The Rainbow's Foot

by Denise Dietz

  “Sure.” He adjusted his hat brim. “Let’s make tracks. It’s getting late and we’re miles from Divide.”

  “Can’t we stop? I’m tired.”

  “No. Even if we had time, look at the sky.”

  She glanced up and Cat groaned. Her nose wasn’t red from crying. It was sunburned. No matter what he said, she insisted on wearing her hat like movie star Josephine West.

  “What’s wrong with the sky, Cat?”

  “Clouds are gathering for a storm.”

  “Oh, no!” Reaching over her shoulders, Ruthie grasped her cowgirl hat and placed it on top of her head. “Please, Cat, can’t we find a house or something? I don’t want to greet your mother soaking wet. I won’t look like a famous actress at all.”

  “If you hadn’t ridden so slow—”

  “Well, pardon me for living. How would you feel if you were going to a strange place with strange people? My daddy warned me. Yes, he did. He said I’d go straight to hell.”

  “My ranch ain’t hell.”

  “It’s not a movie set.” Her eyes filled with tears again, and her lower lip quivered.

  “Don’t cry! Only yesterday you said you liked to see storm clouds gathering.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I’ve got cheese and jerky and bottles of pulque and tequila, a farewell gift from Lonnie. I think I see something in the distance, atop that rise. It looks like a deserted miner’s shack. Come on, honey. We’ll build a fire, eat, sleep, and head out tomorrow at dawn.”

  Cat dismounted and led the horses into the gusting wind. He had removed the bandages from his hands, but his ribs throbbed. When they reached the cabin, he sent Ruthie inside while he tethered the palomino and paint.

  When he entered, Ruthie stood against a wall, tears streaming down her sunburned cheeks. “I lost my hat in the wind,” she said between sobs.

  Their shelter had four walls, but the wood was nailed together haphazardly, leaving gaps. The entire structure was smaller than Mrs. Tuttle’s parlor. A window framed the darkening sky. Rodent droppings had left a fusty odor. The rickety walls vibrated, but calculating the age of its weathered boards, Cat figured the cabin had withstood blustery storms before.

  “Stop crying, Ruthie. I see a woodpile. Let’s start a fire.”

  “I want to die.”

  “I’m warning you, Miss Adams, either stop that infernal sniveling or beat it!”

  “Why don’t you kill me and get it over with? I can’t be in the movies and I lost my pretty hat. Kill me and bury me out back. They won’t discover my body for a hundred years.”

  Placing both hands around her neck, Cat squeezed lightly. “Are you sure you want me to kill you, sweetheart?”

  Ruthie couldn’t shake her head no and increase the pressure of his hold on her throat, so she stood motionless, quivering like a captured squirrel. Cat released his grip and rubbed his hands alongside his trousers.

  Ruthie slid to the floor. “Don’t be mad,” she said.

  The girl was unbelievable. She had slowed their ride with her blubbering, a storm was brewing, and Cat had a feeling her French actress role wouldn’t fool Dimity one bit.

  Why was he blaming Ruthie? He had grabbed the bull by the horns, so to speak, which had led to her boardinghouse visit. He had insisted Ruthie ride with him to the ranch. Why? Because he felt sorry for her? Responsible? Other cowboys would have stood in line to become her “protector.”

  Once before Cat had wanted to rescue a lost soul — Fools Gold. It hurt when he couldn’t find the child. But Ruthie Adams was no child. Yes, she was. There she sat, huddled against the wall, trying without much success to stifle her sobs. Cat knelt and pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Let’s start a fire and drink some tequila. Put your arms round my neck and I’ll carry you. That’s a good girl. You’ll feel better tomorrow morning.”

  By daybreak Ruthie’s sobs had become giggles. They had shared the tequila. Then, while he slept, she’d drained half the pulque. A short nap hadn’t sobered her.

  Cat didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t enough food for another day and night. His body ached, aggravated by his sleep on the hard floor. And relieving himself in the bushes outside, he’d seen new clouds on the horizon. Already, a misty drizzle splotched the ground.

  Inside, Ruthie was breakfasting on the remaining pulque. Cat’s angry slam knocked the cabin door from its hinges. Grabbing the pulque bottle, he threw it at the wall.

  As she danced to the music in her head, she swung her hips against his sore ribs.

