Unbridled Dreams (44 page)

“What in tarnation were you thinking?!” Cy Matthews bent to examine Blaze’s leg. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to hear it. In fact,” he said, standing upright and putting both hands on his hips, “I don’t want to hear anything from you.” He grabbed the lead rope. “I need some light to check her over, but if we start hauling lamps out here it’ll spook her even more. Let me get her into her spot next to Diamond. He’ll calm her down some, and then maybe I can get a better look. I’ll come find you when I have something to say.”

Belle knew she’d done the right thing to rouse Cy and have him come right away. You didn’t just ignore a limp and hope it would get better. But it wasn’t easy being the brunt of his temper. Especially when Belle knew that his anger was justified. She could scarcely keep from bursting into tears right there in front of him. As it was, she barely made it halfway to the tent she and Helen shared before she began to blubber. Afraid of waking Helen, she followed the gravel path she and Momma had walked together not three weeks ago, but instead of stopping at the bench they’d shared, Belle headed for the grove of trees where she ended up sitting beneath a towering oak, her knees drawn up, her head down, her mind numb.

Belle woke with a start just as dawn was coloring the eastern sky. For a moment she was disoriented and wondered how it was she’d come to sleep beneath a tree, but then it all came back. As dread clawed at her insides, she made her way to Blaze’s stall. The mare seemed all right. Her leg was wrapped, but she didn’t seem to be in a lot of pain.

In spite of appearances, Cy’s report wasn’t good. In fact, it was horrible. Blaze had a bowed tendon. Cy explained that, while she would recover and probably be a great saddle horse, she would never stand up under the demands made of Wild West horses. And as for trick riding?

“Never gonna happen,” Cy said. He spit a stream of tobacco juice and swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not that I didn’t already tell you that a few hundred times.” He stomped off.

By breakfast it seemed that all five hundred people in the Wild West had heard about Liberty Belle ruining a potentially great horse.
You’re imagining things,
she told herself, when people seemed to be whispering and looking her way. But she wasn’t imagining the fact that Shep didn’t have breakfast at all and Helen was unusually quiet. And she wasn’t imagining Mabel Douglas’s passing up their table to go and sit with Ned Bishop. Not that she missed Mabel Douglas’s company. But it was hard to be snubbed by the least-liked person in the troupe.

As the day went on and people continued to give her the cold shoulder, Belle grew increasingly defensive. So much for Sunday Joe’s sermons on forgiveness, she thought. Hadn’t any of them been listening to him? When she mentioned it to Helen, Helen wasn’t sympathetic.

“What you’ve got to realize, honey, is that the very existence of this Wild West depends on healthy stock. You know how well the animals are treated. And mistreating an animal isn’t taken lightly.”

“I didn’t mistreat Blaze,” Belle protested.

“Yes. You did. You asked too much of her too soon. That’s mistreating. She trusted you more than anybody, and you let her down.”

Belle swallowed hard. “Doesn’t everyone know I already feel horrible enough?” She let a tear slide down her cheek.

“Oh, now,” Helen said, “it’s not the end of the world. Folks’ll come around. Just give ’em time.”

So Belle gave them time. She kept her head down and worked hard. She begged Cy to show her how to tend Blaze. She was meek and quiet and didn’t make any trouble for anyone. And it didn’t make a bit of difference. Not even with Shep.

Willa’s back was so sore that, instead of bending over to pick up the broken pieces, she had to kneel on the kitchen floor. And somewhere between picking up the last bit of broken china and trying to scoop up a lump of oatmeal, she started to cry.

The tears kept flowing as she got up to throw the china into the wastebasket and clean the last bits of oatmeal off the floor. And just when she didn’t think she’d ever be able to stop, Otto began to cry, too. Sitting there at the kitchen table with a towel spread across his shirt like a giant bib and bits of oatmeal staining his goatee, Otto wept.

Willa turned her back on him. She gripped the sides of the sink and leaned over and listened to his sobs, but she could not bring herself to move. Finally, the chair he was sitting in scraped across the floor, and she heard him grunt with the effort of standing up. Then she heard his cane fall and hit the floor. She started at the sound and turned around, and there they stood, staring at each other across the kitchen. Finally, she bent and picked up the cane and handed it to him. He took it and just stood there as tears washed down his cheeks and collected in his beard.

She knew she should encourage him not to give up. She should say something about how much better he was doing. And he was.

She should tell him she knew he was sick of oatmeal and remind him that it wouldn’t be long until he could handle other kinds of food. Dr. Sheridan had told them that only this morning. She should wipe his face and help him to bed. She should do all of those things. But instead, Willa untied her apron and hung it on the hook beside the back door. She opened the door to the porch, stumbled into the nearest chair, and wept. And wept. And wept. And when her sobs had finally been reduced to sniffles, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

And that’s where she was when something woke her. She looked toward the front gate, where a woman was lifting the latch and heading up the path to the house. She moved with a stride that spoke of an energy Willa had lost somewhere in the haze of the long hours and endless chores.

