by Megan Besing
Her chair screeched on the wooden floor as she jumped to her feet, an embarrassed flush warming her cheeks. She hadn’t taken into account the limited space in the small cabin. As far as she could tell, there wasn’t room anywhere to put her trunk. Her gaze landed on Mr. Halliday.
“Sir? Should I ask him to take my belongings to the barn?”
“Absolutely not. You’re our guest, not one of the horses.” He chuckled at his own humor. “Daniel, put the trunk over there inside the door. I’ll take care of it later.”
Helena stood next to the rocking chair beneath the cabin window, watching while Mr. McNabb came through the door with his burden. She wrapped her arms around her middle as a sensation of loss swept through her.
If only they’d met under different circumstances.
Chapter 7
That evening, Mr. Halliday maneuvered Helena’s trunk into a tiny spot next to her bed and bid her good night. She heard his and Sarah’s voices murmuring from their room across the cabin.
Unable to sleep, she lit a lamp and opened the domed top of the trunk to expose her belongings. Her heart bumped in her throat at the sight of folded linens she’d packed from her bridal chest. Instead of being a bride, she’d be what? An old maid living in Spokane Falls, far from everyone. She clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms.
“Take no thought for the morrow.” Her grip relaxed. “Yes, Lord,” she whispered. On her knees, she searched for her mother’s gold-trimmed teacup and saucer, praying they were unharmed. Dropping linens, towels, and dresses beside her on the bed, she continued to burrow through her possessions. When she reached the center of the chest, she felt the outline of a cup. She sucked in a breath. Gently, she peeled back the shawl she’d used as padding and grasped her prize. Lamplight bounced off the gold fleur-de-lis pattern.
Tears clouded her vision. She’d packed the pink china with such high hopes, and ended up serving tables in an unsavory café. Those tickets were definitely a test, not a gift. After placing the teacup and saucer on the bureau, she blew out the lamp.
Helena awakened to the sound of utensils clinking against pottery. Dim light filtered from the kitchen area. Without a window in her room, she couldn’t guess the time, but she hoped she hadn’t slept through breakfast. She stepped into her gray and brown plaid dress, fastened the buttons, then peered into the tiny mirror above the bureau while she twisted her hair into a bun. After slipping on her shoes, she hurried to the main room.
“Good morning, Helena. You’re just in time.” Sarah turned from the range, holding a platter of flapjacks. “Eggs will be ready in a moment.” Grant and Beth greeted her with mischievous smiles, as though they shared a secret.
Helena glanced from one smiling face to another. “Where’s Mr. Halliday? He’s usually the first one up, isn’t he?”
“He had to take care of early chores. I’ll keep his food warm. The rest of you go ahead.” Keeping her back turned, Sarah slid a filled plate into the oven.
Helena hesitated. Brilliant sunshine flared through the window, painting the room with shades of gold and orange. “Perhaps I’d better be on my way. I told Mr. Austen—Oily—that I’d be there at six.”
When Beth snickered, Grant elbowed her in the side. “Eat your breakfast and hush.” He looked up at Helena. “Mama makes good flapjacks. You’ll have plenty of time.”
At Beth’s laughter, Helena’s skin crawled with humiliation. Even a girl as young as Beth knew what she faced at Oily’s. She kept her head down so they wouldn’t see the tears that stung her eyes. Hand trembling, she forked a single flapjack onto her plate, managing to chew and swallow.
In spite of Grant’s assurance about the time, she finished her portion quickly, thanked Sarah for the meal, and hurried out the door. Cool morning air carried the sweet scent of grasses. When she looked back over her shoulder, the rows of young leaves in the Hallidays’ wheat fields glowed green in the spreading sunlight.
Sarah had told her that Mr. McNabb also raised wheat. Imagine living in a little cabin and working alongside him to prove up their claim. Helena bit her lip. She wished she’d never come to Spalding. The knowledge of what she’d missed would forever dim the luster of anything her future might hold.
