Only when she heard the words “save Wildcat Ridge” did she shake her head, sit straighter, and listen again to the proceedings.
“I don’t like the idea any more than most of you do, but we must remarry if we want to remain in our homes and for the town to survive.” Grim-faced, Hester gripped the sides of the podium.
Ideas flew from everyone about how to spread the word that husbands were needed—and lots of them. A few advocated for ads to be placed in a grooms’ gazette—a publication Dulcina had never heard of until this very moment. Some talked up the benefits of the location, and others listed the lovely valley, dog-tooth violets turning the meadow golden, trees sprouting new growth, and the return of the wildlife. Priscilla proposed continuing Sunday services because she had every sermon from the four years her father preached.
The door opened, and Parthena Farrow entered and slid into a seat at the back of the room on the opposite side.
Three widows sitting nearby stood and moved away.
The slender, dark-haired woman wore a sleeveless buckskin tunic. From saloon conversations she’d overheard, Dulcina learned the woman had been kidnapped by Indians five years earlier then returned by the Army to her husband, who rejected her. The woman must feel even more isolated than Dulcina did, but she couldn’t think of anything the two had in common.
The idea of placing an ad was personally repugnant. Dulcina was raised in a traditional household with expectations about behavior. Sending out a message about her personal attributes and situation did not feel right. Even though she broke tradition with her choice of husband, she couldn’t imagine how an ad asking for a man to marry her would read.
But what about a personal letter? The town of Wildcat Ridge had the basics in place to attract new residents. George and Elsie Tweedie, both in their seventies, still operated the mercantile, and Olive Muckelrath had stepped into her husband Archie’s place in the butcher shop. Diantha Ames ran The Ridge Hotel and kept it ready for guests. The town operated with an acting mayor and marshal, and the doctor’s practice was open.
“I have a suggestion.” Dressed in boy’s clothes, Blessing Odell moved to the podium. “With my father now gone, I’ve been left with too many horses—one hundred ten, to be exact. More than I need and can care for. We should have a horse auction to sell off the ones I don’t want. That event will bring in men from all around the area, and I’ll split the profits fifty/fifty with the town. Others can decide how the proceeds are distributed.” She turned to Hester, and they discussed possible dates.
Someone promoted the idea of a community dance to allow the widows a respectable way to meet the men who arrived for the auction.
Dulcina gave a fleeting thought to the horse auction Buster, the young woman’s preferred nickname, suggested. Outside of Questa, her father bred horses, some of the finest in the southern United States if his claims were accurate. While she’d lived at home, he’d gone on extended trips to buy horses. What if…?
In the middle of the room, Eleanora stood. “I’ve been in touch with the Miners Association in Denver about the horrible conditions in Crane’s mine that led to the explosion. My husband told me about inadequate shoring. Possibly, a lawsuit will provide settlement money for the mine widows.”
Cheers erupt around the room.
Horses and the mine lawsuit didn’t affect Dulcina directly, especially the issue of the possible settlement money. But after the third or fourth declaration that the widows must remarry, she didn’t deny the necessity of making this decision. Dulcina couldn’t push the image of her childhood novio, Gabriel, from her mind.
His family, the Magnuses, ran a sheep ranch on the acres that adjoined the rancho where she was raised in northern New Mexico Territory. Only two years apart in age, she and Gabriel had been childhood friends. If she had to remarry, then she wanted more say in the matter than possibly meeting a man who came to town to buy a horse. Wouldn’t traveling to Wildcat Ridge mean that the horse buyer intended to take the horses back to wherever he lived? Such a man would not be the right person who would consider moving to town and becoming the manager so she could retain her saloon.
The scrape of benches and chairs on the heavy plank floor brought Dulcina from her reverie.
“Hold on a minute.” With a wave of her hands, Marshal Fawks caught everyone’s attention. “We need to be careful about the type of men we invite to our town. No more riff-raff like the three men who heard about the explosion and figured the town was deserted. They came, thinking the place was ripe for them to steal from.”
