Sisters (12 page)

Hardly had he gone when
Mrs. Syms came bustling in. Either she'd heard James' outburst or she
was used to his wreaking havoc on her mantelpiece, because she headed
straight for it and began restoring things to order. While she
straightened the pictures, she told Sophie that Anna May Bellavance
had telephoned. Mrs. Bellavance wanted to ask when Mrs. Dymond would
be coming to visit her grandfather. The question was innocuous, yet
it bothered Sophie. Joe. She hadn't been to see him today, hadn't
even planned a visit, and he was why she'd come to Cheyenne. She
asked Mrs. Syms to call the Bellavance home and say she would be over
directly.

"Yes, yes, I'll do it
right away," Mrs. Syms said. But as she straightened one last
picture, she stopped shot. "My goodness, what's happened to the
missus!" She was holding the photograph of Helen.

"Esther said Sally did
it. That she did it quite a long time ago."

Mrs. Syms shook her head.
"Wasn't this way when I dusted yesterday."

Before Sophie could
respond, she noticed a darkening in the room. The sun had dropped
behind a cloud, she thought at first, but then out of the corner of
her eye she detected movement. She turned and saw someone staring
through the window. The Widow Bellavance was standing on the porch,
her face close to the screen, her long talon-like fingers curled
against it.

Still holding the picture
of Helen, Mrs. Syms rushed across the room to pull the draperies.
Sophie turned away, appalled by the hatred she saw in the old woman's
eyes.

The Cheyenne Club was new
since Sophie's last trip West, and while she'd never seen it, she'd
certainly heard about it. Visitors to Cheyenne were fond of
describing its tennis courts and fine furnishings, its skilled chef
and well-stocked wine cellar.

Tonight the club was ablaze
with lights. "They must have had brought in extra batteries,"
James observed as they drove up.

His statement conjured up pictures of guns and war in Sophie's mind.
"Batteries? How do you mean?" What could guns and war have
to do with this festive scene? Lamps had been strung from the roof of
the portico encircling the club, and large flags mounted at each of
the supporting pillars. A crowd had already gathered, the men in dark
suits, the women bright as summer flowers in their silk dresses.

"Well, there you've
caught me out," James laughed. "Now I have to confess I
know hardly anything about electricity except that when this much is
being used, extra power has to be brought in. The light company has
some big contraptions called batteries which apparently serve to
store power. For occasions like this, they bring them in on big
wagons."

He gave his phaeton over to
a boy at one of the hitching posts, and as he and Sophie mounted the
stairs to the portico, greetings were called out.

"Hello there, James!"

"Good to see you,
James."

"James, so glad you
came. How are you?"

He introduced Sophie to
several of the men who had greeted him, and they looked at her with
polite admiration as they bowed over her hand. Her ivory gown had
been a good choice, she thought, looking down at its narrow skirt.
And she knew that the lilies of the valley tucked in her chignon
complimented her dark hair.

The last man James
introduced her to, George Huber, made her uncomfortable, and she
tried to analyze why. It was his eyes, she concluded finally. They
were too black and shiny, and they flicked away too quickly when she
returned his gaze. James had turned to speak to someone else, then
paused to talk to a young blond woman dressed in deep pink. Sophie
hoped he would come back quickly. She didn't want to spend any more
time than she had with Huber, a tall man, immaculately dressed and
manicured. He had startlingly black hair and skin shiny like his
eyes, so shiny she found herself wondering if it, like his nails,
might have been polished. He had been quick to tell her of the
thousands of head of cattle he owned, but she found it hard to
imagine him on a roundup. Not that he seemed a type averse to
physical exertion, but she couldn't imagine he'd want to perspire and
get dusty unless his bathtub was nearby.

"Dymond's is a
terribly good publication," he was saying, leaning quite close
to her. "I even think we get it here at the club. I'll wager
that if you look at the library, you'll find several copies on the
table."

"I'm glad to hear
we're read here in Cheyenne."

