Squire's Quest

by Judith B. Glad

  There was another letter from his ma, not nearly so fat as the first one. It was postmarked just last week. Curious he opened it and started reading.

  ...strangest thing, but I thought it might be important. We didn't get it for near a week after it came, because it was addressed wrong, but when Randy Strange came back from his trip to San Francisco, he figured out real quick that it had to be for us.

  I'm sure it's really for you, because I can't make head nor tail out of it. That's why I'm sending you the telegram just as we got it. If it's not yours, send it back, and I'll let Randy figure out who's suppose to get it.

  He pulled the folded yellow sheet from the envelope. The words meant nothing at first, until he got to the last two words. Cal Smith.

  Great God. Cal. I can't believe-- He read again, this time forcing himself to make sense of what he saw.

  What sense he could, anyhow. The message was so cryptic it seemed nonsensical at first. Then he forced himself to think about what it didn't say.

  That father of hers was a bad man. He'd realized that much in the few minutes before the man had all but run him off. A hard man and a mean-spirited one.

  He'd never forgotten the expression of loss he'd seen in Cal's eyes as he'd left her alone with him. Oh, yes, she'd been where she'd traveled a thousand miles to be, but Merlin hadn't been convinced then--or yet--that he should have left her with the man.

  He laid the telegram on his thigh and leaned back against the headboard. Cheyenne. It was what? Less than two hundred miles away. He'd no compelling reason to stay in Denver, nothing beyond curiosity and a hankering for bright lights and fancy women.

  Nothing he couldn't live without.

  There was a calendar hanging on the wall beside the door. He walked over and contemplated it.

  If he left in the morning, he and Gawain could be in Cheyenne by Christmas.

  The next day he bought supplies and loaded up for another journey. The gelding made it clear he didn't hanker to go anywhere but back to his feed trough.

  "Settle down, there," Merlin told him, when he went to buck. "We both know I'll win this war."

  Sure enough, within a mile Gawain was stepping out just like he had places to go, mares to see.

  * * * *

  Cheyenne surely didn't look like much, for all its reputation as a shipping center. He checked Gawain into a livery stable, got advice on a decent but not fancy hotel, and started in the direction the hostler pointed. Just after he cleared the door, the man said, "Afore I forget, we ain't gonna be open tomorrow, 'less you make special arrangements. Not much call for stock on Christmas."

  "No worry. I figure to have myself a good dinner, maybe a bath, and not go anywhere for a spell" He stopped, looked back at the hostler. "Where's the best place to eat?"

  "I fancy the Bijou Café myself. It's a block west of the Platte Hotel."

  "I'm obliged." Shouldering his saddlebags and slinging his rifle, he strode along the street toward the hotel. A familiar excitement sizzled inside him. There was an adventure out there, just waiting for him.

  But first he had to find Cal.

  A week later he was wondering if the telegram had been a hoax, even though he couldn't figure how. Or why.

  Nobody he questioned had heard of a Lemuel Smith. Nobody knew about anybody new in town with an interest in a saloon, a bawdyhouse or a card room. He'd described Smith as best he could, from his memory of six years ago, and all he'd got back were headshakes and shrugged shoulders.

  Worse, his questions about a girl with coal black hair and eyes as green as spring leaves had gone just as unanswered. After the third time he'd been taken for a pimp, he started explaining he was seeking a runaway sister. Some folks even believed him and tried to help.

  He'd been in Cheyenne nearly a week when it occurred to him they might have come on a train. "You are purely a fool, boy," he muttered. He'd spent too long away from civilization. That had to be his excuse.

  The station agent denied seeing any young woman matching his description of Cal, but when the night clerk came in, he said, "Sure. I recall her. Came in with an older man. He left her here. Just walked out and left her." He shook his head in evident puzzlement at any decent man who'd abandon a girl in a depot.

  "When was that?"

  "A while back." He scratched his balding scalp. "Maybe a month ago."

  Great God! Anything could have happened to her in a month. "Do you have any idea what happened to her? Did the older fellow come back?"

