{"id":647,"date":"2020-06-15T00:51:00","date_gmt":"2020-06-15T00:51:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/?p=647"},"modified":"2020-06-14T00:21:03","modified_gmt":"2020-06-14T00:21:03","slug":"winnies-trial","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/2020\/06\/15\/winnies-trial\/","title":{"rendered":"“Winnie’s Trial” by Margaret Koger"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Winnie Bullock stood at the edge of the creek, watching it swirl into a pool next to a large boulder. She tightened the drawstring on her hat to guard against the gusts of late spring wind and then stooped to pick up a piece of quartz, its silver mica glittering with moisture.

Since her brother Chase had died after a logging accident, it fell to her to help her father work the homestead while Mother and her two younger sisters stayed in Boise, where they earned a small income by singing and reciting poetry in the parlors of wealthy patrons. Today her father had gone into town for supplies and wasn\u2019t expected back until nightfall.

When she heard a faint drumming sound grow louder, she looked up to see a rider coming toward her, his galloping horse lifting him skyward and thudding him back to earth in an undulating rhythm. His long hair streamed backward from beneath his battered Stetson as if the speed at which he rode was forcing a part of him to fly off toward the clouds scattered along the shadowy horizon to the east.

\u201cHello! Hello! Is your husband around?\u201d he called.

The light in the young woman\u2019s eyes faded as she reflected on the danger a man could bring to a woman alone in the desert. Even before her recent high school graduation, she\u2019d seen the ruined farm girls hustling outside the bars in Boise. She raised her arm and threw the rock she\u2019d been admiring into the creek, its splash startling the trout where they\u2019d rested, the steel ridge-lines of their backs roiling, the soft rainbows of their sides exposed.

\u201cHe\u2019s not here,\u201d she lied, trying to head the intruder off. \u201cYou must be at the wrong place\u2014maybe you need to check the miners\u2019 campsite over to the east a couple of miles.\u201d

The rider\u2019s horse stumbled against a limb of dried greasewood on the ledge above the creek as he reined in, its hooves knocking loose the pungent scent of resin. Winnie\u2019s fingers traced the worn grooves of the rifle stock she\u2019d been cradling in her arm, her forefinger sliding down into the oval shell of the trigger guard, its sleek steel contrasting with the wood. She slid her fingers further, caressing the trigger, its curve a perfect comma waiting for the right phrase to complete the sentence. Ignoring her move, the rider began to dismount.

\u201cMy father will know you\u2019ve been through here,\u201d Winnie choked out, and then cringed at how she\u2019d made it plain that no one at all was around to come to her aid. The smell of the scarred greasewood slid further into the air, stinging her nostrils. She dropped down onto the boulder, raising the rifle to her shoulder in what she hoped appeared as a natural, reflexive action. \u201cWhat is it that you want?\u201d

\u201cWell now, who\u2019d think I\u2019d be finding a little prairie flower like you when I\u2019m just after a cup of coffee?\u201d the rider asked, sliding his hand onto the leather holster where his rifle rode alongside the saddle.

He doesn\u2019t think I can take him down,<\/em> Winnie thought. Her mind flashed back to the last Boise Citizen she\u2019d read, a story about another drifter, a good-for-nothing rapist attacking a young woman who\u2019d been traveling to Mountain Home to join her fianc\u00e9. Some of the local busybodies had even claimed the assault was her own fault for riding out alone\u2014like a ripe plum ready for the picking.

\u201cI\u2019m clear out of coffee, Mister,\u201d Winnie said, and then she whispered, \u201cand I\u2019m nobody\u2019s flower.\u201d

\u201cSay, you won\u2019t need that rifle anyways,\u201d he commented as he drew a letter from his saddlebag. \u201cYou\u2019d be from Boise, I\u2019ll bet. Douglas Bullock is your father and you\u2019re working that spread a little piece further on. Right?\u201d

\u201cWhat do you want with us?\u201d

\u201cYou are Edwina Ann Bullock then?\u201d

\u201cYes,\u201d Winnie admitted.

