“Asa, thought you was headin’ back to your ranch. Did’ja decide to eat supper with us after all?” Her long arms tangled around his neck, dislodging his hat. With his face buried in the abundance of ruffles hiding her flat chest, he couldn’t reply.
From across the room, Shelva’s piercing voice reached his ears. “Sid’s in the storeroom.”
Melva released her stranglehold and beamed down at Asa. After fifty-five years of looking up at his sisters, he ought to be used to it. But he still resented the twist of fate that had made his sisters tall and thin like their father and him short and stout like their mother. Broomsticks and a butterball—that’s what the town’s kids had called them.
Melva said, “New clerk’s with him, so—”
“—you’ll get to meet her,” Shelva put in.
The pair was so entwined in each other’s lives, they couldn’t even deliver an entire sentence without the other’s help. Asa swung around and headed for the storeroom.
“Asa, you gonna eat with us?” Melva called after him.
“Roasted chicken with carrots, taters, an’ onions,” Shelva added. “Your favorite!”
Asa waved his hand over his head as he charged through the doorway. Like a couple of pecking hens, they were. But he’d stay and eat their supper. Save him the cost of a meal at Cora’s or the trouble of cooking something for himself at home. He stopped inside the storeroom, his scowling gaze swinging from one corner to another. Had Sid sneaked off without Melva and Shelva seeing him? No, the wagon was still outside, so he had to be around here somewhere.
“Sid? Where’n tarnation are you, boy?” Asa spoke softly. So softly it wouldn’t carry beyond the curtained doorway behind him. The way he always spoke so folks had to lean in to hear him, bringing them down to his level.
No one answered. Asa started to repeat his question, but then he noticed the cellar door standing ajar. Melva and Shelva never went down there—they’d always been terribly afraid of the underground—so Sid must’ve left it open when he took the new clerk down to show her the singin’ room. A smile crept up Asa’s cheek, and he poked his finger against his lips to draw it back down. He was supposed to be aggravated with Sid—couldn’t smile yet. But he’d have a big smile ready to cast on the new clerk if she proved as talented as Sid had proclaimed.
Asa bounded down the stairs as quickly as his short legs would allow. He thumped his booted heels—special-made a half inch higher than standard bootheels—deliberately alerting Sid and the young clerk to his approach. When he stepped into the large, decorated room designed for singing performances, both of them had their eyes trained in his direction. He battled another smile. Such pleasure in being the center of attention.
Ignoring Sid, he moved straight toward the little blond stranger. Sid had said his cousin was comely, and the boy had spoken truth. Even in a simple calico frock with a funny-shaped straw hat on her head, the girl was fine to look upon. If Asa’d been thirty years younger—and a foot taller—he’d consider courting the girl. But since that wasn’t possible, he’d just make sure she sang as good as she looked.
“Asa Baxter,” he said by way of introduction. “An’ you must be Sadie Wagner, fresh from Indiana.”
A slight smile tipped the corner of the girl’s mouth. Shy. Innocent. Yep, the folks of Goldtree wouldn’t find any reason to complain about her appearance. She held out a slim hand to Asa. The moment he gripped it, she said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Baxter. I hope you don’t mind Sid showing me the . . . er . . . opera house. I was eager to see it.”
Asa released his best jovial laugh, although he wanted to wring Sid’s neck. Hadn’t he told the boy he’d show the girl the singing room? “Not at all, not at all.” He stepped away and threw his arms wide, gesturing to the grand space. “And whaddaya think of it? Pretty fancy, huh?”
Miss Wagner nodded, but Asa sensed hesitance.
He whirled on her again. “You change your mind about wantin’ to sing?” Her blue eyes flew wide. She shook her head wildly. The actions bespoke eagerness, and Asa swallowed another chortle. “Well, then, since we’re all down here, how ’bout you sing a little somethin’ for me?”
He sauntered to the piano and grabbed the three-legged stool. “Sid, come hold this thing steady.”
Sid scurried to Asa and knelt, catching hold of the stool. Some men might balk, but Sid had the sense to follow directions. Maybe he wouldn’t be too hard on the boy about the wagon.
