Table of Contents

- Dedication

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

Copyright © 2010 by Ellen Carey.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010904154

Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-4500-6726-3

Softcover ISBN: 978-1-4500-6725-6

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-4500-6727-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fi ctitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Dedication

To four sisters: Kath, Margie, Buffy, and eeBs. I am forever in your debt. Thank you for saving my life.

To Mathew Charles, you are my hero and inspiration. You have always had the goods and for that I am thankful.

Chapter 1

She was standing just beyond the beveled glass of her storefront window the first time I caught sight of her. My God, I thought to myself as I walked through the archway of her quaint little hat shop, who is this striking woman? I was beside myself. Beauty by no means was enough to describe her irresistible good looks. Elegance could not demonstrate the true suggestion of the way her body moved as she walked from hat rack to hat rack. And upon my approach, the scent emitting from her body reminded me of an effervescent mist of jasmine after a light rain. Her smooth skin bore a resemblance to the creamiest olive color I’d ever seen. I gasped a breath that was not there.

I could feel an oppressive blush come over my face. I was relieved that no one else was in her shop to witness my demise. The thought of being the local laughing stock didn’t sit well with me at all. And about her shop, the sign outside read La Chapeau. It had been no more than ten days since I was last in town. So I asked myself, how was it possible for this mystifying woman to open a store with such expedience? When she spoke to me, I never before heard a softer and sultrier voice. Her words resonated in my ears and kindled a flame deep within my core. She was so mesmerizing, so gripping. I gasped a breath that was not there. She delicately said, “Hello, how may I help you today?” I thought to myself, I think you already have, thank you ever so kindly!

She glanced over at me when I did not answer. She acted as though she needed to clear a wad of Cherokee tobacco from her throat. To gain my attention, she made a specific deep sound—“Ahem!” Her glance could bring a herd of cattle to a standstill. It sure stopped me dead in my tracks. When I gathered myself, I nervously replied, “Well ma’am, first I was down the street at Prichard’s Leather Goods looking for a cowboy hat, which Horace said they no longer supplied because he did not get along with his supplier. He sent me over to the livery, and I spoke to Quincy who steered me to Warren’s Mercantile, and I soon found out they were running low on hats and the ones they did have were too big for my slightly smaller head. Mrs. Warren informed me an order wasn’t due until the first of the month. I usually purchase my hats from a fellow in Denver, but I need one right this second. Mrs. Warren suggested I try the new hat shop down at the end of town, which to my surprise, was news to me! So here I am. I wonder if you could oblige me.” I thought to myself, I have no idea what I just said!

The new owner sized me up and down and then proclaimed, “I must say it’s obvious Durango businesses are short on hats and long on excuses! My timing couldn’t be more impeccable! Well let me take a look at you. I’ll have to measure your brow and base to check your hat size. However, I’m usually pretty accurate at guessing the size of most heads. I’d say yours is probably six and three quarters.”

I was paralyzed when she approached me with her tape measure. Her jet-black hair was more than I could stand. I wanted to run my fingers through it. When she raised the tape measure towards me, her soft hands touched my forehead and then she patted my shoulders, stating, “Ah ha! I was right, six and three quarters. I have just the hat for you!” Once again, I gasped a breath that was not there.

I had always heard about love at first sight. It was the last thing I’d ever dreamed to be true. I used to make fun of folks who talked about it happening to them. I knew my soul was impervious to such a notion. How did I know such a thing? It was simple; I found out the hard way. If a child loses a parent, like I did, love finds a way of becoming elusive. It’s that same love that quite often seeks loneliness and isolation. I was hardened by the fact that falling head over heels in love with another person was more than likely unattainable in my lifetime. For as long as I lived, I was positive I’d never have the pleasure of experiencing anything remotely like it until the day I walked into a little hat shop at the end of town.

* * *

It was the least favorite year of my entire life. The spring and early summer had been agreeable, but when reality struck, it was a year I yearned to forget. Throw it in the campfire and let it burn. Push it in front of a stampede and let it get trampled. Drop it down a deep well and let it drown. It was no use. This year would be a necessary memory in a sea of sadness.

Damn this weather! It was scaring the devil out of the horses. I realized the weather was the least of my worries. I’ve got to get this tack ready! There’s no time! What happened to the time? The thunder and lightning were bearing down on the barn and stable. I could feel the booming cracks embed themselves into the earth’s soil beneath my boots. I wondered what happened to worms or other creatures that lay just below the surface.

Earlier in the week, I had finished chopping and stacking the winter wood. I had blisters on my hands to prove it. Four cords of lodge pole pine was neatly piled in and around the meat-curing shack, which doubled as our firewood shed. How we loved burning lodge pole in the fireplace. Less than two hours before sundown, I had finished fitting the horses with cast-iron shoes as I always did, and now everything was chaotic. There was too much confusion! It wasn’t supposed to happen like this! I was panicked. I put my face in my hands, whimpering to myself, “I want yesterday back, but it’s gone! Everything is gone! I need more time! Jesus, what happened to the time?

“I’m coming, Claire . . . Hold on . . . I’m coming, my dear!” I’ve got to bring the horse around, so I can harness him to the barouche. Van Buren III had been with me going on sixteen years. He never failed me once. He was just like his father and grandfather before him, always my constant companions while on the trail or riding the tundra or inspecting the fence line on a Saturday afternoon. I shortened the name to Vander B, a nickname I adored way back in my twenties. All three geldings were beauties. Claire had acquired Van Buren I from the Ruby Rich Ranch. They specialized in raising quarter horses. I named them after my favorite president who had been in office from 1837 to 1841. He was quite distinguished and the type of gentleman who did not favor war. I admired him for siding with Spain, who supported the return of slaves aboard the ship Amistad.

Damn, why can’t I have a few more days? Just give me a few more days, please! It’s not supposed to end like this! Our lives presumably were to come to a close like a good book. Claire and I were going to die quietly together, in our sleep. An overwhelming feeling of defeat ran through my veins, pushing its way to my heart. The burden cast upon me was far too great to ignore. As I pulled Van Buren from his stall and quickly guided him through the stable, the reality of the situation slapped me hard in the face. I was about to lose Claire forever, never to love or conspire with her again, never to laugh or cry with her again.  The thought of never touching or caressing her beautiful body again caused an intolerable lump in my throat. I could feel the approaching swell of tears in my eyes. I need more time! Damn, there’s no time! What happened to the time!

* * *

The new shop owner was adamant about my new cowboy hat and said how beaver pelt and rawhide would fare nicely in this climate, especially at this elevation. I lived here over nineteen years and didn’t have a clue as to what the elevation might be. How she knew such information, I’ll never know. It didn’t really matter to me. At the time, I was content just to be in her presence. She absolutely floored me. I probably would have believed anything she told me at that particular moment in time.

She startled me by asking, “Now what is your name? I keep a record of all my patrons.” She opened a black ledger and stood there waiting. I said, “My name is Gwen, Gwen Buxton, ma’am. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?” She then stated with enthusiasm, “I am Claire Elizabeth Fontaine, named after my dear departed grand mamma, Gigi. Who in fact, owned her own hat shop and lived to the ripe old age of sixty-five. Her shop was located in Boston and, of course, named La Chapeau.” Miss Fontaine was sounding quite jovial as she continued, “When I was a child, my Gigi used to reprimand me for galloping around her shop on an upside-down broomstick. Naturally, I was pretending to ride a palomino. She would consistently force me outside to play. Gigi would feel so bad when I’d meander out the door, pony in hand, pouting and ready to cry. Of course, when I returned a little later, she always had some taffy waiting for me on the display counter. Oh, I have such fond memories of my dear grand mamma.” Claire threw her head back slightly and laughed. It was a laugh you’d imagine bouncing gently off a high mountain lake on a soft moonlit night.

“Now Gwyneth, you must know that one cowboy hat may not be sufficient during any given year. In the fall and winter, this sturdy beaver felt hat will suit you just fine. However, in the spring and summer, you can most certainly get away with a much lighter hat. Now Gwyneth, I have a shipment from Panama coming up next week, and I have a nice brimmed hat in mind I think you will fancy. I expect you back in my shop no later than Thursday of next!” “Gwen,” I mumbled back to Claire. “Excuse me,” Claire replied. I dropped my head, avoiding eye contact and with a stern voice, stated, “My name is Gwen. I liked to be called Gwen, if you don’t mind, not Gwyneth.” “And why is that?” Claire asked with a perplexed look on her face. As I raised my eyes to hers, I knew the probability of satisfying this woman was slim. “Well, it’s a long story. And maybe one day, if you can spare a moment, I’ll tell you all about it. Right now I’ve got to get a move on. My cattle need to be pushed over to the north ridge, and the day ain’t getting any shorter!” “I see,” Claire stated firmly and added, “Tell me, Gwen, how many heads of cattle in your herd?” I answered with ease, “Oh, two hundred and fifty Angus, give or take a few.” “Well,” Claire said with sarcasm, “I imagine you must be an extremely dedicated and hardworking cowhand?” I responded calmly, “Actually ma’am, I own the herd and five hundred acres just outside of town at the B & H Ranch.” Miss Fontaine already knew this information, but kept it to herself for years.

“My daddy died about three years back and left it all to me. I’ve got your run-of-the-mill cowpokes and ranch hands I can always rely on, two good cooks, Bo and Jake, an ornery heel-biting ranch dog named Peeper, and a few nice quarters to saddle for cattle drives.” Claire’s eyes seemed to be smiling at me. Not her lips or her mouth, but her eyes of green, or were they blue? I came to learn how the color of her eyes changed depending on the light of day, what she was wearing, or the mood she was in. I wasn’t sure if I imagined it or if it was possible that eyes could really smile the way hers did. It was more than the slight crow’s feet that appeared at the corners. It was beyond her long thick lashes. It did include the high position of her cheek bones and the fantastic angle of her eyebrows. But most of all, it was the starlight sparkle that reflected off the blue-green color. It could happen anytime she wanted it. I gasped a breath that was not there. Many months went by before I admitted to Claire how she took my breath away that first day. And as the years passed, I would constantly remind Claire how the mere sight of her could take more than just my breath away.

* * *

I had been working hard since mid-July. We were getting ready for the upcoming cold months. It’s a fact that the winter preparations start in the summer. The meat was curing nicely next to the stacked winter wood. No more than four days previous, I was in the lower valley with Vander B and a pack mule I liked to call Daisy. All my ranch hands called her “mule” or “hey, mule” or “gitt, little mule, gitt”! The sun was hot on my back, and sweat was beading up under the brim of my cowboy hat. I pulled back the reins so Vander B would head southeast, and that’s when I spotted him off in the distance. He was so majestic and proud. I believe he was a four point. I wasn’t close enough to tell. He must have been two hundred yards off. The firing range of my .22 caliber was ridiculously shorter than that and quite laughable. If anyone other than I knew the truth about my rifle, they would more than likely refer to me as an incompetent hunter. I needed to be a great deal closer to get him in my sights. Claire expected my return to be no later than sundown and reminded me that tardiness would not be tolerated because it was imperative she cook a fresh elk supper. She also enlightened me about how tired she was of cooking week-old meat. I gathered this was her way of demonstrating concern, worry, and love all in one swift verbal blow. I tied up Vander B and Daisy under a sweet-smelling spruce and headed out on foot.

Usually during the winter months, the elk all gathered down in the lower valleys. This valley was no exception. You could count several hundred head all huddled up for warmth in the middle of January. Typically there would be, at the very least, five bulls. If you watched carefully, you’d find of those five bulls, one would emerge as the head bull, better known as the bull elk and leader of the herd. There’s no mistaking him either. He’s quite often the tallest with the biggest rack and a barreling white chest. He’ll most likely have a harem around him and usually the other bulls are off together somewhere else in the herd.

One winter, I was passing through the Gunnison valley about a day and a half ride from the ranch. I counted roughly nine hundred head. I spent two hours searching for the bull elk. Finally, there he was in all his glory, surrounded by a few dozen cows. In all my days, I’d never seen anything like him. I had to count his points a couple times to believe what I was witnessing. His rack had eight points. That meant eight on each side for a total of sixteen. I tried to imagine what kind of life he must have led all these years or how many ruts he’d gotten into with other bulls and how many times he came out the victor. There must have been many remarkable battles over the years for him to have survived this long. Perhaps he never lost a one. I noticed some scars on his flank and head. His pelt and antlers would have been impressive for trade, but I couldn’t bring myself to slay the great beast. I doubted my .22 rifle would have even made a mark on him.

I was a hundred yards off and slowly inching my way closer to that beautiful four-point buck I was about to slay. I needed to get in range soon, or I might lose him. It was crucial that I shoot him through the heart or close to it. It would drop him almost immediately. If I didn’t, he would take off running, and who knows how long it would take me to find him, if I found him. Then, not surprisingly, all the blood loss from the buck would attract the grizzly. Accuracy was essential. I sure as hell didn’t want any bear after me or my kill. I also knew I’d have to tell Claire all about it, and she absolutely hated to hear my war stories or, as she called them, horror stories. Besides, I was a terrible liar and never was able to get away with any attempted farces where she was concerned. More accurately, Claire could read me like a book, page after preposterous page.

One hundred and twenty five feet—perfect. There I was, lying behind some scrub oak as the buck strutted across the grassy vale. One hundred feet, steady as she goes. He was in my sights as I cocked the hammer and readied the trigger with my finger. I took in a deep breath and held it for a brief moment then let it out very slowly as I pulled the trigger.

On the journey back to Marrow Ranch and Claire, the buck was strewn across a makeshift sled constructed of gunnysacks and aspen branches. It was tied tightly to Daisy. I plugged the buck’s chest wound with pine tar. I couldn’t wait to get back to the Ranch, butcher all that fresh meat, sup on Claire’s elk dinner, and get ready to settle in for the rest of the winter, without a care in the world. I only wished that would happen, but it seldom did. I could no more settle in for the winter any more than a bear could hibernate in July. Claire loved to strike a chord with me, saying, “Wishful thinking is a fine thing to carry out, but if you wish for something with doubt in your heart, you will wind up getting its opposite!”

* * *

The rain was coming down hard and swift. Vander B was hitched to the wagon under the protection of the barn. I ran back to the cabin. It was August, I think, when Claire took ill. As I recall, the ranch seemed a ghost town because all my wranglers, ranch hands, and cooks were on a cattle drive, including Claire’s grandson, Harland. I was so frightened and out of sorts. I couldn’t remember the last time I was scared. I didn’t get scared. I was the tough one. I was the strong one. There was no doctor for tending out in these parts. I felt so helpless on that dark August night. Where was the moon? Of all the nights, this was the night when the moon was nowhere to be found. I was doubtful the pouring rain and thunderous clouds would cease or desist.

There was one thing I knew for sure. It was ninety-three miles to the nearest town. That meant nine days by foot and five days by horse. There were no trains or stagecoaches running this time of night. I wiped away my tears with a dirty sleeve as I entered our cabin. I hesitated for a second inside the front door where I removed my hat and hung it on a wooden peg. I wasn’t ready for this. I passed by a wonderful bouquet of fresh-smelling flowers Claire had put out a few days prior. I looked to the heavens and implored, “Oh please, God, no! Please, not now, not Claire! Give me more time! I need more time! What the hell happened to all the time?” I was angry, clenching my fists, saying it should have been me instead. I quickly made my way to the bedroom and dropped to my knees, begging and pleading with the heavens above. She mustn’t leave me! I’m not ready! I need more time! What happened to the time!

Claire, the love of my life, was the most obliging, pleasant, and kind woman I’d ever known. She was always a lady even when she pretended not to be. I never witnessed her in an unfavorable mood. Never was she cross with anyone. And when she acted cross with me, eventually all she could do was laugh wholeheartedly. Now I was beside myself once again. My prayers were not answered on that dark August night. I held Claire in my arms, rocking back and forth. She was so cold. Why was she so cold? I had continually stoked the fire in the fireplace and made sure it was blazing and crackling all afternoon. I rocked her back and forth, back and forth, until we finally fell asleep.

It was dawn before I woke and noticed that the fire was out and all that remained were tiny smoldering embers. There was such a chill in the air as I looked around the cabin, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I wasn’t fully awake and thought I’d had a dreadful dream. Yes, it was all a bad dream. Then I looked down beside me. I realized I was living a nightmare. Claire was gone. She was no longer breathing, so lifeless and peaceful. She was so beautiful and yet so pale. She warmed my heart and my life, and in an instant, she was so cold and silent. I gasped a breath that was not there.

Chapter 2

The baby came fast like a herd of buffalo running on the Plaines of Wyoming. Rumbling loud and long is the best way to describe him. I never knew a newborn to have lungs like that. A locomotive’s whistle was less noisy. It wasn’t until his cord was cut and both Claire and the baby were washed and wrapped in clean white linens that he finally stopped bawling. That’s when I observed it was hunger that fueled his tirade. How amazing to behold the contentment of a suckling babe in its mother’s arms. Soon after, I watched the two lay quietly sleeping. They exuded a certain rare yet harmonious bond. This bond would last a lifetime.

I was bringing the scale in from the meat-curing shack as quietly as I could. I was preparing for the baby’s first weigh-in. Then I heard Claire softly murmur, “My darling, he’s so perfect.” I quietly sat on the edge of the bed. Claire added, “He sleeps like an angel. What should we name him, darling?” It wasn’t the first time we’d had this discussion. Oh no! In the past six months, it was much more difficult because we had no idea if it was to be a boy or girl. One of us always ended the conversation by saying, “let’s wait until we see what it is first.” Claire was adamant about using names from both our families. There was no way around it. She had several uncles. I only had two. And most certainly, we had to consider a brother, fathers, grandfathers, and great grandfathers. So now here we were face to face, whisper to whisper, discussing names before a sleeping baby, who I later found out, like his mother, slept so soundly, an avalanche could not wake him.

I settled in closer to Claire and gently stated, “Claire, my dear? Are you sure you don’t want to wait before naming him? You know, watch him for a while to see if a name might come to us out of the blue? Perhaps, my dear, his personality will remind us of someone?” Claire traced the infant’s perfect little ear. “Gwen, my darling . . .” It was at this particular moment in time I identified a convincing pattern in our spoken sentiments. I commented briefly to Claire as not to get sidetracked, “Do you realize, my dear, that you constantly call me my darling and I constantly call you my dear?” Claire’s response was unsullied and charming; “It’s who we are, my darling, not only as individuals but also as intimate and devout lovers. You have captured my heart as I hope I have captured yours. I surmise this is uncontested love. I sense this son of ours will do the same to us as we have done to each other.” I said jesting, “How could anyone love us, my dear? We’re both ridiculous! I mean really, how can you be so sure?” Claire grinned. “If this child is loved half as much as we show our love for one other, how could he not love us back? Now give me some sugar, sugar!”

We sat together, paced together, and snacked together for hours deciding on a name, or should I say, names for the baby. Systematically, we eliminated names from both sides of the family. Claire insisted one of the middle names to be Buxton, my surname, and naturally Fontaine to be the baby’s last name. Our struggles were far and few between when it came to his first name. Claire favored Benjamin and Joseph after her younger brother and her paternal grandfather, while my interests were with Enoch and Harland for my father’s middle name and his childhood friend who was like a brother to him.

When it was all said and done, our new baby boy went by the name of Benjamin Joseph Harland Buxton Fontaine. Now that was a mouthful! Over the years, the only time I heard the boy’s full name was when he was getting reprimanded, and that wasn’t very often. When I did hear it, Claire’s words would echo off anything, including but not limited to that which was nailed down, growing out of the ground, or stood on four legs on top of the ground. I can still hear her billowing voice. “Benjamin Joseph Harland Buxton Fontaine, what have I told you about . . . ?”

The baby finally woke with a start. Claire let him suckle for a time. Afterwards, I picked him up and gently laid him on the meat scale. He weighed in at seven pounds nine ounces. I turned to Claire and muttered, “Not bad for a Fontaine!” She gleamed back at him with tearful eyes that I swear were smiling. It was the same entranced smile she so often displayed towards me. I handed the baby back to Claire. I called him my sweet B.J. Claire just about took my head off over that nickname, but it stuck. A few months later, I caught her calling him B.J. from time to time. She eventually simplified it and called him Beeg. I felt so blessed to have such a wonderful, caring woman at my side and a beautiful child to go with her.

* * *

A week had gone by, and it was now Thursday of next. I nonchalantly made my way to that quaint little hat shop known as La Chapeau. My heart was racing, and if I tried to count the beats, I’m almost positive I’d lose track in less than a minute. I contemplated coming in to town Wednesday night, so I’d be ready bright and early on Thursday. It was quite a devious act, sneaking into town after dark to check into the Stratton Hotel. I awoke to sunlight shining through the undraped window, blinding me as I opened my eyes. Before I left my hotel room, I undertook an embarrassing makeover that did not do me justice. I scrapped the project before it barely got off the ground. I figured if I wore the cowboy hat I had purchased the week before, maybe Miss Fontaine would remember me. I prayed, as I walked down the street, that the wind would not stir up and send my hat flying through the middle of town. As luck would have it, my cowboy hat survived the three-block trek. Now the real question was would I survive the turbulence and nerves that were building in my gut?

I was two shops away from La Chapeau when I notice a figure standing in the doorway, covering her eyes with one hand. The jet-black hair was a giveaway. It was stacked high up on Miss Fontaine’s head with curls streaming down either side of her face, and to top it off was an exquisite red satin and lace French bonnet. Her dress was breathtaking. It was a rich cobalt blue, flowing from neck to ankles with a spectacular bow of the same color wrapped around her waist—her small sensual waist. The closer I neared, the more vivid the twinkle in her eyes became.

She stepped down to the boardwalk stating, “I had an inkling you’d be by about this time. I see you’ve taken care of that fine new cowboy hat you’re wearing. I must confess it looks quite right on you.” “Thank you, Miss Fontaine.” I tipped my new cover in Claire’s direction. “Oh for heaven sake, you can call me Claire. My mother is called Miss Fontaine, and I surely don’t consider myself a mother this early in life. Now come inside before folks start gossiping about us.” I was alarmed, and my voice showed it. “What in the world would folks be gossiping about us for?” Claire glared out her beveled window and replied, “Let’s just say there are a few nosy posies around this town that have nothing better to do than stir up a little under-the-table talk, if you know what I mean?” I said abruptly, “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

Claire smiled at me with her luscious lips. She looked me straight in the eyes and didn’t skip a beat. “Are you telling me no one has ever talked to you about me?” I shuffled my boots. “Well sure, I’ve been told how you recently moved to town from back east. You’ve just opened this shop and you live up above it. Mr. Calhoun, the bartender, mentioned how your legs were as long as a gazelle’s.” I blushed innocently, adding, “I’ve been told that anyone can go down to La Chapeau if they need a good hat, Claire will fix you up. Go ask Claire at La Chapeau if you need any excess scrap ribbon for gift wrapping, she’ll fix you up and won’t even charge you for it. Oh, and Claire is the person to talk to down there at La Chapeau if you are having a problem with preparing a meal. Why she knows just about everything there is in regards to baking and cooking!” Claire tilted her head back slightly and let out a blustering laugh that echoed inside her store and inside my head. It was that same laugh you’d imagine bouncing gently off a high mountain lake on a soft moonlit night. That’s when I realized I couldn’t get this woman and her laugh out of my head.

“Oh, Gwyneth, you tickle me in more ways imaginable.” I crossed my arms in disgust. “Gwen, my name is Gwen!” Claire waved a hand as if to dismiss my complaint. “Oh yes, I’m sorry. Well, Gwen, shall we have a look see at these new hats from Panama? I’ve already picked out a couple I think you will favor.” And wouldn’t you know, she pulled out two of the most beautiful straw cowboy hats I’d ever seen. The remarkable thing was they were light as a feather. I ended up buying two that day, and I was even given some free taffy. We laughed a lot and swapped stories about growing up. I learned that Claire was born and raised in the famous city of Boston and had quite an education. I informed her I was born and raised a rocky mountain gal right here in the southwest Colorado Territory, and my schoolhouse never held more than ten or fifteen students any given year.

“Now listen,” Claire said before I departed her charming company, “It’s a must that you visit me Sunday of next for a pot roast dinner. Would you be so obliged to partake?” Claire noticed my shyness right away. “Now I don’t want to impose Miss Font—I mean Claire. And I must tell you, I live three miles outside of town, and I’m not inclined to stay up late and all. You know, I have early and late hours most days working the ranch.” Claire quietly thought for a moment and with conspiracy in her eyes stated. “All right, Gwen, but you must know, you could never impose upon me. I’m beginning to enjoy your visits. Don’t you have a day of rest a few times a month? And wouldn’t you agree that most ranchers take a day of rest on Sunday? And if you are taking a day of rest on Sunday, wouldn’t it stand to reason you need to eat a good meal to start off your upcoming week?”

“I must say, Claire, you have all the answers, don’t you?” Claire insisted. “Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. My shop closes early on the last Sunday of every month, so I’m going to bring my pot roast dinner to you. That way you’ll have nothing to fuss over. Whether you work or not on Sunday, dinner will be ready promptly at six thirty. I don’t want to hear any ifs, ands, or buts about it. Now shoo, I’ve got to get back to work!” Claire ushered me out of her shop with a push and a giggle. I was glad to have her brief touch even if it was only for a moment. Just one moment, that would last beyond a dream, beyond a lifetime.

* * *

I built a box of cedar and fir. It was a coffin I dreaded making my whole life. I lined it with Claire’s favorite silk blanket and placed her pillow, shrouded in tapestry, on the spot her head would rest. Anytime I built something for Claire, she always fancied cedar or fir. I could never deny her of her favorite wood. One day, she pleasantly demanded. “G, darling, I’ve been thinking about what, if anything, I could possibly sit on while trying to get the baby to nap every day. You know how I love the smell of cedar.” I looked up from cleaning my Colt 45 as Claire rambled on. “I was hoping, if you weren’t doing anything in particular this week, that you’d steer your way clear and make me a rocking chair.” “Claire, dear, are you quite aware that the baby is not due for another month or so?” She countered back, “Well then, Gwen darling, I trust you may want to get a head start, that way you won’t worry about any last-minute tribulations. I imagine when it comes down to it, in four weeks you most insistently won’t want to be constructing a rocking chair for the baby, because your real concern will be tending to me and the delivery of the actual newborn.” I replied with slight urgency, “Well, my dear, when you put it like that, I know the perfect cedar tree for chopping.”

Claire beamed with her smiling eyes. She never skipped a beat during all our banter, and when we were through, she would saunter over to me and jump into my arms, whether I was standing or sitting. Just before she’d kiss me long and hard, she’d whisper her favorite line in my ear. “Give me some sugar, sugar.” She had the softest lips this side of the Rockies. When I put the finishing touches on Claire’s cedar and fir box, it gave me pleasure and solace knowing her final resting place would be within a coffer of her favorite wood.

Chapter 3

Claire came running towards me with B.J. in her arms. He was only nine months old or was it ten? I was out on the back forty, repairing some water troughs and digging ditches with three of my ranch hands. There were no fences to keep the cattle away from her and B.J. There were no barriers or blockades anywhere in the event the cattle got spooked and started a stampede. My cattle dog, Peeper, couldn’t redirect all of the cattle if there was a mad rush, those were my first thoughts. My second thoughts were what has happened to B.J.? Has he stopped breathing or did he fall and now he is terribly injured? Has he poked an eye out? So many things rushed through my mind, and I wanted to dismiss them all.

I remembered the time B.J. had shoved a kidney bean up his nose, and we panicked, not knowing what to do, until Claire thought to blow pepper in his face and force a sneeze. I remembered the time he rolled completely off the bed, and we thought his neck was broken. Of course, he was moving after about two seconds of sheer terror. Oh yes, there was that time Claire and I were sleeping with B.J. between us and Claire rolled over in the middle of the night for a little loving, forgetting she had a son and thought she had crushed him to death. Naturally, he just laid there peacefully sleeping.

Claire was approximately one hundred yards off. I had no choice. I ran for Van Buren and made my best attempt at jumping into his saddle. I hightailed it out towards Claire and B.J. It looked as though I was competing in a barrel race. My Stetson flew off behind me. I looked for panic on her face. I looked for blood from the boy or a lost limb dangling in Claire’s hand or any other injuries that crossed my mind. I could see no confirmation of hysteria or despair. I could see no signs from Claire that she was frantic. By now, I was twenty-five yards away at a full run. My heart was pounding. My breathing was shallow. As I pulled back on the reins, Van Buren stopped dead in his tracks. I was ten feet away from Claire.

I jumped off ole Vander B and headed straight to Claire. She saw my face and became fully aware she had forced panic upon my being. She hollered, “Gwen, darling, it’s nothing serious. He’s not hurt. He’s okay! I just couldn’t go one more minute without racing out here to tell you . . . “ I cut her off with inner panic. “Claire, dear, why didn’t you hitch the buggy?” Claire repositioned

B. J. in her arms. “Well I did, but I was so excited, I proceeded to get it stuck in a big furrow about three quarters of the way here. When that happened, I jumped out, left the horse and buggy, and headed towards you as fast as I could. Now step back about five feet, G. I want to show you something.” “What in blue blazes is going on, Claire?” I yelled dramatically. “Do you have any idea what you just put me through? Go ahead, feel my heart! It’s still pounding out of my chest!” Claire chimed in, “Oh for the love of Pete, I’m sorry!” She walked up to me with B.J. still in her arms and kissed me all over my face, hopelessly apologizing, not even caring if any ranch hands were watching, which was rare indeed!

I grabbed B.J. and started to check his body when Claire pulled him out of my arms. “Just step back five feet so we can show you something incredible. You’re not going to believe it!” I took a few steps back as Claire lowered B.J. to the ground and pointed him towards me. She was encouraging him to go forward. His tiny little arms were outstretched towards her. He had one of Claire’s fingers clasped in each of his hands and looked as if he was holding on by a thread. Claire was grinning from ear to ear. “Go ahead, Beeg, walk to Gwenny. You can do it, honey. Show Gwenny what you showed mommy a little while ago. C’mon honey, take a couple steps. Hold your hands out to him, Gwen, and squat down. That’s it.”

To my surprise, B.J. started walking right to me. There was no hesitation. He simply walked up to me, put his arms around my neck, and demanded. “Up, Gwenny, up!” I held on to him and stood up dancing in circles, laughing like I’d never laughed before. I knelt down and made him walk back to his mommy. After a while of walking back and forth, we all sat down on the pasture’s lush grass and proceeded to climb all over each other. I looked at Claire with surprise and inquired. “Is it possible for a baby who’s barely ten months old to be walking like that?” Claire just took B.J. in her arms and gave him an Eskimo kiss. “I guess it is possible, isn’t it, Beeg, yes it is!” I sat behind Claire, holding her slender waist and whispered in her ear; “I love you more than a summer day is long.” She turned and peered deep into my eyes with a proposition. “Well then, I guess we have all day to make love, don’t we, darling?” Then I got a little of her sugar, not thinking about what the ranch hands might be observing.

I mounted the three of us on Van Buren, and off we rode back to our log cabin at Marrow Ranch. Two of my ranch hands pulled the horse and buggy out of the rut that day. It was such a glorious day to be alive. Mountain bluebirds and Rufus hummingbirds flew rampant from trees to flowers. Grasshoppers invaded the creek we stomped across. Cottontails could be seen from a distant, retreating into their holes. Red-tailed hawks circled overhead as their shadows traversed the ground beneath us. Claire talked to me and B.J. the entire way. One thing she kept bringing to my attention was having another child. How nice it would be for B.J. to have a brother or sister to play and grow up with.

She spoke of a place over in the Cimarron Valley, south by southeast from where we lived, located in the New Mexico Territory. There were Indian babies that had been abandoned after a tribe had been slaughtered by the U.S. Cavalry, approximately two weeks prior. I shuddered just thinking about it. The infants were being looked after by Mexican nuns who ran an orphanage in Chimayo, north of Santa Fe. In a few months, they would be taken back to St. Benedict’s Mission in Santa Fe for a brief stint and then from there they would be transferred to El Paso, and it was anybody’s guess what would happen to them after that. Claire wanted to ride the Narrow Gauge train that headed into the New Mexico Territory before it was too late. She told me now was as good a time as any. I told her B.J. and I would be patiently waiting for her return.

* * *

I found a spot for the cedar and fir box Claire now lay within. The sun was out and shining, not a cloud in the sky. The rain had finally stopped by late morning. I felt the warmth of the sun radiating all over my body. It was time to take Claire to the spot I had been thinking about. It was the perfect spot by the river’s edge. The soil was nice and moist from the recent rain. My shovel and I would fare quite nicely, unearthing Claire’s new resting place. It sat below a ledge we had spent endless hours on, sitting, shooting the breeze, and making mad, passionate love. We would perch ourselves up on a boulder. It was the largest boulder we had ever seen, and it was as flat as a breakfast flapjack cooking on a hot griddle. Claire would bring a basket filled with corn bread and peach wine. I’d bring her a bouquet of wild flowers and lay out a quilt. It was a pleasurable ritual for us. The river was just down below. It was so hypnotic hearing and watching the constant flow. And beyond the river, upwards, we had an unspoiled view of the mountain peaks in all their grandeur. We were amazed to discover, that even in the summer, they harbored a hint of snow just above the tree line.

Then a thought emerged from the depths of my subconscious. Something I had forgotten from so long ago. It was months before Christmas when we had headed to town. Claire decided to hide something under the veil of her petticoat as we rode back on that five-day-old trail. I was completely oblivious as to what Claire was up to. On December 25, I opened a package containing three pieces of bamboo with some kind of wheel and a strange thick thread attached. Now what was that for? In a smaller box were odd-looking bugs made of feathers and animal hair. I remembered not having any interest in it whatsoever. As I recall, it was Claire who was hopeful I’d find it curious and maybe show some attention and pursue it in an orderly fashion. She constantly reminded me of this marvelous recipe she acquired from a barmaid’s mother. She told me how nice it would be if I brought home some fresh fish. She stated the recipe had to do with trout, lemon, butter, and baking among other things, like vegetable, spices, herbs, and condiments. I recalled she was quite excited about the whole thing.

My disinterest eventually got the best of her. Claire gave up, and the gift sat otherwise useless in the meat-curing shack for years, in a musty corner, collecting quite a bit of dust. But there it was, in the forefront of my mind. I had forgotten its existence for a very long time. Now I was curious in spite of myself. With Claire laid to rest, I sat up on that shelf looking down on her and the river. Claire had given me a gift, so I could give back to her, and I was too pigheaded to even notice. I started to weep, not for myself, but for her. I had deprived her of something so simple. I was beside myself with grief. After I lay Claire to rest, I couldn’t get to that meat-curing shack fast enough to retrieve my long-forgotten gift.

* * *

I was in the brass washtub back in my bedroom when I heard a knock at the front door and then it swung open. This would be our first evening spent together. It was our first monumental Sunday. I looked through the door jam and down the hall to the foyer, and in walked Claire, clutching a pot to her chest. I clutched my chest with my hand and gasped a breath that was not there. With a raised voice, Claire interjected. “Where, in God’s name, is your supper table?” I yelled back, “Go to your left through the great room! It’s on the right! You can’t miss it!” I had completely forgotten Claire was coming to supper, let alone preparing it. I was in too much pain to remember anything. This would be the first of many Sunday evenings we’d spend together for nearly fifty years.

My daddy may not have had a lot of money when he was a young man, but he was what you called land rich. He owned five hundred acres east of Durango. However, he did know how to build a ranch house. Before my mamma died, Daddy had built her a huge ranch house at the B & H Ranch. It came with a big kitchen, a breakfast nook, and a separate washroom. There were four bedrooms, not including the two rooms for staff. It was obvious my parents wanted more than one child. At my mother’s request, every bedroom had a fireplace as well as the great room, parlor, sewing room, and my father’s study. How he loved to read books. After Momma died, Daddy retired every night to the study, with pipe in hand. How I loved the sweet scent coming from the study. Every now and then, he’d invite me in and read a few chapters aloud. Dickens was one of his favorites. Austen was mine. After he died, I smoked his pipe from time to time just so I could smell the uplifting aroma and be reminded of a great and wonderful man. I later changed from the pipe to sweet thin cigars.

More often than not, I’d find myself sitting down to a good smoke and a good read. One wall of his study was covered entirely with books. Some were from his younger years, but most were ordered special through Mr. Warren, who owned the mercantile store in town. Of course, Mr. Warren had since been gone. Now his son John and wife Rebecca owned it. Mrs. Warren is still living and stays with John and Rebecca in the nice house behind the mercantile store. It was Mrs. Warren who attended to Momma when she got sick. Once the doc informed Daddy that Momma’s influenza was getting worse, Mrs. Warren spent the next three weeks nursing Momma as best she could.

I was only two and a half when I lost my mother and don’t remember one thing about her. At least, that’s what I told Claire. I do have a photo of her with daddy, up in Denver when they were both young, before they headed southwest and before she gave birth to me. As Claire and I got on in years, I once told her, “They say, if you lose your mother when you are a child, there’s a part of your heart that stays broken and empty. I recognized from the day you and I met, the broken part of my heart mended itself and is now whole again. I love you for that, Claire, my dear.” Claire’s response was precious. “Well then I can only love you more, my darling.”

I could hear Claire plop the pot on the table and stomp back outside to fetch whatever else she had prepared for supper. Before her last trip out, she asked, “What in the world are you doing back there, Gwyneth? Can’t you see I need desperate help with these fixings? Well, are you going to answer me?” I rolled my eyes and picked up the glass of sherry sitting on the table next to the bath. I was not sure if it was my third or fourth glass. I found it most difficult to stand, let alone get out of the brass tub. Like Claire, who toiled most of the day in her kitchen, I had toiled long and hard all day repairing barb-wired fences along the west property line. I had a nasty gash on the palm of my hand that finally stopped bleeding, or so I thought, but continued to ache like a son of a gun.

I had been twisting some wire right after I had splashed water on my face. I neglected to put my leather gloves back on and the next thing I knew, I felt excruciating pain in my left hand. I wrapped it with my bandana, rode back to the bunk house, and asked one of the young cowhands, Josh, to bring some water to the main house. I then asked him to put a kettle of water on the fire. After he poured steaming water into my tub, the next thing I remembered I was sitting in the bath working on my second or third glass of sherry. I figured the sherry would take the edge off my pain. I’m not sure if this would make a bit of difference to Claire. When she needed help, it did not matter to her what condition you were in. I didn’t know Claire well enough to assume her actions would be swift and hard when she found me lazing about in a hot bubble bath. I just prayed she’d be gentle and sympathetic.

I could hear her footsteps coming down the hallway, getting faster the closer she neared my door. I sank a little deeper in the tub and held my breath. She flung open the door, inhaled, and blurted out. “Oh, I see.” Embarrassed as she may have been, she did not share such emotions or facial expressions with me. Sitting on my bed, she scornfully admitted, “Now that bath looks more wonderful and inviting than any I’ve ever seen in quite a while, including my own. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our pot roast Sunday fare?” Claire’s attention shifted above the tub as her eyes widened. “Where did you find those bath oils and perfumes?” She gazed up over the tub at a shelf mounted to the wall that held quite an array of toiletries.

“If you must know,” I said with a hiccup, “My name is Gwen, not Gwyneth. And furthermore, the Warrens have excellent suppliers in St. Louis and Kansas City who provide them with unbelievable products and supplies!” I was starting to feel a little dizzy but continued on. “Mrs. Warren passed down her secrets to Rebecca who now, without a doubt, may do a more improved and thorough job finding the best resources than Mrs. Warren once did. She highly excels in the purchase of toiletries among other things!” My hand was really throbbing now as I eyed the glass of sherry.

“I see! Well what do I know?” Claire interjected with a smirk, “I’ll tell you what I do know, G! Number one, I am not privy to Rebecca Warren’s insightfulness when it comes to toiletries. It is apparent she is not as fond of me as she is of you or she would have shared the same findings. Number two, my collection of perfumes and toiletries do not even compare to what you harbor up on that shelf. Let’s hope the weight of it doesn’t come crashing down on your head! Number three, I must insist that you share a few of those vials with me as a trade off for my cooking. Number four!”

I was starting to get dizzy thinking about all the numbers. Claire raged on, “Number four, there comes a time when certain things are put on hold because more pertinent issues are pending. I’d like to suggest—no!—I’d like to demand at this particular moment, trusting there is room for two in that tub, that you allow me to join you after I bring in that half-filled basin of hot water I noticed hanging from the fire in the great room. And number five, after such time when our skin resembles raisins and hopefully you most likely will not have passed out from too much sherry, I will somehow resume the food preparations with my pot roast and fixings and we’ll have a nice late supper. So what do you say, G?” Claire retraced her tracks back to the great room to retrieve the water basin before I had a chance to respond. Claire laughed incessantly and we carried on for quite some time, splashing and smelling bath oils. I instantly realized that her laughter was infectious and her body was divine. Knowing that, I looked forward to any kind of a future with Claire.

Claire was outraged when she noticed the gash on my hand and took immediate action. She echoed, “I can’t believe we’ve been carrying on for the last twenty minutes, and you didn’t tell me you had a deep cut on your hand! I thought the water looked a little pink. I just assumed it was your bath oils! Let me take a look at that.” She saw the agony on my face and the large jagged cut on my palm. She jumped from the tub, grabbing a towel and a night shirt, mumbling as she searched the house for a needle and thread, some form of alcohol or healing ointment, and white linens for gauze. When she was satisfied with her findings, she returned to the bedroom and ordered me out of the bath. I was happy to oblige because the water was terribly cold or was it just me? She mumbled something I just barely detected before I stepped out of the water. “You’re just lucky your hand’s been soaking all this time!”

Claire watched me shiver as I stood. Just before I dropped back into the tub, she quickly grabbed me and wrapped a towel around me. The next thing I remember, I felt dry and warm in bed, fully clothed and blanketed, save for my one arm, which was exposed halfway to my shoulder. I had no recollection from the tub to the bed. “How much blood do you think you lost, G?” Claire asked pointedly. I whispered, “You know, the usual amount.” Claire groaned, “Oh for heaven’s sake, G.” She looked at me dead on and told me to bite the proverbial bullet. She placed a wooden spoon in my mouth, and I started to bear down on it. She informed me I’d feel some stinging at first and several sharp poking pains, but it would all be over shortly. I mumbled confidently, “Don’t worry about me. I have a very high tolerance for pain.” I finally succumbed to the sherry. Lights out!

When I came to, I noticed the wooden spoon was removed from my mouth, and there was now a bandage wrapped securely around my hand. Obviously, I passed out briefly while Claire repaired my hand with eight stitches. Claire calmly spoke these words: “Hey G, I’m glad you’re back. Now I want you to get some rest. You know, take it nice and slow.” Then in her most sweet, sincere, and soft-spoken sultry voice, added; “I must inform you, G, for the next week or ten days, you’re staying as far away from those damn barbed-wire fences until I see fit. Don’t think I won’t be watching you either because I will. I’ve already made arrangements for one of your cow hands to go into town tomorrow morning and get word to Maggie Mae and my young assistant Abigail. They’ll tend to my shop while I tend to you.

She gazed over at me as if seeing a newborn colt for the first time and sighed. “Now go ahead and close your eyes, G.” It was at that point I came to my own conclusion. Claire was never going to call me Gwen. The question was, would it be possible for me to dissolve my protests and allow her to actually call me G? I sensed the answer was inevitable. I also sensed it would take some time for me to understand and get used to the unorthodox humor of Claire Fontaine.

I drifted off into oblivion after one last glass of sherry. Claire remained for five and a half days, checking my temperature, making sure there was no infection, changing my dressing when need be, and keeping me fed morning, noon, and night. I truly enjoyed her company, but I suspected those five and a half days were enjoyed by Claire in more ways than one. Any time I wanted to perform my daily routine such as riding out to check on the herd or riding over to the wranglers bunk house to wake them at dawn or say good night at dusk or gather eggs from the free ranging chickens, which was a task in itself, or riding along the fence line to note any repairs, Claire consistently had the wagon ready or two horses saddled and made sure I was never without a chaperone, meaning her. She’d say with a raised brow, “Don’t think you can sneak off any time you like without me knowing about it! There will be hell to pay if I find you out in the middle of nowhere with your hand ripped wide open and bleeding again!” Of course, I secretly took pleasure in her attentiveness. She could tag along with me anytime she pleased. I found her a little presumptuous in her actions since she only knew me a few months. I also found her actions quite appealing and charming.

Chapter 4

The train reeked of thick smoke, and the heat outside was stifling. Claire wasn’t sure if she should open or close her window. She looked around and noticed most of the passenger windows were opened. She followed suit and hoped for a liberating breeze from the east. She retreated to the diner car for a spot of tea and a wet cloth. What did she expect? Traveling in the middle of summer was never easy. It didn’t matter if it was by train, stagecoach, or riverboat, Claire had experienced them all. Hot was hot, and there was no way around it.

Claire wished she had worn her cotton petticoat instead of her silk one. She seriously debated to switch her attire indefinitely and favor dungarees and a cotton button-down like the ones I donned. What was she thinking? She was so distracted, worried about whether she arrived in time before the infants were gone or if the mission would allow her the right to select an Indian baby and make a monetary donation to the nuns and the convent. She worried she hadn’t brought enough money. She was apprehensive about her qualifications. She was unmarried with one child. How could she explain that away? She was not a proficient liar, so a story about a dying husband was out of the question. She did not want to give the wrong impression.

From the second we left the Marrow Ranch and headed over the mountain due east to Durango, Claire’s chatter was nonstop. Her excitement about bringing home a baby was above and beyond the standards of sanity. She was tying her hair back with some ribbon, as she noted, “Naturally we’ll have to pull out all the old baby things we’ve stored!” I could have dangled her over a cliff, and she’d still be talking about the whereabouts of any and all baby items. I contemplated slashing my wrists, but I was sure all the while, she’d be jabbering on and on as she dressed my wounds. Finally, we made it to town. We passed by Claire’s hat shop and waved to Maggie Mae through the front window. Claire was rambling. “Oh yes, and we’ll have to milk the cows twice as much every day so as not to run out of milk for the baby!” I let out a big sigh and interrupted, “Claire, have you lost your mind? You’re driving me absolutely crazy! Now I’m asking a favor. Please just sit there quietly until we get to the train station!” Claire huffed, “Well I never!”

She couldn’t tell the nuns about her wonderful Gwyneth, the first true love of her life. Naturally Benjamin was her second. She couldn’t possibly tell them how her one true love was her rock and saved her and her unborn child from an uncertain death. How could she share the most precious and endearing act of bravery, by the love of her life, with people she was unfamiliar with and did not regard at all? There wasn’t a soul on the planet that could wrap their heads around such a notion. They’d be too indifferent. They’d be too judgmental, maybe even murderous. Claire felt hopeless. She made her way to the diner car for another damp cloth and ordered a shot of bourbon to calm her nerves. She finished her drink and slipped back into her seat and dozed off, first dreaming peacefully and then dreaming tragically.

She dreamt about two years prior when she was in a world of hurt. I had recently entered her life. My hand was all healed by this time, but Claire was about to be injured in a way that was absolutely despicable. She’d been bringing me Sunday fare from time to time, which meant she traveled that three-mile stint out to my spread all by her lonesome. She was late one Sunday evening in early spring. Claire was most considerate and kind, but there was one thing she strived to be when she got it in her head and that was stubborn. I told her I didn’t like her traveling in the snow or cold temperature just to bring me supper, but she wouldn’t have it. It wasn’t the weather that was the root of evil that night. It was two vicious drifters that didn’t have anything better to do. And no, they didn’t molest her, but they sure as hell tried awfully hard.

Six weeks earlier, before the two ruthless drifters made their presence known, we were enjoying one of Claire’s delightful dishes of Cornish game hens, mashed russet potatoes, corn on the cob, and peach cobbler. We retired to my father’s study where I sipped brandy and Claire bit her fingernails. I asked Claire once again with some severity, “If you can’t share one small snifter of brandy with me, I will be forced to throw you on the floor and tickle you until you cry uncle!” Claire stopped biting her nails. I seldom witnessed her ever displaying such vulgar habits. She walked across the study and sat abruptly in the chair next to mine. “Gwen?” Right away, I knew it was serious because she never called me Gwen. She continued, “Gwen, I must divulge private information to you in the strictness of confidence.” I said in a playful way. “Claire, wait a minute, are you sure sharing this with me is the best thing?” Claire retorted, “You are the only one I can trust, and there may come a day when I need more than your confidence regarding this matter. Besides, who else am I going to confide in? You know we’re more than just good friends, G! I know we don’t talk much about it because nobody does, not even you, but I’m in love with you, G. There, I said it plain and simple.” She waited a bit before she asked. “Do you want to respond to that or are you just going to sit there with your mouth hanging open?”

I stuttered my words at first then started again. “Claire, my dear, I’ve been contemplating those precious words for at least a month, let alone wanting to utter them to you. I couldn’t bring myself to doing it for fear you might reject me. How can you so easily just let those words fall from your lips?” I didn’t allow Claire to answer. I grabbed her into my arms and kissed her passionately. We groped each other as we made our way out of the study, down the hallway, and towards my bedroom, losing our clothes along the way. I underestimated the amount of clothing under any dress of the times, but from bodice to petticoat to corset and lacy bloomers; it was all too confusing for me. None of that mattered now. Ripping and tearing was my only option and Claire didn’t seem to mind weather her garments survived or not. I was most content to see she had stopped biting her nails. We threw each other on the bed, if that was possible, and made love all night. There was touching and kissing and tasting and caressing and exploring places I’d never been before. There were even a few fireworks that we both admitted to.

The sun was coming up when I kissed Claire’s temple. Then I kissed her neck. I moved to her ear and with my tongue, I ravished it with passion. She made the most sensual arousing sound, and I knew there was no stopping me. Lust is a wonderful thing at any age. It was close to noon when we finally stirred. We did make it once to the kitchen in the middle of the night, ravenous like two coyotes enjoying their kill. We were wrapped around each other under the covers when Claire propped herself up on one elbow and had an ominous look on her face. “I need to tell you what I’ve been meaning to tell you for days, G.” I kissed her fingertips before responding. “All right, Claire, I’m listening.”

* * *

I opened the warped door to the meat-curing shack and started digging around. For a while, I thought it was hopeless. But lo and behold, sitting back in one of the corners under some old tools and equipment were the three pieces of bamboo in a soft cotton slip, a box on the floor filled with funny-looking feathered bugs, and a spool with thick string. Now what was that for? I tried to recall the words Claire expressed. I felt hard-pressed that my memory wasn’t coming back to me. There was something about casting and the catching of rainbows. How nice it would be to fix a trout dish.

I evoked a thought and let it run through my mind, unfolding the past. Some instructions were written on a small card of brown. I searched for hours then I finally found it. Amongst Claire’s old recipes, by the one marked Trout Dish, was the brown card right in front of me with written instructions and drawings. This would teach me to fish. I put together the three pieces of bamboo. It was ten feet no more, and it was called a rod. I took the spool, which was called a reel and attached it to the bottom of the rod. I guided the line, not the thread, through the eyes of the rod. I selected a fly, not a bug, and tied it to the end of the line also known as the leader.

I had learned quiet a lot from that small brown card. For the rest of the summer and into the fall, I climbed up on that boulder pretty close to the edge, and I stood tall. I practiced my casting forward and back. I tried not to let that line drop or let it go slack. Forward and back, forward and back. Every now and then, I’d look down upon Claire and her resting place, hoping she’d give me strength when need be. I would converse with her from time to time, wondering if she was listening or if she could hear me. I was never too sure.

I continued to cast through the winter and spring. I let the cowhands carry the ranch and the herd. They didn’t seem to mind and welcomed the change. I kept practicing my casting forward and back, ten and two, forward and back. Don’t let that line fall. I can’t let it go slack. Then, one summer’s evening before the sun had gone down—I’m pretty sure it was August when I finally found a rhythm so flowing, so pure, just like the river itself—I stood on that ledge casting down to the riffles. I finally mastered the method and presented my fly. It floated the surface with ease as I watched it drift by.

Then to my surprise, out rose a rainbow, all willing as hell. It pounced on my fly with such great demand. As quick as it took my fly, it went on the run. My reel was screaming as the line flew out across the river, but I was able to slow it down a little bit at a time. I soon took over the rigorous helm. I fought that rainbow until I tuckered him out. By this time, I was no longer overwhelmed. I finally landed that beauty. I imagine he was over twenty-five inches, no less. Very soon after, I sat beside Claire’s resting place. I closed my eyes and pictured her face. A face with gorgeous blue green eyes that smiled at me one more time, hopefully it wasn’t the last. Hopefully my memory would hold fast.

* * *

“Where are his mittens?” Claire yelled from the mudroom. I turned to B.J. fervently. “Now let’s not get your mother all riled up today, okay? Today is a big day for you and mommy. She’s very proud of you, ya know? You’ve got to put your thinking cap on, and try to remember the last time you had those mittens on your little hands. Close your eyes and think.” B.J. insisted, “I don’t know! You tell me!” I yelled back to Claire, “We’re still looking in here! Now listen to me, Beeg, you must have been outside the last time you slipped them on. So where do you suppose that was?” B.J. crunched his forehead and put his fist under his chin and exclaimed, “I member now, you came runnin’ in my room last week, hollerin’ ’bout helping a mama cow with her new baby calf. I asked if I could come help. You said maybe next time. Then you started looking round my room, tossing things over here and over there. You was mumbling something ’bout how you couldn’t find your levver gloves and needed . . .” “Yes, yes,

B.J. I remember. Now stay right here. Don’t move a muscle and don’t say a word to your mother about this, promise me?” B.J. grinned, saying, “I promise. Are you in twubble, Gwenny?”

I casually headed towards the front door, eyes lowered as not to draw attention. I stepped into the mudroom, just about to lift the door latch, when Claire looked up from a basket she was rummaging through. I smiled at her innocently. I could smell fresh cut flowers from the foyer. Her worried look was endearing. “G, darling, I can’t find his wool mittens, and there’s a chill in the air. I don’t want his fingers getting frostbite on his first day of school!”

The gray brick schoolhouse was up on a hill, not more than two miles down the road from our ranch entrance. March 1 was the beginning of every school year, and class started promptly at nine thirty every morning by the sound of the school bell. And every afternoon, the school bell promptly rang by three to end the day. One of the older students was elected each month to do the bell honors, and if you weren’t on your best behavior, you’d miss the chance every student dreamed about. We could hear the bell clanging from our ranch, reminding us what was soon to follow—an anxious lad with stories of his day. The first semester ended the last day of June, so the children wouldn’t miss any summer chores, farming, or cattle drives. The fall semester started up again for two and a half more months the second week of September. From Thanksgiving to the end of February, the schoolhouse was locked down, and any studying or catching up on assignments was done at home.

“Now, Claire dear, relax a little. They’ve got to be around here somewhere. I’m headed out to the barn to pull the buggy around. I’ll be back in two licks to give you a hand. If worse comes to worse, he can always wear a pair of wool sox you knitted him. That will keep his fingers nice and toasty.” Claire grunted; “If you think my son is going to wear sox on his hands his first day of school, or any other day for that matter, you are sorely mistaken, G! You’ve gone quite mad for even considering such a preposterous thing!” Claire could be hot as a pistol or fuming at the mouth, but her words were always fluent and elegant. One could tell she was an educated woman by the way she spoke.

I stood in front of Claire and put her hands in mine. I patted them gently, and without blinking or flinching, I reassured her. “Now see here, Claire, mittens are not a matter of life and death. Your son is not going to lose any fingers today or any other day. At present, you need to breathe steady, that’s it. While I make my way out to the barn and bring the buggy around, I want you to keep breathing steady, yes, just like that and don’t worry so much. We’ll find them.”

I kissed her on the cheek, lifted the latch on the door, and hightailed it out to the stall, where a week before I had left a pair of mittens. Not just any mittens mind you, but soiled, smelly, disgusting mittens that belonged to B.J. The shocker was not that I had destroyed a pair of B.J.’s mittens, but that they had actually fit me when I tried them on for size. It was late morning. I always wore my leather gloves when I was out on the ranch. For some reason, they were nowhere to be found. I was hoisting hay bales into the loft, and one of the milking cows was having trouble. From my vantage point high in the loft, I could see right away she was in distress. I knew she was about to calve, and today was the day. I went to check on her, and after I accessed the situation, there was no mistaken it. The calf was breach.

It’s not hard to figure out what I did next, but every time I reached inside to grab a leg or the tail and pull, my hand slipped, and I would lose my grip. I knew if I used a pair of gloves, any gloves, I could get a much better hold, until they became completely saturated. Hopefully I could retrieve the calf before that happened. Once again, I searched high and low and couldn’t come up with gloves anywhere, and I usually had several pairs lying around all over the place. The next thing I knew, I was carefully tying the first mitten to my wrist with twine. The second mitten was more difficult, but somehow I managed to tie it securely. I found in these type situations, using my teeth always came in handy.

The newborn calf bounded past me as I made my way over to a stool in the corner of the stall, and there they were. I was done in for. Claire was going to kill me. I picked up what looked like two dead rats without legs or tails. I stomped over to one of the water troughs and held them under. I started rubbing them together and, to my surprise, they were coming clean. Now what the hell was I supposed to do with a pair of wet smelly mittens? I guess I had no other choice.

Claire heard my boots hit each step as I made my way up to the porch. She opened the door and stepped out with her hands on her hips, God, how I loved her hips. “G, darling?” I braced myself for what was coming next. “I was just speaking to Benjamin.” I knew I was in big trouble, when my poor ears echoed from within. “Benjamin . . . Benjamin . . . Benjamin.” Claire said with sass, “He reminded me of an event last week that slipped my mind, and apparently it slipped yours as well! Of course, I was most impressed with your willingness to birth a calf and go to great lengths to keep both mother and baby alive.” She repositioned her hips as she added, “On a whim, I was curious as to why you might have borrowed Benjamin’s mittens without returning them.” There it was again. Benjamin . . . Benjamin . . . Benjamin. Claire was on a roll and continued, “Then, I suddenly realized that when I was out getting a bucket of milk in the barn yesterday morn, I saw the most peculiar site in one of the stalls on my way out. A stall where a newborn calf was nestled under some hay, eyes closed, and fast asleep. There was a stool in the corner, just sitting there. Stuck to this stool was a glob of fur. I thought perhaps it to be an animal no longer living. Now I see right in front of me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what it was!”

As I raised my right arm slowly in the direction of Claire, mittens dripping, I tried to speak. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell her how I’d make it up to her and B.J., not that B.J. cared one iota. I desperately wanted to tell her how much I loved her. The words just wouldn’t come out. I looked deep into her eyes for any sign of reassurance that my life was not in jeopardy. She stood there waiting. She started tapping her foot. Her hands were on her beautiful hips. She huffed and puffed through her nose. She took her hands from her beautiful hips and crossed them tightly under her breasts. How I longed for those voluptuous breasts. All I could think to do was quickly ring out B.J.’s mittens right there on the porch. Water trickled onto the pine surface as further proof of my humiliating guilt.

And then it happened. I saw it in the blink of an eye. The metamorphosis was indescribable yet mystifying. Claire’s shoulders relaxed. Her breathing was calm and steady. The tapping stopped. Her arms dropped to her sides. Her green eyes were more than smiling. The corners of her mouth were showing signs of temporary creases. The dimple in her left cheek emerged. God, I loved that dimple. I had been holding my breath for what seemed like an eternity, but now I exhaled. I exhaled with ease. Yes there it was. She threw her head back slightly and let out a laugh. A laugh you’d imagine bouncing gently off a high mountain lake on a soft moonlit night. A laugh so contagious, nothing could cure it. That day we laughed all the way to the gray brick school house that sat on the hill. And when B.J. jumped from the buggy, he donned the warmest pair of gray wool sox I had ever laid eyes on. And for the rest of the afternoon until a certain school bell rang, Claire and I made love over and over.

Chapter 5

“G.remember when you road over to the ranch north of Mancos to get a look at that Angus Bull?” Claire started to bite her nails. “Yes, I do, Claire. You are talking about the Marrow Ranch on the west side of the mountain.” Claire continued, not listening to my reply, “You couldn’t make up your mind if you were going to buy it or not?” “That’s right, Claire.” “You stayed over there for three days before you finally made up your mind and made your way back home with a robust Black Angus Bull.” I said with furrowed brow, “I remember, Claire.” “You said you had to shoot a rattler that crossed your path for fear Ole Van Buren might drop to the ground and succumb to a heart attack or did you say heart murmur, darling? I forget. Anyway, you brought back the snake and we had a wonderful meal. You even made a necklace out of the rattle and gave it to Collin, your ranch hand.” “I remember it all, Claire, why are you stalling?”

Claire dropped her head. She was so proud in most instances. I had never known her to be ashamed of anything. Yet there she was almost groveling at my feet, as if she had taken something from me. “What is it, Claire?” I said softly. “Look at me, Claire.” She raised her head as her eyes moistened. My suspicious unease changed to unwavering devotion and concern as I comforted her. “There is nothing you could say that would upset me or make me love you any less, dear. You must know that?” Claire tried to smile but only rendered a weak grin. I inquired with a demanding tone, “Now tell me what’s ailing you!”

“Oh, G, about six weeks ago I was alone as you well know. After I closed up shop, I found my way into the Half Moon Saloon. Roxy and I were enjoying each other’s company, when a sophisticated gentleman sat down next to us. By the end of the night, he wasn’t such a gentleman. He seemed to be sizing us up. He continued to order us drinks. Roxy and I were having a rip roaring time. I wasn’t paying much attention to him, and he seemed not to mind. Then the next thing I knew, Roxy disappeared and I could hardly see my hand in front of my face.” Claire sat on her hands before resuming with her horrid saga. “I think I passed out sometime after midnight, but I really don’t remember. I awoke upstairs in one of the call girls’ rooms, absolutely naked with my clothes strewn everywhere and my head pounding. I actually feel a headache coming on right now.” I said sarcastically, as my suspicion returned, “Can I get you anything, Claire? Perhaps you’d care for a gin and tonic or maybe a loaded pistol to blow your head off?” I added, “I don’t like where this is going, dear!”

Claire went on disregarding my ridicule. “The sun had been up a few hours, and there was no sign of the cad in question. I gathered my things, got dressed, and got the hell out of there. I think Mrs. Rutherford and Mrs. Sinclair saw me leave the saloon that morning as I headed towards my shop. They had just left the Mercantile and were traveling in the same direction on the opposite side of the street.” Claire was starting to fidget. When she continued biting her nails, I realized that just about did it for me. I imagine I’d have to seize her hands, stuff them in a pillow cover, and tie them behind her back. “Claire!” I raised, “Get to the point!” “All right, G, I haven’t had my monthly menstruation, and I should have had at least two by now.”

When Claire got to the point, she really got to the point. I took Claire’s hands and looked deep into her eyes. “Do you think you’re pregnant?” Claire only nodded in confirmation with her head down. I almost grabbed my Remington and considered forming a posse to hunt down the cad in question but thought better of it. I decided to turn a bad situation into something positive. “Well I think that’s wonderful news, Claire! It would be marvelous to have a little tyke running around here, don’t you think? Claire winced with trepidation. I softly asked, “How do you feel about all this? Are you elated, confused, angry, stunned, or what?”

Claire sat quietly staring off in the distance as I insisted, “Tell me please!” Claire took in a deep breath and let it out. “Well I’ve had almost two months to process this. Quite frankly, I’m taking it one day at a time. I feel much better now that I’ve shared it with you, darling. As a matter of fact, I’m looking forward to having this baby now, but I am dreading the future of La Chapeau. Am I to lose everything I’ve worked hard for all my life because I have to take care of a child? And what about everyone in town, how will they react? Will they shun me? Will they force me out of town or cause me to scrap my business with their harsh reactions? I just don’t know what to think, G.” Claire rubbed her temples. “First, I was so angry. I was angry that some cad pulled a fast one on me. I was angry that you weren’t there to prevent it or console me. I was angry that I let something like this happen in the first place, but I realize now that there’s a life inside me. I welcome it, G. You don’t think I’m crazy, do you, darling?” My answer was sincere. “Not at all, Claire.”

