Jackie O’Donnell whispered to T.J., as he threw him a wise-guy look, “Your mother’s really weird.”
“Yeah, but she’s all right. You have to get used to her,” T.J. replied. Belle overhead the conversation and it made her smile.
The Bunch Resort sat at the edge of a forest. Under a weeping willow tree, lavish bouquets sat on tables covered with white linen cloths. A grassy spot was set up for croquet and picnickers. A knotted rope hung from a cottonwood where boys were swinging and jumping in to the river.
An elegant resort in such a remote spot was a marvelous surprise. This was a day torn out of a book depicting gentlemen of leisure and ladies in their finery spending a pleasant afternoon. A ribbon of water, the Middle Fork of the Payette, lazed at their feet.
“So this is what the rich folk do,” Harold O’Donnell said. “I could get used to it.”
“The children are having a marvelous time,” Colleen said as they watched them swim in the wood-sided plunge. A waterfall spilled fresh hot water from the creek above. The Bunch boys had thought of everything, including a life guard.
“I’d forgotten how much fun a party can be. It’s been a while,” Belle said as her feet tapped to the music. She couldn’t wait to get out on the shiny dance floor. She didn’t hesitate when Roy Blackwell asked her to dance. He was a hippopotamus in ballet slippers, so big yet so light on his feet. Burly-looking, maybe because he was in the process of letting his beard grow out. It was at that awful stage that makes a man look like he had forgotten to shave. His round face was framed with slicked-down hair parted in the middle. There was something weak about his features.
In Scotland they likely would have called him a gilliepaupuss; a big stupid person. He didn’t talk much while they danced and that was all right with Belle. She was more interested in dancing than she was in her partner. When Belle came back to the table, Harold O’Donnell took her aside. “Blackwell’s no damn good. I’d try to avoid him.”
“It won’t hurt just to dance with him. He’s a good dancer,” Belle said.
“He’s half a bubble off plumb,” Harold insisted.
“Daft?” Belle asked. Then she remembered the name. He was the one Harlow had that awful fight with. “Harlow once said he was crazy, too. “
Harold nodded. “Colleen’s brother Rod is a dang fine dancer; dance with him.” Rod wasn’t dry behind the ears but that didn’t matter. He knew the fox trot and Belle was quick to learn. Then Blackwell was at her elbow trying to cut in. Belle shook her head and turned away from him. He grumbled and left.
Cal and Henrietta Riemers and Ed and Ada Prichard came in together and sat at a table close by. Their spouses wouldn’t get on the dance floor. So, Ed and Henrietta danced together.
“Just look at her.” Gracie’s voice was contemptuous as she watched Henrietta Riemers making eyes at Ed Prichard while they danced.
“You’d think. she’d have better sense,” Colleen added. “If I gossiped, I could tell you things about those two that would curl your hair.”
“But you don’t gossip?” Gracie admonished her.
When the music stopped, Henrietta and Ed didn’t come back to the table. Cal fidgeted. Later, much later, when Henrietta did return, they could hear her tell Cal how she’d been down by the river watching the boys jump off the swings. It wasn’t long before Ed came back and he said he’d been talking to Bobbie Bunch.
Before the sun went down, Henrietta broke out in big red welts and there was no hiding them. Then, Ed began to scratch. Bobbie Bunch leaned over their table as he refreshed their drinks. “You got into that dang poison oak down by the bridge. I should have warned you folks about that. It just never occurred to me. It’s no place to lie down, I’ll tell you. I did it once and I looked just like you.”
“Cal, this couldn’t be poison oak,” Henrietta insisted as Bobbie walked away, “it must have been something I ate.”
The disgusted look on Cal’s face said that he knew better. But then he took stock in Ed Prichard, a river hog by profession, and there was six-foot four inches and two-hundred ninety pounds of him. Ed had the reputation of clearing log jams in the river that no one else could handle. The man was half-grizzly. Cal decided to believe Henrietta.
As Belle went to get some refreshments, a man who looked familiar stood over the punch bowl. Maybe she’d met him somewhere before. No, if she had, she would have remembered. Although he was dressed in a lace-edged pleated shirt and fancy trousers, perfectly groomed, there was a tough masculinity, a vigor, in his sturdy build.
“Punch?” He handed Belle the cup he had poured for himself.
“Thank you.” She blushed like a school girl as their eyes met.
“Come dance with me, beautiful lady. “
Belle shook her head coyly. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”
He looked around until he spotted Harold O’Donnell. “You know him?"
Belle nodded.
He whistled, sharp but quick, then waved to Harold who came over. What made this cocky fellow think he could whistle like that at such a grand affair? Belle thought.
“Harold, introduce me to this gorgeous apparition before she disappears from sight and I can never find her again.”
Harold’s eyes brightened. “Belle, this is my friend Hank Gallagher. Hank, I’d like you to meet Belle Pruett.” Harold shook his head in amusement as he walked away.
“So now, will you come dance with me, Miss Pruett?”
“It’s Mrs. Pruett and yes, I will.”
