by Dorothy Love
She looked up at him from beneath her parasol. “I didn’t realize you’d ever been to Boston.”
His expression went hard. “I was there once. Before the war.”
Ada was overcome with curiosity. What had brought him to Boston in the dead of winter? Not a pleasure trip, surely. What did he think of her hometown? Had he ridden past the pretty brick houses on Acorn Street? Braved the cold to walk in the park beside the river? But one look at his stony expression told her that Boston was the last thing he wanted to talk about.
They rounded a bend. Far ahead of them, a wagon laden with lumber headed toward town. Maybe it was better to find a safer topic of conversation. “How did you come to be in the lumber business?” she asked. “I can’t think of what it has in common with ranching.”
“A friend of the family owned a little mill in east Texas. Harvesting pine mostly. One summer I had a falling out with my daddy and left ranching for a good long while. Mr. Trask put me to work—taught me everything I know. After the war, I figured the demand for lumber would go sky high.” He shrugged. “Can’t raise longhorns around here, but there’s plenty of good timber. Starting a lumber business just seemed like the logical thing to do.”
“What about your father? Did you patch up your differences?”
“We did. He’s a good man.” Wyatt smiled. “He’s got some big plans for when I get back home.”
Ada felt a rush of envy that sat like a stone in her stomach. If only she had reconciled with her father. If only she had a home to go back to and someone waiting for her there.
Wyatt rested his hand on his knee, the reins loose in his fingers. “Sage tells me that Mariah can hardly talk about anything but her new hat.”
“After going without everything for so long, I suppose anything new is appreciated.” She fanned her face. “It’s hard to imagine the hardships women here have survived. I feel so sorry for Carrie Daly.”
He nodded soberly. “Carrie’s been through a lot. But if she wasn’t so busy looking after her brother Henry, she might find love again. I know for a fact there’s one or two good men in town who would love to court Carrie.”
When they reached the mill, Wyatt sent Robbie Whiting to find the wheelwright Josiah Dawson. “Tell him Libby is out at Aunt Lillian’s until we get back from town this afternoon.”
“Sure thing, Lieutenant!” Robbie sprinted down the road, his bare feet sending up little puffs of dust.
Wyatt flicked the reins, and the horse broke into an easy trot.
Ada smiled. “He called you ‘lieutenant.’ Was that your rank in the brigade?”
“It was. But don’t be too impressed. General Hood always said that the most dangerous thing in the army is a lieutenant with a map.”
Ada laughed and gave herself over to the beauty of summer in the valley. Though the morning was hot, a breeze drifted across the meadow, bringing with it the scents of grass and wild honeysuckle. In the distance, dense forests gave way to blue-green mountains that stretched toward a clear azure sky.
They passed a couple of farmhouses and the church. The rig clattered across a wooden bridge spanning the river and jostled over the railroad trestle. Soon the train station came into view. Travelers milled about on the platform among a jumble of trunks and wooden crates. A young peddler moved through the crowd hawking his wares.
Wyatt drew up beside the agent’s office. “I need to check on my shipment going out this afternoon. I won’t be long.”
Ada sat beneath her parasol, content to watch the activity unfolding around her. Down the street, a steady stream of customers came and went from the bank and the general store. The smells of cinnamon and yeast emanated from the bakery on the corner. In front of it, a group of little boys played mumblety-peg, the blades of their knives flashing in the sun. Their giddy, carefree laughter rose above the noise of the train station. Ada laughed with them, sharing their joy.
Wyatt returned with a sheaf of papers that he tucked into a leather pouch. Taking out his pocket watch, he said, “It’s still early. Would you like a tour of the town?”
“Yes, I’d love that.”
They drove down the main street past the shops and the post office and the Verandah Hotel for Ladies, then turned west onto a macadam road shaded by hickory trees. On either side of the road, new houses were going up; the smell of paint and new lumber filled the air. Carpenters, brick masons, and painters swarmed over several houses in various states of completion. On one side of the street sat a long, low building with many windows and a red front door. A flagpole sat in the middle of a grassy yard that sloped away from the back of the building into the trees.
