by Carla Kelly
She listened to the wind, trying to fool herself into thinking it was subsiding, and failing. “How . . . why did you think to look for me?”
“Dumb luck, my specialty,” he said, sounding almost apologetic. He moved restlessly. “When I think—I was helping Fothering to the cookshack when I tripped on the very end of the roof to my humble home. The very end, Lily! One half step in another direction, and I never would have known.” He tightened his arms around her.
“How on earth did you know it was your roof?”
“I felt along the roofline and ran into your Temple of Education sign. Yeah, part of the front of the house came off too. So close, Lily.”
It didn’t bear thinking on, she decided. Too much what if already filled their winter. “D’ye think we’ll dream about this winter?”
“Probably. I already see cows on bloody stumps when I close my eyes,” he told her.
“And I still pat around that woodpile next to the school, trying to find that ax. Jack?”
“Hmm?”
“Merry Christmas.”
They spent one day in the house with no roof and three and a half walls. The trusses fell outward, to Jack’s relief. All they could do was reach out now and then for handfuls of snow to swish around until it melted and swallow. Calls of nature were problematic, but easier for him, naturally—leap out of the blanket nest and let fly. She cried with humiliation when she couldn’t get out in time, but he told her not to be a goose.
He told her about his life in Georgia, chopping cotton, chills and fever, early death for three of his sisters, and then the excitement of war that quickly settled into more chills and fever and early death, this time for comrades. He told her of battles fought and won, and then the losses that mounted higher and higher until all they could do was leave the breastworks before Petersburg and stagger south, starving and depleted. Surrender was a relief.
Her life was infinitely more interesting to him. As the cold deepened, he found himself envying her memories of blue water and warm sand, and that peculiar feeling of walking through seawater as it rushes away from shore and undermines footprints. She hadn’t enjoyed England because it was damp and cold, and there weren’t any tan people. She had been treated well enough, but without anyone taking a genuine interest in her as her mother had done.
He held her close when she cried about her father and his betrayal. Her tearful, “He said he had a plan, and we were going to San Francisco in the spring!” wrenched his heart around.
When her tears subsided, he asked her to tell him how Ivanhoe ended. She refused, and he understood what a fighter she really was. “Not on your life, John James Sinclair,” she declared. “That would be bad luck. You’ll just have to wait until we’re in the cookshack and I am reading it to you.”
“Do you even know where the book is?” he asked.
“I’ll find it,” she assured him, her voice almost fierce. “If I have to dig through your whole house, I’ll find it.”
Their ordeal ended on the second day, to the welcome sound of Pierre and Will hollering for them. Feeling like a mole too long underground, Jack pulled back the lifesaving winter count robe and peeled away the blankets. The bright sunlight made him wince and turn away, but he hollered back, for one irrational moment afraid that they would walk by and never find them. For another irrational moment, he wanted to stay just with Lily. Funny how wind and cold can work on a man’s mind.
Soon, Preacher held him upright while Pierre reached for Lily, who protested the sunlight, but then just rested her head against the Indian’s shoulder like a child when he picked her up.
The first thing Jack wanted in the cookshack was a warm drink of water and then another. Lily sat beside him, drinking water too. She didn’t protest when Madeleine and Amelie took her arms and gently tugged her into the kitchen. When Jack was certain she was in good hands, he let his men guide him back to the bunkhouse for his own cleanup.
Fothering lay in the bunk that used to be Stretch’s, his eyes deep pools of pain. “I couldn’t save them.”
“You saved Luella,” Jack reminded the butler. “I couldn’t ask for more.”
He looked around the crowded bunkhouse, which smelled like the bottom of a dirty clothes hamper. They were all rank and foul, and praise the Almighty, alive.
They were looking at him, expecting some wisdom. He reminded himself that he was in charge of this train wreck and looked each man in the eye.
“Gentlemen,” he said finally, which brought faint smiles. “I’ve been thinking . . .”
He hadn’t, really, but they expected him to be the thinker. They expected him to save them all, so he had better get to it. “I have a plan.”
