Unbridled Dreams Read online

  It isn’t nonsense, Irma thought. Why can’t you see that? Being invited on the Dismal River camping trip with the Codys when she was eleven years old was a highlight of her life, second only to seeing the Wild West in Omaha. It was on that trip that Irma’s love for the wide open spaces had been praised by Buffalo Bill himself. The other girls had shrieked and held up their skirts when they had to ford the river. Not Irma. Irma had urged her pony down the bank and across the water and let everything get wet and she hadn’t minded a bit. The other girls had been so tired that on the way back, they put their saddles in the supply wagon and road in the buggy with Mrs. Cody. But not Irma. The other girls had been afraid when someone stampeded the ponies one night and Monte said it was probably Indians. But not Irma. After all, she reasoned, they were with the great Indian scout Buffalo Bill, who knew half the Indians in the West.

  And she would never forget how, when they got back to North Platte, Buffalo Bill patted her on the head and told his friend Otto Friedrich that he had a “tough little cowgirl” on his hands and he should be proud of her. Most of the time it seemed that Daddy was proud. Monte and Uncle Charlie said she had a natural talent. Over the years even some of the wranglers working on the Mason ranch had given her grudging praise. But not Momma. Momma always acted as if the things Irma loved most were a disease to be cured.

  “. . . and you haven’t been much help,” Momma was saying to Daddy, “setting up an arena in my own backyard every time I’m gone for an evening!” She whipped her head around and glared at him. “Don’t think I haven’t known what’s been going on behind my back!”

  “Now, Momma,” Daddy said. “I thought her enthusiasm would run its course. I was only trying—”

  “Whatever you were trying,” Momma snapped, “what happened is that now Irmagard actually believes we’re going to allow this—” With a sigh, she gazed at Irma. “I don’t suppose it really matters what you were thinking today. It’s irrelevant anyway in light of—” She glanced at Daddy. “Tell her, Otto.”

  The look on Daddy’s face was undecipherable. But definitely not good. Irma spoke up. “I’m not hurt, Momma. I fell off, but Diamond would never step on me. Not on purpose.” She paused. “I-I’m sorry I frightened you. But as I said, you weren’t supposed to . . . I mean, Aunt Laura said you were coming for supper. I didn’t think there was any harm in—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Momma repeated. “It’s all going to be part of the past soon enough. It took a great deal of talking on your father’s part.” She smiled at Daddy. “But reason has prevailed. In fact, part of the reason we drove out early was to give you the news. You’ve been admitted to Brownell Hall for the fall term.”

  “But . . . but . . . that school is for . . . for . . .” She held out her arms to implore Momma. “I’m nearly eighteen. I’m way too old for Brownell. Arta was only sixteen when she attended.”

  “Yes,” Momma agreed. “And look what they did for her. There isn’t a finer young lady anywhere. She has a leading role in North Platte’s social life and admirers wherever she goes. She can hold her own in any society, and that includes the finest circles in the East. ”

  Irma had overheard enough of Momma’s conversations with friends over the years to know that, for Momma, the East was the shrine of all things desirable. Momma spoke of her arrival in what would become North Platte, Nebraska, back in ’69 as if she’d entered purgatory. There were no trees, no lawns, and no flowers back in those days, and if it hadn’t been for Daddy’s building Momma a nice two-story house with a picket fence, Irma suspected Momma would be back in the hallowed East sipping tea right now. But with the house and the growth of North Platte, and with Daddy’s hard work, the name Friedrich had come to “mean something.” At least that’s what Momma said. So Momma stayed to reign. Until, of course, the day Mrs. William F. Cody arrived. No one in the area would have been able to challenge the great Buffalo Bill’s wife when it came to social rank. So Momma did the next best thing. She endeared herself to the Codys by being slavishly devoted to anything Louisa Cody cared about. And when Arta Cody went away to Brownell Hall, where all wealthy young ladies from Nebraska were educated, Momma had begun a campaign to see that Irma followed suit.

  Just look at her, Irma thought, observing Momma’s expression as she prattled on about the future. She’s so pleased with herself. I should have known she hadn’t given up on Brownell. And Daddy was siding with her. How could he? Didn’t he know—didn’t he care—that being forced to attend a place like that would kill her?

