by Gina Welborn
Emilia looked heavenward. The sheriff was worse than a stray dog. He was a flea . . . which meant she was the stray dog he’d attached himself to, not any more pleasant of a thought. With a grumble under her breath, she turned around. Sheriff McCall leaned against the seed cabinet, all casual and calm. As if he had nothing better to do than stand there. No wonder the man wasn’t married.
She gave him an obvious please-leave look.
Something flickered in his eyes. If he dared laugh, dared show the least bit of amusement, why, she would—
He looked at the grocer. “The land belongs to his surviving heir.”
“I see,” muttered Mr. Cannon, his disappointment evident.
Emilia waited for Sheriff McCall to look her way. His gaze stayed on the merchant. Fine. She could ignore him.
Putting the sheriff out of her mind, she turned and rested her journal on the counter. She flipped to the page with the payment schedule. “Sir, to show my good faith, I would like to begin with bartering eggs and goat cheese to you”—she rotated the notebook so he could see her estimates of high and low production numbers—“while I spend the next nine weeks providing bartered labor to the other creditors to eliminate the smaller debts. After setting aside the eighth through the nineteenth of June to focus on sowing alfalfa and putting in a garden, I will barter labor to you.”
She paused to give him an opening to respond.
He studied her numbers, clearly lost in his own thoughts.
She continued. “Now, if we add a fair dollar-a-day wage for an unskilled laborer to the lowest bartered egg-and-cheese numbers of four dollars and fifty cents, the debt will be eliminated by mid-November. Give or take a week.”
Of course once Da arrived in July, he would insist on helping her reduce the debt. Not that Mr. Cannon needed to know about Da. Or Roch and Luci . . .
“November, you say?” Mr. Cannon drummed his fingers on the counter.
“I know it seems a long time from now,” she reasoned. “Wisdom says to eliminate the smallest debts first, then attack the largest one with a vengeance. Bartering eggs and cheese is the most I can offer at this time.” Unless she offered a piglet or two. That would have to wait until the sow delivered, which had better be soon because she couldn’t bear the smell.
His gaze flickered to the sheriff before settling on hers. “I like your grit, Mrs. Collins. Can’t say this about everyone I meet. How about you sell me the ranch for two hundred and I’ll balance out Finn’s line of credit?” Before Emilia could respond, he added, “You won’t get a better offer.”
“She will,” the sheriff said dryly.
Mr. Cannon didn’t seem to care for the sheriff ’s response. His gaze shifted back to Emilia. “Two-fifty, debt erased, and I’ll buy any eggs, cheese, or vegetables you have to sell.”
Emilia looked down at her notes. Mr. Fisk had offered four hundred, the top price for forty acres of improved farmland, which he said Finn’s land was. The thought of selling the ranch soured her stomach. As unimpressive as Finn’s cabin was, it was their home. Her home.
She couldn’t help but smile.
“Mr. Cannon,” she said to him, “I appreciate your offer. The most prudent course of action for me at this time is to make a go of the ranch. I realize the imposition I am placing upon your generous nature. If you would be willing to agree to my payment plan, I promise I’ll work hard and finish in a timely manner.”
He didn’t look convinced, yet he nodded.
Emilia reached inside her haversack and withdrew her precious fountain pen. She offered it to him. “If you would be so kind as to sign.” As he took the pen and wrote his name, she glanced around the store for a witness. No one else was shopping. Which meant her only option was—“Sheriff McCall, it would be best for us to have a witness.”
He took his leisure in stepping forward. L. McCall was all he wrote.
Once the payment schedule had all three signatures, she purchased three-dollars’ worth of dry goods and a yard of cheesecloth. “I’ll be back by noon to collect these.”
Mr. Cannon shook her hand again. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Emilia returned the pen and journal to her haversack.
Sheriff McCall followed her to Dr. Abernathy, the dentist, where she arranged to work every other Friday until debt paid . . . and then to the bootmaker, a Mr. Zeb Inger, who preferred a quicker payback. Every Thursday, plus the Fridays she wasn’t working for the dentist. The sheriff, availing himself as witness to the agreed-upon payment schedules, made his presence a fraction more tolerable.