Claire took one look at me and could see the wheels spinning inside my head. She knew I was starting to process. She was right. I was beginning to brainstorm. The only thing Claire could do now was to wait for my solution. She was too uneasy and frazzled about the whole ordeal. Normally, she was the type who always solved her problems with ease. Now, she was tired of thinking about it and for the moment, she did not want to deal with it. It was time for me to step in and resolve her distressing predicament. It was amazing how well she really knew me and relied on me. She was so worried and didn’t know what to do, but she knew I could figure it out. Claire softly nudged me. “I’m going to make us something to eat, okay? I’ll be right back. I promise.” I murmured, “Huh, oh, all right, Claire, just give me a moment to think.” She bent over and kissed me gently on the mouth and tenderly reminded me. “I love your sugar, darling.” Claire retreated to the kitchen to burn off some of her nervous energy while I considered the situation.

Claire found me in the study drawing up a calendar on parchment paper. She set a tray of food on a Kinderbrook mahogany table and handed me a glass of Cognac. “What in the Sam Hill is that?” I motioned her behind my father’s Edwardian desk where I had been contemplating my solution, and she willingly sat on my lap. I kissed her on the lips and giggled. “I’m overjoyed you’re having a baby, my dear. I’m so excited, I feel like riding into town and passing out cigars!” Claire let out a whimper. “You wouldn’t dare?” “Now take a look at this, Claire. I’ve devised a calendar that will show the months you will be pregnant and perhaps, if we are smart enough, we can pinpoint the day the baby will actually arrive.

Now see here, as soon as you feel your belly starting to take shape, you can hire Maggie Mae and your young assistant, Abigail, full time to manage your shop. If anybody asks, you can tell them any cockamamie story you want. I’ll transport you and your things to my cabin on the other side of the mountain, where my small sixty-five acre spread is located. You know it as the Marrow Ranch.” Claire couldn’t get a word in edgewise as I continued. “Hold on, Claire. Now I’m going to make all the provisions. I’ll hire the staff we need. Get the cabin all squared away and move any livestock we’ll need for the duration.” Claire raised her hand in front of my face. “Now wait just a minute, G. I hardly think this is the time or place for you to sacrifice your livelihood, let alone mine.” “We won’t be sacrificing anything, Claire.” “But G, you’ve got to run this ranch here. You can’t afford to lose it! I can have the baby just fine on my own. We can’t go traipsing off to some godforsaken place that’s nearly a hundred miles away, darling!”

I interlocked my fingers with Claire’s, and after taking a sip of Cognac, I said, “Do you honestly think I’d let you have this baby without me? Rhetorical, Claire, don’t answer that. I have a surprise in store for you. You know how dedicated Zach and Virgil are as ranch hands here. And you have always told me how Virgil’s wife Patsy is great with running her household. You have visited her enough, swapping recipes and sharing stories, to know what I’m saying is a fact.” Claire responded haphazardly, “Yes, I guess that’s true.” “Well, they could easily run the B & H Ranch.”

“That acreage I have on the other side of the Rockies is the best-kept secret known to anyone in these parts. I can’t describe its beauty Claire. You are going to have to see it for yourself. I haven’t told anyone, and nobody’s going to find out. I don’t need other ranchers impeding upon my property. You’re the first I’ve told. There’s a strong possibility I can add another 235 acres for a fair price. The Spencer family is willing to unload some of their vast expanse of land. That would provide a great start-up ranch of at least a hundred head, especially with all the natural forest surrounding it. When I was over there six weeks ago, I wasn’t just looking at an Angus bull, my dear. I was looking to my future. Now it could be our future. Claire, we’d be looking at three hundred acres to run cattle on. It doesn’t get any better than that. You’ve got to trust me on this one. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Besides, it’s the ideal place to raise a child. Now let’s see what you brought me on that tray, I’m starved!”

Claire was quiet while we ate. We had moved to the floor where we sat on an Indian rug my father acquired by trading a Navaho woman for one bear skin and two beaver pelts. I did not press Claire any further and let her ponder my proposal. It took less than five years to realize it was more beneficial for us to live closer to Durango, Claire’s shop, and the B & H Ranch where we belonged. Living on the west side of the mountain kept us too far away from the action, but we did spend a few weeks every year checking up on our second ranch and vacationing amongst cattle and ranch hands.

After we finished our delicious snack, Claire moved the tray aside, rolled onto her back, and put her head in my lap. She looked up at me as I looked down at her. I could tell she had questions. She fired away. “How is it you can decide on things so easily without question, darling? You look at what needs to be done, and without hesitation, you just do it. It does not matter if it’s something mental or physical. You simply take the bull by the horns and run it right off the cliff.” I reminded Claire, with a soft heart, “You’re no different. You organize and manage your business and all our travels, business or otherwise, without a hitch. Besides, there are some things I’m not at all interested in doing.” Claire continued to commend me. “But you don’t panic or waver when you have to tackle a task. You don’t struggle or act indecisive when making a crucial change. You’re not intimidated or bothered by anyone who might say otherwise. Perhaps you are that bull! Why is it that everything comes so easy to you, G?” I thought to myself, if she only knew what she did to me, she’d realize certain things weren’t so easy for me. If she only knew what a tailspin she put me in every time I laid eyes on her, maybe then would she admit my downfall.

“Speaking of bulls, G, take for example Tuesday of last. One of the ranch hands, I think it was Collin, couldn’t figure out how to make a slipknot with his rope. I watched the whole incident transpire. You didn’t know I was spying did you, G?” “I can’t say that I did, Claire.” “Collin needed to carry it on his saddle horn for quick grabbing. He wasn’t keen on just a regular lasso. He wanted a heavy-duty slipknot, that way when he was moving your big Angus Bull from pasture to pasture, he felt secure using a rope that was secure itself. Why you ask?” “I wasn’t asking, Claire.” “I’ll tell you why, G, because every time he attempted to wrangle that bull of yours to greener pastures or try to manhandle that bull away from the girls, the bull would get loose. The damn rope would somehow snap or come loose by the sheer force of the bull! Collin was tired of it, that’s for sure. Patsy tells me funny stories like this all the time. Of course, she hears them from Virgil. Anyway, Patsy filled me in on how sick and tired Collin was of that damn bull and was ready to shoot him. A couple of ranch hands made attempts with the rope, to no avail.”

“So I watched him from your breakfast nook. One morning, I was perched at your table sipping coffee with cream and sugar, New England style, and reading one of your favorite writings by Jane somebody, when I peered out the window.” I reminded her, “Austen, Jane Austen.” “Yes, whatever you say, darling.” Claire knew Jane was my favorite author. She continued with ease, “Collin was sitting there with his rope in hand and, after about ten minutes of trying to devise something that would work, he gave up and headed straight over to you. He did not hesitate for a second. He knew right where he was going. I watched him pass your cook, Bo, without so much as a howdy. He passed by Zach, your handy man, while looking the other way. He purposely failed to even acknowledge James, your top roping man, by walking behind the outhouse and around the mulberry bush.” I rolled my eyes. “C’mon, Claire, that sounds like a nursery rhyme!” She ignored me and pressed on with her story.

“I could not hear what he was saying to you, but his body language spoke volumes. He handed you his rope, shook your hand, and headed back to whatever he was tending to before he got wrapped up in that darn rope. You held the rope out with both hands and just stared at it. I stood up to get a fresh cup of coffee, and when I sat back down at the table, you were still staring at the rope. Then you walked over to the swing your daddy made under the big cottonwood tree and sat down on it. You didn’t swing or sway. You kept your feet firmly on the ground and just sat there with outstretched arms staring at that rope. I thought you’d never stop staring at that damn rope, darling.” I interrupted Claire briefly. “If I only had that rope in my hands right now, I could put it around your neck and give it a good hard yank.” Claire quipped back by adding; “You are so hysterically funny, G, I think I’ll laugh till I fall off your daddy’s swing!”

“Now where was I?” Claire chimed, “Oh yes, as I recall, this entire incident started at seven thirty in the morning, and by early afternoon, you were still sitting on your swing. I had been doing chores and sewing new curtains for the drawing room and study when I made up my mind to check on you. I was astonished to find you still sitting on that swing. The only difference was now you had a goat ten feet away from you and a fancy rope around its neck. There you were, sitting at the other end of it with a smile on your face. Do you remember your response, G, when I walked out towards you, took one look at that fancy rope around the goats neck, and asked you, do you think you could make a smaller version of that so I can hang a few men’s hats at my shop?” “Yes I do, Claire, my dear.” I shifted in my chair and proudly stated. “As long as I live, there isn’t enough money on this planet, that you could possibly pay me that would sway me into tying another one of these damn hangman’s nooses.” “That’s right, G. And just this week when you rode into town, what did you bestow upon me at La Chapeau?” “Why don’t you tell me, Claire, dear?” “All right, G, I will. You stepped through the door with your hands behind your back. You had a quirky grin on your face. You walked behind the counter and placed a cedar jewelry box wrapped with a purple and yellow striped ribbon in front of me. You never spoke a word. The ribbon was so beautiful. I carefully untied it and used it on one of my own hats. I then opened the cedar jewelry box to find five perfectly tied miniature Hangman nooses in a variety of pastel colors. You had actually dyed the thick string you used to tie them. How ingenious, G!”

“So I ask you again, darling. Why does everything come so easy to you? How can you sit for hours contemplating one project and not get frustrated. What, in God’s name, inspired you to tie up those nooses for me? And don’t tell me it was love. Excuse my French, but I ain’t buying any of your bullshit today!” I sneered back, “I ain’t selling any bullshit today, dear!” Claire lifted her head out of my lap, sat straight up, and turned to face me. She stated without hesitation, “I’m waiting for an answer.” I cleared my throat and addressed Claire’s questions.

“It’s not one thing, Claire. It’s because of many things. It stems from way back. I’ve had to make my own decisions ever since my mother died. She wasn’t there to do it for me. I guess that pushed me into being driven about everything I do.” “But you were only two and a half when you lost your mother, G. How is it possible you even survived?” “I don’t know, Claire, I just did. My dad had many great qualities as a father so that helped. He wasn’t around every waking hour, but he had a remarkable disposition and many distinguished traits. I must admit one of them included making sure I made my own decisions. He made damn sure I toed the line. He was a master at sitting me down with a problem or task and not allowing me to get up until I figured it out.” Claire seemed excited when she asked, “Name one, G, please?” “Well, let’s see. I have to think back and imagine the moment.” Claire lied down again on her back and put her head on my outstretched thigh.

“Oh yes, I must have been eight or so. It was the dead of winter. I’m sure father thought I was bored. He came to me one afternoon just before he headed out to feed the livestock. There was such a chill in the air that winter. Anyway, he towered over me when I was little and when he spoke, I hung on every word. He said, “Now listen, Gwen, I have a riddle I need you to solve. I don’t care how long it takes you. I just need you to find an answer. You can spend as much time as you like on it. Let me know when you have gotten to the bottom of it.” I said, “All right Father, what’s the riddle?” I took pen to paper and wrote every word he spoke. His riddle went something like this: If a miner had a brother and they were up on the mountain panning for gold and an avalanche raced down the mountainside and killed the brother, but the brother who died did not have a brother, then who was the miner? I made him repeat it several times. The more he repeated it the more confused I became.”

By the end of the day, I had read the riddle so much I thought my head was going to explode. I complained to my father that the task was beyond my capabilities. He said, “Well if you can use the word capability in your vocabulary, then you can most certainly solve this riddle.” I kicked myself for using such a big word. I went back to the drawing board, literally. I started drawing the riddle on paper. On the first page, I drew two brothers up on a mountain, panning for gold along a river. The second page had a roaring avalanche coming down the mountain side. The third page showed the brother being covered with snow. The fourth page showed the brother completely buried under the snow and the miner standing above him with tears in his eyes. I showed these to my father who was quite impressed. He told me I was on the right track. I told him I’d like to get off that track, jump on my appaloosa pony, and ride in the opposite direction. He laughed a deep laugh and encouraged me to keep trying.

By the third day, my drawings had changed. They were variations of the first. I started to change their clothing or put different hats on them. Then, one had a beard while the other had a mustache. And to keep up the flow, I made one with brown hair while the other was flaxen. I made sure one was holding a pick axe while the other held a metal pan. And of course, one was skinny while the other was fat. All the while, lingering in the back of my mind was that nagging question—the brother that died did not have a brother, so who was the miner? “Who was the miner, G?” “Oh, no you don’t, Claire! You’ve got to suffer just a little while longer to see what it feels like.” She implored her favorite request. “Give me some sugar, sugar.” So I bent down and gave Claire a kiss. Not just any old kiss. It was a warm, deep, long-lasting kiss that lingered after I was finished.

Six days had passed, and I wasn’t any closer to solving the riddle. I’d put it off for a day and then come back to it. This was the one time my father didn’t push me too hard. I think he realized it was an impossible riddle for a child. Anyway, I went looking for my father to show him my work and ask for a clue. I knew he wasn’t outside because it was dark, and the snow was falling. He wasn’t in the study, hmm, that was odd. If he wasn’t outside, he was most likely in the study. He wasn’t in the kitchen, which was strange because that’s where he plated food he usually brought into the study. I crossed the great room, checked the parlor, and into the foyer—nothing.

I made my way down the long hallway towards the bedrooms. I didn’t have to check my room because that’s where I started. He was neither in the master bedroom nor the guestrooms. As I came within reach of the door handle to Mama’s sewing room, I noticed the door was ajar. I drew near to it very quietly. It was a door that was seldom opened except for staff cleaning. I loved to spend time in Mama’s sewing room, especially when father was out in the pastures. He had left it just as it was the day Mama died. He never changed a thing. He made sure it was cleaned twice a week. Of course, it was only cleaned twice a month in the winter. We were always short on staff, and the ranch house was tightly sealed in the winter, so it was hard for dirt and dust to find its way in.

I peeked through the crack in the door. Daddy was rocking in Mama’s birch rocker. I could hear him humming. What was that tune? It had been sung to me before. Back in September when the climate was still warm and sunny, I was out with Jake; he was Daddy’s black cook. He was a cook way back when daddy was young, so he was getting on in years. One time, I asked him his age. He laughed and said my guess was as good as his. He told me he was born in 1751, and I should do the math. And when I figured it out, I was to come back out and tell him. I informed him I’d make a deal. “If I return with your age, will you teach me the song Mama used to sing to Daddy?” Sure enough, Jake agreed. So off I went to do the math. It was easy enough since I already knew the present year to be 1833, and I did enjoy doing subtractions. It was the multiplication tables I’d get stuck on. When I figured Jake’s age to be eighty-two, I knew I was smarter than any eight-year-old alive.

I ran as fast as I could out to Jake’s chuck wagon. He was restocking the coffee and beans. When I told him he was eighty-two, he smiled so wide I thought he was going to split his lip. I confessed immediately that I never knew anyone that old. He doubled over with laughter. When he started singing Mama’s favorite song, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” I remembered it right quick. I’ve never forgotten those words again.

“I’ve been working on the railroad all my live long days. I’ve been working on the railroad, just to pass the time away. Can’t you here the whistle blowing, rise up so early in the morn. Can’t you hear the captain shouting, Dinah blow your horn.” Daddy’s humming was music to my ears. It all came back to me in a flash. I pushed the door slowly open. Daddy’s humming persisted. I quietly stepped inside and started singing in unison with his humming. “I’ve been working on the railroad all my live long days. I’ve been working on the railroad just to pass the time away.” With every note, I drew closer to him. He stopped rocking and abruptly refrained from humming. And with tears on his face, he reached for me and hugged me like there was no tomorrow. He picked up where he left off as did I. “Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, someone’s in the kitchen I know . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh. Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, strumming on the ole banjo.” “Daddy, what was Mama’s name?” He whispered softly in my ear, “Charlotte, my beloved Charlotte and your beloved mother.”

When I turned twelve, I stopped appreciating what my father stood for and all his wonderful principles he instilled upon me. I used to worship the ground he walked on, and my new display of affection was exceedingly defiant. I considered many of his attributes to be a lack of character. I was a selfish little imp who had lost my moral values. Looking back, I assumed my insolence was hormonal or perhaps a lack thereof. But the fact of the matter was, it was a plain and simple case of insubordination and jealousy. It was around the time my father had a brief affair with a widow from Wichita. After her lawyer husband passed, Mrs. Hutchinson traveled west to her sisters for moral support and some relief away from her tragedy. She arrived on a Monday, and it didn’t matter what nice things anyone had to say about Mrs. Hutchinson. I, on the other hand, witnessed a woman who incessantly got drunk and constantly forced herself upon my father far more than any widow or woman should be allowed. Of course, at the time, I thought of her as a monster because I wanted my father all to myself. In actuality, she was one of the most generous, fun-loving, and soft-spoken souls around these parts. She never forced herself on anyone. She was as gracious as the Duchess of Canterbury and as graceful as a swan on a lake.

She departed on a Thursday some months later and almost missed the Northern Pacific. If it hadn’t been for my father’s swift demeanor and cunning ability, the train would have kept chugging along. He stopped it by jumping up with the engineer. I was glad such a vindictive time in my life was short-lived. My father had suffered enough. He was always there to assist me even when I had made a mockery of him. After I learned my lesson, I always displayed my affection for him with respect and admiration. Claire stated, “Well then, no wonder everything comes so damn easy to you, you’ve been practicing for years. Now tell me, who was the miner, darling?”

“All right, Claire, I’ll let you in on a little secret. As I said, six days had passed when I found my father humming in the sewing room. Anyway, I was bringing him some updated drawings of the miners. They were starting to look quite ridiculous. I had one miner wearing a minister’s suit while the other was playing bagpipes in a kilt. A second drawing showed one miner to have red long flowing hair while the other had long pigtails. When my father viewed these, his eyes became quite large. He then told me to take the miner playing the bagpipes and the miner in the long flowing red hair and make them into one drawing. So off I went down the hall back to the drawing board.”

“A few hours later, I found my father smoking his pipe and reading in the study, this time it was Keats. I handed him my drawing. He reported that it was quite a fine drawing. He asked me to take a look at it and tell him what I saw. He made me stand back just a bit and look at it from a distance. I said, “Well Father, it’s a long red-haired guy in a kilt playing bagpipes. He asked me again what else it might look like. I said, “Well Father, I’d have to say . . . I stopped in midsentence, squinted a little, and realized exactly what it looked like. I never laughed harder as a child until that day. It appeared to be a woman with long red hair in a skirt who just happened to be playing bagpipes.” I looked at Claire’s perplexed face and revealed the riddle. “So the miner had a brother who died, but the brother who died didn’t have a brother.” Claire spoke softly, “So, who then was the miner?” With a big smile on my face, I emoted. “It stands to reason the miner was his sister! Claire threw her head back slightly and let out a laugh. A laugh you’d imagine gently bouncing off a high mountain lake on a soft moonlit night. A laugh so luscious, you could eat chocolate cake off of it.

Chapter 6

Claire was late to my ranch with her dinner fare one Sunday evening in early spring. There was still snow on the ground and a chill in the air. She always arrived just before sundown and always left just after sunrise on Monday morning so she could open her shop, and most folks in town wouldn’t witness her arrival from the east. She had absolutely no reason for not coming and no reason for being late. I was hoping a wheel on her barouche carriage hadn’t busted or her horse hadn’t been spooked and ran her off a ridge.

It was just before sundown when I grabbed my Colt 45, a kerosene lantern, pocketed some matches, saddled Van Buren, and rode off towards town. I was blazing a trail half out of my wits. I was about two miles down the road when I saw her barouche carriage. It was stopped. The horse was actually tethered to a tree branch just off the dirt road. The horse did not come across as being too happy either. He was tied up too high and was not able feed on the roadside grass. He was snorting as he tried to lower his head. I could barely make out movement inside the barouche. It appeared to me that Claire was not alone.

I tightened the reins and stood on my heels, pressing hard on my stirrups. Van Buren slowed and then stopped. Whoever was inside was clueless to my advances. I dismounted Van Buren and quietly walked him into the trees. He was well-hidden as I tethered him to a low branch. I carefully made my way through the trees and around the back side of the barouche. I double-checked my Colt .45 to make sure it was loaded, set the lantern down behind the rear wheel, and covertly approached the front of the carriage. Claire was begging someone to please leave her alone, get off her, and for both of them to stop ripping and tearing at her dress. I thought to myself, she said both! There was more than one man harassing her. I heard one of them say, “Stop your kicking and scratching, you wretched whore!” My adrenaline was pumping, and I prayed to God I wouldn’t have to do anything I’d never done before.

I cocked my Colt slowly, hoping the click wouldn’t be heard and then climbed up on the side step. I yelled so loud I could hear it reverberate in my head. “Get the hell off her or I swear, so help me God, you’ll wish you were never born!” I gave all three of them a start. Claire was motionless, her green eyes now gray. I pointed my Colt from one man to the other without stopping; “You better both step off this carriage real nice like or you won’t be seeing tomorrow!”

The man to my left jumped off and ran down the road towards town like a banshee. He was out of sight in seconds. The man to my right was a whole different story. He just sat there eyeballing me. He then put one arm around Claire’s neck and pulled out a Bowie knife from the sheath on his belt. He swore he’d slice her throat if I didn’t mind my own business and get the hell away from here. I told him I was minding my own business, and without hesitation, I shot him in his left eye. I was trying to shoot him right between the eyes, but my aim was an inch or so off. Claire jumped from the barouche so fast, I was taken aback. I still had my Colt on the man because I wasn’t sure if he was dead. I didn’t take my eyes off him. I was waiting to see if he would move. I finally realized he was definitely dead when I saw the white leather seat and Claire’s fixings behind him covered in blood and whatever else that substance was. Then I noticed a peculiar smell. I shuddered and almost got sick to my stomach. I looked away and focused my attention on where Claire might be. I climbed down from the barouche but didn’t see her anywhere. I went behind the barouche and lit the kerosene lantern. I figured if the one man ran towards town, Claire would have the good sense to run in the opposite direction, so I headed towards the ranch. After a few minutes of searching, I finally found her. She had ambled all the way up the road, into the trees, and was now hugging Van Buren and sobbing. I assumed she was waiting for me. I set the lantern down and tried to pry her fingers away from his mane, but she was hanging on for dear life.

“Claire?” I whispered as I grabbed her hands. “It’s all right. Let go. You can let go now, it’s all right.” She was still sobbing. I untucked my shirttail and wiped her tears and the blood spatter from her cheek and hair, smearing some of it and noticing some of it wasn’t just blood splatter. She had a minor cut above her right eye and a slightly bruised left cheek. Her neck was red, and her dress was torn all the way to her corset, which didn’t look any worse for wear. She had no shoes on her feet, and it looked as though one of her big toes was stubbed.

I carefully came up behind her and held her gently. “Claire, let go now. It’s me. I’m the only one here now. You are safe, let go, sweetie.” She was starting to feel cold and looked pale. “Claire?” I spoke a little louder. “It’s me, Gwyneth. It’s your darling, G. Now let go, sweetie. I am here to keep you safe. No one can hurt you now.” Her body fell into my arms as I guided her to the ground. I let her sob for quite some time. I held her so tight, I had to stop myself from squeezing the life out of her. I was oblivious to how this ordeal affected her, especially after I killed a man, and the bullet was literally inches from her head. It didn’t occur to me that Claire would react in such an extreme fashion. It never dawned on me, prior to the shooting, that she was traumatized by the very man who lay dead in her barouche and by a man who was now on the loose. What was I thinking? That’s just it, I wasn’t thinking! Nothing occurred to me. Nothing dawned on me. I was merely reacting. Damn, I thought, now what am I to do?

Claire’s color was coming back. She wasn’t as cold either. She had stopped crying for some time now. The sun had gone down long ago. I still had her in the clutches of my arms. “Claire, can you hear me, sweetie?” Her voice was barely audible when she whimpered. “Oh, G, I thought I was going to be molested and killed when those two men showed up and overtook my Barouche. I fought so hard so as not to lose my baby. I only thought of the baby. I didn’t even think of you, G, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, darling.” She was sobbing now. I held her some more and waited patiently until she was ready to speak again. She wiped her eyes with my sleeve and as she continued, her voice was softer then a whisper. “And then, I thought we were both going to die when that vicious, cold-hearted excuse for a man pulled out his knife.

Claire looked around anxiously then peered over her shoulder and stared into the night. As she turned back to face me, once again, she softly whispered, “Next, I thought I was dead when you fired that pearl-handled pistol of yours at me.” “All right, Claire, now wait a minute. Everything is fine now. Take it easy. I want you to take a couple of deep breaths, okay?” “What happened to that awful man, G?” “Well Claire, I must tell you he is dead in your barouche. And I want you to know I wasn’t aiming my pistol at your head, my dear. It may have felt like it, but I was aiming it at that lowlife of a man.” Claire was starting to act herself again. Her voice was no longer inaudible, and her coloring was normal.

“You were incredibly brave, Claire.” I assisted Claire to her feet. “I’m very proud of you, my dear. I heard you fighting off those malfeasants kicking and screaming with all your strength. Not many women could have achieved such a feat. If you hadn’t held them off as long as you did, I may not have made it here in time to help you. What do you say I put you up on Van Buren and take you back to the ranch? I’ll make sure Zach stays with you.” Claire cut me off and raised her eye brows high. “What do you mean stay with Zach?” She cringed when she felt the pain above her right eye. “Now Claire, I am going to take your carriage back into town and have a word with Sheriff Dillard. Not to worry, Claire, I’ve reloaded my Colt, and I’m ready and armed. I will tell him the whole story and ask him to keep an eye out for that piece of scum that got away.” Claire quietly chuckled. “You mean that piece of scum you hardly got a look at in the twilight?” “Yes. He’s the one, Claire,” I said sarcastically. Claire blurted out faintly. “I, on the other hand could draw a picture of him if I was an artist. Furthermore, who do you suppose will transport you back to the ranch at this hour once you drop off my barouche in town?” “I’m completely overjoyed you are feeling much better, Claire, but really, you are in no condition to go anywhere right now, and I don’t want to hear another word about it! Besides, I can tether Van Buren to the back of the barouche and ride him home when I am finished with the sheriff!”

I was amazed how Claire gathered herself and recovered so quickly. She then blurted out, “Well if that’s the case, G, you are going to have to cover your ears because I am not finished! Now help me up on Van Buren and take me back to the ranch, so I can clean up and change into attire that is not ripped from here to the Grand Canyon. I am going into town whether you like it or not!” I looked at Claire in amazement. She melted every inch of my being. It’s quite an astounding feeling to fall in love all over again to a woman you are destined to spend the rest of your life with. As I lifted Claire into the saddle, I confessed my feelings. “Claire, I love you so much, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Her response was warm and endearing. “I love you too, my darling, so much it hurts sometimes.” We embraced with intensity as we rode back to the B & H ranch. I didn’t even care the blood of a dead man was all over her face and matted in her hair.

Claire road beside me on the quarter horse she adored, named Charlotte, after my mother. I made sure, over the years, I owned one mare christened Charlotte, to keep my mother’s name alive. There was always someone, at some point, asking what a beautiful name for a horse, what made you choose it? I always loved answering their questions. Claire had taken a quick bath and changed into a clean dress. I had a delightful ride into town, chauffeuring the stiff in the seat behind me. I had thrown an old horse blanket over him, so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Claire and I both had loaded guns pointing into the night. Claire’s eye was starting to swell, and I figured it would not hurt to visit the doc. He took pride in his concoctions, and I’m sure he had some special balm he could put on her eye after disinfecting it. I don’t think she needed stitches. I did want the doc to look her over from head to stubbed big toe and make sure she was not badly injured.

Claire had a knack for not mentioning injuries she incurred to those of us who cared. On one occasion, she had fallen in the quarry and skinned both knees. What she was doing in the quarry, I’ll never know. At first, no one knew of her mishap because she hid it beneath her petticoat’s veil and under her nightgown. The next morning, she gingerly walked into the kitchen. I inquired, “What’s ailing you, dear? She sat down at the table and muttered. “Oh nothing.” I sat down next to her, patted her on the knees, and replied, “Well, if you figure it out let me know and maybe I can help you.” She screamed bloody murder. I panicked, fell back in my chair, and hit my head on the window sill. While I was on the floor, Claire raised her skirt and moaned. “Take a look at this!” I could not believe she had little fragments of rock and dirt in her cut up knees. She blew on her knees and tried to hold back her tears. “I tried to clean them as best I could, but my knees are so tender and painful I had to stop.” “Why didn’t you soak them in the bath for a while, Claire, dear?” “I tried that too, but that was just as painful. I couldn’t bear it!” “And why didn’t you ask for my help, Claire?” “Are you crazy, G? Excruciating pain causes me to pass out, thank you very much, but no thank you!” “What are you trying tell me, Claire?” Claire flashed her gorgeous green-blue eyes at me and replied, “I’ll say no more.”

I was amazed by the irony. She could clean, disinfect, stop the bleeding, stitch, and bandage anyone who was wounded, but when it came to her own injury, the possibility of her not using outside assistance was infinitesimal. I took her right in to see the doc. He patched her right up, but I heard her brutal cries as I sat in the waiting room. When she hobbled out of the Doc’s office, her eyes were red, and she was not a happy patient. Her knees felt horrible for a few days thereafter. On our ride back home, I reiterated, if she ever hurt herself like that again, it would be wise to get it taken care of right away. That way the agonizing pain may not be so traumatic.” She responded by articulating, “G, darling, I’d like to tell you where you can shove your agonizing pain and hope it lasts an eternity in that particular location!” “Ouch, Claire, you really know how to stick in the dagger and twist, don’t you?”

Bye the time we arrived at Sheriff Dillard’s office, we were famished. It was getting late, and the only place open that served food was the Half Moon Saloon. We sure as hell were not going to get near any of the food Claire had loaded in the barouche. She was never going to touch any of those pots and dishes again. She explained the entire incident in perfect detail to the sheriff. She handed him her dress, informing him she never wanted to see it again. The three of us walked out to the barouche. Sheriff Dillard poked his head inside, lifted the horse blanket, and said matter-of-factly, “I’m going to have to get the undertaker. Why don’t you two head over to the saloon and grab some grub while I take care of that. I’ll meet you back here when you’re finished eating.” We responded with a quick nod and sped off in the direction of the Half Moon Saloon.

We sat down in the little dining area off to the side of the main bar as Jillian made her way over with some menus. “What can I get you ladies to drink tonight?” In unison, we both blurted out, “Bourbon!” Jillian smiled and turned towards the bar, stating. “I’ll be back in a flash.” She wasn’t kidding either. Our drinks came out before we barely had a chance to glance at the menu. Of course when you’re hungry, it doesn’t matter what’s put in front of you. You can eat anything. We both ordered some venison stew and half a loaf of sourdough. We agreed the bread was good for dipping.

We had just started sipping our bourbon when Claire kicked me under the table. I screeched, “Ouch, geez, Claire, what did you do that for? Now I’m going to have a big ole knot on my shin!” “Don’t look now, G, but directly behind you, sitting at one of the poker tables, is our runaway slime bucket.” We downed the bourbon, left some money on the table, and skedaddled out of there as quickly as salmon running upstream. The sheriff wasn’t back yet, so we sat and bided our time while our stomachs growled.

We were anxiously awaiting the sheriff and undertaker when the door started to open. We held our breath for a second. I was just about to draw my Colt then relaxed when Sheriff Dillard stepped inside followed by the undertaker. Why is it undertakers are always tall and tend to look emaciated? Why is it their necks are usually too skinny for their wrinkled, buttoned collars? And why is it their skin is sallow and chalky, just like the ashen dead bodies they tend to. I later shared my notion pertaining to such morbid intrigue with Claire. She figured undertakers felt bad for those who met their demise and probably did not want to upstage the dearly departed in any way, shape, or form.

Claire informed Sheriff Dillard the whereabouts to one pathetic excuse of a man. The sheriff made his way over to the saloon quicker than you could shake a stick. Claire and I climbed aboard Charlotte and galloped all the way home, never looking back. Claire retrieved her barouche from the undertaker several days later after he removed the remnants and cleaned it thoroughly. She thanked him and paid him handsomely.

I removed Charlotte’s saddle, gave her a quick brushing, and fed her after putting her in her stall while Claire soaked in another hot bath. It was well after midnight when I joined her for a wonderful candlelit dinner with Italian wine. It was obvious, Claire was feeling herself again. “You’re very romantic when you want to be, my dear.” Claire closed her eyes and took in a breath. “I have you to thank for that. You bring out the visceral magnetism in me, darling. Its cause and effect, don’t you know?” “No, what do you mean, dear?” Claire kissed my forehead as she sat by my side. “You cause me to go crazy for you, and, in return, I effectively take you to bed and do wild things to you.” I pondered her notion. “Hmmm, so it’s like the rise and fall of the sun, or is it more like the coming and going of the tides?” “Actually, G, I think you need to be going over to the wash basin to wash your hands so you can come back here and dine with me. Your hands are filthy, Gwyneth!” I looked at my hands and then at the food. “Very well, but don’t you eat a thing until I get back!”

Claire was utterly dumbfounded when I didn’t respond to the name choice she used to address me and my filthy hands. Gwyneth was a name I didn’t respond to very well. I let it go purposely, as an experiment hoping for cause and effect to transpire, perhaps immediately following dinner. After washing my hands, I sat down next to Claire and tried to pepper her up. “You are such a talented expert when it comes to preparing food. You have spoiled me once again, my dear. I mean, look at this little spread. What is all this wonderful smelling sustenance?” Claire squinted and pursed her lips. “If I tell you, darling, I’ll have to kill you.” Once again, my only thought was to inspire cause and effect and to bring out Claire’s visceral magnetism, hopefully after dinner.

A day later, the local paper, which generally printed five pages, was special delivered to the ranch by the editor himself. We thanked him kindly. How he knew Claire was there, I’ll never know. I did not want to know. Claire and I sat down in the drawing room with paper in hand. We looked at the front page and there in bold letters was the top story. CLAIRE FONTAINE ATTACKED; ONE MAN DIES FROM GUNSHOT WOUND WHILE ANOTHER MAN GOES TO JAIL. It was an open and shut case. The following day, there was no trial. The town council took one look at Claire’s dress and the accused and knew right away he was guilty. He had several scratch marks on his face, neck, and arms similar to the dead man’s marks. He also had some fresh bruises on his legs. This clearly matched Claire’s story of how she kicked and scratched her attackers. The offender was shackled, loaded on a stagecoach with a deputy, and shipped off to Boulder City, Colorado, where he was jailed for ten years for attempted murder and kidnapping.

I begged the sheriff and Claire to keep my name out of the papers. I knew it was hard enough for Claire to handle all the hoopla, but it was difficult for me, knowing I had killed a man no matter how vile he was. I was in no mood to have the whole town talking about it. The next thing you know, it would be all over the territory. My stubborn disposition, at the time, was not ready for heroics. That happened to me once before, when I was younger. I never did like being put under a microscope or in the spotlight. I didn’t like to be up front and center. When I told this to Claire, she laughed her contagious laugh and said, why G, there is a philosophical side to you after all. I ran to the study to look up the word, grabbing my daddy’s favorite English dictionary. When I returned to Claire, I grabbed her wrists, pulled her into me, kissed her French style, and thanked her for the compliment. Her response was short and sweet. “You’re welcome my darling, quite welcome.” But all Claire could think about was if her story made its way from chronicle to chronicle, across the country and whether or not it would reach Boston. Somehow it never did.

Chapter 7

Claire awoke to several loud whistles and the screeching of iron grinding with iron. The porters were offloading baggage as the passengers disembarked. Every so often, a bellow of steam would let loose from under the big Narrow Gauge engine. Claire was amazed at the mere power these iron horses exhumed as they flew down the tracks. It was quite impressive to just stand there, looking up at such an immense piece of metal. It was pure art.

She waited patiently by the mezzanine with her bags close at foot. She received a telegram from Santa Fe a few days before her departure. It was from Monsignor McCarthy, the head of St. Benedict’s Mission. He had informed her first that a Mexican gentleman by the name of Juan Carlo would be waiting at the station for her and then see to it she was transported to the orphanage. The monsignor then stated that two nuns would be awaiting her arrival at the Holy Cross Orphanage near Chimayo. Their names were Sister Mary Francesca and Sister Mary Elena. Claire explained that when Catholic nuns took their vows, the Virgin Mother was used as their first name and their birth name was used as their second or third. Sometimes they would even take their mother’s name or even their father or brother’s name as their second. She then stated, “My name would be Sister Mary Claire or Sister Mary Claire Elizabeth.” She also reminded me that one should always address a nun by her full name. This was Catholic protocol. She asked me what I would have been called should I have taken my vows. At first, I laughed so hard I thought I cracked a rib. It was a travesty to even entertain the idea of me being a nun. I was somber for a moment and then with salty tears streaming down my face, replied, “Sister Mary Donald Charlotte, after my parents.” Claire kissed the salt away and patted my knee.

A short gentleman dressed in a wrinkled off-white suit and sporting a sweat-ridden sombrero approached Claire. He waved a white bandana, patted his forehead with it, and then put it in his coat pocket. He introduced himself as Juan Carlo. Claire shook his hand and introduced herself and thanked him for being of service to her. He picked up her bags and with a Mexican accent, cited. “Follow me, señora.” Claire followed him to an old dilapidated wagon with shot springs. She could tell it was his pride and joy when he cheerfully mentioned it had been in his family for many anos (years). He assisted her up to the shotgun seat, loaded her bags in the back, and climbed into the driver’s seat. With reins in hand, he yelled, “Rapido, apudate, vaminos!” His two mules headed away from the train station and down a rough broken trail north in the direction of the orphanage.

It was hot and dry and the sun was beating down on them with unfailing agony. Juan Carlo pulled out his canteen and offered it to Claire. She drank from it with a vengeance. She then doused her yellow cotton kerchief with water, cooled her face with it, and then wrapped it around her neck. With an embarrassed glance, Claire handed the canteen back to Juan Carlo. She had only left him half the water that was originally handed to her. Juan Carlo said nothing. They traveled in silence, save for the occasional whistling from Juan Carlo, which sporadically sounded like the melody from the Mexican hat dance. Perhaps he didn’t say much because of the language barrier. However, Claire made no attempt at conversation either. It reminded her when she was age five or six. She knew a man who didn’t say much, but when he did talk, he spoke volumes.

Autumn in Boston was breathtaking. The colors of the leaves were indescribable to Claire as a child. The yellows, oranges, rusts, reds, burgundies, and even black leaves inspired her in so many ways. She spent endless hours covered in fallen foliage in the forest behind the Fontaine Estate. She imagined that each color had a scent of its own, and she could swim aimlessly like an otter out in the harbor, going from color to color. With her eyes closed, she pretended she was in the Atlantic and it was far from the color blue. She would smell each scented leaf and by doing so, she knew exactly what color she was swimming in. At that age, her imagination preceded her.

It was getting late when Claire snuck in through the service entrance on the north side of the estate. Unnoticed by the staff, she raced up the back stairs, down the long daunting hallway, and into her bedroom. She only made it to her bedroom door before her mother stopped her abruptly. “Claire Elizabeth, where on earth have you been?” Her mother nonchalantly removed a leaf from Claire’s long black waves and scooped her into her arms. Claire reminded her mother that she had been out in the forest organizing the fallen leaves. “Ah yes, in the forest organizing leaves,” her mother mimicked. She placed Claire gently back on the pine floor and demanded, “Well tell me then, have you separated the reds from the oranges yet?” Claire excitedly stated through lying eyes, “Oh yes, Mother, I have many piles in different locations I want you to see.” Her mother said in jest, “Shall we? I’d love to see them right now!” “But Mother,” Claire quickly interjected, “It’s getting so dark outside! I don’t want us to get lost.” “Well all right then, perhaps you can take me tomorrow.” Her mother secretly laughed to herself knowing full well of Claire’s mischievous adventures in the forest. She could easily view Claire from the upstairs balcony off the master bedroom. The woods were quite the opposite of a vast forest. Instead, they were a grove of maple and oak trees planted on a perfectly square acre some seventy years ago. It was hardly a place a child could get lost. “Now, I want you to get cleaned up. Your father and I have a special surprise for you down in the library. I want you downstairs posthaste.” “Yes, Mother.” Claire’s apprehension was dually noted by her amused mother.

A man of about forty was sitting on a Victorian straight back chair across from the divan where Claire’s parents were seated. They were chatting about his credentials. He stood when Claire slowly entered the room. “There you are, my dear!” her father roared. “I would like to introduce you to Monsieur Sebastien Chevalier. His father knew your grandfather back in France.” Claire’s father continued, “Monsieur Chevalier will be your French teacher.” “Bonjour, Claire.” Claire curtsied and replied, “Bonjour, Monsieur.” She knew a small assortment of French words but not enough to form sentences capable of any normal repartee.

Monsieur Chevalier would be Claire’s teacher every Tuesday and Thursday for three years to follow. By the time she was nine, she was so fluent in French, she could easily sail to Paris, reside in a maison with a cobblestone walkway and a white picket fence, and spend the rest of her life happy as a clam served in a French entrée. Instead, on her thirteenth birthday, her parents took her to the French Quarters of New Orleans for the entire summer. They stayed in a French-style chateau on a cotton plantation just outside of town. Claire enjoyed the surroundings and company of the French children that lived there, but every waking hour, Claire’s parents could be found entertaining their desires along with their friends in the French Quarter. In just one day, they spontaneously shopped for antiques, men’s silk shirts, ladies lingerie, artwork, and French champagne. Then they solemnly marched in a funeral procession from Bourbon Street half a mile to a graveyard where caskets lay above ground in cheap constructed mosques. That same evening, they dined on Cajun cuisine, danced late into the night to live Dixie-style music, and found a house of ill repute. They paid a Madame a fare price for an upstairs boudoir, so they could choucher avec moi with each other until morning. It was nice to have affluent and diverse parents who associated themselves with wealthy people all over the country, but why did they indulge themselves with the unrefined. When Claire was an adult, she realized this was a social pastime of the rich. She learned occasional diversion kept them sane and true to themselves.

Claire often whispered in my ear if I had the desire to vous choucher avec moi se soir with her on several occasions. It was usually when we were in the Half Moon Saloon with fifty cowboys getting rip-roaring drunk or when we’d have our yearly banquet out between the flower garden and gazebo for all our ranch staff and families. And one of my all time favorite places was when there were ladies in Claire’s shop and I stopped by just to say hello or drop off something. It never failed. Of course, my dissenting response after Claire asked me to vous choucher avec moi was, “Je ne sais pas, Je dois demander mon mere.” I don’t know, I must ask my mother. I knew it was grammatically incorrect, but I did not care. Claire would throw her head back slightly and laugh that contagious laugh. A laugh I could take to bed and spend the night with anytime, in other words, vous choucher avec moi se soir?

Her first French lessons were demanding and tiresome. Monsieur Chevalier turned out to be exceedingly repetitive. Over and over and over, Claire had to repeat each word and then each sentence or phrase. With a wheeled chalkboard that flipped from one side to the other, Monsieur Chevalier tested her relentlessly. By the middle of the second year, Claire was easily carrying on conversations with Monsieur Chevalier on a regular basis. He no longer allowed her to speak to him in anything but French. She truly and quite adamantly took pleasure in her newfound language.

However, Claire felt superior whenever her mother or one of the staff entered the room. She started a dialogue immediately in French with Monsieur Chevalier. She undoubtedly was showing off her intelligence. More often than not, she was very soon humbled when Monsieur Chevalier responded with a larger-than-life French vocabulary, temporarily hindering Claire’s ability to converse freely in front of her mother or staff. She would then sit absolutely silent for an extended period of time, not wanting to have anything to do with the Monsieur. All the while, he’d be whistling some soft French tune Claire had never heard before as he graded her class papers. Not only could she speak French, but she could also write reasonably well. Claire quickly learned that the Monsieur was not only a fine French teacher, but he set a good example when it came to morality, discipline, principles, and ethical values. He was very similar to Donald Buxton, my father.

Claire observed when it was time for Monsieur Chevalier to depart his tenure, he silently packed his things, walked quietly down the hall to the front portico, tipped his hat, and bowed to Claire. He silently passed through the entryway, walked down the steps, and climbed into a horse-drawn coach with not so much as a word. Just before he rode out of sight, Claire watched as he emerged from the coach window with a frivolous wave and yelled, “Au revoir, mon ami!” (Good-bye, my friend!)

After about an hour, Juan Carlo came to a fork on the broken trail. He steered the mules right. Ten minutes later, they arrived at the Chimayo Orphanage. The small adobe structure was surrounded by juniper trees, cacti, and sage brush. Claire noticed a side door leading out to a covered patio, which hosted three kivas of different sizes and several wooden tables and benches that encircled a fire pit. Claire was later enlightened by the cook that the kivas were Mexican fire kilns. The larger one was used for baking loaves of Mexican bread and tortillas while the smaller two cooked simple meals and smaller dishes. After Claire’s first night, she realized that the patio served as the kitchen and dining locale for the nuns and children.

As she approached the front entrance, green lizards, what Juan Carlo called geckos, scurried under rocks and lingered in shadows on the walls of the adobe building. Juan Carlo stepped inside with Claire, put down her bags, tipped his hat, and bid Claire a good-bye, “Adios, señora.” He was such a quiet and peculiar little man. Claire laughed to herself after being called señora. It seemed no matter where she traveled, people assumed she was married. Claire turned to face an even smaller Mexican nun who, to Claire’s ignorance, spoke fluent English. Claire assumed she would need an interpreter but was pleasantly surprised when the nun greeted her. “You must be Señora Claire Fontaine, how nice to meet you. I am Sister Mary Elena.” She took both Claire’s hands in hers and shook them confidently. Sister Mary Elena escorted Claire to a small guestroom, with a single bed, a hand basin, and a water pitcher sitting atop a tiny pine dresser. Sister Mary Elena told Claire, when she was settled, to come back to the front office for a brief tour.

Claire looked out her dirty guestroom window and noticed some children playing in the courtyard. There was something about them that bothered Claire. Something sad she tried to put a finger on. Even though they were horsing around and having a good old time, she could see it in their eyes. She could see the way they carried themselves. Claire looked away for a moment and thought to herself, I have seen children like this before. It was when she was a child herself. She not only had been to the French Quarters of New Orleans and witnessed it there, but she had also traveled with her parents to Philadelphia where the coach passed through a borough on the south edge of town. She had vacationed in Providence where the trolley passed by The Square. She traveled to Chicago and the train passed through North Lawndale. She visited Richmond and the coach passed by Fulton Bottom. She vacationed in Atlanta where the trolley passed through Druid Hills. These were all slums or shanty towns where the poor, homeless, and underprivileged lived.

If Claire wasn’t asleep, she was looking out the window when they neared a big city. As a child, it always captured her attention. The trains always slowed way down when approaching the big cities. The trolleys and coaches never went fast anywhere. She loved the tall buildings and bustling crowds. But it was the children beyond her train window that intrigued her. It was the children beyond the trolley cars that were dressed poorly. Most of them were skinny and small. More often than not, they were dirty as if they did not bathe. And almost every one of them appeared barefoot.

She didn’t know it as a child, but she recognized it now. After watching the orphans playing in the courtyard, she could see it in their eyes. They were lacking luster, lacking inspiration, and abundant in emptiness. It was evident that these children didn’t have much in the way of parents or education and, more than likely, proper provisions. Claire thought to herself, all any child needed was a mother and father, a warm place to sleep, and food on the table. Claire believed that all children needed love. She couldn’t wait to see the Indian babies now. It was all she could do to keep from bursting into their nursery, snatch them up, and take them home on the next Narrow Gauge headed northwest. Claire thought to herself, love is the window into a child’s soul. If a child has no love, their soul is truly barren.

Claire made her way back to Sister Mary Elena, who was having a conversation with another Mexican nun and a woman in civilian clothes. “Claire, I’d like to introduce you to Sister Mary Francesca and one of our wonderful cooks, Jean Monroe. Jean volunteers with a few other women who take turns preparing meals here at the orphanage.” After introductions and a promise from Jean to give Claire a couple of Mexican recipes, Sister Mary Francesca did the honors of showing Claire the rest of the orphanage and the nursery.

In five different bassinettes were five beautiful babies. They all had dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin, except one baby who had dark reddish hair or was it auburn? To Claire’s surprise, her skin was a little lighter. Claire found that odd but didn’t think too much about it. They were between the ages of three and seven months. Some were fast asleep while others were crying. Claire asked Sister Mary Francesca if it would be all right to pick up a crying baby. With her hands folded under her habit, she nodded yes. Claire placed one hand under the baby’s head and one under its lower back and drew it to her chest. It stopped crying instantaneously. Claire thought, any baby hearing a heartbeat always seems to settle with ease. She rocked the baby to sleep by walking around the nursery. After it was fast asleep, She lay it gently back down in its bassinette. Sister Mary Francesca was in the rocker feeding another baby. Claire sat down in the adjacent rocker, quietly observing the feeding. It hadn’t been long ago when she was doing the same with B.J.

Sister Mary Francesca looked up from the bottle. “This little niña never cries. Sometimes I get worried that I might forget to feed her or she might develop a terrible rash that I didn’t notice because I tend to feed or change the babies who cry and neglect the babies who don’t cry.” She and Claire both softly laughed. Sister Mary Francesca continued. “Out of all these babies, she is the oldest. She is seven going on eight months. She was the first baby to arrive here. It was three or four months before the other infants.” Claire asked why. The Sister replied sadly. “She wasn’t from the massacre. There was a Navaho woman southwest of here from the Santo Domingo Pueblo who died in childbirth. The Pueblo was of the Jemez Tribes. They took her in when no reservation or Pueblo would after they found out she was a half-breed. She spent six years there and, from all accounts, was a happy child. A young Indian couple adopted her as their own right away.”

Sister Mary Francesca looked over at the other infants and continued, “When she was fourteen, an evil drunk Texan had his way with her after she wondered off the pueblo one day. She became pregnant. She was demoralized and ashamed when she found out. She could not face the tribe or her adoptive parents and she ended up at St. Benedict’s Mission. Monsignor McCarthy assigned me to be her charge. I brought her to the convent, Our Lady of Guadalupe. I tended to her needs. We spent time together. She loved to go on walks, and I got to know her quite well. The poor child had an unlucky life. I prayed for her every day. She did not know her Indian mother or her white father. She did not know if they were dead or alive. The poor child agonized over not having a heritage. When she went into labor, I feared the worst. There was too much blood for one woman, let alone a young girl enduring childbirth. There was nothing we could do for her.” Sister Mary Francesca dried her eyes with her hanky and let out a long sigh. “God takes a life away and then he gives one back.”

Claire put her hand on Sister Mary Francesca’s arm. She looked down at the sweet little soul drinking from a bottle in the Sister’s lap. Her cheeks were as rosy as a red tomato. Claire presumed she must be content. But that contentment was only temporary. She raised her head back up to the Sister’s eyes and firmly claimed, “I want you to know, Sister Mary Francesca, I am a strong-willed woman. I work hard for my son, myself, and my business. I have good support and love from my family and friends. I have the finer things in life to make sure none of my children get left out in the cold. I have good morals and good wits about me. And most importantly, the love I have inside to give a little child like this is infinite. It’s vast. It’s immeasurable. And it’s unconditional. It would be a privilege for me to adopt this child or any one of these babies.”

I received a telegram from Claire reading, “Signed all paperwork <STOP> should be arriving Friday at 4:10 from Cimarron <STOP> New baby girl Rose Charlotte in tow <STOP> Love to you & B.J. <STOP> Miss your sugar <STOP>.” I hugged B.J. so tight, I cut off his air supply. Friday could not get here fast enough. Everything was in order. While Claire was gone, I pulled out the bassinette, baby rattles, baby quilts, baby blankets, and all the baby items I could find that B.J. wasn’t able to fit in or wanted to play with anymore.

In the past, I complained to Claire for saving all these useless baby items and how it was taking up too much space in our storage area and why can’t we just give it away to someone who really needed it? Claire’s response was always. “G, darling, you know it might come in handy one day.” I looked at her and sneered, “Why, are you going to revert back to a baby again?” Now it felt like Christmas. Unwrapping packages and opening wooden boxes was quite a treat for B.J. and me.

B.J. was extremely excited about the bonfire that evening. First on the agenda for the evening, was to burn all the old busted boxes and wrapping. I was a little nervous about B.J. wanting to be near the fire, so I devised a plan. While he was tossing little wood scraps into the early stages of the bonfire, I pulled his wooden rocking horse out from behind the pile of busted wooden boxes that hadn’t gone into the fire yet. I had underhandedly put it there earlier unbeknownst to B.J. It was his favorite toy. He bounced on it several times a day. He had excellent balance for a child of only thirteen months.

He turned towards me as I raised the rocking horse above my head. He screamed, “No Gwenny, dat’s horsey!” I played dumb for a bit. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, how do you think your rocking horse got out here?” His eyes got as big as a silver dollar. “Don’t know, Gwenny!” I pretended to act puzzled. “Maybe I left the backdoor open, and he rode out here all by himself? What do you think, B.J.?” His eyes were still popping out of his head when he replied, “Don’t know, want horsey!” I set the rocking horse back away from the flames.

While I fed the fire, B.J. rocked on his horse to and fro, back and forth, happy as could be. Then I noticed something I’d never noticed before. Maybe it was the blaze of the fire. Maybe it was because I hadn’t paid enough attention before, but his eyes were smiling just like Claire’s did. I’m positive they were smiling for the love of the ride. He was born with green-blue eyes just like his mother, but I never saw them smiling like hers until now. I then realized Claire’s son was going to grow up to be an expert horseman who would ride and rope cattle with the best of them. I couldn’t have been more wrong. However, I also realized I was in love with two people now, with a third on the way.

Claire was a sight for sore eyes as she stepped down off the Narrow Gauge locomotive with a bundle in her arms. B.J. recognized her at once and started squirming and kicking his way out of my grasp. I let him down, and he ran as fast as he could towards her, shouting, “Momma, Momma!” He then wrapped his arms around her legs and buried his face in her dress. Claire and I embraced delicately as not to crush the baby. I felt Claire cling to me for an extra few seconds. She whispered in my ear as she pressed her cheek into mine, “I’ve missed you so much, my darling.” Our eyes met, and she could see I felt the same. Our intimacy was rarely displayed in public. When folks met us for the first time, sometimes they’d asked how we knew each other. We’d tell them we were cousins or stepsisters. It seemed to satisfy them. Our difference in age was only three years. Claire was my senior.

I took the baby from her arms, so she could pick up a wriggling little tyke, who was still screeching “Momma, Momma.” I caught a glimpse of the baby sleeping peacefully and marveled at how she was able to do it in all the din. She was gorgeous with her dark auburn hair or was it red? She was perfect as most babies are until they can roll over, stand up, and learn the word no! I was silently being sarcastic because I needed us to get out of there and head back to the ranch as fast as we could. I wanted alone time with Claire. I wanted to hug and kiss her and give her a welcoming home she wouldn’t forget. I yearned for her so bad, my insides ached.

I heard Claire joyously say, “Well that’s your new baby sister, Beeg. I brought her home especially for you.” She looked at me with an adoring smile and winked then returned to her one-sided conversation as we walked in the direction of the baggage car. “You have to be very nice to her, sweetie. You can’t wake her when she’s sleeping. If you want to hold her, you have to sit down first, and I’ll place her in your lap.” B.J. was listening very intently, or so I thought. Claire continued, “You shouldn’t put her under water, and you won’t be able to bury her like your little metal soldiers either.” “Claire!” I shrieked. “You’ve got to be kidding me! What in blue blazes are you telling the boy? It’s real smart giving him all those bright ideas!” “Oh, c’mon, darling, relax, he’s too excited to really be listening.” I involuntarily rolled my eyes, twice, and whispered, “Yes well, I’m so excited that if you continue to speak to our son that way, I’m going to throw you to the ground, rip off your clothes, and make mad passionate love to you right here, right now!” She stopped straight away with her mouth partly opened. I thought she was going to reprimand me, instead she quipped. “Well then, you’ll have to wait a minute while I find someone to tend to the children.” Every time I pegged her verbally, she nailed me tenfold. It was one of the many things I loved about her.

We had a porter carry Claire’s bags to our buggy. I remembered her getting on the train with two bags, but when she got off the train, there were four. I gave the porter a nice tip, and he was on his way. As I assisted Claire and the baby into the buggy, I began my banter. “I noticed you have two extra bags. Is there something you want to tell me? Did you bring back more than one baby?” I was now securing the bags to the back of the carriage and persisted with my teasing. “Did you forget to tell those at the orphanage you have a wife instead of a husband, and the cat’s not out of the bag?” I lifted B.J. up and set him on the middle of the seat next to Claire. I climbed up on the driver’s side, grabbed the whip and the reins, yelling, “Giddy up, yaw!” I then asked Claire, “Maybe you had an affair with a nun, but you couldn’t kick the habit, so you brought her home in one bag and her Sister in the other!” Claire looked exasperated. “That’s quite enough,

G. I want to laugh. I’m trying to laugh, darling.” She shifted her position on the seat. “But you’re acting a little too silly for me. Talk normal to me, G. I’ve had a long week.”

I reached across the buckboard seat and rested my hand on Claire’s thigh. “I’m sorry, my dear. I shouldn’t be so insensitive. I’ve forgotten how horrible train rides can be, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy traveling with a baby.” Claire brushed the hair out of B.J.’s eyes. She then took my hand. “It’s not you or the train darling, but it is this child.” “What do you mean, Claire?” Claire closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “She’s got a history. It’s an atrocious family history that I look forward to changing.” On our ride back, Claire told me all about it. She cried once or twice, but I imagined it was more than likely a good thing she got it off her chest. She made me promise never to tell Rose of her horrific past or anyone else, for that matter. It was a promise I kept for a lifetime.

Before we left town and headed to the ranch, Claire wanted to make a quick stop at La Chapeau. “Now Claire, you’ve got to be dead tired, and besides, it’s in the opposite direction!” She had forgotten that we were not going back over the mountain for a couple days. We were headed three miles east to the B & H Ranch that Virgil and Patsy were running. Patsy was anxious to see the baby, and I was anxious to see my cattle. Claire pointed west.

“Be a sweetheart, G, and fetch that paisley bag for me?” The carriage was parked behind her shop. Claire slipped through the backdoor while I held the baby and kept an eye on B.J. She scared Maggie Mae and Abigail half to death. They had been redoing a display of hats and scarves in the front window. Claire plopped the paisley bag on the counter with a thump. “Hello, ladies, it’s been a while. The shop looks marvelous as always. As you know, I’ve just returned from my trip to New Mexico, and I’d like to show my appreciation to you both for minding the shop.” The ladies giggled in anticipation. Claire started to open the paisley bag. “Now, you’re going to have to fight over this bag a Navaho woman made.” She pulled out two beautiful Mexican dresses with floral prints of purple, red, teal blue, orange, and sea mist green. Two hats of the same design followed, and lastly, two pair of sandals in the same print were laid on the counter. Claire set the paisley bag on the floor and asked, “What do you think, ladies?” Of course, their giggles increased as they hugged Claire and thanked her kindly. Little did Maggie Mae or Abigail know, but there was a third outfit just like theirs somewhere amongst Claire’s unopened baggage. However, she never wore it in town but rather enjoyed wearing it in her garden.

Chapter 8

“And why is it neither I, nor anyone else, can call you Gwyneth?” Claire was irked as she asked the question. She was putting dishes away, slamming cupboards, clanking glasses, and flinging silverware into drawers. We just finished one of Claire’s delicious dinners of roast leg of lamb with mint jelly, puff potatoes, and baby peas and carrots. I was now washing while she was drying. “It’s a beautiful name, G. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it.” Claire banged another cupboard door. “I’m not ashamed of it, Claire!” Then I asked myself, how did she know I was ashamed of it? I couldn’t bear to have that name ever spoken to me again. It was more than shame. Claire slammed two platters together as she placed them atop the sideboard stating. “Humor me, G, and give me one good reason why you don’t want me calling you Gwyneth?” I cringed at the sound of it. I suppressed any lingering tears.

“Okay, Claire dearest, if you must know! I had a harrowing experience as a child. It was an experience that has tormented me ever since.” Claire interrupted, “I’ve had to take note of this brief explanation before, G, and I’m tired of hearing the same vague and short version!” I let the silence linger before I responded. “I had nightmares about it. It changed my life and not necessarily for the better. Of course, my father was there to handle it with me, but it was traumatic just the same.” Claire reminded me with a sarcastic tone, “It’s May, darling, and I certainly hope I don’t have to wait until next Christmas before you finished your story!” “You’re so pushy and nosy, Claire. I have a good mind to keep it to myself forever.” Claire turned back to the counter with contemp. “Like I’ve never heard you say that before! Oh, G, stop being so melodramatic and just tell me why! Now c’mon, I love you, darling, and I care a great deal for you. I’m not pushy or nosy. I’m just curious and concerned about your well-being. Besides, I want to know all there is to know about you, darling.” Once again, Claire had a way with words that confounded me every time.

I took a chair at the kitchen table while Claire started grinding fresh coffee before heating the coffee press. “Claire, I know I told you I had no memory of Mother, but that’s not entirely true.” She chimed in, “I’m sure most children have no recollection of anything at the age of two and a half.” “Well I did, Claire, but that’s not the story you’re about to hear. I took a deep breath and began my dreadful account.

“The doctor informed my father that my mother had the worst case of influenza he’d ever seen, and there was nothing anyone could do for her. He turned out to be an unethical doctor and was soon run out of town, but he’s not the reason she died. Anyway, my father became confused when he would find spots of blood on my mother’s handkerchiefs. He’d never heard of an influenza case like that before. He’d see a blood-ridden handkerchief and replace it, only to find a little later he’d have to replace it again. By the time Mrs. Warren came to help my mother convalesce, it had become much more severe. Both my father and Mrs. Warren found mother’s handkerchiefs saturated in blood constantly. They collectively came to the conclusion that she, in fact, had tuberculosis.”

Claire had a subdued looked on her face, as I continued, “On the day she passed, she asked for me, begged to see me, even called out my name, over and over. She was delirious and out of sorts, but one thing was clear, she wanted her baby. I recalled her begging from her deathbed while I was somewhere just outside her bedroom door. It was dreadful.” Claire was about to speak when I interrupted. “Please don’t ask me how I remember, Claire. I just do. In a weak and feeble voice, she begged for her baby Gwyneth. She said she needed to hold her baby Gwyneth. She sobbed and said how she couldn’t live without her baby Gwyneth. Those words echoed in my head and still do.

My father brought me to her bedside, and I remember her holding a red cloth, but most of all, I remember her dark sunken eyes glaring right into mine as she whispered, “My angel, Gwyneth.” And then she passed away right there in front of me. From that day forward, I’ve never responded to the name Gwyneth. I instinctively knew whoever was saying it was not my mother. My father would call me over and over again, but I refused to answer. When he realized my suffering and grief and confronted the dilemma, he never called me Gwyneth again. From that point on, I was Gwen.”

Claire gently set two steaming coffee cups on the table, along with a spoon, cream and sugar, and a plate of sliced cornbread with melted honey butter. She quietly sat down next to me and silently added cream and sugar to both cups, New England style, and gave them a quick stir. She ever so faintly tapped the spoon on the side of one cup before she softly laid it back on the table. She then turned to me, delicately took my face in her lovely hands, and gave me a tender kiss on both eyes. Claire didn’t stop there. She then gave me another kiss on my lips that lingered. Without hesitation, she sweetly showed her gratitude, with a touch of humor. “Thank you, Gwen, darling, that was a pretty darn good reason for not calling you Gwyneth, and it’s not even Christmas!”

We stayed up half the night making love. It was well after nine the next morning when Claire finally crawled out of bed. She was frantic. She promptly opened her hat shop every morning by nine o’clock sharp. I wasn’t much help considering I was still in bed half asleep. She was hopping around the room trying to dress as fast as she could, grabbing her corset off a chair then cinching up the strings, putting on her slip and panties after pulling them off one of the posts of my four-poster bed, and dangling her pink chiffon dress over her head before she dropped it onto her beautiful body.