"And you've written
about Cheyenne too, if I'm not mistaken. Two or three months ago, I
believe it was. Didn't you call us the Athens of the West?"

"One of my writers
did."

"Ah, now, do I detect
a note of disbelief? Have you been to the opera house? Have you
looked around the club? I think your writer was precisely on track."

Huber's responses were so
slippery smooth, Sophie decided that talking to him was like talking
to soap. She succumbed to the urge to strew a little grit across the
path of the conversation. "But wouldn't you concede there's a
shadowy corner or two where the light of civilization hasn't reached?
I spoke with someone today. Baby Wilson. Do you know her? When she
thinks of Cheyenne, it's not as a cultural wellspring exactly."

His eyes narrowed. "Mrs.
Dymond, now why would you be talking to a woman like that?"

"My sister knew her."

"Yes, well, but that
was one of those ladies' charity things."

"Mrs. Wilson had some
very interesting things to say about how the big cattle owners in
Cheyenne are trying to drive her and her husband off their
homestead."

He hesitated a moment, and
she could see him deciding on a strategy. He opted for geniality and
tried to make the calculation in his eyes seem like the glint of
goodwill. "Now, Mrs. Dymond, you know I own a few cattle, and I
can tell you that you mustn't pay any attention to people like the
Wilsons. If you were really acquainted with Mrs. Wilson's... uh ...
activities, you'd know to take what she says with a grain of salt."

"From what I've heard
of the activities of some of the big ranchmen, I wonder if I
shouldn't suspect them of seasoning the truth?" She hadn't meant
to be hostile, but his condescension had spurred her on. She tried to
sound a conciliatory note. "When there's a conflict, I seldom
find anyone on either side who's terribly objective. I suppose that's
one of the functions of the press, to provide a disinterested
viewpoint."

"You intend to write
about this?"

"Why not? I find it
intriguing." This wasn't the article she'd had in mind, but she
wouldn't tell Huber that, wouldn't let him think his hostile reaction
could make her back off.

"I suspect you find
it intriguing because you don't really understand, Mrs. Dymond."

"I understand what I
saw perfectly well. A family living in a shack on the prairie, living
on land the law entitles them to, and there's an attempt to drive
them off."

"A family!" he
exploded, scarlet mottles of anger appearing on his cheek and neck.
"You don't really think they're married, do you? And she's a
prostitute! She used to be at the House of Mirrors, Ida Hamilton's
whorehouse. Were you aware of that? And him, he's not living out
there, he's thieving out there!"

At that moment James
appeared. While his presence put an end to the angry words, a tension
remained, revealing itself in the cool leave Sophie and Huber took of
one another.

"What happened between
the two of you?" James asked Sophie.

"Well, he made it
quite clear he doesn't want me to write about the conflict between
the big ranchers and the homesteaders."

"I didn't know you
intended to."

"Frankly I didn't
until my exchange with Mr. Huber. Do you object?"

He was silent a moment. "If
you do this, Sophie, you must try not to become so caught up in the
circumstances of individuals that you forget the larger questions. I
saw that happen with Helen. She would get so involved with the
hardship of a single person, she would condemn a whole system, a
whole way of life, without paying due to its positive achievement."

"You aren't answering
me, James. Do you care?"

Again he hesitated. "Yes,
I care, Sophie. More than is prudent, I find myself caring about what
you do."

His unexpected words had a
strange effect upon her. It was as though they tore through a
wrapping which had been dulling and protecting her senses, and she
found herself acutely aware of the voices rising and falling around
her, of the glare of lights and the darkness beyond. She thought
carefully before she spoke. She didn't want to make more of his words
than he had meant, but even less did she want to diminish them. "Your
caring is terribly important to me," she said finally. They
looked at each other, and then he gave her his arm, a commonplace
gesture, but as they moved inside, she knew something of importance
had happened.