  "Nope. She slept here that night, curled herself up on the bench closest to the stove." He sort of hunched his shoulder when the agent cleared his throat. "Yessir , I know I shouldn't have let her, but hell. What kind of man would turns a pretty girl out on the street in a strange town, middle of the night?"

  "You did the right thing," Merlin said. "Have you seen her around town since then?"

  "Nope," he said again. "Not a trace."

  Thanking both the agent and the night clerk, Merlin walked out onto the street. He stood on the depot steps and looked up and down the street. Where did you go, Cal? Did you put on britches again? Or did you find a safe haven?

  * * * *

  Callie was finally getting used to rising in the middle of the night again. It had been hard the first few nights, because she'd been afraid to let herself sleep soundly for fear of not waking when it was time. After the difficulty she'd had finding work, she didn't dare do anything to get herself fired.

  The little cubby where she slept was warm, anyhow. Right in back of the oven, its one brick wall held the heat all the time. Come summer it would be miserable, but now she appreciated the warmth.

  She washed quickly, for the water was like ice. Once she'd braided her hair and tucked it into the muslin cap she wore in the kitchen, she was ready for work. Frau Trebelhorn was a bear about cleanliness, which suited her just fine. Imagine finding a hair in your bread. That would put anyone off his appetite.

  What a funny woman the restaurant manager was. She spoke English just as good as Callie did, but she insisted on being called "Frau" instead of missus. She always wore a fancy skirt with a band of embroidery around the hem, and her white apron never showed a spot of dirt. "Not like mine," Callie mused, as she tied her coffee- and cherry juice-stained apron around her waist. It was clean, but some stains were just stubborn.

  She'd a lot to do today. Frau Trebelhorn had given her a list of fancy breads to bake for tomorrow, besides the usual bread and pies. "It is our proud tradition, to invite our neighbors in for coffee and bread while we celebrate the new year together," she'd said yesterday, when she handed Callie the list and some recipes.

  "Brambrack, that's easy. It's not so different from Mrs. Flynn's receipt. But this stollen... I'll need more candied fruit from the storeroom. Julekage, that doesn't look too hard. But what's Makosgubo?" She stumbled over the pronunciation. "Do we have any poppy seeds? Limpa? Sounds like a broken leg." As she muttered, she searched the cupboard where the spices and herbs were kept. Yes, there was cardamom, and a pint jar of black poppy seeds. Yesterday she'd been sent to buy half a dozen oranges at the market, and dear they'd been, too. "That's everything. I'm going to be busy."

  The restaurant would be open for dinner and supper on New Year's Day, but they would also have tables full of breads and cakes and fancy German desserts, along with gallons and gallons of coffee, free to anybody who came in the door.

  She'd never heard the like, but as long as she was getting paid for the extra work, she couldn't complain.

  A new year. As she worked, she wondered if it would bring anything different from the old one. If she could work a way to get free of her pa, she'd settle for that. Seemed to her he was getting meaner all the time. More peculiar, too.

  Women had the vote here in Wyoming Territory. Did it mean they weren't obliged to mind their menfolk once they were full-grown?

  Chapter Nine

  There was something about the first day of a new year that made a man look at his life
and wonder what he was making of it. He had been on his quest now for more than six years, and all he had to show for it was a few hundred dollars and a lot of memories.

  The thought that the time to go home and settle was nigh had occurred to Merlin with increasing frequency, ever since he'd decided he'd had enough of trailing behind a herd. Oh, there was still the Pacific Ocean and the Grand Canyon to see, and maybe those giant trees he'd heard tell of, out California way, but otherwise he'd pretty much done all he'd set out to do.

  He'd need to be at home when Ma and Pa went on their trip to Australia. Handy as he was, Abel couldn't mind the place by himself. And the River Ranch was going to be sitting empty after next year, according to Ma's last letter. Josh Ellensberg was getting too old to manage it--leastwise he'd claimed to be. Pa had hinted he might not hire anyone else, if Merlin was through with his wanderings. He'd always said that part of the Lachlan holdings was to be Merlin's share.

