The single table in the middle of the large ballroom of the Merchant’s Hotel was prepared for a private dinner of fourteen. Linens. Silver. Crystal. Fresh flowers in the center of the table. The place settings were La Reine in a colored spray pattern on a semiporcelain body, festoon plates, gold edges, knobs and handles.
Goldplated candelabras graced both ends of the table. The flicker of seven white candles in each provided the only light besides that which filtered through the lace-curtained window that peeked out on the expansive porch.
Samuel Houston Fortune paced the floor, stopping occasionally to peek out at the hotel veranda and the street. He pulled his gold watch from his vest and noticed that it was exactly sixty seconds later than the last time he looked at it.
What is this? It’s almost 1:30 P.M. No one is here? No one is coming? This is strange—they all showed up to put their lives on the line for me, but they can’t be here on time for dinner?
“Mr. Fortune?”
He spun around to see a thin waiter with starched white jacket, black bow tie, and receding hairline, standing at the open, ten-foot tall, carved oak door. “Mr. Fortune, Quiet Jim sends down his regrets. He said their housekeeper took sick, and Columbia doesn’t want to leave the children alone, so they will not be able to make the banquet.”
“Yes . . . well . . . Mr. Hobson, perhaps you’d rearrange the table setting.”
“Twelve will give everyone a little more room, sir.”
“I suppose so. At the moment there’s plenty of room.” Sam straightened his suit coat and tugged at the cuffs of his white shirt.
“Shall I bring in the chilled lemonade?” the waiter asked.
“Let’s wait for the guests . . .” Sam circled the table. “They’ll be along shortly.”
“Certainly, sir.” Hobson ambled back toward the hotel’s main dining room. “Would you like this door left open?”
“Yes . . . eh, no . . . no, go ahead and close it,” Sam instructed.
If I’m going to look nervous, I might as well be nervous by myself. Not that I have anything to be nervous about.
The heels of his polished black boots banged a repetitive signal as he continued to pace. Stooping low to peek out the window, he saw Sheriff Seth Bullock stroll up the boardwalk and disappear into the hotel entrance.
Sam met him at the ballroom door and motioned toward the table in the middle of the ballroom. “Glad you made it, Sheriff—”
“Sorry, Sam. I just stopped by to tell you I can’t stay for dinner. I’ve got to scoot over to Cheyenne Crossing this afternoon. A dead body was found in Spearfish Creek, and they are mighty anxious for me to do something about it.”
Mr. Hobson strolled back into the room just as the sheriff reached the exit. “Shall I remove another plate?” he queried.
“Better make that two,” the sheriff reported. “Daddy Brazos is coming with me.”
“Daddy? He knows this is an important dinner!” Sam chafed.
“I believe Mrs. Speaker is trailing after him again, and he prefers a little ride out of town. You know Brazos—he’d rather eat around a campfire than off a china plate.”
“Two more removed?” Hobson questioned.
“Yes, I guess so,” Sam mumbled. “That does narrow things.”
The waiter paused at the door as he exited.
“Sorry I’m late,” Abigail called as she entered the room. She wore an open front, reefer jacket made of fine, tan broadcloth, embroidered with tan and gold cording. “It took me a while to get all that dirt and stage blood washed out. Please forgive my damp hair.” She stopped halfway across the room. “Where’s the rest of the cast?”
“Some are late. Some made other plans.”
“Oh dear. It would have been so fun for everyone to make it. You should hear the rumors around town about the gunshots at the telephone exchange.”
“What are they saying?” Sam asked.
She slipped her arm in his, and they made their way to the table in the middle of the room. “Some say that Daddy Brazos declared the telephone receiver the work of the devil and blasted it with his .50-caliber Sharps.”
Sam laughed. “If folks stay home to visit on the telephone instead of meetin’ at the woodstove ever’ mornin’, he just might do it.”
When they reached the table, Abby circled it, still attached to Sam’s arm. “Some say that a jealous husband came lookin’ for S. Houston Fortune, the man who stole his wife.”
“But I’ve only been in town for a few weeks.”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“I know I deserve comments like that. But it must pain the rest of the family. A black sheep is difficult for a good family to explain.”
“A former black sheep.”
“What else have you heard?” he asked.
“The one I like best is the rumor that Abby O’Neill is going to make a comeback in the theater and was secretly rehearsing a new play.”
“Is that true?” Sam stopped walking, and Abby dropped his arm. “Is Miss O’Neill making a comeback?”
“Oh, I’m making a comeback all right. But it has absolutely nothing to do with the theater. It started about five years ago when I hiked up seventy-two steps to Forest Hill and first met Rebekah. My life has been one success after another ever since.”
“You’re not the only one that feels renewed in Deadwood.” He walked with her to the front window and glanced out at Main Street. “Look at this town, Abby. A dirty, little, two-street village crammed in a gulch. It has seven times as many saloons as churches. There’s not a night when gunshots aren’t heard. Those stamp mills would drive other folks plumb distracted. And what kind of name is Deadwood anyways? Why wasn’t it called Ponderosa City or somethin’ else? The name itself is gloomy. And what’s the most famous song about this area? ‘The Dreary Black Hills.’”
