Carla Kelly (14 page)

He was silent until they were almost at the ranch house. “Mr. Darling, you shouldn't speak to Mr. Otto like that,” he said.

“I know I shouldn't,” she agreed and then sighed. “James, it's not healthy to live in the middle of vermin. People get diseases.”

James shook his head. “Not here, Mr. Darling. No one ever gets sick.”

Of course you don't,
she thought in irritation.
Living at the Double Tipi has probably made you immune to all diseases.
”I'm a silly one, James, but I get nervous when mice run over my feet while I'm cooking.” James stared at her in amazement. “I told you it was silly,” she couldn't help adding.

Whatever dwelled in the can mountain must have gone to sleep, because nothing stirred as they walked inside. She froze when a mouse on the table leaped onto the clothes pile and disappeared within, but she said nothing.

She was pleasantly surprised when James went to the washstand just inside the door and washed his face and hands. His ablutions were too brief to even be called perfunctory, but the effort counted in her eyes. There was no towel on the rack, so he shook himself dry like a dog.

“We'll have hot water tomorrow,” she assured him.

“What for?” he asked, with a final shake.

“For your face and hands,” she answered. “Don't you…?”

“No, Mr. Darling,” he replied, “but it does sound like a nice idea.” He shivered. “Will I like it?”

Again there was that lump that wouldn't go down in her throat, the same one that had bothered her when she thought of Mr. Otto eating canned peaches day after dreary day. “You'll love it,” she assured him. “Show me where your room is.”

James yawned and then indicated a candle high on a cracker box shelf. On tiptoe, she reached into the shelf, praying that nothing would leap out and complicate her life. In a moment she found a matchbox next to the candle, extracted one match, and lit the candle. James took it from her and started toward the arched doorway. Each room connected to the next without doors.

It was her turn to hold his hand and follow him. They walked into a room with shadows so deep she could not see far beyond the candle flame. There appeared to be a chair or two, and possibly several saddles. The smell of leather predominated.

“Is that the parlor?” she asked, whispering for no reason other than that the place was so silent.

“I don't know what a parlor is,” he said.

“Where people sit in the evenings, listen to a Victrola, read the paper, and talk,” she replied, surprising herself with a sudden longing for Mama's warm parlor. The only carpet here seemed to be a buffalo robe that almost tripped her.

James walked with the sure step of someone who knew the location of every obstacle. “Mostly Mr. Otto just sits at the table in the kitchen,” he told her. “He reads sometimes, and then he falls asleep there.”

The room led into the next one, which belonged to James. There was no door on the room beyond, but she assumed it belonged to Mr. Otto. The wood on the walls was better milled than the kitchen, with its shabby log walls. Mr. Otto or his father must have added on rooms when the need arose.

James lit a kerosene lamp beside his bed with the candle, and blew out the smaller flame. Carefully he leaned the candle against the base of the lamp, watching it to make sure that the wax did not drip. “Mr. Otto says I am to be careful with fire,” he explained as she watched him.

“You are quite careful,” she agreed. “I'll tell him how well you did that.”
If he ever speaks to me again,
she thought.

The better light of the kerosene lamp revealed walls covered with newspapers and posters from Buffalo Bill Cody's frontier shows. On one poster Annie Oakley, “Little Miss Sure Shot,” aimed over her shoulder through a mirror to hit a target, while elderly Indians in feathered bonnets chased a stagecoach in another. Several fliers of wanted men decorated another wall, and a calendar, the picture torn off, graced a spot where the newsprint wallpaper was peeling. She was prepared to disapprove, but as Julia looked around while James removed his trousers, she knew any boy would like a room like this one.

When she looked back, James was sitting up in bed, watching her expectantly. She was pleased to see that the bed had sheets and several blankets. She smiled back at him. “Do you say a bedtime prayer?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Mr. Otto always reads to me,” he said, and pointed to a magazine on the cracker box that served as a bureau.

She picked up the magazine, pleased to see that James’ socks and underdrawers were folded neatly in the cracker box. And it was a book, not a magazine, but in tatters and brittle, with the covers torn off and threads dangling to indicate a section of the volume missing. “Goodness,” she said as she carefully turned to a page where a simple strand of beads with a feather tied to the end marked a place. “I will have to be careful, won't I?” she asked.

James nodded and lay down. Julia perched on the bed and began to read. The story was unfamiliar to her, a tale of Cavaliers and Roundheads and fleeing into exile with Charles II. The story was old-fashioned, quaint even. The pages ended before the story did, so she looked at James, wondering what to do. His eyes were half shut, so she gently closed the book.
It's a wonder what turns up on a place like this,
she thought, remembering Grandmama's tales about traveling in a wagon train to Deseret and finding books, picture frames, and high chairs jettisoned beside the road when the trail grew steep. She thought that the Double Tipi must straddle some portion of the old trail; maybe that was where the book had come from.

“I just make up an ending each time. That's what my father always did for me.”

Julia looked over her shoulder at Mr. Otto, who was leaning against the frame where the door would go, if there had been a door. “Something with more pages would be nice for him.”