She finally sat on my lovely Regency rosewood settee and delicately drew her silk stockings up over her long gazellelike legs and slipped into her black laced bridal boots. She was so gorgeous just sitting there. She made my settee look like old twisted driftwood that had recently washed ashore. She poignantly asked, “Now, where is my bonnet?” I dragged it out from under the covers and handed it to her. She took one look at it as she stormed down the hall interjecting, “Grand! Wonderful! Splendid! Marvelous! Great! Fabulous! Son of a . . . !” She then yelled back, “G, I need my barouche drawn as quickly as you can!” Whenever Claire wanted a task done the right way and in an expedient fashion, she never asked the staff but instead relied on me. I was flattered when she ordered me around like that. It confirmed I was doing something right, and I loved doing just about everything for her.

As fast as I could, I got into my long underwear, pulled on my dungarees, buttoned my fleece shirt, and slid into my cowboy boots without sox. I never wore sox, at least not while I had boots on my feet. I did wear sox to bed on cool nights, especially during the winter. Sometimes it was all I wore. As long as my feet were warm, I didn’t need to wear anything else. I could hear Claire holler from the kitchen as I exited the bedroom. “C’mon, G, it’s a quarter to ten!” I wondered what that smell was. I grabbed my cowboy hat as I walked through the mudroom and headed to the stables. The smell of fresh cut flowers lingered in the air from the vase on the foyer table. Claire had cut them the day before, but that couldn’t have been all I smelled.

I brought the horse and buggy around to the front, ran up the steps, and through the door. I still smelled something delicious as I made my way past the mudroom and into the foyer. I noticed it was not the fresh flowers I had smelled on my way out. Claire came crashing past, kissing me good-bye on the way. “I made you a quick breakfast, thanks for last night, G, love you, and don’t forget to remove your hat!”

Claire had funny rules. No cowboy hats were worn inside the house at any time. She wanted to set a good example for the ranch hands and, by doing so, I was the example. I hung my hat on the hat rack in the mudroom and made my way to the kitchen where the aroma was getting stronger. Over in the breakfast nook, laid out on the table, was an amazing spread of eggs Benedict, fried red potatoes, two muffin cakes, a cinnamon roll, brewed coffee, and fresh orange juice. I thought to myself, how did she do all that in thirty minutes? And where on earth did she get oranges? I didn’t get to working on the ranch that day but instead told the ranch hands I was headed to town to run errands.

Mrs. Brock and her two daughters, Penelope and Julia, were in Claire’s shop when I strolled through the backdoor. It was the first time they had the pleasure of being patrons in Claire’s boutique. Mrs. Brock was the wife of Mr. Ernest Brock, the manager of the local Wells Fargo Bank. The bank was recently built. It was the town’s first bank, and most everyone around was excited about it. Mrs. Brock presented Claire with tinned oysters, which was a nice gesture but also a silent statement saying my family and I are very rich. Oysters were hard to come by for the average folk, and only the wealthy could afford them on a regular basis. The Brocks relocated from Boulder. Mrs. Brock’s daughters needed summer bonnets, and Claire was promoting just about every summer bonnet she had in stock. She had hat boxes and bonnets strewed all over her shop. She seldom provided such ostentatious service to her patrons, but when the well-to-do graced her store with their presence, she knew if she treated them like royalty, she’d make a good profit, and they’d return as happy paying customers. Claire was very scrupulous and had great business sense.

As I stood at the back of the shop, Claire raised her green-blue eyes towards me and then up towards the ceiling a couple times and then back to me. The ladies didn’t even seem to notice me. Claire surreptitiously handed me her skeleton key and the oysters and gave me a wink. I decided to make the most of the situation and spoke a few choice words to her in French. Once again, my French was never grammatically correct no matter how much time Claire spent trying to educate me. She’d laugh saying, “You really can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” I cleared my throat and gave it my best shot. “Claire, mon amour, Je veux du sucre” (Claire, my love, I want some sugar). Claire dropped her jaw to the floor. She was absolutely mortified because she figured since Mrs. Brock was wealthy, she most likely spoke French or maybe her daughters were fluent in it. She turned towards the ladies with bated breath, waiting for a horrific response. To her surprise, they said nothing. They were engrossed in trying on various bonnets and then modeling them in the mirror. Claire abruptly turned back towards me and said with spite, “Juste instant, tu derriere!” (Just a second, you ass!) I ran up the stairs, unlocked her apartment with the skeleton key, and sprinted straight to her small bookshelf to see if I could find the French-English dictionary. When I finally found the book, I had forgotten it looked as old as the revolutionary war. I giggled halfheartedly when I learned of Claire’s explicit words for me. C’est la vie (Such is life). I peeled back the tin of oysters, devoured them with pleasure, and then waited patiently for my little French femme fatale to arrive.

When Claire finally joined me, it was way past lunch time. Her young assistant, Abigail, was managing the shop now until five o’clock. I was still starved. Once again, Claire displayed one of her poses in which she tried to look completely disgusted. The one pose with hands on her hips, stiff shoulders, huffing and puffing through her nose, and tapping her foot while standing in the doorway for effect. I ignored her stance and posturing. “Hi Claire, how was your sale? Did you make out famously with Mrs. Brock, or was she not in the mood for kissing? Were your racks full when the ladies left or did the three deflate them on their way out?” Claire’s tapping stopped as she shared her request. “You get one more of those, G!” “Did Mrs. Money Bags take you to the bank, or did you bag her money?” Naturally Claire stopped her puffing, took her hands off her hips, relaxed her shoulders, threw her head back slightly, and laughed her wonderful laugh. It was a laugh you’d imagine bouncing gently off a high mountain lake on a soft moonlit night. I complained to Claire, “I’m starving, what’s for lunch?” Claire said with pleasure, as she lay on top of me trying to smash my body, “Moi, si’l vous plait.” Me, if you please!

Chapter 9

Patsy came running out to greet us as we approached in our carriage. She called to James, the ranch hand, to unload the bags and bring them inside. As soon as Claire stepped down from the carriage, Patsy grabbed the baby and cooed all the way into the house with her. I left the two of them visiting in the parlor. Claire liked to call it the drawing room. Apparently, that sounded more sophisticated to her. I took B.J. to the kitchen to see if we could find some fixings to eat, but it wasn’t food I was craving. It was Claire.

“She has the most extraordinary auburn hair I’ve ever seen!” Patsy stated with a prying tone. “What have you named her, Claire?” Claire told her Rose Charlotte and mentioned she was seven months old and that her Navaho mother died in childbirth. However, Claire did not mention that the father or the grandfather was white. She and I decided that was best kept unsaid. We never told a soul. They both stayed in the parlor for hours. I had our house maid, Winifred, who was Collin’s girlfriend, bring them some broiled meat, English tea, and Claire’s favorite, trappers fruit salad. The salad was an old recipe from the local fur trappers. It was an easy dish to make while they were trapping. They’d boil dried apples and add mashed pumpkin, brown sugar, sunflower seeds, raisins, coriander seeds, and a pinch of salt. When the apples became tender, they’d drain the water, let it cool for a spell, and then devour it like a pack of wolves. When I looked in on Claire and Patsy, they were doing the same.

I picked up a sleeping Rose from Claire’s arms and took her to the nursery for a nap. She squirmed a little but then fell back asleep when I laid her in her new wooden crib. Claire ordered it from the mercantile store a month earlier. We left it at the ranch, knowing we’d be spending some time there before we went back over the mountain to the Marrow Ranch. It was the nicest and most expensive crib in the catalog. It was made of cherrywood with cast iron wheels on each leg. The rungs had ivory inlays framed with incandescent rhinestones of ruby, emerald, and sapphire. The baby pad was covered in soft fleece. Claire also ordered a charming baby blanket, which wasn’t a blanket at all. It was a goose-feathered quilt colored in a rich eggplant and a soft hemlock green with little buttercup flowers sewn all around the edges.

Patsy was telling Claire all about her sister Fern from Madison, Wisconsin, when I joined them for tea. She hadn’t seen her sister in twelve years. Fern had four children, and Patsy had yet to meet three of them. Fern and her husband, Nathan, were dairy farmers and had a huge farm that had been in Nathan’s family since his grandfather established it back in the late seventeen hundreds. They now specialized in cheese and butter. Claire could see the sadness on Patsy’s face. And in a moment’s notice, she conjured up a solution. “Now don’t you worry Patsy, Gwen and I will stay right here and look after the ranch while you and Virgil get on the next train heading east.” Patsy smiled nervously. “But what about the Marrow Ranch?” I didn’t hesitate with my reply. “Now don’t you think twice about it. We can send over one of our ranch hands to inform all the guys over there that we’ll be staying here for a stint. They can manage it without me!” There’s nothing to fret over.” Claire was sincere as she poured Patsy more tea. “Now you and Virgil have been working long and hard and you could use a break in the action.”

Two days later, Claire and I woke up to a crying baby Rose. I peered out the window of the B & H Ranch to see dew on the ground and the sun rising from the east. The sky was an incredible purplish pink against the distant clouds. It was great to be back at the ranch where I lived my whole life. I lingered for a moment, mesmerized by the landscape and the majestic mountains looming above, while Claire reminded me from under the covers about a certain baby that needed coddling and food. I moseyed over to Claire, kissed her on the forehead, and scurried to the nursery to fetch Rosy. Once she was in Claire’s arms with a warm bottle, she was fine.

I returned to the master bedroom to find B.J. under the covers on my side of the bed. I handed Rose to Claire and got back in bed, pretending I didn’t know B.J. was there. When I gently lay on top of him, he let out a panicked yell. I grabbed him and rolled over. I tickled him as he giggled out of control. I inquired, “Who said you could get on my side?” I didn’t wait for an answer as I tickled him for a second time and asked, “Who do you think you are, stealing my side of the bed?” As I tickled him for a third time, Claire interrupted me. “Perhaps you can take him to the kitchen for breakfast, heat me a bottle for Rose, and leave us in peace.”

I whispered in B.J.’s ear, and we simultaneously seized Claire and Rose. The tickling lasted a few minutes before it turned into hugging and kissing from both B.J. and me. He slobbered on the baby while I kissed Claire with raw desire from her lips to her neck and then down to her breasts. I then snatched up B.J., lifted his night shirt, and blew hard on his belly. He giggled uncontrollably. We proceeded to the kitchen for some oatmeal and melon while Claire clung to Rose. When I returned with a warm bottle, Claire told me how adamant she was about tending to Rose as much as possible. She was actually happy when Rose cried. Claire knew it was a sign that sweet little Rosy was getting attached to her surrogate family.

We never saw Virgil or Patsy again. Patsy posted a letter six weeks after their departure, telling us they would be staying on to help Nathan and Fern with their farm in Wisconsin. She told us she could never leave her sister again. She wrote that Fern was her only sister and too important to her. Patsy included a family photo of everyone out by a huge black and white barn with a few dairy cows in the back ground. For some strange reason, they all looked somber yet happy.

Claire and I then had a conversation about how important family was. We promised to stick together through thick and thin. Claire spent the next few days writing words to live by. It sounded strangely like wedding vows but was considerably longer. It reminded me of several different weddings all rolled into one. On the Sunday of next, the four of us were out in the garden under the covered veranda. Claire insisted we all dress up. Rose wore a cute cream colored cotton dress with powder blue lace and little white sandals. B.J. wore his Sunday best with brown leather shoes. I donned a long-sleeved silk white blouse with pearl cufflinks, a silver and turquoise bolo around my neck, black wool dungarees with a fancy silver and gold belt buckle on my belt, and my best black cowboy hat and boots minus the sox. I spent half the morning shining those boots.

Claire slipped into a charming white flowing taffeta French gown with a dipping neckline, which made her very voluptuous indeed! Hanging around her neck was a beautiful diamond necklace given to her by her mother. It was three carats and had been in the family for generations. It took my breath away as did Claire. Her grandmother gave the necklace to her mother when she was eighteen and made her promise to keep it in the family as a tradition. When Claire’s eighteenth birthday rolled around, her mother followed suit and bequeathed the precious stone to her daughter. Claire also had baby’s breath and white ribbons in her hair. On her feet, she wore a pair of white satin ballerina slippers. She pledged never to wear those slippers for fear of completely ruining them, but naturally, she assured me this day was a special day, and the slippers were a must. Claire and I garnished our own bouquet of wild irises and mountain columbines while B.J. was adorned with a miniature rose pinned to his lapel.

B.J. sat quietly on a chase while holding Rosy in his small lap. It was time for our vows. Claire and I stood facing the children. Both Claire and I were hopeless romantics, but Claire was also a true traditionalist. One morning, while we were in the master bedroom, she insisted on the exchange of rings. I told her I didn’t own any rings. I reminded her what my father shared with me about working the ranch while wearing a ring. “Oh yes!” Claire said with sarcasm, “He was wearing his wedding band, like he always did, and one day because of that ring he almost lost a finger. His wedding band caught in the reins of a gelding. The horse reared up before your father could mount him and he took off running. The reins finally slipped away from his hands but not before his ring finger swelled to twice its size. He had to rush into town so the blacksmith could cut off the ring, and later he had the jeweler solder and reshape it back into one beautiful gold band again. I’ve heard the story many times, G! I know it like the back of my hand!”

Claire pulled my body against hers and rested her chin on my shoulder. “G, darling, you will never get your ring caught on anything like your father did because you always wear leather gloves. Every time I see you working the ranch, no matter what you’re doing, you’ve always got your leather gloves on, except of course the time you left a gash in your hand on that damn barbed-wire fence. Regardless, sometimes when you come in late after supper and I’m in bed, you want to horse around and I have to remind you to do what, G?” I shrugged my shoulders saying, “Take off my gloves.” “Right you are, darling.” She pointed to my nightstand. “There’s a pair of leather gloves right over there. Your gloves are everywhere. So, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t exchange these two rings.”

She opened a small draw-stringed velvet pouch she always carried in the secret compartment of her satchel. She poured the contents onto the bedspread and started sorting through her favorite jewelry. “Ah, here they are.” Claire held up two perfect gold bands of the same size. Seeing as our hands and fingers were the same size, matching rings were quite easy to find. She had purchased them in Chimayo, from a Mexican jeweler. She told me her sole intention for purchasing the rings was that we one day wear them to consummate our relationship. I told her we’d already been consummating our relationship for almost two years now, in the bedroom. She paid no heed to my uncouth remark and instead demanded we try them on for size. She asked me to read the inscription on the inside of my ring. It simply read, Give me some sugar, Sugar. She read the inscription on the inside of hers and it read, I love your sugar.

As we stood facing the children, Claire gave me a quick recap on the ring ceremony, which was very traditional, and I respected her wishes. We were ready to say our vows. I repeated Claire’s every word verbatim. It went something like this: “I, Gwen Buxton, do solemnly swear to love, honor, and respect Claire Elizabeth Fontaine, Benjamin Joseph Harland Buxton Fontaine, and Rose Charlotte Fontaine. And I, Gwen Buxton, offer my solemn vow to Claire Elizabeth Fontaine, to be your faithful partner for richer or poorer, in laughter and in tears, with all your faults and strengths and to help you when you are in need. I promise to have and to hold you, from this day forward, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, in joy and in sorrow and to love and cherish you, all the days of my life. And I, Gwen Buxton, take my beloved Claire, to be my constant companion and to treasure you always and support you in all your dreams and goals. And I promise, from the bottom of my heart, to always give you sugar when you ask.” I added the last line before Claire could cut me off. B.J. chuckled and agreed proudly. “Me too, Gwenny!” The most considerate thing Claire did for me that day was recite. “I, Claire Elizabeth Fontaine-Buxton, do solemnly swear.” It was the sweetest thing that ever floated off her lips.

The ring ceremony was next. B.J. started to fidget, but Claire reassured him that if he could sit one more minute, he would get an extra piece of cake. Claire took the time to make the most wonderful lemon cake, with cream cheese filling and white cream frosting. On the top of the cake, she wrote, in bright gold letters. “Happy Nuptials to Claire and Gwen, We love B.J. & Rose.” There was also a French bottle of champagne and a bottle of apple cider for toasting. I walked up to B.J. and asked him if he had two gold rings for me. I knelt down in front of him, waiting. “I’ve got ’em right here, Gwenny!” As I kept Rose from falling, he pulled them out of his jacket pocket and handed them to me. I pinched his cheek gently. “Thank you very much, Beeg.”

Claire and I faced each other. We had set our bouquets aside and now held a ring in our right hand, ready to place it on the ring finger of the left hand of one another. Once again, I repeated Claire’s words verbatim. She gazed into my eyes, tilted her head, and smiled. “With this ring, I thee wed. It is a symbol of my devotion to you. It is a reminder of how much I care for you. It represents the circle of life and the everlasting love we share together and with our children.” We then slipped the rings on each other’s finger. Claire put both her hands on my ears and gave me a big warm kiss. I returned the kiss, tasting a hint of lemon and sweet cream on her tongue. She turned to B.J. with a wide grin and asked, “Who’s ready for some cake?”

Chapter 10

The night of our vows, Claire and I drove the barouche to the Half Moon Saloon and later we would spend the night at Claire’s apartment above La Chapeau. We were in the mood to celebrate and share some alone time. Claire referred to it as a short honeymoon. Winifred, who I allowed to reside in a small cabin on the property with Collin, stayed in the main house overnight to look after the children. She frequently attended to the children when Claire made a quick trip into town to check her shop or run errands. Claire was more than satisfied with Winifred’s dependability. As we rode to town, sipping on our second bottle of champagne, we sang a song I learned a long time ago when my daddy used to drive me to town. Off we went singing, “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain When She Comes.”

The song related a humorous story about a woman coming around a mountain in a mad dash. The anticipation of family members awaiting her arrival was quite intense and could be compared to that of an approaching tornado. She was driving a team of six white horses as she sat atop a stagecoach in red pajamas. When she emerged from around the mountain, everyone came out to meet her and, in their excitement, decided to throw a big family bash. After killing and plucking the old red rooster, they feasted on chicken and dumplings and had a rip roaring time. The song was the most ridiculous little ditty Claire had ever heard, but she sang it just the same.

We dropped the horse and carriage at the livery stable and paid the groom for a night’s service. We thanked him and informed him we’d return sometime in the morning to reclaim it. We strolled down the boardwalk, towards the Half Moon Saloon. The sun had been down for about an hour, but the main street had gas lanterns atop lamp posts on both sides of the street. Every other storefront, including Claire’s, was lit up by a bright flame. The town council appointed two representatives annually to light and extinguish the lanterns 365 days a year unless there was a blizzard or torrential rain.

Claire looked absolutely stunning in her red French bustier, black French blouse that was laced only half way up, and a red checkered skirt covering a double tapered petticoat. I’m positive she was trying to over stimulate me. Of course, it didn’t take much to spin my spurs, and I was always appreciative when Claire revealed herself to me by wearing semirisqué attire. I thanked her every time and tonight was no exception. I, on the other hand, was wearing a tan cowboy hat, a simple green cardigan, a tan petticoat down to my shins, and a pair of tan cowboy boots.

We pushed our way through the swinging doors to find Roxy sitting at her regular table. Joining her were two chorus girls, Jean and Kate, who didn’t go on stage for another hour. Roxy did not have a caller until ten. It was only nine thirty. Roxy and Claire got on quite well. Their friendship was amazing to me, knowing Roxy was a call girl. Claire had such high standards and morals. It seemed preposterous that she would associate with such an unprincipled woman. It wasn’t until Claire informed me of Roxy’s misfortune that I understood the premise of their friendship. Roxy had been violated several times by male callers, and Claire was her confidant. It took Claire quite some time before she was able to disclose what happened to her the night Roxy disappeared and Claire passed out. It was mostly because she didn’t want Roxy to feel responsible. What Claire later found out was, the cad in question who kept buying her drinks had arranged for some other idiot to distract Roxy while he had his way with Claire upstairs. They became fast friends after that. Roxy was the only one in town who knew the truth about the intimate relationship between Claire and me.

We witnessed Roxy, Jean, and Katie slugging down mugs of pale ale. We took our seats and a barmaid, Jillian, came over to take our orders and see if the ladies needed refills. I ordered a brandy while Claire ordered a glass of peach wine. The ladies had another round. They rattled us for ordering our little dainty drinks, and when the drinks were delivered, they surprised us both with boiler makers, which we chugged at our own risk to their encouraging shouts. Kate sometimes worked alongside Jillian when a second barmaid was needed. Kate was a great storyteller, and we laughed all night long at her humorous yarns. One account was about her older brother Charles.

He loved to fish. As a young lad, he’d be out at the river more often than not, casting his line and watching his funny fly float on the surface of the water. He’d spend hours at a time catching trout. Katie’s mother was always pleased to cook average-size fresh trout for dinner and had the most scrumptious recipe. On occasion, she would tease him by asking, “When are you going to land that big one for me? I have the perfect frying pan!” Well there came a day when Charles watched a big old brook trout take his funny-looking fly. His creel was empty and he wanted to fill it with something before the sun went down. Perhaps he could catch a fish his mother would be proud to panfry. He assumed his prayers were answered that day. He soon realized they were not.

The fish took his fly and started shaking its head and flailing about and even jumped out of the water numerous times. It eventually snapped Charles’s line. Every afternoon for the rest of the summer, Charles would go back to the same spot along the river to cast a new. And every afternoon for the rest of the summer, that brookie would take his fly, shake its head, come out of the water, and snap the line. And every late afternoon, Charles would stomp home with an empty creel. When night fell, Kate could hear Charles yell and not too pleasant a shout. He’d curse that fish then Kate could hear him make a wish, saying “Perhaps tomorrow I’ll land that damn trout!”

Charles never landed that brook trout, but one day, as he sat in the shade by the river’s edge, he watched an osprey, with a wing span of nearly six feet, dive down into the river and snatch up that big brook trout. The fish flailed and squirmed within the osprey’s talons and very soon after, the osprey lost his grip. The brook trout fell back into the river from which it came. Charles then witnessed the osprey land high atop a cottonwood tree, screeching a high-pitched squeal like a baby eaglet hoping to be fed soon. Charles knew exactly how the bird felt but laughed anyway. Claire imposed upon Katie how nice it would be if she could possibly get that trout recipe from her mother. Several weeks later, Kate and her mother stopped by Claire’s hat shop and presented her with a delectable trout recipe, which included a secret ingredient. Claire presented Kate’s mother with a brand new scarlet bonnet.

Claire and I stumbled down the street towards her hat shop, carrying on like two school girls. We tripped up the stairs and literally fell through the apartment door after Claire took about five minutes getting the skeleton key into the keyhole. We soon passed out on the floor, and when we woke the next morning, spread eagle across each other, our heads were pounding. We needed quinine and coffee, but neither one of us could lift our heads. Claire whispered, “How many boiler makers did we drink last night, darling?” I softly replied, “I stopped counting after four.” Claire squinted in pain. “What time is it, G?” As I groped my clothing, wondering why everything was so tight, I responded by asking. “Why am I wearing your bustier and skirt?” Claire tried to focus on her attire. “Why am I only wearing your cardigan?” We tried to laugh but it hurt too much.

There was a soft knock at the door, and neither one of us was capable or wanted to answer it. The door swung open and the young assistant, Abigail, charged in closing the door quickly behind her. Claire grabbed the couch pillow from under my head and placed it across her waist and hips. My head thumped to the floor as I cringed in pain. Abigail did not hesitate from verbalizing her concerns. “I suspected you two were up here when the livery boy dropped off your barouche out front? You’ve got to be a little more discreet if you’re going to get drunk in this town. I’ve already heard the story from three different people this morning, talking about you two stumbling down the stairs from the Saloon’s second floor, in each other’s clothing, I might add, then tripping out the swinging doors and carrying on in loud voices all the way to your shop, Miss Fontaine! And to top it all off, you two could be seen and heard singing and dancing, in the middle of the street. Rumor has it, it was something about coming round a mountain in red pajamas with six white horses and some murdered roosters!”

Claire was mortified. All she needed was a scandal. Claire thanked Abigail and requested she bring up some breakfast with coffee and quinine. She gave Abigail some money and told her to run down to the Rocky Mountain Bakery and the Mercantile. Before breakfast, we exchanged clothing and sat quietly for a spell. I could tell Claire was hesitant about having to leave town with or without me in the carriage for all to see. She made several comments about wanting to die or for me to just shoot her in the heart, so she could end it right there. She worried she wouldn’t get away scot-free, no matter what we did. I gripped Claire’s shoulders and assured her I could get her out of town without incident, and nobody would be the wiser. She rubbed her temples vigorously. “Oh really, well I bet that will be like closing the barn door after the horse is long gone!”

I soon found out I had a confidant in Abigail. I was subsequently informed by Claire a few weeks later that Abigail had a crush on me. Who knew! I was tickled to know there was more than one woman out there who had certain feelings for me. It did wonders for my ego. Seeing that there was only one road out of town, I devised a plan, and Abigail made sure it was executed without a hitch. I gave her a bundle of money to use at her own discretion and had her locate as many white horses as she could find. She was to borrow and somehow cage Mrs. Cromwell’s three big roosters. Then she must assemble the local barber shop quartet at any cost, snatch up as many children as she could find, bribe the musicians who played at the Half Moon Saloon, invite the Apache Indian and his squaw as participants in a traditional ceremony, and persuade the volunteer fire brigade to lead the way down the street with fire wagon in tow for a midsummer parade.

I managed to borrow ten pair of red long underwear from Warren’s Mercantile for the children to wear. If there were extra children, Abigail was to have them carry a bundle of flowers. I hitched four white horses to a borrowed carriage and watched as everybody in question amassed at the end of the street, behind La Chapeau. The word spread through town that a parade was about to begin. The streets were soon lined with townsfolk, miners, cowboys, and children. No one knew why or what it was all about, but when a parade was on the horizon, you could bet every single person within twenty miles would find their way to the streets of Durango. They patiently awaited the onset. When word got out about the parade’s theme, some folks were a little bewildered, but were soon put to ease when handed a copy of the song “She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain When She Comes.” I had written two dozen copies or so and Abigail passed them out, up and down the street. She also gave a copy to the Quartet singers. Soon, the people lining the streets became jubilant and giddy.

Without question, Claire put on a pair of red pajamas Abigail purchased at the dress shop. Claire also wore a thick red veil under a red bonnet that I had discovered in her storeroom. It was impossible to recognize the face under the veil. She was up in her apartment wondering what all the commotion was downstairs. When Abigail discreetly retrieved her to join our little assembly and participate in our procession, Claire could only cede to the madness and simply climbed aboard the old horse-drawn carriage I found behind the livery. She was muttering to herself and shaking her head. I stopped by to tell her how to greet the crowd, by waving continually as she made her way through town. I reassured her not to worry about her identity. I asked her if she was ready. She readjusted herself in her splintered seat and whispered to me, “You’ve gone mad, G!” I laughed shrewdly as I walked away. “Well, according to you, it wouldn’t be the first time!”

After three hours of planning and assembling, the parade proceeded down the street. The fire brigade led the way, followed by the saloon musicians playing the now familiar song, “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain.” Their instruments included a clarinet, a fife, two trumpets, a trombone, a bass drum, and a banjo. You could hear the words to that wonderful song being sung by the matching clad quartet, wearing matching straw hats. Next came the children clad in red underwear, only four of them were carrying a bundle of flowers. The Apache Indian and his squaw followed proudly behind with folded arms. Bringing up the rear was Claire in red pajamas, a red bonnet and veil, and three caged roosters sitting on the splintered seat next to her. She was driving four white horses through the middle of town. I noticed Claire’s shoulders cringing while she waved and nodded to the crowd.

We ended the parade on a high note, and in less than an hour, we had an outdoor feast at the opposite end of town. Wives prepared food fit for nobles. The men unloaded beer kegs from the back of a cart. We had the livery stable and feed store boys set up tables by laying planks over saw horses. They also rounded up benches and chairs for sitting. Children ran and played at will. Teenage boys set off firecrackers. The good old boys drank and told tall tales. And when it was all said and done, the women cleaned up afterwards.

Claire snuck out of town before the feast ever started. When she reached the end of Main Street, she made me retrieve the three caged roosters from the carriage with not so much as a word. She just pointed to them in the seat next to her. I yelled to her, “I need those four white horses and that dilapidated carriage!” She rode off into the late afternoon sun and never looked back. The flap on her red pajamas was blowing in the wind. She told me, after I returned to the ranch, that it was the most ridiculous, absurd, outlandish, ludicrous, humiliating, and nonsensical endeavor she ever took part in. I told her I never had the pleasure of hearing that many adjectives in one sentence. She then snarled back that I should change my name to “Crazy Horse” or “Calamity Jane.” I told her those names were already taken. Then the tone in her voice changed to that low and sultry quality she used to seduce me. In a very sensual and forceful sounding voice, she asked. “Where do you think you’re sleeping tonight, G?” I countered back with innocent bluntness. “Oh I don’t know, maybe I’ll be sleeping round the mountain, wanna come?” To this day, no one ever suspected Claire was the lady in red pajamas.

Claire and I learned a very good lesson that day. It was a lesson never to be taken lightly again, and it was simple. That night, we locked ourselves in the study and discussed, at length, our downfall. We agreed about the amazing little ceremony we had with the children and how wonderful it was. We talked about how irresponsible we were for up and leaving the children right after cake and champagne. It was obvious we got what came to us. Claire reiterated, “What goes around comes around.” “But Claire”—I tried to sound stern—“You know we both have a wild streak. Why, every so often we go a little stir crazy and need to socialize. I don’t know if it’s the moon stages or if it’s because there’s no men in our lives to tame us, but something happens to us. You know we have to get out and sow our wild oats.” “Yes, that’s true, G, but that doesn’t mean abandoning the children. I mean, what if we got injured or worse, what if we did something so stupid and one of us died? Besides, G, I don’t need or want a man in my life, I have you! And quite frankly, I think it is the moon that brings out my excitement and desires!”

The troublesome look on Claire’s face was priceless. She crossed her legs and put her hands on her knees. “I’ve read all about places I’d love to travel to, darling. There are times I look at you and get absolutely floored. I lust after you, darling. I want us to sail to Paris and visit the Moulin Rouge. It’s a wild underbelly to the city where anything goes and nobody cares. It would be an adventure if we made our way from Paris to Berlin where I’ve read about the burlesque showgirls and the intrigue of experiencing their dismal and raucous lifestyle. From there, why not head north to London and stop off in the Red Light District near Soho and Piccadilly Square and take in a couple of extravaganzas or cabaret shows? And before we head home, we could travel to Greece. I’ve heard they’re open to just about anything.”

“Claire, are you not happy with the life you have here?” “Oh that’s not it G, I love my life. I love you and the children, but every once in a while, I need something a bit more primitive and feral or something that relates more closely to the untamed. Promise me, G, darling, every now and again you’ll give me what I ask for with no opposition.” “I believe I give you that now, Claire.” “You do, G, but I’m talking about experiencing it outside this realm where we now live. We could easily hire a governess for the children, as my parents did with me, and take them with us, say, once a year between cattle drives and branding or between Christmas and Easter.” “I have no problem promising you that, Claire, if you promise that we can’t be neglectful or remiss by relying on someone else where our children are concerned. You must agree that we never desert our children again until they’re grown up or in a private school or college.” I clung to Claire as she kissed me with every ounce of her being and promised me wholeheartedly that she would.

“I didn’t realize you were such a wild turkey, my dear.” We left the study and sat in the great room, wrapped in an Indian blanket sipping brandy by the crackling fire. Claire implored. “I’m not that bad, G, I just have my moments. I’d love to travel to Denver or back to New York or Boston and attend a symphony with music from Mozart, Chopin, Schubert, or Bach, to name a few. It would be lovely to go to theatre and enjoy such operas as The Barber of Seville or The Marriage of Figaro.” I then asked Claire what she was taught growing up in Boston. She admitted her studies were quite extensive, from the obvious such as the French language, mathematics, American history, science, and English and grammar, to more difficult studies such as colloquial America, European history, poetry, music appreciation, geology, animal distinction, and hygiene and proper etiquette. I giggled a little. “Why would you need to know all those courses? I mean really, Claire, geology and animal distinction!”

Claire’s response was filled with malice; “Well, tell me, G, do you know the difference between a mesa and a plateau?” “Um, let me think, Claire. I ah, it’s hard to say.” “I’ll tell you, G, a plateau is five to ten times larger than a mesa and usually hirer in elevation. A plateau is also called a tableland. They’re both flat on top and have sharp rocky vertical slopes.” “That’s good to know, Claire.” She then interjected with callousness, “Do you know the difference between a black rhino and a white rhino?” I answered quickly, “Well that’s easy, one is black and the other is white.” “You are absolutely wrong, G! It has nothing to do with their color. Actually, they are similar in color, which can range from a yellowish brown to a slate gray. For your information, they are both from Africa, darling.”

“I’ll have you know, the main difference between the Black and White Rhino is the shape of their mouths. The Black Rhino has a pointed mouth, which they use to grasp leaves and twigs and they are much smaller in stature while the White Rhino has wide flat lips and a square mouth used for grazing and eating broads of grass.” “That’s very educational, Claire.” “Don’t even get me started, G! And the real answer to your question about why I learned all these different studies is far greater than the actual courses themselves! It’s exactly what your father taught you, which you’re a little better at than I. It’s all about character, respect, morality, patience, humility, and how to deal with life experiences. The more education one gets, the more experiences they usually have or need.” I found it to be quite a challenge loving an intellectual woman. I engaged Claire’s eyes with mine. “I understand now, Claire, my dear, why you want to travel. With all your education and learning, you’re simply understimulated and intellectually deprived!”

Claire and I stayed by the fire, now wrapped naked in our Indian blanket, sipping brandy. Making love to Claire was always easy. We both took as much as we gave, without complaint. When the fire died down, we made our way down the long hallway. I blew out the candle on my nightstand. Claire had an even rhythm to her breathing as did B.J. and Rose. I pulled the quilt up around all of us, shut my eyes, snuggled as best I could with my sox on, and thanked the heavens above for giving me a life I could share with a loving woman and two beautiful children. I considered us, under all intent and purposes, a happy family.

Chapter 11

I sat down next to Claire’s resting place with my ten-foot bamboo rod by my side and a twenty-five-inch rainbow trout in my lap. I closed my eyes and pictured her face. I thanked her dearly for the gift she bestowed upon me. I apologized to her for not pursuing it so long ago. I had one thing on mind and one thing only. I told myself posthaste to the cabin where I had a new found destiny. I grabbed my rod in one hand and the trout in the other and ran as fast as a sixty-something-year-old woman could run, all the way back to the cabin. I hung my rod on a rack I constructed inside the mudroom and threw my cowboy hat towards the hat rack. I submerged the fish in a basin of cold well water located in the kitchen. I then rummaged through Claire’s old recipe boxes I retrieved from the pantry. She had so many, but I didn’t care if it took me all day and all night. I was bound and determined to find that recipe. I started flipping through each card. They were all alphabetized, but I wasn’t surprised. What was the name of that recipe? I tried to figure it out. Rainbow Dish, no, that wasn’t it. Broiled Trout, no not even close. Fish Fry, no, what was I thinking? It had been over a year since I had seen the card, but I should have remembered the recipe name.

I heard some commotion at the cabin door. Just what I needed—a bear mishap. I headed in that direction, when in walked B.J. He was a handsome man of forty-six, going on forty-seven. He was starting to gray at the temples. He was nearly six feet tall. He towered over almost everyone and behind him came Rose. Beautiful Rosy with her amazing auburn hair and piercing brown eyes, she was now forty-five. She looked more Italian than Navaho. Her nose was that of a roman, and her skin was light olive, slightly darker than Claire’s. She still had the three-carat diamond necklace her mother passed down to her, dangling from her neck. They arrived in Durango at the same time and rode over the mountain together where they would celebrate their mother’s life. B.J. brought a tombstone with him all the way from Denver. I took pen to paper and sent him a letter, asking for one wish. He promised me he’d have it specially made by one of the best headstone makers in Denver. B.J. traveled by the Southern Pacific Railroad. Rosy boarded the same train when it arrived in Colorado Springs.

I looked out the front door before I closed it and asked, “Where is everybody else?” I was expecting both their families. B.J. assured me they’d be coming out tomorrow. He and Rosy engaged in a conversation before they departed from Durango and decided it would be better if they arrived before the rest of the family. They imparted to me how important it was for the four of us to spend time together without distractions or interruptions. B.J. handed me his handkerchief to wipe my tears. Rosy told me she couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for me this past year. She said they were awfully sorry they weren’t able to come sooner. I told her I was just happy to have them all here for the rest of the summer. B.J. and Rosy looked at each other with dread.

* * *

“Now, Claire, don’t get so worked up. The boy distinctly wrote he was interested in Harvard or Brown, not Princeton! He writes Princeton’s Law Department isn’t as established as the other two.

Here . . .” I handed the letter back to Claire and pointed to the sentence in question. B.J. had been attending the Centennial Prep School for Boys in Denver since he was fourteen, and now he was eighteen, and almost every law school was offering him some kind of scholarship. We were so excited when the Pony Express delivered B.J.’s letter. Claire had suspected its content, considering she received a letter last fall, mentioning his interest in law. She was so unsettled and beside herself. She went on and on about how she hoped and prayed he’d go to Harvard because her father helped establish it in Cambridge Massachusetts in 1817. I reassured her that B.J. would get into the school on those facts alone. I told her no dean or chancellor could possibly refuse him, knowing who his grandfather was.

Claire ruffled the letter and sighed. “That’s not the point, G! Students should be accepted on merit and principle alone!” My response was quick and to the point. “It doesn’t hurt having your grandfather as one of the founders! Stop fretting my dear. You’re going to give yourself a heart murmur!” Claire went on and on as she started rereading the letter for the third time, adding, “Well, Brown is a good school too. I think it was established more than fifty years before Harvard, and the only problem I have with Brown is the damn British founded it before they hightailed it out of our country. So I’d quite possibly be disappointed if he ended up there. However, I always loved visiting Rhode Island as a child, so there’s that.” I smiled with pride at the women who had undying love and devotion for her son. “Claire, sometimes you are like the wind in a canyon. You just blow right through, not stopping for nothing or no one.”

B.J. selected Harvard just as Claire predicted he would. He left his sweetheart, Sarah, back in Denver for six years and then married her upon his return. Claire and I traveled by locomotive first to Massachusetts for commencement of B.J.’s graduation and then to B.J. and Sarah’s wedding in Denver. Claire had two of the greatest assets known to women who traveled, at least women of our breed. She was very particular regarding our rights of passage. Take B.J. and Sarah’s wedding for example. Claire’s assets came in handy and were quite ingenious. Her first asset was the ability to remove us from accommodations or surroundings that were not suitable to our fastidious needs and standards. For instance, when the father of the bride offered to provide us a place to stay, Claire simply interjected. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly impose upon you during this overwhelming time. You have so much keeping you preoccupied right now. We’d be more than happy finding lodging in town or at a nearby inn, so don’t you worry your head over it. I’ll take care of everything.”

Claire’s second asset, which I honestly believed she researched in her spare time, was having the uncanny ability to find, in any city we traveled, the most luxurious hotel or inn and the most borderline bawdy district. She knew more people in more cities than I could name presidents. When we weren’t traveling, she housed a very large pink address book and black ledger in our iron safe, apparently for safe keeping. These items had nothing to do with her hat shops or my ranches. Before our retreats, she would wire money and telegrams, advising the proprietresses of our arrival and departure dates, how many in her party, and specific accommodations we required. It was all very sophisticated. We were treated like royalty at most places. There were two reasons for that. One, Claire paid extremely well with money, hats, and charm. And two, she had a good client-owner reputation, mostly because of the former.

Word somehow got out via correspondence that Mrs. Claire Fontaine and Mrs. Gwyneth Buxton were world travelers and should be treated as such. We actually caught a glimpse of a letter on the desk of Mistress Chrystal Shorewood Marion in South Carolina while we awaited her arrival in a private office.

Her family owned the Francis Marion Hotel in Charleston. The letter in question was well-penned by the Matriarch of the Lord Baltimore Hotel in Maryland. It read as follows:

28th July, 1861

Dear Mistress Marion,

It has come through my authority to allow such informative records to be forwarded to you at this time. Hence, you are to use your discretion wisely regarding the distribution of such facts to other proprietors or mistresses in your jurisdiction. It is well documented in Maryland, in as much as the surrounding north, the affection and esteem our establishments bestow on two prominent patrons from out west. Consequently, they are recognized in their travels as Claire Fontaine, the owner of five women’s silk hat shops, and Gwyneth Buxton, the owner of two cattle ranches. Some may consider them frivolous and overindulgent, quite the contrary.

They have requested your facility, at my suggestion, as the next destination on their travel docket. Therefore, it would behoove you to acquaint and apprise yourself of their upcoming visit and ready your accommodations. They look forward to a stay at your establishment. They will make known to you of their itinerary by wiring a Western Union Telegram. It is relevant that you follow suit in conduct and service to these patrons or, in all frankness, your reputation may be tarnished.

Sincerest Regards,

Lady Baltimore

It was 29 August, 1861, four weeks after Lady Baltimore posted her letter to Mistress Marion. We were standing in Mistress Marion’s impressive office, with its high ceilings, Victorian furniture, mahogany walls with embossed wallpaper, mounted sconces for lighting, and three family portraits and a mirror hung on different walls at eye level in Lanchester oval frames. The flooring was polished hardwood. A beautiful Persian rug covered the center of the room. There were two large Grecian urns with plants growing in rich soil and a white marble fireplace with a carved maple wood mantel. The fireplace accessories included a wrought iron screen, a burgundy hearth rug, brass fireside tools, and a brass log basket.

We hovered over the letter with our mouths hanging wide open. We looked at each other with bright eyes as I emphatically stated, “Mistress Marion must have recently received this correspondence. Look at the date!” As the door flung open, we quickly sat down on the two wingback chairs that were facing her desk. She approached with extended arms as we both stood. She was a robust woman of about fifty-five. She shook our hands in succession as we made proper introductions. And in a delightful southern drawl, she exclaimed, “It’s so lovely to meet you all. I’ve heard such wonderful things about you all.” Claire and I eyeballed each other with a smirk. “Let’s have some sherry, shall we?”

Mistress Marion rang an English brass bell with a rosewood handle. A black servant instantaneously appeared with a tray containing a decanter of sherry, three short crystal-stemmed glasses, and a plate of crumpets and sweet breads. Miss Marion directed us over to her leather chesterfield divans while her servant placed the tray on an ebony serving table. Miss Marion then said, “Thank you, Whimsy, that will be all.” I thought to myself, wow, she has unexpectedly prepared for our arrival, how impressive. Claire, who never liked getting caught in the act of anything dishonest, glanced over at me furtively with raised brows and a paltry grin. She reminded me of a geisha spy from Tokyo just before she was captured, put on public display for all to see, had bamboo shoots shoved under her fingernails, was cut and quartered, and then beheaded. Guilt did not become her.

We chatted and shared a glass of sherry with Mistress Marion. Claire soon stood, walked behind a ficus tree growing in one of the Grecian urns, returned back to the chesterfield, and handed Mistress Marion a wrapped hat box she had strategically placed behind the plant when we first arrived. Mistress Marion jiggled as she laughed. “Well you shouldn’t have. That is so nice of you all.” As she opened the box and pulled out the hat, Claire gave her a brief history of its origin. “I ordered this emerald green hat special delivery from Paris, France, three months ago. It is made of pure silk and the finest satin. The plumes are pheasant tail and peacock hurl. There’s a little compartment inside for hiding capsules or snuff.” Mistress Marion jumped to her feet and proceeded to her oval mirror on the adjacent wall. She danced around the mirror modeling her new trophy. It was actually quite handsome, and she enjoyed showing it off the entire week of our stay.

Mistress Marion would have a horse and closed buggy waiting under the covered entrance for us every evening by nine as would most proprietors who encountered us. She used the same driver with the same directions to prove efficiency. We were very pleased, and Claire showed it by her grandioso tipping. I’d tease her by saying, “Thank God you own all those women’s hat shops”—even though I knew of her secret inheritance! We’d take pleasure in our little rides to the seedy part of town. We’d hug and kiss and carry on the entire way. We felt comfortable in the privacy of our own personal coach. The driver would drop us off at Dorothy’s Dance Hall, a southern hot spot for carousing and return to retrieve us by four the next morning.

Dorothy’s Dance Hall was anything but a dance hall, unless you considered the definition of a dance hall to be a brawling, smoky, sweaty, drunk-ridden hovel where some men dressed as women and some women dressed as men and topless harlots were on stage dancing in straight lines to music that resembled the Cancan. This type of place was where Claire really let loose. It was the only place she was unconservative and uninhibited. She was, as they say, footloose and fancy-free. I’d even catch her smoking a thin cigar or two prior to swiping them from my pocket.

It was a good thing Claire let her hair down when we traveled. Of course, that’s mostly why we traveled. We both needed a release and traveling worked for us. Claire needed it much more than I. Life was easy for me because I worked outside in the fresh air, enjoying my struggles against Mother Nature and viewing the amazing mountain peaks, roaming deer and elk, an abundance of other wildlife, along with lakes, streams, and waterfalls as my backdrop. Poor Claire was held up inside. If she wasn’t in one of her shops working, then she was on a dusty stagecoach or stuffy train headed to one of those shops.

Along with her shop in Durango, she had two in Denver, one in Boulder, and one in Colorado Springs. She also spent a lot of time in her office ordering, writing letters, and minding the books. When she wasn’t there, she was at the Western Union office sending telegrams for this, that, and the other things. Claire did spend time in her garden, but she was wound pretty tight. However, I found it to be a godsend because when a person is wound that tightly, it’s easy to unwind them in the bedroom or, as I liked to say, naked on the floor by the fireplace or in a hot steamy bubble bath after a long day or on a mountaintop at sunset or under a thick blanket on a favorite ledge above a rambling river or in the back storage room at a hat shop just after closing or lastly, in the comfort of an enclosed barouche riding to some godforsaken hellhole.

Chapter 12

We were on the Union Pacific Railway headed west. Claire always reserved a sleeper car for the two of us. It wasn’t long ago when there were five of us. Claire, me, B.J., Rosy, and the sweetest black woman I ever met named Mary Moses, God rest her soul. She was with us twelve years before she passed. You couldn’t call her Mary or Miss Moses. Oh no! She insisted on Mary Moses. She wouldn’t answer to anything but Mary Moses. She said if the good Lord wanted her to be called something else, he wouldn’t have had her mammy name her Mary Moses. The funny thing was Moses was not her last name. Mary Moses had no idea what her surname was. She told us her mammy was of the religious type, as was Mary Moses, and carried the good book everywhere she went. She said her mammy handed that book to anyone who would read it to her. Mammy’s owner, Master Jackson, had a wonderful daughter, Victoria, who spent hours with mammy reading chapter and verse. Mammy named all her twelve children after the devout and holy individuals from the good book.

Claire had acquired Mary Moses’s services when she made a trip by herself to New Orleans. She was having several dozen French hats made special order by a master craftsman, who himself was from the south of France in the picturesque city of Nice. He owned and operated a hat factory in the large industrial sector of New Orleans. It was five square city blocks and lined with businesses from all walks of life. Claire thought it most important that her clients purchase top of the line merchandise. So, off she went to New Orleans to do business with a gentleman referred to as The Frenchman. When she returned, she brought back with her four trunks full of hats and one Mary Moses. She had no family at the time or, as she put it, they all ran off up north and left me to fend for myself. Claire and I found that hard to believe, but we didn’t question her.

Every so often, I’d tease Mary Moses. I knew how much she loved chocolate. It was one of her weaknesses. One night after dinner, I was holding a plate of chocolate cake. I made a request. “Ms. Mary, I have a nice big chunk of chocolate cake here for you that Ms. Claire baked! Come and get it, Ms. Mary, before the ants do!” I could see her fidget in her chair and curl her nostrils like a Mexican bull in a bull-fighting arena. But she wouldn’t budge an inch. She refused to answer to anything but Mary Moses. I put the plate down on the countertop loud enough for her to hear. Then I made another plea. “Ms. Mary, you’d best come and get this here chocolate cake, with the chocolate frosting, before I take it out to one of the ranch hands.” Oh, she’d be grabbing the table’s edge by this time. I could see her white knuckles. She pretended not to hear me. I then snuck up behind her, kissed the top of her head, and set the cake down on the table right in front of her waving a fork in her face. I sat down across from her with my piece, and we’d laugh and laugh. She reacted by shaking her head and usually blurted out, “Why you always trying to yank my chain? You must have the devil in you. The good Lord says mischief is the work of the devil!” I responded with a caddy remark, “Well, this sure is a devil of a good cake, wouldn’t you say, Mary Moses?”

Reserving a Pullman sleeper car, better known as a Palace car, on long jaunts was unquestionably an improvement to the regular railway cars, which transported close to thirty-five passengers per car. One year, in 1869, we were enlightened by a debutante from Hartford, Connecticut. She disclosed information she thought to be invaluable and uplifting. She stated that availing one to a Pullman sleeper was a far more superior way to travel while on holiday, then those ghastly box cars that house bench seats and unbearable stuffy accommodations. She was not fazed one bit knowing the cost exceeded five times the price of a regular railway fare.

The first time Claire and I were passengers in a Palace car, we agreed, after several glasses of champagne, that the particulars shared to us by the Hartford debutante was not, as we suspected, a biased opinion from a pompous bag of wind. The Palace car was cleverly nicknamed the first hotel on wheels. It had an attached kitchen and diner car. The food was delectable and prepared by top chefs. The service was impeccable and provided by recently freed house slaves, who served as porters, waiters, chambermaids, entertainers, and valets all rolled into one.

Our next stop was St. Louis, Missouri—the Show-Me State. I joked to Claire that she better not be showing anything to anyone in this Show-Me State unless their initials were G.B and from the Colorado Territory. She called me crude and unusual, but she did have a few trademark ideas she showed me later. Claire was looking forward to spending time on a big-wheeled paddle boat or so I thought. She loved a little card playing every now and then and specifically picked a paddle boat that promoted such endeavors. She wired for reservations before we departed Charleston to the head purser, Mr. Graham, of the Bonnie Belle Riverboat. How she knew his name or the boat’s name, I’ll never know. He wired back to confirm our reservation date for two passengers in the Chesterfield Stateroom located off the port side.

The Bonnie Belle bobbed up and down while moored to its private dock on the west side of the great Mississippi. I started singing, “Ole Man River, Yes Ole Man River, it just keeps rolling along!” Our departure time was not for another three hours. We dropped off our bags for loading. I begged Claire that we needed to find a local bookstore before we embarked. She begged me not to sing ever again. I reiterated that I really wanted a book to read while on the river trip, and I would like to buy a copy of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I slipped in a harmless comment. “Perhaps you know someone who can introduce us to Mr. Twain?” Claire’s only reply was, “His real name is Samuel Langhorne Clemens!” I then asked Claire, “Do you think we’ll be dining onboard with anyone of significance tonight?” Her response was immature and hostile. “Perhaps we’ll run into Tom Sawyer!”

I noticed Claire was distracted to the highest degree. I was unable to figure it out on my own. Normally I was privy to anything that bothered her, but this time, she was keeping it to herself. She was leaving me out of the loop. It was starting to gnaw at my nerves. I felt like I could stroll off in the opposite direction, and I would not be missed. I tried again with a clever question to see if I could get a rise out of her. “Claire, dear, if we cheat playing poker, will they throw us overboard?” Claire gasped, grabbed my hand, pulled me past the gangway, up the ramp, and as fast as she could, along the walkway that lead far away from the river, the dock, the Bonnie Belle, and anyone within earshot. She swung me around in despair. “Are you out of your mind, G? Are you trying to get us arrested, or worse, killed? Do you have a death wish, G?” It was obvious her heart was racing and she was in a state of dismay.

We continued down the river walk at a pace faster than a normal walk until I finally stopped her. She had panic in her eyes. “What in God’s name is the trouble with you, Claire? Are you trying to give yourself a heart murmur? You’ve been distracted ever since we arrived in St. Louis! And now this acting out of yours is unacceptable!” “Well, G, it’s not a very good idea to blurt out comments or questions regarding cheating just as you’re about to climb aboard a gambling boat.” “C’mon, Claire, I’m not buying that line for one second! Do you think I’m stupid? Do you? Being sidetracked all day has absolutely nothing to do with a silly gambling question, my dear!” Claire had a worried look on her face and confessed. “That’s where you’re wrong, darling.”

Claire broke down a little. It’s as if her body collapsed, but she was still standing. It was like watching a clown let all the air out of a circus balloon. She found a fallen tree that was now an old log and sat down. I stayed standing. For some reason, I wanted to let my physical presence known. I wanted to tower over her so she’d get the feeling I wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

With a guilty look on her face, she admitted to her dilemma. “Oh, G, its true, I have been in a panic all day! You see, I neglected to mention to you when I went on that trip to New Orleans, to do business with The Frenchman, I also spent some time on a gambling riverboat with Vivian and Trenton Trudeaux. You remember Vivian, the lady who orders European lingerie for my stores.” I stood there with my arms folded and didn’t say a word. Claire pressed on. “Anyway, the riverboat left New Orleans on a Friday afternoon and headed up river, almost eighty miles to Baton Rouge. Then, it headed down river on a Sunday afternoon, returning to New Orleans. It’s one of those two-day gambling trips. I had my own suite next to Vivian and Trenton. There was this horrible man named Colonel Gantry. He was very bothersome. Vivian thought he was sweet on me. I told Vivian never to leave me alone with him. She obliged me with great severity and a lack of persuasion.”

“Well, everything seemed fine, but deep down the old crotchety Colonel was seething. Since he wasn’t getting his way with me, like he probably did with most women, he made up his mind to start a smear campaign against me. He sat down at my table the second night and, after about thirty minutes, accused me of cheating. He complained to anyone who would listen. He even went to the captain and stated, under no uncertain terms, that I should be blacklisted. That’s exactly what happened to me, G.

Every gambling riverboat receives a monthly blacklist, and now my name is included on that list. Trenton told me on our ride back to the French Quarter the only reason the captain blacklisted me was because Colonel Gantry paid him off. Now I’m afraid the blacklist might have made its way up to St. Louis. Oh, G, I don’t know what I’d do if my reputation got ruined! I’d be devastated.” A bushy-tailed squirrel ran down the log towards us. It stopped on its hind legs, as if waiting for us to hand over any or all perishables we might be harboring. It then scurried off the log and up a giant oak.”

I wrapped myself around Claire and reassured her in a soft voice. “See here, Claire, you can’t possibly believe that blacklist would make it up the Mississippi in such a short time. That’s more than six hundred miles it would have to travel. Now I have an idea. I’m going to hail you a carriage, and I want you to go find a bookstore and get that Huckleberry Finn book I wanted. I’ll meet you back at the Bonnie Belle when you are finished.” I kissed her gently and reassured her, “Trust me, Claire. By the time you get back, the problem will be solved.” She tried to smile, but her face ended up looking like the outer skin of a White Rhino.

After sending Claire on her way, I made it back down to the Bonnie Belle. Departure wasn’t for another two hours. I climbed aboard in search of the head purser. I found him in a modest office, back behind the captain’s quarters. “Excuse me, sir!” I stated firmly. “Are you Mr. Graham? He stood quickly. “Yes, how can I be of service to you, madam?” I responded politely. “There seems to be a mistake on my paperwork.” I handed him the boarding passes, stating that somehow the names got mixed up. I told him my sister and I were traveling on the Bonnie Belle and that I had no idea who this Claire Fontaine was. He apologized and told me he would draw up a new boarding pass for my sister straight away. I slipped Claire’s original boarding pass in my pocket and burned it later in the confines of our stateroom.

Claire returned with book in hand, twenty-five minutes before departure. I took her aside and told her the whole story. The panic and concern disappeared from her face instantaneously. As we made our way to the Chesterfield Stateroom, I handed her our boarding passes and whispered in her ear, “On this little voyage up the lazy river, I will enjoy calling you my sister, Elizabeth Buxton. She whispered back, “Why can’t I be your wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Buxton?” Unsurprisingly, my response was, “You are!”

We opened the door to our stateroom, dropped our satchels on the floor, and in unison, fell back onto the bed. Claire was ecstatic. “You won’t believe who I ran into at one of the four bookstores I visited while searching for your book!” With a worried look, I answered. “Don’t tell me, Claire, Colonel Gantry?” She handed me The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and proudly proclaimed, “Take a look inside.” I open the book and there, on the inside cover, was a signed autograph by Mark Twain. I was in awe. Claire threw her head back slightly and let out a laugh. It was a laugh I’d take up a lazy river any day of the week.

Chapter 13

“Claire! Where are you, Claire?” She had to know I was back. I’m almost positive I saw her up in the fire tower moments before I entered the north forty, which was quite a distance from the main house. If I was walking Van Buren, it usually took me forty-five minutes to reach the barn and stable. I had just returned from a three-day ride in the upper valley near Pole Creek Mountain, which was located high in the Rockies north of Durango. The cattle were grazing from late May until the end of August this year. I usually let the cowhands drive the herd while I tended to other pending projects, but I was in the mood to get out and breathe the high mountain air, which on occasion, left me feeling a little drunk and light-headed. Claire and I were back at the B & H ranch, which was now a more permanent residence for us. The children attended the area school located between the ranch and town. They were now in the sixth and seventh grades. Claire and I would not be traveling until the fall, and we’d have to take the children out of school earlier than September 14.

Mary Moses wasn’t too keen on taking the children out of school and put in her two cents worth one afternoon. “It’s none of my business, but learnin’ is the most important thing for a child. I should know since I ain’t never had the pleasures of reading or writing.” The two of us were sitting in the parlor, enjoying a quiet moment, sipping cognac—Mary Moses’s favorite potable. I reminded her that Claire would continue their studies during our journey. Mary Moses chortled, “I don’t sees how that’s possible, Miss Gwenny, since she be out all night carousing with you and probably sleepin’ most of the day!” Claire must have been within earshot because she casually walked through the drawing room on her way to the study, which was in the opposite direction, with one thing on her mind. She didn’t stop. She didn’t look at either one of us. She just walked straight through, pretending to read some paperwork, as her tone bore into the ceiling and walls. “That’s just about enough out of you, Mary Moses! If you’d rather stay home, I can arrange it!” Mary Moses never brought up the subject again.

Claire was too busy with her stores this summer to do any leisurely travel. That’s why we waited until the fall to go on holiday or as Claire liked to call it, a family expedition. Before the fall, she was to make a trip to Denver, Boulder, and Colorado Springs to convene with her staff. She felt a little guilty having to leave me behind, I’m sure of it, but she included the children and Mary Moses on most all her summer business trips north.

“Claire! Where are you, Claire?” I yelled as I walked into the mudroom and through the foyer, once again smelling the wonderful aroma of fresh cut flowers. Rosy came running in from the kitchen to inform me that Momma was in the washroom with the washboard and the washtub, freshening up her undergarments, and it might be a good idea for me to bring her out, so she and B.J. could have dessert. I gently tussled her auburn hair and playfully responded, “Thank you, Rosy Posy Puddin’ Pie. I’ll see what I can do.” Rosy ran off to the kitchen smiling and yelling to B.J.

“Claire, dear, I’ve been looking all over for you.” She had her garments hanging every which way from improvised lines she suspended all across the washroom. I ducked under one as I entered the room. She was stunning, sitting on a milking stool, working the washboard as hard as a wrangler busting a bronco. The front of her blouse was sopping wet and her rich black hair was pulled back in a soft bun, where it was most of the time. A few strands of hair had fallen down over her eyes. She had beads of sweat coming off her temples and upper lip. She was so engrossed in her work and had not heard me come in or noticed my presence. I stood there watching her for a while. Every so often, she’d take one of her shoulders or a forearm and wipe her temple or brush it across her upper lip, to absorb the sweat. I gasped a breath that was not there.

Claire finally came up for air and turned to hang cotton bloomers on a line and almost jumped out of her shoes. “You scared me half out of my wits, darling! How long have you been standing there spying on me?” I said stoically, “I’m not spying on you, Claire, dear! I’m admiring your beauty, your striking jawline, the strength of your hands, the way the perspiration trickles down your temples, the waves in your hair as they . . .” Claire didn’t let me finished. She smiled provocatively as she got up and closed the door. She took me in her arms, wet shirt and all, gave me an intense kiss as she dropped her hands behind me and squeezed my ass, informing me, “I’m so glad your home, darling. I’ve missed you. I saw you ride in over an hour ago.” Claire was always a little impatient while she anxiously awaited my emergence atop the fire tower platform, but that soon changed to relief when she spotted me from afar.

She opened the door and sat back down on her stool; “If you have any soiled undergarments, my darling, you better get them out here at once before I move on to another task.” I ignored her comment. “Claire, will you stop that for just one minute? I’m in a desperate state! I’ve had the most horrible luck while coming back down off the mountain today.” Claire stopped what she was doing, stood up, gave me a look of concern, took off her wet blouse, picked up a towel, patted her chest, and then put the towel around her shoulders. She locked eyes with mine, trying not to show her unease. “Give me just a sec, darling.”

She walked out of the washroom, down the hall, and into our bedroom. I curiously followed and stood at the doorway as she made her way to the armoire and grabbed one of my knitted pullovers to wear with her brown slacks. She needed to wear slacks more often. It exposed and outlined her lower half in a dignified yet sexy way. She quickly wiggled into the pullover, made her way towards me, took my hand, and dragged me into the study. She sat me down on the leather couch and, with her long legs, strode over to the liquor bar. She poured us both a small snifter of brandy. She sat down beside me, handed me my drink, and with a serious tone posed her questions. “What is your desperation all about, darling? Did you get attacked by a ruffian on the way down from Pole Creek? Have you injured yourself somewhere on your person?” Claire started checking my body. “I am unable to detect any injuries, you’ll have to strip naked?” I giggled, saying sternly, “Stop it, you’re tickling me Claire!” She continued with her questioning. “Did a mountain lion stock you and scare the tar out of you? What happened, G?” Claire looked overly anxious.

I sat back on the big leather couch and hunched my posture. I took a sip of brandy and realized my predicament was not as serious as Claire suspected. I meekly stated, with a cowardly undertone, “Actually, Claire, you may find this quite humorous. I was riding down the canyon, and a big gust of wind came up. It was as powerful as that one last November when more than a few trees were uprooted over on the lower thirty, you remember? It scared the cattle something fierce.” “I remember, G, it was awful, but it provided us with several cords of firewood.” I nervously agreed. “That’s quite true, Claire.” As I continued my account, Claire listened patiently. “I wasn’t ready for this big blast of air. I hadn’t strapped everything down as securely as I should have. You know, like my bedroll or poncho. Even my hat wasn’t cinched up. It was so windy I had to mask my face with my red bandana. Anyway, Claire, truth be told, I lost my black beaver felt Stetson.”

Claire didn’t say a word. “It was the hat you ordered special last fall from Texas!” Claire was silent but thinking to herself how ridiculous I was for whining over a simple hat. “It’s the best damn hat I’ve ever had, Claire! It fit me like a glove!” She sat there just staring at me. “I watched it sail across the creek a hundred miles an hour! It blew way up on the other side of the canyon and into the trees before I lost sight of it!” Claire just sat there watching me as I started to cry. “You gave it to me as a late anniversary present, remember? I even had the sweet note you wrote on one of your blank recipe cards stuffed inside the brim!” Claire rarely saw me cry.

At the onset of the story, Claire was sincerely worried that a dreadful event had taken place on that mountain. As the story progressed, it was difficult for her to conceive the likelihood that I was actually desperate about losing a replaceable cover. She was very skeptical by this point. At the conclusion of the story, Claire was touched and impressed by the sentimental attachment I bestowed upon a simple cowboy hat and a brief note.

