by Nevada Barr
“We’re going to put the tree in here with us.”
“That’s right,” Sarah assented. “It’s a Christmas tree.”
Wolf lost interest in it; Christmas Eve was almost a week away, and the little boy lived entirely in the present. He jumped off the chair and waddled over to a bookcase under the far window. Suddenly he chirped with excitement, “Somebody coming.”
Sarah set aside her sewing and joined him at the window. “It looks like your pa.”
Nate rode up the drive past Addie Glass’s house and tied his horse to one of the bushes. The horse was a sleek claybank stallion with a white diamond on his forehead. Horse, saddle, and bridle were new, the leather still bright and creaky. Nate wore stiff new dungarees—“reach-me-downs,” the creases sharp from where they’d been folded on the store shelf—and a new shirt. Grease flattened his unruly curls, and the corner of his mouth bled a little from a recent shave.
Sarah backed away from the window.
“He’s coming up the walk,” Wolf announced.
Sarah picked up her sewing, looked around the room, and put it down again.
“He’s at the door,” said the little sentinel. The knock came and Sarah jumped.
“He’s knocking on the door,” Wolf reported. Reluctantly, Sarah opened it. The overwhelming scent of pomade and new leather greeted her. Nate pulled his hat off; his shining cap of hair was dented where the band had been.
“Afternoon, ma’am. I’m Nate Weldrick, as you may recall.”
“I remember.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Wolf’s pa.”
“That’s right.” He shifted his weight and looked past her into the house. “I’d have been by sooner, but I been over San Francisco way these last six, eight months.”
“Won’t you come in?” she said belatedly.
Nate sat in the lookout chair, turning his hat between his knees. The boy had disappeared. Sarah sat down on her sewing, bouncing oddly when she realized what she’d done. Too embarrassed to remove it, she spread her skirts to the sides so the red flannel wouldn’t peek out from underneath.
“You’ve come to see Wolf?” Her voice was high-pitched and airy. She cleared her throat.
“You could say that.”
Sarah’s eyes searched the small living room as if a three-year-old child could simply have been overlooked. “He was just here. Let me check the other room.” She escaped into her bedroom and closed the door. Wolf was sitting quietly on the box bed she and Imogene had bought for him, not doing anything, just sitting with the air of an adult resigned to waiting. Sarah knelt beside him. “Wolf, your pa’s here to see you.”
“I ain’t s’posed to stay in the room when he’s with ladies.”
“That’s silly. Don’t you want to see your pa? Come on.” Sarah held out her hand and he accompanied her unenthusiastically back into the front room.
Father and son stared at each other.
“Why don’t you say hello to your pa?” Sarah whispered.
“Pa.” Wolf tasted the word. An alien sound.
“You know better,” Nate said. “Nate.” He smiled at Sarah, a charming, boyish smile showing off straight, healthy teeth. One side of his mouth was slightly paralyzed, and the stiffness lent him a rakish air. “Taught him to call me Nate. ‘Pa’ sounded kind of funny somehow, coming from an Indian kid.” Sarah nodded as though she understood. Wolf stayed obediently in front of his father, awaiting further instructions.
“Looks like you been taking good care of him. I mean his clothes are clean and whatnot.”
“He’s a good boy.”
“You get tired of looking after him, you let me know. Hattie’ll take him back.” Again the boyish grin. “Hattie’ll do anything for a fifth of whiskey.”
“I won’t get tired of Wolf.” The boy was still standing in front of his father, solemn and unblinking.
Nate looked down at him. “Ain’t you got something to do?”
Recognizing a dismissal, Wolf went to the blocks he’d left tumbled under the window and was instantly absorbed in the construction of a doomed tower.
“It ain’t a bad day,” Nate said when the silence had grown too long. “I got a horse in San Francisco. Maybe you’d like to see him? It ain’t a bad day; out of the wind it’s above freezing.”
Sarah considered his proposal for a moment. The cold winter light was not inviting, but Nate’s bulk made the house uncomfortably small. “I’ll get my things.”
