Place to Belong, a

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Ransom? Another one is down!”

  He turned back. The boss cow continued on thirty feet and stopped, twisted her head around to look at him. Come on, will you?

  He got off and scooped the calf up, laid it across Wind Dancer’s neck just ahead of Cassie’s saddle, climbed aboard again, and they continued on. How much farther?

  Over a mile, as it turned out. Finally through the driving snow he could see the barn, very faint, a light gray ghost in an ocean of hazy white. The lead cow broke into a trot, her bag swinging with each stride. Why did cows’ teats not freeze the way his nose did? They ought to.

  The fourth calf, the biggest of the bunch, made it in on his own, which was a blessing, since they were running out of places to carry calves. Blessing. Ransom had seen precious little in the way of blessings lately.

  As Ransom dismounted and dragged the calf off his horse’s neck, Mor came hustling over. “Oh, thank you, God! Cassie, you found him!” Arnett came limping up behind her.

  Cassie slid off Wind Dancer. “I could follow his tracks out until that rise, but there the wind filled them in, and I lost the trail. So I just kept going in that direction hollering, and he finally answered.” She pulled the calf off her saddle. It bleated and ran to mama.

  Ransom lifted off the other calf. “That was foolish!” He felt his anger building again.

  “No it wasn’t. Wind Dancer would know the way back.” She mounted again.

  “Looks like she came in pretty handy.” Arnett came up beside them, smiling. “Mighta lost a couple calves.”

  Ransom hated when those two failed to agree with him. Which was usually, it seemed.

  Arnett lost his happy smile. “I had to come in before I searched over by the rocks. That old plow horse isn’t used to carrying a grown man ten miles.”

  “How many are missing yet?”

  Mor lost her happy look too. “Micah and Chief went out again, but so far we’re missing over a dozen. More.”

  “I’ll go out toward the rocks, see what I can find.” Wearily Ransom crawled aboard Biscuit again.

  As he left the barnyard, Cassie was following him. He stopped. “You stay here.”

  “Mor said we’re missing over a dozen. If you find that many, you’ll need me, and Wind Dancer is still doing fine.”

  Now even Cassie was contradicting him, questioning his judgment! Totally disgusted with life, he twisted Biscuit’s head aside fiercely and kicked her into a trot. On the other hand, maybe Cassie would decide to take his advice. He glanced back.

  She had Wind Dancer right at Biscuit’s heels, and she was watching him, looking stunningly sad.

  He wished he hadn’t done that. Now he really felt like a heel.

  Fortunately, he knew the lay of the land well, because he could not see the rocks and had to follow the slopes. The road wound out across the hill somewhere close by, but it was totally obliterated. He moved upslope a little, nearer the trees. The other cows had been hunkered down in the trees, so maybe these would be too.

  And there they were. Another blessing. They were a couple miles this side of the rocks, that much less distance to have to drive them home. He shook his seagrass rope loose, the better to herd them. Waving his lariat, he rode up behind the boss cow and tried to get her moving. She wasn’t leaving. Not only did Arnett and Cassie and his own mother say he was wrong, now a stupid cow was contradicting him! All patience lost, he swatted her on the rump with his coiled rope. She bolted, wagged her head, and started moving. Why couldn’t people admit Ransom might be right once in a while, like the cow did?

  Cassie rode behind the bunch, weaving Wind Dancer back and forth, as if she’d been herding cattle all her life. But then, Ransom thought, she’d been around cattle—and buffalo—all her life. This was an extension of that, in a way. She seemed to have a natural aptitude for this sort of thing.

  The bunch moved out onto the slope, and Ransom could pretty much give Biscuit her head. She knew the way, the cows knew the way, and they were headed home. Half a mile along, a cow mooed from somewhere uphill to the left, the wind muffling the sound, the snow clouding his vision. The lead bossy stopped and bawled back. Here came another half dozen mamas out of the wind-driven haze toward them, lowing. Yet another blessing. Ransom would never have spotted them out there.

