a bite.

  When they finished, Layla refilled Gregor’s coffee cup and began clearing the table. “If you’d like to go out and sit on the porch,” she said stiffly, “I’ll be along as soon as I’ve finished the dishes.”

  “That would be fine. Thank you for the meal.”

  “Not at all.”

  She washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen in a cocoon of numb perplexity, vaguely horrified by the fact that she would soon marry this man, while reassuring herself that he was not that bad. He might be stern, but what prosperous man on the frontier was not stern? He was a successful rancher. He did his chores and read his Bible. He did not drink alcohol or chew tobacco. He turned in early and was up at first light. His range was some of the best-managed along the Pretty Butte, and his herd had increased to nearly 250 beeves!

  True, he wasn’t much of a talker. Layla’s father had admitted that himself. But Emil Carr had gone on to point out that once Layla married him, his prosperity would be hers. And often the most taciturn men were, once you got to know them, quite gentle and loving.

  But the look he’d given Charlie had chilled her heart.

  She heard the screen door squeak open behind her and suddenly realized she’d been staring idly into her empty dishpan. She turned to Gregor standing on the porch, holding the door open and looking at her expectantly.

  “Are you done? I thought we’d take a walk along the creek.”

  “Yes,” she said, turning back to the water, pretending there was one more dish to be washed. “I’ll be right out.”

  She gave the table a final swab, then removed her apron, smoothed her hair with her hands, dabbed on a little of her mother’s cologne, and went out to the porch, wrapping a light shawl about her shoulders.

  “Okay,” she said with a forced smile. “I’m ready.”

  Gregor got up from his chair, puffing his pipe, and together they sauntered out around the barn and corral to the creek. The sun was still above the horizon, but it was falling quickly, drawing shadows along the rolling, grassy hills around them, brushing the ridges with pink. The sky was soft and green. Birds were small brown shapes against it, intermittently winking sunlight off their wings.

  Grazing cattle watched them strolling along the path, shuffling off when they came too close. Layla wondered how she and Gregor would appear to outsiders. Two lovers strolling along the creek? The thought evoked from her a barely suppressed snort.

  She did not love him. How could she ever love him? Oh, why had her father made her promise to marry him? Him, of all people, with his cold, brooding demeanor, his emotionless practicality! She suddenly felt the hollowness of their imminent union. He did not love her any more than she loved him. He would marry her simply to fill his cabin with kids—with ranch hands. He would probably work Keith and Charlie like slaves.

  Neither she nor Gregor said anything. Lang smoked his pipe, seemingly at ease with their silence. For her part, Layla studied the ground, glancing occasionally at the darkening hills, wishing she were out riding among them, as she often was this time of the day, to enjoy the quiet and the peaceful beauty of the sunset. Here, walking beside the taciturn Gregor, who kept a decorous foot or so away from her, never touching her, she felt anxious and explosive and as alone as she’d ever been.

  Then suddenly she saw herself walking out here with Lou Prophet, hand in hand. In another thought, she lay naked in his arms. The image made her giddy and enervated, and she shook it away.

  She and Gregor always walked as far as the second bend in the creek, where the Pretty Butte turned sharply south, its deep, dark slash slithering amid the hills, and tonight was no exception. Layla had found herself hoping that they would walk just a little less far or just a little farther—anything different. But when they came to the bend and to the old, sun-seared hawthorn shrub along the trail, Gregor stopped, sighed, puffed his pipe, and said, “Well, it’s getting late.”

  And they started back toward the ranch.

  “You know,” he said as they strolled, “we should probably be thinking about setting a date.” His voice whispered up from deep in his chest, taut yet cautionary, as was its customary tone.

  “Yes, I suppose we should.” She couldn’t pretend to sound pleased.

  “Did you have any particular day in mind?”

  “Well...” She swallowed, feeling a shrinking sensation within herself, as though her heart were squeezed by an enormous fist. “No ... I... guess I didn’t.”

  They walked awhile in silence, both studying the ground before them.

