Place to Belong, a (29 page)

Cassie's eyes burned. “How can I thank you for accepting me?” And Ransom popped into her head uninvited. Again.

A booming voice made them both jump. “Mavis! Mavis Jensen! And Cassie Lockwood! Well, I declare!”

Jason Talbot! Surely not! Yes. He stepped up right next to Cassie's elbow. “Cassie, dear, stand up here. Don't you have a hug for your old Uncle Jason?”

Cassie stuttered. She sputtered, totally stunned. Jason Talbot. And he wanted her to—

She finally found her voice. “Mr. Talbot, I don't think that would be appropriate here.”

“Eh, you're probably right. Mavis, how are you doing? It's been so long! Say, did you ever marry Ivar? Is it Mavis Engstrom now?”

“It has been Mavis Engstrom for nearly thirty years.”

“Thirty years. It's been that long.” He nodded. “I suppose so. And how's Ivar? I recall he doesn't have much of a sense of humor but is a sterling gentleman.”

“Ivar died.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Thank you. His sons and daughter are doing well. I'll tell them I saw you.”

He waved a hand. “Say, would you two ladies mind if I joined you?”

Again Cassie was speechless. Mavis was not. “It is a table for only two, Jason, quite small. Perhaps another time. We can catch up on old times then.”

“You're here for the shoot, Cassie?”

“I am.”

“Then I'll see you there. Ladies, my pleasure!” And Jason Talbot walked out of their view as suddenly as he had just stepped in.

Cassie found herself breathing heavily. “That was a—it was more than just a surprise. Jason Talbot.” She wagged her head. “After all he . . .”

Mavis looked just as nonplussed. “I realize I'm no spring chicken, but he looks so old.”

The waiter arrived with their tea and silently poured.

“He certainly looks older now than he did a year ago. No, it's not even been a year yet.” Cassie took a deep breath to try and slow her thundering heart down. “A little less hair, more weight, and, well, wrinkles. As if he's had a hard life since I last saw him.”

“
Hmm
. Perhaps he has. I must be careful not to be judgmental.”

Cassie stirred sugar into her tea. Jason Talbot. A little less than a year ago, a lifetime ago at least, Jason declared the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show bankrupt and closed it without warning. Everyone who worked there was suddenly cast out jobless, with winter coming on. She, Micah, and Chief had set out in the wagon she'd grown up in, seeking the valley her father had always talked and dreamed about. On the way south, she'd discovered the deed that showed she was now half owner of a ranch. They found the land with Chief's help, what turned out to be the Engstroms' Bar E Ranch, and oh so much had happened since then!

She remembered that she had seen a man at the St. Louis shoot who, she thought then, looked rather like Jason Talbot. Now that she saw him here, she realized she'd been right. That had been he. What was he doing there, then here, so far from there? Did he follow shoots now? Perhaps he was looking for talent to build a new show.

It occurred to Cassie that when Jason disbanded the show he was disbanding his own livelihood as well. Her anger and dismay at his brutal lack of interest in his employees gave way,
at least a little, to her curiosity. Perhaps she and Mavis ought to dine with him just to learn what he'd been doing for this past year. One thing was sure: Cassie held him responsible for the show's misfortune. That was a wound not easily healed.

The waiter appeared with a pad and pencil.

“I'll have the prime rib, if I may.” Cassie handed him her menu.

Mavis told him, “And I would like the chicken and dumplings, please.” She grinned at Cassie. “See if I can learn something about making dumplings.”

The waiter, of course, had no idea why they were giggling. “Very good choices. Thank you.” And he marched off.

“Jason just commented about your husband's lack of a sense of humor. Ransom is much like his father, isn't he?”

“Very much. But softened, if you will. Ivar did not know how to relax and enjoy life. Ransom can do that when he has to. And yet he has as strong a sense of personal responsibility. I couldn't be more pleased with him.”

“And that is why you insist he doesn't hate me.”

“Sooner or later, Cassie, you'll learn that I'm right about that.”