  Maybe the drizzle outside would clear her head.

  He dressed her in a white cotton skirt and middy-blouse, fumbling for buttons.

  Giggling, she pressed her breasts against his fingers.

  He gartered her stockings and shoved her feet inside her shoes, wishing he could shove the laughter back down her throat. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest. A brush and comb were in her gear, lashed to Dorado, so they would have to stop away from the ranch and tidy her curls. Her Persian lamb coat was already packed. Cat maneuvered her arms through his sheepskin jacket sleeves and led her outside.

  “It’s raining, it’s pouring,” she sang, dancing round the paint, her feet splashing through puddles as if she were a fractious child. “The old man is snoring. Went to bed—”

  “Ruthie, please, the sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll reach the ranch.”

  She nodded, reached for the saddle horn, missed, swayed drunkenly.

  Her face had blistered from yesterday’s sunburn. Beneath his open jacket, her wet blouse stuck to her body, outlining her small breasts.

  Should they ride back to the Mountain Gold set? Should he leave her in Canon City to fend for herself? That bastard DuBois would take Ruthie under his wings, or more likely his skinny flanks.

  Swearing a blue streak, Cat lifted her up onto the paint.

  *****

  As Cat had predicted, the weather worsened and rain fell in pelting sheets. The horses could move no faster than a walk or trot. Every time they trotted, Ruthie vomited pulque. After she’d fallen from her horse three times, landing in muck, Cat shifted her to his own saddle. But Dorado couldn’t make much headway with two people on his back.

  Finally, the wind lessened and the rain stopped.

  Dismounting, Cat led the horses. Time had no meaning. It was night. The stars were hidden by dark clouds, signaling another storm was on its way.

  “I’m sick,” Ruthie whined. “I smell awful. I’m hungry and thirsty.”

  “I know. But we have to keep moving.”

  “It’s dark. We’re lost.”

  “We’re not lost, and I’ve ridden through the dark before.” He shifted Ruthie onto the paint. “I’ll tie you to the saddle so you can sleep. When you wake up, we’ll be home, just in time for a good hot breakfast.”

  “I want to be a movie star,” she whimpered, lowering her dirty face to the paint’s mane.

  They had reached the outskirts of the ranch when it began to rain again. By Cat’s reckoning it was breakfast time, and his mouth watered at the thought of Tonna’s coffee and biscuits. He felt the rain plaster his shirt to his chest. Ruthie still wore his jacket and he had lost his Stetson hours ago.

  Should he dress Ruthie in clean clothes and comb her hair? Cat laughed until he coughed. She’d be soaked straight away. He dismissed the idea of stopping first at Percy and Tonna’s small house. He was chilled, hungry as a spring bear, and he wanted to rest his aching body. Ruthie would have to do. Maybe Dimity would feel compassion for the poor bedraggled girl.

  With the house in sight, Cat maneuvered Dorado next to the pinto. “Honey, wake up.”

  “Are we home?”

  “Almost. Do you remember what we planned? You’re Mademoiselle Adams, the French actress.”

  Ruthie tried to sit up. “Cat, the ropes!”

  “I’ll untie them if you’re sure you can make it the rest of the way without falling.”

  “I ca
n’t meet your mother like this. I’m wet and smelly and filthy and—”

  “The worse, the better. We want Dimity . . . my mother to feel sorry for you. All you have to do is say a few French words and eat your breakfast. Then you can sleep in my bed.”

  “All right, Cat, I’ll be Mademoiselle Adams. I’m so tired of being me. I want . . .”

  If she says I want to die, I’ll send her back to Canon City.

  Ruthie lifted her chin. “I want to make a good impression.”

  *****

  We must be making some impression, thought Cat.

  Dimity stood at the sideboard, scrutinizing the platters. Steam escaped when she lifted a lid, and Cat could practically taste Tonna’s flapjacks.

  He glanced at Ruthie. Despite her proud stance, her clothes were torn and muddy. Outside, you couldn’t smell the muck on her skirt, but the heated dining room called attention to every individual scent. Her sunburned face was puffy, hiding her bright eyes. Her Pickford curls straggled down past her shoulder blades.

  Valiantly, she curtsied. “Adieu, Madame McDonald.”

  “Farewell? I don’t understand.”

  “I meant bon-uh-jour.”

