“I don’t need all the help on the same day.”
“We have to make up for lost time,” she insisted. “We decided the relationship needs to be accelerated, or Daddy will never live long enough to see your children.”
“Now you’re gettin’ personal.”
“So, to help move things right along,” Dacee June announced, “Mrs. Speaker is going to baby-sit Amber tonight so you and Abby can be together.”
“What? Tonight? It’s . . . it’s late.”
“Well, it’s your own fault for wandering down to the badlands,” Dacee June countered.
“Does Abby know about these plans?”
“Not yet.” Dacee June pushed him toward the street. “we thought you should go down to her place to surprise her.”
“But . . . but . . . I don’t believe this!”
Todd threw his arm around Sam’s shoulder and escorted him down to the street. “Welcome home, Sammy!”
Abigail Gordon stood on the boardwalk in the night shadows when Sam Fortune drove the carriage up in front of the dress shop. He climbed down and offered her a hand.
“Good evenin’, again, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Good evening to you, Mr. Fortune.” She climbed up into the black leather, one-horse carriage.
He climbed up beside her and lifted the lead lines, but he hesitated to drive off. “Abby, do you feel as awkward about this as I do?”
She had a black, lace shawl across the shoulders of her purple dress. “Awkward, and rather amused.”
“If you don’t want to go for a ride and supper this evenin’, I’ll understand completely. I had forgotten how pushy my family can be,” he admitted.
Even in the night shadows he could see her dark eyebrows raise. “Sam Fortune, if you’re looking for a way to get out of this, just say so. I will not be offended if—”
“Me? No, I’m not lookin’ to back away. I just didn’t want you to think that—”
“You don’t have to explain a thing. Just nod and I’ll go back to my apartment and . . .” She started to climb down.
He reached over and tugged on her arm. “Wait. Perhaps we should drive around for a short while, just to make them happy.”
Abby sat back down. “Yes, well . . . Amber adores having Mrs. Speaker babysit. Ever since my mother moved back to Omaha, Thelma has taken over the grandmother chores.”
Sam slapped the lead lines. The carriage lunged out into the street.
“Where are we headed, Mr. Fortune?” A pothole jarred the carriage, and she clutched Sam’s arm.
“With this relationship or our carriage?” he probed.
“Both,” she laughed.
“I hear there’s a nice French restaurant in Central City. It’s only three miles up the creek. Why don’t we go there for a late supper?”
The street smoothed out, but she continued to clutch his arm. “That sounds delightful.
“A slow, French dinner will give us some time to talk. What are we going to discuss?” she asked.
When they rolled past the last street lamp he no longer saw her face, but he smelled her sweet rose perfume and felt the warmth of her shoulder pressing against his arm. “I think I should tell you about the two men who showed up at the Piedmont to kill me today and why there’s liable to be a steady stream just like them in the days to come. As you can imagine, it makes for a precarious life.” Sam fought the urge to slip his hand around her waist. “What would you like to talk about?”
“I think I should tell you how I took my daughter and deserted my doctor husband in Chattanooga to became an actress . . . and how I still have men show up at my door thinking I’m selling something besides dresses.”
He peered through the dark at her green eyes, then grinned. “This is crazy, isn’t it?”
“Totally insane,” she concurred.
“Do you do insane things often?” he quizzed.
“Constantly.”
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“No. Should I be?”
“No, ma’am.” He let out a long, slow breath. “Should I be nervous?”
“Perhaps, Samuel Fortune . . . perhaps you should.”
The sky was mine-shaft black, and stars canopied the Black Hills by the time they reached Central City. A round, Dakota moon ushered them into Zachary Jacque’s. A short, bald waiter led them to the privacy of a back table.
The conversation remained light through the first three courses, but then Abigail drew her knife through her garlic-stuffed shrimp with white wine sauce. “I have another question for you, Sam Fortune.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve pelted you with a million of them. I reckon I need to answer a few myself.”
“You arrived in Deadwood right after noon, rented a room, then were the surprise guest at your sister’s wedding. You reconciled with your father and brothers after a dozen years, then stood down two men who tried to ambush you. Now, you’re up the Gulch having an expensive supper with a woman you never met before today—a woman whom your sister and sisters-in-law insist is the right one for you to marry.”
Sam kept his eyes on his china plate, arrayed with young asparagus stocks smothered in cheese sauce. “Yep, I reckon that sums it up.” Then he glanced straight into her eyes. “What’s your point?”
“Is this a normal day for you, Sam Fortune?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She popped a bite of shrimp into her mouth.
“Normally, I don’t eat green slimy things for supper. But all the rest is about typical.”
