Chances

by Pamela Nowak

  She should have let him take the horse himself, after all.

  Just past the capitol building, they spotted Silverman’s burial wagon. Sarah reined in Buck. Daniel slid down and approached the driver. They spoke quietly for a few moments, giving Sarah time to wonder why she had felt so compelled to come along. This was now an issue between the two undertakers and, truth be told, she didn’t actually need to be present for the exchange of the body.

  She glanced at Daniel’s trim figure. His broad shoulders merged into a strong, tapering back. His pressed white shirt disappeared into the waistband of tailored black pants, which were molded over a well-formed derriere.

  Sarah’s face grew hot. She was scrutinizing him in the same maddening way that men did her. She was looking at the man’s backside, for heaven’s sake. She spun Buck away, no longer wishing to witness any of Daniel Petterman’s activities.

  “Whoa, there,” Marshal McCallin called from his approaching horse.

  Sarah pulled Buck’s reins and slowed to a stop, face to face with the Chief of Police.

  “You got a fair amount of explainin’ to do, gal. Frank Bates and the Kansas Pacific just reported this horse stolen.”

  * * * * *

  The following morning, Daniel stood next to his fine black funeral carriage and watched the pallbearers carry William Harding’s coffin to his cemetery lot. It had been precisely two hours since he’d made his appearance at municipal court in Sarah Donovan’s defense, and it was his first quiet moment.

  He was glad to be rid of her and happier yet that he’d never have to meet with her again.

  Court had cluttered up his already busy morning, and he’d spent the hour during the funeral service checking on the gravesite, something he normally did far in advance of the actual burial. Thank God, the gravediggers had done a proper job.

  Fortunately, Harding hadn’t been too badly deteriorated. With a little molding, some powder and rouge, he looked as distinguished as he had in life. The family was pleased. The funeral was crowded with Denver’s elite bidding farewell to a favorite banker. Daniel smiled at the thought of the positive impression he’d made today.

  Watching them now, as the minister led a final prayer, Daniel was glad word hadn’t gotten out about the trouble with Sarah. She sure was a high-falutin’ little busybody. He’d never met a woman quite like her. Much as he hated to admit it, a few of the things she’d said even made sense.

  Whoever would expect such spirit from a tiny little thing like her? Heck, she couldn’t be more than a little over five feet tall, and that thick blond hair looked like spun cornsilk. And those big violet eyes—a man could drown in them. Her whole appearance was at odds with her attitude.

  After this morning’s court session, he’d told her to be sure and send all telegrams by messenger. He didn’t want anything more to do with the woman, violet eyes or not.

  Across the cemetery, a distinguished bearded man broke away from the lingering crowd and approached. Daniel recognized him as William Byers, owner of the Rocky Mountain News.

  “Fine funeral, Petterman,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Thank you, Byers. I fear Denver’s lost one of her finest.”

  Byers nodded. “He was well-liked.”

  “It meant a lot to the family, seeing everyone come out like this. They went through a lot, getting him shipped back from Wyoming Territory.”

  “Speaking of which, word has it you had your share of trouble receiving him back.” Byers’s eyebrows rose expectantly.

  “Am I speaking on the record or off?” Daniel countered.

  The newsman smiled in appreciation. “I’m not working today, Daniel.”

  “You heard about the trouble, huh?” How many others had heard? Daniel cringed at the thought of the rumor mill invading his privacy and slandering his well-guarded morals.

  “Heard that new female telegrapher got her wires crossed.”

  Daniel chuckled at Byers’s joke, then nodded, one eye still on the funeral party. “She said somebody told her I was out of town. The body went to Silverman, and I ended up having to chase it halfway up Cemetery Hill.”

  “Riding double on a buckskin horse,” Byers supplied, “stolen by the lady with the quick fingers.”

  Daniel groaned. “Is that going to make the front page?”

  “No, but I was real tempted.”

  “I’ll just bet.”

  “So, what’s she like?”

