A Timeless Romance Anthology: Old West Collection

by Carla Kelly

  He’d be awed with the city as she was. She’d have to write to him, and soon, to tell him all about it.

  Again, thinking of Joseph brought back the memory of the last time she’d seen him, and it returned in sharp, painful relief. Her fingers instinctively reached for the necklace still about her neck. She’d been away from home for only a couple of days. While she hadn’t given Shelley much thought at all, somehow Joseph always returned to her mind.

  And now that she was here in Los Angeles, she yearned to be back in Shelley, going on a long horse ride with Joseph. He would ride his chestnut mare, and Della would ride a smaller, gentler pony.

  Her throat restricted with emotion, but drew a deep breath and forced herself to be rational. Such nonsense to be feeling two strong, conflicting emotions at the same time. How could she possibly be so happy and excited about where she was right that moment, yet at the very same time, miss Joseph just as intensely? It made no sense.

  Perhaps I can convince him to visit. The thought brought a smile to her face. Yes. That would be the solution. She could enjoy everything about the city and plan how to show it all to Joseph. She’d show him the city and all its splendor. Maybe he’d even want to stay. Her heart warmed at the thought, but she forcefully extinguished the hope as soon as it appeared. She could not hang her hopes on something as likely to happen as the moon falling from the sky.

  Quite simply, she had already faced a difficult decision, and she’d made it. Hard choices always required sacrifice. In her case, seeking happiness in her dreams meant leaving dear Joseph behind.

  It’s for the best, she reminded herself— again. She would be miserable staying in Shelley. And he most certainly would not care a whit about Los Angeles. Perhaps he’d enjoy the theater, but by the time the curtain fell, he’d be hankering to get back home to groom his horses and ride the fence.

  She glanced at Mrs. Baker, wishing the woman were closer to her own age, someone a young woman could confide in, laugh with, and go on outings with. But her new employer sat ramrod straight, her hat perfectly perched on her head, and her hand resting primly in her lap.

  Della turned her gaze forward again. Suddenly the glorious sights of the city faded and blurred. Instead of discovering a new and exciting world, she felt as if she’d been dropped into a giant ocean where she was only a speck floating in the vast expanse of water. She felt alone. So horribly alone.

  She focused on the horses and found an unexpected comfort there. They were a small reminder of home in the middle of this sea where she was completely insignificant.

  Everything will be better when I’m settled and into a routine. She clasped her hands in her lap just as Mrs. Baker did. Della put her shoulders back and her chin up. Change was never easy; she’d known that when she’d made the choice to come here.

  But she was convinced that she’d made the right choice.

  And I will be happy here.

  Chapter Five

  For a full week, Della had spent every waking hour working her fingers to the bone. Seven days doing some chores she was familiar with and others that were entirely new to her. Electricity completely baffled her— and at first, it scared her. As did the sewing machine, which Maria, the head housekeeper, tried to explain to her.

  “May I just use a needle and thread tonight?” Della asked, eyeing the needle darting up and down with wary eyes. Maria rolled her eyes, so Della quickly added, “I’ll learn soon. Just not right away when so many other things are new.”

  Like the telephone and the gas stove.

  “Very well,” Maria said with a tone that indicated she didn’t have the energy to argue. “Did you get your supper?”

  Della nodded. “I did, thank you.”

  “I’m turning in,” Maria said. “I expect that pile to be gone in the morning, before you leave.”

  “It will be. I promise,” Della said with a bob of her head. Tomorrow was her day off. So long as the mending was done, she was free to spend the day as she pleased. The idea gave her butterflies in her stomach.

  Maria grunted and left, closing the sewing room door behind her.

  Della turned to the pile of mending, feeling a bit hopeless and wishing she’d had the nerve to learn how to use the sewing machine, because the pile would take her an hour or two with only a needle and thread— a pile that, when she’d first sat down to it, had seemed almost as tall as the Blackfoot Mountains.

