by Julie Weston
Mrs. Bock shook her head. “He was afraid Gwynn would get them, I suppose.” She rocked back and forth. “Without Lily, he was a lost soul.
“He was still Ross when she married him. Lily called him Rosy. Him and Lily got to be friends when Rosy came to eat four or five times a week. Whenever Lily and her pa had a blowup, she’d come stay and let it blow over. Rosy and her would play checkers by the fire and then she got him to playing chess and reading a book out loud to her ’til you wouldn’t know he was just a miner. I knew he loved that girl.”
Nellie listened. It was like hearing a storybook tale, a long, sad one.
“When Gwynn pulled Charlie and Lily outta Wyoming, fired Charlie and told him he’d kill him if he ever saw Lily again, Lily come here and moved in. Charlie went off to Boise City. Then one day, Lily comes to me and says she’s marrying Rosy. Would I stand up for ’em? What could I do? I loved her and liked him. So we got the preacher in here and married ’em off. I gave her my old wedding dress.”
The older woman sat quiet for a while. “They had those two boys and good boys they were. Then Lily got sick. Wouldn’t tell nobody but me and Rosy and finally the Celestial, she called him. Brave, she was. I didn’t think it was right though. Not telling her father. ’Course they hadn’t talked for years.”
With some hesitation, Nellie brought up what was foremost in her mind. “Was one of those boys—” She stopped. Stirring the pot now might bring more heartbreak. “I mean, was the sheriff—?” Another log dropped, startling her. No, better to leave the subject alone.
“He told you.” Mrs. Bock’s statement was quiet but firm. “I’m not surprised. Rosy misses ’em somethin’ terrible. It never mattered to him who fathered that first one.”
“Maybe they should come home to Idaho.”
Mrs. Bock frowned. “Doubt if Rosy’ll change his mind.”
“When he thought he was dying, he wanted Charlie to raise them.”
“Land sakes.” Mrs. Bock stopped rocking. “That’d be a pan of worms. Gwynn don’t even know about Matt.”
“Does Charlie?”
Mrs. Bock squirmed in her chair. “I think so.” She was silent for a moment. “Let me think on this thing a bit. Now, young lady, you better get yourself to bed.”
“Where are the boys?”
“Back East with Rosy’s family.”
CHAPTER 29
“Thought you knew everything, didn’t you?” Gwynn Campbell met with Nellie in the living room of his mansion. Rosy and Mrs. Bock decided Nellie should visit Gwynn on her next trip. He was back to his gruff self.
“Yes,” Nellie admitted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Campbell.” How many times would she have to say it? On the other hand, he owed her. “If you hadn’t attacked me, I wouldn’t have been so certain that you were involved.” Eating humble pie wasn’t suiting her. “I have something else to talk with you about.”
“I’m listening.” Gwynn stood up and began to pace the room.
“At the ranch, after Rosy and I were stuck in the snowstorm, he talked about Lily and his two sons, Matt and—” She realized she didn’t know the second son’s name, only that he was like Gwynn.
The old man stopped pacing. “Campbell.” He turned toward Nell and she saw the water in his eyes. “They named him Campbell. And I never saw him.”
“Well, Rosy wants to bring them back to Idaho.”
“Here? Can’t believe he’d want that. Not after the way I treated him.” He sat down again in the chair opposite Nellie. “Can’t believe it.”
“Not exactly ‘here,’ ” Nellie said. “Back to Idaho.”
“But I’m their grandfather. He can’t take care of them, and he’s broke besides. I have help here at the ranch. If they come back, they should live with me.” He stood again. “I’ll teach ’em how to run sheep. They can take over the ranch.” He straightened his shoulders.
This was much harder than she had envisioned it would be. “No, you’re not the only other living relative. At least, not for one of them, not for Matt.”
“What d’you mean?”