  “I thought Thanksgiving would be nice,” Gregor said.

  “Thanksgiving ... ? That would be fine ... I guess.”

  That was all either of them said until Gregor had saddled his mule and he and Layla were standing with the mule in the deep shadow the barn cast upon the ground, the moon low and salmon-colored in the east.

  “Listen, Layla,” Gregor said, standing before her, “I know you are young and inexperienced in life’s ways, but I want to assure you that I will be a father... as well a husband.”

  She looked up at him smiling down at her. She didn’t know what to say to this. Was he supposed to have relieved her anxiousness? “Yes ... thank you, Gregor.”

  “And I will be a father to your brothers.” He smiled again. “It looks like they’ve been needing one. A stern hand, eh?”

  When she gave no response, he said, “All boys need a stern hand. It makes them tough men. I’ll know how to raise them. That Charlie—we’ll get the silly cobwebs out of that boy’s head in no time.”

  Layla wanted to tell him what would happen to him if he ever raised a hand to her brothers, but before she could open her mouth, Gregor took her by the shoulders, lowered his head to hers, and kissed her lips. It was mostly a peck—stiff and awkward—and it was over before she could comprehend it. He’d never kissed her before.

  “Well, good night, then,” he said cordially, climbing into his saddle, the leather creaking with his weight.

  She watched him ride off, a shadow against the darkening east. When he was out of sight, she felt her lips tremble, and she choked back a sob.

  Chapter Sixteen

  HEAVY WITH ENNUI, Layla walked back to the porch.

  She felt confused and lonely on one hand, and wondered where Prophet was on the other. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to see him again. It would only make it harder for her to marry Gregor Lang, which she must do. She’d promised her father. If he’d been alive, she might have reneged on the deal. But since he was dead, the promise was sacrosanct. Unbreachable.

  But what would her life be like after she did marry Gregor? She could just barely remember Gregor’s first wife, Mathilda: a mousy woman with short, reddish hair who rarely had strayed from their cabin. Layla couldn’t remember even hearing her voice; that’s how little the joyless woman had talked. Layla had a vague recollection of her, though, as a woman who walked behind her man, never alongside, and deferred to him always.

  Is that what Gregor would expect of Layla? And could Layla be that kind of wife to him, no matter how much it went against her nature? What choice did she have?

  When she opened the cabin door and stepped inside, she was surprised to see both her brothers there. They must have returned when Lay la and Gregor had been strolling along the creek.

  Keith sat on his cot, his back to the wall, ankles crossed a foot above the floor. Charlie sat in the rocker their father had built and in which the elder Carr had often sat, reading old newspapers. Both young men looked sheepish, almost fearful, as they raised their eyes to their sister, who eased the creaky screen closed behind her.

  “W-we’re sorry about how we acted tonight, Sis,” Keith said cautiously.

  “Yeah ... we’re sorry, Layla,” Charlie echoed.

  Only the lamp on the table was lit, casting the cabin in shadow.

  Layla stopped just inside the door and sighed, crossing her arms over
her breasts. Nodding, she said thinly, “It’s okay. I know how nervous he makes you two.”

  “You ain’t gonna strap us, then?” Keith asked.

  In spite of her sadness, she blinked slowly and smiled thinly. “No. I ain’t gonna strap you. Why don’t you both get ready for bed? You better ride out tomorrow and check on the calves, make sure none are bogged in the creek. And that main corral fence needs fixin’.”

  “Okay, Sis,” Keith said.

  “Okay, Layla,” Charlie echoed.

  But she’d already stepped into her room, struck a match to light the lamp, and closed the door behind her.

  She undressed, took down her hair and brushed it, and was about to crawl into bed, when she stopped suddenly, deciding it was still too hot in the room to sleep. Besides, too many thoughts careened through her skull. She needed a little stroll around the yard to calm them.

  She pulled on a light cotton shirt and jeans but left her boots and socks where she’d discarded them. Since she was a little girl, she’d liked to take nightly barefoot strolls around the yard and pastures, to feel the dust and grass against her skin. As many times as she’d done so, she knew exactly where all the thistles and prickly pear were located, and it was no longer difficult to avoid them.

