by Kit Morgan
But what about rehabilitation, teaching them to make a living some other way? Or how to be wives and mothers? Was such a thing possible? Could a woman who’d been using her body to make money overcome the obstacles sure to stand in the way of opening her heart? That woman had such a hard look in her eyes, as if she’d known more pain and suffering than Ophelia could possibly imagine.
“Ophey, did you hear me?”
Ophelia jumped. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“I can imagine. But try not to think about what happened earlier. Let’s concentrate on our dinner with the Hardts tonight.”
Ophelia’s stomach flipped. She’d forgotten about dining with the mayor and his wife and their “guest.” She remembered the look on Clint Jones’ face when he looked at her from his corner table in the saloon. How he strode across the room with such determination when the miners started their usual whistling and cat-calling. He’d come to her rescue, and it was all she could do not to reveal that she knew he’d be joining them for dinner. “What time again?”
“Six o’clock. That gives us time to enjoy our tea.” They sipped in companionable silence for a moment before Felicity continued. “What will your father do if you marry?”
“Do?” Ophelia said in surprise. She hadn’t thought about it. “I’m not sure he’ll ‘do’ anything - seeing as he’s not speaking to me. I … I’ll be lucky if I ever hear from him again.” Her eyes drifted to the floor as realization dawned. “Or Mother.”
“Don’t think like that – of course you will,” Felicity countered.
“I’m not so sure. He was so angry, so convinced my activities would sully the family. But how can getting arrested for fighting for what I believe in do that?”
Felicity sighed. “People believe differently. Wars are started over people believing differently. If only he’d open his eyes and see that a woman improving her life is not a threat.”
“The one that interrupted us at Mayor Hardt’s building doesn’t agree.”
“She doesn’t understand what we’re trying to do,” Felicity said.
“And neither do Mrs. Sharp and Mrs. Stiles. My goodness, they acted ready to burn that woman at the stake. I don’t know what her life is like – I’m ignorant about such things, I admit it. But no one deserves to be spoken to the way Mrs. Stiles spoke her. As if she was an annoying insect.”
“You’re right. And I have to admit, suffragette work is much different than the type of work Genevieve Kinnison is used to. The mission she’s proposing will take in the lowest of the low.”
Ophelia shook her head as tears stung the back of her eyes. “I’ve taken so much for granted, Felicity. I’m just realizing how much I’ve left behind.”
“You can always go back in time. I’m sure your father will take you in.”
“Perhaps – in time. But right now I feel I must do something. After looking into that woman’s eyes, seeing the anger and pain in them, I can’t leave – I have to help. And not the kind of help Mrs. Sharp and her friend have in mind. They’re mean, Felicity. I’ve seen their kind often enough in Denver to know.”
“Yes, I suppose you have. You were much more active socially than I was. Many women of our class are cruel.”
“Yes. Now that I think of it, I believe I was one of them.”
Felicity looked at her. “You? Never. You’re too sweet and kind …”
“… and ignorant to the plight of others,” Ophelia interjected. “I could have been helping women, really helping them, instead of just doing enough to make myself feel like I was. This Genevieve Kinnison that escorted you and your fellow brides to Noelle, she’s a real hero to women everywhere. Not people like me.”
Felicity took a breath. “Don’t sell yourself short. Yes, Genevieve is wonderful. If she were a Papist it wouldn’t surprise me if she was sainted one day. But she needed time to find her calling and fulfill it. The good Lord equipped her with what she’d need to get the job done, but she didn’t know it from the womb. No one does. You’re finding your calling now, and He’ll equip you to do it.”
Ophelia stared at her. “My, I can certainly tell you’re married to a preacher.”
Felicity laughed. “Yes, I suppose. But it’s true.”
Ophelia sobered. “I can’t get the woman that walked in on us out of my mind. I felt so angry at Mrs. Sharp and Mrs. Stiles, yet so helpless. The woman … she brought to mind a wounded animal in the forest. You want to help, but it’s hurt and afraid and tries so desperately to protect itself.” She looked at her friend, could feel the sting of tears again. “She touched my heart, Felicity. In her anger and hostility over that article, she touched me.”
Felicity took Ophelia’s hand and smiled. “Then I’d say you’ve found your calling.”
* * *
Back in her room, Ophelia lay on her cot in thought. Yes, she wanted to help with the mission and yes, help the women that would come into it, but how?
Again she made a mental checklist of her skills, which were not impressive. She could teach a woman proper manners, how to set a table, that sort of thing. But that was the extent of it. She had nothing else to offer, and felt inadequate to say the least. If only she had Birdie’s skill as a seamstress, or speaking skills and confidence in public like Felicity. Even the soiled dove that burst into the room had more gumption than Ophelia would ever have.
“Sweet,” she said to herself. “How does being sweet help anyone?” She laid there and wondered how her behavior could translate to a skill set. Sweetness and kindness didn’t teach a woman to cook or sew or raise a child, or how to stand up for herself. She’d always had her father’s protection, and until recently had never had to worry about being mistreated or threatened. Until she was abandoned by the man who raised her, the one she’d thought safest. “He’s hurt me more than I realized,” she muttered.
