Beckoning Roads

By Dorothy Clapp Robinson

(Previous Chapter

Chapter 4

THE STORY THUS PAR: Nancy Porter and Peter Holverson, two marriageable and very-much-in-love young people of a rural Mormon community, found themselves anticipating “their spring” — the spring in which they, with others of their friends, had decided to go to the Temple to he married at June Conference time. But seemingly poor agricultural prospects and accumulated debt caused Peter, a high-principled and cautious young man. to postpone the marriage until “better times.” Questioning his motives and his wisdom, and in the anger of her disappointment. Nancy impulsively served notice on her betrothed that the “postponement” would be permanent and the “engagement was off.” The embarrassment was intensified by the fact that two couples of “their crowd.” Mark and Phyllis, and Lynn and Vera, who were apparently less economically prepared for marriage, decided to go through with their plans notwithstanding. And so these two parted, with hopes postponed — or abandoned.

Living in a discouraged home with a chronically and seriously ill father, discouraged younger brothers, and a work-worn mother, who held tenaciously to principles and ideals. Nancy became rebellious and determined to better her situation. Through a chain of favorable circumstances, she finally secured a temporary job as commissary-keeper of a huge ranching operation in a nearby section of the country. Reid Wood, young, impatient, city-bred son of the ranch owner-operator, called to fake her to her new assignment. The trip was made; the job was reached. There was something about Reid Wood that she wanted to remember. There was something about Peter Holverson that she couldn’t forget. There was some resentment between Reid Wood and his father that she couldn’t understand. And so she found herself among cross-currents with a job on her hands and heavy thoughts in her mind.

“WHERE did your son go, Mr. Wood?”

It was early morning about four weeks after Nancy had come to the sheep ranch. For two weeks she had seen nothing of the young man. She and her employer were having breakfast together. They were doing that quite often lately. At her question he looked up.

“He went to Denver. Leastways, that is where he was supposed to go, but you can’t tell about him.”

“Oh. I hadn’t seen him and I wondered.”

“You needn’t expect to see him much. He is one of these flyers that may light anywhere. He don’t stay here much.”

“Then he will not be coming back?”

There was a note of disappointment in the question that sharpened the listener’s vision. She was looking different from when she had first come — something to do with her face and her clothes; mighty good help; knew her business and did it. And here he was eating breakfast with her instead of being out with the men. He answered gruffly:

“If he does it will surprise me. He’s worked a month or two so he needs a vacation. He’s usually in need of one. He’s got a girl some’eres back east. Likely he’ll be hunting her up. He won’t come back here until he has to.”

“Why?” Nancy asked. “I thought he loved it here.” She was remembering the tone of his voice when he had asked, “Like it?”

.

.

“Shows you don’t know him much. He’d rather be east with real people. Besides that woman he clings to can’t abide a ranch,”

Something in his tone made her ask, “Has she ever seen this place?”

“Once,” he rose abruptly, “but young folks these days don’t want nothing but good times and time to do nothing. Never saw one yet that believed in giving a day’s labor for a day’s wage. There will be a camp tender along before long. Give him this list of things.”

When the porch screen had closed behind him Mrs. Chris sniffed:

“He’d better be techy about women that can’t abide a farm. That is what ruined his own life. He just natchurally worshiped her and any one could see she didn’t give a snap of her finger for him. And that hoodlum of hers is just like her.”

“Please,” Nancy rose hastily, “I am sure it is not your place or mine to judge. And I certainly resent your calling him a hoodlum.”

“That’s what he is. If Ben Wood quit giving him money and put him to work it would take some of the coltishness out of him. And don’t think, young lady, that I am being disloyal to him. I am hoping for his sake he don’t get his heart broke again.”

Nancy rose without comment and went to her work. It was not money or coltishness, entirely, she told herself angrily. What was there in this house for anyone to anchor to? There was no feel of home about it. Why couldn’t he speak kindly and understandingly to his son. She had discovered he only seemed harsh and self-willed. Behind his gruff words and brusk manners was a code of fine principles and a heart, lonely and hurt. It was this knowledge that made her contented with her work. It would make the son contented too if he could know it. Queer how those nearest to each other should be farthest apart! In the four weeks since coming here she had been wondering why that was so. But she had been too busy to do more than wonder. She had not only brought the neglected books up to date but had spent hours on the office itself. She had sorted and conveniently placed the small stuff. She had enlisted the aid of the man cook in the next room, and with him to lift the larger things she had been able to bring order out of chaos.

She took to rising early and going over the front part of the house each morning before she started her other work. As the wild flowers came on she gathered them. In June, wild roses, that grew so abundantly along the fences, brought a touch of home and romance to the big house. Mr. Wood watched her closely but said little. With increasing frequency he ate his meals with her rather than out with the men as he usually did during periods of heavy work.

