Place to Belong, a (24 page)

“But meals, and the hotel room and train—”

“Paid for and more besides. Congratulations, young lady!”

Ty Fuller seized her hand as if she were a man. “Great shoot, Miss Lockwood! Congratulations.”

And now here was Mr. Sands pumping her hand and offering her the best, as if she were an equal. The others congratulated her and Mr. Fuller. All right. Maybe she did do well.

Next time, though, she would place first. No matter what it took, she would be first.
Please, God, let it be so.

H
e had to admit, calves were pretty cute. Ransom hung his elbows over the top rail of the calving pen, watching their latest little fellow struggle to stand up. His mama, one of their seasoned mothers, was licking him so hard she knocked him over once. Finally he was up on all four knobby little legs, his first time on his feet. Mama turned aside to help him find her teat. He nursed for the first time, his tail wagging metronome style.

Ransom turned aside to complete his chores. Calving gave him an intense feeling of satisfaction, and he never really pondered why. The magic of new birth that Reverend Brandenburg sometimes talked about? Whatever it was, he always looked forward to the end of March, when South Dakota woke up from its long winter sleep. Maybe that was it. Winter had finally passed. No, it was more than that. Calves' gamboling in the pasture was a highlight of the ranching year. He thought back, remembering hanging over the fence like this with his far. Once he had looked up and caught a smile of satisfaction on his father's face. That sight remained with him to this day.

Ransom cleaned out the other calving pen, tossed hay for the new mama, scooped up the milk pail, and headed to the house for breakfast. Most of the snow was gone, leaving sloppy mud and shallow puddles in its wake, but there would be a lot more snowfall yet before spring truly arrived. This was just the first thaw.

Cassie stood at the stove flipping the eggs. She was getting better at breakfasts, but she still wasn't as good as Mor. But then, who was? She flashed him a smile. He nodded in return.

Mor was popping raisin muffins out of the muffin tin. From the aroma, he guessed she had put some molasses in them.

The woodbox was low. Arnett must not be up yet. He'd taken on Lucas's part of the load. He thanked God for Arnett, but that didn't douse the simmering anger he held for his younger brother. Ransom went out back and pulled some sticks from the middle of the woodpile, trying to find the driest to take inside. Like trying to find the driest fish in the creek. He filled the carrier, went back in, dumped it into the box by the stove, and shrugged out of his coat. The wood should have been stacked on the porch, as they used the dry stack there, another one of Lucas's jobs.

Mavis asked, “Hear any geese yet?”

“Not yet.” He settled into his chair, and Cassie set a mug of coffee in front of him. He sipped. He could tell who made the coffee from the taste—This wasn't Mor's coffee.

Arnett came sweeping in the back door with a hearty “Good mornin', all!” and took off his coat. He glanced at the woodbox. “Sorry I'm late. You want me to finish filling it now or after breakfast?”

Mavis and Cassie greeting him cheerfully. Ransom grunted. Frankly, he was getting a little bored with Arnett's constant good spirits.
Now and then there's a down day, Arnett. Why don't you admit it?

“Later,” Mavis said.

Arnett carefully lowered himself into his chair. He seemed to be getting stiffer lately. “Looks like you'll have yourself some buffalo babies soon, Cassie. Two of the buffalo cows look ready to pop.”

“That would be great. I'll keep a closer eye on them. Should we bring them into that front pasture?” Cassie was looking at Ransom.

“Wouldn't hurt.” Arnett looked at Ransom too. “Should we put the mamas in the calving pens?”

So it was Ransom's choice, eh? “Buffalo cows have been dropping calves for centuries without any calving pens or ranchers to help them. I don't see any need to change that.”

He noticed Arnett and Cassie shooting a glance at each other. If they didn't like the answer, they shouldn't have asked the question. Cassie slid the eggs onto a plate and set it on the table. Mor put out the muffins and served the plate of ham. She sat down at her place, and Cassie seated herself as well.

Arnett had just started grace when Gretchen rushed in, wailing, “They're going to be here any minute and I can't find my boots!”

“Did you look under your chair by the fireplace?” Mor asked.

Cassie suggested, “I think I might have seen them by the front door. Look behind the stool.”

“Get a little maturity and you won't lose your boots.”

Gretchen scowled at her brother. “I'll sure be glad when you finally get rid of that burr under your tail. You're a pain to be around.” She rushed out again. In moments she called, “They're here!” Was she referring to her boots or to her ride to school? Mor snatched up several slices of fried bread and carried them out to the front room. Mor babied that kid too much.

A minute later Mor came back to the kitchen. “Thank you, Cassie. That's where they were.” She sat down.

Arnett resumed saying grace as if everything were just great. It was not great. Nearly all the spring work hadn't even been started yet. There was no way they could build another bunkhouse, or guesthouse, this close to summer. Maybe next year. But the rickety fence up by the second gate couldn't wait until next year. That would have to be repaired now. The northeast corner of the barn roof leaked; they needed to reshingle it before rainwater rotted the rafters at that end. And there was all the usual stuff of branding calves—Cassie's stock all carried brands; did she expect him to do hers too?—tilling and planting the garden, pruning the apple trees, which should have been done two months ago, and replacing the chicken run that the wind tore apart last January. Arnett had repaired it with chicken wire from his place, but that stuff was old and rusty and was going to start falling apart any minute now. Thank God for Micah, but with the furniture business in full swing, they needed Lucas.

Mor asked, “Are you going over to the other place today?”

