A Hero in the Making

by Laurie Kingery

  “I learned to cook at the asylum,” she reminded him.

  “Did you choose that? Or were you assigned to do it?”

  “I jumped at the chance,” she told him honestly. “Cook’s helper was the only one who could be sure of getting enough to eat.”

  He glanced at her, then back at the boardwalk in front of them.

  “Did you like doing it—beyond getting enough to eat, I mean? Did it make you feel accomplished? Important?”

  “Hardly,” she said with a chuckle. “The superintendent and his wife had a way of taking any sense of accomplishment away from an orphan, even the one who helped prepare their much tastier, fancier foods. But then Franny came along...”

  “Franny?”

  She hadn’t thought of Franny in years, Ella realized. “Franny Gaines. She was one of the younger girls—very frail and sickly. Any exertion made her short of breath. Cook said she had a bad heart, that she wouldn’t live to make old bones.” She shivered involuntarily as she remembered the girl’s wan, pasty face, the hopeless eyes. “By the time she got to the lineup for meals, she was always last, and some of the bigger kids often stole her food. I made it my business to give her extra bread and meat that I tucked away in my apron. Stole sweets for her from the superintendent’s table, too. She always smiled at me like I hung the moon.”

  “Whatever happened to Franny?”

  Ella shrugged. “I woke one morning and her bed was empty. They said she’d died during the night.” She blinked to stop the involuntary tears that sprang to her eyes, all these years later, when she remembered how devastated she’d felt.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad,” he said softly.

  She glanced at him. “It was a long time ago. And I know I made her happy while I could. The night before she died I’d given her a big piece of chocolate cake, and she could hardly stop smiling long enough to eat it. I always felt good about making her smile like that, with what I’d cooked.”

  They proceeded in silence for a ways after that. It was the farthest she’d ever walked with him, she mused as they turned right at the church and strolled down Fannin Street past the parsonage, a couple of houses and the school. The street paralleled the course of Simpson Creek, which ran fairly straight for a mile or two before it turned northeast and joined the San Saba River.

  She supposed a proper miss would not go even this far away from town with a man, even though the lumber mill lay just beyond the school. But she felt as if she had no reason not to trust him—she felt safe with Nate Bohannan. Besides, there was no one to see them, unless one counted the owl who had hooted at them from the branches of a cottonwood as they walked past in the fading light. It was the opposite end of town from the hotel and the saloon, the only place that saw any activity in the evenings. Nate carried her lantern, and the light bounced over the short path that led down off Fannin Street to the lumber mill, which loomed over the creek.

  “Did Mr. Dayton leave you a key?” she asked, for everything looked closed and dark in the mill.

  Nate chuckled. “I don’t think Dayton trusts anyone so far as that,” he said. “But he doesn’t lock his shed, and I put the pieces in here to keep them away from the dust while the varnish was drying.” He led her around the side of the large building to a small shed. He’d given her his arm before, but now he let her go, saying, “Now close your eyes. I don’t want you to open them till I’ve lit the bigger lantern inside.”

  Obediently, she did as he asked, and listened as he pushed open the door. She heard a soft thud as he set his lantern down. She heard him strike a match, and then a brighter light glowed against her closed lids.

  “You may open your eyes now, Miss Ella.”

  As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw table-and-chair sets grouped together, with spaces in between, as if they already graced the floor of her café. With a cry of admiration, she rushed forward, extending a hand and running it appreciatively over the surface of the closest table. She could feel the grain of wood, sanded so smooth that it felt like glass, and yet the grain of the pecan wood still felt alive beneath the pads of her fingers. She moved on to a chair. He’d used some sort of oil on the pieces, so that her touch glided over each glossy surface, and the lantern made them gleam with reflected brilliance.

  “They’re wonderful, Nate,” she breathed, unable to believe any part of this same wood had been present when Robert Salali had wreaked his havoc on the café and saloon. Not a scar or gash remained. “I like the darker color.” She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure, then opened them again as her fingers explored the top rail of one of the chairs. “They’re perfect,” she told him, and was surprised to see that his gaze was trained upon his boots. “What’s wrong?”

