by Lynn Donovan
“Thanks.” Mac rose and walked to the door, just as Tilly slammed into him.
“Oh! Sorry, Mac. Mrs. Bishop took longer than I figured.”
“It’s all right, Tilly.” He gave her a coin for her time. “I’ll catch you tomorrow. Right now I’ve gotta go answer an ad.”
Mac rushed back to his saloon on the north side of town and sat at his large desk. Lifting stationary and writing supplies, he re-read the ad. Obviously it wasn’t an open invitation to apply for the job. He needed to write just the right response to receive an invitation. But he had an idea he knew what to say. He dipped his pen and began writing.
“To whom it may concern—“
He finished the letter and was about to sign his name as she had done, “T. H. McMillan.”
“Hmm let’s see if that works.” He considered his letter once more and decided it was perfect. After blotting the ink, he folded the letter and addressed an envelope to “F.J. Adams Holdings, Silverpines, Oregon.”
He passed Jim, who was putting away the whiskey bottles into the cupboard behind the bar, as he strolled through the saloon. “Be back in a bit, Jim. Going to the post office.”
“Hmm,” was all Jim said.
Mac handed the postmaster his letter and turned to go check out the train schedules. “Looking for a train that’ll take me to Silverpines, Oregon, Hank.”
The ticket master, Hank Griffith, stepped back and looked at his blackboard. “Let’s see… Silverpines, Oregon? Hmm. It’ll take you about five different connections, Mr. McMillan, but you can probably get there in… oh… say seven to ten days.”
“Really? Nothing will get me there sooner?”
“Not unless you can fly like an eagle.” Hank snorted a laugh at his own joke.
“Well, alright.” Mac pulled his billfold out of his breast pocket. “How much for a one-way?”
Hank pulled out a binder and flipped through several pages. He figured out the cost and gave Mac the price. Mac paid him the money. “And I can use these whenever I get the hankering to head out to Oregon, right?”
“Yes sir. Them’s not got a date assigned to them. You just gotta get on the correct train, is all.”
“Good.” He turned to walk away, but turned back. “Thank you, Hank. By the way, congratulate me.”
“Congratulate you? What for?” Hank’s eyes rounded.
“I’m going out west and I’m marrying the love of my life.”
“Really? Well, I’ll be. Congratulations, then Mr. McMillan. And good luck to ya.”
“Thanks Hank. I’m gonna need it.”
“Why’s that.”
“Cause she don’t know I’m coming.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Flora walked down to the post office after she heard the steam whistle indicating the train had arrived at the depot. Surely by now someone will have answered her ad, it’d been over a month since she sent it. According to her girls, the other women in town were receiving responses to their requests, and grooms were trickling in to town. Some had even married already. Perhaps she was foolhardy to assume someone would answer her ridiculous ad for a barkeep, rather than a husband, in the Groom’s Gazette. She stepped up to the postal window. “Anything for me, Angie?”
Angie Wallace looked up from turning the postal bag upside down and letting the envelopes and packages tumble to her feet. “I’m not sure, Miss Adams. I’m just now getting started.”
Flora smiled graciously. “I see. Should I come back in an… hour maybe?”
“Yes. About an hour will work.” Angie stooped to separate envelopes from packages.
Flora sighed. She’d step in and help sort the mail, if she thought Angie would let her. She had a strong feeling there was something in there for her. But Angie never let anyone behind the door until all the mail was sorted and put away for the townsfolk to come get.
Flora turned, thinking she could go see how Lacy Lou was doing in the apothecary and come back in an hour, but she slammed into Miss Hattie Richards, running toward the train. A transportation steward pulled her elbow to hurry her along.
“Oh. I’m so sor—!” Flora stumbled back from Hattie. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” Hattie called over her shoulder. “I seem to be needed inside the train. A passenger, I’m told.” She slipped through the car door with the steward.