Better to get it over with. She stood up. “The sheriff is Matt’s father. Rosy wants the boys home and he wants the sheriff to help him. Rosy has a job at the mine office now, the one Gladys Smith used to have. He hasn’t been drinking. He talked it over with Sheriff Azgo and Mrs. Bock. Charlie already knew Matt was his. He wants you to spend time with the boys, but they wouldn’t live with you.” Her words ended in a rush.
The sound that came from Gwynn Campbell was akin to the sounds she’d heard in the wild. He reached for her. Instinctively, she stepped back.
“If you don’t agree, you won’t see them.”
“They can’t do that!”
“Yes, they can.” She was moved to say she was sorry again, but bit her tongue. “I’m leaving now. Think this over and call Rosy.” She gathered herself and stood as tall as she could. “Or Charlie. It’s time, don’t you think?”
Nellie walked along the street toward the post office. April mud was a sorry substitute for winter snow. It was a good thing hemlines no longer swept the ground. Moonie trotted beside her. She’d have to bathe his paws before letting him in the boarding house. Under her arm was a large envelope with black and white prints, her package of photographs to be mailed to San Francisco. It had taken her the better part of two months to make the decision as to which subjects and to finish the prints she would send to the leader of the group, asking for his critique and also to consider showing one or more in the gallery he and others planned to open.
As she sorted through her winter work, each one reminded her of a piece of the story. The wheatgrass and aspens with the dark shadow in the background. The moon over Last Chance Ranch. The photo of Rosy, now titled “Miner from Triumph.” The spread of clouds over a mountain butte: “Morning Glory.” Was that too fanciful? And Mrs. Bock baking in “Goldie’s Pies.” There were others she had considered, including the two photos of dead men, but her courage didn’t extend that far.
Gladys Smith had been sent to Twin Falls for trial. She hired a lawyer from Boise City who would argue that she acted in self-defense. The sheriff said that might have worked if Jack had only had a big bump on his head, most likely from the dog toy, but the coroner also found puncture wounds over his heart, thanks to Nellie’s conjecture about the woman’s hatpin. There wasn’t just one. There were half-a-dozen. The trial would be held in the summer. In the meantime, Gladys was in jail. She had changed her name officially to Smith.
Rosy had left for Chicago a couple weeks earlier. He was nervous but determined to meet his sons again. He’d talk to them about what they wanted to do. It had taken Gwynn three weeks to make the call to Rosy and meet with him and Charlie. Nell would have liked to have heard that conversation.
The post office clerk weighed her package and sold her stamps to mail the photographs. Whatever the response, she knew she had found her work and her calling.
Outside, Moonie yipped. Nellie hurried back to him, afraid someone had thrown a stone or late season snowball at him. She found the sheriff squatted on his heels next to her dog, rubbing his neck and saying something to him in strange words.
“Hello, Sheriff.” Nell hadn’t seen him for a while. Mrs. Bock had been responsible for Rosy and the sheriff and Gwynn Campbell meeting. She was unsure how much to say, if anything.
“Good morning, Miss Burns.” He looked up at her. “Do you think we know each other well enough now to use first names?”
Nellie blushed. “Yes, I think we do.”
“Good. Nell, will you accompany me to the May Festival in Hailey next Saturday?” He stood, taking her hand on his way up.
Hands first, she recalled. “Yes, I would be honored.” She ventured a small squeeze. “Charlie.”
He nodded. “That’s what Moonie said you would say.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie Weston grew up in Idaho and practiced law for many years in Seattle, Washington. Her short stories and essays
have been published in IDAHO Magazine, The Threepenny Review, River Styx, and Rocky Mountain Game & Fish, among other journals and magazines, and in the anthology OurWorking Lives. Her book, The Good Times Are All Gone Now: Life, Death and Rebirth in an Idaho Mining Town (University of Oklahoma Press, 2009) won Honorable Mention in the 2009 Idaho Book of the Year Award. She appeared on a C-Span2/Book TV interview in December, 2013. Both an essay and a short story were nominated for Pushcart Prizes. She and her husband, Gerry Morrison, now live in south-central Idaho where they ski, write, photograph, and enjoy the outdoors. www.juliewweston.com