  “No,” Irma said aloud, and shook her head back and forth.

  “I beg your pardon?” Momma said with a little frown.

  Irma met her mother’s gaze straight on, even arching her own eyebrow as she repeated a little more loudly, “No. I won’t go. You can’t make me.”

  Daddy opened his mouth to say something, but Momma held up one finger and he was silenced. “It isn’t a decision that is yours to make, Irmagard,” she said. “It may not feel like it right now, but we are doing this because we love you and we want what’s best for you.”

  Irma snorted. “Right.”

  “Young lady,” Daddy said. “Watch your tone.”

  She swallowed. Maybe begging would work. “Please, Momma.

  Daddy. You can’t mean it. You can’t.”

  “Your father and I,” Momma replied, “have discussed this, and we agree. You need a chance to be around a more refined circle of—”

  “I don’t,” Irma interrupted. She gripped the arms of her chair with her gloved hands.

  “Do not interrupt me,” Momma snapped. “You are not yet an adult, Irmagard, and as such you do not really know what is best for you. Certainly you have an unusual amount of energy and spirit. And a strong will, which—” she forced a laugh—“undoubtedly came from me. These are fine qualities and will stand you in good stead once you accept the path intended for young ladies to walk.”

  Irma groaned. “I’m not made for the path you’re talking about, Momma. I’m sorry, but I’m just not.”

  “Every woman is made for the same great purpose. To resist our highest calling is to resist God.”

  “I’m not resisting God,” Irma insisted. “I just don’t want to get married and have babies right now. Maybe not ever. Is that so bad? Isn’t God the one who gave me the ability to balance on a cantering horse’s back? Isn’t God the one who helps me run fast—faster than even Monte? If it isn’t God, then who? Tell me, Momma, please, because I want to know.” She put her hand on her pounding heart, leaned forward, and let the tears come. “I love God, Momma. Really, I do. When I’m riding out on the prairie and there’s nothing but sky for as far as I can see, that’s when I know God is there. He’s around me and I can feel Him and, honestly, Momma, I feel closer to Him there than I ever have sitting in a pew listening to Reverend Coe drone on and on about the Israelites making bricks for Pharaoh.”

  “Irmagard!” Daddy scolded.

  “No, Daddy, no. You have to listen.” She looked at her mother and pleaded, “You have to listen, too, Momma. I know I’m a disappointment to you. I know you want a daughter who’s a fine lady like Arta. You want me to like tea parties and fancy dresses, but I don’t, Momma. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to suffocate.” She stood up, sobbing, shaking her head. “I can’t be who you want me to be,” she finally said. “And if that’s who God wants me to be, then I guess I can’t be His, either.”

  Ignoring her father calling her name, Irma ran to the corral where Diamond stood half asleep. Jerking the gate open and grabbing the horse’s reins, she leaped into the saddle, pulled his head up, and kicked his flanks. Crying harder than she had in a long, long time, Irma clung to the saddle as Diamond charged through the corral gate, past the barn, out onto the open prairie, and toward the horizon.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE MIND OF MAN PLANS HIS WAY,

  BUT THE LORD DIRECTS HIS STEPS.

  Proverbs 16:9 NASB

  After all the years of
soggy bedrolls and cold winds, of howling wolves and stampeding longhorns, a feller would expect a real bed and a feather pillow to induce a near coma. But here he was, counting how many times that clock on the stairway landing gonged and thumping his pillow in a vain attempt to get comfortable. Again. Finally Shep sat up and slung his legs over the side of the bed. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt anyone’s feelings—after all, Buffalo Bill himself had invited Shep to stay at the house—but he just couldn’t sleep in this fancy bed. He got up and crossed the room to the window that looked out on the site of what was shaping up to be a magnificent ranch worthy of its renowned owner.

  What in the— Shep ducked behind the full-length drape and peeked out the window, concentrating on what he’d thought was movement. There. There it was. He was right. A horse and rider just on the opposite side of the corral near the water trough. A little guy who shoulda known better than to linger out there in the broad moonlight if he didn’t want to be seen, and by the way he was slipping down off the horse and almost tiptoeing around, it sure seemed like he didn’t want to be seen.