  “Mademoiselle Adams is confused,” Cat said. “As you can see, she’s exhausted.”

  “I can see she is not what she pretends to be.” Dimity pressed a perfumed handkerchief against her nose. “Did you find her in Cripple Creek, Cat, at one of those houses you visit?”

  “No. I was in Denver, attending a rally for the Bull Moose Party. We met through mutual friends and supped together. She’s on vacation, so I invited her to the ranch. After all, Mother, Mademoiselle Adams is a celebrated French actress and—”

  “Mademoiselle Adams is a French fake.” Turning toward Ruthie, Dimity said, “Le coer a ses raisons que la raison ne connait point. Cherchez la femme, Miss Adams?”

  “Oui, Madame McDonald.”

  “You agree, mademoiselle?”

  “Oui. I mean, no.”

  “Your French is vastly improved, Mother.”

  “I’ve been taking lessons from a French cleric. He instructs me a bon marche.”

  Cat shrugged. “I speak Spanish.”

  “Would you explain what I just said to mon Chat, Miss Adams? What’s the matter? Chat got your tongue? My cleric instructs me a bon marche, at a bargain price, because I am building him a chapel on the ranch. I previously stated an old maxim, the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of. Cherchez la femme means there’s sure to be a woman involved.”

  Ruthie gasped and hid her face with her grimy hands.

  “Mother, you believe in Christian charity. Surely you would not refuse Miss Adams the hospitality of a hot meal, a bath and a bed.”

  “I may refuse this cheap tart anything I choose.” Dimity gestured toward the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. “Tonna feeds strays. When the storm quits, you will get your whore off this ranch. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” Cat said through clenched teeth. “After breakfast Miss Adams will bathe and sleep in my bedroom while I rest inside the bunkhouse. Come, Ruthie, let’s find Tonna.”

  Dimity laughed, a shrill triumphant sound. “When you return, I have a surprise for you, mon Chat. A bolt from the blue you are not expecting. One I am sure your stray, Mademoiselle Adams, did not expect either.”

  As if to underscore her words, lightning flashed and Cat flinched. Entering the kitchen, he inhaled the familiar aroma of sweet pickles — watermelon rind, sugar, cinnamon and cloves, all boiling together atop the enamel stove.

  On the kitchen table were two plates, heaped high with eggs, bacon and biscuits.

  Tonna had clearly foreseen Dimity’s reaction to Cat’s homecoming, but the coffee pot was in the dining room so she’d probably gone to fetch her own thickly boiled Arbuckles’.

  Ignoring his food portion, Cat placed a fork in Ruthie’s hand.

  “I want to die,” she said.

  “Eat breakfast first. I’ll give Mother a chance to calm down then try again.”

  “You’ll take care of me?”

  “Of course.”

  “On the ride here, you said something about marriage.”

  “We’ll talk later, after you’ve rested.”

  “Eyewash. Now that we’ve reached your posh ranch, you don’t want me.”

  “Ruthie, please.”

  “I’ll kill myself.”

  Kill herself? Different from her usual I want to die. Could she possibly mean it? No. Ruthie was too selfish. She wouldn’t end her own life.

  And yet, by playing motion picture hero again, he had toted her here to face his mother’s scorn. Percy was on the mark. Dimity did possess a tongue that could brand a person’s soul.

  Fools Gold would have fooled his mother. Despite her background, she looked every inch the lady. Even cleaned up, Ruthie looked like a piece of frivolous thistledown. She’d been born to adorn, a pretty charm dangling from a bracelet. But she was Cat’s charm now and he’d be damned if he’d abandon her.

  He knelt by her chair. “Eat your breakfast, honey. Soon you’ll meet a pretty woman with long beaded braids. Her name’s Tonna. I told you about Tonna. Remember?”

  “She feeds strays?”

  “Tonna will salve your face and show you to my bedroom. There, you’ll dream about how you’re going to be a first-rate movie star, just like Mary Pickford.”

  After kissing the tip of Ruthie’s sunburned nose, Cat stood and walked across the kitchen.

  He had barely set foot inside the dining room when a small form almost knocked him over backwards. Leaping into his arms, she straddled his waist and clung to his shoulders. “I didn’t know where you went, Cat. Percy said I shouldn’t fret, and I tried to act grown-up and not cry, but I’m ever so glad you’re home.”

