A lean man with wavy brownish hair, wearing a canvas apron, looked up from the workbench where he sanded a flat piece resembling a chair seat. “Afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”
Fitz liked the tidy appearance of the shop. He removed his hat and loosened the top two buttons on his sheepskin jacket. “Remember me, Fitz Saunders? I bought a settee this spring?”
The young man set down the sanding block on the bench and clapped his hands together to brush off the wood dust. “I do remember that order, sir.” He crossed the center six feet of the shop’s empty space and extended his hand.
The carpenter’s grip was firm. A trait Fitz liked. The man looked like he was at least five years younger than he. “You own this business?”
“I make that claim proudly, sir.” A wide smile lit the man’s face before he curved his fingers at the side of his mouth. “And I only whisper the name of my silent partner which is the Consolidated Bank of Fredericksburg. At least for another couple of years.”
Smiling, Fitz swept an arm to indicate the ready-made items. “Your work looks quite accomplished. I like the sturdiness of the designs.”
Morgan pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped it over his hands. “Appreciation for the designs rightfully goes to my Uncle Gottfried. I apprenticed in his shop since I was a lad of only ten. A bit of classic German styling is evident in everything I create.”
“I bought a rocking chair at Othmann’s Mercantile earlier this week, which I assume was one of yours?”
“True.” The man smiled. “The Othmanns sell several of my stock pieces.”
“My new bride sure enjoys it.” Warmth invaded his chest as he remembered the shock and appreciation that crossed Tavia’s face when she spotted the chair.
“New bride?” His eyes lit up. “Oh, is she the one involved in the stagecoach accident?”
How news travels fast in a small town. “Thankfully, she suffered only a few bruises.” Now, he hoped she’d bestow a bigger dose of her appreciation when he delivered this gift. “As you probably heard, a baby was orphaned in that wreck and is living with us for a spell. I want to buy a cradle, or baby bed, or whatever is more appropriate than the bureau drawer we’re using now.”
“A cradle is for young ones who aren’t too active. How old is this baby?” Morgan walked to his bench and came back with a small tablet and a lead pencil.
“I believe Tavia said she’s younger than one year.”
Morgan held the pencil poised over the notepad. “What type of wood? Solid sides or rails? Do you want the bed stationary or attached to a stand so it swings?”
So many questions for a baby’s bed? Fitz scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He figured he’d look at a couple of designs and point to the one that fit with the rest of his furniture. Didn’t matter that Angela would only use it for a short while. Eventually, he and Tavia would welcome their own child and the bed would be put to use. “Have you made one before? Do you have any drawings you can show me?”
“Sure, Mister Saunders. Come over to the workbench, and I’ll let you look through my portfolio.” Morgan led the way and used his rag to brush a clean spot in the midst of the wood shavings. “Often, I speak with the expectant mothers, and they have fairly particular ideas on what they want.”
“Well, this bed is meant as a surprise, so I don’t have those specifics.” The rustling of sheaves of gridded paper enticed him to move closer.
Morgan sorted through the papers and then set out three designs in a row. “Here are the ones I built myself since moving to Dorado.” He pointed to carved figures of sheep and chickens on a headboard. “These shapes can be changed to suit your preferences or the wood can be left flat.”
“Suppose the carvings take extra time?” Fitz shifted his gaze between a second one that had solid head and foot pieces with solid sides of overlapping slats and the other with open sides made of upright slats like prison bars. Now, there’s a happy thought.
“The carved designs only add a day or two to the total construction time.”
His hand stilled, and he gave the man a sideways look with a frown. “I was hoping the thing could be built in that amount of time.”
Morgan’s eyes popped wide, and then he glanced at the round item on the bench. “Well, ahead of you is an order for matching chairs.”
“I’ll pay double if I can pick up the finished bed day after tomorrow by four o’clock.”
The young man scribbled on the notepad. “In that case…” Morgan walked to the shelves and pulled down a six-foot plank containing lots of grain texture and another with several dark circles within the wood. “Which do you prefer—oak or pine?”
