“That’s what I mean. All right, I’ll see you later,” Maude said. “But remember, honey, if you want to talk—about Nate Bohannan or anything—I’ll always listen.”
“You’re a good friend to have, Maude Harkey. Thanks.” If only she could tell her everything, Ella thought as she walked west on Main Street to Flynn’s Butcher Shop. Not only about Zeke Carter’s nasty accusations but about her contradictory feelings for Nate Bohannan. But how could she, when she didn’t understand them herself?
Yesterday, at the café and the creek, she’d had such a good time with Nate. She’d felt her guard slipping, that protective instinct that kept her from being hurt. It had felt good, as if she was shedding a rigid shell that no longer fit her. But then old Zeke had said the ugly things he had said, and she felt once more dirty and shamed.
It had something to do with the asylum, she knew. Something had happened there to make her feel damaged, somehow. Something her conscious mind couldn’t grasp but that reached out clawing fingers for her in her dreams. Even then, she couldn’t turn and identify who, or what, the clawing fingers belonged to. Before she could turn and identify who it was, she always woke up, screaming.
The nightmares were why, when she’d come to live at the boardinghouse, she’d requested the bedroom at the east end of the hallway upstairs. There was a storeroom next to her, and between her room and Maude’s lay the three rooms Mrs. Meyer saved for travelers such as the drummers and the stagecoach driver. These were frequently empty, so no one was apt to hear her if she had one of her nightmares.
She knew Mrs. Meyer had been puzzled when a longtime boarder had left and she’d offered Ella the room next to Maude’s, thinking Ella would want to be situated next to her friend, but Ella had declined. But the proprietress had respected Ella’s wish to keep her isolated room, even if she wondered why.
No one but Ella knew how many times she checked to make sure her room was locked before she blew out her lamp at bedtime, and how she always kept the key under her pillow, where she could touch it during the night to reassure herself no one could break into her little sanctuary.
“Miss Ella, what kin I do for you today?” Mr. Flynn asked, opening the door of his shop, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. “Whoa, easy there, ma’am! Didn’t mean to startle you, but you’ve been standing outside my window fer five minutes at least, just starin’, but not like you were seein’ anything...”
Goodness, she’d have to be careful, or rumors that she was a little “tetched in the head” could be added to Zeke Carter’s nasty insinuations.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. Flynn, I’m afraid I was lost in thought,” she said, flustered that the butcher had seen her in such a state. “I—I was just wondering whether I ought to increase my order for this week. Business has been good lately.”
“An’ you’ve got that fellow who’s repairin’ George Detwiler’s tables an’ chairs to feed, too, I hear,” Flynn said in his chatty fashion.
Ella winced inwardly. Did everyone in town know all her business, or had the butcher already heard Zeke Carter’s gossip? But Flynn’s expression held no slyness, so maybe she was just worrying too much. Still, she kept her voice casual. “Yes, Mr. Bohannan is taking his meals in the café. But that’s only for a little while.”
* * *
Saturday evening, Nate left the lumber mill well satisfied with his day’s work. Once Detwiler had approved his first efforts on the table legs, Nate had decided to finish a complete set—a table and four chairs—at a time so that the saloonkeeper could remove a plank table for each set he completed. He’d finished the second group today and varnished both sets, leaving them to dry in Dayton’s shed, away from the sawdust particles that always hung in the air inside the mill. The shed wasn’t locked, so he could carry them back to the saloon Sunday afternoon when it was empty. At this rate he could be done with the saloon’s tables and chairs in a week, then start on the café’s furniture. There were only three table-and-chair sets to be done for Ella, but they’d each take longer since he planned to make them fancier than the plain ones in the saloon. He could be on his way to San Francisco again in a month, away from the woman whose image had begun to float through his mind like those persistent sawdust particles in the air of the mill workroom.