That was all they needed to hear. He watched the relief grow in their eyes and smiled to himself, knowing, as never before, that the Cheyenne Land and Cattle Company didn’t pay him enough for such a winter. Come to think of it, could anyone?
CHAPTER 42
At his quiet order, Jack’s comrades in the bunkhouse gathered their bedding and what clothes left that they weren’t wearing and carried them next door. Pierre helped Fothering, who had nothing except the clothes he wore when he staggered from the ruin of the Buxton house, Luella over his shoulder because his arm was broken.
They piled their bedding into one corner of the cookshack, which began to look even smaller. Jack looked around the room, estimating square footage for the first time. Men in one corner, women and children in the other; they could make this work because they had to. The luxury of heating the cookshack, bunkhouse, and his former house was gone. If they could move the rest of the woodpile closer, they might survive this winter.
Madeleine watched, questioning with her eyes at first, then nodding as she understood before he spoke.
“Madeleine, we’re all moving into your cookshack.”
“It’s about time.” She softened her words by blinking her eyes rapidly and sniffing back tears. “We need to stick together.”
Lily sat at the table, dressed in her father’s trousers and shapeless sweater. How she still managed to look tidy and composed was beyond him. She held Luella on her lap, her arms tight around the child, who had a stare that reminded Jack of soldiers after battle. Every few minutes she shuddered and turned her tearstained face into Lily’s breast.
“Madeleine, could you and your lovely daughters get us some coffee? And tea for Miss Carteret, of course.” His reward was a smile from Miss Carteret.
While the girls handed around mugs, Nick followed with the coffeepot. Madeleine brought out a bowl of raisins. Everyone took a handful and pushed the bowl around the table.
Now everyone was looking at him, ten serious faces turned his way. Nobody wavered. A man couldn’t have a better crew. He had better, by Gadfrey, be equal to them.
“We’re up against it,” he said. No point in gilding this lily any more. He looked at Luella. “Honeybunch, we mourn your loss, but we are so relieved that you and Fothering are here.”
Luella nodded, her face serious. Jack marveled inside how sorry parents could produce stalwart children. He’d put his money on Luella any day of the week.
“We’re going to live in here, men on this side—you with us, Nick—and women and children over there, closer to the kitchen.” Nods all around. Good. “If we run out of fuel before spring, we’ll crowd together with the children between us.”
More nods. No one blushed or looked askance, not this crew. “Madeleine, what’s the food situation? Don’t hold anything back.”
He could tell by the look on her face that she must have done an inventory just that morning. “We have beans aplenty and onions.” She chuckled, and he saw just how tough she was. “I think the beans will last until next Thanksgiving.”
Everyone laughed, and then they laughed harder when Chantal sighed theatrically and said, “Nick is awful with beans. I’m glad he is sleeping on your side.”
“We’ll survive, Chantal,” Jack said.
“That’s just it
: We will survive,” Lily said. She kissed the top of Luella’s head and gave Jack such a look that his brains went into a ten-second coma.
“Um, yes. Madeleine?”
“Maybe we have a bushel of potatoes. No sugar. No flour. A gallon of dried apples. Raisins that we will still be eating at the turn of this century. Two quarts of lemon juice. That’s it.”
“What about coffee?” Preacher had his priorities.
“Lots,” Madeleine assured him.
“Tea?” Lily asked.
Madeleine’s face fell. “Maybe another month’s worth.”
Lily slapped her forehead and even Luella giggled.
Fothering struggled into a sitting position, the effort written all over his face. “If we can get to the kitchen pantry, we have some flour and sugar, and cans of oysters and sardines. Salt pork. A case of canned milk.”
Madeleine clapped her hands. “Oyster stew!”
“It is the perfect repast for New Year’s Eve, Madame Sansever,” Fothering replied in his butler voice. He looked at his arm that Pierre had splinted with bed slats. “Enough of that nonsense. My name is Sam Foster and I am from Ohio.” He bowed to Madeleine. “You will have to share your kitchen with moi.”
