Mr. Harmen leaned back to allow the porter to place a plate of eggs on the table. “I would love to. For starters, it’s fully furnished. There are many pieces I just don’t have room for and so… “
The train slowed as it climbed the mountain and the landscape of flat fields they’d been following for some time gave way to scrub, and then tall pines that seemed to break through the very clouds. The conversation lagged a little, Mr. Harmen’s sales pitch slowing as they ate, but her dining companion became more affable with his second cup of coffee.
“Excuse me, sir,” Margrett said as she set her fork on her empty plate. “It’s none of my business, but you seemed to recognize the gentleman who was sitting there.” She pointed in the general direction of the now empty table behind them. “But you didn’t seem to care overmuch for the individual.”
“The west is still not civilized, Miss Childs. Certain men are dangerous and wicked. People of quality like ourselves must be extra careful around such evil men, especially an unescorted lady of such beauty and poise.”
“Is he an outlaw?” Her pulse quickened as she remembered the gun belt and the confidence in the way the stranger had moved.
“A scofflaw, more like.” Mr. Harmen shook his head slowly. “There are still places in the west where the law has no say, not any duly appointed law, anyway. I would shudder to forward gossip of any sort, so please remember you didn’t hear this from me, but the man is a killer. And he’s gotten away with it.”
“He’s gotten away with murder?” She gasped. He’d held her in his arms. She had rather enjoyed the moment. What did that make her?
Blushing, she busied herself with her napkin. “May I ask if you know who he killed?”
“Why his very own wife.” Mr. Harmen said and nodded once to assure her of his facts.
She wanted to ask him more, but to do so would be to indulge in gossip. Already she was dangerously close to acting in an unladylike manner. She sipped at her coffee, casting about for another conversational topic, something safer.
“I find myself less than prepared for Arizona, Mr. Harmen,” Margrett confessed after a moment, gesturing at the towering pines outside their window. “Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me more about the town of Flagstaff?”
Mr. Harmen seemed content with the change of subject and spun many tales of the city, always somehow coming back around to the subject of the house he had for sale. His descriptions were perhaps a little vague, but the size and number of rooms seemed perfect. The more he talked, the more she fell into the reverie of her soon to be success, and the accolades Boston was sure to give her for delivering the poor women of the savage west into their own pride and power.
Relaxing a little now that the matter of the house was nearly settled, she told Mr. Harmen her plans, and about the sponsors from Boston. When it came to the price, she confessed she had less than he’d asked for, but as the house had many rooms and was completely furnished, if she used all her available funds, it would be a bargain.
There was a renter, Mr. Harmen warned her. The renter had been in arrears and was to be evicted that very day, so she would, at most, be forced to stay in a hotel for a short time.
The train climbed higher, the smoke from the boiler seemed to grow thicker around them. Margrett, however, found herself well entertained by Mr. Harmen and the wild, fanciful tales he told.
Imagine, that things should fall into her lap so easily!
Chapter 3
Margrett lost track of Mr. Harmen at the station. Her expectation of Flagstaff being a sleepy little town in the middle of a dustbowl was far from the truth. If the station was any indicator, she was going to have to change her point of view on a great many things. It was far from the shanty perched on a platform she’d seen in other towns the train had passed. In fact, there was an actual building of some length, complete with waiting rooms divided, giving space for the fairer sex to refresh themselves in some privacy, a thing she longed to have taken advantage of, feeling rather sooty from so many days of travel. A chance to wash and refresh herself would have been a welcome relief.
Sadly, if she expected to find her Mr. Harmen, such pleasures would have to wait until the hotel later. With a sigh, she stopped a little way down the platform, in what she hoped was prominent enough placement that she would be easily spotted by him, even if she didn’t see him first.
The whole place was fairly buzzing with activity. The chaos seemed to ebb and flow, as though the press of people, horses, and wagons were getting forced out of the town proper and blocked by the wall of steel and wood that was the train.