  Trouble was, Merlin wasn't ready to settle. Not yet. One of these days...

  The Bijou Café was closed, so he went on down the street to Lambert House. He'd never eaten there--too fancy for his blood--but he'd heard the food was fine.

  There was a line outside the door. He was a couple of places back from Bruce Redmond, so he nodded a greeting.

  "Word sure gets around," the young teller from the First Platte bank said. "Look at this crowd."

  "Did I miss something?" He had bought a copy of the paper a couple of days ago, but had never gotten around to reading it all. There'd been something else to do every night since he'd come to town, from the Christmas service at church to the do-or-die chess game with Dean Roderick, down at the Railroad Saloon. They'd finally called it a draw at one-thirty this morning.

  "It's a Lambert House tradition. Free fancy breads and coffee for all comers on New Year's Day. This year should be better than ever, because the new baker is a real artist. Not just bread and pie, either. Fancy French pastries, too, and cakes of all sorts."

  "Well, that's fine." Merlin had never had much of a sweet tooth, but he did like a good loaf of bread like Ma made, the kind with a crunchy crust and the tang of good sourdough starter.

  The line moved forward. "Say, it looks like they're putting folks together at the tables. Join me?" Bruce said.

  "Glad to," Merlin agreed. He'd brought his book along to read while he was eating, but he wouldn't mind having company instead. A man should be neighborly when the opportunity arose.

  They waited another quarter hour before a table for two opened up. The waiter handed them each a menu as soon as they sat down. Merlin gave it a quick scan and saw what he was looking for. He'd heard the ham dinner here was one of the best, and had already made up his mind to try it. Ma always served ham on the first day of the year.

  While he waited for someone to take his order, he took a look at the dessert list, a separate sheet tucked inside the folded-over pasteboard cover that held the days' offerings.

  He hadn't seen such a fancy menu since he'd left New Orleans.

  The ham was moist and tasty, the sweet potatoes rich and buttery, and the beans well-spiced. The fat roll on a separate plate, with a fancy little ball of butter, was like a cloud. It all but melted in his mouth, yet it had a good chewy crust and a tang that took him back in memory to his Ma's table. "I wonder if I can get a dozen of these," he said, as he swallowed the last bite. "A man could live on them."

  "They sure live up to their billing," Bruce agreed, as be patted his taut belly. "I swear, I don't know where I'll put dessert, but I'm damn sure gonna have some."

  The fancy breads spread on a table along one wall were as good as any he'd tasted. The one with the little sign that said "Stollen" was his favorite. Reminded him of the one Ma always made for Christmas. When he walked out of the restaurant, he was as satisfied as he could ever recall being after a big meal. He begged off accompanying Bruce to the saloon, claiming a need to get to bed early. In truth, he wanted to meet the baker, and he wanted to do it alone.

  Anybody who could bake like that was worth getting to know.

  The back door of the restaurant opened into a small yard. Merlin took up post at the side of the shed that stood in one corner. He wasn't quite sure what he was going to say, besides asking about getting a weekly dozen of those rolls. What if she was sixty and weighed three hundred pounds? What if he was mean-tempered, like that big colored cook at Madame Lespard's in New Orleans?

  He was turning to walk away when the door opened and a woman appeared. She wore a man's greatcoat, too big for her. When she stepped out onto the snowy ground, she slipped, flailed her arms to keep from falling.

  Quick as a wink, he caught her. She was quite an armful, what with the heavy coat and all. She smelled of yeast and warm bread and something spicy.

  As soon as he laid hand on her, she stiffened and started to fight him. "Turn loose," she squawked. Her arm swung up and the side of her hand caught him smartly on the ear.

  "Hold on there. I'm trying to help--"

  "Let me go!"

  "Suit yourself." He released her.

  Since she was still threshing around, her feet went sliding and she landed on the packed snow with a breathless "Ooof!"

  Merlin knelt in front of her. "You all right?"

  She raised her head and for the first time he got a good look at her in the light of the lantern beside the door. Even though her hair was skinned back from her face, he could see it was dark as midnight. Her eyes were as green as spring leaves.