More laughter.
“I’m still going to call you Fothering because I have standards,” Lily joked.
Everyone relaxed visibly, even though the wind seemed to bang on the walls, demanding attention like a three-year-old. “Any questions?” Jack asked.
Fothering seemed to be perking up. “Scurvy?
“One teaspoon of lemon juice, every other day,” Jack said, remembering some bad scenes from the siege before Richmond with men losing their teeth and old wounds reopening.
“I hate to be so practical, but it’s going to be tough to keep a path open to the privy,” Pierre said.
Madeleine turned a rosy shade, and Lily decided her fingernails were fascinating.
“Good thought,” Jack said, wondering if his face was redder than Madeleine’s. He looked around. No, Will Buxton had them all beat.
Jack got up from his perch on the table and walked into the kitchen. “Don’t you even think it,” Madeleine called after him.
“I’m not an idiot,” he said patiently. He walked to the lean-to, where Madeleine and her children slept at night, crowded together on two small beds. It would work. He came back into the dining room.
“We’ll use the privy as long as we can keep up on a path to it,” he said. “If that fails, we’re going to use your lean-to, Madeleine. I want you to move the beds in this room, anyway.”
Frowns all around. “That’s the best I have right now,” he told them.
Nick raised his hand, tentative and red-faced, but decisive in his own way. “How about this? We put everyone’s chamber pots in the lean-to, then just toss the contents outside when we finish.”
“We can dig out a snow cavity near the back door but not too near. The ladies can put the contents in there, and we’ll cover it up with more snow,” Preacher offered.
“Not just the ladies,” Lily said as firm as Nick. “I’m not a great adherent to the idea of just, um, flinging things to the wind.”
Oh, she was good with words. Jack decided he could even listen to her talk about privies all day.
“And when spring finally comes?” Trust Luella to look ahead.
“Simple,” Jack said, making no effort to hide his amusement. “Luella, you keep a tally. The one who complains the most this winter will get a shovel, a bucket, and a bag of lime.”
Everyone laughed, even Fothering, whose arm had to be paining him, and Luella, who had stared down a multiplicity of demons, and Lily, who was raised a lady. Preacher laughed so hard he started to choke, which meant Madeleine had to bang him between his shoulders.
Their laughter had a most healing sound to it. When everyone had subsided to a weak giggle here and there, Jack held up his hand. “You people amaze me. Men, we’ll ride when we can, to see if we can find other beeves. This is still the Bar Dot, and we have a job to do. We’ll try to check on McMurdy, but we won’t take risks.”
Luella raised her hand. “What about my father?” She took a deep breath. “He was going to bring me a Christmas doll and candy for all of us.”
What about Oliver Buxton? Jack could see the Cheyenne Northern starting out and ending up stranded, but Luella didn’t need to hear that, not with her mother dead. “I strongly suspect that the Cheyenne Northern never left Cheyenne. I don’t think the train will run again until spring.”
Luella sighed. “I’m probably too old for dolls anyway.”
“I hope not,” Amelie spoke up. “When your father gets here with your doll, we can make doll clothes. Mama has lots of scraps.”
Satisfied, Luella settled back against Lily again.
“Everyone will have duties. Lily, you will continue as our teacher.”
“Not just theirs?” she asked, indicating the children.
“No, everyone’s.” If Fothering could admit he was someone else, why lie about his own deficiencies? “I’m no great shakes at reading, and I need to improve. Anyone else have any skills that might help?”
“I’m as good at numbers as Mr. Carteret was,” Will said. “Nick, you want a tutor?”
Nick nodded. He cleared his throat. “I have decided to be a cow-roping math teacher when I grow up,” he announced, to smiles all around.
“When Lily gets tired of reading, I can tell you Wasichu wonderful stories about the origin of the earth and why muskrats have tails,” Pierre said.
