The Legacy (34 page)

“Mrs. Massey, you know I hate to bother you, but there are things that require your attention,” Hutch said, taking a cup from her. With a slight wave of her hand, Caroline invited him to sit, but although Hutch turned to look at the proffered chair, he remained standing.

“What things?” she asked.

“Well, with Mr. Massey . . . gone, you’re the owner of this ranch now. I know that may sound alarming, but it needn’t be. I don’t want you to worry about a thing. I’ll stay here and run it for you. I know the workings of it more than well enough, and I’ve been here long enough to call this my home. Your husband trusted me with his business concerns, and I hope you can too. But there are things I can’t do, and one of those things is pay the hands and riders their wages.”

“Pay them? But . . . I haven’t got any money,” Caroline frowned.

“Not here, perhaps. Corin always drew the wages every couple of months from his bank in Woodward, and I can’t see that there’ll be any trouble in you doing the same.”

“You . . . want me to go to Woodward? I can’t,” she refused, as completely as if he’d asked her to go to the moon.

“I’ll drive you. We can stay one night only if that’s what you want; or you can go visiting some of the ladies while we’re there. I think . . .” Hutch paused, turning the cup around in his hands. “I think you need to go to Woodward, ma’am. I think you need to see some people. I think you need to get some air into your lungs. And if we don’t pay them, those boys’ll go elsewhere. They’re good and loyal, but they’ve had no money for two months now, and that’s just not right. And I can’t run the ranch without them.” Finally, he sipped the coffee, and his look of surprise at its rich flavor did not go unnoticed. Caroline imagined the trip to Woodward, and a great weariness came over her. She rocked back on her heels and fought to keep her balance, grasping the back of a chair for support.

“All right then, if it’s the only way. Corin . . . Corin would have wanted the ranch to carry on.”

“That he would, Mrs. Massey,” Hutch agreed. He paused, and lowered his head sadly. “Your husband was a good man and no mistake. The best I ever knew. And this place was his pride and joy, so I reckon we owe it to him to keep it running, to make it bigger and better than ever,” he said, looking up to hear Caroline echo the sentiment, but she was gazing out of the window and hardly heard him. “This is damn good coffee, pardon my language, Mrs. Massey,” Hutch told her, draining the cup. Caroline glanced at him and gave a small nod of agreement.

S
he forgot her parasol and felt the sun burning her skin as soon as they set out for Woodward. With her eyes screwed up against the light, she thought of the lines that would take root in her face, and found that she didn’t care. The wind was blowing, hot and dry, and a pall of dust sat around Woodward. Sharp grains got into Caroline’s unblinking eyes, so that as they travelled down Main Street her face streamed with tears. She rubbed at it roughly, pushing hard with her fingers, feeling the odd solidity of her eyeballs behind the lids.

“Stop now. Stop it,” Hutch told her softly. He wet his handkerchief with water from his flask and held her hands still in one of his while he wiped the sand from her face. “There,” he said quietly. “That’s better. I reckon your poor eyes have shed enough tears of late to last a lifetime.” The hand holding hers relaxed its grip, but did not relinquish them completely, and, tenderly, he brushed a final grain of sand from her cheek with his thumb.

“Is this the place?” she asked dully. They had pulled up outside Gerlach’s Bank, a large building with a grand, handsome sign.

“This is it. Do you want me to come in with you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

Inside the building it was quiet and cool, and Caroline’s boots sounded loudly on the wooden floor as she entered. She approached the neat young clerk and saw him recoil from the disarray of her face and clothes and hair. A long-case clock ticked ponderously against the wall, a sound Caroline hadn’t heard since leaving New York. She looked at the gleaming clock, very similar to one that had stood in Bathilda’s hallway, and it seemed an object from another world.

“May I help you, madam?” he asked.

“I would like to make a withdrawal,” she said, realizing that she had no idea how this would be achieved, having never made such a request before.

“Do you have an account with Gerlach’s, madam?” the clerk asked, making this prospect seem unlikely. Caroline looked at the precise trim of his moustache, and his immaculate suit and collar. His expression was haughty, she thought, for a boy who worked in a bank. She drew herself up and fixed him with a steady gaze.

