A Claim of Her Own (13 page)

When the men working their claims began to turn in and the night grew quiet, Mattie pulled her tired feet out of her rubber boots and lit the lamp inside her tent. As she settled back on her cot and tucked her pistol just beneath the edge of the comforters, she was content. She’d never really had a specific dream of a home, but if she had, it would never have been a canvas tent on a placer claim. And yet, given a choice between this tent and her room back in Abilene, Mattie would gladly call her tent home.

She’d always loved to watch the pink-tinged Kansas dawns before she turned in. Often she’d managed to slip away from the gaming tables and take a break just around sunset, too, marveling at the way every single one was different and wishing she could somehow preserve them. Here in Dakota it was practically noon before much daylight shone down into the gulch. Mattie saw no pink-tinged dawns and no spectacular sunsets. The sun dropped quickly, shadows gathered, and night fell. It was a quick three-step as opposed to a slow waltz. But she didn’t mind. Her time was her own, and if she wanted to sit by the fire and drink half a pot of coffee, no one was telling her to “get dressed and get downstairs.”

She didn’t even mind that the cold was hanging on so long people had begun to mutter and wonder if it was “fixin’ to snow right smack in the middle of summer.” Such talk only encouraged her imaginings of frosting on the boulders and pine tree branches. How pretty that would be, and how clean everything would seem when dusted with new-fallen snow.

There was still plenty to make a person think of Deadwood as a hellish place. And yet, she could already name four people she could almost call her friends. And, she reminded herself with a smile, she’d already had a proposal of marriage.

Of course, for the few good people Mattie knew, there were dozens of the other kind. But mostly they didn’t bother her. She stayed to herself when she was in town, and up here on the gulch, between Freddie’s frequent visits and the McKays keeping watch, she was beginning to feel less afraid even without Dillon to protect her.

She was almost happy at times. But then she’d think of Dillon and how she wanted to tell him something or show him something, and missing him would hurt all over again. Sometimes the pain was so sharp it was as if she’d just found out he was gone.

Grief was ever present, the work was hard, and it would likely be a long time before she stopped looking over her shoulder for Jonas. But, she told herself, she really didn’t have to be afraid anymore. All things considered, Mattie loved her new life.

When Freddie got too busy helping build his mother’s store to hunt, and her supplies ran low, Mattie realized that if she didn’t figure out how to make flapjacks and biscuits fairly soon, she was going to go to bed hungry on a regular basis. And so, on the Monday that would begin her second week on her claim, Mattie rose early and dressed for town, descending the gulch just as gray light was beginning to filter down toward the creek. She picked her way quietly past claims, smiling to herself at the snores and snorts coming from various tents and claim shacks.

When the skeleton of the building that was to become Garth Merchandise came into view, Mattie could see that it was going to be a fine store. As soon as he saw her, Freddie insisted that Mattie go with him to view the sign Mr. English was having Judd Morgan paint.
Garth & Company Merchandise
, it said.

“Tom says he doesn’t care if his name is on it,” Freddie said. “It’s just like I told Mor and you—he’s a really good man.” He pointed to the stylized outline of a red horse at either end, the noses of the animals pointed toward the lettering like artistic bookends. “That’s a Dala,” Freddie explained. “Mor will like that.” He held his hands apart as he said, “We had one this high on the mantel at home. Mor packed it away after Garth died. When we move in above the store, I bet she brings it out again.”

“I imagine she will,” Mattie agreed. “And she’s going to be very pleased to see what you’ve done for her with the sign.”

Freddie reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of wood he’d been carving.

“I’m making Eva her own Dala,” he said, and then, as Mattie was beginning to realize he often did, Freddie changed the subject, asking Mattie what supplies she needed.

“Oh, I don’t need anything just yet,” she said. “I was wondering, though . . . would you mind introducing me to Aunt Lou? I need her advice about something.”

Peering through the screen door, Mattie saw a willow-thin woman with smooth mahogany skin and snow-white hair at work in the hotel kitchen. She was rolling out dough on the kitchen table, but at Freddie’s knock she glanced up, smiled, and called out a cheerful greeting. “And how is Mr. Jannike today?”

“I’m fine, Aunt Lou,” Freddie said as he opened the door and motioned for Mattie to step inside. “This is my friend Mattie. The one I’ve been telling you about.”

Aunt Lou looked Mattie up and down. “Ah yes, the prettiest little lady in the gulch.” She winked. “I heard about you.” She motioned toward a small crock atop the table. “Shove that lard over here to Aunt Lou, won’t you, honey?”

Mattie scooted the crock within Aunt Lou’s reach and watched, fascinated, as one dark hand made a well in a bowl of flour, added lard and water, along with a little salt, and mixed it all—without any measuring.

Aunt Lou talked while she worked. “When you gonna bring me some more game, Freddie?”

“I’ve been helping build Mor’s store. I haven’t had time to hunt very much. And when I got two rabbits I made stew for Mattie.” Freddie paused. “I been helping her some, but she said she needs to talk to a lady about something, and so here she is.”

Aunt Lou glanced Mattie’s way again, then smiled and nodded. “Well, all right, then. Don’t mind if I say I’ve been lonely for lady-talk myself here lately.” She turned to Freddie. “Don’t you worry, I’ll save you a big slice of this here pie when it comes outta the oven.”

