The second Saturday in June arrived. Dorrie made sure to allow more time for collecting bouquets of wildflowers. This time, the jars held pink bergamot, yellow large-leaf avens, purple prairie coneflower, and scarlet Indian paintbrush. Without the need for the phonograph, she fit everything in the garden cart borrowed from Verna Copelin for a single trip to the meeting hall. Although she’d had to do a bit of convincing, she hired Obadiah Kettering for the sum of a whole dollar for an evening of violin playing.
Earlier in the day, she’d carried four chairs from Cinnia’s kitchen to the hall and set them around the room. She’d swagged lengths of fabric from the bolts across one long wall. Because she’d used needles as the anchors, she didn’t think Michael would mind the tiny holes. The decorations were definitely more festive, and a couple of the ladies volunteered to bring lemonade and cider. Anyone who attended the first event knew to bring at least one cup for their family or group to share. All those pesky details were addressed, so the night should unfurl with no hitches.
Close to six-thirty, people streamed into the hall so fast Dorrie struggled to greet them all. Tall, bearded Bethesda Janes, petite Jessamine Harper, a younger girl who looked like a Harper sister. The Garrs, the Morgans, the Riveras, May Tisdale and her son and grandson, the Slaters, lots of miners. In excitement, she bobbed on her toes.
Bertha stood at the entry, again accepting the fees and greeting arrivals.
Months ago, someone mentioned that Bertha was shy. Dorrie had only known the cook since she whipped the miner’s boarding house into shape. All she knew was the plump woman smiled a lot and also made the best biscuits ever. Right now, she was more worried about her musician, who hadn’t yet made an appearance. Nodding at folks as they walked past, she moved to the open door and glanced outside. The warmth from the day’s sunshine still clung to the evening air, making her glad she’d chosen her pale green, short-sleeved blouse.
A stick-thin man sauntered down the road, carrying a leather case.
She clasped her hands to her chest. There he is.
“Waiting’ on me, missie? How’r’you this fine evenin’?” He stumbled on the second step.
She tucked her hand in his elbow to steady him. A scent of mint, mixed with another she couldn’t identify, surrounded him. “Wonderful, Obadiah. Now that you’re here. I’ve set up a chair at the end of the hall.” They walked through the door together. “But I didn’t know if you stood or sat while you played.” A movement caused her to look left toward a wide-eyed Bertha, who pointed, and then made beckoning waves. More important was to get the dance started. Dorrie held up a finger, indicating she’d be right back, and walked Obadiah across the floor.
He slumped into the chair and dabbed his shirt sleeve over his forehead.
“Now, remember the order of songs we reviewed.” She pulled a card out of the pocket of her skirt. “I wrote them down just in case.” Bending over, she tucked the card under a front chair leg. “Ready for me to announce you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He blinked fast as he nodded.
Dorrie had discussed another speech with Michael, and they decided to try an event without one. She stepped to the middle of the room and waited for the group to silence their conversations. “Welcome to the June Shindig. Tonight, we have the pleasure of being entertained by Mr. Obadiah Kettering.” With a flourish, she thrust out her arm to indicate the musician.
Tepid applause could be heard.
That’s strange. Shouldn’t they be happier for the live performance? She forced her smile wider. “Make two lines because the first number will be a Virginia reel.” Waving her hands, she encouraged people to step forward. “Ladies on the left, and gents on the right. If you are itching to dance, just find a partner no matter the gender.” She turned and pointed to the fiddler. “Take it away, Obadiah.”
The first notes of “Irish Washerwoman” sounded, and Dorrie tapped her foot as the couples stepped forward, bowed, and then stepped back. Bethesda was easy to spot, because he stood head and shoulders above just about everyone. Seeing the couples appeared to know the steps of the popular dance and moved with ease, she relaxed.
As the dancers approached the center to clasp hands and circle around, she remembered Bertha and started to turn. But a bespectacled miner grabbed her hand, and she happily followed down to the end of the line. Reels were one of her favorite dances, because so many people could participate. Her heart lightened at seeing everyone join in with energetic spirits.
