by Kit Morgan
“Are you going anytime soon?” asked Mrs. Morgan.
“Not likely – both of us just got here. I think we’ll be here a while before we do any visiting.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Morgan said. “We’d hate to lose Zadie before we’ve had a chance to get to know her.”
“How do you like Morgan’s Crossing so far?” asked Mrs. Tuccio, an olive-skinned beauty with dark curly hair, dark eyes and a pronounced Italian accent. Zadie loved the sound of it.
“It’s much smaller than I expected,” she confessed. “But it’s definitely growing on me. I do like the people here. You’ve all been so very kind.”
“As I told you the first time we met,” said Mrs. Morgan, “we women have to stick together.” She glanced at Anson. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he assured and smiled. “Personally I like small communities – much nicer than big cities.”
“Have you ever lived in a large city?” a Mrs. Rivera asked.
“No, only Clear Creek.” Anson said. “I did spend some time in a big city … once.”
Zadie smiled politely and ignored her husband’s hesitancy to answer. Instead, she looked around at the other women. She wanted to get to know them better, and was trying to make sure she could remember who was who.
Mrs. Rivera was Mexican, married, had lost a baby to some sort of illness years before and was still sensitive about it. It saddened Zadie’s heart when Mrs. Tisdale had told her. Mrs. Morgan’s own child, whom Zadie had yet to meet, was upstairs napping. Mrs. Rossmoor wasn’t in attendance – Zadie wondered if she should stop in and visit her sometime.
And then there were the other two women in attendance, a redhead named Marla and a brunette, Rebecca. They’d introduced themselves as “working girls,” and Zadie had done her best to keep her face neutral – even though she’d suspected it from their hairstyles, their clothes and the rouge on their lips and cheeks. But the other women didn’t bat an eye at their attendance. In Denver or Boston such would have been shunned in polite society, but there were no such social conventions in Morgan’s Crossing. It was odd to Zadie, but she was glad they’d been invited.
“I’m beginning to prefer a small town over a large city,” Zadie said. “I like the closeness of the community.”
“You’ll find the same thing in Sweetwater Springs, even if they do have more people,” stated Mrs. Morgan. She set down her teacup. “We do hope you’ll settle here, Mr. Jones. There’s a rumor that you’re here only temporarily.”
Anson readjusted himself in his chair. “Where did you hear that?”
“From my husband, who else?”
“Is that true?” asked Mrs. Tisdale. “Like Mrs. Morgan, I’d hate to see you whisk away your wife so soon.”
“I think we’ll be here for a time,” he said.
Zadie pondered his words and wondered why he was being so hesitant. Was there something he wasn’t telling her? She was beginning to like it here and didn’t want to leave – something she never thought she’d feel. But it was the perfect place to start a new life with Anson. Morgan’s Crossing and the surrounding area was peaceful, quiet and the people were nice. What more could she ask for?
She reached for her teacup and took a sip. When the time was right, she’d ask Anson what his plans were. For now, she planned to enjoy the company she kept.
Sixteen
It was nothing short of a miracle. Anson survived the ladies’ tea.
There were a few tense moments when he didn’t think he’d make it but, stout fellow that he was, he managed to muscle his way through. Figuratively speaking – mostly he just kept his mouth shut. His jaw might be sore for a day or two from the effort it took not laugh at some of the banter between the women. But Zadie enjoyed herself, and that’s what mattered. Thank heavens it was over.
“Do you mind visiting a little longer with Mrs. Tisdale and Mrs. Morgan?” he asked his wife as they reached the Morgans’ porch.
“Not at all,” she said. “Where are you off to?”
“I need to check on a few things – I won’t be long.”
Zadie exchanged a quick glance with Mrs. Tisdale. “We don’t mind having your wife for a few more minutes,” Mrs. Tisdale told him. “In fact, we’d love to.”
Anson tipped his hat, gave them his most charming smile, then descended the porch steps and climbed onto the wagon. With a flick of the lines, he left. He didn’t say where he was going, but didn’t think he needed to – it was obvious that he was heading to Mr. Morgan’s mine. He wanted to see if any new miners had been hired on. More to the point, he had to see if that no-good snake Penworthy had shown up yet.