She folded her arms across her chest. “And your point is? . . .”
“You found a fresh, new start here.”
“Thanks to Rebekah.”
“And I found a brand new direction here. What I’m sayin’ is, Deadwood is a special place, not because of the gold . . . but because of what the Lord is doing here.”
“You plan on staying?” she pressed.
“I have a goal that I haven’t told anyone about,” Sam announced. “I’d like to see at least two Christmases here.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s as far as I can imagine. I haven’t spent two months in the same location for over ten years, let alone two Christmases. How about you, Mrs. Abigail O’Neill Gordon? How long will you be in Deadwood?”
“As long as there’s a Fortune in the Black Hills, Amber and I will be here.”
“Say, where is that girl?” he asked.
“She wanted to go over to ‘Grandma’ Thelma’s. The two of them are going to sing a duet in church, and they wanted to practice.”
“That’s quite an age spread.”
“Yes, but don’t tell them. They think they’re the same age. Now, who does that leave for our little celebration?”
“Todd and Bekah, Dacee June and Carty . . .”
“How about Grass and Louise Edwards?”
Sam again peeked out the front window of the big ballroom. “Yep. That makes eight of us.”
“That will be nice. We can visit better with only eight.” Abby pointed out the street. “Look—here come the professor and Louise.”
“Yes, but she’s not getting out of the rig.”
They arrived at the ballroom door just as Grass Edwards poked his head in. “Say, we’re going to pass on dinner. I just got word from the commanding officer at Fort Meade. Said he discovered some noxious weeds making his horses sick. He wants me to identify which ones and give a little talk to his officers about
what to watch out for. Besides, Louise wanted some fresh air. All that gunsmoke plugged up her head like a nest in a chimney. We’ll catch you all next time around.”
“Have a nice ride,” Abby called out.
“We’ll be home late. Sammy, I’ll see you at the hardware in the mornin’. I assume you’ll be there with all the rest.” Grass tipped his hat to both of them.
Mr. Hobson scooted in before the door closed. “Would you like me to begin serving yet?”
“Not yet . . . ,” Sam reported. “Set the table for six. Looks like we’re having a more private dinner than we planned.”
“Dacee June and Carty, Rebekah and Todd . . . that will still be nice. I don’t think we’ve all been together since the wedding,” Abby noted. “I’ve never known a family that cared so much about each other and enjoyed being around each other as much as your family, Sam. Todd was in paradise having you and Bobby around for a week or two. He is so serious and businesslike all the time. Rebekah says he’s even that way at home. But when you two were with him, he relaxed and even got jovial.”
“I’ve missed Mama for years and will until my dyin’ day. And Daddy? Well, hardly a day has passed when I didn’t see somethin’ that reminded me of him. But Todd, Bobby—and Dacee June—my, how I’ve missed them.”
Abby sauntered back to the table and plucked up an empty fruit plate. “Aren’t these dishes beautiful?” She set it back down and once again clutched his arm. They promenaded around the big empty room as if a full orchestra were playing a slow waltz.
“My family is so small,” she said. “I’m an only child. Amber is an only child. Mama, me, and Amber . . . that’s all there is.”
“You’re an adopted member of the Fortune family.”
“And for that, I am grateful.”
Hobson waited by the table when they circled back in that direction. “Can I pour you two some lemonade?” he asked.
“That would be nice,” Abigail replied.
“I suppose we could sit down.” Sam motioned to the well-spread table. “Hobson, the others will be along any moment now. Why don’t you go ahead and bring out the food.”
“Yes sir. I certainly will.”
With crystal goblets of pulp-strained lemonade and winter froze ice, Sam and Abigail lingered near the front window until the waiter had completely unloaded the service cart and disappeared back into the main dining hall.
“Shall we sit at the ends and let the other couples sit next to each other?” she asked.
“If you promise not to whisper anything that I can’t hear.”
“Me?”
“You and Rebekah whisper and giggle more than any gals over twenty I’ve ever seen.” He stopped pacing and stared intently at the food spread on the table.
“Thank you, kind sir, for that compliment,” she curtsied.
He looped his thumbs in his vest pockets. “Compliment?”
“You could have said two gals over thirty.”
Sam pointed to green, spiny blossoms, as big as his fist. “What do you suppose that is?”
Abby leaned low and examined the plate. “I believe they are artichokes.”
“Are they edible or just for decoration?”
“They are quite edible, a very unusual vegetable.”
Sam waved his hand. “Look at this table: sweet potatoes, corn, beans, turnips, and artichokes. That’s more vegetables than I’ve seen in twelve years.”
“Ham, venison, and pheasant . . . I believe we will have enough meat, too,” she added. “Let’s have Rebekah take the surplus home to her children. And another basket to Mrs. Speaker and Amber.”
“They can have my share of artichokes. They look awful tough and woody. Maybe they waited too long to pick them. It’s a cinch they didn’t know how to cook them. I bet you’re supposed to boil them.”
