Unbridled Dreams

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “What you’ve got to realize, honey, is that the very existence of this Wild West depends on healthy stock. You know how well the animals are treated. And mistreating an animal isn’t taken lightly.”

  “I didn’t mistreat Blaze,” Belle protested.

  “Yes. You did. You asked too much of her too soon. That’s mistreating. She trusted you more than anybody, and you let her down.”

  Belle swallowed hard. “Doesn’t everyone know I already feel horrible enough?” She let a tear slide down her cheek.

  “Oh, now,” Helen said, “it’s not the end of the world. Folks’ll come around. Just give ’em time.”

  So Belle gave them time. She kept her head down and worked hard. She begged Cy to show her how to tend Blaze. She was meek and quiet and didn’t make any trouble for anyone. And it didn’t make a bit of difference. Not even with Shep.

  Willa’s back was so sore that, instead of bending over to pick up the broken pieces, she had to kneel on the kitchen floor. And somewhere between picking up the last bit of broken china and trying to scoop up a lump of oatmeal, she started to cry.

  The tears kept flowing as she got up to throw the china into the wastebasket and clean the last bits of oatmeal off the floor. And just when she didn’t think she’d ever be able to stop, Otto began to cry, too. Sitting there at the kitchen table with a towel spread across his shirt like a giant bib and bits of oatmeal staining his goatee, Otto wept.

  Willa turned her back on him. She gripped the sides of the sink and leaned over and listened to his sobs, but she could not bring herself to move. Finally, the chair he was sitting in scraped across the floor, and she heard him grunt with the effort of standing up. Then she heard his cane fall and hit the floor. She started at the sound and turned around, and there they stood, staring at each other across the kitchen. Finally, she bent and picked up the cane and handed it to him. He took it and just stood there as tears washed down his cheeks and collected in his beard.

  She knew she should encourage him not to give up. She should say something about how much better he was doing. And he was.

  She should tell him she knew he was sick of oatmeal and remind him that it wouldn’t be long until he could handle other kinds of food. Dr. Sheridan had told them that only this morning. She should wipe his face and help him to bed. She should do all of those things. But instead, Willa untied her apron and hung it on the hook beside the back door. She opened the door to the porch, stumbled into the nearest chair, and wept. And wept. And wept. And when her sobs had finally been reduced to sniffles, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  And that’s where she was when something woke her. She looked toward the front gate, where a woman was lifting the latch and heading up the path to the house. She moved with a stride that spoke of an energy Willa had lost somewhere in the haze of the long hours and endless chores.

  The woman strode up onto the porch and held out an envelope. “Vesta McKay,” she said. “That there’s from Dr. Sheridan himself. I’ll wait while you read it.” She walked to the edge of the porch and stood, staring toward the horizon.

  Willa read Dr. Sheridan’s note. Vesta McKay, he said, was the very woman he had had in mind when he suggested Mrs. Friedrich hire help. As it turned out, Mrs. McKay had already been called to attend to the needs of another, a woman experiencing her twelfth confinement. A healthy boy had been delivered and both mother and child were well, so Mrs. McKay had returned to North Platte, and the doctor was taking the liberty to send her over. He hoped Mrs. Friedrich would forgive his doing so without checking with her first, but he was confident she would be pleased if only she would give Mrs. McKay an opportunity to prove her excellent nursing skills.

  You are fast approaching a state of exhaustion that alarms me. As your physician, I urge you to accept the services of this fine woman.

  When Willa said nothing after reading the note, Mrs. McKay spoke up. “I’ve been led to believe that you would benefit from the services of a nurse. I also do cooking and cleaning for my families. I pride myself on flexibility, Mrs. Friedrich. And I might also mention that I’m the soul of discretion.”

