She looked at the woman called Jane, whose one-shoulder shrug told him nothing of her thoughts. She turned back to J.R. “As I told the reporter who arrived before you, I can’t guarantee any lady will agree to an interview, but I wish you well. And I warn you—the inn is filled to capacity. There’s space for you in Tent City.”
“I don’t own a tent.” After four years of sleeping in a tent during the war, he vowed never to sleep in one again.
“This could be a problem.” Miss Melton thought for a long moment. “Jane, would you find Mr. Lockhart somewhere to stay? Try the Kassels first. They have a spare bedroom. I need to see how Madeline is faring.”
Miss Melton strolled off, clearly expecting the woman called Jane to comply.
He smiled. “That was rather exciting, wouldn’t you say?”
She rolled her eyes. “Follow me.”
As she strolled past, he caught of whiff of her perfume. The classic smell of violet with a mysterious hint of vanilla—a fitting scent for her. This confident yet mysterious Indian maiden had a story to tell.
Before he continued on to California, he’d find out what it was.
Chapter 5
I have the fault of being a little more sincere than is proper.—Molière
Sunday afternoon, May 20
Jane was no more Sacagawea than Mr. Lockhart was Lewis or Clark, and yet here she was escorting him down the vast terrain called Main Street, because after the morning worship service, Abby Melton had invited him to tea to discuss her participation in the husband auditions … and then invited Jane to join them. She couldn’t exactly decline. She’d longed for this day. For three years! Never had she imagined a dandified journalist from Philadelphia joining their tête-à-tête.
Mr. Lockhart knew full well where the Meltons lived. Abby had been sufficiently clear in her directions on where to walk from the Kassels’ home to her house … right next door! Yet at precisely 3:42 p.m., Mr. Lockhart had arrived at Jane’s house, at the opposite end of town from Abby’s house. How did he know where Jane lived? She’d not told him.
She wouldn’t have told him.
Unlike the baggy clothes of the other men in town, his black suit, like his tan one yesterday, looked to be perfectly tailored to his lean frame. People feared the unfamiliar. If Mr. Lockhart wanted townsfolk to feel comfortable with him, he needed to look like he was one of them. For that very reason, even in the privacy of her home, unwilling to be discovered by a surprise visitor, she continued to forsake her comfortable moccasins for constricting, lace-up boots.
“You look vexed,” he said, breaking the delightful silence.
Jane stopped in the middle of Main Street. The strong south wind blew, billowing her skirts and sending dust down the road. Traffic, not that there was any, could pass going either direction and not touch her. By keeping to the middle of the street, none of the men loitering on the boardwalk would hear their conversation. Emily Peabody and Louisa Doolittle stepped out of their dressmaker shop, and a good dozen men swarmed the widows. All businesses in town were closed on Sunday, so what were they up to? Work? Or a chance to be swarmed by men?
Mr. Lockhart cleared his throat, drawing her attention.
Jane tilted her head so the brim of her straw bonnet would shield her eyes from the sun … and the dusty wind. “Mr. Lockhart, I have no desire to aid you on your quest for a story. I have better things I could be doing.”
“Such as?”
“Baking a pie for Reverend Smith”—was the first, and only, thing that came to mind.
With the tip of his index finger, he eased his hat up. “I get it. I understand. You are embarrassed over what I saw, and you think I view your actions as unbecoming for a lady.”
Jane stared at him, at his winkling gray-green eyes conveying the assurance he felt over his judgment. He was wrong, though. “I’m not embarrassed. And I have no care about what you think of me.” She resumed walking. “This first building on our right is the church.”
“That explains the cross on top.”
He grinned.
Jane didn’t.
She continued. “The lush green next to it is where the town often hosts socials, such as the upcoming Founders’ Day Celebration a week from today.”
Mr. Lockhart fell into step next to her, jotting into his small black notebook. His writing—those strange marks—looked like bird tracks.
As he wrote, Jane caught sight of Emma Mason strolling next to a man who held hands with a little girl, who, based on their matching carrot-colored hair, had to be father and daughter. Where were Emma’s children?
