What if her pa comes back? Seems to me she's been taught to mind him no matter what. How far would she go to keep him happy? And how far would he go to use her?
He stomped the snow from his feet on the boardwalk in front of the hotel. The notion of sitting around Cheyenne all winter, just keeping an eye on Cal, didn't appeal. Now if he were to find work, something interesting, that would be a different story. He didn't need the money, but he needed the occupation, something to fill his days so he wouldn't hover over her like a hen with one chick.
Her image appeared in his mind, green eyes, milky skin, and the smile that even six years ago had always made him want to smile right back at her. He'd never had the urge to hover over a woman before, but doggone if he didn't now.
* * * *
Callie pulled the door open a crack once she heard Merlin's footsteps growing fainter. She could see him silhouetted against the street lamps. He still wore a wide-brimmed hat the color of sand and his coat was just like the one she remembered--blanket-lined canvas, but a little darker shade. His britches were black and tucked into the laced boots he wore instead of high-heeled riding boots. The face she'd remembered so well was older, but still his, with the same wide smile now bracketed by deep creases, what her grandpa had called laugh lines.
When he disappeared around the corner, she let the door swing shut, and leaned against it with her eyes closed. Even if Pa comes back, Merlin won't let him take me away again.
And then her breath caught in her chest. What if Merlin goes away?
* * * *
The Daily Leader wasn't much help. Merlin didn't fancy the notion of tending bar, had no ambition to be a deputy sheriff, and never again wanted to work as a cowman. Not for somebody else, anyhow.
In the past, he'd found more than one job by asking around. Since Cheyenne seemed to be a place where the rails met roads going in all directions, he reckoned more than one freight business had an office in town.
He stopped in at the Great Western Corral to say hello to Gawain. A casual question about freighters brought the information that most of them had offices and barns along the road to Camp Carlin, the big Army supply depot. "Likely contracting to haul freight to the forts." The chill wind all but snatched the words from his mouth. "I swear it's ten degrees colder than yesterday."
He was wishing he'd hired a buggy by the time he reached the first freight barn. The wind had more than just a bite to it. The freight barns, with attached corrals, were strung out along half a mile of road, with plenty of open space between. He strolled along, reading signboards. Most barns had offices attached, but they all looked deserted. Maybe nobody shipped in winter.
Not likely. Folks needed supplies winter and summer. Farther on, he saw a wisp of smoke disappear quickly, carried away by an icy gust.
"Somebody's home." The sign above the barn door said "Morrison & Robb, Freighters." A smaller sign directed inquiries to the office across the road. Before crossing, he took a look around.
The corral was larger than most, and held a good-sized herd of mules, mostly huddled under the wide shed roof. Good looking stock, too, well-cared for.
He knocked on the door marked OFFICE.
"It ain't locked."
The room was dim, a candle its only light. Two men sat with their heels propped on the edges of a scarred desk. One held a tin cup, the other a beer bottle.
"Help you?"
He'd heard that voice before. Stepping closer, he bent to peer under the man's hatbrim.
"Well, I'll be hog-tied and hornswoggled. Murphy Creek."
"Huh?" Murphy went to set his cup on the desk, but he moved too fast and his chair went over backwards. "Goddamn it. That hurt," he said, as he rubbed the back of his head.
Merlin held out a hand, bracing himself for Murphy to try at pulling him off his feet. With a chuckle, Murphy waved it aside and scrambled up. Once he'd dusted his hat off and replaced it on his head, he grinned. "Now how did you know I was wishing you--or someone like--would show up about now? Want a job?"
Chapter Ten
"A job? Doing what?"
Murphy didn't answer right away. Instead he walked to the coffeepot atop the stove. Once he'd poured the hot, black, almost syrupy liquid into two enamel cups, he came back to sit on the edge of the desk. "It ain't up to what you'd get at the Bijou, but it'll put hair on your chest."
Merlin sat in the chair he'd pulled close to the stove. He waited, sipping at the too-hot, too-strong coffee.
