Carla Kelly (12 page)

Something about the land pleased her. She swallowed several more times to clear her ears and then yawned, even though it seemed so unladylike. A deep breath brought her the heady resin smell again and the earth itself, the odor of sand and leaves and rocks heating and cooling for millennia. Mingled with that was the slightest fragrance of bay rum and wood smoke from her employer. “Nice,” she said out loud. Mr. Otto looked at her and smiled but made no comment. She noticed that he was still smiling when he turned his head to watch the team again.

“Mormons marry in the temple so they can be with their family members forever,” she said quietly. “We believe in doing special work in the temple for our kindred dead so we can be united with those who have gone before.”
So there,
she thought, and then swallowed.
Please don't make fun of me.
” If we're baptized, live right, and keep covenants, we can live forever with those we love. “ She was too afraid to look at her employer. “You weren't asking impertinent questions, Mr. Otto. I just get … shy about it.”

He nodded. “Too many people say too much cruel stuff, like those yahoos in the restaurant?”

“I suppose,” she agreed.
And maybe I don't know as much as I should, Mr. Otto,
she thought.

Her explanation must have satisfied him. He nodded to her and relaxed a little more, even though his posture was as dignified as ever. She listened for the river again and realized that it was farther away now; they were climbing again. The road leveled out and then rose slightly once more. She clutched the wagon seat when Mr. Otto suddenly pulled up the team and made a sharp turn to the north on a smaller road she had not noticed.

“I didn't even see that,” she murmured in surprise.

“You're not the first to miss it.”

As best as she could judge, they continued another quarter mile and then broke into a valley. Mr. Otto had straightened up even more and leaned forward with a look of anticipation on his face. She watched him with delight. He must have seen the place thousands of times, yet it still had the power to command all his attention.

The view before her made Julia pause and draw in her breath, too. The ranch buildings were to the north of the road, across the river, which now flowed in the distance, flanked by cottonwoods. She noticed the corrals, the horses in the meadow directly west of a tumbledown log shed, and the general air of disorderly order that she was familiar with from visits to her brothers, who ranched and taught school in southern Utah.

Mr. Otto edged forward in the wagon seat, his back even straighter.
I wonder what it would be like to have someone look at me like Mr. Otto looks at his ranch,
she thought as she contemplated him.
If Ezra ever had, I would be married by now.

He stopped the wagon and pointed. “House. Outbuildings. A smokehouse and an icehouse. Milk keeps pretty well there until August.” He pointed at what looked like a privy, newly built, to the west of the shed with the leaning lodge poles. “The gents thought you might like your own.”

She laughed, more amused than embarrassed. “How kind.”

“Corrals, barns, the usual.”

She knew it wasn't the usual, not with all that pride in his voice. She looked behind her. “A person could ride right by on the road and not even know this was here,” she marveled.

“That was the idea, Darling,” he said as he started the team. “You're observant.”

He occupied himself with the horses again, which had picked up speed as they came closer to the horse herd. “That's the bunkhouse. Oh, criminy, they were supposed to haul away those cans.” A veritable mountain of cans rose beside the bunkhouse. “It was our only defense against Little River,” he said, apology evident in his voice. “Probably not time to move it now, before we bring down the cattle. We'll do it after.”

She looked but could not tell which of the buildings was the house. Mr. Otto stopped the team in the middle of the horse herd with no other intention she could see than to admire his animals. He spoke to them in a language unfamiliar to her. To her delight, the horses started slowly toward the wagon.

“Do you ride, Darling?” Mr. Otto asked, reaching out to a buckskin, who whinnied and nosed his hand.

“Sometimes.”

“We'll find one of these hay burners that won't give you fits. You'll probably want to visit Alice Marlowe now and then.” He frowned and sighed, owning another problem that she was not about to question. “I think I still have a sidesaddle.”

There was nothing to say to that artless admission.
I can change the subject,
she thought,
and what a perfect time to do so.
” Mr. Otto, I wish you would tell me something about your ranch hands, “ she said.

“Didn't I tell you about them?” he asked in surprise.

“No, sir.”

He laughed. It was a quiet sound, but one of the horses by the wagon stepped around in a nervous circle. “I have only four right now,” he said.

“For so much land?”

“All I need. My land is fenced now. The high country's still free range. We generally just ride fence. We ride to the high range in a week or two to bring down the steers. I'll hire more hands for that and then more for the spring roundup.”

But not Mr. Rudiger,
she thought.

“Malloy is my general all-around hand. He's from Ireland and usually says what he thinks. I suppose you could call Doc my foreman, although I've never dignified him with a title.”

“He's a doctor?” she asked. “Is he the one who set Mr. Marlowe's leg?”

“And mine two years ago, when I thought I was still young enough to break horses. I leave that to Who Counts now.”

“What?”

He gestured. “See those lodge poles leaning there?”

She looked where he pointed, mindful that Mr. Otto had not answered her question about Doc.
I will just have to learn what he considers prying and what is not,
she thought. “Lodge poles?” She looked more closely, noticing the thin poles that reached well above the roof.

“My cousin leaves ‘em here when he's at Wind River. My cousin Dan Who Counts. He'll be here in a week. Likes his own place when he visits.” Mr. Otto gave the reins a slight jiggle. “Let's see. Malloy, Doc … oh, Willy Bill, and Kringle. He's from Germany and doesn't say much, but he'll be your worst critic, if the food isn't just so. And…” He rose from the wagon seat, looked around, and then nodded toward the bunkhouse. “James, over there.”