In a few minutes she reemerged from the bedroom, wearing a cape and gloves, a small wool coat over her arm. “Get your coat on, Wolf. It’s nippy out.” She held the coat ready, its stubby arms outthrust as though an invisible child were already inside.
“The kid’ll be okay here by himself,” Nate said.
“I don’t leave Wolf home alone. He’s too little,” Sarah returned quietly. Her soft eyes reproached Nate and he squirmed.
“That horse of mine ain’t never seen a kid; I don’t know how he’ll take to him.”
Sarah showed no inclination to leave without Wolf.
“Bring him along. What the—the hay.” Nate shrugged and pulled on his hat.
Nate’s new horse was seventeen hands high, with a wide, powerful chest. He pranced and threw his head up, whinnying nervously when the three of them approached.
“Easy there, settle down, Hellion.” The name did little to reassure Sarah, and she hung back, keeping Wolf with her. “Easy there, settle down. Attaboy.” Nate got a grip on the bridle and jerked. The heavy spade bit dug into the animal’s mouth and the proud head came down. “Come on up to him. He ain’t going to hurt you, I got him.” Sarah wouldn’t have moved, but Wolf tugged her ahead fearlessly. “Go on and pet him. But keep an eye on him, he’s been known to bite. Stay back from his front hooves,” Nate warned Wolf. Sarah lifted the boy with an effort and let him stroke the velvet nose.
“I’ll take you for a ride, ma’am,” Nate offered.
“No, I’d be scared.” Sarah set Wolf down and held him firmly at her side.
“Come on. It ain’t nothing. I’ll be holding his head. With a spade bit, he can’t do nothing. Get on, I’ll give you a ride.” The horse whinnied and rolled an eye down at Sarah; white showed around the black, and Sarah paled.
“No, I don’t ride. I’m afraid of horses.”
“Now look, I told you I was going to be right here. I ain’t going to leave, and with me holding him there’s nothing to be afraid of.” He held out his hand. “Wolf, get yourself clear.”
Finally, Sarah let herself be lifted onto the horse’s back. She sat there trembling and holding onto the saddlehorn with both hands. Hellion danced a little and twitched his hide as though to rid himself of a fly.
They’d gone an eighth of a mile, nearly to Virginia Street, when Hellion shied at nothing and skittered, sidestepping perilously near the river’s edge. Sarah cried out and Nate laughed, gentling the horse.
“Could I get down now?” Too frightened to move, Sarah looked helplessly at the stirrup dangling below her boot.
“He was just feeling his oats. I had him. You’re as safe as houses up there.”
“Please, I want down. Please.” Nate shrugged ungraciously and lifted her out of the saddle. She immediately put him between her and Hellion. Wolf scampered up to take her hand and the three of them walked on without further conversation. At Virginia Street they turned back, keeping to the river path.
“I brought you something from the city.” Nate pulled a paper parcel from his jacket and held it out to her. “For you and the kid,” he said, and Sarah accepted it.
“Is it a Christmas present?” she asked shyly.
“It’s near Christmas, ain’t it? Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Sarah started to tuck it away in a pocket of her cloak.
“Open it.”
“It’s a Christmas present.”
“Hell. No, it ain’t. It’s just a present present. Open it.”
Sarah peeled back the brown paper; there was crinkly
white confectioner’s paper inside and she tore it open.
Nate laughed at the look on her face.
“What are they?” she asked. The package contained flat, withered, orange-brown circles, their edges curling up all around.
“Eat one.”
She took one out gingerly. Nate pinched two from the package and popped one in his mouth; the other he gave to Wolf. The little boy nibbled an edge off and chewed contentedly. “Candy,” he said to Sarah.
“You know what these are, kid?” Wolf looked suspiciously up at his father. “These are dried ears. They cut them off little Indian boys and dry them out in the sun. They dry up sweet as anything.” Wolf put his hands over his ears and hid his face in Sarah’s cape.
“Stop it,” Sarah said. “You’re scaring him.”
