Softly Falling (8 page)

Stretch and Will had already left for town to bring back barrels of apples, potatoes, and flour. Jack had told Stretch to keep an eye on Will, who had a saloon habit. He had only agreed to keep Will on through the winter because he was Mr. Buxton’s cousin.

Jack looked toward the cookshack, unable to help that the habitual frown between his eyes deepened. He was a man of some imagination, but it took no creativity to remember the piercing screams from the cookshack when Oliver Buxton told Madeleine Sansever, in his usual ham-handed way, that her man had died breaking horses. Ordinarily so careful around green horses, Jean Baptiste Sansever had just looked away long enough to get a kick to the head that broke his neck. Everyone in the corral heard the snap.

After he and Preacher brought Jean to the cookshack on a plank, Jack had stayed to hold little Chantal on his lap as she wet his shirt with her tears. Her older sister, Amelie, had grown even quieter in the face of her mother’s agony. And Nicholas? Only twelve, Nick had taken a gun from somewhere and killed the horse. Then he ran away. Manuel had found him two days later, crouched in Bismarck’s hay barn, all cried out and grim.

You people are my family
, Jack thought, as he walked toward the cookshack.

Preacher and Indian were already seated at their benches in the cookshack, digging in to porridge, elbows on the table. “I said grace, Jack, so you can eat with a pure heart,” Preacher said in that straight-faced way of his. “Looks like flapjacks next. God praise.”

Jack raised his hand to them and went into the kitchen where Madeleine, hair wild around her face, was stirring down oatmeal lava. Chantal cracked another egg in the flapjack batter and gave him her smile, the one that made her brown eyes all squinty and never failed to melt his heart. Amelie nodded to him as she stirred the batter, her eyes shy but no less admiring.

Madeleine made no objection when he patted her cheek. Madeleine had told him once that he reminded her of her little brother, even though Jack was certain that he was older than she. He had said that to her, and Madeleine just shrugged in her Métis way.

“I hear she is a pretty lady,” Madeleine said as she lifted the oatmeal pot onto a trivet. She handed him a bowl. “Chantal says Mademoiselle Carteret has skin the color of wrapping paper. Can this be?”

“It can,” he said, spooning out oatmeal and sugaring it well. “I hope she’ll be here for breakfast, and I hope you’ll treat her nice.”

“I will if she is not too good for us.”

“She’s not,” Jack replied and hoped he was right.

Grateful that the one cow on the place was still giving milk, Jack poured cream on his oatmeal and took it into what Clarence Carteret called “the dining hall,” with its benches and three long tables, testament to the number of cowhands hired on between April and most Septembers. Now the men of the Bar Dot were just crickets sawing on the hearth, sitting at half of one table. He mentally shook his head over the neatly folded blankets in the corner, where the Sansever children bedded down. Madeleine and Jean Baptiste had slept in a small room off the storeroom in the back, and no one was particularly choosy in the Sansever household. Thinking about the winter to come, he eyed the dining hall for warmth. He would ask Preacher what he could do to keep out drafts. Preacher was better at indoor work anyway.

Jack sat down with his ranch hands as the door opened and Miss Carteret stepped inside, uncertainty written everywhere on her expressive face. He wondered how long she had stood outside that door, steeling herself to step inside. Hunger obviously overruled shyness. He got up.

“Good morning to you, Miss Carteret,” he said, not wanting to sound hearty and phony, but hoping to convey his warmth, because he was glad to see her. “Hungry?”

She nodded. “I couldn’t have managed without Chantal’s sandwich. And Papa and I ate petrified cheese and crackers last night. He tells me he doesn’t usually bother with breakfast.”

Her voice had dropped to a whisper. He knew she was mortified, because it had to be obvious to her that everyone else knew why her father never made it to breakfast. Jack also knew he could be hearty and phony now, or he could summon his courage and just touch her hand. He remembered Sayler’s Creek and the gash that his face became. His panic as he swallowed blood and choked was relieved by the firm pressure of a comrade’s hand on his arm. He knew he was not alone then, and he could return the favor now, even if she was a lady.

