Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  “How does Billy look?” Win asked Charlie, barely able to suppress a smile.

  “Worse than James, that’s for sure!” Charlie was eager to share more details, but James just shrugged and said Billy would be fine—he hadn’t hit him that hard. Miss Sinclair suggested the boys run along home, which they did, but not before one last wave of thanks to their teacher as they disappeared out the door.

  Once the boys were out of earshot, a shadow fell across the teacher’s face. “Jeb, I should warn you. Billy Smith was just echoing the hateful talk he hears at home and in town. Please be careful.”

  “I’m sorry you had to deal with this, Etta.” Jeb and the teacher relaxed formalities now that the boys were gone. “I appreciate your understanding about the fight.”

  Miss Sinclair dismissed his thanks with the wave of her hand and a smile. She gently picked up the walking stick and placed it back on the windowsill. “Your boys are such a treasure. It warms my heart to see the way they look out for one another.” She remained at the window, watching them ride away. “I should have liked boys, if I’d been lucky enough to have children.”

  Jeb handed the package he’d been holding to her. “I believe this was intended for you.”

  She sat down at her desk and carefully opened the box. She sighed when she saw the combs. “Oh, Gus, how thoughtful of you. I miss you so.”

  Gus often described women in terms of how much sparkle life had scraped from them. None of the sparkle had been scraped from Miss Sinclair, despite her history. Win stared quizzically at the woman who had captured Gus’s heart, wondering how Jeannette would behave in this situation.

  Miss Sinclair glanced at Win, a sad but gentle smile on her lips. “Jeb and I have shared experiences that allow candor between us. Don’t judge me too harshly.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, I don’t. Actually, I was thinking about how lucky Gus was to have known you.”

  “I’m the lucky one. He brought me a lot of joy, even if briefly. I’m not sorry about it. ‘Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.’ ” She held her head high.

  “Tennyson.”

  “I see you’ve had access to the Dawson’s library as well! Gus loved poetry.”

  Win wondered if Jeannette would be so kind when she talked about him, if at all, and if she would still refuse to see him if he looked her up.

  Etta came to the Dawson ranch for Sunday dinner. When Meg learned of the fight at school, she rode over to the teacher’s cottage to thank her and to invite her to join their family for the day. Miss Sinclair arrived in her carriage with a small wooden box in the seat next to her, covered with a dish towel.

  “Hello!” The teacher pulled to a stop in front of the porch. Win took the reins as Jeb helped her down from her carriage with the box in hand. Meg stepped out of the house and the two women greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek. “I brought nothing to contribute to your meal, Meg, dear, as I refuse to compete in arenas in which I have no chance of winning.” She laughed gaily. “I do, however, have a project for James and Charlie.” She turned her attention to the boys. “This poor thing caught sight of his reflection in my window and bashed into the glass just as I was leaving.” She gingerly removed the dish towel to reveal a sparrow, unwilling, or unable, to fly away. “I was hoping you two had some ideas as to how we could help the poor chap.”

  James and Charlie peered into the box. James said, “How ’bout you put some hay in the box to make it softer, Charlie? I’ll make a little cup out of a leaf and put some water in it. Then we can get some seeds. I think sparrows eat seeds.”

  Charlie ran off to the barn.

  “Maybe the bird just got the wind knocked out of him. He might need a little time to clear his head.” James spoke to his teacher as though she were a concerned relative. Miss Sinclair nodded soberly, but her eyes danced.

  James walked away slowly, carefully carrying the box. Miss Sinclair sighed and once again wished aloud for boys of her own. She turned and found a seat on the porch. The dogs, preferring Etta even to the mysterious box she had handed to James, crowded around her feet for attention. “Oh, my darlings, such devotion!” She put her forehead against each as she scratched their ears. “My goodness, coming out here is a tonic, Meg, darling. I so appreciate it.”

  “You are a tonic for us as well, Etta.” Meg patted her friend gently on her back. “Thank you again for understanding about the boys.”