Abigail laughed. “My life, especially since I retired from the theater, has been quite routine. And I absolutely love it. I have a store to operate, a daughter to raise, a church to serve, and some dear friends—most of whom have the last name Fortune—to laugh and cry with. I have a past I’d like to forget and a future that’s totally unknown, but in God’s hands. One of the things that troubles me about you and me furthering our acquaintance is that you will be quite bored with my lifestyle. I know you’ve been on the prowl for years.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to quit.” He forked a bite of asparagus, then returned it to his plate. “I told you about Mr. Rocklin, remember? Well, I made up my mind in Dodge City, that I would just settle down and spend the rest of my life on the ranch. I’m tired of sleepin’ on the ground, havin’ to listen ever’ night for those creepin’ up on me. I’m tired of sittin’ against the back wall of a cafe, inspectin’ ever’one who walks through the door. And I’m really tired of tryin’ to push the Lord out of my life.”
Abigail brushed a strand of her dark, curly hair from her eyes and leaned forward. “If you didn’t tell me these things, who would you tell?”
“No one.”
“That’s why you’re talking to me,” Abigail insisted.
“But we haven’t known each other but eight hours.”
She glanced up at the Roman-numeraled clock that hung over the double doors that led from the dining room to the entry. “Ten hours and fifteen minutes,” she corrected. “Sam, sometimes we need someone besides family to talk to. And you haven’t even had family for years.” She wiped her full lips with a white linen napkin then folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve been honest with you. I’m purposely trying to live a quiet, peaceful life. It might seem totally tedious to you. Now, it’s your turn. What worries you most about allowing our relationship to deepen?”
He laid down his knife and fork and stared at his half-eaten walnut and honey stuffed pork chop.
Abby took a sip of water from a crystal goblet. “Did I ask the wrong question?” she finally probed.
He brushed a few croissant crumbs from his gray, wool vest. “No. I just don’t know where to begin. I enjoy your company. I feel relaxed, like I don’t have
to hide my past or try to rationalize the sinful things I’ve done. I believe the Lord has forgiven me of my past and will help me live different in the future. But I also believe a man reaps what he sows . . . and I’ve got a lot of things in the past that will track me down and torment me for the rest of my life.”
She sliced off a small bit of bacon-wrapped asparagus and dipped it in the white cheese sauce. “Like those two men this evening at the Piedmont Saloon?”
Sam glanced around the room as if expecting to see someone sneak up on him. “Abby, I’ve been here half a day, and they found me.”
“If they were trailing you up from Cheyenne, I wonder why they didn’t ambush you in the woods?”
“They rode up straight from Dodge City. As far as I can tell, they read about Todd in the dime novel and figured I might be related in some way. They were just fishin’ about.”
Abby ran her tongue across her teeth. “Do you think they’ll come after you when they get out of jail?”
“I reckon. Takin’ a shot at someone at the Piedmont and missin’ him isn’t a very serious crime around here. But, they aren’t the smartest of men. If they can find me so soon, so will others.”
“Everyone in Oklahoma can’t hate you.”
“Abby, it’s a distorted world down in the Nation. Everyone wants to prove how tough they are.”
“But you don’t live there anymore. You aren’t the toughest man down there. Why would they travel this far?”
“That’s exactly what I’d like to know from Burns and McDermitt.”
“So, you’re saying: Stay away from me, Abby Gordon, because I’m liable to end up like Wild Bill Hickok?”
“Abby, do you know what really bothered me about those two at the Piedmont this evening? Todd, Robert, and Daddy’s lives were in just as much jeopardy as mine. Can you imagine what it would have been like if Todd had gotten killed because of me? It’s the most horrible thing I can think of. I’m a liability to my family. And what if you and me get . . . you know . . . real chummy.”
“Chummy?” she cracked a grin and waved her empty silver fork at him. “I don’t get chummy without a wedding ring, Mr. Fortune.”
“Yes, ma’am—that’s what I mean. What if we were married and some drifter comes up this way and decides to get famous by shootin’ me, but he’s so drunk he hits you . . . or Amber instead? It’s so horrible I can’t even think about it.”
For several moments Abby O’Neill gazed across the nearly empty cafe. Then she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I appreciate your thinking of Amber and me. But, what does this all mean? What are your alternatives? Do you plan on moving to a cave and shooting anyone who approaches?”
“Abby, there’s nothin’ I can do to keep someone from sneakin’ up and takin’ a shot at me. But maybe if I act smart, I can keep them from shootin’ others close to me. I’ve got to do that much.”
“Does that mean you’re leaving Deadwood?” she asked.
“It’s crazy, isn’t it? On the day I arrive and reconcile, I’m thinkin’ about leavin’. My family would blindly ask me to stay. But I need an additional opinion. What do you think I ought to do?”
She unfastened the top button on the high collar of her dress and fanned herself. “Give it two weeks. Didn’t you say you’d need at least that much time to canvass the area about a telephone exchange?”
“Yes. That project seems to have been shoved aside.”
“Dacee June has gone on a honeymoon for a week. Robert and Jamie Sue and kids are headed back to Arizona. Rebekah and her brood are tucked safely up on Forest Hill. Todd’s tied to the store, and your father . . . well, I just don’t imagine Daddy Brazos will be highly concerned about saddle tramps and bushwhackers. Perhaps today was the aberration, not the rule.”
“How about Mrs. Abigail Gordon and her precocious daughter? My presence in one of her rental rooms might present a dangerous threat.”