At Etta’s proclamation, Dulcina sat forward, anticipating the marshal would also mention the theft at her establishment the previous night. The culprits weren’t the same ones, but they had broken into her building. Nothing was said. Where was the consideration for the loss of her property and the fact two youngsters felt emboldened to invade her business? And she’d thought of Etta as a friend.
“I wish to speak.” Dulcina stood and endured the narrow-eyed looks aimed her way. “What Marshal Fawks failed to mention just now is my saloon was broken into last night. Thankfully, the thieves are sitting in jail, but you all should be aware how being a widow puts us all in jeopardy.” After no words of compassion for her ordeal were uttered, Dulcina spun on her heel and left the church. Disappointment sat heavy in her heart as she slipped and slid her way home through the muddy streets. She didn’t know if she’d attend the next meeting called for a week from now.
Upon reaching the Last Chance, she went in through the alley entrance so she could leave her muddy boots near the back door. While the ideas from the meeting were fresh in her mind, she wanted to set pen to paper and write to Gabriel about co-managing the saloon.
Upstairs, she arranged the kindling and wood strips like she’d learned from Ralph, and within a few moments, a small fire blazed in the parlor stove. Tugging her shawl higher on her shoulders, she settled at her writing desk. The lovely carved wood desk with the drop-down writing surface had been a birthday gift from Stuart.
Knowing that sweet words were always better than demanding ones to cushion surprising news, she considered exactly how to frame her request. She couldn’t just baldly state the business proposition, not to a man who she knew had been raised with the same traditional values and beliefs as her father and brothers. Rather, she needed to reestablish a friendly connection by detailing remembrances of their happy times.
May 27, 1884
Dear Gabriel,
How time flies. I hardly believe I have been gone from Questa for eight whole years. I sincerely hope this letter finds you and your family well. I’m sure not much has changed there on your family’s sheep rancho.
Leaning back in the chair, she scrutinized the last line which could be interpreted as snotty. Rereading the whole paragraph proved she’d taken the wrong tone. What she asked of him represented a huge favor, so she had to appear needier. Pulling a fresh piece of paper from the stationery box, she contemplated how to soften the tone of the unhappy situation she had to relay.
Hours later, the fire had died to glowing embers. Dulcina held the three-page missive in front of her, reading it for the final time. She’d captured just the right balance of friendly chatter and polite entreaty. Then she folded it into thirds on the long edge and repeated it on the short one, centering the loose flap. A blob of molten wax and a pressing of the metal stamp molded with a stylized “D” finalized the request. Tomorrow, she’d take it to Diantha Ames at the Ridge Hotel to mail and then wait for her knight in shining armor—more likely, her cowboy in leather chaps—to arrive.
Chapter Four
L ate afternoon sunlight blazed hot on Gabriel Magnus’s shoulders. With a click of his tongue, he urged his stallion, Oro, along the slanted walls of the rocky arroyo as they chased down a stubborn cow. Lariat held loose in his right hand, he moved the reins with his left, guiding the palomino to dart ahead of the shorthorn to force it back toward the herd. This battle was one he fought just about every day. W
hy the dumb animals thought something better existed out in the wilds of northern New Mexico Territory, Gabriel didn’t know. That the cow was a different one from the day before didn’t matter. At some point, every single one tried to escape.
His job on the Magnus Rancho was to manage this herd of thirty that kept the family and workers fed. His father and two brothers oversaw the vast sheep herds that funded the family wool business. As the third-born son he wouldn’t inherit, so tending cattle was his lot in life—desired or not.
As he trotted toward the herd, with the captured cow in tow, he ruminated on a new recipe for his next batch of specialty tequila. A family wedding in Jalisco, Mexico, five years ago introduced Gabriel to the idea of what he could do to distinguish himself in his father’s eyes. He yearned for his father to take notice of his abilities. Tequila distilling might be the answer.
Tío Alberto introduced him to the distinctive spirit made from the base of blue agave plants that grew in the Mexican highlands off the Pacific coast. His tío’s production was modest compared to many other distilleries in the area.