  * * *

  “Nothing, Miss Ella. I’m glad you like them.” He’d forced himself to look away, unable to watch any longer as her expression changed from surprised, to pleased, to utter bliss as she closed her eyes and let her fingers stroke the surfaces he’d sanded for endless hours. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms and kiss her until she knew what true bliss really was.

  But he could never do that and still leave her in the not-too-distant future, he knew.

  “You’re quite the craftsman. Thank you so much,” Ella went on, and then was silent for so long that he was forced to look up again.

  She was staring at the tables and chairs, and even in profile, he could see the confusion furrowing her lovely brow. He watched her point a shaking index finger at each piece as she counted it.

  “But...but there’s a whole additional set of tables and chairs here,” she said, turning back to him. “You made more than I originally had.”

  Her dark eyes were shining up at him, and once again, he had to rein himself in. He let himself grin, though he still tried to make it sound as if it was not such a tremendous feat. “Well, you’d said your café’s going to be bigger than the one you have now, so I thought you’d need more tables and chairs. Actually, I thought of making one more set.”

  He’d had to spend some of the money Detwiler had given him as a tip for the additional furniture, though the lumberman had tried to talk him into a barter deal—another table-and-chairs set for his missus instead. But he’d been reluctant to make any deal that would keep him longer in Simpson Creek, until he made up his mind to go or stay.

  Her brow furrowed again, then her eyebrows rose. “Then you’re not...l-leaving tomorrow or the next day?” she asked. Her eyes held a wariness, as if she wanted to give way to joy but was afraid to.

  He gave an elaborate shrug. “A fellow would have to be a pure fool to ride away from a feast like I hear there’ll be at the café raising,” he said. “Figured I might as well keep busy building another table and chairs, meanwhile....unless you’re sick of feeding me, that is.”

  “You’ll stay through next Saturday?” she cried. “You’ll be there building my café along with the rest of the men?”

  “Reckon I will,” he said, letting his grin broaden.

  “I suppose you’re an expert café builder, too?” she asked dryly.

  “As a matter of fact, no, I’ve never built anything big like that,” he admitted, “but I figured I might as well add it to my repertoire of skills. I’m sure some of the other men can teach me about how to frame a building and lay a floor and such, but I have an idea or two about how your counter ought to look, and you’ll be needing cabinets for your supplies and dishes like the ones you have now...”

  She clapped her hands together and gave a little jump. “Nate, I’m so glad you’ll be here that day!” Then she astonished him by leaning up and kissing him on the cheek.

  No man could have resisted her then, he told himself later.

  Don’t forget your plan, a voice inside him clamored. You’re going to San Francisco to be a rich tycoon. You’re going to
marry an heiress.

  He told that voice to shut up, and put his arms around her and lowered his lips to hers, groaning inwardly as he tasted their sweetness. I’ll never be able to leave now...

  Then he felt her pushing against his chest—no, that was too mild a word. She was struggling against him like a wild bird in a tiny cage, uttering strangled, terrified little moans. Instantly, he released her.

  “Ella—Ella! What’s wrong?”

  She looked dazed, like someone waking from a nightmare—as if she didn’t even know him.

  “Ella, it’s me, Nate,” he said, keeping his voice soft and soothing. He longed to hold her, to stroke her hair and calm her, but he knew he must not even touch her. “I’m sorry...” he murmured. “I—I didn’t mean to frighten you. I shouldn’t have done that...”

  He saw it as she must see it—he’d taken advantage of their isolation here to do something he would have never dared to do otherwise.

  Her dark eyes were troubled, but at least he could tell she recognized him now. “I—I don’t know what came over me just then. It—your kiss—felt good, honest it did. Then something came over me, something I don’t understand...and I got scared.”

