Unbridled Dreams Read online

  She stared at herself in the mirror. “Can you see me elbowing my way up to the corral or cheering on a bulldogger dressed in this getup? And target shooting is going to be out of the question.” She raised her skirts to inspect her thin dress boots. “They already pinch. Walking out to the shooting range will be agony.” She dropped her skirt. “If only I hadn’t turned my ankle yesterday.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t hurt.”

  “I’m not. Really. Just a sore ankle.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And my back hurts a little.” She looked over her shoulder at the way the dark teal trim accented her waistline. “My backside is probably going to bruise, but—”

  Minnie started to laugh. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

  “Sorry,” Irma apologized. “I’m whining when I ought to be grateful. Especially that Momma is letting me go. I really was disrespectful.” She took up another hatpin and anchored the hat more securely before waving Minnie into a chair and beginning to braid her hair. “I acted like a spoiled brat.”

  “You are a spoiled brat sometimes,” Minnie said. “I love you, but if the shoe fits—”

  Irma yanked playfully on a lock of Minnie’s curly dark hair. “You want a braid or a rat’s nest?”

  “Braid, please,” Minnie said. “But face facts while you’re braiding. Running off like that was hardly the best way to convince your mother that the Wild West isn’t just one more childish dream. If anything, it’s going to make her even more determined to get you settled down.”

  Irma looked up. “Explain, please.”

  “Well . . .” Minnie pondered. “You have that luncheon coming up. It could be the first of a long line of luncheons designed to parade potential husbands through the house. And all that partying would definitely interfere with a summer out here on the ranch.”

  Irma paused in midbraid. She looked up and met Minnie’s gaze in the mirror. Her cousin was serious. In fact, Irma realized, she might also be right. Momma might not interfere with a day at Scout’s Rest, but she could most certainly raise all kinds of objections about a last summer on the ranch. What was it Momma always said? That words alone didn’t really mean much in the way of an apology. It was actions that counted. Irma realized that, while it was a good thing she had already abandoned the idea of auditioning today, she dared not stop there. Not after what Minnie had just said might happen.

  “You’re right,” Irma finally said as she handed Minnie a small mirror to check out the braid. “I have to be a perfect lady today.” She reached for the parasol Momma had purchased as “the perfect accent” for the new walking suit.

  “Stunning,” Minnie said.

  “Thanks.” Irma touched the fringe of curls framing her cousin’s face. “You know, I’d kill for your hair. It takes about a thousand hairpins to get my mop into anything approaching a nice hairdo. And it’s red, for heaven’s sake. No one wants red hair. You, on the other hand—”

  “I wasn’t talking about the braid,” Minnie said as she laid the hand mirror down. “I was talking about you. You’re stunning. I’m just fair to middling plump and pretty.” She motioned for Irma to follow her. “And we both need to get downstairs.”

  With a last regretful glance toward the mirror, Irma headed after Minnie, who really did look lovely with her hair braided that way and the lace frill at her collar. Inspiration struck. If the day was to be a complete loss for her personally, the least Irma could do was find a way to make Mr. Orrin Knox notice the abundant charms of one Miss Minnie Mason.

  Minnie and Irma were two steps from the kitchen when Momma appeared in the doorway and crowed approval. Just behind her, Monte crossed his eyes and pretended to gag. As Irma walked into the kitchen, thirteen-year-old Mamie looked her up and down with undisguised envy and a self-conscious smoothing of her own drab brown dress.

  “Why can’t I wear my Sunday dress?” she begged her mother, who was just taking a pan of biscuits out of the oven. “You’re letting Minnie and Mollie wear theirs.”

  Aunt Laura set the biscuit pan on the stove top and untied her apron strings as she said, “Because Minnie and Mollie are almost grown up. But you aren’t and it isn’t Sunday.”

  “Doesn’t Minnie’s hair look lovely?” Irma said, and looped her arm through her cousin’s.

  “It does,” Momma agreed. “Now hurry and eat something, girls.” She glanced at Irma. “Daddy’s already gone to fetch the buggy.”

  Irma pressed the flat of her hand to her corseted waist. “I can’t possibly eat,” she said. “I’d throw it up all over the buggy halfway to the ranch.”