“That’s our new school.” Wyatt halted the rig. “We opened it only three years ago, and already we’re expecting fifty students this fall. Bea will have her hands full.”
“That seems like a lot of students for one teacher.”
He nodded. “The school board hired a second teacher this spring, a gentleman from Virginia. This fall he’ll take the older students and serve as headmaster. Bea will have the younger ones.”
She gazed at the neat, welcoming building. “It isn’t at all what I expected.”
He urged the horse onward. “Perhaps you pictured a log cabin.”
She blushed. “You’re right. I did.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. But the days of Davy Crockett are long past in Hickory Ridge.”
She smiled. “I’m only now realizing how much I have to learn about your town.”
“It’s your town too—for now, at least.” His smile brought an unexpected reaction—a warm tightening inside. She felt her face grow warm. What was the matter with her? She had no business at all feeling this way about Wyatt Caldwell. She concentrated on the sound of the horse’s hooves on the road and on the passing scenery.
They passed a redbrick church and, next to it, a smaller building enclosed by a white picket fence. Under the watchful eye of a woman in a dark green dress, groups of children played tag in the dusty yard. A little boy, perhaps three or four, bounced a ball against the side of the building. On the stone steps, a young girl in a tattered yellow dress sat alone, a curtain of glossy black hair hiding her face.
“Orphanage,” Wyatt said. “First opened back in the fifties, after several children were orphaned in a flash flood. We added on to it after the war handed us even more young folks with no kin to take them in.” He nodded toward the girl on the steps. “Mrs. Lowell does the best she can for them, but I always feel bad for Sophie over there.”
Sophie. The child Robbie had told her about seemed utterly lost, the very picture of dejection.
Ada’s heart twisted. She knew just how those children felt. Abandoned. Afraid. And in Sophie’s case, friendless, except for Robbie Whiting. She found it hard to look away. Surely something could be done to ease that child’s loneliness.
They came to a small grassy park with a white gingerbreadtrimmed gazebo and a merry-go-round. “This is where we have the Founders Day picnic every Fourth of July.”
He pulled the rig to a stop, tethered the horse, and helped her out. They walked along a meandering footpath paralleling the river and came at last to the gazebo. There they sat with their backs to the road, the forest in front of them.
“I loved coming to Founders Day when I was boy and staying here with Aunt Lil,” Wyatt said. “One year when I was about ten or eleven, an acrobatic group performed, and I decided that’s what I’d be when I grew up.”
He laughed then. Ada wished she’d known Wyatt Caldwell when they were both young and everything seemed possible. He went on. “Since the war ended, we still have a concert and games for the children, but Founders Day has turned political. There’s always some kind of a dustup between the diehard rebs and the unionists.”
“I’m surprised there are any unionists this far south.”
“This part of the state was heavily divided—and feelings still run strong on both sides. It’s as if folks have forgotten Appomattox ever happened. I
keep my distance.”
Ada nodded. “I suppose old hatreds die hard whatever the cause. In Boston—”
He got to his feet. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be late for my meeting.”
Without waiting for her, he turned and headed back to the rig.
Stunned at his abruptness, Ada hurried after him. “Mr. Caldwell, did I say something wrong?”
He shook his head, handed her into the rig, and clicked his tongue to the horse.
When they passed the orphanage, Ada looked for Sophie. But recess was over; the children were marching back inside. She stole a glance at Wyatt. He seemed disinclined toward conversation, lost in his war memories perhaps. What had she said to upset him?
All the joy had gone out of her day. Ada sat quietly until he parked the rig in front of the bank.
“I shouldn’t be more than an hour.” He retrieved his leather pouch. “Why don’t you look around, do your shopping, and when I’m finished we’ll eat at Miss Hattie’s.” At last, he smiled again. “She makes the best fried chicken this side of Fort Worth.”