\u201cThis letter is for you. It\u2019s called a subpoena and it\u2019s from Judge LeFevre. It says you\u2019ll have to testify about your brother Chase when called upon to do so.\u201d

Winnie\u2019s face went red as she eyed the man. \u201cI know what a subpoena is, but Chase died last winter. He got hurt on a log run from Idaho City.\u201d

\u201cThe authorities don\u2019t figure his fall was any accident, Miss Bullock. Andrew Brady, the new prosecutor up in Boise County, he\u2019s put a man in jail. He\u2019s planning a trial for murder. You take this paper now and I\u2019ll be on my way.\u201d

\u201cWhat about my father? Don\u2019t you have one for him?\u201d Winnie asked, after she read her name on the envelope. But all she heard in reply was a little creaking sound from the saddle as the man mounted, flicked the reins, and turned his horse back toward town. He raised one hand, tipped his hat, and nodded goodbye so casually she wondered if he could even imagine what an uproar his message would cause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Without the rider, the plain sank back into its usual inertia, a wide vista featuring nothing to interrupt the vacant miles. The Bullocks were the first to set up housekeeping although, but the whole forty miles of desert between the Boise and Mountain Home would be irrigated after a new dam at Arrowrock went in. It\u2019d been approved in 1910 so that sometime soon\u2014Winnie hoped\u2014developers would dig the irrigation canal that would make the desert bear crops. Nevertheless, Winnie would have to stay on the homestead, unless some kind of miracle came along, until the high desert turned into a profitable farm.

As the subpoena said, Winnie\u2019s real name was Edwina. When she\u2019d been in the third grade at Longfellow School, two of the older girls made up a rhyme about it and spread their derision around the school. Winnie\u2019s older brother Chase had been the first to call her the name she went by now. When she was little and Mother\u2019s voice had risen to a sour note, she\u2019d call, \u201cEdwina Ann, come right now!\u201d When that happened Chase would hold her back a second and say, \u201cLittle Miss Winnie, I\u2019ll give you a pinny to make Mama smile!\u201d Sometimes he even slipped a penny into her hand before he let her go.

Later he\u2019d tell her that she was the Bullock family\u2019s winner\u2014Winnie the winner; she\u2019d make them all proud one day. Nevertheless, Edwina longed to experience her mother\u2019s warmth and approval, to feel her eyes on her sturdy eldest daughter the same way she gazed at willowy figures of Mandy and Claire. She\u2019d tell them, \u201cSomeday you\u2019ll both be beautiful brides and bring us all a fortune.\u201d Sometimes she\u2019d nod at Edwina, and say, \u201cYou too, dear.\u201d

All the young Edwina had to compare with beautiful<\/em> was ugly<\/em>. She\u2019d learned how an ugly insult could blunt your dreams and shove your own words down your throat. You\u2019d swallow them, even words like Hello<\/em>, because of the giggles and whispers that warned you how certain girls were not your friends. So you didn\u2019t ask questions like, Will you sit by me in gym class?<\/em> or, Do you like my braids this way?<\/em>

The easy breeze that had swept her along throughout her early childhood died the first day of the maypole dance rehearsals one April. She\u2019d been chosen as the top third grade girl with the most time to spare from her lessons so she could practice with the older girls. She\u2019d fill in so there\u2019d be someone on the sixteenth ribbon to make up the perfect number for winding around the pole.

\u201cGirls,\u201d Mrs. Englund announced, \u201cThis is Edwina. She\u2019ll be blue, on ribbon four, behind Roseanne and in front of Celia.\u201d

\u201cEdwina!\u201d<\/em> Celia asked, wrinkling her nose.

\u201cWhat an odd name,\u201d Roseanne giggled and then said, \u201cEddie, she\u2019s an Eddie.\u201d

\u201cEddie Weena,\u201d Celia added. \u201cWeena, Weena!\u201d They began chanting in low voices, \u201cEddie, Eddie, Eddie! Weena, Weena, Weena! Never had a Freddy! Never will!\u201d The girls savored the rhyme in their mouths as if it were a bubbly soda, or a caramel apple, sweet and sour, chewy and<\/em> juicy, conjured up by their cleverness\u2014and it was theirs. It belonged to them. And Edwina belonged to them as well, a toy. And after the teachers heard them and told them to stop, they\u2019d whisper as she walked by or tried to find a seat in choir. She would pretend not to hear the Eddie, Eddie, Eddie<\/em> that echoed in her mind. Never had a Freddy, never, never \u2026 <\/em>

For years Edwina yearned for a way to be accepted into the fold by popular girls, to stop the snickering that accompanied her backside as she walked across the playground. She saw how they clustered and patted each other\u2019s hair; their laughter and pleasure withheld from her, an unreachable ring on a daily merry-go-round. In her sorrow she cast about, looking for a way to ease the loneliness that she felt walking to school alone, walking home alone.

