Chapter Four
Thomas pulled the post office door closed behind him and let his smile drop as he stepped down the street. His hand was aching more than he cared to admit, but he didn’t want to give any sign of it to the pretty postal worker. Not that he’d actually noticed how pretty she was—after all, he was engaged, and sending a letter to his fiancée—but he didn’t need to burden her with his troubles any more than he had.
He stepped to the side so as not to run into a woman pushing her child in a carriage, then proceeded down the street. The problem was, he didn’t have a clear destination in mind. He wouldn’t be expected at the mill until his hand healed, and without work, he felt like a ship without a rudder. A growl in his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since the pancakes at the doctor’s house some hours before. There wasn’t much in his small kitchen, so he veered left and entered the restaurant attached to the town’s hotel.
“Hello there, Thomas,” the owner greeted him. She was a round woman with a soft voice and white hair piled up into a cap high on her head. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I’m trying to learn to eat my own cooking, Mrs. Davis,” Thomas said with a chuckle. “It’s not going so well as of late. I’m burning more food than I’m eating.”
“It’s no wonder, with that hand!” She tsked and shook her head. “You young men can’t be left alone for a minute. What happened?”
“I’m sorry to say, I was burning food even before this happened.” Thomas lifted his bandaged fingers and tried to give her a little wave, dismayed that the fingers still remained unresponsive. “A log slipped while I was unloading the wagon. Doctor says it’ll heal.”
“Well, you’re getting a piece of pie on the house today. Come sit down, and let’s get you fed.”
He followed her bustling form into the dining room, where he placed an order for beef stew, corn bread, and the promised pie. Then he settled in to wait, his hand resting on his knee under the table. Perhaps if he concentrated hard enough, he could get one of the fingers to twitch. No—nothing.
He was so focused that he almost didn’t notice the waitress approach his table, and it almost seemed like magic that his food appeared in front of him. “Thank you,” he called out almost too late, and she flashed a smile at him over her shoulder as she walked away.
He picked up his fork with his left hand and began to eat, glad he had purposely chosen a meal that wouldn’t require the use of both knife and fork. He got along all right, a bit better than he had at the doctor’s house, but still, he wondered what would happen if he tried to eat with his casted hand. It was a foolish thought—he couldn’t grasp the fork at all, and it clattered to the floor.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” the waitress said, coming to his side and picking the utensil up. “Let me get you another.”
“Thank you. And don’t apologize—I’m the one who dropped it.”
Thomas finished the rest of his meal with his left hand, trying not to draw any more attention to himself than he already had. Start to finish, he’d managed to use up forty-five minutes of his day. Now, what was he to do with the rest of it? He had no idea whatsoever.
Chapter Five
With a sigh, Tabitha put the “closed” sign in the window of the post office and locked the door. Things had gone almost entirely as she’d expected they would—old customers coming in to say hello, only a few new ones, most everyone cheerful and happy, and a few, a bit snide. That was symbolic of her entire experience with Atwater. Somewhat tolerated, but never feeling as though she truly belonged.
One thing had been very different, though—different in the nicest possible way. She smiled as she thought about Thomas Scott’s green eyes and easy laugh. He wouldn’t be the man Mrs. Smith had suggested she find, but he would be a good friend, and that’s what she needed more than anything anyway.
She stepped into the kitchen and noticed the steam rising into the air from the water boiling on the stove. The warm humidity in the air felt good—with fall upon them, the breeze was turning nippy, and her fingers had grown cold in the post office. Clara turned from the stove and noted her standing there.
“Set the table, and get out the gravy boat. And some jelly, and light another lamp.”
Tabitha set about doing as she was told.
“Everything go all right today?” Clara asked, her tone suggesting that she expected a negative answer.
“It did. Mr. Parker sends Herbert his regards.”
Clara emitted a sound somewhat like a mother sow speaking to her young. “Mr. Parker is an intolerable idiot. I keep telling Herbert that he should have no dealings with that man whatsoever, but he doesn’t listen. It’s land speculation lately.”
Tabitha lifted the chimney on the lamp in the center of the table. “Have you ever considered getting electric lights?”
Clara snorted again. “Herbert won’t even hear of it. Says it’s too new, too experimental. He’s sure we’d burn down the place.”
“The boardinghouse where I lived in Massachusetts had a few electric lights, and we never had a problem.”
“Tell that to Herbert.”
Very little else was said as Clara finished making the meal. When Herbert shuffled into the room a few minutes later, Tabitha was surprised at his appearance. Dark rings circled his eyes, made even more prominent by the paleness of his face. She’d seen him just the evening before and he hadn’t looked ill—what could have happened in such a short amount of time?
“Parker came in the post office today,” Clara told him. “Said he sends his regards.”
Herbert coughed a few times into his napkin. “Odd thing for him to say, considering.”
“Considering what?” Clara’s eyes were sharp.
“Considering we lost the western property.”
Clara leaned toward her husband and slapped her hand on the table. The sound made Tabitha wince, but Herbert didn’t seem bothered by it. “What do you mean, you lost it?”