By the time all the pairs had a chance to be the head couple, she was winded and fanned her face with her hand. Knowing the next song was a jig, she waved a thanks to her partner and hurried to the entrance. “Bertha, find Howie and dance the next one.”
“Are you sure?” For a second, she frowned. “Wait until I come back?”
“I will.”
Then Bertha bobbed her head and walked toward a group of two or three men.
The first few notes weren’t what she expected, but the tune was nice although a bit high falutin’. Dorrie glanced in the money basket and smiled at the mound of copper pennies. Hearing a stumble in the rhythm of the music made her glance around to see if anyone else noticed. Most tapped a foot or clapped along. One song rolled into the next, and she swayed, content in just watching.
The jig segued into a waltz, and Dorrie saw two couples move to the floor from the benches. The live music was really making a difference. She wished Valerik was here so she could thank him in person for his suggestion. Thoughts of that handsome man made her wish he would give dancing a try. Secretly, she’d been watching him as he worked on the new hotel. If she stood at the foot of the bed in the upstairs loft, she had a view through the open-framed roof to wherever he worked in the interior. Only toward the end of the day did she ever notice him limping.
Tucking the basket inside her wrap, she stashed it under the chair. Howie had been kind enough to carry in a small barrel with a handy tap filled with water, and that’s where she headed. With a cup in hand, she wandered through the crowd and stopped next to the snowy-haired Widow Tisdale. “Enjoying yourself, May?”
Nodding her head to the music, she flashed a quick grin. “Sure am.”
“Glad to hear it. I think everyone else is, too.” Rising onto her toes, she scanned the crowd. “I haven’t seen the Slaters tonight, have you?”
May turned and sucked in a breath. “You didn’t hear?”
“What?” Dorrie shook her head.
“A few nights ago, Doc Rawlins had to patch up Letty after she was shot.” Her eyes sparkled in the lantern light. “The scoundrel was her stepbrother from Chicago, who wanted to get his hands on an inheritance, or stocks. I’m not sure which. But Paul shot the guy dead.”
Dorrie gasped and covered her mouth. “Is sLetty all right?” She knew bad things like this happened, but she’d never known anyone who was shot before.
“She’s on the mend. Letty’s young and in love, so nothing will keep her down for long.”
“That’s good.” Again, the fiddler’s notes were out of rhythm. Footsteps shuffled and then stopped. Dorrie shifted from side to side, to look around others nearby.
Obadiah started the number over again, and the dancing continued.
From the wrinkles in the man’s face, she suspected he might be older than his gray hair made him look. Was he forgetting the notes? Dorrie eased through the standing crowd until she had a clear line of sight to where the player stood. At his feet was a small corked brown bottle. That hadn’t been there earlier.
“Oh, there you are.” A flushed and panting Bertha stopped and clapped a hand to her chest, taking several breaths.
“You must have had a good dance or two.”
“I did. Howie is a great partner.” She pointed toward the back corner then moved in that direction.
Dorrie followed to just about the spot where she’d been standing with May.
“Didn’t anyone tell you about Obadiah and his drinking problem?”
Her s
tance slumped. “His what?” She glanced over her shoulder but all she saw were heads and shoulders.
“Last fall, when Michael Morgan planned a welcoming party for Prudence, he arranged with Obadiah to play a hoity-toity waltz for their first dance. You know, so the party seemed like a wedding celebration, because she was a mail-order bride. That ceremony in front of Reverend Norton is legal, but not too fancy, if you know what I mean.”
Boy, this woman can chatter. “The drinking?”
“Oh, yes. Well, after a couple of tunes, old Obie upchucked all over Prudence’s expensive dress.” She nodded and tilted her head. “I’d have thought you’d have heard the story by now.”
Dorrie thought of the weeks on end when no one moved far from home and wondered when Bertha thought that would happen. “Thanks for the warning.”
A horrible screech that sounded like someone stepped on a cat’s tail filled the air, followed by a loud thud.