She couldn't have mistaken James, who was jumping up and down and waving both arms. “He's enthusiastic,” she commented. “And he has a first name?” She looked closer. “He's so young!”

“Only has a first name, far as I know.” He looked at her. “I suppose you want to know more.”

“Of course I do!” she exclaimed.

He winced and then looked at the sky. “All I wanted was a cook. You're going to make me talk, aren't you?”

“That is the silli—” she burst out but then stopped. “Yes, I am, sir.”

James had stopped waving now. He started ambling toward them in an awkward gait that reminded Julia of the Clawson's son in her Salt Lake ward. He had that same bright smile that made her smile back.
You're such a hard man, Mr. Otto,
she thought,
and here is this child.
She folded her hands in her lap and looked at her employee for explanation.

He stopped the wagon again, obviously wanting to talk before James arrived. “He wandered onto the place about three years ago. He was eight, as near as Doc could estimate.”

“Heavens!” Julia looked at the boy as he came closer, in no hurry, and not afraid of the horses milling about. “Didn't he have—?”

“Parents?” Mr. Otto shrugged. “I don't know. No one ever claimed him, and we advertised. It was February. Doc didn't think his feet would ever heal.”

A lump grew in Julia's throat so big that she thought her employer would see it if he were looking at her. He was looking at James, who had stopped to pat a horse. Mr. Otto was even smiling.
So you probably carried him everywhere and took care of his most basic needs, didn't you?
she thought. “What a lot of work for you,” she managed finally.

“I suppose. He's a little vague at times, and the only song he knows is ‘Sweet Evalina.’ “

Julia laughed, remembering the old love song from her glee club days.

“It's the only song I know. Hello, James. Did you behave yourself while I was gone?”

The boy was standing by the wagon now. He held up his arms and Mr. Otto picked him up and sat James between his legs. The boy wiggled until he was comfortable and then leaned back against Mr. Otto.

“I was good,” he said, holding onto the reins just behind Mr. Otto's hands. “Matt teased me, and I didn't cry.”

“Good. Ranch hands don't cry. James, this is Julia Darling, my cook. You'll be hauling wood and water for her.”

“And she'll make stuff we like to eat?” he asked Mr. Otto after the merest glance in her direction.

“What do you like, James?” she asked.

He frowned then. “I don't know, Mr. Darling,” he admitted finally. “Mostly we eat out of cans. There's something else?”

I'm going to cry right here,
Julia thought. “I … think so,” she said.

“What would I like?” He asked Mr. Otto, tipping his head back to look at Julia's employer.

“Pie, maybe,” Mr. Otto said.

“I can do much better than mere pie, James,” she assured him. “Miss Farmer doesn't hold with pie too much.”

“We'd settle for pie, Darling.” Her employer stopped the wagon.

“Maybe you
would,
if you hadn't hired a graduate of Fannie Farmer's Cookery School,” she said, pleased to be on safe ground again. The lump was smaller in her throat now. She leaned toward the boy. “It's Miss Darling, not Mr. Darling.”

Mr. Otto spoke in a quiet voice. “I don't think he understands the difference, Darling. That's probably what he'll call you.”

“Mr. Darling it is, then,” she replied. She took her attention from James and looked around when Mr. Otto nudged her shoulder.

“My house.”

He had stopped the team in front of the old building with the lodge poles leaning against it. “This is … it?” she asked.

No doubt about it; the house had looked much better from a distance, even picturesque. Julia swallowed and tried not to stare. She peered closer, unable to figure out what it was made of. She thought it was logs, but if it was, they had been smoothed and chewed on and burned in spots. Someone had tacked smashed cans onto the logs. National Biscuit Company boxes hammered up by the door overflowed with tools and shoes and all kinds of ranch detritus.

Dwarfing even Mr. Otto was another mound of cans beside the door. Only a few flies buzzed around now. She put her hand to her nose, not wanting to think how bad it must have smelled during the really hot days of summer. There appeared to be no other entrance. Words failed her completely as she stared at the place where she was to work for the next year.
That's 365 days,
she thought, suppressing a groan. Fifty-two weeks.

Her eyes still on the ranch house, she let Mr. Otto help her from the wagon seat. She knew he was watching her, but she could think of nothing to say.

Julia let Mr. Otto lead her to the door. She stared at the mountain of cans and then shrieked at a scrabbling noise from somewhere in the depths of all those tins and moldy food.

James whooped. “Rats, Mr. Otto! You said they were gone!”

Her employer picked her up and carried her through the doorway. The window was so fly-spattered that most of the light came from the open door. She stood still in the middle of the room where Mr. Otto deposited her.

“Sit down, Darling.”

She glanced where her employer pointed to a chair draped with a hide and shook her head. “I'll just stand here,” she told him.

Julia stared at the kitchen, at the mound of clothes piled in one corner; at an entire wall full of calendars with women her father would have charitably called “interesting”; at the table that looked an inch thick in grease; and at the sink piled high with crockery. She took a step, crunched something underfoot, and vowed that she would never move again. Bloody ropes dangled from the rafter overhead. Her breath started to come in gasps.

Her employer yanked down the ropes. “It's a handy spot to leave them during calving season,” he muttered. “Guess we forgot to take them down.” He had the grace to be silent as he tossed them toward the piles of clothes. Something else rustled under the pile. Julia shuddered and pulled her dress tight around her ankles.

“I … thought … didn't you tell Mrs. Marlowe that your hands cleaned up the kitchen?” she asked at last, but it didn't sound like her voice.

“They did!” he assured her. “Welcome to the Double Tipi. There's the range. What's for dinner?”