"Gold fever," the other fellow said without opening his eyes. Merlin had wondered if he was asleep, even though his hand held the beer bottle steady.
"Jeb's right. Every damn fool who can scrape together a kit is headin' for the Black Hills. Too impatient to wait for spring."
"Guess they figure on getting a head start." Even as he spoke, Merlin thought about something he'd read. "Wait a minute. Aren't the Black Hills Indian lands?"
"Damn right. And the Army's doing little enough to keep 'em that way. Oh, they posture and proclaim, but they sure ain't doin' much else."
"Ain't gonna, either," Jeb said. "Come spring, gold hunters'll be all over them hills like ants on a pile of sugar."
"But you're still freighting supplies in?"
"We're contracted to freight supplies to the Army. Fort Laramie and north. Be damned if I'll carry one sack of flour east. I'll quit first."
There was a big map on the wall. Merlin walked over and studied it.
He had to agree with Murphy. More than once he'd seen what happened when whites wanted lands the Indians claimed as their own. His Aunt Flower's people had had no end of trouble with land hungry whites and dishonest Indian agents.
But tarnation, I do want to see a gold camp in its heyday.
As if he remembered they'd been talking business, Murphy cleared his throat. "Never mind. I've got me a freight line to run, and I'll do it best I can as long as nobody asks me to move into places I've no business goin' to."
"What I can't figure is how you come to be boss," Merlin said with a grin. He and Murphy had spent many an hour along the road from Virginia City to Ogden discussing the pitfalls of taking responsibility and had concluded it wasn't something either of them had a hankering for, no matter how well it paid.
"I'm not sure myself. It just sort of happened. I hired on with Franklin--he runs a guide service out of Ogden--in '72. Spent a summer in the Sawtooths, pickin' flowers."
"You what?"
"Oh, hell, we took a posy-pickin' professor up there. Biggest blowhard you ever saw. We-- Never mind. It's a story for another time. The next summer, I took on another guide job, but came near quittin' halfway through the summer. A worse bunch of idiots there never was."
Jeb hacked and spat into a convenient spittoon. "Furriners."
"Stupid ones at that. They had to have hot baths twice a week, and tea at four." He stuck his little finger out and mimed sipping delicately at his tin cup. "Wasn't a one of 'em could hit the broad side of a barn with a barrel of buckshot."
"They were hunting? I heard about that. Rich dukes and princes, coming over for trophy hunting." The very thought made Merlin sick. His pa had taught him to kill only what he would eat.
"Buffalo, elk, antelope, wolf. Hell, one of 'em, even shot a coyote. He wanted to take the head back to be mounted."
They traded stories of gormless tenderfeet for a while longer, until Merlin caught a glance at the clock. "Were you serious about that job?"
"I recollect you know how to shoe a mule," Murphy said.
"You saw me do it once. And it was a piss poor job, I did, too." They had been halfway between Point of Rocks and Lovells when the wheeler on Murphy's wagon had thrown a shoe. No forge, only a sledge and a file for tools. He'd hammered a spare shoe into a good enough shape to get them to Lovells, where the freight company had a small forge. The smith had gone south for the winter. Merlin had not told anyone he'd only shoed half a dozen horses before.
"It got us to Eagle Rock, didn't it? You done any
smithin' since?"
"A little, here and there, but not lately. I've been driving herds north from Texas these three years past. Not much call for a smith on the trail." He didn't mention the fancy iron work he'd been learning to make in New Orleans before he'd got the urge to move on. There wasn't much call for that in a town like Cheyenne.
"Well, hell." Murphy scratched his chin, frowning. "Still... Look here, Merlin, I'm a desperate man. My bosses--they're back in Omaha--they expect me to keep the freight moving to Fort Laramie all winter long. We've a contract with the Army depot out at Camp Carlin. I've got the men to do it, and the mules, but Sam, down at the livery stable hasn't got the time to keep my stock shod proper, let alone to maintain the wagons. I need a man who can work iron full time."