She turned to me with a soft-spoken tone. “For a time, I assumed you took for granted all the hats I have furnished you in the past. I presupposed it was no big deal to you, and any hat I specially chose for you was just a penny a dozen.” I wiped my face and sniffed. “Now I sit here watching the tears fall from your eyes, wondering how on earth I missed the sensitive heart beating from within your chest.” I readjusted my position and tucked a leg under me. Claire’s tone was still endearing as she continued. “It takes me back to the day we recited our vows. How we solemnly swore to love and honor one another, among other things. I realize you’ve never broken your vows, darling. I can’t think of one episode where you’ve even come close to breaking your vows. I must admit, I’ve been up on that fence once or twice, and it takes all the strength I have not to come crashing down. I love you so much, darling, but sometimes I don’t believe I deserve you. I demand so much from you, and you seldom ask me for anything.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and interrupted. “That is such a barrel of hogwash, Claire! You don’t think ordering me a Stetson at the drop of a hat, no pun intended, isn’t demanding and a pain in the neck, especially when it comes all the way from Texas?” Claire meekly replied, “No.” I rambled on, “Do you think making all those marvelous dishes I constantly ask for, like venison stew, fried mountain turkey, cherry pie, Wyoming pudding, Boston baked beans, the famous Delaware chicken salad, which supposedly is a guarded secret, apple sauce cake, Norwegian flat bread, buckwheat flapjacks, quail under glass, and switchel, that summer concoction of spring water you make with molasses, ginger, and vinegar, isn’t that all a bit demanding for you?” Claire’s meager voice proved truthful. “No, not really.” “What about all the mending I ask you to do? ‘Claire, darn my sox’ or ‘Claire, sew this button back on my favorite shirt’ or ‘Claire, patch this elbow for me’ or ‘Claire, restitch my leather chaps, they’re coming apart at the seams.’ C’mon, Claire, the list of my demands goes on and on, don’t you think?” Claire was somber now. “I don’t think that at all, G. I love doing all that for you.” Exactly, I exclaimed!

“Don’t you see, Claire? We complement each other. That’s what we do! You asked me to tie those little hangmen nooses because you loved the fact I’d do it for you. And I loved tying those little nooses for you because I know how much you love them. It’s a balancing act. Most of the time, we don’t even realize we’re balancing each other. It’s a natural phenomenon, Claire. It happens on a daily basis. Our partnership is far from one-sided. We have a relationship that, for most people, is too good to be true. There are two reasons why it works so well. Number one is because we’re opposites, and number two is because we love and respect each other equally. More importantly, we love each other unconditionally. You’re just as sentimental as I am. I’m just as stubborn as you are. You’re handsomely beautiful while I’m beautifully handsome. I’m a handyman around the ranch while you like to manhandle me in the washroom.” Claire stated as she sat in my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck, “You get one more of those, darling.” I added, “You’re a master cook in the kitchen while I like to cook in the master bedroom!”

Claire continued to sit on my lap with her fingers running through my long flaxen hair. She tilted my head back, looked deep into my dark blue eyes and kissed me madly, from my face and lips to my neck and jawline. She paused for a moment, rested her head on her arm and admitted, “You’re always sweet on me while I like to ask you for sugar.” I happily grinned. “That’s a good one, Claire! Would you like some more sugar right now?” Claire didn’t respond. Instead she willingly proclaimed, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. First thing tomorrow morn, I’m going to order the exact same hat for you straight from Texas. And who knows, maybe there will be another sweet note inside the brim when you put it on that precious little head of yours!”

B.J. and Rosy poked their heads through the study door. The children had strict orders never to bother us in the study unless there was some kind of emergency. It was off limits to everyone for several reasons. First and foremost, it doubled as our business office. We did not want anyone disturbing us, our files, bill of sale documents, various ledgers, catalogues, hat samples, and the list goes on, including our cast-iron safe, which was stored inside a solid oak curio cabinet. And secondly, it was the only room in the house that was completely private. No one was allowed to enter unless we approved. And most certainly, no one was allowed access if the door was closed and locked.

“What is it, children?” Claire asked. B.J. excitedly shrieked, “Mom! You said you’d be out in the kitchen to cut us some peach pie as soon as you finished soaking your lacy garments! Rosy and I have been waiting at the table this whole time, and we’re getting a little tired and wondering if you forgot about us!” Claire turned towards the door, hiding her guilt. “You may come in, children. I was having an adult conversation with Gwenny, and you’re right, Beeg, I did forget.” I whispered to Claire as they walked across the study towards us, “There isn’t one child I can think to name, in this territory, that’s as well-behaved as these two. I don’t even think I could sit at a table waiting that long. What’s it been, about three quarters of an hour?” “I think so, G,” Claire stated proudly. Claire slid off my lap as B.J. sat between us with his head down. Rosy skipped over and jumped into my lap and started cuddling with me. Claire bear hugged B.J. and cheerfully inquired, “So, who wants pie?”

The next day, Claire was at the Western Union ordering a black Stetson hat. When the telegraph clerk asked her if there was anything else, Claire stated, “Hold that thought.” She decided to kill two birds with one stone that day. She grabbed two catalogues from her satchel and, before she left the telegram office that day, she ordered two dozen black Stetsons, one dozen gray Stetsons, a half dozen brown Stetsons, a dozen bowlers, a dozen John Bull top hats, and half a dozen wideawake Quaker hats. Claire decided it was high time she expanded her men’s headwear. By the end of the month, all her shops sold a substantial amount of men’s hats. She also renamed her stores the La Chapeau Shoppe and ordered five new storefront signs in bright blue and red to represent the flag of her ancestors.

Chapter 14

Claire received a letter from her Aunt Amilie. Claire had cut off all ties from Boston and her parents ever since she left just under twenty years ago. Amilie Dupree was her mother’s sister. She resided on a small charming estate known as Du Soleil Vie, The Sunny Life, in the prestigious Blockley Township in West Philadelphia, along the banks of the Schuylkill River. Her husband was an imposing industrialist whose complex and impressive business transactions were well-noted throughout New England and the east coast. Claire and I had visited the Duprees once and were well-received. The character of Aunt Amilie was quite polished. She acted with grace, kindness, and a most intriguing sophistication as a regular routine. She demonstrated love, compassion, and understanding to her niece with ease. She and Claire corresponded regularly, at least twice a year.

“What’s the news from Philadelphia, dear?” Once again, we were in the study, under a gas lamp, and Claire tore open the letter. It was her preference to wait until the children were in bed and Mary Moses was settled for the evening before she or I read any personal correspondence from family or acquaintances. She unfolded the letter and began to read:

11 October, 1859

My Beloved Claire,

Your letter April of last was most informative. It is wonderful to hear that Benjamin is doing so well his first year at Centennial Prep. I believe he follows in your footsteps, with intellect and aptitude. We can only hope his stiff-necked ways do not last near as long as yours. The jubilant news of Rosy speaking fluent French is most precious to me. It was good of you to include a separate card with tribute to your uncle’s sixtieth birthday. Quite a milestone, I must add.

It is with heartfelt sadness that I must inform you, at this time, my correspondence is not without dire news. A grave matter indeed has transpired in Boston. Your mother took ill June of last. A good portion of hair fell from her scalp, her skin became ashen, and she lost her appetite. The doctors could find no treatment or cure. She passed very quietly on the morn of 7 September, 1859. I was by her side the week prior. She handed me a sealed envelope and ask that I forward her enclosed words of inspiration to you. She will be missed and treasured by all who knew her.

Take Care My Love,

Aunt Amilie

At the age of twenty, Claire’s parents, as was the practice of all wealthy and prominent families of the time, arranged a marriage. It was soon to be a union between a strapping twenty-four-year-old Harvard graduate, Louis Preston Fillmore II, and a beautiful young debutante, Claire Elizabeth Antoinette Ingot' Fontaine. Debutantes took on their mother’s name during courting and other formal traditions. This particular circumstance left Claire in a fit of turmoil. She was still that young lady that had an imagination that preceded her. Her imagination was so limitless she could even daydream in French. The wedding was scheduled to commence on the second of June, ten months to the day. Claire thought to herself, I have ten months to plan my death. I have ten months to plan a murder. I have ten months to plan my escape. That was it! She was going to escape the thralls of doom. She was unwavering in her plot to elude her captors, better known as her loving yet traditional parents.

She schemed about stowing away on the next pirate ship to dock in Boston Harbor. The Caribbean would be a great place to live an adventure. That was out of the question since no pirate ship had been in the harbor for more than one hundred and fifty years. She contrived an idea to fake her own death then sneak out of the city and head west on the next wagon train. She would dig up a grave at the cemetery and unearth a dearly departed female close to her age. She would then place her in a coach that was garaged in her father’s carriage house. She would set the coach and carriage house afire. Everyone would assume it was her dead body. She realized this was a tragic impossibility. She did not have the physical strength or the fortitude to carry out such a brazen act. She then hatched up a plan to tell her parents she was with child and would assure them they knew not the identity of the young lad who put his seed in her. She would have to be sent to the country or wherever an unwed mother was sent to bare her bastard child. Yes, that’s what she would do. She would get started right away.

One morning, soon after she concocted her plan, her mother, Antoinette, approached Claire at the dining table while Claire ate breakfast. She laid down samples of satin, chiffon, lace, rhinestones, and beads. She wanted Claire to choose fabric and trimming with swiftness and speed for the wedding gown because the seamstress and her assistant would be by the next day to get started on the design. While her mother was flipping through a wedding dress catalogue, Claire made herself throw up. Her mother was taken aback and exclaimed, “Oh my heavens, that’s just awful!” Antoinette rendered her to bed for the rest of the day. Claire threw up two more times that day, once after lunch and once after dinner. She knew how painful it was to throw up on an empty stomach. Dry heaves were always unpleasant and repulsive.

The Fontaine family doctor arrived the next day to give Claire a checkup. He found nothing seriously wrong with her but took Antoinette aside and asked, “Has the child recently menstruated?” Claire’s mother looked at him cockeyed, responding, “You’ve got to be joking!” The doctor left it at that and was on his way. Antoinette sat on the side of Claire’s bed. She traced the floral design on the bedspread with her finger. She looked up at Claire despondent and solemnly asked, “When was your last menstruation, Claire? Claire’s response was nonchalant. “Gosh, I don’t know mother. I can’t say as I remember.” That wasn’t good enough for her mother. Antoinette gripped Claire’s wrist and poignantly demanded, “Have you not been having your menses lately?”

Claire sat quietly for quite some time, hoping her mother would pose another humiliating question. That’s exactly what happened. Antoinette nervously stated, “Have you taken up with a boy recently? Some lad I don’t know about?” Claire was indignant. “What do you mean, Mother?” “You know exactly what I mean, Claire!” “No, I don’t, Mother!” “You mean to tell me you haven’t had any relations with any lads presently?” Claire dropped her head and paused for dramatics. “Just once, Mother.” Antoinette was outraged. “It only takes once, Claire! How long ago was this chance meeting of yours?” Claire’s reply was nonchalant. “Maybe two months ago, Mother.”

Claire had her mother right where she wanted her. She knew her father would soon been privy to this unthinkable tragedy and would have to take action immediately. To her amazement, she was sent to her Aunt Amilie in Philly. Claire had no say in the matter whatsoever. She was hoping she’d be sent to a convent or a home for unwed mothers, and from there, she could make her escape. Instead, she was simply put in a coach and sent south. Her parents would make it known that their daughter had to complete two semesters at the Young Ladies Academy in Philadelphia before she could continue on with more studies in Boston and then marry. The wedding would be postponed to a future date. Claire was to bare the child and give it up for adoption. Then, as if nothing had happened, she would return home as planned.

Claire arrived to an open-armed, smiling Aunt. She was nonstop chatter from the moment Claire stepped off the coach until the day she said adieu, good-bye. “Come here, my child. Let me have a look at you. You are absolutely stunning. You have your mother’s remarkable eyes. I always envied her for that and wished, as a child, I could swap my eyes with hers.”

After Claire got settled and had something to eat, they went straight to the drawing room and sat on a cream and cranberry-colored striped couch. There were throw pillows and wingback chairs to match. Her Aunt Amilie never pried or pushed Claire for information. She started out by trying to earn Claire’s trust. She talked about falling head over heels for a young boy when she was twelve and how she followed him around like a puppy until one day the boy turned on her, popped her in the eye, and told her to leave him alone and stop bothering him. Then when she was sixteen, a young man of about her age was smitten. He sat next to her every Sunday at church. He made it a point to get a summer job at the Fontaine Estate. He tried to court her, but Amilie had no interest in him whatsoever.

Amilie recounted the story of when she met Claire’s Uncle, Jean Luke. She was just about Claire’s age, maybe a year or two older, and here was this fine-looking gentleman, who swept her off her feet. A week had barely gone by, and Claire was going crazy with Aunt Amilie’s stories and antics. She couldn’t take it any longer. She knew what her aunt was trying to do. She knew her aunt was attempting to lessen the blow of her predicament, but because of this false predicament, Claire was about to jump out of her skin. She decided it was time to expose the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her God.

One evening, while the two were sitting on the back porch enjoying a gentle breeze and drinking some chamomile tea, Claire interrupted her aunt in midsentence. “I have something to confess, Aunt Amilie. You are not going to like it one bit, but I must tell you. I can’t go on living a lie,” Claire blurted out with no regard. “I did not have some torrid affair with a young lad a few months past! I have never had any relations with any lad. I am not with child nor have I ever been. If you must know the truth, Aunt Amilie, I just can’t marry Louis Fillmore!” Aunt Amilie asked her why. Claire began to cry and couldn’t speak. Aunt Amilie tried to comfort her niece. “Come, child, let’s go lock ourselves in the drawing room. Have you ever tried sherry? I think the circumstances call for it, don’t you?”

Claire sat on the striped couch as Aunt Amilie locked the French doors. She poured two glasses of sherry and sat next to Claire, handing her one. She took a few sips of sherry before engaging in her bombardment of questions. “Tell me, my dear, why the misconception? Why the false impression? What could you have possibly done to put yourself in such a predicament?

Sometimes marriage does not start out with love, it evolves. So, if you have some preconceived notion that you must marry the man of your dreams or marry the love of your life, then you are sorely mistaken.” Claire looked up at her aunt with dry eyes and an untouched drink in hand. “It’s not that at all. I can’t. I mean I won’t ever marry a man for as long as I live.”

Her aunt was confused. “Don’t be preposterous, Claire!” She then went over to a maple hutch, opened the bottom drawer, and nervously searched for a rolled cigarette and matches. When she returned, she sat down, lit her cigarette, and threw the match in a sparkling Waterford Crystal ashtray. She looked at Claire and repeated. “Don’t be preposterous, Claire!” “Oh Aunt Amilie, don’t you see, won’t you see? I do not favor men. I never have. My interests favor women. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve felt this way in my heart and in my head. It won’t go away, believe me, I’ve tried to get rid of it.” Aunt Amilie leaned back on the couch, took a long swig of sherry, and sat up to flick her cigarette. “I don’t quite understand. Don’t you want to have children, Claire?” Claire told her aunt adamantly. “It has nothing to do with having children! There’s no mystery to it, so don’t try and make it more difficult to understand. I’ll give you some examples.”

Claire took her first sip of sherry and wrinkled her nose. She calmly looked at her aunt and recounted. “Take that woman Grandmamma talked about when I was younger. Lady Mitchell was her name. Gigi would tell stories about how Lady Mitchell and Miss Davies would come into her shop and carry on together. Trying on hats together, giggling and touching, and sometimes kissing when they thought nobody was looking. She also said they were two of her best customers and if that was the case, she didn’t care what they did. There was also the librarian at the historical center in Boston. I’d hear mother and you gossip about her from time to time. Mother would tell you about going to the historical center and watching the librarian, Miss Patterson, and some married woman by the name of Mrs. Davenport go in to the storeroom together, and when they’d come out, their hair was all tussled and their skirts were twisted wrong. Your response was, “Well I saw them carrying on at the Winston & Kensington Annual Ball. They were dancing together as if they were the only ones in the ballroom, save for the orchestra.” Amilie sat stunned. “Claire Elizabeth, I did not know you were such a perceptive child.”

Claire’s aunt poured herself another glass of sherry and turned to her niece with concern. “This kind of talk has got to stop! You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re simply going through a phase that needs to end immediately or you will end up causing the death of both your parents!” Claire told her aunt that her parents must never know for more reasons than that and, if her aunt wouldn’t help her, she’d find another way, and her aunt would never hear from her again. They talked for hours. There were tears, shouting, anger, and finally understanding. After heavy persuasion and careful urging, Aunt Amilie became Claire’s confidante that evening. And like Claire did several weeks before, they both plotted her new course.

“Are you sure you have everything?” “Yes, Aunt Amilie,” Claire repeated as she climbed into the covered wagon. After a week of scheming and organizing, they set the plan in motion. Claire was to join a wagon train west. She would never reveal her whereabouts to anyone, including her aunt. Her father, as did Uncle Jean Luke, knew powerful people, and Claire did not want to end up in a scandal or back in Boston, for that matter. Whenever she corresponded with her Aunt Amilie, her letters never showed a return address and her telegrams always posted a false city or town. When Claire was younger, she would always give a mailing address to her aunt that was different every time. This was one of Claire’s many reasons why we traveled a great deal in our early years.

The plan was to have Claire leave for the west and then a month later, her aunt would inform her parents of the tragic event. Amilie would travel to Boston and show them a letter that Claire left on her pillow. A false letter that told a story about a young pregnant daughter who could not or would not give up her unborn child. She could not disgrace her family either and took it upon herself to chart a new course for her life. She was headed to Canada, and she did not want anyone to come looking for her. She admitted to loving her mother and father very much and asked them not to hate her but understand the consequences. She wanted nothing from her parents except their blessing.

Over the years, every time Amilie went to Boston, she’d find something that belonged to her niece. She’d inconspicuously snatch it up and send it to Claire’s latest address via railroad and Pony Express. It was usually a photograph or jewelry or clothes or some sort of memorabilia. One year before Claire’s Grandmamma passed, the sickly woman gave Amilie a pearl bracelet with a note attached and asked, “Would you please send this on to my granddaughter?” With a guilty look, Amilie implored, “I don’t know what you mean, Mother!” Her mother smiled back at Amilie and kissed her cheek. Two months later, Claire received a package from Philly. Inside were a beautiful pearl bracelet and a note from her Grandmamma that read as follows:

24th January, 1843

My Darling Grande Fille, (Grand Daughter)

I pray this letter finds you and your child in the best of health. Enclosed is a Christmas gift I hope you treasure. I recall my grandmother presented it to me for Christmas in my youth. She loved to travel to the South of France and she purchased it from a French jeweler in St. Laurent long before I entered into this world.

You must know your mother and father worry as do I. They appreciate and commend you for a gallant decision. However, it would be most prudent if you gave up this child and returned to Boston to resume what you so incomprehensively left behind. It is time to rectify your state of affairs and honor your father and family.

Je t’aime (I love you)

Gigi

Claire never heard from her Gigi again. She was not surprised. She never responded or took action to the note nor did her Aunt Amilie ever ask her about it. It is true that if a tragedy encompasses our life, it is our life that must be put back on track, and it is the tragedy that must run its course.

Claire was to leave on the wagon train in two days. She and Amilie spent all week shopping for clothes, books, toiletries, a bedroll and blanket, a gas lantern, candles, stationery, and two trunks, among other things. You were only allowed to load two personal trunks on the wagon. Claire’s satchel was stuffed. Aunt Amilie asked Claire the worth of her dowry. Claire looked quite puzzled by this and told her it was of no consequence now. Amilie insisted she tell her the amount in her dowry. Claire insisted it was none of her business. Amilie quite adamantly imposed, “All right then, I will just have to make an educated guess as to the amount of money I will predispose to you.”

Claire’s aunt sat down at her marble-top Queen Ann desk and pulled from the top drawer a pass book and then opened a side drawer and removed an overly large hardback book with a gold clasp and lock. Claire thought the book resembled that of a diary until she noticed the title and author on the front cover. It read Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes, 1605. Claire quickly took a seat on a simple English Tudor made of dark walnut covered in a beautiful sateen fabric. Amilie took a gold key from the top drawer and unlocked the hardback. And to Claire’s surprise, when her aunt opened it, there were no pages for reading, just a large square gaping hole where pages should have been. She informed Claire it was a hideaway hardback. It was something new on the market, for travelers to keep their valuables hidden in a place most would not consider looking.

Amilie clasped and locked the hardback and opened her passbook. She took out a sheet of paper and wrote down the balance from her passbook. The Duprees did all their banking at the Philadelphia Union Bank. Amilie started subtracting numbers and multiplying percentages before she folded the piece of paper. She came up with an amount she thought was appropriate. After a quick measurement of the hardback, she returned it to the drawer along with the gold key. She closed her passbook with folded paper inside, stood up, and informed Claire. “I’m off to the bank, and I do not know when I will return. She walked out of the room with passbook in hand and left Claire sitting there to ponder her own thoughts.

Aunt Amilie decided it would be in Claire’s best interest if she left all her possessions from Boston behind. That way there would be no suspicion by anyone in the house or on the estate, including her Uncle Jean Luke, when Claire actually slipped away. They stored the packed trunks in an empty warehouse owned by the family Dupree in the industrial section of the city, which wasn’t too far from the Du Soleil Vie (The Sunny Life) Estate. In two days, they would depart just before the light of dawn. Amilie would hitch the roan horse to the carriage the night before. She would leave it near the south entrance, under a two-hundred-year-old cherry blossom tree. They would then pick up the trunks at the warehouse and head to the wagon train west of town.

The wagon train would be heading due west sometime around nine o’clock in the morning. Once the wagon train made its way north and reached the Ohio River Valley, Claire was to transfer hopefully to a train. Where she was going, she wasn’t telling her Aunt. Amilie didn’t even know she was abandoning the wagon train in Ohio. Claire had read a scant report regarding a railway service that departed the Ohio River Valley and headed as far as the Front Range, which was somewhere near the Kansas or Oklahoma Territory. Claire’s intention was to cover her tracks as best she could and that meant be deceitful to her Aunt. She was starting to feel excitement and anxiety all at once.

Aunt Amilie returned late that afternoon. Claire had been biting her nails ever since her aunt left for the bank. That night, she gave Claire the hardback and told her it was a smart idea if she could bury it somewhere deep within one of those trunks. Claire assured her she would, but Claire also let it be known it wasn’t necessary for her aunt to bear the burden of her financial accountability. And whatever it took, Claire would return the favor and pay her aunt back. Amilie then pulled out the gold key, attached it to a gold chain, and put it around Claire’s neck. She told her to keep it safe, and if it didn’t feel safe around her neck she was to find some other place, she presumed, would be more protected. Claire was informed not to open the hideaway hardback until she was in the confines of a bank, and she was only to use the stipend money her aunt had set aside for her travels. Claire knew if she was to catch a ride on some new railway in the Ohio River Valley, her spending money may not be adequate. She may have to dip into the reserves of Don Quixote.

The sun was barely above the horizon as Claire hugged her aunt. She climbed into the covered wagon as her aunt asked her a second time if she was sure she had everything. Claire told her, “Yes, I have everything.” Claire thanked her and told her she didn’t know what she would have done without her. She promised to keep in touch. Aunt Amilie reminded Claire to wire her as soon as she was settled and remember to use the undisclosed name and address on the card she gave her. With tears beginning to emerge, Claire assured her aunt she would not forget. As the wagons rolled, Claire waved good-bye just as the morning sun blinded her sparkling moist green eyes, or were they blue?

Chapter 15

Claire finally arrived in the Ohio River Valley after two weeks of rough terrain and sleepless nights. It took her two days to find information about the whereabouts of a railway that traveled west. No one seemed to know the name of this railway. They informed her it was brand spanking new and located over by the cattle yard. Claire figured she’d find out the details when she got there. She had been staying at the Rutherford Boarding House and was ready to get her two trunks out of there. It was dirty and stunk of something awful. The walls were stained with mold and God knows what else. There were cobwebs in the corners of every ceiling. The food was below standard and often cold and undercooked. The outhouse was swarming with flies and never had paper for wiping.

She knew it was in her best interest to board places that were of lower class, but she experienced a culture shock that she wasn’t expecting. Claire was aware the further west she progressed, the better accommodations would become because she would no longer have to worry too much about where she stayed or whether or not her father’s people would find her. She knew she’d be safe because the west was so expansive. It would be impossible for anyone to track her down in such a vast territory. But here, so close to home, she wasn’t taking any chances. During the first two years of her departure, Amilie informed Claire that her father’s continued efforts to locate her and bring her home were in full swing. Claire decided she no longer required information regarding the labors of her father. The loss of her parents was so painful and overwhelming, she could not bear to hear of their struggles and heartache.

It was finally time to purchase a ticket and board the train. Claire was ecstatic to be leaving the Rutherford Boarding House. She swore she could smell it a block away. Before she left, she went into her room and locked the door behind her. She opened one of the pine trunks with the brown leather straps. Reaching down as far as she could, in one of the back corners, she retrieved Don Quixote. She took the key from around her neck and, for the first time since she departed Philadelphia, she opened the lock. Inside the once empty hole, Claire found a receipt from the Philadelphia Union Bank laying atop a small pile of money. Her Aunt Amilie had measured the book to make sure all the money would fit. Claire grabbed the receipt and could not believe what was listed in the column marked withdrawal. It was sixty-five hundred dollars. Claire pondered what the hell she was going to do with sixty-five hundred dollars? Her dowry only amounted to three thousand dollars. Her aunt had given her more than double the amount. Amilie was also quite familiar with the concept of a dowry. Usually the eldest daughter of a prominent family received 1.2 percent of the family net worth. That meant Claire’s family assets were approximately two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Her aunt must have assumed Claire’s father was worth twice that. The average urban family, back in the day, was lucky if they brought home a thousand dollars in one year.

Claire paid a local farmer’s son to transport her to the railway station on his trusty ox cart. He loaded her two trunks before helping her onto the cart. He laid a wool blanket across her lap to keep her from feeling the chill in the early morning air. She thanked him for it. She asked the young lad if the new railway station was the Union Pacific. He laughed politely. “No, ma’am, it’s a stock train. Claire had a puzzled look on her face replying, “A stock train? What in the world is a stock train? Nobody told me about a stock train!” The lad answered back, “Well, ma’am, it’s a train of about four to six box cars. Every box car carries some kind of stock such as cattle, horses, sheep, or pigs. I reckon it’s the quickest way for ranchers and farmers to get their stock out west after they’ve made their purchases or whatnot. They pay an arm and a leg for stock transport, but they don’t seem to mind.” Claire thought to herself, why is it when I’m done going through one horrid experience, another one rears its ugly head?

Claire made her way to the man sitting behind the window of a small board and bat building. She tapped on the window, and he pushed it open. “How can I help you, Missy?” Claire ran a hand through her hair, inquiring, “I’ve been told you’ll take on passengers if the price is right?” “What’s your destination, Missy?” he stated with a playful whisper. “I’d like to go as far west as you can take me,” Claire replied with pursed lips. “We run our trains to the east edge of the Colorado and Wyoming territory. They call it the Front Range. How many bags are you carrying?” She told him two average size trunks as she placed a hundred dollar bill on his countertop. “Will that cover my fare?” He quickly got up, opened the door, and hollered, “Billy! Take this lady’s trunks and load them in the rear upper compartment of car number two!” Billy came running, hitting his cowboy hat on the side of his thigh to work off the dust. He answered with a huff, “Yes, sir! Ma’am, where are your trunks?” Claire pointed over yonder between a water trough and an out building. She turned to the man with an innocent smile. “Where will I be riding?” The man made a guttural laugh. “Well naturally right next to your trunks, Missy!” And once again, another horrid experience popped into Claire’s head. She thought to herself, is it never ending?

So there she uncomfortably sat, on the upper compartment in car number 2, above approximately sixteen Arab Stallions. For the rest of her life, anytime she traveled by Union Pacific or Narrow Gauge, she never rode in car number 2. If it was the only car or sleeper left on the track, she would refuse it and wait for the next train. Sometimes, this would postpone her or our departure by a day or two. Of course, once Claire got the hang of traveling, she planned so well ahead, she rarely had to concern herself with any number two car. However, one thing I did finally recognize throughout our life together, we never stayed in a room or suite numbered 2 or 22 or 222.

Sharing the upper compartment of car number 2 was a family of three, Horace and Edna Schmidt and their son, Laverne. Horace was called Smitty and his son was called Vern. The man in the small board and bat building gave him twenty dollars so Claire could ride along with them. Smitty informed Claire that he, his family, and their stallions were starting a new life northwest of the Oklahoma Territory in the small town of Laramie. He had heard it was a great place for a horse ranch. He informed Claire that it had wide open ranges and rich soil. Claire had never been so miserable in her life. She really didn’t care what Smitty had to say. She actually admitted to herself that the Rutherford Boarding House wasn’t so bad after all.

The four passengers spent most of the trip taking turns sticking their heads out the roof hatch that Smitty figured how to open. Vern spent half the time actually sitting or lying on top of the train. Claire tried it a few times and only if Vern was up there, but she was soon overcome by the engine smoke and usually descended the hatch in a huff. The other half of the time they were dunking their heads in one of the two water troughs, down where the stallions were boarded, which actually was quite fun for all. Every so often, Claire would hear a few words coming out of Smitty’s mouth such as: “I’ve heard the Rocky Mountains are beautiful this time of year. They say the high mountains have rivers and lakes with crystal clear water running through them and are full of more fish than you can imagine. One old man told Smitty there’s silver and gold in them thar hills, streams, mountains, and canyons!” Claire laughed to herself and thought this guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. A decade had passed when she joked about her mistrust and bad judgment regarding a horse rancher named Smitty. If she had trusted his proclamation, she probably would have owned a few silver mines by now. She turned to me one day and stated in a dastardly tone, “I could just kick myself for not believing Smitty!” My immoral reply was simply: “Bend over, and I’ll do it for you!”

The train’s final destination, before it turned around and headed back east to the Ohio River Valley, was the town of Garden City somewhere on the Front Range, just east of the Rocky Mountains. Almost twenty years later, Garden City became an official city in the new state of Kansas. Claire’s trunks were delivered to the Garden City Hotel, which was once a house owned by William Fulton. He converted it into a hotel. It was Garden City’s first hotel. Claire spent three weeks in Garden City and spent many evenings dining with Mr. Fulton and his wife. She enjoyed the company immensely and not because of William Fulton but because of his wife. Claire was sweet on Mrs. Fulton and spent every waking hour she could with the woman. She acquired several choice recipes for summertime fare including buttermilk pie, cold plum soup with raisins, and pancakes served with sorghum and gravy, which was usually eaten for dinner. Soon after I met Claire, one evening over Sunday dinner, I asked, “Where the heck does sorghum come from anyway?” Her response was as sweet as the answer she gave me. “If you must know, darling, it’s a syrupy juice that’s yielded from the stem of a plant that resembles a cornstalk. But inside the stalk, you’ll find grain instead of a corn cob. And if you must know, it’s one more source of getting sugar. Speaking of sugar, can I have some of yours, darling?”

Mrs. Fulton shared with Claire many inspiring tales of the west. One day, while they were chatting in the parlor, Mrs. Fulton brought to mind a tale that occurred in a charming little town called Durango. A traveler had passed through Garden City on his way back to Kentucky and was a patron at her hotel. His occupation was that of a restaurateur, and he was looking for high-quality beef and pork. He had been traveling for three months, making various deals with various ranchers and farmers. He recounted a story to Mrs. Fulton he was told by a cowhand he met in the Half Moon Saloon located in the small town of Durango, which was part of the Colorado Territory.

The cowhand worked for a cattle rancher whose ranch was just outside of town. One afternoon, the cattle rancher and his teenage daughter had ridden into town on their two quarter horses. It was a brisk spring day, and they were on their way to town to replace the daughter’s saddle. She had outgrown her original saddle, and it was time for a new one. As they approached the bridge that crossed over the Animas River, they thought the river was running much higher and faster than usual. The cattle rancher told his daughter, along with the snow melt, there must have been heavy rain up in the high mountains.

Halfway over the bridge, the daughter looked upriver and noticed a big object floating downstream. She pointed and yelled, “Look, Father, what do you suppose that is floating down the river?” The cattle rancher knew exactly what it was and shouted to his daughter, “Listen to me carefully, Gwen, there’s no time for anything else! That’s a person in the river and we’re going to try and fetch them out! I want you to go to the other side of the river while I stay on this side! I’m going to toss my rope over to you! We’re both going to tie that rope to a branch or around a rock that’s as low to the river as possible, that way whoever is floating down the river will have something to grab hold of!” The daughter kicked in her heels with all her might as her horse reared up, and off she went across the bridge to the other side. She jumped off her mount as fast as she could and stood directly across from her father and waited for the rope.

The Animas River was not too terribly wide, maybe forty feet from where they were standing. The cattle rancher’s first attempt missed the mark. His daughter yelled, “C’mon, Father put your legs into it!” The cattle rancher gave it another go and, as luck would have it, it sailed right over his daughters head, and she grabbed it. Townsfolk were running down the river trail screaming in a panic but were much too far away to give any assistance. The cattle rancher and his daughter secured the rope across the river. The body was getting closer, and they could see it was a young boy floating on his back with a look of terror on his face.

The cattle rancher yelled. “Gwen, what in the hell are you doing, you’re going to kill yourself!” Gwen was out in the middle of the river holding onto the rope for dear life, trying to get an angle on where the boy would actually pass her by. The townsfolk were still running and screaming, and the cattle rancher could hear some of them yelling. “Jimmy! Jimmy’s going to drown! Oh my God, Jimmy!” The cattle rancher yelled to his daughter, “Gwen, its Jimmy Stratton! Let him know you’re there!”

Gwen’s father noticed she was holding a lariat in her right hand and was trying to balance herself against the rope, so she could let go with both hands. He realized his daughter was attempting to lasso the boy. He knew she only had one chance to get it right. He untied his end of the rope and wrapped it around his waist and held tight. He was going to be ready for anything, whatever it might be.

Jimmy was less than fifty feet away and was coming as swiftly as a tumbleweed rolling across the prairie in a big gust. Gwen yelled at the top of her lungs. “Jimmy! I’m here to help you!” Jimmy looked downriver to find Gwen swinging her right arm over her head, and a split second later, felt something flip around his neck. When he realized it was a rope, he quickly put one arm through it and grabbed tight with both hands. Gwen pulled the lariat to her as rapidly as she could to lessen the impact when it went taut. She then squatted in the water as low as she could and twisted both ropes around her arms as tight as a virgin doe in the fall.

When Jimmy’s line went taut, Gwen thought her arms were definitely about to rip out of their sockets. Gwen’s father tied the line to the horn of his saddle as fast as a rattler can strike. He then made his way out to Gwen and the boy. When he got there, his buck knife was clenched in his teeth. He had Gwen and the rope in a death grip with his left arm. He then pulled the knife from his mouth with his right hand and cut the rope in one fail swoop. As all three of them swung towards the riverbank, the cattle rancher whistled as loud as he could and ordered his quarter horse in a thunderous voice, “Gitt now, Buck! Yaw now! Yaw Bucky! Gitt, you son of a bitch!” And sure enough, Buck pulled all three of them out of the river so fast, the townsfolk stopped dead in their tracks for about ten seconds to watch. They picked up their pace again and hightailed it back down the river. It took the rancher’s daughter a few minutes before she could see again. Evidently, when being pulled from the river, her head went partially under, and the force of the water put all its pressure on her eye sockets.

Jimmy was more cold and frightened than injured. He had a few cuts and bruises on his shins and knees from bouncing off the boulders, but other than that, he got off easy. The boy had been climbing a big old juniper tree that hung over the river. His foot slipped, he lost his grip, and fell into the drink. That evening the entire town assembled and had a springtime feast right there on Main Street, and the story was told over and over and would be talked about for years to come. The following weekend, Gwen and her father returned to town on their quarter horses, but this time, it was to attend a brief ceremony to receive medals of bravery, presented to each of them by the town mayor. At the end of the ceremony, there was plenty of cheering and, once again, the town got together and had a feast right there on Main Street, and the story was told over and over and would be talked about for years to come. Throughout the daughter’s life, she could never get accustomed to any public homage that came her way. She favored quiet discretion over public display any day of the week.

Claire never mentioned one word about it to me when we first met. She was hoping I or one of the townsfolk would fill her in one day. It didn’t take long before she heard the story, only this time it was bigger and better. And wouldn’t you know, it was Jimmy Stratton himself telling her all about it. The reason Claire never told me she knew the story prior was because she didn’t want me to know the only reason she traveled to and then settled in Durango was because of some female whippersnapper that she couldn’t wait to encounter. It took Claire more than three years to tell me the real story. I didn’t believe her when she finally mentioned it.

We were playing footsies on the gigantic boulder overlooking the river. It was our favorite spot. Claire brought corn bread. I brought flowers. It was a warm gorgeous summer day. The children were below us by the river’s edge playing contently. “G, darling, your feet are slightly bigger than mine.” I examined each foot, pondering a resolution. “Well I’m taller than you. It stands to reason.” “I’m not quite sure what you mean.” Claire had a baffled look on her face. “You’re an educated woman.” “I am indeed, G!” “Well, then you should know the taller one gets, the bigger their feet usually are. It helps with one’s balance.” “It does make sense, darling. You may be quite right!”

Claire smirked as she asked; “You think you know everything don’t you, darling?” “That’s preposterous, Claire!” Claire smirked again. “Did you know that I knew who you and your father were before I ever arrived in Durango?” “What are you talking about, Claire?” “I’m talking about the time you and your daddy saved that Stratton boy from drowning way back when. I was back in Garden City before Kansas was Kansas. Mrs. Fulton, the hotel owner, told me of a gentleman who was passing through on his way back to Kentucky. He had been in Durango, and one of your father’s cowhands told him the story while they were drinking in the Half Moon Saloon.” “I don’t believe you for one second, Claire!” “It’s true, G. It’s the reason I came to Durango. That first day we met, I saw you coming down the boardwalk long before you ever saw me. That’s what I love about beveled glass. I hoped and prayed that the rugged gal who was walking my way, after watching her go from store to store, was the one and only Gwen Buxton. And sure enough, it was you!”

“That’s unbelievable, Claire! You mean to tell me our entire relationship has been based on a big fat lie?” “Now listen, G, darling.” “Don’t you darling me!” “Gwen, wait just one minute!” Claire spoke to me in that sweet soft sultry voice. “Our life has not been based on a lie. You’ve got to consider my circumstances back then. I mean think of your own circumstances too. Hell, you couldn’t even tell me you loved me for fear I’d reject you. When I heard that wonderful story about you and your father, I just had to meet you. I had some kind of premonition, so I followed my heart. I needed adventure and intrigue in my life. I’m sorry I never got the chance to meet your father. I did think I could learn a thing or two from a woman—I hoped you were a woman by then—who risked her life to save a child.

The day I got your hat size and found out your name was one of the happiest days of my life, but I was also afraid I’d ruin it if I told you the truth about me or the truth about knowing you. I didn’t know how you might react to a reprehensible lady like me.” I couldn’t believe Claire was using lady and reprehensible in the same sentence. She continued her confession, “I had to play it out like a winning poker hand. When I realized you favored women, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I had been dealt a royal flush. By the time we fell in love, I didn’t give my secret a second thought. And now, here we are having a tiff about how we fell in love. Claire stretched her toes. “G, all I know is, I’m glad Jimmy Stratton fell in the river that day. It brought me to you.”

I made Claire stand up. Then I picked her up over my shoulders. I took the short path down to the river where B.J. and Rosy were playing. Claire was pleading for me to put her down. I found an eddy along the riverbank. I waded up to my knees with B.J. and Rosy in tow. I semigently dropped Claire into the river. She was completely soaked. The children started to climb all over her, giggling. As I walked back up the path, I couldn’t have felt more triumphant. I sat down on that ledge, looked up at the mountains in all their grandeur, and then focused my attention back down on the river below. I crossed my legs, wiggled my toes, and took a big bite of cornbread. I thought to myself, Claire is the rain in my downpour, always constant and steady.

Chapter 16

“Rosy!” I yelled from the potbellied stove. “Come here and read this recipe card one more time for me, please.” My eyes were so bad when it came to reading anything. I knew it was time for a pair of bifocals. “I’m coming, Gwenny!” She made her way from the study to the kitchen. Rosy loved reading from the selection of books in her grandfather’s study. “Where are you at so far, Gwenny?” “Well, I’ve put butter, lemon, basil, and paprika on the inside and sunflower seed oil on the skin.” Rosy stated, “It looks like all that’s left is the secret ingredient, Gwenny.” “And what’s that, Rosy?” “You’re not going to believe this.” Rosy laughed and shook her head. “It actually says to blow a kiss to the trout before you put it on the fire!” “Blow it a kiss? You’ve got to be kidding?” Rosy answered, “Nope!” “Well, that reminds me of a story I have to share with you and B.J.” I called B.J. to come out to the kitchen for a minute and then I began the tale. It was a tale I had fond memories of, from start to finish.

It was about the time B.J. was in his fourth year of college at Harvard, and Rosy was in Oklahoma attending the Cherokee Female Seminary. As I remember, the seminary was located in the town of Tahlequah, and it was owned and operated by the Cherokee Nation. Rosy was studying to be a teacher and a fine one she became. Her education eventually led to the position of Head Dean at Manitou Women’s College in Colorado Springs. Claire and I were on one of our long jaunts across the states.

We stepped onto the platform after disembarking the train in Tallahassee. We made our way over to an English gentleman by the name of Andrew Radcliffe. He was holding up a small poster board attached to a flat stick that read: G. Buxton & C. Fontaine. Claire approached him with a wave and a smile. “I’m Miss Fontaine, and this is Miss Buxton.” I shook his hand with a formidable greeting. “How do you do, sir?” I was taken by his British accent. “Quite well, madam, thank you, but I was expecting Mr. Fontaine and Mr. Buxton.” Claire’s response was stern and to the point. “Well, sir, I’m sorry we have not met your expectations, but I guess we’re all there is, and you will have to get used to it! Our bags are this way!” Claire started walking towards the baggage car. I followed as Andrew folded his poster board in half and brought up the rear. He knew exactly where the baggage was located but kept it to himself.

Andrew Radcliff, as we found out, was our personal butler, cook, porter, tour guide, and driver all rolled into one. Claire had reserved the top floor’s east wing of a magnificent and luxurious hotel known as St. Mark’s Plantation. It was built on a vast coastal estate south of Tallahassee, in the town of St. Mark’s. It overlooked the beautiful Apalachee Bay. Claire informed me this locale was the most spectacular spot in all these United States for viewing many species of birds. You could watch them nesting, flying, wading, feeding, mating, singing, and squawking, morning, noon and night.

Andrew informed us we were the last guests to board the two coaches leaving for St. Mark’s and that we better get a move on because they weren’t waiting one more minute. Andrew traversed his way into the shotgun seat on one of the coaches after he showed us to our seats. To our dismay, Claire boarded the coach with the team of four black German coach-horses, while I boarded the coach with the team of four white Cleveland coach-horses. Being last to arrive, we did not have a choice of seats and the only two remaining were in separate coaches. German and Cleveland coach-horses were the finest of breeds and specifically used to run coaches of all sizes across the countryside. The horses pulled away, and I could see Claire through my window blow me a kiss. I turned away quickly and pretended not to notice just as a flock of starlings flew out of a sycamore.

The coaches arrived late that afternoon. We stepped down from our respective chariots and strolled towards each other and St. Mark’s Plantation. A petite lady of about sixty was marching straight for us. She wore a chiffon ruffled dress and an enormous floppy hat. She was using a pink parasol as a walking stick, and its point was as dirty as Rosy’s face the time she fell head first into a mud puddle after a summer shower. Claire advised me that this must be the lady who corresponded with her on a regular basis leading up to our departure. She was very precise and explicit regarding St. Mark’s and what it had to offer. As the petite lady got closer, we could hear her bellowing voice. “Mrs. Buxton! Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Fontaine! Over here, ladies!” Claire and I laughed hysterically as we approached Henrietta Masterson. I whispered to Claire sarcastically, “Golly, I’ve never been addressed as Mrs. I say we leave it alone. Besides, the men may keep away from us when they hear Mrs.” Before making our acquaintance with Mrs. Masterson, Claire joked, “If Eli Whitney gave me a cotton gin every time someone called me Mrs., I swear I’d have a cotton plantation the size of Florida!”

Henrietta was ready to take us to the east wing and made it known that our choice of accommodations was the most extravagant that St. Mark’s had to offer. Naturally it was Claire who made the proper arrangements, and I let Henrietta Masterson in on a little secret by happily sharing a bit of personal information. “Mrs. Fontaine is brilliant at devising plans and making accommodations wherever she travels. She would be a gifted manager and would make a first-rate owner of any prestigious hotel. Henrietta was speechless as we ascended the double staircase that led to the top floor. Just inside the door to the left was a sitting room with a nice view of the shoreline. Beyond the foyer was a liquor bar, living room, and dining room with an expansive bay window that looked out beyond the marsh, natural trails, and a long boat dock.

Henrietta opened double doors into a grand master bedroom painted in white and highlighted with gold leaf. Even the furniture was white with gold leaf highlights. The south side of the room and half of the east side were wall-to-wall windows with glass French doors that opened to a remarkable terrace. We strolled through the doors as Henrietta Masterson locked them in place from inside the master bedroom. She reminded us to always lock the doors in place if we wanted to leave them open, that way they wouldn’t swing or blow open when a gust of wind came up.

On the terrace were four chaise lounges, a glass patio table, four chairs, and an oversized striped umbrella. The view was spectacular. Claire pointed to a lighthouse as I looked out at an amazing estuary of wildlife and Florida’s Gulf Coast. The terrace also hosted three different bird feeders with three different varieties of seed and one bird bath off in a shaded corner. A cart had been wheeled out onto the terrace loaded with all kinds of delectable items. Henrietta proclaimed in a joyous voice, “I had the chef personally prepare this wonderful array of provisions for you. I hope you enjoy the Dom Perignon champagne, shrimp cocktail, Spanish sausage, Swiss cheese, baked largemouth bass, Belgian chocolate, and this lovely fruit basket.” Claire had thanked Henrietta and handed her a wrapped hat box containing a new-styled sun hat. From then on, we only saw Henrietta Masterson from a distance. We were Andrew Radcliff’s ward now. When we did catch a glimpse of her, she was sporting a new floppy hat for all to see.

Claire and I sat on the terrace eating our appetizers and drinking our Dom Perignon. We witnessed Old World Finches, Marsh Wrens, Chimney Swifts, and Hermit Thrushes sampling our seeds and taking turns in the bird bath. We stayed out on the terrace long past sunset, sharing a chaise lounge and sharing the extraordinary landscape under a faint blue sky. Andrew tapped on our door, and I jumped up to answer it. He stated with a prim and proper tone, “I am here to remove your tray and ask if there is anything else you require this evening.” He added, “Might I suggest a mint julep and a slice of key lime pie?” We both nodded in succession. Andrew then lit two gas lamps hanging on either side of the French doors and a strange-smelling candle that had been sitting on its own table under one of the gas lights, supposedly to keep the bugs at bay. Andrew reassured us, as he pushed the cart towards the suite entrance. “I’ll return shortly with your order, ladies.”

We continued to gaze at the view. However, our eyes soon looked skyward as the stars began to appear. As we heard loons calling one another off in the distance, a Black-capped Chickadee landed on Claire’s long lovely leg. We remained like Egyptian statues until the chickadee flew over to one of the feeders, whistling a clear fee-bee. Claire whistled back the exact same call, fee-bee. The chickadee tilted its head to one side and whistled back one last time before it flew off, fee-bee. Claire turned to me as she put one hand behind my neck and the other around my waist and in a sultry voice, urged. “Give me some sugar, sugar.”

We awoke to another tapping on the door. Claire forced herself out from under the satin sheets, tied her silk robe, and slipped into her soft satin slippers. She turned the door handle and left the door ajar saying, as she blew me a kiss, “Come in, Andrew Radcliff, the door is opened.” Claire then made her way to a swing-back couch in the living room and plopped herself down. Andrew entered, pushing a breakfast tray of oranges, grapefruit, papayas, plantains, fresh brewed coffee, and Danish pastries. He stopped in the living area, asking Claire, “Would you prefer to dine at the dining table or out on the terrace?” Claire conveyed to Andrew she would prefer the terrace for every meal unless it was raining. “Very well, Madam, as you wish.” He made his way out to the terrace, ignoring me at all costs as he passed through the grand master bedroom.

Before Andrew exited the suite door, he stated, “It would be my pleasure to accompany you both down to the estuary trails whenever you desire. I am an excellent birdman and could enlighten you about a thing or two regarding our wonderful sanctuary. I might add the best times for viewing are early morning and late afternoon.” “Thank you, Andrew Radcliff, we’ll take you up on that starting this morning.” Claire let it be known. “We can be ready in half an hour.” “Yes, Madam, I’ll meet you on the veranda, which is just below your terrace.” And he was gone.

“Claire, dear,” I grumbled as I crawled out of bed. I discovered champagne and mint juleps did not mix well. “What do you mean by only giving me half an hour to eat breakfast and get ready for a walk about?” Claire snuck up behind me and handed me a cup of coffee New England style, with cream and sugar, as she kissed my neck. “Don’t be a sourpuss, G. Nobody’s going to care what we look like down in the marsh. They’re all there to enjoy the bird-watching. If it will make you feel more comfortable, put on this sage and brown safari hat I bought you. You look absolutely stunning in it. Now, get it together, darling, so we can meet Andrew Radcliff on the veranda!” I came to acknowledge Claire’s inability to be able to call Andrew solely by his first name. Perhaps it was her rank in society, or perhaps it was a term of endearment she favored. At any rate, she succumbed to calling Andrew by his birth name, Andrew Radcliff, nothing more and nothing less. I found it to be quite precious, and I truly believed Andrew was very fond of the prestigious honor an esteemed patron such as Claire Fontaine bestowed upon him.

Claire was already seated on the terrace eating a Danish pastry when I sat down, donning a safari hat. Claire took in a notable breath. “You see, you are stunning in that hat.” My response was nothing short of sarcasm. “Claire dear, you call me stunning in any hat.” “That’s true my darling, you are stunning no matter what hat you put on that little head of yours. I don’t know what it is about your head or your facial structure, but there isn’t a hat you can’t wear that doesn’t make you absolutely dashing.” She poured me another cup of coffee and had me try a plantain. I was curious when I peered at the fruit plate. “What’s a plantain?” Claire quickly responded, “It’s another name for banana, darling. Give it a try. I’m positive you’ll like it.”

As I peeled back the skin of a plantain, a Black-capped Chickadee landed atop Claire’s head. Once again, we posed as Egyptian statues not moving a muscle. This time, the chickadee sang its buzzing twill that gave it its name—chick-a-dee-dee-dee. Claire buzzed back the exact twill. The chickadee flew over to the bird bath and chirped while it bathed. It then disappeared over the railing and down into the marsh. I took a bite of plantain with a smile as Claire stated kindly through her piercing green-blue eyes, “There, you see, you love plantains and you didn’t even know it, G!” I continued to smile as I stuffed my face with a second plantain. Claire sat perplexed, gazing over the rail. “I’m almost certain that chickadee was the same one that landed on my leg yesterday.”

Andrew was standing quietly in the veranda with his hands clasped in front of him as we approached. He greeted us with, “Good day, ladies. I have the perfect spot to take you today. We will not be disturbed by any other patrons.” And quite frankly, he added, “We shan’t be bothered by a soul on our treks during your stay at St. Mark’s.” Andrew had been walking the trails of St. Mark’s sanctuary for ten plus years. He was twenty-three when he arrived from England as a butler for the Masterson’s. They had been on holiday in the UK when Henrietta and her now-departed husband, William, entertained Andrews services. Andrew was a personal servant for William’s relatives in the English township of Bristol. He was itching to sail to the Americas, and here was his chance. He truly relished his days at St. Mark’s. He was devoted to the Masterson family even after William died.

We followed Andrew away from the masses west, along the coastal trail in the direction of the lighthouse. It was a magnificent red and white lighthouse that was built on the most southerly point of Apalachee Bay. It was off limits to any and all visitors. Only the lighthouse attendants had access. I found out very soon after we first started traveling that Claire was notorious for getting her way. In one of the many telegrams sent back and forth between her and Henrietta, Claire boasted about her great uncle who designed and constructed many New England lighthouses and wouldn’t it be nice to get up close and personal with St. Mark’s lighthouse. After all, she had heard wonderful and great things about it for so long. Claire let Henrietta Masterson know that cost was not an issue. I am positive the main reason we attained Andrew as our servant was because of Claire and her persistence in acquiring nothing but the best. It was one of her passions.

So there we were on the southernmost point, climbing the spiral staircase leading up to the most enormous candle reflective light for miles around. The view of the gulf was vast and magnificent. We could see a steam ship on the horizon and several sailing vessels. Spending time above the bay was a pleasure, and when Andrew said it was time to depart, we lingered for a while. We were making our way down the path from the lighthouse when Andrew stopped us dead in our tracks. He instructed us to drop to our knees. He then had us peek over the reeds and bottle brush plants directly in front of us and there was a small brood of two Whooping Cranes and their parents. Both parents were pure white, with black wing tips and red on their foreheads and cheeks. One of the adults let out a trumpetlike call that Andrew told us could be heard for miles around. Andrew informed us that you never see the parents with more than one or two chicks per season.

We sat on the trail mesmerized by the Whooping Cranes. Claire and I could have sat there for hours. Andrew broke our concentration by reminding us, “I’m returning to St. Mark’s presently, so if you ladies would like to remain, you’re free to do so. I will have your dinner ready on the terrace one hour before sunset.” I looked at the miniature clock around my neck that Claire had given me years before and then looked back at Andrew. He impatiently quipped, “Half past seven.” I wanted to get on Andrews good side, so I responded with pleasantries. “Thank you very kindly, Andrew. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You are a most gracious and forthright man.” Andrew bowed my way and replied, “I am always at your service, Madam.”

We remained in the same location until seven that evening. We were reminded of the hour when a Black-capped chickadee landed in a reed shoot just behind Claire’s right shoulder. Once again, it sang its familiar song—chick-a-dee-dee-dee. As we stood up and followed the path back to St. Mark’s, Claire swore the chickadee was following us or I should say leading us. He would land on a reed ahead of us, and when we caught up, he’d take flight again only to repeat his last advance. He did this all the way to the veranda. We opened the door to our wing, changed our clothes, and sat down in the living room. When we made our way out to the terrace, we found the chickadee perched on one of the gas lamps just outside the French doors, sputtering chick-a-dee-dee-dee. “How extraordinary,” I exclaimed to Claire, adding, “Do you suppose he knows you from a past life like the Dalai Lama?” “Don’t be ridiculous, G! I think we simply have a curious bird on our hands.” With that, the chickadee took flight west into the sunset.

Claire no longer fancied Andrew tapping on our door. She told him so and added, “From now on, Andrew Radcliff, I prefer you make your presence known by entering our suite, and after you are standing in the foyer, with the door safely closed, I’d rather you announce breakfast, lunch, or dinner is served.” Andrew’s response was brief. “Yes, Madam, is there anything else?” Claire faced him square on and ordered, “Yes, we’d like a carriage ride tomorrow and a picnic, if you could oblige us, to a spot where we may sight Purple Martins or swallows?” Andrew had a look of excitement in his eyes. “I would be delighted, but we must get an early start.” I was intrigued and expressed my feelings. “What time would you suggest, Andrew? Before the break of dawn?” His enthusiasm revealed itself. “No, madam, I suggest sunrise, definitely sunrise. It’s the perfect time for a sighting!” Once again, I looked at the miniature clock around my neck as Andrew quickly added. “Six thirty on the dot, Madam!” Claire ended the chitchat. “That will be all, Andrew Radcliff. We will see you bright and early tomorrow. I suspect our breakfast will be served by six?” Andrew answered Claire immediately. “Yes, Madam, you are correct.” For some reason, Claire seemed to enjoy her superiority over Andrew. At the same time, Andrew continued to welcome it.

Andrew helped us into the carriage and headed east down the shoreline, away from St. Mark’s and the lighthouse. I was trying to devour my peach Danish between bumps while Claire was devouring the scenery. Andrew slowed almost to a stop and pointed down to the shoreline. Claire and I both turned in that direction and spotted several Snowy Egrets and Great Blue Herons. They were such graceful birds with the funniest-looking stick legs. Andrew told us their legs were long like that because they were considered a wading species. I took Claire’s hand in mine and kissed her on the cheek. She winked back at me with a squeeze and then kissed my hand. We were both eager and thrilled about our early-morning outing. As we came around a bend, towering in front of us were cliffs. The cliffs spanned only a quarter mile down the coast. Andrew guided the horses down the trail to a specific point and then pulled off into a turnabout. He removed two folding rattan chairs, helped us out of the carriage, and had us sit facing the cliffs. He told us, “Ladies, I recommend you sit quietly and watch the cliffs in front of you. You’re about to experience an amazing site.”

We sat back with our heads slightly tilted upwards. The sun was slowly rising out of the east. Andrew stood behind us and commentated as we observed the cliffs. We learned that Purple Martins and swallows were of the same family. The Martin is considered the largest of the swallows. It is an inch or two larger. These birds aren’t considered a flocking bird, but they do nest in large colonies, sometimes on cliffs, by making gourd-shaped structures of mud and lined with feathers. The swallows tend to take flight all at once when bugs are hatching in the morning and evening so they can feed. No sooner had Andrew given us a biography when they started flying from their nests, off the side of the cliffs. It was exhilarating to observe their flight. It started out as a few birds flying in a circular motion, but soon their numbers grew and grew. They swarmed like bees leaving the hive to follow their queen. It was incredible being a spectator to an unbelievable aerial performance.

The birds finally settled down as Andrew walked us down the trail. We then followed him up a path along a steep embankment. When we made it to the top, Claire and I realized we were now standing directly above the cliffs. Andrew put Claire in a harness and lowered her over the side, about twenty feet. Claire observed several gourd-shaped nests, some empty and some with squawking swallows. Some old and dried out, while others were fresh with dark mud and preened feathers. When the swallows started dive-bombing Claire, Andrew hoisted her up. He asked if I’d like to be lowered. “I don’t think I’m in the mood to be exploited by a colony of swallows. I think I’d benefit more by sitting down to a nice picnic, wouldn’t you, Andrew?” We hiked back down the path to the carriage and enjoyed a spectacular picnic. Claire insisted Andrew join us. I insisted Andrew tell us about his favorite birds.

He was very engaging and told us all about Brown Pelicans and their ability to catch fish in their pouches after diving from fifty feet above the water. He mentioned how the Yellow-billed Cuckoo had a tendency to utter its distinctive call at the approach of a storm. He mentioned how the Whip-poor-will was suspected of witchcraft and being night flyers. They would fly at dusk to suck the milk from goats’ udders, leaving them dry. Their family name actually means goat milker in Latin. He talked about the lovely Red-throated Loon and how they mate for life. Andrew informed us there were well over sixty-five different species of birds at St. Mark’s.

I wanted to know about chickadees and tell him all about our newfound friend. “What can you tell us about the habits of chickadees. Claire has one that, I swear, is trying to communicate with her.” Andrew laughed aloud, and it was quite a charming sound indeed; however, it certainly did not compare to Claire’s laugh. Andrew told us a legend about an old fisherman who befriended all the birds along Apalachee Bay. They say he spent hours walking up and down the coast when he wasn’t out on his fishing boat. It’s been said he made all the paths you see out there in the sanctuary because of his constant hiking. Andrew told us the fisherman particularly favored chickadees. Legend has it when the old fisherman finally died, his ghost still roamed the marshes. Sometime you can see his shadow up in the lighthouse. As far as the chickadee being his favorite bird, legend also has it, from time to time, he was seen with a chickadee on his finger and he would raise his hand to his lips and kiss the bird right on the beak. I turned to Claire, giving her an idea. “Perhaps you should give it a try, Claire!” Andrew and Claire laughed at the same time, which tickled me pink.

The next afternoon, when Andrew delivered lunch, Claire asked if we could take another ride that evening. Andrew apologized and said he had a dinner engagement with an acquaintance of his, and after he served our dinner, he would be on his way to go prepare his own dinner. Claire’s personal intrusion towards Andrew was swift and explicit. “Tell me Andrew Radcliff, does your acquaintance have a name?” “Why yes, Madam. His name is Richard.” And does Richard live close by?” “Actually, Madam, he lives halfway between Tallahassee and St. Mark’s.” Claire made her point. “Well then, I suggest you get word to your acquaintance, Richard, he will be dining with the three of us tonight. What are we having for supper, Andrew Radcliff?”

Andrew looked confused and posed his attention towards me for support that was not there. “Uh, well, I suppose we will start with hors d’oeuvres, perhaps crab soufflé seasoned in nutmeg and sherry, with asparagus wraps I can stuff with bacon, crushed walnut, and soft creamy cheese. The entrée will be pork ribs, Vidalia onions with beans and rice, and a nice fruit salad of oranges, peaches, mango, and melon. I believe we can wash it down with a nice Madeira wine. For dessert, I can easily make sweet potato pie served with my specialty coffee and a splash of Irish whiskey and cream.” Claire secretly smiled at me with her eyes. “What time would you like me in the kitchen to assist you? Does five o’clock sound good?” Andrew had the same confused look on his face when he gave me a look of despair. “Uh, well yes, five o’clock will be fine.” Claire was acting as though she was riding shotgun on a stagecoach. “Good and I’m sure Gwen won’t mind entertaining your acquaintance, Richard. Have him hear by five thirty.”

We ate and laughed and told stories and laughed some more. Andrew and Richard were sweet together and sweet on each other. It was most obvious when they spoke and looked at each other. How Claire knew about Andrew’s preference, I’ll never know. She continued to amaze me time after time with her instinctual prowess. Before the sun went down, we were enjoying our coffee and pie out on the terrace. The four of us went stone-cold like an Egyptian statue when the chickadee landed on Clair’s wrist. Her wrist just happened to be gently resting on the glass tabletop. As the three of us watched, Claire slowly raised her wrist up to her lips and, at the last second, kissed the chickadee on the beak. It flew away in a flutter without a peep. Claire exclaimed. “I’m naming him Deider, short for chick-a-dee-dee-dee. We all laughed and then had one last cup of Andrew’s specialty coffee. Claire and I drifted off to sleep that night, embraced in each other’s arms singing, “Chick-a-deider-deider-dee.”

“Breakfast is served,” Andrew quietly spoke as he pushed the cart to the terrace. “I do believe this is your last day, ladies. Tomorrow I take you back to Tallahassee to catch your train.

Where will you be heading next?” Claire moaned, “Home, Andrew Radcliff, home.” “And where is home?” I told Andrew, “In a town called Durango, west of Kansas.” “Well then, tonight I’ll prepare my best gourmet meal, and you will have a feast just like the Royals in Europe.”

Andrew uncorked an Italian bottle of 1836 Merlot from Montalcino, a wine region in Tuscany. Claire’s eyes grew to twice their size when Andrew placed a wine glass in front of her with just a splash of Merlot for tasting. I smelled the cork while Claire took a whiff and swished the wine around in the glass before taking a small sip. I watched her eyes roll in the back of her head for a brief moment before she opened them and tested Andrew. “It has a wonderful bouquet, a rich fruity overtone and a modest smoky taste.” Andrew bowed his head as he stood in front of Claire. “Very good, Madam, most do not detect the smoky flavor.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise and approval when Claire looked my way grinning. Claire raised her eyebrows in surprise and approval when Andrew uncorked another Italian bottle, this time it was Sagrantino 1845, from the Umbria wine region of Italy.

That night, Claire, Andrew, Richard, and I dined over the most fantastic grilled Caribbean cuisine north of Saint Croix. For starters, we devoured Calypso Shrimp Skewers and Jamaican Pork Kabobs with a creamy cucumber salad. We then sunk our teeth into Curry Goat with marinated pears and almond-stuffed zucchini, followed by Jerk Spice Chicken and Pepperpot Soup. Lastly for dessert, we savored the taste of Gizzada, which is a small tart shell with sweet spiced coconut filling. To go along with it, we sipped hot buttered rum.

Morning came too quickly. Claire had her long gazelle-like legs lying across my body as she slept. I ran my hands up and down the curves of her thighs to see if I could get a rise out of her. She did not stir. I then moved my hand between her thighs and started touching a place that was uncharted when I first met her. She stirred with an inhale and a soft moan, whispering, “That better be you, G, if not, then whoever it is, I’ll have to slice your hand off with my silver cutlass.” I whispered back, “If you slice me with your silver cutlass, I’ll have to plunge this teak-handled scabbard into your heart, matey. Aaarrgghh!” Claire rolled on top of me and put her hand between my legs and started French kissing me with lustful passion. Andrew rolled past without a care in the world. “Breakfast is served, ladies.” I looked up disappointed. “Damn!” Claire tilted her head back slightly and laughed. It was a laugh you’d imagine bouncing gently off a high mountain lake on a soft moonlit night. A laugh I could get lost at sea with, on any given voyage.

