Dandelion Iron Book One (15 page)

He went on. “So Abigail has found peace at least, and the tears we cry, we cry for ourselves. We lost a fine woman, a true pioneer, tough as winter beef jerky, but sweet as spring wine.” His voice broke down completely and tears coursed down his cheeks. “She was the finest woman I have ever known.” And dang me, but if he didn’t smirk and say, “And as many of you know, I’ve known my fair share of women, so that is saying something.”

Sharlotte let out a hiss, loud enough for everyone to hear. My mouth dropped open. Last night he seemed so sad with Betsy, and today he was making a joke out of it in front of everyone, including Betsy. Right then, I thought maybe Sharlotte was right about Pilate.

He smiled brightly up at the sky. “Say hello to heaven for us, Abigail, or so the old song goes. Now, let’s get out of this goddamn wind.” Even after blaspheming, he crossed himself, as we all did—in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Breeze, Keys, and Aunt Bea did the final work, covering Mama’s coffin with dirt. The rest of us went inside, and it wasn’t long before the circus started. I got all the answers I could ever want about the cattle drive. It wasn’t Sharlotte’s plan, no way. It was Mama’s.

And what a plan it was.

Chapter Ten

There has been talk that the greatest battle women still have to fight is the battle against drugs and alcohol. I don’t think it’s the government’s job to teach temperance. I believe that such lessons should be learned in the home. However, from what I’ve seen, AA also makes for a wonderful classroom.

—Sally Browne Burke
On the 120th Anniversary of Alcoholics Anonymous
June 10, 2055

(i)

We packed ourselves into the house, and you couldn’t walk anywhere without stepping on someone. The Garcias took off to get spare tables and lanterns for the barn, so it was like we were throwing two parties at once. I didn’t get out there, but the Garcias would be good hosts.

I pressed myself into our huge kitchen, made tiny and hot by the ovens, bodies, and steaming platters of food on banquet tables. Everyone was touching me, saying sorry, and I found myself crying again from the kindness.

All my elementary school classmates showed up, the twenty-some girls and the three boys. Those boys looked like they always did: wind-blown from all the attention. People murmured it was a shame they weren’t viable—couldn’t talk about a boy without talking about that.

Speaking of which, Raymond Hitchcock held both his wife Malvina and their eleventh baby. He was viable and went to the ARK in Hays—got paid real well to do it, far more than he did for ranching.

Other than the Hitchcocks, everyone else had worked for Mama at one point or another. She’d hire on temporary help for big jobs, and then let them go right away. Mama believed in a small payroll, and those that did work for us steady were the best of the best. Except for Crete. The blonde girl’s smile had softened Mama’s heart.

At the end of one long buffet table, I grabbed a plate and started loading up. There was Aunt Bea’s tortillas and her pork green chili, two kinds, Juniper hot and Yankee mild, and a beef-macaroni casserole and big slabs of honey BBQ ribs along with big thick potato rolls that were like eating sweet, half-baked flour. Darla Patil brought her spicy Indian lentils and put it beside the Nayar family’s chickpea curries, aloo palak, and Tandoori naan bread that I have to say I liked as much as the potato rolls or Aunt Bea’s tortillas.

For dessert, a wide stretch of dark chocolate cake tempted us, and if you could say no to that, you couldn’t escape the pies, creamy and fruity, or the vanilla ice cream, fresh off the rock salt.

Back in Cleveland, I ate vegetarian, partly ’cause of the health benefits, partly ’cause I could never be sure where the meat came from. But for this meal, I went for it all.

I came out of the kitchen to see Pilate holding court in the parlor. He had hurried through the food to get to his cigar, one the size of my forearm. He loved his cigars and the coffee he’d sip from a stainless-steel travel mug he got from a Starbucks outside of the Vatican in Rome.

Wren stood behind his shoulder, also smoking a cigar. Sharlotte had propped open the window behind them, but it was still smoky. Folks braved the smog to listen to Pilate tell stories and flirt. I watched him get all kissy, wearing that priest collar like it didn’t mean a thing.

Still he made me smile, and I was doing my best to hate him.

Of course, everyone asked Pilate the questions he loved to not answer. “Is Pilate your real name?”

“Maybe. Just don’t call me Pontius.”

“What’s your first name, Pilate?”

He smiled all smart-alecky. “Don’t have one. Got it shot off in the Sino.”

“Should we call you Father?”

“Only if you have daddy issues.” Pilate winked and blew smoke rings.

