Unbridled Dreams

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Daddy spoke up. “You taking the Indians’ side in that discussion?”

  Monte shrugged. “Not taking sides. Just saying what is. Been talking to one of the braves some. Name of Macawi. It means ‘generous.’”

  “Is he?” Daddy asked.

  “Well, he invited me to share supper the other night. I think he enjoyed having a white boy to tease. While we were eating, Macawi and a couple of the others began talking about the old ways—sort of hinting we might be eating dog meat stew.” He grinned at his uncle. “You ever had that?”

  Daddy nodded. “Had it and loved it. A very long time ago.” He winked at Irma.

  They ended up at a spot beneath a towering oak tree where a collection of crates and boxes provided seating. “Welcome to First Church of the Wild West,” Monte said, and nodded toward a tall cowboy walking out of the dining tent. “That’s our preacher, Sunday Joe Cooper.”

  Sunday Joe welcomed Monte’s family with a strong handshake and a warm smile. “Just make yerselves ta home. We’ll get started directly.” He turned back to Monte. “No Ned today?”

  Monte shook his head. “Afraid not,” he said. “I’ll tell him you asked after him.”

  “No need,” the preacher smiled. “I’ll catch up with him later today.”

  They sat halfway back from the front, and as people began to arrive, Irma realized she was watching for Shep. She hoped he went to church, although she didn’t take time to think through exactly why that mattered. Leaning toward Minnie, she said, “I wonder if this will be anything like the revival meetings at home.” She wondered what Momma, who had always called revivals undignified and kept her family at home, would think of this “church” of wranglers and roustabouts and even, it would seem, a few Indians.

  When the church bells of St. Louis began to toll, Sunday Joe stood up and welcomed everyone. “My name is Sunday Joe Cooper. And if you don’t already know, I ride broncs and buffalo to put clothes on my back and food in my mouth and speak for the Lord God Almighty to do what I can to help others along the way. I am grateful to William F. Cody for giving me the job that feeds my body and to the Lord God for reaching into a saloon in West Texas a few years back and dragging me into the kingdom. I kicked and I screamed but He didn’t let go. And if you are the sort who doesn’t want nothin’ to do with religion, you have come to the right place, folks, because this here ain’t about religion. It’s about relatin’—first to the God who made us and then to one another.” He paused. “And now we’ll just bow our heads and say thanks.

  “Lord,” Sunday Joe said, “we want to say thank you that when Rocky Bear got throwed by that buffalo the other day he didn’t get hurt bad. And we thank you for bringin’ folks to see our Wild West show so’s we can earn our keep on this earth. Thank you for givin’ us friends and for blue skies and good horses. Thank you for the strength to shovel manure and the peace that comes from knowin’ you. Thanks for not givin’ up on us when we fail and for tellin’ us about heaven. Thanks that most of us can read your book and help us to share it with them that can’t read. Now we want to ask you to please watch over us all when we start to travel. Please keep the train on the rails, and if you’d see your way to give us sunshine and good crowds, why, we’d like that and we’d be sure to say thanks.”

  Once he’d said amen, Sunday Joe stepped aside to make way for what he called the Wild West Choir. Their singing was off-key, but no one seemed to mind. Irma didn’t think much of the sound, but she had to admit they seemed sincere. One white-haired old woman even swiped away a tear while she was singing the chorus about “living for Him who died for me.”

  Once the singing was over, Sunday Joe pulled a small black testament out of his back pocket. “Now we will be reading from Matthew chapter 18, because what it says should help us all.” He looked around the crowd. “Living like we do, we can’t hardly keep from stompin’ on each others’ toes from time to time. And I’ve been upset a time or two with some of you this past week. So I reckon I’m not the only one who’s been feelin’ that way.” He held up the testament. “And the Good Lord has somethin’ to say to that.” He read:

  “Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, until seven times: but, until seventy times seven.”

  The reading went on and on. It involved kings and servants and debts and paying back what was owed, and Irma’s mind wandered.

  She looked around her at the setting, at the people in attendance. She thought about church at home and how different this was.