Late one afternoon while she sat half-hidden under the lilac tree in the yard writing in her diary, Chase came by and spotted her. \u201cHey Winnie-pinny, come out, come out wherever you are.\u201d His words reminded her of a line from their long ago hide and seek games. When he\u2019d entered sixth grade, he\u2019d given up tag and other games, claiming to be too grown up for kiddy play. His casual reference to the fun times they\u2019d had in the past brought tears to Winnie\u2019s eyes.

If I could just be<\/em> Winnie, they\u2019d stop teasing me<\/em>, she thought, but she had no idea how to make such a marvelous change happen. School would soon be out for the summer and if Chase could help her now, maybe when she started fourth grade in the fall the hateful Edwina<\/em> rhyme would\u2019ve simply disappeared.

\u201c. . . making fun of me at school,\u201d she finally blurted out.

Chase frowned and slid down next to her, inching himself under the lilac branches, the two of them side by side, just the way they used huddle together. \u201cAnd who would this be making fun of you?\u201d he asked.

\u201cCelia Phipps and Roseanne Busker started it. When we practiced for the maypole. They rhymed my name\u2014Weena, Weena,<\/em> and Eddie<\/em> like a boy\u2019s \u2026 and \u2026 I \u2026 I can\u2019t even say the rest.\u201d

\u201cThey\u2019re the worst girls in my class for making fun of people. Celia ought to wear a gold crown the way she bosses everyone around. And she\u2019ll deny everything if you tell.\u201d

\u201cMaybe you could talk to her?\u201d

Chase looked away and whispered, \u201cCelie Phipps, liar\u2019s lips.\u201d Then he said, \u201cYes, I will. Tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Casting her memories aside, Winnie realized the rider was, like Chase, long gone. She ran back to the tent house, hoping to read the subpoena and the letter that came with it before her father quit work for the day. The idea that Chase had come to harm from another person opened a huge gap between the way she\u2019d mourned her brother and the import of this new investigation. When she opened the summons, she saw that the prosecution had charged a Gordon Phipps. She wondered if the accused was related to Celia and if so, how.

\u201cA man caught up with me over by Standley Creek today,\u201d Winnie said when Father came in. She paused to sweep her hair from her eyes before turning to pour the hot water into the tea pot. \u201cI didn\u2019t have much warning without Striker to bark at him.\u201d She looked to the Border collie on the floor as he raised his head and perked his ears on hearing his name. Most of the time Winnie and Striker stuck together, but he\u2019d had a run-in with a coyote the night before and she\u2019d left him tied up for the afternoon so the torn skin above his eye would start to heal.

\u201cYou\u2019ve let your hair fall clear onto your cheeks, Winnie. Tighten the knot!\u201d Father said. \u201cNow you\u2019ve spilled the water too.\u201d He\u2019d insisted that Winnie wear black or gray and tie her hair back since she\u2019d finished high school\u2014not that her navy blues and browns hadn\u2019t been drab enough without the lacy collars and cuffs the other girls wore. With Chase dead. she\u2019d be in black for a whole year. Mourning or not, decency in the eyes of the Lord demanded that a grown woman look and act plainspoken, according to her father, a sometime Free Methodist preacher.

Winnie mopped the table with a cloth, managing to push the legal papers out of the way before they were damaged. \u201cThis is what he brought,\u201d she said, nodding toward them.

\u201cThese are from Boise County? What could they want with us?\u201d

\u201cYou remember where Chase got hurt,\u201d Winnie answered, as she poured the tea. She crossed over and sat in the rocking chair so she could watch her father\u2019s back while he read. She patted her leg to signal Striker to come closer and the dog whimpered a little as he came, as if he knew the soreness of the hurt she felt. His leg bones clunked against the floor boards as he settled. Her father turned and thrust the legal pages in her face. \u201cWhy is this subpoena for you, Winnie? What do you know that you haven\u2019t told your mother and me?\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ll be riding in an autobus from Boise to Idaho City with some other people next Wednesday. As it says in the letter, the prosecutor is calling witnesses together for a pretrial investigation.\u201d

\u201cWe\u2019ll see about that. If this Andrew Brady knew his business as a prosecutor, he\u2019d call on Chase\u2019s father and leave the women in the family alone.\u201d