  Or maybe you’ve heard too many of Doc Middleton’s stories these last few days. As far as Shep knew, horse thieves were generally a thing of the past around North Platte, Nebraska. Certainly no self-respecting horse thief would come near this ranch. At least not when half the cowboys in the territory were camped around the bunkhouse hoping to get hired on with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.

  Moving slowly away from the window so no movement would be detected by the unannounced visitor—or visitors—should they look toward the house, Shep pulled on a shirt, slid into his jeans, and descended the ranch house stairs in his stocking feet. He exited the front door and pulled his boots on. Buttoning his shirt as he went, he slipped around the side of the house and, keeping low, headed for the row of scrub trees that bordered the cook’s kitchen garden. Using the hedge for cover, Shep crouched down and watched for more movement by the barn.

  Whoever it was had ridden in alone, and as he watched from his vantage point, Shep decided the visitor had no evil intent. He’d walked his horse away from the water tank and hitched him to a corral post in plain sight. He was probably just trying to keep from waking anyone up. Probably another cowboy hoping to try out. More likely a cowboy clown from the size of him. Bet they call him Shorty. Whether anyone else called the new guy Shorty or not, Shep would. Of course being six feet four inches tall, Shep could call just about anybody Shorty and get away with it.

  As Shep watched, Shorty unsaddled his horse and turned him into the empty corral. Whoever the guy was, he took good care of his mount. Even now, in the wee hours, he was running his hand along the horse’s back, checking for burrs where the saddle had been and lifting each of the animal’s hooves to check his feet before ducking between the corral poles. Heading for the well pump Shorty took off his hat and . . . Whoa. Waist-length hair tumbled out of the hat while Shorty pumped water. Shep lost his balance and sat back with a jolt. Shorty was a girl.

  “Come to bed, sweetheart. Irma could find her way back here in a snowstorm. And even if by some chance she couldn’t, Diamond could. All Irma has to do is give him his head and he’ll bring her right home.”

  Willa didn’t move from her place by the narrow bedroom window. She shivered and rubbed her arms. “There’s no use in coming to bed. I won’t sleep, and I’ll just keep you awake with my tossing and turning.” When the bedsprings creaked she glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t get up. I’ll tiptoe downstairs and make myself some tea. Just because I can’t sleep doesn’t mean you should have to be dead on your feet tomorrow.” She didn’t let up, even when Otto pulled his dressing gown off the hook by the door and pulled it on. “Once Irmagard is back and I know she’s safe I’ll take a nap. It doesn’t really matter if I go to the Codys’ anyway.” But Otto was already behind her, encircling her in his arms. She leaned back against him with a sigh. “What about wolves? What if she’s hurt? What if she fell off—or got thrown?”

  “Diamond is as gentle as a cow pony ever gets,” Otto said. “You saw that for yourself. He let the girl climb on and around him like a monkey, and he didn’t even break stride—”

  “Until I yelped,” Willa said. “Coyotes yelp.”

  “Irma’s more likely to slip and fall down the stairs at home than she is to fall off that horse on a moonlit spring night.”

  Willa turned around and stared up into his face. “Indians,” she said. “What about Indians?”

  “I don’t know about Indians, sweetheart. Just like I don’t know what it is that makes you unable to put our daughter in God’s hands and come to bed with me.” He hugged her harder. “Isn’t this one of those times when the faithful are supposed to watch and pray instead of tossing and turning?”

  Willa fought back tears. Did he really think she needed to be reminded of how weak her faith could be when it came to Irmagard? She closed her eyes and leaned into him. “I’m sorry. I just—” Her voice broke. “I don’t understand why she hates me so.”

  “The two of you don’t mesh,” Otto said. “But Irma does not hate you.”

  Willa looked back out the window and murmured, “She’s so lovely. And graceful. She moves like a willow waving in the breeze. Doesn’t she realize she could have her choice of any number of eligible bachelors in North Platte? Orrin Knox would—”

  Otto interrupted her. “Which is why Irma isn’t interested in him. She’s too strong-willed to want a man who waits for her to beckon him into her life.”

