Dorothy Garlock (4 page)

When the light was gone she went back to the house. She had worked hard today as she worked everyday. Ben had his chores to do and was away from the cabin most of the day. It was Odell she worried about. She was at a formative stage and needed stimulus for her mind. She was quick, imaginative, outgoing, and she more than any of them needed to be with people.

Grant was still angry because Logan Horn was a breed and the woman he brought into their home was an Indian. He had sulked all day, refusing to work with Odell on her numbers and showed not the slightest interest in the smooth piece of pine Ben brought down from the bluff behind the cabin.

Rosalee loved her father dearly, but simply couldn’t understand his prejudices. In Missouri he had despised the Yankees and the hill people. She had no doubt that had they gone farther south he would have despised the Mexicans, and farther west it would be the Chinese.

“Papa went to bed.” Odell was drawing a design on the dirt floor. “He’s still mad.”

“Maybe he’ll be over it by morning.”

“Why does he hate Indians?”

“I don’t think he hates them. He’s heard about the bad things some of them have done and he forgets that there are bad people among all the races.”

“That Colonel Chivington was bad. He made the soldiers kill all those babies at Sand Creek.”

“Yes, he was bad. I’ll never understand why he thought children, women, and old people were a threat. The government should be deeply ashamed for what he did. Who can blame the Indians for seeking revenge? Thank God things have settled down.”

“Mr. Horn didn’t look like a savage. And he didn’t talk like one. I ain’t never seen a Indian with a mustache before.”

“He was only part Indian. He said his mother was once the most beautiful woman in her village.”

“Pa said that didn’t make no never mind. He said breeds was the worst kind. I wish I could’ve talked to Mr. Horn.”

“It wasn’t the time for idle conversation. He was grieved over his mother. If he comes back again, you can talk to him.”

“Pa won’t like it.”

“We’ll have to handle that when the time comes. Now you get to bed. Tomorrow is wash day.”

“Rosalee . . . how long before we can go to town?” There was a wistful longing in the child’s voice.

Rosalee went to her, sat down in the chair and pulled her onto her lap. “In about a month. We may have word from the store in Denver by then.”

“Do ya think the store man’ll want Pa’s birds?”

“I’m hoping he will. We sold two of them in Junction City and the stage driver promised to take a couple of them to a store in Denver.”

“Are we awful poor, Rosalee?”

“We’ve got more than some people, honey. We’ve got a place to live and we’ve got each other. In some ways we’re rich.”

“Huh? You’re funnin’ me.”

“No, I’m not. I’ve got you. I wouldn’t trade you for all the money in the world.”

Odell gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Then you ain’t got no more sense than a pissant.”

“Ladies don’t say pissant.”

“Wasn’t nobody to hear but you. I say it sometimes to the friend in my head. I named her Mary after that pretty woman we met in Junction City.”

Rosalee swallowed several times and hugged her little sister to her before she spoke. “I’m sure Mrs. Gregg would like that.”

“Will I be pretty when I’m growed?”

“You’re pretty now. When you’re older you’ll be so pretty we’ll have to build a fence around you, is what we’ll do,” Rosalee teased. “Now, you get to bed. Ben’s already snoring up a storm.”

“Will ya tell me the story about the princess?”

“Not tonight, lovey. I’m going to sit out on the step and churn. We’ve got enough cream skimmed off the milk to make us a nice bit of butter. You’ll have some in the morning with flapjacks.”

*  *  *

The breeze coming down from the mountains was cool. Rosalee sat on the steps, a shawl around her shoulders, and listened to the night sounds. A squirrel scrambled about in the branches that extended out over the cabin and a dry twig fell to the tin roof. Far away a coyote called to his mate, and her answer echoed down the hills. She heard the faint stirrings among the horses in the corral, and sometimes one would stamp or blow dust from his nostrils. These familiar sounds accompanied the slush, slush, slush as she rhythmically moved the wooden dasher up and down through the milk in the churn.