  Quietly, so not to wake her brothers who slept on their cots, Layla opened her bedroom door, crossed the dark cabin, slowly pushed open the screen, and just as slowly returned it to its latch. She turned on the porch to stare off across the quiet night.

  The barn, sheds, and corrals hunkered darkly against the starlit sky. There was no moon, but the stars were bright, gleaming on the windmill blades and softly illuminating the buttes along the river.

  Soft thumps sounded on the east end of the porch, and Layla turned that way. Herman lay there, beside another of her father’s old, hand-built chairs, slapping his tail against the floor. It was where the dog used to sleep, between her father’s feet, when Emil Carr would sit there smoking his pipe and, in the months after his wife died, drinking whiskey till practically dawn.

  Layla wondered if Herman wondered where Emil was now. She certainly did. Was he in heaven, with Momma, like the Bible promises? Or were they both just down by the creek, wasting away in their graves beneath the cotton-woods? Would she and her brothers ever see them again, like she wished with all her heart they would? Or were they forever apart... forever alone ... with only cold, lonely graves awaiting them all?

  Layla shook her head and shuddered as though chilled. Jesus, you’re getting as dark as Papa, she reprimanded herself. Next thing, you’ll be swillin’ whiskey.

  “Come on, Hermy,” she whispered to the dog as she stepped off the porch and started across the yard. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  The dog scrambled to its feet and leaped from the porch, nosing Layla’s hand as he brushed passed her and ran ahead, sniffing the air for game. She walked past the stock tank and onto the trail east of the ranch. The dirt of the two-track was soft powder churned by cows, horses, and wagons, and still warm from the sweltering summer sun. It felt good against her feet.

  She was fifty yards beyond the ranch yard when a coyote yammered out by the creek. Ahead of her, Herman stopped sniffing the tall brush along the trail and jerked his head in the direction from which the sound had risen. Ears pricked, he gave a bark and bounded off toward the creek.

  Layla chuffed a wry laugh. She didn’t know why the old dog loved chasing coyotes so much; he’d certainly never caught one and she doubted he ever would. About the only thing he could catch was an occasional, slow prairie dog.

  She’d walked for five more minutes in a slow, desultory way, trying to clear her mind, when she heard something off to her left. She stopped and turned to look northward, where the land swelled darkly against the stars.

  The sound came again: a rustling and a thump. It sounded as though a horse were approaching through the grass. It could have been a cow, but the boys had moved their herd south of the creek.

  A rein chain jangled, and Layla’s heart leaped. Someone was out there!

  Imagining Loomis riders or desperadoes, who often lit out for the badlands after stagecoach robberies and bank heists, she turned to start back to the ranch at a fast clip.

  “It’s all right.” It was a low, familiar voice jutting out of the silence. “Just me, Layla.”

  She stopped and turned back around, her heart slowing, hope growing.

  “Lou?”

  “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Smiling, she watched horse and rider take shape in the darkness. As he approached at a slow walk, slouching tiredly in the saddle, he tipped his hat. “How you doin’?”

  “Lou Prophet, what on earth?” she said, planting a fist on a hip. In spite of her earlier misgivings and cajoling tone, she was overjoyed to see him. Her sadness had vanished in the blink of an eye.

  Prophet shrugged. “It’s a long story.”

  “I heard part of it.”

  “What part’s that?”

  “The part where you burned Loomis’s barn.”

  Her eyes were accustomed enough to the darkness that she could see the frown beneath the brim of his hat. “Who in the hell told you that?”

  “Someone told Gregor, and he told me.”

  “Who’s Greg—? Oh, that fella you’re gonna marry.”

  Gregor was the last person she wanted to talk about at the moment. Quickly turning the subject back to Loomis, she said, “Why did you do it? Come to think of it, why in the hell aren’t you in Montana?”

