Opal

by Lauraine Snelling

  ‘‘Miss Opal?’’

  She turned to see one of the hands from the Triple Seven waiting. ‘‘Can I have this dance?’’

  ‘‘Sure.’’ She set her cup down. ‘‘Thanks, Pearl.’’

  As she whirled into the schottische, she saw Edith standing off to the side. The look on her face matched that of a lovesick cow.

  Oh-oh. I bet Mr. Chandler hasn’t been paying her enough attention. Opal glanced around to see Mr. Chandler dancing with a young woman and laughing at something as he twirled her under his arm. He is one fine-looking man. The thought caught her by such surprise she missed a beat and would have stumbled but for the firm hand of the man she danced with.

  The deep blue of Mr. Chandler’s shirt made his eyes seem bluer than ever, and the sun glinted on hair the color of prairie grass ready for haying. She turned away when she caught him glancing her way. When the dance ended, she headed back to the table for another drink. At a tap on her shoulder she turned, her elbow catching the midriff of the man behind her. The drink sloshed over the rim, splashed on her arm, and decorated Mr.

  Chandler’s shirtfront.

  ‘‘Oh, sorry.’’ Ground, swallow me up. How can I be so clumsy?

  With one hand he brushed off the droplets, all the while keeping his gaze on her. ‘‘Could I please have this dance?’’

  ‘‘I . . . ah . . .’’ She glanced down at the dark spots, traveled up over dark blue material stretched over a broad chest, past a square chin, faltered on lips that quirked a bit, leaped over a straight nose, and locked on eyes that crinkled at the outside edges, the blue of a hot summer sky, intense and yet hinting at gentleness.

  ‘‘Miss Torvald?’’

  The sound of his voice broke her reverie. What was it he wanted?

  ‘‘This dance. Would you dance with me? Please.’’ The ‘‘please’’ tacked on at the end of the thought as if he’d just been reminded of his manners.

  ‘‘Ah, sure.’’ What in all that grew green had happened to her? You ninny. It’s just Jacob Chandler. You’ve been trying to teach him to rope and ride. Why are you acting so silly?

  He stretched out his hand and took hers.

  She allowed him to lead her out into the dancers, place one hand on her waist, and then hold her right hand in the air. The waltz plucked at her feet, and they never touched the ground until the music stopped.

  ‘‘Thank you. Care to dance this next one?’’

  Opal nodded.

  ‘‘All right, all you dancers, form your squares.’’ Mr. Adams from the general store loved calling the square dances as much as the people loved dancing them. Rand on the guitar, Pearl on the piano, and one of the Triple Seven hands on the fiddle paused their playing as four couples moved to make up each square. ‘‘That’s right, folks, there’s room over here for one more pair.’’ He nodded to the musicians, and the music started up again.

  Opal curtsied, swung with her partner, and promenaded around the circle. Once around and she moved to a new partner. Chaps swung her around, and the pattern continued.

  ‘‘You done caught that young man’s attention,’’ he told her as he swung her to his side before twirling her under an upraised hand.

  Opal waited until they were close together again to ask, ‘‘Who? What?’’

  Chaps winked at her as he handed her off to the next partner.

  Jacob crossed his arms and did a do-si-do around his partner, all the while wondering at the swell of emotion he’d felt when waltzing with Opal. He was right. The times he’d felt that before weren’t counterfeit. Opal Torvald attracted him like no woman had since his days with Melody.

  He passed his partner on to the next just in time to take Opal’s hand again. Her smile set his heart to tapping to catch up with his feet.

  Today she looked far different from the horse trainer in britches, long-sleeved shirt, and no-nonsense hat. Blue and white gingham suited her, as did a full skirt and puffed sleeves with white lace around the neckline.

  He caught her on the spin and tucked her under his arm for a promenade back home. Tall as she was, she just fit. He smiled into her upturned face and released her into a grand right and left back home. Surely following the complicated patterns wasn’t enough to set his heart to dancing this way.

  At the end of the dance another man claimed her, and Jacob leaned back against a cottonwood trunk, the better to watch the dancers. He chuckled when he saw Joel, his face screwed up in concentration as he danced by with Ada Mae.