“Yep. Got three pieces put together. Got some sanding to do, then we'll fire up the stove to warm the place and varnish 'em all at once. Gonna look real purdy.” Arnett scooped the last of his egg yolk with the final bite of muffin and popped it into his mouth.

Cassie stood up. “Mavis, I'll help you with dishes, and then I'm going to go practice. The corral is still pretty sloppy, isn't it?”

Mavis nodded. “Still too slippery to ride safely. But I have an idea. Perhaps you boys could build a temporary corral out on that pasture high spot. A show ring for her to practice.”

“Why not? We got nothing else to do.” Ransom felt his anger boiling over.

Arnett bobbed his head. “Good idea! Doesn't have to be strong enough to hold cattle, just obvious, so Wind Dancer can follow it around. We can use those split rails behind the barn.”

“Those split rails are to fix the fence out by that gate,” Ransom
reminded him, which was stupid because Arnett already knew what those rails were needed for.

The old man announced, “I'll go hitch up. Ransom, you were talkin' about some brass nails.”

“I'll go look for them. I think they're in that drawer in Far's workbench.” He drained his mug and stood.

Cassie picked up the strainer of trimmings. “I'll take these scraps out to the chickens and gather the eggs.”

“Ransom, wait.” Mor stood too. “I want to talk to you a minute. Sit down, please.”

Now what? She already knew the state of their finances and all the work that had to be done. Yet another work project, no doubt.

She moved to a chair directly across from him and sat. “You've been snappy and surly ever since Lucas left.”

What could he say? He shrugged. “I'll try to act sweeter.” That probably wasn't going to mollify her, and Arnett would have the team ready in a few minutes now.

It didn't. “No, acting sweeter won't solve the problem. Forgiveness will solve the problem. Your heart won't rest easy until you have forgiven Lucas for running off.”

“Mor . . .” How should he say this? “He messed up his life, he messed up ours, and for sure he messed up Cassie's. We need him here. There's too much to do on this spread. I can't handle it all alone. And he's gone, deliberately. Let him come crawling back begging for forgiveness, not me crawling to him.”

“‘Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.' How often does Reverend Brandenburg preach on that? And I know you've been listening. ‘As' means ‘in the same way as,' and you cannot receive forgiveness without giving it. It's time to do that, Ransom, to ease your own heart and to make life a whole lot more pleasant for the rest of us.”

He rubbed his face. He should have known this was coming.
“You know Lucas and I never did get along very well. You came out way ahead on the stove wood, we split so much, but it doesn't help now. He has to ask forgiveness and show he's earned it. And so far, he hasn't even written us a postcard. No, Mor. It isn't that easy to just go and forgive that kind of pure, hateful selfishness.”

She looked sad. How he hated that, when she didn't yell or scold or complain. Just looked sad. “I see. Please think about it.” She stood up and turned her back on him, busying herself with a mixing bowl and flour and a variety of other ingredients.

“We're going over to the other place and take Chief with us. We'll be back for supper.” He closed the door without slamming it, but the fury ricocheting in his mind didn't abate.
Forgiveness. Sure, do what you want, don't pay any heed to those you hurt, and . . .

He climbed into the waiting wagon beside Arnett, took up the lines, and flicked them. They rattled out the lane, picked up Chief and Micah at the gate, and headed toward Arnett's place. He thought about the brass nails about halfway out there. Too late to go back.

He didn't need Mor to tell him something he'd already figured out on his own. But she just didn't understand. Neither did Reverend Brandenburg, when you came right down to it. It's easy when you sit in your study, thumb through some Bibles, and write a sermon about how forgiving is the lofty thing, the right thing to do, and everything is suddenly rosy. You deliver it on Sunday, go back to your study, and think up another subject to preach on. But it's not that way. Real life is different and harder, and the good reverend never had to deal with a slacker like Lucas for a lifetime. Never was betrayed by someone like Lucas. He forced himself to hold the lines easy-like, but his foot nearly ripped through the floorboards.

Ransom was coming to love that woodshop where they were
headed now. It was noisy in a clean way—hammers, saws, the donkey engine. No critics, no harsh voices telling Ransom he had to be a better person. No irritations, just the smell of new-sawn pine and cherry and oak.

They were developing three designs to start with—the end table, a coffee table, and a leather-covered chair with hassock. They would make six pieces of each design and store their inventory in Arnett's old house. Every piece was to carry their signature carving on it.

The workers were all willing too; Ransom appreciated that. Arnett was a fine carver who did excellent carpentry as well. Micah was learning quickly, becoming nearly as skilled as Arnett. He was good at taking orders and even better at learning. Arnett or Ransom could show him something once, and he had it. Chief stoked the stove, made coffee, made their lunches, puttered around sweeping up sawdust or stacking sawn lumber. He showed no interest in actually building something, but Ransom didn't mind. Chief made the day go smoothly for everyone else. Who could complain about that?

They'd completed two pieces they had started the day before. Arnett walked outside, squinted at the sky, and ambled back in. “Ransom, we best get back unless you want your mama breathin' fire. It's goin' on four already and we got a long ride.”

“Four!” Where did the time go? A bigger question: How were they going to build up an inventory when the time here passed so quickly? They weren't getting nearly enough done. Maybe they'd made a mistake in setting up shop in a barn they had to travel to. Maybe he should have just moved the plow and things outside and used his own barn.

They set things in order for the next day and boarded the wagon. Fortunately, like horses everywhere, these two moved
far more eagerly in the direction of their barn than they moved going away from it, so they'd be home in jig time.