Carla Kelly (32 page)

That should have stung, but it didn't, considering her current wealth of remorse. “You could be right. It's just that I've always been a Mormon and…” She couldn't go on because it was almost more introspection than she wanted to bear at the moment.

“ … and maybe you take it for granted? I can understand that.”

Put that way, she could too. “Maybe I do,” she replied, her voice soft.

Julia decided that Mr. Otto was entirely too comfortable. She sat up straighter and brushed at her dress. “I have hay everywhere,” she murmured.

“It's a barn, Darling.”

Mr. Otto stood up and held out his hand to her. She took it and let him pull her to her feet. She kept the quilt around her shoulders. “Is that … that man still in the house?”

“No. The boys, uh, escorted him to the bunkhouse. I think the plan was to offer him a bucket of cold water to rinse the gravy out of his hair.”

“Oh, goodness! He needs hot water for that,” Julia said, waiting while Mr. Otto picked up the lantern.

He held it high and gave her a searching look. “Julia Darling, that's far nicer than I would be.”

“Hot water,” she said. “Just because that man is a—I shouldn't say what I'm thinking—he still needs hot water to get out the grease.” She managed a smile. “I can forgive.”

“I believe you can,” Mr. Otto replied. “You realize, of course, that is more than Pierson is capable of.”

“I know. It's okay.”

They walked to the ranch house together. Julia dipped out the water from the Queen Atlantic's reservoir, and Mr. Otto gave James the bucket to take to the bunkhouse. She turned her attention to the stack of dishes someone had placed by the sink.

“Need some help?”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but no. Washing dishes clears my head.”

“That's a relief,” Mr. Otto said. “I never cared much for dishwashing.”

He just looked at her then, making no comment. She knew her employer's expressions well enough by now to know that he was mulling over something.

“I'll get James to bed while you do kitchen patrol. When you're done, go in the parlor and take a seat. I have something you will find interesting.”

“Your company ledgers?” she asked, getting more hot water from the Queen. “I did promise to help with those.”

“They can wait. This is an entirely different matter.”

“Is it legal?” she teased.

“That's not the issue,” he assured her. “I think I can trust you with something.”

r. Otto was sitting in the parlor when she finished the dishes. He was looking down at what looked like a page from the Bible, his lips in a tight line, lost in thought. Julia watched him from the doorway for a moment, curious.

“Darling, I have something to show you,” he said when he saw her.

She dried her hands on her apron and took the parchment-thin scrap from him. “Looks like someone tore a page from a novel.”

“Read it.”

She did, pulling the lamp on the end table closer to the scrap. “My goodness, this is scripture, isn't it?”

“It seems so to me, even though the sentences run straight across the page and there aren't any numbers of chapters or verses. Does it sound familiar to you?”

Julia turned over the scrap, running her eyes down the page, which seemed to have been wrinkled from water damage, at the very least. And there it was, underlined: the same sentence someone had scribbled on the scrap of paper she had found in Mr. Otto's Bible: “For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same being, even God, for all the substance which we have?” She looked up, a question in her eyes.

“I've read the Bible cover to cover any number of times, trying to find where this page fits, and it doesn't. It's not from the Bible, is it?”

“No, it isn't. Mr. Otto, it's from the Book of Mormon. I don't remember where, though.”

He seemed startled. “You've read the Book of Mormon, haven't you?”

He had her there. “No, I haven't.” Julia didn't want to look at the surprise on Mr. Otto's face. “I mean, I know it must be true. I'm a member of the Church.” She looked down at her hands, embarrassed. “That sounds awfully lame, doesn't it?”

Apparently Mr. Otto was inclined to charity. “Maybe a little, but I think I can understand. You've grown up around Mormons and it's just something you must have accepted.”

He was right. But listening to him try to explain away her misdemeanor made it an even bigger error.
Why haven't I ever read the Book of Mormon?
Julia asked herself. She managed a rueful smile. “Mr. Otto, you don't need to make me look better. I should have read the Book of Mormon before now.”

“Winters are long here, Darling. Maybe you'll take the time,” he suggested generously, which only made her squirm even more inside.

“Maybe it's neither here nor there,” he continued, taking the page from her and smoothing it with his thumb and forefinger, almost as a museum curator would treat a rare treasure. “Call me an idiot, but I've based my life's conduct on that sentence. If that one sentence is so good, think what else there must be inside that book.”

He was just warming to his subject; Julia could tell he had been thinking about it for a long time. He turned over the page and pointed to another place. “I mean, look at this!”

He read it to her, but his eyes were on her more than the page, and she knew he had memorized it. “‘Believe in God; believe that he is, and that he created all things, both in heaven and'—I can't read the words here. They've been rubbed away or something. But here, something I can't read, then, ‘of your sins and forsake them.’ “He put the page in his lap. “I just wish I knew more.” He brightened. “Now I know it isn't in the Bible.”