  And then the preacher raised his voice—almost as if he knew some folks weren’t listening very well—and Irma sat up straighter and made herself pay attention as he finished reading.

  “O thou wicked servant, I forgave thee all that debt, because thou desiredst me: Shouldest not thou also have had compassion on thy fellow servant, even as I had pity on thee? And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the tormentors, till he should pay all that was due unto him. So likewise shall my heavenly Father do also unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not every one his brother their trespasses.”

  Sunday Joe closed his testament and bowed his head for a minute before looking up at his congregation. “So here’s the point of what we just heard: Before I hold a grudge against someone else, I got to think on what the Lord has forgiven me.” Joe went on to talk about his life before he “saw the light” and “came to Christ.” Irma had never heard a personal conversion story like Sunday Joe’s.

  “So that’s it, folks,” he concluded. “When you’re aimin’ to carry a grudge, just remember what Jesus done for you. He forgave it all.” Joe held out his hand and swept it across the crowd. “All the past, all the present, and all the future, all in one speck of time. And all you got to do to get that forgiveness is ask for it. So let’s all ponder what Jesus done for us before we harbor a grudge against the cowboy that borrowed our favorite bridle or the cowgirl that said somethin’ unkind.” Sunday Joe tucked his testament in his pocket as he said, “Forgiveness, folks. Seventy times seven. Amen.” He smiled and nodded. “Now I’d like for you to just sit quiet and let the words of this song speak to you.” From behind them came a clear soprano voice.

  “My life, my love I give to Thee, Thou Lamb of God, who died for me; Oh, may I ever faithful be, My Savior and my God!

  I’ll live for Him who died for me, How happy then my life shall be!

  I’ll live for Him who died for me, My Savior and my God!”

  Sunday Joe motioned for everyone to sing along. Between Daddy’s booming voice on one side and Minnie’s nice alto on the other, Irma gave in and sang in spite of the fact she really didn’t have any idea what “living for Jesus” meant. The concept made her uncomfortable. What if a person promised that and found out Jesus didn’t approve of their plans? What if Jesus wanted a person to give up a dream?

  Church at the Wild West took less than an hour. There was no offering taken, and once Sunday Joe had said his final amen, he hurried off instead of staying around to hear everyone tell him what a wonderful message he’d given. All in all, Irma would have said church was enjoyable except for two things: it was hard to sit still when her entire future was about to be decided just a short distance away and Shep never did come.

  CHAPTER 11

  HOW BLESSED IS THE MAN . . .

  IN WHOSE SPIRIT THERE IS NO DECEIT!

  Psalm 32:2 NASB

  Irma stood in the Wild West arena with Diamond at her side, gazing up at the empty stands. Empty, that is, except for a few dozen of the Wild West troupe scattered in small groups here and there. As she watched, Helen Keen sidled up to Shep. Did the woman have to follow him everywhere? Don’t be that way. She helped him get Diamond ready. Irma touched the newly oiled and cleaned saddle. And Shep went to a lot of trouble for you.

  Diamond tossed his head and began to paw the loose earth. Taking a deep breath, Irma murmured, “Okay, boy. Here we go.�
�� Gathering the reins, she reached for the saddle horn at the same time as she put her left foot in the stirrup. The saddle slipped and Diamond danced away.

  She could imagine the few cowboys sitting up in the stands laughing at her. Anyone knew to check a girth strap before they mounted up. Horses had a way of sucking in air just before a rider tightened it and then letting it out so the strap wouldn’t be so tight. “You brat,” Irma scolded as she righted the saddle and tightened the strap. Diamond turned his head and looked her over. He whickered and tossed his head.

  “All right, all right,” Irma answered. “Now we can get started.” Taking a deep breath she mounted up for the second time. She tugged on Diamond’s mane. “You do remember how we do this, right?” One velvety ear turned to listen to her. “All right, then.” Irma gathered the reins and took a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Ride ’em, cowgirl!”

