Carla Kelly (44 page)

We are all of us conspirators,
Julia told herself as she prepared two more egg-soaked slices for the griddle. When everyone was full, she joined them at the table as Mr. Otto—hesitant at first, looking at her for encouragement, even—told her parents about his mother. Mama even took his hand during part of the narrative when he faltered. Julia's heart was full.

“That's where I am,” he concluded. “Your daughter wanted to write you about this weeks ago, but I wasn't so sure and asked her not to.”

“Why?” Mama asked.

He told Mama of their fears his mother would be discovered and forcefully returned to her Mormon family at the expense of the Shoshone, who loved her too. Mama and Papa were silent then, thinking. He turned to Julia's father. “Mr. Darling, could I impose on you to help me? I know you're a busy man and—”

“I have time for this,” Papa interrupted. He started to say something else, but the clock in the dining room chimed. “My goodness, we forgot to say Merry Christmas!”

Mama looked startled for a moment, as if wondering how Christmas could still come when Iris was only a few days in her coffin.
Please, God, don't let her think of it,
Julia begged silently. Mama took Mr. Otto's hand again. “Merry Christmas to you,” she said, with no hesitation.

“And to you, dear lady,” he replied simply.

“Have you ever celebrated Christmas before?” Julia asked him when her parents had left the room and she had cleared off the table.

“Not recently. Sometimes, if the weather wasn't too bad, we'd go to the Fort Washakie Agency and visit my mother's relatives.” He put his hands on her waist, moved her from the sink, and stood in her place. “I'll wash because you know where everything goes. Missionaries were usually there—I can't remember from what church—and they opened up barrels their congregations back East had shipped to the poor, ignorant Indians. That was us.” Mr. Otto smiled. “Got my first pair of suspenders from a missionary barrel.”

“We've really had different Christmases,” Julia said.

“That's almost minor, compared to how different we are,” Mr. Otto replied, handing her another plate to dry. “I look around your house, I walk your city streets, I hear a telephone ring—do we have
anything
in common?”

“I guess I never thought about it,” Julia replied.

“That plate's dry now,” he reminded her, and she blushed. “Well, that was never in the contract, was it?”

“Our differences?”

“That, or maybe our similarities.”

She put down the dishcloth and just looked at him. “My stars, do we
have
any?”

His hands deep in dishwater, he thought a moment. She could see his complexion going a bit ruddier than usual, so she knew she had put him on the spot. “Yeah, we do,” he said finally. “We both love James. And I think we both love the wide open spaces.”

“I do love James,” she said, swallowing to keep back the tears that seemed so close to the surface since Iris's death. “Wide open spaces?”

He took the dishcloth from her and dried his hands. “I think so. Were you even aware, after that weekend in Cheyenne, when we were on horseback again, that you gave a really loud sigh after we left Gun Barrel? I do that all the time when I leave Gun Barrel, and it's not because I'm missing the saloons and stupid bankers there. I'm just glad to be where there aren't too many people.”

She had to smile. “Maybe you're right.” She draped the dishcloth over the back of a chair. “You know, when you and the men were gone on the fall roundup, I'd wait until James was asleep and then go down to the river, just to listen to the water. Maybe I do like the solitude there.”

“See? We have a few things in common. Are you coming back to the Double Tipi because of James?”

She knew the answer to that one. “Not really. I made you a promise when I signed that contract.”

“Miss Darling, that whole contract was a joke, and you know it,” he said firmly, with a touch of that steel in his voice that commanded respect from most people in Wyoming.

“Was it?” she asked. “I don't take promises lightly. You have my allegiance until September of next year.”

“What then?” he asked softly.

I go home, where the people I am really like live,
she thought.
Is that it?
“I'm not sure what happens next.” She sat down at the table and Mr. Otto sat too.
I really can't lie to my boss. Not this one, anyway. He'd see right through me.

“Mr. Otto, do you realize you have read more of the Book of Mormon than I have? I've dabbled at it through the years, but you've invested yourself in one verse.”

“Two or three now. I came here because of chapter eighteen,” he reminded her.

“I need to find out for myself what this church I have belonged to for years and years is all about. You're reading and putting me to shame.”

“It's not a contest, Darling,” he told her.

“I know that! But doesn't it strike you as strange that I'm the one who should know more, considering my advantages, but you're the one who actually
lives
it? You read a scripture—heavens, the scrap of a scripture—and you govern your actions by it.”

He sat back and went into what she had come to recognize as his Indian mode: looking impassive and thoughtful and completely the keeper of his personal views.

“I'm no paragon, Darling,” he said finally, when she thought he would not speak. “That matter of the Rudigers—your kindness to them reminded me how much I had forgotten that I was a beggar too, and we all needed to help each other.” His expression turned wry. “I haven't been a paragon at all. Let's leave it at that.”

