Western Spring Weddings Page 2

  “Yeah,” Mr. Harris said drily. “I hear. Next thing you know you’ll be wearin’ a black silk top hat.”

  The boy laughed and flicked the reins. “Where to, ma’am?”

  “Oh.” Mentally she counted up the precious few coins at the bottom of her reticule.

  “I—”

  “Take her to the Smoke River Hotel,” Mr. Harris said.

  “Righto, Gray. Then I’ll drive you on over to the livery stable.”

  The wagon thumped along over what must be the main street and stopped in front of a white-painted three-story hotel. The next thing she knew two strong hands gripped her around the waist and lifted her down onto the board sidewalk.

  “You’re shakin’,” he said quietly. “Anything wrong?”

  “N-no. Thank you.”

  He released her. “Nervous about meetin’ up with Caleb, maybe? Woulda thought he’d be there to meet your train.”

  “He—he didn’t know when we were arriving. Exactly.” She couldn’t look at him.

  “Hey, mister, what about me?” Emily stood in the wagon, arms extended. Mr. Harris swooshed her down so fast she screeched with delight. “Again! Do it again!”

  Gray obliged, swinging the girl back into the wagon and then out again, while keeping one eye on Miss Seaforth. Something was wrong. He didn’t want to lay eyes on Caleb Arness anytime soon, but she did. He didn’t for one minute believe the man hadn’t known when they were arriving. So what was going on? Where was he? Probably drunk in some bar, or maybe down at Serena’s place.

  Well, shoot, it wasn’t his problem. He lifted her suitcase out of the wagon and suddenly realized how light it was. “I guess you shipped your trunk on ahead, huh? You want Sammy to deliver it from the station?”

  “I shipped no trunk, Mr. Harris.”

  “You mean you came all the way out West with—” All at once it hit him. She had nothing but what few things were packed in that small suitcase and the clothes on her back. And he’d bet most of the things in the suitcase were Emily’s. In fact, he’d bet Miss Seaforth didn’t have a bean to her name.

  “Wait for me, Sammy.” He picked up her suitcase, grabbed Emily’s hand and escorted Miss Seaforth up the steps and into the hotel.

  “Harold,” he said to the skinny desk clerk. “Miss Seaforth and her daughter need a room,” he announced loudly. “And,” he murmured, “put it on my bill.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Harris,” the clerk acknowledged under his breath.

  “And, Harold, tell Rita that their restaurant meals are included.”

  He turned to look down at Emily, who was holding on to her mother’s skirt, then hunkered down to her level. “Miss Emily? I want you to go next door with your momma and have a dish of ice cream, okay?”

  “Are you coming, too, mister?”

  “Yeah, in a little while. You got a favorite flavor of ice cream?”

  She sent him a grin that made him feel funny in the middle. “Yes! Strawberry.”

  Miss Seaforth laid a restraining hand on the girl’s red curls. “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Right.” Gray straightened to face her. “Don’t think. Your daughter wants some ice cream, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Chapter Two

  “Mama, I think ice cream is the deliciousest thing in the whole world! Can I have another dish?”

  Clarissa set her spoon beside her teacup. “No, honey. You’ll spoil your supper. And it’s may I have another dish.”

  “But Mister Cowboy said—”

  “Mister Cowboy—I mean Mr. Harris is not your father.”

  “Nobody’s my father, not since Papa went away.”

  She sighed. “Your papa didn’t go away, honey. Your papa was lost at sea, remember?”

  Emily surveyed her with interest. “What’s lostatsea mean?”

  “It means he is not able to come back, even though he wanted to more than anything in the world.” Clarissa swallowed hard over something stuck in her throat. Thank the Lord the restaurant was deserted at this hour of the day. Her nerves were badly frayed. The waitress, Rita she said her name was, said it was too late for lunch and too early for supper, but tea and ice cream would be no problem. The woman wore a crisp blue apron and had a kind face; watching her bustle back and forth made Clarissa feel a little calmer.

  The restaurant next door to the hotel was cool and dim, and the red-and-gold carpeting muffled the sound of footsteps. At least the room was not swaying, like the train.

