Matthew 6:34 NASB
Willa stirred at the sound of laughter in the adjoining room. Fumbling for the locket watch that lay on the bedside table, she opened it and squinted at the dial. Nearly noon? It all came back. The rain . . . Monte’s accident . . . and the awful next couple of hours. Thank God for Dr. Carter. Thank God Monte was going to be all right. By the time they’d gotten him settled atop Irmagard’s cot in the girls’ tent, he was complaining about all the fussing and fawning—a sure sign that he would, indeed, be fine. He did not, however, Willa remembered with a smile, complain about Miss Dora Spurgeon’s attentions. She was a sweet girl. Charlie and Laura would like her. And they were going to get their son back home. She and Bill had spoken in the tent last night and arranged for Monte to travel with her and Orrin back to Nebraska. “Until he’s recovered,” Bill had said. They wanted him back with the Wild West for the winter season.
The comings and goings in the tent last night, the laughter, the good-natured ribbing, and above all, the efficiency with which people seemed to shift and adjust to accommodate Monte’s needs, had shown Willa a side of the Wild West troupe she’d been told existed but stubbornly refused to believe—until now. Nearly a dozen wranglers had been crowded into that tent before Shep herded them out. It was as if Monte had acquired a set of brothers. The camaraderie among them was evident, and seeing it for herself was beginning to effect a shift in Willa’s feelings about the Wild West.
She might never understand Irmagard’s determination to turn her back on her home and pursue such an unorthodox life, but perhaps, Willa thought, perhaps she didn’t have to understand it in order to accept it. Could it be that Otto had been right when he extolled the positive aspects of Irmagard’s joining the tour? Was part of the attraction the acquiring of a large extended family? Was there more to Irmagard’s adventurous spirit than just rebelling against her upbringing?
My plans are not your plans . . . my thoughts are not your thoughts. Maybe Otto had been right when he challenged Willa’s certainty over what God wanted for Irmagard. Blast the man, anyway. How could he be right? He had no more interest in spiritual things than . . .
With a sigh, Willa got up, pulled on her dressing gown, and went to the window. The sky was overcast and, while it wasn’t raining now, the street below was wet, the park across the street sodden beneath trees dripping moisture. She freshened up, brushing her thick hair until it gleamed and tying it back with a ribbon. Laughter erupted in the adjoining room. Again. She opened the door and immediately saw at least part of the reason for the raucous laughter that had awakened her.
Irmagard gulped down the bite she’d just taken of a pastry. “There was a knock at the door and—” She gestured at the silver coffee service, the pitchers of milk and juice—so much food it barely fit on the table. “They said to call when we were ready for breakfast.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine anyone wanting breakfast after this?” She reached for a pastry and held it out. “Try this one, Momma. You’ll love it. Apricot filling.”
Helen grinned and motioned Willa over. “Set yerself down, ma’am, and dig in—compliments of the management.”
Irmagard nodded. “That’s what he said when he delivered the cart.” She giggled. “And do we ever like the management of the Brunswick Hotel!”
Would Bill Cody do this? Willa couldn’t imagine why. She cast a glance toward the bouquet on the mantel. What is going on?
Someone knocked lightly on the door and slid an envelope into view. Willa retrieved it, read it over, and smiled. “How thoughtful. Bill reports that Dr. Carter checked in with him early this morning. Monte rested well. He’s back in the cowboy’s domain, and Dr. Carter has rounded up his son and headed back to the city.” She glanced up from the note. “Bill is also suggesting that both of you enjoy an extra day of leisure instead of returning to Erastina today. And Dr. Carter hopes we’ll be able to join him this evening to make up for missing last night’s supper.”
“God bless Bill and Dr. David Carter,” Helen said, saluting as she reached for another pastry.
Irmagard nodded toward where her muddied dress lay draped across a chair. “Do you suppose they have anyone here who could make that presentable?”
Willa picked it up. “We could probably get it cleaned enough to shop for a new ensemble for this evening.” She nodded at Miss Keen. “And I hope you’ll join us.”
Helen looked doubtful. “I don’t know, ma’am. I’m not exactly a Delmonico’s kinda gal—if you know what I mean. All those forks and glasses and the like. I wouldn’t know what to do with ’em.”
