“I cannot imagine what you could possibly say that might cause me displeasure. Why, your association, and the teaching position, are the best things that have happened to me since I disembarked from the stagecoach.”
He shuffled his feet. The spurs beat an unsteady tune against the floor. What made western men so enamored with the fool things? They seemed silly on a man not astride a horse. Moreover, there was no saving a floor after it had been gouged by a careless cowboy’s spur.
“I don’t think you’ll feel the same in another minute, ma’am…”
“Why don’t you let me decide about that? Now, what’s got you twisting your hat into something for the rag bin?”
He hurriedly unclasped the hat, straightening out its crooked brim with a shake of his head. The waning sunlight cast shadows across his face, so she could only half see the expression in his eyes when he looked up at her.
Thankfully, the banker stopped procrastinating.
“I’m so sorry to have to break the news. Do you realize a man was killed earlier today? Just down the street from the bank, by the saloon?”
“I am.” What could the gunfight have to do with her?
Brown cleared his throat, the sound like sawdust on creaky floorboards. “The, uh, gentleman who was killed was Ernest Handel.” He paused, eyeing her as if he expected something.
The name had a familiar ring but Kristen couldn’t place it. She met, and forgot, many people. Her father’s business made passing introductions commonplace. In addition, the trip westward had produced uncountable such meetings. What significance—or memory—should this dead man evoke?
“Lorelei Handel, the schoolteacher, is his wife.
Was
his wife,” Randall corrected hurriedly. “Ernie was her husband. He is—he was—the man who got shot today.”
“How tragic.” Kristen covered her mouth with one hand. When the man in the street had been a stranger, his passing was troublesome enough but now, with his identity familiar to her, she felt an extra stab of sorrow. Instantly she thought to comfort his widow. “What can I do to help? Surely I can do something, can’t I?”
Back in Boston, she would have baked a cake. Here, the grieving process might vary. She did not want to look ridiculous showing up in the widow’s parlor with an inappropriate gesture of condolence.
“Well, as a matter of fact, there is something you can do for Lorelei.” Randall’s face blanched. His Adam’s apple bobbed above the collar of his shirt, then slid back down out of view.
“Great,” she heaved a sigh of relief. So that’s what this unexpected visit was about—a condolence call! The knots in her middle began to calm. “Anything I can do to help—just anything. Name it.”
Before the words were completely out of her mouth, Randall said, “Your job. Well, her job. I mean, the job you think you’re starting. That is, because Lorelei is leaving—was leaving. It—I—she—oh, there’s no easy way to say this, I’m afraid.” He paused, his face contorted in embarrassment. “Listen, I’m here to ask that you step aside from the teaching position. Lorelei and Ernie intended to homestead, and start a family. Now…” He spread his hands helplessly.
He wanted her to give up her job? Before she had even begun to teach?
Good Lord, what next?
A hopeful smile crossed the banker’s face. “So…what do you say? Do you think you can move aside, and let the widow keep her place at the school? Without it, now that Ernie is gone, I just do not believe Lorelei can pull through. She has to have something to live for, doesn’t she?”
****
Her stomach growled indelicately but the food before her held no appeal. Mashed potatoes, a piece of fried chicken and boiled carrots filled her plate nicely, and would have, under other circumstances, been enticing but Kristen could only just take a sip of milk now and again. The thought of funneling any of the solid food down her constricted throat was more than she could bear.
Life, and its challenges, had been tolerable before now. There had even been times these past weeks when the adventure of striking out on her own had seemed a lark. Meeting new people, breaking out from under Father’s thumb, riding the stagecoach unaccompanied…being rescued by a handsome man—yes, there had been many moments when things had been more than tolerable. They had been pleasant and she had felt finally in control of her own destiny.
Kristen listlessly pushed a lump of potatoes to the side of her plate with the back of her fork. It stuck solidly against the edge of the china. With a sigh, she placed her fork on the plate and dropped her hands to her lap.
“Not feeling hungry tonight?”
