Carla Kelly (48 page)

She had no plans to stop at the Knights on her return to the canyon on December 27. It was easy enough to sidestep the matter in her letter and assure them that she would visit in the spring. She hadn't counted on Mr. Auerbach's telegram to Jesse Knight, which meant the Knights met her at the depot and climbed on board for brief hugs and kisses. The conductor on the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railway knew better than to argue with a major stockholder.

Concentrate on your magazine
, she told herself after the train stopped in Thistle to take on two helper engines for the steep climb. Even a
McCall's
short story about a nurse who found her long lost lover on a battlefield in Cuba couldn't blot out the sight of snow towering on either side of the tracks. After nerve-wracking stops and starts, the train finally pulled into Colton, where the spur to Scofield was waiting. Knowing an equally frightening part of the climb lay ahead, Della asked herself again why she had turned down Mr. Whaley's perfectly good offer of full-time employment in Menswear, which paid more than teaching. It also guaranteed nothing more frightening in transportation than a streetcar platform outside the store.

“Oh, well,” she grumbled, gathering her handbag and wondering where the conductor had put her suitcase.

“ ’Tis here in my hand, Butterbean.”

Startled, Della turned around and could not help her sigh. “Owen. What are … ?”

There he stood in the door of the railroad car with Mari Luoma's suitcase.

“Were you worried I would change my mind at Colton?”

“Nay, lass. You're solid and brave. I just didn't want you leaving deep grooves in the armrest because the canyon scares you.” He came closer. “And you're welcome to slap me silly. I've seldom given anyone worse advice.”

“Count your blessings you haven't relatives like mine!” she said, the sting suddenly gone.

“Not only did the bishop send me specifically to retrieve you, but also a large box of supplies for the school from Samuel Auerbach.”

“On this train? We have a benefactor.” She followed him from the train. “Mr. Auerbach even offered me a full-time job in Menswear so I wouldn't have to get on this train. Oh, and I bought you four shirts with the extra money Sister Knight gave me for your carved boxes and which I knew you wouldn't have accepted, because you'd see it as charity, and she sees it as Christmas generosity.”

He turned around and stared at her, then shook his head as though to clear it. “To think I missed your scattershot conversation. Start over when we get on the branch line.”

She did but not until his arm was around her, his overcoat ready in case the sight of more towering snow unnerved her. “I haven't decided if I'm more afraid when I can see the snow, or when I can't see it and imagine it taller.”

“It's tall.”

She scrunched down involuntarily, and his arm tightened around her. As he gripped her close, the train started with a lurch. She turned her face into his overcoat, and he started to hum a slow, drowsy version of “Take Courage, Saints, and Faint Not By the Way,” which made her burrow in closer and shut her eyes.

The train started with fits and starts, and moved slowly. “How bad was it?” he asked after a few miles. “Might as well tell me what happened.”

“Some of it was good,” she said, reluctant to admit how awful her relatives were. “Miss Clayson and I visited with Kristina Aho and Pekka. They're doing ever so well. Miss Clayson is my champion.”

“I didn't expect that,” he told her, genuinely surprised.

“Here goes. It won't make you happy.”

She told him about the dinner party and the guests’ rude comments about miners.

“And you defended us,” he said.

“We both defended you. Aunt Caroline was at her rudest, and Miss Clayson stood up for me. There we were, trudging to a streetcar platform, thrown out of the house, and Mr. Auerbach and his wife took us home. Miss Clayson went on to Boise, and I stayed with the Auerbachs and worked in Menswear during the Christmas rush.”

“Della, you do manage to land on your feet, no matter what happens. I'm impressed.”

Funny she hadn't seen it that way. She relaxed. “I have no plans to ever return to the Anderses’ house.”

“Wise.”

“The Knights said I am always welcome in Provo. I'll leave it at that for now.”

“Then I'd say you weathered a bad time with true grace, and a certain entrepreneurial spirit. You made yourself indispensable in Menswear.”

“I suppose I did. Made some money too.”

He laughed softly. “You're a Welshman's dream.”

She couldn't have heard him right. She swallowed and her ears popped. It was the altitude, she decided. “I brought back your Anders carving. Wasn't about to cast pearls before those swine. Could you nail it over my bedroom door?”

“A bit grandiose, but why not? I'll do it tomorrow.” He made himself more comfortable. “Now tell me about the shirts. Sister Knight did what?”

Della sat up and rummaged in her handbag, pulling out the envelope. “Here you are. Sixty dollars. Aunt Amanda wanted to give you an extra ten dollars, because it's Christmas. I told her I would buy shirts instead, since I know Menswear.” He was warm and her eyes started to close again. “I bought you three white shirts, and a blue and white pinstripe because I liked it and thought Angharad would too.”

“Three white shirts? Why on earth?”

She listened for some condescension or irritation but all she heard was genuine curiosity. “I thought it would be good for next June's Eisteddfod. Choir secretaries are supposed to think like that.”