  Willa brushed the hair back out of her face. “I-I’m afraid I don’t know what to say.” She looked down at the note. “I was just . . . Earlier I was thinking that perhaps I should have . . .” She shook her head. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. McKay. I’m not myself.” She swallowed and just barely prevented a new onslaught of tears. “I appreciate that you come very highly recommended, but Mr. Friedrich is a very private man, and—”

  “There are no buts in the McKay creed, Mrs. Friedrich. There is loyalty and friendship. Otto Friedrich helped my dear Ira—may God rest his soul—when none other in the whole of Lincoln County would, and it’s a joy and a pleasure to be called upon.” She smiled, and for the first time Willa noticed the woman’s clear blue eyes. “I’m thinking what you need is little more than a good night’s rest. You look like you haven’t slept in a month of Sundays, dearie.” Her chin trembled with emotion as she said, “Dear Ira McKay was a brawny man, but when the lockjaw took him down, he was a babe for a while. I know what you’ve been dealing with, Mrs. Friedrich. Men like Ira and your Mr. Friedrich don’t make it easy for those who love them when they’re forced to accept help. You’ve had it hard, I’m thinking. God bless you for being a faithful wife.”

  God bless her? For what? For coming here out of duty? For leaving Otto standing in the kitchen with oatmeal in his beard? For giving up? For running out on him just now? With a trembling hand, Willa handed Dr. Sheridan’s note back to Mrs. McKay. “You’re hired,” she croaked. “When can you—”

  “Why, I’ve come to stay right now, Mrs. Friedrich.” And Mrs.

  McKay nodded toward the gate. Just the other side of it there was a box, and atop the box, a bag of some kind. Both appeared to have been tied shut with twine.

  Willa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Could it be this easy? Was God finally going to answer some of those prayers she’d uttered? Somehow, Willa thought yes. And with the inner yes came a fresh crop of tears.

  “Come now, dearie,” Mrs. McKay said, and held out her arms. “The Good Lord padded me shoulders for just such times as these. Come have yourself a little cry.”

  Belle felt the first sign of having been forgiven for her selfish behavior on the day Mabel Douglas went back to being herself, taunting and teasing Belle about everything from her propensity for jamming up whatever treadle sewing machine she used to losing every cowgirl race she was in. Belle had developed a thick skin when it came to Mabel’s digs, and after the last week of whispered comments and avoidance, it was almost validating to have Mabel be rude again.

  One day when Belle was rubbing Blaze down and Ned Bishop walked by, Belle stood up and called him over. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “For what I did that day. I shouldn’t have said that in front of everybody. Even if I was right.”

  “Which you were,” Ned said. “About the mare’s needing a light hand.”

  Belle swallowed. “It doesn’t matter now. Not after—” She shrugged. “I just . . . I’m sorry.”

  Bishop nodded. It was an awkward interchange, but it made things a little better between the two of them, and Belle was grateful.

  But even though things were easing up a bit, they still weren’t the same. For one thing, Helen didn’t trust her anymore. She didn’t say it in those words, but it was there in the way she wanted to talk over every move of their act before they rode into the arena together. “Just making sure we’re both ready,” she would say. When what she was really doing was making sure Belle didn’t try anything new and risky. As if Belle would ever do that again. She had learned her lesson.

  Not having Helen trust her was hard, but not having Shep around was almost unbearable. He wasn’t rude, and he’d stopped avoiding her, but it was as if someone had erected a wall between them. Sometimes when they were in the dining tent or when they were working at the stables at the same time, Belle would lo
ok up and see Shep watching her. He’d have this look in his eyes that she didn’t know how to interpret. It was terrible to be the fool who’d ruined a good horse, and hard to have lost Helen’s trust, but Shep—losing Shep was breaking her heart.

  “When are you going to stop punishing that little gal?” Helen sidled up to Shep after an evening performance late in August.

  “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think,” Helen said. “It’s what she thinks. And she’s starting to look like a puppy that’s displeased its master and doesn’t know how to fix it.”

  “She’s the one who stopped talking.”

  “Yeah, well, that was a couple of weeks ago. And she’s started up again. And just about everybody else seems to have decided they’ve made their point and it’s time to do a Sunday Joe and forgive and forget.” She pulled him toward where the Wild West train sat on the siding. Grabbing hold of the railing, she climbed onto the platform and motioned for Shep to follow, which he did, sitting down beside her. Dangling one leg off the edge of the platform, he took off his hat and set it on his knee.

