Dear Miss Cucinotta
Page 2
“I’ve tried not to, but …”
“But you have not encouraged him either.”
“Encouraged him? Toward what?”
She smiled. “Making friends, say. Did you not tell me in your last letter that he seemed withdrawn? His parents have been gone a long time, mon ami.”
“The boy … keeps to himself.”
“Which is not always a good thing, oui?” she pointed out.
Rufus stood and paced. “So what are you suggesting, Adelia?”
“I’m suggesting you send him west to Clear Creek to learn these things. There is a man there who can guide him. Do you know of Cyrus Van Cleet?”
His eyes rounded to saucers. “Of Van Cleet Shipping?”
“The very same.”
“Is that where he’s been all these years?”
“Oui. Both he and his wife Polly are alive and well.”
He walked over to where she sat. “And just how did you come by this information?”
She smiled. “I have sent brides there. They keep no secrets from me.”
Rufus took his seat, pulled his handkerchief out again and wiped his brow with it. “What next? President Hayes hiding under your bed?”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly. Why would he come here?”
Rufus smiled. “I couldn’t tell you. But then I couldn’t tell you why Cyrus Van Cleet is hiding out in Oregon.” He picked up his cup and saucer and sat back. “There’s sense in this, I admit. But Carlyle in some backwoods town, even Cyrus Van Cleet’s backwoods town … how is this going to get him a wife? What if the woman never shows up?”
Mrs. Pettigrew smiled. “Trust me, mon ami. If this one says she will, she will.”
Chapter Two
Clear Creek, Oregon, July 1879
“Stop pacing, Cyrus – you’re making me nervous.”
Cyrus Van Cleet returned to his seat on the other side of the table and examined the checkerboard. “You’re too young to understand these things, C.J. Harlan’s coming to visit, which means a rematch! He skunked me the last eight games, but I aim to get my title back.”
Carlyle James Branson – C.J. to his familiars – ran his hand through his short blonde hair and eyed the older man. “The last ten games?”
“That’s like a hanging sentence in these parts, young man. I might as well be dead.”
C.J. laughed. He liked Cyrus a lot. He’d been in Clear Creek for almost a month, but in that short time he’d learned more about business than his grandfather or college professors could ever teach. Of course, he wasn’t keen on living at the town men’s camp – worse than an Army barracks – but he was getting used to it. No one but Cyrus knew who he really was, just that his father was an old acquaintance of Cyrus’s and he was there to help the old man with whatever he might need.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done so far.” Cyrus said, changing the subject.
C.J. studied the board. “You mean the hotel?”
“What else? Ever since those Callahan sisters got married, I’ve had to put lots of things off. It was amazing what those three women accomplished. Thank Heaven Rosie stayed on and is helping Mrs. Upton with the cooking, or I’m not sure what I’d do.”
“Sally doesn’t get around like she used to, I take it?”
“No. Rosie’s doing more and more of the work. By the way, I still need the window trim painted.”
“I’ll get on that right away. It’s too bad I’m the only extra hand around. That job would go a lot quicker with two or three.”
“I know, but the Comfort brothers all work for the Cookes now since a few more of their ranch hands have retired or moved off. And there’s no one reliable at the men’s camp except you.”
C.J. jumped two of Cyrus’s pieces. “Really?”
“Ever since I built my hotel back in 59’ and established the camp, there’s always been more than one good fella staying there, working to make his way. Now it’s just you and the Bandon brothers, and I can’t trust either of them to remember to tie their shoes. Strong boys, but not much for brains.”
“What happened to all the rest?”
Cyrus shrugged. “They moved on – Baker City, Portland, some even to California. I like to think they learned something during their time in Clear Creek. I know you have.”
C.J. smiled. “Yes, sir, I have.” He glanced around Dunnigan’s Mercantile from his seat at the table near the front window. It was Wilfred Dunnigan’s checker table, and only used for that purpose. As far as the Dunnigans or anyone else in town knew, he was just a man trying to make his way in the world.