Mr. Otto watched her face. There was so much she wanted to tell this good man, who probably had no inkling just how good he was. “You impress me, sir,” she said finally. “Maybe I want to be more like you. It's time I quit dabbling in the Church and figure things out for myself.”

“Can you do that at the Double Tipi?” he asked finally.

“Between now and September? We'll see.”

She heard a slight noise at the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room and glanced over to see her father standing there. His expression was thoughtful, and she wondered how much he had heard of their conversation.
Papa, I'm so imperfect. You thought you were raising a good Mormon daughter, and I know so little,
she yearned to tell him.

“Papa?” she asked.

“I wanted to remind you that we're going to the bishop's house for dinner,” he said. He held up his hand when Mr. Otto opened his mouth. “I've already called him, and he said of course there's room for one more.”

“I don't want to impose,” Mr. Otto said. “You had no idea I'd be showing up.”

“You're so sure of that?” Papa asked. “Where are you staying?”

“Downtown.”

“Not anymore. You'll stay here.”

“I really can't…”

“Don't argue,” her father said. “You and I will drop off the ladies at home after dinner. Then you and I will drive to the hotel, check you out, and retrieve your luggage. You're our guest, and I won't have an argument.”

Julia glanced at Mr. Otto and then at her father. She had never heard anyone talk to Mr. Otto that way before, especially someone like her father, who was the mildest-mannered person she knew.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Otto said promptly. “Maybe when we get back from that errand, we can sit down at the table here and strategize how to find my relatives.”

“You took the words out of my mouth,” Papa replied. “I have some ideas. When are you planning to take my charming daughter back to the wilds of Wyoming?”

Mr. Otto laughed at that. “Pretty soon. I've been away too long. And you'd not have thought her so charming if you'd watched her dump gravy on the preacher. She's pretty much a top sergeant at getting us to clean up our language and wash occasionally. She even banished all my calendars and back issues of the
Police Gazette.
She's a fearsome entity.”

Julia put her head down on the table and groaned.

“And I thought her mother and I were raising a lady,” Papa murmured. “She never tells us these things in her letters.”

“I'm about to declare the two of you certifiable,” Julia announced.

The men laughed, apparently in total agreement with each other. Julia tried to glare at them both, but all she could really see was a kind man bringing her shattered father back to life.
You have a deft touch, Mr. Otto,
she thought.

After dinner at the bishop's house, where Mr. Otto shared his stories of ranch life and kept everyone diverted, especially her mother, Papa drove them home and then took Mr. Otto to his hotel.

“Mama, I have to tell you, I never knew Mr. Otto to be such good company,” she said as they sat together in the parlor, looking at the Christmas tree. “He doesn't usually have so much to say.”

Her mother took her arm and leaned against Julia's shoulder. “I think he's making a wonderful effort to take our minds and hearts off Iris's death,” she said as matter-of-fact as if she spoke of the weather. “You are too, dear. Between the two of you, we don't have a chance, do we?”

Julia couldn't help her own sharp intake of breath. “Mama, I'm sure we didn't know we were so transparent.”

“Transparent, perhaps. Welcome? Completely.” She sighed, and the sound was ragged. “You're putting the heart back into me, Julia. So is Mr. Otto. I'm glad he came.” She patted Julia's arm. “I thought he might.”

Julia turned slightly sideways to see her mother better. “Really? Why would you think that?”

Her mother gave her a long look, as if wondering to continue. “Are you not aware that for the past few days, you go to the window each night, then turn slightly until you're facing approximately northeast? You miss him. Maybe he missed you.”

“Oh, Mama, I think I miss the Double Tipi, but that's all,” Julia said when she got over her amazement. “I had no idea you were watching me so closely! I thought, I thought—”

“I'm thinking of Iris to the exclusion of all else?” Mama shook her head. “No, dear. I'm mindful of all my children. Your being here has reminded me of that, and I'm grateful.”

“Mama,” was all Julia could say. They sat together, arms around each other, until they heard Papa's auto.

“Mr. Otto is so kindly giving my dear husband something to do,” she confided to Julia.

“Mama, remind me never to underestimate you again,” Julia said frankly.

“I need something too, Jules,” Mama whispered. “This is so difficult.”

Help me, Father,
Julia prayed.
Just a little help.

The answer came so fast that she held her breath, nearly overwhelmed. It was so simple. “Mama, I have an idea about that yellow yarn you were going to use for a baby afghan. Do you remember the Rudigers that I wrote to you about?”

Mama nodded. “Quite well. The lady who served you hot water and a mint twig?”

“Ursula Rudiger. I wrote you that Mr. Otto found work for her husband in Colorado. Would you … could you make that afghan for the Rudigers’ baby?”

Mama's lips trembled, but she nodded slowly. “When is she due to be confined?”