Winnie turned her head so he wouldn\u2019t see the tears filling her eyes. Perhaps she\u2019d been called to testify because she was the one who cared for Chase all those months of sickness after he fell from the log wagon. But then a shudder ran through her as she remembered how she\u2019d sat at Chase\u2019s bedside asking herself, Why, why?<\/em> Maybe she should have been asking, How? How could this have happened?<\/em>

What if Chase had been pushed? They\u2019d never gotten any details about his fall. Loggers died when trees fell the wrong way, not when they were moving logs down a road. The sheriff had met Mother and Father and shown them the shady curve marked with a wooden stake. And a Boise Citizen<\/em> article reported what supposedly happened, but Chase hadn\u2019t been a careless man. I\u2019ll go to Boise on my own, she thought. Father will never seek out the truth because he\u2019ll be fighting the very men he needs to listen to.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

On Wednesday morning, when she usually started the fire and put on coffee before waking her father, she dressed silently. She opened her letter box, took out the silver dollars Chase had given her, and slipped them into her purse before she eased out of the tent house. At least she\u2019d have the money with her in case something unexpected happened. Late the night before, she\u2019d slipped out and pegged her horse, Sassy, away from the others so their nickering wouldn\u2019t wake Father. She was in the saddle well before sunup.

Father\u2019s angry words echoed in her mind as she rode. \u201cWhat haven\u2019t you told your mother and me?\u201d he\u2019d asked. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered how his question had burned in her ears. As if she knew of some secret wrongdoing that had led to Chase\u2019s death. While Sassy carried her along the way to meet with Andrew Brady, she whispered the lines she\u2019d say to Father later, \u201cI thought you needed your rest, Sir, and besides, I managed perfectly well.\u201d

As her emotions faded, Winnie watched the ground squirrels scampering through the sagebrush in the half-light spreading from the mountaintops. The little busybodies relayed ahead of her horse, calling their pip, pip, pip warnings to others who might be in danger. Riding through the vacant miles, she could hardly imagine the promised irrigation water someday turning the arid land into fertile fields. The hungry little guys would just be vermin then, their tunnels dug up and colonies killed off. People did what they had to do. She knew she\u2019d lie if the prosecutor asked about the money Chase had saved from his wages, keeping his stash secret from the family. Even from her until the very last.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Winnie stabled her horse near the city hall where a new autobus waited, a vehicle resembling a long metal wagon that would hold thirteen, counting the driver. Canvas curtains hung along the open windows to protect the passengers if it rained or, as was more likely today, they suffered from the dust. A small crowd of people stood waiting and a tall young woman in a tailored suit came up to Winnie.

\u201cYou must be Edwina,\u201d she said.

Winnie shook her head and looked down at her hands.

\u201cIda Swift, with the Boise Citizen.<\/em>\u201d

\u201cI won\u2019t be saying much, but thank you anyway. Chase wouldn\u2019t want his name spread around in the news.\u201d

\u201cAnd why not?\u201d

\u201cWell, he can\u2019t speak for himself now, can he? Seeing as how he\u2019s over in the Pioneer Cemetery.\u201d

Ida made a tch tch<\/em> noise with her mouth and added an mmm, mmm<\/em>. The reporter leaned forward and turned her face up at an angle so she could see into Winnie\u2019s eyes. \u201cI remember when your brother graduated high school, my dear. Such a bright future!\u201d

\u201cI suppose I should be getting into the autobus now.\u201d

\u201cWas your brother three or four years older than you?\u201d

\u201cYou know, I used to believe we\u2019d all have time to make our way in the world, but Chase never really had a chance, did he?\u201d Winnie asked, surprised at herself for going on about him to the newspaper columnist. Then, just as the first rays of sunlight burst through the maple trees and dappled the red skin of the autobus, the driver started the engine.

\u201cWouldn\u2019t you even like to know what will happen when we get there?\u201d
Winnie felt the smoothness of the door handle and when she stepped onto the autobus, she slid across the cool leather of the seat, shifting as far as possible away from Ida, who\u2019d followed her.