No-no-no. “Excuse me, let me through.” With her heart racing a mile a minute, Dorrie burst through the crowd to see Obadiah splayed across the chair. “Oh, my.”
Dancers stood in pairs scattered over the floor, but their gazes alternated between her and the violin player.
Knowing her cheeks flamed beet red, Dorrie glanced around, looking for someone to help. “Hugh, could you and a friend please escort Mr. Kettering outside? Possibly even to his lodgings?” Straightening and plastering on a smile, she held up her hands. “No cause for alarm, folks. An unfortunate incident, but I’ll just go on home and collect the phonograph and cylinders. Rest assured, the dance will continue.” Before anyone could respond, she grabbed up handfuls of her skirt and dashed across the floor, down the steps and across the street. Her thoughts whirled. After fumbling with the key, she threw the door wide and it banged on the wall. Not bothering to light a lamp, she relied on the moonlight to guide her feet to where the machine sat on a shelf.
“Dorrie, what’s wrong?”
Valerik. Just the sound of his voice made the knot in her chest ease a bit. “The June Shindig might be ruined.” She grabbed the box with the phonograph and cylinders then turned. “I hired a violin player not knowing he’s a drunkard. Everyone was having such a wonderful time. Your suggestion about folk dances was a good one, Valerik. Lots of folks were on the dance floor. More than last time. Until…” Her lower lip quivered. “Until…” Tears burned her eyes, but she vowed not to cry. Then she felt strong hands grasp her arms, and she dared to look up.
“Tell me what happened.” He bent his knees so he was level with her gaze.
Why couldn’t she do things right? “He just passed out, and the dancing stopped.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “Now I have to get back and see what I can salvage. I really don’t want to have to give refunds.” This was her livelihood. If the dances were a flop, who would take lessons? At the very idea, she panicked, unable to stop the cascade of words. “How would I even figure out how much to give back?”
“Shh.” The sound hissed.
His breath tickled her cheek. “I won’t be shushed. Don’t you know how serious this is? I could lose—” Warm lips enveloped hers, stealing her breath. The kiss sent her pulse skittering at a jig’s pace. She tasted coffee, as if he just been drinking a cup. Her knees wobbled, and she clasped the box tighter.
Valerik slid his hands up to her shoulders then stepped away. “Dorrie, I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Maybe not, but please don’t apologize.” She searched his face for a long moment. “I don’t think I could stand to hear that.” Indecision weighted her feet, but she took one step toward the door. “I really do have to get back.”
*
“I know.” He followed, his lips still on fire from touching hers. “Go on, I’ll close the door.” The kiss had been the only way he could stop her frantic words. But it might not have been the smartest move he’d ever made.
From the porch, he watched her walk carrying the awkward box. Looking past her figure, he saw that a crowd of people were exiting the hall. With a clamped jaw, he shut the door and waited in the shadow of the overhang until he saw her disappear inside before he followed. Through the hall’s open doorway, he heard her pleas with the people to stay. Music sounded, but several more people exited.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the building. In his imagination, he could see her watching the parade of pedestrians as they walked out. Inside, she’d be hurting. But she’d put on a brave front. Shoulders back and chin held high, she’d wish them a good night and probably even thank them for coming. His chest ached for what she must be feeling.
“Sure you don’t want Howie and me to stay, Dorrie?”
The nearby voice made him snap his head around.
Howie escorted a pretty blonde through the doorway. “Hey, Val, didn’t see you inside.”
He dipped his chin at the woman. “Nah, I’m not much of a dancer.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Everyone else gone?”
“We’re the last. Goodnight.”
“G’night.” Valerik slipped around the corner of the building so he could watch to make sure Dorrie was safely home. Only then did he cross the street and slip into the back door. From the overhead loft, he heard muffled sobs. Standing in the dark kitchen, hands braced on the sink edge, he resolved to set aside his preference of playing only for himself. For next month’s dance, he vowed to be Dorrie’s musician.
