Carla Kelly (5 page)

“That's for stuffing the heart back in my chest,” she said finally. “I'll try not to get discouraged.”

He kissed her forehead. “If you do, just read the Book of Ether. There are 151 places where it says, ‘And it came to pass.’ I started counting them, along about Rock Springs.”

Julia couldn't sleep that night, but at least in the morning she could report to Paul over bacon and eggs that there were really 152 places. He only grinned and held out his plate for more eggs.

“Charlotte hasn't quite figured out the nuance of fried eggs softer than moccasins, so I need to store up the memory of these little beauties until Christmas,” he said, by way of explanation. “Before I leave, tell me, is there any trick to oatmeal I should know about?”

“Nuance?” Papa asked, raising his eyebrows. “Funny, that isn't a word I probably would ever associate with either Wyoming or the Double Tipi.”

“It's pretty slow in the bunkhouse, and I'm a lousy cribbage player,” Paul replied. “Doc has a dictionary, and I am up to the N's now.”

Julia's oatmeal demonstration, when her folks had wisely left the room, was less than successful, what with Paul looking over her shoulder, then resting his chin on the top of her head, with his hands generally on her waist. “Slow down, cowboy,” she said reluctantly.

“Basically I just stir it until it looks like lava?” he asked her neck.

“Mr. Otto, you are incorrigible,” she whispered, unable to concentrate on oatmeal.

“Just curious.”

“About me or the oatmeal?” she asked.

If you're trying to distract me from your coming departure, you're doing an excellent job
, Julia thought. She stepped back from the range and fanned herself with her apron when Paul went upstairs for the portmanteau he had purchased at ZCMI to hold his new clothes.

It was snowing when they left the house, the first storm of the season. Papa drove carefully to the depot. Her hand in Paul's, Julia watched the snow drift down on trees still bearing their leaves. She felt his upcoming departure settle around her shoulders like mortar.

Even Paul couldn't work miracles at the train depot. After he shook hands with Papa, who waited in his automobile, and walked with her toward the waiting train, Julia felt herself begin to droop. She envied the couples who were hugging and kissing relatives and getting on the train together.

“It's our turn in March,” Paul said, following the direction of her gaze. “I'll turn up like a bad penny a few days before Christmas. With James.”

She didn't mean to cry, but it was too much. He held her close as she whispered, “I just don't feel easy with you out of my sight. I wake up every night, thinking about that cut bank and how shallow the water was, and wondering if you had heard the shots I fired. And then I can't sleep again. I can barely breathe.” It came tumbling out of her as she sobbed and his grip tightened.

“I didn't know it was that bad, Darling,” he said. “I wish you had told me.”

“I just couldn't.” She shook her head, embarrassed and wondering where her courage was. “What good would it do?” She lowered her voice, not wanting anyone to overhear. “I'm still alone at night, and I'm still afraid.”

“We can't speed up the process. You know it's the temple or nothing.”

Julia could barely look at him, thinking of all the trouble she was and how little time he had to accomplish so much: find his cattle, build a house, go to church when he could, and get through what was shaping up to be a tough winter. “I know,” she said. “I just have to endure.”

“
We
have to endure,” he said, his voice firm. “Still…” He glanced at the conductor, who was pulling out his watch and frowning at them. “Let's see if that Mr. Otto hasn't lost all his charm. Say a prayer, sport.”

Julia said her all-purpose, three-word prayer, amending it to “Comfort
us
, Jesus.” She watched Paul walk to the conductor, give him that patented, measuring stare she was intimately acquainted with, and hold up five fingers. She couldn't help her smile as the conductor—supreme potentate on the Union Pacific—nodded and pointed to a door slightly ajar. Paul held out his hand for her.

In a moment they were in what looked like an overgrown broom closet.

“What…?”

Paul sat her on a stool next to a wall of janitorial supplies. “Your middle name's Amanda, isn't it? I didn't bother with the finer points when I did this last summer.”

She nodded, already feeling a lift to her spirits. She closed her eyes as Paul took off her hat, the feathery thing he had bought three days ago, put it in her lap, and placed his hands firmly on her curly hair.

“Julia Amanda Darling, by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I give you a blessing of comfort.”