"How fancy does it need to be?" While he could get by as a farrier, Merlin had only mounted one wagon tire and had never welded anything bigger than a door hinge.
"Not fancy at all. I don't give a damn how iron looks. Just that it holds together."
So far Merlin hadn't run into the "What kind of work can a half-blind man do?" attitude here in Cheyenne, but he knew he would've, sooner or later. He had to admit it was a novelty to be offered work without having to prove himself first. Of course, he wasn't a stranger to Murphy. "What's the pay?" Hold yourself cheap, and you'll be treated cheap.
Murphy named a figure that seemed more than generous.
He pretended to consider, but he'd already made up his mind. "I'll give it a try." He held out his hand.
Murphy took it. "Can you start tomorrow?"
"Guess so. I'll need a place to stay, though, Can't afford the hotel for more'n a few nights."
"If you don't need more than a bed and a place to make coffee and fry up some meat, there's a cabin back of the barn. It's snug, but not fancy."
"Let's take a look. I don't need roomy or fancy, as long as I've a place to sit and read."
With a chuckle, Murphy waved him to the door. "I'd forgot about you and your books. Never saw a man read like you do."
The small cabin was indeed snug. Built of peeled logs chinked with mud and moss, it kept out the cold wind. "Fireplace draws good," Murphy told him, as he stood in the middle of the room, taking stock. There was plenty of room for a rocking chair between the fireplace and the bed. Each end wall held rough shelves where he could put his gear and his books when they arrived from Dodge, where he'd left his trunk stored. A half-loft hung over the box bed built into the corner opposite the fireplace.
"Looks good. I'll bring my gear around before supper and start work in the morning."
On the way back to town, he wondered what time Cal got off work. He purely did hate to eat alone.
* * * *
This morning when she'd awakened, Callie remembered how she'd told Merlin she didn't need his help.
He'd said nothing, but she'd seen his expression. Kind of like a dog that had been kicked. She would have been kinder to keep her mouth shut.
All the time she was mixing, kneading, shaping, shuffling loaves and rolls into and out of the two ovens, she fretted about hurting his feelings. Would he leave Cheyenne? Go away because she didn't need him?
The one thing she remembered more than any other about Merlin was he took care of those he felt responsible for. She'd seen how he cared for his stock, and later, when they were traveling with the freight wagons, for those mules. He'd fed them and picked stones from their feet and treated them more like pets than working critters. Maybe he hadn't given sixty-four mules the care he gave that spotted horse of his, but she'd bet they'd never been treated better than on the trip from Eagle Rock to Virginia City. Or back again.
She pulled the last loaves from the oven and set four chess pies inside. Abner was already getting the chickens ready to be roasted for tonight's supper, so she no longer had to worry about the other oven. She put together six dried apple pies and sat to rest a bit while the chess pies finished baking. Once they were in the oven, she'd be done for the day.
The colored boys who kept the fires going were waiting to add wood to the firebox, and she stepped aside to be out of their way. "There's a bit of cake in the pantry," she said to LeRoy, the smaller one. "I hid it behind the big crock. Mind you share it with your bother."
"I sure will. Thanky. Miz Callie." LeRoy's wide grin was infectious and she found herself mirroring his expression.
"I'm going to step out back for a few minutes, Abner. I'll be back to take those pies out."
"You go right ahead, Miz Callie. Cool yourself off a bit." The cook's face was shiny with sweat. As long as the wind was blowing from the west, they had to keep the doors closed or the chimney would smoke. The kitchen got almost unbearably hot, even on the coldest days. What summer would be like in here was more than she wanted to think about. Whoever had built the Lambert House hadn't paid much attention to the lay of the land hereabouts.
She stepped into the curtained cubby that served as her bedroom. Although the shelves along one wall were filled with bins and cans, there was plenty of room for her narrow cot and a small stand. She wished she had a chair as well. It would be nice to be able to sit while she read the books she'd learned to enjoy, instead of having to curl up on her bed.