But what had the woman that so touched her been through? Whatever it was, Ophelia knew she could never survive it. That put her right back at square one. What could she do? How could she help those fallen women across the street from Mr. Hardt’s building, or any other woman for that matter?
Ophelia closed her eyes, her fists at her sides. More than ever, she felt useless – and no closer to an answer than before.
* * *
Noelle, February 9th, cont’d.
There appears to be some sort of hullabaloo about town over an article in the Noelle Gazette. It turns out there are upright and moral people here fighting for what’s right. After listening and observing this afternoon, I discovered several women in the community have banded together to rid Noelle of its vices. I wish them good luck. I will investigate further and find out who these women are. Perhaps they have already paved the way to establishing Noelle as the respectable town we’d hoped for …
“Afternoon.”
Clint jumped at the voice, breaking the tip of his pencil in the process. He looked up to find the notorious preacher, Rev. Hammond. “Good afternoon,” he said tersely.
“Oh, uh, sorry if I startled you. Have a knife to sharpen that?” He pointed at the pencil.
“Yes, I do.”
The preacher pulled out a chair and sat. “Rev. Chase Hammond, at your service.”
“Clint Jones.”
The preacher smiled widely. “I’ve noticed you around town the last few days, but haven’t had a chance to say howdy.”
Clint looked him over. The man was bold, he’d give him that. “Howdy.”
“New in town or just passing through?”
Hmm, the so-called preacher was going to interrogate him, was he? Maybe he should let him think he was settling. “Not sure yet. Depends on whether this place suits me.”
“Noelle is a mighty fine place. In fact, we got ourselves a bunch of new women to prove it,” he added happily.
“Is that so?” Clint said, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice. The man was obviously referring to the new whorehouse the violet-eyed beauty Miss Rathbone would be working at. His ches
t tightened at the thought.
“They came from all over,” the fake reverend went on, then winked. “Some even have special skills.”
Clint quickly put on his poker face. Best he commit the man’s name to memory for his report. Chase Hammond – probably an alias.
“Don’t believe me?” the preacher said. “Just ask anyone. Things have sure improved around here since those women arrived. Now that they’re settled, we’re expecting more.”
Clint pasted on a smile. “So I’ve heard.”
The preacher grinned back. “Good, good! You wouldn’t happen to be interested in one, would you? I’m the man who can see it done.”
Clint stiffened in his chair. It was all he could do not to punch the preacher in the mouth. What sort of man poses as a clergyman to cover up that he’s a white slaver? Was he out of his mind? Thoughts of the mayor’s hysterics came back, and he nodded to himself. They both must be in on it.
“I’ll take that as a yes!” Hammond said. “Wonderful! We’re fresh out of women for a now – until the next batch arrives. We do have one …”
Just then Miss Rathbone and her co-worker came down the stairs, drawing Clint’s attention.
Hammond followed his gaze. “… ah, there she is now!”
Clint’s eyes narrowed. Any hope the vision of loveliness on the stairs could be anything but a whore blew up like so much gunpowder. He wondered what the Page Act that Congress had passed a couple of years before had to say about this. He’d seen a few women around town that looked foreign, and it was illegal to transport women into the country to be used as prostitutes. He quickly studied Miss Rathbone and wondered where she’d come from. Had she been brought here against her will? He stood without thinking.
“I’d be happy to introduce you if you like,” the fake reverend said.
Clint glared at him, unable to help himself. “No, thank you. We’ve already met.”
“You have?” Hammond said, looking confused. “Well, I suppose if you have a room here, that’ll happen …”
“It did,” Clint picked up his notebook and pencil and shoved them in his pocket. He’d have to find a way to speak to poor Miss Rathbone alone, find out if she was being held against her will or if they were giving her something to make her more pliable. He knew such things existed, had seen them used before. He ran into all sorts of untoward things in his line of work.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” the preacher said, “we have some entertainment to plan with the mayor.”
“I’ll just bet you do.” It was a rude thing to say, but Clint was fuming. He’d almost been ready to forget about Miss Rathbone, fill out his report after a bit more nosing around and leave town. But now things were different. Something far more sinister was going on, and it involved the highest powers in town. If there was a chance Miss Rathbone was an unwilling participant, he had to know, but outright challenging the ringleaders could prove harmful to the woman, if not fatal. Hmm, what to do?
The reverend stood. “Well, if you’ll excuse me …”
Clint nodded in dismissal and watched the man head straight for the staircase. Once again, the miners behaved themselves as he helped Felice/Felicity with her coat, then Miss Rathbone, before retrieving his own, which had been slung over a nearby chair. Quite a con artist the man was – his actions were those of a gentleman, but his words belied that veneer.
They made their way to the saloon door and were about to exit when a woman came in, took one look and sighed in relief. They spoke briefly, and Clint did his best to eavesdrop – something about a man and a dog. Perhaps the stranger the miners sent to the whorehouse – was he part of this too? Was the whole God-forsaken town?
Clint ran a hand through his hair and wondered what to do next. Did he dare follow them to see what they were plotting? Could he handle seeing the likes of Miss Rathbone manhandled by unscrupulous men for their “entertainment?”
