Out of Innocence

by Adelaide McLeod

  He stood there, cleared his throat, and began: “'Address To The Haggis’ by Rabbie Burns. Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace as lang’s my arm.”

  Hank’s eyebrows raised as he concentrated on Norman’s recitation. Belle could tell he was puzzled. She took the platter from Norm and set it on the table.

  “But there are more verses,” Norman protested.

  “It needs to be eaten hot. By the time you finish with your blather, it will not be fit for man or beast.”

  “Rabbie’s poetry isn’t blather.”

  “It will sound as good after we’ve eaten,” Belle said as she dished up a generous portion on everyone’s plate. “Now eat before it gets cold.”

  “It’s delicious, Belle. Just like our mother used to make,” Norman said. “‘What do you think of it, Hank?”

  “Well, it's ah . . . different."

  “You don’t like it much?" Belle asked Hank with a woebegone expression on her face.

  “Oh, no. It’s . . . good,” Hank muttered as he shifted nervously in his chair.

  “Be honest. Ye’ll not hurt my feelings. You’re in good company. The truth of it is I’m not crazy about it either.” Belle laughed. “You don’t have to like it--just eat it. It’s a matter a tradition--a tradition that could have stayed in Scotland for all of me.”

  The days passed quickly, and soon, the family stood by Norman’s rented hack, telling him goodbye. “It’s a beautiful day to travel. I’ve got until three o’clock to catch the train out of Boise.”

  “You shouldn’t have any trouble doing that. When I came west, the train didn’t go into Boise. I had to ride to Nampa. If I’d known you were coming, I could have fetched you in my automobile,” Belle said.

  “I intended to take a spin in that Model T. I saw it sitting out there. Well, maybe next time. I’ll be back to check on you, little sister.”

  “Give my love to Meg and Alex and don’t forget to give Meg my letter. That saves me a postage stamp.”

  “It’s right here.” Norman patted his breast pocket. Norman tousled T.J.’s hair. “You’re a fine Scot, young Tom. My brother Tom would be pleased to have you carrying his name.”

  T. J. beamed. “Uncle Norman. What do you wear under your kilt?”

  Norman looked down and a slow grin came to his face. “My shoes, laddie, my shoes.”

  "And you, Princess Hannah, give old Uncle Norman a hug to last him till he comes back.” He picked her up off the ground and held her in his arms. Norman turned to Belle and held her hands in his own, “Belle, give Hank a chance. Don’t be so stubborn. Ye’ve been alone too long and you’re set in your ways. He’s a fine man.”

  “Goodbye, Norman.” Belle smiled. “Haste ye back.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Belle caught Hank as he came up the hill from the river. She was all business. There were a few things she needed to say if he was going to stay at the ranch.

  “If the American flag is hanging from the porch, it means ye can come to the house. I’ll be up. Ye can take your meals with us if you like. There’s usually hot water for washing and shaving in the well of the Majestic and you’re welcome to it. There’s some extra blankets and a pillow if ye need them. There’s a wash bowl and pitcher on the washstand in the bunk house; T.J. put them there this morning. And I’ll require ye to leave the house after supper. It’s only proper. Do ye have any questions?”

  “Seems like you’ve thought of everything.” His lips switched in amusement.

  “Then I’ll be getting back to the house.”

  “Wait. Why don’t we sit on the porch and visit a minute?”

  “I can’t do that. I’ve got bread in the oven.” Belle needed time to think. As she walked into the kitchen, she wondered what Hank Gallagher had on his mind. There was no way he could explain away disappearing as he had at the Bunch Resort. He hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye.

  After supper, the sky turned pink and a cool breeze brushed against the heat of the day. Belle could hear Hank playing his guitar and singing as she did the dishes. He’d figured being on the front porch was leaving the house. She couldn’t fault that.