  Emily scraped her spoon around and around in her bowl of ice cream. “Can I play with Sammy tomorrow?”

  “No, you cannot.”

  “Then what are we gonna do tomorrow, Mama?”

  Clarissa pressed her lips together. She hadn’t the faintest idea what she would do tomorrow. She had expected Caleb to meet the train, and now she felt completely at sea, alone in a strange town, a small—very small—Western town, where she knew no one, in a wild, untamed state she had only recently learned was a state, with exactly two dollars to her name. What on earth would she do when that was gone?

  She drew in a long, slow breath and closed her eyes. She couldn’t simply sit and wait for Caleb to realize she was here and come to find her. What if he were away on business? He could be gone for days, even weeks. If he didn’t show soon, she must look for some sort of employment, she decided. Even though she had never worked a day in her life, she had Emily to think of. She had to do something.

  The waitress approached. “More tea, ma’am?”

  “Oh, no thank you. Rita, may I ask you a question?”

  “Why sure, miss. Fire away.”

  “Well...um, does this restaurant need a...a dishwasher by any chance?”

  The waitress’s dark eyebrows went up. “You don’t look like the dish-washin’ type to me, ma’am. Besides, we already got a dishwasher, Rosie Greywolf.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  Emily perked up. “Izzat Sammy’s mama?”

  “It is,” Rita verified. “Rosie’s been washin’ dishes here for more years than I can remember.”

  “What about the mercantile across the street—Ness’s, is it? Would they need a clerk?”

  “Prob’ly not, miss. Carl Ness has two daughters who help out after school and on weekends.”

  Clarissa bit her lip. “You see, the problem is that I am running low on funds and—”

  “You need a job, right?”

  “I—well, yes, I do. Someone was supposed to meet me at the train station, but he failed to show up, and now...”

  Rita propped her hands on her ample hips. “Who was it?”

  “Caleb Arness.”

  The waitress’s face changed. “Arness, huh?” She studied Clarissa for a full minute. “He a relation of some sort?”

  “Well, no. Not yet, anyway. We were to be mar—”

  “Aw, honey, I’ve heard tall tales in my time, but this one takes the cake. Take my advice and clear out of town as fast as you can go.”

  Clarissa stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  At that moment Emily let out a cry of delight. “Look, Mama, it’s Mister Cowboy!”

  * * *

  Gray spotted them right off. Miss Seaforth was talking to Rita, and Emily was waving her ice-cream spoon at him. He took the empty chair. “Coffee, Rita. And add some brandy, would ya? Been dry for a month.”

  “Sure, Gray. How was the drive?”

  “Long. Miserable. Profitable, but I sure earned every penny.”

  He turned his attention to Emily. “Had enough ice cream?”

  The red curls bounced as she shook her head. “Nope. I’m never, never gonna have enough ice cream. It’s the bestest thing in the whole world, next to Christmas.”

  Rita brought his coffee
and he downed two large gulps that made his eyes water.

  “Rich enough for you?” Rita asked with a grin.

  He nodded, swallowed hard and gave her a thumbs-up. She chuckled all the way back to the kitchen.

  “Mama won’t let me play with Sammy Wolf,” Emily complained.

  “Greywolf,” Miss Seaforth corrected. “I am sure Mr. Greywolf is busy.”

  Gray set his cup on the saucer. “I had the desk clerk take your suitcase up to your room, Miss Seaforth.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Harris.”

  “Uh, now that you’re here, maybe you should give some thought to a few things.”

  “Oh? What things?”

  “Well, for starters, whether you’re gonna stay or not.”

  “Why, of course I am staying. Caleb—”

  “Might not show up.” Gray downed another swallow of his ninety-proof coffee. “Might be he’s, uh, tied up somewhere on, um, business.”

  “Perhaps. Nevertheless, I am sure he will come soon.”

  He smothered a snort. She wasn’t sure of any damn thing. Clarissa Seaforth was a good bluffer, but the expression in those green eyes gave her away. Uncertainty warred with fear and something else he couldn’t pin down. Pride, maybe.

