When he began walking, I went where he led, glad I didn't have to battle the clusters of mostly men around us on my own. "If I am running from the law, would you help me get away?" I asked.
He said, "No," and stopped several doors down, at the corner marked as Front Street—the main street down Dodge—and First Street. The window said, Beatty and Kelley's Restaurant—Fine Foods, Meals Served at All Hours.
Heaven. He'd taken me to heaven. A real restaurant! And I couldn't accept. When he moved to open the door for me, I tugged at his arm. "You've done so much already," I protested, determined to do the polite thing if it killed me. "You shouldn't have to feed me too. Let's go someplace where I can at least buy...my own...."
He was scowling now. "Keep yer egg money," he ordered.
My what...? Ah. So he was one of those men who saw going Dutch as an insult, right? I really should have guessed that, shouldn't I?
And I really wanted to eat in a restaurant. I'd been living for it, all week. And I already owed him, big time. And at least this wasn't a date or something, where I would have to worry about him wanting to collect on the price of dinner later on.
I mean, Mr. Propriety?
"Is that an order?" I asked, accepting my defeat with a grin, which seemed to startle him. Then, while he was still off-guard, I beat him to the door.
Chapter 12 – Lunch Date
It was certainly awkward enough to be a date.
First of all, Garrison got sulky about me opening my own door. I could barely keep from laughing while I let him pull out my chair at the table, to make up for it. He did not miss my amusement, and once we were seated he punished me by staring out the window at Front Street instead of at me. He looked different, younger, without his hat. Maybe it was because his hair was darker where the sun hadn't bleached it. Or because he'd had his beard trimmed since yesterday.
The inside of Beatty and Kelley's was still warm; so far, the coolest place I'd been in recent memory was the Peaves' sod house. But it was also refined, especially for a place that sat flush on a broad dirt road with a railroad track going right by it. The walls were paneled with carved wood that had been painted white, and were hung with landscape paintings, tilted between wall and ceiling to better face down at the room. The floor was shiny hardwood, though a green carpet runner ran up the middle of the room, and the chairs were heavy and also intricately carved. Crisp white linen covered the tables, and crystal bud vases held fresh flowers. What looked like fancy gas lamps, polished and shiny, hung from the ceiling. The waitress was dressed more like Mrs. Staunton—or Belle—than like me, bustle and all, and heifer-branded with a full-length, white ruffled apron. Starched.
Heaven, all right.
I realized almost immediately that I was more comfortable in these surroundings than Garrison was, despite that there were far more men than women here. I was the one who automatically asked for a menu and who talked easily with the waitress about the special of the day while my companion scowled at the table.
The menu, though, threw me. The food selection was as fancy as the decor—but all the dinners cost fifty cents. The numbers swirled around on the menu for a moment, and I almost asked Garrison: Does this say fifty cents, or fifty dollars? But the desperate need to stop looking so out of place kept my mouth closed, and I took a deep, steadying breath through my nose. Whatever this cost, he probably knew what he was doing, right?
A fifty-dollar dinner made me almost as nervous as one for fifty-cents...just for different reasons. Why was he being so nice to me today, after being so anxious to "git shed" of me yesterday?
It took the longest time for the waitress to come take our order; when Garrison noticed me turning to see if I could spot her, he asked, "You decided?" He sounded annoyed, like he'd been waiting for some time, and that startled me. But then again, I'd been unbalanced all day, right?
"The beef Stroganoff," I said, figuring that it would only be polite to eat beef around a cowman. He nodded at the waitress, and she came immediately to his side, and he ordered for both of us. For some reason, that unsettled me too.
But at least his discomfort speaking with the waitress—he'd reverted to gruff monosyllables as much as he could—kept me from asking, Who are you, and what have you done with the Boss?
Well, that and the exasperation I knew would greet my calling him Boss.
The waitress brought our drinks—coffee for him, despite the heat, and lemonade for me—and then we fell into our wait for the food. Garrison stared out the sparkling clean window. I glanced out the window too, but couldn't see anything other than horses, wagons, cowboys, soldiers, and dust to watch, so I surreptitiously watched the other patrons, playing a guessing game with myself about them, and just enjoyed being there.