  “Oh that strawberry roan, oh that strawberry roan, she’s the mare that carries me out on the range, she can turn on a nickel and give me the change, oh that strawberry roan.” Hank had a fine singing voice. She peeked out the window to see T.J. and Hannah sitting at Hank’s feet as he strummed his guitar. Belle wanted to go out and join them, but she thought better of it. Why was she keeping her distance? What made her so hesitant? She was afraid because she felt so vulnerable. She liked Hank Gallagher too much and that scared her. She sat in the parlor with her book on her lap, listening until darkness fell, the music stopped and T.J. and Hannah came into the house.

  “Hank’s going to show me how to shoot his pistol, Ma,” T.J. said. Belle smiled her approval.

  “I want to learn, too.” Hannah looked at Belle for her reaction.

  “It’s a good idea, Hannah. A girl should be able to defend herself if need be. I wish someone had taught me, when I was your age.” For a brief moment, Belle’s mind wandered back to the hills of Wyoming where Ben had taught her to shoot a gun. In some ways, Hank reminded Belle of Ben. They were both kind and gentle, but with Hank there was something more, a lot more.

  Belle blew out the lamp and nestled in her feather bed as she pulled her down quilt up to her chin. Her thoughts wandered out to the bunk house and stayed there until she was out of her bed in the morning. The sun peeked over the mountain. She still couldn’t get Hank Gallagher out of her mind. “I’ll gather some fresh eggs and make some coffee,” she thought as she brushed her hair and tied it back with her best black satin ribbon. "I’ll make him a fine breakfast; one he won’t forget." She hurried to the porch to put up the flag just as T. J. came in from the outhouse.

  “Hank left an hour ago, Ma. They’re blasting today and he had to be there before sun-up. He said I couldn’t come over today; it would be too dangerous. “

  “Did he say he’d be here for dinner?”

  “Didn’t say. Do you like him, Ma?”

  “Like him?” Belle bit her lip. She had always been truthful with T.J. How could she answer that? Anything she told T.J. might find its way back to Hank.

  “He seems nice enough,” she said.

  T.J. looked disappointed. “Is that all?”

  “You’d better get your weeding done before it gets hot.”

  The moon was high in the sky before the dogs barked and Belle could see Hank’s weary frame trudging up the hill. She wondered if he’d had anything to eat. She walked out to the front porch and then quickly slipped back inside where she sat in the darkness.

  “Ma. Ma, come look.” Hannah stumbled into the kitchen carrying a lamb under each arm. “Mr. Aldecoa is here. He’s going up to Round Valley. And he gave T.J. and me each two lambs for our very own.”

  “How wonderful.” Belle let the screen door slam behind her as she ran out. “How are ye doing, Joe?” she shouted.

  “Pretty good for an old sheepherder. Is it all right if I run my sheep down by the river until morning? I’m heading up to Round Valley for the summer.”

  “Help yourself. Supper’s almost ready. Come on up to the kitchen when you’re through here.”

  Hannah stopped Hank as he walked up the hill from the river. “Look what Mr. Aldecoa gave us. Four lambs. We’re going to raise them ourselves. Two for me and two for T.J.”

  “Who’s Mr. Aldecoa?” Hank asked.

  “My mother’s friend,” she answered.

  “Have you named them?”

  “Not yet. What should I name them?”

  “That’s the fun, Hannah, figuring out the names. You’re clever. Put your mind to it,” Hank said over his shoulder as he opened the screen door. “Something smells mighty good in here.”

  “Fried chicken. Hope you�
��re hungry.” Belle hardly looked up. She wondered if she could get dinner on the table with him standing there.

  “I brought you some flowers. I found them blooming down by the river."

  “Blue camas. They’re my favorite. Here, let me find a vase.” Belle tried to sound casual, like someone brought her flowers every day of her life.

  “You go ahead with your supper. I’ll find something in the pantry. You’ve got to quit treating me like a guest. Can I set the table?” Hank stuffed the stems into a quart fruit jar.