  He wandered back over to the table and thanked the young woman pouring when she handed him a cup of punch.

  ‘‘I don’t think we’ve met.’’

  ‘‘No. I’m Jacob Chandler. I work out at the Robertsons’.’’

  ‘‘I’m Daisy Higgins and pleased to meet you. How do you like our badlands?’’ She handed a filled cup to someone else.

  ‘‘Very much. Moving here has been a good thing, even though I’m still not much of a wrangler.’’

  ‘‘My Charlie’s not either. Not everyone was born to sit a horse.’’ She handed a child a cup. ‘‘You’re welcome,’’ she replied to his thank-you.

  Jacob lifted his cup. ‘‘Refill?’’

  ‘‘Sure enough.’’ She dipped out more and filled his cup. ‘‘You come on by and visit us sometime. Anyone invited you to join us for church?’’

  ‘‘Ah, yes. My son and I will be coming next time.’’ He almost explained that he had not come earlier due to that head injury, but instead he just nodded and turned away. Now he’d really committed himself. He followed his nose to the fire pit where half a beef was being turned on a spit. The fragrance made his mouth turn to liquid.

  ‘‘You want to take a turn?’’ Joe from the Harrison ranch offered.

  ‘‘Sure, why not?’’ Jacob took hold of the crank.

  ‘‘Keep it nice and slow.’’

  Jacob gave the crank a turn. The sizzle of dripping fat, the flare of the coals at the grease gave him a feeling of a different space, here away from the music and dance.

  ‘‘Hi, Mr. Chandler, how are you?’’

  The voice from behind him caught him unaware, but he recognized it well.

  ‘‘I’m fine, and you, Miss Robertson? I’d think you’d be over there dancing.’’

  ‘‘I was hoping, ah . . .’’

  He gave the crank another slow turn.

  ‘‘Can I get you anything? Something to drink? They’ve set cookies out.’’

  ‘‘No thanks. I’ve got some.’’ He indicated the cup he’d set on a nearby rock.

  ‘‘I’m glad to see you are doing so well.’’

  Guilt sizzled like the juices on the coals. ‘‘Thanks to the graciousness of you and your mother. No one has had better care. Thank you.’’ Why couldn’t he care for her? It would make things so easy.

  But not if you care for another. The small voice could hardly be heard above the dying grease drops flaring in the yellow and white coals.

  Surely someone would come to relieve him soon. He turned the crank again. The fire’s flame heated his hands and face. Had he known he’d be doing this, he’d have brought his leather gloves along. Why didn’t I talk with Cora as I had planned?

  Time for brutal honesty. Because I was uncomfortable. Lord, have I not learned my lesson? Apparently not. I do not want to hurt this lovely young woman, yet better a gentle hurt now than something terrible happening. What if Mrs. Robertson asks me to leave if I bring this up? There are other jobs, but none so perfect for both my son and me.

  ‘‘Mr. Chandler?’’

  ‘‘Yes?’’ He kept his attention on turning the crank. It had a tendency to whip around halfway through the turn, an easy way to crack a wrist.

  ‘‘I . . . um . . . I could you bring you another drink if you would like.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, but I’m fine.’’ As soon as he said that, a thirst the size of the badlands attacked his throat.

  ‘‘Oh. Did I tell you about the new book I’ve be
en reading? It’s David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. I’ll be reading it to the family in the evenings now that it gets dark so early.’’

  ‘‘Good for you.’’

  ‘‘You could join us if you like. I’m sure Joel would enjoy the story too.’’

  Not fair. The quicksand is sucking me down. If I stay in the bunkhouse and send Joel, I’m being surly. If I keep him with me, he’ll miss out on a good thing. If I go, I encourage you.

  ‘‘I . . . ah . . . I guess I will see you back at the dancing.’’

  ‘‘Everyone seems to be having a good time.’’ He glanced over to the musicians who were tuning up again, Rand one of them.

  ‘‘Would you like me to ask one of the other men to take a turn there?’’

  Oh, please, yes. He wiped the running sweat from his brow and temples. ‘‘Someone will surely come by.’’

  ‘‘As you wish.’’ Her tone wore a touch of starch.

