A Gown of Spanish Lace (12 page)

As much as she longed to linger in the warm, soapy water, Ariana hurried with her bath. It didn’t seem quite safe to remain in the tub in spite of his promise to announce his coming.

She yearned to wash her filthy garments but had nothing to change into. She thought of wrapping herself in the coarse blanket while her clothing dried, but under the circumstances it didn’t seem like a good idea.

Reluctantly she put on the same skirt and shirtwaist that she had laid aside. They smelled of woodsmoke and room dust. She was glad the weather hadn’t been such to cause perspiration odor as well.

Then she set about washing her hair. It felt so good to give her scalp a good scrubbing. The shampoo lived up to its boast. As her dark brown curls began to dry, they did feel silky again, and they did have a delightful scent—even in the dust and dirt of the dank cabin.

When he came with her evening meal, her hair still had not dried completely and hung about her shoulders like a soft mantle. He could smell the perfume of it as he set the tin plate on the bare table. He moved quickly away.

“Yer done with the tub?” he asked, for something to say.

“Yes—thank you,” she responded.

He was surprised that she had dipped out most of the water. The slop pail was full, as were the basins and big pot he had brought. As far as her circumstances allowed, she was independent. He liked that, though he really couldn’t have said why. He set about finishing emptying the bath water while she toyed with her supper.

He was carrying out the tub and its last bit of water when she spoke again. “Is that…is that someone else’s tub?”

He looked at her, wondering just what she was asking.

“No,” he said curtly.

“Then…do you mind…bringing it back in?” she asked him.

He stopped short. Surely she wasn’t going to bathe again—so soon.

“It’ll get very cold if it’s left out…out in the elements,” she explained. “When it’s cold it cools the water too quickly.”

He understood then and nodded his assent.

He brought the tub back into the room. He had to kick some clutter aside in order to make room for it against one wall of the cabin. He swore beneath his breath, ending his words with “filthy place.”

“If I had some sort of broom I could sweep it out,” she offered from where she sat.

He felt embarrassed that she had overheard him.

When he reached the door he hesitated. “Anything else?” he asked.

It was almost a smile she gave him—though it was checked and guarded. “You’ve been most helpful,” she said quietly. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

Her words made him squirm with discomfort. A prisoner—voicing thanks.

He nodded and turned quickly to go. He could stand no more—niceness or womanliness or whatever it was. But he promised himself that the next time he came to the cabin, he’d bring his stub of a broom and sweep out the place.

“I bin thinkin’,” said Sam, throwing a card on the pile between him and the boss. “Haven’t we still got us a trunk ’round here somewheres with woman clothes?”

Will looked up and squinted his dark eyes at his card partner. “Why ya askin’?”

“Jest thinkin’,” Sam replied and studied the cards in his hand.

Will took a long drink from the bottle at his elbow.

“Been thinkin’,” Sam went on slowly, “thet there little gal be in the same batch of clothes ever since we brung her in.”

“So—?” responded the big man. “I ain’t changed mine neither.”

“Well—you an’ me is a little different,” Sam followed slowly. Then he added, “We wear ’em ’til they fall off—or crawl away.” He chuckled softly at his own joke.

They played on in silence for several minutes. Sam waited. Would Will refuse to give consent—or even consideration to his casual remark?

“Ya think those clothes would fit her?” Will finally asked when Sam had about given up.

Sam shrugged. “No idee,” he responded, “but guess ya could mention ’em to the Kid an’ see iffen he wants a look at ’em.”

The big man nodded. “Ya can dig ’em up and show ’im,” he said.

The dim glow of the kerosene lamp did not give away the sparkle in Sam’s eyes.

Chapter Nine

Early Trouble

“Where’d ya git this stuff?” Laramie asked Sam as the two of them ran rough hands over the soft garments.

Sam said nothing—just watched the young man sort idly through the clothes. What was he to say—and just how much?

“Yer pa thought the gal might be able to use something. Git herself cleaned up,” Sam said instead.

“Where’d it come from?” Laramie insisted.

“Been here a long time,” Sam answered.