  Cassie broke away and rode up behind them, pushing them down to join the herd. She swung out to turn back a straggler. Wind Dancer had lost his playful prance. The lead bossy continued forward toward safety and hay.

  Dark fell earlier with the storm, making visibility even worse when the cows trailed into the barnyard, slogging wearily, heads down. Cassie had two calves draped across her saddle, and Ransom had three. He had been forced for the last two miles to ride behind his saddle so that he could put two calves in the seat.

  He slid off Biscuit’s rump, as weary as his cattle. His cattle. His responsibility. And he had discharged that responsibility as best he could, just as his father always did. He pulled the calves down and set them on their feet. The mamas buried their heads in the haystack, their babies nursed. As far as he could tell, no calves lost, the mamas all safe. That gave him a small measure of satisfaction. Well, when he thought about it, maybe not so small.

  Cassie was out by the rail unsaddling her weary horse. He should go over there right now and thank her. Without her he would not have been able to bring in the whole bunch safely. Then he saw her profile as she turned to drape her saddle over the top rail. She was either angry or sad or both, or could it be something else? He couldn’t read her expression, but it certainly wasn’t saying anything about satisfaction. Wasn’t she happy they’d saved the cattle? Wasn’t she pleased to be of such help to him? What should he say to her? He had no idea. He ended up saying nothing.

  Supper that night was very quiet, but you could chalk the silence off to exhaustion. Arnett looked so tired he could scarcely lift his fork. The old man wasn’t used to riding for miles in a howling storm. Mor, the same. Ransom was totally knackered. Cassie must be as well, for she was silent too, you might even call it grumpy. Probably just weary like everyone else.

  The next morning the wind had died and the snowfall had quit, but nothing was melting yet. After a hurried breakfast, Ransom fitted the sledge runners onto the wagon again and drove out to the other place. When Mor suggested he wait a day, he’d shaken his head. He needed to deliver the furniture now. Snow in May! Honestly.

  Arnett needed a day of rest to recover, so Ransom didn’t even ask him to go along. He heard axes splitting wood long before he started up the hill toward the cabin. Chief and Micah were keeping the home fires burning, literally, so he continued on without getting them. They were obviously busy. It wasn’t that big a chore to load the pieces he wanted to take to Mr. Porter. It just took a little more effort. He wasn’t satisfied with them, really. The workmanship was not the best that he and his men were capable of, but Mr. Porter wanted them now. They would have to do. They were heavy for sure. Did that count for anything?

  His long alone time as he drove his team toward Hill City gave him lots of time to think. But when he pulled up in front of the hotel, his thoughts were just as muddled as ever, and Cassie dominated them. He didn’t know what to do about her or about earning some money or about anything else, at least not anything he hadn’t already thought about a dozen times, or a hundred. And Lucas fired his anger as much as ever, maybe even more so. He had really needed Lucas yesterday when bringing in the cattle, and Lucas wasn’t there. What if they hadn’t got them all? What if Cassie or Mor, or Arnett even, had run into trouble or gotten lost? Women and an old man out doing what Lucas should have been doing.

  And back when those wolves tried to take a calf, he’d needed Lucas then too. And all the repairs yet to be done. He still hadn’t gotten to that leak in the barn roof.

  He climbed down out of the box, entered the hotel, and started across the ornate lobby toward the desk. And stopped dead. He had forgotten. Mr. Porter had hired Betsy Hudson�
�no, Engstrom—as the desk clerk. There she was, his brand-new sister-in-law, looking right at him as surprised as he was. Now what should he say?

  Much more firmly than he felt, he continued to the desk. “Hello, Betsy.”

  “Ransom.”

  “May I, uh, speak to Mr. Porter please?”

  She frowned. “He wasn’t expecting you today, the snow and all. But he’s here. Just a moment please.” She disappeared beyond a doorway behind her. She moved with the same grace he’d always seen in her. Looking at her objectively, you’d say she was a lovely young woman. Had she not lured Lucas away—no, Lucas was at fault. He was the one who did it.

  Ransom looked around the room while he waited. Where would Mr. Porter put the furniture? The place was pretty well filled to the walls with furniture already.

