The Gamble

by Karen Sommers

  An hour of raw tears later, it occurred to her to wonder why the only person who’d treated her with kindness in this town was a scofflaw and reprobate.

  Maybe it was time to return to where she was…somewhat…welcome.

  Chapter 11

  Margrett had once heard that “when there is only a single path ahead of you, the choice has been made.” While that sounded simple enough, more often than not, it wasn’t the easier path. In fact, sometimes that particular path was all but impossible. As she reached her fist up to knock on the door, she realized that in this case, the path was positively… galling.

  Mr. Baker opened the door and cocked his head to look down at her, obviously surprised, though he tried hard to hide it. “Back again, Miss…”

  “Childs,” she prompted, with a smile that she hoped was perhaps somewhat endearing.

  “Yes, I remember it being infantile.” He nodded and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “What can do for you tonight?”

  “Mr. Baker, may I come in and discuss the matter with you, Please?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Childs,” he said, his face unreadable. “It’s rather late in the day. What will people say if they see you entering my home at this late hour?”

  “A great deal less than they are already saying, I assure you, sir. I have already had an earful of idle gossip and slander against my virtue and your good name.”

  “So why would I want to make it worse?” he asked reasonably.

  “Because, Sir, you don’t care a whit for these people or their opinions.”

  She was taking a gamble with that, but from what she’d learned after going back to town and talking to the few people who would still talk to her, Mr. Baker was rather partial to gambling. Or so she’d been told.

  “Very perceptive of you,” Baker growled. She could see the distance in his eyes as he stood back, allowing her to enter the house. He was cautious, she’d give him that, but at least he seemed willing to hear her out.

  He turned and walked into the parlor, leaving the door open. It was her choice to close it. She considered the number of insects and strays in the area and decided that this conversation would be better served with the door closed. Let the neighbors say what they will.

  “Mr. Baker…” she began. She’d spent the past hour trying to perfect what she would say to him and how to go about saying it, but now that she had him listening, blast if every last pretty word had gone straight out of her head.

  “Sit down.” It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order. Margrett bristled at his tone but considering she needed his assistance, and he truly had nothing to gain from helping her, she swallowed the anger and perched on the edge of a chair.

  It surprised her again how genteel and gracious the room was, given the rough character of the man who owned it. The chairs were almost delicate, artistically shaped and covered with a fine fabric that seemed to melt under her. This was a sitting room that could have been found in any fine home in Boston, except for the potted cactus on the end table.

  “Mr. Baker…” she began again, thinking a second run at the speech would find the lost words for her.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I… what?”

  “Have you eaten?” he asked again, leaning forward in his own chair to examine her face in the lamplight with a frown of concern. “You’re looking a mite bit peaked.”

  “I’m…” Any plausible denial she was phrasing was completely ruined by the way her stomach chose that moment to let him know quite loudly, that yes indeed she was hungry, thank you very much. She blushed furiously, and couldn’t think of a thing to say after all.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” he said, standing to walk over to the sideboard at the far side of the room. He picked up a crystal decanter containing a dark liquid, poured a generous helping into a glass that looked far too fine for the wilds of Arizona and offered it to her. “Start with this,” he said with a somewhat concerned frown. “Then we can talk about food.”

  “I do not drink spirits,” she said archly, turning the glass so that it’s facets reflected light in rainbows on the wall.

  “I do.” The man stated flatly, “But this beverage is tea.” He lifted his glass and drank. Margrett sniffed hers carefully and tried a sip. Instead of the burn of alcohol, it was indeed smooth sweet tea. It was delicious.

  “Thank you, Mr. Baker,” Margrett said and took a long drink as he went to stand beside the window. She could feel it wending coolly all the way down to her grumbling stomach, quelling the agitation there. She set the glass down, surprised that it was empty.

  “What’s on your mind, then?” Baker asked her.

  “Mr. Baker….” Margrett had only gotten that far too many times and she faltered as if expecting to be interrupted again. “I was able to find the fellow who stole my baggage,”

  “Good,” Baker said, smiling for the first time since she’d come into his house. “Then that’s something you need to tell the sheriff, not me.”

  “I have told the sheriff, sir. Apparently, the sheriff is a cousin to the man, and less than interested in upholding the law where family is concerned.”