The first room they entered
was crowded, so they walked on to the dining room, where only a few
people were standing about. It was not as bright as it had been on
the portico. The electricity had not been turned on, and the large,
pleasantly proportioned room was lit by thick wax candles which cast
a rich gleam on the dark wood paneling and the massive brass ceiling
fixtures. Tables had been set for dinner, the covers a pale yellow
satin overlaid with lace strips. On each table was a large bowl of
red and yellow roses.

Her hand still on James'
arm, Sophie bent to smell the flowers in one of the bowls, and as she
did so, it came to her in a rush that she wasn't the first to enter
this room with James, nor the first to ride in the carriage with him
from the stone house on Ferguson Street. Helen had been before her,
had climbed the stairs to the gaily lit portico and greeted his
friends. Perhaps she had even quarreled with them.

The thought was troubling.
As she straightened, she saw Paul Bellavance standing alone by the
fireplace, smiling at her and James. She wondered if on another
evening he had stool there smiling at James and Helen, but affection
for Paul subdued the idea, and as she and James moved toward him,
Sophie thought how much she liked Paul. His smile wasn't just the
polite gesture most are; she found it truly warming. Something about
the furrows and creases it added to his face made it seem a gentle
affirmation that life was pleasure as well as pain, and that she was
part of the pleasure.

"Quite a difference
from Fort Martin," Paul said as they neared.

"Like another world,"
Sophie responded.

"More the world you're
used to now, I expect. But I still remember when you and Helen would
come into the post trader's store and get candy from me."

"You were even easier
to big it from than Joe. You never said no. Not once I can remember.
Besides, you were always there. Joe'd often be away hunting and
trapping."

"I suppose it was hard
for him to stay in one place," James said. "After roaming
in the mountains for fifteen years, he must have found the fort
confining."

"But you didn't mind,"
Sophie said to Paul. "Staying at the fort, I mean."

"No, you've got to
remember I came there from St. Louis. I was almost fifteen when my
father sent for me and my mother and brother. After growing up in the
city, I hardly found the fort confining." He paused a moment.
"Besides, I had my father's example, and he was different from
Joe. I think he found it a relief to stay in one place after his
years as a voyageur."

"Paul, have you a
picture of your father?" Sophie asked.

It was as thought she had
broken his train of thought with her question, because he didn't
answer at once, and when he did, his response was abrupt. "No,"
he said.

"Esther wanted one.
She's building family trees out of photographs and drawings, and I
told her I'd ask you. I thought perhaps the same person who sketched
my mother and father might have drawn your father."

Paul didn't answer, but
Sophie paid little heed, because as she was speaking, she had seen
George Huber enter the room. He looked her way, then crossed to the
corner, where he spoke to a small man in dark clothes who was sitting
in a chair tilted back against the wall. After listening to Huber,
the man slowly turned his head and looked at Sophie. Huber said a few
more words to him, then left the room. The small man rocked his chair
forward from the wall, catching the leg of it with his foot and
moving it so that he directly faced Sophie. Throughout the entire
maneuver, he never once unfolded the arms crossed over his chest, nor
did he take his eyes off Sophie. He put a booted foot over his knee,
settled back, and smiled at her, a look of amused contempt in his
eyes.

"James, who is that
man?"

When he turned to look, the
man nodded at James. "It's Jake Rodman."

"But who is he?"

"A detective. The
Stock Growers' Association hired him to investigate cattle rustling."

"Why is he staring at
me like that?"

"He's a bit rough,"
Paul said. "Probably doesn't know better than to stare at a
lovely lady."

"I'll speak to him,"
James said, starting to move away.

"No, no," Sophie
said. "Let's just go into another room." To her surprise,
James stopped. She'd been prepared to follow after him and argue.

"You two go ahead,"
said Paul, settling the matter. "I have to wait for Anna May.
I'll see you at dinner."

When they entered the
library, Sophie noticed several men sitting in armchairs reading. "Do
you think they know there's a party?" Sophie asked.

"I think they're
trying their best not to notice."

"Let me guess. They
don't like it when you open the club up to women."