“Oh, yes, it was,” Molly readily agreed. “And they were very good to me. I liked what I was doing, and I liked the family, and their three children. But—well, I was ready for a change, ready to move on…and up. I wanted more than that.”
“Of course you did, dear,” Frances sympathized. As an ambitious woman herself, she appreciated and applauded ambition in others.
With delicate gestures, the girl dusted her fingers with a napkin, set aside the empty coffee cup, and arranged herself more comfortably on the wooden chair’s calico cushion. “After I left the orphanage, I’d kept in touch with Miss Hayden. She left me know about this advertisement looking for a traveling companion to California.”
“And you were interested.” Sarah smiled.
“Interested? Seeing so much of the world, embarking on a journey to the other side of the continent? Why, Mrs. Goddard, I positively jumped at the chance!” Remembering her rush of activity to answer the ad, pack her meager belongings, and travel south for a meeting with her prospective new employer, Molly’s green eyes crinkled with mischief.
“And you get along well enough with Miss Palmer?”
“I think my—um—circumstances have helped me adapt to—um—unusual situations,” said Molly carefully but with meaning. “Oh, my goodness, is that clock chiming nine?”
Its soft quarter-hour chimes overlooked for the past hour, while the casual, enjoyable conversation went on, the kitchen clock was indeed chiming nine. Hastily Molly pushed away from the table.
“Oh, horrors, Mr. Yancey is due here any minute, and Miss Palmer hasn’t stirred an inch! Please forgive me, ladies; I’ll rush up and get things going again, and then I’ll come back to help with the dishes.”
The pelting of her footsteps through the hall and beyond coincided with a firm knock at the front door. Then another, more firmly, with a touch of impatience. Right as expected. Right on time.
“Well, good morning, Jim,” Sarah greeted their visitor. “Come in. Won’t you have some coffee with us?”
“Oh. Hello, Sadie. I was expectin’—uh, yeah, I guess I got a few minutes to spare for coffee.” Hat in hand, handsome dark head bared, James followed along back to the kitchen, trailing his hostess. Who had just murmured something about needing to spare more than a mere few minutes.
He had just taken a seat, ready to ask what was meant by that comment, when Molly made an appearance. A somewhat flustered, somewhat disheveled Molly, with her copper-colored hair loosened from its knot and her white sleeves turned back above the elbow.
“Mr.Yancey. Uh. Nice to see you again.”
“You’re lookin’ a mite surprised,” said James dryly, “for someone well aware yesterday that I’d be here at 9:00 a.m. t’day. Ah, thanks, Frannie,” he diverged, accepting the mug of coffee being handed over.
“Well, gracious me, the hours just flew,” babbled Molly. She had moved over to the sink to begin washing dishes piled in hot suds. “I do declare the time slipped away, leavin’ me totally unprepared.”
Delay, delay; and a possible angry reaction to inconsiderate delay that must be deflected.
At the simpering inflection she had unconsciously assumed, James’ mouth turned down at the corners with disapproval. “So you’re from Charleston, now? Or are you mockin’ those of us who are?”
Well, strip me free of stars and garters! That sort of thing seems to work quite well for Emma Palmer, the sovereign of Southern debs. Why not for me?
Frances, still seated at the table while interesting new developments swirled around her, glanced across the kitchen, where plates were industriously rattling and glasses clinking. “Still abed?”
Molly flung a quick wary glance over her shoulder. “I’m afraid so.”
“Still abed? You mean Emma? You mean she’s not even gotten up yet?”
“Oh, James, don’t put yourself into a lather,” soothed Sarah, undisturbed. “Remember, she just arrived yesterday afternoon, and she’s probably exhausted, what with the trip and all, and then meeting you again. Let her find her land legs again after that long sea voyage.”
Sipping thoughtfully from his coffee mug, the Southerner considered for several heartbeats while the women waited for a comment. “Maybe this was a mistake,” he finally said as softly as if conferring with himself. “Maybe I shouldn’tna asked her to come all this way. She’s had a soft life, even with the war on…she ain’t used to dealin’ with—with—”
“Reality,” suggested Molly. Finished with the breakfast clutter, she had turned, leaning against the sink, to dry her hands on the dishtowel. “If I might offer an opinion, Mr. Yancey…”
The flap of one open palm indicated permission.