These were the lonely hours for Rosalee, when at last she could let down from the work of the day. A time when she could feel the night wind in her hair and could look at the bright, silent stars. Her thoughts, as they had done throughout the day, fixed firmly on Logan Horn. She refused to admit she was disappointed he hadn’t come back today. She half expected to see the ax at the woodpile when they woke in the morning. Through the darkness, his coppery face emerged and hung suspended before her eyes.

The last look he’d given her had held a hunger that, even as naive as she was, she could not fail to recognize. It was a look so very unlike the stern, expressionless face he had presented from the moment he had arrived at the cabin. At that moment she had felt a tingling run down her spine, and a fluttering sensation in her groin. She was sure he was aware of the turbulent feeling his look had inspired. She hoped to God he had turned away before the flood of scarlet washed up her neck to flood her face. Just thinking about it caused the skin on her face to warm.

To still her thoughts she began to sing to herself, as she did sometimes, her voice just a breath of a whisper.

“Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate,

A combing his milk-white steed;

When along came Lady Nancy Bell,

A wishing her lover good speed, speed, speed,

A wishing her lover good speed.”

It was comforting to Rosalee to sing the English ballads her mother had taught her. To her they were old, familiar friends.

“Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling,

Charlie, he’s my darling, the young chevalier.”

The dog, lying with his jowls on her foot, lifted his head when he heard his name. It had been Ben’s idea to name the mongrel puppy after the young chevalier in the song. She always took Charlie with her when she was outside the cabin at night. He heard every strange sound and several times he had alerted her to a rider coming toward the cabin and allowed her time to get inside. She reached down, patted his head, and continued her song.

She wasn’t sure when she became aware that Charlie was sitting very still, looking off toward the west. When she did, she gripped a handful of the long hair around his neck and ceased the movement of the dasher so she could listen. She couldn’t hear anything, but she could tell by the way Charlie tilted his head that he did.

“What is it, boy? Is someone coming?” Charlie looked at her and began to wag his tail. “Is it
him
?” The dog’s tail wagged harder and he strained against the hold she had on him. “Are you wanting to play with that strange dog? He may not be friendly this time.” She had to turn him loose if she was going to pick up the churn and go inside the cabin.

The instant he was free of her grip, Charlie was off and running. Rosalee stood on the step and watched him. He was clearly visible in the moonlight; then he disappeared in the shadows, and she heard his bark of welcome. It was
him
! She had not really thought it was anyone else. Charlie was delighted that his friend had come back. What should she do? Should she go inside and let him leave the ax and be on his way, never to see him again? If she stayed would he think she had been waiting for him? For a long moment she continued to stand there, her eyes fastened to the break in the trees, an alien feeling in the pit of her stomach.

He came riding out of the shadows and into the moonlight. The wolf dog and Charlie frolicked around him. When they got too close to the foal, the mare whinnied and spun around in position to lash out with her hind legs. The dogs ignored her, ran around each other, reared up, and nipped at each other’s throats. Rosalee thought the wolf dog was wonderfully patient with Charlie, who was little more than a pup and full of youthful enthusiasm.

Rosalee scarcely had time to note that the travois was no longer attached to the mare and that she had a pack on her back before Logan Horn was riding into the yard. Her hand sought the dasher and she began to move it up and down, unconsciously seeking to provide a reason for being on the step. Her eyes clung to his face. He was wearing the buckskins, and the flat, round-brimmed hat was pushed back to his hairline.

“Evening, ma’am. I’ve brought back the ax.” He pulled the stallion to a halt not ten feet from her, dismounted, and lifted the ax from a loop on the saddle. “I’m much obliged for the use of it. It would pleasure me to cut some wood in payment.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rosalee said sharply. “Folks need to help one another when they can without expecting something for it.”

“I’m not used to asking for help, ma’am. It galled me to have to knock on your door.” His voice was cold and flat.

“Why? I’d not have hesitated to ask you for help if my Pa had been sick.”

“You’re not a breed, ma’am.”

“How do you know that? I’m English and German. That makes me a breed. The Indians, the Mexicans, and the Chinese are the only people in the West that aren’t a mixture of some nationality or the other. You’re obviously very sensitive about your blood, Mr. Horn. I’d think you’d—” She cut off her outburst as though a hand had been clamped over her mouth, and flushed to the roots of her hair. She stood there staring at him, wondering why in the world she had let her tongue run away with her.

