by Jill Gregory
She made one trip to town to purchase bolts of lace, satin, muslin, and silk, and the fanciest buttons and sequins she could find in the mercantile.
She stayed up sewing at night until her eyes ached, and by the time Saturday arrived, the day of the box lunch social, the only gown she had yet to complete was her own—a pale lavender muslin with a ruffled skirt and scooped neck, far simpler than the sprigged and beribboned and lacy confections she’d sewn for the other women. But it suited her well enough, Emily thought with satisfaction, as she sewed the last few stitches of the hem. Besides, she had no desire to outshine her customers—that might be bad for business, she reflected with a rueful grin.
“Mighty pretty.” Uncle Jake gave her an approving smile as she hurried into the kitchen, still threading a lavender ribbon through her hair. “Mind if I peek into that box lunch you’ve fixed? I just might want to bid on it myself.”
“No one’s supposed to know who brought which box lunch—or whose they’re bidding on,” Emily informed him, her eyes twinkling, “but… Nettie told me that everyone does.”
He chuckled.
“So I’ll let you have a peek, since I can’t think of anyone I’d rather share lunch with than you, Uncle Jake—”
She broke off as Joey raced inside, his face still damp from washing at the pump. “Can I see what’s in your box lunch, Em-ly? I won’t tell anyone it’s yours!”
Jake laughed, and Emily did too, her heart lightening at the little boy’s good spirits. She knew he was both excited and wary about going to the box lunch social and meeting the other children of Forlorn Valley.
Several of the women who had come for fittings and then to pick up their dresses had met Joey, so his presence was no longer a secret. Emily had merely explained that she was caring for the boy to help out a friend and to her relief, even Mrs. Mangley hadn’t done more than lift her eyebrows. No one had asked questions. No one had made any fuss about it.
So she’d decided that the whole family ought to attend the box lunch social. Joey could meet the other children, and everyone would have a chance to see that Uncle Jake, Pete, and Lester Spoon were not fearsome monsters bent on robbing the good citizens of Lonesome.
“I promise, Em-ly, I won’t tell anyone,” Joey exclaimed, eagerly eyeing the box on the kitchen table.
The child’s eyes lit as he opened it. Emily had lined it with pink silk and decorated it with multicolored bows and some straw flowers she’d clipped from an old sun-bonnet. It wouldn’t be the fanciest box in town, but she was pleased with the ham-and-chicken sandwiches on baked sourdough, the deep-fried corn fritters, a jar of boysenberry preserves, a beautiful peach pie, and the dozen almond sugar cookies she’d tucked inside, draped carefully in Aunt Ida’s pretty white linen napkins, along with a jug of lemonade.
“Ooooh. Can I have this box lunch, Emily, puh-leese?” Joey peered hopefully at her and her heart filled with tenderness and delight. Thanks to Uncle Jake’s quiet talks and card games and all the time he spent with him, Joey had even rebounded from the scare about John Armstrong. His appetite was healthy again, and even though he was a bit nervous about meeting the children of Lonesome and Emily’s plans to enroll him in school, he was a far happier child than the fear-shadowed boy who’d first arrived at the ranch.
“You can’t have this one, Joey, but guess what.” Hurrying to the kitchen, Emily reached up to a high shelf and took down another box. This one was decorated in blue calico, and the small wood horse Uncle Jake had whittled was tied to it with a yellow ribbon. “This box is just for you.”
Joey stared at the carved wooden horse, his eyes wide. “That’s … that’s … Jumper!” he cried excitedly. “I thought you said he was for Lester!”
Jake’s smile was as broad as the box. “He’s all yours, son. Truth is, I was whittling him for you from the start.”
Emily helped Joey untie the ribbon, and he clutched the horse in his small fingers. “Jumper!” he breathed, and made a dipping, up-and-down motion with the horse as if imagining it jumping over logs, rocks—maybe even mountains, Emily thought, her eyes suddenly damp with tears.
“And don’t forget the fixins in the box. Those are from Emily,” Uncle Jake reminded him with a nod.
Joey tore his eyes from the horse and opened the lid of the box to find everything in the larger box duplicated in smaller portions in his.
“Oh, boy! This is my box lunch?”