  “Irmagard!” Momma scolded. “There’s no need to be coarse.”

  “I’ll pack you a little something just in case you change your mind,” Aunt Laura offered.

  Irma followed her mother outside just as Daddy drove up in the buggy. “Aren’t you coming with us?” she asked when neither Aunt Laura nor the girls moved to join them.

  “I’ve a few things to do here,” Aunt Laura said from the back door. “Charlie and I and the girls will be along soon enough.” She smiled and pointed at Irma’s parasol. “Just send up the parasol, dear. It’ll shine like a beacon guiding us right to you.”

  “Well, at least let Minnie come now,” Irma said, motioning for Minnie to climb aboard.

  When Minnie held back, Irma spoke louder. “Come on Minnie. Times a-wastin’.”

  Momma said nothing.

  Minnie looked over her shoulder toward the house. “Ma still has some things to do before she can leave. I should help her.” She smiled at Irma. “I’ll see you there.” And before Irma could say a word, Minnie had rushed past Aunt Laura and back inside.

  Are you really going to let this happen? Irma tried to telegraph the message to Daddy, but he was talking to Uncle Charlie, who was standing on the opposite side of the buggy. Just like Daddy. Conveniently unaware of the way Momma treats people sometimes.

  “ ’Bye now,” Aunt Laura called.

  Daddy took it as a signal, and with a glance behind him to make sure Momma and Irma were seated, he bid Uncle Charlie good-bye and headed the team up the trail leading to Scout’s Rest.

  “You may not realize it, dear,” Momma said as they bumped along, “but sometimes Minnie is made to feel positively frumpy in your shadow. I thought it best for her to have an opportunity to arrive without you in tow.”

  “Minnie’s lovely,” Irma said. She glowered at Momma.

  “Of course she is,” Momma agreed. “Lovely in every way. You did a beautiful job with her hair. And the lace collar was an inspiration. It makes her Sunday dress look almost new.”

  Well, what did a girl say to that? Especially a girl who was trying to be careful not to pick a fight. Nothing. It’s best if you say nothing at all right now. And so that’s what Irma did. She settled back and closed her eyes and pretended to take a nap even as she imagined ways to bring Minnie out of her shadow—if what Momma said was true—and into the light of Mr. Orrin Knox’s world.

  “I know this isn’t your cup of tea,” Daddy said to Momma as the buggy rumbled over the prairie. “But I think you’ll be glad you’ve seen it for yourself. When this next round of building is completed, Scout’s Rest is going to be the talk of the county for some time to come.”

  Irma spoke up. “Arta says her father is building the biggest barn ever seen in this part of the country. He’s going to have Scout’s Rest painted in four-foot-high white letters across the roof so people can see it from the train.”

  “From the train?” Momma echoed. “Is that even possible? Aren’t the tracks over a mile away?”

  Daddy nodded. “They are. But isn’t it just like Bill Cody to want people to know whose place they’re admiring?” He laughed and shook his head. “Ever the showman.” He teased Momma. “And after you see the house that’s going up, our place is going to feel like a hovel.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Momma said quickly. “We have a beautiful home.” She sighed. “It really is a shame the Codys
aren’t on better terms. Mr. Cody’s sister selected the house plans—and all she did was tell the builder to copy Judge Peniston’s home in town. I don’t think Louisa plans to ever live there. Such a pity. They are a handsome couple. If only they could find a way to settle their differences.”

  Irma had nothing to say to that. Momma’s commenting on someone else’s marriage rankled—and set Irma to remembering her first encounter with Buffalo Bill. She was six years old and North Platte’s most famous citizen had invited Daddy and Uncle Charlie to drive supply wagons on a hunting trip. But it wasn’t just any hunting trip, and when Momma objected to Daddy’s being gone, the two of them fought. Irma could still remember lying in bed crying while she listened to her parents arguing.