Anson had mostly been thinking about his wife for the last week. They were newlyweds after all, so he didn’t feel too guilty about spending so much time with her, but he should’ve checked on things more often than he had. For all he knew, Penworthy had come into the area while he and Zadie were in Sweetwater Springs a few days ago. If Anson hadn’t gotten married, there’d have been no need to make such a trip – as a bachelor, what would he need a new bed and stove for?
But it was too late to do anything about that now. Besides, he liked his matrimonial state, even more than he thought he would while still in Clear Creek, minding his own business rather than waiting for a criminal to show up.
He reached the mine, parked the wagon and noticed a few men milling about. It must be getting close to quitting time. One spotted him and started to approach. “Whaddaya want?” the man asked gruffly.
Hmm, something certainly put a burr under his saddle, Anson thought. The man’s grey eyes studied him. His brown hair was slicked back and he sported a round cut beard. “I’m looking for Mr. Morgan,” Anson said. “Is he around?”
“Left ‘bout an hour ago. Might find him at the boardin’ house or the store if he ain’t home.”
“I was just at his home and he’s not there. I thought he might be up here.” Anson glanced at his surroundings. “Quite the operation he has here. Looks as if he’s done all right for himself.” He turned back to the miner. “Of course, a lot of the credit goes to you and the rest of the men here.”
His compliment loosened the man up a bit. He stuck his thumbs in his overall pockets and gave him something resembling a smile. “That’s ‘cause I’m the foreman, see. Name’s Rossmoor, and I don’t put up with no shenanigans.”
“I do see,” Anson said. “You run a tight ship, Mr. Rossmoor. If I ever needed a foreman, I’d be tempted to steal you away from Mr. Morgan.”
Mr. Rossmoor’s smile broadened. “Mighty nice thing to say, Mr. ...?”
“Jones. Anson Jones.”
“Oh yeah – yer the fella bought that rickety old cabin out on the prairie, ain’t cha?”
“That’s right.”
“Ya ain’t gonna try to farm out there, are ya?” Rossmoor asked.
“No, I’m doing a little horse ranching.”
“Better fix the fencin’, or ya ain’t gonna be ranchin’ nothin’,” the other man said. “No one’s lived there for a long time, as I recall, or fixed nothin’ either.”
“I’m going to start on the fencing this week. And you’re right, there’s a lot work to be done out there. But I’ll manage.” He glanced around. “You fellas have a lot of work here too. I bet it slows things down when someone leaves to go elsewhere, isn’t that right?”
“Men come and go ‘round here,” Rossmoor agreed. “Right now the crew I got is pretty stable.”
“Do you ever have to turn men away when they come looking for a job?”
“What’re ya askin’ for? Ya wanna come work at the mine?” Rossmoor joked.
“No, no,” Anson said and held his hands up as if to fend off his comment. “I’m a rancher, not a miner. I’d rather be out in the sunshine than underground. But with all the work on the ranch, I thought I might be able to use some of the men you turn down.”
Rossmoor grunted in understanding. “Well, ya’d hafta ask Mr. Morgan about that
– I don’t hire ‘em, I just work ‘em. Like I said, check the store or the boardin’ house, if he ain’t gone home already.”
Anson tipped his hat. “I’ll do that.” He climbed onto the wagon and left with a close guess at the information he needed. He’d been lucky to catch Mr. Rossmoor, the next best thing to speaking with Michael Morgan himself. Maybe better – Morgan might think questions about his hiring practices odd. But if they’d just hired someone on, Rossmoor would’ve said something. This meant that most likely, Penworthy hadn’t shown up yet. Good – that meant Anson could spend more time with his wife.
If his hunch was right, when Mortimer Penworthy did show up, he’d pose as a miner. Especially since the money was supposedly buried somewhere near the mine. “I certainly wouldn’t have buried it there,” he told himself as he parked the wagon in front of the Morgans’ home.