Really, that wasn’t far from the truth. Sure he was educated and well-read, but he was still hazy on his purpose in life. Nor did anyone he asked advice from seem to care. Who had a purpose? One worked, ate, drank, breathed, slept, started again the next day. What you did to make sure you kept all those things up didn’t matter to most. Farmer, owner, miner, businessman – find something you were good at and do it.
But C.J. didn’t just want to learn a trade – he wanted to make a difference in people’s lives. The question was, how?
For now, all he could do was humor his Grandpa Rufus and spend time with Cyrus. Now he had the right idea. He came west seeking adventure and to also see if he could make a difference. He had - building the finest hotel between Baker City and Oregon City. All the town needed was people to put in it.
“What time is the stage due?” he asked Cyrus.
Cyrus pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open. “Any time now.” He put the watch away and looked at the board. “How did you do that?”
C.J. smiled. “Maybe if you’d been watching the board instead of out the window, you’d have seen my move.”
Cyrus stood again. “I can’t help it. I’m just so excited to see Harlan and meet his new family.”
C.J. laughed again. “You mean you’re excited to challenge him to a rematch.”
“That too,” the old man admitted.
“Stage here yet?” Wilfred asked as he passed through the curtain from the back storage area. He glanced around. “Aw, shucks, I see it ain’t.”
“Not yet,” Cyrus said, sharing his disappointment. “Any time now.”
The mercantile doors opened, and Sheriff Tom Turner walked in and looked at the others. “Not yet, huh? Stage must be runnin’ late.”
“Must,” Wilfred said. “I wish they’d get here. I’m curious to meet some of Harlan’s new family. He sure brags about them in his letters.”
“He don’t brag,” Tom said.
“Exaggerates, then,” Wilfred countered. “Those stories he tells about them sure are funny though.”
“Trust me,” Tom said. “I know those folks – he ain’t exaggeratin’.”
Wilfred stared at him a moment. “Oh? What about folks getting tossed down the farm’s well?”
“It’s true,” Tom said pointedly.
“Good thing you don’t have one out front, Wilfred,” Cyrus teased.
Wilfred rolled his eyes. “Okay, so what about the one fella’s Italian wife that’s supposed to look like a Greek goddess?”
That got C.J’s attention. He arched an eyebrow at Wilfred, then Tom. “What about her?”
“Ain’t no exaggeration there neither. She’s real purty.”
“And she can cook too?” Wilfred said.
“And she was a mail-order bride,” Tom added.
“There you go, C.J.,” Cyrus said. “Have you considered one of those?”
C.J. shook his head. “No. I, uh, don’t think so.”
“Not ready to get hitched?” Wilfred asked. “Can’t say as I blame ya. Besides, ain’t no woman around here for you. And a man’s got to have something to offer. At least them Comfort boys had their cabins started before they married those Callahan sisters.”
“From what Cyrus tells me, the Comforts didn’t know those women were coming to marry them,” C.J. said. “No wonder their places weren’t finished.”
C.J. smiled weakly. That and the fact his grandfather wouldn’t like any woman he might be lucky enough to find. He was here to work and learn as much as he could from Cyrus. The fewer distractions, the better.
“You don’t have to remind me,” Cyrus told Wilfred. He turned to C.J. “That’s how I lost the Callahan sisters – and why I’m counting on you to get everything done. Though it’s a lot for one man … I wonder if I could hire one of the Cookes’ older children to help out?” He rubbed his chin. “Hmm, there’s a thought. Or maybe one of their cousins …”
“Why not Harrison’s boy Maxwell?” Wilfred suggested.
“Max, of course.” Cyrus smiled. “I’m sure Harrison won’t mind loaning him to me. He’s what, sixteen? The lad could do with a trip to town a couple days a week.”
“Heck, why not ask Preacher Jo if you can borrow Ninian for a day or two while you’re at it?” Wilfred added. “He’s about Max’s age.”
“I’m not sure,” Cyrus said. “Preacher Jo keeps that boy busy.”
“I thought you told me the preacher didn’t have any children,” C.J. cut in.