  “Cousin? You mean Floyd Artemis?” Baker turned quickly to face her. “Dear Lord, that’s not just cousin, Artemis is the sheriff’s brother-in-law. You certainly picked a winner there, miss.”

  “I am well aware of my limitations, Sir.” she said hotly, “and I understand the fool I have been, what I need to know is what to do from here.”

  “Why ask me?”

  This truly was the crux of the matter. The only people who’d shown her kindness all day were the very women she’d come to serve. The Mexicans with their soft eyes and even softer accents, the Indians who were less savage than expected…it was these ladies in the marketplace who spoke to her in confidential whispers when any…well…individual of breeding, had turned a back on her rather than respond to a genteel greeting. “I don’t know anyone else in Flagstaff, Sir,” she admitted, cheeks burning. “Not anyone that can help me.” Margrett knew that not one of those women would risk speaking against authority. Not that they were necessarily downtrodden, though surely they had to be. It was more…the general acceptance that certain people made the rules in this town and no one questioned those rules. Ever.

  “I daresay you don’t know me either,” Baker said after a minute.

  “Perhaps not, but you are the only one here who has not, as of yet, found me to be abhorrent to look upon or decided I was a woman of questionable virtue. I do not know why people of this town are so dead set against me, I haven’t even begun the reformation I had intended. I could have at least attributed the hate I’m feeling to changing their provincial minds…”

  “Stop right there,” Baker barked at her. Margrett looked up at him with saucer eyes. She had no idea what she’d said to upset him, but this was the last person she could afford to alienate.

  “Maybe that’s your problem. You came here to free these people from their savagery, but you have no idea if they are, indeed, savage. From where do you get your idea that these people need saving?”

  “Well, I have to say, my treatment thus far…”

  “No, Miss Childs. You came here to save us all. What was it that gave you the idea we needed saving?”

  “Well…” she grasped for something to say. It was simply common knowledge that the west was an untamed, uncouth hole in which women were treated badly and from which there was no escape. Even despite the kindnesses she’d found from those…well to call them lower classes seemed to speak of snobbishness…but even those were surely less educated and had dire need of her services. She said as much.

  “Escape?” Baker echoed, blinking at her with a look that she could only credit to astonishment. “Escape to where, exactly?”

  “Just to better themselves.” She insisted, suddenly a little uncertain of herself. “We are very close to having women allowed to vote!” She threw out in triumph. Surely he could not argue some
thing so important as a need to be represented fairly in government.

  “In the Arizona territory, women already have the right to vote,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms again. “And hold office. There’s a town south of here called Prescott, got a woman mayor. There’s a…” he thought for the word, “… there’s a telescope up north a day, big thing, run by a woman. If the territory ever becomes a state, all these women are going to lose their rights, not gain them.”

  Margrett found her mouth was hanging open. “But…” she waved her arms trying to gather her thoughts to her.

  “You’re reading dime novels and pulp fiction,” he sneered. “You came here expecting savages and primitives, and you wonder why you aren’t accepted as the long-awaited savior? Miss Childs, I fear that your naiveté has gone deeper than simply buying someone else’s house.

  She fell silent. She hadn’t wanted to see it, had she? All her ideas of teaching hygiene when Mexican and native alike had come to her, smelling clean and fresh, of soap and sunshine when they’d leaned in close to whisper. That there hadn’t been one of them who looked malnourished and, judging from their market baskets, could likely teach her a thing or two about cooking. And if their English had been accented, could she do any better in a language not her own?

  What if there truly was no real need for her here?

  “But what can I do, Mr. Baker?” Margrett suddenly felt very small and foolish. “I came here…” she choked out the next part, “perhaps under the most foolish of pretenses, but the noblest of intentions, I didn’t mean…. I wasn’t..”

  Margrett stopped talking. She stopped breathing but for small gasps as the enormity of her foolishness settled on her chest. He was right, she had come as the great redeemer to a land that didn’t need her. It was arrogance that drove her, as much as a desire to pull these women from a pit that didn’t exist.

  Learning all of that, however, meant only that she could expect no help at all from back home. The best thing she could do was to wire the Lady’s Betterment League of Boston and beg the price of a return ticket, admit she’d squandered their money and throw herself on their mercies.

  “If your clothing thief was Floyd Atremis,” Baker said, his voice thoughtful, “then your Mr. Harmen must have been…” He looked at her sharply. “Not the man on the train I saw you having breakfast with?”