\u201cI\u2019ve covered a lot of crime stories, Edwina. I was right there when they convicted Governor Stuenenberg\u2019s killer and I covered the family\u2019s relief that justice would prevail. That\u2019s worth a whole lot more than any of my society columns you may have read. And a copy clerk writes most of them for me anyway. I can help you find some peace when Gordon Phipps hears his sentence and the world knows what he did. Think of your mother and father.\u201d

\u201cI never thought Chase would be touched by such evil as to be killed, and I don\u2019t want any part of making headlines for your paper!\u201d Winnie took out her little compact mirror and lip balm and applied the salve to her lips where the sun had burned them rough. When she finished, she snapped her bag shut, and pursed her lips as if to seal them. Ida turned away, looking for someone new to interview.

The vehicle they rode in soon passed through town and stopped at the end of Warm Springs Avenue. A young man, a little dusty from the quarry, climbed into the seat across the aisle from Ida. Winnie\u2019s eyes opened wide when she saw who he was\u2014Robert MacAulay, Chase\u2019s best friend from high school. She shrank back into her seat so that Ida\u2019s large hat hid her from view and listened as the reporter sounded him out.

\u201cI think Andrew Brady brought these charges against Gordon to get his name in the paper,\u201d Robert said. \u201cThe whole Republican Party is upset that a Democratic governor is in the state house.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ll be sure and print that opinion if you\u2019ll own up to it. You know, Andrew Brady passed law at Harvard and he\u2019s the blood nephew of our last governor.\u201d

\u2018I don\u2019t care who he\u2019s related to, and the Hawleys don\u2019t own anyone. What I said wouldn\u2019t be any different than what a lot of Chase\u2019s friends are saying, so go ahead, quote me.\u201d

\u201cWhy would Brady risk bringing a weak case to trial?\u201d

\u201cMiss Swift, he hasn\u2019t done it yet. He hasn\u2019t even heard what we all have to say.\u201d

\u201cI hear he has a witness against Phipps.\u201d

Macaulay appeared reluctant to say more, and as they wound up the canyon the engine whined ever louder until the driver stopped and poured cool water on it. Winnie watched the silver willow leaves shift in the breeze along the creek and then leaned out to listen to the water grumbling down its rocky bed. Another hour and they\u2019d be in Idaho City.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

When the autobus stopped in front of a saloon, Winnie couldn\u2019t resist commenting to no one in particular, \u201cIt\u2019s 1911 and they still hold court in a tavern?\u201d

\u201cWell, yes.\u201d Robert Macauley said. \u201cSay, I didn\u2019t see you on the up ride here, Winnie,\u201d he added with a smile. \u201cWere you hiding out then?\u201d He grasped her elbow to help her inside the Miner\u2019s Exchange. A long, polished bar where liquor was served at night, stretched across the room.

\u201cThat\u2019s where the judge sits during trials,\u201d Macaulay whispered. Winnie tried to hide her surprise that a bar could double for a place where justice was supposed to prevail. What a place for a trial! The witnesses all sat down and then a warden sent them, one at a time, over to Andrew Brady\u2019s office, across the street and up over the liquor store. \u201cThere\u2019s nowhere else for us to wait,\u201d Robert explained.

\u201cDo you believe this Gordon Phipps pushed Chase off the logs?\u201d Winnie asked.

\u201cDidn\u2019t you know \u2026 he\u2019s Celia\u2019s older brother, that girl you had trouble with back in grade school.\u201d Robert paused, rubbing the coin he held between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing it, as if it might fly into the air or drop to the floor of its own accord. \u201cI\u2019ll be telling the prosecutor what a good person Chase was, Winnie, but you might be prepared to learn a few things. Chase got a taste of freedom up here in the mountains.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Andrew Brady sat behind a small desk that might have been built for someone\u2019s grandfather. His long legs stretched across the doorway and he moved them abruptly, causing Winnie to trip a little as she crossed the threshold from the landing and stepped in. Her purse, the one she\u2019d beaded so carefully by hand, flew across the room and smacked against the log wall.

\u201cYou\u2019re obliged to tell me the whole truth here, Edwina Bullock,\u201d Brady said as he stood, retrieved the purse and picked up a Bible from his desk. \u201cHold your hand on this book and swear to it. Do you so promise?\u201d

\u201cYes sir.\u201d

Winnie took a deep breath as he sat back down. She looked hard at the man who held her more or less hostage and saw a tense face with hooded eyes. She wanted him to let her and all of the Bullocks go free, leaving Chase\u2019s reputation as a good son and brother unharmed. To just forget the whole charade. And yet, if Phipps had caused Chase\u2019s death, she\u2019d cheer to see him convicted. It felt as if her whole being depended on Andrew Brady and she groaned to think that she and Chase were only steps on the ladder of his plans to rise above them.