Bracing his hand on Sid’s shoulder, Asa stepped onto the stool. He wavered a bit but held his balance and dug a match from his shirt pocket. With one hand, he turned the little knob that would start the gas flow, and with the other he flicked the match on his thumbnail—a feat he’d practiced until he could do it without burning his fingers—and tucked the lit end inside the nearest glass bowl.
The chandelier flickered to life, sending out a bright glow that illuminated half of the stage. Asa hopped down. “Put that stool away, Sid.” He crooked one finger at the girl. “C’mon over here, Miss Wagner, right in the light.” He waited until she moved directly beneath the chandelier. The yellow glow lit her hair, giving her the appearance of an angel. She’d do fine—just fine—as far as looks. How he hoped she could sing.
“I’m gonna sit myself there on the first row. You just sing any song you like.” Asa stomped off the stage and wriggled his bulky frame into one of the seats. He noted Sid perched himself on the stool back in the shadows rather than taking one of the cushiony seats. That suited Asa. Now the girl would sing to him, and him only.
She linked her fingers together and bent her arms, bringing her hands to waist height. Her face lifted, and she opened her mouth. “ ‘There is a safe and secret place,’ ” she began, her tone clear and sweet. The song poured forth, and Asa found himself mesmerized not only by the beauty of the melody but by the sweetness with which it was delivered. He held his breath, afraid the slightest sound might spoil the effect of the song. When she finished with a demure bowing of her head, his breath whooshed out in a rush.
He bounced to his feet, applauding so hard his palms stung. He scooted to the edge of the stage and reached for her hands. Tossing aside his normally soft voice, he boomed, “Lovely, Miss Wagner. That was purely lovely. And just what was that you were singin’?”
“It’s a song from the hymnbook we used in our church in Dalton. It was written by William Cowper, and it’s one of my papa’s favorite songs.”
Asa gripped the girl’s hands. “Lovely, lovely,” he repeated, unable to find the words he wanted to describe her performance. “Hymns’re fine, ’specially if there’re ladies in the audience. But fellas like things a sight more lively. So I’d want’cha to sing more’n just church music. Do you know other songs, too?”
“Some.” She whisked a glance over her shoulder toward Sid. As if she was a magnet and he a nail, he hurried right over. “Back home in Dalton,” she continued, “Mama let me attend the local opera house. I’m sure I could replicate several of the songs I heard.”
“Good, good.” Asa gave her hands a final squeeze and then folded his arms across his chest. “So you got any questions?”
She sent another funny little look in Sid’s direction. She bit down on her lower lip, ducked her head, then shifted her blue-eyed gaze to him. “May I ask . . . why do you have your opera house down here?” She glanced around. “It’s really very pretty—one of the nicest rooms I’ve ever seen—”
Asa smirked, imagining how impressed she’d be with the room built farther back, the one accessible only through the tunnel from his ranch. Soon as he finished bolstering the walls with timbers, he’d be putting that tunnel to use.
“—but it’s a . . . a cellar. There aren’t even any windows to let in some sunlight.”
Asa exploded with his best laugh—deep, rumbling, boisterous. “I can tell, Miss Wagner, you’re as wise as you are beautiful, recognizin’ this place as a cellar first of all.”
She lowered her head again, suck
ing in her lips.
“Do you gotta have sunlight to sing?”
With her head tucked down, he couldn’t see her face. But he heard her quiet reply. “Birds sing better in the sunlight.”
Asa poked a little fun at the girl. “You part bird, Miss Wagner?”
She looked at him. “No, sir. I’m just surprised you went to such trouble to build an opera house . . . under the ground.”
Asa slipped his thumbs into the slanted pockets of his vest and let his gaze roam the room, admiring his own handiwork. “You see, Miss Wagner, takes money to build a proper opera house. I wanna make one of stone blocks—even fancier’n the bank buildin’ Hanaman put up. But as yet . . .” He scuffed the sole of his boot on the painted floor, hoping he presented a sheepish picture. “I don’t quite got the funds.”
He tipped his head, peeking at her. “It was a heap less expensive to set things up in a building I already own. Figure once I start drawin’ an audience here, bringin’ in money, it’ll be no time at all ’til I can put up the fine buildin’ with marble floors an’ maybe even a balcony so’s folks can sit up above an’ look down on the singers while they’re performin’.”