“From what I’ve seen, Miss Palmer is expecting the same sort of life here that she had in her aunt’s home. Comfort, and long leisurely baths, and lovely impractical dresses, and afternoon visits with friends, calling cards and all. She’ll need some time to adjust. And understanding.”
James gazed at her with those devastating dark eyes. “There ain’t that much time, Miss Buchanan. I got me a ranch to run—and her, too, soon’s we’re married.”
“She’s a gently born girl,” Frances reminded him tactfully. “Surely you were used to those, in the South.”
“Yes, ma’am, I was. Before the War. Afterward, seemed like what we all needed t’ get through the worst nightmare any of us had ever known was strength. And anybody without it is gonna get left behind.”
With a brisk nod, Molly put aside her towel. “Right, then. I’ll go set things in motion, Mr. Yancey. But it may take a while.”
“Huh.” James scooted back his chair and rose to his full height, seeming quite large and masculine in the small alcove overpopulated by women. “Fine. I’ll go see what Matthew is doin’ this mornin’. I’ll swing back this way about—?” he paused, questioning.
Molly glanced at the clock, preferring not to dash his hopes. “Um. Eleven?”
“Hell.” Obviously feeling much put upon, he plucked up his hat from the table top. “Eleven it is. Eleven sharp, Miss Buchanan.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The time of their departure for the Condor Ranch ended up being closer to one o’clock.
James had spent nearly two hours palavering down at the sheriff’s office with his brother and William. They had hashed over some of the ongoing problems caused by a criminal element trying to take control of the wharves; they had discussed what they knew of Reconstruction in the South, and attempts to try bringing the two halves of a shattered nation back together; they had talked about Matt and Star’s hopeful plans for fall, in the new house they had had built over on Meridian Street, and, surprisingly, the Goddards’ similar expectations in the new year.
“Why, Will, you ole hawse thief,” exulted Matthew, slapping his friend on the shoulder with more enthusiasm than accuracy. “Been doin’ a few manly things yourself, lately, havencha? And keepin’ that news all buttoned up, besides!”
“Oh, you just shut your mouth, Matt Yancey,” William rumbled, as the color crept up into his cheekbones. He had tilted his chair back against the wall of the office’s front porch, only to crash solidly onto the floor again with the revelation he had not expected to make. “If Sadie finds out I’ve told you, she’ll have my hide stretched up ’crost the parlor wall. I wasn’t s’posed to say anything yet.”
“We’ll stay mum as the Sphinx,” was James’ lavish promise. “Congratulations, Will. That’s great t’ hear.”
By the time James returned to the Goddard household, with the livery’s most luxurious carriage and team, he was left cooling his heels for another impatient, frustrating hour. Because his betrothed, finally out of her bed and fresh from her bath and into her clothes, had decided still more preparation was needed before another meeting with the rather formidable (she was discovering) man downstairs.
“Did she not understand anything I told her?” he asked the Goddard ladies for the fifth time. Having consumed far too much
coffee during these wasted hours, he was pacing from the parlor to the kitchen to the back porch and yard and inside again. All with an eye toward the unsympathetic wall-mounted clock, with its charming cherubs and fat pink cabbage roses, that was ticking away the minutes.
After one pass, Sarah, busily peeling potatoes at the sink, turned to pat their guest on the shoulder. “She’s nervous, Jim. Be patient. She’s just nervous, and dilly-dallying.”
By the time Miss Emma came tripping down the stairs in her favorite lime-green embroidered gown, it was time for lunch. Might as well eat first, was the general consensus, before setting out on the road.
Almost visibly gritting his teeth, James conceded the point and joined the family at the table.
“Dear Jim, I’m so sorry for takin’ such a long time t’ get ready,” said Emma, laying a hand lightly on his forearm. “There was just a lot…and I will admit to feelin’ a mite overwhelmed. It’ll be better t’morrah, I promise you.”
