Under the Desert Sky (10 page)

“I can understand that, but what about Trinidad? He didn't go, too, did he?” Buck asked.

“No. According to Phoebe, he's in jail. It seems he did something during the fiesta, and he can't raise the money for his bail.”

“So you left July over there with Phoebe alone?” Buck questioned.

“Yes, I did. I think he'll be the best bodyguard she'll ever find, and he'll be able to take care of her troop as well.”

“That's true, but . . .” Buck looked toward Yhomas.

“What? What is it?” Christian asked.

“What Buck is trying to say is that America isn't quite as enlightened as England, or even parts of our own country, where skin color is concerned. Arizona doesn't have a Marie Von Koopmans or a Mohandas Gandhi leading peaceful protests against the evils of discrimination. You and I both know that July is as honorable a man as walks the earth, but there are those who would raise a ruckus if it was found that a black man was alone with a white woman,” Yhomas said.

“That's ridiculous, July is no threat to Phoebe,” Christian said indignantly.

“We're not saying he is,” Buck said, “but that's not to say someone else wouldn't say it. You've not met her son-of-a-bitch brother-in-law. If he went out there and found July with Phoebe, he'd have a lynch mob formed before you could say Jack Robinson, and it wouldn't be pretty.”

“I have met him,” Christian sighed.

“Then you know what he's like. July can't stay there with Phoebe,” Buck said.

“But she needs him. Who's she going to find who can do the work as well as he can? Nobody.”

“I don't think there'd be a problem if there were two men there—one white and one black,” Buck said.

“And who are you suggesting that white man should be?”

Yhomas lifted his eyebrows. “It seems to me like you and July make a pretty good team. And besides, you're just in the way over here.”

“Is that how you really feel?” Christian asked, but then he saw both men were smiling and knew they were putting him on. “Have you forgotten? I have a job to do. Mr. Fowler asked me to go up to the Tonto Basin with the survey crew. Who will do that?”

“What about this crack engineer you've got coming? Can't he take your place?” Yhomas asked.

“You mean Clarence Woodson? I suppose he could bring me the data and I could put my figures together.”

“You'll have plenty of time,” Buck said. “This thing is just getting started and it'll drag on for years.”

“How can that be? The people need water and there's a way to make that happen,” Christian said.

Yhomas laughed. “Now you're thinking like Cecil Rhodes. For all his faults, he gets things done, but here it's different. There will be lots of arguments and committee meetings. Then Congress will take up a bill and it'll probably fail, and then there will be another one and another one after that. That's just how it is.”

“You go on over to Phoebe's and take care of her,” Buck said. “You'll see, as soon as the rains start, this reservoir won't be nearly as important as it is today.”

“I'll go, but I don't understand. Don't these people ever think about tomorrow? If they've had a drought for three years, who's to say it won't last four? They need to get this project started, and soon.”

“Oh, they'll get it done,” Buck said, “but who knows when? I'd feel better if Garret Hobart was still on McKinley's ticket, but this fellow he's got now—Teddy Roosevelt: he's got a lot of bluster, but who's to say what he'll do if McKinley gets elected again?”

“They say he's a naturalist,” Yhomas said.

“And what does that mean?” Buck asked. “We knew Hobart was a water man and he could get the president to act, but now that he's gone, will this young Roosevelt do anything at all? We'll just have to wait and see.”

Christian left Yhomas and Buck discussing politics in America. Everyone looked to the United States as the standard upon which other countries should be measured, yet it definitely had its faults. He had to wonder why the War Between the States had been fought if the people it was supposedly fought to free really weren't free. It'd never occurred to him that July would be in danger.

He began gathering his things to go to stay at Phoebe's place, assuming she'd be amenable to this. He had no idea how long his presence would be required. Surely her man would be out of jail soon and would return to his position. With that thought, Christian decided to leave most of his belongings at the Prinsens. He packed a small satchel with a few clothes and some books, and of course his rifle.

He thought about not taking his copy of Gibbon's
Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
, but it was hard to break old habits. The book had been a gift from Cecil. No matter how short the stay, Rhodes always took this book with him, and Christian had begun to do that as well. He put the book, bound in red Moroccan leather, in his satchel, but the thousand-page tome took up too much space. He removed it and instead looked through his collection of books.

He smiled when he picked up a couple he'd enjoy reading to Will.
The
Jungle Book
, as well as a book of short stories that included “Wee Willie Winkie” and “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,” were both autographed by Rudyard Kipling. Rhodes had built the Woolsack, on the side of Table Mountain, specifically for Kipling's use when he visited Cape Town.

Christian closed his eyes. Cape Town was so far away, and he wondered: Would he ever see his homeland again? Would he ever see Mrs. Van Koopmans or even Cecil Rhodes? Why had he agreed to stay in America? And now he'd been asked to, in essence, be a nanny for a woman he hardly knew.

This water project couldn't be as much trouble as both Buck and Yhomas described. Christian made up his mind. He'd stay until Christmas—three more months—and then he'd go back home.

That is, unless Ina Claire Woodson changed things. Christian smiled when he thought about her. In hindsight, he was sorry he hadn't been more aggressive in establishing a lasting relationship with her. She was pleasant and would make a suitable wife. Yhomas had teased him about her coming with her father, but perhaps Yhomas was right. When she got to Arizona, he should talk to her father and see if Clarence would permit him to court his daughter.

