Softly Falling (12 page)

O
liver Buxton made a production of counting eight silver dollars into Jack’s hand the next morning. “That’s all you’ll get from the consortium,” he said, sounding prissy and put-upon at the same time.

The consortium spends more than this on one night’s booze at the Cheyenne Club, you tightwad
, Jack thought as he smiled at his employer. “We came up with two more dollars, so we’ll manage.”

This didn’t seem to be the answer Buxton wanted, but Jack had long since given up understanding managers.

Clarence Carteret was already at work in the office. Jack had secretly been impressed that Lily had bullied the man to breakfast, and he didn’t look half bad.

“That’s quite a daughter you have,” he went so far as to say as he passed through.

“I never knew her,” Clarence said simply. “My loss.”

Wondering to himself how many lost opportunities the man had squandered, Jack tipped his hat and went to find Amelie.

She wore what he knew was the best of her two dresses, and she carried a bouquet of zinnias, survivors of the summer’s heat and wind. To be sure, calling it a bouquet was overly generous—four zinnias gasping out their last. Amelie had given the bouquet a Gallic twist with a strand of silvery ribbon.

He knew she could manage only a gentle tease. “Did you decide to put them out of their misery?” he asked as he nodded to Madeleine, who glared at a pot of beans as though wishing she could change it into something else.

Amelie shook her head. “For my papa,” she whispered, and he felt immediately lower than a snake’s belly. “Mama said we would be going right past the burying ground.”

“So we shall.” At least he was smart enough not to fall all over himself apologizing. If anyone knew life was hard, Jean Baptiste Sansever’s children did.

He had taken the ranch’s smaller buckboard, the one usually reserved for consortium members because the seats were padded. Amelie saw so little luxury that he knew she would appreciate it. With a slight smile—in itself a reward—she patted the seat.

“Let’s stop at the schoolhouse and see if anyone is working,” he said. Earlier, he had watched Chantal heading toward the school carrying a bucket and scrub brush, her hair done up in a bandana and wearing an old dress too short for her that had somehow avoided the ragbag. The determination on her face—so like Madeleine—had made him smile.

The window and door were open, giving the place the airing out it needed. Talk about sow’s ears. It didn’t look any better than a half dozen other unused outbuildings he should have burned down years ago. He waved to Preacher, who was putting new hinges on the outhouse door.

“Will it work?” he teased.

“I’m going to take some sandpaper to the seat,” Preacher said. “The door’s been open so long that the wood inside is weathered, too.”

When Jack looked back at the school, Lily stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. She somehow managed to look tidy, even though her hair was done up in a bandana too. Maybe it was the elegant way she carried herself as though Wyoming Territory was only going to be a temporary stop and she had grander venues in mind. Lily Carteret probably had three or four plans by now.

He set the brake but didn’t get down. Through the door, he saw the tall figure of Fothering. The butler had covered a broom with cheesecloth and was swiping at cobwebs while Chantal dusted off a desk. Jack leaned across Amelie. “No Luella?” he asked Lily.

“Not yet, but I have hopes,” Lily replied. She reached in her pocket and handed him a coin. “Papa’s contribution. He said you call it two bits.”

“If there is a bargain to be had in Wisner, we will find it, eh, Amelie?” he said as he pocketed the coin. “I have your list, and this makes ten dollars and two bits.”

“We are rich,” Amelie said solemnly.

“I believe we are.” He nodded to Lily and spoke to the horses.

The next stop was the Bar Dot cemetery, a bedraggled patch where the zinnias would look at home. The only occupants were cowhands like Jean Baptiste, and four others done in by more horse than they could handle, or a stubborn cow. The sixth grave was even more recent than Sansever’s, a pile of bones with two arrowheads and a belt buckle buried deep. He wondered if some mother back East still watched for a wandering son.

While Amelie left her little gift for her father, he took a hard look at the Bar Dot, wishing the woodpile were bigger. He had sent the others to cut more wood and he saw them down by the river. There had been protests—Will even had the nerve to point out that the wood lot was already full—but Jack was the foreman. He knew it wouldn’t happen to Will, but the others didn’t want the dubious freedom of riding the humiliating grubline from ranch to ranch during the winter, hoping for a handout. He had done that one winter, and that was enough.