  “Sure. The utensils are in the Hoosier--left drawer.”

  Joe Aldecoa walked in the kitchen door. “I swear, Belle, you’re prettier every time I see you.” He bent over the Majestic and raised the lid on the frying pan. "Ah. No one in all of Idaho can compete with your fried chicken.” The two men stood there squaring off with each other. Belle came to her senses and introduced them. She was glad Joe was there. It would make it easier. “So you’re an engineer?”

  “Yeah. You’re in the sheep business?”

  “Yup."

  “So how’s the sheep business?”

  “It suits me. Brings me through the ranch here, and I like that.”

  Joe winked at Belle. She could see the irritation on Hank’s face. “Belle and I go way back. Ten years, at least. She’s as pretty as the first day I laid eyes on her. Naw, prettier. And smart, too.”

  Belle flushed with embarrassment. “Joe?” Her knitted eyebrows should carry her message to her Basque friend. What was Joe up to? He’d never acted like this in all the years she’d known him.

  “How she manages to do the work of a man and still looks like that is beyond me.”

  Hank’s eyes rested on Belle. She found it hard to swallow. “Hank’s teaching me to shoot his pistol, Joe,” T.J. said. Thank God, Belle thought. Now they could talk about guns and shooting. A safer subject between men and one that would take her out of the limelight. Men were capable of talking about guns for hours.

  She listened with half an ear as she brought a second platter of chicken from the stove. After serving everyone, she took the back with the “Pope’s nose” for herself. No one would eat it--it shouldn’t be wasted. After all, chicken is chicken.

  Hank set his eyes on Belle. What was he thinking? It made her nervous. Some men just like the conquest. Maybe Hank was one of them. She wouldn’t fall for his blarney again. She’d learned her lesson.

  “Hannah, get the cherry pie out of the keep and bring me a knife.” T.J. jumped to his feet, and carried plates away as Belle cut generous pieces of her homemade pie.

  “Wonderful pie, Belle. Best I’ve had since I ate here the last time.” Joe grinned at Belle, his eyes dancing.

  “It’s the Montmorencies; they’re the best pie cherries. Harlow planted the trees years ago.”

  As soon as supper was over, Hank excused himself and disappeared down the hill toward the river.

  “What got into you?” Belle glared at her Basque friend. “Why did you do that, Joe?”

  “Well, T.J. and I had a little chat,” he confessed. “He thought you and that Hank fellow needed a little push. Did I push too hard?”

  “Oh, Joe, really. You and T.J. playing cupid? I’ll have a talk with that young man. What do you think Hank made of you carrying on like that?”

  “Listen, it never hurts for a man to know that a woman is attractive to other men.”

  “Where did you get that idea? Out of one of those dime novels?”

  “Nah. You know we Latins are hot blooded,” he sensuously drawled. “How about a little kiss, senora?” Belle laughed as she pushed him out the door.

  Belle watched from the orchard as she filled her basket with peaches so ripe that she had to handle them carefully or they would slip right out of their fuzzy skins. Their aroma was better than French perfume.

  Hank had Hannah astride Blue. How had he managed to get her on a horse? She was afraid of anything bigger than herself. Sitting rigidly, she held onto the saddle horn with both hands as Hank lead Blue down the lane. Hannah giggled nervously.

  “You take one rein and I’ll hold the other,” Hank said.

  Before long, she heard, ‘‘You take her reins and I’ll hold onto her bit. See, that’s easy. Tomorrow, I’ll saddle up Rosie and you and I will take a ride down to Gardena.”

  “I’ll be afraid.”

  “No, you won’t. You can do it. I’ll be right there beside you and nothing can go wrong.”

  “All the way to Gardena?”

  “Sure. I’m going to make a cowgirl out of you, Hannah.”

  Belle wondered if Harlow was still alive, would he be the one getting Hannah past her fear? How kind Hank had been to the children. He was too good to be true. She’d wake up some morning and the bunkhouse would be empty and he’d be gone.