  He watched her march back to the gathering. Now you’ve offended her. He sighed. There was no winning this . . . this . . . what? It wasn’t a battle, really, but an insidious attack.

  After he endured a few more wrestling matches with the crank, Beans wandered over.

  ‘‘Mite hot there, ain’t it?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘I better throw more wood on. The coals seem to be dyin’ some.’’

  Not that I can tell. He watched Beans stack the fire just so.

  ‘‘There’s an art to keeping the coals just right.’’

  ‘‘Looks that way.’’

  ‘‘You want me to take over for a bit?’’

  ‘‘If you’d like.’’ Jacob stepped back from the heat. ‘‘If this tastes as good as it smells, there won’t be one lick left over.’’

  ‘‘Folks fight over the bones even. The sweetest meat is right down on the bones.’’

  ‘‘You don’t say.’’ Jacob took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow and the back of his neck.

  ‘‘You go on and get yerself a drink. If you want some cider, that’s over to the store.’’

  ‘‘Cider?’’

  ‘‘Got a bit of a kick to it, if you know what I mean.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’ I hope he means only apple cider and not the hard stuff. I’d hate to see someone get liquored up and create a scene. He’d heard stories of the goings-on across the river, thanks to a few local and colorful characters.

  ‘‘Thanks. You want me to spell you in a while?’’

  ‘‘Nah, you took your turn. Someone will amble on over.

  Should be slicing it for supper pretty soon.’’

  Jacob nodded and headed for the punch table but veered off to the public pump. Something sweet wouldn’t satisfy his thirst as well as plain water.

  He pumped and drank, soaked his kerchief to mop his face and neck, drank some more, and pumped for a couple of little boys who then half-soaked themselves drinking from the spout. Within seconds he had a line of children waiting their turn, giggling and shouting to others.

  Jacob resigned himself to his new duty, laughing and teasing them as they took turns. When he realized they were drinking then running to the end of the line to come up again, he let the pump handle slow to a stop.

  ‘‘Sorry, that’s all.’’

  ‘‘Please, mister. One more time.’’ The plaintive cry came from several hopeful faces.

  ‘‘Nope. Your mas might come after me for letting you get all wet.’’

  ‘‘But you washed our hands and faces too.’’

  ‘‘So we’re all clean for supper.’’ Two held out hands for good measure.

  ‘‘I’ve got a better idea. How would you like to hear a story?’’

  ‘‘You gots a book to read?’’

  ‘‘No, but some folks say I tell a good story. How about we go on over to that oak tree and sit in the shade?’’

  ‘‘And you’ll tell us a story?’’ The children clustered around him, dancing and giggling their delight.

  ‘‘What story you gonna tell?’’ One little girl took his hand, beaming up at him.

  ‘‘I thought perhaps . . .’’ He rubbed his chin with one finger as if deep in thought.

  ‘‘‘Three Billy Goats Gruff’?’’

  ‘‘‘Jack and the Beanstalk’?’’

  ‘‘How about ‘David and Goliath’?’’ He looked from upturned face to upturned face.

  ‘‘Is it a good story?’’

  ‘‘Yes, it most certainly is.’’ Jacob crossed his legs and sank to the ground, several children copying him, others just sprawling.

  ‘‘Once a long time ago . . .’’

  ‘‘Before we was borned?’’ A little girl with freckles dancing across nose and cheeks asked the question.

  ‘‘Long before any of us were born or even our mothers and fathers were born or our grandfathers. Way back in very early times a boy not much older than you was out in the countryside taking care of his father’s sheep.’’

  ‘‘My pa don’t like sheep much. He says they are smelly and stupid and ruin the pasture.’’

  Jacob nodded. ‘‘That’s true. Sheep are all of those things, but they also provide us with wool for our clothes and blankets—’’ ‘‘And stockings. My ma knits lots of socks.’’

  ‘‘Very true. To help keep you warm in the winter, right?’’

  ‘‘My winter underwear itches. I don’t like wool much.’’

  ‘‘Let’s get back to our story.’’ While he unfolded the story of David and Goliath to them, the children stared at him in rapt awe, giggling when he changed his voice to portray the parts, and falling silent as he waved an imaginary sling around his head to let the stones fly. When Goliath hit the ground, all the children applauded.