  It was Helen Keen hollering, and when Irma looked over to where she stood next to Shep, Helen waved. The woman was almost too nice to be real. The other two cowgirls Helen had introduced Irma to just yesterday weren’t waving, though. Mabel Douglas looked positively sullen. Dora Spurgeon, who hadn’t said more than two words when she showed Irma where to change after church, wasn’t even watching. She was talking to Monte. Ned Bishop had ambled up just as everyone headed for the arena. He’d wished her luck. The way he’d said it made Irma think he was just being polite. No way did he think she had a chance of being part of the Wild West.

  Irma closed her eyes. Please, God. I know you and I don’t have a real close relationship, but if you could help me out I’d be grateful. It wasn’t much of a prayer, but maybe it would make a difference. Preacher Joe seemed to think someone was listening when he prayed. It couldn’t hurt to try.

  She nudged Diamond into an easy lope and made a couple of laps of the arena, hoping to regain her composure. All she managed was to loosen her white-knuckled grasp on the reins a little. Movement high up in the stands caught her attention. A few wranglers were leaving. She couldn’t blame them. What was there to see? Taking a deep breath, she looped the reins over the saddle horn, then gripped the horn with one hand and the cantle with the other to leverage her weight so she could balance on her knees. Diamond continued his steady lope around the perimeter of the arena, but when she moved to stand up, she lost her balance and almost did a nose dive into the dirt.

  Great. Just great. I look more like Lula Belle the Clown than Liberty Belle the Star. Sweat was beginning to trickle down her back. She tried again. This time, with Diamond gliding along in a smooth lope, she managed an entire lap of the arena while standing. She stole a glance at Bill Cody. He wasn’t even watching. In fact, he was talking to Daddy. Almost as if he was bored. And why shouldn’t he be? Helen Keen and Dora Spurgeon could both ride standing up.

  Taking her seat again she jerked Monte’s hat off her head and sent it flying. It soared halfway across the arena before settling. Irma pressured Diamond with her knee just as they rounded the narrow end of the horseshoe-shaped arena. In answer to the signal, Diamond executed a flying change of lead and moved into a gallop. Horse and rider charged past the hat, and at the last possible second Irma took one foot out of the stirrup and swooped down to pick up the hat. Guiding Diamond toward the edge of the arena, she tossed the hat at Monte and raced away. Pulling both feet out of the stirrups, she slid behind the saddle and stretched out prone before holding both arms out like a bird soaring around the arena.

  Regaining her normal seat, Irma grasped the saddle horn with both hands and dropped to the ground, springing back into the saddle the instant both feet landed in the dirt. When she repeated the move on Diamond’s offside, someone let out a “yee-haw.” Irma felt a surge of confidence. It was a good move, and none of the cowgirls had done it in yesterday’s performances. Feeling more sure of herself, Irma decided to repeat the trick, but this time she lost her grip on the saddle horn and when her feet touched the ground she was left without a horse. Diamond was halfway down the length of the arena before he realized he no longer had a rider and stopped, looking back as if to say, “What happened to you?”

  Laughter broke out in the smattering of spectators. Her face red from a combination of physical exertion and embarrassment, Irma ran to catch up with Diamond and climbed back aboard. She repeated the trick to show everyone she could do it, but when she tried to execute a handstand moments later, a combination of fatigue and sweaty palms sent her scrambling to keep from falling. After that, everything she tried either didn’t work at all or had to be adjusted. She tried to cover up her mistakes but doubted anyone was really fooled.

  By the time she had gone through every trick she knew twice to prove she could do them without falling, her sore ribs were complaining and Monte’s borrowed shirt was damp with perspiration. Tempted to forego her flying dismount, she told herself it was no time to hold back. And so she hollered “go-go-go” and kicked Diamond into a gallop, hoping the horse remembered what the short burst of sounds signaled. She had just gone into a handstand when Diamond gave a little buck and stopped in his tracks. The move was designed to make it look like Diamond had balked and thrown her over his head. What really happened was the little buck created just enough extra thrust for Irma to be thrown high enough into the air so she could theoretically tuck in midair and still have time to end up on her feet. Theoretically. This time, there was no tuck. This time, Irma was going to land headfirst. By putting her hands above her head she broke the impact and managed a somersault. Instantly, she sprang to her feet and pretended to wave to an imaginary crowd. Stupid. There’s no crowd. And if there was, they wouldn’t be applauding. Stupid, stupid girl.

