Lauraine Snelling - [Wild West Wind 01] (6 page)

Cassie pulled her boots on, left them unlaced, and crossed to the table to pull out her trunk.

“What do you need?”

“My other boots. These take too long to lace.”

Micah grabbed the leather handle on the side of the trunk and pulled it out, the metal on wood screeching in resentment. When the trunk cleared the table, Cassie flipped it open and dug down on the right side. Years earlier her father had taught her how to organize her equipment, so she always packed everything the same way. That made it easy to find something in a hurry. She pulled a pair of short boots out, repacking carefully as she put things back. Sitting on the bed, she shucked her fancy boots and pulled on the others. Unlike her heroine, Annie Oakley, Cassie had flouted convention and resorted to wearing pants instead of long skirts. She tucked her pants into the boots, only to hear Chief clicking at her.

“Now what?”

“Pants in boots means snow in boots.”

“Oh.” That made good sense. She pulled her pant legs over the boots and tucked her show boots into the lid of the trunk, where she had sewn straps to hold them in place.

While it was not as cold as the night before, one wouldn’t call it warm, so she shrugged into her wool jacket too. No wonder Chief had a vest with the fur still on the leather. At first she’d thought it odd but no longer. It was helping keep him warm.

She was hungry enough that the not-quite-hot beans tasted good. And were filling. The men ate and left, leaving her to clean up. With no hot water and no creek, she set the bowls down for Othello to lick clean, then filled them with snow and set them on the stove for the snow to melt. That would sort of clean them. Taking a brush out of the drawer by the head of the bed, which she’d claimed for her own, she unbraided her hair, brushed the tangles out, and quickly braided it again. She used one of the bowls to dip out some warming water and then washed her face with a washcloth.

If they were going to leave, she needed to let the fire die down, but if they were going to stay . . . She stepped outside to inquire. The men were mounted and driving the herd out of their shelter. She unhooked Wind Dancer from the tie line, swung aboard bareback, and set him at a walk following their tracks. The sun had edged over the horizon, and the light shafting off the white drifts made her squint. Had she ever seen snow this pristine? She stopped her horse just to look around. It was iridescent, like millions of sparkling diamonds.

The buffalo had gathered in an open spot, and snow was flying up from beneath their digging hooves. Mounds of frosted white covered their backs, and the Longhorns looked small beside them. She’d read that buffalo hair was so dense that the snow didn’t melt but acted more like insulation. These sure knew what to do. The cattle mingled with the buffalo and profited from the digging already done.

Wishing she had wrapped a scarf around her neck, she hunkered down into the collar of her coat and tightened her wide-brimmed felt hat down to shield her eyes. Was that smoke she saw off to the west? Perhaps a ranch house? Maybe they could stop there and—and what? Visit? Hope for an invitation to stay? How would they know where the road went with all this snow? She turned to look north. There were no black clouds bearing down on them, only a huge bowl of sky that changed hues as the sun rose higher.

She leaned forward and patted Wind Dancer’s neck. The one good thing about riding bareback was that all parts of her in contact with her horse were warm. Othello came leaping through the snow to stand at her right foot and bark, once, twice, looking over his shoulder as if asking her to come play.

“I couldn’t throw you a stick, you silly hound, even if I had one. All sticks are sacred to the stove.” He barked again and went leaping off, snow flying as he did.

She rode forward into a patch of grass that had been pawed free of the snow. When Wind Dancer put his head down to graze, she let him, as if she had any control without a bridle and bit. Riding with only a halter probably wasn’t the brightest idea this morning, even though she often rode him like this. But those rides had been around the show grounds or in a corral or field. Not on the open snow-covered range.

Chief rode up. “Snow is too deep. Won’t leave today.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Need to bring out the other horses,” he said.

“Me?”

“Yes. You know how to hunt?”

“I suppose I can shoot anything I can see, but I’ve never actually hunted, other than birds.” And she didn’t like the idea one bit. She wondered what kind of shot he was. In the scenes in the show, all the participants shot blanks and aimed over each other’s heads or off to the side so that no one was injured. “The ammunition is in the wooden box.” She hoped they had enough ammunition. She never dreamed that they would have to hunt for food. Back at the wagon she untied the rest of the horses and led them back to graze the places the buffalo and cattle had cleared. Amazing how they knew what to do, in spite of years of pulling hay out of a rack on the walls of the railroad cars or having hay tossed into the pens when they stayed in one place for more than a day or two.