“Turtle Springs,” Jane said, “was founded in ’55 by a group of emigrants from Connecticut wanting to join the Underground Railroad. Abolitionist Henry Ward Beecher provided the funds to purchase rifles which were then smuggled through pro-slavery areas in crates marked BEECHER’S BIBLES. The town’s free-state founding fathers used these rifles to protect themselves from Missouri Bushwhackers.”
“An abolitionist tract was the first thing I was paid for writing.”
Jane turned away from watching Emma and the stranger. “You’re an abolitionist?”
“Was.” He drew a deep breath then let it out. “The fight is over. Slavery is now unconstitutional.”
Him an abolitionist. She would have never guessed. “Are you a man of faith?”
“I am a member of the Society of Friends.”
She jolted to a stop. “A Quaker?” The second after he nodded, she asked, “Is that why you did not attend worship service? Denominational differences?”
He looked away, and his green eyes grew distant. “No,” was all he said. His gaze fell to where she rubbed the heel of her right palm. “Let me see your wrist.”
Jane clasped her hands together. “It’s nothing.”
“You started massaging it yesterday while we waited for the sheriff. You’ve been massaging it since you stepped out of your house.”
He’d noticed?
“It’s not broken,” she told him.
“I know.” His smug grin grew. “If you’d fractured a bone, your hand would be too swollen for a leather glove to fit. You wear gloves today so no one will notice the bruise. If they noticed, they would ask.” He leaned forward, his eyes filled with kindness, his voice with concern. “Miss Ransome, why are you embarrassed for anyone to know how you protected your friend?”
She wasn’t embarrassed. He had no idea the expectations society placed on women, even more so on one with savage and civilized blood.
Jane resumed walking, and to no surprise, Mr. Lockhart kept pace with her. Several tumbleweeds blew past, and yet only puffy, white clouds dotted the sky. No storm in sight. The stone cellar cave on the Lomax farm could hold most of the townsfolk, but with the number of men in town for the husband auditions—Jane sighed. The odds favored a moderate spring, as usual, with the worst being high winds and dust clouds like today. She doubted a fairer, more genial climate could be found on earth. When a storm did hit, one thing always happened.
The heavens rained down wrath.
If a cyclone dropped, J.R. Lockhart of Philadelphia would not know what to do to survive. Jane would have to lead him to safety in the Lomax cave.
“You look vexed again,” he said all-cheerful.
Why wouldn’t she be? She had so many better things to be doing with her time.
Jane refocused her thoughts. What had she been discussing? Ah yes, Turtle Springs’ history. “After the vicious pro-slaver W.C. Quantrill attacked the peaceful town of Lawrence, slaughtering 183 men as old as ninety and boys as young as fourteen, and burning all but two businesses”—she drew in a breath—“the men of Turtle Springs enlisted out of righteous indignation over the unjust massacre of their Kansas brethren. Of the eighty-three men who enlisted to fight, seven returned. Doc Carter is the only one unscathed.”
“Physically,” he muttered.
The gravity of his tone caught her attention. He knew war. He’d lived it. Like the men who
fought and the women who stayed behind, he bore scars. Ones that couldn’t be seen. Were they as deep as hers?
“Did you fight?” she said, the question rushing from her mouth.
“Only with words.” He scribbled in his notebook. “Did you lose anyone?”
Jane paused until she knew her words would convey no emotion. “I have no connections to anyone in Turtle Springs, either dead or living.” Needing a change of topic, she motioned to the red-winged blackbirds perched atop Tumble Inn’s roof-line, from one end to the other. “Here is where the husband auditions will take place this coming Friday, in the dining hall from four to six in the afternoon. Interviews will last fifteen minutes each.”
He cast a glance at the inn before focusing on her. “And then?”
“All men leave for the ladies to deliberate. Once finished, Abby will announce a lady’s name and that of the suitor she’s chosen.”
“To marry?”