  Daniel glanced at the dispersing crowd and relaxed a little. Everything had gone well, and no one but Byers was paying him the least attention. He leaned forward and kept his voice low. “She’s a hellcat, Bill, a hellcat through and through. Spouts off like a geyser on women’s rights and such. Pretty little thing, but she sure doesn’t know her place.”

  Byers smiled. “Sounds a lot like my Libby.”

  Daniel arched his eyebrows in surprise. “The hellcat or the suffragist?” Everyone had heard about Elizabeth Byers and her causes, but he certainly hadn’t expected Bill to be so cavalier about the issue.

  “Both, I’m afraid.” He grinned and shrugged his shoulders in mock helplessness. “Seriously, though, Daniel, I already heard most of the story. Newspaperman’s sources, you know. What I’m really curious about is the incident with the gang. Is it true Cyrus Gall and his entourage shot your daughters’ dog?”

  Daniel offered a sober nod. “Right in front of the girls. They’re just children. Kate’s eleven and Molly’s only nine. They aren’t old enough to comprehend the reasons behind what happened. All they know is that those boys shot their dog.”

  They crossed the now empty cemetery toward their waiting vehicles. A set of matched bays stood in front of Bill’s elegant buggy. Daniel’s funeral carriage was hitched to an equally appealing set of Morgans.

  “The bounty?” Bill asked.

  Daniel stopped and spoke earnestly. “When the City Council passed the ordinance, I didn’t think much of it. But now, I’ve seen the impact, and I think it’s a lousy answer. I know the dogs are a problem. There must be a better way to address it.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more. You ever consider writing a letter to the editor on the subject?” Once again, Byers raised his eyebrows.

  Daniel shook his head and laughed. “Funny. That was one of the things Miss Donovan suggested.” He thought about tiny Sarah, almost running to keep up with him, lecturing him all the while on civic action. She probably espoused anarchy, too.

  “She’s right, you know. The News has a pretty large readership. Get the issue out there. Out of respect to you, I’ll hold back the story and let you bring it up in the letter. It has the advantage of getting the message out there without some snoopy reporter bringing in any embarrassing details.”

  “You son of a gun. You’re just itching to get this out there.” Leave it to a newsman to agree with a suffragist.

  “I am, Daniel. I happen to agree that the practice of awarding bounties on dead dogs is barbaric. Your daughters’ experience is a newsman’s delight. It teems with drama and heartache. What a way to launch a cause.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to launch a cause.” What in the world would people think of him? His father’s stern lectures on public image crowded his mind.

  “Do you want somebody else’s kids standing there bawling their heads off when their dog gets shot? Better yet, do you want to go home and tell your girls you had the chance to do something about poor old whatever his name was, and you didn’t?”

  The image of his daughters’ tears flashed through Daniel’s mind. Damn, he hated making a scene. He told himself that his daughters were safely done with such situations. It wasn’t about his kids anymore. Then Sarah’s harping voice flooded his thoughts, shaming his lack of action, and again, the image of his girls crying. Damn.

  “Biscuit. His name was Biscuit, and I’ll write the damned letter.”

  Chapter Three

  Sarah took her lunch break on the back stoop of the station at half past twelve.
Lord, she was glad Frank Bates had finally left the station for a while. He’d been a boor ever since court. He was none too pleased about the charges being dismissed.

  “You got another one of them good ham sandwiches again?” Jim asked, his bushy eyebrows standing at attention.

  Sarah laughed and handed her friend the other half of her sandwich. “I’m not going to have the guys from freight and baggage up here begging, too, am I?” she teased.

  Jim smiled and shook his head, then settled down next to Sarah. “Wouldn’t share these for the world,” he said, between bites. “Sure do wish my landlady would learn to bake a ham without it tastin’ like shoe leather.”

  Poor Jim. Of the six employees at the station, Jim was the only bachelor, and his constant woes over his landlady’s poor cooking had the baggage master and freight agent’s wives sending food for him. Sarah supposed she ought to do her part, too.

  “How about I just start bringing two sandwiches?”

