River People
Page 32
The wide doors of the barn, where the unfinished ark had waited through the coldest months, were open. Winter’s drafty corners warming. At the sound of Smoke’s hoofs in the yard, Wire bounced out. Henry on the dog’s heels. “You’re back,” he said, the muscles in his face relaxing. “I knew you could do it.”
She nodded, hoping the silly grin in her belly wasn’t showing on her face.
Grabbing the throatlatch on Smoke, Henry steadied the stallion. “You get what you needed?”
She put her left foot in the stirrup, grabbed the pommel, drew her right leg over the saddle, leaned on Smoke to free the left foot—just as Henry taught her—and landed solidly on both feet.
“Like you were born on a horse,” Henry said.
She pulled off the saddlebags. “I got your coffee and my school paper.” There were other items—butter, flour, salt—but they teased each other most about his need for good, strong coffee and her need for paper and pencils. Pencils he kept sharp for her with his penknife.
She held Smoke’s noseband, running her hand down his long face as Henry unbuckled the tight billet strap. “How’s Cora?” He stopped and squinted at Bridget before she could answer. “What you grinning about?”
“Cora said the whole town is still talking about the school recital. How good I did.”
With pride in his eyes, he jerked the buckle loose. “That so?”
“She said you ‘smiled the whole time.’ And you ‘truly seemed to enjoy joining the community.’”
“That so?”
“And she said I looked beautiful in my dress.” She lifted a quick hand before Henry could answer. “I still like britches better.”
He pulled off the saddle, held it against one hip and opened the pasture gate. Smoke tossed his head, his mane lifting left and right in the air, and he was off.
Henry swung the saddle over the gate and took up the saddlebags. “Supper’s ready.”
They sat over beef stew thick with meat, potatoes, and carrots. Wire lay on the floor between their chairs, his tail rapping. She told Henry about her afternoon, how she’d talked Smoke across the bridge, and how two mates from school had come running at the sight of her . . . perhaps at the sight of Smoke.
“And guess what? Mr. Graf is using one of the boxes Cora bought last year. Guess what for.”
“Doubt I can.”
“Seeds. He has a whole bunch of seeds in little packets. Watermelons, cabbage, tomatoes.” She took another bite. “We could plant everything.”
“That so?” He pushed back his empty bowl and refilled his coffee cup. “You been grinning for an hour. You about to that?”
“I was saving it for right now.” She pulled out the letter. “Effie had a baby girl.”
He leaned back in his chair. “She’s fine then?”
“Yes. She has a wood building shop in town, and she lives in the back. Skeet never returned and her pa hired a farmhand.” Bridget scanned the sheet again. “Effie’s helping her ma plant fruit trees, and everyone’s excited about her baby girl.” She turned the sheet over. “She wrote the letter herself. Johnny’s working in the shop with her. They’ve started making chairs.” Bridget looked up. “That’s because of you. You started us building.”
Henry’s eyes had narrowed and his lips set, but Bridget rushed on. “Guess what she named the baby?”
He looked at his cup, a calloused finger rubbing the rim. “You said she had a sister, Sally.”
“Bridget. She named her baby after me. And Pete’s mom. Bridget Mae.”
Henry’s thumb continued to circle. “Effie ain’t asking you to come?”
Bridget’s heart dropped. Henry’s smile had faded and lines cut across his weathered forehead. She rose and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m never going to leave you.”
He took her hands, held them, and searched her face. “How about we take the train to Omaha? Lawyers there helped Standing Bear. Said Indians have legal rights. Suppose we signed papers saying this is your home?”
“And you are my pappy?”
“I’d like you to sign too.”
“I get to say?” She dropped her head back onto his shoulder so he couldn’t see her tears.
He patted her back. “It’s all right now.”
Margaret Lukas taught writing for over a decade at the University of Nebraska. Her award-winning short story “The Yellow Bird” was made into a short by Smiling Toad Productions in Canada and premiered at the Cannes Film Festival. She has writings in anthologies, magazines, and online. Her first novel, Farthest House, received a Nebraska Arts Council Fellowship Award. She lives in Omaha with her husband.