Authors: Dorothy Garlock
Morning was approaching when Jane came out of the privy, but there still was not sufficient light to read the note. In the
east, spikes of pale, opalescent pink, the first glow of dawn’s radiant face, filled the sky. The rooster in Sweet William’s
chicken yard was announcing not only the day but his superiority over the lazy fat hens in his harem.
A light shone briefly when someone opened the back door of the cookhouse and came out. Swinging a bucket, the man made for
the barn where the milch cows were kept. A gate squeaked, and then all was quiet except for the chirping of birds preparing
to leave their roosting places in the branches of the tall pines that towered above the privy.
Standing beside the small building, Jane had not felt so alone since she was a child. It was hard to accept that it was one
of the women who wanted to hurt her. She would not go back to the women’s quarters until daylight, of that she was sure. After
a moment she walked back up the path, skirted alongside the building, then crossed over to the cookshack and stepped up on
the porch.
She stood quietly. If things has been different she would have enjoyed staying here and being a part of this new venture.
She had to admire Kilkenny for taking on the task of making a spot of civilization in the depth of this vast forest.
Tents and makeshift shelters along the street were dots in the early-morning light. The deserted buildings under repair loomed
like dark shadows. Across the street a glow came from the upstairs window of Kilkenny’s house. A campfire lit up a small area
beside the cookhouse and over it coffee was being made in a large oblong boiler.
The inside of the cookhouse was brightly lighted. The aroma of coffee and the smell of frying meat greeted Jane when she opened
the door. Bill was at the iron grill turning strips of meat with a long-handled fork.
“Need some help?” she asked cheerfully.
“Mornin’, Miss Love. Ain’t ya up mighty early?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d lend a hand.”
“I’d be plumb outta my mind to turn down help from a pretty woman.”
“Now I know why they call you Sweet William.” Jane forced a smile. “I must wash. I didn’t want to wake everyone—” she finished
lamely and went to the bench. After washing her face and hands, she dried them on the towel that hung on a nail above the
basin. She felt the note in her pocket and was tempted to take it out and read it but didn’t want to arouse Bill’s curiosity.
“What can I do?”
“Take over here. I’ll get the griddle ready for the flapjacks. Bull cook’s gone to milk. I swear he ain’t got the brains of
a bull
frog.”
Bill handed her the fork.
A dishpan of sliced meat sat on the reservoir end of the stove.
“Do you need all this?”
“Yeah, an’ I ain’t sure it’s enough. Might have to slice more. T.C. said a big crew was comin’ in this mornin’. Most of ‘em
will have et, though.” Bill pulled a white cloth from a box under the table. “Wrap up in this here flour sack so’s not to
get that pretty dress all grease-splattered.”
“Thank you. I’d just as soon not get it soiled.”
Trying to keep her mind off the paper in her pocket, Jane worked at the grill. When the strips were brown on both sides, she
put them in a shallow pan and set it aside to keep warm. Pans of biscuits were ready for the oven. Bill dipped a brush in
the meat drippings and whisked it across the tops of the biscuits. He whipped eggs in a large pan and added buttermilk, flour,
soda and salt. When he finished he added a large handful of sugar to the mixture, then set the first pan of biscuits in the
oven.
Jane marveled at how effortlessly he went about the work, and how organized he was. He was pouring batter onto the griddle
from a large pitcher when she heard him greet Kilkenny.
“Mornin’, T.C.”
“Morning. I see you have a new helper.”
“Yup.”
As much as Jane would have liked to ignore him, politeness was a part of her nature. She nodded a greeting, then turned back
to the grill.
“That gal-danged Cookie got drunk again,” Bill complained. “He’s out milkin.’ Hope to hell he knows a teat from a tail.”
Jane busied herself turning the meat. She was aware when Kilkenny came behind the work counter and poured coffee from the
pot on the stove.
“Cookie tending the boiler outside? Men from the cutting camp will be here soon yellin’ for coffee.”
“Supposed to be. He ort to be able to handle it. I was glad Miss Love popped in. Ain’t had no chance yet to ask ‘er to fix
me up with one of them pointed whisker thin’s when she sets up shop. Goin’ to though. Think I’d look real stylish in one.
Women’ll be swarmin’ all over me.”
When it dawned on Jane that Bill was talking about her, she turned from the stove and gave him a puzzled look.
