Unbridled Dreams (3 page)

Just look at her,
Irma thought, observing Momma’s expression as she prattled on about the future.
She’s so pleased with herself. I should
have known she hadn’t given up on Brownell.
And Daddy was siding with her. How could he? Didn’t he know—didn’t he care—that being forced to attend a place like that would
kill
her?

“No,” Irma said aloud, and shook her head back and forth.

“I beg your pardon?” Momma said with a little frown.

Irma met her mother’s gaze straight on, even arching her own eyebrow as she repeated a little more loudly, “No. I won’t go. You can’t make me.”

Daddy opened his mouth to say something, but Momma held up one finger and he was silenced. “It isn’t a decision that is yours to make, Irmagard,” she said. “It may not feel like it right now, but we are doing this because we love you and we want what’s best for you.”

Irma snorted. “Right.”

“Young lady,” Daddy said. “Watch your tone.”

She swallowed. Maybe begging would work. “Please, Momma.

Daddy. You can’t mean it. You can’t.”

“Your father and I,” Momma replied, “have discussed this, and we agree. You need a chance to be around a more refined circle of—”

“I
don’t,
” Irma interrupted. She gripped the arms of her chair with her gloved hands.

“Do not interrupt me,” Momma snapped. “You are not yet an adult, Irmagard, and as such you do not really know what is best for you. Certainly you have an unusual amount of energy and spirit. And a strong will, which—” she forced a laugh—“undoubtedly came from me. These are fine qualities and will stand you in good stead once you accept the path intended for young ladies to walk.”

Irma groaned. “I’m not
made
for the path you’re talking about, Momma. I’m sorry, but I’m just
not.
”

“Every woman is made for the same great purpose. To resist our highest calling is to resist God.”

“I’m not resisting God,” Irma insisted. “I just don’t want to get married and have babies right now. Maybe not ever. Is that so bad? Isn’t God the one who gave me the ability to balance on a cantering horse’s back? Isn’t God the one who helps me run fast—faster than even Monte? If it isn’t God, then who? Tell me, Momma, please, because I want to know.” She put her hand on her pounding heart, leaned forward, and let the tears come. “I love God, Momma. Really, I do. When I’m riding out on the prairie and there’s nothing but sky for as far as I can see, that’s when I know God is there. He’s around me and I can feel Him and, honestly, Momma, I feel closer to Him there than I ever have sitting in a pew listening to Reverend Coe drone on and on about the Israelites making bricks for Pharaoh.”

“Irmagard!” Daddy scolded.

“No, Daddy, no. You have to listen.” She looked at her mother and pleaded, “You have to listen, too, Momma. I know I’m a disappointment to you. I know you want a daughter who’s a fine lady like Arta. You want me to like tea parties and fancy dresses, but I
don’t,
Momma. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to
suffocate.
” She stood up, sobbing, shaking her head. “I can’t
be
who you want me to be,” she finally said. “And if that’s who God wants me to be, then I guess I can’t be His, either.”

Ignoring her father calling her name, Irma ran to the corral where Diamond stood half asleep. Jerking the gate open and grabbing the horse’s reins, she leaped into the saddle, pulled his head up, and kicked his flanks. Crying harder than she had in a long, long time, Irma clung to the saddle as Diamond charged through the corral gate, past the barn, out onto the open prairie, and toward the horizon.

C
HAPTER
2

T
HE MIND OF MAN PLANS HIS WAY
,
BUT THE
L
ORD DIRECTS HIS STEPS
.
Proverbs 16:9
NASB

After all the years of soggy bedrolls and cold winds, of howling wolves and stampeding longhorns, a feller would expect a real bed and a feather pillow to induce a near coma. But here he was, counting how many times that clock on the stairway landing gonged and thumping his pillow in a vain attempt to get comfortable. Again. Finally Shep sat up and slung his legs over the side of the bed. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt anyone’s feelings—after all, Buffalo Bill himself had invited Shep to stay at the house—but he just couldn’t sleep in this fancy bed. He got up and crossed the room to the window that looked out on the site of what was shaping up to be a magnificent ranch worthy of its renowned owner.

What in the—
Shep ducked behind the full-length drape and peeked out the window, concentrating on what he’d thought was movement.
There.
There it was. He was right. A horse and rider just on the opposite side of the corral near the water trough. A little guy who shoulda known better than to linger out there in the broad moonlight if he didn’t want to be seen, and by the way he was slipping down off the horse and almost tiptoeing around, it sure seemed like he didn’t want to be seen.

Or maybe you’ve heard too many of Doc Middleton’s stories these last
few days.
As far as Shep knew, horse thieves were generally a thing of the past around North Platte, Nebraska. Certainly no self-respecting horse thief would come near
this
ranch. At least not when half the cowboys in the territory were camped around the bunkhouse hoping to get hired on with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.

Moving slowly away from the window so no movement would be detected by the unannounced visitor—or visitors—should they look toward the house, Shep pulled on a shirt, slid into his jeans, and descended the ranch house stairs in his stocking feet. He exited the front door and pulled his boots on. Buttoning his shirt as he went, he slipped around the side of the house and, keeping low, headed for the row of scrub trees that bordered the cook’s kitchen garden. Using the hedge for cover, Shep crouched down and watched for more movement by the barn.