Nate bridled at the uncharacteristic authority in her voice. “Don’t be a crybaby,” he snapped at the boy. “Nobody likes a scaredycat.” Wolf buried his face deeper in the folds of the cloak. Nate bent over, his hands on his knees. “Come on now, I was just teasing. What’s the matter, can’t you take a little teasing? Them’s just dried apricots is all. Little bitty pieces of dried fruit.” The child refused to be cajoled. “Come on, kid, you want a horseback ride? I’ll give you a horseback ride.” Wolf was not proof against the temptation of a ride on horseback, and came out from behind Sarah to be lifted into the saddle, where he gazed happily around, delighted with his new vantage point, his short legs sticking out to the sides.
“You warm enough?” Nate asked Sarah after a minute.
“Yes.”
“Don’t talk much, do you?”
“No.”
“Cat got your tongue?”
“No.”
Nate let the conversation rest for a while before he tried again. “I mean no disrespect, but you’re a fine-looking girl.” Sarah blushed and he smiled at the red in her cheeks. “I’ve a mind to ask if I can come calling another time.”
“I’m married.”
Nate snorted. “Mrs. Ebbitt, ain’t it?”
“Yes. Mrs. Sam Ebbitt.”
“I don’t recall seeing a Mr. Ebbitt.”
Sarah said nothing.
“He run out on you?”
“No,” she almost whispered.
“Well, it ain’t natural, a young, good-looking girl like you living holed up with an old-maid schoolteacher. Nobody to talk to. Nobody to look pretty for. It ain’t the way the Lord intended. A pretty little gal like you—”
“We’ve got to be getting home,” Sarah burst out. She darted back and pulled Wolf from the saddle, her fear of the animal forgotten. “We’re going home now,” she explained to the startled child. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Weldrick.” Wolf was big for a three-year-old, but Sarah picked him up, carrying him awkwardly across her chest.
Nate started after her. “Here! Let me take you home.”
“No!”
Lugging a protesting Wolf, Sarah ran from him.
Imogene left school just after four o’clock; she had stayed late, working on a fitted wool coat of soft robin’s-egg blue—Sarah’s Christmas present. Mac had donated two white rabbit pelts to line the hood and cuffs.
Columns of smoke rose from chimneys all over town, particles of soot and ash catching the thin sunlight. Above the railroad station, black smoke billowed from engines coaling up for the haul over the mountains. Walking quickly to keep warm, Imogene passed through the quiet residential neighborhood and across Virginia Street to the railroad station.
“I’m expecting a parcel from Philadelphia,” she said to the clerk. “Books.” Tired of waiting the many months it often took for books to arrive after ordering, Imogene had taken to sending William Utterback lists of materials she needed. He bought them for her in Philadelphia and sent them out. If Kate felt that the school could use them, Imogene was reimbursed; if not, she paid for them out of her own pocket.
The books had arrived in two big boxes. Imogene pulled one over the counter and cut it open with a single-bladed jackknife she took from her purse. There was a letter from Mr. Utterback inside; she took it out, then tied up the box again and lifted it experimentally. “I can’t carry both by myself. Is there someone here who can help me?” she asked the clerk on duty.
“It’s an off time; I’m the only one here. I can’t leave or I’d do it myself.” The clerk leaned on the counter and sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Might try over to the Wells Fargo. Judge Curler’s got an errand boy over there not good for much.”
Imogene thanked him and sat down to read her letter before walking the short distance to the Wells Fargo office.
3 November 1877
Dear Imogene,
Here are the books thee ordered but for The Old Curiosity Shop. I shall keep looking and send it when I can. Mrs. Utterback is in as good health as our years will allow, and sends her best.
Kevin Ramsey has remarried, to quite a nice girl, Mrs. Utterback says, and is moving west to Illinois to be a farmer. It will be a better life for Mary Beth’s child.
I have news of an old friend of thine, Mr. Aiken. He left Philadelphia with Friend Oakes’s cashbox and the hired girl—the young woman was just turned fourteen and a very slow thinker. The girl is back now, heavy with child; he left her just outside of New Orleans. No one has heard from Mr. Aiken.
I hope that this finds thee well and content, and that the books are all in order.
Peace,
William Utterback
Imogene folded the letter and put it in her purse. “I’ll be back for my parcels,” she informed the clerk.