One of the best parts of having been apprenticed to Mrs. Flynn was that the woman had taught her to read. "A baker's no good if she don't know what her receipts say," had been her comment when she discovered Callie couldn't read or write. She'd been a good teacher, too, even if she hadn't seen any use in the love stories Callie had enjoyed, once she could pick her way through them.
She still remembered the shame she'd felt when she'd admitted to Merlin the words in his book were just funny looking marks to her. And how she'd enjoyed listening to him read to her of an impossible journey to the moon. She never had found a copy of that book so she could learn how it turned out, but someday...
Once she'd changed out of the flour-encrusted skirt and bodice she wore under her apron, she sat on the edge of her bed and pulled a small chamois pouch from its hiding place. Emptying its contents into her skirt, she counted the coins. Thirty-three dollars. Almost enough to get her back to Virginia City, and feed her one meal a day on the way. But unless she started with at least twenty dollars more, she'd arrive without a penny to her name. If there were delays along the way--and there often were this time of year--she would be at risk of starving or sleeping in a barn.
What if Mrs. Flynn had found somebody to replace her? Then she'd have no job.
Too soon, she told herself. Spring is time enough.
Besides she'd taken a look at herself this morning and realized she hadn't a thing to wear that wasn't faded or patched or stained with berry juice or grease.
Merlin's never seen me looking nice.
He knew she was a girl. Did he know she was a woman?
One of these days I'll go shopping.
She'd just emerged from her cubby when she heard the tap at the back door. For a moment she considered not answering it, but remembered young Ferdie had said his sister was coming to see her after school.
She pulled the door open. "Merlin!"
"I hoped you'd be off work. I need your help."
Behind him she saw Ferdie approaching. "Come in, both of you. I'm letting all the warm out."
The boy slipped past her and went to the kitchen, where Abner would put him to work.
"My help? How?"
"I've got a place to stay, but nowhere to sit," he said. "You've been here longer than me. Where can I get a good, comfortable chair?"
"I wish I knew," she said before she could stop herself.
He raised one eyebrow, just as she'd remembered. Without a word he stepped past her and lifted the curtain aside so he could peer into her cubby. "This is where you sleep?"
"Uh..."
"Great God, Cal. I've seen horse boxes with more room than this."
"It-- It doesn't cost me anything." Now why did she feel ashamed, admitting her poverty? She never had before.
"I hope not." He let the curtain swing back into place. "Are you broke?"
The force of his gaze was like something tangible, a pressure against her body, heat on her skin. "I... Uh, I didn't have much when I got here. I've saved every penny, but I--"
"Why?"
"Huh?"
"What are you saving it for. Not clothes. You look like you dress yourself out of a missionary barrel. Or worse."
His words hit her like slaps. "You've never seen me in anything but what I wear to work. How can you assume that's all I have?"
His wide, usually-smiling mouth hardened. "I've got sisters. None of them would ever go around looking like a slattern if she could help it. Nor any of the girls back home, either. Too much pride."
"Or too much vanity." She wanted to smack him. "Some of us don't need a dozen fancy gowns." She folded her arms and turned her back, resisting the urge to cringe as she waited for him to yell at her.
Or slap her.
"That's right. You don't need fancy gowns. Tarnation, Cal, you'd be lovely in your shift." His hands settled on her shoulders, a warm, almost-welcome weight. "But you ought to have at least one dress that's not faded and frayed."
A wave of sweet pleasure swept from her toes to her crown. "I'm plain," she said. "and I've got no polish."
Whatever that was. Her pa had more than once bemoaned her lack of polish, but he'd never told her what it was.
He turned her around to face him and raised her chin with one finger. "Neither do I. Can't say that it ever made any difference."
She quickly stepped back. Would she never get over her reaction to a man--any man--looming over her?
Probably not. Even if she never saw her pa again.
Merlin scowled. "Let's go for a walk."
"Outside? In this cold?"
As if he'd forgotten, he said. "No, course we can't. Look, I haven't had my supper. Can we go into the dining room--"
Squire's Quest Page 10