“Never seen him stick around the house so much,” Mrs. Chris complained. “He ain’t set down in that front room for years. And in the busy season, too. Guess he’s getting old like the rest.”

Nancy was thinking of this as she went to work. The shearing was nearly finished. One by one the herds had gone to the high hills. The camp tender came and she filled his order. Then a man from the sheds came in.

“The boss says there is a little lamp black here some’eres. He wants it.”

Lamp black. Where was it? Nothing to do but look. It was not on one of the lower shelves so she stood on a barrel top to look.

“Hello, Beautiful.”

Nancy whirled as quickly as the area of the barrel top would permit. Reid Wood was standing in the doorway eyeing the barrel speculatively.

“Ha,” he exulted. “Just where I want you.”

“Go away. Go away, please. I am in a hurry.”

“On a spot, you mean. If I should push a teeny weeny —”

“Don’t you dare.”

“— You would land right in my arms.”

“Don’t you dare, ” as he took a step nearer. “I am hunting something.”

“For instance?”

“Lamp black. It seems to me I put it somewhere. There is just a little in a sack.”

His glance went over the room. “I know where it used to be. If your housecleaning hasn’t been too thorough.” He put his foot on the lowest shelf and swung up so his eyes were on a level with the top. ‘Poor housekeeper after all. Hasn’t been touched.”

He gave the paper sack to the amused man. When he turned to face Nancy she was at her desk.

“Curses! Foiled again!” He swept papers aside recklessly and perched on the desk before her. “Glad to see me?”

“Thrilled. Be careful of my papers.”

“Huh.” His face clouded. “Don’t even rate a thought from the help. Might as well have stayed away. Unaccountably I found myself eager to get back. That would not have anything to do with you, would it?”

“You should know.”

“I don’t try to know things. Follow your impulses, is my creed. You might keep me here if you tried.”

“Really I am busy.” Nancy was not looking at him. What a spoiled little boy he was. Yet she was confused by the inconsistent tempo of her pulse. There was no reason for it.

“So I see. Haven’t time to welcome the prodigal.”

Then she laughed. “Don’t pout. Of course I am glad to see you. What do you want me to do? Roast the fatted calf?”

“Sheep would be better.”

“Shouldn’t you let your father know you are here? He was not expecting you so soon. He’ll be happy you are here.”

“Maybe, but I have me doubts. I saw your boy friend today. He came by while I was waiting for the truck,”

“Pete, you mean?”

“Who else would I mean? He is looking rather down in the mouth.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“You ask me that? Woman, I had raising. I spoke to him. Spoke like the gentleman I am but did he answer?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mean. That guy would glare a hole through a granite wall. Do not misunderstand me. He was not rude. Goodness, no. Just very reserved. I even suspect he doesn’t like me.”

“No? Why should he not like you ?”

“I wonder,” he drawled. Then, “Your hair is a riot and there is a smudge on your nose.”

“What does the valley look like?” she evaded.

“Like it needed a bath badly.”

After he was gone she could not compose herself to work.

She rose and went to the back window and looked out over a stretch of alfalfa that was the field. Farther to the north lay acres upon acres of timothy mixed with grass. They would be cutting that soon. She had heard the men say it was hardly worth cutting this year. Water was scarce here, too, but not so scarce as at home.

She realized with a start that she was on the verge of tears. Why did it not rain? It must rain. How differently they could live if they had sufficient water. If the folks at home did not get some kind of break — but she would not give up her dreams and plans. No wonder Pete was glum. Doubt and disappointment brought sympathy and her body relaxed with a warm yearning for him. Fall would bring the same old puzzle, always present but never solved, which debts to pay and which to ease along with a few dollars and many promises. He might even have to sell the few sheep he had. She was lucky to be out of it and she would never, never go back. No matter what happened she would not!

“I hope Mr, Chris doesn’t get well for a year,” she cried defiantly. “I am young and Dale is young and life must give us a break.” She wished Reid had not reminded her of it.

That evening when she was trying to make herself believe she was interested in a magazine, young Mr. Wood tapped on the dining room window. By the reins he held two saddled horses.

“Oh,” she cried, her restlessness gone instantly, “I would love to ride.”

“Slip into something and we will whither away.”

She turned and ran to her room. Soon she was back in riding clothes. Faded old trousers they were, for they had done duty for many years. She had bought them when she was just a kid — the year Pete had come to the valley of Big Smokey. Riding with him they had become old and slightly shabby. Now as she rode beside Reid Wood, the wind whipping their faces, she felt that shabbiness and want were away in the past. The conflict of the afternoon vanished in a mist of fantasy. This was what life could be when land and water were not masters. The boy caught the sparkle of her eye, the lilt in her spirits.

“I’ll race you to the foothills.”

They had reached the section line that marked a lane running through the ranch. They turned east into it and Nancy spoke to her horse.
He stretched his long length ahead. The mounts were evenly matched and where the road started climbing they were racing neck and neck. The riders tightened their reins and looked with laughing eyes to each other.