He touched her hand. “We don’t worry about Clarence Carteret.
You’re
here, and the first course is oatmeal. Come into the kitchen and meet our cook, Madeleine Sansever.”

“Chantal’s mother?” she asked, recovering smoothly.

“The very same. She is Métis.”

“Which is…”

“Someone of mixed Indian and French background. More French than Indian in her case, I think.”

She pointed to his breakfast. “Your oatmeal is going to get cold.”

“It’ll keep. Let’s find Madeleine.”

She touched his arm in turn. “I have a question for Chantal, which has something to do with my plan.”

“Say, about that plan, I . . .”

“You
were
too emphatic,” she said in such a serene voice. “I will forgive you. I need a plan, so let’s leave it at that. It’s still sort of feeble.”

“Plan’s a plan,” he said and gestured to the kitchen.

Eyes full of concentration, Chantal was mixing the pancake batter. Jack crooked his finger and she carefully set the long handled spoon on top of the bowl.

“Chantal, Miss Carteret has a question for you.”

She came closer, her eyes shy. Miss Carteret knelt by the child so they were on the same level, a kind touch that impressed Jack.

“Can you read, Chantal?” Miss Carteret asked.

Chantal shook her head. “I would like to,” she said so softly.

When Miss Carteret stood up and looked his way, Jack felt his face grow hot, hoping she wouldn’t ask him that same question.

But she was looking beyond him to Amelie. “What is your name, my dear?”

“Amelie.” The word came out so quietly. Jack would have to take Miss Carteret aside and tell her that since her father had died in the corral, Amelie, always a quiet child, had withdrawn even more.

“Would you like to read as well?” Miss Carteret asked.

Madeleine watched this exchange with real interest, her eyes lively. “They can learn, then read to me,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am Madeleine Sansever. I can write a bit, but that is all. This is my kitchen, and I rule it.”

Trust Madeleine to stake out her territory and make it known to another female. Jack made the proper introductions and smiled with relief when Miss Carteret held out her hand.

“I have so little skill in a kitchen that the thought of one fair terrifies me,” she said, to Madeleine’s obvious satisfaction, considering the width of the cook’s returning smile.

“Oatmeal for you?” Madeleine handed Miss Carteret a bowl.

“She’s pretty, but you mustn’t stare,” Chantal whispered to Jack.

Oh, glory, he hoped with all his heart that Miss Carteret was hard of hearing. The little shake to her shoulders indicated that there was nothing wrong with her ears.

Who could not stare? She wore a simple shirtwaist and skirt today. How Miss Carteret managed to confine her curly hair was a mystery to him. He hated to think what Wyoming Territory was going to do to such smooth skin, but he doubted she would remain here long enough to find out.

“Don’t any of you stare or I will trip,” she said as she carried the bowl into the dining hall, where he introduced her to his two hands, who rose to their feet to Jack’s utter amazement. He indicated a space at their table, hoping she didn’t feel the need to distance herself.

She eyed the bench a moment, then delicately slid toward Preacher, who had gone from ordinary putty beige to beet red.

“Ma’am,” he managed, but that was all.

Jack had never known words to fail the man. “Preacher here always blesses the food and has a chapter and verse for nearly any situation. Preach, this is Miss Carteret.”

“Ma’am.” His repertoire remained the same.

Jack indicated Indian, who had returned to his oatmeal. “Indian is some part Shoshone, and Lakota, and some part French and . . .”

“Pierre Fontaine,” Indian said with a nod.

“. . . and he’s never supplied his actual name until this very moment,” Jack finished, startled at what a lovely woman could do to his ranch hands.

“It’s a pleasure, Preacher and Mr. Fontaine,” Miss Carteret said. She gave Jack a kindly look. “Let us cease formality, sitting here on benches in Wyoming. I am Lily. So it is Jack, Preacher, and Pierre?”

“I do believe it is,” Jack replied, sitting beside her. “You’ll meet Stretch and Will later. Nick’s around here someplace.”