  “Ah!” Mr. Porter came out beaming. “Welcome, Mr. Engstrom! I admire your dedication, coming in with a foot of snow out there. Some of the old-timers are claiming more is on the way.”

  “Just what we don’t need. I brought the pieces you requested.”

  Mr. Porter chuckled. “Actually, I like an unexpected snowstorm. We filled at least five rooms last night with people who decided not to go home yesterday. Nasty out there.”

  “Yes, sir, it was nasty. We had to bring in the calves so they wouldn’t starve or freeze. Took us all day.”

  “My father was a cattleman. Nearly killed him.” Mr. Porter rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go see,” he said and strode out the door.

  Out at the hitching rail, Ransom jogged ahead of him and hopped into the back of his wagon. He untied the canvas tarpaulin and uncovered the pieces. He was suddenly ashamed of them. He saw imperfections, a dozen things that should have been done better. Maybe Mr. Porter would reject these. He probably should.

  But Mr. Porter was still beaming. “Excellent. Excellent.”

  “Sir, if they don’t meet with your complete approval, I’ll gladly change or replace whatever you think is imperfect.”

  “Imperfect? Hardly, my dear boy! Let’s take them in right now.”

  “Sure you want to do heavy lifting, sir? Let me, please.”

  And here came Lucas out the door! Ransom’s mouth dropped open. Of course. Lucas worked for the hotel here. He was the handyman. He’d do the heavy lifting. Ransom should have expected this. Why hadn’t he?

  The slacker smiled brightly. “Hello, Ransom!”

  He nodded, only because Mr. Porter was watching. “Lucas.”

  They each took an end and toted the biggest piece, the easy chair, into the lobby. Mr. Porter pointed. “Right there.” They set it down. “Now, if you’ll move that chair out of the way and replace it with this one, please?” They did so. Ransom couldn’t help noticing that Mr. Porter was just as cool and comfortable ordering Ransom around as he was ordering the hired help around. How much did Lucas make here anyway?

  They placed the end table and coffee table, moving the existing furniture aside. The furniture that Mr. Porter was replacing was beautiful, similar to a Queen Anne design, in cherry, with solid joinery. Why was Mr. Porter casting aside these fine pieces in favor of Ransom’s that were put together in an old barn?

  Mr. Porter stepped back to admire. “Good. I like the effect very much. Change out the draperies for beige damask and we’ll have the look I want. Mr. Engstrom, come to my office, please. I’ll cut you a check. Lucas, remove those pieces.” No please. Just do it. At least Mr. Porter used please when ordering Ransom around.

  Ransom followed Mr. Porter behind the hotel desk and into his office. “Please be seated.” Mr. Porter slid his lap drawer open.

  Ransom settled into a remarkably comfortable chair, and this wasn’t even Mr. Porter’s big overstuffed chair. Mr. Porter’s must be really, really comfortable. Ransom wished he could get a look at the underside of this chair to see how it was cushioned to make it feel so good.

  Mr. Porter handed him a check already made out. “This is for these three pieces.”

  “This is more than we agreed on, sir.”

  He waved a hand. “Transportation. Now. How many pieces can you provide?”

  “Depends on when you need them.”

  “By July.”

  Two months! Ransom did some quick calculating. It took them at least three days for each piece to really get it right, when you added up all the time that each one took. Three days apiece, sixty days: “Twenty pieces, maybe a couple more. And we have five pieces of each design finished, ready for immediate delivery.”

  “Excellent. Excellent. I’ll take all fifteen of what you have now.”

  “Sir, are you replacing everything in your lobby?”

  “Even the vases and lamps. And wait until you see the new rugs. Woven by Indians down south. Marvelous designs. Vivid. And I can get them for fifty cents a pound, delivered.”

  “But what you have now is beautiful.” Ransom still couldn’t digest this.

  Mr. Porter settled back into what was obviously the most comfortable chair in the whole world and rested his elbows on the chair arms, pressing his fingertips together into a tepee. “Yes, it is pretty. But my lobby looks just like every other hotel lobby east of the Mississippi. We need something different but just as beautiful if we’re going to set ourselves apart. The moment Mavis showed me that end table you made for Cassie, I knew I’d found the perfect thing.”

