Carla Kelly (33 page)

“Surely she remembered something else!” Julia exclaimed. “How old was she?”

“I think she was somewhere around eight years old. She remembered traveling with little wagons with no horses, but she never wanted to talk about it. She said it pained her to remember that hard journey. She remembered days without food, and then some of her brothers and sisters and her mother died.”

“Wagons with no horses … oh my, Mr. Otto.”

He sat up, alert, his eyes on her. “When the Shoshone got her back to their lodges and took her shoes off, that little page of scripture was stuffed under her foot, as though to keep the cold out. She said there used to be more pages, but gradually they disappeared.” He picked up the page almost tenderly. “Darling, she was a Mormon, wasn't she?

Julia nodded, unable to speak for a moment. She looked at the page in his hand. “Mr. Otto, I think she must have been with one of the handcart companies that tried to get to the valley in 1856.”

He handed her the scrap of scripture, and Julia held it: a tiny link between a child lost in a storm to the people of the Salt Lake Valley she knew so well. “Mr. Otto, there were two companies who left too late from Iowa and got trapped in the snow, probably not too far from that central part of Wyoming. They suffered terribly through early snows, but the remnants made it to Salt Lake.” She looked at him, feeling sudden compassion for a lost child she would never meet. “Mr. Otto, you belong to a Mormon family somewhere.”

He shook his head and took back the page. “Mama did, not me. That was a lot of years ago. But you really think that was how she came to be there?”

“I'd be willing to wager my princely salary,” she said, silent again as the greater implication took over and left her quiet, thinking. “But did your father and mother never try to find out?”

“They were both afraid that if they really found out where she belonged, someone would demand her back.” He stood up then, as though the anxiety of such a tragedy was fresh in his heart, and paced the room, finally stopping in front of her. “It happened. Mama had seen it. Someone traces a white child to an Indian village, and the child is taken away, whether she wants to go or not. Mama didn't want that to happen. She loved her Shoshone family. And remember what my father knew about the army uprooting a peaceful people in the Carolinas and sending them west to die on a Trail of Tears.”

“They weren't about to take that chance, were they?” Julia asked softly.

“Not if they could help it. After I was born, they really didn't want anyone to know Mama's possible origins.” He sat down again. “You remarked when you came to the Double Tipi how hard it was to see the turn-off.”

“I understand now. You three made yourselves pretty small here.”

“We did.”

They were both silent then, Julia absorbing what she had just learned. She glanced at Mr. Otto. He was leaning forward now, resting his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. Impulsively, she put her hand on his back. He stiffened and then sighed.

“I wanted to tell you this earlier, maybe just as soon as I hired you from Salt Lake, but you can understand my hesitation, I hope. I wanted to see if I could find my relatives somewhere in the world. I belong to the Shoshone. Our ties of kinship aren't blood ties always. I want to know who
all
my people are.”

She patted his back but remembered herself and removed her hand. “It's safe to find out now.”

“Who's to say what would have happened, though, if my parents had gone searching? Neither of them had any reason to trust soldiers or settlers.”

Just then the clock on the whatnot shelf chimed twelve. It roused Mr. Otto from his contemplation of the floor. “Morning comes early around here.”

Julia was amazed at the power of one sentence. “That one page governs your life?”

“I nearly forgot, until you reminded me with the tar paper.” He smiled. “You know by now that I've taken in a lot of beggars and strays. Been one too.”

You took me in too and kept me when any other boss would have turned me off after warm liver salad or gravy on a guest,
she thought. “Mr. Otto, let me write to my father and tell him your story. It's quite possible he can find your Utah family. Maybe some of the Hixons survived the handcart tragedy.”

He frowned. “I'll need to think about that.” He looked at her then, his shyness back. “Would you loan me your extra copy of the Book of Mormon? That one good verse can't be the only useful one.”

“You were interested earlier, and I brushed you off. I'm sorry I did that.”

“We didn't know each other too well, did we?” His expression turned serious. “And after your treatment tonight by that son of a … that preacher … I can understand a bit of caution on your part. I don't have a lot of time to read, but I can begin.”

I can too,
Julia thought. “I'll give you the book, if you'll think about what I suggested. Your Hixon relatives might not be as hard to find as you think. My father likes a challenge.”

“I'll think about it. How about this? Let's go to Cheyenne this Saturday, and you can find that church of yours on Sunday.”

She took a deep breath. “I will, if you'll come to church with me.”

He drew himself up. “Of course! You don't think I'd let my cook wander around Cheyenne without an escort! Darling, I wasn't born yesterday.”

“Mr. Otto, I have to ask: why did you decide to tell me this now?”

“Simple, Darling. After you dumped that gravy on the preacher, I got an inkling about what your church means to you. My story is safe with you.”

r. Otto was as good as his word. On Saturday, he made her saddle her own horse while he watched, just to assure himself that she could, and they rode to Gun Barrel. Julia would never admit that the journey taxed her rump to the outer limits, but he must have suspected because he helped her down carefully once they reached the livery stable.