“No,” Jane sighed. “To permit to court her. A woman would be a fool to marry a man she knows all of fifteen minutes. Some men wrote letters prior to their arrival. Each lady has had an opportunity to read and discuss these letters with their confidantes.”
“Have you read the letters?”
“Certainly.”
“Who did you discuss them with?”
“This is not information you need to know.”
“Ah. So no one then.”
Jane let out an inelegant snort.
He scribbled something into his notebook. “Is there a list of set questions the ladies will ask in order to compare answers to see if any man’s story changes?”
Jane opened her mouth in defense … then closed it because, in this, his point was fair. No one had considered testing the men’s honesty, not even her, and she was the one most wary of this husband-hunting process. “The only way that would be feasible would be if Mr. Kassel were still alive and able to print copies on his press.” To give herself some credit, she added, “Someone, however, purchased diaries for each lady to take notes.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“Why do you presume it was me?”
“For the same reason you don’t deny I’m right.”
Jane let out another inelegant snort.
He chuckled then gripped her elbow, guiding her out of the street and onto the boardwalk in front of the mercantile. Neither Mr. Underwood nor Mr. Quimby were there to see Jane walking with Mr. Lockhart, yet she knew come Monday morning, they would have a wealth of questions about him.
Movement inside the mercantile caught her eye. She stepped to the window and noticed all four Stevens boys and Luke Collins, who waved at her. As soon as Jane waved back, he took the broom from Emmett. Whatever Luke said caused the boy to nod repeatedly.
“What’s going on in there?”
“I think he’s making them clean the store,” Jane answered. “Luke used to court their older sister, Chardy, who owns the mercantile. The leg he lost in the war keeps him from seeing how much Chardy still loves him … and how much he still loves her. She broke her arm earlier in the week.”
“How?”
“Her brother George.” Really, it was enough of an answer. Anyone male, or who had at least one brother, should understand.
Mr. Lockhart nodded, clearly having fit the first (if not the second, too) distinction.
“Do you have siblings?” she asked, walking next to him.
“None. You?”
“Six—seven.” His brows rose, so she explained, “My oldest brother was massacred in Quantrill’s Raid. My two younger ones are exploring Texas.” Last she knew.
“Ah.” He wrote more in his notebook.
As they walked by the Kassels’ home, Millie Kassel Kurtz, her mother, and her brother Oliver were sitting under the covered porch. Jane waved.
“Mr. Lockhart,” Mrs. Kassel called out, “you do like pork roast and potatoes?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pointed at Oliver. “I expect a rematch.”
To Jane’s shock, Oliver—the man, to her knowledge, who hadn’t smiled since returning from the war with his left arm sawed off and the bodies of his father and brother in boxes—smiled. Not a little one either. Where was Lizzie Roth to see this?
“The cards are shuffled and ready,” Oliver answered.
As they walked on, Jane studied Mr. Lockhart. What had he said to bring Oliver out of the woe-is-me muck? Whatever he’d done now explained the teary-eyed hugs and the “thank you for thinking of us” Mrs. Kassel and Millie had given Jane before worship this morning. But she hadn’t thought of them. Abby was the one who’d ordered Jane to ask the Kassels to house Mr. Lockhart. Abby should be receiving the gratitude.
They reached the Meltons’ two-story white home at the tail end of Main Street. Mr. Lockhart handed Jane his notebook and pencil. He then propped his left foot up on a porch step. As he re-tied his shoe, Jane looked through his notebook. Chicken scratch described his writing. She flipped until she reached the last page with marks.
“See something that interests you?”
Pages of interest, actually. Curiosity piqued, Jane looked from the notebook to his amused gaze. “There’s not a single word in here.”
“Of course not. There’s thousands.”
“Thousands?”
He nodded. “It’s a form of writing called shorthand. May I?” Instead of taking the notebook, he stepped closer, enough that she could smell his pine cologne. He touched the first line of scratch on the left page. His warm voice in her ear said, “Here I wrote, Find a pretty maiden to stroll through town with.”