A puff of air pushed her bonnet forward, and when she resettled the wide-brimmed hat over her hair, she noticed a man on horseback galloping toward her. In moments, Mr. Halliday reined the animal to a stop and shot her a broad smile.
“Hoped I’d catch you before you left, but this’ll do.”
“What’s wrong?” She choked out the question over the pounding of her heart.
He slid from the horse to stand facing her. “Not one thing. Contrariwise, I have good news—you don’t work at Oily’s any longer.”
“What?”
His grin grew wider. “I just came from there. Told him you were not coming back, ever. Then I went down the street to Wolford’s Mercantile. Horace admitted he could use some help.”
Dizziness threatened to topple her. She reached out to place a steadying hand on the horse’s neck. “I…I don’t know what to say. Why would you do this for me?”
“I look at you, I see my Beth in a few years. I pray someone would help her if she found herself in a—” He lifted his hat and raked his fingers through his graying hair. “Let’s say, a bad situation.”
Helena fought for composure. Through a mist of tears, the morning appeared brighter, the grass greener, and the flowers more colorful. A meadowlark sang as it glided overhead.
“Saying thank you doesn’t seem like enough, Mr. Halliday. I’m truly grateful.”
“Glad to do it.” His face reddened. “I’m not used to being ‘mister’ all the time. How about you call me Uncle Will?”
“Thank you. I’d be honored.” Her voice hitched on a sob.
Leading his horse, he walked beside her as they returned to the cabin.
Later that morning, Uncle Will took Helena’s elbow and escorted her through the entrance to Wolford’s Mercantile. Mingled aromas of pickles, kerosene, leather, and who knew what else met them inside. Once over the threshold, he whispered next to her ear. “That’s Horace up on the ladder back there. He’s expecting you.”
A pulse fluttered in her throat. She’d do her best to please the storekeeper so Uncle Will would have no cause to regret helping her. While they waited, Mr. Wolford hung the lantern he held from a rafter and clambered down to greet them. With his drooping mustache and tired eyes, he reminded her of a basset hound one of her Illinois neighbors owned. She ducked her head to hide a quick smile.
“This the young lady you mentioned?” Mr. Wolford spoke in a high-pitched voice that carried a tone of skepticism. “Looks too puny to be much help around here.”
“She’ll soon prove you wrong.” Uncle Will gave her elbow a slight squeeze.
Helena lifted her chin. “I’m a hard worker, sir. Sweeping, dusting, keeping your shelves tidy—I can do all that. If you wish, I can tend to your accounts. My father—”
“Don’t need no one to trifle with my accounts. If you’re ready to work, there’s a crate of crockery open in the back. Find a good place and stack the plates on a shelf.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, sir.”
After thanking Uncle Will for escorting her to town, she walked toward the rear of the building, passing countertops covered with jars of candy, boxes of cigars, and numerous small items. The floor-to-ceiling shelves seemed to be bursting with goods. Could be that’s why Mr. Wolford hasn’t unpacked the crockery. Near the crate she noticed a bare space between rolls of colorful calico and an assortment of patent medicines. She pushed the open container toward the shelf and reached inside for the first plate.
Shoppers came and went, but apparently Mr. Wolford didn’t intend to allow her to help him with customers. He kept her busy arranging merchandise in the dim interior. Fine, then. This was better than serving tables at Oily’s. She bent to arrange the nail bins beneath the shelves holding tools. If nails w
ere in order according to size, people would have an easier time making a selection.
“Miss Erickson.” She spun around at the sound of his voice.
“Yes, sir?”
“Time to lock up.” His gaze traveled over the shelves she’d tidied, then moved down to the bins at her feet. One corner of his mustache twitched in a near smile. “Looks like you’ll work out. Pay is four dollars a week. Course since this is Thursday, and tomorrow’s Decoration Day, I’ll give you two dollars on Saturday.”
“Thank you. I’ll be here.”
He grunted acknowledgement, strode to the front door, and held it open for her. She followed, pausing when she noticed copies of The Spokane Falls Review stacked on the counter.
“Excuse me, sir, may I purchase a newspaper?”
“That’s last week’s. Just take one.” The smile in his eyes belied his gruff response.