  Ducking her head, Irma walked to where Diamond waited, his nostrils flared, his sides heaving. She leaned close and patted his neck. “I messed up,” she said, “but you—you were perfect.” It was all she could do not to burst into tears.

  “I’ll see to Diamond for you,” Shep said, and reached for the horse’s reins. He put his hand on Irma’s shoulder. “Bill and Nate want to see you right away—over in the office by the entrance.”

  Irma looked toward where Cody and Salsbury and Daddy had been standing to watch her routine. The Wild West partners were in what appeared to be a heated conversation with Daddy. While she watched, the men shook hands. With barely a nod in Irma’s direction, Cody and Salsbury left. Daddy took off his hat and ran his hand over his mustache and goatee—a gesture of his that always telegraphed a nervous state of mind.

  Irma looked down, scraping at the arena dirt with the toe of her right boot, while she tried not to cry. She wished everything around her and Shep would just fall away so she could lean into him and be comforted.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Shep said. Maybe he read her mind, because he put one arm around her and gave her a quick, half hug followed by a friendly little shake—the kind of thing Monte would have done if Shep hadn’t beat him to it. “Come on, now,” he teased. “Chin up. Those two showmen know how hard it is to do those tricks you tried.”

  “Tried,” Irma muttered. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

  “And,” Shep continued as Monte and Minnie and Helen Keen walked up, “they know you haven’t had a chance to practice much. It’ll be all right, Belle. You’ll see.”

  Was he trying to cheer her up or convince himself? Irma sighed and said nothing. She was relieved when Ned, Dora, and Mabel mumbled “good job” and then excused themselves to do chores.

  “I know you’re thinking about all the mistakes,” Miss Keen said, “but, honey, it wasn’t that bad. You showed you’re a born performer out there. You kept going. And honey, city folks wouldn’t have known the difference. They’re gonna love Liberty Belle.” She nudged Shep. “Tell her, Shepherd. You know I’m right.”

  Shep smiled and agreed. Irma didn’t think he really meant it. When Monte and Minnie offered similar comments, she shrugged. Her voice wobbled as she said, “At least I tried.”

  She swiped
a tear away. “But no matter what you all say, we all know I messed up. And not just once but over and over again.”

  Thankfully, Daddy came to the rescue before her tears erupted in earnest. “Bill’s got an appointment with a newspaperman in a few minutes. We’ve got to get over to the Wild West offices right away.” Taking Irma’s arm, he led her away.

  It was the longest walk of her life. Worse even than the walk from the corral at Uncle Charlie’s to the back porch that day when Momma fainted and Daddy was so angry.

  “Calm down, sweetheart,” Daddy said halfway to the office. “I can feel your hand trembling.” He covered her hand with his own as they walked along.

  Irma sighed. “Well, at least I’ll be out of my misery sooner rather than later.”

  Daddy paused just long enough to glance down at her. “For heaven’s sake, child. It’s your dream. Don’t tell me that after all the trouble I’ve gone to you’re going to just give it up without a fight.”

  “I came, I fought . . . I lost.”

  “You haven’t lost yet,” Daddy snapped. He stopped in his tracks and, turning toward her, gripped both her forearms with his hands. “Dreams do not come true for those who give up. Do you really think you can win a spot with this attitude? Our friendship with the Cody family may have been a factor in this audition, but I can assure you that no amount of friendship with anyone is going to get Liberty Belle into the Wild West arena. Everyone knows you weren’t at your best just now. I refuse to believe that means only one thing.” He frowned. “Why, if I’d had this attitude when I first arrived in Nebraska—” He gave her a little shake. “Friedrichs do not wave white flags, Irmagard.” He turned her back toward the offices. “Now, walk into that office and convince Bill Cody and Nate Salsbury that they’d be fools to turn you down based on half a performance on a Sunday afternoon when neither you nor your horse are in anything approaching prime condition.”