Julia’s query forced Kristen to lift her stare from her lap. She gazed across the table at the woman. The other four ladies seated around the round pine table were, like Julia, dancers for the revue show at the dance hall. They were all engaged in conversation, save for Julia whose earnest expression and inquisitive stare made Kristen feel guilty for having been such an abominable dinner partner.
Remembering her manners, Kristen compelled herself to smile. She lifted her shoulders, and then dropped them quickly. “I suppose I’m not.”
One plucked eyebrow lifted as Julia tilted her head and made no attempt to disguise her disbelief. “Why, I can hear your tummy growling clear over here. You might not be hungry, but
it
sure as shooting is.”
Covering her middle with one hand, Kristen said, “I suppose you’re right. I’m physically hungry but mentally—and emotionally—I’m just much too indisposed to have an appetite.”
“Something bothering you, is it? It ain’t a happy face I see looking back at me.”
The dancers were rough around the edges, unrefined and ill schooled but they were good, decent women simply trying to make their way in a world designed more for men’s accommodations than for theirs. They worked hard at the dance hall, and while theirs was not a life Kristen would have consciously chosen for herself, she was smart enough to realize that most of the women hadn’t chosen the vocation, either. They danced because they could and it paid the bills, not because they aspired to work in a smoke-filled room amidst catcalls and loud men.
Tonight Kristen was too preoccupied to mentally correct Julia’s speech error. She merely shrugged her acceptance of her companion’s assessment.
A satisfied nod sent Julia’s thick black curls bouncing against her shoulders. “That’s what I thought. You’ve got troubles. Is it man troubles? If it is, maybe me and the other girls might be able to help. Between us, we’ve had more than our share of man troubles, ain’t we, girls?”
A wave of agreeing murmurs came instantly.
It was a kind offer but Kristen doubted anyone could help her now. Since Randall’s departure, she had pored over her options and they were virtually non-existent. How could some dance hall girls get her out of such a tight jam?
“It’s not man trouble.”It would be easier to reconcile herself to romantic issues. They could always be solved, one way or another. “I wish it was something like that. It’s…well, it’s worse, actually.”
Julia leaned closer, the tips of her curls drooping dangerously near the half-eaten pile of potatoes on her plate. “You ain’t…you know, ‘in the family way’?”
She shook her head in denial. “No, of course not. I’m not that kind of woman.”
Julia had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t think so, but I had to ask. You understand, don’t you?” When Kristen nodded, Julia continued speaking. “I knew you would get my drift. Now, don’t go getting any false ideas about me, or the rest of the girls, either.” She jerked a thumb at the others. “None of us is that kind of girl. We might shake our fannies and kick up our heels, but all that’s only for show, mind you. When the curtains come down, we’re just good-hearted ladies trying to earn a living. Nothing but dancing going on, not for any of us.”
“I didn’t believe otherwise.”
“Of course you didn’t.” The other women had stopped talking and were listening to the conversation. Julia turned and asked, “She ain’t the snooty kind, is she, girls? She wouldn’t think poorly of us just because we’re dancehall girls and she’s a fine lady.”
“Nah, we can tell she would never think ill of us.” Geraldine, a red-haired, buxom dancer waved one hand in Kristen’s direction. Her southern accent turned the sentence into one long, drawled sound that took Kristen a moment to decipher. When she finally did understand, she smiled.
It felt good to talk, even with women with whom she had so little in common.
“Thank you for realizing I would never… ah, ‘think ill’ of any of you. I have no reason to do so.”
She wasn’t ready to totally endorse the dancehall lifestyle but she had seen enough of her boardinghouse companions to know they were good, upstanding women. Their life choices had been severely limited, as hers were now. But at least they could dance more than a waltz. The expensive education her father provided had given her knowledge of the ballroom dance steps, but none of anything more modern.
I won’t even be able to find employment in the dancehall
, Kristen lamented silently.
Julia smiled wistfully across the table. “I ain’t never heard anyone talk the way you do, Kristen. I wish…oh I really, from the bottom of my heart, wish I might someday have such grand manners and talk so good.”
“So well,” Kristen corrected with a return smile. “And you do many, many things that I am not capable of doing.”