“Good Lord,” he muttered. Clearly he cared about her welfare far too much. This went beyond anything he’d experienced before. But he couldn’t let his feelings (and he was definitely having feelings) interfere with his job. He’d come to see if the town was suitable for Wells Fargo & Co. to open a branch there, not thwart an illegal operation run by the mayor and a shady preacher. This could get dangerous, and he needed to be careful for not only his sake, but for Miss Rathbone’s.
Clint watched the trio leave and, mind made up, grabbed his hat off the table and headed for the doors.
Chapter Eight
“What a strange man,” Chase commented as the trio headed for Mayor Hardt’s office.
Ophelia side-eyed him as they walked. They were to meet the mayor and ride up to his cabin with him. She tried to hide her disappointment over the realization that Clint Jones must not be the “guest” the mayor had invited. “How so?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t call him curt, but he wasn’t exactly cordial. Maybe he’s having a rough time. I’d best speak with him again.” He looked at his wife. “You saw him, didn’t you?”
“Are you referring to Ophelia’s neighbor?”
“Is that who that was?” he said, smiling at Ophelia.
She felt her cheeks grow hot. “Yes. Mr. Clint Jones.”
“One and the same,” Chase said happily. “Have you been speaking with him?”
“In passing. It is the polite thing to do.”
“Yes, of course.” He winked at Felicity. She rolled her eyes and kept walking.
What was that about? Ophelia wondered. Was Felicity’s husband really trying to play matchmaker? If so, she wouldn’t mind so long as it was with Mr. Jones. Speaking of which. “Rev. Hammond?”
“Ophelia, how many times must I tell you to call me Chase?”
“Sorry. Um … about what that woman said, the one that caught us before we left the saloon?”
“Ah, yes. Her name’s Milly. It seems Mayor Hardt’s guest won’t be joining us for dinner this evening.”
“That’s what I gathered,” she said with what she hoped was the proper amount of disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Ophelia. It would have been nice for you to meet someone new.”
“But I am meeting people,” she countered. “I’ve met Vinnie Sharp and Gertie Stiles … well …” Best leave off anything having to do with those two. “… and Birdie Peregrine. She was nice.”
“Yes, and very talented,” Chase said. “All the new brides in Noelle are special. Genevieve Kinnison brought us true gems.”
Ophelia smiled weakly. What did that make her, a lump of coal?
Felicity wrapped an arm through Ophelia’s. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll be having other guests joining us for dinner real soon. Right, Chase?”
The reverend saw his wife’s arched eyebrow. “Oh yes, of course.”
She smiled at him. “Good.”
Ophelia smiled too. She wasn’t surprised Felicity has picked up on her attraction to Clint Jones. She’d much rather spend time with him than whomever it was her husband had in mind. Lord only knew who that was – some miner? Who else was there around here, save for the handsome stranger in the next room.
That thought in mind, she smiled as Chase opened the door to Mayor Hardt’s office and called out a greeting.
* * *
Dinner with Mayor Hardt and his wife was pleasant despite the lack of their intended guest. Better yet, between Felicity, Penny and herself, they worked out the details of Noelle’s first talent show. Felicity and Ophelia would make a few signs to announce the event, and they’d hold it on Lincoln’s birthday at the Golden Nugget. It was short notice, but folks were bound to sign up and participate, even the day of the event.
Chase would speak to Birdie’s husband Jack Peregrine about helping build a small stage in the saloon. They could have the entire event ready in two-and-a-half days, and start the show in the afternoon. And Mayor Hardt put up one hundred dollars in gold as first prize – that would make things interesting.
“Are you going to s
ing?” Felicity asked as they traversed the stairs to their rooms.
Ophelia almost choked. “Me? No, no – I can’t get up in front of a crowd.”
“But you have a beautiful voice.”
“At home. Not in public.” Ophelia watched Chase unlock their door. “Good night,” she told them. “Thank you for a nice evening.”
“Even though we were short a guest?” Chase asked.
“Of course. Yours and Felicity’s company are enough for me.”
The reverend looked past her to the door down the hall. Ophelia willed herself not to blush. “Well, good night, then. Best unlock your door.”
She nodded and did as he asked. Her room might be separate from theirs, but he was still acting like a protective parent, waiting until she was safe inside. She had a brief vision of Clint Jones doing the same, watching over her like some knight of old. She sighed as she stepped into her room, shut the door and turned the key. A girl could dream.
Ophelia changed into her nightclothes and braided her hair as she went over the day’s events, and realized she’d forgotten to ask Felicity about something. Chase and Mayor Hardt had at one point in the evening been standing on the other side of the cabin – talking about the silver mine, from the sound of it. Then all of a sudden they both burst out laughing. Felicity looked at them, looked at Penny, then shook her head and went back to work. The details of the talent show took precedence for the rest of the evening. She’d ask Felicity in the morning. Maybe Chase had told her what was so amusing.
She put the thought aside and headed for bed, then heard a noise. She went to the window, hoping, and wasn’t disappointed when she opened it and poked her head out. “Mr. Jones, is that you?”
“Good evening, Miss Rathbone,” he said in a low voice. “How do you fare this evening?”