We boarded the train and watched from our Pullman sleeper as Andrew got lost in the crowd. We cherished our time with him, and Claire promised one day we would return not only on Andrew Radcliff’s behalf but also for the birds. I couldn’t agree more and told her I’d like to revisit this place again, so I could catch a glimpse of a shadowy male figure in the St. Mark’s Lighthouse. As the train pulled away from the station, Claire noticed a Black-capped Chickadee sitting in a sycamore. She stated, “How extraordinary,” and blew it a kiss good-bye.

Chapter 17

“If I told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, Gwen! You can’t mess with a mother bear, especially a grizzly! It doesn’t matter how old her cubs are either! Now crawl out of that burrow right this second! How the hell did you get yourself into such a small hole anyway?” Claire was livid. She had been out searching with every single one of my ranch hands, including both cooks, Bo and Jake’s grandson, Jake Jr. She was frantic. She had been waiting thirty minutes for me after I had told her I’d go fetch a fresh bucket of milk. Claire was in the process of cooking up some shortbread. Fresh strawberries were waiting in the wings as topping. She assumed I was struggling with the cow, and she tried to be patient. When her patience ran out, she started looking for me in the barn, paddock, corral, tack room, and front pasture. She became extremely alarmed when she noticed an overturned bucket of spilled milk in Jezebel’s stall and claw marks on the locked feed bin outside the tack room.

I crawled out of my trusty hole looking around nervously. Claire poked and prodded me until she was satisfied I was not seriously injured. I only had a few cuts and bruises, although she was not fond of the cut on my upper lip. When I was trying to avoid the bear, I made a mad dash for a burrow under a rotted Juniper Tree and, in doing so, I may have avoided the bear, but I smacked my mouth hard on a jagged root that was sticking out of the ground. The hole was long and narrow and the grizzly had no chance of reaching me or digging her way to me because of all the protruding roots. Claire grabbed me roughly and pulled me in the direction of the main ranch house. “You’re coming with me, so I can clean you up and sterilize your lip!” I knew exactly what that meant. Some form of stinging alcohol was going to be applied to my wound along with some type of abrasive contact. No thank you, I thought. I pulled away from Claire complaining, “I’m fine, Claire. You don’t need to worry about the little scratch on my lip. It’s fine! I need to finish my chores and get you a bucket of fresh milk. Now leave me be!”

Claire released me, took one step back, and lashed out like a bobcat. “Do you really think I’m going to let you get away without cleaning that cut on your lip? Do you not understand that if you don’t let me clean that cut, it will more than likely get infected?” And if it gets infected, then you’re off to the docs for a painful lancing! And if it gets lanced, it will be so sore you won’t be able to kiss me for at least a week or two!” God, I loved to quarrel with Claire. I touched my lip and groaned. With perjured severity, I stated my claim. “Well then, I guess I’ll go grab a bottle of whiskey, saddle Vander B, grab my bedroll and poncho, and head to the north forty for a couple of weeks to look after the herd and my lip!” Claire could spot a bluff as easily as Butch Cassidy spotted a cheater while playing a game of Texas Hold ’em, and boy did she call me on it! “All right, G, go ahead to the north forty for two weeks. See if I care! Don’t blame me if that grizzly and her cub sniff you out and maul the scalp right off that little head of yours!”

“Ouch, that stings like a fricken wasp bite, times ten!” I yelped as I pulled away from Claire. She calmly stated, “Sit still, darling. I’m almost finished.” I was sitting on the kitchen sideboard as Claire stood between my legs, working on my upper lip. Every time I felt pain, I squeezed my knees together as hard as I could. She never once complained or asked me to stop crushing her hips. Claire’s mindful act of kindness amazed me to no end. I wanted to pull her into my arms right then and there and give her some sugar. I gave it a try but was stopped in mid stream with a reprimand.

“Now hold it right there, G! The sooner I take care of this the sooner you can get back to your chores. Besides, if you try to kiss me right now, you’ll be in a world of hurt and not just from the kiss!” I grunted, “What’s that supposed to mean?” Claire insisted, “It’s simple deduction, darling. If you try kissing me right now, I’ll surely have to take advantage of you. If I take advantage of you, then you will end up forgetting about your chores. If you forget about your chores, you’ll be a day behind and a dollar short. If you’re a day behind, I won’t have any milk and then there won’t be any shortbread with strawberries to enjoy for dessert tonight.” I had a baffled look on my face and the only sound that came out of my mouth was, “Hmmm.”

I didn’t go outside for the rest of the week, but that wasn’t because of Claire’s insightful rhetoric. I was waiting until my head ranch hand, Zach, set two bear traps and caught the mother bear. One trap was out past the barn, and one trap was inside the forest line. It was a spot one of my cowhands first noticed a grizzly three days prior. The night of the attack, Claire and I were sitting on the buckskin couch in the great room, appreciating the fire and sipping on cognac. Claire was so worried about my upper lip, she neglected to inquire about my awful experience until the evening hours.

“How on earth did you allow a grizzly to attack you anyway, darling?” I felt a little defiant. “First of all, I did not allow a grizzly to attack me! That would be a death sentence! As you know, I was milking Jezebel when I heard a ruckus out by my tack room. I stopped milking and headed over there straight away, leaving the bucket half full, obviously too close to Jezebel. And yes, we all know what happened to the bucket, so don’t rub it in again Claire, or I’ll put you in a bear hug you’ll regret!” Claire giggled as she leaned her body into mine and kept it there for the duration. I continued my short saga. “The next thing I knew there was a grizzly cub trying to get into the locked feed bin. I snatched up a pitch fork and made my presence known in the biggest way I could by standing tall. I yelled as loud as I could and waved the pitch fork at the cub. The little brute jumped off the bin with a start as I forced him out of the barn. I maneuvered him in the direction of the tree line, never once thinking about his mother.

We were so close to the forest I could almost reach out and touch tree limbs. That’s when I saw her out of the corner of my eye. The mother grizzly was bearing down on me fast. I’d say she was maybe seventy-five yards away and came from the opposite side of the ranch.” Claire intertwined her arms with mine and continued to listen. “I’ve never seen a bear move so quickly. I dropped the pitchfork and ran like hell for the trees. I think the cub ran back towards its mother. Anyway, momma bear never got close to me, my dear. Oh, she huffed and puffed and stomped around the juniper tree for a time, but eventually she got bored and decided to traipse off into the forest with her cub. And yes, I almost peed in my pants!”

Claire put her hand in my crotch to see if my dungarees were wet. I slapped her hand away and pinched her arm. “You’re hysterical! Anyway my dear, I figured I didn’t want to chance it, so I stayed in the hole until I heard your beautiful voice.” Claire didn’t buy my story for one second. “As I so vividly recall, you were fast asleep taking a catnap when I arrived. I had to call you several times before you answered me, darling. And I’m thankful you were wearing that god-awful red parka or you’d probably be out there right now sawing logs because I would have never seen you under all those roots!”

We were now cuddling on the buckskin couch in front of the great room fireplace. Claire was sipping her cognac. I had just thrown two more logs on the fire. I stared into the fire as the flames flickered and jumped, changing from red to orange and then blue. Flames were quite spellbinding. Claire interrupted my trance. “Wouldn’t a bearskin rug look spectacular in front of the fireplace? I mean, this room and the fireplace are so huge, I think a bearskin would be fantastic lying right there.” Claire pointed to the spot between the buckskin couch and the hearth. “You know, I think you’re right! A bearskin rug would look great in front of the fireplace.” Claire set her cognac on the end table and wrapped her body around me. She ran her fingers along my hairline, down to my earlobe. She tugged on my ear and whispered, “If we had a bearskin rug spread across this hardwood floor, just think of all the mauling I could do to you!”

Zach and I were standing nervously in front of the bear trap, located inside the forest line. It was a huge metal drum, about twelve feet long and five feet in diameter. It was mounted on two axles with four wheels. It had wrought iron bars welded to the back and welded to the front trapdoor, which locked into place after the bear tripped it. We were both keeping our distance as we gazed in at the massive grizzly. He had recently feasted on the carcass of a goat Zach baited the trap with a day earlier and now the bear was snoozing.

I took a good look at him and whispered to Zach, “This here grizzly is twice the size of that mother bear that came after me the other day!” Zach’s comment was a bit more animated as he whispered back, “Holy Mother of Genghis Khan in the Gobi Desert! That’s the biggest male grizzly I’ve ever seen in my entire life!” Zach gave one of those shrilled whistles. Big mistake, the grizzly changed position and opened his eyes snarling. Zach lifted his double-barreled shotgun and exclaimed, “Crap on a stick! Look at the size of his teeth! Fricken God almighty in a handbag, he’s a monster! I suggest you make a decision right now, Gwenny, before he tears this cage apart and anyone within a mile of it!”

I took a few steps back as the bear rattled the drum. “Don’t panic, Zach, I’m thinking! Do you and your family eat bear?” Zach responded, “Hell Yes! C’mon, Gwenny, what’s it gonna be?” I took another step back. “Will you help me skin him and do one of those taxidermy things on him, so we can make him into a rug for Claire?” You’re damn tootin’, Gwen, now c’mon! What’s it gonna be!” I took one last step back. “All right, Zach, do what you have to do!” I turned away as Zach took careful aim. He pointed away from the grizzly’s head and more towards the grizzly’s heart, so the bearskin rug would not be lacking a bear’s head. Just before he shot the grizzly twice, Zach prayed with the softest of breath. “Holy Mary, you son of a mother, aim straight and let the pellets fly right, now and at the hour of this bear’s death. Amen!” I silently mouthed, “Amen.”

Four weeks later, Claire was yelling my name from the great room. “G, darling what is taking you so long? How difficult is it to pour two snifters of brandy and grab a plate of Trapper fruit salad and a fork?” I thought I’d give Claire a good laugh by putting on my chaps, a pair of leather boots, and tie a clean bandana around my neck, nothing more and nothing less. I figured she’d get a kick out of my Scotch-Irish white arse. I couldn’t have been more right, and I couldn’t have been more wrong. As I walked into the great room, with tray in hand, there was Claire spread eagle across the bearskin rug in her birthday suit. I spoke barely above an exhale, “Jesus, Mary, and Josephine!” I could have cared less about what I was wearing. I set the tray on the floor beside the rug and, as I bent over, Claire tilted her head back slightly and let out her contagious laugh. She mauled me that night and outperformed any grizzly in the territory that attempted the same feat.

We woke up to a hollering Jake Jr. and our newest house maid, Sissy, from New Orleans. She was Mary Moses’s niece. Claire retained her services on her last trip to see the Frenchman. We always had a feeling not all of Mary Moses’s relatives fled up north and left her to fend for herself. I grabbed the Indian blanket and covered us up just as the two screamers entered the great room. I sat up with the blanket wrapped around me while Claire hid beneath it. “What is it, you two?” They both started, and I couldn’t understand one word. “Wait a minute! Just wait one minute! Jake Jr., you go first.” Jake Jr. spoke nervously, “Zach trapped a mother bear in one of the traps, and the baby cub is climbing all over the cage! The mother grizzly is going nuts, and Zach needs your help right this second!” I asked calmly, “Why aren’t the ranch hands assisting?” Jake Jr. sounded frantic. “I don’t know! Zach just axed me to hurry my garsh darn arse to the main house and find you as fast as the river flows in springtime!”

Missy had been waiting patiently as I turned towards her and nodded. She was out of breath when she blurted out, “Zachary is needin’ extra shotgun shells and some lassos, and yous post to hitch the other cage to a horse and drive it on over to wheres hees at, sews you alls can load that baby bear into it and gets them the hell out of Dodge!” Claire snickered under the blanket as I gave her a hard nudge with my knee. I then asked Missy, “Is that all Zach said?” “No, Miss Gwenny! Jr. dun told me Zach cez yous post to bring your cold .45 in case the baby bear tacks him or mauls him and yous post to bring a bucketfuls of feed in case the baby bear gets hungry. Zach cez, Holy Mary, he’d ruther shoot dat baby bear instead of havin’ to feeds it!”

Claire snickered under the blanket again. I inconspicuously rammed my elbow into her ribs as I rested my chin on my fisted hand. I then addressed both Jake Jr. and Missy. “All right, you two, I want you both to go out and see if any of the ranch hands need help with anything while I get my boots on and find my Colt .45.” Missy responded with an innocent answer, “Now Miss Gwenny, don’ts you thinks it may be too cold fur ya outside wits nothin’ but yur boots and gun belt on?” As soon as they left the great room, I kicked, poked, and tickled Claire under the blanket. “Have you seen my boots? Where the heck did I put my boots?” Claire responded with a giggle, “Maybe Jr. knows if yur boots be round heres somewhere, cuz I sure duzn’t!” I was appalled at Claire’s indiscretion. “Take it back! Take it back right now Claire, or I swear you’ll regret it! Now take it back!” That night Claire baked a strawberry pie for Jr. and a blackberry pie for Missy.

“Hold that hog line tight!” I yelled to Zach as he tried to pull the cub into the empty trap. We had lassoed the cub around the neck and hind legs and were now attempting to load it in the drum. I agreed with Zach that it was necessary and in our best interest not to have anyone other than the two of us handling the situation. I thought about one of Claire’s favorite kitchen sayings. “Too many cooks spoil the broth!” Besides, I didn’t want to see any of my ranch hands getting injured or mauled. Zach and I were doing just fine. We figured once the cub was in the drum, we’d throw it some feed, in hopes that would calm him down. The mother grizzly was still banging around in her cage, but we weren’t too worried about it knowing she was only half the size of the male grizzly that met his demise.

We either had to kill the grizzlies or relocate them. We couldn’t have them near the ranch slaughtering our cattle. We had enough trouble with the wolves and the mountain lions. Even the coyotes put in their two cents worth by going after calves. We had to shoot them on a regular basis. It was impossible to think about relocating them. They’d be back in less than a day. Now a grizzly could be loaded on a railroad stock car and released somewhere northeast between Pagosa Springs and Colorado Springs, in the central mountain valley. On most occasions, they’d be shipped near Wolf Creek Pass. I had to pay the railroad top dollar for such a stunt, but it saved me top dollar in the long run. I also had to wait for my trap to be returned or have a new trap built, so that was a bit annoying. I had yet to kill a bear until that massive male graced our ranch. Zach and five ranch hands were mounted and ready to make their way to the railway station with two loaded bear traps. I headed back to the main ranch house to settle my nerves.

There wasn’t a whole lot I could give Claire that she didn’t already have, and I thought a bearskin rug was the least I could do. We spent many a winter night in front of the great room fireplace as warm as we could be, and there were times we didn’t even have a fire blazing. I exclaimed to Claire in my silliest voice, “Between the two of us with our bare skin, our goose down quilt, an Indian blanket, and one bearskin rug, we are as calm-ah as a llama wearing pajamas in the Bahamas! Sometimes we get a little sore like a male boar that’s been savagely gored!” Claire reluctantly consented to my unspoken request as she rolled her eyes. “You get one more of those, darling.” I smirked and gave it my all. “We are most certainly hotter than any Otter in the water! Let me have one more, Claire, pretty please?” She nodded yes as I blathered on. “We are much happier when we’re under the covers in a spoon, than any pair of loons, swimming around a lagoon!”

Claire started pinching and tickling me nonstop, demanding, “Take it back! I said take it back, G! If you don’t take it back right this second, I’m going to tickle you until you can’t breathe, now take that last pathetic quip back! As a matter of fact, take all those outlandish quips back!” I was laughing so hard, I couldn’t speak. Claire insisted, “Take them back! Take those stupid little remarks back this second! They are the dumbest things I’ve heard all year! Now take them back!” I couldn’t breathe and Claire realized what she had done.

She stopped immediately, let me catch my breath, then she grabbed my face, gave me an endearing kiss, and wrapped her arms around me apologizing wholeheartedly. She then put in her two cents worth by reciting as slowly as she could, with a most sincere and endearing effort, “You are my rainbow after it rains. You are the sugar in my sugarcane. You are my north, my south, my east, and my west. You are my human compass, I must confess. You are the tasty red wine that makes my head spin. You are the naked body on my bare skin.” I caught myself sniffing, not realizing how touched I had become, because I was so stunned by Claire’s unexpected verse. “Why, Claire Elizabeth, you’re a poet! You must start writing poetry.” Claire’s kiss was so deep, I felt my toes tingle. When she released me, there was only one thing I could possibly utter. “You get one more of those.” Before Claire kissed me again, she repeated my words in French. “Donnez-moi un autre.” You get one more of those. That got me every time.

Chapter 18

Claire had set the letter from her Aunt Amilie down on the table and started to open the letter her mother wrote. Her hands were shaking, and she appeared to be in shock after reading that her mother had passed on the morn of 7 September, 1859. It had been a little over a month ago. I stood up quietly and made my way to the liquor bar and poured two glasses of Grand Marnier. Before I sat back down in the large leather chair, I handed Claire one of the glasses. She took a hard gulp and then set the drink on the table. She continued the attempt at opening the letter from her now-deceased mother.

It had been just under twenty years since she left Boston behind and a life she loved yet hated. She had always loved her parents, but she couldn’t live that kind of lifestyle. If she did, she’d be living a lie, and she would suffer miserably. She never really talked to me about it. It was much too painful. Claire’s hands continued to shake as I gently slipped the envelope from her trembling grasp and handed her the glass of Grand Marnier. I sat across from Claire to give her some space. I noticed there was more than just a letter inside, but I didn’t say a word. I opened the envelope, removed the letter, and began reading.

1st September, 1859

My Precious Claire Elizabeth,

It has been far too long since we last stood in the same room together. I am most regretful that it has come to this. As of late, your aunt has shared with me the truth regarding your departure eighteen years past. She has caught me and your father up to date. If I had known then what I know now, the loss of my only daughter would have never transpired. I find it quite humorous how well your aunt kept you hidden. I can only blame myself, and I must ask for your forgiveness. As a mother, I’ve wanted to protect you your whole life. That protection started the day you were born. I am saddened that the hour is near, and it is far too late to make amends in person. I can only hope and pray for your well-being and trust that the drive you have inside propels you to continue to live an honorable and decent life. Your father and I have never stopped loving you.

Enclosed is your maternal inheritance upon my death. Your father and I never once thought to deprive you of something that has always been rightfully yours. We are extremely proud of your business ventures, and you are most deserving of a happy and fulfilling life. If you could find it in your heart to open communications with your father, I would be most grateful and indebted to you now and in my afterlife. He has been the bravest of souls throughout all of this.

I hope this letter finds you, your children, and your entire family safe.

With Loving Fondness,

Mother J’ai votre Coeur

Claire was sobbing as I handed her the letter. She was inconsolable, and all I could do was lock the study door, refill her glass, and just sit there and watch. She had kept her emotions bottled up for nearly twenty years and the eruption was now inevitable. To go that long in your life not realizing your parents loved you all along and then find out the truth after your mother dies has got to be the single most agonizing letdown a person has to come to terms with. And all I could do was just sit there and watch. Claire would not accept any physical contact whatsoever. Perhaps she thought she was undeserving of it.

Claire read her mother’s letter over and over all night long. When she wasn’t sobbing, she was reading. To endure such heartbreak is a tragedy I could never imagine. At least I knew my parents always loved me long before they passed. If it was any consolation, at least Claire still had her father. The dawn was approaching. Claire finally took her eyes off the letter and folded it carefully before putting it back in the envelope. She looked over at me with her red puffy eyes and opened her arms to me. I grabbed the blanket I was sitting on and wrapped it around her and myself as we sat together on the oversized leather couch. Now all I could do was rock her slowly.

I rocked her slowly and gently to a melody I began to hum. It was a melody from an old English hymn that was written in the late 1700s by a fellow named John Newton. Claire once told me her grandmother used to sing it to her mother as a child and her mother used to sing it to Claire when she was a child. I can remember Clair singing it to B.J. and Rosy when they were small. I once told Claire my grandfather used to sing it to my father when he was young, and my father used to sing it to me when I was young. It was often sung at local funerals we attended. Now I was humming it softly for Claire and her mother. “Amazing Grace” was the sweet melody I hummed. When I was finished, I put my lips up to Claire’s ear and softly whispered, “You once were lost and now you’re found, was blind but now you see.” Claire didn’t let me go until dusk. The next morning, when Claire and I were sipping coffee, New England style, in the breakfast nook, I asked sorrowfully, “What does J’ai votre Coeur mean?” Claire placed her hands on her chest, held back her tears, and lovingly proclaimed, “I have your heart.”

A month later, when our lives returned back to some semblance of normalcy, Claire and I were in the study auditing our books. Claire seemed a little distracted, and every once in a while, she would stare out the window in a daze. She closed her ledger abruptly and made her way over to the bookshelf and stood in front of the C section. She located and retrieved Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. She removed the key from around her neck. She had been wearing it ever since her mother’s letter had arrived. She unlocked the hardback and spent several minutes staring at its contents. Inside was her inheritance check, postdated 2 October, 1859. She finally removed it, closed and locked Don Quixote, returned it to the shelf, and went back to her desk.

She plopped down hard in her Queen Anne chair, leaned back on two legs, and boldly interjected, “What the hell am I going to do with one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, darling?” I tried to simplify her dilemma. “Why not deposit it at Wells Fargo for now and we’ll worry about it later?” Claire was acting peculiar and responded as such: “I guess we can do that or should I just burn it? Oh, never mind. Could you harness the horse and have the barouche ready in ten minutes, darling?” I stood from my chair and faced the door. “Absolutely, my dear!” I was reluctant to push Claire into doing anything she wasn’t ready to do. If she needed to talk, I’d listen. If she asked for advice, I’d give it.

And after such a shattering event, I let Claire find her way back into her own life. Halfway into town, Claire made a request that brought a smile to my face and tears to my eyes. She announced with determination, “I’d like you to stop off at Western Union, darling. I think I’ll send a telegram to Boston.”

* * *

I tied a dun-colored caddis fly on my leader. Besides angling, matching the hatch was one of my new found hobbies. I’d tap a bush with the end of my bamboo rod as I walked down a path along the river’s edge, waiting to see what might take flight and grabbing any bug that came within arm’s length. When I’d wade the river, I’d bend down and just watch the passing water and wait for a fly to float by and then scoop it up. I’d examine any bug I managed to capture and if any fly in my fly box matched, I’d tie it on my leader and make my cast. This engaging system proved to be the fastest way of bringing up a rise.

Every time I landed a trout, I thought of Claire. It was Claire who introduced me to my most recent passion. It was Claire who always suspected I’d favor a most unusual pastime. It was Claire, now from her grave, who inspired me to match the hatch or forge on after hours of getting skunked. It was Claire now who motivated me to master the method with flawless precision or cast a new where I’d been before, knowing full well I’d eventually land a trout. It was Claire who inspired me to accomplish a feat I never would have tried, which was the perfect display of presenting my fly on the surface of the water.

I realized now that my life with Claire had been filled with precision. It was a lifetime of pure accuracy. She demanded it, so our lives would be exceptional. She refused normality. She strived for diversity and instigated it at every venue. Our travels were always audacious, adventurous, and extraordinary. If they didn’t include a hint of humor and comedy, they were forgetful. I thought of one particular moment in time. We were ending our spectacular journey to Tallahassee, and Claire wanted to take a detour into the marvelous Texas town of Corpus Christi. She wanted to travel there specifically to meet or learn about this Christi woman. I remember it well because it was two years to the day after Colorado became a state.

Corpus Christi was just as beautiful as St. Mark’s had been but in its own special way. We spent every waking hour trying to find out about Claire’s mystery woman. We found many things we weren’t intending on Claire’s little quest to meet Christi. First and foremost, our timing was impeccable regarding the marine climate. We were to make a note that the month of April had some of the best weather the town had to offer, seventy-five to eighty degrees was the norm. Apparently, from June to October could be quite unbearably hot.

We met the nephew of Colonel Henry Lawrence Kinney and quickly found out the Colonel was the founding father. He opened a trading post in 1839 and sold goods to the Mexican revolutionaries. For reasons inexplicable to man, the nephew of Colonel Kinney had no idea the identity or location of Corpus Christi. We made our way to a popular spot known as North Beach and only found information about boat trips to two exquisite Islands christened Padre Island and Mustang Island. Both islands revealed gorgeous shorelines and marine life but nothing about the infamous Christi woman.

Claire purchased a local newspaper called the Corpus Christi Caller, hoping to find some shred of evidence to the whereabouts of this woman, but Claire’s hopes were dashed. The only significant information she found in the Caller was that Corpus Christi was known as the sparkling city by the sea. Claire opted to visit the newspaper company and inquire from within. We stood in front of the Corpus Christi Caller and its locked double doors. Claire had her face plastered up against the glass window with a hand covering her eyes. She peered into the building, hoping to spot signs of life. I had my arms folded and was secretly laughing from within. I spoke to Claire in a calm even voice and reminded her again, “Claire dear, for the tenth time, it says right there on the Hours Opened Sign, closed Sunday from four o’clock to midnight.” Claire grunted for the tenth time. “Why on earth would they be closed in the middle of the afternoon? That’s ridiculous!” As I pulled Claire down the sidewalk, I once again recounted, “There’s a simple explanation, dear, it stands to reason the Caller has an overnight shift for the Monday paper.” Claire moaned. “But that makes no sense at all, darling!” I thought to myself, it makes perfect sense to me.

Claire was no closer to finding the elusive Christi any more than Marie Antoinette was able to find the key that unlocked the horrid dank cell she was confined to, so she could escape her plight before they executed her. We then crossed the Aransas Bay from Goose Island, spotting unique-looking fish with funny-looking hammerheads. Claire seemed to know exactly what they were and reminded me, more often than not, how important it was that she had studied animal distinction years ago. I wanted to smack her in the back of the head and knock a little sense into her. She was beginning to get all high and mighty out of pure frustration.

The steam engine boat was tied to a private dock, and we were led up the trail to a beautiful estate. We were introduced to Mrs. Fulton, who was quite pleased to meet us. It was evident that somehow Claire telegraphed one of her out-of-state confidants while I was napping one afternoon under a palm tree. She gathered specifics on the most prominent family in or around the Corpus Christi area. And here we were face to face with probably one of the most prominent families south of the Texarkana line.

The three of us sat on Rosewood Parlor chairs, surprisingly in the parlor, sipping sweet elderberry wine as Mrs. Fulton gave her precious account of how the Fulton Mansion came to be. Its construction had started in 1876 and was recently completed in 1877. It was a three-story Victorian-style mansion. Every ounce of furniture was from the Victorian era. All the marble was from Italy, and most all the wood came from the forests of Canada. Claire very carefully chose her words wisely as not to sound rude or disruptive. “Is it true that the Fulton family of Corpus Christi is related to the Fulton family of Garden City, Kansas?” Mrs. Fulton reassured Claire quickly, “Well, no dear. I can’t say that’s true.” Claire’s second attempt at conversation was much worse than her first. “Is the Fulton family the only family in these parts that is privy to the undisclosed origin and distinguished family history of Corpus Christi?”

Mrs. Fulton looked at Claire cross-eyed and laughed. “My dear Mrs. Fontaine, you jest at my expense! It is quite common knowledge to most of the affluent here that it was the Spanish who named the settlement Corpus Christi in honor of the Blessed Sacrament. And if you studied your Latin more often, you would know Corpus Christi means the body of Christ. Claire’s laugh was a hideous sounding groan as she pretended to find humor with Mrs. Fulton’s explanation. She painfully laughed with Mrs. Fulton until I saw tears in her eyes. I’m almost certain they were not tears of joy. After a pleasant tour of the Fulton Mansion, we were on our way. Claire was happy to part company and looked forward to getting the hell out of Corpus Christi.

On our boat ride back to Corpus Christi, Claire was beside herself. We were sailing back on an elegant twenty-eight-foot sailboat Claire chartered, and the sea mist was hitting us in the face. It was enchanting, but Claire was oblivious to everything except Latin terminology. She gave me no explanation as to why we were not returning on the steam-engine boat. The first words out of her mouth were: “Christi almighty, I only had two semesters of Latin in school, and that was more than twenty-five years ago! I can’t believe how I overlooked two simple Latin words! Every college-educated person should know corpus means body and Christi means Christ!” I’d never seen Claire so embarrassed and humiliated in all my life. “Oh Claire, they’re just a couple of words. Now you mustn’t concern yourself over it.” Claire wasn’t listening to me. The entire time we were sailing back to the mainland, she rambled on and on about her mishap. There was no consoling her at this point. I did stay close by so the crew would think she was talking to me. I’d nod my head every now and then. I must have gulped down half a dozen or so glasses of rum and coconut milk. My head seemed to be spinning. I wasn’t really sure if it was from the rum, the sea, or Claire’s verbal tirade.

When we returned to our hotel room, I ordered dinner while Claire rambled on about ordering a Latin book from Warren’s Mercantile, so she could take a refresher course and brush up on her Latin. I dined on crab legs, roasted teal, and Mexican tamales made from cornmeal, stuffed with meat and hot peppers, and then wrapped in a corn husk and steamed, while Claire rambled on about habeas corpus, corpus dilectus, Deo speramus, and subdural hematoma. I drank Mexican beer and ate sopapillas with honey while Claire digressed about not wanting to meet a woman by the name of Christi anyway. I rang the servant bell and ordered a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.

When the tequila arrived, I handed Claire a shot glass filled with potent liquor and interrupted her ramblings with a booming request. “Let’s make a toast! Shall we?” Claire stopped to raise her glass as I continued, “To those of us who appreciate the finer things in life!” We drank a toast. I poured Claire another. “To those of us who are fortunate enough to travel and see the world!” We drank a toast. I poured Claire another. “To those of us who hold no ill-willed feelings towards misinterpreted city names!” We drank a toast. After the fifth toast of which I only drank one, Claire started reciting a few of her own. Her last toast of the night went something like this: “Here’s to you and here’s to me, and if we should disagree, screw you, and here’s to me!” I snagged the bottle of tequila, capped it, and hid it behind a pillow on the sofa while Claire downed her last shot. I poured her into bed and found my way to a bar called Niña Cantina in the middle of town.

I sat alone in a dark booth near the back of the bar, enjoying nonverbal peace and quiet. A barmaid walked up to take my order with a smile that was as big as the state of Texas is wide. “What’s your pleasure, and what’s your name, honey?” After blowing out smoke from my sweet cigar, I answered, “I’d like your best beer, and they call me Gwen.” The barmaid kept her smile and rambled on. “That’s just peachy, Gwen! It’s sure nice to meet you! You call me Christy whenever you need anything tonight, okay honey?” After a second beer and after my curiosity got the best of me, I inquired, “Do you mind me asking your last name, Christy?” She smiled her big grin and introduced herself properly. “Cooper, Christy Cooper.” She then sped off to fill some other patron’s order. I sat there laughing and shaking my head thinking. “Cooper, Christy Cooper . . . Christi, Corpus Christi. It just doesn’t get any better than that.”

I let Claire sleep all the next day. The do-not-disturb lever was flipped in the up position on the door, and if I needed anything, I went down to the main desk and asked for it there. Most of the day, I walked briskly along the streets of Corpus Christi. I returned to the room around two o’clock. Claire was in a deep sleep, and I left her alone. I sat out on the balcony, enjoying poetry by Keats. By six o’clock, I heard Claire stir. I climbed on top of the covers and snuggled up against Claire’s back. One of her arms emerged from under the covers, and she took my right arm and pulled it around to her chest, and with a docile voice asked, “Is there fresh coffee, G? “Yes, my dear. Would you like a cup?” She gave me a squeeze, mumbled “New England style,” and fell back to sleep, which gave me time to dash down to the main desk and order a treasure trove of delectable treats, coffee included.

Claire leaned heavily against me on the divan with her long legs outstretched on the cushions. I sat quietly reading. Claire was on her second cup of coffee and a chicken taco minus the hot peppers when I recommended trying a soft sopapilla with honey. I told her they’d knock her sox off. She bit into one after finishing a third taco and rocked her head from side to side while gently humming a happy little tune. I continued to read while Claire lay quietly, not uttering one single word. The silence was almost haunting. I even solicited my services to read a poem aloud. Claire declined with the slightest of voice. Her only desire, at the moment, was clinging to me with unspoken affection.

She was the type of woman who very often welcomed her inner energy and found it essential to merge it with mine. Claire occasionally practiced this strange meditation when I performed a deserving act of kindness, but most of the time it was out of pure love and, more often than not, occurred after lovemaking. I discovered it had a great calming effect on both of us, and when she was done with her silent reflection, she came alive and usually had much more energy.

“G, darling, what shall we do?” Claire wondered as she stretched her body and raised both arms to my head and started playing with my face and hair. I kissed her lips upside down, which always left me a little aroused and dizzy. Why this happened was beyond me, until I asked Claire one day about this odd phenomenon, and her reply was so simple, I had to laugh. She told me since I didn’t kiss her very often upside down, it was obvious that my guttural feelings were stimulated and provoked on each occasion. She then suggested we ought to kiss upside down every day for several minutes. This would surely remedy the problem. I mentally ran from her, yelling, “I don’t want to remedy the problem!”

It was nine o’clock, and I closed Keats and set it on the table. I stood up and took Claire’s hand. “Come with me, my dear, I want to take you to a place. A place I’ve been before, where at a moment’s notice all your problems are resolved. We walked into the Niña Cantina, and this time, Claire and I sat in a booth up front instead of the dark dreary shadows in the rear. I made my way to the bar and spoke to Christy. Claire was oblivious to my misbehaving as I sat across from her. The barmaid arrived and with her big Texas smile and her big Texas voice, raised. “Well hey there, ya’ll! My name is Miss Cooper, Christy Cooper! What can I get ya’ll?” I put up my hand for Christy to hold on there and then inquired. “What did you say your name was?” Claire listened with uncertainty. “Cooper, Christy Cooper!” Claire tilted her head back slightly and laughed. A laugh you could feel surge through your corpus and once it vanished, you’d more than likely ask yourself, “Jesus Christi, what the hell was that?”

* * *

I watched my caddis fly float down through the riffle of the stream, waiting, hoping, and wishing a trout would strike. It was the perfect float; any fly-fisherman would agree if they were standing there watching, waiting, and hoping. I fished everyday from the time Claire passed until the day B.J. and Rosy walked through my front door. It was evident I couldn’t fly-fish when they were visiting. The focus was clearly on their dear-departed mother. I couldn’t believe more than a year had gone by since Claire passed. It’s amazing; if you have drive, you can do just about anything, anywhere, anytime, in any type of weather. I remember running into an old feller up on the Gunnison River quite a ways north by northwest of Durango. He introduced himself as only Gus. I’m most certain it was late October. He gave me some flies he had tied himself. I thought to myself, imagine that, he ties his own flies! We sat on the banks of the Gunnison one afternoon, after fly-fishing all morning. I wore a wool cap, wool gloves, wool underwear, and believe it or not, wool sox. We shared beef jerky and two of my sweet-smelling thin cigars. He told me a story in poem form that I imagine Claire would have loved. And when he finished, I asked him to recite it again.

It was called, The Legend Lives On, and was a heartfelt story about a young fly-fisherman who goes off one day to a favorite river, a river that lay just below an incredible gorge. Now the young angler heard tell stories of days gone past of a notorious fisherman who could bring up a rise by putting out a glorious cast. It had been said he was a legend or perhaps even a ghost. The young angler made his way down the dusty trail and someone came running without purpose. They soon admitted to spotting the ghost along the far bank and witnessed him landing a keeper. The young angler forged on to see for himself, ignoring the outcries of how he shouldn’t bother the ghost while fishing. He rounded a bend and, to his surprise, discovered the legend to be nothing more than his father, a master and quite the renowned fly-fisherman. The father and the young angler had a good laugh. As the sun went down, they swore they would return to the river on the morrow, looking forward to more stories regarding that pretentious old ghost.

Chapter 19

The hat shop was buzzing Friday the day after we arrived in Denver. The La Chapeau Shoppe was located downtown just off Lincoln and York Street. Claire was having a heavy conversation with her store manager, Gloria Whitmore, in the back office. I walked by looking in as Claire closed the wooden blinds that covered the door’s window. I stood in the corridor that led to the storefront, leaning on the wall with folded arms. I watched and listened to the hullabaloo out front. It appeared to me the shop was filled with aristocrats in all shapes and sizes. Claire swung the office door opened, and she and Gloria Whitmore stormed down the hall and into the storefront. I had to stand on tiptoes with my right cheek pressed up against the wall so as not to get trampled.

The niece of General William H. Larimer was in the shop and was upset because the store did not carry a specific style of bonnet she favored. She needed a hat that night for a distinguished party held at the Bailey Mansion in honor of the former Kansas territorial governor, James W. Denver, who was visiting the great state of Colorado. Apparently, the former governor had a certain grandson that would be attending the celebration. It was also known, in certain circles, the city name was chosen by General Larimer in a political coup to carry favor with the governor, to ensure that Denver City would become the county seat. It was quite ironic that Governor James W. Denver had resigned his governorship just before Denver became a city and took the county seat anyway. General Larimer could have named the city anything he wanted. Of course, it was now too late to form another coup. The Bailey, as it was called, had a magnificent ballroom decorated with fantastic silver chandeliers, stained glass windows, and oak furnishings. It was often used for weddings, concerts, debutante balls, and political functions.

“Gwen!” Claire called as she did very rarely unless it was something quite serious or an instance when she needed a word with me in private. She grabbed my hand, pulled me down the corridor, and into the manager’s office, closing the door behind us. She waved a sheet of paper in my face frantically. “G darling, I need you to find a thoroughbred or a fast-running steed lickety-split and ride, as quick as you can, to the Boulder store and fetch three specialty hats. Now I’ve jotted down the specifics of what I want, so there should be no confusion when you give this itemized list to Melinda Johansen.

Now pay attention, G, I’m only going to say this once then you best be on your way! I need you to bring me back a chiffon Edwardian hat with purple flowers and ostrich feathers, a straw toque hat with burgundy flowers, and a pink and white silk Civil War hat, all in the size of six and seven eighths!” I looked at Claire with baffled eyes. “Not to worry, darling, it’s all written down right here.” Claire folded the paper in half and then in half two more times and slipped it inside my coat pocket.

Claire had a unique habit of folding papers and notes in half several times. I suspected she thought this would keep them safe, which in turn pacified Claire’s insecurities. She then informed me, “It’s a little over twenty miles each way, and I need you back here by seven o’clock, sharp! I grabbed the miniature clock around my neck and noticed it was 2:00 p.m. That gave me two hours each way and one hour to find a stallion and a saddle. And of course, spend a little quiet time away from the madness of Denver and one distraught niece. Little did I know, on my way to Boulder, Claire made her way to the Western Union office in Denver and sent a telegram with all the pertinent information to Melinda Johansen. She demanded that the officer send a courier from the Boulder office to her store as soon as the wire went through. She made sure she included, in her pertinent information, the names of General William H. Larimer, James W. Denver, and The Bailey. Claire also made sure to give the Western Union officer a handsome gratuity.

I jumped off the stallion, kicking up dust and hurried into the shop looking for Melinda Johansen. She was standing behind the counter, smiling, with three hat boxes securely tied together with twine. My jaw dropped as I wiped the sweat off my face using the bandana I pulled from my neck. I took a few moments to catch my breath and gather myself. I asked Melinda as I tied the bandana back around my neck. “Those boxes wouldn’t happen to contain three specific hats for one overdistraught niece, would they?” Melinda’s laugh was riddled with delight. She updated me with all the details from the courier and the telegram. We both had a pretty good laugh. I checked my miniature clock and noted it was barely 4:00 p.m. I had more than three hours to get back to Denver.

Claire was well aware how much I loved to run a fast horse. She often rode with me, but we never raced at a full gallop or a full run. She didn’t care much for the adrenalin rush. It always gave her a scare. She attained her rush in other ways. She recognized my constant search for a racehorse to acquisition. She was fully aware of my ability to ride. I spied her watching me on several occasions. I’d be heading back to the barn at a full gait or rounding up a lone steer back to the herd at a pretty good clip or racing across the ranch at a swift run chasing off a wolf pack or coyotes. Oh yes, she’d be out sitting or leaning up against a fence, in her funny knee-high slacks, wearing a dark blue velvet Buckram riding hat and suede boots. Sometimes she’d be chewing on a blade of wild grass. I asked Melinda, “So, what can I bring you to eat for an early supper or would you rather I call it a late lunch?”

Melinda and I were finishing our fried chicken, cob salad, and sweet rolls, when a Western Union courier came bursting through the door, almost breaking the bell that hung above it. As luck would have it, there hadn’t been a patron in the store for more than thirty minutes. That gave Melinda and me time to eat and visit in private. Melinda put out her hand expecting another telegram when the courier asked, “Which one of you ladies is Mrs. Gwen Buxton?” I raised my hand like a student wanting to answer a question I had no business answering. I finally admitted, “I’m Mrs. Buxton.” I always got a big kick out being called Mrs. I found it rather hysterical. The courier handed me a clipboard. “Sign here, please!” I signed on the dotted line with a short red pencil, and he handed me a telegram. As he exited the shop, he bid us farewell in the most peculiar way. “Good day, ladies, and have a Western Union evening!” I thought, what the hell did that mean! Melinda and I laughed at the ridiculous slogan.

I licked my fingers and wiped them on my denims before I ripped open the envelope. Melinda and I parked our behinds on two maple balloon back chairs with lovely baroque satin coverings. They were located against the wall, next to the store’s front display window. Claire had the same chairs in all her shops. I unfolded the telegram and read its contents aloud. “To: Gwen Buxton, Boulder From: Claire E. Fontaine, Denver <STOP> be advised, dillydallying will not be tolerated regarding your return to Denver <STOP> be sure to fasten the hat boxes firmly to your saddle, so they do not fly off in a big gust like your long-lost black Stetson <STOP> sugar will be waiting for you upon your return <STOP>.”

Melinda Johansen had a comical look on her face and said with a giggle, “You know, Gwen, I have a bowl of sugar in the back if you need a spoonful before you leave.” I had to hold in a lungful of laughter before I was able to speak. “No thanks, Melinda. I’m stuffed from all that fried chicken.”

My ride back to Denver was uneventful except for the sun starting its descent behind the Rockies. One of the most spectacular natural sights I witnessed throughout my life was the cherished sunsets and sunrises over the mountains. It could be winter, summer, spring, or fall and wherever I was, I’d stop to take notice. I’d be out mending fences or chopping wood or driving cattle up the valley or sitting on the porch smoking a thin cigar. It didn’t matter where I found myself. More often than not, I incessantly looked for the setting or rising of the sun over the mountains.

Claire was overjoyed to see me. I barely came to a stop and dismounted my steed before she started untying the hat boxes. “I’m so glad your back, G, and in record time! It’s only six thirty-five p.m. The store has been in a panic ever since you departed company.” I thought to myself, you mean you’ve been in a panic ever since I left. Claire was a little anxious as she made her first attempt at untying the boxes. “I suppose you received my wire before you left Boulder?” I responded sarcastically, “Yes, I did, Claire, and I thank you for that!” I knew what was coming next, and I had to keep from laughing aloud. Claire took the back of her hand and brushed away the hair from her eyes. “Damn these knots! I can’t untie them! This is impossible, G!” I had learned a thing or two over the years about roping, hog tying, and lassoing to trip up anyone who came near my impossible trick knots. Claire was no exception. I never showed her a one.

“If I don’t go to the outhouse right now, Claire, I’m going to burst my bubble!” I knew there was plenty of time before the distraught niece needed her precious hats. The party didn’t even start until nine o’clock. I took my old sweet time coming back from the outhouse. I even stopped off at the millinery store to check out their dried goods and jam preserves. I could hear Claire yelling for me to hurry up. “Gwen, you’ve got to get over here right now and help me with this rope!” Claire wasn’t any further along by the time I returned from the outhouse, and I knew she felt helpless and panicked because she seldom ever called me Gwen. “G, darling, you have to untie this for me! I’ve already broken a nail!”

I walked up behind her and smelled her rosewater curls and the peach fragrance of her skin. I put my chin on her shoulder and wrapped my arms around her. I took the rope out of her hands and kissed the back of her neck. I whispered in her ear as I untied the ugly trick knot with one pull, “You’ve got to relax, Claire my dear, or you’ll give yourself a heart murmur.” Claire watched me grab the hat boxes as they fell from the saddle. She plucked them right out of my hands just as furiously as the Plymouth pilgrims plucked the feathers off the turkeys during our nation’s first official Thanksgiving. As she ran into the shop, she yelled back to me, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, G! You try my patience! You better get in here in case I need you for something else! And you better behave yourself or there will be no sugar for a week!” I yelled back as I rolled my eyes, “Your loss, not mine!”

Claire and I were invited to the distinguished honorary party by a distraught little niece, who was thankful for all we had done. We were up in our suite at the Platte Lodge. I sipped on a stiff drink while Claire fanned me with her bamboo fan and tried to figure out why I was experiencing an overpowering spell. The Platte Lodge was an inviting rustic log lodge that sat on the Platte River. It was three stories and constructed of beautiful Douglas fir. The logs were massive, at least two or three feet in diameter. The Lodge furniture was made of aspen, blue spruce, oak, and cedar. There were game animals mounted on just about every wall and ceiling. We saw the heads of buffalo, elk, mule deer, antelope, and mountain goat. Mounted above the fireplace in the great room was the magnificent head of a ram. His horns had a most impressive coiled shape. There was a stuffed mountain lion at the top of the stairwell. You could touch its tail over the balcony railing.

In the library, we found a stuffed porcupine and a stuffed beaver. Claire dared me to pull out a quill. I dared her to run naked through the lodge. In other words, neither one of those things were going to happen. At the front entrance was an enormous male grizzly standing over seven feet tall. It was almost as big as our bearskin rug. Claire hugged it every time we entered or exited the lodge. There were game birds of all sorts. We spotted Canada Geese, Wild Turkey, Mallards, Mountain Quail, Blue Winged Teals, Common Mergansers, Ring Neck Pheasant, and even two Great Horned Owls looked to be in flight above the dining-hall tables. It felt like we were visiting a museum every time we stepped through the front doors. At one point, I was waiting to hear animal sounds bouncing off the ceiling and walls.

Claire had purchased an elegant gown when she stopped off at Millie’s Dress Shop on her way back to the lodge while I returned the Arab Stallion to a horse ranch on the edge of town. I had him tethered to the back of the buggy I was driving. I borrowed it from Claire’s store manager, Gloria Whitmore. Claire had an hour to get ready for the party, when I came walking through the door. I took one look at her and physically felt my heart sink in my chest. My face turned bright red, and I had to sit down on a comfortable Open Range chair but not before I poured myself a brandy.

Claire was putting on a sapphire necklace and matching ring she purchased at a jeweler downtown while I sat and watched. She was stunning as she stood facing the cedar-framed mirror and bureau. She wore a lovely powder blue satin gown with white lace around the neckline and hemline. Underneath was a brand new satin petticoat that I could hear swishing every time she took a step or made a move. Her hair was on top of her head in some kind of French bun accompanied by baby’s breath. She wore a dainty pair of powder blue laced leather boots on her feet. She turned to me unaware of my predicament.

“Gwen, I can’t understand why you do not want to attend this evening’s gala.” I could not answer. I was speechless. I gasped a breath that was not there. She walked gracefully towards me with a concerned tone in her voice. “G darling, what on earth is wrong with you? Have you taken ill from your travels today? Did something happen on your way to returning the stallion? What seems to be troubling you?” Claire started fanning me with her bamboo fan.

I set down her fan, took her hands in mine, and with the sweetest voice I could muster, confessed to my overwhelming recognition. “Do you have any idea how beautifully radiant you are? Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are right this second, standing in that gown, with your neckline and that French bun on your head? You floor me.” She seemed unmoved and proved it with a derisive tone. “Really, well I’m glad you think so. Now, tell me the truth, what’s troubling you, darling?” I clenched her hands in mine and looked her in the eyes admitting. “Nothing is troubling me. I just want you to know, you are my rainbow after it rains.” Claire wasn’t quite getting it, so I pressed on. “You are my candle burning bright. You are my morning, noon, and night. You are my shadow on the ground. You are the rope that keeps me bound. You are the sunlight in my hair. You are my fire, earth, and air.”

Claire’s gorgeous expression said volumes. I grabbed and kissed the back of her hand, realizing I couldn’t keep her there any longer. “It’s time for you to go show yourself off before I rip that gown from your gorgeous body.” Claire started to speak, but I stopped her by putting my fingers to her mouth. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine taking a load off my sore buttocks. And besides, my dear, I could no more get all gussied up in an evening gown any more than you could wear cowboy boots without sox! I’m sure I’ll fall asleep right after you leave. Go have a wonderful time! I’ll be right here when you get back, I promise. What time are you getting back anyway?” Claire gave me a suspicious look. “Around one in the morning.” She trapped me against her bulky petticoat and voluptuous breasts and bent down and kissed me with her red hot lips. She then stood up, grabbed her shawl and elbow-length silk gloves, sauntered to the door, swung it open, and before she stepped over the threshold, without saying a word, she blew me a kiss. God, she was beautiful. She kept getting more stunning the older she became.

I left the lodge in a barouche at nine thirty. My driver dropped me off at the Silver Nickel Saloon. I was meeting Gloria Whitmore’s husband, Daniel, and his brother, Nathan, at ten o’clock sharp. We had spoken earlier when Daniel and Nathan were rigging up the buggy for me to take to the horse ranch. We all seemed to be complaining about having to attend that damn ball. Both their wives had planned to be escorted to The Bailer by their husbands. Daniel and Nathan were trying to figure a way to get out of it.

Before I rode off in the buggy with the stallion tethered to the back, I asked, “Hey listen, guys, you’ve been brothers for how long?” Daniel answered first. “About twenty-eight years.” I scratched my head and thought for a moment. “I imagine you two have had your fair share of fights with each other, am I right?” Nathan grumbled, “Hell yes!” I squinted hard and pursed my lips. “Well, if I were you, I’d give each other a black eye or a busted lip, so neither of your wives will want to take you to The Bailer. I mean really, what woman in her right mind would want to take an unpresentable hideous-looking man to a formal affair? Your excuse would be you had to break up a fight at the livery stable or the feed store. Didn’t you tell me you boys picked up a pallet of feed earlier today?” Nathan grumbled again, “Hell yes!” My next question was a tricky one. “When was the last time you saw your wives today?” Daniel knew right away. “Just before we went to the feed store.” Nathan finally answered, “Just after breakfast this morning.” I looked them both in the eye and smiled. “Perfect! Remember, guys, what they don’t know won’t hurt ’em!”

I walked through the swinging doors of the Silver Nickel and found Daniel and Nathan sitting at a table drunker than a skunk. They both had a black eye and a split lip. I patted Daniel on the back as I sat down. “Gee, fellas, don’t you think you overdid it a little?” Nathan winced. “We wanted to make damn sure we didn’t get stuck going to that stupid ballroom party! Now sit down here and have a drink! You’ve got a lot of catching up to do!” After Daniel poured me my third shot of whiskey, his questions seemed funny and confusing, or was that the liquor talking? “So what’s your excuse for getting off easy tonight, Ms. Gwen?” I said to myself, or I thought I said to myself, “Do I really want to tell these drunk gentlemen about evening gowns I wouldn’t be caught dead in and cowboy boots without sox?”

I guzzled down the whiskey shot before admitting, “I’ll tell you, all I had to say was my buttock hurts, and I’m too tired from that treacherous ride to Boulder and back, and I was let off the hook.” Both Daniel and Nathan moaned and groaned shaking their heads and laughing. Daniel poured me another shot, stating, “You’ve got to be joshing! That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard. If I gave that ridiculous excuse to Gloria, she’d have my hide!” Nathan agreed. “Damn right! If I was a lady, I’d shoot myself before I’d give such a lame excuse!” I really didn’t think it was a lame excuse. I asked myself, “Did I miss something?” Daniel handed me a foamy glass of beer. “I bet you look real pretty in an evening gown, Ms. Gwen.” I looked at him confused. It appeared both Nathan and Daniel weren’t listening to one word I said.

I jumped out or I should say I fell out of the barouche and made my way to the entrance of the Lodge. Before I went inside, I hugged the grizzly and blew him a kiss. It was a quarter to one when I opened the suite door and stepped inside. I was heading straight to bed and not dillydallying around, as Claire put it. On my way to the bedroom, I was spooked half out of my wits when Claire emerged from the shadows.

“Did you have a good time at the Silver Nickel tonight, darling?” My eyes were as big as the Great Horned Owls suspended over the dining hall. Claire was out of her gown and wearing a pair of men’s Langley trousers and a cotton nightshirt. She struck a match and lit a gas lantern before sitting on the sofa. Once again, her arms were folded, her shoulders were stiff, and I could hear huffing and puffing. The only thing left for her to do was stand in a doorway and tap her foot. I plopped down in the Open Range chair and let out a sigh. I thought to myself, nothing gets past her. She could be deaf and blind and nothing would get past her. To my surprised confusion, I heard her say, “You’re right, darling!”

Claire unfolded her arms, crossed her legs Indian style, put her elbows on her knees, and her hands under her chin. I thought to myself, here it comes. Claire had a nasty smirk on her face as she chronicled the events leading up to my collapse. “So, I understand Daniel and Nathan got into a brawl today down at the feed store?” I cringed as I sat there in silence. “Apparently they were given some advice on how to get out of escorting their wives to The Bailey this evening.” My only reaction was to cower. “After they left the Silver Nickel, somehow they made their way to The Bailey and located the ballroom. Their sorry asses came tripping through the doors and disrupted the entire party. Thank God the former governor and the general, along with their wives, had retired for the evening.” I felt myself getting smaller and smaller in my chair.

Claire forged on and watched me squirm. “The two brothers located their wives and, as luck would have it, they were sitting right next to me. They confessed their misdeeds to their wives and anyone who was within earshot. We all roared laughing when they got to the part about evening gowns and sox.” I contemplated Claire’s words in silence and thought, Crap! I honestly thought I said the part about gowns to myself, not aloud. Claire took her hands off her chin and stretched her back. “G, darling, you didn’t say it to yourself then and you’re not saying it to yourself now! If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you over the years, it’s that you can’t really think straight at all when you’ve had one too many and you think out loud constantly when you’re drunk.” Claire looked up and caught me standing in the doorway with my arms folded under my chest and tapping my foot on the oak wood floor. She tilted her head back slightly and laughed her delightful laugh. A laugh I’d confess my misdeeds to any day of the week.

Four days later, on Tuesday, we said our good-byes to all the game animals at The Platte Lodge. Claire hugged the bear one last time with great affection. Three nights before, we attended the opera. The Barber of Seville was on the playbill, at The Denver Theatre. It was the first theatre ever built in Denver. The singing was divine, yet the storyline was troublesome. During our ride to a bawdy house, I joked to Claire about the outlandish plot of The Barber of Seville. “I hope you never have three lovers at one time because if you do, then I will have to give you up and inherit your dowry!” Claire said softly, yet forcefully, “My dowry has been spent and my debt has been paid. You will never get my inheritance no matter how many lovers I keep!” Claire threw her head back and cackled, as I exclaimed, “Well then, if I can’t inherit your dowry, I have no other choice but to give you up and demand an inheritance from one of my own two lovers!” Claire threw her head back and laughed out of control. When she came up for air, she replied, “You come up with the funniest and most clever little quips, my darling!”

Chapter 20

We were minutes away from the renowned Madame Mattie Silks after attending the opera. Her lavish establishment was located somewhere south along Market Street in Denver. Once again, Claire had sent a telegram to the Madame before we departed Durango. How she knew her name, I’ll never know! Claire fell into my arms and attempted to grope me tenderly when the barouche came to an abrupt halt. We both sat up and straightened our clothes as the door opened. The coachman informed us we had arrived, and our departure was in two and a half hours and should be duly noted.

I peered at my miniature clock in the dim light and barely made out eleven thirty. I asked him if he wouldn’t mind waiting for five minutes before disappearing into the night. I explained we were simply curious about the proprietor, and we may not stay for the duration. I was actually uneasy about entering an establishment I knew nothing about on such short notice and then end up in a lion’s den filled with iniquities. Claire thanked the coachman with a tip, and he was on his way. I groveled loudly, “Are you trying to get us killed?” Claire nonchalantly retorted, “Oh don’t be silly, darling.”

We entered a dark smoky lobby, which led directly to a dark smoky parlor and bar all rolled into one. I told Claire, “I don’t think we’ve ever seen an entrance quite like this before.” The chairs and settees were made of a very dark wood and the fabric was a dark blood red color. The walls and ceiling were just as dark and dreary. I stuck to Claire like glue as we made our way through the crowd and towards the host. He was in the back of the parlor, which made no sense at all, smoking a fat cigar. Behind him and his podium, we noticed several different doors leading to various areas of the establishment.

We were startled when a barreling voice echoed in our heads. “What can I do for you, ladies?” Claire replied without hesitation, “We have an appointment to see Madame Mattie Silks.” I wondered if that was her real name. The host then retrieved a clipboard and started thumbing through it with his huge thumbs. He asked very simply, “Name?” Claire responded again without hesitation, “Claire Fontaine and Gwen Buxton. The host rang his silver bell, and a younger man appeared, wearing a uniform of some kind. He donned a derby hat, bowtie, and sox all patterned in orange polka dots. The host whispered in his ear, and Mr. Polka Dot went down a side hallway and knocked on a door. A few seconds later, the door opened, and he disappeared inside. After a short time, Mr. Polka Dot emerged, followed by a young well-kept lady. As she advanced towards us, we lost track of Mr. Polka Dot. The lady introduced herself as Zelda and asked us to follow her.

She took us down the same hallway past the door from where she came. When we were at the end of the hallway, she took us up a flight of stairs that opened into a bright atrium, which was quite a contrast from where we’d been. We looked up to a twelve-foot ceiling with a stained glass skylight. The atrium was decorated with statuettes of Greek and Roman Gods and Goddesses, several potted indoor plants, a pair of canaries in a cage, paintings of Egyptian pyramids and temples, wrought iron gas floor lamps, and a big old hound dog that was asleep under the hanging bird cage.

Zelda knocked on the double-wide door, opened it, and escorted us inside to a human menagerie of all shapes and sizes. The room itself was an all-exclusive opulent hall with wall-to-wall white leather booths and a center dance floor below an enormous chandelier that hung from a ceiling as high as the ceiling in the atrium. Live music could be heard coming from a balcony on the north side.

We were introduced to another underworld that made us feel welcome in every sense of the word. We caroused with couples who were more like us. We shared drinks and laughter with two women from Kansas City and two women from St. Louis. We were thrilled to dance with a male couple from Denver who were cowboys through and through, from the top of their cowboy hats to the bottom of their cowboy boots. I took pleasure in sharing tobacco products with three men in ladies’ attire. We puffed on cigars flavored with cherry, mint, and chocolate. One of the men traveled to the Caribbean, sometimes twice a year. He always returned with fantastic island commodities.

Two and a half hours came and went quickly. We located Zelda sometime before two in the morning, wondering if there was a room to rent for the night. She gave us a selection of three suites each, including breakfast in the dining hall. The first was an average-sized room with two twin beds. The second was a suite with a double bed, a wash basin, and a sitting area. The third was a premier suite that included a drawing room, a liquor bar, two queen-sized beds with satin sheets, a private tub off the bedroom, a view of the mountains from both the bedroom and drawing room, and an in-room breakfast service. Without much deliberation, we opted for the third choice.

Zelda took care of our driver and assured us we would have transportation back to the Platte Lodge any time we needed it. We raised the roof with Delores and Jeannette from Kansas City until six in the morning. We slept until eleven, and the first thing the four of us did when we awoke was order breakfast and a couple of baths. Claire and I played footsies in the tub, among other things, and when breakfast arrived, we all sat in the drawing room eating and enjoying the breathtaking view. Claire and I finally climbed into a carriage Zelda arranged, waving good-bye to our newfound friends and headed back to the Platte Lodge. To this day, we never did meet Madame Mattie Silks, and we frequented her establishment many times over the years.

“Claire, Let go!” I walked over to the barouche and waited. Claire clung to the grizzly, acting in a way that mothers do when their sons go off to war. I tossed my satchel in the open door of the coach and made my way back to the grizzly. I used a voice that was barely audible. “Claire, if we don’t leave now, we may miss the train.” We never missed the train because Claire was too precise and punctual. She was remarkably early to everything. However, today was a new day and anything could happen. I wrapped my fingers around Claire’s wrist. It’s time to get a move on. Let’s not dillydally.” Claire seemed to be motionless. She finally turned around with moist eyes and began her apologies. “I’m sorry, G. It was so selfish of me to force you to slaughter that grizzly, which now lies across our great room floor. I never meant to do harm to such a beautiful animal. I just wanted a nice rug, but now I feel so guilty, I’m not sure what to do.”

I sat down with Claire on a log bench, outside the lodge entrance. We sat quietly without a word while I pondered Claire’s recent emotions and realized her grief came from the Platte Lodge. Every time she went to dine or read in the library or climbed the stairs or sat by the fire in the great room or entered and exited the Lodge, all she saw was dead game animals. She did not see a magnificent herd of buffalo or elk in a valley. She did not observe a flock of Canada Geese or Mallards flying south for the winter. She did not wander down some stream to find a beaver building a hutch or dam. She was not listening to the screech of a Great Horned Owl that swooped by her window late one night. No, instead her emotions were devastated after a week of eating, drinking, reading, and dreaming around dead animals. It didn’t matter how well they were preserved or how majestic they appeared. To Claire’s shattered emotions, they were dead as a door nail, slaughtered by man without ever given a chance to survive.

I was holding her hands when I snapped out of my deep thoughts. She must have been silent the entire time. I jiggled her hands lightly. “I have a story to tell you, if you will listen. It relates to a quote by a Grecian philosopher way back in 400 AD. As I recall, his name was Sugar-crates or some such name like that. I read about him in one of father’s books when I was a youngster.” Claire dabbed her eyes with a kerchief she pulled from her sleeve and showed signs of interest. “He was called Socrates, darling, and he was a Greek ethics philosopher. He was born around 469 BC and died in 399 BC.” Claire stopped to blow her nose then added, “He was the first to practice Western philosophy, and his most famous student was Plato.”

I thought I had just opened a can of worms, but after Claire’s little eulogy, she sat quietly and waited for my story to unfold. I decided to enlighten Claire and pressed on. “The story I’m about to tell you relates to one of Socrates’s quotes.” I emphasized and enunciated Socrates to insure Claire’s intelligence wouldn’t interrupt me again. “The story is about a young lad who grew up learning about his father’s empire. His father, it seemed, ignored his son because he was more interested in his vast empire. The boy’s father conquered every nation whether they were a threat or not. His armies were massive with hundreds of thousands of soldiers and warriors. The young lad was soon thirteen and was starting to pay attention and understand his father’s aspirations. He witnessed horrific wars and many harsh actions and exploits against respected statesmen, senators, and confidants.”

“The lad began to struggle between his father’s ideals and his own common sense and goodwill towards man. On the one hand, he loved and honored his father and sought after his approval. On the other hand, he had great compassion and respect for humanity.” Claire straightened her back, crossed her legs, and folded her hands in her lap. She was absorbing every word, so I kept going. “The young lad was now a man. His struggles continued to grow tenfold. He soon became disgraced by his father’s actions of terror and cruelty towards mankind, but he also strived to love and revere his father and continued to try and gain approval. The young man also gained knowledge from wise men who taught him about morals, compassion, and respect, for himself and his fellow man.”

“By the time the young man turned twenty-five, his common sense and compassion triumphed over his father’s atrocities and lack of approval. The son took action one moonless night and, while his father slept, he slit his throat and left him bleeding to death. He did not desire the empire of his father when it was offered to him by the Senate. He did not desire the empire of his father when the people praised him for his actions. Instead, he set out on a quest to another land far from the one his father created and destroyed.” I turned to Claire, held both her hands, and quoted a great philosopher. “Socrates wrote, from the deepest desires often comes the deadliest hate.”