  “What about you?” Shep said. “All that going over and over every detail of your act with her every day doesn’t exactly look like forgiveness.”

  “She needed to realize how important it is for us to trust each other. And that I was having trouble trusting her because of her tendency to be reckless. I think she understands that now.” She sighed.

  “She’s just a kid, Shep. We had to know she’d have lessons to learn. I didn’t think she’d need to learn one quite this big, but I guess I was wrong. Either way, seems to me she’s learned it. Shoot, I think Mabel even feels a little sorry for Miss Belle.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “When you were off having dinner with your mother Sunday afternoon, Mabel brought Miss Belle a pastry from that bakery up the road.”

  “You’re kidding,” Shep said.

  “Not.” Helen shook her head. “Even Bishop’s being nicer to her.

  And if Mabel and Ned think its time to be nice, it’s time.”

  “As I just said, she’s the one who stopped talking to me. All I did was tell her the truth.”

  “What truth was that?”

  “That not listening to Cy Matthews proved she had more guts than brains.”

  Helen raised both eyebrows and stared at him. “You really said that?”

  He shrugged. “All right. I probably could have found a better way to put it. I was upset.”

  “So she isn’t the perfect cowgirl. Shoot, I live with the girl. She isn’t the perfect anything. But I love her anyway, and I’m gonna find her and tell her so. Right now.” Helen jumped down and took two steps before turning around and motioning for Shep to follow her. “This is me helping you two kiss and make up, Shepherd. Get your carcass down off that train car and come with me.”

  Helen grabbed a shovel and, coming alongside Belle, began to help her shovel manure into the waiting wagon.

  “You don’t have to help me,” Belle said.

  Helen said nothing. Just kept shoveling.

  Presently Shep Sterling arrived, shovel in hand.

  Belle stood back and looked at them both. They kept shoveling. “Listen,” she said. “I know I’ve messed up just about everything I’ve tried in one way or another this summer. From bad audition to hackneyed debut in Dora’s spot to complete stupidity with Blaze. I’ve been stubborn, and I wouldn’t listen to the people I should have listened to. I’ve acted like a know-it-all, and I’ve ignored good advice and—” Clearing her throat, she went back to work. “Shoveling manure is probably the one thing around here I can be trusted to do.” She tossed a load of manure. And missed the wagon.

  Helen and Shep didn’t say a word. Belle looked at Helen first. Helen only shrugged. Belle turned toward Shep. “Don’t you dare laugh,” she said. “Don’t you dare laugh at me.” She went after the errant pile and scooped it up. By the time she got it into the wagon, tears were coursing down her cheeks.

  “Now, honey,” Helen said, as she gave her a hug, “don’t cry over spilled milk. Or manure. I just came over here to tell you I’m sorry I rubbed it in so hard. And I know you’re sorry. Let’s head back out on the road with a clean slate. What d’ya say?”

  Belle swiped at her tears. She nodded. “I say yes. And you can trust me not to pull any stunts in the arena. Ever.” She stole a glance at Shep. “And I’m sorry I quit talking to you. What you said was right. Sometimes I do have more guts than brains. And I know I messed up, and if you’re never going to forgive me, I wish you’d tell me, because if you aren’t ever going to talk to me again, I don’t know if I can be Liberty Belle anymore.” She was crying again, and she didn’t care because she’d just realized that at some point along the way, being Liberty Belle had stopped being the most important thing in her life. The most important thing in her life was standing atop this pile of manure with her. Taking her in his arms. Whispering love.

  “Is something the matter, dearie?”

  Vesta came up behind Willa and looked over her shoulder out into the yard.

  “He’s talking to the trees,” Willa said. She nodded at Otto, who was, indeed, standing and looking up at one of the trees he’d planted weeks ago, babbling away. Complete with gestures. “It looks like he’s giving a speech.”

  “And it’s worrying you,” Vesta said, and returned to her dusting.