Once he left Simpson Creek, he’d never see Ella Justiss again. The thought wrenched his heart, but that was ridiculous. He’d known the girl for nine days. There was no reason that she should be anything more to him than a girl he’d passed a pleasant afternoon with, the one who’d cooked his meals. One of two people whose property Salali had damaged, for which Nate had atoned.
But he knew somehow the memory of her would haunt him the rest of his days if he didn’t at least try to do something to better the situation between them. Since last Sunday night, she had been civil to him when he showed up for meals but no more so than she would have been to any stranger passing through. If there were others in the restaurant, she always seemed to check if they were watching before she replied, even though their conversations held nothing beyond the mundane. If they were alone, she looked out the window to see if anyone was about to come in. Was she watching for Zeke Carter, afraid of another verbal attack?
Always leave a place better than you found it, his pa used to say. Simpson Creek didn’t need his help to make it a better place—it was already a pleasant little town populated by mostly well-meaning folks. He would certainly leave the saloon a better place than it was after Salali’s destruction. But Ella...he wanted to help Ella somehow.
With any luck, he would be her last supper customer of the evening, but even if he wasn’t, he planned to bide his time till they were alone in the café.
An elderly gentleman and his wife were just leaving, praising the food as they left—"Tasty, and so much more economical than the fare served at the hotel”—when he entered through the saloon.
“Good evening, Miss Ella.”
She looked up from wiping the table that had just been vacated. “Good evening, Mr. Bohannan. Did you have a productive day at the lumber mill?”
“I sure did. I should be able to finish Detwiler’s and work on your pieces in a week.”
“That will be good.”
He hated such stilted conversation, and her formality in calling him “Mr. Bohannan.” Not when there was so much he wanted to say to her—even if he hadn’t figured it all out yet.
She’d made beefsteak with smothered onions that evening, with boiled potatoes, and apple pie for dessert, and he tucked into the meal with enthusiasm.
From the sounds filtering through the door, the saloon was doing a land-office business. Now and then a shriek of laughter or a hoarse guffaw penetrated the tinkling piano music. Evidently using crude plank tables hadn’t dimmed Detwiler’s customers’ gusto for his establishment.
Nate took his time eating, watching out of the corner of his eye while Ella washed the dishes and dried them.
“That was a good meal, Miss Ella,” he told her when she was finished.
“Thank you, Mr. Bohannan.”
“I’ll walk you home, if you’re ready to lock up.”
“It’s not necessary, Mr. Bohannan.”
“Nevertheless, I’d feel better about it if I did.” The sound of a glass breaking and a shout from within the saloon reached them just then, and Nate nodded meaningfully toward it.
“Very well then,” Ella said, hanging up her apron.
He gestured for her to precede him through the door. She locked it behind them, and they walked in silence around to the front of the saloon, both pretending not to see the cowboy sprawled in the dirt by the horse trough.
After crossing Main Street, they entered the alley between the hotel and the mercantile, going single file of necessity, due to the narrowness of the passageway. When they emerged onto Travis Street, however, he stopped halfway b
etween the boardinghouse and the Bishops’ home and faced her in the gathering dusk.
“Miss Ella, has that old coot—that is, Mr. Carter—said anything further to you that he shouldn’t have, after that incident last Sunday?”
Her eyes widened and he could tell it surprised her that he was bringing up the subject again.
“No, he hasn’t. I haven’t seen him. That one time was quite enough, though.” She hunched her shoulders, as if remembering a blow.
“Has anyone else said anything, or treated you differently in the last few days, that would make you think he’s been spreading tales about you?”
She blinked up at him. “No. What are you getting at, Mr. Bohannan?”
“Perhaps he’s just an old bag of wind, a bully full of empty threats. It would be a shame to let him make you jump at shadows.”
“How— I’m not jumping at shadows.” She lifted her chin, but something in her expression, even in the failing light, told him she was aware of what he referred to.
“Aren’t you? It seems to me you’re letting the insinuations of a cranky old man rule your life. If Mr. Carter and that cook from the hotel had their druthers, you’d be reduced to what they want you to be, a joyless woman who just goes back and forth to her café every day and does nothing else for fear of their wagging tongues.”