Luckily his good Southern manners took precedence over his shortened male temper. Stroking the soft-skinned hand in return, and trying to remember just how much he had once admired these feminine refinements—instead of being irritated by them—he assured her that, of course, things would be fine. Then made the mammoth mistake of asking if that outfit was really what she intended to wear to the ranch.
Emma’s pansy-blue eyes widened with distress, then filled with tears. “Why, James, I put this on especially for you. It’s made of lawn, so sweet and pretty, and I thought you’d appreciate all my efforts. Isn’t that all right?”
Across the table, Molly, in her eminently sensible garb of simple shirtwaist and skirt, as befitted the maid, offered a reassuring murmur to the effect that Miss Palmer looked lovely as a spring day in that dress, sure enough.
“Oh, that’s so kind of you.” Emma bridled just a little, with pardonable pride for her svelte little figure. “And you are comin’ along with us, aren’t you, Molly?” She turned sideways to plead, “Do say she’s comin’ along, James. I couldn’t bear not havin’ Molly with me, when she’s been such a wonderful companion all this way.”
Thus far neither Sarah nor Frances had contributed to the conversation, being busy with cooking and serving the noon meal. Fried potatoes, cooked greens, plenty of sourdough bread, and peach cobbler for dessert—heavy, hearty, and time-consuming both in preparation beforehand and cleanup afterward.
But at this, Frances felt she must put in her two cents’ worth. “Why, absolutely Molly will be accompanying you. Until you and Jim are properly wed, it’s only right that someone serves as your chaperone.”
That opinion sparked another episode of teeth-gritting. Then, deciding he’d just have to make the best of a bad situation, James swallowed and said, resignedly, “I agree. Miss Buchanan will ride out with us, and she’ll stay as long as she likes. Until we come back t’ town, anyway.”
To the satisfaction of almost everyone involved, it was arranged that the luggage containing immediate necessities could be stowed into the rear of James’ rented carriage. Tomorrow, the two Goddard women would have William pack what was left of the weightier, heftier items into a buckboard, and they would then travel south to the Condor for a brief visit and help Emma settle in at her new home.
As he was squaring away his charges and their belongings, in anticipation of the hour-long jaunt, James apologized to Frances for all the confusion that she was having to deal with.
“Oh, think nothing of it,” she brushed aside the offering of remorse. “I’m looking forward to seeing this ranch I’ve heard so much about, and I’m sure Sadie is, too. Maybe we’ll even bring Star along.”
“And the dressmaker?” Emma reminded her from the surrey’s front seat. “Please see if you would be able to engage a dressmaker, Frances, and have her bring fabric samples. I simply must have plans for my weddin’ dress in order before we do anything else. And things have been so rushed that I haven’t gotten out to see anyone my own self.”
Once again, James felt that unbecoming stab of impatience. “You’ll be able to do all that in a few days, Emma,” he told her shortly. “It ain’t like you’re spendin’ a lifetime at the Condor, right off the bat. I just want you t’ see the place, feel comfortable, see how you want things laid out.”
Again the quick, easy tears, at what she considered rank criticism, and Emma shrank back into the corner. “To be sure,” she murmured. “Whatever you say, James.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The afternoon began as a grand and glorious trek into golden dust-moted wilderness.
“Wilderness,” as defined by the young lady from Charleston, anyway, once past the environs of San Francisco, upon which she cast a longing backward eye.
“Quite civilized, after all,” murmured Molly, from her seat behind the couple. She was enjoying the view, enjoying the sunlit air untainted by city smells, enjoying even the occasional bump or sway as their surrey rolled over a rut in the road. “About how many hours’ drive will it be, Mr. Yancey?”
He pushed his hat back to reveal curly black hair and glanced over one shoulder at this unexpected appendage to his life. Only unexpected, so far; how much of an irritant, besides, was yet to be seen.
“Yesterday we all were usin’ first names, right and left, and gettin’ along like a house afire,” he reminded her. “Think we could dispense with the formality from here on?”
“Certainly, James,” replied Molly crisply. “I’ll be very happy to dispense with formality.”