  Willa turned her back to the window and sat down at the edge of the window seat. “He doesn’t talk to us. ”

  “Well, of course he does, dear,” Vesta said. “A man has a thousand ways of expressing himself. My Ira, may God rest his soul, was never a man of many words, but we never lacked for communication.”

  She finished wiping the top of the dining table and stood, dust rag in hand, smiling down at Willa. “And you can’t tell me that after all the years you’ve been with Mr. Friedrich, you don’t know what he’s saying most of the time—whether he uses words or not.”

  Willa sighed. “I used to think I knew. Now I’m not so sure.”

  Vesta walked around the dining table, pulled out a chair, and sat down opposite Willa. She gestured out the window. “Tell me something you’ve heard him say in the past few days.”

  Willa glanced over her shoulder. “He’s frustrated.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “By the way he stabs at his food on his plate at dinner. And he won’t let me help him down the stairs. He’s gentle about it, but if I try he pushes me away.”

  “Ah, he’s gentle about it, is he? And what’s he saying with that gentle little push?”

  Willa looked down at her wedding ring. “He’s saying he wants to be left alone.”

  “No, dear,” Vesta said, and put her hand over Willa’s. “He’s saying, ‘I can’t stand you seeing me this way. I’ve always taken care of you. This isn’t how things are supposed to work and I won’t have it.’ ”

  Willa looked into Vesta’s blue eyes. “You’re reading a great deal into our marriage. And there’s a great deal about it you don’t know.” She looked back outside to where Otto was making the rounds, watering the trees and still pausing every once in a while to jabber away to himself. “Do you think I should talk to Dr. Sheridan about this? There’s always the possibility he’s had another small stroke. Something none of us noticed. Perhaps he’s . . . confused.”

  “A man who keeps his peace at the table and at every other time except when he’s watering trees,” Vesta said, “doesn’t seem to me to be a man who’s confused. If you ask me—” she got up and put the chair back in place before pointing out the window—“that’s a man with a plan.”

  Otto went back to work half days in early September. He devised a system of communicating with abbreviations and hand signals that Willard at the bank learned quickly, and it wasn’t long before Willard was no longer a teller at First Bank. He was, instead, the bank president’s right-hand man, and, as far as Willa co
uld tell, an excellent one. As Otto’s stamina improved, he worked longer hours. His mood improved. He walked. He went to church. He worked in the yard. He kept talking to the trees. He smiled more. Willa suspected he might even be talking to Willard. But he did not talk to her.

  “Be patient, dearie,” Vesta McKay would say. “When the man has something to say that needs words, he’ll use them. Right now he’s speaking to you with silence. Working through meals says he needs to get things in order at the bank. Attending church says he wants to get things in order with God. And it’s obvious those trees are very important to him. He’s been close enough to eternity to look in the door. Give him time to decipher what he wants to do with what he’s learned.”

  Willa tried to be patient, but it was September, and Irmagard would be coming home soon. After a short fall tour, the entire Wild West would disband in St. Louis at the end of the month. And then Irmagard and Helen and Shep would be returning to North Platte for Monte and Dora’s wedding. Willa had offered to host the prenuptial dinner. Was she to do all of that with a silent partner? Now that Otto was better, should she write and tell Irmagard about his stroke? And once the wedding was over and Irmagard went back to New York with the Wild West . . . what should she do then?

  In the weeks following Otto’s stroke, the white heat of her anger against him had burned itself out. Otto Friedrich was not an evil man. He’d provided well for his wife and daughter. As for the boy in Denver, most men would have simply walked away. But not Otto. Otto had felt an obligation and done something about it. Dare she think of it as honorable? Perhaps that wasn’t the right word, but he’d been right about one thing. The circumstances of his son’s birth were not the boy’s fault.

  There was a great deal of good in Otto Friedrich. He could always be counted on to help those less fortunate. He had never really said an unkind word to Willa. At times over the years, when she’d been near a nervous collapse over this worry or that, it was Otto’s mellow voice and strong arms that had always had a steadying influence on her.