  “That’d be just fine with me.” Jim grinned and pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Bates givin’ you a hard time?”

  “He’d rather I spent another night in jail, or more.”

  “They treat you all right, girl?”

  She shrugged. “McCallin keeps a clean jail, and they fussed over having a proper lady in it. Leave it to Bates to try to press charges. I sure am glad Buck belonged to the Kansas Pacific, though. Once the judge found out I was using Buck for official business, he laughed Bates out of the courtroom.”

  Jim sobered and glanced around the station before facing Sarah, concern filling his eyes. “Yeah, and now Bates is gonna add that to his list of complaints. You watch out for him, Sarah. You’re the best telegrapher to hit this place in a long time, and there ain’t no way he’s ever gonna admit that. Best decision I ever made was hiring you instead of promoting him, even if he does have experience. Makes him sore, though. He’ll just keep trying to do you in, one way or another.”

  “Thanks, Jim, I’ll be careful. I aim to make first-class op by spring.” She eyed her friend, waiting for his reaction. It took some operators several years to gain the speed and skill necessary to earn the coveted title. She planned to do it in less than one.

  “Well, like I said, you’re the best I’ve seen. I’d guess that’s why KP hasn’t been in much of a hurry to have me fill the manager’s position. You’re already doing the work. You just ain’t getting paid for it.” Jim wiped his hands on his faded blue handkerchief, folded it, and placed it in his pocket. “Gotta head back to the freight room and check on things there.”

  Sarah frowned at his departing figure. Jim was right. The Kansas Pacific was saving a pile of money. The first-class op had transferred out the minute he heard the railroad had hired a woman. Since her arrival, she’d been handling both jobs at a fraction of what they would pay a man to do either one of them.

  The click of the telegraph broke into her thoughts, and she returned to her post. Once she made first-class operator, she’d be eligible for manager’s wages instead of being a lowly assistant. From there, she’d have the opportunity to supervise a commercial office.

  The afternoon proved busy. The wire clacked away at a steady rate. Jim scurried from the ticket counter to the freight room to the rail yard, assuring that the station operated with brisk efficiency, while Sarah sent and recorded messages, logged them in, created switch lists, and relayed siding orders. In between, she rushed to deliver the orders to Jim. Then he made sure the signals were set correctly and the heavy siding switches were thrown so the “inferior” trains were diverted onto sidings, and the “superior” trains could pass safely. By the time six o’clock rolled around, the delivery basket was full, and Bates was still nowhere to be seen.

  Sarah frowned and rubbed her aching back. Her fingers throbbed after ten hours of almost constant work. As it was, she would barely have time for dinner before the suffrage meeting started. She narrowed her eyes at the basket, anticipating the added delay that would result from having to deliver all those messages herself.

  At the ticket counter, Jim slammed the drawer of his desk and muttered under his breath. Bates’s absence had netted him extra work, as well.

  The door of the station clicked open, and Sarah glanced up, expecting Pete Sanders, the evening relief man. Instead, Frank Bates sauntered across the empty waiting area.

  Jim rose from his desk and adjusted his glasses with deliberate determination. “Mr. Bates,” he said tiredly, “it has been a long afternoon. You’ve a pile of telegrams to be delivered, and I’ve had to run all over the rail yard doing your job. The boys in the freight room missed you, too. It’s time we had a talk about whether you’re movin’ on.”

  Sarah hurried to gather the stack of telegrams. She’d slip quietly out the door and leave Jim to chastise Bates in private.

  “Yeah, well, I was busy taking care of business.”

  “Personal business, Mr. Bates? You failed to return to your duties and, as stationmaster—”

  “They ain’t my duties no more,” Bates muttered. He moved to the ticket counter and leaned his elbows on the wooden shelf, staring down at Jim. “I figured Kansas Pacific ought to know about the mess here. I wired the main office from the Broadwell House to fill them in.”

  Sarah stopped at the door. What had Bates done? She turned and watched the exchange with foreboding.