“I tried that, but for some reason, he likes that half story.” Mr. Otto shrugged and straightened up. “He's been here three years, but I still don't understand how James's mind works.”

You're probably wondering how mine works too,
Julia thought in sudden contrition. “Mr. Otto, I'm sorry I spoke to you like that in front of your men,” she whispered. “I was rude.”

“You were, but you were right,” he said and motioned to her to follow him.

She followed Mr. Otto back to the kitchen, squaring her shoulders for the scold she probably deserved, no matter how much the kitchen had distressed her. She should never have embarrassed him in front of his men.

He seemed in no hurry to reprimand her but stood in the kitchen much as she had earlier, looking it over. He cleared his throat and looked at her over his shoulder. She steeled herself for his rebuke.

“Actually, Darling, they did clean it up. You should have seen it before.”

She laughed, relieved that he wasn't angry and also amused by his droll delivery. “No wonder Mrs. Marlowe insisted on adding to the contract,” she said. “She must have suspected something.”

“She hasn't been here,” he protested, but there was humor in his voice now. “I suppose she knows ranchers … maybe just men … better than you do, Darling.”

He looked around some more. “Willy Bill will sprinkle rat poison around the storeroom,” he said, gesturing toward the pantry. “I have some mouse traps we can bait and put here and in your room, if you wish.”

“That's a good idea.”

“If I promise James a nickel apiece for each mouse or rat he disposes of, he'll keep you safe from predators.” Her employer chuckled. “And probably break my bank account. Darling, I'm sorry it's a mess.”

“I'm sorry I made such a fuss,” she said in turn.

“So we don't need a cat?” he asked, hopeful.

“We need a cat,” she repeated.

He made no comment but opened the door when someone kicked it. He stood back while the Irishman and Doc carried in her trunk, with the valise perched on top. “In there, boys,” he said, indicating the door to Julia's room. “Darling, this is Matt Malloy, and this is Doc. I forgot my manners in the bunkhouse.”

She smiled to the men as they passed her, carrying the trunk, and took the valise off the top. “Rocks in here?” the Irishman gasped as Doc tipped the trunk to get it through the doorway.

“Cookery books,” she replied.

Malloy flashed her a wonderful smile. “In that case, m'dear, we'll carry it twice farther, if you wish.”

You're charming,
she thought as she watched them.
You're just like every other Irishman who whistled and rolled his eyes when I took the trolley to South Boston or Roxbury last year.

The men left, leaving Julia amused at the glare Mr. Otto fixed on Matt. “Please don't worry about Mr. Malloy,” she said, trying not to smile. “I have utter confidence in my ability to resist him. And now, sir, good night.”

He stood up then and followed her to the door of her room. “Little River slept on the floor, so the mattress was hardly ever used. It'll do.”

She opened her trunk and removed a set of sheets. “I think I will be fine now, Mr. Otto,” she hinted, but he wasn't paying her attention. While she watched, the sheets in her arms, he picked up the pillow and frowned.

“I have a better one in my room,” he said, starting for the door. “And blankets too.”

“But I can't take your…” she called after him, but he was gone. “If you insist,” she murmured under her breath as she made the bed. “I wonder how much of this year I will ever dare tell Mama.”

She was smoothing down the top sheet when her employer returned with an armload of army blankets and a pillow. He set them on the room's one chair and pulled out a blanket, spreading it over the bed. “You'll want at least two now, I think. The nights are pretty cool. I'd leave the rest for winter.” He held out the pillow. “I don't use this one on my bed anymore.”

She took it from him.
I can't imagine why your wife fled the charms of the Double Tipi,
she thought. He seemed determined to make sure she was warm enough.

“We got two lots of blankets at auction when Fort Laramie closed twenty years ago. Is that lace?” He was fingering the row of crocheting around her top sheet.

“Crocheted lace. Mama insisted that I learn,” she said, shy again. “I was sixteen. I crocheted everything in our house with a plain surface. It got so Papa wouldn't bring home his ledgers from the bank.”

It was a lame joke, but he grinned and pulled on another blanket, tucking it under the mattress. “When I was sixteen, my Pa had been dead a year, and I was running this place. We'll be up early to move those cans because we still have to check the fence. Stuff some rags under the door at the bottom so the mice don't just run back in here. Good night.”

“Good night to you,” she said after she heard him going down the hall to his own room. She tucked the pillow under her chin and reached for her pillow slip, unable to overlook the slight fragrance of bay rum.

She put the pillow at the head of her bed and rested her hand on it. An extra pillow, breakfast and dinner from cans, and a beautiful cooking range ruined by ill use—Iris, an inveterate romantic, would deduce that Mr. Otto had endured a difficult time.
I will be a good cook, Mr. Otto,
she promised.
If you cannot be happy, at least you can be well-fed.

ulia was closing her eyes when she heard the coyotes howl. The sound had never bothered her, and she would have slept then, except that James began to cry. Julia sat up in bed. It was more than tears; it was a lament that raised the hair on her neck. She thought of what Mr. Otto had said about James just showing up at the ranch during a cold February.