Flora blinked against the bright sunlight, trying to comprehend. A passenger was ill or injured? Would Hattie need help? Flora had a certain level of confidence from the month her saloon had been used as an infirmary. She had an hour to wait before Angie would let her get her mail. Perhaps she should try to help with the injured passenger so the train could get on its way.
Flora poked her head in the car door, to see where Miss Hattie might be. Spying her bent over a seat, Flora made her way toward her and the steward. A man seemed to be laid out on the bench on his back. All Flora could see was his shoes and pant legs.
“Do you need any help?” Flora stepped closer to where Hattie leaned over the man. Hattie’s voice was soft and reassuring, as always. The aroma of a familiar sweet smell of pipe tobacco, whiskey and pecans, stopped Flora from approaching closer. She physically reacted to the smell. It filled her mind with memories of years ago. “It can’t be!”
She cleared her throat. The man spoke softly to Hattie while Hattie suggested he go slow, let her help him to sit.
The man had his forearm over his eyes. All Flora could see was his short trimmed beard and generous mustache with waxed tips. Hattie took the man’s other arm and maneuvered herself to where she could get her arm under his neck, and lifted him up to a sitting position. He moaned and slowly opened his eyes.
Flora stood back a step, her jaw slack with shock. “Mac?”
The man’s eyes searched Hattie’s face, then darted about the train car, landing on her.
“Flora?” Mac McMillan growled. He grimaced and dipped his head as if in shame. “This wasn’t how I wanted you to see me.”
Hattie looked back and forth between the two of them. “You… know each other?”
Just then Angie hollered from the postal window. “Miss Adams, I do have a letter for you. All the way from Boston. You reckon it’s from the groom you sent for?”
“Groom?” Mac grinned with mischief. “Did you send for a groom?”
Flora closed her eyes. “No, I—”
“Mac! What are you doing here?” The heat of embarrassment filled Flora’s face and washed down her neck.
Hattie reached around her patient’s back and gently ran her fingers down his spine as if she were counting the bones. She gestured for him to turn so she could maneuver herself to face his backside better and worked on a section in his lower back with her two thumbs. He moaned and spoke through gritted teeth, “I sent a letter, but it sounds like it arrived with me.”
Flora glanced out the window of the train car at Angie, who waved the envelope in the air. Flora turned back to Mac. “You—you answered my ad?”
Mac winced with pain as Hattie worked a sensitive spot. “No. I answered a job-wanted ad for a barkeep with F. L. Adams Holdings in Silverpines, Oregon.”
He considered her a moment. “You mean to tell me that’s you?” A grin slowly lifted on the corners of his mouth, slightly twitching his pointy mustache.
Flora frowned. “You’re here to answer the ad in person? What happened to writing to the Holding Company and waiting for an invitation to come apply?” Anger roiled in her gut. How dare he just traipse back into her life, unannounced? “How do you know whether I’ve—they’ve already filled the position?”
Hattie pressed a particularly sore spot and Mac jerked. “Uhh. Well, you’re here looking for mail, so I would assume you haven’t filled the position. Besides, I answered the ad, and then I got on a train. Which, by the way, has just about put me in a hospital. My back is killing me from sitting in these seats for so long.” He moaned and looked over his shoulder into Hattie’s kind eyes.
Hattie’
s face was filled with concern. “I strongly suggest you secure a room at the inn, apply a hot water bottle for fifteen minutes to the area right… here” —she pushed the spot and he winced— “on your lower back, switch to a cold compress for fifteen, for the next hour, and then come to the clinic for a treatment.” Hattie stood next to him, poised to help him to his feet. “I can treat the problem, but you’ll have to come into the clinic. We’re just on the other side of the big park from the inn.”
Flora stared at Hattie and then back to Mac. “So, you’re here… here to stay?”
“I don’t know.” Mac let Hattie help him to his feet. “I thought I’d check out the town, check out the established saloon needing a barkeep, and make up my mind about staying here in Oregon from there. But if you’re the owner—”
“Just what makes you think the job is available to you?” Flora fumed.