And then he thought about Phoebe Sloan. He definitely liked something about her. He knew she was plucky because he'd seen that firsthand and could already tell she was determined almost to the point of being muleheaded.

She was attractive in an unaffected way. Christian liked the way her ginger-colored hair often fell in uncontrolled ringlets while freckles sprayed across her nose. When he thought about it, he wasn't sure what color her eyes were. Near the center, he recalled, they were light brown, but the color radiated out until the outer edges were a dark green.

How could he know these things about Phoebe? Was it only last night that he'd met her for the first time?

Christian tried to visualize Ina Claire in contrast to Phoebe. He had spent a part of each of the 126 days that Kimberley was besieged with her, yet he couldn't say what color her eyes were. He knew she wore her hair in a bun but couldn't remember the exact color.

Phoebe was different. In that instant, Christian was jealous of her dead husband. She clearly honored his memory, and more than likely she was still very much in love with him.

Love. In his whole life Christian had never known anyone he could honestly say he loved. He admired Mrs. Van Koopmans, he respected Cecil Rhodes, and he was friends with July, and now the Prinsens and the Bucknells.

What about Ina Claire? Perhaps if he worked hard enough, she could become a reasonably good companion. But could he ever actually love her?

“This is ridiculous,” Christian said aloud as he put the books in the satchel. “What's happening to me? I'm still Jacktar and I don't need anybody.”

W
hen Christian arrived at Phoebe's farm, he saw July and Will stretching woven wire between some recently set posts. July was holding a staple while Will was trying to wield a hammer hard enough to drive the staple into the post. Wapi was standing inside the wire, his big, expressive eyes following every move being made.

“Wapi doesn't have any idea how much his life is going to change when you two get your work done,” Christian said as he dismounted his horse.

“Wet!” Will called happily and, dropping the hammer, ran toward Christian. “We're making a yard just for Wapi, so he can play whenever he wants to.”

“It looks to me like you're doing a fine job. I'll bet Wapi won't get out of this pen.”

Will got a mischievous look on his face. “He will when I open the gate.”

“Oh, oh, will your mother like that?”

“She likes Wapi, but not as much as she likes you.”

Upon hearing the child's comment, July laughed uproariously. “Sounds to me like this bird isn't the only one whose life is going to be changing.”

Christian shook his head. “Not you, too. Everybody's trying to push me into something I'm not looking for.”

“Then tell me, why do I see your travelin' bag on the back of that horse? Are you plannin' on going off somewhere, or are you moving in with me?”

“Goodie!” Will clapped his hands. “I'm going to go tell Mama you're going to live with us!”

Will took off running toward the house, and July said, without looking up from his task, “Did Mr. Prinsen send you over here?”

“He did.”

“He didn't think it'd be right for me to stay here by myself?”

“Yes. I don't understand it. In Cape Town there's a clear delineation between blacks and whites, but there doesn't seem to be the fear, or the animosity. Look at all the black men who live with Mrs. Van Koopmans. She thinks nothing of it.”

“That's Cape Town, but look at Rhodesia. You can't say everything is peachy for the black man there.”

“I know.”

At that moment Phoebe and Will came out of the house. “Will said you've come to live with us.”

Christian studied her face and listened to her voice to see if he could determine her reaction to the news. Was it favorable, or did it reflect some anxiety?

What a cool character she is, he thought. No matter how hard he tried, he was totally unable to read how she felt about it.

“You needn't be concerned,” Christian said, though she exhibited no concern at all. “July and I will be staying in your bunkhouse.”

“That's not necessary. This house has five bedrooms and you'll both stay in the house with me.”

“I don't know that that's such a good idea.”

“I can understand your concern, but I promise, I won't shoot you again.” Phoebe smiled broadly.

Christian laughed. “Well, if you guarantee that July and I won't be shot, I suppose we can stay.”

“Shot? I do not understand.” July furrowed his brow. “Are we going to be shot?”

“Mama shot Wet,” Will said, his eyes wide.

“Oh, I did not.” Phoebe laughed nervously.

“Yes you did, Mama. He has a hole in his foot.”

“He has a hole in his boot, not in his foot.”

“That's true.” Christian, smiling, removed his boot and poked a finger through the hole in the sole.

“You're never going to let me live that down, are you?” Phoebe challenged.

“Nope. If we both live to be a hundred, I'm not going to let you ever forget it.”

Christian's aside implied that he and Phoebe could know one another for a long time, but there was no further comment.

“I think it's time to go in,” Phoebe said. “July's such a big man I made plenty of food, so there should be more than enough supper for you, too.”

•  •  •

Will picked out the rooms where Christian and July would stay, and when it was time to go to bed, Will followed July to the bunkhouse to get his things. Christian was in the same room he'd occupied before, while July was in the room adjacent to Will's.

Christian was preparing for bed when he heard a light knock. He'd already taken off his shirt but, remembering the night before when he had gone down in his drawers, he grabbed it before he opened the door. He was disappointed when he found Will and not Phoebe.

“You forgot. You're supposed to put me in my bed.”

“Of course I am.” Christian picked the boy up and threw him across his shoulder. “Let's get you to bed.”

When he set the boy down on the bed, Will wouldn't loosen his hold on Christian's neck. “I love you.”

“I'm glad.”

“You're supposed to say, ‘I love you, too.' That's what my mama says.”

“Then I'll say it, too.”

“You can't just say it—you have to mean it.”

“Is that what your mama says, too?”

Will nodded his head as he lowered his arms, his eyes now heavy with sleep.