Ada nodded, relieved at his change of mood. “That sounds good.”
He headed into the bank. Ada slipped her bag over her arm and set off down the main street, grateful for the opportunity to explore the town on her own. She found the post office and mailed her letter and supply list to the ancient Horace Biddle in Boston, hoping his memory of her mother would induce him to extend the credit she needed. At the mercantile, she purchased a length of ribbon for Mariah’s hat and another packet of needles. She stared longingly at a display of stockings. She needed a new pair to replace her old, holey ones, but she didn’t dare spend the money. It might be months, a year even, before she could afford even the basic necessities. She’d never before realized how taxing it was to live in fear of running out of cash. She thought of her father. Had he felt this same sense of hopelessness?
Outside Norah’s Fine Frocks, she stopped to admire a sky-blue silk dress displayed in one window. Another window showcased fringed parasols and embroidered shawls. A hand-lettered sign urged customers to look for the latest styles in the Hickory Ridge Gazette.
Ada remembered an evening with her father when they had discussed his most recent undertaking, an investment in the future manufacture of horseless carriages. When she ventured her opinion—that people would never give up their reliable horse-drawn conveyances for something new, unproven, and possibly dangerous—he’d simply laughed and patted her hand. “You’ll see, Ada. Never underestimate the public’s appetite for the latest thing!”
The latest thing. Her father’s investment had failed to pay off, but perhaps his advice could help her now. With a final glance into the shop window, Ada headed for the newspaper office.
TEN
The bell above the door jingled as Ada entered the small cluttered newspaper office. Sunlight filtered through a single window facing the street and illuminated several full pages of newsprint preserved behind glass. The air was thick with the smells of coffee and ink. Behind the desk sat a young, freckle-faced woman in a faded blue calico dress, a pair of gold spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. A thick braid of dark hair lay across one shoulder. She chewed her bottom lip as she pounded away on a typewriting machine, oblivious to Ada’s presence. Through an open doorway Ada saw an older man setting type and a couple of young boys surrounded by stacks of newspapers.
“Begging your pardon!” Ada called at last.
The woman looked up and peered at Ada through her glasses. “Hello! May I help you?”
“Yes. I’d like to speak to the person in charge of taking advertisements.”
“That would be me.” The woman rose and drew Ada to a chair beside her desk, speaking in staccato sentences that matched the cadence of her typewriter. “I’m in charge of adverts. Also, reporting, editing, and circulation.” She grasped Ada’s hand and pumped it. “Patience Greer. Everyone calls me Patsy.”
“Ada Wentworth.”
“I figured as much. Bea Goldston was in here last week and mentioned you’d arrived. I take it you want to place an ad?”
“Yes.” Ada fingered the clasp of her coin purse. “If it isn’t too expensive.”
“Do you have the copy?”
Ada frowned. “Pardon?”
“Have you written down what you want the ad to say?”
“The idea just came to me, and I haven’t had time to give it much thought.”
Inserting a clean sheet of paper into her typewriter, Patsy said, “Talk to me.”
“I’m starting a millinery business. I have one customer so far. I hope to get more by advertising.”
Tap-tap-tap went the keys.
“My hats will be of the finest materials and in the latest styles, like the ones from Europe.”
“Woo!” Patsy looked up and grinned. “Fancy hats. Might be a good name for your business.”
“I have thought about that. It’s to be called Wentworth’s, after my mother.”
“That’s real sweet. But just so you know, the undertaker one stop down the rail line is named Wentworth. He does most of the burying for folks around here.” Patsy leaned across the dusty desk. “The way I see it, women buy hats when they’re in a good mood. Or when they’re in a bad mood and need something to make them feel better. Thinking about the undertaker might put a damper on things.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Ada swallowed her disappointment. She had so wanted to keep her mother’s name alive.