Mr. Morgan had indeed come home and was standing on the porch next to his wife, speaking with Zadie and Mrs. Tisdale. All the other guests appeared to have gone home.
“There’s your husband, Mrs. Jones,” Mr. Morgan said and waved at Anson.
Anson waved back, went up the porch steps and extended his hand.
Mr. Morgan gave it a healthy shake. “Your wife is charming, Mr. Jones. I’m glad she was able to join Prudence and the other ladies this afternoon.”
“Yes, she had a lovely time,” Anson agreed.
“Did you?” Mrs. Morgan asked with a smile.
Mr. Morgan looked at his wife, then at Anson. “Did you what?”
Anson tried not to grimace. “My wife brought me along with her – as a conversation piece, I believe, but can’t be sure.”
Mr. Morgan burst out laughing. “Now that is amusing, Mr. Jones! I can see why you two make a fine match.”
“I agree. By the way, I was just looking for you up at the mine,” Anson said, changing the subject. Best to keep up appearances, in case Rossmoor said anything to his employer later. “I’m looking to hire extra labor to fix up the ranch, and I thought you might point me toward anyone you didn’t hire.”
“Hmmm … well, no one’s applied recently,” Mr. Morgan said. “But you may want to check back in a week or two.”
“Thank you, I’ll do that. Also, have you thought about breeding any of your mares with my Julius Caesar? I was checking with some of the other ranchers in the area – their mares will be ready soon, so I’ll need to start scheduling them.”
“Well, I’ll have to consider it. Do what you must, and if I decide on using your Julius Caesar I’ll let you know. Don’t hold up scheduling others on my account.”
“Very well, then, I’ll get started.” He turned to Zadie. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” she said then smiled at Mrs. Morgan. “Prudence, I had such a wonderful time – thank you so much. You too, Mrs. Tisdale.”
“Think nothing of it,” Mrs. Tisdale said. “And welcome to Morgan’s Crossing!”
Amen to that, Anson thought to himself. At this point, he couldn’t imagine being here without her.
* * *
“Then Rebecca told me how long she and Marla had been working at the saloon. I can’t imagine such a life, but they’re so sweet and kind,” Zadie said. “We had quite the conversation after you left.”
“I imagine so,” he said with a grin. “I’m glad you had a nice time, sweetheart. And it looks like you made yourself some new friends.”
“I just wish that Mrs. Rossmoor could have been there. I’d like to get to know her too.”
“Rossmoor? I believe I met her husband today. Do you know if he’s Mr. Morgan’s foreman?”
“Yes, he is – that came up in conversation. I plan to visit her one of these days. There’s something odd, though.”
“What’s that?” he asked, and noticed her furrowed brow.
“Every time I brought her up, some of the women got a strange look on their face, which made me think that maybe there’s something they didn’t want me to know about her. Though I can’t imagine what.”
“Ask Mrs. Tisdale the next time you’re in town. Maybe they wanted to concentrate on your welcoming tea and not get into town gossip, if that’s what it is. After all, this afternoon was meant for you, not Mrs. Rossmoor.”
“I know. I just can’t get over the odd looks. But, it must be a topic for another time. Did you find out what you needed?”
“What I needed was to find Mr. Morgan. Now that that’s done, I can concentrate on other things.”
“I hope he says yes,” she said. “Then you’ll have another happy customer.”
“You mean Julius Caesar, don’t you?”
Zadie giggled. “You know what I meant.” She sighed in contentment and wrapped her arm around his.
“Someone’s happy,” he said with a smile. He liked seeing her this way and decided on more riding and driving lessons over the next week. He had to let her go to town by herself now and then so she could visit her new friends. Women needed that sort of thing. Besides, it would give him an excuse to venture into town more often on his own to check if that worthless Penworthy was lurking about.
“I think this is one of the nicest afternoons I’ve had in a very long time,” she said.
“I hope I was the other one,” he teased.
“Anson, of course you were. No one else can put a smile on my face better than you.”
Anson’s chest filled with pride. “I’m glad I’m able to put a little spark in your step, Mrs. Jones.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You put in more than a spark.”