  “ ‘Protecting what you love is as natural as breathing,’ someone once told me.” Etta winked at Meg before turning her attention to Win. “Mr. Avery, Meg tells me you’ve had quite a lot of contact with the Indians. Have you seen some progress toward assimilation?”

  “They’re being forced into schools where they have to wear white men’s clothes and speak only English. We’ve taken everything away from them.” Win paced across the porch. “We’ve taken their land, their means for survival, and now even their language and culture.”

  “Wash and Running Elk changed voluntarily, with no pressure from us.” Jeb sounded defensive.

  Win raised his hand. “I’m not talking about them. Even Gray Wolf wanted his people to learn English. He thought it would show that they were willing to cooperate at some level. You didn’t force him to give up his culture. I’m talking about Indian children on the reservations. You should see them. The schools are poorly managed, with few supplies or books. And the children look ridiculous in their suits and dresses. Generations are now divided by language, and it’s killing their traditions. Grandparents are no longer able to pass down their history through stories because of a language barrier, if you can believe it.”

  “My heart breaks to hear you talk, Mr. Avery.” Etta leaned forward. “But education is important. To lose their culture in the process is wrong, but without education, they will never assimilate into our world.”

  “Why should they have to?” Win spread his arms out in exasperation. “We should be the ones learning their language. After all, we came to their country.”

  “You make a valid point, Mr. Avery, but you are being impractical. Their world has changed, like it or not. It disturbs me greatly to hear that their education is substandard to what white children receive. If they are expected to adopt white customs, they should be given the best opportunity to do so. How would you propose we fix the problem?”

  “I don’t know. I wish we could have found a way to live side by side with the Indians. But what should have been simple got complicated, and people don’t behave well when things get complicated. I wonder how different their world might be if our government had honored even one of the treaties they made.” Win nodded to Jeb. “Gray Wolf and Jeb figured out how to live next to each other—we should ask them.”

  “Working out an arrangement on a small scale—on private property, I should add—is different from managing a whole country.” Jeb eased himself into a chair. “At one time, I was naïve enough to believe there was plenty of land to share.”

  “We were all naïve. It was hard to see what was happening until it happened. By then, we were too late. It’s been frustrating.” Win leaned against a support beam and stared at the horizon.

  “I assure you, an Indian from any tribe would be welcome in my classroom,” Etta said with sincerity that Win believed. She tilted her head. “Tell us some good news . . . surely there must be some. What are you doing next?”

  Win turned to Etta, not wanting to meet Meg’s eyes. “There are some good things happening. Our old friend Wes Powell is directing something called the Bureau of Ethnology. Congress created it. With a pen stroke, everything pertaining to the Indian culture was swept from the Department of the Interior and dumped into his lap at the Smithsonian.”

  “I read about his work. It’s a growing field of research,” Etta said. “I understand that he holds a higher opinion of the Indian than most.”

  “If you mean that he’s never questioned their right to exist, yes. It is not a common belief, but one I hold, too. Powel
l’s going to study the language and culture of Indians before it disappears, if you can believe the irony. It sounds far more appealing to me than the survey expeditions I’ve been on. I was offered a job on another survey into the Sierra Nevada, but I turned it down. The job meant living with geologists and entomologists, and I’ve grown tired of their scientific, unemotional minds! They spend their lives identifying rocks and bugs. I have never seen such attention given to such dull objects. They hold up a rock and confer with one another for hours, using words that sound like a foreign language. They’re so engrossed in their work they don’t see the splendor around them.”

  “Don’t you like science?” Etta looked at him with amusement.

  “Win doesn’t care for scientists,” Jeb said. “They don’t drink enough or play enough poker for his taste.”

  “Ha! You’re only half right, Jeb. It’s true that they don’t drink much, but their real problem is that they understand probability too well, and without the aid of whiskey to muddle their judgment, they stay too sharp and never become reckless. Takes all the fun out of it. To answer your question, Miss Sinclair, I don’t dislike them, but they have disappointed me. I may not see eye to eye with gold seekers or railroad men, but at least their motives are easy to spot. I can fight an enemy that I can see. Scientists are scarier because I don’t understand their motives and the purpose of their studies, or know if the knowledge they gain will be put to good use or ill.”