Her eyes slipped shut, and Asa knew she was imagining herself on the stage he’d described. While he had her caught up in his plans, he added, “Shouldn’t take more’n a year—maybe two.” Yes, two years at most. But he didn’t intend to use the funds for an opera house in a nothin’ town like Goldtree, Kansas.
She opened her eyes and gaped at him. “Two years?”
Her dismayed tone worried Asa. He couldn’t lose her now. “But this stage’ll be ready for you a week from next Friday night.” That is, if he managed to get the outside entrance built at the back of the store like he planned. The sisters would fuss about the noise, but they’d fuss even worse if he had folks traipsing through the mercantile and storeroom to get to the opera house. He added, “Assumin’ you’ve a mind to use it.”
Miss Wagner gave another furtive look at the cellar. “I . . . I would like the chance to sing. . . .”
“Then let’s give ya that chance.” Asa stepped back, deliberately looking her up and down. “ ’Course, you’ll wanna leave off the hat. Maybe let your hair hang loose. An’ wear a fancier dress when you’re performin’. I’d like to do shows on both Friday an’ Saturday nights, but we’ll see how your voice holds up.” Very casually, he tossed out, “Pay is a flat three dollars per performance.”
The girl gasped. “Th-three dollars?”
He recognized the meaning of her astounded expression, but he folded his arms over his chest and squared his jaw, as if staving off an argument. “I gotta be firm on that. You bein’ a new performer an’ all, I’m takin’ a chance. Won’t do no negotiatin’ on the pay.”
Miss Wagner clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Three dollars is . . . is more than enough, Mr. Baxter!”
Asa turned his face to the side so she wouldn’t see his satisfied grin. He knew he’d snag her once he offered the money. Sid had said she needed to support her family. How could she refuse the chance to earn up to six dollars a week? And once she started taking his money—more money than she could make anywhere else—she’d be in his back pocket. Right where he needed her.
Asa faced her again, offering a brazen wink. He hooked his thumbs on his vest’s slanted front pockets. “You excited, Miss Baxter, gettin’ your first singin’ job?”
“Oh yes.” She lowered her hands, revealing rose-splashed cheeks.
Asa chuckled, congratulating himself. Voice like an angel, sweet-faced and innocent—why, Miss Sadie Wagner was perfect. Nobody’d pay attention to anything else while she was standing on that stage filling the room with song. Yes, just perfect.
9
Sadie preceded Sid to the main floor of the mercantile. Stepping from the crystal, velvet, and varnished-wood “singing room,” as Mr. Baxter called it, through the earthen walkway and then into the clutter of the storeroom was like walking from one world into another. The effect was nearly dizzying.
When she and Sid moved through the curtained doorway into the mercantile, the Baxter twins turned in unison from hanging their work aprons on hooks. Their bony arms descended in precise harmonization, and they each plunked their fists on their narrow hips. Standing with arms akimbo and with matching scowls on their faces, they reminded Sadie of a pair of statues she’d once seen stationed at opposite sides of a garden gate. She bit the end of her tongue to keep from giggling.
“Where’s Asa?” Miss Shelva asked.
“We need to know if we’re to set four plates or three on the table,” Miss Melva added.
Sid leaned past Sadie and answered. “He said he needed to check something in the cellar. He’ll be up in a few minutes.”
The twins looked at each other and clicked their tongues—three times, in exact timing with each other. Miss Shelva sighed. “He’s been spendin’ a heap o’ time in that cellar of late.”
“Can’t be good for his lungs,” Miss Melva lamented.
Sadie could imagine how much time it had taken to construct that beautiful room. Although the earthen hallway had felt damp and musty, the singing room itself seemed dry, and the air carried no foul odor. If Mr. Baxter went to such extravagant means for a cellar opera house, the one he intended to construct above ground would be glorious indeed. And she would be able to perform on its stage. She hugged herself to hold the wonder inside.
Tipping her head toward the open doorway, Sadie asked, “Miss Melva and Miss Shelva, have you been down there?”