There were few women in that throng. Margrett scanned for the occasional skirt or bustle. They probably lurked in the waiting room she’d eschewed. Mostly pants and elaborate men’s hats blocked her view. Feeling in the way, she dragged the trunk in which she’d put her clothing and necessities to the platform edge and looked around for a porter.
“Miss Childs.” Mr. Harmen appeared out of nowhere and took her elbow. Margrett jumped before she realized who it was that had hold of her. “May I introduce to you, my man, Mr. Jackson.” He indicated a rough-looking man in what might have been a nice suit once, but hard wear and lack of cleanliness had taken their toll. Mr. Jackson doffed his hat and bowed his head, but his gaze never shifted from her face. Looking at her, his eyes peering up from under a thick forehead, his jaw slack, Margrett realized that Mr. Jackson was not hired for his intellect.
“A pleasure, I’m…” Margrett choked on the last word. The word wasn’t the problem. A sudden shift in the wind brought a certain aroma from Mr. Jackson, and it was that smell that choked the final word.
“Mr. Jackson has offered his services on your behalf,” Mr. Harmen announced and waited for Margrett’s no doubt over-joyed reaction. Margrett looked at Mr. Jackson again and turned back to her benefactor bewildered.
“Allow me to explain,” Mr. Harmen said, taking her elbow and guiding her through the press of people, Mr. Jackson bringing up the rear, her trunk balanced on his shoulder as though it were made of paper. “I was able to send word ahead, and my renter has been evicted. There are certain effects still in place, the sheriff will be by later to pick up his personal items. But in the meantime, the house is empty, and it will be my honor and privilege to show it to you.”
“Oh…” Margrett looked around as they arrived at the street as if she could see the house from there. “Is it far?”
“Not at all. Mr. Jackson has already arranged a ride for us.” He pointed to a handsome carriage drawn by a single horse. It looked so much like a cab from Boston, Margrett felt a twinge of homesickness.
Mr. Jackson had stopped beside them, awaiting instructions she realized. “Oh, thank you, Mr…” the smell was too strong, she turned back to Mr. Harmen, lifting a handkerchief delicately to her nose. “Perhaps your man would be good enough to place my trunk on the…”
Mr. Harmen cut her off with an imperial wave of his hand. “No need, my dear, no need at all. There are storage facilities in the terminal here, Mr. Jackson will place your trunk into one. They will issue Mr. Jackson a key, and he will be along to give it to you so you might have the time to explore the beauty of Flagstaff.”
“Well.” Margrett looked around. It sounded… odd especially given they were already out here, and the cab was a short distance away, but then, the thought of lugging that trunk across a new city…perhaps that just wasn’t the proper thing to do. There had been such places to check baggage at the station in Chicago she remembered. It just surprised her to find something similar here. The station surely wasn’t that large, was it? Suddenly unsure, she nodded, remembering that man, that… killer on the train had said he was going to meet the other man straight from the station. Perhaps that was the way things were done in the west. “Thank you, sir,” she said and smiled uncertainly. Harmen waved his hand at his man, and Jackson shouldered the trunk a second time without any noticeable exertion. “He’s very strong,” Margrett said to Mr. Harme
n, thinking she should say something favorable about the man.
“Very strong, very stupid,” Harmen said. Margrett didn’t miss the sharp look Mr. Jackson gave his “employer,” but surly servants were nothing new in her world. She clutched her satchel tighter and followed Mr. Harmen to the cab.
When she broke free of the throng surrounding the depot, she was relieved to not have the trunk with her. Even in the cab, it would have been an inconvenience to man-handle, and then, of course, take off the cab, put in the house while she toured it, replace it on another cab to return to a hotel if the house didn’t work out…
Mr. Harmen was quite correct about Flagstaff being beautiful. Hundreds, thousands of majestic pine trees consumed the landscape and left a fresh, comforting smell in the air. Margret filled her lungs. The air was thinner up here, much thinner than she was used to, and it was brisk, even for September.
