Unbridled Dreams

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “I’m so sorry, Daddy. I never meant to cause so much trouble. I just didn’t think. Mr. Sterling had Lady Blaze calmed down and she’s so . . . so beautiful, Daddy. Did you see her? Don’t you think she’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” The phrase echoed in her head and, remembering her introduction to Shep, she felt her cheeks warm with color. Shep carried me up to the house? And when had he become Shep instead of Mr. Sterling in her mind?

  Daddy forced a smile. “I suppose if you’re wanting to talk horses you can’t be hurt all that badly.”

  “I’m just sore where Lady Blaze kicked me,” Irma said. “It was an accident,” she added quickly. “She spooked when Mollie screamed. You heard about that, right?”

  He nodded. “So the mare already has a name, does she?”

  “Riding her would be like riding a cloud. I just know it.” She was just getting up courage to ask Daddy to buy Lady Blaze when Momma’s voice sounded just outside the door, and in she came with Dr. Sheridan in tow.

  “Well now,” the doctor said, “from the crowd that’s gathered and what your mother said, I expected you to be on the edge of the great divide.” He set his black bag down at the foot of the bed.

  “Not nearly,” Irma said, wincing as she moved. “But I caught a real wallop in the ribs. And it hurts. A lot.”

  “What if it’s more serious than broken ribs? Can we move her?”

  Momma clasped her hands before her. “Oh, I do hope we can take her home.”

  “If I can examine the patient,” Dr. Sheridan said, then shepherded Daddy and Momma out of the room, returning with Aunt Laura in tow. “All right if your aunt assists me?”

  Irma nodded, grateful that Momma wasn’t going to be here to see the result of Lady Blaze’s frenzied kick. While the doctor opened his bag and put on his stethoscope, Aunt Laura removed the pillows from behind Irma so that she lay flat. When Dr. Sheridan was ready, Irma folded down the comforter and Aunt Laura raised her chemise.

  “Hmmm,” Dr. Sheridan said, peering at Irma’s midsection.

  “Probably the shape of a hoof,” Irma joked.

  Dr. Sheridan nodded. “I’ll make it as quick as I can, but I need to be thorough. And it’s going to hurt more than ever.”

  Irma nodded. A few minutes later she was once again propped up on a pillow, her tousled hair damp with sweat from the effort not to yell as the doctor examined her. “I guess,” she sighed, “corsets are good for something after all. It would probably be a lot worse if it hadn’t been for the whalebone.”

  Dr. Sheridan chuckled. “I’ll have to start prescribing them as rib protectors, although I personally would clarify that they must not be adjusted any smaller than the owner’s natural waist measurement. I have this unshakeable belief in the benefits of breathing.”

  “You’ll never get the ladies to agree to that,” Aunt Laura said.

  “Can I get you to agree to it?” the doctor asked Irma. “I don’t think anything is broken, but I suspect you have a cracked rib or two. It’s hard to tell. Happily nothing is out of place, so there’s little to do but prevent further damage while it heals. If you’ll be sensible about lacing the corset—which means snug but not tight— I think you’ll find it helps you bear up under the pain.” He peered over his glasses. “I’m sorry, dear girl, but the next week or so may be very unpleasant for you.”

  Irma smiled a lopsided smile. “Well, that’s not entirely bad news.” She glanced at Aunt Laura. “Especially if it gets me out of a certain luncheon.”

  Aunt Laura waggled her finger in the air. “Oh, no you don’t, young lady. I’m not going to conspire with you on that one. Your mother’s been planning that for weeks. She’ll want to prop you up on the horsehair fainting couch and carry on with the show. And besides that, Minnie is really looking forward to a fancy day in town.”

  “What good is a kick in the ribs if it can’t get me out of that ridiculous party,” Irma whined.

  Dr. Sheridan cleared his throat. “If you have no further questions for me, I’ll be going.” He looked over his glasses at Irma. “My medical opinion is that you can do whatever you feel like doing. It’s what we call a self-limiting injury. When you’re doing too much, you’ll know it.” He patted Irma’s shoulder. “I’ll check in on you this evening.” He looked at Aunt Laura. “I’ll tell Otto and Mrs. Friedrich what I’ve just said. I expect they’ll want to take the patient home.” He glanced back at Irma. “And I’ll tell your crowd of admirers they can call on you in a few days.”