“He doesn’t. Preacher Jo and Annie sort of adopted Ninian a couple of years ago. He’s been living with them ever since.”
“Ninian used to run with his big brother’s outlaw gang,” Wilfred said quietly. “Ain’t that right, Tom?”
The sheriff leaned against the front counter. “That’s Nin’s private business, Wilfred.”
“Private? Everyone in town knows it!” Wilfred scoffed as he went behind the counter.
The bell over the door rang as Grandma Waller entered. “Well, where’s the stage? I want to see Harlan and hug his neck!”
“Late.” Wilfred reached for a jar behind him. “Want a peppermint, Grandma?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” She went to the counter and took one. “So, Mr. Branson, how do you like our little town?” She popped the candy into her mouth.
C.J. smiled at the old woman, her eyes bright and intelligent despite her age. “Fine, Mrs. Waller. Just fine.”
She put her hand on her hip. “How many times do I have to tell you? Just call me Grandma.”
He sunk a little in his chair, pretending to be chastised. “Sorry, Grandma.”
“That’s better.” She went to the table and shooed him out of his chair. “Let an old woman sit.”
“Certainly.” He went to the door, looked through the glass and turned to Cyrus. “The stage really is late, isn’t it?”
“I can’t imagine what’s keeping it,” he said. “But, a lot of folks are coming, from the sound of Harlan’s last letter.”
“Just six, right?” Wilfred asked. “Willie can fit six in his coach.”
“I think it was more.” Cyrus scratched his head. “Well, I guess we’ll see when they get here.”
“Mama, are we there yet?”
“No, Sebastian, not yet,” Charity Weaver told her young son. She brushed his light brown hair out of his eyes.
“I want to sit on Rufi’s lap!” he announced.
Charity gave Rufi a pleading look.
“Oh, all right,” Rufi said. “Is that okay with you, Truly? Are you ready to switch with your brother?”
Charity and Benjamin’s two-year-old Truly pulled her thumb from her mouth and leaned toward her mother, arms outstretched. They switched the children, no easy feat in the cramped stagecoach. It had been a long, hot, bumpy ride from Baker City to Clear Creek – thank Heaven it was almost over.
Rufi settled Sebastian on her lap, lifted the window’s dust flap and peeked out. The landscape was rolling prairie dotted with wildflowers and the occasional tree. White-capped mountains rose in the distance, the tree line flowing down the ranges to border the grasslands. “This is beautiful country,” she commented. “So different from Nowhere.”
“Too bad Harlan’s ridin’ up top with Willie,” Calvin said. “He could tell us ‘bout it.”
“He knows Willie – let them get caught up.” Ma Weaver kissed Calvin’s five year-old son Thatcher on the head. “Are you ready to get out of this stagecoach?”
“Sure am, nonna,” he said with a grin.
She hugged him. “I love it when you call me ‘grandma’ in Italian. Makes me feel special.”
“You are special, Ma.” Benjamin shifted in the cramped space. “I won’t lie, I’ll be happy to get out of this stagecoach and stretch my legs.”
“We all will.” Bella adjusted Alistair, one of her twin sons, who was asleep in her arms. Calvin held their other twin, Hugh. Thankfully the way everyone was crammed together, the children couldn’t go anywhere or fall off any laps. There were seven adults in that stage, and five children ranging from two to almost six. The men took turns riding up top with Willie.
Harlan had claimed that spot for the last part of their journey, and could be heard laughing with Willie as they exchanged stories and got caught up with each other’s lives. After all, Clear Creek was Harlan’s home for many years and he missed it. This, of course, only made Benjamin and Calvin more anxious than ever to meet the famous Cooke family along with Clear Creek’s other colorful residents.
“Ya think he’s still alive?” Calvin asked Benjamin quietly.
“Who?”
Calvin glanced at the others and back. “Clyde.”
“Who is this Clyde?” Bella asked.
Calvin turned an interesting shade of red. Benjamin just laughed. “A rooster,” he explained.
“Rooster?” Ma said. “Merciful heavens, haven’t we had enough talk about roosters over the last few months? I thought we were done.”