Cassie was not convinced.

The chicken and dumplings Mavis had ordered were very good—Mavis gave Cassie a taste—but they certainly weren't any better than what Mavis put on the table on a regular basis. Cassie's prime rib was very tasty, but the horseradish was mild, even bland compared to what Mavis made. It did not make her eyes water like Mavis's did. Cassie decided she would spend the rest of her life comparing every food she tasted to Mavis's cooking.

After dinner they returned to their room, and Mavis read her newspaper. But that, Cassie learned, was not why she had purchased it. “Your sleeves,” she explained. She crumpled
newspaper and stuffed it up inside the limp leg-o'-mutton sleeves. “Now we let them sit overnight. If it were plain white paper we could dampen them, but we don't dare with newsprint. The ink would run and ruin the blouse.”

The next morning the blouse did indeed look much better. Mavis could teach Cassie so much. But now, today, Mavis was going to have to learn from Cassie how to handle a shooter's guns in a major national-level contest. Yes, they had run through a shoot on a practice basis, but in a real shoot, anything could go wrong.
Please, dear Lord, give us success, and while you are at it, keep us safe.
Cassie wasn't sure why she included that last petition, but she knew Mavis would be praying throughout the day. Just that knowledge brought her a degree of comfort. At least for a moment.

A
nd here's MISS CASSIE LOCKWOOD!” the announcer boomed out through his bullhorn.

Cassie stepped forward smiling and raised her arm high, her greeting to the spectators in the grandstand. People in Denver obviously appreciated shooting contests; the grandstand was about three-fourths full, and that was a lot of folks. Was Jason Talbot one of those people?

As that old tingle raced up her spine, Cassie welcomed it. These spectators came for a show, and they would get a show! She stepped back, turned, and strode to her table.

Mavis consulted her list. “Rifle.” And handed it to Cassie. “I'm almost sorry I didn't let Gretchen come. She would so love this!”

From two stations down, Ty Fuller called, “Luck, Cassie!”

“Luck, Mr. Fuller!”
And luck to us, please, God
. “Perhaps next time.” She shouldered her rifle and stepped out to the line.

Mr. Fuller and two others shot before she did and came away with perfect scores. One of those others, Cassie noted, was George Sands.

Cassie stepped forward for her turn. One down. Two down. Three down. Four down.

Click. Her fifth shell failed to fire.

Quickly she swung her rifle barrel to the ground, hoping the shell wasn't in there hanging fire. An official stepped in beside her, watching. Carefully, she pulled the bolt. Four empty casings popped out. She broke the breech and peered down the barrel. There had been no fifth shell. Cassie smiled at the official. “Safe.”

The official smiled back and nodded. The announcer called it a misfire. The shoot continued.

“I'm terribly sorry, Cassie!” Mavis looked near tears. “That was my fault! I failed to load that fifth round. Oh, Cassie, I'm so sorry!”

“Aren't you the one who is always telling me God is in control? If you want to be forgiven, I forgive you. But it was a simple error. There's really nothing to forgive.”

Mavis did not look the least bit convinced. She handed Cassie her pistol.

Ty Fuller missed his last stationary. Cassie nailed all five of hers. They were now even and in second place.

Mavis took the pistol and handed her the shotgun.

Cassie had never seen a set like this one. Boys on either side of the backstop threw large beanbags up into the air as hard as they could. Beanbags!

“Beanbags?” The fellow next to her looked at her and shrugged.

She shrugged back.

When a beanbag is struck with the shot from a twenty-gauge shotgun, it explodes amazingly. Beans fly in all directions, a spray of many, many beans. It might be an odd target, but Cassie loved the visual effect.

One of the two shooters in the lead missed a beanbag and dropped to second place with Ty and Cassie. Mr. Sands kept his lead. So far he was maintaining a perfect score.