A minuscule fraction.
After leaving the bootmaker’s shop, Emilia consulted the map Jakob had roughly drawn, including the names of the main streets, the locations for each creditor, the church, Mr. Adams’s law office, and Luci’s school. Granted she could have asked the sheriff for directions. The man seemed content to stand beside her and say nothing. Having gained her bearings, she headed north, with the sheriff dutifully keeping pace. If he was content to walk in silence, she would be, too.
She breathed in the midmorning air. Clean, even with an occasional dust cloud from passing traffic. This was what Da’s lungs needed. Everything would work out perfectly. She tapped her notebook against her palm as she turned onto Lawrence Street. Three days a week was all she had left to offer, with two creditors left to visit. If both asked for a quicker payback—
Emilia worried her bottom lip. Please, Lord, let them be reasonable.
She stepped at the intersection with Last Chance Gulch, then turned right.
Sheriff McCall’s hand rested on her back again. “This way.” He nudged her left.
“You don’t have to escort me to every creditor,” she insisted. “I’m fully capable of managing this myself. I’m not your responsibility.”
The corners of his mouth indented.
Emilia growled. He was worse than a flea. A blight of locusts. A plague.
Chapter Eight
They continued north toward a two-story, triangular-shaped brick building twice the size of the general store. Emilia eyed the building. In black-painted letters near the flat roof, THE RESALE CO. lined both edges. At the intersection of three roads, they crossed to the other side of Last Chance Gulch. Then they crossed again.
Sheriff McCall motioned to the right. “Helena Avenue will take you to the depot.”
Emilia held a retort.
He stopped at a propped-open door underneath a cloth awning.
Sheriff McCall motioned for her to enter first.
She tucked her notebook under her arm. Then she slid past him, withdrawing her fountain pen from her haversack as she walked. As in the general store, shelves lined the walls of the secondhand store to the ceiling. Unlike in the general store, a set of wood and iron stairs led to a loft with shelves of books and other home goods. Furniture stacked on furniture. Twine-bound rolls of rugs. Lamps. Paintings. Baskets and blankets hung from the ceiling beams. And candles. Lots of candles and soaps, which must be what fragranced the shop with such a welcoming scent. A sleeping tabby cat—either pregnant or merely well fed—lay inside an open cupboard. Despite the urge to pet it, Emilia continued on to a white-painted counter taller than the one she used to stand behind at Spiegel.
Sheriff McCall stopped next to her and tapped on the bell.
Emilia leaned close to whisper, “I don’t need your assistance.”
“Humph,” he muttered.
“Mac!” a deep voice bellowed. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you before we left.” An older man with an impressive handlebar mustache that rivaled his silvery shoulder-length hair, strolled around a stack of crates, carrying a box overflowing with doorknobs. “How are you holding—” His surprised gaze narrowed on Emilia. “Miss, I’ll, uh, be with you in a moment,” he said before looking back at the sheriff. He set the box on the counter. “What brings you by?”
Before the sheriff could say anything, Emilia stretched out her hand to the ma
n she assumed was the proprietor. “He’s with me.” Unfortunately. “I’m Mrs. Phineas Collins,” she said, shaking his hand. Like the previous creditors, he stared at her with a when-did-Finn-get-married expression. Once again, she felt disinclined to explain. “Are you Mr. David Pawlikowski, the owner of this fine establishment?”
“I am.”
“Excellent.” She rested her journal on the counter, then flipped to the page with her payment schedule for the secondhand store. “You extended my husband the credit of twenty-five dollars and forty-three cents. I would like to—”
“He bought a cookstove.”
Emilia looked up. “Excuse me?”
Mr. Pawlikowski’s gaze flickered to the sheriff before settling back on her. This time, though, he had a twinkle in his dark eyes. “Was a month back. Said he needed to get his home in order. He bought some fancy linens and the nicest featherbed I had. Some Englishman used to own them.” He rested his elbow on the counter and leaned forward. “The first time my wife sat on a featherbed she vowed she was never leaving.” He gave her a cheeky grin. “It’s best not to argue with a woman when she’s with child. Or when she’s not.”
