Chapter Nine
To say she was surprised would be an understatement. Marie wasn’t exactly sure what she’d expected from the town of Merryville, but it wasn’t to see people living in tents. Big ones, small ones and in-between ones. There were buildings, too, and real houses, but only a few compared to the tents. What she saw had pinpricks of chagrin jabbing her. As small as Mick Wagner’s cabin had been, it was certainly more of a home than canvas walls and dirt floors. And Stafford’s house, which might be considered small compared to some of the homes she’d worked in, was nothing short of a mansion next to the dwellings in Merryville.
She needed to count her blessings. Something she’d been amiss in doing lately. She and the children certainly could have fared far worse than they had. Very well still could, if her plan didn’t work.
“There’s Striker’s place,” Shorty said, pointing out the largest building in town. Unpainted, other than the word Hotel across the front, the wood still held its natural shine. “I’ll drive round back.”
“Round back?” Marie asked. The man knew their mission. He’d even read the newspaper advertisement now clenched in her hands.
“Yep.” Shorty steered the wagon down a side street. “You can’t very well walk in the front door and ask Chris Striker if you can hire away one of his employees.”
“I suspect you’re right about that.” There were many things she hadn’t considered when the idea had popped into her head, but Shorty had been the right person to hash it over with. He was not only in agreement, but rather giddy about the idea of hiring a cook. Feeding the cowboys would still be his responsibility, he’d said, but having someone around who could bake bread and maybe a pie or two would suit him just fine. Stafford, too, he’d insisted.
Marie hadn’t wanted to quell his hopes by saying the cook’s main objective would be to teach her, neither did she want to think about how Stafford might react, so she’d remained quiet, as she was right now, staring at the back of the hotel. An older woman sat on an overturned bucket, doing something with what looked like a chicken. A dead one.
“The kids and I will wait here,” Shorty said.
Marie nodded, and although thankful she’d mastered climbing in and out of the wagon Shorty had explained Stafford had bought, not rented as she’d assumed, back in Huron, her nerves were jumping beneath her skin. She’d never hired anyone.
Chin up, hoping it helped, she began walking across the well-packed dirt.
The woman didn’t look up from her task, yet spoke before Marie arrived. “Mr. Striker’s inside the hotel. That’s where you’ll want to go.”
Marie continued forward, even though the smell of wet feathers was rather pungent.
The woman, middle-aged by the look of her brown hair, looked up then. “If you want a job, you have to talk to Mr. Striker. I can’t hire anyone.” Her tired-looking eyes went from Marie’s head to her toes and back again. “You might want to rethink applying. Mr. Striker isn’t easy to work for.”
Turning back to her task, the woman plucked feathers out of the wet carcass and threw them into a second bucket by her feet. Two other chickens, dead, of course, were floating in another bucket of steaming water.
“Do you work here?” Marie asked. As soon as the words were out, she wished she could pull them back in. Of course the woman worked here. Why else would she be doing what she was doing?
“Unfortunately, darling, I do. Told Striker a month ago I can’t do it all myself,” the woman answered. “But you might want to reconsider that ad you have tucked under your arm. It’s not easy work.”
Marie pulled out the paper. “I’m not here to apply for the job.”
The woman glanced over her shoulder, to the wagon, where Shorty gave a slight nod. “What are you doing then?”
“I’m looking to hire someone. A cook.” She opened the paper. “It says here you are paid twenty-five cents a day plus room and board.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Would you consider working elsewhere for that price?”
The woman set down the chicken and wiped her hands on a very bloody apron. “I might. Where you got in mind?”
“We,” Marie gestured toward the children, “live on a ranch a few miles from here.”
A frown so deep her eyes almost disappeared, the woman asked, “That your husband?”
“Oh, no,” Marie said quickly. “I’m not married.”
“Are those your children?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” Marie shook her head. “I’m sorry. They are my charges. I was their nanny in Chicago, before their parents died.” Now wasn’t the time to explain everything. Stepping forward, she held out a hand. “I’m Marie Hall.”
“Gertrude Baker,” the woman replied with a quick handshake. Her eyes were on the wagon again. “So they’re orphans?”
“That’s not a word I’m particularly fond of,” Marie replied, stiffening her shoulders at a familiar sting. “We have recently arrived, and I’m in need of someone to cook for us and teach me how to cook.”
“You don’t know how?”
“No, there has never been a need before.”
Gertrude Baker shifted her gaze to the hotel, and then to the chickens and then back to Marie. “When would I need to start?”
As wonderful as that question made her insides feel, Marie shook her head. “I need to conduct an interview first, make sure you have all the qualifications I seek.”
The woman sat back down and picked up the chicken. “Ask away, then, but I gotta keep working while you do.”
Questions were what she needed. Marie tried to remember some of the ones asked of her by potential employers, but none that formed fit the situation. If Stafford was here, he’d know what to ask. She held her breath for a moment, attempting to dispel how deeply she’d come to depend on him. Questions couldn’t be that difficult, considering there were things she wanted to know. “How long have you lived in Merryville?”