“All yours.” She drew in her breath as he suddenly threw himself into her arms.
“Thank you, Em-ly. Thank you, Uncle Jake.” His face was muffled against her shoulder but she could hear his words. “This is almost as good as having Mama come back,” he whispered against her ear.
Emily held him tight. “Listen to me, Joey, your mother is going to come back—very soon. And when she does, I’m going to bake her the biggest chocolate cake you ever saw to celebrate.”
“Really?” He lifted his head at last and his brown eyes shone into hers.
“I promise.”
“Oh, boy!”
Emily felt almost happy as they joined Pete and Lester outside in the warm spring sunshine, Uncle Jake carrying her box for her, and Joey proudly clutching his, the small whittled horse stuffed into his shirt pocket.
It was a lovely day for a picnic—the sun blazed in a crystalline sky that stretched in a vast, cloudless canopy across the land. Uncle Jake drove the team, with Emily seated beside him, Joey in the back of the wagon admiring Jumper, and Pete and Lester riding alongside.
Every time thoughts of Clint Barclay tried to intrude into her mind, Emily chased them away, as she’d been doing ever since the fight at the line shack—until they reached the long, sloping meadow where the tiny, crumbling schoolhouse was situated.
As they approached, Emily glanced at all the people seated on the grass or upon chairs, upon logs or rocks, or strolling through the willows bordering the creek, and she spotted Clint at once. Her heart flipped over painfully in her chest. He looked all too handsome in a gray silk shirt and dark pants, his wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes from the sun as he leaned one shoulder against a tree and engaged in earnest conversation with Hamilton Smith, Fred Baker, one of the cowboys she’d danced with at the hotel, and Doc Calvin.
She refused to be caught staring if he happened to glance her way, so she tore her gaze away and instead swept it around the clearing as her uncle pulled the team up beneath a stand of aspen.
She saw Carla Mangley, Bertie Miller, and Margaret Smith, as well as several other women whose dresses she’d sewn, and noted with pride that all of her gowns showed to advantage. Yet, though the money she’d earned from sewing dresses for this one event was a tidy and reassuring sum, the sight of all the women wearing her finery as they set their sights on Clint Barclay made her feel queasy.
She had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite of her own box lunch today, no matter who won her box.
And which of the ladies of Lonesome will Clint Barclay favor with his bid? she couldn’t help wondering. Not that she cared one way or another, she told herself with a shake of her head.
As Uncle Jake helped her down from the wagon, and Joey jumped out, wiping his hands nervously on his pants, she saw Clint turn his head in their direction. He straightened, and she saw his eyes narrow beneath the brim of his hat.
“Clint, it’s no use fighting the women of this town—not all of ’em at once,” Hamilton Smith pointed out. “As I told Bessie this morning, you might as well just give in and pick a gal to marry. It’s going to happen sooner or later, whether you like it or not.”
“The hell it will.” Despite his firm words, Clint felt sweat pop out on his brow, and it wasn’t only because of the heat and sunshine. He was starting to feel cornered, like a calf surrounded by a dozen wranglers twirling ropes toward its scrawny neck.
“How did any of them get a notion that I wanted to marry anyone?” he complained. Bitterness chewed through him. “It’s not as if I ever said one word about
hankering to get myself hitched.”
Reluctantly he tore his gaze from the vision that was Miss Emily Spoon in a pale lavender gown that was as fresh and pretty as she was herself, and focused on Ham’s plump face, then shifted his gaze to Doc Calvin’s owlish one. Fred Baker shot him a sympathetic grin.
“Beats me why women get any notion into their head,” the cowboy admitted. “I’m just happy it’s you and not me they’ve set their sights on.”
“I think it was your brother’s wedding that did it,” Ham offered sagely. “Even Bessie said to me that once a man goes to a wedding, he’s bound to get ideas. Hmmmph, women do, that’s for sure. But I reckon they think now Wade is settled down, since you’re the middle brother, you’re bound to be next.”