“Are you talking about me, Mr. Wassall?”
Bill laughed. “Ain’t nobody else I’d trust my whiskers with.”
“But… I’m not setting up a shop. I’m leaving here as soon as I can find a way back to the station.”
“Leavin’?” Bill flipped flapjacks on the iron griddle with a long-handled turner. “Ya jist got here. What ya want to be leavin’
for? T.C. said he was buildin’ ya a parlor.”
“Parlor?”
“Tonsorial parlor. Yo’re a barber, ain’t ya?”
“I’m
not a
barber. Where in the world did you get such
a
crazy idea?”
“Now, Bill, I never said that Miss Pickle—”
“Pickle? Who’s that? Ain’t yore name Miss Love?”
“It is,” Jane said angrily. “That’s
his idea
of being funny because I don’t fall in with his… hare-brained schemes. I’m not staying in Timbertown. I’m leaving here today…
if I have to walk.” Anger turned to despair, and she was terribly afraid she would cry.
“I’ll be dang-bustit. I thought sure—Well, never mind. How many flapjacks ya want, T.C.?” Bill spoke sharply, his annoyance
at T.C. for causing him to make a fool of himself reflected in his tone. He firmly intended to give his boss good raking over
the coals when he had the time.
“Start with four.”
Jane had taken biscuits from the oven and was placing the pan on the serving counter when Mrs. Winters came in. She had just
opened her mouth to greet the woman when Mrs. Winters turned to Kilkenny.
“You give her my job?” she asked.
“No!” Jane said hastily before Kilkenny could answer. “I came in for coffee and was helping until you got here.” She whipped
off the flour sack and handed it to Mrs. Winters.
“You said five o’clock,” Mrs. Winters said accusingly to Bill and wrapped the sack around her middle.
“I meant four o’clock,” he said crossly. “Sit and eat, Miss Love. Three flapjacks or four?”
“One, please.” Jane wanted to run out the door, but was determined not to retreat. She took the plate Bill handed her and
went to the far end of the table. T.C. picked up his plate and moved down the table to sit beside her.
“Coffee?”
“I’ll get it.”
“Sit still.”
Burning with resentment, her stomach in such turmoil she was afraid it would reject the food, Jane remained seated. Kilkenny
filled the coffeepot from the large boiler on the stove and carried it and two mugs to the table.
“Thank you,” Jane murmured without looking at him.
“Don’t mention it. Bill, shove that platter of biscuits over here. Have a biscuit, Miss Pickle.”
Jane slammed her fork down on the table. Anger overcame reason and the tears that had been dangerously close. When she looked
at him, her eyes spit blue flame. She wanted to slam her fist in his eye with every ounce of her strength. The thought sobered
her. What were this place and this man doing to her? She couldn’t remember ever wanting to strike anyone before. Her practical
side argued that if not for the threatening notes she might have been able to take the teasing.
“This has gone on long enough!” Jane choked back her temper and, in spite of her anger, her voice was not loud. “I’m tired
of your making fun of my name. It was not a name I chose, but one that was given to me at birth. You are a small-minded, vindictive
man, Mr. Kilkenny. The sooner I leave your town the better I’ll like it.”
For a moment her eyes, like daggers, fiercely met the gaze of eyes as silver as a shiny new sword. A black brow quirked upward
as T.C. responded.
“You’re right, Miss Love. I apologize for having fun at your expense. But you should learn not to rise to the bait.” His lips
curved in a semblance of a smile. “Last night you deprived me of my fun.”
“It was childish of you to bait me in front of your friend.” She spoke coolly, refusing to look away as his eyes raked her
face.
He squinted at her but didn’t speak, giving himself a moment to assemble his thoughts. Anger had added a rosy tint to the
otherwise clear skin of her perfectly oval face. Her mouth was full and soft, her eyes that deep, deep, smoky blue. There
was something different about them this morning. They were shining with something more than anger. Was it tears? She didn’t
appear to be one of those women who cried when things didn’t suit her.
“I agree. Now eat. I have a favor to ask.”
A look of astonishment came over her face. “You have the nerve to ask me a favor after your despicable behavior?”
“It’s not for me.” He looked away from her. “Bill, dish up some breakfast for Doc. Miss Love has agreed to help me get him
to eat it.”
“I never agreed to any such thing!”