Had the bank already claimed all the railroad cars, the tents, and all the other gear that made up the Wild West Show? Would they sell it off to another show?
If only . . .
There were those two little words again. How she wished she’d had the money to take over the show. But all her money was gone now. The thought burned her stomach. How long had Jason been lying to her, saying the show was fine, not to bother her pretty head about such man things? She clamped her teeth against the furious words that threatened to erupt. And to think she had a legal interest in the show and he’d never told her. Forgot about it! Of course! Was he truly a shyster or was he a man caught in something he had no control over?

He had control at one time and must have made some stupid decisions. If only . . .
If only
never got her anywhere but more bogged down in memories. And memories did not put food on the table or a roof over her head, two things she’d taken for granted for years. How could she have been so gullible?

Ignoring the other side of her that tried to make excuses for her lack, she listened to the horses grazing. Opening her eyes, she let her gaze rove over the white terrain. The silence of the snow-covered prairie was broken by a snort from one of the grazing animals.

Her mind returned to the problem at hand. Had Jason told her in advance, maybe she could have found some investors.
Maybe
had no more value than
what if
.

That life is over!
She made herself repeat it out loud. “That life is over.” The words got lost in the magnitude of a prairie morning after a blizzard. All she knew for certain was that they would soon be heading south again, to the Black Hills of South Dakota. Were they still in North Dakota or moving into South Dakota? Unlike roads in other parts of the country, she’d not seen any signs pointing the way. Not that she could see any road at all, only a white expanse, and the blue of the sky intensifying as the sun rose on its course. She closed her eyes again and lay back on Wind Dancer’s rump, letting the sun soak into her from above and her horse’s body heat her from below. A shot echoed across the land, like the crack of a branch. Had Chief found his prey, or were there others out hunting too?

T
he snow remained too deep for travel the next day, and they settled into a new routine of sorts. Late in the afternoon Chief came in from tending the livestock.

“We’ll plan on leaving tomorrow if the melting continues.”

Cassie nodded. If they had meat other than the bacon, she’d be more than happy. “Where’s Micah?”

“Skinning the rabbits. You know how to fry rabbit?”

Cassie shrugged, figuring she could learn if someone would teach her. After all, she now knew how to cut up bacon to cook with the beans.

“You ever fried rabbit?”

“Chief, you know I’ve never cooked in my life. I always ate in the cook tent or with my parents. But my mother rarely cooked either.” She kept her tone as emotionless as she could. No matter how testy his question made her feel, it wasn’t his fault she couldn’t cook a meal or even wash dishes. “But I learn fast, so tell me what to do.”

“Heat iron skillet, add some bacon grease. Rabbits have little fat. Put flour in bowl and roll the meat in it. Put meat in hot pan.”

“Where did the rabbits come from?”

“The snares I set. You learn to do that too. Indian squaws can—”

“So can white women, I am sure.” She dug in the box and, after setting another pot aside, lifted out the black frying pan. She thought about Miz Mac, who had told tales of having her own home and the chores she took for granted. There had been no place to teach Cassie how to cook, but she had taught her how to wash and take care of her own clothes. Her own mother made sure her daughter knew how to do her personal toilet, even though she had been raised with a maid to help her. Her father taught her how to take care of her horse and guns.

“Put more wood in stove first.”

Cassie nodded and did as he told her.

Micah let Othello in ahead of him and, after closing the door against the dropping cold, laid the carcass on the table.

Cassie stared at the naked meat. How would that ever fit in the frying pan?

“You want I should cut it up?” Micah asked.

“Please.”
And flour and fry it. I don’t even want to touch it.
But she found a cup and dug into the flour sack and dumped the white powder into the wooden bowl she’d found in the cupboard. She kept her eyes on the frying pan that had started to sizzle, flinching with every scrape of the knife. When Micah slammed the ridge of the knife with the palm of his hand, she glanced over at the thud and winced when she saw the backbone break in two.
Please, Lord, keep me from throwing up or fainting.
Never in her life had she prayed something like that, but then, never in her life had she been in such a situation.

When she recognized the silence, she also realized she had her eyes closed. She opened them as she turned toward Micah.

“I will do this.” His gentle voice made her blink back tears. She, who only cried on the anniversary of her parents’ death, was about to break that tradition.