\u201cMr. Brady,\u201d she said. \u201cWhy am I here?\u201d

\u201cYou ever hear Chase Bullock talk about Gordon Phipps?\u201d

\u201cSir?\u201d

\u201cYou nursed the deceased through his illness, isn\u2019t that right? Did he ever tell you about the accident or why he and Phipps were riding on the logs?\u201d

\u201cNo sir.\u201d

Brady came out from behind the desk and kneeled beside her chair. \u201cYou mustn\u2019t lie to me, Edwina. Its Winnie isn\u2019t it? Did you know your brother drank with the other loggers of a Saturday night? Did you know he fought in the street out here after midnight when the bars closed? Your brother was a roustabout, wasn\u2019t he? You know how they are. What did he tell you about Gordon Phipps?\u201d

Winnie\u2019s breath struggled in her throat forcing a rude gulp from her lips. The men she\u2019d known had never thrust themselves so near her face and she smelled the lavender aroma of the soap he\u2019d used in his bath. A narrow ray of light from the window striped across his cheek as he leaned ever closer, and she felt his breath as he whispered, \u201cTell me.\u201d

Something shifted inside her and she began to feel terribly small, as if the chair had grown around her and she might be lost in it forever. He raised his hand to her chin ready to pull the words out of her mouth that would condemn Gordon Phipps, words that would also prove Chase had been a wayward son. A silent moment passed and then Winnie heard a howling sound filling the tiny room and bouncing from the rafters. She wondered where the shrieking came from, and the next thing she knew, Brady leaned over her, a cup of water in his hand. \u201cYou were upset at me and then you blacked out,\u201d he said. \u201cHere, drink this.\u201d

Winnie gulped a few swallow and handed the glass back to him. They looked at each other cautiously, as if a new uproar might flare up between them at any moment.

\u201cI\u2019ll let you go for now, Miss Bullock, but the law requires you to report what you know about Chase and Gordon Phipps. Write to me at the address here on my card\u2014Mr. Andrew Brady, P. A., Boise County Courthouse, Idaho City, Idaho.\u201d He pressed the card into her hand, opened the office door, and led her down the outdoor steps. He handed her gently over to the warden who\u2019d been waiting. \u201cShe may need a bit of looking after,\u201d he said.

Ida Swift stood in the doorway of the bar. Dropping her officious manner, she wrapped an arm around Winnie\u2019s shoulders and led her along the wooden walkway to an outside bench.

\u201dI never imagined Chase would\u2019ve sheltered you so completely. He really didn\u2019t tell you anything about this Gordon Phipps that Brady is after?\u201d

\u201cNo, he didn\u2019t. But when we were in grade school, Chase protected me against Gordon\u2019s little sister Celia. She\u2019d been a ringleader in teasing me about my name. I guess Chase and Gordon may\u2019ve never been friends after that, but all the time I took care of him after he fell\u2014he said nothing to me about drinking or fighting. Maybe something wicked really did happen.\u201d

Ida held her peace, but reached into her bag, drew out a large linen handkerchief, and dabbed at the moisture on Winnie\u2019s forehead. Then she stood and walked to the end of the boardwalk. Winnie clasped her hands over her chest, took a deep breath, and followed her. \u201cDo you understand now?\u201d she asked.

A Lazuli bunting landed in the grass in front of them and began pecking for fallen berries from a nearby chokecherry bush. It searched restlessly, the eyes darting as fast as its beak.

\u201cI used to believe that families like yours, where the fathers rule, kept private counsel and when trouble came along the women always knew more than they were telling.\u201d

\u201cWhat would you know about my father?\u201d

\u201cBirds seem so free, don\u2019t they, flying wherever they take a notion, but lots of them starve in the winter. Or freeze \u2026 others know to fly south.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was late when the autobus returned to Boise and a crowd had gathered on the lawn outside city hall. People milled around asking questions, as if the riders had attended a holiday celebration. The whole Bullock family, scrubbed and polished, came forward to meet Winnie, Mandy and Claire dressed in frilly jumpers and their Sunday shoes. Ida Swift kept her hand firmly on Winnie\u2019s back and said, \u201cThis young lady needs rest and quiet.\u201d

Mr. Bullock grunted and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

\u201cYou needn\u2019t worry\u2014she hasn\u2019t told me or anyone else a thing we didn\u2019t already know.\u201d

\u201cThat\u2019s good.\u201d

\u201cYou see how these people are acting?\u201d Ida said. \u201cPlenty will be published about Chase in the newspapers tomorrow and for weeks to come if there is a trial. You should give Edwina permission to tell her side of her brother\u2019s story.\u201d

\u201cNo! Never!\u201d

\u201cShe knows where to find me.\u201d

Father raised his arm and flung his hand forward as if to shoo the reporter away.