Then he heard how he must sound to her, a Johnny-come-lately expert in her life, when he knew so little of what had gone before.
“I’m sorry. I had no right to say that. I just—”
“No, you’re right,” Ella said, surprising him. “And if Mrs. Powell had her way, I’d still be working in the hotel restaurant with her bullying me. I wouldn’t have my café. But you don’t understand—”
Now it was his turn to interrupt. “I’d like to be your friend, Ella Justiss. Are you going to let a couple of miserable meddlers prevent that, for fear of what they might say?”
“Once they’ve said it, it’s too late to wish they hadn’t.”
“But you have friends, don’t you? Maude and the preacher’s wife, and the ladies of that Spinsters’ Club I’ve heard about? Friends who know you’re an upright, good person all the time you’ve lived here, and who would stand up for you if those two started ugly rumors that anyone with a lick of sense would know wasn’t true?”
“I...I suppose. But why would you want to be my friend, Mr. Bohannan?”
Because I’m charmed by your dark eyes, by your pluck and determination, your simple beauty... “Because I like you,” he said.
His frankness seemed to take her aback, and he saw that old wariness wash over her again.
“But you’re going to be leaving as soon as you’re finished repairing all the furniture.”
“Then I don’t see what harm a friendship between us can do, Miss Ella,” he said. One glance at her suspicious eyes told her he would have to go further. “I’m going to tell you right out, I don’t have any nefarious plans for you, Miss Ella. I’d like to be your friend during the time I’m here, that’s all.”
Did those tense shoulders relax the least little bit?
“Why does it matter so much to you?” she asked, surprising him again. Her eyes never left his.
“I haven’t stayed anywhere long enough to have a friend lately,” he admitted. “It’s always good to have a friend, don’t you think? Someone you can confide in, be honest with? I think you need someone like that, too, Miss Ella.”
Perhaps he’d gone too far with that last sentence, he thought as he saw her guard go up again. “Why would I confide in you, a man, and not Maude or some other female here in Simpson Creek, Mr. Bo—”
“Nate,” he corrected gently. He noticed she didn’t correct his assertion that she needed to confide in someone.
“Nate,” she repeated. “Answer the question, please.”
“It has nothing to do with me being a man, but because I won’t be here long. Who better to confide in than someone who’ll travel on and can never betray what you’ve told them? Besides, I’ve heard confession is good for the soul.”
Ella stiffened. “I have nothing to confess, Mr. Bohannan,” she said, her voice icy as a blue norther blowing into town. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve been an upright citizen ever since I left the—” She broke off abruptly, clapping a hand over her mouth, her eyes stark with obvious dismay at what she’d almost said.
“I’m sorry, Miss Ella,” he said quickly, wondering what she’d been about to say. What place had she left that she couldn’t even speak of it? “I didn’t mean to imply you needed to confess a wrong you’d done. I just meant something’s eating at you, and maybe it would help you to talk about it, that’s all.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Have you been a preacher sometime, too, along with being a carpenter, a medicine-show assistant, a banjo player and who knows what all else?” Ella asked him, her tone sardonic. “You sound like one.”
He couldn’t help laughing at the notion. “A preacher? Me? No, I’m afraid not, Miss Ella.” He thought about the simple, bedrock goodness of a man like the young reverend he’d heard preach last Sunday, and knew how unworthy he was of ever being a preacher.
“Evenin’, Miss Ella,” a man said, startling both of them. It was Sheriff Bishop. How had the man gotten so close without either of them hearing him coming? “Mr. Bohannan,” he added, as Nate turned to face him. “I’m just out making my rounds. Everything all right, Miss Ella?”
“Evening, Sheriff,” they said in unison, and Ella added, “Yes, everything’s fine.”
“I was just escorting Miss Ella back to the boardinghouse,” Nate said, “now that the café is closed for the night. There’s a rowdy bunch at the saloon right now, and I didn’t want anyone bothering her.”