Whoever it was had ridden in alone, and as he watched from his vantage point, Shep decided the visitor had no evil intent. He’d walked his horse away from the water tank and hitched him to a corral post in plain sight. He was probably just trying to keep from waking anyone up. Probably another cowboy hoping to try out. More likely a cowboy clown from the size of him.
Bet they call him Shorty.
Whether anyone else called the new guy Shorty or not, Shep would. Of course being six feet four inches tall, Shep could call just about anybody Shorty and get away with it.

As Shep watched, Shorty unsaddled his horse and turned him into the empty corral. Whoever the guy was, he took good care of his mount. Even now, in the wee hours, he was running his hand along the horse’s back, checking for burrs where the saddle had been and lifting each of the animal’s hooves to check his feet before ducking between the corral poles. Heading for the well pump Shorty took off his hat and . . .
Whoa.
Waist-length hair tumbled out of the hat while Shorty pumped water. Shep lost his balance and sat back with a jolt. Shorty was a
girl.

“Come to bed, sweetheart. Irma could find her way back here in a snowstorm. And even if by some chance she couldn’t, Diamond could. All Irma has to do is give him his head and he’ll bring her right home.”

Willa didn’t move from her place by the narrow bedroom window. She shivered and rubbed her arms. “There’s no use in coming to bed. I won’t sleep, and I’ll just keep you awake with my tossing and turning.” When the bedsprings creaked she glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t get up. I’ll tiptoe downstairs and make myself some tea. Just because I can’t sleep doesn’t mean you should have to be dead on your feet tomorrow.” She didn’t let up, even when Otto pulled his dressing gown off the hook by the door and pulled it on. “Once Irmagard is back and I know she’s safe I’ll take a nap. It doesn’t really matter if I go to the Codys’ anyway.” But Otto was already behind her, encircling her in his arms. She leaned back against him with a sigh. “What about wolves? What if she’s hurt? What if she fell off—or got thrown?”

“Diamond is as gentle as a cow pony ever gets,” Otto said. “You saw that for yourself. He let the girl climb on and around him like a monkey, and he didn’t even break stride—”

“Until I yelped,” Willa said. “
Coyotes
yelp.”

“Irma’s more likely to slip and fall down the stairs at home than she is to fall off that horse on a moonlit spring night.”

Willa turned around and stared up into his face. “Indians,” she said. “What about Indians?”

“I don’t
know
about Indians, sweetheart. Just like I don’t know what it is that makes you unable to put our daughter in God’s hands and come to bed with me.” He hugged her harder. “Isn’t this one of those times when the faithful are supposed to watch and pray instead of tossing and turning?”

Willa fought back tears. Did he really think she needed to be reminded of how weak her faith could be when it came to Irmagard? She closed her eyes and leaned into him. “I’m sorry. I just—” Her voice broke. “I don’t understand why she
hates
me so.”

“The two of you don’t mesh,” Otto said. “But Irma does
not
hate you.”

Willa looked back out the window and murmured, “She’s so lovely. And graceful. She moves like a willow waving in the breeze. Doesn’t she realize she could have her choice of any number of eligible bachelors in North Platte? Orrin Knox would—”

Otto interrupted her. “Which is why Irma isn’t interested in him. She’s too strong-willed to want a man who waits for her to beckon him into her life.”

“Well, the Randall boy, then,” Willa said. “Or perhaps she simply hasn’t met the right one yet. Which is another reason Brownell makes so much sense. She’ll have a chance to meet a different class of young men in Omaha. Louisa said the school plans lovely socials with all the best families.”

“Irma’s made it very clear more than once that she doesn’t want to get married. At least not now. And frankly, even if she did, she’d be more likely to notice someone like Ned Bishop than Orrin Knox.”

“Ned Bishop!” Willa shuddered. “He’s an uneducated
wrangler.
”

“He may be uneducated in the way you mean, but he has a sizeable savings account at the bank and a solid plan that will likely land him his own spread inside of ten years.” He smiled. “Charlie says Bishop reminds him a lot of me back in the day.” He touched her cheek. “I was somewhat of an uneducated wrangler when you met me.” He nuzzled her neck. “And we’ve done all right.”

“You,” Willa said dutifully, even as she caught his hand in hers and stood back, “were an exceptional man with a great many gifts—including, even if I do say so myself, a wife who did her part to help you succeed.”

Otto agreed. “And I can see Irma following your example in finding the right man. She’s actually mentioned ranching to me—for that far distant time when she’s no longer performing.”

Performing.
The topic simply would not die. “She’s living in a fantasy,” Willa insisted. “She doesn’t have any idea what it’s like to travel with
show
people. Her reputation would be ruined forever. And as far as ranching goes, why doesn’t she see the realities of that life? It isn’t romantic. It’s drudgery. Surely you cannot want that for our Irmagard.” She let go of his hand and peered back out the window.

“What I want,” Otto said, “is for her to be happy. And if she can make a life for herself that brings her half the joy that Laura has found with Charlie Mason, then—”

Willa cringed inwardly. She didn’t dare bring it up, but surely Otto wasn’t oblivious to what life as a rancher’s wife had done to his sister. Countless hours standing over a wood-burning stove had transformed Laura Friedrich Mason’s once porcelain skin into little more than a piece of tanned leather. And her hands. The poor woman had the hands of an overworked washerwoman. Happy or not, the once lovely Laura Friedrich become Mrs. Charles Mason would not be recognized by her girlhood friends these days. And Willa would not stand by and let that happen to Irmagard. God couldn’t want that. He had to have a better plan. “I’ve prayed about it, Otto,” Willa murmured. “Truly I have. And I just can’t believe—”