“No, sir.” Doc Calvin pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “I think it’s something more. Folks like having you around, Clint, that’s all. They want you to stay put. Lord knows we couldn’t find a better sheriff. And women tend to think that if a man’s married, happy, he’ll stay put.” His eyes twinkled behind the spectacles. “They just don’t want you to leave, and figure if you get hitched, settle down, start a family—”
“Family!” Clint quelled the almost overpowering urge to vault onto his horse and head for the hills. “Now this is getting out of hand!”
“So.” Fred winked. “Which lady’s box are you planning to bid on, Clint? Everyone in town is looking at it as a sign of which gal you’re going to walk down the aisle—”
“Shows how much they know.”
Clenching his jaw so tight it ached, Clint stalked off to rustle up a glass of lemonade. He wished like hell it were whiskey.
Box lunch socials weren’t for him. Pretty meadows filled with flowers, the laughter of children, women trying to throw a lasso around him—none of it was for him. He’d rather be parched with thirst and stranded on the hot endless plains without horse or canteen, or ambushed by rustlers or Indians or outlaws, or flat on his face in a snake pit—anywhere but here, in this sunlit meadow doing something as tame and civilized as going on a picnic.
Maybe this job was just getting to be too old, too tame, too civilized. Maybe it was time to move on …
Mayor Donahue, a stout balding man in an elegant black coat and an equally elegant mustache, stepped up to the long table that had been set up with all the boxes, twenty feet from the old run-down schoolhouse.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to begin. Now remember, all of the money raised today is to be used to rebuild and expand the schoolhouse so that our Miss Crayden will have a proper place to teach the children—as well as proper materials. So be generous, fair citizens. The lovely ladies of our town have worked hard on their boxes, as you all can see, and we want to show our appreciation. Don’t we, gentlemen?”
The mayor beamed as everyone applauded.
“To start the bidding,” he continued, holding up a box decorated with pink-and-blue lace, sequins, feathers, and a cluster of lilies, “here is a splendid box from one of our fine ladies in town. Who would like to share a mouthwatering lunch with the creator of this lovely box?” the mayor intoned.
Seated on one of the chairs between Margaret Smith and Nettie Phillips, Emily watched as one after another of the boxes was auctioned off. She could see Uncle Jake through the willows—he was down by the creek keeping an eye on Joey, who was playing tag with Bobby and Sally Smith. She knew he was probably glad to steer clear of the large public gathering, and no doubt relieved not to have to watch everyone bidding on boxes and being paired off—husbands with their wives, young men with the young women they had an interest in.
She knew he still missed Aunt Ida something fierce. Once or twice at night she’d heard quiet sobs coming from the main room of the cabin, and had crept out to find Uncle Jake slumped in his chair, an old photograph of Aunt Ida clutched to his chest. She always crept back as quietly as she’d come, not wishing to disturb his very private mourning.
Perhaps if he’d had a chance to say good-bye, he would by now be getting over the loss. But he hadn’t had that chance, thanks to Clint Barclay, she reminded herself painfully.
Her attention was recalled to the bidding when she suddenly heard her brother’s voice call out a bid of three dollars.
Everyone looked at Pete Spoon, standing nonchalantly beneath an aspen, his thumbs hooked in his pants pockets. A slight murmur ran through the crowd.
Intrigued, Emily shifted her attention to the box being auctioned. Mayor Donahue held up a round hatbox decorated with a pink feather boa, displaying it for all to see. Several more bids from different men quickly followed, and she saw several eager glances directed toward a petite, pretty girl with light brown hair done up in ringlets. She wore a tight blue dress and a hat with sequined feathers pinned to it.
“Who is that girl?” Emily whispered to Nettie.
“That’s Florry Brown,” Nettie whispered back, a shade too loudly. “She works at Coyote Jack’s Saloon.”
“Four dollars,” she heard another voice call out—a rough voice she immediately recognized.
It belonged to Slim Jenks.
For once the wrangler didn’t have a smirk on his face—he looked deadly serious as he bid on Florry Brown’s box. She, on the other hand, Emily noted curiously, seemed to pale and shrink into her chair every time he raised his bid.
“Six dollars—and fifty cents,” Pete yelled, topping Jenks’s latest bid. The other men all seemed to have dropped out.
“Eight dollars.” Anger mottled Jenks’s face as he threw a glance toward Pete, clearly warning him to back off.