  Irma shrugged. “That’ll be up to Momma.” She frowned a little. “I really wanted to see the broncobuster that’s challenging Buffalo Bill’s champion. Who d’ya think it is?”

  “Can’t say that I’m up-to-date on that,” Dr. Sheridan said, “but I’m sure a couple of the wranglers waiting outside would be more than happy to visit and tell you all about it.” With a last pat on Irma’s shoulder, Dr. Sheridan was gone.

  The minute she closed the door behind the doctor, Aunt Laura whirled about and scolded, “It was thoughtless of you to step into that corral, young lady. You know better than to pull a stunt like that. You have just given the two people who love you most in the world—not to mention the rest of your family and friends—the fright of their lives. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

  Surprised at Aunt Laura’s uncharacteristically stern tone, Irma swiped at a tear. “I’m sorry. But nothing’s going right for me right now, Aunt Laura. Nothing.”

  Instead of understanding, Aunt Laura kept scolding. “What do you mean nothing is going right for you? Have you noticed the envious stares you’ve gotten today over that gorgeous new ensemble? Do you have any idea how many young ladies from around here would kill to have their mothers plan formal socials? Do you know how much they’d love a chance to go to a nice school? Why can’t you accept these things for what they are—outgrowths of your mother’s love for you?”

  “Why can’t she see that the way she loves is smothering me? Why can’t she understand what it’s like to be forced into this—mold I just don’t fit.”

  Aunt Laura pulled a hankie out of her pocket, passed it over, and while Irma dabbed at her tears, she said, “You might be surprised at just how much your mother understands about women being forced into molds that aren’t necessarily of their choosing.”

  “If you’re talking about how much Momma hated it here when I was little, I know all about that.”

  “Do you really?” Aunt Laura said, and tilted her head. “Do you really know all about it?”

  “More than you realize,” Irma murmured, thinking back to that evening when she saw Momma kiss a stranger.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be so homesick just to see a tree that you take a long ride every day just to cry in the shade of the only real tree in the county?”

  Irma furrowed her brow. “Momma did that?”

  Aunt Laura nodded.

  “Weren’t you lonely when you and Uncle Charlie first came west?”

  “Of course. But it was different for Charlie and me. We—” Aunt Laura looked down at her weather-beaten hands. “There’s more to growing up than just breaking free from our parents, Irma. Grownups have learned that ignoring reality doesn’t make it disappear.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You say your mother doesn’t understand you. Well, dear girl, you don’t understand her, either—not if you think she’s going to change her mind about you being in the Wild West. Your Momma sincerely believes she must prevent you from making what she sees as disastrous choices—be that joining the Wild West or toiling away on a ranch.”

  “How can you sit here telling me to be nicer to Momma when you know how she feels about the life you chose?”

  “Because we’ve found a way to accept our differences and to respect one another in spite of them.” Aunt Laura paused, then said, “I would curl up and die if I had gone through some of the things your Momma has endured over the years.”

  “Oh yeah,”
Irma said. “She’s had a hard life, what with deciding what Ella Jane should cook for supper every night. It’s such a trial. And who knows where we’ll find a new maid when Ella Jane and Sam get married. How does Momma bear up under all the stress.”

  Aunt Laura shook her head. “You don’t know your mother at all, do you?” She looked away. She took a deep breath. Finally, she said, “Attending a good school and expanding your horizons is an opportunity, Irma, not a jail sentence.”

  She was too miserable to fight anymore. “I told them I would go and I will.”

  “That’s more like it,” Aunt Laura said. “And no more nonsense with wild horses in the meantime.”

  With that, Aunt Laura left Irma to her thoughts.