“Some businessman from New York City came in and bought it. Wants to turn it into a fancy ranch or something.”
“What about the money we put down?”
Herbert didn’t reply.
“What about the money?” Clara’s voice was granite.
“Gone. It was nonrefundable, remember? That was part of the deal.”
Clara exhaled and slumped back in her chair.
Tabitha wanted nothing more at that moment than to slip out of the room. This wasn’t her conversation—she had no right to be listening in. But she couldn’t leave without creating a scene. Herbert’s chair blocked her exit into the hallway, and Clara’s chair stood between her and the back door. She’d have to squeeze past one or the other of them either way she went. Instead, she sat quietly, not moving, hoping they’d forget she was even there.
“That was five hundred dollars,” Clara said, staring at the table. “Five hundred dollars, Herbert.”
“I know.”
“We saved and saved to put that money together. I sold my mother’s silver.”
“I know you did.” It sounded like an accusation.
Tabitha squeezed her hands together under the table. Maybe the floor would suddenly swallow her up—that would be a welcome relief. Or a tornado. That wasn’t so unlikely—Missouri had more than its fair share of tornadoes. Anything had to be better than this.
“I didn’t even want to do this in the first place, but you kept at me and kept at me until I finally gave in. What are we supposed to do now? No savings, no valuables—nothing but this post office to keep us afloat.” Clara glanced at Tabitha. She didn’t speak the words aloud, but her thought was as clear as if she’d shouted it—now they had another mouth to feed.
“Clara, why don’t I go get a job?” Tabitha suggested. She hadn’t meant to participate in this at all, but it seemed she’d been dragged into it anyway. “I can certainly do something to earn my own keep. You shouldn’t have to worry about me.”
Clara waved her off. “Makes
more sense to leave the post office to you while I go get work. You’re already trained here, and I can do just about anything. If Herbert ever gets to feeling better, he can go back to his odd jobs and tinkering.” Her voice was thick with resentment.
“All right. I’d be more than happy to do that.” Tabitha unclenched her hands and flexed them. They were sore from how tightly she’d been squeezing them.
“You’ll have to open an hour later so you can meet the morning train,” Clara said. “Customers won’t like it, but they’ll adjust.”
“Starting tomorrow?” Tabitha asked.
“Better. I’ll head down the street first thing and see what I can find for work.” Clara stood and picked up her plate. “I’m not hungry anymore. I’ll start cleaning up.”
Without saying a word, Herbert picked up his plate as well, set it next to the washbasin, and shuffled back to his room.
There was simply no more to be said. Tabitha put away the unused dishes and utensils while Clara wrapped up the untouched food. Some would keep and some would spoil—it all got wrapped up just the same. After making sure she’d done everything she could to help, Tabitha went up to her room and sat on the edge of her bed, feeling sick inside.
Clara and Herbert had never had an ideal marriage, but they’d remained civil with each other over the years. The animosity she’d felt from them both was unlike anything she’d witnessed before. Finances could put a strain on any relationship—that she knew—but this seemed like so much more. Oh, how she hoped they’d be able to set things right between them.
***
Tabitha hung a sign in the window of the post office announcing that they’d be opening an hour later, then gathered up the letters to be mailed and headed down the street toward the train station. She’d only gone a block when she heard her name.
“Miss Phillips! Miss Phillips, wait!”
She turned and saw Thomas Scott running toward her. He grinned as he came up alongside her and matched her pace. “Good morning. I saw the sign in your window—where are you off to?”
“The train. I need to pick up today’s mail.”
“I see. Do you mind if I walk along with you? I was going to mail a letter, but as you’re here and not there, I might as well be where you are.”
“Certainly. I wouldn’t mind the company.” She most definitely wouldn’t mind the company. His smile was just as bright as she remembered, even though she’d told herself countless times that she’d just imagined it.
“So, do you always go after the mail?” he asked as they strolled along.
“My cousin’s husband usually goes, but he’s not feeling well,” Tabitha explained.
“That’s too bad. I hope he’s up and around again soon.” Mr. Scott looked at the sky. “You picked a beautiful day to replace him, though. You can’t beat this kind of weather for a walk.”
The autumn sky was a brilliant shade of blue, the shade it only seems to turn when the air is nippy. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. I wouldn’t mind a bit less wind.”
“That’s just Mother Nature whisking away the old air and bringing us new.” He filled his lungs and then exhaled. “Clean, fresh—exhilarating.”
Tabitha chuckled. “If you say so. How’s your hand feeling today?”
“My hand? I’m largely ignoring it. If I think about it, I itch all over, and it hurts like the devil.” As soon as the word was out of his mouth, his face froze. “I’m so sorry, Miss Phillips. I work around some pretty rough men, and from time to time, I pick up a word I shouldn’t use.”
Tabitha laughed merrily at his discomfort. He looked so much like a little boy who’d been caught tracking mud all over his mama’s nice clean kitchen floor. “I’ve heard much worse, and while I don’t necessarily approve of swearing, I think that in your case, you have the right to it. I can’t imagine how much pain you’re in.”
“Don’t imagine it. Be like me—don’t think about it at all.”