Five tables held businessmen, eating alone, two of whom looked to be cowboy businessmen—one of those had exchanged nods with the Boss, early on. Two tables held older couples, both of whom seemed to be married. I fidgeted surreptitiously with the skirt of my new dress and wondered what Garrison and I looked like to them. Nobody would probably guess the truth in a million years. Heck, I didn't know the truth.
The lemonade was very good.
When finally I caught Garrison glancing at me, I took the liberty of initiating conversation. "This is nice," I said brightly.
He nodded.
Well there you go! That took care of us until the soup arrived.
Much though I hated to admit it, he was probably right about insisting I have something to eat. The soup, some kind of bisque, was delicious, and I felt surprisingly better after eating it. When the entrees arrived, my Stroganoff didn't disappoint. Why did the quality of the food surprise me so? I asked about Garrison's schnitzel—yes, he ordered schnitzel, which turned out to be veal, the calf killer—and he nodded again. I guess that meant it was good, too.
I'd known he wasn't much of a talker, but this was ridiculous. Obviously, luncheon conversation would be up to me.
"I'm pretty sure I've done this before," I shared, between bites of heaven. "It feels right. I've felt so out of place, this whole week. But here I know things, almost instinctively. I know which fork is for dessert, and what kind of wine we should have. If we were having wine that is. I know to tip 15% for decent service and 20% for good service—it's all just sort of there. Accessible. Do you know what a relief that is, after having felt so stupid around the cows?"
It was almost funny—he'd seemed content to carefully eat and watch me, listening to me babble, but as soon as I threw a question at him, he froze and looked worried, like a kid caught out of a daydream by a teacher's sudden question.
"Weren't raised near livestock," he finally conceded, hoarse.
"That's a kind way to look at it," I said with a grin, and he relaxed again. "The store wasn't bad, either. Apparently, shopping is not foreign to me. Oh, there were some glitches. Something doesn't seem quite normal about this wrapper, but other than the weird name, I have no idea what that would be. After all, it is a lovely dress," I assured him, when he looked worried again. He obviously didn't need to hear about the Corset Incident. "And the shoes. Also lovely, but do you know, I had no idea how to button them? I couldn't have been rich enough to have someone to button my shoes for me...could I?" I rolled my eyes. "That would be a little much."
He took another bite of his veal, still watching me, and I wondered if he was eating partly as a defense against further questions.
"So I guess Benj was right, and I'm a city girl," I said, and he frowned and swallowed. "The big question is, what city?"
Garrison said, "Best eat yer dinner."
"I am." I even took another bite, and smiled. "Mmm."
He turned back to his own plate.
"But," I added after I'd swallowed, pausing with my fork mid-air, "you've got to be curious too, aren't you? I mean, I could have a place waiting for me somewhere. Someplace where I know what to do, and people know me...and there's indoor plumbing. You've been great, taking care of me and all, but wo
uldn't it be a relief to hand me over somewhere that you know I'll be safe and taken care of?"
He was frowning at his plate—because I was talking too much? When I ducked my head closer to his, to better read his expression, he sighed defeat and hit me with both gaze and commentary. "Someone left you," he reminded me. "No one's been lookin'. Leastways, not 'round these parts."
I stared at him.
He qualified with a gruff, "Not yet, anyhow." But it sounded more like a warning than encouragement.
"You think someone tried to get rid of me?" I asked, stunned.
He took a deep breath, but didn't look away.
"I don't understand," I insisted, my voice shrinking from small to tight. "If someone wanted me dead, they would have just killed me, wouldn't they? Maybe I got very ill, and wandered away in a delirium. Or maybe there was an accident, and I'm just blocking it from my mind. Or...or I could have been kidnapped, and held for ransom, but I got away, and right this very moment my father or my husband or someone is trying desperately to find me, but he just doesn't know to look in Kansas."
The Boss didn't even nod at my theories, which made me mad.
"I mean... Kansas!" I added.