“I suppose they are, Butterbean. But three?”

She sat up to look at him. The light was going fast in the winter's darkness and the lamps weren't lit yet. “Owen, don't let me embarrass you, but I've noticed that you tend to sweat when you sing. Not always, but when you sing with Richard Evans, you sweat. Not when you sing with me, though, or Tamris or Martha, so I'm not certain what that tells me.”

“It tells me that you're observant, and that I always feel a little inadequate when I sing with Richard. Such a voice he has. Three shirts was probably a good idea. Collars too?”

“Certainly. I told you I know Menswear.”

“Aye, you did,” he said, his voice gentle.

He hesitated then. She tensed, sleep forgotten, knowing too well that expression. “What happened?”

“It was a bounce in Number Four.”

“A bounce?”

“That's what they call it here when the mountain settles. We put little wedges at the top of the timbers. Even before a bounce, the mine can settle and pop out the wedge. It's an early warning to run.”

Della felt the familiar prickles down her back. “Who was it this time?”

“I hate to tell you … our best bass, George Grover.”

“Oh, no,” she murmured. “Bessie and Will are in my second and third grades. Is he … ?”

“Aye. The wedge popped out and hit him, a freak accident.” He shifted restlessly.

“What of Sister Grover? My students?”

“She took George to Springville for burial and moved yesterday. Her family's there. Bishop has a key to the school, so he got their pens and slates from your classroom. I'm sorry, Della.”

They were both silent then, the silence almost as painful as the sterile atmosphere in the Anders house.
What is happening?
she asked herself.
The mine is taking my students too
.

here was so much she wanted to ask, but the train came to a sudden stop, which made her gasp and clutch Owen's coat.

“Steady now,” he soothed. “I'll see what's wrong.”

He went into the next car while she looked out the window, shuddering to see the mounds of snow crowding so close to the tracks.
Solid I may be after holiday eating
, she thought,
but brave I am not, Owen Davis
. She longed for him to return, even though he was just in the next car.

He came back and looked for his gloves on the seat. “There's snow all over the tracks. Make yourself comfortable. We're going to be here for a while.”

The crew and few passengers were two hours shoveling snow off the track, as the cars grew colder and colder. Della shivered and shook. She dug in her suitcase and took out another pair of wool stockings, pulling them on because no one was in the car. She added a second petticoat and tried to draw herself into a little ball. When that failed, she started walking up and down the aisle, desperate to keep warm.

“I think we're going to be here tonight,” Owen said when he came back in. He sat next to her, took off his gloves, and put his bare hands inside his jacket under his armpits. “I'd never be a railroad man!”

A few minutes later, one of the railroad crew came through the nearly vacant car, handing out blankets. “Stay close to each other,” he warned.

Della took the three blankets he handed them and spread them around Owen, tucking the side closest to the window under his hips while he shivered. She pulled back the blankets and sat close to him.

“You know, you didn't have to come to Colton,” she chided.

“No. I could have left you to freeze to death alone in this car.”

“No one's going to freeze to death,” she said in her best teacher's voice. “Are all Welshmen so dramatic?”

“I fear so.”

Gradually, they warmed each other. Owen yawned and closed his eyes. “I'm no gentleman. I'm tired. Good night.”

Her comment, “No gentleman? You shine better than most of the men at Uncle Karl's dinner,” met with a mumble, more silence, then even breathing. She settled herself into sleep, doing her best to overlook the creaks and groans from the cars, the occasional hiss of the engine, and the fright that the entire canyon was going to send an avalanche of snow their way that would bury the train until a long overdue thaw in 1950.

A loud groan made her gasp, and she was convinced that the train was about to be buried under an avalanche. She shook Owen awake. “Don't you dare sleep when I am certain we are dying!” she implored.

He stared at her in utter disbelief, then laughed. She slapped the side of his head. “I mean it!”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he said, and grabbed her hands.

“You're on my bad side right now,” she raged and then burst into tears, thoroughly embarrassed at waking up a defenseless man just because she was frightened.

He spoke to her in Welsh then, pulling her close, his lips on her hair, as she sobbed, crying every tear she hadn't shed in Salt Lake City because she didn't want her principal to know how unprofessional she was, plus all the tears unshed during her visit with the Auerbachs, when she was determined to keep up his opinion of her.

“Just cry,” he whispered. “Cry it all. You have stupid relatives who should be put in a vault and tossed in the ocean.”

She took him at his word, sobbing into his handkerchief and then another one he pulled out when the first one was soaked. When he took out a third one, she stopped and dried her eyes, curious now.

“Why on earth do you have three handkerchiefs?” she asked, humiliated when she started to hiccup.

“I have four, actually,” he told her, as calmly as if this happened to him every day. “Your Mr. Auerbach sent
me
a telegram addressed to Owen the Welsh woodcarver, Winter Quarters, Utah. All it said was,
Della's coming December 27. Rough time. Wolves for relatives
. That's why I'm really here.”