All Together in One Place (17 page)

“Will you, though? Or maybe just choose another woman to share your life with in Oregon? Someone like Ruth Martin maybe.” She twirled the parasol, the fringe flying almost horizontal.

“Tipton,” he said.

“You never say,” she said. “You never tell me really how you feel about that woman.”

“There's nothing to tell. No reason to be jealous over her or any others.”

“There are others?”

Tyrell shook his head.

“You never say you care most for me, you don't.”

“I've said it so much the words start to sound hollow A person can't make another person believe something. Either you trust it or you don't, Tip. It hasn't anything to do with me. It has to do with you, believing I
could care for you, that you're worth caring for. Some things are taken on faith. I can't pour certainty into you.”

“You could if you wanted, but you don't.”

“Doubts a poison taken from a snake, Tip. No call for it between us.

She could tell by the tone of his voice that he was irritated, so she stomped off, rubbing her arm as she did. She hoped he'd make her come back, but he didn't.

Alone, she breathed in short, quick gasps, the knoll she chose to climb higher than it looked from the wagons. Her hand tingled. Everything swirled, made her lightheaded.

She walked faster, her skirts catching on her legs. She could see the lines of wagons fanning out toward the west Far behind moved the stock, grazing and allowed to meander rather than push. It seemed to her that they would be farther and farther behind that way, but so far they'd always caught up to the wagons by dusk.

The Bacons’ brute and cows tugged behind their wagons; the spots of dogs sniffed in and out A cluster of children leaned over some treasure that hovered in the shadow of emerald grass White tabs of aprons ran down the front of little girls’ dresses fluttering in the wind as the girls jumped back from something a boy said or were startled by the mouse they watched. Maybe she should sketch it. Her hand fumbled for the sewn-in pocket. She'd try to capture the smells of the grasses, the light on the knoll, the feel of the dust on the faces of children.

But her hands shook, and her fingers ached and tingled to numb.

7
patience

They made good progress, crossing the Platte no less than three times as it meandered and flattened out like an old brown snake. In places, it promised solid soil but didn't deliver. Maybe if it stopped flooding and flowing over its banks, if it ever stayed in a recognized channel, maybe then they'd see more solid ground, Elizabeth thought Still these western expanses made her eyes sparkle with wonder beneath white clouds that fluffed against the sky like fresh feathers.

She'd met her limit of day-after-dayness. Antone telling everyone who'd be able to avoid the dust by being first in line—after him; who had to come last; his reminding everyone of the leaving time, no matter that they'd made twenty miles or only ten the day before. He wanted animals yoked, coffee downed, and morning fires out by an hour after sunrise. Dr. Masters always needed goading, Elizabeth noticed, not presenting the best side of a doctor's essential attention to detail. He was nothing like her husband.

Elizabeth bent and reached for her skirt hem between her legs, pulling the material up and tucking it into her belt in the front. She untied the reins and swung up onto her mule, Ink. Wouldn't Adora and Sister Esther have a calf if they saw her now? Let the ladies gasp if they must. Folks who farmed or lacked the luxury of carriages understood— sidesaddling just didn't work.

Everyone talked about getting to Oregon or California, getting somewhere they weren't, and all the while missing out on where they
were. She pressed the reins against the mules neck. Waiting until they arrived at their destination to experience joy was simply too long. The human spirit could not be so patient, could not hold on to the memory of happy moments as the only nurture. It needed feeding daily.

It was like the black pot she fixed the stew in: she could take venison and beans to feed a dozen, but unless she kept adding potatoes and onions and beef stock back, she'd eventually come up dry. No, to keep the stew always available with enough to give away, she had to keep adding to it. It was the same with merriment: better than a dose of laudanum, without the side effects.

She wished they'd traveled on the south side of the Platte so she could have seen the Mullalys’ sod house that folks said served as a way station. She might like to run such a place someday. It would give her a chance to rub elbows with a whole range of personalities as people stepped off stagecoaches rolling from here to there. Her husbands habit of bringing people home for occasional recuperation had met a need she had, to be exposed to new and different. After he died and Mazy married and moved away, she'd missed that. The journey west pinched a flush back into her cheeks.

More people would be heading west Something about the land lured, offered a promise that thrived in open spaces. People running as well as seeking came, and they all brought along their stories. She guessed that was what she'd missed most of all, living alone in the house after her husband died, no one to bring home a story and none to listen to hers.

Today, she was riding for stories, to see if one could be found where it looked like nothing could live. If she located mule deer or antelope for supper, she'd have added to the pot in more ways than one.

