Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (41 page)

There was so much more that Noah wanted to write. How beautiful the prairie was. How vast the sky. How a man understood his insignificance in the scheme of things out here in this place, and how the realization humbled him when he stopped to realize that the God who ruled the world also said, “Come now…let us reason together.” He wanted to tell her just how much Colonel Barton’s friendship and wisdom were helping Noah shape his image of himself and the man he would soon meet. But it was late, the campfire was nearly gone, and words were simply not sufficient for some things.

Noah’s letter had been waiting for Emilie at home. Waiting on the entryway table with calling cards from Mother’s friends and a request from Carl Obrist that she stop in the
Journal
office upon her return from Long Pine. That was good news, of course, but it didn’t matter nearly as much as Noah’s letter. Emilie read it quickly the first time. The second time, she tried to imagine him beside a campfire. She closed her eyes and willed herself to see the sky he’d described. And the third time she traced the words “I am ever and always yours” with her fingertip.

Now, as she stepped out onto the small porch just off her room, she looked west and wondered. What had Noah learned about himself at Turkey Creek? And what effect would the Powder Horn Valley have on him? And then…then what? She closed her eyes.
Help him, Lord. Help us all. And thank You for May.

Fully one month after he’d ridden out of Beatrice alongside Colonel Josiah Barton, a bronzed and trailworn Noah Shaw rode into North Platte, Nebraska. Josiah had warned him that North Platte had “quite a reputation.”

“The last time I was there, saloons were the most common business in town. Even the drugstores and general stores sold liquor and wine, and that didn’t include all the unlicensed saloons, gambling dens, and other establishments. Cowboys and soldiers on leave rode a long way to have a ‘good time’ in North Platte.”

As the two men rode into town, Noah had opportunity to see exactly what Josiah meant. It was after sundown, and Front Street was alive with raucous laughter and the tinny sound of almost-in-tune pianos.

“It’s as if one of the towns in those dime novels I used to read just came to life,” Noah said as he swung out of the saddle, then followed Josiah into a livery stable. The horses attended to, the men walked up the street and got a room at the Union Pacific Hotel.

“Time to decide, son,” Josiah said. “How many nights do we need the room?”

“At least two,” Noah said.

Josiah smiled. As he signed the hotel register, he inquired as to the availability of baths.

“This time of night?” the clerk protested.

“Yes. Tonight. We’ve been on the trail for nearly a month, son,” Josiah said.

Half an hour later, Noah sank into a tub of hot water with a sigh of pleasure. “I should get a haircut,” he said to Josiah, similarly lounging in a tub on the other side of the sheet hung from the rafters to create separate “rooms” in the bath house.

“Plenty of tonsorial parlors in town,” Josiah said. “You can search one out tomorrow while I ride out to Scout’s Rest.”

And that’s just what happened. Noah got a shave and a haircut while Josiah rode the few miles to the Scout’s Rest. Everything was going according to plan. Until Josiah rode back into town, accompanied by Kit Leshario.

Noah and Josiah had ridden in to North Platte on the first Wednesday of August. The sun was hot, the streets ankle-deep in dust. They woke to rain, but Josiah insisted that a little rain was no reason for him to delay making contact with Kit out at Scout’s Rest. He left right after breakfast. Noah made his way to Jim Davis’s Shaving Saloon where he lost a month’s growth of hair but kept the beard (albeit trimmed) lest he look “like a paint horse,” since the skin beneath his beard wouldn’t be as dark as the rest of his face.

On the way back to the hotel, he stopped at a stationer’s and purchased letter paper. Next, he had a leisurely breakfast, and then he returned to the hotel, intent on writing Emilie. Instead of returning to his hotel room, though, he lingered in the men’s lounge just off the main lobby, drinking coffee and waxing eloquent about the last few days of the trip. Since Powder Horn Valley, he’d encountered a rattlesnake—which Phil stomped to death, seen the distant glimmer of a prairie fire, caught a glimpse of a falling star, and wished that Emilie could have been with them when he and Josiah topped a rise and saw what looked like a giant sapphire glimmering in the valley below.

Noah had just raised his coffee mug to his lips when movement in the doorway made him look up. There he was standing behind Josiah, staring at Noah with an expression that defied description.

Noah set the coffee down. He stood up. The man behind Josiah stepped around him. But then he seemed unable to move forward. He was unmistakably Indian, even though he was dressed like any other cowhand. A red bandana tied about his neck. A blue shirt. Chaps. Denim pants. Boots with spurs. When he finally snatched the hat off his head and Noah saw the ragged black hair, he reached up and raked through his own.

Finally, the man moved. Coming to where Noah stood, he paused, looking into Noah’s eyes. “I see myself.”

Noah nodded.

The man put his hands on his hips. He looked away. Finally, he said, “Barton tells me she has gone to the fathers.” He put his hand to his breast. “This grieves me.”