  As she stitched, her stomach growled, making her think of the meal that masqueraded as her supper— and made a face. The truth was, she hadn’t been able to eat much of it.

  The meat had been tough, the mashed potatoes tasteless, and the strawberries pale and tasteless. She’d tried the whipped cream with them, but even the cream tasted weak. Perhaps she was just used to fresh milk from the family’s own cow. Della was certain that she could make the meat more tender and tasty if given the chance; perhaps the cut was poor, or Maria should purchase meat from a different butcher.

  Yet how did one ruin a dish as simple as mashed potatoes?

  She almost heard Joseph’s voice in her head saying how Idaho potatoes were second to none, that they simply didn’t taste as good elsewhere.

  At the thought of dear Joseph, the needle pricked her finger; Della winced and sucked on the tip, then examined the cloth to be sure she hadn’t bled on it. Fortunately, she hadn’t. When the bleeding had stopped, she continued sewing tiny stitches to repair a hole in a pair of Mr. Baker’s trousers. When they were finished, she reached for the next item, a men’s shirt missing a button. At least that mend would be easy.

  Tomorrow. Think of tomorrow. She could hardly wait to leave the townhouse and enjoy every moment of her free day, exploring the city and soaking it all in. She spent the rest of her time mending in her daydreams, imagining the wonders that awaited her tomorrow.

  Finally, when her fingers and mind felt equally numb, Della snipped the final piece of thread from fixing the hem of one of Mrs. Baker’s dresses. She set the dress aside and stood, stretching her back and yawning. Time for bed.

  At last. Instinctively, she looked about for a candle to bring along, only to be reminded yet again that she had no candle; that she’d turn off the light with the switch by the door.

  She did so, yawning again, and made her way to her room, where she got ready for bed, clicked off the light in her tiny room, and dropped onto her small mattress. Every day, it was the same. If anything, she felt as if she woke earlier here than on the farm. The clock disagreed, but her exhaustion said otherwise.

  She lay in the dark, starkly feeling the absence of the familiar glow of a candle to ease her into bedtime, the scent of smoke swirling to the ceiling after she’d blown it out. Instead, one moment the room was bright as day, and the next, it was dark as pitch.

  After rolling to the side, she punched her pillow and pulled her covers tight then closed her eyes and wished for sleep. Every night, she lay here, trying to get to sleep— and to not cry. She’d wanted this, right?

  Well, not this exactly. She had yet to step outside Mrs. Baker’s townhome since crossing the threshold, and she itched to do so.

  In the morning, she would get her first taste of the city since her ride from the train station. She’d be sure to take in every detail so that when she’d saved enough money, and perhaps found different work, she would at last have the life she’d always dreamed of. She was one step closer here.

  Some nights, she managed to drift off to sleep in spite of her chapped hands, with images of what her future work might look like. Perhaps she’d be a seamstress. Or a secretary. Maybe a teacher. Or a nurse. Although the latter would likely require extra money and time for schooling, so she set that idea aside in favor of something that would give her a new apartment all to herself. Or a boarding house, or a room she let out. She wouldn’t mind sharing a room with another girl.

  Whatever it would be had to be easier on a body than being Mrs. Baker’s house help, where she was required to clean and launder and cook all t
he day long.

  Someday. Someday soon.

  Yet her last conscious thought was of how Joseph’s strawberry patch grew the sweetest, juiciest fruit, and how much she would enjoy a picnic eating them, gazing at the clouds above them.

  Chapter Six

  In the morning, Della awoke with a start, even though she hadn’t gotten more than five hours of sleep. She washed and dressed quickly, then left the townhouse before anyone could speak to her— she wasn’t about to tempt fate by even stopping in the kitchen for a bite of bread. Maria might be all too willing to give Della just one more chore to do before she left.

  She closed the townhouse door behind her, adjusted her gloves she hadn’t wore since the day she’d arrived by train, and cocked her head to make the most out of her pretty new hat, which her mother had bought for her grand adventure.