“I am taking you,” he told her, “to a place. But we shall have to take it slowly from here. It is a real climb.”

Half an hour’s slow mounting and they left their horses with reins hanging. On the edge of an out-jutting rock he stopped. They could see from one end to the other of the brown and green patched-quilt valley. Before them a covey of grouse took wing. From far away came the restless tinkle of a bell.

“How is this?” He watched her closely.

“Marvelous.”

His voice dropped to a faintly reminiscent tone. “I ised to run away when I was a kid and come up here. Mother always fussed. She was afraid of horses and the wide open spaces. Thought something would get me, I guess.”

At the edge of the cliff Nancy stood very straight, breathing air that carried the heat of day, the cool of evening, and the promise of moonlight. Below, lay the Wood ranch, a huge green block among the brown. In the west the mountains were outlined against a fading day. As she watched, night unpinned her blanket and let it drop softly and gradually over the quiescent earth. The boy and girl sat side by side. In the veins of each was a consciousness of the other.

“Marvelous,” she whispered again.

“Evening or the ranch?”

“Both.”

“Piffle.” The spell was broken. “I will admit, however, it has more appeal for me than ever before. I’m tottering.”

“You should be without shade and grass and the feel of green things growing. Then you would have a reason for discontent.”

“Who said I was discontented? But since you seem to know, I am. I have tried to get the old man to sell out and go away with me but he won’t talk about it for fear he will grow to like the idea.”

“But he couldn’t go away. His roots are sunk too deeply here for that. Sell this place? That would be a crime.”

“What value is it to either of us? It isn’t a home. Neither of us gets any pleasure from it. All we do is snarl. We might get into something that would let us live in peace.”

“I wonder.”

“Explain yourself.” He sat up suddenly.

“Isn’t it temperament, not geography, that destroys peace?”

“Of course you know.”

“No. I wish I did.” She spoke quietly, vehemently. “I wish I did. I wish I knew what makes one person run from the thing another is aching and longing to possess. Perhaps if you had to stay here it would help.”

He glanced at her shrewdly. “Are you by any chance trying to tell me to go to work?”

“Why not?”

“What do you think I have been doing? ”

“Following your impulses.”

From the peak back of them the moon had crept slowly upward. It cast their shadows on the slope and showed her the quick temper that flared in his face. Then unexpectedly he laughed.

“Go ahead and preach. I know another girl that has been saying that for years.”

“Your sweetheart?”

“No.” There was such bitterness in his tone she caught a glimpse of something.

“Tell me about her.”

“Nothing to tell.” Then after a pause. “She couldn’t see me.”

“Was there someone else?”

“No. I fancy she rather liked me. But she has ideals and courage to live them. She has no time for a wastrel like me.”

“Is that her picture I saw on your desk?”

“No. That is Helen.”

She did not ask who Helen was nor did he explain. She must be the one Mr. Wood had referred to, Nancy thought. His voice when he spoke again was more sincere than she had heard it.

“You know, you remind me of Ruth. There is something about your eyes. Yet they are not alike. And she has straight black hair while yours is yellow and curly. I suppose it is your serious young souls.”

“I think I should like very much to meet Ruth.”

“You would; but that does not relieve me of this,” he indicated the ranch, the hills, the plains. Nancy sighed in dismay. There was so much to love and to hold about this place! If he had to live on her father’s farm!

“You might subordinate your desires and stay here, for a while, at least. Your father is a lonesome old man.”

“Who told you that one?” “It shows in the shadows in his eyes and in the echoes of his voice.”

“If so he takes good care to hide it from me. One would think I was coyote poison.” He leaned forward and looked long and searchingly at the buildings and fields below them.

“Helen would make a great farmer’s wife. I can see her out here — even part of the year.”

“I think she would.” Nancy was thinking of another scene. “Girls do not mind hardships when — when they are in love.”

He turned quickly. “Then what about you and your Pete?”

“Our break,” she answered positively, “had nothing to do with hardships on my part. It was the road.”

“Tell me again.”

“The beckoning roads. We took one that led nowhere and had to turn back.”

He did not answer and then presently they were on their horses going back. They walked the horses this time, knee to knee. These moonlit hours were too fleeting, too poignant, to hurry through them. Here and there they caught glimpses of trails running through the sage and rocks, and there came to Nancy the feeling that once again she had set her feet to a path.

They entered the lane and where it crossed a small slough bed they stopped to inhale the romance of slough grass and fragrant evening air. Reid leaned from his saddle and picked a venturesome, wild rosebud that the spring had nearly unfolded. Then turning to his companion he thrust it in her hair.

“What is sweeter than a wild rose?” he asked.

They were alone in a silver flooded world. The beauty of it brought an aching to Nancy’s throat. With her chin cupped in his hand the man looked full into her eyes.

“I am going to try. Just to prove you are wrong.”

(To be continued)