“Pneumonia,” Noah said. “When I was thirteen. She—” He couldn’t say Ma didn’t suffer, because she had. He swallowed. “It happened quickly.”

The man nodded. Tears glimmered in his eyes as he stepped forward and put his palm on Noah’s chest, almost as if he needed to prove the boy was real. “You are a gift I do not deserve,” he said and dropped his hand.

And so it began.

C
olonel Barton cleared his throat. “We should continue this somewhere that affords privacy.”

At the colonel’s comment, Noah glanced about. Every one of the handful of men in the room was staring at Kit and him, and not all of them were merely curious. A couple looked downright upset. One was standing beside the table where he’d been sitting, smoking a cigar. Both the angle of the cigar in the man’s mouth and the clenched fists sent a threatening message.

Kit glanced at the man and then at Josiah. With a wry smile, he muttered, “No Injuns allowed,” and headed for the door.

Noah followed, his heart pounding. “Wait.” He caught up to Kit in the lobby. “Can’t we—what about we go up to our room?”

Kit shook his head. “Even worse.” He headed on outside.

“Is he kidding?” Noah said, incredulous.

Josiah shook his head. “I should have known better, but when we rode up and I saw you in the lounge, I thought it’d be all right. That surely things had changed in the years since I’d been out here.” He sighed. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“So what do we do?”

“We can head over to the livery.” With a slow smile, he added, “In fact, we could pack up and go for a ride. You can impress Kit with your exemplary horsemanship.”

By the time Noah and Josiah exited the hotel, Kit had already mounted up. When Josiah explained the plan, Kit nodded. “I’ll wait at the edge of town,” he said and, without another word, rode off toward the north.

Noah hesitated. “I—wait a minute. I need to get something.” He took the hotel stairs two at a time, then loped down the hall to his room, where he grabbed the bedroll he hadn’t undone since arriving in North Platte. Back downstairs, he held it up. “It’s all I have of her. He should see it. I think it’ll mean something to him. She never forgot.”

Together, he and Josiah made their way to the livery. In moments, they’d joined up with the lone rider waiting astride a mottled gray horse with white splotches across its flanks. Kit turned west and kicked his horse into a lope. When Noah looked at Josiah in surprise, Josiah merely shrugged and moved out after the spotted pony. When Kit finally held up, he was at the top of a rise. Josiah and Noah caught up, and together the men descended into a valley just like the one Noah had written Emilie about—a bowl of sand holding a pool of water bubbling up from the earth, reflecting the rainclouds that were beginning to separate. An oasis of sorts in the midst of the vast sand hills.

When Kit dismounted, his horse lowered its head to drink. Noah and Josiah followed suit, and for a while, the men said nothing. Noah would look at Kit, and the older man would smile and nod and then look away.

Finally, Noah loosened the cords holding the bedroll behind his saddle. “Ma made this. And she used to tell me stories about it.” Josiah reached out for Phil’s reins, which Noah gladly handed over. Then he walked to a grassy spot beneath a tree and unfurled the bedroll. Standing back, he watched Kit.

The older man looked. And looked again. He squatted down beside the quilt. A calloused finger reached out and traced something. His jaw tensed. He frowned. And then a tear trickled down one weathered cheek. He brushed it away with the back of his hand. And then he began to sing. The music rumbled up from someplace deep inside the man as he stared down at Ma’s handwork. It was like nothing Noah had ever heard before. Not melodic in the way of the music he was accustomed to, yet beautiful in its own way. At one point, Kit raised both hands to the sky. He sang with his eyes closed, tears streaming down his cheeks. When the song ended, he sat at the edge of the quilt and leaned forward, still studying the imagery, tracing this drawing or that, sometimes smiling. And finally, looking up at Noah and gesturing for him to come and sit beside him. When Noah complied, Kit pointed to the outline of the Big Dipper.

“This is part of the Bear.” He pointed up at the sky. “You know the Bear?”

Noah nodded. “She used to call me her Little Bear sometimes.” He put his palm to his chest. “She said it was because of this voice.”

“The voice is good.”

“But that’s not why she called me her little bear. She called me that because of you.”

Kit pointed to an owl. “Tell me what she said about this.”

When Noah repeated the story, Kit smiled. Nodded. “Yes. That is what happened.” He paused, then added, “I wished for her to stay with me. I am sorry this has caused you pain.”

Noah gestured at the quilt. “Tell me what she was remembering when she drew these things.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Kit Leshario told stories. When the last one had been told—as it happened, the turkey wasn’t really about Turkey Creek—Noah sat back. “I always believed there was more to these drawings than Ma would say.” He looked over at his father. “She stitched a message. Proof that she never forgot. For the rest of her life, she carried your memory with her.”

“As I do of her,” Leshario said. He looked over at Noah, his dark eyes smoldering with emotion. “And now, give me stories of you, my son. So that I can carry your memory with me, alongside hers.”