  Della walked along the street, smiling at everyone she passed and breathing in the air, which smelled so different from the air at home— but in a good way, she assured herself.

  After walking for an hour, her feet ached inside her boots, so she retreated to a soda shop, where she treated herself to ice cream with caramel sauce. She enjoyed every single bite.

  With her feet rested, she browsed the shops lining the streets and even went inside several stores to look at the wares, although she didn’t have enough money yet to buy any of the dresses or shoes and hats. She imagined herself wearing plenty of them, though. Or at least, she did until she held up a necklace and admired her reflection in a mirror on the wall. That’s when a worker about her own age approached quickly and reached for the necklace.

  “Need help finding something?” she asked as Della surrendered the necklace. The girl wore an expression that confused Della at first— patronizing and distrusting in spite of the toothy smile.

  “Just looking,” Della said, and make to move around the worker, who stepped to the side and blocked her way.

  “Visiting town?” The girl’s eyes sketched to Della’s hat then back to her eyes, but her face now read amusement as well as disdain.

  “I— yes. I mean, no, I’m not visiting. I recently moved here.”

  The girl tilted her head and took Della in from hat to boot. Her smile went a bit broader, if that was possible. “I can tell. Farm girl for sure.” She turned about and replaced the necklace on the shelf where it had been then moved away and chuckled.

  Heat climbed Della’s neck and reached her cheeks. She suddenly felt as small as the day in school when she’d been only six and the teacher had made her stand in the corner, wearing the dunce cap for three hours because Maggie Pye had lied to the teacher, saying that Della had copied sums from her slate.

  With equal parts humiliation and indignation, Della strode out the door and headed down the street. Was she so obviously a farm girl, then? Were her pretty dress and new hat out of fashion? Silly, even?

  After marching two full blocks, she stopped before a wide window and took in her reflection. She tried to judge her appearance with objectivity. Was she plain? Old-fashioned? She certainly wasn’t as stylish as most of the women around her; she had to admit that much. And they wore styles she’d never seen anyone wear in Shelley.

  For several more hours, Della was painfully aware of every eye that took her in; she was suspicious of every smile. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be here. She didn’t fit in.

  No, she said to herself. Stand tall. You can buy new clothes and fit right in.

  She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin and walked on. Almost immediately, she caught the eye of a tall young man in a suit, coming toward her. He grinned at her, and once again, the butterflies were back. He slowed then stepped to the side, gesturing for her to do the same— so other passersby wouldn’t be impeded by them.

  He held out a hand. “Maxwell Walker,” he said. “But you can call me Max.”

  She put out her hand and shook his. “Della Stafford,” she said, smiling shyly.

  Max folded his arms and leaned against the brick wall. “New in town?”

  Della flushed again and looked about, uncomfortable. Was it so obvious? She was in no mood to be mocked a second time. “Excuse me, but—”

  He held up a hand, which made her stop. “I just haven’t seen you around. I think I’d remember a pretty thing like you.” His smile widened, and Della couldn’t help but feel flattered.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking a step backward to her original spot. “I am new. Just getting to know the city on my day off.”

  “How about that? I have the day off too. Could I show you around?” He turned so they were facing the same direction and held out his arm for her to take.

  Della eyed it, then looked up at him. His dark eyes sparkled playfully, daring her. That’s what made up her mind; Della Stafford would not be made to look a sissy. And if looking like a lady of Los Angeles meant walking with a devastatingly handsome gentleman, so be it.

  “I’d like that,” she said, and looped her arm through his.

  “I knew you would.” Max tipped his hat in her direction, and they were off.

  He showed her a park, where they had a pleasant walk, and then they went to a café, where he bought her a meal of fish— one she’d never tasted before. She was used to trout, but this had an entirely different flavor. One she loved. And the rolls were nothing short of divine; they practically melted in her mouth.