“Pine is too cheap.” Remembering his mother’s favorite bureau, he walked to the shelves and looked for the distinctive darker color. “Do you have any cherry wood?”
“Sorry, only special order. But that type of wood might be considered too dark for baby furniture.” He reached for a different plank with a tight grain. “May I suggest using maple?”
“That’s the one.” Fitz gave a nod. Making a quick decision felt good. “I want the upright slats, arched head and foot boards, and a simple design carved on the headboard. Something appropriate for both boys and girls.”
Nodding, Morgan wrote as Fitz spoke. “Like a cat, or a dog, or clouds, or moon and stars?”
For a moment, Fitz thought back to the rhymes he’d heard his wife recite for the child on that first night’s wagon ride. “Tavia would probably like the moon and stars.” He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. He separated out two liberty-head gold pieces and extended them. “Is twenty dollars enough?”
“Absolutely. I’ll have change for you when the project is completed. Once I know the total hours involved.” Morgan tucked the money into his apron and scribbled on a fresh slip of paper. “Here’s your receipt.”
“Appreciate it.” Fitz slipped it into his pocket and reached to button his jacket.
“Uh, sir.” The carpenter cleared his throat. “Would you mind me posing a personal question?”
His hand stilled, and he glanced at the young man whose expression had turned somber then Fitz nodded.
Morgan shifted his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. “How does a man go about finding himself a mail-order bride?”
Fitz shook his head, figuring this would be the first time of many he’d be asked that question. “You heard about those arrangements, too, did you?”
“Mister Saunders, I don’t mean to sound like I’m prying. I reside at the Treadwell Boardinghouse. If something happens in this town, that event is the main topic of conversation at mealtime.” He slid the pencil behind his ear before continuing. “I come from a big family living north near Fredericksburg. I’m next to the youngest of nine siblings and the only bachelor son. When I go home next week for the Christmas holidays, I know Mama will ask if I’ve met a nice woman yet.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I want to answer on this visit that I’m on the matrimonial path, and I thought maybe this selection process involved letter writing.”
Fitz stiffened. Another person who obviously enjoyed the family winter holiday. He shoved aside the thought. “I’m sure it might. I had a-a…” He cleared his throat. Revealing his father’s deadline was not something he wanted to discuss with a shopkeeper. “I made my arrangement with a bridal agency run by Missus Turnbull in San Antonio. She issues a circular called Bexar Bride News.”
Again, Morgan wrote on his notepad. “I appreciate the information and will endeavor to obtain a copy.” He glanced up, opened and closed his mouth, frowned then quickly looked away.
“You have another question?”
“Well, sir, again I realize how impertinent this might sound, but how is the marriage working? Were you well-matched as a couple?”
The question was forward, and Fitz’s first reaction was to tell the young man so. Then he remembered how his own attempt to court the school teacher ended in frustration. “Granted, I’v
e been married less than two weeks, and my wife has resided with me for less than a week.” How would he describe the marriage he had with Tavia? Were they suited to one another? “And caring for the baby was unexpected.” His thoughts went to their quiet evenings in the den after Angela was asleep. Or the meals they shared in the dining room as he’d envisioned they would. But no marriage could be judged well-matched until the couple occupied the same bed. And that event had yet to happen. Another too-personal fact he was not about to admit.
Irritation tightened his muscles. He snapped up his collar and secured the top buttons. “I’d say marriage takes work, but it’s a sight better than coming home to an empty house.”
Chapter Nine
As the buggy approached town, Tavia noticed wagons moving from various directions across the prairie toward the same destination. Sure, Fitz told her ranching families from outlying spreads came to town for Sunday services. Seeing the visual proof verified what he’d said. “Now, I can see with my own eyes we do have neighbors.” She glanced down at a sleeping Angela and couldn’t hide a smile. Within the past few days, the baby had settled into a regular routine and, thankfully, slept for most of each night.