  “Are there others who share your romantic view of the world?” Miss Sinclair asked.

  “There’s a photographer who lives in the Sierra Nevada, name of John Muir. He’s been photographing the vistas. They say his pictures are astounding. He sounds like someone who sees land as more than mining potential.”

  Jeb and Meg glanced at each other—one of those looks married couples give each other that says their minds are so aligned that whatever they think must be true; no divergent, only espousal, points of view. Win found it annoying, though he had to admit to himself that they were on to him. He had avoided answering Miss Sinclair’s original question, which was to ask what he was doing next. He knew it would upset Meg, or maybe, in his muddled mind, he hoped it would.

  “So, you’re no longer with any geological survey teams. What is next for you, then?” Jeb asked.

  “Ha!” Win spread his arms. “Jeb, would you believe it? I’m conferring with one agency director on Tuesday, and, by Wednesday, another is offering me an opportunity too good to pass up.”

  Jeb shook his head amicably at his friend. “Ha, yourself! You dance with every eligible prospect and then beguile the prettiest one into thinking they need you.” Win just shrugged, pleased with the image Jeb created because it sounded like he was in control of his own future.

  “You still haven’t said what you were doing.” Meg looked concerned.

  Win braced himself. “First I’m going to the Idaho Territory. I’m taking a team to a tribe near the Canadian border . . . We’re going to record their language.”

  “And you somehow convinced Powell that you knew where to go,” Jeb said.

  Win grinned. “You are correct. I have an extraordinarily keen sense of direction.” Win pretended he was getting away with something. “Powell is known for picking up locals to hire, and since we’ve crossed paths over the years, he considers me a native. He and Hayden don’t get along, but he didn’t hold that against me. In fact, he seemed to enjoy hiring me away from him.”

  “You said ‘first.’ Do you have plans after that?” Etta asked.

  Win had had enough of his own divertive banter. “Yes, after that, I’m headed for Alaska.”

  “Alaska!” Meg slumped in her chair.

  “I’m not going yet, Meggie. I’ll be in the mountains of Idaho for a while.”

  “Working for the Smithsonian,” Jeb said. His voice held reassurance, as though being connected to the institute brought a level of safety to it.

  “It could be awhile before I actually get to Alaska. Hell, it’ll probably be crisscrossed with railroads by then. I hope I can see it while it’s still a frontier.” Win shifted restlessly. Just saying the words made him feel as if he might miss the opportunity.

  “Mr. Avery could do some very important work there.” Etta surprised him with her alliance. “His devotion to the Indian is admirable. While I hold to my belief that education and assimilation is the key to their survival, preserving their culture is important. It is noble of you to be on their side.”

  “Well, I see I have some support.” Win tossed an indignant glance in Meg’s direction.

  “Oh, Win, you know we support you. We’ll just miss you. It’s so far away.” Meg folded her arms across her chest.

  “I’ll miss you all, too, Meggie.” Win felt pulled in so many directions he had to physically move. He rose from his chair and paced slowly back and forth across the porch, half listening as Etta told Jeb and Meg about some of the policies regarding the education of Indians. He thought about the week he’d spent with Jeannette. She was the first woman other than Meg who had held his interest. The ladies he met in Washington loved his exotic company, but knew nothing about the man he was. His opinions were often met with puzzled stares. Bouchard had encouraged him to take a Crow woman, but they regarded him with bewilderment as well. Jeannette seemed to understand him—at least until she got angry and threw him out. She was the one who had said it first, that he needed to see Alaska. It was territory purchased from the Russians. Who lived there, and why? How did they survive in a climate so harsh? He had to see it and find out. Maybe he truly could be influential; do some good. His heart beat faster. He wasn’t sure if it was from his eagerness to get there, or his anguish at leaving behind people he cared about.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a yelp from Charlie. The adults on the porch all turned to see him fallen backward in the dirt as the recuperating bird flapped his wings about in the box. The two boys had been hunched over the bird all afternoon. It flapped its wings again and then suddenly took flight, landing on the fence post of the corral. Everyone clapped and cheered.