“And they wouldn’t know what to do with a longhorn.” Willa smiled. “May I propose, Miss Keen, that you help me with shopping for whatever Irmagard might need between now and the end of the season, and I’ll do my best to cue you when it comes to forks and glasses at the restaurant this evening.”
Helen didn’t have to think long. She shook Willa’s proffered hand. “Agreed.”
Willa turned to Irmagard. “Now, before you protest shopping with me, I have something to say. While I may despair of ever understanding it, I have determined to do my best to accept the reality embraced by Miss Liberty Belle. You have my word that there will be no bustles or corsets urged upon anyone today. And birds on hats are henceforth and forevermore anathema.”
By that evening one would have thought Helen Keen was Wilhelmina Friedrich’s long-lost niece. Or favored daughter. It started with the shopping in the afternoon. The Brunswick concierge directed them to what he called Ladies’ Mile, several blocks of department stores and emporiums where the women of New York shopped and dined in opulence.
At Macy’s Helen took the lead in appreciating Momma’s taste when she suggested Belle try on a Dutch indigo gored walking skirt. And according to Helen, Momma was right again when she matched the skirt with a tucked shirtwaist with bishop sleeves and a banded collar. And then Momma decided to treat Helen to a complete ensemble, from chemise to drawers and petticoat and right on through to a lovely gored walking skirt and waist similar to Belle’s. Helen drew the line at the hose suspenders, but when she sashayed out of the dressing room, Momma seemed to consider the shopping trip a complete triumph—in spite of the fact that Belle knew the Macy’s prices were horrific. Momma laughed when Helen exaggerated her sashay down Fourteenth Street on their way to the milliner. Both young women emerged with the latest thing in headgear-sans fowl-and parasols to boot. Belle couldn’t imagine what Helen Keen was going to do with a parasol after today.
Helen’s Texas accent had all but disappeared by the time the three of them met Dr. Carter at Delmonico’s for a fashionably late supper. And she embarrassed everyone the way she flirted with the doctor. At least Belle felt embarrassed. Momma seemed oblivious to Helen’s bad behavior and even joked about not knowing which fork to use for dessert. Momma seemed to have become a different person overnight.
“She’s not a different person,” Helen said when Belle commented on it that night. “You just haven’t been able to see her through that haze of whatever old business you’re refusing to lay aside. I’m not kidding, Belle, if you don’t want her, give her to me, because I wouldn’t care if she was a little snooty. I’d love to have a momma who’d travel halfway across the country just to see if I was all right. Shoot, honey, any of us would. My ma’s dead, Mabel’s is probably waking up from a two-day hangover in some saloon in Deadwood, and Dora—” Helen bit her lip. “Well, never mind about Dora. You get the point.”
Irma did. It was hard to admit it, even to herself, but she realized Helen hadn’t been anyone but Helen at dinner, and Momma had always been generous, and the only thing wrong with the way anyone was acting was that she, Irmagard Friedrich, was jealous. Fluffing her pillow, she pretended to be too tired to talk any longer.
On Sunday Belle and Helen moved back to the Wild West grounds. Momma came with them, and together with Shep and Dora and Monte, they attended Sunday Joe’s outdoor service, about which Momma had nothing but good to s
ay. By Sunday evening it had been decided that Monte would take Dora with him to Nebraska. It was time she met the family.
“You’ll love them,” Belle encouraged Dora. “Uncle Charlie and Aunt Laura are wonderful people. And they will love you. It won’t be long before the girls will be treating you like a sister.”
Dora bit her lower lip and shrugged.
“Dora,” Belle said, putting her arm across the girl’s shoulders and pulling her aside. “They won’t care about a little stutter.” When she saw Dora glance toward where Mabel stood talking to a couple of cowboys, she gave her a hug. “My cousins are nothing like Mabel. You’ll see.”
Dora forced a smile.
And on Monday morning Bill Cody sent word via Shep that, if she wanted it, Liberty Belle would take Dora Spurgeon’s place for the remainder of the summer season. Dora would be on hand to watch Monday’s shows and review Belle’s performance before leaving town with Monte on Tuesday. Belle would ride Rowdy, Dora’s spotted horse with the ratty tail.