  “But—”

  “You see, I wanted something that says Wild West but also has all the workmanship and finish of the finest furniture, not just sticks pounded together or tied together with twine or sinew, for pity’s sake. Your designs are of the best quality, and yet they say, ‘You are out west now, Visitor, and this is nothing like back east. Enjoy your stay.’”

  Ransom groped for words. “Thank you, sir” was all he ended up with.

  Mr. Porter continued. “Oh, and I’ll need two sofas. You know, davenports. Same design as your easy chair but seven or eight feet wide. Long. I’ll take measurements and let you know exactly how long.”

  “We can do that, yes, sir.”

  Mr. Porter was absolutely glowing. “Excellent! Custom-built furniture to exactly fit the space for it. Couldn’t be better! Now. Even after my lobby is remodeled, keep turning it out. We can set up a booth at the Wild West show this summer, you know, a vendor’s tent and later maybe even a storefront, if Hal Whittaker retires like he keeps threatening to do and closes his smoke shop. I keep telling him, Don’t quit until after the show, because he’s bound to make a lot of money with all those people in town. And, of course, we sure don’t want a boarded-up storefront for visitors to walk past. Wouldn’t look good for the town.”

  “No. It wouldn’t.” Ransom’s head was practically spinning. Mr. Porter and all these grand ideas—what if they could actually work? He would need a lot more hired help. Skilled carpenters and woodworkers. That meant salaries. It also meant maybe not getting all the work done on the ranch. How could he handle the ranch and this business both?

  He needed Lucas.

  Another question came to mind. “What will you do with the furniture you’re replacing?”

  “Lucas and Betsy are in a little apartment that needs furnishing. I’ll give them some. Sell the rest.” Mr. Porter stood up. “Mr. Engstrom, it’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

  Ransom stood also. “And with you, sir.” They shook and Ransom went out the door, the bank check in hand. He would pay Arnett, Micah, and Chief first, of course, not nearly as much as they were worth, but a nice sum for each, and see how much was left. He’d have to start buying lumber; there wasn’t nearly enough to handle this kind of volume. And—

  Lucas, over by the door, was placing a lamp on the new end table. He stood erect and turned to Ransom, sporting a grin like he’d seen Ransom only the day before. “Congratulations, brother! Your furniture is a real hit. I’m glad.”

  And then Ransom did what gave him an immense sense of superiority and satisfaction. He walked out the door.

  26

/>   Hector Tamworth. Where had she heard that name before? Cassie studied the return address on this envelope.

  “Another shoot?” Gretchen asked. “Or another shooter?” She set out the plates for supper.

  Cassie tore the envelope open and pulled out the letter. “Another shoot. In early June. I remember now where I heard his name. Ty Fuller talked about him. He does shooting and riding exhibitions at state fairs.”

  “Ooh!” Gretchen peeked over her shoulder. You mean, ‘On Tuesday, see this fellow’s Wild West show in our arena. Tickets on sale now.’”

  “That’s it. The Talbot and Lockwood show did a couple of state fairs, but we were usually heading south when most of them were running. They’re harvest expositions in most states.” Cassie glanced at Gretchen.

  The girl was grinning wide and goofy. “Cassie, it’s so exciting to know you! You’ve done so many amazing things.”

  Mavis snorted. “One thing she’s never done was the milking. So that job is all yours. How about milking one cow now and the other after supper?”

  Gretchen’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Oh, I’d love to. Milking is so much more exciting than riding in a Wild West show.” She picked up her jacket and huffed out the door.

  Mavis asked, “So this Mr. Tamworth is inviting you to a match?”

  Cassie nodded and put the letter aside. She stirred the gravy on the stove. “He says he heard about me through Mr. Fuller, that I’m good now and only going to get better. He’s invited me to Denver. They’re doing an expo there. That’s short for exposition. And a shooting contest is one of the grandstand events.”