People guffawed at that, including Sketchy, who laughed harder than all of us. Tech had left after the funeral and took Peeperz with her. Also, Petal was nowhere to be seen.

Annabeth Burton, our newest employee, sat down at the piano. Long, braided hair fell from a hard face, creased and wrinkled. You’d think she’d never smiled a day in her life. And yet, when her weathered fingers started pounding out an old-timey song, “Don’t Stop Believin’,” her whole face lit up like fireworks, exploding all pretty.

The singing started, and more people came over. Someone pushed a drink in my hand, a beer in a colorful ceramic mug. I was about to put it aside when I noticed Wren’s black eyes on me like magnets on gunmetal.

She sipped from her own mug, daring me to drink the beer.

Food filled my belly, so a little beer couldn’t hurt. I took a sip. The taste brought me back to when Daddy was still alive, before he got sick. When he’d score a beer in an aluminum can, he’d cherish it. Of course, Mama, being New Morality, didn’t approve of any sort of liquor, and Daddy had to sneak it, but he’d share it with me.

“Only a little,” he’d say. “A little beer and a little wine is good for you. Too much, not so much.”

I didn’t like the taste then, and I didn’t like it at Mama’s funeral, but with Wren looking at me, I took hold of my
shakti
and drank the whole thing. I would show her that while I couldn’t fight like her, I could drink like she did.

I wandered over to Pilate and asked, “Where’s Petal?”

He talked around his cigar. “She wasn’t feeling well, so I gave her some medicine and she’s resting up in Wren’s room.”

Still didn’t know what kind of medicine it was.

Wren found me without a drink and gave me a cup of hard cider just as Annabeth started playing an old country song, about callin’ someone darlin’, darlin’. It was funny, especially the part about her mama getting out of prison. The way Annabeth sang it, she made it even more funny and twangy. I never would’ve thought that tough old bird could be so lively.

Well, the cider tasted far better than the beer, and whenever my cup was empty, Wren was always around to fill it. Outside, dark and cold ruled the night, but inside, it was all lightness and happiness and sparkle.

We were halfway through one of Debra Alan Walker’s songs when Sharlotte came busting through, waving her hand. “Okay, Pilate, time for you and your wretched cigar to leave.”

“No, it’s not.” Wren’s voice came out low and smoldering.

I was drinking sweet Irish coffee, and by that time, my head was spinning around as fast as the tires on a steam truck. A blur later, I found myself on my feet. Kind of. I swayed, and Pilate righted me. Dang, if only he would’ve shushed me as well. “No, Sharlotte,” I said, “this is a party for Mama, and even though he might be a dog, Mama loved Pilate and she let him smoke in the house.”

Sharlotte’s jaws clamped shut like a bolt screwed down tight enough to strip. “I can’t believe you’re drinking, Cavvy. What would Mama say?”

I knew what Mama would say ’cause Sharlotte was saying it. I felt my scalp itch out of shame, and I turned red. I went to put my cup on the table, and I misjudged the distance. My Irish coffee hit the floor and made a big, brown puddle right on our good parlor carpet.

Sharlotte didn’t yell at me. She turned on Wren. “This is your fault. All of this is your fault.”

Wren waved a hand like she was batting away mosquitoes. “Aw, Shar, have you ever been anywhere where you didn’t ruin everyone’s good time? You’re like a party killer. Wanna break up a party? Don’t call Sheriff Lily. Call Sharlotte Weller.” She slurred every word.

“I’ll leave, Sharlotte,” Pilate went to sit up, but Wren pushed him back down, then turned on Sharlotte.

My sisters were locked in a death-match-combat-battle stare down.

“Tell these good folks your plan,” Wren said. “Mama’s buried. Now, to the business. You’ve wanted to keep it all a big, jackin’ secret, but I say it’s time everyone knew about the suicide you’ve planned for us.”

Sharlotte scowled. “This is not the time nor the place.”

“She’s right. Don’t do this,” Pilate added, but did that stop my sister? Hardly.

Wren swung into the middle of the room. Slutty-tight jeans hugged her skin, and her big sixteen-centimeter Colt Terminators were tied down in gunslinger holsters. Her blouse clung to her body, leaving nothing to the imagination. She was so strong, so sure of herself, so sexy. Right then, I wanted to be in jeans. I wanted to be that strong and confident.

Every eye fell on her, and Wren drank up the attention. “Sharlotte ain’t gonna take our headcount to Hays. She’s gonna take off for Wendover, Nevada, using a dirigible to re-supply and scout.”

The whole room tilted. I turned my head. The tilt worsened. I wasn’t sure I had understood all the words.