“Is there a moral to this story, G?” “I’m glad you asked that my dear. There’s a terrific moral to this story. Want to give it a try, in your own words?” Claire thought for a minute while I checked my miniature clock. We had forty minutes before the train departed. I told myself there’s still time. Claire cleared her throat. “Well, if I’m not mistaken, the story tells us we can love, honor, and respect for all the wrong reasons, but when we see through the façade, we end up hating the very thing we loved, honored, and respected. We then move on to something else that drives our common sense, compassion, and the willingness to live an honest and forthright life.” I smiled and was pleasantly surprised by Claire’s impressive ability to interpret a complicated concept.

“Wow, you hit the nail right on the head!” Claire was still perplexed. “What does that have to do with me, darling?” I knew we were running out of time, and I hoped we did not miss our train. “Think about it, Claire. You love animals and you would never dream of hurting or killing them unless it was for survival or food. As a matter of fact, you don’t have a mean or hateful bone in your body. You’re a mirror of the lad in the story.”

“The moment you walked into this lodge or maybe it was the first time you hugged that grizzly, a fire started burning deep within your soul. The more you observed the dead animals on the walls or stuffed animals around the lodge, the more it started to eat away at your conscience, and you despised yourself for owning a bearskin rug. You felt so guilty about loving your bearskin rug, you didn’t want to give up that love and passion you felt. Those feeling are real feelings, by the way. You also felt so guilty about all those game animals in the lodge, you finally snapped. Of course, it wasn’t as bad as the young lad’s reaction when he became a real man, but it’s a reaction that should be validated. Let’s jump in the barouche, and I’ll explain it on the way to the train station.”

“Where did that black stallion come from?” I yelled from inside the barouche. Claire was an impressive conspirer, and the proof was tethered to the back of the barouche. Evidently she rounded up Daniel and Nathan, who drove her to the horse ranch straight away while I was reading my Jane Austen and napping in the library on Sunday. It was funny how she accomplished covert surprises for me when I was napping somewhere. She brought the two gentlemen along, so there would be no mistake about the Arab Stallion I rode to Boulder and back. She boasted about the great acquisition she made with the horse rancher that day. She also made note of Daniel and Nathan’s faces and how the black and blue had turned an ugly yellowish green. Claire stopped talking about her Sunday rendezvous and focused on her situation. “Hey, you haven’t given me my validation yet!” I kissed her and told her how much I appreciated her four-legged gift. “No, darling, that’s not what I mean. I am referring to the lodge and all those animals.

“It’s all very simple, my dear.” On our way to the station, I reassured Claire that her reaction was valid. “You became emotionally distraught over all those wonderful dead animals in the lodge that your emotions poured inharmoniously into your own personal life. That, in turn, caused the guilt and anxiety about what you did to the grizzly. And by asking me for a bearskin rug, you blamed yourself for the death of the bear, and you despised yourself for feeling a part of those hunters who slaughter animals for sport. You started hating yourself for the very thing you loved.

The bottom line is you don’t need to stop loving our bearskin rug. If you must know, that grizzly was a real threat to us, our ranch, our livestock, and anyone else within a hundred miles. If I hadn’t allowed Jake to kill him, I’m most certain that grizzly would have killed any one of us. I’ve never seen Jake more scared of anything in his life. You know, Jake reacted a little like the young lad. When the lad finally grew some balls and became a man, he eliminated the very thing that threatened his livelihood and everything around him.”

Claire gazed at me intently and revealed a side of her that was devious. “We can always sneak back inside The Platte Lodge in the middle of the night during the off season and steal a few prized trophies.” I jokingly replied, “Whatever cooks your goose, my dear! Whatever floats your boat! Whatever knocks your sox off!” Claire was not looking forward to what was coming next. She first ignored me, when I pleaded, “Give me one more, dear, c’mon, please? I’ve got one more to say! I beg of you, give me just one more!” Then she giggled and put her hand in front of my face to block me from communicating with her.

By the time we arrived at the train station, handed my steed off to a groom, and boarded our Pullman sleeper, I reignited my endearing cruelty. “You’ve got to give me one more, or you’ll be sugarless for a month!” Claire’s reluctance to give in was wavering, but she stood her ground. “I won’t do it! I’m afraid it will be a horrible letdown! I’m worried it will be your worst quip to date! You’ll have to kill me first!” I wrestled with Claire until I had her trapped in the lower birth, demanding her to surrender. “Say it! You better say it right now or suffer the consequences! Say it!” Claire finally conceded, “I’ll give you one more of those, Gwyneth.” She waited for the repercussion of her words as she closed her eyes and cowered.

At that moment, she could have called me anything, and I wouldn’t have cared less. I couldn’t resist the temptation. God she was so beautiful. I looked at her as an art collector looks at a Van Gough or a Monet. She was a masterpiece. She was there for the taking, with the smell of honeysuckle in her wavy hair and sweet-tasting lips ready to be devoured. Her jaw was as chiseled as a Roman statuette, and the long inviting neckline that flowed down to her firm voluptuous breasts was more than I could ask for. They were breasts I could get lost in any day of the week. And I knew what was waiting for me under her dress. Before I ravaged her, I softly imposed, “Whatever creams your corn.”

Chapter 21

Fall is a glorious time of year in the Colorado Rockies. The snow is beginning to powder the high mountain peaks, and down below, you can feel a nip in the air. The only major autumn colors come from the brambles and scrub oak bushes. They have a spectacular brilliant orange and fiery red hue that sometimes last into November. Of course, the aspen leaves are bright yellow, and groups of trees can be seen spread all over the mountainside like patchwork. This year was an Indian summer, that’s when temperatures are exceedingly warmer than normal. The locals can tell you all about it. The atmosphere of most folks completely changes from dull, due to the coming winter months, to exuberant. You can see folks actually dancing on Main Street in the warm sunshine.

Keeping the temperate climate in mind, come September 16, we still had cattle in a high meadow, which had an elevation between eight and nine thousand feet. I had a discussion with Jake and some of my veteran ranch hands one evening regarding the best time to pull the herd out. We figured, because it took two or three days to drive them down, the herd could stay up top for another two weeks at most. I had one of the ranch hands ride to the upper valley and inform the two green horns about our decision and, if the weather turned bad, they were to start heading down immediately. Green horns were beginners or cow hands that were still wet behind the ears and usually pretty young. They always had the toughest and unglorified jobs to perform.

A week passed when a storm hit and dumped an enormous amount of snow in the upper mountains and meadows. We knew automatically that the herd was on its way down the hill, as we called it. At the time, we had approximately seventy-five head on the hill, which did not include the calves. We rotated the herd all summerlong for feeding purposes. Every fifteen days, cattle were driven down to the ranch. As soon as those cattle were corralled in the steer pens, the next group of cattle would be driven up the hill. We never wanted too many head up the hill at one time because the natural grass would either get eaten up too quickly before it could grow back, or it could get stomped on excessively and the grass might get destroyed, or worse, die completely.

I was about ready to jump on Vander B and ride north with two of my best second-year green horns who no longer wanted to be referred to as green horns, when Claire came out to the stables with a gleam in her eye. “Zach’s son dropped off a letter from B.J.” It was B.J.’s first year as an attorney in Denver. Claire started reading it to herself while giving me bits and pieces. “Ah, listen to this, G. His first case starts next month between a Cattle Baron and a Silver Miner. B.J. is representing the miner who is accusing the Cattle Baron of impeding on his land and running cattle across the river where he’s panning.” I retorted, “Well, I must say, if I ever need an attorney for something like that, I’ll be happy to know my son will represent me.” Claire was still reading and informed me, “Yes, I’d be happy as well, since I know how awfully hard he works. Listen to this, G, he says he works fifteen hour days and sleeps about five. He also says Sarah is a godsend for putting up with it. G darling, I’m going inside, so be sure you come in and say good-bye before you and the boys head up the hill.” How funny it was that even Claire referred to the upper valley and meadows as the hill.

The door slammed behind me as I stomped my boots on the mudroom mat and flung my hat on the hat rack. I got a whiff of fresh flowers in a vase as I made my way through the foyer and down the hall yelling for Claire. “I’m leaving, my dear, where are you?” I could hear Claire yell from a distance. “Back here!” I entered our bedroom to find Claire changing the bed linens. I jumped on the bed as she was flipping the top sheet up in the air. Ever since I was child, I loved lying on the bed as the sheet fell from above and covered me in a perfect soft poof. The feeling of a fresh sheet on my face and the scent of cherry blossoms was almost as good as eating chocolates from Bavaria.

Claire let the sheet fall as she always did. She didn’t care how dirty or grungy I was. She knew my affinity for it and took pleasure in obliging me. After I was covered in sheet, Claire lay on top of me and pulled the sheet away from my face. “Do you have your red parka and poncho?” I tried to answer, but she kissed my lips. When she came up for air, she posed another question. “Do you have your bedroll?” I tried to answer again, but she kissed me a second time. When she came up for air, her questions persisted. “Do you have an extra pair of long johns?” I tried to answer, but once again, I was kissed. Claire came up for air again and continued with another question. “Did you pack your wool cap?” She gave me one of her long sensual kisses and finally came up for air one last time. “Did you pack an extra pair of leather gloves?” I grabbed her arms and rolled her over. She felt the weight of my body and the twisted sheets all around her.

The sound of Claire’s giggling mimicked an imaginary chipmunk trapped in the mudroom after discovering a stale crust of bread in the corner. With a clenched jaw, I voiced my protest. “Yes to all your insipid questions!” We kissed once more, but Claire wouldn’t let me go. “I’ve got to go, my dear. If you don’t release your death grip, I’ll have no other recourse but to ride up the hill with you attached to me like a parasite, so whatta ya say?” Claire let me go unwillingly. “I love you, sweetie, and I’ll see you in a couple of days.” All this stalling was a ritual that happened every time I had to leave for a few days. I think she was trying to delay the inevitable.

Claire walked me out to the stables wrapped under my shoulder, with her arm around my waist and grasping one of my belt loops. I was about to mount Vander B when Claire released her strong hold. “Wait a minute. You can’t leave yet. I have a small care package in case one of you gets hungry before you reach the chuck wagon.” She dashed to the main house and was back in a flash. I was in the saddle ready to join up with the ranch hands waiting over at the bunkhouse when Claire latched onto my leg as she handed me a cloth package neatly secured in twine. Whatever was inside smelled delicious. I detected cinnamon and sage. I thought to myself, what a strange combination. As I stowed it in my saddle bag, I asked Claire with a cynical undertone. “You haven’t tied this up with a trick knot have you?” Claire’s response was just as cynical. “You should know!”

I told Claire that Zach would be in charge of the ranch while I was gone. I started to ride away, but Claire was still wrapped around my leg, gazing up at me. I bent down and gave her one last kiss and then reassured her, “I’ll be back in a couple days.” Claire let go of my leg and said something to me that she usually saved for the bedroom. “I love you, darling. Be careful and wear your poncho if it snows. You know I had it waterproofed, so it will keep the moisture off.”

Willy and Morgan were waiting by the bunkhouse, already mounted on their steeds. They tipped their hats nonchalantly. Morgan’s only word was: “Ma’am.” The three of us trotted north towards the lower valley with not so much as a word. When we reached the last fence on the north edge of the property line, Morgan dismounted and marched his horse to the gate. He unlatched the safety bar and opened the gate with one swift push and let us pass. With the reins in one hand, Morgan pulled his horse through, closed the gate, and latched it. He then mounted his quarter and again, without so much as a word, we kicked in our spurs and galloped for maybe fifty yards and from there we headed into the canyon at a dead run.

After four hours of riding, Willy saw the smoke from Jake Jr.’s chuck wagon and pointed it out. I soon detected the unmistakable aroma of Columbian coffee. Claire accomplished amazing feats when she put her mind to it. One of them was purchasing nothing but the best coffee. She had met an entrepreneur from California who did business with a Columbian food industrialist. The industrialist did business with two different Columbian coffee growers, one from the region of Norte de Santander and one from the region of Quindio. Once every two months, Claire would send one of the green horns to the train station in Durango to retrieve a gunnysack filled with Columbian coffee beans. There was absolutely nothing like waking up on the trail to the smell of coffee brewing on a hot fire. Claire truly enjoyed spoiling all my ranch hands, including me. She once told me a happy ranch hand was a hardworking ranch hand.

Claire went out of her way to attain provisions from far and wide such as Georgia preserves and jams, Italian and French wines, Vermont maple syrup, tinned oysters from Japan, Virginia salted hams, and chocolates from Bavaria and Switzerland. Every time I asked Claire how she was able to lavish us with such worldly consumables, she would give me one of her famous lines. “If I tell you, darling, I’ll have to kill you!” The only reason I found out about the California entrepreneur and the Columbian food industrialist was because I recently went with Claire to New Orleans to buy hats from the new line, and she happened to meet the two of them. I had a sneaky suspicion the main reason Claire wanted to go on that particular trip was for the sole purpose of gaining their acquaintance.

Our gait was a slow trot as we approached the thin trail that led us out of the canyon and into the lower valley, which became wide open space. We could see the herd and the green horns still rounding up the cattle for the evening. I breathed a sigh of relief when we joined the herd. I rode alongside Luke and asked him, “How’s everything going? Did you get much snow? Any of the calves get hypothermia?” Luke pulled back his reins. “Everything’s just fine, Gwenny. There ain’t no calf that’s hypothermiated, and we got a little snow, but we were lucky enough to get the hell out when we did.” Luke and I looked back up the valley to view the impressive snowcapped mountains. Morgan rode over to the other green horn bringing up the rear. Gabriella was her name, and she was a fireball.

Claire hired her or I should say found her when we were in Oklahoma City buying new furniture. Claire desperately wanted a new armoire for the bedroom, a server buffet for the dining room, new Victorian wingbacks for the study, and a piano for the great room. I questioned her about the piano, wondering where she would find a tuner in the remote town of Durango. She assured me it wouldn’t be necessary. I assured her by the time we returned home the piano would be out of tune.

Claire took a break from furniture shopping and came with me to check out a two-year-old quarter horse mare I had looked at earlier in the day. There happened to be a rodeo and fair when we arrived. It was getting ready to shut down the following day. I escorted Claire to the area where they were auctioning off horses.

The mare I wanted was tall and beautiful, about sixteen hands high. The owner called her Sahara because she was the color of the desert. If I made the highest bid, her new name would be changed to Charlotte. We noticed a ruckus going on behind the livestock pens. Claire went to check it out while I stayed put. The mare was about to come up for auction, and I was not going to miss it. A train wreck couldn’t stop me from leaving. Of course, if there was a real train wreck, I’d be the first one hightailing it away from the auction block.

Claire made her way to where the commotion was and found a small corral with a bunch of cowboys leaning on the rails. She squeezed in between two and pulled herself up to see what was going on. In the middle of the small arena, a cowboy was trying to break a bronco. Claire asked the fellow next to her, “Is this part of the rodeo events?” The fellow answered, “No, Ma’am, it’s not part of the rodeo. This here’s the Bronc Bustin’ Free for All. Whoever busts the bronco gets to ride it on home and become the proud owner of a new horse and saddle. The entry fee is a whopping ten dollars!” Claire watched intently as one rider after the other was bucked off.

Claire was just about ready to head back to the auction block when a Mexican woman entered the ring. She heard boos and cackles from the crowd. While one cowboy held the bronco steady, another cowboy assisted her up on the snorting beast. When she had a good grip on the rope, she nodded her head. The two cowboys turned on their heels and headed to the rails while she attempted to bust the bronco. She leaned so far back, it looked like she was lying on the bronco’s back, and every time she kicked in her spurs, the bronco gave in a little. The Mexican woman was riding that bronco for over three minutes, which was some kind of record. At least that’s what one cowboy said while hanging on the rail next to Claire.

When I finally found Claire, she was standing next to a Mexican woman in chaps, wearing a straw cowboy hat and a red bandana, spitting tobacco, and holding the reins of a gorgeous roan with a new saddle on his back. When Claire turned to introduce me, she took one look at me and then one look at Gabriella and laughed her infectious laugh. There I was in chaps, wearing a straw cowboy hat and a red bandana, smoking a skinny cigar, and holding the reins of a gorgeous horse with a new saddle on its back.

Claire hired Gabriella on the spot and not because she was dressed like me. At least I don’t think that was the reason. The truth is, Claire knew she had discovered a genuine female cowboy who was an amazing rough rider. There was no way in the world you could refer to her as a cowgirl. It just didn’t suit her. She was a cowboy just as sure as a shooting star in the heavens. Claire reminded me how advantageous it was to hire a fire plug like Gabriella. Little did I know those words would soon ring true.

Jake Jr. had descended down the hill, ahead of the herd, to set up camp and prepare the evening meal. He had hit the trail before sunrise and had been at camp taking care of business for the last three hours. I trotted over to the rope tether after speaking to Luke. I dismounted Vander B and tethered him to the horse line. I made my way to the chuck wagon as Jake Jr. spoke with his scratchy voice. “Hey, Gwenny, I see you and the boys finally made it.” I patted him on the back. “What’s for supper, Junior? I’m starved!” He responded with a friendly smile. “I’m cookin’ baked beans, venison, and pan bread. You be needin’ a cup of coffee, Gwenny?”

I pulled off my leather gloves, strapped them under my belt, and blew a warm breath of air into my hands. “You bet, Junior!” Jake Jr. poured me a hot cup of steaming coffee with a splash of sugar and a few drops of goat cream, New England style. Goat cream always lasted longer out on the trail. He set the coffee pot back on the fire and handed me my coffee. “Here you go, Gwenny. Be careful now, that coffee is so hot it will burn the tongue right out of your mouth! What time you suppose we be leaving tomorrow, Gwenny?” I found it endearing how Jake Jr. along with all my ranch hands called me Gwenny.

Jake Jr. grew up with B.J. and Rosy. They played almost every day together. Junior caught on very quickly that I was called Gwenny by B.J. and Rosy. That name stuck, and to this day, all three of them still call me nothing but Gwenny. I do remember when they were youngsters and got into trouble, I could hear their little voices saying “yes, ma’am” or “no, ma’am.” I’m almost certain all three of them played together until B.J. left to attend the Centennial Prep School for Boys. When Junior wasn’t following his father everywhere or when his father was on a cattle drive, I could always find Junior and B.J. playing cowboys and Indians or swinging from the swing my father had harnessed to the hundred-year-old oak tree when I was a child. Every so often, I’d catch all three of them up in the hayloft, waiting to scare the holy crap out of me as soon as I entered the barn.

One day, after scaring me half to death, they pleaded with me to let them jump from the door of the loft, down to the hay bales. I had to tell them absolutely not. I told B.J. his mother would kill me if he jumped and broke his neck. I told Rosy her mother would tan my hide and leave me to shrivel in the hot sun if she found her lying motionless below the hayloft with every bone in her body broken. And I told Junior his daddy would shoot me in the heart if he found a pitchfork sticking out of his son’s chest. I can’t remember a time after that day when I didn’t allow them to jump. However, before they jumped, I always double checked the pile of hay for pitchforks and made sure it was high enough for them to make a safe landing. The reason the pile of hay was sitting below the loft door instead of the stacked hay bales was because I had informed Claire how the children wanted to jump to their deaths.

The next day, I rode in from the south pasture as the stars were filling the night sky. I noticed a haystack below the hayloft outer door. After I stabled the horse and gave him a good brushing, I went inside looking for Claire, so I could ask her about the huge haystack. I found her reading to the children in the great room, in front of a roaring fire. She had placed two gas lanterns on the laminated Hawkins table that sat in front of the rawhide couch. Both Rosy and B.J. were dozing off. I whispered, “What are you reading?” Claire whispered back, “The Painted Pony, by Jonathon Foxworth.” I was curious and softly asked, “What’s it about?” Claire went on to tell me it was a about a painted pony that was torn between a little Indian boy and a little farm girl. The pony would run freely back and forth from reservation to farm. I asked Claire how it ended. She whispered, “I don’t know. I haven’t finished it yet, but I have a sneaky suspicion all three of them become fast friends.”

I then faintly inquired, “What’s with the huge pile of hay out by the hayloft?” Claire replied with a gentle silky voice, “I decided I didn’t want to find three dead children below the hayloft, so I had two of the ranch hands bust up some bales and build the biggest haystack they possibly could.” Claire then said with a stern look on her face, “I sat the children down on the leather couch in the study to prove how serious I was, knowing they weren’t allowed in the study very often. I made them sit in silence, with their hands folded and their feet dangling just above the floor, as I paced back and forth in front of them. I then turned abruptly facing the children and watched all three of them sit up straight with stiff backs, holding their breaths. I’m almost positive they thought they were in some kind of trouble.” Claire yawned quietly before continuing, “I informed all three children that there now was a very large haystack out by the barn. They were never allowed to jump from the hayloft into that haystack without getting permission and supervision from one of us or Jake Sr. And if they were caught in the act, I would break B.J.’s neck, break every bone in Rosy’s body, and stab Jake Jr. in the chest with a pitchfork”

Claire placed an empty recipe card on the page she was last reading and closed the book. She quietly set it on the laminated table and then told me, “Grab B.J., darling, while I grab Rosy. I’ll meet you back here after we’ve put them to bed. B.J.’s nightshirt should be under his pillow.” After tucking in the children, we made it back to the great room and the roaring fire. Before we snuggled together on the soft plush cowhide sofa, I handed Claire The Painted Pony. Once we were settled, she opened the book to the first page and started reading. I closed my eyes and started listening.

Chapter 22

I was in the canvas tent putting on long johns when I heard Jake Jr. banging on the triangle, yelling, “Come and get it, you sorry-ass cowpokes!” When he handed me my plate, I asked him with an offended sounding voice, “You know, Junior, I work awfully hard day in and day out for anyone to be calling me a sorry ass?” Jake Jr. had a look of embarrassment on his face and replied, “C’mon, Gwenny, you knows I wasn’t meaning you when I said that!” I laughed out loud to ease his pain and then he got the joke. We all sat around the fire for a spell while Morgan played his harmonica. We could hear coyotes howling off in the distance. It was a nightly occurrence I looked forward to. For reasons I could never ascertain, listening to the faint echoes from a pack of untamed animals was quite soothing and comforting.

I drew up a schedule, which listed all our names except Jake Jr. We would each take an hour shift keeping an eye on the herd. Each hour would be distinguished by the position of the moon. As I had done many times before, I told the ranch hands to listen carefully as I explained the concept of how time was related to the moon. I had everyone cast their eyes upwards. “It’s pretty simple, so you shouldn’t have much trouble. Imagine a regular clock in your mind. Like the one that’s hanging on Doc Stevenson’s office wall. If you look at the moon right now, you can see it’s sitting up in the sky at about ten o’clock. So all you have to do, when it’s your shift, is first check the moon to see where it’s sitting in the sky. Then you mark a spot as a reference point right under the moon.”

Luke was rubbing his chin while Gabriella was scratching her head. “Take for instance right now, if you stand behind me, you’ll see below the moon is that dead spruce with a large nest in it.” They all took turns standing behind me and looking. “Okay, so now find your own reference points.” Gabriella proclaimed with a smile, “I’ve got mine! See the low point of the saddle between those two mountain peaks? That’s my reference point!” I turned to the rest of the ranch hands. “Excellent, Gabby, anybody else?” Luke said proudly, “Look over here, Gwenny! See those two logs lying on top of each other? Well, where they cross each other is my reference point!” I waited for the two other cowboys. “What about you, Morgan?” Morgan lifted his arm, closed one eye, and took aim as if he was holding a Smith and Wesson. “Can you see those two white boulders next to each other in the creek, Gwenny? That’s my reference point! Willis added, “My reference point is that busted wagon wheel near the last tent.”

“Okay, listen up! Now all you have to do to find your hour marker is take your thumb and place it on the right side of the moon. Follow the right side of your thumb back down to earth to see what the new reference point will be. Whatever you find as your reference point is your hour marker. So when the left side of the moon is over that second reference point, you know it’s time to end your shift and wake up the next sorry ass on this list.” I looked over at Junior, but he was ignoring me. “Now the most important thing about this method is if you move from your spot during your shift, you have to remember where it was so you can go back to it and check the position of the moon!”

Gabriella, Jake Jr., and I bunked together in the canvas tent that was next to the chuck wagon. I had the last shift because I knew it was the shortest. How did I know it was the shortest? Well, it was simple mathematics. A wonderful tool my father taught me. I figured since there were only five of us and the sun would most likely be up in six hours, the guys would be out there more than an hour because the method was only 90 percent accurate, and by my father’s calculations, ranch hands screwed up on their hour markers 60 percent of the time and never in their favor.

I woke to gunfire. The sun was coming up and the sky wasn’t quite blue when I stepped from the tent. Jake Jr. was already up making breakfast. I could smell coffee and bacon. I put on my chaps and questioned Jake Jr. “Who the hell is shooting, Junior?” Jake Jr. poured me some coffee. “Gabriella has the shift before yours, so it stands to reason it must be her. You’re the only one I’ve seen this morning, Gwenny, and I know it wasn’t you.” I told Jake Jr. to keep my coffee hot. I went over to the tethered horses and threw a blanket and saddle on Vander B, cinched the straps, and untied the reins from the tether.

As I rode towards the herd, I held my Winchester and scanned the area, looking for Gabriella. I started circling the herd, and when I had gone almost 180 degrees, I spotted Gabriella, and she was off her horse squatting down. I picked up the pace from a trot to a gallop. I yelled Gabriella’s name, and she stood and waved her hat. I pulled back the reins and told Vander B to whoa. When I came to a stop, I slid my Winchester back in its holster on the side of my saddle as Gabriella slipped a bloody glove back on her hand.

“Olla chica, que paso?” Gabriella pointed to the ground and then to a scrub oak. “Hey, Gwenny, I’ll tell you what’s happening! See this dead coyote? Well, before I cut out its entrails, it tried to go after that calf over there. That damn calf had strayed from the herd, and you could say I kept that coyote from having breakfast this morning!” I was still up in my saddle, looking down at Gabriella. “That’s why I pay you good money and give you a little cabin to live in!” We both laughed. “I hate it when a calf runs off like that. It’s amazing we don’t lose more of them.”

After Gabriella strewed the entrails and carcass across some scrub oaks to keep the other coyotes away, she walked over to the creek and rinsed the blood off her gloves and tied them around her saddle horn with a short suede strap. She then climbed into her saddle, and we headed off to breakfast. As we walked the horses towards camp, I showed my appreciation to the Mexican cowgirl, or as Claire would say, cowboy. “Gabby, you sure are one hell of a vaquero. I hope you like working here cuz I’m glad to have you.” I gave compliments like that to all my workers if they deserved it. If I thought they were one hell of a cowboy, I let them know. I also let them know when they needed improving or if they messed up. I learned from my father and Claire the importance of balance and discipline. It kept the ranch and my life running smoothly.

Everyone was finished with breakfast and saddling their horses when we arrived back at camp. As I tethered Vander B to the rope, Luke asked, “Gwenny, we’ll be ready to move the cattle as soon as we break camp and load the tents on Junior’s pack mule.” Luke was always on top of things. “That sounds good to me, Luke. If you all get finished before Gabriel and I eat breakfast and help Jake Jr. wash the dishes, then by all means, drive that damn herd down the hill! Luke laughed wholeheartedly. “Yes, ma’am. By the way Gwenny, what was all that shooting about this morning?” I told Luke to ask Gabby, since she was the one shooting.

Gabby and I waited for Jake Jr. before we started to mount up and ride. It was a general rule never to leave the chuck wagon behind. The cook could always lead the way but was never left behind. One of the most important aspects of a cattle drive, no matter how long the drive or how many head you were driving, was to take care of your cook. He keeps you nourished with tasty food, and he keeps you awake with hot coffee. Love him like he was your wife and respect him like he was your mother. If you don’t have a wife or a mother, then love and respect him like you do your own horse.

The chuck wagon wheels began to roll, and we were soon on the trail heading for home. It was always a great feeling knowing that a hot bath and a warm bed were waiting for me at my next destination, not to mention a hot woman with warm charm. Gabby and I led the way, and after an hour, the herd was in our sites. We could barely make out the whistles and yells from the guys. Gabby and I both noticed two wandering calves. I took the one on the right, and Gabby took the one on the left. I told Junior we had a couple of doggies to fetch, and we’d be right back. I also told him if it took longer than expected to fetch those doggies, I imagined he’d catch up to the herd in no time and not to worry. Junior didn’t act worried nor did he look worried. He just responded with a self-reliant tone. “I’ll be fine, Gwenny, take your time. I’ve got this here triangle to make noise with, if anything goes wrong.”

By the time I got a glimpse of the calf, he was in the foothills. I made my way in his direction. Once I reached the top of the foothills, I saw the calf go over a ridge and down into a ravine. When I finally reached the calf, I wanted to ring his neck. I lost track of how many ridges and ravines I’d been traversing. I roped and hog-tied him while I got my bearings. I looked around and realized I was surrounded by peaks. I no longer heard the whistles and yells from the boys. I tried to locate the moon, but it wasn’t up yet. Many times you can see the moon during the day and it helps you get oriented. The sun wasn’t helping because it was directly overhead. It had not dropped far enough into the western sky yet. I sat down by the calf and rubbed his belly. I thought about what I was going to do and was mad at myself for getting all turned around.

I positioned the calf across Vander B in front of my saddle horn. I headed for a ridge I thought was south, but when I got there I wasn’t any closer to getting my bearings. I sat up on the ridge contemplating my next move. I could do one of three things. First, I could wait for the sun to drop in the west and then I would definitely get my bearings, but I’d be losing daylight. Second, I could keep going, but there was a one in four chance I’d be heading in the wrong direction, and I’d be lost worse than when I started. And third, I could stay right where I was and wait for someone to find me, but that could take too long. I opted for the first choice. However, I was only going to wait an hour no longer before I tried to figure out where south was located.

I checked my hour marker and hoped it was no less than 90 percent accurate. I realized the sun had not moved enough for me to get a fix on any direction. I had tied the calf next to a meandering brook in case he needed water. I sat under the shade of a pine tree and contemplated my predicament. I’m not sure how much time elapsed, but I started to get hungry. I opened my saddle bag and pulled out Claire’s care package. I untied it with ease, finding no trick knots. I unwrapped the package to find six cut squares of a cinnamon cake, six sage chicken thighs, six big strips of jerky, and a note from Claire. It was obvious that Willis, Morgan, and I were allotted two pieces of each item. Claire loved to put written notes just about every place she could think. Sometimes I would find them in my boot, inside my saddle bag, crammed in my leather glove, or hidden in my leather cigar holder. I opened Claire’s note and it read:

Gwen, My Love,

I pray this letter finds your cattle and ranch hands well and dry. I look forward to your return on the full moon. I will have a steaming bath waiting and a glass of cognac to warm your inners. You can rest assure I’ll be wearing your nightshirt to bed every evening but not your sox. I’ll leave you with these choice words.

The sun is gone the moon shone bright

Up in the sky, it’s you tonight

A wish is made for your return

The sun is back its early morn

I Love You, Darling

Claire never signed personal written notes to me for fear that one of the ranch hands might run across it and read it. I found this to be ironically amusing because Claire knew none of the ranch hands could read except Gabriella, and she would never be so bold as to read or share any personals with the ranch hands. I folded the note in half and then in half two more times and put it inside the brim of my hat. It’s funny how we pick up certain habits from those we dearly love. I bit into a chicken thigh, and when I was done with that, I took two bites out of a cinnamon square. I wrapped up the cloth care package and tied it with the twine. I tossed it back in my saddlebag and told myself, I better conserve food. One thing you do in the wild is conserve. You conserve food, heat,energy, and water. When I told the ranch hands about conserving in the wild, to help then remember, I called it FHEW. I then realized it was a moot point and asked Gabriella to explain it to my illiterate ranch hands.

I went back to contemplating and mulling over my options. I decided to stick with my original plan. I looked up at the sun briefly to see how much it had dropped. I was hoping it dropped a little more, so I could get my southern bearing. That’s when I recalled another technique my father taught me. I wasn’t sure if I could remember it or not, but I thought I’d give it a try. I untied the twine from Claire’s care package and searched for the straightest longest dead branch I could find.

I finally found a perfect branch that was almost three feet in length. I then located a sunny flat spot that was not impeded by shade. I tied a six-inch piece of twine loosely around the branch. I tapped the branch into the ground with a rock and angled the branch up towards the sun. I made sure there was absolutely no shadow on the ground from the branch. I then hit the branch with force until it felt sturdy enough to stay upright on its own. The six-inch piece of twine fell nicely down to the end of the branch. I waited for a six-inch shadow to emerge.

I was under a pine tree on the opposite side of Vander B when I dozed off. I was aware the process of waiting for a six-inch shadow would be long and drawn out. A nap would pass the time more quickly as opposed to just sitting around watching the slow emergence of a shadow. I woke with a start, and when I came to my senses, I noticed it was the calf that roused me from sleep. He was caught up in the tether and made it known he was not happy about it. The noise he made sounded as if it was coming from a billy goat. I was just happy he wasn’t being devoured by a coyote. I untangled him, and he immediately headed for the brook.

I tromped over to my branch to see how long the shadow had grown. To my surprise, it was about four and a half inches. I was ecstatic knowing there was only an inch and a half to go. I strolled down to the brook to get a drink and splash water on my face. I needed to be alert once I got my bearings. I went and found shade near the branch and waited. I removed Claire’s note from my hat and reread it twice. I folded it in half and in half twice more and placed it back inside my hat. I then looked up to find the shadow was as long as the six-inch string. I danced all the way to the branch.

I was now going to be able to get my bearings. I said a prayer to protect me from fouling it up. It was from the book of Zach, the head ranch hand. “Holy Mary, Mother of fricken God, please help me to aim straight and steer right, now and at the hour of the stick’s shadow. Amen.” I then added a few more choice words. “Christi almighty, now is the time I need you sitting at my right hand! Jesus, Mary, and Josephine, give me strength to survive.” The recollection of my father’s instructions suddenly came easy.

I recalled the end of the shadow pointed east. I stood in that direction and was now facing east. I finally found my bearings, which in turn would give my reference point. The rest was easy. If I went ninety degrees to the left, I’d be facing north. If I went ninety degrees to the right, I’d be facing south. I danced in place when I was facing south. While I was dancing, another recollection revealed itself. I knew when the sun went down, if I could find the Little Dipper, I was a shoo-in for locating the North Star. It was the last star on the Little Dipper’s handle. The North Star never moved more than one degree off of true north. I could travel by day and by night if I needed to. I danced a little more.

I marked a spot on the horizon that was due south and stuck to it. I only had maybe an hour or two of travel time before I had to set up my dry camp, start a fire, and watch the sky turn dark. I loaded the calf on Vander B, cinched the straps, and jumped into my saddle. I looked back at the branch one last time to make sure my ninety degrees to the right was accurate. I relocated my spot on the horizon. It was a cluster of aspen trees losing their golden leaves. I seized a piece of jerky from my saddlebag and savored every bite.

Gabriella stopped looking for me only after an hour of searching. It was imperative the cattle got down off the mountain. Snow and high elevations don’t mix well with the steer unless you want to kill them fast. Gabriella was back at the herd speaking to Jake Jr. in a slight panic. “Well, sir, if Gwenny has to spend the night out here, I think she’ll be just fine. I do worry about her being out there for too long without knowing where she is, but I have faith in her.” Jake Jr. nodded his head in partial agreement. “Gwenny’s daddy taught her all kinds of revival skills in case she gets stuck out in these here woods. So don’t you never mind about Gwenny knowing wheres she is! She’ll figure it out!”

“One time, not long ago, she was coming over the mountain from the west side wheres her other property is. She dun run into a snowstorm and couldn’t see the horse in front of her carriage, naw, ma’am! She forged on and mustered up the strength to get back home. She had to jump off that carriage several times and just pull that darn horse through the snow. I swears she had more strength than the horse did! I never dun seen nobody with so much porridge as Gwenny. She has nerves of steel! You know what I mean, don’t ya, Gabby?” Gabriella looked back up the mountain and cast her eyes on the looming sky. “Yeah, Junior, she has nerves of steel like those narrow gauge trains with their steam engines and their iron wheels. She has unwavering courage and good survival skills to boot, just like you said.”

Claire could see the herd coming from the north side of the property. She was standing atop the four-story fire tower my father and some townsfolk built way back when, I was just a young girl. The tower was always off limits to the children unless an adult was up there. It located many a fire over the years, so ranch hands and townsfolk could make fire breaks and stop the blaze from going wild. Of course, some fires you couldn’t control. Claire looked out and started counting aloud. “One, two, three.” She thought to herself, I only see three. Wait a minute. “One, two, three, four.” She counted several more times and only came up with four ranch hands. She searched everywhere—along the perimeter, behind the chuck wagon, and even in the center of the herd, which was unheard of. No pun intended.

Claire had a funny ritual of scaling the lookout tower any time the herd and I were returning from the hill and counting cowhands as they drove the heard down from the north. It seemed to calm her nerves and satisfy any skepticism she had about me returning or not. Claire descended the fire tower two steps at a time and headed to the main house to change into her riding pants, riding boots, and her favorite Victorian purple velvet Buckram riding hat. She was so oblivious on her way out the door, that she passed the hat stand in the mudroom without grabbing her hat. She then proceeded to the stables to saddle up Charlotte number three. She wasn’t panicked. She kept her wits about her not rushing out to the herd to startle or look the fool. She didn’t like galloping or running too fast anyway.

Oh yes, she was staying calm when she noticed the saddle was on backwards. Oh, and she was collected when she mounted Charlotte and the saddle fell to the ground with her on it. Oh, she was composed when Gabriella came towards her at the fastest run she’d ever seen Gabriella attempt, on any steed. Claire was a studious woman. She was well aware of what adrenaline did to a person, and Gabriella was full of it. Unsurprisingly, Claire’s adrenaline was causing her insides to feel more anxious than a polecat up a tree with several hound dogs below barking up a storm. Oh yes, both their adrenaline was flowing rampant.

Gabriella slowed her horse, turned it around, and rode alongside Claire. Claire could see a little trepidation in Gabriella’s eyes. “What’s the trouble, Gabriella? Why are there only four of you?” There should be five!” Gabriella took in a breath and let out a hard exhale. “A day and a half ago, Gwenny and I went off-herd to round up two doggies. They both headed in two different directions, opposite sides of the herd. Gwenny took one and I took the other. A little while later, I returned with my calf and put it back with the herd. I continued to ride along side Junior. He was behind the herd, about half a mile. Close to an hour went by and there was no Gwenny.” Claire gasped but didn’t interrupt. “By this time, Junior and I had caught up to the herd. Junior rang his triangle as loud as he could, and the boys slowed the herd to a stop and met us at the chuck wagon.

I told them what I just told you, and we all agreed to stick with the rules of the ranch given to us by Gwenny—get the herd off the hill at all costs.” Gabriella started to cry but held back as best she could. “We all decided that I would go back and retrace our tracks and try to find Gwenny. I was really the only one who knew exactly where Gwenny rode to, so it stands to reason I’d go back. I spent an hour searching and yelling and firing rounds out of my pistol. And I got no response, Claire!” Tears were streaming down Gabriella’s face, and she was frantic. Claire was going to have to hold it together for everyone, including herself, if they were all to get through this unfortunate incident.

Chapter 23

Luke and Willis tended to the herd. As soon as the cattle were behind fences on the east pasture, they’d be on their way back up the hill. Gabriella rode into town, soliciting volunteers to assist in the search. Morgan rode in the opposite direction, to Sunny Ridge Farms, a poultry farm, in hopes of finding volunteers. Claire headed up the canyon with Jake Jr. and Zach.

Zach was beside himself, saying to no one in particular, “Judas Priest, you’d think Gwenny had more horse sense than that, getting herself lost in the mountains! What in the hell is she trying to prove anyway? She better not be hurt or half-eaten by a cougar, or I swear to God, I’ll kill her myself!”

“Zach!” Claire yelled in anguish. “Get hold of yourself this instant! What on earth is the matter with you? If you can’t stow it then I suggest you turn your horse around and head back to the barn!” Zach cowered in embarrassment. “Yes, ma’am.” Claire added solemnly, “We’re all a little rattled and perhaps filled with emotion and a heavy heart, but we’ve got to keep it together for Gwen’s sake. Now, there will be no more outbursts, is that clear?” Zach and Jake Jr. both responded in unison, “Yes, ma’am.” Claire did everything she could not to fall apart.

The posse grew to more than fifty. Along with Claire, Zach, Jake Junior, Gabriella, Morgan, Willis, Luke, and the rest of the ranch hands, twenty workers and family members from Sunny Ridge Farms and twenty-some townspeople were making their way towards the hill. The number was climbing by the second. When word got out about anything serious, it spread like a wildfire. The canyon was swarming with horses, mules, riders, hikers, and wagons. They carried everything from pistols, shotguns, triangles, cowbells, wooden duck callers to Indian drums, metal washboards, and frying pans with ladles. Anything that could make as much noise as possible was now being carried up through the canyon. Claire, Zach, and Junior were waiting for the first search party group to arrive and watching for any signs of Gwen. They sat tall in their saddles, where the north edge of the canyon met the southernmost part of the high valley. They had setup a base camp next to a dry creek bed, partially covered with grass. It was surrounded by several large spruce and pine trees.

Daylight was dwindling, but there were plenty of torches to go around. Claire stood on a wagon while everyone gathered. Zach yelled, “Listen up, people! Quiet down now and listen up!” Zach was very forceful when he spoke. Claire cleared her throat and with an unsteady hand, climbed up on the buckboard seat, and stood above the volunteers. She raised her voice, so all could hear. “It’s going to be dark soon, but I understand every single one of you wants to press on. The B & H Ranch appreciates your efforts and thanks everyone here tonight. It’s imperative we stay organized. No one is to search alone. We don’t want anyone else getting lost in these mountains. We also ask that you keep in sight with other searchers. Never go off on your own at any time. So, when you’re ready to go, we have a second check point north of here where Gwen allegedly went missing.”

Claire paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. Her inner strength proved remarkable. She didn’t waver as she continued bravely, “We ask that all riders head into the west by northwest sector of the forest. If you look at our map hanging on the chuck wagon, you’ll see where that is. Those on foot should head straight up the valley to the second check point. You will be instructed what to do when you arrive there. I ask that you search along the way. If anyone needs a torch, you can find them in either the wagon I’m standing on or the one right over there.” Claire pointed to the wagon under the trees. “If anyone has any questions, whatsoever, you can talk to any of the B & H staff. They’re recognizable by the yellow arm bands around their arms.” Claire touched her arm band to make sure it was still there.

I was hunkered down by the fire with my newfound companion. I decided to name the calf Animas. It meant devil or evil or hell or something related to purgatory. Since he was the root of all my troubles, I couldn’t resist giving him that name. He had been on all fours, but I forced him down on the ground next to me for warmth. It was getting chilly in them thar hills. Somehow I ended up above the tree line after reaching the top of the last ridge.

I couldn’t believe I was still trapped in the mountains after two days. It was utterly ridiculous! For the rest of the day, I had been advancing in the direction of my mark. However, the cluster of aspens seemed to be no closer, and I was dangerously toying with the snow line. In the morning, I was going to check my bearings again. I had already found the ideal stick. It was lying all by itself in a clearing, as if someone left it there for me. It was perfectly straight, no curves anywhere. It gave me reason to think of Claire because she was the complete opposite.

Claire had the most sumptuous curves all over her body, not only to look at, but also to touch and make love to. I was the apple of her thighs. She was a cool drink of water. I was her hot cup of tea. She was a sweet piece of pheasant under glass. I felt a little giddy. Maybe I was missing her cooking. It’s funny how when you’re lost at a high altitude, the thin air makes you think of the most bizarre and wonderful things all at once. It’s also funny how your eyes start playing tricks on you. I swore I could see another campfire on the peak adjacent to me. I also thought I saw a naked person dancing in a tree.

After my hallucinations, I decided to get the hell off the mountain right then and there. I was not going to spend one more night in the thin air. I ate the last of the sage chicken and tied off my bedroll. I had a lasso around Animas’s neck and the other end around my saddle horn. I wasn’t going to lose him again. I mounted Vander B, who was plenty hungry, because there was not much vegetation above the tree line for grazing.

I looked skyward in search of the Little Dipper, knowing the last star on its handle was the North Star; some call it Polaris. It was more difficult than I thought. There were so many damn stars in the sky, I started to panic. Then I realized I could use the Big Dipper to locate the North Star and Little Dipper. The two stars forming the end of the Big Dipper’s bowl point directly at the North Star. The Little Dipper has essentially the same shape as the Big Dipper, but its handle curved the other way.

I dismounted Vander B and found a comfortable spot to lie. The moon was not quite full. I realized its phases were getting smaller. I thought of Claire’s note. I was past my due date. I was glad the moon was still out. It helped a little to brighten the sky and dim the stars. I lay on my back for what seemed like an eternity. I chose to close my eyes for a moment, clear my head, and open them again. When I peered upwards, I saw a shooting star sail across the sky and then it disappeared. And lo and behold, right behind where it disappeared was the Big Dipper. I couldn’t believe it. What a stroke of luck.

Claire stayed at base camp for the duration. She knew she would go crazy if I was found, and she was searching somewhere on the back side of a mountain. No, she would stay put, assist others, and pray to the high heavens for the safe return of her darling G. She looked up at the October sky as a falling star shot across Ursa Major, better known as the Big Dipper. She made a desperate attempt at a wish but panicked after thinking it wouldn’t come true. It reminded her of what she once made clear to me years ago—if you wish for something with doubt in your heart, the opposite will occur. She suddenly recounted her doubts and made a wish for my safe return with the purest of certainty.

Gabriella and Luke were standing over a parchment map they personally drew from memory. There were quadrants marked off from peaks and saddle to ridges, meadows, and valleys. They could see the glows of the torches making their way up the valley. Gabriella guessed it to be after one in the morning. Volunteers began to arrive and she divided them into separate groups. Gabriella started counting and when a group had accumulated fifteen volunteers, she lined them up in a straight line and told them to stay within twenty feet of each other. She asked who wanted to be the leader of each group. When someone raised their hand, she gave them a compass on a string that she placed around their neck and a small sheet of paper with written compass directions on how to get back to the second camp.

She reminded them, if they found me, they were to keep moving and head back to camp whether I was hurt or not. They were to fire three quick bursts of gunfire and wait thirty seconds before firing again. They were to continue to fire until they ran out of ammo. If volunteers were out looking and they heard three blasts of gunfire off in the distance, they should cease their search and proceed back to camp. She then pointed them in a specific direction and said good luck. Both Gabriella and Luke thought it was ingenious of Claire to come up with the idea of using the compasses. Before Gabriella raced to town, Claire asked her to specifically find the schoolmarm, Miss Purdy, and ask to borrow the bag of small compasses she used to help teach her students about the planet, geology, and the North Pole.

I let Vander B lead the way as I kept my eyes on the Little Dipper and North Star. I didn’t want to lose track of it. If he started walking in the wrong direction, I’d correct him with a tug on the reins. I thought maybe it would be a good idea to sit on the saddle backwards, to keep an eye on the Little Dipper, but I didn’t want a branch slamming in the back of my head. Every now and then, I’d get a mouthful of tree and become terrified, thinking I was going to lose site of the Little Dipper or maybe even lose a tooth. What a strange thought. The thin air was still having its way with me.

My neck was starting to ache from wrenching it forward and backwards. I devised a plan and after I thought about it, I realized it was very clever indeed. I should have figured it out when I first started my bold astronomy project. I pulled back the reins and Vandy came to a halt. I situated the horse smack dab in the middle of the moon and the Little Dipper. That way I could glance up at the moon every now and then and check its position and rectify mine if I needed to. I turned Vandy around facing south and headed off in that direction. It worked quite well and my neck stopped hurting instantly. I was no longer feeling lightheaded. I knew I must have descended at least a thousand feet, and I was now well below the tree line and the perilous air that made me so incoherent.

I came to another rise and couldn’t believe my eyes. It was preposterous and inconceivable. This time I caught sight of several little glowing fires far off in the distance. They emulated bouncing fire flies. I assumed the little bugs were a hallucination again, and I ignored them. I looked up to check the sky. Panic and dread started to set in because clouds were forming all around me, and the moon and stars were fading fast. I decided it was time to find shelter. If I remained out in the elements with no protection and a storm came my way, I’d freeze to death or worse I’d be buried alive in snow.

Gabriella and Luke were taking a breather by the woodstove inside their canvas tent. They were trying to warm their hands. There had been no more volunteers arriving from down below for quite some time. They were contemplating whether or not they should start searching together. Dawn was just around the horizon. You could feel the early morning chill in the air. It usually happened an hour or two before sunrise. Luke stepped outside to see if the sky was starting to get light. Gabriella heard him complaining. “Gabby, looks like we may have a storm coming from the west!” Gabriella stuck her head out from the tent. They looked at each other and both exclaimed, “Holy crap!” They secured any supplies that remained by loading them into the covered wagon. They rechecked the tethered horses and mules. They returned to the warm tent and sat by the woodstove.

Luke rubbed his hands together over the heat. “Do you think she’s dead, Gabby?” Gabriella’s response was quick and cruel. “You have a brain the size of a pea, you loco poco hombre! How could you think such a thing! You know damn well Gwenny is too smart to get herself killed!” Gabriella continued to speak in fluent Spanish, and Luke didn’t understand one word of it. He did hear words that sounded like stupido, cavron, diablo, asesinato, and accidente. He later asked Pedro, the Blacksmith’s assistant, about a few words he remembered. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and the sky was as clear as a bell. “Hey Pedro, what does stupido, poco, hombre, asesinato, and accidente mean? Pedro told him with an accusatory tone, “Stupid little man, murder, and accident. Why do you want to know, señor?” Luke hurried off with some excuse about being late for church.

After Gabriella was finished with her verbal rampage, she tossed a log into the stove and slammed the door shut. The two of them huddled together until volunteers started reappearing. Luke never mentioned my demise again to Gabriella. It was obvious they were both distraught.

Claire hoped it wasn’t snowing in the upper elevations, but it was hard denying the sky. The morning hue in the east was getting brighter while the sky over the North Mountains was becoming grayer. Riders that had worked their way south all night began arriving back in the canyon at base camp. Claire knew I was not among the riders. If I had been, she would have heard the echoes of unbridled gunfire. She looked pale with sunken eyes, and her beautiful black hair was in disarray. Like everyone else, she hadn’t slept all night. She was holding a cup of coffee, New England style, to warm her hands and sipping it every now and then. As the riders came in, she sat them down to a hot breakfast. Jake Jr. was cooking and poured them hot steaming coffee. Claire looked over at Jake Jr. as he looked back in despair. She thought to herself, “How in hell am I going to last another day, having to bare such incomprehensible despair? How in hell is my Gwyneth going to last another day out in the elements?” She went behind the chuck wagon, out of site from the others, and sobbed like she’d never sobbed before.

I was shocked to see Animas in good condition. I assumed, since the temperature was now at the freezing point and there was snowfall, the calf would start to shiver and, in all probability, die of exposure. I had found a small cave on the side of a low-lying crag. I tied Vandy twenty feet below the cave. Before I hoisted Animas onto my shoulders and up to the crag, I collected small pieces of wood, branches, and dry mossy bark to build a fire. Animas was by my side in the small cave as I scraped a sharp rock on my flint square. I was able to send large sparks into the dry moss that I had ripped off the bark and gathered into a loose ball. Smoke was soon billowing from its core. I blew lightly into the smoke, and poof, a flame appeared. I dropped it into the center of my tiny fire pit where I had strategically placed moss, twigs, and small splinters of wood. I soon had a cozy little fire burning and slowly added bigger pieces of wood. It was light out, and I was happy not to be in the dark any longer. I unwrapped the cloth package and removed a piece of cinnamon cake and what was left of a jerky strip. I took off my cowboy hat and pulled out Claire’s note. I read it again as I consumed my rations. I soon fell asleep with note in hand.

Group by group, the volunteers started showing up wet and tired. The snow was coming down in an even layer, and Gabriella and Luke were happy it wasn’t a whiteout or a blizzard. That would have been the worst-case scenario. More than one life would have most likely been lost that morning. It was close to noon by the time every group checked in to the second base camp. They were instructed to continue south towards the first base camp, where an early supper would be waiting for them.

Gabriella thought Claire was not going to be happy when she saw the retreat from concerned volunteers, who started out with hope and determination and ended up with looks of disappointment and failure. By late afternoon, the storm had passed, and the sky opened up to sunshine and a little warmth. Claire imagined the search would resume in the morning, but sadly, only half of the volunteers remained. It is rough and grueling for volunteers to be out in the elements all night and then repeat it all over again in less than twenty four hours. Claire realized it was an impossible task for most.

Gabriella turned to Luke. “I’ve checked every group off the list. They’ve all gone down to the lower canyon. There’s nobody left in those mountains except Gwenny! It was still light out when Luke looked up towards the mountains. Gabriella made her way to the tethered horses. “I’m going into the mountains, and you’re coming with me!” Just then, Morgan rode up on his bronze quarter horse with a beautiful rich black mane and tail. He dismounted in a hurry. “Anyone else up here besides you two?” Gabriella handed him the list. “Nope, only Gwenny.” Luke let his presence be known. “Yeah, and me and Gabby were just about ready to mount up and go find her!” Morgan handed the list back to Gabriella and rubbed his forehead. “Well, I’m coming with you.”

Gabriella had, what she called, her rules and regulations for being in a search team of three. She said with a stern vibrato, “None of us should ever lose site of the other, is that clear?” Both boys answered skeptically, “Yes, ma’am.” “We’re not stopping for nothing! We’re going to be out here all night no matter what the weather decides to do, is that clear?” Both boys again appeared skeptical with the self-appointed Gabriella. “Yes, ma’am.” “There will be no complaining, bellyaching, or protesting about anything, is that clear?” Morgan wasted no time responding. “We get it, Gabby, now let’s get a move on!”

They launched their search in the last place Gabriella saw me when I went after that damn calf. They trampled patches of snow and puddles of mud as they made their way upwards over the first ridge. On a lucky spoof, they headed west at a severe angle that none of the other volunteers had taken.

Chapter 24

I had been sleeping during the snowstorm, and when I woke, I was invigorated by the warm sun in my eyes. It was just about to set over the mountains. I looked down to find Claire’s note gone from my hand. I was suddenly distraught but told myself it was only a minor setback. I hunted frantically on the ground around me, only to find it partially singed and lying in the burned out fire. I pulled it from the smoldering pit and all that remained on the page was: “A wish is made for your return. The sun is back its early morn. Love you darling.” I started feeling a rush of adrenaline surge through my veins. I blew the ashes off what was left of Claire’s note and folded it twice, then put it back in the brim of my black Stetson. I leaned my head back towards the sun and smiled. A smile anyone would know was an omen if they caught a glimpse of it. Yes, it was an omen all right, like the partially burnt note folded in my black Stetson reassuring me I was going to survive.

I collected more wood and blazed another fire, waiting for the moon and the stars to show themselves. I had thrown some pinecones into the fire. I then cursed myself, knowing when pinecones first start to burn, all they do is cause a smolder of suffocating smoke that lasts forever. The cave was full of it, and I was coughing. I grabbed the rope that was tied around Animas and snatched up the remains of my care package and headed down to Vandy. The three of us stood there watching the smoke rise out of the cave and into the sky. I thought I heard thunder off in the distance, but didn’t see one cloud in the sky. All I noticed was blackbirds circling, cawing, and dive-bombing passing hawks, forcing them out of their territory.

It was common knowledge that thunder and lightning were nonexistent in freezing weather. Half a minute later, there it was again, thunder cracking in three short bursts. That’s unheard of, I said to myself. When it echoed again, I realized it was not thunder but gunfire. I ran as fast as I could back to the cave. I left Animas untied down by Vander B. At that moment in time, I honestly didn’t care if he ran off. When I was inside the cave, I put more pinecones on the fire, along with wood to keep the fire blazing. I covered my mouth and nose with a blue bandana. I stood just outside the cave and waited. Every so often I’d throw another pinecone on the fire and just listen for the next gunfire bursts to echo across the mountains. It was sweet music to my ears. I unholstered my Colt .45 and answered the call.

Claire watched as the storm blew east. She thanked God for that as she helped Jake Jr. setup service for the dinner meal. She noticed less than half of the volunteers now remained at base camp, and when supper was over, there were even less volunteers. They all had to go back to their farms, ranches, or families. She tried not to expect too much from them. She was happy and grateful they made any effort at all.

Claire was not looking forward to spending one more night inside a warm tent, knowing I was out in the cold. She managed to keep her wits about her when she was interacting with volunteers, but as soon as she was by herself washing pots and pans or inside her tent, she fell apart. She thought about how difficult it would be to tell the children. She dreaded having to pick out some god-awful outfit for my burial if my body was ever found. She was overcome with trepidation when she conceded to being all alone for the rest of her life, never to be by my side again.

I held Animas tight and kept hugging him as he lay across Vandy in front of my saddle horn. Gabriella and Morgan went on and on about who saw the smoke first. Luke said it was definitely him, and he had proof because he fired the first three shots. Gabriella said he had shit for brains and the only reason he fired first was because he just happened to have that new fangled shoulder holster so his draw was quicker. Morgan demanded he noticed the smoke first because he was on the highest part of the ridge.

They were all still arguing thirty minutes later. I was about to shoot all three of them right between the eyes. I abruptly interrupted them, “Hold it right there! Did anyone hear that?” No one could see the good-humored expression on my face because I was riding up front. Apparently, they didn’t want me getting lost again, so they made sure all three of them rode behind me. They all stopped bickering and listened. I then asked with a serious tone, “Was that gunfire?” Night had fallen, but there were plenty of stars in the sky, and it was too cold to have thunder and lightning crackling over our heads.

Morgan said, with concern, “I don’t hear anything, Gwenny!” Luke answered next. “Me neither, Gwenny!” Gabriella’s tone was less than appropriate. “Well maybe if you two gringos shut up for one second, we could hear!” It was quiet for the rest of the ride while my three saviors incessantly listened for gunfire. Of course, that all changed when we made it back to camp. I laughed to myself, knowing full well I had pulled a fast one on my three saviors. I faked them out! Short-sheeted their beds! Pulled the wool over their eyes! They never saw it coming, but I was overjoyed their bickering had ceased.

I had been suffocating by the fire, trying to stay warm when I first saw Morgan come over the ridge. Gabriella and Luke quickly followed. Their horses were moving as fast as they could, but it was a steep incline down to the little meadow. They had to take it easy and take it slow. I ran down from the cave and stood by Vandy, waving my hat. When they finally made their way to me, they actually jumped from their mounts and hugged me all at once. I collapsed in their arms, giggling like a young school girl who was experiencing her youth. I thought I saw tears in the eyes of Gabriella and Luke, but I didn’t care or say a word. I kissed each one of them on the cheek, and in my own inane way, gave an order “Let’s get the hell off this mountain!” They literally lifted me into my saddle and handed me Animas.

Gabriella told me they had a camp set up in the upper valley and how volunteers had been looking for me for twenty-four hours straight but had to stop when the storm came through. They were going to start up again in the morning, but right now, they were all back at the base camp with Claire, Zach, Jake Jr., and the rest of the ranch hands. I told them how much I missed Junior’s cooking. I then wondered to myself how Claire was holding out.

It was well past midnight, and I guessed it to be three in the morning when we finally made it to the second camp. We dismounted and stood there looking at a cold fire. I took one look at the flameless campfire and then at my three saviors and made a request. “I say we continue down the canyon. The way I see it, we should arrive at base camp about the time Junior is cooking breakfast. I can almost smell the coffee right now. We all lifted our noses up in the air, imagining fresh-brewed Columbian coffee. The power of suggestion is such a wonderful thing.

Claire was pitching logs on the smoldering campfire when she lifted her eyes to the north. She blinked a few times and took another look. She turned to Zach with her hands on the side of her face in disbelief. “Are those riders coming our way?” She pointed up towards the north valley. Zach squinted in that direction. “Yep, I’d say there’s four of ’em, wouldn’t you?” Claire agreed and then stood there holding her breath. Both Claire and Zach jumped when the sound of cracking gunfire blasted through the air. By the time Zach saddled his horse and headed out at a fast run, Claire had her arms folded under her chest and tapping her foot double time. She did not remove her eyes from the riders. She could hear Zach whipping his reins from left to right, yelling at his horse to giddyup. He kicked up so much mud, he was caked in it from the bottom of his spurs to the top of his bald head. His hat had blown off way back near camp. When he reached us, he pulled his reins back so hard, his horse ended up sitting on its butt for a few seconds, before righting itself.

He took one look at me and proclaimed, “Holy Mother of Mary Jesus, where the hell have you been hiding?” I replied with a grin, “Oh, me and this here calf have been held out in a cave up on the northwest side of the hill, having a gay old time! You know, starving, freezing our asses off, and waiting for springtime!” Zach loped alongside me. He patted my back, stating, “Well I’ll be garsh damned and gutted like a prairie dog on Sunday! It’s good to see you, Gwenny! Claire will be tickled pink! Have you got all your fingers and toes, Gwenny?” I pulled off my leather gloves and wiggled my fingers. Zach roared out a laugh that echoed down the canyon. We all changed our loping to a gallop as we made our way to camp. I yelled to Gabriella, Morgan, and Luke, “I can smell that coffee brewing, can’t you?” The four of us yelled “yaw” and our horses picked up the pace.

I saw the tears on Claire’s face as we rode up to the camp before she had a chance to wipe them away. Claire lingered back while volunteers and cowhands greeted the four of us and listened to our stories. There was a lot of handshaking, knee-slapping, joking, and laughter. Volunteers slowly started leaving to get back to their regular daily routines. I was sure to thank each and every one of them for all their hard work. The four of us were finally sitting down to breakfast, enjoying a hot meal when Claire came up to us. I locked eyes with hers, and I could feel her green-blue eyes doing more than just smiling at me. For a few seconds, I could see her relief, her devotion, her adoration, and I could feel her love. Claire then mentioned, without taking her eyes off mine, “I have dry clothes for everyone on the back of the covered wagon. Gabriella, Morgan, and Luke hurried to the back of the wagon very thankful. Jake Jr. pointed over to a couple of canvas tents. “You can change over yonder, but you best hurry back, I don’t want your breakfast getting cold!” Claire put her hands on my shoulders and with an unsteady voice whispered in my ear, “I’ve got your dry clothes over here in this tent, c’mon darling.”

I followed Claire into the tent on the other side of the chuck wagon. After she tied off the flap, she took me in her arms, kissing and hugging, sobbing and murmuring, and fussing and groping. We ended up on the floor together and continued holding and touching and squeezing and groping. Claire’s nonstop kissing and sobbing was endearing. We were both emotional, and I envisioned nothing ever separating us from each other again. Claire was lying on top of me, and several minutes had passed when she started ripping off my clothes. She immediately stopped her kissing and sobbing.

“Your hands are freezing, darling. I’ve got to get you out of these damp frigid clothes and into those warm ones over by the wood stove.” She continued to rip off my clothes when I abruptly stopped her: “Slow down, Claire. Let me do that.” We both sat up, and she helped me take off my shirt when I couldn’t unbutton it because my fingers were so numb. That adrenaline thing was quite amazing. All the way back to base camp, I had no idea how cold my body really was. When all the excitement died down and my adrenaline dissipated, I realized I was freezing cold.

Claire and I finally stood up and went over to the wood stove. She cupped her hands around mine and blew on my fingers with her warm breath for a while and then started taking off my shirt. “Oh darling, I’m so glad you’re here safe and sound. I thought you were dead. I thought you were never coming home to me.” She untied my leather chap strings and tore them off. “I’ve been beside myself ever since Wednesday of last, the day you went missing. I haven’t eaten or slept. I stink because I haven’t bathed or changed my clothes.” I thought she smelled incredibly like lilac and vanilla. She bent over and pulled off my boots. She unbuckled my belt and started unbuttoning my denims and then removed them with difficulty.