“Let’s do The Politician.” His feet tapped to the beat of the music as he put his hands on her waist.
“I don’t know it,” Belle admitted.
“Come on, I’ll show you. Two steps forward, one step back and then a side step.” He stood there until Belle got the joke. She laughed. He was a good dancer; he knew all the moves. They danced to the music as if they’d done it for years. It occurred to her why he had seemed so familiar. He was the man in her fantasies. It would be easy to fall in love with Hank Gallagher. She liked his stocky build, broad shoulders and well-sculpted features, but it was his devilish grin and his violet eyes that caught her heart. She was happy that she’d let Flo talk her into this exquisite gown. It was the gown that had attracted him, she was sure of that.
“So tell me your story, Mrs. Belle Pruett.”
“My story? I was born in Aberfeldy, Scotland, at a very young age,” she said.
“So what brought you to America?”
“The Caledonian,” she giggled.
Hank Gallagher’s eyes were drinking Belle in as if she were cool water on a hot desert. And the “cool water” set her eyes on him, tantalizing him every way she knew how.
“You live around here?” he asked.
“Just below Dry Buck on the Brownlee drainage. On the road to Nowhere. How about you?”
“I’m unemployed and wandering. I wouldn’t mind it so much but I don’t have a pay day I can borrow until.” He grinned. “So you’re a Scot?”
“Aye," she said.
"Ah! The woman of my dreams, a Scottish lass,” he said in an exaggerated brogue. “The big question is, how are we going to get rid of your husband?”
Belle tilted her head and shrugged her shoulders. This was no time to be serious. It would break the spell. She just wanted to climb into his beautiful violet eyes and possess him completely. The people around them disappeared, and the beat of the music hammered through her veins, as he held her, as they moved apart, as they were close again. Her fingers tingled where she touched his hand. Did he feel it, too? She held her breath so that time couldn’t tick away and end the dance.
But for all of Belle’s silent incantations, the music stopped and T.J. was tugging at her arm. He and Hannah were hungry and food was being served. Belle had no recourse but to slide back into reality, excuse herself and take them to the buffet and get them seated. The food was delicious. It had come from the Bunch kitchen. Those ladies did themselves proud.
; Finally, her eyes surveyed every cranny searching for that handsome man with his captivating ways who she knew must be waiting for her. But Hank Gallagher was nowhere to be found.
When the marathon dancing began, Belle was in the middle of it. Surely, if she was out on the floor, Hank Gallagher would find her. The floor filled with dancers. Couple by couple they tired and left the floor as the fiddlers increased the tempo. The men's shirts got sweaty and the women’s hair went limp as the frenzy heightened until the only ones left on the dance floor, almost holding each other up, were Belle and Rod.
At daybreak, the party was over. The children, asleep on chairs, were loaded into the wagons, buggies, hacks and automobiles and the party goers rode back down the river canyon--home.
As she drove, Belle’s eyes grew distant, as she thought about Hank Gallagher. He was a no-good flirtatious renegade who had played with her heart. Who did he think he was anyway? She’d been a fool to fall for his blarney. It wouldn’t happen again. That haunting desire to fall in love was gone forever. She had her children, and she was grateful for them. She might as well come to grips with the fact that falling in love is what fantasies are made of and there was no reality in any of it. She’d be content to live out her life alone.
Chapter Sixteen
T.J. was a Scot, all right. He couldn’t bring himself to throw away the extra pumpkin seeds. Plants were coming up everywhere: by the watering trough, in the flower bed, under the cherry trees, on the river bank, by the outhouse. He hadn’t missed a spot where there might be a drop of water to make them grow. Growing in unsuitable places, the pumpkin plants looked like weeds, that they, indeed, had become.
“They’ll be enough pumpkins to line the road between the ranch and Horseshoe Bend with jack o’ lanterns,” Belle said. “You’re some farmer."
“You can make all the pumpkin pies you want, Ma.”
Belle tousled his hair and held him against her.
“Ma, what’s a bastard?”
Belle’s heart sank. “Where did you hear that word?”
“Clint Riemers called me that when we were coming home from school.”
“Well, don’t you pay Clint Riemers any mind.”
“What is a bastard, anyway?”
“A child born out of wedlock, but you aren’t that. I was married to Harlow Pruett when you were born, T.J. I wouldn’t lie to you.” T.J. nodded.
“Now, that’s that. There’ll be no more talk about it. Gossip is the work of the devil. Passing along rubbish like that tells you something about those who do it; they just don’t have enough to think about. Learn to turn a deaf ear.”
Like father, like son, Belle thought, as she pulled on her sweater and headed for the barn to do the milking. That no good gossipy Cal Reimers! Now, Clint was following in his footsteps. What business was it of theirs? She couldn’t tell T.J. the whole story. It would only cause him grief. Her secret was safe; Flo was the only living soul who knew. The canyon folks knew T.J. wasn’t Harlow’s, but that’s all they knew.