With the paper folded under one arm, she hurried out the door, eager to return to the Hallidays’ and begin making plans.
Chapter 8
Daniel passed beneath the flag flying at the entrance to the small Grand Army of the Republic cemetery. Rows of graves marked with either simple wooden crosses or carved headstones created a boundary between the cemetery and the rear of Spalding’s only church. Several families had already arrived to tidy and decorate graves of Union soldiers who had ties to the community.
He turned to his left, his goal an upright stone with a cross engraved above the words:
ROSS MCNABB
DIED
DEC. 10 A.D. 1883
AGED 37 Y’S, 6 M’S & 1 DAY
Daniel carried no flowers. Ross would laugh at him for strewing flowers over his grave. When he reached the stone he removed his hat and bowed his head.
“Should’ve been me, Ross. We were partners, meant to be a team.” Fresh grief for his brother choked him. He took a deep breath and continued. “You’d be proud to see this year’s wheat. It’s coming in good. I’ll prove up our claim next year.” He stood for another moment, as though expecting a response, then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
As he stepped away, he noticed people nearby arranging wildflower bouquets on three side-by-side graves. Taking a second look, he recognized Will’s family—and Miss Erickson. She glanced up and saw him at the same moment. Her cheeks pinked.
“Good day, Mr. McNabb.”
“Good day to you.” Pretty girl like that, shame she’d decided to serve tables at that disreputable café. He wondered why Oily had allowed her time away. Normally he kept his doors open every day but Sunday.
Will raised his hand in greeting. “We brought a picnic. Join us.”
“Oh, yes, do.” Sarah gave him a bright smile. She placed the bouquet she held beneath a wooden cross next to her feet. “The food’s in the wagon. We’ll eat in the churchyard.” After taking a final glance at her handiwork, she led the way out of the cemetery.
Beth and Miss Erickson followed her, with Will, Grant, and Daniel at the rear of the procession. The ladies spread a quilt over the grass and then waited while he helped carry food hampers from Hallidays’ buckboard.
After Sarah unpacked bowls filled with fried chicken, beet salad, and biscuits, she dipped into a smaller basket and drew out a square cake covered with caramel-colored icing. “Helena made this for us. It has blackberry jam inside.” She patted a space between her and Miss Erickson. “Come, sit.”
He sat cross-legged on the edge of the quilt. Surely Sarah wasn’t matchmaking after knowing how Miss Erickson came to be in Spalding in the first place. But, matchmaking or not, he couldn’t sit there like a lump. He should make polite conversation.
“That looks tasty. I haven’t had a bite of cake in some time.”
A pleased expression crossed Miss Erickson’s face. “I hope you like it. Blackberry cake is my father’s favorite.” He had to scoot closer to hear her soft voice.
It occurred to him to ask how her father felt about her traveling so far from home, but he decided the question might be too personal. He rubbed his damp palms on his trouser legs, telling himself the cause wasn’t Miss Erickson’s nearness. The sun overhead would make anyone sweat.
When Will turned the conversation to comments about the cemetery and the veterans represented there, Daniel relaxed and focused on his plate.
Helena stole a glance at Mr. McNabb as she lifted a buttered biscuit to her mouth. Her hand trembled. Every time she thought she’d managed to put him out of her mind, circumstances brought them together again. If only she’d been the one he’d proposed to.
A silent moment passed while she cast about for something to say. Then, with a nod toward the cemetery entrance, she asked, “Mr. McNabb, did you know one of the veterans buried there?”
He choked on a mouthful of food.
The Hallidays all gaped at her. Sarah reached over and clasped Helena’s free hand then turned her full attention to Mr. McNabb.
“I’m sorry, Daniel. We haven’t mentioned anything about—”
“Don’t apologize, Sarah. It’s my story to tell.” He set his half-filled plate on the quilt, his gaze landing on Helena. “My brother, Ross, is buried here. He survived the war but passed on last winter. It was…a terrible waste.”
Her throat tightened at the pain in his eyes. “I’m so sorry. That was a thoughtless question.”