Emilia’s face warmed.
To the sheriff ’s credit, all he did was look heavenward . . . and grin somewhat.
She returned her attention to her payment plan. “Sir, I would like to barter labor against the debt.” She turned the notebook to face him, using her fountain pen to point to the numbers. “According to my calculations, if I work two days a week at a dollar-a-day wage, I can retire the debt by the end of June.”
Mr. Pawlikowski studied her instead of her calculations.
Emilia held his gaze. He looked suspicious. Why? She was being sincere. If he would give her a chance, she’d prove she was trustworthy, a hard worker, and worth the two dollars per day she’d been offered to stay at Spiegel.
“Prior to arriving in Helena,” she rushed on, “I worked at Spiegel Department Store in Chicago for almost four years. I delivered catalogs and oversaw the register. My most recent, and longest position, was as customer service department manager. I handled returns, credits, and complaints. And gift wrapping.” Occasionally, she also attended to a lost child.
He slowly nodded. “Impressive accomplishment for someone your age.”
“I’m twenty-one.”
He gave her a dubious stare.
She forced a smile. “My height does me no favors.”
He acknowledged this with a brief nod.
“I can request a reference,” she offered, “if you need one.”
The sheriff crossed his arm and muttered, “Humph,” drawing Mr. Pawlikowski’s attention. Neither said anything, yet something had been communicated.
“No need,” answered Mr. Pawlikowski. “I trust your word.”
He looked down at the notebook, his mouth tightening into a thin line. He abruptly turned back a page. Emilia opened her mouth to question what he was looking for. He kept turning pages until he reached her list of what was on the ranch, with question marks next to items she wondered about selling and the list of things she hoped to buy. She gripped her fountain pen with both hands to keep from snatching her notebook away. His imposing behavior didn’t justify rudeness on her part. She had no shame at what was on those pages. It all testified to how hard she intended to work. If he’d give her a chance, she’d prove it. She could do this.
And yet she shifted her weight uncomfortably. It wasn’t as if she’d expected to keep the debts a secret. Word would travel. News would spread about how she was bartering labor against debt. Creditors would talk to creditors. Reading her notebook allowed him to reach the truth quicker. She was in debt: $179.13.
In her haversack, she had $3.94 to make last until Da arrived in July . . . or until she could find another way to earn money. The man she’d married by proxy was dead. She was responsible for two siblings, two goats, five chickens, twenty-two cows, a bull, and a rank-smelling, pregnant sow.
I can make this work.
Mr. Pawlikowski regarded her coolly. “I’ll give you three seventy-five for the ranch. Land and cabin only. You can keep or sell everything else.”
“I’m not interested in selling.”
“It would be in your best interest, Mrs. Collins.”
“She knows,” muttered the sheriff.
Emilia pressed her lips together to keep from saying something impolite to both men.
Maybe it was because Mr. Pawlikowski was near Da’s age. Maybe it was because both men had dark brown eyes she’d swear could see into her soul. Maybe she was being fanciful due to exhaustion and hunger and grief. But when she looked into Mr. Pawlikowski’s eyes, she saw disappointment. With her. How could that be? He didn’t know her.
Nothing in the notebook testified to what she’d sacrificed.
It only showed how hard she was willing to work.
“May I?” Mr. Pawlikowski motioned to her fountain pen.
Emilia handed it to him.
He flipped the pages to where she’d written The Resale Co., David Pawlikowski, proprietor.
He drew a line through her payment schedule, then wrote, A dollar a day until debt is paid. He signed his name. “Mrs. Collins, you may work at your convenience. I leave this Saturday to take my wife on a year-long and quite belated honeymoon. As long as the debt is paid by the time I return, I’ll be satisfied. Because my sons, Isaak and Jakob, will be splitting their time between the store and readying our ranch for new tenants, you can work the front counter.”