“I still wish I could talk as go—
as well
—as you. Ain’t nothing quite like the sound of a fine-bred lady to turn a man’s head, or to make a gal feel like a queen. Ain’t that right, girls?”
Murmurs of appreciation and admiration brought a blush up Kristen’s throat and across her cheeks. She
did
have some value, and talent. She felt uplifted, and hopeful. There was no clear reason for her to feel that way—she still was no closer to deciding her future, or fortifying her purse, than she had been at the beginning of the meal.
“Why, you should give lessons.” Geraldine waved her fork above her plate for emphasis. A splatter of potatoes hit the tablecloth but she continued, “Ain’t that right, gals? Why, back in Mississippi girls took lessons in ‘most everything…stitchin’ and bakin’…why, I heard they even had lessons in talking proper. Now that I could cotton to…the sewin’ needle and oven weren’t made for me, with my clumsy nature, but now talking—that I could take a fancy to.”
Her friends giggled.
Julia teased, “Yeah, we know just how much you like to talk, Geraldine. God knows, you could talk the ears off corn if you set your mind to it. Couldn’t she?”
The other women voiced their agreement, much of it in good-natured jibes or harmless jokes.
Kristen felt like part of the group, if only for the minute. She sorely missed her friends from Boston. Out here she was on her own, by her own choice, but that didn’t mean she still didn’t sometimes long for companionship and girl-talk. She basked in the warmth of friendship and laughter, and joking over small things. It warmed her heart, and fed her soul. Mostly, it made her feel less lonely than she had been in a long time.
Then, an idea. It was just a small idea, really. Not a blazing, red-hot firebrand of an idea, but more a flickering, hopeful wisp of one. Still…even the tiniest ember could be fanned into a roaring flame, if given the right care and attention.
Suddenly her appetite returned, as loud and demanding as her rumbling belly. She lifted her fork, scooped a more than adequate lump of potatoes onto the tines and raised it to her mouth. If her circumstances didn’t improve, she might not be able to afford many more meals, so why not eat up? The company was good, the food hot and there was no amount of worrying that could erase the lousy day she’d just endured.
With a toss of her head, Kristen wondered what was on the menu for dessert. She thought she might be able to eat a pie—or two—on her own. The knots that had plagued her for hours had finally unraveled, and she wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to enjoy the respite.
Undoubtedly she would spend the night staring at the darkened ceiling in her room, formulating the details of the plan taking shape in her head.
Now the ladies had managed to lift her spirits and she wasn’t silly enough to ignore the warmth flooding her veins. It had nothing to do with Mrs. King’s excellent chicken or the company, although both of those were enjoyable enough. And, thank goodness, it didn’t have anything to do with the state of her personal life—the romantic aspects of it, that was.
No, the quickening of Kristen’s pulse was the first flickering glow of providence. It was long overdue, so she savored the heat of optimism as fully as the meal.
Chapter Nine
The Emporium was nearly empty, the hour too early for most residents of the town to be out and about. Kristen was pleased there was only one other customer in the place. It gave her the clerk’s undivided attention.
Thank goodness for late nights and deep sleepers
.
The fallout from the gunfight still raged. Random shots, more numerous as the hours passed and the whiskey at the saloon flowed, punctuated darkness until the early hours of the morning. Word around town was that the shot killing Ernie was stray, intended for some unscrupulous horse thief. Tempers flared over the senseless act, making a few of Brown’s Point more vocal citizens demand retribution. Whether or not anyone would ever be brought to justice for the act was doubtful but there was enough noise being made for a “necktie social” to keep everyone awake, even those who were safely in their beds.
The hullabaloo turned to Kristen’s advantage. She took her time perusing the available goods. The items on display were shoddy by comparison to the finer pieces she would have been able to purchase back home but there was no helping it; these goods would have to do.
“I’d like six skeins of blue embroidery thread. The same number of wide-eyed needles, please. And six of those lace-trimmed linen hankies, if you will.” She pointed to her selections, and watched the clerk remove the items from the display case. When the small pile was placed on the counter before her, she nodded her approval. “Perfect, thank you.”