  I could eat these forever and never make my own rolls again, she thought as she broke another one apart.

  She found herself flirting back as Max joked and flattered her, and soon she felt as if she’d belonged to Los Angeles for years and had known Max forever. At some point in the afternoon, he bought her a flower from a street vendor— a single red rose.

  “A beauty for a beauty,” he said, leaning in closer as he handed it to her.

  She didn’t pull away, instead admiring his jawline and deep penetrating eyes. The butterflies swarmed so much they felt ready to burst through her ribcage and fly away. Della stepped forward, and they were walking again. She brought the flower to her nose and breathed in the scent, then lowered the petals and noticed a fruit stand on the corner ahead.

  “You’ll have to educate me,” she said, nodding toward the colorful stand, which had stacks of fruits she’d heard of but never tasted. One row had large, yellowish fruits with big green stems coming off the top, almost like disheveled hair.

  “This,” Max said, hefting one, “is a pineapple.”

  It looked nothing like a pine tree or an apple. Della nodded and pointed to the small green ones. “And these?”

  “Limes. Sort of like lemons, but not quite so tart.”

  “And I know those are oranges,” she said quickly, pointing. She wasn’t completely ignorant. “I’ve had some before.”

  “Ah, but I doubt you’ve had one like this, fresh from the tree today.” He looked at the fruit vendor with a question in his eyes.

  The man nodded. “Picked this morning. You’ll never taste a sweeter orange than these here, straight from my own trees.”

  Max handed over some coins, and they left with a small paper sack holding two oranges. He proceeded to peel one then handed her a wedge. “Try it.”

  She did, biting into it, and at the juicy sweetness, her eyes widened. “Delicious,” she said, then snapped her mouth shut, embarrassed to have spoken with food in her mouth.

  “Told you,” Max said. “Nothing is quite like a California orange. And that’s not even a fresh one. It was probably harvested at the first of the year.”

  “But it’s so sweet…” She took another bite and enjoyed every moment before she swallowed.

  They walked along in relative silence as she ate more of the orange. A stray puppy, mangy and bedraggled, started following them, whimpering. Della glanced over, ready to share her orange with the pup. It was surely hungry.

  Max glanced over his shoulder and grunted. “Too many strays…” He quickly swooped one foot out, knocking the dog into the gutter, and shook his he
ad. “You can’t give them food, or they’ll keep begging for more, and next thing you know, they’ll follow you and adopt your home as theirs.”

  Perhaps, Della thought. But couldn’t one find another way to behave besides allowing a dog to adopt you and kicking it in the ribs?

  Maybe, after more time in the city, she would understand. She finished her orange and tried to think of something else. Someone would probably see her cutting off chicken heads as every bit as cruel as she thought kicking a dog was. It was all in the perspective, and she didn’t yet have the eyes of a Californian.

  In time, she assured herself.

  After walking another block, she looked up at the sky above the buildings in the distance and admired the clouds drifting by. Something about them looked different from the ones at home, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what. Even so her old habit returned, so soon she was looking for images.

  “Look at that cloud,” she said, pausing on the sidewalk and pointing. “It looks just like a chicken.”

  Max eyed the sky then looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “A chicken?”

  At the look of disbelief in his eyes, she cringed. I’m doing it again. Stop acting like a backward farm girl.

  “A bird. It’s— it’s just a bird,” she said quickly, then pointed. “Never mind.”

  “You’re adorable,” Max said. He unlocked their hands, and he slipped one around her waist.

  The action nearly stole Della’s breath entirely, and she took several steps more before she could think enough to react. Only when she could think, she didn’t know what to do or if she wanted him to remove his hand at all.

  Mother would be appalled at how forward he’s acting. We only just met. But that thought only encouraged the situation. And the truth was, she’d spent more time already with Max in one day than she’d ever spent in the company of several young men her mother would be more than happy to see her married off to.