“Old Man Johnson’s rooster was different, Ma,” Calvin said.
“Sam Johnson has a screw loose.” She rolled her eyes. “How can a rooster be any sort of angel? Of all the silly notions …”
Bella looked at Calvin and his identical twin Benjamin. “Is Clyde a … special rooster too?”
“Dunno,” Calvin said. “Accordin’ to the stories Tom told us years back, he sure made him sound that way.”
“It’s been, what, eight years since he told us them stories?” Benjamin asked. “Do chickens live that long?”
“Maybe.” Calvin smiled. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“You two have told us all those stories,” Charity said, “and the only thing you can think about is a rooster?”
“Just now occurred to me, darlin’,” Calvin said. “And they were awful funny stories, don’t ya think?”
She smiled. “Yes, they were. I can’t wait to meet these people – they sound like something out of a novel.”
“Yeah, they sure do. Only they’re real.”
The stagecoach bumped along a few more miles before Willie finally called out, “Clear Creek! Comin’ into Clear Creek!”
“Thank Heaven!” Ma shifted on the seat. “My legs are asleep.”
“Ooh, that ain’t gonna be pleasant,” Benjamin commented. “Let me take Thatcher from ya, Ma.”
“I can manage until we stop.”
“I can take him,” Rufi offered. “That’s why I’m here,” she added sourly.
“Yes, child, but your lap hasn’t had a free moment the entire trip,” Ma reminded her.
The stagecoach came to a stop and everyone sighed in relief. Within moments Willie had opened the stagecoach door and was giving them his huge grin, missing teeth and all. “Clear Creek folks! Cain’t tell ya how happy I been to have ya in my coach!”
“What?” Ma said. “Us?”
Willie helped Ma out. “Harlan’s been tellin’ me all sorts of stories ‘boutcha!”
“Harlan!” she warned as he climbed down from the driver’s seat. “What have you been telling this man?”
“Just things.” He smiled, looked up and down the street and sighed. “It’s good to be back.”
/>
No sooner had he said it than the mercantile doors opened and out came a stream of people. Rufi did her best to gather the children around her as the crowd headed straight for Harlan.
“There he is!” An older man with gray eyebrows, gray hair and blue eyes ran down the mercantile steps and gave Harlan a big hug.
“Good to see you too, Wilfred!”
He was followed by another man who had a sprightly build and wispy white hair. “Well, Harlan, welcome home.”
“Cyrus!” Harlan let go of Wilfred and hugged Cyrus. “It’s good to see you. Is Polly here?”
“No, she’s at the hotel resting, but she looks forward to seeing you. Your rooms are all ready.”
“Mighty kind of you,” Harlan said. “And I won’t take charity – we’re paying for them rooms.”
“Of course you are,” Cyrus said. “Doesn’t mean I can’t give an old friend a discount, though.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Ma told him with a smile.
Harlan beamed as he hugged a very old woman who, tears in her eyes, hadn’t said a word yet. “Good to see you, Grandma.” That made Rufi blink – was that Harlan’s grandmother? And she was still alive? She must be over a hundred!
Harlan waved to the crowd. “Meet Mary, everyone! My wife!”
The old woman let go of Harlan, slapped him on the shoulder and looked at Ma. “Welcome to Clear Creek!” More tears followed.
Another woman came out of the mercantile, a veritable battleship in her sixties wearing a store apron. She headed straight for Harlan’s grandmother. “Didn’t Doc Drake say you shouldn’t get excited?” she scolded, prying her from Ma’s arms.
“Oh, stop your fussing, Irene. I’m fine!”
“I’ll stop when the doc says I should stop. In the meantime, stop gallivanting all over town!”
“The only gallivanting I’ve done is across the street!”
“It’s good to see you too, Irene,” Harlan said.
By now everyone had emerged from the cramped coach and was doing their best to work out the kinks. Rufi saw a familiar face – Tom Turner – and waved.
Irene, meanwhile, was scowling at Harlan. “Hello, Sheriff. About time you came to visit.”