“I believe my husband has kept an account here for many years. I am Mrs. Corin Massey.” At this an older man appeared behind the young clerk and smiled kindly at her.

“Mrs. Massey, do come and sit down. My name is Thomas Berringer. I’ve been expecting you. Everything has been put in order and you may of course have access to your late husband’s account. May I bring you a glass of water?” Mr Berringer ushered her into a seat and waved a hand at the clerk for the water to be brought.

When it came to how much money should be withdrawn, Caroline realized that she had no idea. No idea how much a rider or a ranch hand should be paid, how much was owing, or even how many young men there were to be paid. She withdrew half of the available funds, and although Mr Berringer looked surprised, he filled out the necessary forms and passed them to her to sign without comment. The date he had written at the top gave Caroline a small jolt.

“It’s my birthday,” she said dully. “I’m twenty-one today.”

“Well, now.” Mr Berringer smiled, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Many happy returns of the day, Mrs. Massey.”

The resulting packet of bank notes was thick and heavy. Caroline weighed it in her hand, unsure of where to stow it. Seeing her predicament, Mr Berringer again beckoned to the clerk, and a cloth bag was found to conceal the money from prying eyes. Outside, Caroline stood on the raised sidewalk and gazed at all the people and horses and buggies. She had once felt so at home amidst people. Now she felt at home nowhere, she realized. Now was her chance to visit the town’s stores, to buy books or foodstuffs or clothes, but she could not think of anything she wanted. Seeing a haberdashery, she bought a soft, white crocheted blanket for William, and an open carrycot made of close-woven straw.

“It’ll be cooler in this heat than that leather papoose carrier he has currently,” she explained to Hutch.

“That’s mighty kind of you, Caroline. I’m sure Maggie will be very pleased,” Hutch nodded, stowing the gifts beneath the seat of the buggy. A long while later, too late for her to comment, Caroline realized that Hutch, for the first time, had called her by her Christian name.

They stayed just one night, in the same hotel where they had stayed the night of the gala. Caroline asked for the same room, but it was occupied. She had wanted to be in a place where Corin had been, like a pilgrim visiting a shrine. As if the place would remember Corin, as if his essence would still be felt there. She watched from the window for a long time as the sun went down, painting the town in lavish shades of pink and gold. She watched the people who passed, and listened to snatches of their conversation, bubbles of their laughter, and she tried to remember what it had been like to be one of them. As dark was falling she saw Hutch go out, with his hair combed flat and a clean shirt on. He sauntered away along Main Street, and Caroline watched until she lost sight of him amidst the jumble of people.

The men were paid, and the wad of banknotes thinned by barely a third. Caroline returned the remainder to the cloth bag and put it into her vanity case. Her hand brushed something soft and she drew it out. It was her blue velvet jewelry fold, with her mother’s emeralds and some other fine pieces inside. She unrolled it and looked at the bright stones, thinking of the last time she had worn them, the night she had first met Corin. When had she thought she would wear them out here? They looked ridiculous in the simple bedroom. Like glossy hothouse blooms in a field of wheat. She held them up against her skin and looked in the mirror. How different she looked now! So gaunt, so tanned; her nose a swathe of freckles, her hair dull and untidy. She looked like a lady’s maid trying on her mistress’s jewels, and she realized that she might never wear them again. They had no place on the prairie. She rolled them away and put them back in the case. Then, without thinking, she packed away some other things too—some clean undergarments and blouses; a nightdress with long sleeves too warm for the summer; some hair combs and face powder. She closed the lid and fastened the clasps tightly, wondering where on earth she thought she could go.