Wisner basked in early September warmth as they came to town. It had been a silent trip. Amelie had looked at him when he passed his own little ranch without stopping. “We’ll visit Manuel and Bismarck on the way back,” he assured her.

“I like Manuel,” she had said, and that was their sole conversation.

Since the only game in town for them was Watkins’ Superior Mercantile, he tied up the horse in front of the store. He helped down his little guest, touched to see the wonder on her face at the metropolis of Wisner. She seldom got off the Bar Dot, and he tried to see the shabby little place through her eyes.

He remembered his own childhood, a hard drill of work and hunger, growing up on a piece of land tired from years of cotton that wore out the soil, but was the only thing his father could rent. Jack never went to town. He joined up in 1863 when he was thirteen, not because he believed in states’ rights or slavery but because he hated the farm. The sight of Savannah had kept him awake all night with the wonder of it. He could have told Amelie that Wisner wasn’t much, but why ruin the gentle child’s pleasure?

He wondered what she would make of the Superior Mercantile, which was anything but. Her eyes widened as she looked around the crowded store, smelly with smoked fish and coffee beans. Elbows on the counter, Mr. Watkins watched the whole show. “Why, Jack, twice in one week? And each time with a pretty girl? What’ll that faro dealer at the Back Forty think?” he teased.

Jack put his hands over Amelie’s ears. “That’ll do,” he said in his foreman voice. He handed over Lily’s list. “We have ten dollars and two bits for school supplies. Can you help us?”

Lips pursed, Mr. Watkins surveyed the list. “So the pretty high yaller gal is a schoolteacher?” he asked, which meant that Jack’s hands covered Amelie’s ears again.

“Mind yourself, Watkins,” he said, “or I’ll . . .”

The store owner looked around elaborately. “Go to another store?” He got the hint, though, because he returned to the list. “ ‘And if there is enough money, Franklin Colors.’ Let’s see what we can do.”

Perhaps feeling some amends were owed, Mr. Watkins handed Amelie a basket. “You help me and there’ll be something in it for you.”

Jack could have told the merchant that Amelie would have helped for nothing, but the man had never seen her scrubbing pots.

“Keep her busy, Watkins. I have a plan,” he said as he stood in the doorway and looked across the street to the Back Forty.

Watkins followed Jack’s gaze. “Gonna drink? I can’t keep Amelie busy that long!”

Jack crossed the store in a few quick strides until he leaned over the counter to speak in Watkins’ ear. “Not another word, and it’s not what you think.”

There must have been enough menace in his voice, because Watkins nodded and quickly returned his attention to his business.

“I’ll be back in five minutes, Amelie,” Jack said. “Be a good girl.”

He went into the saloon, a dark place that felt good after the noonday sun. There was Vivian, just reading at a table because it was early for faro.

“We haven’t seen you in a while, Jack Sinclair,” she said. “Saving your money for that big pretty bull?”

“He needs grain and hay more than I need to lose money in here,” Jack said with a tip of his Stetson. “How are you, Vivian?”

“Finer’n frog’s hair. Sit a spell.”

Jack did as she asked and looked around the room. Before Wyoming started to wear him out, the saloonkeeper had tried to give the Back Forty an elegance it never attained. He looked at the fine desk in the corner. Maybe Oscar had thought his customers might be inclined to sit there and write polished letters home, something that never happened. Still the desk remained, and its equally elegant chair.

“Clarence Carteret’s daughter is going to teach school on the Bar Dot and she deserves a pretty chair.”

“Mrs. Buxton won’t donate one to the cause of education?” Vivian joked. “Let me ask Mr. Buxton next time he’s in here.” She strolled over to the chair and blew the dust off the seat. “For you, one dollar. You know how Oscar likes to turn a profit.”

“I don’t have one dollar. Every penny is going to school supplies at the mercantile, and you know how that bandit marks up his merchandise.”

“For nothing?” she asked. “Nothing’s for free here, not in a saloon.”

“That’s what we can afford,” he told her, relying on her good nature. “You’re a civic-minded woman, Vivian. Oscar won’t mind. Call it an investment in education.”

She thought a moment, then laughed. “You sure drive a hard bargain. Take it.”

He kissed her cheek, picked up the chair, and considered his remaining credit at the Back Forty. “Do you have a winter coat that you’re just plum tired of looking at?