He checked his pocket watch at the depot. “I have time to send a telegram to Heber Gillespie—the Sunday School superintendent—and let him know we'll be arriving this afternoon in Cheyenne,” he told Julia. “He wanted you to stay with his family tonight when we talked earlier.”

“Not much warning, is it?” she commented.

“He's expecting you,” he replied, setting down her valise by the ticket window. “Two for Cheyenne,” he told the agent.

“Mr. Otto, I can pay my own way. I mean, you're doing
me
the favor.”

“I think this is covered in one of those clauses in the contract,” he joked. “Gotta keep the cook happy.”

She already knew how futile it was to argue with Mr. Otto, so she waited inside the warm depot while he went a few doors down to send the telegram. He came back with a few minutes to spare and a sheaf of letters, most of which he stuffed in his valise. The rest he handed to her.

“You have a substantial literary following, Darling,” he said as he helped her up. “Sore?”

She winced. “That's the farthest I've ridden before.”

“You did well.”

Funny about receiving a compliment from Mr. Otto—she beamed almost from ear to ear like James, or for that matter, like Matt Malloy.
I don't think I seek your approval,
she told herself as they settled in the train.
I like it, though, because I generally know I've earned it.

With a final call from the conductor and a lurch, they started for Cheyenne. Julia itched to opened her letters—one from her parents, one from Iris, and one from her Sunday School teacher—but it wouldn't be polite to do so in front of Mr. Otto.

“Read ‘em, Darling,” he said after the locomotive built up a head of steam and the train settled into its rhythmic clatter. “I don't mind.”

Mr. Otto stretched out his legs and settled into his well-worn seat, turning his attention to the view outside the soot-covered window. She looked as well. There was even less snow on this side of the pass, even though the wind bent the sagebrush and rabbitbrush.

“Dry winter,” Mr. Otto commented, a frown on his face. “Means a dry summer coming up, and nobody likes those.”

She barely heard him, deep in her letter from Iris, written the same way she wrote letters now: a page here, the interruptions, then another page, usually dated a day or two later. She finished one page, a description of hog butchering—”I threw up,” Iris wrote—and started on the next.

It took whatever dignity she possessed not to let out a whoop with the news that followed.

“You're kicking my foot,” Mr. Otto commented.

“Sorry! I couldn't help myself,” she said, putting down the letter and then picking it up again to read the same paragraph over. “Mr. Otto, my little sister is in the family way!”

“I'd say that's worth a kick in the boot. Congratulations to…”

“Iris Davison,” Julia said, reading the paragraph again. “She married a dairy farmer out in the wilds of Draper. It had to be true love, because Iris doesn't much care for animals bigger than cats.”

“I doubt he makes her do the milking.”

“Well, no.” Julia put down the letter. “Mr. Otto, I'm going to be an aunt!”

“Or maybe an uncle, if it's a boy,” he teased.

She kicked his boot on purpose. “You're the limit, sir.” She looked at the letter. “She must have just found out. By the time I finish my contract here, my niece—or nephew, thank you very much—will be about a month old.”

“You mean you're not going to stay here and sign another contract?” he joked, his hand to his heart in mock surprise.

“I don't anticipate falling in love with Mr. McLemore,” she teased back. “Besides, you saw the look on his face when I served him warm liver salad. My heart is safe, sir, and I already can't wait to be an aunt.”

Mr. Otto just smiled, amused by her enthusiasm, and pulled his hat lower on his forehead. In a minute, he was breathing regularly. She returned to her letters. Mama's letter was written later than Iris's and in much the same vein; Mama was looking for flannel for diapers.

The rest of Mama's letter was more prosaic: Christmas preparations coming up, the ward choir sounding no better than usual, troubles with mice deciding they needed a warmer venue for the winter than the woodshed.
Oh, Mama, if you could see
my
mouse problem,
she thought, turning the letter over for Mama's postscript.

It didn't surprise her, not really. “Guess what? Ezra Quayle is engaged. She's a quiet little thing from Murray,” Mama had written. “Probably won't give him a speck of trouble.”

Julia put the letter in her lap, surprised at her feelings—part of her grateful she had given him back the engagement ring, and the other part thinking of Iris's good news as she wondered about her own future. She picked up the letter again. “This will make you laugh, Jules—everyone says they are perfectly suited to each other, just as they used to say about you!”

She finished the postscript, smiling at Mama's last comment. “Jules, I'll probably have to repent of this, but I took a look at her engagement ring. It's the same one you gave him back!”

Of course it is, Mama,
Julia told herself.
Ezra is practical.

”The expression on your face doesn't look quite like good news.”

Surprised, she glanced up to see Mt. Otto watching her. She returned his gaze, thinking again how nice he looked. He had spent some time in the bunkhouse after dinner last night and she wondered if Doc or Matt had trimmed his hair and mustache.