L
ate in August the ranch grew quiet. Hutch, Joe and several of the other men had gone out onto the grass with near a thousand head of cattle, for the final weeks of fattening up before the animals would be loaded onto trains and shipped north, to the meat markets of the eastern states. Many of those men who remained on the ranch were laid low with an illness that passed quickly from person to person, consigning them to their beds with a debilitating fever and tremors. Sitting on the porch early one morning, thinking of nothing and feeling nothing inside, Caroline saw Annie, Joe’s sister, ride out of the ranch on Magpie’s gray pony. She headed east, urging the pony into a brisk canter. The Ponca woman’s face, as she passed, was set into deep lines of disquiet. Caroline watched until she was out of sight; then she thought for a while and realized that she had not seen Magpie since the previous afternoon. She stood and walked slowly across the yard.

The dugout was hot and rancid. Magpie lay still on the bed and William mumbled and grizzled to himself in the straw carrycot Caroline had bought for him. There was an unmistakable smell of ammonia and feces coming from the baby, and a rank, metallic smell behind it which instinctively made Caroline afraid. With her heart beating fast, she knelt beside Magpie and shook her gently. The girl’s face was deep red and dry. When she opened her eyes they had an odd, dull gleam and Caroline drew back slightly, frightened.

“Magpie, are you sick? Where has Annie gone?” she asked hurriedly.

“I am sick. White Cloud too. Her medicines have not cured us,” Magpie whispered. There was a wooden cup by the bed and Caroline picked it up. There was some concoction within, which smelt sharp and vinegary. She held it up to Magpie but the girl turned her head away weakly. “No more of that stuff. No more of it,” she whispered.

“If you have a fever, you have to drink something,” Caroline said. “I’ll get some water. You have to get up, Magpie. William’s dirty . . .”

“I cannot get up. I cannot change him,” Magpie replied, sounding so unhappy that Caroline faltered. “You must do it. Please.”

“But I don’t know how!” Caroline said. “Magpie, why didn’t you send word to me that you were sick?” she asked. Magpie gazed at her, and she read the answer there. Because none of them had thought she would be any help. Tears welled in her eyes. “I’ll clean him. I’ll fetch you water,” she said, wiping her face. The smell of the sick girl and her soiled baby was nauseating, and a rush of dizziness assailed her. But she moved with a purpose, grabbing a pail and heading over to the cistern. “Where’s White Cloud? Where’s Annie gone?” she asked again, from the doorway.

“White Cloud is sick too. She is in the teepee, resting. Annie has gone east, to our peoples’ lands on the Arkansas River . . . she goes to fetch medicine . . .”

“The
Arkansas River
? That’s nigh on two hundred miles! It will take her days and days!” Caroline cried.

Magpie just looked at her, her face slack with exhaustion and despair. “Please, clean William,” she said again.

Caroline fetched a pail of water and a ladle. It took all of her strength to lift Magpie’s head and shoulders so that the girl could drink, but Magpie could only manage tiny sips and found it hard to swallow.

“Please drink some more,” Caroline begged, but Magpie did not reply, lying back on her fetid bedding, her eyes closing. Searching the dugout, Caroline found clean napkins and a towel. She took William out of the carrycot and went outside with him. The filth she found when she undressed the baby made her gag, and she threw the rags onto the coals of the dying cook fire. The water was cold and William began to cry as she dunked him into the pail, swilling the congealed mess from his backside. His cries were weak though, his voice a little hoarse, and he seemed to tire himself out with it, falling into a kind of doze as Caroline finished bathing him and positioned a new napkin between his legs as best she could. Sitting on the ground, she lay him along her thighs and was stroking his arms, entranced, when she realized how warm he was and how flushed his cheeks had grown. She put her fingers to her own forehead to check, and the difference was unmistakable. Hurriedly, she gathered him up and went back into the dugout.

“Magpie . . . William’s very hot. I think he has a fever too,” she said, bringing the baby to the bedside for Magpie to see. The Ponca girl’s eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t know how to help him. Please . . . he will get sick too. You must take him . . . take him to the house! Clean him, feed him. Please!” she said weakly.

“I have cleaned him, see? He will be fine . . . you’ll both be fine, Magpie,” Caroline declared.

“White Cloud . . .” Magpie murmured indistinctly. Caroline lay William back in his cot and went over to the teepee. She hesitated outside, afraid to go any further. She thought of White Cloud’s iron gaze, her alien voice raised in song.