  In spite of the small dose of laudanum Dr. Sheridan had given her for pain, Irma’s ride home was miserable, both because she kept thinking about the things Aunt Laura had said, and because with every jolt pain shot across her middle. She did her best not to complain, but by the time the buggy rolled up under the portico that stretched away from the side of the house, Irma was glad to have Momma helping her navigate the stairs up to her room and thankful that Momma bustled about turning back the bed and helping her undress. When Momma tucked the covers under her chin, Irma smiled up at her. “Thank you, Momma,” she said. “I’m sorry I’ve been so much trouble.” And she meant it. She would take Aunt Laura’s advice to heart. She would sincerely try to be the kind of daughter Momma wanted.

  Her resolve lasted exactly one week.

  CHAPTER 6

  I HAVE LEARNED TO BE CONTENT

  IN WHATEVER CIRCUMSTANCES I AM.

  Philippians 4:11 NASB

  The next Saturday, from where she stood at the top of the stairs, Irma saw Momma hurry into the entryway at the first sound of the doorbell. Peering through the lace curtain mounted over the sidelights bordering the front door, Momma shooed Ella Jane away and opened the door herself. It wasn’t hard to guess who owned the voice. The first thing he did was clear his throat.

  “Ahem. I . . . uh . . . I thought the invitation read eleven o’clock.” He took his bowler hat off. Irma started down the stairs. Orrin dropped his hat. Bending to pick up the hat, he dropped his walking stick. Muttering apologies, he handed over the hat and the walking stick to Momma and said again, “Hello. I . . . ahem . . . my invitation read eleven o’clock.”

  “No,” Irma corrected him. “It was eleven thirty.”

  Orrin pulled the invitation out of his suit coat pocket and handed it over.

  STEPHANIE GRACE WHITSON

  Miss Irma Friedrich

  requests the honor of your presence

  at a luncheon

  eleven o’clock in the morning

  Saturday, April 17, 1886

  So, Irma thought, Minnie was right all along. This wasn’t a simple gathering for Irma and a few of her friends. This was a web spun to trap Orrin Knox. And a thinly disguised one at that.

  It was rumored that Knox was the sole heir of a considerable fortune. Daddy said all that was little more than gossip and that Orrin Knox was a fine young man perfectly capable of making his own way in the world, and hadn’t he proven exactly that. Which made Irma even more determined to point Orrin Knox toward Minnie.

  Extending her hand to her flustered guest, Irma smiled her most charming smile. “My mistake, Mr. Knox,” she said. “You’re the first to arrive. May I offer you some punch?”

  “Ahem. You may. But only . . . ahem . . . if you’ll join me.”

  Irma led the way to the dining room, where an elegant array of silver serving trays and cake stands bore an impressive weight of sandwiches, fruit salad, tarts, and chocolate cake. Momma’s rushing about an hour ago made sense, now. The luncheon might be at eleven thirty, but the sideboard had to be ready for Mr. Knox’s arrival a half hour early. Irma ladled punch into a crystal tumbler.

  “Ahem. What a tantalizing array of temptations,” Mr. Knox said.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Momma said. “But then you young men are always hungry.”

  “Well, I . . . ahem . . . expect I’ll hold my own when the serving starts.” Knox took a gulp of punch. And cleared his throat. Again.

  A person gets used to things like that in time. At least that’s what Momma said when Irma mentioned Mr. Knox’s annoying habit. Maybe so, Irma thought, as she straightened the already straight row of napkins on the sideboard, but she was mentally counting ahems, and the man had been there for less than ten minutes. Couldn’t even one other person arrive early? And where is Minnie, anyway? She should have been here ages ago.

  Thanks be to heaven, someone rang the doorbell. Irma nearly beat Ella Jane to the front door. It was Shep Sterling—who had not been invited to the party—holding a massive bouquet of white roses.

  “Oh . . . ahem . . . blast,” Knox blurted out. He apologized quickly for his outburst and then apologized for not bringing the hostess a gift. He didn’t know it was done in North Platte, he’d never been able to stay abreast of such things, and . . . ahem . . .

  Ella Jane reached for the flowers, but Shep swept his hat off his head and waited. He was wearing brown work pants and a green shirt unbuttoned at the top to reveal a blue kerchief knotted around his neck. Hardly what one expected a man who was making calls to wear. And yet, whereas an impeccably dressed Orrin Knox standing in that very spot not ten minutes ago had looked about as comfortable as a man approaching the gallows, Shep Sterling looked like a man who would, at any minute, invite himself in for coffee. Irma thought she detected the faintest aroma of Bay Rum cologne.