Fitz jerked his chin. “We’ll have more time after services are over for me to make proper introductions. By the way people are hurrying along the boardwalks, I’d say the pastor is about to ring the welcome bell.” After passing the jail, he eased the reins to the left and turned down the side street. “Whoa, Willow.” He glanced toward her. “I’ll let you out here and go park the buggy.” He set the brake and hopped out, moving toward the back of the buggy.
As soon as Fitz appeared at her side, she passed Angela to his waiting arms. Then she gathered the carpetbag she’d designated as the one to carry the baby’s essentials, made sure her reticule still hung from her wrist, and accepted Fitz’s hand to steady her as she climbed out. Today, she’d chosen her burgundy woolen skirt with matching jacket edged with black piping. A modest bustle topped the cascading flounces that ran down the skirt’s back. Cream-colored silk with a picot edging peeked from the jacket cuffs, and a demure bow sat at the neckline of the blouse. She wanted to look her best when being presented as Fitz’s wife for the first time.
“Here’s the girl.” Fitz placed Angela in Tavia’s arms. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Waiting at the foot of the church steps put her within sight of each arriving party. She nodded at the men who raised their hats and smiled at each woman who met her gaze, hoping her greetings looked calm enough. Nerves danced along her skin, but she held up her chin.
Fitz strode into view from the empty field adjacent to the church. “I should have suggested you should wait inside, out of the cold.” When he reached her side, he grasped the carpet bag.
Tavia turned toward the steps and felt the pressure of his hand on her lower back—a touch unknown until only a few days ago, but one that had become familiar and so welcome in their short time together. “I didn’t know if you had a special pew.” She’d also become quite adept at holding Angela with her left hand and managing the front of her skirts with the other.
“Good morning, folks.” A man with graying hair who wore a long black frock coat held open the door and nodded. “Welcome.”
“Morning, Pastor Oswallt.” Once they crossed the threshold, Fitz steered her to the left and ushered her into the last pew. “Just in case we need to exit quickly.” He glanced at the bundle in her arms and a smile tugged at his mouth.
After arranging her skirts to the most comfortable position, Tavia glanced around at the church’s simple wooden construction containing high ceilings braced with rough-hewn wooden joists. So different from the masonry construction and marble columns of the San Antonio church where she’d accompanied the widow Clarice. One feature was common—both had beautiful, intricate stained-glass windows behind the altars. This morning, the diffuse light inched muted shades of blues, reds, and ambers along the floor.
Three loud clangs of a brass bell sounded.
Angela stiffened, and her eyes fluttered.
Tavia rocked back and forth, hoping the woman to her left wouldn’t be too distracted.
The pastor advanced down the center aisle, murmuring greetings and receiving handshakes. At the front, he turned and raised both hands. “I’m so glad to see all of you this morning. Let us start our time of worship together with a few moments of music.”
Fitz leaned close. “His wife, Gywnne, serves as the organist and is quite involved in the town’s activities.”
A spicy citrus scent wafted from Fitz’s direction that she hadn’t noticed on the buggy ride. An aftershave he had used the day of their wedding.
Notes from an unfamiliar hymn floated from the small organ at the front. Someone coughed and another person blew a nose then only the musical notes filled the space.
Tavia closed her eyes, letting the calm melody wash away her nervousness. For the next hour or so, she was content to sit beside her husband in a hushed atmosphere and reflect on the changes in her life. The religious services Clarice preferred were in Latin so Tavia had adopted a respectful attitude but never paid much attention to the rituals.
The shuffling of feet as the congregation stood to sing caught her by surprise. Even more surprising was her husband’s strong alto voice—clear and confident. After shrugging to indicate she didn’t know the words, she was grateful he ran a finger under the printed lyrics of the hymn book. The mingling of their voices created a pleasing sound, and her heart beat a little faster at this discovery.
Angela responded to the added noise and gave a full-body stretch. Then she wiggled and angled her head to look around.