  Cat tilted Dimity-Jane’s chin. She was small for thirteen, didn’t hardly weigh more than Dorado’s saddle. “You’d better get down, Janey,” he said. “My clothes are soaked. Tonna will have to hot-press your pinafore ruffles all over again.”

  “I don’t care.” She shook her golden-brown curls. “I have lots of dresses, but I’d rather wear calzoncillos.”

  “Do you know what calzoncillos are?”

  “Sure. Drawers.”

  Cat tried to keep his lips from twitching by disentangling his sister’s fingers and setting her pint-size boots on the carpet. “Who taught you that word, little sweetheart?”

  “Bridgida. You should see Bridgida, Cat. She’s grown since you went away. She’s almost as fat as Luke. Well, no one’s as fat as Luke.”

  “Dimity-Jane, return to your seat at once!” Rising, Dimity knocked over her cup of tea. The hot liquid sprayed Luke’s hand. He jerked it away, upsetting his plate of steak, oatmeal and biscuits. Daniel, seated next to Luke, waved his arm like a whisk broom and a basket of buttered toast skittered across the table, tottered on its edge, and fell into the lap of a man who wore a clerical collar.

  “Mind your mother, child,” the cleric said, setting the basket on the table.

  “Yes, Father.” Dimity-Jane’s long lashes shadowed her flushed cheeks as she looked down at the carpet and worried a half-eaten biscuit with her boot.

  Luke scooped up the biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “Mon Dieu, Lucas dear,” said Dimity. “Do not eat food off the floor.” She swiveled her head toward Daniel. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Luke’s hot oh-oatmeal spilled on my trou-trousers and bur-burned my peenie.”

  Dumbfounded, Cat glanced around the table. In eight short weeks everything had changed, and not for the better.

  Walking over to Daniel, he dabbed at the cereal with a linen napkin. “There you go. I’ve cleaned up the spill. Later I’ll tell you about the spill I took in a bullring.”

  Daniel jumped up, gave his big brother a hug, stepped back and blushed furiously.

  “Sit down, Daniel. You too, Dimity-Jane.” Dimity sank onto her own chair. “I will
not have our family collation disrupted by an outside influence. Lucas dear, you may refill your plate from the sideboard since your brother caused it to flip-flop.”

  “Cat didn’t cause the flip-flop, Maman, you did.” Dimity-Jane squirmed onto her seat. “You jumped up and—”

  “A lady doesn’t jump.”

  “You did, Maman. I saw you.”

  “I see that you need an hour on your knees. Perhaps, with prayer, you will remember your manners. For goodness sake, Cat, find a chair. Or would you like to change your dirty clothes first?”

  He shrugged, coughed, poured himself a cup of coffee, and chose an empty chair close to Dimity-Jane. “Where’s Father, sweetheart?”

  “Sitting next to me, Cat.”

  “I meant Papa.”

  “Papa won’t eat with Luke. Papa says Luke’s a glutton. Maman said God provides food to be eaten, but Papa said Luke can eat with God, not with Papa. Maman said Papa was satane. That means damned.”

  “Dimity-Jane, you are excused!”

  “Is that really necessary, Mother?” Cat sighed. “I apologize for being a disruption. I’m sure Janey will eat her breakfast quietly now, won’t you, little sweetheart?”

  “Dimity-Jane, leave the table at once. Father, please escort the child to her bedroom and pray with her.”

  “Of course.” The cleric dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

  “I want to pray, too,” said Daniel.

  “Very well. What about you, Lucas dear?”

  “I haven’t eaten all my food, Maman, and I’m still hungry, Maman.”

  “You may take your food into the kitchen.”

  “But I want to stay here.”

  “I will not tolerate a disobedient son.” With an angry nod, she gestured toward the three retreating figures. “Do you wish to join the others in prayer?”

  “No, Maman. I’ll go so’s you can talk to Cat alone.”

  “Wait!” Dimity looked at Cat. “Is that woman still inside my kitchen?”

  “I suppose,” he said, thinking how he wasn’t hungry anymore. Luke’s gluttony was sickening. No wonder Papa ate with Percy and the hands.

  Dimity withdrew. When she returned, she said, “I have instructed Tonna to remove your stray from the house. Miss Adams can mark time with Tonna until I decide what to do with her. Lucas, please leave the room.”