She nodded, dismayed at her own ignorance. She was no more use to Mr. Otto than the itinerant preacher. How pleasant it would have been to yawn, excuse herself, and go to bed, leaving him with his mystery.
I daren't do that,
she thought, and then realized she wanted to know more too, even if it meant exposing even more of her appalling density.

“Mr. Otto, where did you get this?”

“From my mother. It was one of those things she brought along when she married my father and they left the reservation to homestead here.”

“Your mother?” Julia asked, puzzled. “How did an Indian woman come by this?”

Startled, Mr. Otto looked at her. “Darling, you've been laboring under a misconception.” He shrugged. “Not that I ever really said anything.” He put the page on the end table. “My mother was not an Indian.”

“But you look—” She stopped, embarrassed.

“Like an Indian? I certainly do, but the Indian was my father.”

Julia stared at him. “I don't understand. You said your mother came from the Wind River area. And those two Indians who came on the roundup with you? I know you called them your cousins.”

“They
are
my cousins, at least, in the Indian way.” Mr. Otto propped his boots on the low table in front of the settee. “Better get comfortable, Darling. I have quite a story for you.”

She made herself comfortable on the settee next to Mr. Otto, tucking her legs under her.

“Where to begin?” he asked the ceiling, gazing overhead with his hands behind his head. “My father was Peter Otto, a Cherokee from North Carolina. In 1838, the Cherokee got the edict from Washington to move west to what became Indian Territory—you know, Oklahoma. Some of the families, my father's among them, hid out in the Carolina mountains instead. They avoided that Trail of Tears.”

“I've heard of that trail,” Julia said softly, not wanting to disturb his story. “In 1838, the Mormons were evicted from their homes in Missouri. Not their choice, either.”

“Life's not so fair, is it?” he asked. “Gradually, the people in the mountains returned to their holdings in North Carolina, and the government left them alone. During the War Between the States, Pa joined the Confederate Army.” His expression was distant. “We know how that ended. After Appomattox, Pa went home to burned-out ruins and then headed West for a new life.”

“Goodness. That had to be difficult,” Julia said.

“Thousands were doing exactly that. Pa ended up working for the Union Pacific Railroad. Somewhere around Washakie, he met my mother. She and her mother and sisters were washing dishes for the rail crews. She was awfully shy and would barely ever raise her eyes to look at anyone.” He stopped, lost in thought for a moment.

“Her mother and sisters?”

Mr. Otto spoke several Indian words. “Those were their names.”

“Keep going,” Julia urged.

“Well, one day as Pa was leaving the cooking car—the railroad hauled it along—he made sure he was the last man out. He put his hand under her chin and made her look at him. Darling, she had blue eyes.”

“My stars,” Julia breathed. “Her mother and sisters were—”

“Shoshone. They had brown eyes like mine.” He took a deep breath. “I've never told anyone this before. Pa specifically kept it quiet.” He put his hand on her arm again. “You'll understand why.”

He put his hands behind his head again. “Pa was full of questions. All he could figure was that she had been kidnapped by the Indians and raised as one of them. It happened occasionally.”

“I've heard stories.”

“Pa didn't have a chance to say or do anything because that was the last he saw of her. The railroad crew moved on, and he stayed with the UP until Promontory Summit.”

“Golden Spike, 1869,” Julia said. “We studied that in school.”

Mr. Otto laughed, ruffled her hair with his hand and just as quickly put it behind his head again. “He was at loose ends and not so enamored of Mormon society—he called them rather standoffish.”

“Ouch.”

“Railroad crews were rough, Darling. I don't blame your bunch. He wanted to find that Indian girl who probably wasn't an Indian, so he headed into the Wind River Country. By then, the army had established Camp Brown at what was the first Indian agency for the Shoshone, I suppose. Pa was good with horses. He had gone from laying track to wrangling horses for the UP. Anyway, the army hired him to do the same thing at Camp Brown.”

“And he found your mother?”

“Obviously. I'm here. Ma's parents were highly protective, at least, until it became easy to see that Ma and Pa were falling in love. Then they told him one night how Ma came to be with the Shoshone.”

“Kidnapped from a wagon train!” Julia said, her eyes wide. “This is so romantic.”

“I still say you've been reading too many dime novels,” he teased. “Remember how I told you her name was Child Walking?”

Julia nodded.

“Her father and a small party of Shoshone found her all alone, just walking. The snows had come early that year, and there she was. There wasn't anyone else around. They did what any sensible people would do and took her with them. Saved her life, I don't doubt.”

It was Julia's turn to prop her feet on the table and lean back, lost in thought for a moment. “Oh, it just can't be,” she said finally. “Do you have any idea when this was? Does your … did your mother remember anything?”

“Ma remembered her name—Mary Anne Hixon.”

“Oh! That's your middle name, isn't it? I remember it from that silly contract.”

“You're right. She didn't know how to spell it, though. When Mama spoke English—we usually spoke Shoshone when I was growing up here—she had a slight accent. Not an American one, either. I never could place it.”