Willa sat looking out on the arena and tried to calm her nerves. Liberty Belle would be in that arena in a few minutes, and then, in less than twenty-four hours, Willa would be headed home. Either event would be reason enough for Willa to feel so distraught. Facing both events within the same twenty-four-hour period was wreaking havoc with her “innards.” Willa forced a smile at the word—a Helen Keen expression. What a delightful—if unpolished—young woman. It was comforting to know that Irmagard had Helen in her life. A good friend like that could make such a difference.
Irmagard would have good friends to help her through the next few weeks. There was no doubt in Willa’s mind that a relationship was brewing between Shep Sterling and Irmagard. Willa had sensed it back in North Platte when he arrived on the Friedrich doorstep with those roses. How angry she had been. Somehow her feelings about all of that had changed, too. She couldn’t quite decide what it was, but she’d become convinced in these few days in New York that there was more to Shep Sterling than met the eye. She wondered what Orrin Knox would have to say about the Wild West after several days of ferreting out new stories. Perhaps he would have insights into Shep Sterling. That would make for interesting conversation on the way home.
Home. How she dreaded going home. What would happen when Irmagard learned of the separation? Whatever Otto might have done to their marriage, he’d been a good father. Willa was determined to never do anything to threaten the father-daughter relationship. She would never expose Otto’s philandering. Irmagard must never know about the boy in Denver. Would she blame Willa for everything? The idea made her eyes mist over. Stop worrying over tomorrow. Today has enough troubles of its own. Indeed. Today she had to watch her daughter risk life and limb in the Wild West arena. And of course, Willa scolded herself, the dangers of the Wild West are far beyond God’s ability to handle. Willa got a grip on her imagination and forced herself to return to the present.
The band was assembling in its box. She glanced over to see what Orrin Knox was sketching and smiled to recognize Liberty Belle riding proudly, the American flag unfurled above her. “I hope you feel you’ve had a successful trip, Orrin,” Willa said.
“Absolutely,” Orrin said. “I . . . ahem . . . with your permission of course, might offer one or two articles to the larger newspapers. I . . . ahem . . . really believe that the Liberty Belle angle will prove quite popular with our Nebraska readers. I’d like to be one of the . . . ahem . . . first to cover it.”
She smiled. “As long as you make certain to send copies to Irmagard and Miss Keen for their scrapbooks.”
The band began to play. Willa clutched the Wild West program to her bosom and tried to calm her nerves. The sun had been shining all day, and the arena was dry. There was no reason to fear an accident. God could protect Irmagard. She knew that. In her head. But her nerves didn’t seem to be listening to logic at the moment.
“Good evening.” An elegantly clad woman moved into place on Willa’s left. She seemed inclined to chat. Her name was Abigail Mortimer. She lived in New York City. Was this Mrs. Friedrich’s first visit to the Wild West?
When Willa introduced Orrin Knox as a visiting journalist, Mrs. Mortimer asked, “Have you been satisfied with your access to the performers? If not, I might be able to offer some assistance.”
“Thank you . . . ahem . . . but I have no complaints. We leave in the morning. I wouldn’t . . . ahem . . . have time for further interviews, in any case.”
“As it happens,” Willa said, “my daughter is one of the performers. She’s been very good to see that Orrin met all the right people during out visit.”
“Your daughter,” the woman said, clearly intrigued.
She’s probably formulating a mental image of some tobacco-chewing cow.
“I can’t imagine the courage it must take for those young women to do the things they do. They are simply stunning, aren’t they? You must be very proud.”
Proud? “To be quite candid,” Willa said, “I’m still in the throes of being terrified my baby will get hurt. I don’t know if you heard about the accident on Friday—”
“I did. Thank goodness the young man wasn’t seriously hurt.”
“Not seriously,” Willa agreed, “but he’s being sent back to Nebraska to recover.”
“Mr. Cody is very good about taking care of his troupe. The injured wrangler will likely recuperate at Scout’s Rest. Mr. Cody seems to take a personal interest in things like that.”
Willa spoke up. “As it happens, the cowboy, Monte, is my nephew.