Jane could feel her cheeks grow warm and her pulse increase. He was flirting. Why? He’d insisted he was here for a story, not to marry. But if he were, there were far more suitable women. Ones who would be thrilled to leave a tiny town a hop, skip, and a throw south of the Kansas River. As she felt his gaze on her, she focused on the notebook, because wisdom counseled her to. So did self-protection and cowardice.
“Mr. Lockhart, is this your attempt at flirtation?”
Chapter 6
There are pretenders to piety as well as to courage.—Molière
Miss Jane Ransome was stunningly direct. When she wants to be, J.R. silently amended. She was the sort of woman he would court were he gainfully employed. And in California. He wasn’t averse to her beauty or charms, not that he believed she’d attempted to charm him. On the contrary, she seemed intentionally standoffish. He’d wager she didn’t want him to be attracted to her. But he was. No sense denying it.
He couldn’t remember a time he felt a stronger attraction to a woman. But he was leaving for Sacramento after he finished his article. Wisest thing to do was maintain distance, which was why J.R. stopped admiring the curve of her neck, those inches of skin between her bonnet ribbons and the black lace collar of her emerald-and-white-striped dress.
He looked up. A fat lot of luck it did him. As he took a step back, he noticed the rosy hue infusing her cheeks.
Miss Jane Ransome wasn’t averse to him either.
“It is my attempt at a mild flirtation,” he clarified, because he saw no reason to deny it. Surely she’d engaged in a few innocent flirtations of her own.
His honesty earned him a disapproving shake of her head. “Sir, I have no inclination—”
“To fall victim to my charms?” he supplied.
“No—yes, to that.” With a troublesome pucker to her brow, she handed him his notebook and pencil, which he didn’t take. “Sir, I intend to choose a suitor during the husband interviews. My potential suitors would not view me respectably should I entertain the flirtatious whims of a man passing through on his way to California.”
“That man may wish to find a bride to take with him.”
Her look told him her exact thought: You have no wish at all to do that.
She was right.
Except she wasn’t.
Until this moment, he hadn’t considered taking a bride west with him. He never expected or hoped
to find one in Turtle Springs. He wasn’t obligated to go alone. The thought of having a partner on the journey—now that he entertained the idea—tempted him. Especially a partner he enjoyed talking with. And looking at.
As the sun breaks the dawn, so my heart awakes anew.
Perfect words for this moment. As much as he wished to continue the poem, and he would later, he focused on Miss Ransome. His muse.
“A man has the right to change his mind,” he said with conviction.
She looked stunned—except, the look was so fleeting J.R. second-guessed seeing it. Her lips curved enough to convey pained tolerance. Such a beautiful mask in an attempt to hide her lack of immunity to him.
J.R. smiled.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“I can’t help it. I like it when you look at me that way.” Heaven help him, he did. “Your loveliness breathes words to life in me. We shouldn’t keep the Meltons waiting.” Giving her no time to rebuff his remark, J.R. placed a hand on her lower back and tried not to dwell on how natural the action felt. He nudged her up the steps.
Miss Abigail Melton opened the door.
Within minutes, introductions had been made and greetings paid to Mrs. Lucille Melton; her youngest daughter, Lucy; Miss Lucy’s friend, Nora Mason; and Miss Nora’s brothers, Ethan and Orrie. Miss Ransome took it upon herself to explain how the two youths and three-year-old were the children of a widow who owned a goat farm south of town. From the description she gave of the woman and the man and little girl who’d walked with her, J.R. guessed his stagecoach mate, Liam Logan, had already begun courting Widow Mason.
Miss Melton touched her sister’s shoulder. “Treats for you four are in the kitchen. Be sure to take Orrie to the outhouse before you head across the street to the schoolyard.” She gave a warning look to the older Mason boy. “Do not leave him in the outhouse again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” came from the three older children.
As the four dashed down the hall, Mrs. Melton followed. “Have a seat and start without me,” she called out. “I’ll bring tea.”
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