Yellowstone Memories (25 page)

“Hey, here’s your boots back,” said Frankie, as if attempting a smile, bending down to unlace them. “I done had ‘em longer than my fair share.”

Justin scowled. “Keep ‘em, Frankie.”

“Naw. Really. I’m good now.” And he stood on one foot, holding out a boot in the firelight.

Dawn broke with light, lacy flakes in dizzy spirals, floating like dandelion fluff on the wind.

Justin gathered limbs and branches, shaking off the snow, and stripped off the twigs and rough spots with his pocketknife. Forming a splint for Lia’s ankle first and then a stretcher for Mr. Parker. He’d already divided it up in his head: Frankie and Justin would carry Mr. Parker, and Cynthia and Mrs. Parker could support Lia between them.

“You think we can head out?” Frankie spoke in that same guarded tone, looking at the fire.

“Well, I’m makin’ a stretcher, ain’t I?” Justin flared, tired of Frankie’s childish silent treatment. “G’won and get one of the blankets so we can link the poles.”

Frankie skittered off, and Justin hung his head in his hand, kneading his forehead. Wishing for a second he’d chosen Florida or Texas or somewhere warmer to join up with the CCC—and equally far away from Frankie White as Berea, Kentucky.

But he’d stopped running. This was life, and he’d have to live it. Have to face it. Just like Lia did—one day at a time, one step after the next. Giving God glory and gracefully bending under the weight of life’s injustices.

Justin set down his pocketknife and rubbed the toe of his boot, surprised that the feeling in his toes hadn’t returned yet. He’d been wearing his own boots for a couple of hours now, and he figured once they were good and cocooned inside leather, the blood would flow through the chilled flesh. Awakening the nerves with a stinging salute.

He flexed his foot. Doc at the camp would help him when they got back; there wasn’t time to waste on worries now.

“We’re all ready.” Frankie appeared under the dark fringe of pine branch, shouldering Justin’s pack. “All we gotta do is finish fixin’ Mr. Parker’s stretcher, and we can head out.”

Justin nodded stonily and turned back to douse and dismantle the fire.

But Frankie just stood there, the wind blowing through his hair and ruffling his grimy CCC shirt.

“What?” Justin growled, whirling around. Throwing down the twig in his hand. “You wanna say somethin’, Frankie? Just say it and quit lookin’ at me like that.”

Frankie didn’t speak—just stood there blinking like a bullfrog. He stuffed one hand in his pocket and scuffed the snow with the end of his broken shoe. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?” he finally said, looking up and meeting Justin’s gaze. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“What was an accident?”

“What happened with Lia’s father.” He dropped his voice, his breath coming out like smoke.

“Course it was an accident, you moron. You think I’d do somethin’ like that on purpose?” Justin raised his voice instead of lowering it.

Frankie ducked his head, looking embarrassed. “Course ya wouldn’t. I just thought … thought …” He bit his lips and pawed the snow again.

“Thought what?” Justin got up and faced Frankie, his blood boiling so hot he had to remind himself that there were ladies around. As much as he felt like knocking Frankie White through a bunch of cedars, now might not be the best time and place to do it.

“I dunno.” Frankie shrugged. “I thought you were just full a talk and all about that God stuff and about mistakes you said you’d made.” He met Justin’s gaze. “I thought ya figured you knew it all and hadn’t ever set foot in the real world. Shucks, like you were some kinda dandy or somethin’.” His nose reddened, and he looked down. “I was the one who put ice in your bed to bring you down a peg. Know that?”

“I know.” Justin snorted in disgust. “I shoulda strung you up for that.”

Frankie blanched. “You mean you … you knew I did it?”

“Sure I did. Cook saw you steal the ice from the chest and told me five minutes after.”

“Oh.” Frankie swallowed and looked down.

“And that stupid mountain rattler. You put it in your pack, and it crawled off.” Justin hugged himself in the cold. “I saw you lookin’ for it that day when I took your bird eggs. You know you coulda killed me or Ernie or one of the guys?”

“I thought babies didn’t have venom! It was this big!” Frankie gestured wildly with his fingers.

“Well they do, stupid!” Justin hollered, flaring up. Feeling that old itch to grab Frankie by the shirt collar and shake a lick of intelligence into him.

Frankie stuck his hands in his pockets and scrubbed his shoes in the snow. He finally looked up. “And … you still come up here after me?” he asked in a small voice. “Even after ya knew all that?”

“Sure I did. ‘Cause you’re an idiot.” Justin picked up a twig and started whittling it again.

“Yeah. I reckon.” Frankie gave a half grin. Then he drew himself up taller, the grin fading. “But no matter what you mighta done, Fairbanks, I still think you’re swell.” He sniffled again, and Justin wasn’t sure if it was the cold or emotion. “Mighty swell.”

Frankie’s throat quivered. “Truth is, I ain’t never done nothin’ good for nobody else in my life. All I’ve done is make trouble. I didn’t deserve to wear your boots, Fairbanks. You shoulda let me freeze.”

“I might if you keep on talkin’ like that.” Justin clicked his knife shut and shoved it in his pocket, thinking of Reverend Summers.

Frankie’s expression stayed sober. “I swear when I get back to camp I’m gonna try and straighten out my life. I’ll even give my rocks and stuff back to the lieutenant.”

“And the letter you found about the gold?” Justin glared.

“That, too. Honest Injun. I’ll even read that Bible of yours if ya want.”

“Well, you can start by helpin’ me splint Lia’s ankle, double time, or we might never get outta this ice hole.”

Frankie grinned and gave a mock salute. “Yes sir! I’m on it.”

Snow gusted as they mounted the rocky, boulder-clogged ledge, hauling Mr. Parker on a blanket trussed together with ropes and sticks to keep his back straight. They helped Lia up the slippery embankment, the wind screaming across the meadow and blowing snow.