  “Probably just an attack of common sense,” he said wryly, keeping his voice light, not revealing how disappointed he was that the moment had gone so wrong. For a few seconds there, he had been flying, full of hope and optimism and—had it been love?

  Now he wondered even more what had happened to her in that asylum that tormented her.

  “I suppose we’d better get you back to the boardinghouse before your friend Maude sends out a search party.”

  “Yes. Yes, you’re right,” she said, and they walked back, not touching, with at least a foot between them.

  * * *

  Waving a sheet of paper, Mr. Jewett, the telegraph operator, flagged Nate down the next morning as he headed down Main Street toward the lumber mill. “Got an answer for ya from Californy, Mr. Bohannan!”

  Suddenly his breakfast bacon wasn’t sitting too well. He hadn’t expected his cousin to reply so quickly, and the fact that he had could be either good or bad. Striding over to where the wiry older man stood outside his office, he took the paper from him, but before he could read it, Jewett said, “Sounds like he wants you out t’ San Francisco awful bad. You gonna go?”

  Nate shrugged. He didn’t take the time to be offended that the telegrapher felt free to comment on the message’s contents; telegraph operators seemed to feel they had a right to be nosy since they were the ones who translated the mysterious Morse code dots and dashes into meaningful communication. But even if Nate had been inclined to confide in the man, he couldn’t very well tell Jewett something he didn’t even know himself. He’d lain awake much of the night after seeing Ella home and he still didn’t know what his course should be.

  “Thanks,” he said, handing Jewett a dime as a tip, then kept walking.

  He didn’t pause to unfold the message until he was safely ensconced in what he had come to think of as “his” workroom in the mill. It read:

  Nate cease dallying in one-horse town and get out here {stop}

  Opportunity knocks but once {stop}

  Wine women & song for the asking {stop}

  Advise when you are on way {stop}

  Nate groaned and crumpled the paper into a ball, throwing it into a corner. Then, thinking Dayton might find it, he got up and stuffed the ball into his pocket. Before last night, he’d hoped Russell had already given up on Nate coming and had taken someone else into partnership. Now he just didn’t know what he wanted to do, not after Ella had pushed him away as she had. He cared for her—loved her, if he was honest with himself. But what if there was something in her past, some fear that had too strong a hold on her? What if she never got over it?

  Russell still wanted him to come, and he sensed impatience in his cousin’s deprecatory labeling of Simpson Creek as a “one-horse town.” The siren song of San Francisco and all that Russell had promised washed over him. Wine, women and song, money and power. A wealthy, beautiful wife, compliant in nature, free of the kind of shadows that hung over Ella...

  But what if, as a wealthy old man in San Francisco, he realized he’d left the real prize in Texas?

  How could he make the right decision without knowing what would happen? No one could know the future—God wasn’t about to strike him with a lightning bolt on the way back from the lumber mill and reveal his new course, as He had struck Paul en route to Damascus, Nate thought, remembering Reverend Chadwick’s sermon last Sunday.

  He should pray about it, Nate knew. But he wanted an answer now, while he stood at this fork in the road of his life, before he chose the wrong path.

  He was struck by a sudden wish to open the pages of a Bible at random and seek guidance that way. He’d seen his father do that. What was that story he’d told him about—something about a man named Gideon, in the Old Testament, and the laying out of a sheepskin as a means of having the Lord show him His will? He wished he knew his scriptures better.

  “Don’t hear no work gettin’ done in here at my lathe,” Dayton grumbled, startling Nate out of his daydream. “Don’t reckon all this time you been usin’ it, you thought about me havin’ to use it again one day. If you ain’t gonna make me a table an’ chairs for my missus, I’m a-gonna have to be sittin’ in front a’ that lathe again one a’ these days. Not that I could make anythin’ near like what you can do.”

  He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the big man lumber into the room. “Sorry,” Nate said. “You’re right. I need to finish this set before the end of the week when Miss Ella’s café goes up, so I’ll get back to work.”

  Satisfied, the other man trudged out of the workroom, and Nate set the table leg he’d been about to work on into the vise.