Other, less majestic trees crowded in among the pines, poplar, elm, oak. The leaves were beginning to change, and the first signs of what promised to be an explosion of color played peek-a-boo between the pine boughs.
“It is lovely here,” Margrett said with a great deal of satisfaction. Maybe coming all the way out here to the wilds wouldn’t be such an ordeal after all. She’d signed on for a two-year contract with an option to renew and had honestly started to doubt she’d make it while on the train. But this was idyllic…serene even once they were away from the bustle of downtown.
With a happy sigh, she leaned back in the seat and watched the scenery pass – at least until she caught Mr. Harmen watching her chest rise and fall. Mortified, she shifted her body away from him, pretending interest in the view. Two mountain peaks were occasionally visible through the trees.
“Those are the twins,” Mr. Harmen said, following her gaze. “According to the local Indians, spirits live up there and journey down to plague the living.”
“What a terrible legend for such beautiful peaks,” Margrett protested, craning her neck to get a better view.
“Well,” Mr. Harmen practically leered at her. “it does prove that when white men or red men see a beautiful pair of peaks, we’re bound to talk about them…”
Margrett’s tongue lost its place in her mouth. Was that statement as crude as it had sounded or was he still actually talking about the mountains? If she called him on his effrontery, he could claim innocence, a misunderstanding, and only her “dirty” mind would have made such a connection. Inwardly seething she struggled for something to say.
The awkward moment was shortened when he pointed and said, “That’s the house there.”
The house was a massive affair, yet for all that, it was bright and airy and looked as though it welcomed everyone. It was set back from the road, had a porch all the way around the front, and from what she could tell, it ran around the side as well.
Two stories and three gables watched the street below, but tall, whispering pines guarded the house along all sides save the front. It would have been grand in Boston and was absolutely breathtaking here.
The cab let them off, Mr. Harmen insisted on paying the fare.
She followed him up to the front porch, somewhat uncertain, thinking this was a finer neighborhood than she had expected. Houses such as these would fit just as easily in an upper-crust Boston neighborhood. Would women of the sort she’d come to educate be willing to come to such a place when their own homes were likely some distance away?
Who was to say that only the poor would benefit from what the Lady’s Betterment League could offer? Classes and socials were welcome distractions for the fairer sex regardless of rank, and would not the closeness of ladies of class and elegance lend a certain…well…legitimacy to her operations? She’d never much liked the slums where she’d worked before, at the office in Boston.
Yes, it would be a better thing to bring women out here to a location where they would be exposed to finer things, that they might strive harder to attain the better life that such a house represented.
Content in her rationalizations, Margrett joined Mr. Harmen on the front porch.
He was fussing with the front door, muttering about the “key not fitting right” turning to assure her that he would send his man later to fix that if she decided to take the house. It was a nuisance, but the door swung open easily enough after a minute, and Mr. Harmen swept her in.
The front hall was stunning. A staircase to the left rose in a wide, sweeping arc, not the tightly confined space common to most flights of stairs. The parlor was to the right of the door. She peered in with sharp interest, noting in delight that the room was a bright, well-lit airy affair. She fought a sudden urge to twirl in the vast space.
She was shown quickly to the kitchen. It had a new stove, in fact, it looked as though it had never been used. There was a full rack of dishes on display, as well as cups and saucers and all manner of cooking implements.
“All of this is…included?” she asked. She hated herself for the way her voice broke on the last word, like a little girl given the perfect playhouse. Mr. Harmen nodded, and from that point on she trailed along after him in absolute awe. By the time she’d seen three of the four bedrooms, she knew she had to have it. It was the perfect place for The Lady’s Betterment League to set up their Arizona office. Besides, if there was a need for another location closer to…well…the more impoverished ladies of the region, she could undoubtedly open a branch office of some sort or other in those neighborhoods and perhaps hire a teacher to work from that space.