Mac’s eyes lifted to meet hers. “Flora, come on. You know I’m the best applicant you’re going to have. Let me get settled in, get this back taken care of by Miss…” He turned to Hattie. “What is your name?”
“Hattie Richards.”
“Miss Richards, and then I’ll come find your saloon so we can talk about my options here in Silverpines.”
Flora just stared at him. Hattie took a step, helping him move to the door where he could exit the train, and Flora moved backward to get out of their way.
“What happened to your franchises, Mac’s Houses? Why on earth would you show up here and want to work as a barkeep? Just what are you up to, Theodore McMillan?”
He sneered at her and made his way toward the door. Hattie helped him down the stairs and continued to hold his elbow as he signaled the steward to have his luggage sent to the inn. He stood straight and tall, paused a moment as if to get his balance and his bearings, then pushed Hattie’s hands off his elbow. He pulled his billfold from his breast pocket and tipped the steward for his help then turned back to Miss Hattie and handed her a bank note. “I believe I can make it from here, Miss Richards. Thank you. I’ll see you in your clinic in an hour or so, alright?”
Hattie stepped back from him, observing whether he was steady enough to walk on his own, and nodded. “Alright, Mr. McMillan. Come when you can. I’ll prepare an herbal tea to help relax your back muscles and give you a treatment to help align those off-set vertebrae.”
Angie rushed up to Flora and handed her the letter from Boston. It was indeed from Mac. He really had sent a response to her ad, but why? He owned so many saloons in Maine, why would he come here to work for her?
Did he know she was F. L. Holding? Did he know anything about her life since she left Boston?
A startling realization shot through her system, making her knees weaken. Did he know about Jackson?
She sighed heavily and pressed the envelope against her bosom. “What am I going to do?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Flora left the depot with the letter in her hand. She needed to check on Jackson. It was a five-block walk both ways and across the park, but her need to be certain he was at home and not out running errands for Millie Messer, or some other widow, where he could accidentally run into Mac McMillan was more important to her then the exertion it would take to get there and back. Not that Mac would know who Jackson was or vice-a versa, but still.
He’d never laid eyes on her Jackson. Didn’t even know he existed… as far as she knew. Of course Mac didn’t know anything, she had left Boston and started her new life with Momma Barracuda, the vagabond caravan family, by the time Jackson came to be part of her life.
Still, she would feel more at ease if Jackson remained in the carriage house, doing his chores out of the way of prying eyes.
“Jackson!” She called to him as she stepped onto her property.
“Yes ma’am!” He hollered from the carriage house.
“Hey,” she cooed gently. “Listen, there’s some rough looking men in town and… I don’t feel comfortable with you out running errands for Mrs. Messer or the spinsters today. Promise me you’ll stick close to home, don’t accept any extra work, alright?”
His brow creased the way she’d seen all too often in another’s expression. “But Miss Woodson’s already asked me to help unload a shipment of lumber come in from Washington State. She’s gonna pay me five dollars!”
Flora stiffened. “Jackson Hershell, I need you to do as I ask.” She tried to be firm but not speak too harshly. Her request was probably ridiculous in the first place, but her gut told her to keep Jackson out of sight for a while. Just until she had a better idea what Mac McMillan was up to. “Jackson! Please.”
“But, I promised I’d do it, Flora.” He was getting to old to whine, and yet it came out in his tone every so often.
Her eyes roved over his tall stature. He had gotten so big this past year. He already needed new britches to cover his ankles. She shoved one fist onto her hip and cocked that hip out to one side.
“Young man…” she started, then she sighed. She was being ridiculous. Tonya Woodson did need his help, she was too small to stack that lumber by herself, and since her pa had been killed in the earthquake, like all the other men, Jackson’s help made the difference in the lumberyard continuing to serve the townsfolk’s needs or folding under. Jackson and one other boy who was new to Silverpines were all the town had for muscles and strong backs to do the heavier jobs around town. The only other men who were still alive were elderly, and while they were certainly willing to work and help the women, they weren’t always strong enough or as durable as her Jackson. The other boy was Mrs. Messer’s betrothed’s son, and Flora didn’t know too much about him, other than what Jackson had told her. He was sure excited to have another boy his age in town though.