She proceeded to the Wells Fargo office. Judge Curler sat at an oversized desk behind a railing, steel-rimmed glasses pinched on the end of his nose, poring over a pile of receipts. By the woodstove lounged an ungainly fellow in his early twenties, his pimpled cheeks covered with fine, sparse hair. He was thick without any evidence of strength, the flesh heavy and slack. A second desk in the back was empty but for a sign reading R. JENSEN. DIZABLE & DENNING. In one corner stood a telegraph apparatus.
The judge looked up as Imogene opened the door. “What can I do for you?” He removed his glasses and laid them carefully beside the book he was working on.
“The clerk at the railroad station said you had a boy here who might be able to carry some parcels home for me. It’s not far.”
“Harland!”
The young man toasting his feet swung his chair around.
“This is Harland Maydley, ma’am. He’ll get your things home for you. Harland, make yourself useful for a change; give this lady a hand with her boxes.”
Harland pushed himself laboriously from his chair and pulled on his coat with a lethargy that bordered on insolence.
Imogene walked quickly, with long clean strides, and Harland Maydley, with his shorter legs, had to skip every few steps to keep up.
“You’re Miss Grelznik, ain’t you? Teacher up to the school?”
“I’m Miss Grelznik.”
“Mac McMurphy told me when I pointed you out once. That girl your daughter?”
“No.” Imogene closed her mouth behind the word with a finality that would have daunted even an only slightly more sensitive individual.
“She’s a looker, in a hoity-toity kind of way,” Harland went on.
“The young lady is married.”
“Yeah? I seen her out riding today with Nate Weldrick and that half-breed kid of his.” The sneering insinuation brought Imogene up short, and he stumbled to avoid bumping into her. They were several hundred feet from Addie’s house.
“Thank you, Mr. Maydley, that will be all.” She dug in her purse, took out a nickel, and tipped him. “Just set the boxes down. I can take them the rest of the way without your assistance.”
He looked her up and down impertinently in an attempt to regain face, but she was too tall, too unbending. He dropped the boxes in the dirt.
“You tell that married lady that Harland Maydley said hello.” And with the air of an unanswerable wit, h
e turned and sauntered down the street.
Imogene watched him go, her lips compressed, two white dents on either side of her nose appearing and disappearing as she breathed. “I so detest little men,” she muttered, and without taking her eyes from Maydley’s back, she bent down to grasp the twine of the boxes, clenched her teeth against the bite of it, and carried them the rest of the way home.
The smell of cornbread baking and beans simmering on the stove met her at the door. She shouldered her way in and set down her burden.
“That you?” Sarah called from the kitchen.
“It’s me.” Taking the chair by the stove, Imogene pulled off her gloves. Dark red creases marked the places where the twine had bitten into her fingers. Across one palm, the scar from the burn she’d received in her confrontation with Sam Ebbitt showed ridged and redder than usual. Imogene made a fist and then slowly spread her fingers; the hand no longer opened completely. She turned her hands palms down so she needn’t look at them, and held them near the stove.
Sarah came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. The heat from the stove pinked her cheeks prettily. “Look what Wolf and I did,” she said, pointing to a small feathery wreath over the bookcase. It was of pine, and the long needles thrust out in all directions, making it far from round. Nestled in the needles were bright scraps of fabric sewn into fat butterfly bows.
“You’ve had quite a busy day, haven’t you?”
Sarah ignored the edge in Imogene’s voice. “I asked Mrs. Glass, and she said that big old pine would never know me and Wolf had taken anything.”
“Wolf and I.”
Sarah looked dubious. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Anyway, do you like it?”
“It’s lovely,” Imogene said without much enthusiasm.
“You don’t like it.”
The schoolteacher heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m just tired, I suppose. I like it.”
Sarah walked to the window, rubbing her already dry hands with the towel. The sky was the clear gray of winter twilight, the bare elms etching it with black. Through the dark branches an early star twinkled. The yard had already gone into night, and Addie’s Victorian home loomed up out of the darkness like a lighthouse on the shore of a dark sea.