The sheriff studied him, his eyes betraying nothing. Just then, the sound of hooting and hollering reached their ears, coming from the direction of the saloon, followed by the sound of galloping hooves.
Nate tossed a see-what-I-mean look at the sheriff, and Bishop nodded. “Reckon I ought to mosey over to the saloon and make sure Detwiler’s keeping his customers corralled.” He turned and strode purposefully in that direction.
They watched him go, then turned toward the boardinghouse. He guessed Ella was glad their conversation had been interrupted, considering the topic.
Chapter Eleven
The preacher’s wife laid a detaining hand on Ella’s arm after the Sunday service was over. “Ella dear, I know you have to get to the café, but would it be all right if I paid you a call this afternoon? I have to fix my husband and his father their dinner, so it’ll be after the noontime rush, of course. I have something to discuss with you.”
What could Faith want to talk to her about? Had she heard gossip from Zeke Carter or Mrs. Powell? Had one of those two busybodies seen Bohannan walking her home the night before? Even though Faith and her husband had welcomed Bohannan to church, was Faith going to advise her not to associate with the man?
Something of Ella’s apprehension must have showed on her face, for Faith said quickly, “Don’t be alarmed, Ella. It’s good news, I promise.”
Ella tried to relax her features. “I’m always in the mood to hear that. I’ll see you later.” She left the churchyard and headed for the café, still wondering what was on Faith’s mind.
Bohannan—Nate, she corrected herself—had come into the sanctuary with the Detwilers after she and Maude were already seated in their usual place. He’d given her a nod and a smile, then he and the Detwilers had settled in a pew a couple of rows down.
Ella had seen Maude eye her with surprise. “Why isn’t he sitting with us? You said you didn’t have a fight,” she’d whispered.
“No, we didn’t,” Ella had whispered back, giving her friend a quelling look. “I’ll explain more later.” She’d guessed Nate was being careful s
ince Mr. Carter and Mrs. Powell were present, but she hadn’t been able to stifle a twinge of resentment that the two busybodies made such discretion necessary. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to Nate’s company during the service.
Now, with church over, she resolved to put that subject from her mind, as well as her coming talk with the preacher’s wife. She would concentrate on her cooking and her customers, and that was all.
But she couldn’t stop the thoughts. Would she get any time to talk to Nate today? Would he come and help her with the customers, as he had last week? Since accepting his friendship had been a tacit agreement that she needed a friend to confide in, she found herself wanting to spend time with him. Only as a friend, of course.
Nate did come, and took the money while she served the customers as before, taking bites of his own dinner at intervals when he was not busy. He stayed behind to help her wash and dry the dishes, too. They were just finishing up when the bell over the door tinkled, announcing the arrival of Faith.
She’d told him the preacher’s wife would be coming and that she didn’t know what it was that Faith wanted to talk about, but he evidenced no curiosity about it.
“Reckon I’ll see you at suppertime, Miss Ella,” he said, hanging up the damp dish towel he’d used. He exited through the same door Faith had come in, and she saw him pass by the window. She couldn’t help wondering where he was going. Out for a walk? Well, it was nothing to her, she reminded herself, and turned back to Faith.
“How nice that he was helping you, Ella. My, Mr. Bohannan seems to be settling right into life in town,” Faith Chadwick remarked after the door closed behind him.
Ella shrugged, determined not to let on how much his helping her had pleased her. “Yes...well, he doesn’t have anything else to do, I suppose. The lumber mill isn’t open today, of course, so he can’t work on his furniture repairs today.”
“Oh, he didn’t tell you he’s going to start playing the piano for church?” Faith said. “Sarah’s husband wants her to get some rest because of the baby that’s coming, so Mr. Bohannan has kindly agreed to step in, as long as he’s in town. I told him he was welcome to come in and practice this afternoon, and whenever he was free in the evenings. I suppose that’s where he’s headed now.”
A Hero in the Making (Brides of Simpson Creek Book 7) Page 10