As soon as Freddie left, Mattie asked, “How do you know that crust will work? I mean, you didn’t measure anything.”

Aunt Lou shrugged. “Same way I know you ain’t here to talk about pie,” she said. “Practice and experience, honey, practice and experience.” When she looked up Mattie saw nothing but kindness in Aunt Lou’s hazel eyes. “Freddie talks about you all the time, Miss Mattie. Now, what can Aunt Lou do for you today?”

Mattie blurted it out. “I need to learn how to make flapjacks and biscuits.”

The rolling pin ceased its progress across the pie dough as Aunt Lou tilted her head and looked up, one eyebrow arched, doubt on her kind face. “You need to learn
what
?”

Mattie swallowed. “I’ve never done it before. Tom English loaded me up with supplies, and so of course he assumed—and I wasn’t about to admit it. I thought I could figure it out. How hard could it be? I thought. But I can’t make it work. All I’ve managed is rocks and flat cakes that taste like—well, I don’t know what they taste like, but I’m tired of pretending I know what I’m doing.”

Aunt Lou was looking at her as if she’d just crawled out from beneath a rock. “Everybody knows how to make biscuits and flapjacks, honey. Now, how ’bout you sit down there at Aunt Lou’s table and tell me what’s
really
on your mind. You lonely for some beau back home? You feelin’ sad about Dillon?” She went back to rolling out pie crust and in nothing flat had three pie pans lined. She rolled out the leftover crust, sprinkled it with cinnamon and sugar, cut it into strips, and rolling them up, popped them into the oven. “Been a long time since I had a child around to eat the leavings for me.” She smiled. “Freddie just loves my pinwheels. You don’t mind bein’ a child this morning, do ya, Miss Mattie?” She took a towel off a crockery pitcher on the counter and, pouring a mug of milk, set it in front of Mattie.

Aunt Lou’s kitchen was filled with warmth and the aromas of roast beef and bacon grease, bread dough and cinnamon. Taking a sip of milk, Mattie leaned back in the rickety chair. “No, ma’am. I don’t mind. But I really did come up here to ask you to teach me about biscuits and flapjacks.”

Aunt Lou gently reached down to cup Mattie’s face in one hand. Lifting her chin, the old woman looked down into her eyes. When she next spoke, her voice was gentle. “I gotta make biscuits for supper and you can help. Flapjacks don’t take near as much fuss. I can tell you how to do that, and long as you got a fryin’ pan you’ll be fine.”

“Dillon had a frying pan,” Mattie said.

“You got a Dutch oven?” Aunt Lou asked. Mattie nodded. “All right,” she said. “You’ll be able to bake up a nice batch of biscuits with that. There’s a few tricks to doin’ it over a campfire.” Aunt Lou motioned toward a clean apron hanging on a hook by the door. “Just put that on and we’ll get started. You don’t by chance want to know how to make chess pie, too?”

Mattie got up to don the apron. “I’d
love
to,” she said. “What’s chess pie?”

“Lordy, lordy, what’s the world comin’ to,” Aunt Lou grumbled. “Girls growin’ up into women that don’t know how to make flapjacks or biscuits and never heard of chess pie.” Aunt Lou kept grumbling, but she was smiling.

“You got a gift, honey,” Aunt Lou said at the end of Mattie’s first day of lessons. “I never saw a gal take to dough and bakin’ as quick as you.”

“Thank you,” Mattie said. “I’ll keep that in mind if the claim doesn’t pan out.”

Aunt Lou put her hands on her hips and stared at Mattie. “So what I been hearing is true. You’re workin’ that claim by yourself.”

“I am.”

With a shaking of her head, Aunt Lou turned away. Opening the oven door, she removed a batch of cinnamon pinwheels and slid them onto a plate. “You want some coffee?”

“No thank you,” Mattie said as she took one of the cinnamon pinwheels. The flaky crust, and just the right amount of spice, made for a mouthwatering combination. “You should make these and sell them,” Mattie said. “The miners would buy them by the sacks full.”

“I expect you’re right,” Aunt Lou said. “But I don’t sell my pinwheels, honey. I give ’em away.”

“But why?”

Aunt Lou smiled. “ ’Cause sometimes a body just needs a little morsel of love to encourage ’em, and Aunt Lou’s love ain’t for sale. She gives it free.”

The proclamation of love produced a warm glow, but at the same time it made Mattie feel uncomfortable. No one except Dillon had ever said they loved her unless they wanted something. This woman didn’t seem to be that kind of person, but you never knew.

Aunt Lou shoved a bowl across the table at Mattie. “All right, honey,” she said. “Time to see if you can do it without any help from Aunt Lou.”

It was long after dark when Mattie finally said good-night to Aunt Lou and headed across Main Street to Swede’s lot, thankful that Tom had her set up in the broken-down wagon. It was late, and she was too tired to even think about finding her way up the gulch. She reached into the pocket of her dress and felt the piece of paper where she’d written Aunt Lou’s instructions for both biscuits and flapjacks.

She would likely still make a few mistakes, but at least now she wouldn’t be gnawing on rocks and trying to swallow leathery discs of barely palatable fried dough. She was almost looking forward to having Freddie show up with a rabbit or a squirrel for the stew pot now. Maybe she should get another Dutch oven so she could bake biscuits while he made stew.