Should she talk to Cal Riemers about Clint? No. It would just stir up the past. Belle finished the milking and led Buttercup to the pasture, picked up the milk bucket and headed for the kitchen.
Speak of the devil! Cal Riemers was riding into the ranch. What did that damn fool want? He got down from his horse and walked over to join Belle. She was struggling with her milk bucket as she made her way up the hill. He didn’t offer to help her. “Belle, you know,” he said, “you need a man around here.”
“Is that right? If he was anything like you, I can’t imagine why.” Then, with no more provocation, Belle threw the milk in Cal Riemer’s face. He was a pitiful excuse for a human being.
“What was that for?” Cal sputtered, looking comical standing there dripping milk.
“If ye don’t know, it won’t do any good to tell ye,” Belle said as she stalked off. How would she explain to the children that there would be no fresh milk for breakfast?
Once more, winter found the canyon. A sky full of snowflakes, big as silver dollars, floated weightlessly earthward. “The gods are having a pillow fight,” Belle told Tommy and Hannah as they stood at the window and watched the snowflakes fall.
“Come on, Hannah,” T.J. said. “Let’s go outside and make some snowballs. “
“Hardly enough snow on the ground for that, T.J.,” Belle said.
“Where’s my coat, Ma?” Hannah asked.
“Our company will be here any time now. You’re cleaned up so nice, let’s see if you can stay that way.” Belle buttoned Hannah’s coat and tucked her little hands into the mittens that hung from a string at the sleeves and secured the muffler around her neck.
She watched out the window as T.J. threw his head back and caught some snowflakes on his tongue. There wasn’t anything but love and kindness in that little laddie, Belle thought. There never would be.
Belle held a letter in her hand from Meg who had written to say she had arrived in America. She was with Alex in Montana and they were ironing out some problems before they wed. She would tell Belle about it in person. Alex had agreed to bring her down to visit since he was going to Boise on business anyway. They would spend a day with Belle, maybe two. Belle was giddy with excitement. She hadn’t seen anyone from home since she’d left seven years ago. Meg was the prettiest of all the Mackay girls as well as the oldest. But what problem was Meg having with Alex? What had gone wrong?
From the first, Belle had worried about the idea of Meg being a mail-order bride. Meg should have had lots of suitors without resorting to that. It was no secret that their father always thought Meg was the pick of the litter.
She had given up a lot for the family. As the oldest daughter she had replaced their mother when she died. Her teenage years were spent cooking, wiping tears and dirty faces. She bossed all of them around, even her older brothers.
Growing up, Belle looked up to her and tried to walk in her footsteps but they had been too deliberate, too steady for capricious, mercurial Belle. Meg avoided excitement but Belle thrived on it. Belle came to realize that and quit trying to emulate Meg. Yet, she admired her so much.
Belle’s whimsical nature was as much a part of her as her strawberry blond hair and the freckles on her nose. That was just fine with her. She was beginning to like herself again after a long time of doubting. She had qualms that had risen after Du Cartier, been compounded by Doig and twisted into tangled knots by Harlow Pruett.
She studied her reflection in the window as she watched for the McDonald carriage to come up the road. What day was it that she had left her childhood and had become a woman? Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she didn’t want to give up that impulsive childlike sprite within.
She shook her head and watched the transparent person in the window shake hers. The little girl had disappeared. The reflection in the window was that of a grown woman, a woman facing the world fearlessly alone.
A horse raced in front of a dust cloud up the canyon, and then out of the dust, the outline of a carriage came into sight. It had to be Meg; she was almost here. As the carriage rolled into the barnyard, Belle was beside herself. Seven years had only made Meg prettier. The images that Belle had held in her memory, paled before Meg’s elegance. Her sumptuous mahogany hair was pulled back from her face, a face with the features of a queen. As they hugged, it was as though they’d never been apart.
“Belle, dear Belle. I’ve missed ye so. You're prettier than ever. What a treasure ye are."
“Oh, Meg, me darling Meg. I’ve longed so deeply for this day. I have to pinch myself to know I’m not dreaming.”
For a moment, Belle relived the day she left family and came to America, a starry-eyed child looking for adventure. To be sure, she’d found it, though it wasn’t what she had envisioned in her fifteen-year-old mind. Looking at Meg, so cultured, so well put together, brought home to Belle how the raw, unbridled wilderness had changed her. Meg seemed happy. Was it born of their reunion or was she happy with Alex? Belle ached to
know. She knew Meg would tell her when the time was right and not a moment before.
Alex stood off to the side, austere and distant. He was a tall man, with a fine head of silvery-gray hair, a firm jaw and gray eyes. He wore a calf-length sheepskin coat and a black felt hat. As Meg introduced them, he took her hand and his face lit up. He had a captivating smile.
“So you’re Belle. I’ve been hearing of little else. This has been a long time in coming. For a while I thought this beautiful sister of yours would never make it to America. I’ve been waiting such a long time.” He had good honest eyes that were filled with kindness. Her worries for Meg melted like butter. He wasn’t handsome, but the nature of the man was far more important and this man had the makings of a prince.
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