Florry Brown sat perfectly still, not looking at either Pete or Slim Jenks.
“Twenty dollars,” Pete called out coolly.
Emily nearly gasped. Twenty dollars. Either her brother was wildly smitten with this girl, or his dislike of Jenks was driving him to spend money he could ill afford. But it was typical of Pete, she thought, suppressing a sigh. Despite her dismay at the extravagant bid, she couldn’t help hoping that at least it would win Florry’s box lunch for her impulsive brother.
“I have a bid of twenty dollars,” the mayor intoned. “Do I hear twenty-one?” He paused infinitesimally, glancing around the gathering. “Ladies and gentlemen, this fine box lunch is sold—to, er, Mr. Pete Spoon.”
A smile wreathed Florry Brown’s face as Pete sauntered up to claim first the box and then her hand. As they started off together, Emily watched Slim Jenks scowling after them. For a moment she feared he’d follow, but just as he took a step, another cowboy clapped a hand on his arm and said something under his breath that made Jenks laugh.
Then he suddenly swung his gaze around the meadow and fixed his glance on Emily. There was no mistaking the malicious gleam in his eyes.
Uneasiness knotted in the pit of her stomach. What if Slim Jenks bid on her box—and she was forced to have lunch with him?
No, Emily calmed herself as a breeze tickled the back of her neck. That would never happen. First, Jenks most likely had no idea which box was hers, and second, Lester was here.
Her towheaded cousin was so shy around women, he wouldn’t bid on any box but hers—and she was certain he’d outbid Jenks for the box, no matter what the cost.
So she relaxed and folded her hands in her lap, trying to glance about her without appearing obvious. There was no sign of Clint Barclay, none at all.
Strange. He hadn’t appeared at all during the bidding and certainly hadn’t bid on any boxes. Berty Miller had looked quite disappointed when hers had been auctioned off, and the sheriff had been nowhere in sight. Everyone had known it belonged to her because one of the ecru lace handkerchiefs she favored had been pinned on as part of the decoration. And so Berty—as well as everyone else in town—could only conclude that Sheriff Barclay hadn’t made himself present for the bidding because he didn’t care to eat lunch alone with her.
The bidding continued, and a ripple of expectation filled the clearing when a white satin-covered box decorated with
red silk hearts and clusters of wild roses was lifted up by the mayor.
“That’s Carla Mangley’s box,” Margaret told Emily.
“How do you know?”
“She always uses red hearts and roses. Besides, see that double rope of pearls that’s wound around everything? Her father gave those pearls to Carla on her eighteenth birthday. That’s Carla’s box, no doubt about it,” she finished.
“Now where the devil is Clint?” Nettie mused. She turned and twisted in her seat. “Isn’t that just like a man? All these women go to all this trouble to impress him and he’s nowhere to be seen! Where can he have gone to?”
Emily was wondering the same thing herself. But she almost forgot about Clint Barclay when the bidding started and she had her next surprise of the day. Lester stood up, a faint pink color tinging his face, glowing all the way up to the roots of his hair as he bid two dollars on Carla Mangley’s box.
If a murmur had gone up from the crowd when Pete Spoon bid on Florry’s box, that was nothing compared to what happened when Lester bid on Carla Mangley’s. The crowd buzzed, people sat up straighter in their chairs, and Carla—well, she turned bright red and her pretty mouth opened and closed for a moment like a banked fish gulping for air.
Her mother spun about in her chair, scanning the meadow, the schoolhouse, the creek, and the sloping hillsides shaded by trees.
“Where is that sheriff?” she hissed in dismay, as the young outlaw Lester Spoon continued to top each bid offered for the box with the red hearts.
But the sheriff seemed to have vanished into thin air.
“Six dollars,” Fred Baker called out.
“Seven dollars.” Lester caught Emily staring at him. His color deepened.
Why in the world was her shy, awkward cousin, always so flustered around women, so determined to have lunch with Carla Mangley? she wondered in astonishment.
Again Agnes twisted around this way and that, no doubt searching for Clint. Her daughter, desperate, did the same.
“I have a bid of seven dollars,” announced the mayor. “Do I hear any other bids?”