Dinnertime. Cassie led the way to the food tent, an unusual situation; almost always it was Mavis leading the way. But this was Cassie's world, and she reveled in it. Mavis's world, where knitting was an art, Cassie could not master. It was slowly becoming Cassie's as well, but she had a long way to go. She could cook a decent breakfast, make applesauce, clean chickens. She'd never milked. Here she was comfortable. Mavis did not seem to be.

Mavis fit in well, however, and seemed to truly enjoy talking to the people around her.

Back to work. The next-to-last set was stationaries with rifles, then pistols. Cassie and Ty remained tied, neck and neck, but the other two in second place dropped to third.

And now the birds. This first day they were using the clay pigeons. Mr. Sands missed one. One of the third-place fellows dropped to fourth. Ty shot a perfect round.

All those hours of swinging brooms and shotguns paid off right here. When Cassie finished the set with a perfect score, her arm still felt good.

And now everyone was shaking hands with everyone else. “Good shoot!” “Congratulations.” “Good job!” “Good shoot!” “Congratulations, Miss Lockwood!”

“Incredible! The day is over, and it's not even four o'clock!” Mavis wagged her head.

Cassie was laughing. “So let's tour around the expo and eat something absolutely terrible.”

What Cassie found incredible was the spirit of this shoot compared to that of Louisville. It wasn't the shooters, really. Many of the people shooting there were the same ones that were shooting here, at least in the top echelon. It certainly wasn't Mr. Fuller, who had organized that Louisville shoot, or even Mr. Tamworth, who was orchestrating this one. In part, it was that Cassie did not have a second there, and Mavis filled that role here. But that wasn't all of it.

“Mavis, you were absolutely right again.” Cassie paused beside a booth offering a prize if you knocked over milk bottles with a ball. “I really cannot travel to a shoot by myself and expect any measure of success. Thank you again for coming.”

“And thank you for recognizing that I was right. Thank Ransom too. When we were discussing this, he and I agreed on that and on the idea that I should come.”

Ransom. Very well. When they got back she would thank Ransom. Why did she feel so much stronger and in control at a shoot, so much bolder? Was it that at a shoot, she was treated as an equal, a colleague, and on the ranch she was the new bumbling girl who had never seen a toboggan? Quite likely. Probably when they returned to the ranch, she would lose her nerve as usual and say nothing. She was not bold there.

The next morning they again took a hansom to the fairgrounds. The driver tipped his hat as they got off. “Good luck, Miss Lockwood!”

“You know me?”

“I watched you yesterday, and I'll watch you again today.” He drove off.

“Well, I'll be.” Mavis looked a little dazed. “I don't think anyone in all of the Dakotas realizes you're famous.”

Cassie laughed. “Chief and Micah, maybe. Let's set up.”

They found the fifth shell under the table. It had rolled off when Mavis was loading the rifle, and she hadn't noticed. Today she carefully, laboriously counted each shell, double-checked the loads.

Ty Fuller arrived with his second. “There they are! Good morning, Mrs. Engstrom, Cassie!”

“Good morning,” Mavis returned cheerily.

“Good morning! And good luck today,” Cassie replied. She
even extended her hand without thinking, a very unwomanly thing to do. Boldness, which she totally lacked on the ranch.

And Ty Fuller, master marksman, shook hands, the acceptance of an equal, chuckling. “Next-to-the-best of luck to you too. This is a good shoot. We're all pretty evenly matched. And . . . well, there just seems to be a friendly, lively spirit about it.”

“I noticed that too. The spirit of it especially.”
Hmm
. Perhaps her traveling alone wasn't completely to blame for Louisville. “Mr. Fuller, I—”

“Ty, please. We're friends and colleagues.”

“Ty, I owe you so much. You helped me get back into the game. Thank you! However”—she smiled as she added—“I was looking at the difference in prize money between first and second place, and I've decided I don't owe you enough to let you win.”

He roared with laughter, and she thought for a moment he was going to hug her.

They lined up. They were introduced. The crowd was even larger today, but then, the second-day audience was almost always larger. They picked up their pistols for the first round. Everyone shot a perfect set, including the fellows who had no chance of winning.