  Chuckling, Prophet crawled heavily out of the saddle. “Well, it’s a long story, but it all started with the three men I shot in Little Missouri.” As he walked with her back toward the ranch, leading Mean and Ugly by the reins, he told her all about the shooting and his decision to stay and fight.

  “That’s crazy, Lou,” she said turning to him worriedly. “He has at least twenty men on his roll.”

  “Well, he’s short the three I shot in Little Missouri, and the two or three more I shot at the Crosshatch. That ain’t bad for two, three days’ work.”

  “Where’ve you been since you burned the barn?”

  Prophet shrugged and looked toward the creek. A sultry breeze rustled the grass and the Russian olives that edged close to the trail. “Hidin’ out in the badlands. I figured he’d track me, but I got tired of waitin’. He must have some awful trackers on his roll.”

  Layla swallowed and licked her lips. Tentatively, not looking at him, she said, “So ... you decided to come see me ... ?” She wanted very much to hear him say yes.

  Prophet didn’t say anything for several steps. He looked down, as though pondering the trail. “I reckon I did at that,” he said finally. “But I shouldn’t have. I was careful to circle around and cover my trail, but he could track me here. It ain’t likely, with the fools he has ridin’ for him, but it’s possible.”

  Grinning, she turned to him, hooked her left arm around his right, and skipped like a happy schoolgirl. “I’ll risk it.”

  He chuckled at her. “Must be pretty borin’ around here of late.”

  “You have no idea.”

  When they came to the corral, Prophet handed his reins to Layla. “Careful now,” he warned. “That horse is mean.”

  “He doesn’t look mean,” Layla said, caressing the horse’s neck.

  “Oh, he’s mean, all right.” Prophet was opening the gate to turn the horse into the corral. “He’ll take a liberal bite out of your hide, first chance he gets.”

  Layla spoke in gentle, loving tones, practically cooing in the horse’s ear. “Oh, he doesn’t look mean at all. He just looks like a big, shy boy. And he’s not ugly either, are you, my big, shy friend?”

  Mean and Ugly rolled his eyes at her, and Prophet was surprised to see no rancorous glint in them. If Prophet had gotten that close to the horse’s head, he’d either have been given a good butt to the kisser, or he’d be sporting bite marks through a torn shirt.

  He took the reins fr
om Layla and led the horse through the gate, giving Ugly a befuddled appraisal. “Good lord, what’s gotten into you, son? Are you so happy to be back in my company that you’ve gone and turned over a new leaf?” He shook his head, then turned to loop the reins over the fence.

  Layla asked. “Aren’t you gonna unsaddle him?”

  “No, I’ll be headin’ out in a minute. I just wanted to stop and say hello, check up on you and your brothers. I thought maybe some of Loomis’s men might have been hassling you of late.”

  “Nope, haven’t see ‘em,” she said. She looked at him beseechingly. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Why don’t you stay? You can head back out first thing in the morning.”

  “I really shouldn’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to put you and your brothers in any more danger.”

  She’d walked slowly into the corral. Now she put her hand on his arm and gently squeezed. Her full lips turned up slightly at the corners. “Please stay. I... I missed you.” She frowned as though uncertain and vaguely troubled.

  He looked at her, and his face acquired its own troubled expression. Finally, he sighed. Turning, he removed his shotgun and rifle from the saddle and stood them against the fence. He reached under Mean and Ugly to release the belly strap, then pulled the saddle off the horse’s back. He swung around and draped it over the top corral slat, then removed the bit and bridle.

  While he rubbed the horse down with a handful of straw, Layla pitched hay over the fence. As they worked, they eyed each other shyly, with wide-eyed significance. But neither of them said a word.

  Finally, Prophet turned away from the horse, dropped the straw, and stepped outside the corral, pulling the gate closed behind him. When he’d dropped the wire loop over the gate, he turned to Layla, who stood before him, only a foot away, staring up at him, her eyes kindled with starlight in the darkness. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath.

  She released it when he lunged for her, wrapped his big arms around her shoulders, drew her to him gently, lowered his head, and kissed her on the mouth, parting her lips with his.