The twins’ eyebrows shot high. They chorused, “Of course I ain’t!” They looked at each other, and Melva flipped her palm to Shelva, giving her the go-ahead to speak. “Sister an’ me never go into the hidey-hole. If Asa feels the need to store things down there, he takes ’em down an’ brings ’em back up.”
“We’re not much for closed spaces,” Melva contributed.
They’d obviously never seen the expanse beneath the mercantile, Sadie decided, or they’d have a different opinion of the cellar. She opened her mouth to tell them what she’d seen, but Sid curled his hand around her upper arm and gave a light squeeze.
“Sadie, let’s head over to the café now. Get some supper.”
The Baxter twins skittered forward several inches. “Café?” Miss Melva blasted. “But, Sadie—”
Miss Shelva interrupted, “We planned a special welcome-to-Goldtree supper for you.”
“We invited Asa, too, so’s the two o’ you could talk singin’,” Miss Melva said.
“You ain’t goin’ to the café, are ya?” Miss Shelva looked very offended.
Sadie gave Sid a helpless look. She hated abandoning him after she’d taken that lengthy walk with the sheriff. She hadn’t dared admit to Sid how much she’d enjoyed the sheriff’s company. Even though her cousin hadn’t said so, she knew he’d been upset about her letting someone else show her the town. And now yet another person wanted to treat her to supper. What should she do?
Sid shrugged. “Go ahead an’ eat with the Baxters. I gotta get those horses put away anyway.” His shoulders slumped. He looked so defeated, it made Sadie sad. “I’ll . . . come getcha for supper tomorrow, all right? Little celebration for finishin’ your first day at your new job.”
Sadie nodded and gave him a look she hoped he understood meant she was sorry. He offered a quick nod, then strode out of the store. The moment the door slammed behind him, Miss Melva whirled on Miss Shelva.
“Sister, we was rude. We shoulda asked Sid to dinner, too.”
Miss Shelva pursed her lips. “You know we already asked Asa, an’ one puny chicken ain’t enough to feed more’n four.”
Miss Melva tittered. “ ’Specially not when one o’ the four is Asa.”
Picturing the Baxter twins’ very short, very portly brother, Sadie stifled a laugh. How on earth could such different-looking children come from the same set of parents? Her heart panged as she recalled a woman from the church in Dalton asking Mama
the same question while looking at Sadie next to her younger sister and brothers. Sadie’s blond hair had always made her stand out next to her half siblings’ dark heads. Were Asa and the twins half siblings, too? She wouldn’t ask—the question was too intrusive and impolite—but she pondered the idea nonetheless.
“Well, Sadie . . .” Miss Melva tossed her arm across Sadie’s shoulders and aimed her for the stairs. “Let’s you an’ me head upstairs while Sister fetches Asa from the—”
“I ain’t goin’ down there!” Miss Shelva screeched.
“—cellar,” Miss Melva continued as if her sister hadn’t made a sound. “I’ll get to settin’ the table, an’ you can tell me what you think of our little town o’ Goldtree.”
Miss Melva insisted Sadie sit in the corner and stay out of the way while she smacked plates, cutlery, and thick mugs for the stout brew she and her sister seemed to prefer onto the drop-leaf table in the middle of the little kitchen. The woman raced around, huffing with exertion. Sadie battled tiredness just watching her. Would Miss Melva and Miss Shelva expect her to work at such an exuberant pace? If so, she’d do it—Papa and Mama would be disappointed if she did less than her employers desired. And if she spent her days in such a state of busyness, she’d certainly earn her wage!
As Miss Melva pulled the well-browned chicken from the oven, the clatter of feet alerted Sadie to Miss Shelva’s and Mr. Baxter’s arrival. Miss Shelva ushered Mr. Baxter straight to the table and yanked out a chair. “Sit, Asa. Be comfortable. Me an’ Sister’ll have things ready in no time.”
“Almost got it all ready now,” Miss Melva said. “Just get the coffee, Sister.”
Miss Shelva spotted Sadie huddling in the corner. “C’mon over here, Sadie. You ain’t no wallflower, so no need to hide.” Sadie slipped into the chair across from Mr. Baxter and tried to make herself as small as possible while the sisters completed supper preparations amid a steady stream of high-pitched banter.
Song of My Heart Page 7