But Gabriel paid attention and, upon his return, he’d discovered a grouping of the same plants on his father’s rancho. For three years, he’d been refining the process in collaboration with Alberto. After being stripped of their spiny leaves, the bases of the plants were called piñas. When Gabriel prepared the aquamiel, he mixed Jalisco piñas with ones harvested on family land.
What he needed was more time to devote to building a second condensation still. And to double the size of the undersized shed currently holding the tequila production equipment. His small operation produced spirits fine tasting enough that his father proudly served the liquor to guests. But Padre’s refusal to allow more of his land to be seeded with the plants for fear the “weeds” could take away forage from the sheep frustrated Gabriel. Rehashing the same arguments in his mind wouldn’t solve the problem.
The angle of the sun near Pinabete Peak signaled him to start the herd toward the corral. By the time the cattle ambled there and he got them penned, Gabriel would have no qualms about ending his work day. He looked forward to a long soak in the tub he’d installed by the big window on his first-floor balcony. Nothing better for easing the soreness of a day’s ride.
When the last steer sauntered into the wooden enclosure, he leaned to the side in the saddle and hooked the rope loop over the thick post.
A young stable boy ran close. “I’ll take Oro, Mister Gabriel.”
Grinning at the boy’s enthusiasm to be of service, Gabriel dismounted and handed off the reins. He studied the boy’s face and hoped he guessed right on which of the Martinez twins stood waiting. “Here you go, Paco.”
The boy beamed and rubbed a hand over the palomino’s nose. “Come with me, Oro, and I will brush you until your coat shines like the sun.”
Remembering when he’d first been allowed the task of currying his father’s horse, Gabriel shook his head. He’d been about the same age, seven or eight, and he had the same difficulties of balancing on benches and ladders to reach. The beginning of a lifelong love affair with horses. He stripped off his riding gloves and slapped them against his thigh to remove the excess dirt. Glancing toward the north pasture, he noticed a cloud of dust kicked up by approaching horses.
The family adobe house surrounded three sides of a courtyard where meals were served in good weather. Cooking in the outdoor oven prevented the kitchen from being overheated, although the three-foot thick walls modulated the indoor temperature well. He debated about going through the main entrance or around the exterior to his suite of rooms. As gritty as he felt from today’s winds, he shouldn’t traipse the dust across his mother’s tile floors.
Turning toward the south wing, he’d gone about ten feet when he heard his name.
His younger sister, Trella, stood on the front porch, a hand shading her eyes. “A letter for you came today.” Smiling, she waved the paper.
Possibly from his tío. He altered his path and took the stone steps at a jog, holding out a hand. “You could have given it to me at supper.”
Giggling, she clutched it to her chest and danced away, turning her back. “No, you would not want to read this letter around others.”
“Trella, I’m hot and tired and do not need your teasing.” Taller than her by at least six inches, he reached over her shoulder and tugged the folded packet from her hands. Not giving her the satisfaction of a reaction, he strode out of sight before he even glanced at the address. His boots skittered in the reddish soil. He hadn’t seen that penmanship in many years, but he recognized it. Dulcina. His heart sped, and he hurried to the privacy of the second suite from the end.
Two servant girls poured a large vessel of steaming water into the tub. The taller one nodded. “Almost done, sir. We will bring another in a few moments.”
“Leave me.” Anxious to tear open the letter, he waved them off, his heartbeat overloud in his ears. “I will ring if I want it.” He paced a triangle between two leather chairs and a heavy table in his sitting area until the girls moved into the hallway that ran the length of the string of rooms. Then he dropped into a nearby chair and broke the seal, eager to learn what the girl who broke his young heart had to say.
May 27, 1884
My dear friend, Gabriel,
So many years have passed since we have spoken. Please give my regards to your family. I hope and pray each and every one of the Magnuses is in good health at the time you receive this letter.