“Pig! Stop barking,” Mazy told the dog. His big head bunted at her, and he made slobbery noises “Mother's right. You even sound like a pig.
Mother?” Now where had she gone off to? Pig barked, steady and high-pitched until she followed, finding herself shortly beside the Cullver wagon.

“I'm sorry,” Mazy said. “The dog.

“Were pleased,” Bryce told her. Suzanne sat atop the wagon, Clayton bouncing on her lap. Bryce wiped his dusty face of sweat, and talked to the oxen as they walked. He had bushy eyebrows the color of cashews, and Mazy could see that Clayton had his blue eyes. “Aren't we glad to have a visitor? Suzanne, it's Mrs. Bacon.”

“I heard the dog,” Suzanne said “Come to see how a blind woman raises a baby, have you?”

“Suzanne! “ He spread his palms in surrender.

“In fact,” Mazy said, “I've lain awake wondering how you do it. I can see, and I've got the jitters just thinking about how I'll manage.”

“You're…?” Bryce asked.

Mazy nodded, then remembered Suzanne's limitations. “Haven't told many.”

“Mrs. Bacon's…”

“Well, won't that be peachy, to have someone to trade baby stories with.” Suzanne threw the words out, pelting each one against the air like hail “We'll just all be one big happy family talking of napkins and messy bottoms.”

“I'm sorry if this is a bad time. I hadn't planned to intrude,” Mazy said, “but my dog likes you. And now that I'm here, I could take away some of Clayton's diapers, if youxi like. Scrape them when we stop.”

Suzanne grunted, turned her head away.

“You're very kind. If you wouldn't mind,” Bryce said “I suspect his diaper rash grows from my poor handling of it.”

“Oh, Bryce, please,” Suzanne said. “Is there nothing you won't talk about?”

Before he could respond, Pig leaped into the wagon box, nudging Suzanne, who slapped at him. The dog merely moved beyond her reach, sat, and panted.

“He's never done that before, not even with my mother.”

“Well, get him down.”

“Come, Pig.” Mazy slapped at her thigh. The dog whined but didn't move. Mazy stepped up onto the wagon to pull at him. As she did, she noticed a sewing machine in the wagon. It was a Howell, a luxury few had.

“Oh, you sew?” Mazy asked.

“Blindfolded,” Suzanne answered, pushing at Pig. “About as well as you train dogs.”

Elizabeth rode over a hill and spied a triangular shelter the color of faded mustard settled among waving grasses. It looked deserted, so she dismounted. Arriving around it, she startled a lone man.
Indian! He
turned and the sunlight glinted against the knife he held in his hand This was more than a story.

“Quite ridiculous of him to write to you,” Jeremy said, peering over his wife's shoulder. “Hardly necessary.”

Mazy held the envelope delivered by some good-hearted soul heading west at a faster pace than the Bacons. She imagined it was meant to greet her at Fort Laramie, but the westbound rider had helped several letters find their way to the eager hands of those traveling with the Schmidtke train.

“He says his wife had begun the letter, to tell me how the lilacs bloomed, how the garden grew and all. How thoughtful,” Mazy said. The script ran at diagonals over lines written one way with one persons pen then written across the lines by another's.

“Should have kept it to himself. Its past. Done.” Jeremy checked
the water bucket on the side of their wagon. “Saltbox is near empty. Cant get to Laramie soon enough,” he said.

“I suppose it was his way of grieving her, finding an unfinished letter written in her hand and wanting to complete it. I might have been inclined to do it, to carry out someone's last intent.”

“Then send it, don't add your own news, tell that the woman died. Or that you're alone now, with kids and the land, feeling oppressed.”

“It might be hard to run the farm without her, go on, alone. Maybe we should—”

“Don't start again, Maze. It's not a sign of anything.”

“I didn't say it was.”

“You were thinking it. I could see it in your eyes.”

“Now you read eyes,” she said, “along with your books on Ayrshires and Oregon?”

Pawnee, Elizabeth guessed. She must have looked harmless in her dark dress because he merely grunted at her. Behind him, she could see a downed buffalo calf he'd been hacking on. Two rust-colored birds pecked at a pile of intestines pink as ripe watermelon mounded alongside She rolled up her sleeves and motioned her intent. He turned back to his work.

Using his blood-stained fingers, the Indian lifted black strands of shiny hair hanging long, pushing them back behind his ears. A sage-scented breeze blew across his face. He wore a breechcloth; his chest was shiny with sweat.