His words were quietly spoken, calm and firm, as he blessed her with peace of mind and freedom from fear, and the courage to endure the pain of their separation. He admonished her to think more of others and less of herself. Maybe his words should have stung a little, but they didn't. What he said, what he pronounced on her head, was precisely what she needed. She could only add her prayers to his and draw strength from his resolve, as he had so obviously intended.

When he finished, Paul kissed the top of her head, fingered her curls as though he wanted to imprint that memory in his senses, and rested his hands briefly on her shoulders.

“You okay, sport?” he asked.

She turned around to look him square in the eyes. “Never better.”

“I have to catch a train then.”

The conductor was still waiting by the passenger compartment. He nodded to Paul. “One minute left,” he said, with another nod to Julia and a decided twinkle in his eye.

Paul kissed her. “I'm serious about your curly hair,” he whispered. “I really like it short. I'm thinking… When ZCMI delivers my suit, just… just keep it at the foot of your bed. I'd leave my Stetson too, but the other one burned up. A stockman is
naked
in Wyoming without his lid.”

With one last tug at her hair, he got on the train and did not look back.
That's better
, Julia thought. She squared her shoulders, turned around, and left the train depot without a backward glance.

The ride home with Papa was a quiet one. “He gave me a blessing, Papa,” was all she said, and maybe all she needed to say. When she got home, she went upstairs into the bedroom across the hall where Paul had stayed. Thank goodness Mama hadn't stripped the sheets from the bed yet. She grabbed the pillow on his bed and pressed her face to it, sighing in relief to breathe in the fragrance of bay rum. She put his pillow on her bed, pressed her face into it, and slept soundly for the first time in weeks. When she woke up, she went to the kitchen and looked around for the replacement cookbook Mama had bought, and which Julia had not the heart to open. She smiled when she found it and flipped to the chapter on cakes.

“Now, what would you like, Uncle Albert?” she asked out loud, turning the pages. She stopped on Lemon Queens, and her mouth started to water. “
I
want this, Uncle Albert,” she murmured. “I'll try it on you, and make it for Paul in December…” She wavered a moment, because suddenly Christmas seemed almost as far away to her as when she was a little girl, and waiting impatiently for something wonderful under the tree.
I suppose I have not changed much
, she thought next, and her face grew rosy.
I'm still anticipating something wonderful
.

Her resolve returned. Paul had told her to think of others and not of herself. She smiled again.
I'll think of you, Uncle Albert, and maybe only a little of myself, because I want Lemon Queens.

The Lemon Queens took two days. When she finished the first batch, Julia and her parents ate so many that a gift of Lemon Queens would have looked sadly wanting, even if she had put them on a very small plate.

They were eating those Lemon Queens when the doorbell rang, and Papa answered it, returning with a telegram. “For you, Jules,” he said, and there was no disguising the worry on his face. “I hope it's not bad news.”

She thought of the telegram announcing Iris's death and nearly handed it back to Papa. She didn't; hadn't Paul admonished her to be a little braver? She reached in her hair for a hairpin to slit open the telegram, before remembering her hair was too short to need them now. Mama handed her one.

The frown left Julia's face as she read the telegram and laughed. “I am marrying a funnier man than I realized.” She popped another Lemon Queen in her mouth.

“Read it,” her parents demanded.

Dearest Darling. Stop. I love you. Stop. If I can't find my cattle, we'll hock the ring. Stop. Love, Mr. Otto.
She checked the telegram's place of origin. “Hah! Rock Springs. He's always inspired in Rock Springs!”

They finished that batch of Lemon Queens in relief. She made the next batch in the morning after Papa had left for Zions Bank and Mama had taken the streetcar four blocks over to her usual Wednesday brunch and bridge game. “I'd walk, but look at all this snow!” she had declared as she stuck a hatpin in her new winter hat. She paused, one glove on, her eyes full of sudden anxiety. “Jules, you'll be all right if I leave?”

Until then, Julia hadn't been aware that neither of her parents had left her alone since her return to Salt Lake City. “I'll be fine, Mama,” she replied, taking out the hatpin, and setting Mama's hat back on her head at a more jaunty angle. “I'm going to make Lemon Queens for Uncle Albert. You go play bridge and try not to cheat.”

