Ada's Secret (14 page)

Smells of Christmas filled the house as Maria roasted a huge baron of beef in the oven, and pumpkin and pecan pies cooled on the counter. A platter of cookies stood ready for Santa and a bunch of carrots sat beside the plate.

I heard one of the children ask, “Why are there carrots on Santa’s cookie plate?”

“Silly,” one of the other children answered, “Santa’s reindeer don’t eat cookies.”

Everyone ate until their tummies were as round as Santa’s. A taffy pull ended the evening, and one by one the exhausted children curled up on comforters that transformed the stone floor of the ranch house into a warm, soft bed for twenty children.

“Another beautiful Christmas Eve, Ada. Is everything ready for tomorrow?” Aunt Lettie whispered.

“Yes, they will have the best day tomorrow. Santa will bring lots of presents for each child, and there will be a wonderful dinner before we take them home. Aunt Lettie, Christmas has always been special because of everything you do for these children.”

“I get much more than I give,” Aunt Lettie said quietly. “Next year I will need your help again. Will you bring Patrick?”

“We will be here. I promise.” I said.

C
hristmas was over and January had started out snowy and cold. One evening I sat re-reading Patrick’s letter for the umpteenth time, and remembered all the good times we had together. Memories of the day we met and were married, Frank and Grace, church picnics, dinners at home, and days on the ranch all sweetly flooded back.  Suddenly, I found myself focused on a specific memory of our many trips to the hot springs.

***

“A
da, Ada, you gotta see this.” I remembered Patrick saying. His naked buttocks were shining in the late afternoon’s sunlight as he scampered up the hot springs path. The rocks there diverted the flow of the hot waters to form a waterfall to massage his broad shoulders and neck.

“Let me try,” I called as I darted over the soft pebbles of the spring bed. He stepped out of the whirling pool he’d discovered and let me sit under the waterfall. Since I was differently proportioned, the shimmering ribbon of water landed on my head. I thought it was hysterical, and we both laughed until our ribs hurt.

“OK, this is easy enough to adjust,” he said, shifting the stones. Absorbed in redirecting the flow, he was unaware that the rivulet had chosen another direction. His attempt to adjust the flow to my back had accidently sent it playfully and suggestively over my sensitive areas.

The effect was immediately stimulating, and he watched with a growing erection as the water flowed between my breasts and was channeled over my auburn hair-covered mound.

Seizing the opportunity, he sucked my firm breasts and then allowed the cool mountain air to delight my nipples. The teasing water shot ripples across my belly, and a mischievous fire lit in his eyes. Positioning my delicate bundle under the liquid’s warm flow, he excitedly watched it massage, tickle, and stimulate me.

Willingly he brought his firm erection between my legs and allowed the rivulet to excite his sensitive organ as it pulsed and throbbed past our private areas. This was a new experience for us both, and we watched the water as it flowed, enhancing our lovemaking. The sensation built until our bodies erupted in orgasm, pulsating in waves of pleasure. Lost in our new sensations and relaxed by the water, our bodies erupted in orgasm, pulsating in waves of pleasure. Panting from the physical exertion, we allowed ourselves to slip down into the pool where the warm, therapeutic waters released any tension that could have possibly escaped our ardor.

As evening was falling Patrick said, “There is something else you must see.”

“It’s getting dark, don’t you think we better get home?” I asked.

“There! Did you see it?” he said, pointing to the warm spring bank. “Look, there’s another one.”

I watched and searched the darkness for what Patrick was trying to show me. Suddenly, I saw a tiny light, then another, and as I looked up the bank I saw hundreds of miniature lights.

“What are they?” I said as I drew into his protective arms.

“Fireflies. Normally, you don’t get to see them in Colorado because the dry, cold winters kill them. The hot spring keeps them warm. No one knows they are here, but you and me. I have waited a long time to share this secret with someone special.

I watched with fascination as the little lights twinkled. I didn’t want to leave, but Sheba snorted impatiently and those pesky mosquitos had found us again. As the pleasant memory faded I became aware of footsteps ascending the stairs to my room.

***

“A
da? Miss Ada, you have another letter.” The last wisps of the memory vanished, as I heard Maria call my name.

