Carla Kelly (8 page)

“Turkeys look at the sky like that when it rains, and they drown,” was Mr. Otto's comment.

She laughed.

“Well, that's a relief,” Mr. Otto said as he tipped his hat lower on her head.

“I was afraid you'd blame me.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked, thinking of the ruin of her dress, a companion to the ruin of her hat, which was squashed under the windmill screw in the wagon bed, and the ruin of her hair, which sagged as the poof went out of her pompadour.

“I don't know. General principles?”

Her employer reached behind him for a yellow slicker and handed it to her. She pulled it over her shoulders, thankful for its slight protection against the cold rain.

“It's going to rain all night now,” Mr. Otto predicted. “Second thoughts, Darling?”

More like fifth and sixth ones,
she thought, tugging the slicker closer. “I'm beyond second thoughts,” she told him. “Is … is the Double Tipi close?” She could see nothing through the curtain of rain.

“Nope.”

That concluded the conversation for another mile or two. Julia told herself it was pointless to worry about whether they would find any shelter for the night. She hunkered down in the slicker and hoped that her crates and trunk were waterproof.
I'm no pioneer,
she thought.
Grandpa Haney would not be impressed.

“You're replacing Little River,” her employer said, startling her. He slowed the team. She looked for a road, but it was raining too hard. The incline in elevation became more pronounced, and she hung onto the wagon seat.
I'm glad he knows where he's going,
she thought.

“Little River?”

He shifted the reins to his other hand. “I don't know how the rumor started, but some wise … acres spread it around that Pa won Little River in a poker game. He didn't, of course. She came with my mother. You could call her my aunt.”

That explains it,
Julia thought as she waited for him to continue.
That explains your high cheekbones and your eyes that look black.

“What was her name?” she asked finally, when he seemed absorbed in more silence.

“My mother?” He said something soft and guttural.

“What does it mean?” she asked, fascinated now.

He hesitated a moment, and Julia wondered if she had committed another indiscretion.
He's probably tired of my questions,
she thought,
or maybe he's just thinking how to say it in English.

“Child Walking,” he finally said. “That's close and the best I can do.”

“What did you call her?”

“Ma,” he replied, and she could hear the amusement in his voice. “What do you think?”

Julia laughed. “I'm a dunce,” she apologized. “Did she speak English?”

“Some,” he said. “Mostly Pa and I learned Shoshone. Ma died when I was ten, and Little River became the cook. That was in 1886.” He sighed. “I can't believe I ate her food for twenty-plus more years.”

The rain pounded down harder, and his attention was taken up with the horses, which had begun to slip in the mud as they climbed higher into the pass. The sun wasn't all the way gone from the sky yet, but the rain thundered down, obscuring any view or landmarks. She heard her trunk slide in the wagon and wondered for a long moment if Mr. Otto had raised the wagon gate when they left Gun Barrel. “Did you—?”

“I raised it,” he said. “You don't think all this rain is going to hurt the bananas, do you?”

She laughed. “Mr. Otto, you're amazing. Bananas are like eggs,” she assured him. “They come in neat little packages. And those bananas are so green they won't be ripe until after it frosts, I think!”

The sun set, and still he continued driving the team steadily up into the pass, handing her the reins and getting out once to lead them. “There's a pretty sheer drop on your side,” was all he said when he climbed up beside her again and took the reins.

“Mr. Otto, I don't want to know!”

He only laughed.

Julia found herself staring down into the darkness. Every time the horses slipped, she sucked in her breath, closed her eyes, and waited to die.

Nothing happened, except that the rain pelted, and mercy, was Mr. Otto
humming
under his breath? Even though he was nothing more now than an outline, she turned toward him. “See here, Mr. Otto,” she demanded. “Am I the
only
one who is scared to death?”

He looked around elaborately. “Unless we picked up a drunk or two or a sporting lady in Gun Barrel, you probably are,” he replied, his voice as mild as though they discussed a weekly menu. “It's a waste of time to worry over stuff you can't do anything about. Save it for the really bad times. And by then, it probably still doesn't matter.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to let her know when things were at their worst, but he was tugging back on the reins now. “We'll be at the Marlowes in a few minutes,” he said as he turned the team. The horses quickened their pace without any command, and she cautiously allowed herself to relax.

“The Marlowes?”

“My nearest neighbors. The Double Tipi is not quite an hour away, but I think you've had enough.”

More than enough,
Julia thought. “Are you sure they won't mind?”

“Of course they won't mind. We never turn away strangers or wet people up here. Do you do that in Salt Lake City?”

“Well, Papa doesn't take in drunks or sporting ladies.” She tried to think when anyone had ever come begging to the house or needed a ride anywhere, but she couldn't.

My employer must be convinced that I'm an idiot,
she thought as Mr. Otto drove his team with some assurance down a road she couldn't see, toward a house that didn't seem to be there. She tried to peer through the rain and the gloom but saw nothing.

“The Marlowes have been here since aught five,” he said. “Marlowe was a sergeant of artillery at Fort Russell. He decided to stay.”

“Does he have a first name?” she asked, wondering if Mr. Otto would get the message.

“Max. His wife's name is Alice.”

Julia wanted to ask him if he called her Marlowe Number 2, but she refrained. She squinted into the darkness. Nothing. She sighed and pulled the slicker closer about her.
This has been the most miserable day of my life,
she thought.

“Alice will be glad to see you,” Mr. Otto said. He was pulling back on the reins now. “Do you smell the oats, boys?” he asked his horses as he set the brake. “Here we are.”