Malvina Hitchcock’s mouth fell open. “You can’t take your cattle west. You’ll die. All your headcount will die. The deserts alone—”

Sharlotte let out a yell, a gasp, some sort of noise. “Yeah, my Mama had the idea, and yeah, it’s gonna be a long shot, but all of you are livin’ with your heads buried in the sand. I talked with Dob Howerter himself, and he isn’t gonna let us sell our cattle for a fair price. He owns the market in Hays and all up and down the border. Mavis has her own buyer in the Buzzkill market or he’d own her too. Yankee lawmakers don’t care ’cause we’re only Juniper folk. So, we either sell our beefsteaks at prices that’ll starve us in the end, or we think outside the box.”

Betsy McNamara, matronly in her little bonnet, nodded. “Everything she’s sayin’ is the truth. Dob is done playin’ nice. He offered me a bid on my ranch. I ain’t got the hands to work what I have.…” Her eyes flickered over to Pilate, then dropped. “So, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna sign on with the CTRA.”

Other ranchers who’d joined Howerter’s association dropped their eyes. Yeah, we’d let them come to Mama’s funeral ’cause in a small town, you have to be friendly even to people who are spitting in your cobbler. Best revenge against them was gossiping anyway, which is another small-town tradition.

I tried to make sense out of it all, but I couldn’t. My stomach churned. Should’ve taken it as a warning.

“You give Dob a drumstick, he’ll take the whole chicken,” Sharlotte said, then stopped herself. Raised up her hands to do it. Wren had roped her good, but Sharlotte was all about controlling herself and as much of the world as she could. “But that doesn’t matter. We’re gonna run our cattle to Nevada. Mama got paper from some Sysco executive who’ll give us two dollars and seventy-eight cents per half-kilo.”

The gasp at the price point made Sharlotte pause for a minute.

She continued. “Even if you’re a member of Howerter’s ranching association you wouldn’t get that. So you keep selling your unqualified beef for eighty-six cents a half-kilo if you want. As for us, we’re gonna go for it. You’re all invited to throw in any headcount you want, and you’ll get better than fair-market prices. You have my word.”

Someone laughed meanly. “Hard to collect on all that money when you’re dead. You won’t make it halfway.”

“Prolly not,” Sharlotte whispered. “Gonna leave in a month. First of April.”

The way she said it, there wasn’t a single drop of enthusiasm or determination in her voice. Sounded like she was whispering bad news to herself.

Well, now I knew why she rushed the funeral and wanted us to get home so quick. We’d need to leave soon if things went wrong, so we wouldn’t get caught trying to cross the Rocky Mountains when autumn hit. It was thirteen hundred kilometers from Burlington to Wendover. If we were lucky, we’d hit Nevada in time for Fourth of July Fireworks. If we got unlucky, we’d never make it.

Now it was clear why the
Moby Dick
carried so much water. Cattle get thirsty trying to cross deserts. Even with all her barrels full, it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy all our cattle not even for a day, but then I imagined they had pumps, so they could find more water, and our headcount could drink in cycles.

Finally, it made sense that Sharlotte wanted to keep the drive west a secret. She knew we’d be the talk of the Colorado territory, and she had not wanted all of that sharp-tongued gossip at our good mother’s funeral.

Wren sure ruined that.

People were yelling now, about Dob Howerter, about Betsy being one more ranch to join the CTRA, and then about our mama’s crazy ideas.

“What about June Mai Angel?”

“What about a spring snowstorm? You’ll die!”

“What about the Wind River people? Goshdarn Union Pacific won’t run their trains through Wyoming on account of those savages.”

“Big deserts up North. Nothing to drink or eat for kilometers and kilometers. You’ll lose half your headcount. Naw, you’ll lose ’em all!”

“Ain’t no way I’d give you even a single yearling. No one will.”

“And even if you get your headcount to the SLC, the market is in Wendover. You’d have to drive them across the Salt Flats. Ain’t no way that can be done.”

“Like the gal said, you won’t make it halfway.”

Sharlotte was snarling mad.

Wren smiled, showing her pearly whites, loving what she had caused.

Wren’s smile had the same effect on Sharlotte that it had on me in Mrs. Justice’s office back at the Academy. Before anyone could stop her, Sharlotte grabbed a handful of Wren’s hair, and they were socking it out. Wren was too drunk to really make a go of it, and Sharlotte was so angry she could have beaten June Mai Angel’s army using nothing but the serving spoons out of Aunt Bea’s chili.