“So, what are we left with here? ‘Fancy Hats,’ ‘Hats by Ada,’ ‘Hats of Distinction’?” Patsy leaned back in her chair. “Now that I think about it, you don’t want to get too highfalutin with the ladies around here. They appreciate nice things, but they’re practical too. I think ‘Hats by Ada’ may be the way to go.”
Ada felt a headache building behind her eyes. “If you think that’s best.”
“I do. How can folks get ahold of you?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. The post office, I suppose.”
Patsy nodded. “That’ll work. You can ship your hats from the railway office. Our station agent is very reliable.”
“Excellent.” Ada hadn’t anticipated having to make so many decisions so quickly. “I’m grateful for your help.”
“It’s what I’m here for.” Patsy lifted the paper carriage. “Hold on a minute while I check for mistakes.” She patted her typewriting machine, a tall black box embellished with a painting of pink roses. “This newfangled contraption makes my work more efficient, but the problem is that you can’t see what you’ve typed without lifting up the carriage.”
She scanned her work. “I’ll get this typeset, maybe add a drawing of a hat to catch people’s eyes. I’d recommend running it the week after next in my special Founders Day edition. All the local merchants run specials for that week, and more folks buy the paper so they won’t miss out on anything.”
“I’m sure you know best.” Ada opened her coin purse, praying she had enough to cover the cost. Besides the ad, there was one more essential purchase she needed to make. “How much?”
“My usual rate is a dollar a month, payable in advance. But since you’re a new customer, why don’t you wait until I get the ad ready? You can come by and take a look before we run it. If you like it, you can pay me then.”
“That will be fine.”
Patsy nodded. “You might want to set up a charge account at the mercantile. That way you can get supplies when you need them and pay the bill at the end of the month. Jasper Pruitt is the one you need to talk to.”
Ada left the newspaper office and returned to the mercantile. A few farmers and mill workers filled the aisles, buying everything from molasses to chicken wire. In the back, beneath a high, dusty window, a group of women pored over bolts of yellow flannel and brightly printed calico. A young man who had not been there earlier in the day sat on a wooden stool, adding up a long column of figures.
“Pardon me.” Ada set her bag on the counter. “Are
you Mr. Pruitt?”
He looked up and blinked. “No ma’am. I’m his clerk. Hold on a minute. I’ll get him.”
He disappeared into the back and came back with a grayhaired, bushy-bearded man dressed in denim pants and a stained white apron. “This here’s Mr. Pruitt.”
He left to help another customer.
Ada offered her hand. “Good morning. I’m Ada Went—”
“I know who you are.” The storekeeper’s eyes were small and round. Pig’s eyes. He shuffled a sheaf of papers lying on the counter. Half of his index finger was missing. The stub quivered when he spoke as if it were somehow connected to his voice box.
“Yes, well, I want to open a charge account, please. For my new business.”
“You want me to let you buy on credit?”
“Yes. Miss Greer at the paper said—”
“You buy from me, you’ll pay cash.”
“But I don’t understand. I can pay my bills. I have a position, working for Wyatt Caldwell. Looking after his aunt.”
“I know all about that, but it don’t change my mind one iota. Plain and simple: I don’t give credit to the likes of you.” He let go a spurt of tobacco juice that narrowly missed her face before landing in a copper spittoon by the door. “You Yankees think we’ve forgot how things was down here during the occupation? You think now the war’s over we can let bygones by bygones, let the Nigras take over everything?”
Ada stiffened. “It’s true that I am a Yankee, but you, sir, are the most offensive boor I have ever had the misfortune to meet!”
“A bore, am I? Mebbe so, but my customers don’t come here for the entertainin’ conversation.” He turned and walked out.
Ada stared after him, torn between anger and laughter. Heavenly days, what an ignoramus!
“I hate him,” said a voice at her elbow. She turned to find a familiar-looking youth packing up his purchases.
The boy’s shaggy hair was falling into his eyes. His knobby wrists poked from the frayed sleeves of his work shirt. Something about him evoked her sympathy.
“You’re Jacob Hargrove, aren’t you?”