Tavia moved her into an upright position and rubbed circles on her back. She worried she might have to leave to avoid censure from parishioners. A glance around the congregation showed several other babies in parents’ arms.
Luckily, Angela stayed entertained during the pastor’s sermon by being passed between Fitz and Tavia, playing with the buttons or decorations on their clothes, and patting her hands along the edges of the wooden pew. They stood to sing the closing hymn, and the baby bounced up and down to the organ notes.
The last note hung on the air, and at the same time, a shaft of sunlight hit the stained glass window. Colorful spots of light danced over the aisle and the people as they moved toward the exit. Conversations buzzed as friends spoke to one another.
Tavia yearned to be hailed or to see a familiar face. As a newcomer to the community, such a personal greeting would have to wait.
“Shall we?” Fitz cupped her elbow.
But she held back. “Can we let the others clear out so I can change Angela’s diaper in relative solitude?”
He glanced over his shoulder, his mouth pressing into a straight line. “I wanted to speak with the sheriff.”
Tightness invaded her chest. She knew the topic of that conversation and dreaded the news about Angela’s relatives Fitz might learn. “Go ahead. I don’t mind.”
He fidgeted with his hat. “I did expect to introduce you to several families.”
“I want that, too.” She reached under the pew and scooted the bag along the floor.
Fitz grabbed the handles, holding them apart, and tipped the opened carpetbag to display the contents. “I will wait with you.”
As quickly as she could, Tavia went through the steps of placing the square of gutta-percha cloth on the pew then stripping the baby of the wet cloth and performing the diaper change.
Once outside, Fitz set his hat on his head before steering them around the perimeter of groups of chatting people. At the side of the church stood several wooden tables and benches where people also gathered. “There’s Hawksen, at the last table.”
Tavia spotted several men standing in a loose circle but wasn’t sure which man he meant. They passed women who set out plates and bowls pulled from baskets. Wonder why Fitz didn’t have me pack a meal? Introductions flew through the air as she met the sheriff w
ho owned a ranch and the various people who worked there.
Fitz pulled the sheriff to the side. “I wanted to know if you’d heard any news from the sheriff in Fredericksburg.”
The tall man flicked his gaze between Tavia and Fitz as he scratched his chin. “Only a confirmation my wire had been received. Sheriff Bolton administers a bigger population than Dorado. He didn’t know how long before the notification happened.”
As quietly as she could manage, Tavia let out a relieved breath but held her expression tight. She wanted to appear concerned while inside, happiness bubbled for the few more days of keeping Angela close.
“This child must be the orphan in question.” Mister Hawksen leaned down and chucked a finger under the baby’s chin. “She’s a cutie, and look at those big brown eyes.” He straightened and flashed a grin. “My kids are a mix of Irish and Norwegian ancestry, and all have light-colored eyes.”
Tavia smiled, instantly liking this big man with a soft heart. “How many children do you have?”
A grin spread his lips. “Two boys and a girl, and they keep my sweet Vevina and me hopping.”
Fitz chuckled. “Didn’t you have to rescue one of them from the well at the Fourth of July celebration?”
Hawksen cringed and hunched his shoulders. “That I did with the help of the blacksmith. If not for Spengler’s strength, the rescue would have taken longer.” He shook his head. “I’d almost forgotten about that incident.”
“Kell, there ye be.” A short red-haired woman stepped up to the circle, a baby balanced on one hip.
“Ah, my little Maeve. Daddy’s special girl.” The grinning sheriff lifted his daughter into the air and spun a circle.
She chortled and giggled before being settled into the crook of her father’s arm, looking outward.
“Vevina, this is the new bride Missus Saunders you heard me speak about.”
Vevina turned, wide-eyed, and flashed a tight-lipped smile. “Pleased I am to meet ya. And I be sure saddened to hear of ye travels to our fair town.” She reached out a hand to cup Angela’s bonneted head. “This be the wee lass who lost her mam and da? Such a sweet girl.”
Mail-Order Haven Page 11