“Why don’t you ask her what she wants you to do?”
“Mrs. Gordon, what do you want me to do?”
She smiled slowly, dropped her chin, and batted her eyes. “I think I want you to move,” she spoke very softly.
“You do?” Sam boomed.
She leaned across the table and whispered, “Yes, I think it would be safest for me and my daughter if you didn’t live across the hall from us.”
Sam felt his heart sink. He leaned across the table until their faces were only inches apart. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinkin’. How far away do you think I should move?”
“Across the hall,” she whispered.
“What?”
Abby sat up quickly and held her hands out between them. “But, unfortunately, there is no wedding ring on my finger, Mr. Sam Fortune, so you’ll just have to stay put in your rental room for now.”
“I can’t believe you said that!” He felt sweat roll down the back of his flushed neck.
“My, you do have a lot to learn about me. I, too, am over thirty and see no need to be coy. What I’m saying is, stay right there in that rental room, do your telephone exchange work, and let’s see what happens. Every day cannot be as exciting nor as threatening as today. I’ve spent a few hours with Samuel Fortune, brother-of-the-bride, member of a prominent Deadwood family, repentant sinner, and former horse thief. Now I’d like to get to know Samuel Fortune, the businessman.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about being a businessman. Up until now, it’s been like playin’ poker. I’ve been pretendin’, but now my bluff’s been called. I have to produce, and I’m . . .”
“Looking for a trail out of town?” Abby finished.
“Maybe.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You obviously convinced Mr. Edgington in Cheyenne of your abilities.”
“Actually, that was just kind of a fluke. They talked me into it. I happened to—”
“Would you quit changing the subject?” Abby insisted. “After I brought Amber home from the wedding, I gave this some thought. Have you decided where to establish the telephone exchange office?”
“Office?” Sam ran his fingers through the graying hair swept back over his ears. “I haven’t even—”
“Did you know Todd and Rebekah own a vacant building a block down from the hardware? It used to be a hat shop, but the proprietress married a lawyer and they moved to Carson City, Nevada. I’m sure Todd will give you a good deal on rent.”
Sam laid down his knife and fork. “The first thing I need to do—”
“Is to establish credibility. Yes, I know that. Having the name Fortune is a good start in Deadwood. Get your sign above the door made, and make sure your last name is prominent. You’ll need some business furniture inside: desks, shelves, cabinets—things like that. Daddy Brazos’s friend, Quiet Jim, sells furniture over at the lumber mill.
“Then you should set up a couple of sample telephones. You can hook up a short little demonstration line across the room, can’t you?”
Sam tugged his tie completely loose and unfastened the top button of his white shirt. “Yeah, I think I can do that. Of course, I’d have to have it shipped up from Cheyenne.”
“Have them send it on the stagecoach. The freight wagons are much too slow.”
“But I was goin’ to wait until I—”
She reached halfway across the table and tapped the thick, white linen tablecloth with her forefinger. “Then get yourself a dynamic office manager to run things while you—”
“Office manager?” he gasped. “I don’t even have a company yet.”
She sat back against the Genoa, maroon silk velvet of the mahogany-inlaid armchair. “‘S. Houston Fortune, co-owner’” she triumphed. “That’s the way you should put your name on the sign.”
“How did you know my middle name was Houston?”
Her ey
es seemed to dance in rhythm with her tongue. “My goodness, I’ve never known a Texican named Sam who didn’t have the middle name of Houston. It’s more businesslike. Besides, no old outlaw acquaintances will be looking for S. Houston Fortune, businessman. Perhaps you should grow a full beard.”
“Why?”
“Because no one from the Indian Territory will be looking for a full beard. Plus, that is what Mr. Bell has. I saw a photograph of him once when I was in St. Louis.”
“Who’s Mr. Bell?” he asked.
“The man who invented the telephone,” she replied.
“Oh—that Mr. Bell. . . .”
She held her slightly clenched fists up in front of her chest as if to assist the words to come out more quickly. “Yes, yes. And then as you call on businesses and homes, you can give them a small printed card, a coupon that provides them with a telephone demonstration at no charge.”
“I couldn’t charge them for a demonstration, anyways.”
“Yes, but they don’t know that. Everyone will need a coupon.”
“Why?”
“To promote interest, of course. It will make it seem like a special privilege. In fact, you should start passing out the coupons even before the office is open. Make them wait a little while before they get to try it out. Your office manager can take subscriptions as people sample the telephones. That way, when you are out calling on them, you’re only asking them to stop by and check it out. It will keep you from seeming like a mere solicitor. If you have the right office manager, it will be quite effective.”
“How can I hire an office manager when I don’t even have a company yet?”
Abby rattled on as if Sam was not even there. “It will take a special person who is willing to sacrifice in order make the company go.”
“Are you volunteering for the job?” he asked.
“Heavens no. I have a business to run. But I do know the perfect person.”
“Who?” he asked.
A wide, easy grin broke across Abby’s face. “Mrs. Toluca.”
The Long Trail Home Page 20