“Hi, Sam; Abby!” Dacee June greeted as she slipped through the door. “Wow, this is really, really fancy! What are those?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of artichokes?” Sam chided.
“I read about ’em once. When do they get ripe?”
“Eh . . . I think they’re ripe now,” Sam offered. “You’re a tad late, li’l sis.”
She slipped her arm around his waist and then looked Abby in the eyes. “Did I miss anything?”
“Not yet,” Abby replied.
“Where’s the newly-wed husband? I thought Todd gave him the afternoon off,” Sam questioned.
Dacee June released Sam and rocked back on her gray, lace-up boots. “Carty is at the house. He . . . eh . . . well, this is kind of embarrassing.”
“What?” Abigail pressed.
Dacee June rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Well, he said that I look so nice today that he has no intention of sharing me with anyone else. He wants me to stay home and—”
Abigail raised her hands. “Enough said. We know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“You do? But you’re not even married.”
“We can imagine,” Sam said.
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry. But all of this is sort of new to me.”
Abby raised her thick, dark eyebrows. “But fun?”
“Oh, yes!” Dacee June giggled and scampered out, swinging the tall door behind her.
Abby locked her arms across her chest and smiled. “Now there is one happily married lady.”
“Were you ever that young and giggly?” Sam challenged.
“I was that young, but I don’t know if I ever had that much fun. How about you, Sam? Were you ever giggly?”
“Men don’t giggle,” he grumbled.
“Why is that?”
“Well, it’s . . . it’s . . . you know . . . sissylike.”
“Oh, my a semanticist. Just what exactly do men do?”
“We chuckle, snicker, or guffaw . . . perhaps we even roar with laughter—but never giggle.”
“Little boys giggle. I wonder why they stop?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Fortune?”
Hobson came through the door again. “There’s a note here for you. It might have been at the registry for some time, but they forgot to tell me. I’m sorry for the delay.”
Sam took the note, opened it, reading as he returned to Abigail’s side.
“Who’s it from?”
“Who’s left to hear from?”
“Rebekah?”
“Listen to this:
‘Dear Sam and Abby,
By now you have figured out there is a conspiracy afloat to abandon you two at dinner. If you are upset, get angry with me. It is all my idea. I thought you needed to spend more time alone. We didn’t want you to have any interruptions or distractions. So enjoy your meal and your visit. To help you have an interruption-free meal, we have instructed Mr. Hobson to lock the door after he delivers this letter.’”
“What?” Abby gasped.
“Let me finish . . .” Sam insisted.
“In fact, I am considering leaving the door locked until you two decide to marry. If you should so decide, you could slip a note under the door, and I’ll fetch Rev. Colton within the hour. (Just teasing! You can’t get married until Bobby and Jamie Sue get a chance to come back!)
Enjoy yourselves.
And remember, you have to tell me every single detail of what happens.
Love, Rebekah”
Abby stared at the big table covered with food. “Well, Sam Fortune, what are we going to do?”
“Right now, or in the future?”
“Both.”
“Is the door really locked?” he asked.
Abby scurried across the empty ballroom and clutched the round, crystal doorknob. “Yes! It really is locked.”
“Well, I have no intention of letting all this food be
wasted.”
“And I have no intention of us sitting at opposite ends of a twelve-foot table,” she pointed to the full expanse of the table full of steaming food.
“I have an idea,” Sam offered. “Help me slide the table to the window; then we’ll both sit on this side.”
Soon they sat side by side, facing the window, plates loaded with food.
“This is the strangest meal I’ve ever eaten,” Sam admitted.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever had a meal with this much food for only two people.”
“Look at this: a huge empty ballroom . . . a spread fancy enough for the banquet feast of heaven . . . a beautiful lady . . . and one Sam Fortune. Even in my dreams, I could not imagine something like this.”
“I do believe I won’t soon forget this! Did you try the Chinese sweet and sour sauce on the pheasant? It might be the sweetest meat you will ever taste in your life.” Abby stabbed a bite on her fork and held it over for him to sample.
Sam hesitated.
“Oh—don’t you eat off someone else’s fork?”
“No . . . no, I didn’t mean to offend.”
He surrounded the bite with his lips and slid the morsel into his mouth. After a moment of chewing, he smiled. “I could get spoiled with somethin’ that delicious.”
“Yes, but why did you hesitate?”
“I hesitated because no lady has offered me a bite off her fork since my mother died thirteen years ago. I was startled when I thought of how long it’s been since I’ve been this close to a woman. I’m not talkin’ about my virtue, but about how I feel in my heart. It just startled me; that’s all.”
“Now, everything’s changed?”
“You can’t imagine. A few weeks ago I was eatin’ a bowl of cold beans with my knife. Oklahoma dust blew in my eyes, and a cocked carbine lay across my lap as I prayed for the cover of dark.”
“When the Lord blesses, he blesses good.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
He flinched. She sat straight up. “What are you scared of Sam Fortune? I presume your feelings for me aren’t quite as intense as mine are for you.”
“Abby, that’s not it at all. Just the opposite.”
The Long Trail Home Page 23