“Some raid?” asked Laramie. He lifted another calico gown and laid it aside. Then his eyes opened wide and he reached again into the trunk. “This here’s a baby—somethin’,” he said, disbelief in his voice.

Sam nodded. He looked off into the distance, thinking back in time. He hadn’t expected the trunk of laid-aside things to affect him so deeply.

“Sam!” prompted Laramie. “What are these clothes?” He lifted up the tiny soft nightgown and stared at the smallness of it in his man-sized hand.

Sam spit into the dust on the floor.

“Well, boy,” he said when he could trust his voice. “Yers, I reckon.”

Laramie stared. “Mine?”

“Yessir.”

“You mean—?” Laramie turned back to the trunk of feminine attire. “You mean—this was my ma’s trunk?”

Sam nodded again.

“You mean she—? Did she live here? Was—?”

Sam raised a hand. “Look, Kid,” he said and his eyes had grown dark, “I’ve said all I intend to say. This was yer ma’s trunk of things. That was yer baby do-dad. I—yer pa thought this here gal might use some of the”—Sam reached down a hand and lifted one of the garments and let it fall back into the trunk again—“fancies—an’ thet’s
thet
an’ thet’s all I’m gonna say.”

He lifted himself awkwardly from his kneeling position on the floor and turned to stalk away.

“Ya do what ya wanna do,” he flung back over his shoulder with a wave of his hand, indicating that he had washed his hands of the whole business.

Laramie lingered over the trunk, staring at the tiny garments—his. And the other soft, feminine things—his mother’s. Nothing—nothing in his life had ever given him cause to think about the fact that he’d had a mother. A mother. What had she been like? Who was she, anyway? How had she come to connect up with his father? The items in the trunk looked totally foreign to the world he knew.

He again lifted the small baby garment and looked at it long and hard. His. Made undoubtedly by the hands of his mother.

Laramie couldn’t have said why, but after carefully returning the clothing to the trunk, he kept out the one small soft item and tucked it inside his shirt.

The next morning he had Sam help him take the trunk to the south cabin. “Thought there might be somethin’ in here ya could use,” was his only explanation.

As the trunk lid was lifted back to expose the contents, he saw the girl’s eyes light up. It gave him strange, unexpected pleasure.

“I wonder…” mused Ariana as she went through the trunk, carefully lifting out item by item and examining them.

What she found was clothing that had belonged to a woman about her size—but they had been worn during a previous time. Styles had changed a bit, but she couldn’t fault the material. Whoever had claimed ownership had been a woman of some means. Ariana could tell that by the soft cottons and fine linens.

They were not party clothes, not silks and satins—they were sensible, everyday, workable clothes, though of the best fabrics available. Ariana’s puzzled frown deepened with each garment she drew out. “Who was she?” she kept asking herself.

Then another question brought a new frown. What had happened to this woman? Had she also been brought to the camp as a prisoner? Why was her clothing left behind? What had become of this woman of mystery?

Ariana had no answer to any of her questions.

She came upon a blanket, folded neatly as though making a division of the contents of the trunk. She lifted it and saw carefully folded baby garments comprising the bottom layer. She could tell at a glance they were not new items, but carefully laundered and folded.

She stared, openmouthed. Did Sam and…and that other man know the trunk held baby items as well? Who was this woman? This woman who obviously had prepared garments to welcome a baby. Had the baby arrived? What had become of the woman and her infant?

There was a great mystery hidden here somewhere.

Ariana left the folded baby things and let the blanket fall back into position. She did not wish to intrude further on the privacy of this unknown woman—but thankfully she would wear some of the fine garments her unknown benefactor had left behind.

Laramie pulled his horse up in the shadow of the tall spruce and slipped silently to the ground. He left his mount ground-tied and moved stealthily through the trees. It would be impossible to hide his tracks in the snow—but he knew the area well. No outsider ever came to the hidden springs, and his own gang members were presently more interested in staying by the warm fire than venturing out.

He was in no danger. But the party he had plans to meet had to be a bit more cautious. He would not be welcomed should he be spotted by any of the other members of the camp, or by the sentry on duty. For that reason, Laramie hoped they would not be seen.