He sat very still, then finally said, "May be." With those two words, he reduced all my wonderful possibilities to mere fantasy. Sure, any of them could have happened. But it was just as likely that I'd simply been disposed of, just as likely I had been alone and unloved even before I lost my memory. Maybe I'd been so alone and unloved that I'd taken off on my own—without clothes. I didn't want to consider the possibilities behind that theory.
I looked down at my plate and suddenly had no appetite. I pushed it away from me.
"Eat," the Boss urged, gruff.
"I don't want any more, thank you."
"You will later." And no, he didn't say it gently. The way he nudged the plate back toward me was overbearing, not concerned, and I'd about had enough.
But at least I'd learned better than to say, Screw later! Instead I said, "I'll pay you back for dinner," and I hoped it wasn't fifty dollars worth.
"No," he responded, through clenched teeth. "You will not."
"Well I'm not eating more and you can't make me." Oops. That was a stupid thing to say. He probably could. But we were in public, and he was on good behavior. Instead of hauling me across the table and stuffing beef Stroganoff—or worse, veal—down my throat, Garrison flushed and looked down at his own plate, muttering a word to himself. I heard it anyway, and it was "Willful."
"Yeah, well you're going to be one unhappy trail boss if I vomit on you." That earned me a glare.
So much for pleasant dinner conversation. I sat there and tried to empty my thoughts rather than dwell on even one more upsetting thing today. Garrison ate. I continued to sit there, trying desperately not to examine what sort of circumstances resulted in me lying unconscious on the prairie, with no word of Indian or outlaw attacks, with nobody looking for me.
Nobody caring.
Garrison stopped eating and watched me. Not even looking, I could feel the impatience of his gaze. He was the one who didn't like me talking, right? Fine. If he had a problem, he could damn well bring it up himself.
When he did finally speak, his choice of questions caught me by surprise. "You sick?"
"Yes!" I hissed, low, and his eyes widened at my vehemence. "I'm sick of not knowing who I am. I'm sick of not knowing where I'm from. I'm sick of being treated like a child and having to be grateful for the help. I'm sick of being a charity case and having to be grateful for that too. I'm sick of feeling incompetent, when I know deep down that I'm not, or at least that I wasn't always. I'm sick of not having a name, a real one!
"For just a little while I wanted to imagine that I had a home waiting for me somewhere, and that everything was going to be all right, but you had to go and be Mr. Practicality and blow that right out of the water and so now I'm scared again and you know what? I'm sick of being scared! Tonight you're going to be with your herd and tomorrow you'll be on your way to fulfilling your dream in Wyoming and I don't even know where I'm going to sleep tonight or what I'm going to do tomorrow or where my next meal's coming from, and I'm sick of that too. So yes, I'm sick!"
Well. He did ask.
Now that I'd answered him, though, he obviously had no idea what to do with the information. He swallowed, looked down, looked back up, and nodded hopefully at me. "You got your egg money," he pointed out.
Egg money again. My life was a great big sucking void and he talked egg money. "What if I don't like eggs?"
And curse him, he smiled again! That damned human, handsome smile. He looked quickly away, to try to hide it, but he wasn't quick enough and I saw.
I started to take deep breaths, to swallow back language that would probably end in tragedy at this point, and finally managed a simple, "What?"
He shook his head, unwilling to face me. I folded my arms and considered what he would look like with a plate of Stroganoff on his head. I'd already proved to myself that my life was in shambles—why not go for the gusto?
But at that moment, a different voice said, "Well if this ain't a caution! I'd not have believed it 'less I seen it with my own two eyes. Jacob Garrison escortin' a lady to dinner!"
When Garrison looked up, his mouth was serious but his eyes were still smiling, the jerk. I smiled too, though, both at the friendliness of Benj's familiar drawl and the too-welcome distraction he provided. Considering my fantasies about decorating the Boss with my dinner one way or another, Benj's arrival might have saved my life.
Having already swept his high-crowned hat off his head, Benj planted it over his heart for a dramatic stagger backwards. "Lillabit darlin! Let me feast my eyes upon you and that new dress of yourn!"