He’s accompanying Mr. Knox and me tomorrow. I promised Bill I’d see to getting him home safely.” She shook her head. “But even though Monte is going to be fine, I can’t help worrying when I think of my daughter out there.” She nodded toward the arena.
“I understand exactly what you’re saying,” Mrs. Mortimer agreed. “I don’t come as often as I might for the same reason. It would be hard enough if my Henry were hurt. But to witness it?” She shuddered. “A mother’s worst nightmare. You and I will undoubtedly be scratching our eyebrows at regular intervals this evening.” She demonstrated the gesture, which effectively shielded her eyes from the arena. “If Henry ever catches me doing that, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I don’t believe I met a Henry Mortimer when Irmagard was introducing me to her new friends,” Willa said. “What exactly is your son’s role in the production?” She couldn’t help the little surge of pleasure at the idea of enlightening this woman as to Irmagard’s identity as Liberty Belle. Perhaps she was proud after all.
“Oh, Henry doesn’t use his given name.” Mrs. Mortimer opened the program and showed Willa a photograph. “There he is.”
Shep Sterling. King of the Cowboys.
All Belle was supposed to do was gallop Dora’s horse around the arena and wait in the center, while Helen Keen was introduced. Then the two of them would race. It wasn’t much of an act, but Dora’s horse was skittish about its new rider. And Momma was up there in the stands recording every second for future retelling at home. Whatever else Momma said about her trip, she simply had to have a good report about Belle’s performance. For Daddy.
“Ready, kiddo?” Helen rode up alongside her and winked.
“I didn’t think I’d be this nervous.” Belle nodded down at the dancing appaloosa. “Is he always like this?”
Helen grinned. “He’s about to race and he knows it. You’ll do fine. Momma will be impressed.”
Finally, the announcer introduced, “Taking the place of Dora Spurgeon this evening . . . from Buffalo Bill’s home state of Nebraska, our newest beautiful ranchera—Miss . . . Liberty . . . Belle!”
Her heart pounding, Belle kicked Rowdy and they bolted into the arena. The crowd roared, the band played, and when Rowdy tore around the arena, then stopped abruptly in the center and reared, Belle nearly lost her balance. She grabbed the saddle horn and hoped no one had noticed.
“And now, the Queen of the Lone Star State, Miss . .
. Helen . . .
Keen!” Helen’s entrance went more smoothly.
“Calm down, kiddo,” Helen said as the horses danced about and the announcer explained the rules of the race. “No one noticed.”
I bet Momma did.
It was time. The cowboy clowns had set up a series of poles at ten-foot intervals across the length of the arena. First Belle, then Helen, would race in and out of the poles. It was more about skill than speed, and Belle hoped Rowdy would change leads smoothly with a new rider. All she had to do was keep her seat during the weaving in and out—and look competitive.
Helen tore through the course, her pinto’s polished black hooves flashing. Willing herself to forget the audience, Belle concentrated on keeping her weight on the balls of her feet, on gripping Rowdy’s sides, on having her hands poised so she would jerk on the bit as little as possible. There was hardly time to think. The clown in charge of the race yelled “Go!” and dropped a red flag. Rowdy shot forward, danced in and out of the row of poles and then made a sharp left and tore back to the arena entrance, where he skidded to a stop with all the concentration of a cow pony pulling a rope taut against a struggling calf. The horse knew the routine so well, all Belle ended up having to do was stay on.
Helen took her victory lap. The crowd cheered. Belle took off her hat and bowed as Helen rode by, acknowledging that she’d been beaten. With a wink, Helen reached over and snatched Belle’s hat out of her hand, then charged back into the center of the arena and, dropping it in the dust, backed her pony up and motioned for Belle to come and get it. This was not part of the act. Belle didn’t move. Helen stood up in the stirrups, stretched out both arms, and taunted her.
Belle patted Rowdy’s neck. “Can we do it?” There was only one way to find out.
With a kick and a yelp, Belle and Rowdy headed back into the arena. The crowd cheered. On the first pass, she tried to gauge Rowdy’s stride. She didn’t even try for the hat. The crowd quieted, thinking Belle had missed.
Unbridled Dreams Page 26