“Oh, but, that just ain’t the most proper way of—” began Emma, for whom old habits die hard. James turned his deliberately neutral gaze upon her, and any thought of protest died down. “Why, o’ course, James, dear, that’ll suit me right down t’ the kneecaps,” she assented virtuously.
James was left feeling just as virtuous. Finally, in this skirmish between the sexes, mild though it was, he had for once emerged the victor. “Now,” he resumed, “as t’ how far…it’s about ten miles, give or take. So maybe an hour till we reach the place.”
“Peachy,” came a murmur from the rear. With, possibly, just a touch of tongue-in-cheek. James chose to ignore it. To his chagrin, he was finding that apparently New York girls—at least, this one in particular—offered little respect toward a mighty male. Even a male so deserving as he.
For a brief period, beautiful silence reigned, other than the soft clop-clop of the team’s hooves thudding rhythmically along the dry dirt road, and the occasional lift of wings from the encompassing forest of oak and ash. Beautiful silence, just as James remembered. Peaceful. Harmonious. He was being lulled into an almost Zen-like spirit of meditation. Until…
“Molly, you did bring my parasol, didn’t you? I’m afraid the sun will be so bright it’ll simply ruin my complexion. And I shall perish without my parasol.”
“It’s right here, in your red carpetbag, Emma. Would you like to have it now?”
“Nooooo…just so I know it’s available, whenever I might have need of it.”
Silence again. Clop-clop, thud-thud. Distant birdsong, and the splashing of some large body through a nearby creek.
“And my favorite bath salts, you did remember to pack them? I should be positively lost without that scent of lavender. Gets my heart a’-goin’ every day.”
Another patient response. “Indeed, yes, you’ll have everything you need. I promise.”
James heaved a sigh that, fortunately, was as silent as his surroundings. Except Emma did fling him a suspicious look.
Quiet once again, for a delightful ten minutes or so, other than the sound of muted humming from the back seat, which James assumed was meant to convey satisfaction. Then:
“Do you suppose it would be possible—”
“—t’ get along without so much damn talkin’?” demanded James, scrunching up against the side rail like an embattled owl.
Emma was amazed by what seemed unwarranted criticism. “Why, Jim, dear, I’m sorry if it bothers you so mu
ch. But I wasn’t talkin’ t’ you!”
The fact that she was right did nothing to ease his conscience on unnecessary rudeness. Nor did the sound of helpless giggling that wafted forward from the third member of their group, who might end up becoming a fly in the ointment. How could he and his bride-to-be ever come to terms with the new time they were beginning together, if some outsider were always a part of their duo?
“Ahem.” Quite deliberately Molly cleared her throat, and the air, before speaking again. “Then tell me, Jim, what exactly will you be doing on this ranch of yours?”
A little surprised by her question—was she really interested, or was she just making conversation where none needed to be made?—James took his time in answering. Then he explained about running cattle, about shipping to market, about the seasons of the year tying in with the growth of the herd.
“It’s a self-sufficient place. Lotsa fruit trees, and a big garden with plentya home-grown vegetables, t’ be eaten fresh or canned. A flock of chickens, for our own eggs. And a few hogs, for our own bacon and ham. We’ll keep most of the produce there, but we can sell some in town, too.”
As his enthusiasm for life on the ranch increased with every word, so did Emma’s face grow more pale and pinched, her eyes more apprehensive. Eventually he ran down. And then waited, uneasily, for reaction. For the first in a long time, he, James Yancey, had let down the barriers behind which he kept hidden his real identity, had allowed himself to be open and vulnerable.
It wasn’t a feeling he liked.
Emma tipped her charming little nose upward with a ladylike puff of disdain. “With all this folderol about what can be done,” she said coolly, “I’m assumin’ you also got you all the labor t’ be doin’ it?”
He had hoped for more, even from this childlike Southern belle. The surrey jounced, and one of the team mares sidestepped slightly as a cluster of leaves suddenly skittered across the road.
“I love it,” came softly from the rear.
Lightly flicking the reins, James perked up just a little. “What was that?”
A Western Romance: James Yancey - Taking the High Road (Book 3) (Taking the High Road series) Page 4