The fourth bedroom held the distinctive trappings of a man. Shoes, suits in the closet, shaving items on the dresser, a damp towel hanging from a hook. There were personal items on the dresser and a daguerreotype. She’d seen a few, but they weren’t readily available and cost a fair bit. This one showed a young woman in a fancy hat smiling in such a way that Margrett took an instant liking to her.
“Mr. Harmen…” She gestured to the room in general.
“As I said, the tenant was evicted this morning. The sheriff will be along shortly to pick up his personal items.”
“Of course,” she said, feeling a momentary pang for the stranger who knew such a woman as the one posed in the photograph. “I should have remembered.”
“In the meantime, it might be more proper if we were to continue our business in the parlor?”
“OH!” she realized she was standing in a bedroom with a strange man and felt a warm flush hit her cheeks. “Oh, of course. Please lead the way, Mr. Harmen. I seem to have gotten myself turned around.”
“This way then,” Mr. Harmen said and walked to the hallway. He paused there for a moment, looking around and headed for the stairs.
“Well, Miss Childs, what do you think?”
“I agree sir, it would be a wonderful choice indeed. But the price is remarkably high.”
“Yes, but it’s furnished and available to move in immediately. Take one of the smaller rooms for tonight, the large room will have the man’s items gone by tomorrow. You won’t need to get a hotel, and you can begin setting up immediately.”
Margrett clutched her satchel. It was very tempting. She looked around the room to see if there were any instructions on what to do written on the walls.
She evidently waited too long to answer. Mr. Harmen was already turning toward the front door, hat in hand rising to rest again on his head. “I am so sorry, Miss, but I must be off. I had hoped this would work out for you and your noble efforts. In fact, I was offering a drastic reduction in price because I am a great believer in Women’s Bewilderment.”
“Betterment.”
“Of course. Betterment. However, I do hope that you will be able to find…”
“I’ll take it!” Margrett cried, unable to stop herself, feeling ten kinds of a fool for taking it, and twelve kinds of fool for even questioning it.
She opened the satchel and removed the money she’d guarded for the week it had taken the train to travel to Flagstaff. It had seemed insanity to carry cash, but the ban
ks in the west were forever being robbed according to all the newspapers, and she’d traveled this way much to the shock of her father when she’d informed him of her intent.
She counted out his asking price and folded the few bills that littered the bottom of the bag. They looked rather lonely and sparse.
“Excellent!” Mr. Harmen cried, pocketing the money with a great deal of satisfaction. “I will send my solicitor around in the morning with the papers and I will ask Mr. Jackson to bring your luggage straight away!”
“Thank you, Mr. Harmen. Um…could I by any chance have the key?”
“Nonsense. The way that lock was sticking you’d trap yourself inside were I to leave that old thing with you. Stay here for the night, I will have a man come in the morning to resolve the matter for you.”
“Ah… I suppose…”
“We have a very low crime rate here, Miss Childs. You can leave the place unlocked to run an errand or two, and not be bothered in the least I daresay.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, then closed it. Mr. Harmen certainly knew his own city better than she did. It would only be for the night. If she felt unsafe about the door, she could always block it.
“I daresay you’re correct.” She looked around the room, at the house. HER house. “Good day, Mr. Harmen.” Already her mind was making lists about what to do first – to clean, to move the furniture around, to take inventory of the kitchen…so many things to do.
“Good day. Miss Childs.”
Margrett Childs showed him the door of her new establishment and closed it behind him. He seemed terribly eager to get away. Likely to put away all that cash.
Not that it mattered. Margrett had a house!
She twirled once in the parlor, allowing the excitement of the moment to take her, dancing until she was breathless and dizzy and collapsed in a heap on the sofa.
“I must set to work.” She chided herself when she caught her breath. “I need to stop acting like a child and do something useful.” A moment’s pondering gave her exactly the task to do. She would go straight to the room of the former tenant to box everything up for the sheriff to pick up in the morning.
The Gamble Page 2