Ida put her mouth to Winnie\u2019s ear and whispered, \u201cThe old goat.\u201d

All the emotion of the day, the tears and fears, the grief over Chase\u2019s fate and the worry over what Father would think or say about her actions\u2014all of it flared up in Winnie\u2019s mind and her heart beat a little faster as first one giggle and then another escaped from her compressed lips. Soon she and Ida were bent over, their howls of laughter erupting into the crowd and drawing everyone\u2019s attention. Douglas Bullock allowed a smile to come over his face as he nodded to the onlookers as if to say\u2014How foolish and unpredictable these women can be.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Winnie tossed and turned as she tried to sleep that night in her old room at the Bullock home. The events of the day crowded into her dreams. Andrew Bullock loomed over her one minute and in the next Ida Swift and Robert MacAulay peppered her with questions she couldn\u2019t answer. She even seemed to see Chase and Gordon Phipps riding on the logs, to see Chase being pushed from behind, over and over, by some invisible force, his hands gripping the chains holding the logs, his grip breaking open. Several times she startled awake and had to remember why she was back in her old room and not in her little alcove in the tent house on the homestead.

The sun poured in from the window when she woke up late the next morning. She lay in bed thinking about the claim, the backbreaking work, the boredom of following a draft horse for days on end, of guiding the chain as it yanked sagebrush from the earth, and yes, even about the harsh beauty of the desert.

She imagined Ida, in her neatly tailored, cream-colored suit, standing near the field, shaking her finger at Father. Ida Swift would never have let herself be pushed into such a backbreaking attempt. She\u2019d force everyone involved to think about the how and the why of such a setup. Most importantly, in the end, she\u2019d make up her own mind. There wouldn\u2019t be any miracle to free Winnie from working the homestead; she\u2019d have to save herself.

Winnie knew she would miss the cactus flowers and the sage sparrows, not to mention the company of a faithful dog like Striker. But someone else would have to clear brush and break ground. Maybe Mother would find a lodger to stay in Chase\u2019s room so they could afford to hire a young man to take her place. Maybe the irrigation canal would never be built and all their efforts would go for nothing anyway.

After she\u2019d bathed, Winnie put on her high school graduation dress, checked to make sure the silver dollars were still in her purse, and headed downstairs. When she passed an open window, she caught a whiff of lavender scent flowing in on a gentle puff of air. Her hand flew to her cheek as she remembered Andrew Brady\u2019s face inches from her own, a trail of lavender sweetened with orange and spiced with clove from his cologne floating in the air between them. She wouldn\u2019t write to him until she\u2019d learned more about what happened that day, the day Chase fell from the logging wagon. Downstairs she found her mother was washing up the breakfast dishes. \u201cI\u2019ll be going to see Ida Swift today,\u201d Winnie said.

\u201cYour father\u2019s already gone to the claim and your horse is still in the stable downtown.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m going to ask her if she can take me on as a copy clerk. I\u2019d like to learn more about the newspaper business.\u201d

\u201cYou might ask her if she has a room for you as well! You know what your father will say when you tell him.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

—————————————————————————–<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Margaret Koger grew up on a ranch in Idaho after rural electricity came along and before the family could afford a well due to a dry sandy outcropping. Her dad traded used tires for her first pony. She writes from this background with cowboys and their constituents.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Winnie Bullock stood at the edge of the creek, watching it swirl into a pool next to a large boulder. She tightened the drawstring on her hat to guard against the gusts of late spring wind and then stooped to pick up a piece of quartz, its silver mica glittering with moisture. Since her brother … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":711,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-647","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/06\/tingey-injury-law-firm-nSpj-Z12lX0-unsplash.jpg?fit=640%2C427&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/647","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=647"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/647\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":712,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/647\/revisions\/712"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/711"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=647"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=647"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=647"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}