  "Go away or I'll scream," she said, a little breathlessly.

  "Cal? Cal Smith?" He couldn't quite believe he'd found her.

  She raised her chin and peered at him. For a moment she seemed puzzled, and he realized his face must be entirely in shadow, eyepatch and all.

  He removed his wide-brimmed hat. "It's me. Merlin."

  She stared at him so long he started to worry she'd freeze her behind. At last she whispered, "Merlin?" She gave a little hiccup. "Merlin? You came."

  "Soon as I got word. Now, why don't you stand up and tell me what you need me to do?"

  She burst into tears.

  Merlin hadn't been raised with four sisters for nothing. He scooped her up--she wasn't a featherweight like she'd been the last time he'd known her--and carried her over to the stoop. The snow in front of it had been tromped into ice, and he nearly fell down before he could get himself sat, with her on his lap. Tucking her head between his chin and his chest, he stroked her back. "There, there," he whispered over and over. "You'll be fine. I'm here. There, there."

  Gradually he became aware this was no longer the skinny little girl he'd taken with him on that jaunt into Montana. Underneath the yeasty, spicy scent was one he'd learned to recognize as pure woman. She was soft, not bony, round, not angular as the pretend-boy had been.

  How old is she now? I never did know for sure, but I always figured she wasn't more than twelve. That would make her, what? Eighteen or nineteen.

  She's a woman grown.

  And didn't his body know it?

  Callie felt safe for the first time since she'd left Mrs. Flynn's bakery, back in Virginia City. The knot of ice that had seemed to be stuck tight in her belly was dissolving. After a while, she managed to stop bawling. "I'm sorry," she said, and heard the raspy sound of her voice.

  "Never mind. My sisters always said a good cry was better than medicine to make a body feel better." His hand, which had been stroking her back, dropped away.

  She wished he'd put it back. Being touched with gentleness and care was something she'd missed for so long.

  "Maybe. But it sure doesn't feel very good." She sat up and stared at him. "You've changed."

  "Got a little bigger, is all."

  "You're older." As soon as she'd said the words, she wanted to take them back. What a silly thing to say. Of course he's older. It's been six years.

  "So are you." There was a note in his voice that sounded almost like laughter. "Older and prettier." His gloved fingers
touched her cheek lightly. "Still have those green eyes, though. I've never seen the like, not in all my travels."

  She reared back, so he was no longer touching her face. "Don't."

  His touch had felt too much like a caress. Too gentle, too kind. It made her want to bawl again, because it felt so good.

  His hand dropped. After a moment, he stopped staring at her face. "So, what can I do for you, Cal Smith?"

  "Well--" She closed her mouth. What could he do for her? What had she imagined he could do, when she'd sent that desperate telegram to him? She was free of her pa, so she didn't need him for that. She had a respectable job, so she didn't need him to support her. She even had a place to sleep, so she didn't need his help there either. "I don't know," she admitted when no ideas came to mind. "When I sent the telegram, I was scared, and you were the only person I could think of who might rescue me. But now--" She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't need help. Everything's fine."

  His lips tightened and she felt his body stiffen. "Do you need a friend?" he said, finally.

  The last little piece of ice in her belly seemed to melt. "Oh, yes, Merlin. I really do need a friend."

  * * * *

  Merlin couldn't decide to be relieved or disappointed. He'd come all this way, feeling like a knight going to the rescue of his lady fair, and Cal didn't need him. He kicked at the rutted snow as he walked back to his hotel. She had herself a good job, which was more than he had. Her pa might be a son of a bitch--any man who'd abandon an innocent girl in a strange town was the worst sort of villain--but he'd set her up to have a way to take care of herself. There probably wasn't a town in the whole country where a baker couldn't find a good job.

  Maybe he should move on. From what he'd seen so far, Cheyenne was not a place to enjoy winter. The wind never seemed to stop blowing, and it often carried icy crystals that cut an unprotected face like tiny knives. He could catch the train tomorrow, and in a few days be in California. Sunny, warm California, instead of cold, windy Wyoming Territory.