  “Well, the Randall boy, then,” Willa said. “Or perhaps she simply hasn’t met the right one yet. Which is another reason Brownell makes so much sense. She’ll have a chance to meet a different class of young men in Omaha. Louisa said the school plans lovely socials with all the best families.”

  “Irma’s made it very clear more than once that she doesn’t want to get married. At least not now. And frankly, even if she did, she’d be more likely to notice someone like Ned Bishop than Orrin Knox.”

  “Ned Bishop!” Willa shuddered. “He’s an uneducated wrangler.”

  “He may be uneducated in the way you mean, but he has a sizeable savings account at the bank and a solid plan that will likely land him his own spread inside of ten years.” He smiled. “Charlie says Bishop reminds him a lot of me back in the day.” He touched her cheek. “I was somewhat of an uneducated wrangler when you met me.” He nuzzled her neck. “And we’ve done all right.”

  “You,” Willa said dutifully, even as she caught his hand in hers and stood back, “were an exceptional man with a great many gifts—including, even if I do say so myself, a wife who did her part to help you succeed.”

  Otto agreed. “And I can see Irma following your example in finding the right man. She’s actually mentioned ranching to me—for that far distant time when she’s no longer performing.”

  Performing. The topic simply would not die. “She’s living in a fantasy,” Willa insisted. “She doesn’t have any idea what it’s like to travel with show people. Her reputation would be ruined forever. And as far as ranching goes, why doesn’t she see the realities of that life? It isn’t romantic. It’s drudgery. Surely you cannot want that for our Irmagard.” She let go of his hand and peered back out the window.

  “What I want,” Otto said, “is for her to be happy. And if she can make a life for herself that brings her half the joy that Laura has found with Charlie Mason, then—”

  Willa cringed inwardly. She didn’t dare bring it up, but surely Otto wasn’t oblivious to what life as a rancher’s wife had done to his sister. Countless hours standing over a wood-burning stove had transformed Laura Friedrich Mason’s once porcelain skin into little more than a piece of tanned leather. And her hands. The poor woman had the hands of an overworked washerwoman. Happy or not, the once lovely Laura Friedrich become Mrs. Charles Mason would not be recognized by her girlhood friends these days. And Willa would not stand by and let that happen to Irmagard. God couldn’t want that. He had to have a
better plan. “I’ve prayed about it, Otto,” Willa murmured. “Truly I have. And I just can’t believe—”

  “So that’s it,” Otto said. “You and God have it all mapped out, eh?”

  His tone of voice said that, whatever her intention, Willa had managed to sound self-righteous. Again. Why did it always turn out that way? Why did Otto always resent it when she spoke of praying and getting answers? Sometimes she wondered if talk of God made him feel like he had to compete with the Almighty for her affection and loyalty. The truth was that were it not for her faith in God, Wilhelmina Friedrich would have taken Irmagard and returned to the East long, long ago. But Otto didn’t know about that. He did not share her faith and understood neither how much it meant to her nor how much it had benefited him. And so, once again, Willa cast a quick prayer to heaven and decided that the best thing to say right now was nothing more.

  “Let’s have that tea,” she murmured, and turning from the window, she led the way down the stairs and into the kitchen. While Otto added wood to the hot embers in Laura’s massive cookstove, Willa retrieved two cups and saucers, sugar, and cream. A few minutes later they took their tea out onto the back porch and settled on the swing. “Your sister is a fine woman,” Willa said. “I mean that with all my heart.” And she did. “In fact, it’s because of Laura’s hard work that Irmagard’s summers sliding down haystacks with the girls and chasing after Monte and Charlie on horseback have been so wonderful.”

  “It hasn’t been all fun,” Otto said. “Irma’s done real work out here. Charlie’s told me so—and admitted that it surprised him. He didn’t believe her when she first said she wanted to earn her keep. But she won him over. She has worked right alongside the men and then used every spare minute to practice her riding.” Willa could hear him smiling when he said, “She’s determined. Like someone else I know.”