  Miss Sinclair declared the Dawson boys to be her smartest students. Meg glowed with pride. Although both were no stranger to sadness or pain, still, the sparkle hadn’t been scraped from either of them. He thought about Jeannette. Maybe he should write to her. Maybe she’d be willing to change her mind and see him again. It was hard to imagine her sitting here with two proper women, though. Jeb’s mother could sit with them; so could Grace Moberg and Georgia Carter. They were proper women. Jeannette wasn’t, but she sure could sing, and her skin was so soft . . . He jumped off the porch and trotted over to the boys to brush away the conflicting thoughts swirling around in his head.

  CHAPTER FIFTY: JEB

  October 1882

  Jeb wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve the little piece of heaven right here on Earth, as Meg called it. He’d wondered if she would feel differently about laying with him now that they’d given up trying to have more children. He worried that sex would remind her of their failures, and she would turn away from him in bed. But the opposite turned out to be the case. Happy in her role as a horse-training partner, Meg was full of sexual energy. Jeb collapsed in breathless satisfaction next to her, their bodies glistening from exertion. His arms still around her, he pulled her over to him so her head rested on his shoulder, her breasts pressed against his rib cage, and her legs tangled with his and the bed sheets.

  “I’m the luckiest woman on Earth.”

  Jeb acknowledged that he felt the same way with a kiss on the top of her head. A loving wife and two fine boys—no dream of his had gone unrealized.

  Meg never seemed drawn to luxuries, but Jeb wondered if she worried that their modest business would never grow into much more than it was now. “Does it bother you that our profit margin will always be thin?” he asked.

  “If we can’t do better because our neighboring ranchers don’t like Running Elk and Wash working for us, then I will trade profit f
or friendship any day of the week; you know that.” Meg nestled closer. “What we have is all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind next time I balance the books.”

  “Joke all you want. You have no idea how happy I am.”

  “Actually, I do, Meggie.” He caressed her thigh.

  “I wish Win would find someone. I’d like to see him happier.”

  “I believe he has. He told me about a woman he met on a riverboat.”

  “He never said anything to me about her.”

  “Well, of course not. Then he couldn’t flirt with you.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake—Win and I don’t flirt!”

  “You don’t, but Win can’t help himself. He loves women—he loves you, anyway, and maybe this other woman.”

  “But not like he loves adventure.”

  “He can’t seem to settle down; that’s true. Since you’re taken, maybe this Jeannette will finally rope him.”

  “Such talk! I can’t believe you’re saying these things!” Meg pretended to be indignant. “You men are mysterious creatures.”

  Jeb laughed. “Not really.”

  A letter from Win arrived shortly after his visit.

  September 30, 1882

  Dear Jeb and Meg, James and Charlie,

  I hope this letter finds the Dawson family well and thriving. I am delayed in Beaver Creek and decided to use the extra time to thank you again for your delightful hospitality.

  I was unaware, when I was James and Charlie’s ages, that boys grow so incredibly fast at a certain point that it is almost unsettling to watch. It is as though boys that age become mystical creatures who transform at a different rate than the rest of the world. It gives youth a certain power—something they are unaware of, much like a beautiful woman who does not know the influence she holds over men captivated by her beauty. Equal to the awe parents experience while watching their children grow so exponentially appears to be the exasperation those same creatures generate. The daily mischief of an eleven-year-old boy can produce a level of vexation I am only now coming to appreciate. I should write to our Miss Palmer, Jeb, and apologize for my classroom transgressions during those trying years. This all comes to my mind because, as I write this, I am witness to an Indian mother furiously scolding her adolescent son. What crimes he committed I do not know—all I can say is that I hope you boys know how lucky you are to have parents—”