“That’s just the ticket,” Bill said happily. “Herb said Doc ain’t et enough lately to keep a bird alive. He’ll not last the
week if he don’t eat. Doc’s got a soft spot for a pretty woman. Sweet-talk him into eatin’, Miss Love.”
“See there? Do you want to be responsible for a man’s death?” T.C. murmured for her ears alone.
His voice held a trace of amusement and her eyes darted to him. From the laughter in his eyes she knew he was teasing, and
she was in no mood for it.
“You’re a… wretched man!” she declared, and bristled even more when she heard his low chuckle.
Jeb Hobart stuck his head in the door.
“Wagons comin’. Men and supplies.”
“I hope they’ve et,” Bill shouted from the back of the kitchen.
“They have, but send Cookie out with a bag of cups.”
“He’s outside. Here.” Bill carried a large sack of tin cups to the foreman. “Keep ‘em out till I get the men in the bunkhouse
fed, then the women.”
“Speak to you for a moment, T.C.?”
“Sure.” T.C. drained his coffee cup, got to his feet and looked down at Jane: “Don’t go away, Miss Love.” He followed the
foreman outside.
Alone at the end of the table, Jane put her hand in her pocket and felt the square of folded paper. Both Mrs. Winters and
Bill were in the back of the kitchen. She pulled the paper from her pocket and unfolded it. Glancing down, she read the printed
words quickly.
leave here
yu be sorry.
She refolded the note and shoved it back into her pocket. What did it mean? Was it a threat to frighten her into staying so
her enemy could continue to torment her?
Her hands were shaking and fear had dried up her throat. She forced herself to take a few sips of the hot coffee, then found
that she could drain the cup.
“Here’s some grub for Doc.” Bill placed a tin plate in front of her. “Herb’s got coffee made by now. Kid can’t cook for sh—Kid
can’t cook a’tall.”
Jane looked down at the stack of flapjacks swimming in thick dark syrup and the strips of greasy meat. Not the meal she would
feed a sick man.
“Shouldn’t he have a glass of milk?”
“Milk?” Bill laughed as he wrapped a plate of biscuits in a cloth. “Doc’d puke at the sight of a glass a milk.”
“Nevertheless, if he’s sick he needs it.”
“Bet ya two bits against a cow chip he won’t drink it.” Bill lifted the lid from a crock and scooped up milk in a tin cup.
“If I had two bits to spare I’d take you up on that.”
“Ready, Miss Love?” T.C. came past the rows of tables and stood waiting. “I’ll take you over, then I’ve got a hundred things
to do.”
The porch was crowded with men waiting for Bill to ring the bell for breakfast.
“Mornin’ ma’am” The man who spoke was Bob Fresno, the one who had approached her the previous night. He stood amid the men
with his cap in his hand.
“Morning,” Jane said, after glancing to see who had spoken.
“You bringin’ me my breakfast?” Bob asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
Jane ignored the question. Kilkenny’s hand on her elbow urged her through the crowd and off the porch.
It was hardly daylight, but light enough for Jane to see that the town had come to life. A string of supply wagons lined the
street. Dozens of men were unloading sawed lumber and kegs. Jeb Hobart was very much in evidence directing placement of the
building supplies. Jane and T.C. crossed the road just as more wagons rattled into town.
“Will Mr. Wassall have to feed all these men?”
“He’s prepared. He pit-cooked a steer yesterday and he’s got gallons of beans. They’ll be fed.”
Colin Tallman was standing on the porch with a cup of coffee in his hand when they came up the steps.
“Mornin’, ma’am. You had breakfast already, T.C.?”
“’Course. I’m not used to lazin’ in bed like some I know.”
“You didn’t ride fifty miles yesterday either. Who’s this for? Me or Herb?”
“Doc. I heard him cussin’ Herb this morning, so I know he’s awake.”
Colin opened the door and waited for them to enter, then followed them into the house. A light fanned out into the hallway
from a room at the back of the house.
“Herb’s in there tryin’ to fix up somethin’. He’s worried about Doc.”
“I thought maybe he’d eat something for Miss Love. Herb says he hasn’t eaten much for a week.”
“Miss Love?” Colin said. “You said her name was—”
“—I was mistaken,” T.C. said hastily. “Her name is Love.”
Jane looked up at the tall, fair-haired man. He was grinning.
“I’d be happy to hit him for you, Miss Love.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tallman, but I’m reserving that pleasure for myself.”