She nodded and turned her attention to the oatmeal, eating with a certain delicacy not seen before in the dining hall. She shook her head at the flapjacks Chantal offered, but made no move to leave the table. Maybe it wasn’t good manners to leap up before everyone was done; Jack didn’t know. He forked down a dozen of Madeleine’s dollar-sized flapjacks and then reminded himself that if Lily Carteret was on the Bar Dot, he was still foreman and she was his responsibility.

“You want to share your plan, uh, Lily?” he asked.

“It’s a small one. I intend to teach Madeleine’s girls how to read and cipher. I’ve never taught anyone anything in my life, but I won’t do it for free. How will I ever get out of here if I do? Perhaps I had better meet the Buxtons.”

“Oliver Buxton is tighter than a water-logged keg,” Jack warned.

“I won’t ask a lot, because I am not highly skilled,” Lily replied in that precise way of hers he was coming to relish. And then she endeared herself forever with a little-girl doubt. “Do you think twenty dollars a month is too much?”

“Think bigger, Lily,” he advised.

“I have no skill as a teacher,” she reminded him.

“At twenty dollars a month, it’s a mighty small plan.”

“I know, but plans can grow, can’t they?”

He saw it again, that same assessing, shrewd look he had noticed on her face when she stood in the open door of the train and surveyed the hand called Wyoming Territory that had been dealt her. He thought of his strangely won ranch, and Bismarck, and understood what she meant.

“Plans certainly can grow. Let’s go meet the boss, and more important, the Mrs. Boss.”

C
HAPTER
8

T
he plan to teach had made a great deal of sense last night, especially after she checked on her father and stood a long time in his doorway, dismayed at the cozy way he had wrapped his hand around that wine bottle. Almost worse than the confirmation that her father was an alcoholic was the certainty that everyone knew.

“We all know why my father doesn’t make it to dinner or breakfast,” she told the foreman, trying not to inject any self-pity into her voice. “Does he do his job with any skill at all?”

“He must. Buxton hasn’t thrown him off the place yet,” He winced. “That was unkind of me.”

“It was honest,” she said, even as her insides writhed. “My father is a remittance man. He failed in Canada, he failed in India, but his biggest failure was the first one in Barbados, where he . . .” She faltered, finding it difficult to say out loud what she had known for years. “. . . married my mother.”

Jack surprised her by putting his hand on her arm again, this time with enough force to stop her. “Don’t say that!”

“Well, he did. She was the daughter of an apothecary and his slave.”

He didn’t let up the pressure on her arm. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, evidently determined to be as stubborn as she was, drat the man. “Don’t classify yourself as part of a failure.”

“And how am I not?”

His gaze didn’t waver, although he did remove his hand from her arm. “There’s a song out here, Lily: ‘What Was Your Name in the States?’ I’m no singer, but here’s one verse.”

He auditioned several notes as though searching for the right one, but gave up. “If I sing, you’ll bolt for sure. ‘Oh, what was your name in the states?’ ” he said. “ ‘Was it Johnson or Thompson or Bates? Did you murder your wife and fly for your life? Oh, what was your name in the states?’ ”

She didn’t laugh, because she understood what he meant. “Everybody gets a free pass out here?” she asked.

“Everybody,” he assured her. “It’s a good faith thing.”

She wondered how many passes her father had gone through and then decided to believe the man so determined for her to succeed, even after such a brief acquaintance. It was a new feeling. No one had ever taken much interest in her before, and she liked it.

“Very well,” she said, “although I truly do not know a thing about teaching.”

He started her in motion again. “Do you like Chantal and her sister, Amelie? I’ll have to tell you sometime why Amelie is so quiet.”

“Yes, I like them. Who wouldn’t?”

“I’m no teacher, either, but could it be that’s all you really need succeed as a teacher?”

It couldn’t be that simple, but when Jack Sinclair said it, Lily knew one thing: she had an ally. What had looked good last night as she stared out the window, looked good again.