The woman strode up onto the porch and held out an envelope. “Vesta McKay,” she said. “That there’s from Dr. Sheridan himself. I’ll wait while you read it.” She walked to the edge of the porch and stood, staring toward the horizon.

Willa read Dr. Sheridan’s note. Vesta McKay, he said, was the very woman he had had in mind when he suggested Mrs. Friedrich hire help. As it turned out, Mrs. McKay had already been called to attend to the needs of another, a woman experiencing her twelfth confinement. A healthy boy had been delivered and both mother and child were well, so Mrs. McKay had returned to North Platte, and the doctor was taking the liberty to send her over. He hoped Mrs. Friedrich would forgive his doing so without checking with her first, but he was confident she would be pleased if only she would give Mrs. McKay an opportunity to prove her excellent nursing skills.

You are fast approaching a state of exhaustion that alarms me. As
your physician, I urge you to accept the services of this fine woman.

When Willa said nothing after reading the note, Mrs. McKay spoke up. “I’ve been led to believe that you would benefit from the services of a nurse. I also do cooking and cleaning for my families. I pride myself on flexibility, Mrs. Friedrich. And I might also mention that I’m the soul of discretion.”

Willa brushed the hair back out of her face. “I-I’m afraid I don’t know what to say.” She looked down at the note. “I was just . . . Earlier I was thinking that perhaps I should have . . .” She shook her head. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. McKay. I’m not myself.” She swallowed and just barely prevented a new onslaught of tears. “I appreciate that you come very highly recommended, but Mr. Friedrich is a very private man, and—”

“There are no
but
s in the McKay creed, Mrs. Friedrich. There is loyalty and friendship. Otto Friedrich helped my dear Ira—may God rest his soul—when none other in the whole of Lincoln County would, and it’s a joy and a pleasure to be called upon.” She smiled, and for the first time Willa noticed the woman’s clear blue eyes. “I’m thinking what you need is little more than a good night’s rest. You look like you haven’t slept in a month of Sundays, dearie.” Her chin trembled with emotion as she said, “Dear Ira McKay was a brawny man, but when the lockjaw took him down, he was a babe for a while. I know what you’ve been dealing with, Mrs. Friedrich. Men like Ira and your Mr. Friedrich don’t make it easy for those who love them when they’re forced to accept help. You’ve had it hard, I’m thinking. God bless you for being a faithful wife.”

God bless her? For what? For coming here out of duty? For leaving
Otto standing in the kitchen with oatmeal in his beard? For giving
up? For running out on him just now?
With a trembling hand, Willa handed Dr. Sheridan’s note back to Mrs. McKay. “You’re hired,” she croaked. “When can you—”

“Why, I’ve come to stay right now, Mrs. Friedrich.” And Mrs.

McKay nodded toward the gate. Just the other side of it there was a box, and atop the box, a bag of some kind. Both appeared to have been tied shut with twine.

Willa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Could it be this easy? Was God finally going to answer some of those prayers she’d uttered? Somehow, Willa thought yes. And with the inner
yes
came a fresh crop of tears.

“Come now, dearie,” Mrs. McKay said, and held out her arms. “The Good Lord padded me shoulders for just such times as these. Come have yourself a little cry.”

Belle felt the first sign of having been forgiven for her selfish behavior on the day Mabel Douglas went back to being herself, taunting and teasing Belle about everything from her propensity for jamming up whatever treadle sewing machine she used to losing every cowgirl race she was in. Belle had developed a thick skin when it came to Mabel’s digs, and after the last week of whispered comments and avoidance, it was almost validating to have Mabel be rude again.

One day when Belle was rubbing Blaze down and Ned Bishop walked by, Belle stood up and called him over. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “For what I did that day. I shouldn’t have said that in front of everybody. Even if I was right.”

“Which you were,” Ned said. “About the mare’s needing a light hand.”

Belle swallowed. “It doesn’t matter now. Not after—” She shrugged. “I just . . . I’m sorry.”

Bishop nodded. It was an awkward interchange, but it made things a little better between the two of them, and Belle was grateful.

But even though things were easing up a bit, they still weren’t the same. For one thing, Helen didn’t trust her anymore. She didn’t say it in those words, but it was there in the way she wanted to talk over every move of their act before they rode into the arena together. “Just making sure we’re both ready,” she would say. When what she was really doing was making sure Belle didn’t try anything new and risky. As if Belle would ever do that again. She had learned her lesson.

Not having Helen trust her was hard, but not having Shep around was almost unbearable. He wasn’t rude, and he’d stopped avoiding her, but it was as if someone had erected a wall between them. Sometimes when they were in the dining tent or when they were working at the stables at the same time, Belle would look up and see Shep watching her. He’d have this look in his eyes that she didn’t know how to interpret. It was terrible to be the fool who’d ruined a good horse, and hard to have lost Helen’s trust, but Shep—losing Shep was breaking her heart.