I remember well the fun we had as children rambling over the rocks and through creeks dividing our fathers’ lands. Your boats always floated farther than mine did, but I sometimes caught more fish. To this day, I believe you let me win the majority of our horse races. With fondness, I recall the love ballad you strummed on your guitar as my special birthday gift. The kiss we shared on the night of my quinceañera party was my very first and remains a treasured memory.
But those events are in the past. I don’t know if you have made the connection yet between the return address on the outside and the tragedy that struck our mining town two months ago. I don’t even know if our sad news has spread as far away as where you live.
Shuffling the sheets, he found the exterior page and flipped it over—Wildcat Ridge, Utah Territory. So, that’s where she had been living with that pompous bon vivant who stole her away. He scanned the paper until he located the paragraph where he’d stopped reading.
Suffice to say, late in March, the majority of the men in our town perished in the collapse of a gold mine. My brave husband, Stuart, was among the rescuers, along with other men, women, and children, who rushed to aid the trapped miners and died in a secondary explosion.
Dulcina was no longer married? His heart beat faster. The paper crinkled where his grip tightened. He jumped to his feet and paced then glanced down to continue reading.
The widows have just learned the man who holds loans and mortgages on the majority of Wildcat Ridge businesses demands that notes be brought current. In addition, he states he will remove the structure housing any woman who hasn’t remarried and put a husband in charge of a business. We have been given a deadline of the end of August to meet both demands. As you might imagine, many of us are not looking to remarry so quickly, but we don’t wish to be forced out onto the streets, either.
Because I remember fondly the friendship we enjoyed as youth, I’m offering you the opportunity to co-manage the Last Chance Saloon, the only establishment in Wildcat Ridge with live entertainment—my singing. In addition to taking over the day-to-day operation of the business, you would become my husband, albeit in name only as I’m still deep in mourning for my departed Stuart.
Goose flesh rose on his arms. Gabriel stopped, ran a hand through his hair, and reread the previous paragraph. Married…to Dulcina?
Now, on to the specifics you probably need to help in making your decision. Unfortunately, since the mine collapse, the railroad doesn’t make regular runs through town. The close
st train stop is in Curdy’s Crossing about eight miles east. Sorry, I don’t know the name of the railroad line. The location here is picturesque, similar in elevation I think, and I’ve noticed some of the same trees as in Questa. Wildcat Ridge is a regular stop on the Wells Fargo stagecoach route from Evanston in Wyoming Territory.
The widows are working on ideas to bring visitors and business back to town to meet Mister Crane’s deadlines. I am much embarrassed to admit I don’t know what livelihood you work at now. But I remember how you loved to watch the hands on the Miranda Rancho break the mustangs.
One event the widows have organized is an auction of a mixture of horses caught wild in the region and others bred locally but are excess to the new owner. A special run of the Uinta Railroad has been arranged to deliver passengers from Evanston, Wyoming Territory, on June twenty-third, with a return trip on Saturday, June twenty-eighth, to transport passengers and animals. Buyers coming into town to view, and hopefully purchase, the horses will bring much-needed commerce to the businesses teetering on the edge of insolvency. Are you perhaps in need of fine horse flesh? If so, then be sure to plan your travels to arrive earlier than Friday, June twenty-seventh, when the auction will occur.
Gabriel, I realize my request arrives in your hands with no advance notice, and your agreement is tantamount to putting your life into total upheaval. For all I know, you will have to explain this mysterious letter to a jealous wife. That is, if you have married since last Christmas when I communicated with Mamá.
But the truth is, when I heard the edict that the widows must marry again, I thought only of you as a possible candidate to become my husband. Your face is the one that popped into my mind. Sólo tu, Gabriel.
His breath hitched in his throat, and he ran a fingertip over the last words. Only him.
My last resort is to pack up and return to my father’s rancho. But in my heart, I believe I have more songs to perform for listeners’ enjoyment. I wonder if you still play guitar. Wouldn’t joining our artistic talents be a possible way to make the saloon profitable again?
Dulcina Page 4