“This is going to be the best school anyone ever had,” Chantal said, her voice dreamy. Jack doubted she even heard the wind outside. Her hands may have been knobby with chilblains, but her contentment radiated.
“I do have a special job for you girls,” Jack said, impressed with how they immediately became serious. “You are in charge of morale.” He smiled at Amelie’s questioning expression. “You are to write improving things like ‘True Greatness’ on cardboard—if we have any—and put it on the walls. If we feel down and need songs, you’ll teach us. I wouldn’t even mind dancing to ‘Sur le Pont.’ Morale, ladies.”
“What about me?” Preacher said. He didn’t try to hide his grin. “I know I’m not the best cowhand you ever hired, Jack.”
“You can pray for us,” Jack said. “We’re going to need it.”
The storm finally relinquished its iron grip on the Bar Dot after noon. Following bean soup generously sprinkled with onions, Will, Nick, and Preacher went outside to see about a path to the privy and to the woodpile beyond. Pierre headed in the other direction with a shovel to hunt for Lily’s trunk and its treasure of books. “I want to see you all back in here in twenty minutes,” Jack ordered. “I’ll join you in a few minutes, Pierre, but I have to ask Lily something.”
He sat beside her. “Luella, I need to borrow your teacher for a few minutes.” He looked at Madeleine. “May we go into the kitchen and close the door?”
Mystified, Madeleine nodded. Lily’s eyes questioned him, but she followed him into the kitchen and closed the door behind her.
“Did I misbehave?” she teased.
“Nothing of the sort.” During the day and night when they had huddled together under the winter count, he had mulled the matter over in his mind. It had made perfect sense then, but as he looked at Lily, he feared he was asking too much. Still, a man could only try, especially an ambitious one. He remembered Lily’s calculating look when she got off the Cheyenne Northern last summer, as if she was trying to figure out what she could make of Wyoming Territory. Let’s see if he truly understood her expression.
He pulled up Madeleine’s rocking chair for Lily and a stool for himself. She sat, curiosity all over her face.
“Two weeks ago when I, uh, escorted Mr. Buxton to Wisner, he made some veiled threats about my land and Bismarck.”
“What on earth . . . ?”
“He told me the Cheyenne Land and Cattle Company likes stra
ight boundaries and my piddly little two-thousand-acre jog was messing it up.”
“For goodness sakes!” she exclaimed. “How much land does one company need, I ask you.”
So far, so good. Her indignation was genuine. “Maybe it’s finally penetrating on some level that good breeding stock like my Herferd bull can benefit the range.”
“High time, don’t you think?” She looked him in the eyes, something her father seldom did. This was a woman with few allusions and nothing to hide. “What does this have to do with me?”
“I have no doubt that if something happens to me this winter . . .” He held up his hand when she tried to speak. “You know it’s a possibility.”
She nodded and rubbed her arms.
“If something happens to me, I don’t want that greedy bunch of weasels to just take my land and livestock. Believe me, they’ll try to find a way.” He took a deep breath. “There’s one way for me to prevent that. I can will my land and cattle to you”—he smiled as she gasped—“but I do not trust their Denver lawyers to let that slow them down much. They’d find a loophole, sure as you’re born.”
“Your property to me?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Jack, that’s nutty. I know absolutely nothing about ranching.”
“You didn’t know anything about teaching when you moved here.”
“That’s different, that’s . . .” She stopped, and he could have fallen at her feet in gratitude to see that calculating look again. “I could learn, couldn’t I?”
“That’s what’s I’m counting on, if this winter kills me.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that! But you don’t trust Denver lawyers,” she reminded him.
“Not even a little. There’s one way to double my chances of leaving some kind of a legacy. Lily, will you marry me?”
CHAPTER 43
Lily couldn’t have heard him right. “Beg pardon?”
“You heard me. If we’re married, those Denver lawyers can’t touch my property because it will be yours.”
She took a deep breath, and then another, unable to speak because the idea was so preposterous, so out of the question . . . She forced herself to think clearly. There wasn’t a thing wrong with his idea, drat the man.