  Daddy yelled something about a Grand Duke and that he wasn’t about to miss out on a historic event. Irma remembered hearing the front door slam and then, after what seemed like a long time, hearing Momma crying. The next day, when all of North Platte went to greet the Grand Duke’s train, Momma and Irma stayed home. And when the long procession of cavalry and infantry filed right by their house, Irma was alone at the front window waving at Uncle Charlie and Daddy. Too bad Momma hadn’t practiced what she preached about married couples settling their differences.

  Momma was out of sorts the entire week the hunting party was gone. Irma got what she considered more than her fair share of spankings and was sent to her room so many times she eventually set up a play area there just to stay out of Momma’s way. Even that didn’t seem to please Momma. One day it was barely past suppertime when she ordered Irma to bed. Irma went, but she could not sleep. Thinking Daddy had come home when she heard voices downstairs, Irma had just reached the carved cherry railing when she realized the man in the foyer was not her father. A stranger was hugging Momma. What was even worse, Momma was hugging him back. She even kissed him on the cheek. And she was crying as she said something about wanting to go.

  “Then do it,” the man said. “Get Irmagard and come with me.”

  Confused and afraid, Irma crept back to her room. Closing the door, she curled up on the bare wood floor just inside her room so she could listen through the crack between the floor and the bottom of the heavy door. After what seemed like hours, she heard Momma’s footsteps on the stairs. The minute Momma’s bedroom door closed, Irma slipped down the back stairs. The house was empty. Creeping back up the front stairs, Irma pressed her forehead against the leaded-glass window that graced the landing. The stranger was riding away. Irma paused outside Momma’s door only long enough to hear Momma crying before returning to her own room, her own bed, and her own tears.

  Daddy came home the next day. Standing in nearly the same place as she had with the stranger, Momma kissed Daddy on the lips, then whispered something in his ear. She even cried a little.

  Daddy wrapped her in his arms and hugged her tight. With a little laugh he lifted her off the floor and spun her around, then bent to do the same with Irma. Things went back to normal. And Momma, who had never been a religious woman before that, started going to church every Sunday.

  Irma never saw the stranger again, but the memory would not die. It planted Irma firmly on her doting father’s side of any issue, and tore at the fabric of the mother-daughter relationship in a thousand tiny ways. As Irma grew, so did her differences with Momma. When Momma pointed out some mention of Arta Cody in the newspaper, Irma nodded, thinking as she did so that she wouldn’t mind being mentioned in the newspaper—as long as it was for something besides hosting a tea party or attending the new play at the opera house. When Momma praised Irma for a bit of needlework or for learning to play a new hymn on the piano, Irma wished for more time to practice roping or riding. By the time she was in her teens, trying to be different from Momma had become second nature.

  And so it was that, as the buggy drew near Scout’s Rest and Irma’s attentions returned to the present, her earlier resolve to be Momma’s “dutiful daughter” for the day waned. She began to hope Daddy would chaperone her around the grounds. She would, of course, have to pay her respects to Momma’s friends at first, but she began to hope she and Daddy would find the Masons and, together with them, join the rest of the crowd who’d come to admire horses and watch cowboys demonstrate their skills. The entire Mason family would undoubtedly watch Monte and Ned Bishop try out, and while no one expected Momma to participate, it only seemed right for Daddy and Irma to be there.

  Watching Monte’s audition wasn’t the only thing luring Irma away from playing dutiful daughter today. Last fall Bill Cody had asked Uncle Charlie and Monte to keep an eye on the local horse crop for promising mounts to replenish the Wild West stock. Cody had offered Uncle Charlie two dollars a head as a finder’s fee for anything worth looking at and a percentage of the purchase price for anything he bought. Monte’s favorite was a chestnut mare with a black mane and tail, four white socks, and a crooked white blaze. Irma just had to get a look at her. And then there was a certain handsome greenhorn.

  With Momma happily gossiping with friends, Irma might have a chance to explain the finer points of bronc riding and bulldogging to Hank Mortimer.

  “Good heavens!” Momma’s exclamation startled Irma right out of her daydream about horses and Hank. “Someone must have walked a thousand miles these past few weeks just planting trees. Look at them all, Otto. It’s hard to understand how we can’t seem to manage a few trees on our property in town. I’d like the promise of some shade.”