“You’d think I’d . . . what?” He leaned on the ax and looked at her. The stallion had begun to snort and toss his head. Horn turned, gathered the reins in his hand, and walked toward the woodpile.

She heard him sink the blade in the log and fully expected him to mount up and ride away, but he tied the horse to a stump and came back. She was working the dasher briskly up and down, although she was sure the cream had turned to butter.

“I haven’t had buttermilk in years.”

She had expected him to say anything but that. The tension went out of her and she breathed deeply. “Would you like some?”

“I have a cup in my saddlebag.” His tone was lighter, friendlier.

“Have you had supper?”

“I had the biscuits and meat you gave me at noon. That’ll hold me till morning.”

“You can have more of the same. This time you can have butter on the biscuits.”

Rosalee didn’t wait for him to answer. She slipped quietly into the cabin and felt her way to the workbench and quickly stacked a plate with biscuits and meat. Her fingers groped for a spoon and she went back outside. He had gone back to his horse, slipped off the bridle, and fashioned a rope halter so the animal could crop the grass beneath the pine tree where he had tied him the night before. She went to him, thankful they would be away from the cabin in case her father should awaken.

“Give me your cup and I’ll get the buttermilk.”

She went back across the yard to the churn, dipped into it and brought out milk and butter. When she turned he was standing beside the stump, holding the plate and watching her. Some of the milk sloshed onto the ground and she laughed. The sound floated to him lightly on the breeze. He thought it was as musical as the bells in the church in Saint Louis.

“If you’d come sooner you could have had supper with us.”

“I don’t think your pa would have liked that.”

She flinched as if his words were razor sharp. After a hesitation she sat the cup on the stump and turned her face away. “How do you know? He didn’t say anything.”

“He didn’t have to.”

“It’s because he’s blind and he’s afraid for us.”

“Don’t put a different name to it. I knew this morning, when the little girl whispered to him that my mother was an Indian, that he was angry because you had taken us in. I expect you got a dressing down for taking in an Indian
buck
and a sick
squaw.
”

“I’m sorry you were made to feel unwelcome.”

“It’s a thing I’ve gotten used to. There are men who hate other men and wish them dead simply because of the color of their skin. Your pa’s one of them. He was brought up to believe that if you’re not white you’re just so much dirt to be trodden underfoot.”

“Please don’t talk like that,” Rosalee said in a stricken voice. “My mother tried to explain it to me once. She said some people have got to feel superior to someone because they have this feeling of worthlessness inside them. My pa’s had that feeling all his life because he never thought he’d accomplished much. I don’t understand it, and I suspect he doesn’t understand it either. It’s what he was taught. I’m trying to teach Ben and Odell that we are all God’s creatures and there are the good and the bad among all of us.” She gave her head a little shake. “Do you believe me?”

“I believe you. Unfortunately, you’re among the minority.” He took the cup from the stump and nodded his head. She sat down and he squatted on his heels beside her and stuffed a biscuit in his mouth. “You make a mighty good biscuit.”

“I should. I’ve made a million of them. They’d be better if you smeared them with butter.” She handed him the spoon. “Dip it into the milk and you’ll find some floating around. Tomorrow I’ll dip out the butter and work the milk out of it.”

His slow smile altered his face and gave warmth to his stern features. “Fresh butter? I’ve not had fresh butter for a long time.”

Rosalee laughed softly, suddenly strangely at ease with him. “Sometimes we don’t miss a thing until we get it again.”

He gave a thoughtful nod, his gaze wandering over her slim body. They sat in silence while he emptied the plate. He turned his head to look at his animals, gave a low whistle, and the wolf dog came to him.

“Watch the girls, Brutus.” The dog trotted away to hunker down not far from the mare and the foal. He ignored Charlie, who still had play on his mind.

“Is that his name? Why did you name your dog after a murderer?”

Logan chuckled in surprise at the question. The sound was so unexpected that Rosalee almost forgot what she asked.