Chapter Seven
About a week after the disastrous dance, Dorrie finally stepped foot into the street. Until this point, she didn’t want to face people and have to relive the embarrassing events. But if she didn’t shop at the mercantile, she’d have little else to eat but sardines or smoked oysters—Nicolai’s preferences. The thought of tasting those smelly items made her shudder. The sun was already high in the sky, making her glad she’d worn her lightest weight petticoat under the tan-and-yellow striped dress.
Unable to resist, she walked to the edge of the porch to see the progress made on the hotel from a different angle. All the walls were upright, although the window and door frames remained gaping holes. The sound of hammering from inside told her work was still being done. Being honest with herself, she admitted to hoping Valerik would come into view. Better the first sighting be from a distance. After that surprise kiss, she didn’t know what she would say when next they met. Dare she be so bold as to walk closer? She shook her head. Her boldness disappeared with the June Shindig fiasco.
Setting the handle of the basket on her forearm, she headed across the street, determined to appear to anyone she met as if today was just another day. Inside the store, she blinked until her vision adjusted.
“Morning, Dorrie.” Petite Jessamine Harper looked up from the pad of paper on the counter. “I haven’t seen you out and about. You haven’t seen sick, have you?”
Guilt inched through her. “I haven’t been ill, but thanks for asking.” She glanced at the intent gaze under an arched eyebrow. The two only had a passing acquaintance from encounters here at the store. Because the Harper Ranch was located past the outskirts of town and Dorrie had no horse, their paths didn’t often cross. “Actually, I’ve been worried about learning of negative responses from townspeople about the dance.”
“Negative?” She shook her head, and a strand of dark hair flipped over her shoulder. “I had a great time, for as long as the music lasted. Bethesda danced a couple of numbers then he just disappeared.” She shrugged, but a smile lit her face. “I talked with a few other people on the walk home, and everyone really enjoyed the square dances.”
The knot of anxiety that had sat in the pit of her stomach relaxed. Maybe the event hadn’t been as terrible as she thought. “Thank you for your kind words, Jessamine. My mind is put at ease knowing the square dances were well received.” Had she ever thanked Valerik for that suggestion? She started down the aisle, selecting her purchases as she walked.
Footsteps approached from behind. “You received a letter in the last mail deliv
ery. From California.”
Cinnia. Stifling a gasp, Dorrie turned and accepted the missive, glancing at the familiar flowing handwriting. Over the top of the envelope, she noticed the trousers that were Jessamine’s standard attire. Matched with a tailored shirt, the young woman gave a business-like appearance. Prudence had chosen well when hiring Jessamine to help out during her confinement. “Appreciate it.” A look at the cancellation date showed the letter was posted more than two weeks ago. Walking toward the window for a bit of privacy, Dorrie broke the seal on the flap and unfolded the ivory-colored parchment.
May 31, 1887
Ocean View, California
Dear Dorrie,
I have so much to tell you, my friend. First is that we won’t be back in Morgan’s Crossing for a while longer. I enjoyed our time visiting with Nicolai’s family. Mother Blythe and Father Serguei were very welcoming. (Theirs is a romance that sounds like the plot of a novel. I can’t wait to share the details.) Nicolai has two younger sisters, Katya and Orlenda. Both are such delightful young ladies with a wide circle of friends. Being around them gave me a peek at a different world than I’ve ever known. But San Francisco contains too many people, and the noise of trolleys, construction, and manufacturing occurs almost all the time. All of it is too busy for my taste.
Nicolai has booked us on The Great Pleasure Route of the Pacific Coast on the Southern Pacific Railroad. The train takes us on an exploration south of San Francisco all the way to Monterey Bay. I am delighted with our private suite accommodations and the many overnight stops along the route.
Although I’m concerned all my customers will forget about my business, I can’t deny my beloved husband the indulgence. I was privy to his discussions with his parents about what he endured while living under an alias. Truly, I had no idea of his struggles. But not a word of complaint did I hear. Instead, he laid out the trials he lived with and the subterfuges he enacted to protect the family business. (And he has two brothers who endured similar circumstances.) Hearing that story proves to me he needs this extended holiday.
Montana Sky: Dance Toward The Light (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Entertainers of The West Book 3) Page 8