She continued with great emotion. “I imagined a grizzly or mountain lion attacked you. I thought maybe you fell off Van Buren and cracked your skull wide open.” She threw my denims on a pile she was accumulating and then unbuttoned my long johns. “I was worried what to tell the children in the letters I’d be writing. I dreaded envisioning how I was going to survive without you.” She started sobbing again as she pulled off my wool sox. Yes, I was wearing wool sox. I found them in my saddle bag when reaching for the cloth care package tied in twine. I have a feeling Claire put those sox in there, but who knows why or when. I wasn’t going to ask her such a trivial question at this particular juncture.

Claire helped me get my arms and legs out of my long johns and threw them on the pile. She was still sobbing when she wrapped me in a blanket and started rubbing me all over my body. As I began to thaw by the heat of the wood stove, she continued to ramble. “I pictured the wolves and coyotes feasting on you and Van Buren. I thought about what to recite at your wake, darling.” I opened the blanket with my arms and wrapped it around Claire. I drew her into me and held her tight. I could feel the heat emitting from her body. It soothed my inner being. It calmed my exhausted soul. I then spoke very tenderly. “I love you, Claire, and I’m so sorry I worried you. I was trying to save Animas and the next thing I knew, I had no idea how to get back to the herd or the valley.”

Claire wiped her eyes and had a puzzled expression on her face. “Who or what is Animas besides the river that runs through Durango?” I explained with a sappy connotation. “He’s my new best friend. That little calf out there kept me alive.” Claire grunted with disdain, “That little calf almost got you killed!” I took a breath and only smelled Claire. “I didn’t have you to hold on to, sweetie, but I had that little calf and he kept me company for three days. After the first night, I swore to myself I wasn’t going to let that little guy die. I take that back. When I saw Morgan, Gabriella, and Luke ride over the ridge, that little calf didn’t exist. I was so happy to see them, I forgot about everything else. Anyway, I’m never going to forget him as long as I’m breathing air.” When that calf grew into a steer, I didn’t have the heart to send him to slaughter. Animas became our pet, and like most pets we owned, he was spoiled rotten.

Claire and I were still wrapped in the blanket when Jake Junior’s voice could be heard from outside the tent. “Gwenny, I gots a plate out here I’m keeping warm fur ya. Are you coming out to eat soon?” I hugged Claire even tighter and answered, “I’ll be right out, Junior, as soon as I get all these warm clothes put on me.” Claire added, “Don’t rush her, Jake Jr. She’s trying to warm herself by the wood stove. She’ll be out there when she’s good and ready!” I raised an eyebrow to Claire. “Claire Elizabeth, since when do you speak to Junior that way?” She had her arms around me and put her warm hands on my back and pulled me firmly against her body. She kissed me with such passion, I felt like I was above the tree line again. Then a thought occurred, “What’s next? Hallucinations?”

Claire wiggled her way out of the blanket and admitted, “I never speak to Jake Jr. that way. I just want you all to myself right now. I don’t want to share you with anyone. Claire handed me a warm pair of wool sox. They felt nice against my freezing toes. I had a derisive tone in my voice and let Claire know. “You sound a bit selfish, my dear. I may have to teach you a lesson.” Claire helped me into a pair of warm long johns. She gave me a dry pair of dungarees and handed me my belt. “I’ve learned all the lessons I need to learn in the last three days, darling. I don’t need to learn anything more, but thanks for the offer.” She lifted a soft cashmere sweater over my head and kissed me when my head and lips appeared through the opening. She yanked the sweater from my waist and kissed me again. “Unless your lesson takes place in the bedroom or in front of a roaring fire in the great room!” I readjusted my sweater and replied, “Actually, if I’m not mistaken, it takes place in a hot tub with two glasses of cognac.

Two months later, on Christmas Eve, the party in the main house was coming to a close. Claire invited her local employees and their families to attend the gala, along with all the ranch hands and their friends and families. We opened presents, dined on Christmas goose, drank eggnog, choked on fruitcake, and kissed under the mistletoe. There was an enormous Christmas tree with all the trimmings, standing tall in the great room. Zach and his wife were the last to leave. They said their farewells and bid us a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. The house was now quiet except for the servants cleaning up in the kitchen. Claire and I were sipping a smooth glass of French liqueur from Versailles while we relaxed in front of the fire. “This is the silkiest liqueur I’ve ever tasted, my dear.” Claire replied with the deepest sincerity. “You’re the silkiest liqueur I’ve ever tasted, darling.”

Claire stood and walked over to the mantel. From behind the candelabra, she removed a small little box wrapped in emerald green paper and a tiny red satin bow. She sat back down next to me and with her sweetest sultry voice said, “Merry Christmas, darling.” With a satisfied grin on her face, she handed me the little gift. She pulled her knees to her chest with her arms wrapped tightly around her legs and waited in anticipation. I ripped off the paper, opened the little box, and looked inside. I found a tiny black velvet pouch similar to the one Claire carried in the hidden pocket of her satchel. It was the one that held some of her favorite jewelry.

I loosened the draw string, extended my arm, and poured the contents into my opened hand. I dropped the empty pouch in my lap and held up a shiny gold chain with a clasp. Hanging from the chain was the most exquisite little gold miniature clock I had ever seen. It had twelve little tiny diamonds where the numbers should be and a miniscule gold winding pin. I hugged Claire and gave her a soft kiss. “Thank you, my dear. It’s absolutely gorgeous. I just love it!” She then smiled at me with her gorgeous eyes. “Turn it over, silly.” I turned it over to find a gold and silver compass perfectly inlayed on the opposite side of the miniature clock. I looked up at Claire with wide eyes and an adoring expression on my face. I was speechless.

It was the most beautiful little hunk of precious metal I’d seen since an old gold miner showed up at the Half Moon Saloon one night, waving a nugget around for all to see. I think they found him dead the next day down by the river and the nugget was nowhere to be found. I didn’t know what to say. I just kept turning it over and over and over again. I then turned to the north, south, east, and west to see if it really worked. Claire took it from me, unclasped it, and put it around my neck. She put her hand under the miniature timepiece and turned it over. “Now you’ll never get lost, darling. No matter where you are, you will always find your way home.” The only reaction I had at that moment was filled with heavy emotion and uncontrollable sobbing.

From the day I was rescued in early fall, up until that Christmas Eve, I never shed a tear. I left Claire to do all the crying. I watched as Gabby and Luke cried when the gringo saviors finally found me and the four of us hugged. I witnessed townsfolk and church ladies weep when they first saw me after the incident, some saying they were glad to see me alive. Zach’s wife, Emily, had moist eyes when she dropped off one of her famous blueberry pies the day after I was rescued. But I never once, in over two months, shed one tear. The floodgates were opened now, and it felt good to finally liberate myself from the emotional trauma I had suppressed for two months. All Claire could think to do was what came naturally to her. She gave me her sugar. She gave me so much sugar, I suffered an adrenaline rush. Thank God I didn’t hallucinate!

Chapter 25

The study wasn’t quite the same without Claire. The silence was deafening. I was rummaging through ranch files when I decided to take a break. I abandoned my chair and strolled around the room. I started reading book titles randomly from the wall of books. They had been cataloged in alphabetical order on the shelves by my father. I couldn’t believe how many books we accumulated over the years. For the most part, about sixty percent belonged to my father. I made my way to the small section of books that only bore the titles and not the authors. I stopped dead in my tracks when I noticed a thin hardback book I had never seen before. It lay between two books titled, Chivalry is Dead and Confidence Builds Character. Maybe I never noticed it before because it was so small and aloof, sitting there amongst the more profound volumes. It displayed a title written in pen, not printed in ink. I noted the title before I pulled it from its resting place. It read, Claire E. Fontaine 1835. I never questioned my math skills, but I couldn’t believe Claire was thirteen when she penned the pages of this little green journal. Every entry had a date, and every date had a poem below it. I thought I knew Claire inside and out, but every once in a while, even after her death, I was pleasantly surprised. Discovering impressive revelations hidden between the cracks in the life of the woman I loved proved to fill my heart with intrigue and my actions with exploration. I opened the first page of the little green journal and found the beginnings of a poem that definitely described the first time Claire fell in love or had a crush. It read:

Entry date: 24th January, 1835

I tried to love her, but she misunderstood

So I sat down and cried and felt my heart bleed

She was a part of me

I only wanted us to be free

I tried to love her, but she mistreated me

So I sat down and cried

I implored her, please listen to my plea

But she kept ruining me

It was so sad and yet so beautiful, all at the same time. I was touched. I turned the page to find the most genuine and heartfelt poem I had ever read by a thirteen-year-old. It even showed a hint of humor.

Entry date: 16th February, 1835

I will find true love one day

I will find the love of my life

She will love me eternal

She will long to be my wife

I will search for her far and wide

Until I finally discover

That the moment she appears to me

She will long to be my lover

It was amazing how Claire pursued her dreams. It was even more amazing how her dreams came true. Like the time she wanted to take a real honeymoon. Almost twenty years had passed since we recited our vows under the gazebo. Claire walked out to the stables one afternoon where I was brushing Van Buren. The horses loved to be brushed. I also found it to be very therapeutic. I never questioned Claire’s travel plans. I didn’t need to. I told her long ago, when she needed to get away from it all and kick up her heels, I’d travel anywhere with her. I trusted her good judgment always. Planning all our trips was one of her great attributes, and she knew it.

So there she was, standing at the stall door. She had been watching me brush down the horse without interruption. I pretended I was oblivious to her presence. Somehow, I always knew when she was lingering in the shadows. I finally turned to acknowledge her. “You feel like taking a brush and working on Big Bruiser over there?” Claire curled her nose and squinted as if she had smelled a rotten egg. “Not really, darling, you know that’s not my cup of tea.” I loved to josh with Claire. “I know that, sweetie, because I’m your cup of tea!”

Claire leaned on the stall door and poked her head inside. “How would you like to take a trip with me, Rosy, and Mary Moses?” I gazed at her with uncertainty, joshing again. “Ah geez, I don’t know. It’s been so busy around here, I barely have time to piss in a pot or spit on my boots!” Claire was appalled and didn’t hide her feelings. “G, how many times do I have to tell you to leave that vulgar language out on the ranch with your cow hands?” I joshed once more. “I am out on the ranch, and if you come in here, I’ll show you my cow hands as soon as I pull off my leather gloves!” Claire rolled her eyes in disgust. “Will you get serious for a minute, please? I have a wonderful idea for a second honeymoon.” I wasn’t quite done being a smart ass. I thought I’d take it to the limit. “Hmmm, I don’t know Claire. You know after our first honeymoon, above your hat shop that ended in an embarrassing parade, I don’t think I want another honeymoon.” Claire turned on her heels and started walking away, mumbling, “I can’t talk to you. I don’t even know why I bother sometimes!” I opened the stall door and ran after her yelling, “I’m kidding with you! C’mon, stop! I’m just kidding! I’d love to go anywhere with you! You know that!”

We sat in two aspen chairs I had in the tack room. It was late March and the temperature was getting a bit warmer. I was puffing on a sweet-smelling cigar. Claire had a gleam in her eyes when she started talking about our next expedition, as she sometimes called them. She talked of the Giant Redwoods, a coastline that spanned as far as the eye could see. She spoke of the biggest bay in the west, where you can spy porpoise, sea lion, and sea otters frolicking in the surf. She told me of a place called Knob Hill, the most affluent part of the city, where luxurious mansions covered the landscape. She mentioned that this particular city was considered the Paris of the west. I was wondering if this city had a gold rush less than two decades ago. I wondered if this was the city that had the second largest population of Chinese people, China being the first. I also wondered if this city was known for cabarets or numerous brothels and bawdy houses. Claire nodded with a smile as she heard me thinking aloud.

I told her I constantly dreamed about San Francisco every waking hour. Claire laughed and then told me it was wonderful that I was looking forward to traveling to the city by the bay. I told her how much I adored Chinese food, riding on porpoise, and, of course, cabaret dancers covered in gold nugget attire. Again, Claire laughed and informed me we would be departing in early April and return in late June or early July. Considering it was late March, I sarcastically let her know how elated and overjoyed I was that she was giving me plenty of notice to get my ranch affairs in order, explain to Zach all his charges, and square away the deals I just started with a meat market factory in Kansas City and a beef-packing company in Omaha. All Claire had to say was don’t worry, darling, they have a Western Union in San Francisco. I held my tongue as she left the stables and headed towards the main house. No sense in getting on her bad side just before a long trip.

We departed the first day of April. Fool’s day I’ve been told, which I hoped wasn’t related to fool’s gold. Before I left, I sat down with Gabriella in the study for five solid nights, teaching her about the other side of ranching. She proved to be the brightest campfire in the camp. She picked up on things much faster than any of the guys, including Zach, who was my right-hand man. I figured one day my right-hand man would be Gabriella. I updated her with all the pertinent information she needed to know, from prices per pound, head count being sold, stock car procedure to cattle drive protocol, important names associated with the two companies, and their company addresses and map locations. Claire and I allowed Gabriella access to the study, but she was to keep it locked at all costs. When we had enough business talk, Gabriella and I would sit and shoot the breeze. On the fifth night, I poured two glasses of smooth tasting sherry from the South of Spain. We sat chatting in two comfortable bulky leather reading chairs Claire bought on a business trip to San Antonio.

Gabriella quickly changed the subject after we had been talking about cowboy boots and brass buckles. She asked me point blank, “Gwenny, how did you know when you were in love?” I was so stunned I could not answer. Gabriella continued, “Did you just wake up one morning, look in the mirror, and say there’s no two ways about it I’m in love?” I took a sip of sherry, set it down, grabbed a skinny cigar from my pocket, bit the tip off, struck a match, and lit it. Gabriella was not finished questioning me. “Did you simply walk up to Claire one day and just say, ‘Claire, I love you?’” I swallowed cigar smoke and started coughing until my face turned green.

The next thing I knew, Claire was standing at the study door with a glass of water. Claire entered the study and walked towards the big leather chairs. “What’s the problem in here, G? What have you done to her, Gabriella? She sounds like she is ready to cough up a lung! That wouldn’t be the first time either! Here, take a sip of water, darling!” Claire handed me the glass of water. I set the cigar down in an ashtray and took a few sips. Claire then sat on the arm of my chair, putting her hand on my shoulder, and waited for my coughing fit to subside. After sipping half a glass of water, I stopped wheezing. Claire showed concern. “Well, I’m sure glad that’s over. What on earth caused you to have such a coughing fit, anyway?” I swallowed with difficulty and acted innocent. “Um, well, I don’t know, but Gabby here was asking me a couple of questions. Maybe you can answer them for her while I catch my breath.”

Claire looked quizzically at Gabriella. “Very well, what questions can I answer for you, Gabriella?” I tightened my grip on Claire’s hand and waited. Gabriella repeated her questions to Claire and sat there waiting for a response. Claire casually stood up, walked over to the liquor bar, took the top off the brandy decanter, turned a clean tumbler right side up, and poured herself a stiff drink. “Those are great questions, Gabriella. I’m glad you asked.” She then walked back over to the arm of my chair and sat down. She took a long swallow and came up smiling at Gabriella. She held the glass in both hands, holding on as if her life depended on it. “It’s not healthy living your life without love, you know. You have to seize the moment when it presents itself and ride it out like an eagle taking flight on a windy day.” I casually nudged Claire with my elbow. Gabriella was listening intently and didn’t notice. I whispered to Claire out of the corner of my mouth, “Get to the point.”

Claire pushed me to one side as she slid down in my seat, almost landing in my lap. She turned to me with a contemptuous smile and then turned to Gabriella with a comforting smile. She took another sip from her drink, and I heard her let out a breath of air. She then started her inspiring oration. “I’ll never forget the first time I fell in love with Gwen. It was the sweetest day of my life.” Claire patted my knee and gave me a quick adoring glance. Claire realized she might as well tell Gabriella the whole story, since Gabriella already knew we were a couple or, as I liked to call us, lovers for life. Claire went on. “The second time I saw this lovely woman I knew I was madly in love with her right away. She was this nineteen-year-old stunning cowgirl at the time, looking to buy a Stetson. She walked right in to my shop one day, wearing a pair of scrumptious-fitting Levi’s with a ridiculously oversized buckle on her belt. She had silver and bronze spurs on her brown leather boots, and her flaxen hair was loosely tied back with a thin suede strip. When I look at her today, I still see that stunning nineteen-year-old cowgirl and the only difference now is she looks even more stunning to me, in a wonderfully refined way.” Claire made her way back to the liquor bar for more brandy.

Gabriella asked with excitement, “Yes, but how did you know Gwenny felt the same way about you?” Claire sat back down in my chair leaning heavily my way. “I didn’t. Well, not at first. I only hoped and wished about it for weeks. What I ended up doing was gathering information to find ways I could run into her. First, I purposely found out when she frequented Warren’s Mercantile. I also inquired at the feed store about how often she came in for feed and other supplies. I’d give some ridiculous excuse that I had a hat ready for her or some hair ribbons, not that she wears hair ribbons, mind you! We all know how much Gwen hates ribbons in her hair!” Claire and Gabriella both laughed.

“I’d purposely be in the mercantile store when Gwen walked in, or I’d bump into her as she walked into the feed store. I’d strike up a conversation with her as we strolled around the store, pretending I was shopping. She’d make her purchase and load her wagon, all the while I’d be hoping to spend more time with her. I’d nonchalantly climb on my horse and walk alongside her wagon. We’d continue our chatting and be a mile away from town when Gwen would remind me how far I was from my shop and shouldn’t I be getting back. I dreaded those moments when she reminded me where I was. I knew exactly where I was, and I was waiting for her to invite me to her ranch. She never did.”

“I had to force myself on her at every opportunity. Gwen was so oblivious, I had to hit her on the proverbial head with a proverbial railway tie to knock some sense into her and wake her up! I literally had to force my way into her ranch house to make her supper!” Claire was taking it a little too far. I was compelled to interrupt. “Now wait just one second, my dear! I wasn’t completely unaware of the situation. After you made me supper that first night, I knew your intentions and started pursuing you on my own.”

Gabriella asked if I’d like more sherry. I raised my glass and nodded, saying please, and she got up and took my glass. “What did you do, Gwenny?” I answered, “I, ah, took her on picnics down by the river south of town. Each time, I had a bouquet of wild flowers hiding under the buckboard. I had collected them along the way before I arrived at her hat shop. Claire tilted her head back slightly and laughed. She kissed me on the lips and turned to Gabriella. “I still get flowers from her at least once a week, except in the winter months of course. That’s when I get all the sugar I need!” Claire and I both laughed while Gabriella looked quite baffled.

Claire finished her brandy and started yawning. “Well, gals, I’ve got to go to bed. G, darling, don’t be too long, you’ve got a busy day tomorrow. She kissed me on the cheek, stood up, and walked over to Gabriella giving her a hug. Before she exited the study, she said to me over her shoulder, “Be a dear, G, and take my glass to the kitchen when you take yours and Gabriella’s. Good night, you two!” I cracked my neck with my left hand and said to Gabriella. “She may sound pushy at times, but she makes up for it in other ways.” “What ways are those, Gwenny?” Gabriella asked with wide eyes. “Oh wow, the list is endless. You know, cooking gourmet meals for me or not letting anyone other than her wash my favorite shirts or wool sox. Stitching me up when I get a nasty cut. Uh, you know, buying satin bed sheets for the summertime or buying me a fast-running steed secretly behind my back if she’s privy to the fact I admire it. And you know, she gave me this here compass around my neck, so I’ll always find my way.”

“Some things are very sentimental to Claire. She takes great pride in her amorous actions.” Gabriella looked confused. “What does amorous mean, Gwenny?” I swallowed some sherry and sat back in my chair. “Well, it’s when you do something for someone you love with affection or personal warmth. Gabriella seemed to be waiting for a little more explanation. I added, “You know what I mean, with apasionado and consideración, with passion and consideration.”

“For instance, one night Claire cooked me a romantic supper. There was French wine, lit candelabras, a glowing fire in the fireplace, and a hot bath filled with aromatic bath oils for afterwards.” Gabriella had a dreamy look in her eyes when I asked, “Do you have someone special you’ve been thinking about in an amorous way?” Gabriella answered shyly, “I sure do, but she doesn’t know I’m alive.” I had a calm demeanor and a steady voice. “Nonsense, who is it? Maybe I can help?” Gabriella whispered very quietly, “It’s Abigail, the clerk who works at Claire’s shop.” I held my breath a few seconds, not wanting to bust a gut. “Oh yes, I know Abigail quite well. We will have to work on that when I get back from San Francisco.”

Abigail must have easily been ten to fifteen years older than the genuine female cowboy sitting before me. Gabriella showed all her teeth by smiling far and wide. “Maybe I’ll cook her a romantic dinner while you’re gone.” I walked over to Claire’s desk, opened the top drawer, snatched up a skeleton key, and handed it to Gabriella. “Here you go, Gabby. This unlocks the apartment above Claire’s hat shop. You’ll find everything you need there for preparing romantic meals, except there’s no bathtub. Claire removed the tub a long time ago. She put it to good use in the ranch hand bathhouse.” Gabriella continued to smile far and wide, not really paying attention to me any longer.

“Are you still awake, dear?” I whispered as I wrapped myself around Claire under the warm flannel sheets. Claire stirred and rolled over into my arms. She murmured, “What tidings have you brought from the lovesick Mexican cowboy?” How she knew Gabriella was lovesick, I’ll never know. Claire’s intuition was constant over the years, but it ceased to amaze me. I stated with a cynical tone, “She has a terrible crush on Abigail, my secret lover. I’ll have to kill both of them. Maybe I’ll put poison in their love potion. Maybe I’ll put a rattler in their love nest. Maybe I’ll drown them in my sorrows!” Claire put her hand over my mouth and stared me down. “You get one more of those, darling.” I whimpered, “Maybe I’ll start calling Abigail, Gabrigail and maybe I’ll start calling Gabriella, Abrigailla. I must be going crazy! Oh stop me, please stop me, my dear!” I grabbed Claire and started kissing and tickling her. I then grabbed her tenderly in all the right places and started affectionately kissing those places. Making love to Claire was like watching a moonbeam bounce gently off a high mountain lake on a cool breezy night. It was pure magic, just like her laugh.

Chapter 26

“Now listen to me, Gabby, if you have any questions at all, you can wire me at these three different locations on the dates I’ve written here.” I handed Gabriella a piece of paper with the information written on it. “If I don’t answer right away, don’t panic. I eventually will, I promise. If the men in Kansas City or Omaha are giving you a hard time, wire me as soon as you can, and we’ll figure out a solution.” I never heard a word from Gabriella until I returned home. She handled her obligations remarkably well.

Gabriella and I were standing on the station platform. Claire stuck her head out the sleeper window. “Gabriella, if you have any problems with decorating my apartment, you let me know by sending me a wire any time you like for my assistance!” Claire winked twice at Gabriella before she closed the window halfway. She reminded me, “Hurry along, G, if the train leaves without you, I don’t want to have to climb my way over the coal cars to the front of the train and force the engineer to stop on a dime.” Gabriella and I laughed and shook our heads.

I asked Gabriella in my best Spanish, “Gabby, ¿has amado una mujer de veras?” Gabriella was surprised at my Spanish question. “No, Gwenny, I never really have loved a woman. This is the first time I’ve had that feeling in the pit of my stomach. You know, when you think you’re hungry, but you don’t need to eat or that feeling you get that makes you tingle from your belly button down to your hoohoo.” I said, “Oh, I know exactly what you mean. I had that same feeling late last night after I went to bed.” Gabriella’s face went flush. The train started to roll as I jumped on the bottom step. I held on to the side handrail and yelled, “Adios, muchacha! Enamorarse de Abigail! Hasta luego!”

I waved from the window as the train headed north. I sat down next to Claire and closed my eyes. “Since when do you speak Spanish, darling?” I opened one eye, peering at Claire. “I’ve been picking up words and phrases here and there for years, you know that!” Claire asked flippantly, “And what choice words did you just yell to Gabriella?” I looked at Claire’s face through slanted eyes. “Are you jealous or something, dear?” Claire countered back, “Don’t be ridiculous! Well, I mean, you two have been a little chummy lately, and I’d like to know what that’s all about!”

I almost laughed aloud but instead replied, “If you must know, I told Gabby, ‘Good-bye gal, I hope you fall in love with Abigail’ and then I said ‘see you later.’ What’s gotten into you, Claire? You know I’m like a big sister to Gabriella. You know I’m helping her through a hard time in her life. A time, I might add, in which you and I never received help. It is true your Aunt Amilie assisted you in escaping your parent’s stronghold. However, I don’t think that qualifies as the same thing because you disappeared almost overnight. Anyway, pull yourself together, Claire, or I’ll have to turn this train around! I’m going to check on Mary Moses and Rosy in the next sleeper. When I get back, I trust you will have composed yourself, and you will have returned to the woman I know and love.”

I left the sleeper car proud of my actions. I found it quite amusing and precious that Claire was jealous. She had never been threatened by anyone before, male or female, not even Abigail. She was too strong a woman to ever allow any charlatan to gain access to her darling G or allow an erotic strumpet to come between us. Besides, she was pretty good at scaring off any woman who was remotely interested in me. Perhaps because Gabriella was a different breed from everyone else, Claire felt threatened. Naturally, I believed that breed being far too similar to Claire’s. I didn’t return for half an hour, leaving her to ponder in her own cynicism.

“What are you smirking about, Miss Gwenny?” Unbelievable, I thought to myself. Mary Moses, like Claire, doesn’t miss a thing. “I’m just happy to be headed towards San Francisco, Mary Moses!” “You can’t be foolin’ me, Miss Gwenny. I knows when you is messin’ with Miss Claire. Now dont’s keep it to yurself. I likes a funny secret nows and then, Miss Gwenny!” “All right, Mary Moses, but you have to promise not to say a word to anyone.” Mary Moses put her hand on her heart. “I swears on my dear old mammy’s Holy Bible.” I looked around the sleeper and then asked Mary Moses, “Where’s Rosy?” Mary Moses looked extremely guilty. “She says she was goin’ to stand on the back of that caboose.”

The sleeper car was hitched towards the back of the train. That meant I didn’t have far to go before I reached the caboose. On my way to locating Rosy, I worried she had fallen off the back of the caboose and no one was there to save her. I opened the rear door of the caboose and stepped outside. There were about five people enjoying the departure and waving to folks back at the station. Rosy was standing next to a young man with a strong build. They were waving and talking about nothing in particular. I noticed the young man was wearing an outfit similar to the engineer’s. I quietly slipped back inside and just watched for a while. After reading their body language for about ten minutes or so, I discovered love was in the air in more places I cared to know. What was it about springtime that encouraged love and affection? I stopped off at the diner car before settling in our Pullman sleeper. I ordered a stiff drink. This was going to be one interesting trip, or should I say, one interesting honeymoon.

Claire was fast asleep when I slipped inside our compartment. She looked so peaceful when she slept, not a care in the world. I tried hard not to make a sound, but Claire woke when I gently closed the sleeper door. That was uncharacteristic for Claire; normally she could sleep through a train wreck. “Where have you been, G?” “If you must know, dear, I’ve been spying on our daughter.” “What do you mean spying, darling?” I said with a bit of worry, “Right now Rosy is back on the caboose with a strapping young man, and they have been chatting for more than half an hour.” Claire informed me, “That strapping young man is Andrew Tulliver. Everybody calls him Tully. He’s the train brakeman, and when it’s time for the train to slow down or stop, Tully climbs atop the caboose and turns the brake wheel.”

My voice was full of contempt. “Is there anything else I don’t know about that you need to tell me?” Claire’s face looked uneasy. “It’s funny you should ask, darling. Actually, Rosy and Mary Moses will be stopping in Reno, and they’ll be staying at the Fallon Indian Reservation, which is actually east of Reno. Tully will be visiting Rosy from time to time because his route ends there. He also has an older brother living there and that’s usually where he stays. You’ve been so busy, darling, I didn’t want to worry you about such trivial matters. Rosy has been so adamant about working on a reservation. She’s going to spend the next few months living at the Fallon Orphanage, and she volunteered to take care of the Indian children. It’s a good learning experience for her before she attends college in the fall, G.” I paced in our Pullman sleeper. “And when were you going to tell me, Claire?” Just before Rosy waved good-bye from the Reno Station?”

I felt left out of the loop. Maybe I was a little hurt. Yeah, I was busy prepping Zach and Gabriella, but that didn’t mean Claire couldn’t fill me in on what was transpiring with Rosy. I slammed the door shut as I left the sleeper. I was back in the diner car, sipping on my second Grand Marnier, feeling sorry for myself, when I realized exactly how Claire felt regarding her accusations against Gabriella and me. I felt like a complete idiot. We blamed each other for what we thought were acts of selfishness. Knowing now, mine was an act of kindness and guidance and Claire’s was an act of protection and unconditional love.

Just as I was about to get up and go apologize to Claire, she sat down across from me with a drink in her hand. Her smiling eyes were a fascinating light green that was similar to the tabletop hue and the trim around the diner-car windows. I always found it intriguing how her eyes could change color so easily. I stood up and grabbed her free hand. I pulled her to her feet and took her back to our Pullman sleeper. I apologized for being a big baby. She apologized for being an insensitive windbag. I asked her what surprises she had in store for me in San Francisco. She told me I’d have to wait and see. I started reading Louisa May Alcott and Claire started reading Harriet Beecher Stowe. Just before we dozed off, I forgot about any promises I made to Mary Moses while Claire promised me a honeymoon I would never forget.

Claire and I woke up to a lumbering screech and a jerk. Rosy was at our door with a carpet bag in hand, when the last deafening whistle sounded. She had a somber look on her face and a little nervousness in her voice. “This is my stop, Mama. It’s time for me to get off the train pretty soon.” I stood up and hugged her as hard as I could. “You have fun, okay! And don’t let Mary Moses push you around!” Rosy tried to smile. “I’m gonna have a great time, Gwenny. Don’t worry either, I can put Mary in her place any time I want!” Claire grabbed her youngest and gave her an endearing hug. “Oh, I’m going to miss you terribly, Rose. If you find the time to post a letter to the address I’ve given, that would be lovely. Mind your manners with Tully, you hear?” Rosy swayed back and forth, replying, “Yes, Mother, I will.” And remember, Mary Moses is to be your chaperone on every occasion!”

Claire released her child and stepped back. “If you have any troubles, contact that gentleman I told you about in Reno. His name is there on the list I gave you.” Rosy’s response surprised Claire. “Oh, you mean Mayor Cromwell?” Claire answered as quickly as she could. “Yes, he’s the one.” Once again to my amazement, I thought to myself, why or how she’s acquainted with the mayor of Reno, I’ll never know. I stood down on the platform with Mary Moses and let Claire and Rosy have their mother-and-daughter moment.

I turned to Mary and jovially voiced. “Are you going to stay out of trouble, Mary Moses, or am I going to have to worry about you?” Mary Moses laughed out loud. “What types of troubles you supposin’ I’d be getting myself into any ways, Miss Gwenny? Yous not afraid I’d upset some Indians by starting a powwow woulds you, Miss Gwenny?” I folded my arms like an Indian Chief. “You better not kimo sabi or you might get scalped!” Claire followed Rosy down the train steps and hugged her one more time. She handed her a medium-sized velvet pouch with a drawstring, and Rosy immediately put it in the hidden compartment of her shoulder purse.

We were back in our Pullman car. Claire was looking out the sleeper window long after we departed Reno and long after building structures turned to a beautiful green forest. From Claire’s deep trance, I restarted her conscience. “Good God, is that an avalanche or volcanic lava coming down the mountain?” Claire jumped slightly in her seat and refocused her glance out the window. “I think that’s just a lake, G.” I put my hand on her thigh and remarked with clarity. “You’re quite right, my dear! They call it Lake Tahoe, and it’s magnificent! I’ve been told they can’t measure its depth. Its color is midnight blue out in the center and if you take notice, you can see it gets lighter and lighter the closer the water gets to the shore. Look Claire, its aqua marine and turquoise blue over there! Claire was mesmerized as she looked out the sleeper window. “That’s unbelievable! It’s more beautiful than anything we’ve ever seen on the Gulf Coast!” It’s absolutely breathtaking.” We couldn’t believe our eyes. Lake Tahoe was soon lost among the thick pines and foliage. We looked forward to seeing it again upon our return to Reno, on our way back to the B & H Ranch.

Claire asked me once, several years past, “What does the B & H stand for, darling?” I told her with fondness, “My mother had a Great Uncle Bryce and my father had a Great Uncle Holly. Holly was his nickname. Both my parents had met their great uncles and adored them.” Claire asked with wonder; “What was your father’s great uncle’s real name, G?” I pondered the question for a moment. “I don’t know. Come to think of it, father never knew what it was short for either. I’m certain it is not related to the name Harland.” Claire contemplated the nickname and cited, “Perhaps as a child, they used him to deck the halls with balls of holly!” I closed my eyes and shook my head as Claire informed me, “It is the state tree of Delaware, darling. Is it possible he was from there, and maybe he was a holly tree climber as a boy, ergo the nickname?” I looked cockeyed at Claire. “Is it possible, at some point in your life, you were standing beneath a holly tree when it fell on your head?” Claire’s response was quite innocent. “Don’t be silly, darling. I’ve never been to Delaware.” To this day, the mystery of my father’s great uncle’s nickname was never solved.

“So my dear, what great surprise was in that little velvet pouch that you gave Rosy?” Claire had spread a map across her lap. She was examining the train route for our trip for the hundredth time. It had a legend in the bottom right-hand corner and all across the map were different imprinted marks for every water tower, trestle, tunnel, tree line, and bridge. It showed every major stop we made along the way, and it listed estimated departure and arrival times in the bottom left-hand corner. We had departed from Denver and traveled through Grand Junction, Salt Lake City, Elko, Winnemucca, and Reno. We were on the last leg of the trip. The last three major stops were Sacramento, Stockton, and San Francisco. We were one day behind, on what I thought was a taxiing journey. Claire looked up at me. “What, darling?” I sat down next to her, gazing at her impressive land chart. “Where did you actually get this map anyway? From the president of the Central Pacific Line? Claire acted imposed upon. “No, of course not, darling! I acquired it from the head engineer in Denver. He’s a very nice gentleman.” I thought to myself, why am I not surprised?

Once again, I asked, with a little more force in my voice, “What great surprise was in that velvet pouch that you gave Rosy? Claire was barely listening. “Oh, just a little spending money. She’ll be there for a while, so I thought it might come in handy.” I picked up the map, folded it along the creased lines, and didn’t take my eyes off hers. “How much did you give her?” Claire was expressionless, and her response followed suit. “Oh, um, let me think, darling.” She paused for a moment, pretending to be interested in the folded map. “I guess around two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Claire picked up my Louisa May Alcott and thumbed through it. “How’s the read on this, G? Are you enjoying it?” For a moment, I thought Claire was playing me. I was correct in my assumption. I grabbed the book out of her hands and tried not to raise my voice. “Are you mad? You can’t give a young girl who’s barely eighteen a pile of money, especially when she’s out in the middle of nowhere! What if she gets robbed or worse, what if she gets molested because of it! Can you imagine if some crazed Indian or ruffian kills her in the process of stealing it! Did you ever think of that, Claire? Well did you?” I was frantic.

Claire’s response was steady and calm. “Yes I did, Gwen. That’s why I had her promise me the first thing she does in Reno is go to the Wells Fargo Bank where Tully’s older brother is a bank teller. She is to deposit all that money into a new savings account. She also had to promise me to only use it for food, clothing, or emergencies. Are you satisfied now, darling? Do we need to discuss this any further?” Why did Claire have to be so gifted and such a mastermind at calming my nerves and doing the right thing? Why didn’t I trust her more? I handed Claire her map, picked up her Harriet Beecher Stowe, and stated, “No, there’s nothing more to discuss.” I then inquired, “How’s the read on Uncle Tom’s Cabin, my dear?”

Chapter 27

We emerged from the Sierra Nevada Range and descended upon the Sacramento Valley on a city-lit night. Claire’s plan was to stay two nights in downtown Sacramento, at the Sterling Hotel. It offered full service accommodations in an elegant atmosphere. Every doorman, bellboy, server, maid, maitre’ de, and concierge wore white gloves and pressed clothing. We were treated like royalty and, after seeing the bill, I understood why. I asked Claire if she wanted to go out and find a bawdy establishment or check her list for a local Madame who could oblige us with familiar and comfortable surroundings.

I was relieved when Claire’s only wishes for two nights were to be lavished by me and the hotel staff and to indulge in international food and drink. We never left our hotel suite. It took us two days to recuperate from the long train trip. We spent most of the time in bed sleeping, and when we weren’t in bed, we were in the bath. Claire had demanded every bath product the hotel had to offer. Before we left for San Francisco, Claire had amassed so many bottles, vials, and tins of oils, salts, lotions, and soaps, that she had the concierge deliver a new carpet bag to house all her toiletries.

Our last leg was only ninety miles. Claire was becoming extremely giddy the closer we came to our final destination. I swear she was drunk. After twenty minutes, I wanted to know once and for all. “My dear, what have you been drinking that you are not sharing with me?” She shot back, “I’m not drinking anything! Why would you ask such an absurd question?” I bit my lower lip with my pearly whites. “Well, take a look at yourself! You’re acting as if you’re inebriated, all scatterbrained and silly! And you’ve been falling all over me, and you’re too overly kissy and lovey-dovey! And quite frankly, you’ve been falling all over yourself!”

I pushed Claire off me, and I got up and sat across from her. She made a face as if she was pouting. “Pour Gwenny-wenny. Don’t you wanna play with Clairey-berry? I looked out the window and tried to ignore the six year-old in front of me. Claire seldom acted like a child, and for some reason, I despised it when she did. Without her knowing it, I looked up to her. It might have been due to the fact my childhood was cut short. I also was inclined to think, because of Claire’s intelligence, her immature physical and verbal outbursts were unacceptable.

Claire came over and sat next to me. “G, darling, can’t you see I’m excited? That’s all it is. I’m just so excited about spending time in Frisco, it has put me in a mood that’s causing me to act bubbly, bouncy, and silly!” I tried to ignore her, but it was difficult. “Well, if you keep acting bubbly and bouncy, you’re going to bounce right out of that dress!” Claire looked down and noticed the neckline of her blue checkered cotton dress was lower than her cleavage line. Just before she readjusted it, she sauntered around the sleeper car, bent over, and put her breasts in my face. She finally sat back down next to me.

“Alright G, I’ll settle down, but don’t expect me to stay reserved or reticent when we get to San Fran. It may take me a week or ten days to sow my oats. So, you better get ready, darling. When I said I wanted to go on a honeymoon, I meant it! It’s going to be a wonderfully outrageous celebration in Frisco. You best get in the right frame of mind, darling, by the time we get to San Fran, or I’ll have to sever all ties with you and go off on my own!”

I grabbed Claire around her waist before she could get away. “It’s supposed to be a celebration of our life together. How could you desert me so easily?” I was enjoying Claire’s sensual body against mine and dismissed her childish ways. “Well, the simple truth is, I won’t be able to stop my folly once I get to Frisco. My recklessness and immoral ways will consume me while I’m spending time in San Fran, so there you have it!”

I lied on my side and put my head in Claire’s lap. “Are you never going to call San Francisco by its proper name again? I want you to know, Claire, I read a chronicle regarding the famous gold rush city and the locals don’t favor outsiders calling it Frisco or San Fran or Franny or anything other than San Francisco. So, my advice to you, my dear, is if you want to stay in the good graces with the locals on that list of yours, you best refer to their fine city by its proper name!”

We rode in a beautiful black and maroon coach with leather interior and brass accessories, including a bell that was mounted alongside the coachman. We were on our way up Nob Hill. It was the most affluent area in all of San Francisco. The notable mansions on Nob Hill were owned by The Big Four, who were the four railroad tycoons, C.P. Huntington, Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins, and Charles Crocker. There were two gold-rush millionaires, James Fair and James Flood. The largest mansion which we were being driven to in luxury was owned by the Tobin, family. Mr. Tobin was a successful banker, Claire’s Uncle Jean Luke Dupree did major business deals with him.

We were scheduled to stay at the grand mansion for three nights. Claire promised her Aunt Amilie she would spend time with Mrs. Tobin and her daughter Beatrice. Then, according to Claire’s itinerary list, we would be staying at the Sutter’s Mill Hotel for the duration. The Sutter’s Mill Hotel was named after the first discovery of gold in 1848, by a gentleman known as James Wilson Marshall. He first found gold along the Sacramento River east of San Francisco at Sutter’s Mill. After one night at the Tobin’s, I informed Claire she could find me at the Sutter’s Mill Hotel. She demanded an explanation. As I finished packing, I shared my disappointment. “Your aunt and uncle’s good friends do not approve of your wife, my dear! Therefore, from this moment forward, I will take up residency at The Mill.” Claire pleaded, “You can’t leave me here with Mrs. Tobin and her dreadful daughter, Beatrice. They act so superior and arrogant.” I buckled my bag in haste. “Welcome to the party, Claire, where all they serve is condescension and snobbery!”

Claire stood between me and the door. “I can’t last another two days here, let alone another two minutes by myself! Please don’t go, G. I’m begging you, darling. Please don’t leave me here to fend for myself! It might get ugly. What if I accidently kill Beatrice to put her out of my misery?” I thought to myself, now’s a good time as any to get Claire’s goat. “Well, my dear, I guess they’ll hang you in the town square! Now step aside!”

Claire looked frantic and pleaded, “Gwen, you’ve got to devise one of your devious ploys and get me out of this arrangement!” I looked at Claire and realized how serious she was becoming. I decided to end my taunting. “Okay, don’t have a panic attack. You’ll give yourself a heart murmur.” For some reason, Claire went ballistic. “Gwen, there is no such thing as getting a heart murmur from a panic attack. And by the way, you can’t get a heart murmur by throwing a fit or having an anxiety breakdown either! So stop telling me that! You’ve been saying that to me for years, and it just isn’t true! Once and for all, heart murmurs are a natural physical occurrence and are not caused by any degree of nervousness or panic!”

“Holy Kaneohe, Claire, you need to relax!” She was losing her composure, and I needed to think of something fast. I laid her down on the French Marie Antoinette oval bed and said calmly, “Listen, my dear, everything is going to be just fine. You don’t have to worry about a thing. I’m not going to leave you high and dry. Now you just lay quietly. Close your eyes, sweetie, and leave it to me. I’m going to devise one of those devious ploys you want and get us out of this mess, all right?” Claire’s eyes were closed, but I wasn’t sure how long it would last. “Oh, thank God, darling! I don’t know what I’d do without you, G.”

I paced back and forth in the room while Claire lay peacefully, letting me concoct a plan in my mind. I knew in her sophisticated mind, she merely wanted to resolve the havoc around her, so simplicity would return. I stopped pacing and sat down on the divan and smoked a thin cigar. I noticed I was getting low on thin cigars. I looked out the window and viewed the spectacular bay. It was quite an astounding vista. Ships and boats of all sizes were forging through whitecaps. Seagulls and terns dive-bombed bulky scows. And the wind whist cotton white clouds across the vibrant blue sky. I stood again pacing back and forth. I stopped dead in my tracks and started laughing a sound that mimicked Simon Legree, the cruel slave master after he whipped Uncle Tom. It was one of those French nasal-sounding laughs with a hint of evil.

Claire had packed her bag, and we didn’t have to worry about our traveling trunks because they had already been delivered to The Mill from the train station the day we arrived. I made sure of it. I had taken our carpet bags out through the servant’s entrance and into the carriage house. I tossed them, along with Claire’s satchel, in a coach teamed with horses. It was sitting in the drive just outside the large open carriage door.

We were enjoying lunch with Mrs. Tobin and Beatrice in the dining room, or I should say, we were acting the part. I made sure Claire had requested shrimp cocktail as her appetizer. I ordered oysters on the half shell. Neither one of us cared what the persnickety high and mighty ordered. The servants removed our plates when we finished. However, Claire’s cocktail sauce dish remained on her lap, under her napkin. Submerged in the sauce was a half-eaten jumbo shrimp. The main lunch course was smoked halibut, ox tail soup, baked Alaska, boiled mutton, and stewed prunes. I drank Madeira Claret while Claire sipped on Pale Sherry. For dessert, bread pudding and butter cookies were served.

We missed the dessert course because in the middle of the main course, when Beatrice was going on and on about her travels to the Orient and how primitive the ignorant Mongolian people were, Claire cut into her finger or so it seemed. She then wrapped her hand in her napkin, exposing a bloody detached finger. The two of us paraded around the dining room, demanding a coach or carriage to take us to the local infirmary straight away. Mrs. Tobin shouted, “By all means!”—as Beatrice fainted to the floor with a thump. While Mrs. Tobin attended to her daughter, we snuck out to our awaiting carriage.

The Sutter’s Mill Hotel was a sight for sore eyes. Claire had discarded her jumbo shrimp covered in cocktail sauce halfway down Nob Hill. We waited until we made it safely to the bottom before we redirected the driver to the nearest firehouse. He had no idea a fraudulent emergency was in progress. We assured him, once we arrived at the firehouse, we would find assistance inside. We never went inside the firehouse, but instead waited for the driver to unload our bags and disappear before we made our way a block down the street to a local carriage house. From there, we hired a buggy and were on our merry way to The Mill. I was looking forward to our stay at The Mill. I couldn’t wait to see what kind of accommodations Claire had arranged.

We were standing at the front desk when Claire rang the bell. A tall gangly desk clerk wearing a pin-striped suit and a black tie asked, “How may I help you, ladies?” Claire said firmly, “I am Claire Font . . .” The tall gangly desk clerk cut her off, “ . . . taine, Ah yes, Mrs. Fontaine, how good to see you, madam. We’ve heard such wonderful things about you. We have been awaiting your arrival ever since your trunks were delivered yesterday. And this must be Mrs. Gwen Buxton, I presume? Your stateroom awaits you.” The desk clerk rang his bell, and a bellboy appeared out of nowhere. He was handed a room key and grabbed our bags and showed us to our room.

Four flights later, we arrived at our suite door, and it was worth the trip. The bellboy unlocked the door and directed us inside. It was the dreamiest suite to date. Claire tipped the bellboy and closed the door. The entire suite had champagne-colored furniture, rugs, curtains, and even champagne matching tiffany shades covering the gas lamps. The wallpaper was colored in three-inch stripes of champagne and a soft crystal pink. In the bedroom, there was a brass bed with matching brass furniture. On the bed, there was a beautiful champagne-colored crushed velvet bedspread with eight matching pillows all in different sizes. I never understood why a bed needed that many throw pillows. Most of the time, we tossed them on the floor.

In the bath, we found a porcelain wash basin and a porcelain tub with champagne and soft pink tile inlays around the edge. We were in awe to find the tub had hot and cold running water. There were two double boilers down in the basement, almost the size you’d see on a steamer ship. We had an incredible view of the Pacific. The bay was on the opposite side of the hotel, and if we requested a panoramic view from the rooftop, the concierge would escort us to a viewing post atop the hotel. It was similar to a glass-enclosed sunroom and furnished with redwood tables, benches, and chaise lounges with comfortable canvas cushions.

After a pleasant little tour of our stateroom, we finally rested on a comfortable settee in the sitting room. I let out a sigh of relief as Claire removed her pink and black books from her satchel and inquired, “I’m looking at my itinerary ledger and it says, by all accounts, our reservations for The Mill are not for another two days. Pray tell, G, what ungodly act did you undertake to get an early check-in?”

I grabbed her ledgers and threw them on the adjacent Colonial highback chair. I pulled her backwards up against my chest and cradled her in my arms. I gazed out the bay window and then into her eyes. “If you must know, I wrote a letter within the first half hour of arriving at the Tobin Mansion. It contained pertinent and private information regarding a visiting patron to Sutter’s Mill Hotel and her travel trunks that needed to be retrieved from the train station. I entrusted the confidence of a young runner, and before he made his way to the train station to inquire the whereabouts of our trunks and then to The Mill with my letter, I gave him two silver dollars.”

Claire’s curiosity was written all over her face. I smelled the sweet gardenia fragrance in her hair when she wanted more details. “I’m afraid it is time you share the contents of this confidential letter, darling. I can’t wait to hear the humor of your implausible story.” I chose my words wisely. “All right, Claire, but I must warn you. The visiting patron is an imposter, and that imposter is you. I would imagine everyone working in this hotel now knows that one of the ladies staying in the stateroom on the fourth floor is a French Royal with a Russian bloodline. So you best carry yourself as if you have royal blue blood running through your veins.” Claire became very serious in regards to her newfound roll. “Perhaps I’ll speak French to the staff every now and then to appease them.”

The maitre d’ provided us with a good tip that first night. He informed us if we were interested in dining on any fresh fish that was not on the menu, we could go down to the fisherman’s embarcadero, which was the big wharf down by the water. We could purchase the fish of our choice, which would be wrapped and delivered to the hotel kitchen, and the French chef would prepare it for dinner, no extra charge.

The smell of fresh fish became stronger the closer we neared the embarcadero. It was an amazing fish market. There were venders from all walks of life, selling their catch of the day from sea bass, halibut, tuna, and red snapper to eel, rock lobster, and crab. There was a vast variety of shellfish including mussels, clams, abalone, and oysters. Venders ranged from Chinese families and lone fisherman, to high-end fish companies with a fleet of fishing vessels. It was impressive to see such diversity all in one place. We passed by flower venders, fruit and vegetable venders, bakery vendors, and vagrants wanting a handout. There was even a separate dock where they sold blocks of ice right off the ship. It was a wonderful melting pot, and we found it to be a great daily pastime.

On many occasions, you could find us strolling down the steep streets of San Francisco to the embarcadero. Nevertheless, we always found a carriage to chauffeur us back up to The Mill. The streets were treacherous and steep in all directions. Tonight we would dine on fresh shark. The French chef personally served us, with intent to proudly convey how we made a superb choice that day. With his heavy French accent, he let it be known that most patrons were not so bold as to feast on shark and added they didn’t know what they were missing. He told us we had savoir-faire. In other words, we showed our expertise in the ability to select the perfect catch of the day. Claire was flattered by his personal touch and thanked him in perfect French. “Merci beaucoup.” We enjoyed shark as our evening entrée every now and then and often accompanied it with a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio. After dining, I would often find Claire conversing with the chef in French. It was amazing, after all this time, how she could pick right up where she left off. As a matter of fact, she never spoke to any French-speaking staff member in English during our entire stay.

Chapter 28

It was nine o’clock, and Claire was practically pushing me out the door. “God, you look radiant in that fur felt Homburg hat, darling. Now let’s get a move on, or we’ll be so late, the host won’t allow us entry. We’ll be forced to enjoy the party from the outside, looking in!” “I don’t think we should do that, Claire. I’ve been told, in these parts, a person can go to jail for doing that!

We had been invited to a private affair hosted by the one and only Madame Su-Ling Wong, a most reputable businesswoman. I was a little confused about how a Madame could have a good reputation, but I kept it to myself. The locale of this divine affair was on a steep cobblestone winding road known as Lombard Street. The carriage arrived in front of a charming three-story Queen Anne-style home. It was a colorful three-tone private dwelling complete with wooden gables and inspiring bay windows abound.

We made our way to the front door, and we were greeted by a short Chinese gentleman wearing a black Chinaman suit, a white button-down shirt heavily starched, and Chinese thongs on his feet. He bowed with clasped hands and asked in his best broken English, “Welcome to Madame Wong’s. Name please?” Claire graciously bowed and gave him our names. He possessed no list or tablet of names, but we were told he had a memory like an elephant. He permitted us entry as he bowed for a second time, adding, “Please to enjoy evening, and please to remove shoes.” We handed him our shoes and entered the enchanted dwelling.

Madame Su-Ling Wong was a porcelain doll dressed in a cherry red Chinese gown with a black and dark green sash. Atop her head was a tight bun held together with two ornamental chopsticks. She wore a breathtaking necklace around her neck made of carved ivory and emeralds. I couldn’t make out the design, but Claire told me it was a replica of an ancient Chinese ceremonial piece. She wore one large ruby ring on her left index finger and a dazzling anklet of pearls, emeralds, and black onyx around her right ankle. She was barefoot with painted red toenails. I thought to myself, my God, I’m in the presence of greatness. The house was filled with exotic foreigners and local Bohemians. We first felt out of place and modest, but when Madame Wong invited us to sit with her for a spell, all our insecurities flew out the window. Well maybe not for Claire.

Madame Wong was fresh and quite entertaining. She was cooling herself with an extraordinary Chinese fan as she asked Claire, “So tell me, my most precious fawn, what brings you from the Rocky Mountains all the way to the great city by the bay?” Claire tried to be brief, avoiding the point, but Madame Wong saw right through her. She turned to me as she puffed her opiate pipe. “I am a wise woman and elusiveness or ambiguity do not amuse my instinctive curiosity. So tell me Gwyneth of the Buxton Clan, why travel across a barren land for a few unsavory weeks, in the heat, the dust, and the choking smoke of a billowing train, and then grace us with your presence?”

I squirmed in my seat and took in a breath I hoped gave me intelligence. “Claire and I are on a romantic tryst. We love one another quite dearly and compassionately. We have remained constant companions for close to twenty years and wanted to treat ourselves to the finer things in life.” Madame Wong puffed her pipe again and blew white smoke across Claire’s furrowed brow. I watched as it slowly descended upon her face just as she took in a breath. I noticed Claire struggling not to spew out a hacking cough. Madame Wong then focused her attention back on Claire with baited breath. “Now my precious fawn, has it always been difficult for you to reveal private and delicate facts about yourself with acquaintances you’ve just met, or does it also occur with close relations?”

Claire stumbled all over her words before she started making sense. Her thought process seemed to have changed ever since Madame Wong blew white smoke in her face. It was obvious to me that Madame Wong did it deliberately and with purpose, perhaps to give Claire more clarity and less anal retentiveness. “It has been my intention, as an adult, to be very cautious about whom I reveal my personal life to. There are many undesirables and two-faced malicious people in the world who could be detrimental to my livelihood. Therefore, I have to be overprotective of myself and my family.” Madame Wong was very impressed and wanted to know more about Claire and her family. It was obvious to her there was more than just me that included the Fontaine Clan.

Claire boasted about B.J. and Rosy. She told of B.J.’s schooling in Denver and enrollment to Harvard and Rosy’s most recent escapade to an orphanage on an Indian reservation. As it turned out, Madame Wong was quite the philosopher. She interrupted Claire, demonstrating great wisdom, and recited an old proverb that had been passed down from generation to generation. “Confucius say, ‘those who sit on commode for too long will have a ring around their rosy.’” Like so many times before, Claire and I laughed until we cried. All the while, Madame Su-Ling Wong blew white smoke in our faces.

We had learned many insightful things at Madame Wong’s private party. Claire made fast friends with two Bohemian women who told her how to find Chinatown. It proved to be easier than we thought. To the east of Nob Hill laid Chinatown. The information we gathered filled us with great intrigue and fascination. We were told to find a back alley known as Waverly Place. There we would find real authentic Chinese cuisine and social clubs that were well-hidden from the public eye. The two Bohemian women offered to accompany us on our first jaunt, which just so happened to be the beginning of a long-lasting adventurous friendship.

Our carriage took us to Laguna Street where the Dodge Mansion sat. It was made of white limestone with its fifteen-foot archways and towering white pillars. To our surprise, the niece of Dr. William Dodge was one of the Bohemian women. Her name was Martha Louise. Apparently, she resided at the mansion ever since her parents drowned in the South China Sea on a voyage from Ho Chi Minh City to Borneo. Witnesses implored the ship was capsized when hit by a sixty-five-foot rogue wave. There were no survivors. One report noted several native islanders trusted the premonition of their Shaman. He predicted the eruption of an underwater volcano would occur on the day of the accident. Islanders said the wave was not a rogue but a tsunami, which was the result of the great underwater eruption.

Martha Louise was never the same after that and grew up to be a little terror. She came and went as she pleased and most of the time could not be found at the good doctor’s mansion. She inherited a fortune that remained in a trust for the rest of her life. She was on the verge of building her own stately manor but changed its plans incessantly. Her preference would have been her parent’s life over a vast inheritance. She lived a most unconventional life and did not surrender her lifestyle to anyone. Every time her aunt or uncle called her Martha Louise she would correct them. “My name is Marylou, and I do not appreciate you continually calling me by that outlandish name!” I understood wholeheartedly why she was uncomfortable being called a name her mother and father called her. Just the sound of it brought back horrible and traumatic memories for me.

Her Bohemian sidekick was just as nonsensical and eccentric as she. Her name was Joan, but she liked to be called Joan of Dark. I started teasing Claire in private, calling her Queen Claire Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen. She teased me back by calling me Guinevere, who lanced a lot. I responded to her ghastly description. “Nobody gets that joke unless they know the story of King Arthur, his wife Guinevere, and the adulteress acts she engaged in with Sir Lancelot.” Claire callously snapped back, “Oh yeah, well you’re just jealous because I thought of it, my darling little Guinevere, who lanced a lot!”

Marylou and Joan jumped in our carriage, and we departed the Dodge Mansion on our way to the back alleys of Chinatown. After our driver took us down Waverly Street and turned down Spofford Alley, Marylou instructed him to let us off at a place called Tsing Tsing Lees, a Cantonese restaurant. We dined on a variety of delicious food that tantalized our palates. In the center of our table was a round spinning tray. Claire thought it very clever and spun it with great regularity. The waiters loaded it with Wonton soup, egg rolls, chop suey, fried rice, moo goo gai pan, octopus chow mein, Mandarin chicken, and sweet and sour pork. Joan ordered two bottles of Fen jiu, a white wine that originated during the Chinese Dynasty of 550 AD.

At the end of our Asian meal, we cracked open our fortune cookies. Joan of Dark ordered four bottles of pijiu, which was Chinese beer. Marylou read her fortune first. “Counting your eggs before they hatch will leave you empty-handed.” I laughed aloud but quickly refrained when my three compatriots found no humor in my outburst. Claire read hers next. “Making sacrifices will build strength.” I rolled my eyes and laughed aloud again, not caring what anyone thought. Joan pulled her fortune delicately from her cookie and read it. “Thinning the herd creates new motivations.” I laughed at that one the hardest while the three agitated bores sat quietly staring my way.

They patiently waited for the last fortune to be read. Unlike everyone else, I just wanted to eat the cookies. After I washed down cookie shells with pijiu, I read my fortune in my best Chinese accent. “Three will save your life before your last breath.” I looked up with hardly a care, and no one was laughing. All three ladies were talking amongst themselves, as if I wasn’t there. I pushed my chair back, stood up, and started to head toward the side door. “I’m going to use the outhouse.” I was frantically grabbed by six hands and forced back into my chair. Claire, Marylou, and Joan all yelled in unison, “No!”

The three of them were surrounding the outhouse when I opened its door and stepped outside. I made a face like Buddha after he had eaten too much fried rice. “You gals are a little too creepy for me! I’m not going to die, so just quit this nonsense and leave me alone!” Claire’s response was a little extreme when she informed me, “That dog just isn’t going to hunt, darling! I rolled my eyes as all three of them grabbed me and practically carried me to our coach. I had heard them whispering when I was in the outhouse and questioned myself, “What am I in for?”

The next thing I knew we were winding down Lombard Street towards Madame Su-Ling Wong’s “The House of Ill Repute,” which was supposed to be a private residence, yeah right! Joan overanxiously rapped on the door. The short Chinaman answered the door and bowed. All three ladies grabbed me, flipped off their shoes, and whisked past him and up the staircase. They forced me down a hall and into a meditation room. Joan of Dark spoke to a young Chinese woman, who was Madame Wong’s assistant. I was then forced down on a satin pillow by six powerful hands. As I slipped out of my boots and hid them under the pillow, my three protectors stood diligently waiting. Waiting for what, I wondered, the porcelain doll to enter the room and take the death spell off me? I crossed my legs and leaned back against a rattan chair. I couldn’t wait to see what happened next!

Madame Wong entered the meditation room and sat down on the pillow directly across from me, and without looking at anyone other than me, posed her question. “What worries have you brought me, ladies? I sense fear and disharmony amongst the three of you.” Joan of Dark handed Madame Wong my fortune. Madame Wong quietly read it to herself. She then read it aloud. “Three will save your life before your last breath.” Madame Wong lit her pipe and contemplated my fortune. Three will save your life before your last breath. She gave the impression that she had gone into a deep trance. I held my breath and hoped it would be over soon. I thought about retrieving broken pieces of fortune cookie from my pocket to eat, but then realized it probably wasn’t an appropriate time for such a thing. I looked up at Claire, Marylou, and Joan. Claire was biting her nails. Marylou was braiding and unbraiding her brown long locks, and Joan of Dark was discreetly sucking in white smoke.

Madame Wong awoke from her trance and stated, “There will be no worries on this night of question. The fortune merely has an underlying meaning that makes perfect sense to me. She took a puff on her pipe. It seemed like hours went by before she spoke again. I could only hold my breath for so long until the white smoke infiltrated my lungs. It sure was getting to Joan, Marylou, and Claire. It’s no wonder, considering smoke rises and they were standing. Joan of Dark finally sat in a rattan chair swaying. Her eyes were red and her pupils were completely dilated. Madame Wong stood and announced with severity, “Gwyneth of the Buxton Clan is catlike. She will have three lives to your one, and her breath will end on the third. I couldn’t believe my ears. First of all, I was a dog lover, not a cat lover. Cats were only good for catching mice in the barn and stables. When I turned my attention towards Claire, Marylou, and Joan of Dark, they were relieved. They all hugged and thanked Madame Wong and then she was gone through a side door. I thought the whole thing was a load of dead fish heads. The stinkiest dead fish heads I had ever smelled, but I didn’t say a word. I was elated all three ladies were back to their normal, or should I say, abnormal selves.

I was by the carriage waiting for Claire, Marylou, and Joan to emerge from the house. They were taking their sweet old time and had stopped to admire an oriental painting hanging on the stairwell wall. I assumed the white smoke had invaded their brains like the fog invaded the bay early in the morning. I asked the driver for a light. He lit my sweet-smelling cigar, and I thanked him. I was down to half a dozen skinny cigars and started rationing. I asked the driver his name. “My name is Mr. Wright, ma’am.” I handed him a busted fortune cookie and I tried to strike up a conversation. “Well, Mr. Wright, why is it I’m the only one who eats fortune cookies while everyone else seems to crack them open and read their fortunes?” Mr. Wright gave me a simplistic answer. “I’d say you eat them because you like their taste. As for everyone else, I think maybe it’s because most people want something exciting to happen in their life. A fortune from a fortune cookie might just give them that false sense of hope that allows them to keep going.”

I peered at the insightful man and responded in agreement. “I’d have to say that’s the only rational thing I’ve heard all night! Thank you, Mr. Wright.” He opened the carriage door as the ladies came down Madame Wong’s front steps in their bare feet. We climbed aboard the carriage and Mr. Wright asked, “Where to and where are your shoes, ladies?” After Joan retrieved their shoes, we decided on a sailor’s bar down by the embarcadero called The Merchant Pub. I checked the time on my miniature clock and noted it was 12:15 in the morning. The night was still young.

I told the girls all about my revelation regarding fortune cookies and Mr. Wright’s analogy. They couldn’t have cared less. We drank Scottish ale and German lager and sang “Oh My Darling Clementine” until quitting time. We poured ourselves out of the bar around two forty-five. We stumbled along the quiet wharf and noticed an old dock. We missed the sign that read, keep off. We sat down and dangled our legs over the side, listening to the gentle surf against the breakwater walls. Our heads were spinning a little when we heard sea lions off in the not so far distance. I thought I saw one under the dock and pointed in that direction.

We all stood and started walking towards the sound of the sea lion. I was slightly ahead of the girls when I took my last step. My legs smashed through the rotted wood that used to be the dock, and my chest rammed into the busted planks. As I got the wind knocked out of me, I felt six hands grab me and pull me up and out of the hole. I was removed from the dock so fast, I swear it took less than one second. I remember rambling as the coachman drove us back to The Mill. Claire, Marylou, and Joan were all laughing hysterically as I slurred my words. “Madame Wrong was right! I mean Mr. Wright was wong! No wait a minute, Mr. Wright was right and Madame Wrong was right! Hold on, now I’ve got it! Madame Wong was wrong and Mr. Wright was wong! No, that’s not it. Let me think!” I took a couple of deep painful breaths and interjected, “Madame Wong was wrong and Mr. Wright was right! That’s it! Holy cow, I’ve got it! Madame Wong was wrong and Mr. Wright was right!” The next morning, the large bruise on my sore rib cage was the deepest shade of purple we’d ever seen. Claire voluntarily reminded me for a week about a certain fortune that came to fruition. “Three will save your life before your last breath.”