  ‘‘And so we see that when God is on our side, we can slay even giants.’’ He glanced up to see that Ada Mae and Joel had joined the group, along with other older children he didn’t know.

  ‘‘That’s Joel’s pa,’’ Ada Mae announced to all the children. She pointed to the boy beside her.

  The look Joel sent his father wore a touch of pride.

  Jacob nodded, while inside his mind danced and his heart leaped. The feelings happened again when sometime later Joel joined him in the line waiting for a piece of the beef being served by four men who were slicing as fast as they were able.

  ‘‘That was some shindig,’’ Mrs. Robertson commented on the ride home. ‘‘Times like this I miss my Ward so bad I can about taste it.’’

  Jacob sighed. ‘‘I can’t begin to understand how you feel, but I can say how sorry I am you have to walk through this.’’ Losing Melody when he’d planned to marry her had taught him something of grief. It hurt, clear to the bone and the innards. It colored the whole world in tones of gray and preyed on one like some vicious critter that slashed and ran, leaving you bleeding and reeling from the shock. Not just once, but over and over until you caught yourself watching the shadows and listening for the footfall, all the while knowing there was nothing there. The one you loved was gone, and there was nothing you could do about it but endure. Unless . . .

  ‘‘I found comfort in His Word,’’ Jacob offered.

  ‘‘I’d be one of those demented ones picking at threads were it not for that. But no matter how much comfort I receive in the reading, I’m alone in my bed at night, and I’ll never hear his voice again nor see his smile. My Ward had a smile that near to squeezed my heart to smithereens. That’s what made me fall in love with him in the first place. He was never one to waste words, but with a smile like that, why, who needed words?’’

  ‘‘Mr. Robertson was a fine man. I could never thank him enough for taking on this easterner and my son.’’

  ‘‘He was always like that. If someone needed something and he had it to give, he would.’’ Mrs. Robertson dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘‘Ma?’’

  She turned around to answer a question from Ada Mae. ‘‘Yes?’’

  ‘‘You seen my hat?’’
>
  ‘‘In the box there in the corner.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  Mrs. Robertson turned to Jacob. ‘‘You’re an easy one to talk to.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘I do hope you take on our little congregation. We need a pastor.’’

  ‘‘How did . . .’’

  ‘‘I suspected you were far more than you were letting on.’’

  ‘‘May I ask how?’’

  ‘‘Just a sense. But I knew you were playing close to your chest. When you gave the funeral for Ward, well, I can never thank you enough.’’

  As they topped the rise to the homeplace, Jacob wished he’d driven more slowly. But then, one of the girls might have overheard. He had to talk about the situation with Miss Edith. But when? And how?

  Back in the bunkhouse Jacob tucked the covers around his already sleeping son. Oh, to have the resilience of youth, to play hard, work hard, and collapse into sleep without a care in the world. Or at least to be able to forget those cares in the comfort of sleep.

  When will I be able to talk with Mrs. Robertson? Lord, it has to be soon, before that young woman gets hurt any worse than she already is going to be. Such an innocent. Why can’t I love her? It would be so easy.

  Well, not easy but simple. But then I would be living another lie.

  A lie I live because of another innocent, another one I wounded. I cannot, will not, do that again.

  For some reason a picture of Mr. Dumfarthing came to his mind. Not the nearly dying man but the one later, the one so interested in discussing things of the spirit but with no patience for those around him in the present. An interesting dichotomy. What has happened with you, my friend?

  You call him friend when you ran out on him too? Isn’t it time you put your own life back in order?

  ‘‘Yes, Lord, it is time.’’ His whisper sounded loud in the silent soddy. He took out paper and ink, sharpened a wing feather he’d found in the chicken pen to use as a quill, and sat down to write.

  Dear Mr. Dumfarthing,

  I am writing to beg your forgiveness for running out on you. I was a coward, pure and simple, and now I must tell you the story and let you judge whether you believe a correspondence could be possible, especially if it could be between friends. One of the lessons I have learned is the value of friendship. . . .