“No one’s lived here long. The town just took off ’bout two years ago, when the railroad was being built. That’s when we arrived, George, my husband and I. He worked for the railroad.” The woman set the chicken down again. “We used to live in Illinois, too. Had a little place near Springfield.” Her eyes grew sad. “George had big plans on moving west. To Wyoming. He’d signed on to work for the railroad that far, thought by then we’d have all the money we’d need for a new start.”
The sadness surrounding the other woman had Marie’s heart aching. “What happened?”
“George died.” Gertrude wiped her face with the back of one hand. “Went to work one morning but didn’t come home that night. An accident unloading railroad ties.”
Unsure what else to say, Marie whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Gertrude smiled slightly, sadly. “Thanks.” Shaking her head, she said, “I cooked for the railroad for a time, but once they moved on...” She shrugged.
“Why didn’t you move on, too?” Marie asked.
“Have you ever followed the rails?”
“No.”
“It’s not good. Worse for a woman alone.” Gertrude picked up the chicken again. “I worked for the Hoffmans up until they closed their boarding house to follow the line.” With a glance over her shoulder, she added, “Had to go to work for Striker a couple months ago. He’s gone through more cooks than an Indian has arrows.”
Indians were not a subject Marie was prepared to discuss. She’d yet to see one, but had heard enough to hope she didn’t. “Do you know how to bake bread? Make pies and cookies?”
“You name it, and I can cook it,” Gertrude answered. “Food that not only sticks to your belly, but tastes good while going down. If you need to learn how to cook, you wouldn’t find a better teacher than me. My George would have told you that.”
The interviews she�
��d had in the past were much longer than this, but Gertrude Baker was exactly what she’d hoped to find. “I can pay you the same amount you’re earning here.” Marie’s lack of funds had her adding, “For a two-week trial period.”
“Trial period?”
“I’ll need to make sure you’re the right fit.” Her funds could stretch into a month, but she couldn’t say that right now. Promising more than two weeks wouldn’t be fair to Mrs. Baker. Asking the woman to leave her current employment wasn’t really fair, either, but what the children needed came first.
Gertrude glanced behind her and then stood. “Striker’s not going to like it, but I’ve had enough of that man.” Extending a hand, she said, “It’s a deal, Miss Hall.”
Excitement flared. “Wonderful,” Marie said. “Will you be able to leave now?”
“I’ll go inside, tell Striker I quit, and then I’ll have to gather my belongings. How about I meet you on the road out front in an hour?”
“Excellent,” Marie said. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you.” Gertrude left the chickens where they were, and turned, walking toward the back door of the hotel. “I’m in need of a change, and there’s nothing better than cooking for a passel of kids.”
Marie spun around and scurried across the yard. Seeing Shorty’s hopeful expression, she answered his silent question, “She said yes.”
He let out a whoop, so did the children, and Marie all but skipped her way around the wagon.
“Mrs. Baker, that’s her name,” Marie said while climbing in the wagon. “Gertrude Baker. She’ll be ready to leave in an hour.”
“That’ll give us time to pick up some things at the dry-goods store,” Shorty said. “Stafford placed an order yesterday. I wanna check to make sure he got everything. I’ll order up some supplies for your new cook, too.”
She hadn’t thought of supplies, but couldn’t believe Stafford would be upset about that. “All right,” Marie answered, and then turned to encourage the children to be on their best behavior again.
Minutes later, she couldn’t say if the children were being extraordinarily good, or if they were scared out of their britches by the store owner. The woman stood as tall as any man and was rather frightening looking. More so with the dark mole right in the center of her chin that had three hairs sticking out of it. Her eyes, dark and narrow slits, didn’t allow a person to know exactly where she was looking, but she was certainly glaring at them, Marie and the children.
Shorty seemed to know the husband well. A short man, without a single strand of hair, named Henry Smith. Mr. Smith had introduced his wife as Verna, but she’d emphasized her name was Mrs. Smith. Marie had nodded appropriately, but chose to hang close to the door along with the children. She had no money to make purchases, and even if she did, she’d have preferred not to spend it here.
The store was neat and clean, although tiny and cramped, but it was the atmosphere, controlled by the woman behind the counter, that didn’t sit well.
Shorty and Mr. Smith were discussing a grinder of some kind, when Mrs. Smith walked around the end of the counter. Everything inside Marie began to jitter. Dressed in black other than a snow-white apron, Verna Smith approached with a definite purpose.
“So these,” she asked with a raspy voice that sent a shiver clear to Marie’s toes, “are the Meeker children?”
A chill settled deep in Marie’s spine. She’d made no introductions as far as the children were concerned, and neither had Shorty. People would soon know, and there was no reason to hide it, yet Marie was very uncomfortable. “Yes.”
“And you are their nursemaid?”
“Yes,” Marie said again, ignoring the weight the woman used on the word nursemaid, as if it was a rather appalling thing to be. “I am.”
The children were easing their way toward the open doorway, and Marie had a desire to follow them but knew there was no escaping. The determination in Mrs. Smith’s glare, along with her evil-sounding whispers, said she’d give chase. Marie’s thoughts dashed to Stafford again, wishing he was here.