  “Listen, Miss Seaforth, like I said, you might start thinkin’ what to do if Arness doesn’t show up.” Actually, if he was in her skin, he would be thinking what to do if he did show up. Run the other direction, he hoped.

  “Emily,” she said suddenly. “Are you finished with your ice cream?”

  The girl nodded. “Yes, Mama, but—”

  “Then we must excuse ourselves and retire to our hotel room. Good afternoon, Mr. Harris.”

  He watched the slim, graceful woman until she disappeared through the doorway, then chugged down the rest of his coffee just as Rita appeared at his elbow. “Want some more?”

  “Want some? Yeah. Gonna have some? No. Gotta ride out to the Bar H while I can still mount a horse.”

  * * *

  By morning Clarissa knew she was in real trouble. Her meager funds would soon dwindle, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she acknowledged that the situation called for extraordinary measures. After breakfast she left Emily in the care of the kindly waitress and began canvassing up one side of the dusty street and down the other, looking for employment.

  The dressmaker smiled but shook her head. The barbershop, the sheriff’s office and the blacksmith had no use for a female. That left the bank and the Golden Partridge saloon, and she soon found that the bank wouldn’t hire a woman, either.

  Very well. She straightened her spine and stepped off the sidewalk. For the first time in her life she would walk into a saloon.

  Inside the Golden Partridge it was dim and smoky, and even at this hour of the morning it smelled of something pungent. Tobacco, she guessed. And spirits. She halted just inside the swinging batwing doors to get her bearings, and in that instant a pall of silence descended. Even the piano player’s music dribbled to a stop.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the bartender called out. “Ladies aren’t allowed in here.”

  She clenched her fingers around the reticule holding the last of her money—two dollars. “I...I assumed that to be the case, sir. I was wondering if you...that is, would you have any employment available?”

  The bartender’s meaty hand swiped back and forth across the expanse of mahogany countertop. “Not for a lady, no.”

  “For what, then?”

  The man paused to size her up. “Well, I dunno. Can you sing?”

  Chapter Three

  Some hours later, Clarissa marched up and down in front of the big two-story brown house on lower Willow Street for a good ten minutes before she could work up the courage to open the gate. “Go on down to Serena’s place,” the bartender had instructed. “Ask her for a dress—something not too flashy but—” the man actually blushed! “—real female-lookin’.”

  She had never been within a mile of such a place! Her knees felt wobbly, but she stuffed down her misgivings, walked up the steps and stood trembling on the wide front porch of Serena’s house. Before she could ring the bell, the door swung inward and a tall, gray-haired woman in a lacy black wrapper peered out at her.

  “Miss Serena?”

  The woman gave a short nod. “Whaddya want, honey? A job?”

  “Well, yes, in a way. Tom, the bartender at the Golden Partridge, said I should ask you for an appropriate dress for—”

  “Did he, now? Appropriate for what?”

  “For singing. He gave me a job singing at the saloon tonight, but...I have nothing to wear. He said my travel dress wouldn’t be quite right.”

  Serena eyed her travel suit. “Got a good eye, does Tom. Well, now, dearie, you just come right on in and we’ll see what we can do.”

  “Thank you kindly, Miss—”

  “Just Serena. Well, come on, honey! No need to be shy.” She closed the door with a soft click. “Mary?” she called over her shoulder. “Mary, come on down here. Got a dove that ain’t soiled yet, and she needs yer help.”

  A slim girl with very blond ringlets appeared in the parlor. She was clad in something with fluffy pink feathers around the shoulders and a slit up one side. She smelled of something over-sweet, lily-of-the-valley, perhaps.

  “Mary, take Miss—what’s yer name, dearie?”

  “Seaforth. Clarissa Seaforth.”

  “Tom sent her over from the saloon,” Serena explained. “Mary, take Miss Seaforth upstairs and find somethin’ with some sass to it. She’s gonna sing at the Golden Partridge.”