Ranch for new tenants? That sounded like—
“Is Jakob Gunderson your son?” Why hadn’t he said anything last night?
Mr. Pawlikowski and the sheriff exchanged glances again.
“He is.” Mr. Pawlikowski offered Emilia her pen. “How do you know Jakob?”
She couldn’t look away. While he looked distinguished with his silvery mane and mustache, and he was a taller man, she couldn’t find any physical similarity to his son—or, she presumed, his step-son in light of their different last names. “Sheriff McCall asked him to help stand guard last night,” she finally answered. “He’s teaching my brother and sister to catch and clean fish.”
“Not surprising,” he muttered. “You be sure to tell Jakob his mother expects him home for dinner.”
“Certainly.”
She signed her name next to his, then handed the pen to the sheriff for him to sign. This time, though, he only wrote Mac. He laid the pen in the center of the notebook.
She shook Mr. Pawlikowski’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I’ll start Monday. Nine A.M. Enjoy the holiday with your wife.”
“I will.” He cocked his head to the side, his brow furrowing with concern. “I’m sorry for your loss. Finn was a good man. Be patient and know God will lead Mac to whoever killed your husband and why.”
Emilia swallowed. Her chest tightening, she moistened her lips and tried to form words. Nothing came out. It hurt to think about Finn. To think that she’d never see what he looked like. To never hear his voice.
Mr. Pawlikowski gave her a gentle smile. “May I give you a piece of advice?”
She nodded.
“That land of yours will draw men—some good, some not. Don’t marry the first man who proposes. Like my wife was, you can afford to be choosy.” He twisted his silver wedding band, his expression growing solemn. “And then choose wisely.”
Unsure of what to say, she merely nodded.
Then he clasped the sheriff ’s shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
Silence.
Emilia snatched her notebook and pen and hurried to the front door. This wasn’t a conversation she needed to overhear.
She stepped out into the warm morning sun and, despite the way her hands shook, deposited her pen and notebook into her haversack. Resting her hands over her heart, she breathed deep. And choked back a sob. This wasn’t the moment to break down. It wasn’t. Tears blurred her eyes. Don’t do it. Don’t cry. There were too many people o
n the street to see. Head up.
Emilia raised her chin. She blinked rapidly to clear her eyes. After another steadying breath, she checked her map. To the right was Main Street. To the left, Helena Avenue. So if she headed south on Main Street, the first intersection should be Eleventh. She started forward.
A group of Indians, wearing their blankets like togas and with the dignity of old Roman senators, strode slowly along the other side of the street. The squaws, all but two with papooses on their backs, peered into the windows of the businesses. Indians. Chinamen. Buffalo soldiers. Miners. Mountain men. Top-hatted men with gold pocket watches. Grand barouches. Mule-pulled carts. Since arriving in Helena, she’d seen more skin tones and social levels than she’d seen her whole life in Chicago.
She turned left onto Eleventh and looked around for a HESS BLACKSMITHY sign. The blacksmithy had to be around here somewhere. She smelled smoke, but it could be from anywhere, including the bakery across the street. Her stomach growled. Once she visited the blacksmith, she could return to Cannon’s General Store to collect her purchases. With the cornmeal she’d bought, she could make—
A hand tightened around her arm, pulling her to a halt. “We need to talk about Samuel Hess.”
“We don’t.” Emilia jerked free of Sheriff McCall’s grasp. She looked side to side to see if anyone had noticed them. Wagons and riders continued past. “Sheriff McCall, I am quite capable of negotiating with the blacksmith on my own.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Of course not. I don’t know anyone in this town,” she reminded him. “And I won’t know anyone until I speak with them. Talking is how people make friends.”
He glowered down at her. “Trust me. There are people here you shouldn’t talk to. People who don’t have your best interest at heart.”
“And you do?”
His eyes narrowed.
She coughed a breath. “We have known each other for a day, and a good eight hours of it we were both asleep. And yet you expect me to trust you because you say you were my husband’s closest friend and because you wear a badge.”