“Oh, all right, Jackson. But don’t be wandering around town any more than you got to, alright?”
“Yes ma’am.” His eyes lit up. What did he have in mind other than helping Miss Woodson? “And don’t spend all your money on hard candy in Messer’s Mercantile.”
Jackson chuckled. “Yes ma’am. Besides, I got my eye on something much more fun than hard candy.”
She touched his head and leaned to kiss it, but thought better of it. He wasn’t partial to her affections now that he was over fourteen years old. She missed the days when he enjoyed a hug and a kiss on his forehead. “Thank you, Jackson. I need to get back to work. I’ll see you at home for supper.”
“Yeah. See ya tonight.” He put the hay fork away and brushed off his britches.
Flora hesitated, but then forced herself to walk away. She slipped into her house and called to Hazel, her housekeeper.
“Ma’am? What are you doing home this time of day?” Hazel tucked a feather duster under her arm and turned to address Flora.
“I needed to see that Jackson was alright. I’ve given him permission to go help Tonya at the lumberyard, but I really don’t want him running around town beyond that. Could you keep an eye out for him? If he’s not back in a reasonable about of time, will you send word to me?”
“Of course. Flora.”
“Hmm.” Flora gawked through the curtains at the carriage house.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I just have a bad feeling. There are some shady men in town and… I’ve just got a bad feeling.” Flora pursed her lips. She couldn’t explain the real reason she was worried about Jackson’s well-being. She needed to get back to the saloon and read over this letter, maybe Mac put some clues in there about why he had decided to come out west after all this time. Was he expanding his enterprises? Or had they failed financially and he was out here to try to start over. She shook her head at her foolishness. She’d just have to read the letter to find out.
“I’ll be back for supper, Hazel.”
“All right, Miss Flora. You be safe, now.”
Flora turned to see what Hazel meant, but the woman had turned her back to continue cleaning with the feather duster. Her housekeeper had a sort of sixth sense about things. Did she sense somet
hing about Mac being in town? Flora touched the letter in her pocket and scurried back into the street. Anxiety filled her with a desire to get back to the saloon and read Mac’s response.
Mac McMillan walked across the street from the depot and checked into a room at the Silverpines Inn. It was a nice place. Nicer than he ever expected, considering the devastation he saw everywhere else. It had modern gas lamps and in-room bathing rooms with hot water on demand. Perhaps the earthquakes that he’d read about had done the inn a favor and given them an opportunity to modernize rather than just repair.
He asked the maître d’ for a hot water bottle, a tub of ice, and extra towels to be sent to his room.
“Certainly, sir,” the man said as a bellman touched his hat, indicating he had Mac’s luggage from the train depot and would take them to his room. Mac tipped them both as he followed the bellman up the stairs.
What were the odds? He couldn’t believe he had been right about F. L. Adams Holdings being Flora Adams from fifteen years back, in Boston. She looked more beautiful with age than he could have imagined. Successful, too, he supposed. At least her dress gave the impression she was doing alright for herself. And she wasn’t married. At least he didn’t think she was, by the blush in her cheek when he asked her if she’d sent for a mail-order groom to keep her bar. The lift of her chin, just like old times, told him she was still strong and independent, making it on her own, just like she always said she would. A stitch of pride knotted in his chest. He always knew she’d be successful. He just wished he could have convinced her to be successful alongside him.
But Flora was too headstrong to marry or even partner with a man. She insisted she could and would make a go of it on her own. To be honest, it was what had made him fall in love with her so long ago. He supposed he had been successful as well, but he was anxious to see how successful she had become. How far away from the inn was her saloon? Just then a knock came to his door and he answered it. Another bellman brought the hot water bottle and tub of ice with extra towels. “Thank you, my good man.” Mac took the items from him. “Say, where can a man wet his whistle around these parts?”