  Clarissa followed the girl up the thickly carpeted staircase and into a pleasant bedroom with blue flowered wallpaper and white lace curtains. A narrow bed sat in one corner and a carved walnut armoire stood on the opposite wall.

  “Y’all look pretty small to me,” Mary remarked. She rummaged through a welter of gowns and finally extracted a handsome crimson velvet creation. “Here. Try this one.”

  While Clarissa unbuttoned her bodice and stepped out of her gored skirt, the blonde girl circled around, studying her. Before Clarissa could step into the velvet gown, Mary snatched it back. “Oh, no, that won’t be right on you, honey. Try this one instead.” She slipped a dark green moiré taffeta creation off its hanger and held it out.

  “Oh, I couldn’t—”

  “Yes, you could, honey. Don’t argue.”

  Mary buttoned the gown up the back and stepped away with an assessing look. Then she folded back one door of the armoire and spun Clarissa around. “Hmm. Here, take a look at yourself in the mirror.”

  A stranger with huge green eyes in a very pale face stared back at her. “Oh,” she breathed. “Surely that isn’t me!”

  Mary laughed. “Sure is, honey. Green suits you.”

  “But the neckline is so...so...”

  “Low? S’posed to be low, honey. Why do you think Tom sent you to us?”

  “Well, he expects me to sing tonight, and he did not care for my travel suit.”

  Mary frowned. “Where y’all from, honey?”

  “Boston.”

  “Huh! That explains everything. Bet you’ve never been within a city block of a place like Serena’s, have ya? Didn’t think so. And y’all aren’t fixin’ to move in here, are ya?”

  “Well, no. I have secured employment as a singer at the Golden—”

  “So you said.” Mary reached out and tweaked the neck of the green gown lower. “Well, honey, no matter what you sound like, you’ll sure look pretty enough.”

  She would? Clarissa studied her reflected image more closely. Well, maybe she would look dressed-up enough to suit the bartender. It was really a lovely gown, except for the bosom, of course. The green dress was cut way too low in front. S
he tried hiking it up, but the fabric wouldn’t budge.

  “Stop that!” Mary pulled her hands away. “Y’all look splendid. Don’t fuss with things and spoil it. And take this shawl with you.” She folded up Clarissa’s bombazine travel suit and thrust it and a green paisley shawl into her hands. “Can’t sashay up Main Street exposed like that—Sheriff’s liable to arrest you.”

  Downstairs in the front parlor again, Serena nodded approvingly at the green taffeta dress. “Perfect. You’re a real looker, dearie. If Tom don’t want you, just come on back to Serena’s and I’ll put you to work here.”

  “I am grateful, Miss—Serena. I will pay you for the gown out of my wages.”

  “No, you won’t, my girl. Tom sits high on my list. And besides, he’s workin’ off a debt of sorts and the cost of the loan of a dress is neither here nor there. He’ll pay for the gown.” She extended her hand. “Been a pleasure doin’ business with you, Miss Seaforth. Wrap up good in that shawl, now, and don’t talk to any men.”

  Clarissa knotted the green shawl tightly around her shoulders and walked as briskly as she could back to the hotel. A cold, hard lump was settling in her stomach.

  When she entered the restaurant, where Emily sat chatting with Rita, her daughter flung her arms around her. “Ooh, Mama, you look beautiful! And you’re so rustly—like lots of dry corn husks.”

  It was the first time Clarissa had laughed in the past twenty-four hours. After a quick supper in the dining room—a boiled egg for Clarissa and macaroni and cheese for Emily—she tucked her daughter into bed in their hotel room, gathered up her courage and made her way to the Golden Partridge saloon.

  Tom, the bartender, installed her in a back room until her scheduled appearance; she paced around and around the tiny space until her feet ached and finally sat down. At half past nine he rapped on the door.

  “You’re on, Miss Seaforth. Knock ’em out of their boots!”

  Very slowly she rose from the straight-backed chair, walked uncertainly to the door and, with a whispered prayer, twisted the doorknob. When she appeared, the piano player, a round black man, half rose off his stool. “Lordy, Mister Tom, what you plannin’ tonight?”