She rolled her eyes. “Does the teacher need a coat too? Jack, you’re pushing it.”

“I’m asking for Madeleine Sansever’s girls. It’s gonna be a bad winter.”

He had said the magic word. With a swish of her dress, Vivian climbed the stairs. Chair in hand, he waited, confident of Vivian’s kindness, even if she was ruthless at the faro table.

Vivian came down the stairs with one coat over her arm. “The best I can do,” she said.

“Thanks, Vivian. You sure you can spare it?” The coat felt heavy and serviceable.

She shrugged. “Wool makes me itch. A bad winter?”

“I think so. In fact, if you have somewhere else to go, I’d advise it.”

She kissed his cheek and he breathed in a faint whiff of rose talcum. “I’m still saving to open that millinery shop.” She touched his hand. “You’re still a good man, Jack Sinclair.”

“Scat now,” she teased. You’ll give the Back Forty a bad reputation if we get more generous.”

“Nothing’s free, Viv,” Jack reminded her. “You’ve done me a signal favor and I won’t forget it.”

“You like this schoolteacher?” she asked, and he heard a little edge to the question.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replied without a blush. “You would too, though. She’s trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” He chuckled. “Maybe that’s all anyone tries to do. It’s going to be hard for her with such a father.” He hefted the coat. “Madeleine Sansever will probably say a prayer for you. There isn’t much between her and ruin.”

Vivian nodded. She was acquainted with rocks and hard places.

He gave her a little salute and picked up the chair. He knew Lily was going to ask him where the chair came from, and he knew he’d probably tell her. He figured she had been lied to for years, and he had no plan to continue the pattern.

Watkins was tallying up the total when Jack returned. The basket rested on the counter and Amelie watched, her eyes showing her concern, as the merchant checked off each item.

“I don’t think we have enough,” she whispered to Jack.

“We’ll have enough,” he replied with a meaningful look at Watkins.

It wasn’t much of a list, but Mr. Watkins tallied it again, probably more for dramatic effect than anything else. “If your schoolmarm can make do with one box of Franklin Colors, we’ll make it. Trouble is, I can only let go of one map.” He leaned his elbows on the counter. “What’ll it be? A map of the world or the United States?”

“I want both maps.”

“Jack, you’re not listening. The world map is one dollar. You’d owe me two dollars for both.” When Jack said nothing, he sighed. “The world map has the US and Europe already. Granted, they’re a bit small that way, but . . .”

Jack gave Amelie his whole attention. “What should we do? It’s your education.”

She regarded the merchant a long time, long enough for Mr. Watkins to shift his feet. Jack recognized the calculating look she gave him, because Madeleine had the same shrewd expression. He hadn’t thought to see it on gentle Amelie’s face, but there it was.

With a small sigh of her own, she reached into the neck of her dress and pulled out a little cross on a chain. Without a word, she undid the clasp and laid it on the counter.

Bingo
, Jack thought.
I can take it from here
. “Amelie, didn’t your papa give that to you?” he asked.

She lowered her eyes, silent. The next sound was Mr. Watkins taking another map from the dusty pile next to the fly strips.

“Keep your necklace, little girl,” he said. “I suppose I can donate the map. It’s good for business.”

“The Lord’ll bless you for this,” he told Mr. Watkins.

“I suppose you told that to the faro dealer across the street,” Watkins grumbled.

“Vivian’s a good sport.”

Mr. Watkins peered elaborately around him to the sidewalk where Jack had left the chair and coat. “Did those just follow you across the street when she wasn’t looking?”

When Mr. Watkins finished wrapping everything, he leaned across the counter and handed Amelie a Pink Pearl eraser, long and slim with undercut edges. “That’s for your help.”

Amelie’s eyes widened at the gift, then she shook her head. “You already made a big donation to my education,” she explained.

Jack never thought he would see Mr. Watkins at a loss, but there it was. Too bad there wasn’t anyone else in the store to watch the merchant struggle to maintain his composure.

“Miss, I always pay for help and you helped. It was a promise, remember?” Mr. Watkins chuckled. “That is, unless you’re certain you will never make a mistake and need it.”

Amelie favored him with the kind of smile that would assure her of suitors to spare, in eight years or so, and took the eraser. “
Merci
,” she whispered.