Mavis handed her the rifle for the next set. “There are five shells in this. I counted them!”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Perfect score on the stationaries.

She glanced toward Ty. He looked at her and grinned. Yes, the spirit of this shoot was quite different.

Perfect score on the moving targets.

There were no beanbags today, but the little boys threw fruit or melons of some sort. Very juicy targets, they exploded almost as satisfyingly as had the beanbags.

When the shooters broke for dinner, the crowd seemed quite
pleased, with lots of applause both between sets and after. Good. That's what Cassie was there for.

She and Mavis went through the serving line in the dinner tent. Spaghetti was the main dish today. And the sauce was delicious.

“Excuse me a few minutes, Cassie. I'm going to go find out what they put in this sauce,” Mavis said. “The flavor is so rich.”

So Cassie was not the only one who compared all food to Mavis's cooking. Mavis apparently did too.

What was that commotion behind her? She twisted on the bench to see toward the door. Jason Talbot was standing outside, arguing with a steward or security person of some sort. It appeared he wanted to enter and the security person was preventing him. And now another fellow, an arbiter of some sort, was there talking to Jason.

Cassie asked Ty down the way, “Do you know who that is?”

“Never saw him. The man who ended the ruckus is Hec Tamworth.”

“That's the one I meant. The other person is Jason Talbot. He used to co-own the show with my father.”

Jason apparently gave up, because he walked off.

“
That
Talbot! Well, I'll be. So that's Jason Talbot.” Ty nodded. “Interesting.”

“Why?”

“I've never met him. I've only heard the name, and of course there was your Wild West Show. By reputation he's quite a heavy bettor. Even bets on shooting matches.”

“I didn't know that. I do know, though, that my father won co-ownership of Mr. Talbot's show in a poker game.”

“Sounds like his gambling goes way back.”

Then Mavis returned, so Cassie told her all about it. She didn't seem surprised.

When they returned to the shooting line, the remaining
participants were introduced all over again, for the grandstand held even more people now than it had that morning.

All but five contestants had dropped out. Cassie and Ty shot perfectly. A gusty breeze picked up that she failed to factor in well enough, and she missed one of the moving mechanical targets. Ty led by one. Cassie glanced at Mavis. The lady was standing quietly, eyes closed, head bowed.

The next round was clay pigeons with rifles. Cassie missed one, Ty missed two, putting them neck and neck again. Mr. Sands missed four. The fourth shooter moved into third place ahead of Mr. Sands, and the fifth dropped out.

Ty called, “Are you certain you can't let me win, just this once?”

“Not a chance.” Cassie hefted her shotgun.

The next round was live pigeons, always harder to hit than clay discs. The discs sailed in a smooth, predictable arc, while the pigeons often veered in unexpected directions.

Mr. Sands got them all, but it was too late. He was secure in third place, and unless Ty and Cassie missed several each, he could not win.

Ty missed one bird that flew up, then ducked suddenly aside. That could happen to anyone. To Cassie.

It all hung on this last set. Cassie raised her shotgun. One down. The gray breast feathers floated lazily behind the plummeting bird. Two down. Three down. Four.

Five down!

The crowd erupted with wild clapping and stomping and cheering! Cassie stepped forward, raising her arm and shotgun high to salute the audience, so happy she had tears in her eyes. She had won! She was back! Her arm was good again. She had found her old form, recovered the skill she once had.

She'd won.

She'd won.

Mavis was actually jumping up and down, shouting, “Praise God! Praise God!”

Ty appeared beside her and grasped her hand in both of his, a bear-tight grip. “Cassie, I consider this the best shoot I've had in a long time. You're a splendid competitor!”

“As are you. It was pure chance that sent your pigeon off in the wrong direction. That pigeon could just as easily have been one of mine.”
No, it wasn't pure chance, Ty, not with Mavis praying full time
.

“I insist on taking you and your charming second here to dinner. Six o'clock at the Cattlemen's?”

Cassie glanced toward Mavis, who was smiling. “We would be honored. Thank you, Ty.”