Frankie paused, red-faced and panting, and pulled on Justin’s arm as they climbed the last rocky flank that outcropped the meadow. “Say, ain’t that where we dropped the light? It can’t be, can it?”

“You mean where
I
dropped the light.” Justin wiped his sleeve across his face. “And I dunno. Everything looks the same to me.”

“No, I’m sure it’s here. But … nah. There’s no way.”

Justin scowled in irritation, stretching his back for one final heave of Mr. Parker’s stretcher, which they’d wedged between a clump of stones. Mr. Parker moaned, clutching his head.

“I don’t really care, Frankie. We just gotta …” Justin broke off, staring down at the mass of stones. Trying to remember the cracks and grooves. “Hey, are those what’s left of our boot tracks?”

Frankie straightened up in surprise. “So it
was
here! The flashlight fell down between those rocks, and then you grabbed in the hole there, but … but look at that big ol’ boulder! There’s no way we coulda moved that.”

Justin ran his hand over the boulder, which stretched farther than he could reach both up and out. A heavy chunk of granite, solid, wedged back against a heavy pack of earth and stones. A white skiff of snow on top.

Justin’s mouth hung open as he tried to replay the scene. He felt along the smooth and wrinkled stone, cold to the touch, where he’d gripped and pushed. It couldn’t be. Could it? That piece of rock must weigh more than a freight train.

“That’s it all right.” Frankie’s eyes bugged. “But how’d we do it? How’d we move that thing? You don’t think it’s because we …”

“Because we what?”

Frankie flushed. “I mean, I don’t really believe in all that prayer mess, but we moved that rock somehow.”

“Well,” Justin shrugged, “you got some other explanation? Space aliens, maybe?”

Frankie laughed briefly, but his face stayed sober. “Dunno, Fairbanks. Maybe I’m gonna hafta think about all that God business again. ‘Cause man, we sure needed that light.” He wiped his wet nose on his sleeve. “I ain’t gonna be no preacher though. Uh-uh.”

Justin gazed up at the boulder. “I can’t think of nothin’ better to be, Frankie, than a preacher. I promise ya that.”

J
ustin guessed it must be noon from the brightness of the clouds and the rumbling in his stomach at the thought of the mess hall. Anything they plopped on a plate sounded good. Slimy boiled potatoes? Fine. Soggy leftover chicken? Dandy. It was food, and with the cold temperatures and physical exertion, he’d probably eat the plate and the table, too.

They’d struggled partway down the ridge, pausing only once to rest and build a fire when Mr. Parker began to shiver uncontrollably in the makeshift stretcher. Justin rested there, spent, while a weak fire sputtered. His wrists and back ached from gripping the sides of the rough pine stretcher, and he flexed his stiff fingers. All the blood seemed to have pooled there in one desperate attempt not to let Mr. Parker slide off the stretcher—leaving red gouges across his wrists and forearms.

Worst of all, Justin felt clumsy and off balance. His toes had no feeling, perhaps from the tight boots, and he wasn’t as fleet and nimble as before. Several times he’d had to brace himself from falling, holding an arm against a shaggy pine trunk while he shouldered Mr. Parker’s stretcher.

He’d just let his head sink into his bent knees when Lia whispered something next to him, her breath stirring his hair.

“What’d ya say?” He jerked his head up.

“It was you who sent it.”

Justin turned to look at Lia as she knelt there next to him on a folded blanket over snow, her dress filthy and eyes swimming with tears. A frightening bewilderment creeping into his chest that—by George—he’d somehow made her cry again.

“Sent … sent what?” He ran a dirty hand through his hair, wondering if she was hallucinating again.

“The money every month.” She winced as she shifted position to let her injured leg out straight, adjusting the flimsy splint and pulling the wool blanket tighter around her shoulders. “You’re the one who’s been sending it. I figured it out.”

Justin dug his boot heels into the thin crust of snow to steady himself. “What makes you think that?” he finally asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. Reaching out to rub his hands in the glow of fire warmth and avoiding her gaze.

“Frankie said you’re always signing up for extra work, taking jobs at local farms on the weekends, but you never buy anything—and still never have a nickel to your name.” Lia ran a finger over her cracked lower lip, which had begun to heal slightly.

Justin’s shoulders jumped in unexpected laughter. “That sounds like somethin’ Frankie would say.” He shook his head, picking uncomfortably at a blue-black fingernail he’d smashed with a hammer awhile back.

Lia leaned closer, fingering a strand of hair. “And every time the money comes in, we meet Margaret at the market. Like her money comes in around the same time ours does.” She watched the fire, waving away smoke. “I thought I saw Beanie once, on the road from our house to yours, right after we found the money—but I never knew for sure.” She looked up at him. “Is it you, Justin?”

He picked at his thumb a few more minutes, his forehead creasing into a deep line. “I reckon that’s why there’s a fifth amendment in the Constitution, Lia,” he finally said, keeping his eyes down. “Can you do me a favor and not ask me so many questions? No offense, but I’d really rather not talk about it. Please.”

Lia seemed to understand, and she brushed her hair back with her fingers, nodding. A snowflake streaking past her face and another landing in her hair.

Justin hesitated then brushed the snowflake out of her messy curls. Then he wrapped his arms around his knees, suddenly shy. “As long as your folks are doin’ all right, your mom and sis especially, then I’m happy. There’s nothin’ more to say.”

“What did you do to your thumb?” She reached abruptly over his arm and ran her finger across the bruised thumbnail.

“Ah. Nothin’.” Justin shrugged in embarrassment, suddenly self-conscious at the sensation of her tender touch, light as it might have been. “Nothin’ that won’t heal up in a month or two.”