“They’re Mick Wagner’s relatives, are they?”
It wasn’t the snarl in the woman’s words, but the fact Marie hadn’t told anyone that, other than Mr. Wagner, in the letter she’d written him, that worried Marie. Though she didn’t want to answer, for it was truly none of Mrs. Smith’s business, she didn’t want to increase the woman’s wrath.
“Yes, they are,” she answered.
“He’s in Texas. Won’t be home until next spring.”
“I’m aware of that,” Marie said, keeping her chin up. She also cast a glance toward Shorty, wishing he’d hurry up or notice Mrs. Smith had practically cornered her near the door.
“I’m aware of a few other things, too,” the woman said.
“I’m sure you are, Verna.”
Marie spun. Relief and confusion hit at the same time when she saw Gertrude Baker in the doorway.
“And, I’d say most of it is none of your business,” Gertrude continued as she took a hold of Marie’s hand. “Come. Let’s wait in the wagon.”
More than happy to comply, Marie scooted out the door.
“Why would you need to wait in their wagon?” Verna Smith asked, clearly addressing Gertrude.
Walking beside Marie, Gertrude whispered, “Something she doesn’t know. I love this job already.” She then glanced over her shoulder to say aloud, “I work for them.”
“You work for Stafford Burleson?” Mrs. Smith asked.
The shock in the shop owner’s voice was apparent, but it was Gertrude Baker’s wheezing that caused Marie’s stomach to hit the ground.
“You’ve just hired me to work at Stafford Burleson’s ranch?” Gertrude hissed.
Marie swallowed the lump in her throat before nodding. Gertrude looked as if she was going to quit before she’d ever started.
* * *
After placing his lumber order, which would be ready by the end of the month, Stafford returned to town, said goodbye to Ralph and, with a churning stomach, headed down Main Street. The house he was imagining for Mick would have plenty of room for the kids, and that wasn’t setting as well as it should. There wasn’t anything saying he had to start on Mick’s house right away, other than his conscience.
Mick wouldn’t build a house for him, but that was only because Mick wasn’t a carpenter. He’d do anything else, though, that was for sure. Just as Stafford would for him. Friendships were like that. The one he and Mick had, anyway. A man was lucky to have a friend like that.
The other thing a man always knows is when someone’s talking about him, and Stafford turned in the direction the warning sensation was coming from. Verna Smith and Chris Striker were on the walkway in front of the Striker Hotel. The two of them were rather well suited, like two weasel-faced badgers.
Stafford tipped the brim of his hat with his finger and thumb as he rode past. Their glares grew more menacing. Why, he had no idea, but neither the man nor the woman were worth spending a moment of time worrying over. They were both obsessed with themselves.
Obsession, now that he might ponder. Not with himself, but a certain nursemaid. She’d been on his mind all day. All week. Actually, ever since Walt Darter’s visit, Marie had been on Stafford’s mind, and it was taking its toll.
She was memorable. And when her dander was up, spitting out I will not or I cannot, well, there wasn’t a woman more adorable. She was cute when she was sad, too, like last night when she was out scanning the darkness, looking for Polly, and his mind still flashed the picture of her lily-white backside every so often.
Actually, more often than not. Getting Mick’s house built, and her and the kids moved into it as soon as possible was the best plan.
It was then—when he was halfway home and started thinking about Mick’s house again, Stafford r
ealized he’d forgotten to stop by the telegraph office.
Going back now would be a waste. He’d already been gone most of the day. Rex would send a message out to the ranch when it arrived. More than likely it would say Mick was on his way.
It’s what he wanted, so why was he dreading that message?
Stafford shifted in the saddle and urged Stamper into a faster pace. It was natural for him to think so much about Marie and the children. As Mick’s friend it was his duty to take care of them until his partner returned home.
It really didn’t matter how cute she was, or how stubborn, he’d keep them safe and fed, until Mick arrived. Maybe then he’d head down to Texas. Or even Mississippi, say hi to the family. Tell them about all the things he had going on around here. The life he’d built for himself. Better yet, maybe he’d invite them all up here. See everything first hand.
Stafford was still tossing future plans around when he rode into the homestead. The big house, the one in which he’d driven every nail, sawed every board, looked the same, yet the sight of it made his heart tick a bit faster than it ever had before. It wasn’t pride, either, that of accomplishment or, in a sense, revenge. It was true, what Mick had said. He’d built this house, with its big white column porch pillars and windowed top floor for Francine—to prove she was wrong. He said he would amount to something, and he had.
In all the times he’d gazed upon his handiwork, it had never given him a sense of homecoming the way it was right now. The two little girls hosting a tea party on the porch had him smiling. That, and how they had Charlie and Weston sitting in the extra seats, most likely against the twins’ wills. His grin increased as the older boys came running out of the barn, waving and shouting his name.
It had been years since anyone had welcomed him like that. Maybe it had never happened before.
The Wrong Cowboy Page 13