  Belle sent T.J. and Hannah to wash up for supper as Hank settled himself at the table.

  “So, do you have a thing for that Basque fellow?” Hank asked.

  “A thing?"

  “It’s obvious he had designs on you. Is it mutual?”

  “It’s really none of your business.” Then she thought better of how that sounded. Why did she keep spitting at him? If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t ask a question like that. “No, there’s nothing between us but friendship,” Belle said without looking at him.

  T.J. and Hannah slid into their places and Hank swallowed his reaction as he turned his attention to making conversation with them. That night after supper, while Belle pulled out the big crockery bowl and set the sourdough for morning, Hank settled on the front porch again with his guitar. He strummed a few little ditties that he’d made up and among them she heard: “I know a gal and is she pretty, but she thinks I’ve done her wrong. She’s as bright as she is witty, but all she wants is to see me . . . gone. “

  “Come on kids, sing along with me.”

  That ditty was about her. So that’s what he thought. She couldn’t risk him thinking that way any longer. She ran her fingers through her hair, patted cold water on her face and headed for the porch. The sound of music fired her blood. At first she hummed as Hank played. Before long she sang and then she was on her feet dancing. If she was making a spectacle of herself, it was just too bad. The moon was full, the fragrance of lilacs filled the air, the crickets sang in the tall grass, the night was magic, and Belle was bewitched.

  The moon was high in the sky before Belle sent the children off to bed. About to follow them, she stopped when Hank touched her arm. “Don’t go just yet.”

  Belle didn’t want the night to end either. Her eyes met his as she settled back in the rocking chair. “Tell me your story, Belle. What brought you here?” Hank asked.

  “Nothing much to tell. I left Scotland when I was fifteen with my brother Tommy. He died aboard the ship at sea. I tutored young boys in Illinois for a while, moved on to Cheyenne where I lived for a winter and then I came here with Harlow. That’s it.”

  “It must have taken a lot of courage leaving home so young.”

  She couldn’t tell Hank that her real courage was born in agonies too grim and dark to pull to the surface ever again. “That’s enough about me. Tell me about yourself.”

  “There’s not much to tell. I’ve been at loose ends most of my life. I grew up on a dairy ranch in Weiser, southwest of here about a hundred miles. I guess I know pretty much what there’s to know about ranching. Engineering came easy for me. I’ve liked that. I studied at the University of Idaho and apprenticed with a company in Boise and got on this highway job. But I’ve got itchy feet. I yearn to know what’s on the other side of the mountain. I’ve always been like that.”

  ‘‘Aye, wanderlust. There’s a wee bit of that in me too. I understand. “

  “I wish my parents did. I’m twenty-six, and they think it’s time I settled down. But there’s a lot of world out there and I aim to see it.”

  The chirping of crickets seemed to be coming from the twinkling stars. In that mystical moment everything was r
ight with the world. Belle didn’t want it to end.

  Hannah stood in the doorway in her nightgown looking like an angel. “Ma, I can’t find my blue dress.”

  “I have to iron it, Hannah. I suppose ye want to wear it to school tomorrow?” Belle smiled at Hank. “Duty calls. Good night. Thank you for the music.”

  “It was an enchanting evening, the nicest I’ve ever had,” he said. Belle’s heart raced. Then, he had felt it, too.

  By the light of the coal oil kitchen lamp, Belle clamped the wooden handle into a sad iron and lifted it off the stove, flicked it with a little water. It sizzled. She shook out the rolled-up, dampened and starched cotton dress she’d made for Hannah on the treadle sewing machine. She pressed the dress. As the iron cooled, she returned it to the stove and fastened a hot iron onto the wooden handle. She hoped the dress would look all right in the light of day. Bethesda, her best mouser, rubbed against Belle’s leg. “Go find yourself a mouse, Bethesda. I’m busy here.”