  “Mr. Sterling, I believe?” Momma said.

  “Shep’ll do, ma’am.” He handed Irma the flowers before hooking one thumb through his belt loop in a gesture that said he was at ease and would not be intimidated by The Mother. His gaze glided from Momma to Irma. “Been worried about you,” he said. “Thought I’d come and see for myself.” He didn’t look her up and down as he had at Scout’s Rest last week. This time, Irma felt as if he were staring right through her to the place where her heart was thumping double-time. A slow smile spread across his face, crinkling up the corners of his eyes and inducing a wink. “I see there’s no cause for worry.” He gave a little nod. “You look just fine.”

  Irma supposed his eyes looked more green than hazel because of the green shirt. She ducked her head and inhaled the wonderful scent of the roses. He probably didn’t know anything about the language of flowers. White roses meant I am worthy of you. The thought . . . Well, she’d better think about something else.

  “As you say”—Momma stepped between Irma and Shep—“Irma is recovering nicely. She will, of course, be under the care of her physician for some time to come. And now, if you’ll excuse us, we are entertaining guests.”

  Just when Irma thought Momma was actually going to close the door in Shep’s face, Orrin Knox spoke up. “Ahem. I can’t believe it. The very man I’ve been chasing over half the county.”

  Shep stepped unbidden through the doorway and extended his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Ahem. Orrin . . . ahem . . . Knox.” Orrin swallowed and pumped Shep’s hand. “Of the Register. The North Platte Register. I’ve been hoping to interview you . . . ahem . . . ever since you got to North Platte. Every time I got close, you were either surrounded by admirers or busy hiring wranglers, and I didn’t want to intrude, but—”

  Shep cocked his head. “You were at the ranch last Saturday?”

  Knox nodded. “Of course. But I was hoping for a more personal . . . ahem. It’s an honor, sir. An honor. I was in the audience last year in New Orleans. When you rode Old Steamboat.” He grinned.

  “Never saw anything like it. Impressive. Don’t know how you did it. All that mud, the horse slipping and sliding all over, and yet you stuck longer than anyone. Amazing.”

  “Well now,” Shep corrected him. “You mighta seen me try to ride Old Steamboat. But it ain’t been done yet.”

  Orrin Knox could talk without clearing
his throat after every other word. As Irma watched the interchange between the two men, she smiled. He just needs to be interested in the topic. Which made her wonder if perhaps Mr. Knox felt the same way she did about Momma’s matchmaking. The thought produced a distinct feeling of relief for about two heartbeats followed by a flash of So what’s wrong with me?Why am I not good enough for Orrin Knox?

  Irma forced her thoughts back to the conversation at hand. Shep was talking about the previous Wild West season, which had included an extended engagement at something called the World’s Industrial and Cotton Centennial Exposition in New Orleans. “Forty-four days of rain,” he was saying. “Bill in the hospital after getting thrown by that bull—”

  “I had the perfect headline for that one,” Knox interjected, “but they wouldn’t let me use it.” With Irma and Shep and Ella Jane clearly waiting to hear it, he held up both hands and painted the air above them all with the words, ‘Buffalo Bull triumphs over Buffalo Bill.’ ”

  Shep admired the newspaperman’s way with words before commenting, “If you saw me on Old Steamboat you must have been there that day—”

  “Yep,” Knox nodded his head. “There were exactly nine of us in the stands. I couldn’t believe it when the band struck up ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ We thought the show would surely be canceled.” “Bill left word that if people came out in all that rain, they deserved to see what they paid for.” Shep paused. “When we left New Orleans he was so far in the red he could have painted every barn in the west with the ink. But he said it was worth it.”

  “Because of signing Miss Oakley?” Knox asked.

  Shep nodded. “You guessed it.”

  “Is it true you ended up playing to a million people last year?”

  “Can’t say for sure,” Shep replied. “But I can tell you that, after New Orleans, the stands were full at every stop—and a lot of it was thanks to Annie’s shooting. She’s a wonder.”