“Perhaps I can work on that when we get home,” he said, his voice dropping a notch.
“Perhaps,” she said softly. “I don’t have to make supper tonight.”
“Are you going to starve me?” he asked, feigning alarm. He knew Mrs. Tisdale had given her a basket of food left over from their tea.
“Of course not. It simply means I’ll have more time to do … other things.”
He pulled his arm from hers, put it around her shoulders and gave her a sideways hug. “I can’t wait to get home and hear how you’re going to spend that time.”
“I’m sure I’ll think of all sorts of ways by the time we get there,” she said and blushed.
“Then I best stop flapping my gums and let you think.”
She sighed heavily. “Actually, I also need to write to Mrs. Pettigrew and let her know how things are going. I haven’t done so since I’ve been here.”
“The woman at the bridal agency?”
“Yes, and she likes to write back and forth with the brides she sends out to make sure everything’s going well for them. I think it’s a kind gesture. Besides, it’s nice to have someone to write to. I don’t have any family to speak of except my uncle Mort.”
“Mort?”
“Yes, it’s short for Mortimer. I never did like that name.”
Anson’s breath hitched. “I don’t have any relatives named Mortimer, let alone Mort.”
“It is a funny sort of nickname, isn’t it?”
“I suppose the Barrett surname evens things out. Though Mort Barrett sounds a little strange.”
“Uncle Mort isn’t a Barrett.”
Anson’s gut twisted. It couldn’t be, could it? “He’s not?”
“No, he’s my uncle on my mother’s side.”
“And what might your mother and uncle’s surname be?” he asked, the twist in his gut growing. Please don’t say it … please.
“Penworthy, if you can believe it. Mortimer Penworthy – isn’t that the worst name in the world?”
Anson closed his eyes a moment. “It’s … pretty bad. Where did your mother and uncle hail from?”
“Boston. Remember, I told you I was born there.”
“Yes, I remember,” he said as cold settled over him. If Mortimer Penworthy was his wife’s uncle, then did she know about the stolen money? But how could she? Of that, Anson had no idea, but he knew he’d need to find out.
* * *
Once they arrived home, Zadie took the basket Mrs. Tisdale had given her into the house while Anson unhitched the wagon and took care of his horses. She hadn’t gone out to the barn since the rattlesnake incident, but she knew she’d have to sooner or later. Anson had purchased some chicken feed in town, and it was up to her to see that the girls were fed. If her guess was right, he’d keep it stored in the barn. She’d have no choice but to go inside to get it.
She pushed the thought aside – she’d had a wonderful time in Morgan’s Crossing today and didn’t want anything to spoil her good mood. She focused on unloading the basket instead. “Let’s see … sandwiches, cookies, a little fruit.” She smiled. “Dear Mrs. Tisdale.” Indeed, the woman was Heaven-sent.
She was glad to have met all the ladies. Prudence spoke of several other women she knew and would like to introduce her to one day, but they lived closer to Sweetwater Springs, so it wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. She wished it could be otherwise. Like Prudence and Zadie, they’d all been mail-order brides sent West to marry, and all of them from the same agency.
Prudence had told Zadie stories of what it was like to learn how to cook, bake, sew and perform other domestic duties – all lessons the agency had arranged. If only she’d had some of the same training. But Mrs. Pettigrew’s mail-order bride agency was quite different, as was Mrs. Pettigrew.
Zadie giggled at the thought and began to set the table. Two plates, two forks. Easy. One chair. Well, one of them would have to sit on the cot. She sighed and made a note to ask Anson about building a second chair.
She looked around and twisted her face up. Anson’s two tin plates paled in comparison to Prudence’s beautiful silver tea service or the dishes in her china cabinet. “Thou shalt not covet,” she whispered to herself.
She glanced at her trunks, where her wardrobe was still stored out of necessity, there being no place to hang anything up. If she’d been smart, she’d have kept her mother’s china instead of selling it to pay her father’s debts. But no use crying over the past. She’d just have to make do with what they had.