She looked around. She smelled barn odors, but there was no sign of anything. “I
thought
I had good eyes,” she said out loud, but more to herself than to her employer, who was coming around to her side now. She held out her arms to him, and he helped her down.

He took her arm, and she could tell they were on a path now. “I'll introduce you and then take care of my team,” he told her. “I think Marlowe heard us.”

Over this downpour?
she thought, and then watched as a door swung open. “There
is
a house here,” she said, feeling stupid when Mr. Otto looked at her in surprise. “Well,
I
couldn't see it.”

The man in the doorway spoke over his shoulder. “Alice, he went and did it! Come on in, miss. Alice! Bring a towel! Bring two!”

Julia needed no urging to come in out of the rain, even though she knew she had never looked worse in her life. The room was lit with the soft glow of kerosene lamps, but she squinted anyway. When her eyes adjusted, she looked around.

The room was not much larger than her bedroom at home, with a horsehair sofa crammed up under the one window and a Victrola next to it. Mr. Otto was even now brushing against a dining table, which filled much of the remaining space. Through an open door, she could see into a lean-to. Pans hung on the wall, so she knew it must be the kitchen. A shelf with books and a china shepherdess dignified the dining area, and somehow a rocking chair was squeezed between the table and the Victrola. It was tiny and crowded but impeccably clean. She groaned inside.
I am the dirtiest thing in this cabin,
she thought in dismay.

A woman came toward her, holding a towel in both hands. With a smile of welcome, she draped it over Julia's head and began to gently squeeze the water from her hair, all the while scolding Julia's employer. “Paul, shooting is far too good for you! What were you thinking? Why didn't you just get some rooms in Gun Barrel for the night? I'll be surprised if…” She paused and looked at Julia, her eyes kind.

“Julia Darling,” she said, her voice muffled by the towel that the woman was applying more vigorously now.

“ … if Miss Darling doesn't hop right back on the C&N tomorrow.”

“She did buy a return ticket to Cheyenne,” Mr. Otto said.

“Then obviously Miss Darling is too smart to cook for you and those bandits you call hands,” the woman scolded. “Is that better, my dear?”

Julia nodded, feeling an absurd urge to fling herself into the woman's arms and sob.

“Introduce us properly, Paul, and then you and Max give us twenty minutes.”

“Darling, this is Alice Marlowe. Alice, this is Darling, my new cook.”

“My first name is Julia,” she said. She stepped back in surprise when Mr. Otto took the towel that Max had handed him and wiped off her face. She wanted to protest when he tipped her head to one side and scraped away the mud from her ear.

“See there? That's why I didn't stay in Gun Barrel, Alice,” he said after he peeled several blades of grass from her cheek and stepped back. “She's already had one proposal in town and two offers of employment, but by Jupiter, I aim to have me a cook.”

The three of them stared at her—Mr. Marlowe thoughtful, his wife with a frown, and Mr. Otto with what appeared to be resignation. Mr. Marlowe was the first to speak.

“I see why you avoided Gun Barrel,” he said. He poked Mr. Otto in the ribs, a liberty she couldn't fathom. “You're a dirty dog, Paul! I didn't know you changed that ad to include ‘pretty.’ “

My stars,
Julia thought in amazement.

Her employer shook his head. “ ‘Mature.’ That was the word I used. M-A-T-U-R-E.” To her chagrin, he spelled it out distinctly.

“Paul saw an article about the cooking school in one of my magazines,” Alice said.

Tears welled in her eyes. Before Julia could embarrass herself further Alice Marlowe grabbed the towel from Mr. Otto and snapped it at the men. “Out of here! Now!”

They laughed and went out into the rain. Julia sniffed back tears, as Alice started on the buttons of her suit jacket. “What you need is to get out of these clothes. I'm afraid this lovely suit is beyond salvaging. It's starting to shrink. Let me help you wash your hair, Miss Darling. Please, may I call you Julia?”

Julia barely kept her tears to herself. In a moment the dress was off, her shirtwaist was unbuttoned and pulled down, and Mrs. Marlowe was helping her to the lean-to. Julia blew her nose. Alice poured water from the stove's reservoir, tested it with her elbow, and instructed her to lean over. In another moment, her hair was lathered, and Mrs. Marlowe was murmuring something comforting. Julia sniffed back her tears and got suds in her nose for her pains.

She didn't care. Alice poured warm, clean water over her hair. “I know I always feel better when my hair is clean. What lovely hair, Julia.”

“Thank you,” she said, pleased all out of proportion with the compliment.

Alice helped her skirt past the table and opened a door into the next room. Before she had time to be shy, the woman had stripped the clothes from Julia and pulled a nightgown over her head. “Now you get in bed, and I'll give you my comb.”

“I can't take your bed, Mrs. Marlowe,” Julia protested, even as she settled back against the feather pillow that the woman spread with a dry towel and propped against her lower back.

“Don't even worry about it,” she said. “I'll sleep here with you tonight, and the men can take the floor in the other room.” She smiled at Julia. “Actually, we should make Paul Otto sleep in the wagon under the tarp. Maybe that's even too good for him. What was he
thinking?”

Julia started to comb out the tangles. “It wasn't his fault it started to rain,” she said, surprising herself by defending him.

“I suppose not,” Mrs. Marlowe said, sitting on the edge of the bed. She leaned close to scrape a crust of mud off Julia's chin that had escaped the warm water. “Welcome to Wyoming, my dear.”