  “All right, Momma,” Daddy said. “I’ll talk to Al about trees before we leave today. Maybe he can hook us up with a supplier who’ll send out something bigger than a seedling. Something hardy in the west.”

  “Ask about a rosebush or two while you’re at it,” Momma said. “Something impervious to wind and drought. And maybe a climbing rosebush for that trellis Charlie built Laura.”

  Daddy chuckled, “You don’t want much, do you, Mrs. Friedrich?”

  “Just a little civilization, Mr. Friedrich.”

  While Momma groused and Daddy teased, Irma took in the recent changes at Scout’s Rest—none of which had been visible last night in the dark and none of which had caught her eye when she made her hasty exit earlier that morning. Half-listening to Arta talking about her father’s plans was entirely different from seeing the progress for herself. For the first time, Irma could actually see a huge house and barns, a lake large enough for canoeing, and entire groves of tall trees. Tempted to be envious, she wondered if she might be able to afford a nice ranch of her own someday—once she’d toured with the Wild West as a headliner for a few years. Headliners made good money. At least that’s what Monte said.

  Daddy parked the buggy. As he prepared to help Momma and Irma down, Irma glanced toward the far corral where a crowd was already gathering to watch a couple of wranglers saddle a dancing pinto. Daddy glanced that way and said, “That must be the horse Charlie thinks will be the new star bronco. They’ve named him Outlaw.”

  Irma glanced toward the house, where someone had built a shelter of upright poles supporting a frame topped with brush. There, Irma knew, the “real ladies” would hold court in the shade, sharing news about this family or that and talking over the upcoming social season and the new opera house in town. There, Momma would revel in announcing that her daughter had been accepted at Brownell, and Irma would be expected to sit primly and pretend to be pleased. She was formulating a way to escape when Momma spoke up.

  “I can see the wheels spinning, Irmagard,” she said. “Pay your respects to the ladies, and then I won’t keep you tied down.”

  Daddy winked at Irma as he offered an arm to each woman. They crossed to the shelter. As always, Irma was proud to be on the arm of Otto Friedrich, Buffalo Bill’s friend, founder of the First Bank in North Platte, leading citizen, and all around likeable gentleman. Daddy had accomplished a lot since the days when North Platte was little more than the end of the line for the Union Pacific track being laid west. He had, in fact, built himself, if not an empire
like Buffalo Bill’s, at least a respectable part of one. Daddy worked hard to provide Momma with the kind of life she expected.

  “Irmagard?” Daddy patted her hand.

  What had she missed this time?

  “You’ll have to excuse our daughter. She’s preoccupied with the opportunity to meet so many famous people today.” Daddy smiled at her. “I was trying to remember the name of the sharpshooter who’s scheduled to appear at the opera house this week.”

  “Lillian Smith,” Irma reminded him.

  “Ah, yes. The California Girl,” one of the mavens said with obvious distaste.

  “Bill said she makes him look like a novice when it comes to target shooting,” Daddy said.

  “I wouldn’t know about that. But I hear . . .” The old woman went on to express her personal opinion about the kind of woman who engaged in “that sort of thing.”

  “Well, well,” Daddy said. “You’ll excuse me if I respectfully disagree with judging a young lady based on gossip.” He bowed, then kissed Momma on the cheek and excused Irma and himself.

  “Daddy,” Irma huffed, trotting alongside, “I’m going to need those infernal smelling salts if you don’t . . . slow . . . down.”

  Daddy stopped midstep and apologized, then shook his head. “I can’t abide those old hens and their peck-peck-peck at anything or anyone who doesn’t toe the line they’ve drawn about what’s proper and what’s not. How can they possibly know anything about any of the women Bill’s adding to his Wild West when they haven’t so much as—” he broke off, chuckling. “My, my, who do I sound like now?”

  “Me,” Irma laughed. “And I’m glad to see at least one of my parents isn’t horrified by what they witnessed in Uncle Charlie’s corral yesterday.” She hurried on before Daddy could backpedal. “I know, I know. It was foolish of me not to consider that you and Momma might arrive earlier than planned. And it was downright wrong of me to refuse to apologize when I’d frightened her. And running off like that and not coming back for most of the night—”