Part 11 (2/2)
”I'm sorry I didn't make more,” Ariana apologized as he cleaned up the plate with a biscuit. ”I didn'ta”I was trying toa”to not use the suppliesa””
”I can git more,” he stated briefly.
”But you saida”” began Ariana.
He smiled. A lazy, good-natured smile. ”True,” he replied, ”but there are other stores.”
Ariana still didn't understand his meaning, yet she couldn't help but wonder if the food had been obtained with the help of a pistol rather than a gold piece.
He set aside the emptied plate. Ariana supposed that he must still be hungry. She had eaten two servings herself.
”Do you want those other two biscuits?” she inquired.
He nodded and moved to get up, but she brought the biscuits to him. He washed them down with great gulps of coffee.
The warm food seemed to relax his usually tense body. He even lifted off the Stetson and placed it on the floor beside him. Ariana noticed that his hair was curly. He was also in need of a good haircut. Then her eyes noticed a scar on his foreheada”just at his hairline. She was wondering about it when his words drew her attention.
”What does lal mean?” he asked her suddenly.
”Lal?” she echoed.
”Lal. Jest like thet. L-A-L.”
”Where did you see it?” She was forgetting some of her caution.
”On one of them hankies in thet little box.”
”Oh,” said Ariana, ”then it likely was a monogram.”
”A monogram?” He sounded puzzled.
”One's initials.”
The frown still puckered his brow.
”The first letters of your names,” went on Ariana. ”Mine would be AYB. Ariana Yvonne Benson.”
He seemed to be pondering.
”You mean, the hankie has my ma'sa”what'd ya saya”initials on it?”
”If it was truly your mother's hankiea”then, yes,” said Ariana.
”So her name was like thet. LAL?”
”That would be my guess,” responded Ariana.
He stood suddenly. ”Thet's right interestin',” he said as he picked up his hat with one hand, the empty plate with the other. ”Want me to clean this off in the snow?” he asked her as he looked down at the plate and cup he held.
”No, noa”I'll take care of it,” she quickly answered.
He handed it to her. ”Mighty obliged, miss,” he said as he placed his hat back on his head. ”Been a long time since I had something other than beans.”
”Ia”would youa”I mean, I could make a little extra tomorrow ifa”
He smiled again and with his finger pushed back his hat. ”Well, now,” he said, ”I'd like thet jest finea”but I'm not sure I'd be too smarta”me comin' here to et. 'Course iffen I could come up with some plate, might be I could sneak a little out.”
Ariana let her gaze travel to the room's one window.
”I'll see what I can do to free it up tomorrow,” he said, reading her thoughts.
She nodded.
He left then. She heard the beam fall across the door, which meant she was again locked in. Then his voice reached her through the heavy timber. ”Don't fergit to lock yer door.”
Ariana reached up and slipped the hook quietly into the eye.
Another week pa.s.sed slowly by. Ariana continued to make stews and potpies. She practiced with the reflector in various positions, and her biscuits improved each time she made a batch. Laramie consumed them with unbelievable ease.
He had surrept.i.tiously removed the nails from the window frame and replaced them with hooks so it now locked on both the inside and the outside. Each night he brought his plate around to the window and held it while Ariana filled it. Then he took it, along with biscuits and coffee, and hastened off toward his own tumbledown cabin.
He had been giving full attention to his mother's Bible. He didn't pretend to understand much of it, but the little notations in the margins often shed some light on what he was reading. Still, he had so many questions and he had no one to ask.
He had also found a name that matched the initials. LAL. Lavina Ann Lawrence. Was that his mother? Laramie wanted to believe it was. Somehow it gave him a strange connection with the woman in the picture, an ident.i.ty he previously had not had. He looked at the picture night after night until he felta”somethinga”for the unknown woman. Something he had never felt before.
”Seems ya don't eat much anymore,” observed Will as Laramie stepped inside the communal cabin. ”Ya been dippin' in someone else's pot?”
The words brought loud guffaws from the men lounging about the room. By now everyone knew the prisoner was doing her own cooking. At times the fragrant smells coming from her cabin made stomachs growl in protest.
Laramie made no answer.
”Maybe he don't need to eat,” snarled Skidder. ”Maybe he lives on love.”
More loud laughter.
”Ya ain't been round much a'tall lately,” Will went on.
Laramie got the strange feeling his father was trying to start something.
”Been in my own cabin,” he said offhandedly.
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