Garrison made a huffy, disgusted sound. Me, I hopped up and turned in a circle for Benj's sure approval, enjoying how my skirts belled ever so gently outward. While I got that approval—a gratifying string of comparisons between me and every beautiful thing in the known world—I noted that the Boss was no longer smiling, not even his eyes. He'd fallen back into disapproval mode. But as many people in the restaurant looked amused as scandalized, so I let it go.
"Why don't I join you?" Benj borrowed a chair from another table even as he made the suggestion. I grabbed my own chair and tried dragging it around the corner of the table, to sit closer to Garrison—not that I really wanted to, but he was the one feeding me—and between both men.
It was a surprisingly heavy chair. Garrison reached out and finished moving it for me with one hand—make it look easy! He accidentally brushed my skirts as he did, and I froze. It wasn't like he'd touched me—I only felt a slight bunching of petticoats, not him—but my stomach tingled oddly, anyway.
He withdrew his hand slowly, and when my searching gaze caught his, the tingle became a shudder, as if he scared me, except it wasn't fear I was feeling.
He looked quickly out the front window and, sinking belatedly onto the support of the heavy chair, I took refuge in looking quickly over at Benj.
"Schmidty said I'd likely find you in town," he told Garrison, turning his own chair backwards, so that he could straddle it and fold his arms over its back. "Didn't say nothin' bout you courtin' our little maverick, though. Is this ol' judge showin' you a good time, Lillabit?"
It seemed most polite to avoid the question and its implied teasing, so I just gave him an oh, you smile and took a sip of lemonade.
"Have a seat," drawled Garrison, sarcastic. Good thing he wasn't courting me, or he'd probably be pretty ticked off at the third party.
"Don't mind if I do." And Benj reached over the table and snatched a piece of his schnitzel, laughing as he popped it into his mouth.
Despite the residual stirring in my stomach, I didn't feel half as nauseated as I had a few minutes ago, so I took a test bite of my own dinner. So far, so good. I ignored Garrison's slow double-take.
Having hailed the waitress and pointed at the Boss's coffee, Benj was s
till stuck on the wonder of having found his friend in a restaurant with a woman, even if the woman was just me. "Here I've been mournin' the sheer waste of stayin' with the herd while you took yer day in town, since I know you ain't capable of enjoyin' yerself like the rest of us. And if you ain't gone and proved me wrong."
"Don't look like you're with the herd to me," Garrison pointed out.
"Actually, that depends on how you angle your eyes at the townsfolk." Benj winked at me, but when he turned back to the Boss, Garrison's eyes narrowed as he continued talking, increasingly annoyed. "But before you get on that high horse you're so fond of, I've got good reason for bein' here. First of all, I wanted to assure myself of this l'il gal's well being. I got back to the herd this mornin' and heard tell you headed out with a soldier what come lookin' for me."
Garrison snorted. "Morning."
But Benj wasn't letting him get away with the implied criticism. "Near enough to mornin' by my calculations, and don't try to distract me from my figurin' there was trouble at the fort. As I recall, Jacob, you said the gal would do just fine there."
Garrison took his glare—full-fledged now—without flinching. "I was wrong."
I said, "It wasn't his fault." Both men looked surprised, at that. What, did Garrison also think the stockade was his fault? I didn't see why—though it would explain why he'd been so to me this afternoon. Nice by Boss standards, anyway, if not by normal human standards.
The idea that this had been a guilt lunch saddened me somehow.
"Thank you, darlin'," said Benj to the waitress, when she brought his coffee by. Then he said to me, "Well it does my heart good to see you lookin' so fit and fine, Lillabit."
"Thank you," I said, not bothering to repeat the litany of how sick I was. In fact, now that Benj was here, I felt much better. "So why were you out so late?"
Garrison, putting down his coffee cup, almost missed his saucer and had to do it with both hands.
Benj actually blushed. But he recovered quickly. "Day-and-a-half stop near Dodge means two afternoons and evenings to ration between us, darlin. Half the outfit gets to hoorah the town the first night; other half gets the second while the first batch of us recover. I used my time to keep an eye on the younger boys."
OverTime 1 - Searching (Time Travel) Page 18