Patrick? But you said you wouldn’t have mail delivery,
I thought as I opened my door. Maria handed me a letter, but it wasn’t from Patrick. I opened the sealed envelope and immediately recognized Mother Burgess’ handwriting.

I don’t know what Patrick told her about me
, I thought.
Why would she be writing to me if she knows about everything?
I read
:

––––––––

M
y Beloved Daughter Ada,

I am so sorry to hear of the difficulty with you and my hotheaded son. He has always had a short fuse, but I thought that as he matured he would keep it under better control.

Patrick wrote and told me about his plan, but I’m concerned that he won’t be back until April fifteenth. I fear this will be too late, and frankly I have no one but you to turn to.

Years ago, before Patrick left, we had many friends here. When the wool mill closed, Arthur became so angry and bitter that none of our friends could stand being around him any longer.

My mother and sister came from New York to help me through this difficult time, but last winter they contracted the flu and both died before spring.

Arthur also got the disease, but he seemed to get over it and we thought he would be fine. Last summer he had a nasty bout of pneumonia, and after that he never did regain his strength. It seems that the flu caused serious damage to his heart. We have been taking him to the doctor in town, but even with all the care, he is getting worse. Now the doctor tells us that he only has a few weeks left. I know that Patrick would want to be here for us, if he could, but there doesn’t seem to be any way we can get a message to him.

Since Arthur got sick, I have been trying to run the ranch by myself, but I just can’t do it any more. I can’t do the heavy work and Arthur refuses to let any of the neighbor men help. I am grateful to them because they still offer to help out, even after the way he has treated them. That is the Scottish way.

I am trying to sell the ranch, and the banker here has made me a ridiculously low offer. He will buy the land and the buildings, but he said I would have to remove the sheep myself. Since the sheep industry is ruined, I can’t find a buyer for them and even the slaughterhouse said they weren’t in the market for more sheep. I think they are working together and taking advantage of my situation, but I don’t have another choice.

I know you are not bound to me, but would you consider coming here to help me until I can sell everything in the spring? When the ranch sells, I will be able to pay you for your work. Hopefully, it will help you in whatever plan you have for your future. I would understand if you have already moved on in your life, but I would be very grateful for your help.

Please write soon.

Sincerely,

Mother Burgess

Tears filled my eyes. Of course I’d help. How could I refuse a member of my family? I scribbled a hasty reply, to be sent with the morning mail as I prepared for the trip to Vermont.

T
hat night I stood by my bed packing. I wasn’t sure exactly what to take, but I knew that I would be doing heavy ranch work, so my extra dungarees sat on top of the pile. My new Stetson was also ready to go into the travel bag. Ma had given me the hat for Christmas because mine was still at Patrick’s ranch.

Straightening the silver and turquoise hatband, I said, “I wonder how everyone in Vermont will react to my dungarees and black Stetson? Well, I’ll just have to be honest and true to myself.”

I left on the eastbound train early the next morning, and after three days Mother Burgess met me at the train station. I immediately recognized her and knew where Patrick had gotten his expressive eyes and shiny black hair.

Mother Burgess was still a beautiful woman, even though age and fatigue showed in her face. Dark, heavy circles hung under her brown eyes and her shoulders slumped from the strain of her situation.

“Mother Burgess!” I called as I watched her panning the faces debarking from the train.

“Ada!” she answered, her face brightening. “Thank you for coming. I can’t tell you how happy I am to meet you. My name is Alice, but you may call me anything that makes you comfortable.”

Mother Burgess reached for my travel bag, but quickly I swept it up as she guided me toward an aging buggy, pulled by a small black mare. We chatted nonstop until we arrived at the once beautiful sheep ranch. It still had handsome features, but pealing paint and sagging fences told the sad truth about how hard it was for a woman to manage a ranch alone.

“It’s beautiful!” I exclaimed as I looked over the rolling hills dotted with fluffy white sheep.

“Thank you, dear.” Her voice sounded tired as she led me upstairs to Patrick’s childhood bedroom. The furniture was simple and masculine. A soft down comforter, exactly like the one at Patrick’s ranch, was turned back, calling my travel-weary body to rest.