“Not at all. It’s natural to wonder.” He rose, thanked Sarah for the meal, and strode toward his horse.
Moisture stung Helena’s eyes as she watched him ride away. “Oh my goodness, the poor man. I had no idea. I just wanted to be friendly.”
Sarah slid closer to her and slipped her arm around Helena’s waist. “Don’t reproach yourself, dear. Daniel won’t talk to anybody about his brother’s death. I think he’d feel much better if he had someone who would to listen to him. We hoped—” She cupped her free hand over her mouth. “Never mind.”
“I know what you’re thinking.” A tear slid down her cheek. “You hoped he would have a bride by now. Instead, I arrived.”
“It’s been a blessing to have you with us.” Sarah pulled her into a hug. “I’m thankful you’re here.”
Beth hurried to Helena’s side. “We’re all thankful. Please don’t cry.”
Sniffling, Helena leaned against Sarah and brushed the tears away. As kind as the Hallidays were, she looked forward to the day she could leave. She had no place in this community.
Chapter 9
Daniel leaned on a hoe while watching a buckboard rattle down the track toward his cabin. A woman held the reins. In the time it took him to prop the tool against the fence, Sarah Halliday reached the hitching post and clambered from the wagon.
“I brought you some bread, just baked this morning.” She held a towel-wrapped bundle toward him.
“Mighty kind of you.” He dusted his hands on the sides of his trousers then reached out to take the loaves. He gestured toward his shaded porch. “Come out of the sun for a few minutes. I just fetched water from the spring—it’s still cold. Then you can tell me what really brings you here.”
Sarah chuckled as she stepped up onto the porch. “Now, why would you say that?”
“Maybe ’cause you haven’t brought food by since Ross…passed.” He carried the bread inside and returned with two water-filled tumblers. After seating himself next to her, he sent her a searching glance. “Does Will need help with something? You know I’m happy to lend a hand.”
“I’m here to talk about you, not Will.” She took a sip of her water. “We haven’t seen you in church for weeks. Fact is, we haven’t seen you on the road since Decoration Day. I know you like to keep to yourself, but no church? No trips to town? Did Miss Erickson upset you that much last month?”
He shifted in his chair and stared out at his garden patch. Sometimes Sarah treated him as though he were no older than her son. His stomach muscles tightened. From experience, he knew she’d continue to probe until she felt satisfied with his answers. He huffed out a breath.
“Miss Erickson’s question hasn’t kept me from town.”
“Then what has?”
“I don’t like passing by the café, knowing she works for Oily to earn money to leave. It’s my fault she’s here. I’ve brought her to ruin. I never—”
Sarah set her glass down with a thump. “She only worked there the one time. Will put a stop to it the next morning.”
Relief washed over him, cool as spring water. He strode to the edge of the porch and stood with his back to her. He’d imagined her sullied by Oily’s rough clientele, when she was—
A board creaked when he swung around to face Sarah. “Then where is she?”
“Living with us. She’s helping Mr. Wolford at the mercantile, and he seems pleased with her work.” She sent him a pitying glance. “You can’t hide out here forever. As I recall, your birthday is at the end of this week.”
“On Saturday, the twenty-eighth. How did you know?”
“Women remember these things. Come for supper. And leave your guilt at home.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His face burned while he unhitched her horse, helped her into the buckboard, and watched the dust rise as she traveled back to her farm.
Truth be told, his supplies were running low. Time for a trip to the mercantile.
Mr. Wolford paused at the entrance. “You sure you’re able to deal with customers while I’m at the bank?”
Helena subdued a tickle of excitement. For weeks, while stocking shelves and sweeping floors, she’d hoped for this opportunity. Now she’d have a chance to show him her capabilities. She smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir. Please don’t worry.”
After he left, she moved behind the counter to stand between the coffee mill and the scales. The door stood open to catch what little breeze might blow through. Horses and wagons passed by in both directions, but this late in the day shoppers had apparently decided to stay at home. She drummed her fingers on the countertop. Please, Lord, just one customer.