  Jim stood, shaking his head while Bates grinned at him.

  “They decided maybe they need a head telegrapher after all, seeing as the assistant is stirring up trouble. Sorry about going over your head, boss, but I didn’t see much choice. I ain’t your delivery boy no more, Jim. You’re looking at your new first-class op.”

  “Not until I get word of it. Things don’t work that way.”

  Bates’s grin widened. “They do if your uncle has a hand in it.”

  Jim’s face clouded, and a shocked silence settled over the station, broken only by the click of Bates’s boots as he moved away from the ticket counter. He stopped at the office door and peered quizzically at Sarah.

  “What are you doing just standing there?” he barked. “Those telegrams should have been delivered hours ago. You know this is going to result in brownies, don’t you, Miss Donovan?”

  Sarah swallowed hard. Oh, she knew it all right, knew it without a doubt, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

  * * * * *

  Two hours later, Sarah dropped off the last of the telegrams and headed toward the residential district and whatever was left of the suffrage meeting.

  Despite the horse and her efficient pace, the deliveries had taken twice as long as she had hoped. Most of the businesses had closed, and she’d had to track down several of the telegrams’ recipients, costing her precious time. Curse Frank Bates and his scheming.

  Sarah moved down 17th Street at a steady clip, leaving downtown’s bright gas lamps behind. She pulled her shawl closer. The days might be hot for this time of year, but the nights sure did cool off. Here and there, leaves skittered across her path, but they were few and far between, like the trees. She crossed Broadway and angled east, her mind doing somersaults. Somehow, there had to be a way around Bates.

  Despite Jim’s assurances that he’d investigate in the morning, she felt like she’d had the wind knocked out of her. How was she going to get the practice she needed to improve her accuracy if all she ever did was deliver messages? She had no doubt Bates would see to it that she did nothing but run all over town. He’d never let her near the wire.

  Still, there’d been no official word from the main office. Jim would wire his supervisor tomorrow, they’d discover it was all a bluff, and Bates would be removed from her life forever. She would still have her chance to prove herself. She’d make primary op and become the first female manager in the district. People would know she was more than a pretty little blonde. They’d see she was a woman to be reckoned with. They’d look at her achievements and know she was worthy.

  But she knew bette
r. She kicked at a rock and watched it roll away into the darkness. Jim’s expression had said it all, that and his lack of argument. Bates had paraded out of the depot like a banty rooster, and Jim had confirmed that Frank’s uncle, Walter Bates, owned a controlling interest in the KP, shaking his head all the while.

  At the corner of Sherman Street, Sarah stopped in her tracks, remembering Frank’s words. He’d told the main office that there were problems, that Jim couldn’t handle them. Whatever he’d said, it was enough to get himself promoted as well as casting doubt on Jim’s management abilities. No wonder Jim had remained silent. Lord, did Bates have enough pull to put Jim’s position in danger?

  The last thing she wanted to do was jeopardize her friend’s job. She wouldn’t ask Jim to defend her. If her only choice was being an errand girl, she’d ask Jim to transfer her to the graveyard shift. That way, Bates would think he won, and she’d still get her practice time. It wasn’t the way she’d planned to get there, but she’d make primary op status any way she had to.

  Mounting the front steps of Elizabeth Byers’s stately brick mansion, Sarah noted the dimmed lights. Drat it all, she was too late. Before she could decide whether or not to knock, the door opened.

  An attractive woman in her mid-forties stood inside the lavish foyer. Her brown hair was styled in the latest fashion, and her elegant dress was a clear indication that this was not the downstairs maid.

  “Mrs. Byers?” Sarah queried.

  The woman nodded. “Call me Elizabeth,” she offered, abandoning propriety in the manner of a true suffragist. “I’ll wager you are Sarah Donovan?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “We missed you. Everyone was looking forward to meeting Denver’s only female telegrapher.” She stepped back and gestured for Sarah to enter. “They’ve gone but come on in, anyway. I’m dying to hear about your adventures and pick your brain about suffrage movements back East.”