Looking around the room, I caught my breath as I saw a portrait of Patrick hanging above the bed. The artist had flawlessly captured his dark eyes, and they seemed to sparkle even though the drawing was done in charcoal.

“That was Patrick when he was younger,” she said. “Has he changed much?” Mother Burgess asked as she watched me examine the drawing.

“Yes and no,” I said thoughtfully. “His eyes are the same, and his hair hasn’t changed. That same lock still falls over his forehead whenever he is excited or flustered.” I giggled and then stood back to examine the picture again. “He’s softer here, though.” I motioned to his jaw line. “And he doesn’t have the same defiant boldness that this picture has. Maybe the years have tempered him some.”

“I guess not enough. You are here, and he is paying penance for his temper again,” she said.

“Who drew this?” I asked. “It’s so real that it seems like he’s right here.”

Mother Burgess self-consciously bustled around the room but suddenly stopped to touch the edge of the heavy wooden framed picture thoughtfully. “I used to fancy myself a bit of an artist.” Quietly, she shook her head as she cleared a fleeting, happy memory from her thoughts. “Enough of that. We will have time to talk later. Right now supper is ready, and I hope you are hungry. I saved one of the sheep from the slaughterhouse, only for it to end up in my stew pot. I hope you like mutton, because we have plenty of it.”

Rich smells of stew filled the large kitchen. The house had obviously been elegant at one time, but now pealing wallpaper and fading wainscoting revealed a sad tale of better days.

Mother Burgess looked around the aging dining room. “When Mr. Johnson from the bank was out here he said everything was in disrepair, and he couldn’t give me a very good price. Like I told you, he made me a very low offer that I probably will have to accept. I still think that he and the man at the slaughterhouse are taking advantage of my predicament. They know I don’t have the resources to repair everything,” Mother said.

She disappeared into the parlor where Mr. Burgess’ bedroom had been moved when his illness confined him to the lower floors of the house. She slowly helped him to the table where I had poured the hot lamb stew into bowls. Arthur sat and struggled with a few bites of stew until in frustration he finally threw his spoon across the floor in defeat.

When his outburst subsided, he turned his rheumy eyes on me. “So, this is Patrick’s woman,” the old man spouted through a grizzled beard. “She looks to be better than that bastard deserves.”

“Now, Arthur, that is enough! She is our guest, and she is here to help us. I will not have you run her off. She is here to stay, and you will be polite to her.”

Mother Burgess’ patience was clearly wearing thin, but she still spoke softly. “You have run off all our other friends with your rudeness. You will respect Ada, and even though you are very ill, you will be kind.”

He closed his eyes in defeat as moist breaths rattled through his chest. “Don’t worry, lassie, you won’t have to put up with me for much longer. I’m a mean, old, and miserable excuse for a man. I know I don’t have enough time to make things right, even if I had the intention of doing so.” His head bowed as another cough raked his body.

Patrick’s dad’s demeanor quickly changed. “I know that I never should have made Patrick my scapegoat. I made my son bear the brunt of my anger, and I can never atone for that. His mother tried to keep me from making that terrible mistake.” His eyes fell sadly on his wife. “But I didn’t listen. Now, I will go to my grave abandoned by my son because of my own stupidity.” He gasped for another breath. As the light flickered from the old man’s eyes, his frail, hollow body collapsed at the table.

Mother and I carried him back to his bed and helplessly watched him struggle with each labored breath. Motioning to a chair beside Arthur’s bed, Mother Burgess said quietly, “Please sit. There are a few things I need to tell you about Patrick and Arthur, and sadly about myself. None of it is pretty, but you have earned the right to understand what happened here. Please don’t think less of us, but I need to tell you the truth.”

Mother sat uncomfortably, but as she continued her story her eyes grew soft. “Arthur wasn’t always hardhearted.” She smiled and continued, “We were both born in a small sheepherding village in Scotland. We didn’t know each other before our fathers arranged our marriage. I was anxious when I first met him, but he made me laugh, and I fell in love with him immediately. It didn’t take long before I realized he had a quick temper that went off whenever something bothered him. If I let him blow off the steam, he would settle back down quickly, but even when he was wrong he would never admit it. He could never apologize.