  He could go and visit the preacher and ask him about that story of Gideon and the sheepskin. Reverend Gil could show him where it was in the Bible, too, and let him read it.

  Dayton was right, though. He needed to finish Ella’s furniture so it would be ready for the opening. Ella had sent his noon meal wrapped up in brown paper so he wouldn’t have to take more time going back to the café to eat. Maybe if he set to work with a will, he could make up for the time he’d lost daydreaming. Then he could justify leaving a few minutes earlier than usual to stop at the preacher’s before he went to Ella’s café for supper.

  He prayed Reverend Gil would be able to help him find the answer he needed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You gonna bring me my meal, girl, or just stand there lettin’ it get cold?” Zeke Carter groused, snapping Ella out of her thoughts like a bucketful of cold water on a lit match. She realized she’d picked up his plateful of food from the stove and had been about to take it out to the irascible old man when she’d started thinking about last night. That kiss...

  “Sorry, Mr. Carter, didn’t mean to make you wait,” she said, keeping her tone even. Why did he keep coming here, she thought, if all he did was complain?

  “’Bout time,” he retorted as she set his plate of roast beef hash in front of him. “You think I’m gonna walk that extra distance to get bad service like this when you move t’other side of the creek, you better think again, missy.”

  “It’s totally up to you where you eat, of course.” Why was he taking his dinner here today, anyway? He usually didn’t come to plague her until Sunday night. “Is your daughter away?” she asked, determined to be pleasant.

  “Yeah, not that it’s any a’ your bidness. She don’t care if her old father has a decent meal any more’n you do, but goes gallivantin’ off to visit her sister in Austin. She’ll probably come back after I starve t’death,” he concluded gloomily.

  “Oh, I’m sure between Mrs. Powell and me, we can keep that from happening,” she told h
im. She couldn’t help hoping it would be mostly the other woman who would keep him fed.

  Carter stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You bein’ pert, missy?”

  She shook her head. “Just concerned for your welfare, Mr. Carter.”

  A cowboy seeking a sandwich for the trail came in then, saving her from further conversation with the old man, and she was soon able to go back to her contemplation.

  The kiss had been her own fault. What red-blooded man wouldn’t kiss a girl if she threw herself at him as she had, especially given their isolated surroundings? Of course, Nate had turned her impetuous kiss on his cheek into a real kiss!

  She’d started to enjoy the kiss, she admitted to herself, every bit as much as he seemed to, until alarm bells within her had begun to clang. He’d kindly called her pushing him away “common sense,” and maybe it was, but there’d been some element of fear within her, too.

  A fear that had triggered another of her nightmares last night. This time she’d managed to awaken herself and stifle her scream with the pillow before anyone pounded on her door.

  What had Nate thought of the kiss? Not much, apparently, for he had apologized, which was hardly flattering. But he was probably just being gentlemanly, Ella protested to herself. He’d assumed the fault for taking advantage of a thank-you peck on the cheek.

  He hadn’t given her much of a clue as to his thoughts this morning when he’d come for breakfast, either. She’d caught his gaze resting on her once, but his eyes had been unreadable. He hadn’t winked at her, or grinned. He was probably thinking what a strange, prudish girl she was—to initiate a kiss then act as if he’d attacked her.

  There wasn’t anything in his look to make her think he cared for her—not enough to stay in Simpson Creek after her café was completed, anyway.

  Had the kiss been just a thing born of the moment? How could she tell either way?

  Now she wished she had paid more attention when the Spinsters’ Club ladies chattered and giggled about the ways of men, for she couldn’t go to Kate Patterson, for example, and ask her how she’d first known Gabe Bryant, who was now her fiancé, loved her. Ella wouldn’t want to answer Kate’s natural question as to what had prompted her questions, or take the chance that Kate might mention it to other friends, or worse yet, her aunt. That would have been the same as standing in the middle of Main Street on a Saturday morning and shouting it at the top of her lungs.