Chapter 29

Claire and I spent many a day and many a late night with Marylou and Joan of Dark exploring the city. And every morning, they’d join us for breakfast. This morning, Claire and I awoke to a faint tapping at our door. Claire stayed in bed falling back to sleep while I answered the door. I thought I’d send a little Edgar Allen Poe humor to whoever was on the other side of the door. “Who’s come a tapping, who’s come a rapping, rapping at my chamber door, could it be Lenore?” I opened the door knowing I’d find Marylou and Joan standing next to a tray of food and the rich aroma of fresh brewed Jamaican coffee lingering in the air. Joan of Dark replied with a beguiling tone, “Perched above my chamber door, a raven and nothing more. Forget this lost Lenore, quoth the raven, nevermore.” Marylou replied, with a smirk, “You two are quite the poet jokesters this morning!”

They had ordered breakfast for us again and stayed down by the kitchen until it was ready to be hoisted up the dumbwaiter. I allowed them entry as I put my finger up to my lips saying “shhh” and pointed to where Claire was still sawing logs. I walked over and closed the bedroom door, knowing Claire could sleep soundly through any kind of earsplitting din, and two Bohemians did not have the capacity to wake her. Marylou whispered sarcastically as she filled three cups of coffee, “If Claire doesn’t wake up soon, we’ll have to leave without her, and we have divine plans today.”

The three of us sat sipping coffee and enjoyed the view of the Pacific. Marylou was sitting exceptionally close to Joan, and it was obvious she wanted to pose a few questions. “Is it true that you and Claire have been together for close to twenty years?” They both stopped sipping coffee and waited for my answer. I replied with ease, “Yes indeed. We met back in ’44 when I could rope and hog tie a calf in less than eight seconds, and Claire could rope and hog tie me in less than seven.” We all chuckled softly as I plated some delectable morning fare. I piled on sausage links and fried eggs, potato patties, cantaloupe, strawberries, a croissant, and a blueberry muffin. I then poured myself a small glass of grapefruit juice. Joan’s curiosity couldn’t be stopped as she snuggled with Marylou. “Is it difficult living together, knowing you are probably being judged constantly?”

I set my coffee cup on the table next to my plate and folded my arms in front of me. I peered up at the ceiling then dropped my eyes upon the two Bohemians. “When you live in any community, you have to find common ground. If you take care of those around you, they’ll take care of you. Claire goes out of her way to be gracious to every single person that enters her boutique and every single employee she hires. I try and do the same with everyone on my ranch. In the early years, the curious folks were told we were cousins or stepsisters. This deception didn’t last very long. We realized most folks were far smarter than they looked. Claire and I try very hard to treat most people the way we’d like to be treated. We are even considerate to those who judge us.”

“Any time townsfolk are in need or come upon hard times, we’re always there to help. Why, last fall the Prichard family was down on their luck. They didn’t look too kindly upon us, but that didn’t matter. I sent them an entire side of beef, and Claire bought five pounds of sugar and ten pounds of flour for them. Come Christmas, they invited us over for hot apple cider.” Marylou turned to Joan with encouragement. “You see, that’s exactly what Madame Wong’s inclination was when she told us what you give to the world, you get back.” I smiled at both ladies and with a clever tone tried to quote Poe. “Once upon a midnight dreary, while you pondered weak and weary. The answer found so simply, at your chamber door, this is it and nothing more!” I thought to myself how Edgar would be proud of my poetry prowess.

I heard Claire stirring in the other room, so I brought her a cup of coffee with a splash of cream and two lumps of sugar. I told the girls I’d be right back. Claire was sitting on the side of the brass bed, rubbing her eyes. I kissed her forehead softly and handed her coffee, New England style. I sat next to her and tried to nuzzle her neck. “We have company and breakfast in the other room. I suggest you come and join us.” Claire took a deep breath, as if smelling something that was not there.

“The only reason I’m not still asleep is because I dreamt about amazing-smelling food. It woke me from a sound sleep, and it wasn’t until I was mostly awake that I realized the aroma was real. As soon as I splash water on my face, I’ll be right out, darling. Before you leave, can you give me some sugar, Sugar?” I kissed Claire with the most burning passion I could muster, hoping it would give her a tingle from her belly button down to her hoohoo. I could taste sweet saliva on her warm tongue.

Marylou and Joan were still cuddled up together as Claire entered the front room. I guessed their ages to be no more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. How great it would be going back in time to that age again. Not a care in the world and a nonstop libido. When I thought about it, I realized both Claire and I had plenty of responsibilities at that age. From my ranches to Claire’s business and children, we had many a care in the world. I then decided I’d rather not go back in time. Besides, even at this stage in our lives, we continued to have a nonstop libido. Claire sat down pretending to be surprised. “Good morning, ladies, what brings you here so early in the morning?” I let Claire glance at my miniature clock, and she noticed it to be almost ten. Without a remark, she just poured herself another cup of coffee, New England style, and shoved a blueberry muffin in her mouth.

Marylou’s face remained stoic with a hint of excitement. “We were hoping you’d like to go sailing up the coast today. Uncle William has the most beautiful sailboat, and he’s letting me take it for a spin. It’s fully manned and we won’t have to lift a finger.” I thought to myself, something tells me neither one of them are fond of lifting a finger. Marylou continued, “He won’t be using it until July. It’s been out of dry dock and moored in the bay since Monday of last, growing barnacles. If you have the stomach for it, we’d be out to sea for three days.” Joan of Dark stated matter-of-factly, “Not to worry, ladies, we’ll have the coastline in our sights the entire trip.”

Remembering that Claire had mentioned the Redwood Forest north of San Francisco, I asked, “Any chance we could stop and visit the Great Redwoods?” Marylou had a lurid look in her eyes. “I think that’s a marvelous notion, Gwenny! Yes, we could go exploring beneath the towering Redwoods! What a grand idea! Joan and I have yet to see one, but we have heard incredible stories!”

Claire and I didn’t even pack. She dragged me to the garment section downtown and found a mariner clothing shop. We walked in and found racks, shelves, and tables filled with sailor and fishermen’s attire, including hats and shoes. I felt like I had died and gone to my own personal apparel heaven in the sky. It was a dream come true, and Claire could see it in my expression and stated she’d be selecting my outfits. I implied I would not be wearing outfits, but only seafaring garb that could weather any storm. Claire pulled items off the racks and the shelves and appeared to be in a frenzy. I figured her thalamus was merely overstimulated. I tried on ruffled and pleated shirts and waterproof canvas dungarees treated with grease and tar. I slipped into red and blue silk stockings, red and yellow sashes, and a scarlet embroidered three-quarter-length coat with silver thread. I modeled several Damask waistcoats and fisherman canvas raincoats. I danced in leather buckled shoes and paraded in Monmouth wool caps and tricorne black beaver felt hats. When it was all said and done, every item that fit me nicely, per Claire, was wrapped in thin brown paper and tied with twine. Claire’s items were less frivolous and not as abundant. However, she did buy a sailor’s trunk to store our new-fangled wardrobe.

There comes a time in a person’s life that proves to be a defining moment. It is discovered in a split second and is never forgotten again. I knew, in the blink of an eye, the creature before me, throwing clothes and hats my way, was the one person in my life that made me undeniably happy, thoroughly loved, and who completed me without any doubt. The split second I perceived this defining moment was when I stepped out of the dressing room, wearing an oversized waistcoat that covered both my hands. Claire turned my way as she stood over a glass display case. She held up a handgun between two fingers as if it was a dead crab. The gentleman behind the counter had a proud expression on his face. Claire’s smile revealed the extraordinary distinguished lines that were becoming more prominent on her face.

“Look what I found for you, G darling. It’s an 1810 two-shot engraved pistol. It has an eight-inch barrel and an ivory handle. I was able to buy sixty rounds to go with it. You can add it to your collection. Isn’t that wonderful, G?” The auspicious prospect of having someone love you is what most of us hope for, but to actually love someone who gives their love back in such a way that demonstrates, time after time, their genuine altruistic ability to please, is very rare. I don’t think I ever met a person more unselfish and giving than Claire Fontaine.

Our trunk was loaded aboard the Sea Spirit, a handsome 145-foot Dutch clipper ship Marylou’s uncle acquired from a European tradesman, who lost his shipping company when he went bankrupt. It was smaller than most clipper ships, but as far as I was concerned, it was the biggest seafaring vessel I had the pleasure setting foot on. The Sea Spirit was converted to a passenger ship. She was absolutely gorgeous, not a dirty spot or scratch on her. She had three booming masts and a square rig. Her sails totaled fourteen and were all white as a ghost.

Clipper ships were known for speed, and she housed a narrow hull, a counter stern, and a sharp bow. Most clippers ran at sixteen to eighteen nautical knots per hour, and the Sea Spirit was no different. Stories were told how some clipper ships could sail as fast as twenty-two knots. The Sea Spirit manned a crew of eight, and it was Uncle William’s intention to insure, by July, that his crew was a fine-tuned team of hardworking sailors. He hired a stern captain to prove his point. Below deck were six servants and cooking staff who took care of our every need and the crew’s every need. We had fresh linens every day and every meal was exquisite.

We stood on the mooring deck as Claire spoke sternly to no one in particular, “Permission to come aboard?” A scallywag who was hoisting one of the main sails answered in a gruff voice, “Permission granted!” We made our way past the deckhands and were directed down to the main cabin, which led to the map room. We found Marylou and Joan discussing the route and itinerary with the captain. He was impeccably dressed in full uniform. He wore a cocked hat, a dark blue coatee with a white collar and cuffs, white trousers, and a pair of polished Norwegian black knee-high boots. His shoulders donned large gold epaulettes with gold fringe. Saluting seemed the thing to do, until Claire stopped my right arm just before I lifted it to my brow.

Marylou’s introductions were brief. As Captain Rutherford Baines made our acquaintance, he clicked his heels and tipped his hat. A steward soon escorted us to our cabin quarters while the captain and two Bohemians turned their attention back to the charted course. Marylou and Joan made their request clear to Captain Baines. It was a must that he drop anchor just offshore from where a Great Redwood Forest was located. Captain Baines placated their request by nodding in exuberant agreement. Like the four of us, he too was intrigued to see the Giant Redwood for the first time.

He quickly removed a long tube from the map cabinet. He unscrewed its brass cap and emptied its contents into his hand. He then unrolled a map marked Giant Sequoias, California Coastal Range and laid it across an oversized oak table. He informed Marylou and Joan it would now be a five-day trip. The three of them gazed at the map and smiled a smile of fascination but kept their composure. Captain Baines immediately sent a runner to the Dodge Mansion, informing Marylou’s uncle the change of plans.

Four black beaver felt tricornes were stacked one atop the other as Claire removed them and four waistcoats from our wardrobe trunk. We made our way topside and located Marylou and Joan of Dark. Anyone within range of the Sea Spirit, as she was released from her mooring, would take note of four female souls hanging over the bow as the clipper ship departed the harbor. It was hard to miss the four female souls modeling their matching sailor hats and seafaring garb as if they were ready to take on the world.

Captain Baines sailed the Sea Spirit nonstop for less than twenty-four hours until anchoring her at the Klamath River mouth near Safford Island. We were loaded into a twelve-man dory and rowed to the delta shore. We enjoyed a quick lunch on the beach before heading up river. We barely traveled a mile before the first of many towering Redwoods appeared off to the east. Captain Baines noticed several paths leading from the shore into the woods. He immediately ran the dory aground and ordered the men to tie it off.

Claire, Marylou, Joan, and I left the captain and crew behind as we raced up a trail towards the lofty Sequoias. It wasn’t long before we stopped and stared upward. Our eyes were popping from their sockets, and our hearts beating from our chests. We began giggling uncontrollably, and you could hear our awe-inspiring words one right after the other. “Oh my God, I can’t believe what I’m seeing! Jesus, Mary, and Queen Victoria! Goodness sakes alive! Holy shit in heaven! You’ve got to be kidding me! Oh my son of a mother! Somebody pinch me! Ouch!”

All the legends were true and in no way exaggerated. These magnificent trees were the tallest we’d ever seen, some towering over 300 feet. We stood in wonderment while staring at these mindboggling evergreens. It was a monumental moment and Marylou offered a short uplifting verbal address to the sensational woodlands that graced us. “As a tribute to the large expanse and exceptional beauty of this forest, we honor each and every Giant Redwood from root to upper crown. And when we are downtrodden or embellished in a defeat-us attitude, we will think of this amazing forest, inspiring us back to the core of our reality.”

At first, I thought I would burst out laughing, but then I took Marylou’s words to heart as we continued to gaze in awe before we decided to measure the diameter of one imposing giant standing before us. Claire marked a spot on the tree by using the buckle of my shoe. Then we held hands and walked around the enormous Goliath, counting our positions as we went. Claire came to the conclusion the tree was no less than twenty-two feet around and could be as much as twenty-six feet.

These remarkable trees had reddish brown bark. Joan found a fallen piece of bark and we were all dumbfounded. It appeared to be more than a foot thick. I couldn’t believe it and exclaimed, “That’s thicker than molasses flowing over pine tar after being stuck to a rhino’s butt!” Claire snuck up behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and inquired, “Would that be a black rhino or a white rhino, darling?” The most amazing discovery was how soft the bark was to the touch. It reminded me of a newly stuffed velvet pillow.

The branches stretched far and wide and left us in constant shadows. Claire reached for several seed cones from the forest floor, and we gathered round to inspect them. They were petite, only two inches in size, and had the pungent odor of musty pine. We were surprised to find enormous trees baring such small seed cones. It was inconceivable to me because I imagined them to be the size of watermelons. Claire abruptly dropped them after she nicked herself on a sharp thorny tip. She quickly put her finger in her mouth and sucked the blood away, thinking the pain would go along with it.

Joan spotted a downed Redwood, and we all made our way in that direction. It was one thing to be standing amongst these colossal mammoths, but to witness one in a prone position was an entirely different story. Its widespread lateral roots looked as though they had violently snapped, perhaps in a brutal storm or fierce gale. It reminded me of a lumberjack busting a useless axe over his knee. None of us could climb on its massive base. We had to follow its trunk three quarters of the way down the length of the tree before we could make any attempt at scaling its fallen remains. We used branches as stepping stones to conquer the beast. Once on top, we felt as insignificant as an ant on the side of the Eiffel Tower or a Scarab beetle lost within one of the Great Pyramids of Egypt.

The ground cover was abundant with plush green moss, bunches of toadstools and mushrooms, copious ferns, and tiny white and red buttercup-like flowers. We wandered past little babbling brooks and midget waterfalls, observing slippery frogs jumping from bank to brook and then back again. There was a pleasure trove of beauty under the expansive shaded canopy. We were reluctant to abandon this lush forest until we heard the loud foghornlike sound from The Sea Spirit’s announcement, telling us departure was near.

I peered at my miniature clock and proclaimed to the group, “My God, we’ve been prancing around this glorious forest for more than five hours!” Claire turned in a complete 360. “G darling, we need you to point us in a westerly direction as we traverse these trails, or we won’t get out of here until Friday of next!” I navigated to the best of my ability using my tiny compass, and once we spotted a big patch of blue sky and a path that led down to the shoreline, we realized hunger had taken hold of our growling bellies.

Chapter 30

The ships maitre d’ was instructed to compliment the chef and his staff by Claire every time he reappeared to serve us another food course. I was positive she did this because she couldn’t give them a monetary tip. Unbeknownst to Marylou or Joan, at the end of the cruise, she handed each servant a five dollar gratuity. Claire’s compliments to the chef aroused the laughter in Joan, and each time she would deliver an outlandish remark, citing phrases such as: “Yes, and be sure to tell the chef if we find a finger or hair in our food, he will have to walk the plank or if we find any uncooked fish, we will cut up the entire galley staff and feed their raw bodies to the sharks!” Marylou would respond in a pirate’s burr, “Arrrr, blimey, mates, let’s say we carve ’em up raw right here and eat ’em ourselves befores we cast them into the briny deep, savvy?”

I noticed laughter was becoming a key factor on this so-called honeymoon trip to the whimsical city by the bay. Laughter represented Claire and my state of mind and our emotions during almost every incident, every human encounter, and every hair-raising experience. It heightened our enjoyment and our ability to leave all our troubles behind. I thought I’d add a little of my own seafaring humor when I asked, “What’s the quickest way to a pirate’s heart?” The ladies pondered momentarily but gave up and waited for my answer with anticipation. “Through his port hole!” Joan turned to Marylou laughing with tears in her eyes. “Portal, get it? Marylou hysterically chimed back, “That’s not exactly what Gwenny meant! Port hole, don’t you see? She meant the pirate’s bum hole! Laughter poured out of Joan’s mouth as she declared, “Oh my stomach is killing me!” Our howling continued as we all raised our pewter steins, topped off with dark ale suds, and clanked them together in unison. I frequently noticed liquor to be a contributing factor in some of our overzealous outbursts, but I chalked it up to just another representation of our state of mind.

As we headed south on the fifth day, I let my sentiments known regarding how laughter was related to our experiences and how it improved our honeymoon vacation. We were midship, watching a pod of gray whales also heading south. All four tricorne felt hats were showing signs of wear from sweat and the salt air. The whale spouts blew skyward almost twenty feet. Huge triangular flukes disappeared under the water as the whales swam side by side. It was exhilarating when one whale breached more than half its massive body out of the water and then came crashing down on the surface. The sun was warm and bright as it reflected off the water. The Pacific was quite calm and the deck was fairly dry. The Sea Spirit glided effortlessly across the water, preventing ocean spray from booming over her bow.

Joan was in a jovial mood, as always, and responded to my opinions. “Ah yes, laughter is a key factor to happiness, but answer me this, Gwenny, isn’t it true that everything you’ve been through on this entire trip has resulted in sexperiences between you and Claire?” Once again, the three of them were laughing, and I just sat there red-faced, pretending to only be interested in the gray whales. I was temporarily appalled and embarrassed before I accepted and appreciated Joan’s good humor. The laughter subsided, and Claire answered bluntly, “In all honestly, Joan, sexperience doesn’t even begin to describe the ravenous goings on behind our closed doors! Thank God for the wind last night or the entire ship would have heard our frivolities! I must say, Frisco, I mean San Francisco suits us to a tee, and I would most certainly return with Gwen, knowing we would involve ourselves in sextreme sexpeditions!” Joan of Dark responded, “Well then, on your next visit, it would not be in your best interest if I sexonerated you from any private intimate relations?” Our laughter bounced off the sails and was quickly absorbed by the vast ocean blue. I thought to myself, how could grown women act out vulgarities with such pleasure and so effortlessly? I concluded the obvious. They felt confident and comfortable in their own skin. I hoped one day I could feel exactly the same.

The harbor was getting closer as we sailed across the bay. Many sails had already come down to slow the clipper’s speed. By the time we were half a mile from our mooring, all sails were lowered and the steam engine took over the final leg. We were deck side when Marylou uncorked a bottle of champagne to celebrate our journey and friendship. She chose her words wisely, as she always did when toasting or paying tribute, and with pride, she articulated, “Our expedition has been grand. Our companions have shown us true camaraderie and alliance. And I will always take to heart the memories of this wonderful summer. Cheers!” We clinked glasses and finished off a second bottle before we disembarked.

As the four of us stood on the wharf, I couldn’t help but wonder the fate of the two Bohemians. Would they survive the rugged and perilous hazards of San Francisco’s west coast, or would they be swallowed up in its immorality and squalor. I exposed my face to the sun as I raised my head skyward. It was the profound words spoken by Claire that gave me reassurance. For a moment, she looked out beyond the circling seagulls, beyond the loud engines of the sea scows, beyond the indigo bay, and into the plush rolling hills, and finally she turned her attention towards Marylou and Joan of Dark with sincere accolades. “Ladies, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I can’t imagine spending time with anyone other than you these past few months. You are not only rich in beauty, but you are also rich in character. We will remember you fondly and hope the continued prospect of your undying happiness and love for one another grows stronger every day and keeps you safe and sound.” We said our good-byes and went our separate ways, knowing we’d one day meet again.

Claire and I began the ride back to The Mill in silence. We both were beginning to anticipate our approaching departure that would return us to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. The finality of our holiday left us feeling a bit somber and despondent. Our driver, Mr. Wright, sensed our exhaustive emotions immediately. “Welcome back to dry land, ladies.” He had two deck hands load and tie down our trunk to the back of the coach. Mr. Wright then climbed into the coachman’s seat and commanded the horses away from the wharf and towards The Mill.

The constant clapping of hooves on the hard cobblestone was so rhythmic and soothing, we fell fast asleep. Mr. Wright was hesitant to wake us once we arrived. He left us in the coach while he pulled into the carriage house. He then had the livery staff unhitch the horses. Our trunk was unloaded and delivered to our stateroom. Mr. Wright disappeared in silence, as if he was a feather riding the coattails of the wind. An hour later, he returned to wake us from a restful nap. He rang the coach bell, opened the coach door, and patiently waited for us to stir. I gently removed Claire’s head from my shoulder and roused her from sleep. “Ladies, we have arrived. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I politely asked as I yawned, “Is there a local cigar shop you can track down and perhaps obtain a box of Delgado Morenos? They’re a dark slender sweet-smelling cigar grown and rolled on the Del Sureño Plantation, a southern plantation in the Florida Keys.” Mr. Wright was very cheerful. “You are in luck, Mrs. Buxton. My wife’s sister is a cigar girl at Esquina los Fumador, The Smoker’s Corner. I can stop by tomorrow if you like and see if they carry such a cigar.”

I thought to myself it must be intriguing to work in a cigar shop. I know I would be filled with intrigue and fascination if I could grace such an establishment. I then asked with optimism, “Is there any chance I can go along for the ride?” Mr. Wright’s response was forthcoming. “It would be my pleasure to accompany you. However, women are forbidden entry in any tobacco shop here in San Francisco. It is considered unladylike and taboo.” I responded with great sorrow, “So what you’re implying is the only way I could gain access to a smoke shop is if I become a cigar girl?” He said apologetically, “Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry to say that is correct.” I told Mr. Wright I’d get back to him regarding this matter.

I mumbled to myself on our way up to our stateroom, not realizing Claire understood every word. I could always gain access if I dressed like a man. I’d have to get hold of a fake mustache. Of course if I was discovered, all hope of getting a box of Delgados would be dashed. The intrigue and fascination of experiencing the inside of a cigar shop was exciting, I must admit, but far too risky and I did not want to ruin my or Claire’s reputation. I presumed my only recourse was to find a way to read about it somewhere. I’d have to satisfy my curiosity by education.

I convinced myself I’d send a telegram to Key West once I returned home. I’d say my name was Sir Nance Alcott, a variation of the ever-popular Sir Lancelot. I’d inquire about the construction of cigar shops and humidors. My request would be drawings and sketches. I would most certainly wire money to pay for such demands. I’d implore my interest regarding where or how to acquire hardbacks or university textbooks on the history of the tobacco industry, cigar retail and wholesale, and humidor design and construction. I would present myself as a professional and prove to be a persuasive capitalist or entrepreneur. I imagined Claire ranting on about my quest and more than likely not be in my favor. “Do you really think this will remedy your intrigue and fascination? Might you be left with discontent and disappointment, darling?”

The next morning, after we slept in and ate a late breakfast, Claire announced she had to step out for a moment and would return shortly. She muttered something about a women’s hat shop and the new Paris and New York lines. Claire was a perfectionist when it came to trickery. She knew I’d have no interest in enlisting my time at some hat shop. She herself had no intention of going to a hat shop on this day. Her interest focused on the Esquina los Fumador, “The Smoker’s Corner,” and how soon she could speak to its matriarch. How she knew there was a matriarch at the cigar shop, I’ll never know.

When Claire departed, she had a hat box under one arm and her black ledger under the other. I assumed the ledger was a catalogue or list of last season’s hats but then surmised it was more than likely for her conniving ruse. It turned out to be a list of very important and influential people that made her acquaintance, in some way or another. She had already sent word she was coming, along with a copy of her fictitious daily schedule. Confirmation came back from the matriarch of Esquina los Fumador via messenger and Claire’s appointment was set.

Claire returned to our stateroom an hour later. I pretended to be reading when I watched her come in. She closed the door behind her and leaned heavily on it, as if it was a secret lover. Her shrewd look was not very becoming. The jig was up, but I let it ride. She finally pulled herself away from her wooden lover and walked into the sitting room. “What are you reading, G, another Austen novel or something less indifferent?” “I’m actually reading Walt Whitman, and it’s quite a good read. So how was your visit to the hat shop, my dear?” Claire gave no response and instead went straight to the bedroom and picked out her most distinguished outfit. She returned with it lying neatly over one arm. “Put this on, darling, there’s somewhere I need to take you, and you’re expected there in twenty minutes. I’m sorry if my boots are a little tight, but there’s no way around it.”

Claire’s dreamy eyes gazed into mine. “I need you to follow my lead. Do you think you could fake a German accent?” My response was to Claire’s liking. “Eet vood be mine plezure, ya volt! I can sprechen de Deutch with a voonderbar accent!” I knew if I questioned her antics, I’d hear a never-ending synopsis or summation of all the reasons I was obligated to participate in such a farce. Her convincing ploy regarding how turnabout is fair play would roll off her lips and bounce around my little head. I would end up agreeing that I deserved to be a regal German imposter, which paralleled her false portrayal of a French blue blood. She handed me a violet satin dress with an oversized bustle, a matching plumed hat, a pair of white full-length gloves, and a pair of Victorian white lace-up bridal boots. “Oh that accent sounds wonderfully convincing, darling!”

The buggy stopped along California Street. Claire and I stepped out and made our way across the thoroughfare. The front entrance to Esquina los Fumador, The Smoker’s Corner, stood before us. I complained about a rash that was developing under my armpits and whined about how I was losing feeling in my toes. It was obvious my sensitive skin was not used to material rubbing against it, and my toes had never set foot in shoes that were compromising and too small. Claire ignored my protests and, without hesitation, knew exactly where to go. She took me down the side alley and through the rear entrance. She reminded me to be on my best behavior as I noticed the instant aroma of tobacco filling the air.

We were escorted to the front of the shop by a cigar girl, who turned out to be the owner’s daughter, not Mr. Wright’s sister-in-law. The store was completely empty save for the matriarch and her daughter. The shades on the front windows were drawn, and the sign hanging on the front door read, closed for lunch. Apparently, Mr. Vasquez was upstairs taking a siesta. Claire’s submissive smile was precious as she introduced me. “Señora Vasquez, this is Lady Guinevere Von Schumacher, of the Munich Von Schumacher’s. I curtsied and, in my best German accent, greeted the señora. “Ya, eet eez goot to meet viss yoo tuday, Frau Vasquez.” The señora was fashioning a brand new straw bonnet as she nervously shook my hand.

Señora Vasquez gave me an extended tour of the shop. There were beautiful pipes of all shapes and sizes, from cheap corn cobs to expensive mahogany. There were cigar scissors, cigar-punch cutters, v-cutters, and even double-guillotine cutters. The shop had an assortment of ceramic and marble ashtrays and brass spittoons. There was smokeless tobacco, Indian tobacco, and flavored tobacco. Displayed on a round table were gorgeous wooden veneer cigar boxes with gold hinges and velvet interiors. Tan rolling paper and red and blue matchboxes sat in glass bowls on the countertop. My favorite item was a small leather cigar holder I just had to have. I gathered it would hold five or six of my thin sweet Delgados and would keep them out of harm’s way as opposed to the unprotected pocket of my shirts or coat.

Señora Vasquez took me inside three different humidors that housed three different humidity settings. The first was small and contained strong-smelling Cuban and Honduras cigars. The second had a variety of cigars from Columbia and Brazil. The biggest humidor actually housed cigars grown and rolled in the United States. I scanned the shelves, observing cigars from Kentucky, South Carolina, Tennessee, Georgia, and to my excitement, Florida. I noticed all cigars were either bundled, tinned, five-packed, or boxed. I searched the Florida section looking for a box from The Keys. I wasn’t having any luck.

Then the gracious matriarch raised herself up on a stool and from the top shelf grabbed a box of Delgado Morenos she had stored there for safekeeping. It was the only box of Delgados she had in the shop. She stepped off the stool and said, “Is this what you are looking for, Lady Guinevere?” Claire let it be known on her earlier arrival that a box of Delgados was needed for my father, Herr Von Schumacher, who happened to be on holiday in Richmond, Virginia. Apparently, I was to reunite with him in late August. I put my hands to my mouth in surprise and then replied, “Dis eez vhat I bin lookink for awl veek! Danke schön, danke schön!”

On our ride back, I gazed at Claire. “Why all the mystery? Why all the deceit? Was it really necessary, dear?” Claire looked at me funny, ignoring my questions. “What in God’s name has happened to your hair? It looks like Madame Wong’s private hairdresser took a comb to it and ratted it into a fuzz ball!” I removed my hat and felt my hair. I told Claire it was obvious the humidors did more than just protect and age cigars. Claire had noted on a few occasions how my hair reacted in similar fashion when there was fog on the bay. I asked again, “Was all the deception really necessary, my dear?” Claire ran her hand through my fluffy hair. “Absolutely, darling! I wanted you to have an experience you’d never forget.” I removed a new cigar from the box and put it up to Claire’s nose. “Smell the sweetness of this marvelous cigar.” Claire took one whiff and sneezed to high heavens. I said Gesundheit. I then asked Claire, with serious candor, “What do you call a German virgin?” Claire responded, “I have no idea, what?” In my best German accent, I answered, “Good-n-tight!” Claire threw her head back slightly and laughed. It was a laugh that lingered in the air like the smoke from one sweet-smelling thin cigar that was retrieved from a humidor, puffed with vigor, and expired in an ashtray a few minutes before.

Chapter 31

After I blew a kiss to the cooked trout, I transferred it to the center of a platter, surrounded by sautéed vegetables. It was the last dish I placed on the kitchen table before I sat down with Rosy and B.J. Tears fell from the corner of my eyes as I admitted that this trout dish was one of Claire’s favorite recipes long ago, and I deprived her of it her entire life by refusing to learn how to fly-fish with that ridiculous ten-foot bamboo rod she bought me when B.J. and Rosy were too young to remember. I confessed to my newfound obsession and how much I loved every waking hour casting that rod on any river, stream, creek, or brook that crossed my path. I was retired now, and to my heart’s content, I had all the time in the world to fly-fish.

B.J.’s oldest two sons Joseph and Harland ran both ranches now, and like Claire, were scrupulous in their business dealings. They had both acquired business degrees, and B.J. wasn’t the least bit disappointed when they decided they did not want to be lawyers. They both knew there was a lot of money in cattle ranching, and both herds had grown immensely over the years. Last season, we had a thousand head and expected to be close to fifteen hundred this year. Harland was head honcho at the Marrow Ranch and ran it quite efficiently. Joseph’s right-hand man at the B & H Ranch was Gabriella. After more than twenty years of service, Gabriella was still dedicated to working inside and outside the ranch. Another little amazing tidbit of information was Abigail and Gabriella had been together almost as long as Gabriella had been at the B & H Ranch. I loved calling them Gabrigail or Abrigailla when no one else was around. They didn’t seem to mind and found it endearing.

After Claire passed last summer, Joseph took over ownership of the hat shop in Durango and B.J.’s oldest daughter, Emily, who also had a business degree, owned and managed the four hat shops in the Denver area with her husband. I couldn’t have been more proud of how the entire family turned out. We were finished with dinner and enjoying a snifter of cognac out on the porch. Both B.J. and Rosy had solemn expressions on their faces. And it wasn’t just because their mother was dead and buried. It was because they weren’t staying for the summer. The families could only stay for a week and had to get back to their respective busy lives. I tried not to show my disappointment and put up a brave front. Tomorrow the three of us would head back over the mountain to the B & H Ranch.

I still lived in the main ranch house at the B & H Ranch. I couldn’t part ways with all the fond memories lingering there from my past. From the porch steps, mudroom, washroom, great room, kitchen, and breakfast nook to the study, master bedroom, sitting room, and sewing room, there wasn’t an inch of that house that I didn’t have a fond recollection. Suffice it to say, there wasn’t one memory of mine in forty-five years, within the walls of that ranch house, that didn’t include Claire. Joseph tried to talk me into a smaller ranch house when he took over the ranch, but I talked him into building a second ranch house on the property anywhere he desired. I couldn’t give up that ranch house any more than I could give up my memory of Claire.

The following day, the three of us headed to Claire’s resting place below the favorite ledge Claire and I had found so long ago. B.J. and Rosy said their good-byes and later that day, when the headstone arrived, we found a perfect spot above the ledge. It was shaded by a blue spruce with a view across the river and upward towards the peaks in all their grandeur. The headstone was beautifully made of shiny gray granite with high-quality old-style chiseled lettering. It was quite distinguished looking and read.

RIP

Here Lies Claire Elizabeth Fontaine

A Loving and Devoted Mother and Wife

A Dedicated Expedition Traveler

We loved her sugar

1822-1892

Early the next morning, we took a stagecoach to Durango. B.J.’s youngest son, Benjamin, was there to receive us. He had recently turned fourteen. When I walked in the front door, the main ranch house was bustling with B.J. and Rosy’s family. The great grandchildren were hanging on my legs while I stood, and climbed all over me when I sat. It was the most gratifying thing I’d experienced in a long time. It was similar to fly-fishing in the late afternoon and landing rainbow trout on caddis flies, of which I tied with my own two hands, very gratifying indeed!

I passed the study as I walked through the foyer and down the hall. I noticed Claire’s granddaughter Elizabeth, sitting in the big leather chair reading a book. She was eleven and very quizzical and imaginative. Everyone called her Elise ever since her little brother couldn’t pronounce Elizabeth and resorted to Elish, which soon became Elise. I hadn’t seen her since she was nine and looked forward to finding out what a little lady she had become. I dropped my bag in the master bedroom without unpacking and made my way back to the study.

Elise looked up excitedly, dog-eared the page she was reading, and closed the book. “Gwenny, when did you get here?” She hugged me around my waist and would not let go. “Well let me see. Oh, I’d say about a minute ago!” Elise giggled as we made our way to the bulky leather chairs and sat for a spell. I crossed my legs and asked with interest, “What book are you reading?” Elise faced the front cover towards me. “The Painted Pony. Have you ever read it, Gwenny?” “As a matter of fact, your Grandmother Gigi read it to me. What do you think about that?” Elise was taken aback. “Why did Gigi read it to you? Were you incapable or incompetent at the time?”

I’m almost certain when I was eleven I had no idea what the definition of incapable or incompetent meant. Actually I did, but that wasn’t the point. This child was as smart as a whip. I thought I’d give her a little test regarding definitions and I responded in all seriousness, “No, that’s not it at all, Elizabeth. Your Gigi was actually reading it to your father and Aunt Rosy, and I happened to be there listening to the story. So tell me Elise, do you find this book monotonous or enthralling?” Elise’s response was quite haunting, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I always considered how closely Elise resembled Claire in looks, and I did think she had similar physical characteristics, but witnessing the eleven-year-old’s verbal and physical reaction convinced me reincarnation of the living was possible.

Elise had her arms folded and was tapping a foot as she contemplated my question, and her green-blue eyes were smiling at me. “Well, if you must know, Gwenny, far be it from me to criticize any writer, but this particular story has moments of boring scenarios and riveting plots. And another thing, I’ve only been reading it for an hour and just now realized I’m almost finished with it! Isn’t that funny, Gwenny?” Elise threw her head back slightly and laughed. It was a laugh that any moonlit night would appreciate. It was a laugh that eerily resembled the laugh of a stunning woman from Boston I had met so many years before.

After I got over the shock and picked my jaw up off the floor, I stood and walked over to the bookshelves. I appreciated my father every time I confronted this wall of books because his capacity to organize made my life easier. I went straight over to the section of authors whose names started with A and pulled out Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I handed it to Elise, who remained seated in the big leather chair. “You might want to try this one. It’s quite a good read, and it teaches you a little bit about life.” I then walked over to the T section and pulled out The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and handed it to Elise. “Here’s one you’re going to love, and you may read it more than once. I’m also hoping one day you will find out Mark Twain’s real name.”

B.J., his wife Sarah, Harland, and I were sitting in the great room in front of the fireplace. The house was peaceful now that the little ones were in bed or had retreated to Joseph’s house. We were sipping sherry and enjoying the peace and quiet. B.J.’s second oldest daughter, Virginia, and son, Joseph, snuck in the backdoor to join us after tucking in Joseph’s children. As soon as Joseph and I lit our cigars, Sarah bid us good night. She wasn’t fond of cigar smoke, but she did enjoy the aroma of the pipes B.J. puffed on. Virginia poured herself and Joseph a glass of sherry, and we all sat comfortably around the hearth chitchatting about nothing in particular. Virginia drew attention to herself. “Gwenny, I’ve been meaning to ask you about what you’re doing the rest of the summer, seeing as we’re all heading home at the end of the week. I’m sorry all your plans have been dashed.”

I was slightly suspicious when I set my glass of sherry on the aspen end table. “Oh for heaven’s sake, it is not necessary to apologize, Virginia. That’s absurd. I completely understand how difficult it is to balance a business and a family, let alone extracurricular activities. I have plenty to do this summer.” Virginia politely inquired, “What have you got planned, Gwenny?” I joyously answered, “Well, it’s no secret I love to fly-fish, so I’ll be doing a lot of that during the day. Sometimes I lose track of time, and you can find me on a river with stars appearing in the sky. I’m referred to as the twilight fisherman by Gabriella. More often than not, she saddles up and comes to find me when those instances occur. I also like to ride one of the quarters every so often and take a jaunt around the ranch to make sure your brother hasn’t run it into the ground. On occasion, I tend to the flower garden. I still like to have a weekly bouquet sitting in the foyer. That was your grandmother’s favorite spot to display her Parisian vase she filled with fresh cut flowers. It was her intention to have every visitor experience a wonderful fragrance when they entered and exited our home. So as you can see, my docket is pretty full.”

Virginia shifted her position and leaned forward. She seemed to want to speak, but nothing came out of her mouth. I sensed apprehension on her part and was curious. “What’s bothering you, Virginia?” She peered over at Joseph and her father and then looked at me. “Well, Elise is fascinated and intrigued by you. All she talked about today was Gwenny this and Gwenny that. She’s already halfway finished with Huckleberry Finn. She says when she’s done reading it, she’s going to post a letter to you with an enclosed synopsis detailing the monotonous and enthralling parts of the book.” My grin lingered longer than I expected. “Well that’s wonderful! I look forward to it. She’s quite an intellect.” Virginia was not finished updating me about her younger sister.

“Elise has been begging mother, father, and me to stay with you for the rest of the summer, and I don’t know what to tell her. She is my charge for the summer while mother and father tend to their affairs. Joseph suggested I ask you. Mother and father agreed with him.” Virginia cringed while waiting for my response. I was flattered to think an eleven-year-old wanted to spend time with an old lady. “What a grand idea! I’m glad Elise thought of it. How do you feel about leaving your daughter here this summer, Beeg?” B.J. answered without hesitation, “I’m fine with it if you are.” Virginia looked relieved. “I think it’s a novel idea and it’ll be good for her to spend quality time with you, Gwenny!”

My response sounded grave. “All right, then it’s settled. Of course, when Elise starts driving me crazy or acting up, I’ll have to send her over the mountain to Harland!” Virginia showed signs of panic until B.J., Joseph, Harland, and I roared laughing. Saturday morning was filled with kisses and good-byes. I was elated when the train pulled away from the station, so I could get back to my daily routine. I soon realized nothing was routine about my days for the rest of the summer.

I softly spoke into Elise’s left ear as we stood on the riverbank. “Keep your elbow close to your ribs when you’re casting. It makes it a lot easier and less cumbersome in the long run.” Elise and I were up at the crack of dawn and had made our way to one of my favorite spots along the Animas River. I stepped away from Elise to give her some room. “Now whatever you do, make sure your arm doesn’t go back past your right ear and, for God’s sake, make sure you never break your wrist beyond forty-five degrees like I showed you.”

I had borrowed a shorter rod from Charlie’s son, Orville. I recounted the wonderful story to Elise about Charlie’s failure as a young lad to land a big brook trout for his mother’s oversized frying pan. I even added the part about the osprey who encountered the same fate with the same fish. Charlie had taught his son to be quite the master at fly-fishing, and over the years, they fished together, up until the last days of Charlie’s life. From time to time, Orville and I would find each other on the river and spend the day together swapping stories and swapping flies. I also received exceptional casting tips, and I was grateful every time. On occasion, I showed my appreciation by surprising Orville with a fresh pan of cornbread from a recipe Claire often used.

I continued to instruct Elise who was quick to learn. She was soon proficient in roll casting, single hauling, and mending her line. Double hauling was not her cup of tea, but such a cast was difficult for anyone to learn. It took me laborious months before I had it down and a few months after to refine it. Towards the end of summer, Elise seemed quite content on her own while I’d go upstream. However, she would soon follow imploring me to give her another fly after losing hers in a tree or bush. There were times she’d beg me to untangle her line that somehow transformed itself into a rat’s nest. She didn’t understand why we released the smaller trout back into the river from where they came. Every time she landed one, I had to remind her that it was important to give the small ones back to the river, so they had a chance to grow before we snatched them up to eat.

We were enjoying lunch under a cottonwood tree one afternoon, engaged in casual conversation, when it turned serious. “Did Gigi ever go fly-fishing with you, Gwenny?” Guilt is an amazing thing, and I was feeling a good dose of it while I responded to Elise’s question. “No, she never did, sweetie, but I didn’t know how to fly-fish until after Gigi passed.” I was not in the mood to share the selfish story about how I didn’t want to have anything to do with fly-fishing so many years ago. Sharing a story about a grandmother’s disappointment to her granddaughter was something I could never do. It did remind me of the time Claire was adamant about wanting me to teach myself how to use that damn bamboo rod. She pleaded with me night and day for a good two weeks before she finally gave up.

“G darling, take a look at this brown card. It has all kinds of wonderful instructions on how to operate that rod you so quickly hid in the meat-curing shack.” We were lying in bed one morning, and I put my head under my pillow. I didn’t want to hear anything about it. “C’mon, darling, you love a good challenge. Why not try this one out for size?” I always had a legitimate excuse every time she mentioned it, and this time was no different. I rolled my eyes and put up a verbal front. “You know I can’t start that right now when we’re about to move from this cabin back to the B & H Ranch and take a summer trip with the children.”

After we finally moved back to the B & H Ranch, all week long Claire bantered on and on about fly-fishing while I made my escapes. We were riding horses along the east fence line, checking for busted posts and rails when Claire mentioned, “G darling, check this out. It says here you can roll cast the line easily into the water if there are bushes and trees close behind you. So you see there’s really no difficulty involved!” I knew Claire hated to gallop, so I took off at a dead run. She didn’t see me until supper time that night. She kept that damn card with her everywhere she went.

One morning, she informed me with passion in her heart, “G darling, listen to this. It says right here you shouldn’t put a lot of effort into false casting or setting your hook!” I stood up, grabbed a towel, stepped out of the hot bath we were sharing, and departed company with not so much as a word. Giving in to Claire was not going to happen any time soon. The next afternoon I was holding a calf steady when Claire remarked, “G darling, I have an interesting fact for you.” She removed the brown card from her pocket and began reading. “If you load your line while casting, you can shoot the line across any river!” I released the calf, grabbed the branding iron from Zach, and started chasing Claire halfway to the main house before I stopped my hot pursuit and realized I had to return the branding iron to Zach on the back forty, where the ranch hands and I were branding cattle.

One night after we made love on the bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire, Claire pulled out the brown card from under the grizzly’s head and told me, “G darling, did you know if you immediately mend your fly line above your fly right after you cast into the water, you have a better chance at catching a trout?” I disappeared down the hall and out the backdoor buck naked. I spent the night in the tack room under a recently purchased horse blanket.

Claire finally got the hint the day before our spectacular summer trip to the Grand Canyon and left the card in one of her recipe boxes, never to be mentioned again. I never shared my reason with Claire as to why I didn’t want to take up fly-fishing because I knew she’d talk me out of it. And besides, my reasons were selfish and absurd. It was out of character for me to dismiss any challenge or experimental project. But why would I want to be alone on a river trying to attempt something I knew absolutely nothing about when I could be with Claire? At the time, it made no sense to attempt an endeavor that I wasn’t looking forward to.

What the hell was fly-fishing anyway? Was it some trivial short-lived activity that was discovered by a poor old sap that didn’t have anything better to do? I had a feeling it wouldn’t last another year because most folks would become bored with its pretentious absurdity. At the time, I knew I would never be satisfied with such a ridiculous pastime. Now at this late stage of my life, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I immediately discovered that those who fly-fished were passionate and dedicated to the sport. Fly-fishing was so much more than just wading in a river and casting your line. It was a bonding experience with nature. It was a quiet place to go and forget about all your worries. It was the perfect sanctuary for revealing one’s true character.

Back in the early days, my preoccupation with Claire forced me to be away from her as little as possible. It was painfully difficult tending to my ranch from sunup to sundown without seeing Claire, but that soon became an easy sacrifice to make because Claire started showing up at the ranch more and more. And quite frankly, as the days went on, I started arriving in town more and more. I remember standing in Claire’s hat shop one day, forgetting about my ranch obligations. I had been behind the counter quiet as a mouse while she tended to Mrs. Brock and her two daughters, Penelope and Julia. They visited Claire’s shop on a regular basis. I recalled being mesmerized and captivated by Claire’s presence—the way she carried herself and spoke quite prim and proper to the women. It simply astounded and aroused me. She glowed with superior grace and charming poise, and I swear she was floating around the shop because of it.

After the three ladies exited the shop with new bonnets, I made one of my many confessions to Claire. “Do you realize I think about you all the time, even when I’m with you?” Claire finished putting the money in the cash register, pushed the drawer shut, put a few hats back on their display racks, closed and locked the front door, flipped the out to lunch sign, and then turned to me, responding in her most soft and sultry voice. “Well that’s marvelous, darling.” She then made an elegant stride across the shop, took hold of my hand, and dragged me back to her office. She closed the door, lowered the blinds, and wrapped herself around me. She forced me up against the wall and told me exactly how she felt. “Give me some sugar, Sugar.” She then devoured my lips and mouth with a deep luscious kiss. When she was done having her way with me, she whispered in my ear with that soft sultry voice, “You are my candle burning bright. You are my morning, noon, and night. You are the blood flowing through my veins. You are the one who keeps me sane.”

Chapter 32

One of the last things I did with Claire, before she took ill, was embark on a late springtime expedition, as she liked to call it. We traveled to a quaint little coastal town in the Pacific Northwest known as Amherst Landing. It wasn’t too far from the Canadian border. Over time, Claire had researched places we could visit that grew flowers from Holland. Surprisingly, she was sent literature from a botanist who was a professor at Boston College. How she was able to receive correspondence from him, I’ll never know! It was the information she was hoping to find. Included was a regional map of the area and specific directions to follow once we arrived at Amherst Landing. We were to head inland approximately twelve to fourteen miles to a Dutch farm where they grew tulips, daffodils, and irises.

Amherst Landing sat on the north shore of Birch Cove. It was a picturesque inlet that shared similarities to San Francisco’s landscape but on a much smaller geographical scale and with far less human hustle and bustle to contend with. We stayed at the delightful Waldron Inn well-hidden amongst the trees, supposedly to shelter us from the cool arctic wind. I thought to myself, after we took a brisk evening walk and my nose and ears felt frostbitten, shelter my ass! The only shelter or warmth I’ll be getting is in my darkest dreams about a fiery hell!” On the westernmost point of the bay sat an enchanting little lighthouse with an external spiral staircase. There were several private docks along the shoreline and one public landing with a large arched sign in front of the gangway, painted sky blue and yellow that read, Amherst Landing.

Claire removed the regional map and directions as soon as we unpacked. She had already hired a coach and driver for the following morning and was now plotting our course. The map was spread across the bed while Claire sat studying it intensely. I came up behind her, sat down with care, and put my head on her shoulder. “So, any hidden treasures on that map?” Claire touched me from behind and turned her head to give me a peck on the cheek. As usual, her response was quick-witted, “Well, as far as I can tell, if we take forty paces due east, twenty paces south, thirty-five paces west, and twenty-two paces north by northwest, we’ll end up right back here where we started, darling!” Claire tilted her head back slightly and laughed. A laugh I would treasure always.

Our coachman was a well-weathered man who, in all probability, spent all of his life in the salt air and most likely aboard a seafaring vessel. From what Claire told me, he was a Russian immigrant. She informed me his accent and clothing proved it, along with the slight odor of vodka on his breath. He bid us a good morning and stated firmly in my direction, “My name is Pooshka. I am happy to be of service for you.” And when he stepped forward to open the coach door, Claire wasn’t kidding about his wardrobe. His outstretched hand donned a rabbit down mitten. His head was covered with an Ushanka fur hat. Under his wool trench coat, he wore a Tolstovka shirt, named after a popular shirt the famous Tolstoy enjoyed wearing on a regular basis. Around his neck was a fox fur scarf and on his feet were Velenki felt boots.

Because of his heritage, I wondered if he was cold year-round or if he had ice water running through his veins. Claire had shown him her map the day previous, and he knew right away where to find our next enchanting destination. After we boarded the coach, he prepared us for what would not only be an extraordinary and vibrant showing of flowers, but also a rich multicolored visual experience. As we approached the west side of the farm, Pooshka invited us to sit with him in the driver’s seat. Once on top, we couldn’t believe our eyes. Off in the distance, we noticed an array of vast colors on both sides of the road coming into view.

Pooshka gave us his best narrative. “As you can see, we are nearing Häamstede Farms. It is owned by a Netherland family from Holland. They grow tulips, daffodils, and irises. I believe they arrived in 1822, nearly seventy years ago. They’re farmland runs two square miles, which is roughly 1280 acres. They transport their flowers all along the west coast and parts of the orient by ship. They use the cold car of the Northern Pacific to ship flowers across the United States.”

Claire had wrapped her arm around mine, and I swear I could feel her energy forcing its way inside my body. I had no idea how involved Claire was with the knowledge of bulb flowers. She knew the genus, order, family, and some subfamilies of the tulip, daffodil, and iris. She was also privy to selected species and classifications. It was a little scary to know her brain capacity was abnormally large. I soon got over the intellectual fear when my recollection promptly reminded me that Claire always had the uncanny ability to show the world her intelligence and aptitude. It was as effortless as watching her long strides across a hardwood floor with her gazelle-like legs.

She pointed towards a field of tulips. “Oh my God! Look at all those Lady Tulips! They have variegated colors, darling! And over there are red Bokhara Tulips!” She kept pointing every which way, like a young child visiting an animal menagerie for the first time. She continued on with her unleashed excitement. “And right there, darling! I’m positive those tulips are Pulchellas and Edulis!” All I saw were fields and fields of red, white, orange, pink, purple, and yellow flowers.

To my surprise, Claire started to cry. It was such a heartfelt display of emotions, she couldn’t even speak. She could only point towards the rarest tulip in the world, the Semper Augustus. It was the most high-priced tulip of its time, and that particular time was 1637. It was supposed to be extinct, nonexistent, but there it was, by the hundreds. It was the most beautiful red and white variegated Dutch tulip grown in Amsterdam and the world. Back in the day, it was more expensive than gold and diamonds.

I had Pooshka stop the coach straight away. Claire jumped off the step before we came to a complete stop. She carefully tromped on tiptoe through the tulips until she was dead center, surrounded by Semper Augustus flowers. I watched from a distance as she removed her kerchief from her sleeve, dabbed her eyes, and softly blew her nose. She slowly and elegantly twirled in place. She outstretched her hands, as if to finger every tulip, but didn’t touch a one. As soon as she noticed an approaching equestrian, her revolutions finally stopped, and she made her way quickly yet gingerly back to the coach.

A young gentleman dismounted and inquired as Claire stood next to the open door of the coach, “Say there, anything I can help you with?” Claire smiled and put her hand over her eyes as the blinding sun pierced them. “Heavens no, I was just admiring your Semper Augustus’. They’re quite extraordinary!” The gentleman removed his hat, bowed his head, and stated with exuberance, “Thank you, madam. They are our hidden treasures. How on earth did you know they were Semper Augustus’?” Claire had a look on her face as if she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Well, quite frankly, I love tulips, irises, and daffodils with a passion. I often read about them and their history.” Claire pushed her kerchief inside her sleeve and continued, “I know all about the tulip mania of Holland over two centuries ago.” Claire gave a brief summary with regards to a certain Boston professor and her own personal research.

The gentleman was impressed and made his acquaintance. “My name is Alphen Häamstede, and you are?” Alphen extended his hand towards Claire and waited. Claire introduced herself and they soon became fast friends. They shook hands and the rest was history. Claire made quick introductions regarding me and Pooshka, and off they went into the field. Once again, I watched from the coach as Claire and Alphen stood in the center of the notorious tulips.

Alphen informed Claire how three generations of Häamstede descendants smuggled bulbs from all over the Netherlands. They hid them in root cellars and behind false walls of every imaginable building they owned in Holland. During their ocean-crossing to the states, they buried them under false floorboards of ships they sailed upon. He spoke of the early frost back in 1844 that hit every valley in the Pacific Northwest and how it almost destroyed the last of their precious bulbs. Alphen swore the only reason the bulbs were saved was because the family prayed to their Patron Saint Clarence for an entire month. I thought to myself, “The year 1844 was the year Claire and I met, how extraordinary. Hmmm, the year they prayed to their patron saint. I wondered if perhaps Claire was related to Saint Clarence.”

Alphen assisted Claire into the coach and said with ease, “Well then, I’ll be on my way. Perhaps we will meet again tomorrow?” Claire’s response was nothing less than humble gratitude and graceful appreciation. “It would be my pleasure to endure a delightful diversion with you, sir. And I can assure you, without critical reproach, I would be most honored and obliged by your presence on any occasion.”

As we departed the tulips and turned down another lane, Alphen rode off in the distance. Claire’s attention quickly changed, and her eyes widened towards the field that now lay to our east. It was an incredible sight, and Claire was overjoyed. “Oh my heavens! There’s some Hoop-Petticoat Daffodils and beautiful Spanish Daffodils, darling! And to the left of those are Paperwhite Daffodils! Did you know the Europeans call daffodils Narcissus, which stems from Greek mythology? I repositioned myself and anticipated Claire’s brief history lesson. “No, I had no idea, my dear.” Claire took a deep breath and educated me. “Narcissus was a youth obsessed with himself. He ended up dying from his own obsession and daffodils sprouted in his place.” I didn’t interrupt and decided to let Claire go on and on. She warmly stated, “I can’t believe how beautiful all this is, darling! It’s been known in western civilization that daffodils are seen as a symbol of vanity, but in the Orient, they are symbols of wealth and good fortune.” I thought to myself, “Hmm, vanity, obsessed, Narcissus. I’m keeping away from those damn daffodils!”

We made it to the next corner and Pooshka steered the horses left, and on the right side of the coach was an endless sea of deep blue, brilliant purple, and dazzling yellow. The only words out of my mouth were: “Jesus, Mary, and Josephine!” Claire’s words were a bit more exuberant. “Santa Maria, that’s the damndest thing I’ve ever seen! There’s Japanese iris right over there and Iris Graminea over there and Yellowband Iris there and look, Blood Iris way over there! Look there, darling! I’m pretty sure those are Rainbow Iris!” Pooshka stopped the carriage once again, and we just sat there in awe. There was such a multitude of color, I wished I was a painter. I told Claire, “If I was a painter, I could take it all home with me on a canvas.” Claire’s kiss was warm and sweet. “Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful, darling!”

Claire climbed down from the driver’s seat and briefly went inside the coach to retrieve something from her satchel. When she returned, she handed Pooshka a tall thin gift. He opened it and was pleasantly surprised to find a bottle of Smirnoff Vodka inside. Smirnoff had been introduced to Russians in 1860 and was quite a potent potable at eighty proof. As we sat taking in the magnificent scenery, Pooshka passed the bottle around until it was empty. Every time he took a swig, he grunted, “Salute!” Claire and I would echo his words. He finally turned the coach around and headed back to the Waldron Inn, but not before Claire and I stumbled down the side of the coach and poured ourselves into the cab.

Claire seemed to be drunker than I. Presumably, it was a combination of the Smirnoff and the natural high she was experiencing. Her speech was slurred, and she kept repeating herself. At least she was a happy drunk. She looked at me with a sincere expression and murmured, “G darling, did you know you’re the apple of my eyes?” I figured now was as good a time as any to get her goat, as I loved to do every chance I got. My response was a bit condemning. “What are you really saying, Claire, that I’m rotten to the core?” Claire fumbled her words, “No, I uh, well, I mean, uh.” Claire was confused when I added, “Well then, are you trying to tell me I’m the slice of your life?” Claire sobered for half a second and with a smile, slurred, “You get one more of those, darling!”

I grabbed her tight and slid her towards me. “Don’t tell me you want me to be your Johnny Appleseed, if you know what I mean?” Claire and I made up a silly little ditty on our ride back to the inn, and I’m sure it drove our driver crazy. We sang over and over until Claire passed out. “Pooshka for you-shka and vodka for meeshka! I’d like to find me a little babooshka! Maybe I’ll taste some expensive balooga. Pooshka for you-shka and vodka for meeshka!”

We returned to Häamstede Farms everyday for two weeks. Alphen was never bothered by our visits and Claire never bothered to bring vodka again. We just drank in the beauty of thousands upon thousands of tulips, daffodils, and irises. Most every day, I enjoyed trailing behind Alphen and Claire as they strolled past different species of Dutch flowers. Claire’s probing and inquiries never stumped Alphen. His interests in divulging all he knew about Dutch flowers was as impassioned as Claire’s willingness to learn. I found it curious that she never solicited the purchase of any bulbs from Alphen.

I took it upon myself one day, while Claire was resting quietly at the Waldron Inn, to steal away and sneak out to find Alphen. It was just before we were to part sweet company from the great Northwest Territory. My intention was to inquire about some Semper Augustus bulbs. I acquisitioned a roan for the day from a local stable for a fair price and galloped east.

I made no secret as to why I was off on my own when I ran into Alphen. He was in the far north fields, checking tulips for fungal malady, which could lead to a rotten crop. He was happy to see me and cheerfully inquired, “What brings you out here all by your lonesome? Don’t tell me Claire is tuckered out from all my insightful dialect?” I smiled and responded with clever jargon. “Quite the contrary, Alphen! If Claire was a required college textbook on botany, I am most certain she would be an enjoyment to read!” I dismounted my roan and made my way over to Alphen. “I am here for a specific reason, and Claire is unaware of this clandestine meeting.”

Alphen unlocked the cellar door. He took one last glance over his shoulder as he ushered me down the dusty steps. He closed and double latched the door from the inside. He then lit a small gas lamp as we descended into the damp cellar. He moved six large gunnysacks from their stack and exposed a small hidden door. He carefully pushed and turned a flat handle and opened it. His whisper was so soft, I could barely hear him. “Follow me, Gwen, and watch your head. Every once in a while, I smack mine on the door jamb.” As we cleared the small door, I was amazed that it opened into a large room filled with marked shelves that were loaded with bulbs. Not just any bulbs, they were all Semper Augustus bulbs. Each grouping of bulbs was marked with a date, which included the month and year.

Alphen had so much adored Claire, he felt privileged and flattered to bestow upon her a dozen bulbs that were supposed to be nonexistent. Bulbs that were long forgotten from an era that was unbearably superficial and self-indulgent. They were glorious bulbs, by all intent and purposes, which defined the livelihood and prosperity of a decadent age. And now they were insignificant, except for their blooming beauty, in the secrecy of a Dutch family farm. I turned to Alphen in awe. “Is it really true? Are these bulbs really descendants from Semper Augusti, which grew over two centuries ago in Europe?” Alphen only shook his head in confirmation and smiled.

I buried my face in Claire’s hair and detected the wonderful smell of gardenia and citrus. I wrapped my arms around her as the slow methodical rise and fall of her chest changed to a more regular cadence. I whispered in her ear as we lay together on an alpine-framed sleigh bed. “You’re not going to sleep the day away, are you?”

She rolled over and faced me. Her eyes were closed as she kissed my lips. She yawned once and curled her nose. “Why do you smell like horse, darling?” Damn, I thought, is there nothing I can get away with? Claire’s eyes were still closed, but I knew they were smiling at me; they always did. I kissed her long inviting neck and replied, “After all these years, I would have thought you’d be used to me smelling like horse?” “That’s true, darling, but for the last several weeks, you’ve steered clear of horses. And I must say, right now the pungent odor is a little over the top.”

I sat up and started sniffing my shirt and hands. I couldn’t smell a thing. Of course, I was immune to any and all vile ranch odors at this stage of my life. I washed my face and hands with soap and water. I removed my shirt and trousers and was about to replace them with clean attire when Claire lifted the covers and invited me under. Snuggling with Claire was one of my favorite pastimes. I loved nothing more than to adhere myself to a body that felt like magic and smelled like heaven. Claire reached for my miniature clock and held it in her hand. She then let it fall. “Where in the Sam Hill have you been for three hours?” I grabbed the small gunnysack I had hidden under the bed just before I roused Claire from sleep. I softly flung it to her side of the bed and used a conniving tone. “I’ve been visiting with an old friend who wanted me to tell you he hopes these Semper Augustus tulip bulbs are fit to your liking.”

If there was ever a time I felt appreciated, it was immediately following Claire’s examination of the small gunnysack. She was so surprised and overjoyed that she laughed, cried, and shrieked all in one breath. Over the years, I came to realize personal gratification was most prominent when I was not the recipient but the contributor. My heart would be engulfed with such emotional pleasure, I sometimes found excuses to give Claire or the children presents. I could have gone the rest of my life without receiving another gift, and I would have been content.

Claire’s reaction, when acquiring the infamous bulbs, was not only verbal and emotive but physical and sensual. She gently set her gunnysack on the nightstand and then inched her way over to me. Under the covers, her demeanor and conduct resembled that of an exotic Tahitian woman performing a lovemaking ritual. She ravaged my body and tended to my every need. She continually whispered romantic sentiments in my ear, and the last thing she said before I climaxed was: “G darling, your bulb is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.” I gasped a breath that was not there.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be my final expedition with Claire. What I do know now is that it was a great final trip to a long life spent with a woman who I not only adored but who adored me. I would call it the expedition that ended on a high note. I couldn’t have asked for anything more. Some say all glory is fleeting. Some say you can’t always fall back on your laurels. Some say success is half a second away from failure. Some say love is transitory. If all that is true, then the only thing I know for sure is, I will always have my memories. Memories are always constant.

* * *

Elise returned the following summer and stayed until the end of October. During the previous winter, she read An Old-Fashioned Girl by Louisa May Alcott and mailed me her synopsis. Her insightful report on the monotony and enthrallment of the novel was spot on. During those same winter months, I ordered two smaller fly rods from a renowned bamboo rodmaker. He lived on the Battenkill River in upper state New York. I also ordered two fishing reels all the way from Perthshire, Scotland. That summer, I taught Elise how to double haul forward and back, forward and back. She took heed to my words. “Don’t let that line fall. Don’t let it go slack.” And for the rest of the summer and into the fall, I watched her fish, and as she stood tall, she’d cast her line with perfect precision. She presented her fly and let the trout make their decision. More often than not, she’d land a huge keeper and for supper, some nights, Elise pulled out Claire’s Trout Recipe posthaste.

And every night, after the sun had gone down, I’d picture Claire’s face and think about how I longed for her sugar. I’d hear the memory of a laugh. It was a laugh you’d imagine bouncing gently off a high mountain lake on a soft moonlit night. A laugh I found hard to live without for the rest of my life.

~THE END~

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32