“Thank you.” She made a beeline for the door, jerked it open, and thudded down the steps to stand panting in the snow. Ice pellets struck her face and lodged in her hair.
Deep breaths
, she ordered herself.
Take deep breaths.
She inhaled through her mouth and then her nose. The cold air burned her nose, so she breathed again through her mouth, but she no longer felt woozy. After one more deep breath, she turned and climbed the stairs. At least she could chop wood, and when they got a new ax she would be better at that too. But right now, cooking was most important.

The warmth wrapped around her like a blessing, and a delicious aroma now emanated from the pan on the stove. Micah set a lid on the frying pan and gave the beans a stir with the wooden spoon.

“Do you know how to do everything?” Her voice still felt a bit wobbly. “How come you know how to cook too?”

“When my mother died, someone had to take over.”

She stared at him. He’d never mentioned anything of his life before the Wild West Show. He’d shown up half grown, as if nothing had happened before.

“I helped the cooks in the kitchen sometimes too.”

“I see.” She glanced over to see Chief leaning against the wall, eyes closed and one hand on Othello’s head. She hadn’t noticed before that the lines in his face were so deep or so many. The lamp highlighted the white hairs that grayed his dark hair. He was an old man. Why had she never noticed that before? What if something happened to him on this journey? She looked back at Micah. “Thank you.”

The question in his eyes said he didn’t understand, but then she didn’t really either. “How do you know when it’s done?”

“When you get tired of waiting?” He shook his head and, with a slight smile, continued since she didn’t react. “All depends on how hot the fire. Watch so it doesn’t burn.” He lifted the iron skillet and pulled the bean pot forward to the hotter part of the stove and then set the frying pan in the back.

“What about the coffee?” She watched him, learning to wait for his response. Had he been making a joke with his comment about getting tired of waiting? Micah making a joke? The thought was intriguing.

“It will have to wait—no room.”

“Sure smells good.”

“Yeah, but you always have to start with raw meat.”

Raw meat. One man wanted her to cook it, the other wanted her to shoot it. While they both tried to help her, she knew she was the only one who could overcome her trepidation. Or was it outright fear?

That night after they had all turned in, she lay in the darkness thinking of all the changes she was being subjected to. All thanks to dear Uncle Jason. She felt like spitting out his name. What perfidy. His name and the thought of his hightailing it for the train left a bitter taste in her mouth. What would her father do in this instance? Or more appropriately, what would her mother do? After all, she had fallen in love with a Wild West performer and left her high-class life behind, knowing she would never see her family again. From the stories she told, her father had forbidden her to see the brash young American. No matter that he owned a touring company that had a reputation for superior entertainment and management.

Down in the bottom of her trunk she had a picture of the two dashing young newlyweds, her father so dark and handsome, her mother so fair and regal she could be called a snow queen. They had met when the show played in Oslo, Norway.

“I fell in love instantly,” she had told her daughter, one of the many times Cassie pleaded for a story of her life in Norway. “When your father rode into the arena on that magnificent black horse of his, I coveted his horse first, and then he doffed his wide-brimmed white hat and smiled at me. I am sure my heart fluttered right out of my chest and united with his—right in that moment.”

“And then what happened?”

“And then he asked my father if he might call on me.”

“And he did.”

“And he did. When the show was about to leave Norway, I packed my trunk and met him at the wharf, much to the amazement of everyone, including me. I had always obeyed my father, just as you must obey yours. And now it is time for you to go to sleep, my sweet.” She leaned over and kissed her daughter’s rounded cheek. “Let’s say your prayers, and then your father will come in to kiss you too.”

Cassie found herself speaking those prayers in her mind, both the Norwegian one and her own, blessing everyone and everything she could think of to prolong the time with her father. His mustache always tickled her face when he kissed her, and he always smelled like cherrywood from his pipe smoke and the out-of-doors.

We were supposed to make this trip together, all of us, with wagonloads of household fixings, blooded horses, and thriving cattle.
The only thing that remained from their dreams was the Gypsy Wagon—and their little girl all grown up—without them. Cassie lay still, listening to the wind pleading entry into the snug wagon. The ice pellets rattled on the roof like someone was throwing gravel. She heard Chief get up and go out to check on the animals but fell asleep before he returned. Her last thought made her blink. What if they had to stay right there and not get any closer to the valley?