It was snowing harder when she set out for the Hickman house, the Lemon Queens secure in Mama's food tote that had seen considerable action at Relief Society bazaars and church socials.

Ed Hickman's wife answered the doorbell. “Sister Darling, we were hoping you would visit again.”

“Here I am,” she said, holding out the tote. “Lemon Queens.”

Sister Hickman took them as Julia removed her coat and shook the snow off it outside on the porch. She hung it on the coat rack, along with her hat, and jumped in surprise when Sister Hickman took her by the arm.

“Miss Darling, I didn't mean to startle you, but I'm relieved to see you here. Since your visit, Father Hickman has been saying how much he wants to return to Koosharem.”

“I don't understand,” Julia said, puzzled.

Sister Hickman stepped closer and lowered her voice. “He says that, and then he says how much he wants to see you again. We don't know what's troubling him.”

“He's probably irritated that Paul and I paid such a short visit on Sunday,” Julia said. “Maybe he wants to know about Paul's life on the Double Tipi. I have plenty of stories!”

Sister Hickman ushered her into the parlor, where the old man sat, his feet propped on an ottoman and hands crossed over his stomach. He was frowning at the far wall.

Quietly, she came closer and touched Uncle Albert's arm. “Sir? I thought I'd visit.”

She wanted to think his expression was welcoming, but she wasn't certain. He made a visible effort to welcome her and tried to rise.

“Never mind, sir,” Julia said. “You look too comfortable to have to get up. Shall I sit here?”

“Do that.” He smiled then, and the bleakness left his eyes. He seemed disinclined to speak, so Julia plunged in.

“Before he left, Paul told me how sorry he was that he couldn't spend more time with you when you came to Cheyenne with my father.”

She stopped. Uncle Albert was crying. She reached out her hand. “I know you must have wanted to spend time with your sister's son, but there was so much turmoil then. Is… is that it?”

“It goes back a bit farther,” he told her. “That letter from your father to me, telling me about Paul's existence, stirred up considerable emotion, as you can well imagine.”

“I can.”

He was silent again.
What do I say?
Julia asked herself, unsure. She sat back, thinking of Paul's blessing at the train depot.
Others. Think of others and less of myself
.

“Uncle Albert, how about this? Let me tell you about Paul's life on the Double Tipi. I don't want to wear you out, of course, but you might find it interesting. And then maybe on another day, you can tell me about Mary Anne. Paul has told me that she never wanted to talk about—”

“I'm positive she didn't,” he interrupted, his British brogue decidedly pronounced. His expression softened then, when he realized he had startled her. “Yes, let's do that, Julia. Tell me about Paul.”

“I haven't a more favorite subject,” she said, relieved. “Let me start with the advertisement in the
Deseret News
from ‘Rancher Desperate.’ ”

Julia walked home slowly, late that afternoon. The elementary school in the next block was out for the day, so she went to one of the swings on the playground and dusted off the snow. She sat there, turning her face up to the still falling snow, and breathed deeply of the cold air. The Hickman's parlor was too warm, or maybe she had a powerful longing to be sitting on her horse, Paul at her side, riding to the ranch. It was hard to take a deep breath in Salt Lake City, with low clouds that settled in every winter.

Julia thought over what she had told him, remembering how interested he had been when she mentioned James, the little boy who had wandered onto the Double Tipi four years ago during winter. His interest had deepened as she told Uncle Albert how Paul finally deduced that James had been part of a Polish family of homesteaders, burned out of their holdings by stockmen greedy for more land.

She frowned then, recalling how Uncle Albert had almost recoiled when she suggested a comparison between James and Mary Anne Hickman, lost and looking for the handcart company again. Uncle Albert had little to say after that. She had put his silence down to exhaustion at an afternoon of talk and memory, but maybe it was more.

“I told him everything I knew about Paul,” she told her parents over leftover Boston baked beans, potatoes en surprise, and Brussels sprouts that evening. “It felt good.”

“Did he enjoy hearing about his long-lost nephew's life?” Mama asked as she took Julia's Swiss pudding from the icebox.