They reached the train station, and Tabitha caught a whiff of the most putrid smell. “Where’s that wind now that I need it?” she gasped, holding her hand to her nose.
Mr. Scott chuckled. “Someone’s shipping their cattle on the train today. See? They’re getting ready to load down there.” He motioned toward the grassy area at the end of the platform, where several head of cattle pawed and snorted. “Either an auction or a private buyer.”
“I thought they only held auctions in the spring. When the animals are born.”
He threw her an incredulous look and then laughed. “You’re not much of a country girl, are you, Miss Phillips?”
She folded her arms indignantly. “I am too a country girl. I’m just not a farm girl.”
“I’m not sure I know the difference.”
“Maybe I’m not sure how to explain it.” She dropped her defensive stance and smiled. “My father owned a small mercantile, and after my parents died, I was raised at the post office. I’ve visited farms on church picnics and whatnot, but I’ve never spent any time on one. You seem to know quite a lot about them, though.”
“I know a fair bit.”
Just then, the train appeared on the horizon, sounding a long, low whistle. The sound made the cattle even more nervous, and the ranch hands in charge of keeping things under control gripped the reins of their horses a little tighter, looking ready to spring into action if one of the cows should try to bolt.
Tabitha watched as the train pulled into the station, then walked along the length of the platform until she reached the man in charge of swapping out the mail. He handed her a medium-sized bag, she passed over the small stack she’d collected, plus the empty bag from the day before, and they bid each other good morning.
“Here—let me take that.” Mr. Scott reached out for the mailbag Tabitha carried, but she hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
“Miss Phillips, I do still have one good arm.”
Her face instantly felt warm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t capable. I just don’t know if you’re in pain . . .” Her words trailed off as she realized that she really had no idea what she was trying to say.
He smiled. “It’s all right—I was teasing you. Please, let me carry your bag.”
She held it out, and he slung it over his shoulder.
“You do this every day?” he asked as they walked away from the station.
“Herbert does it most often, but I’d come with him quite a bit when I lived here before. There’s a system to it, a familiarity I hadn’t realized I’d missed.” She paused at his look of confusion. “I lived in Massachusetts for the last two years and came home just the other day. That’s when you met me there on the platform.”
They chatted about her work at the textile mill as they walked back to the post office. The more they spoke, the more comfortable she felt around him—not that he was growing any less handsome, but that her ability not to swoon at the sight of him was increasing. This made her feel considerably better—she never had liked the idea of swooning.
“And what about you?” she asked as they climbed the steps of the porch. “We’ve spent this whole time talking about me.”
“Not a lot to tell.” He paused until she was done unlocking the door and they had stepped inside the post office. “I moved here about half a year ago. My father is a rancher in Topeka, and I decided to try something a little different.”
“And things are going well for you here? I mean, aside from crushing your hand and everything?” Tabitha tried to hide her embarrassment by taking the mail bag and setting it on the counter. It seemed she couldn’t go longer than thirty seconds without saying something clumsy.
“Aside from that, everything’s going well.” He leaned on the counter. “Do you have a minute to write my letter, or should I come back later?”
“We can do it now.” Tabitha picked up a piece of paper. “Who are we writing today?”
“Ivy.”
“But we wrote Ivy yesterday. You real
ize, that letter just went out on the train a moment ago—she won’t receive it for some time yet.”
He grinned. “I know. I just like talking to her.”
Tabitha shook her head. He was hopeless, but in a good way. Every girl should be able to find a man who loves her that devotedly.
This time, Mr. Scott told Ivy about the fresh smells of autumn, the way he thought about her whenever he saw something beautiful, the plans he had for digging her a flower garden—but only if she wanted one.
As Tabitha slid the letter into an envelope, she asked, “Are you going to write her every day?”
“Well, I imagine not every day. That would get expensive, and until I’m working again . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe every other day. I just want her to know that I care about her already. It must be frightening, leaving your home to marry a stranger. I don’t want her to be afraid.”
Tabitha blinked back the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes. He had to be the most thoughtful man she’d ever met. Ivy was blessed to have found him.
“How does your boss feel about all this?” she asked, motioning to his hand. It was best to change the subject before the jealous feelings she had toward Ivy reared up again.
“He’s not very happy with me. He told me I had one month to get back on the job or I could consider myself fired.”
“Does the doctor think a month is long enough?” Tabitha had no experience with broken bones, but that seemed awfully fast.
“He seems to. I guess only time will tell. In the meanwhile, I’m looking around for other jobs I can do with one hand. Hope to find something soon.”
Tabitha reached into the mail sack and pulled out a random handful of letters to sort. It was far too easy just to stand there and stare at him, but she did have a job to do. “I hope you do too. This must be horribly frustrating for you.”
“It is, but I figure, stewing about it won’t fix anything. I’d rather do what I can than cry about what I can’t.” He gave her another grin and touched his cap. “I’ll let you get back to work. Thanks again, Miss Phillips. I’ll see you soon.”
Tabitha: Bride of Missouri (American Mail-Order Bride 24) Page 4
