6

The snow remained too deep for travel the next day, and they settled into a new routine of sorts. Late in the afternoon Chief came in from tending the livestock.

“We’ll plan on leaving tomorrow if the melting continues.”

Cassie nodded. If they had meat other than the bacon, she’d be more than happy. “Where’s Micah?”

“Skinning the rabbits. You know how to fry rabbit?”

Cassie shrugged, figuring she could learn if someone would teach her. After all, she now knew how to cut up bacon to cook with the beans.

“You ever fried rabbit?”

“Chief, you know I’ve never cooked in my life. I always ate in the cook tent or with my parents. But my mother rarely cooked either.” She kept her tone as emotionless as she could. No matter how testy his question made her feel, it wasn’t his fault she couldn’t cook a meal or even wash dishes. “But I learn fast, so tell me what to do.”

“Heat iron skillet, add some bacon grease. Rabbits have little fat. Put flour in bowl and roll the meat in it. Put meat in hot pan.”

“Where did the rabbits come from?”

“The snares I set. You learn to do that too. Indian squaws can—”

“So can white women, I am sure.” She dug in the box and, after setting another pot aside, lifted out the black frying pan. She thought about Miz Mac, who had told tales of having her own home and the chores she took for granted. There had been no place to teach Cassie how to cook, but she had taught her how to wash and take care of her own clothes. Her own mother made sure her daughter knew how to do her personal toilet, even though she had been raised with a maid to help her. Her father taught her how to take care of her horse and guns.

“Put more wood in stove first.”

Cassie nodded and did as he told her.

Micah let Othello in ahead of him and, after closing the door against the dropping cold, laid the carcass on the table.

Cassie stared at the naked meat. How would that ever fit in the frying pan?

“You want I should cut it up?” Micah asked.

“Please.” And flour and fry it. I don’t even want to touch it. But she found a cup and dug into the flour sack and dumped the white powder into the wooden bowl she’d found in the cupboard. She kept her eyes on the frying pan that had started to sizzle, flinching with every scrape of the knife. When Micah slammed the ridge of the knife with the palm of his hand, she glanced over at the thud and winced when she saw the backbone break in two. Please, Lord, keep me from throwing up or fainting. Never in her life had she prayed something like that, but then, never in her life had she been in such a situation.

When she recognized the silence, she also realized she had her eyes closed. She opened them as she turned toward Micah.

“I will do this.” His gentle voice made her blink back tears. She, who only cried on the anniversary of her parents’ death, was about to break that tradition.

“Thank you.” She made a beeline for the door, jerked it open, and thudded down the steps to stand panting in the snow. Ice pellets struck her face and lodged in her hair. Deep breaths, she ordered herself. Take deep breaths. She inhaled through her mouth and then her nose. The cold air burned her nose, so she breathed again through her mouth, but she no longer felt woozy. After one more deep breath, she turned and climbed the stairs. At least she could chop wood, and when they got a new ax she would be better at that too. But right now, cooking was most important.

The warmth wrapped around her like a blessing, and a delicious aroma now emanated from the pan on the stove. Micah set a lid on the frying pan and gave the beans a stir with the wooden spoon.

“Do you know how to do everything?” Her voice still felt a bit wobbly. “How come you know how to cook too?”

“When my mother died, someone had to take over.”

She stared at him. He’d never mentioned anything of his life before the Wild West Show. He’d shown up half grown, as if nothing had happened before.

“I helped the cooks in the kitchen sometimes too.”

“I see.” She glanced over to see Chief leaning against the wall, eyes closed and one hand on Othello’s head. She hadn’t noticed before that the lines in his face were so deep or so many. The lamp highlighted the white hairs that grayed his dark hair. He was an old man. Why had she never noticed that before? What if something happened to him on this journey? She looked back at Micah. “Thank you.”

The question in his eyes said he didn’t understand, but then she didn’t really either. “How do you know when it’s done?”

“When you get tired of waiting?” He shook his head and, with a slight smile, continued since she didn’t react. “All depends on how hot the fire. Watch so it doesn’t burn.” He lifted the iron skillet and pulled the bean pot forward to the hotter part of the stove and then set the frying pan in the back.

“What about the coffee?” She watched him, learning to wait for his response. Had he been making a joke with his comment about getting tired of waiting? Micah making a joke? The thought was intriguing.

“It will have to wait—no room.”

“Sure smells good.”

“Yeah, but you always have to start with raw meat.”

Raw meat. One man wanted her to cook it, the other wanted her to shoot it. While they both tried to help her, she knew she was the only one who could overcome her trepidation. Or was it outright fear?

That night after they had all turned in, she lay in the darkness thinking of all the changes she was being subjected to. All thanks to dear Uncle Jason. She felt like spitting out his name. What perfidy. His name and the thought of his hightailing it for the train left a bitter taste in her mouth. What would her father do in this instance? Or more appropriately, what would her mother do? After all, she had fallen in love with a Wild West performer and left her high-class life behind, knowing she would never see her family again. From the stories she told, her father had forbidden her to see the brash young American. No matter that he owned a touring company that had a reputation for superior entertainment and management.

Down in the bottom of her trunk she had a picture of the two dashing young newlyweds, her father so dark and handsome, her mother so fair and regal she could be called a snow queen. They had met when the show played in Oslo, Norway.

“I fell in love instantly,” she had told her daughter, one of the many times Cassie pleaded for a story of her life in Norway. “When your father rode into the arena on that magnificent black horse of his, I coveted his horse first, and then he doffed his wide-brimmed white hat and smiled at me. I am sure my heart fluttered right out of my chest and united with his—right in that moment.”

“And then what happened?”

“And then he asked my father if he might call on me.”

“And he did.”

“And he did. When the show was about to leave Norway, I packed my trunk and met him at the wharf, much to the amazement of everyone, including me. I had always obeyed my father, just as you must obey yours. And now it is time for you to go to sleep, my sweet.” She leaned over and kissed her daughter’s rounded cheek. “Let’s say your prayers, and then your father will come in to kiss you too.”

Cassie found herself speaking those prayers in her mind, both the Norwegian one and her own, blessing everyone and everything she could think of to prolong the time with her father. His mustache always tickled her face when he kissed her, and he always smelled like cherrywood from his pipe smoke and the out-of-doors.

We were supposed to make this trip together, all of us, with wagonloads of household fixings, blooded horses, and thriving cattle. The only thing that remained from their dreams was the Gypsy Wagon—and their little girl all grown up—without them. Cassie lay still, listening to the wind pleading entry into the snug wagon. The ice pellets rattled on the roof like someone was throwing gravel. She heard Chief get up and go out to check on the animals but fell asleep before he returned. Her last thought made her blink. What if they had to stay right there and not get any closer to the valley?