  She nodded, surprised that Mr. Baker had taken notice of her. “I thought you hadn’t remembered me,” she said in a small voice.

  “Of course I remembered you,” he brushed off her statement with the wave of his hand. “How could I possibly forget a girl like you?” Margrett thought she saw the hint of a wry smile appear at the corner of his mouth, but he turned slightly, leaving her to doubt her senses.

  A girl like me? Wait…what?

  “So that’s why my house was singled out,” he said, shaking his head. “That man was Cleveland Morrison.” He paused and waited, but the name meant nothing to her, and she wound up shaking her head. “Cleve works in the territory office, under the governor. He’s in charge of mines and mineral rights, but his true passion is finding ways to pull the land out from under people. He finds a legal reason to throw people off their farms, buys it back from the territory at a reduced price and sells it again, usually to the same wretch who’d had it before.”

  “That’s horrible.” Margrett felt sick, thinking of it. To think she’d breakfasted with such a man.

  “It is.” Baker agreed, his eyes somber. “I was able to interfere with his mechanizations once or twice, I don’t believe I am in his nightly prayers.”

  “Mr. Baker,” Margrett said, curled up in herself. “I have been… I am a fool. You have every right to chastise me for my attitude on arriving here ready to teach, but unwilling to learn. I may not deserve your assistance, but I still beg you for it.”

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “I have no idea. I’m at a loss to suggest anything, and I find that all my preconceived notions are hollow fantasies.” She rose and swallowed, crossing to him and placing a hand on his arm. “If it is within your power to help a foolish girl, please, Mr. Baker, help me.”

  “Come with me.” He said sharply, moving away quickly. She followed him into the kitchen in confusion. “Nothing can be done with a large hollow in your belly,” he said poking at something simmering on the stove that smelled absolutely heavenly. “I pulled out a slice of ham earlier for my own dinner and was cooking it when you showed up. There’s plenty enough for the both of us. There’s also some spinach from my neighbor’s garden.”

  Chapter 12

  Whatever else Baker was, he was handy in the kitchen. He pulled out a frying pan and added some eggs, getting them fried up in a moment as Margrett gathered greens and spices to assemble a simple salad with dressing. They stood in companionable silence for a time, lost creating the meal. It gave her time to think, allowing her to not only ruminate on the day but to also come to some rather disheartening conclusion about herself.

  It also gave her time to become more aware of Mr. Baker.

  The kitchen was by no means vast, so if an arm brushed a shoulder as someone reached for a spice on the shelf, or if a hip came into contact with…well, another hip…as they moved past each other in setting platters on the table, well that was to be expected.

  Her reaction to him wasn’t.

  Like on the train, every touch left a trail of warmth. Every closeness leaving her a little bit breathless.

  She didn’t know what to do with these new thoughts, these new feelings any more than she did those startling revelations that had called into question her entire reason for being there.

  It was with thankfulness that she sank down into the chair opposite him to eat, though here she found it too easy to look into his eyes, too easy to see his smile as he asked a blessing on the food. He was a man of contradictions, and it intrigued her that he made this display of faith, despite the stories she’d heard of his reputation.

  Margrett focused on the food, trying not to notice all these things, but even as she found strength returning to her limbs, she found embarrassment rising at her actions. She’d shown audacity in begging him the way she had. She blamed it on hunger and desperation and hoped he would do the same.

  “How long have you been in Flagstaff, Mr. Baker?” she asked finally, desperate to take the attention off of herself and her reasons for being there.

  “Not quite a year,” he admitted. “I’m still considered the stranger here and not to be trusted.”

  “Where from?”

  “On the Mississippi River.” He looked at her skeptical expression and laughed. “No, really. I lived from riverboat to riverboat. He shoved a piece of egg into his mouth and chewed slowly. “I was a gambler, I made a living off of it, a good one.”

  So some of the rumors She’d heard today were true. She almost hesitated in asking the next question.

  “What brought you here?”

  “That image you had in your hand yesterday,” he said, pointing to the ceiling, indicating the room she’d first fallen asleep in. “Her name was Alice. We were…not married very long.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr.Baker.” She shouldn’t have asked. Never had she seen so much pain in another being’s eyes.

  “I had been on the Mississippi for a few years. I’d found myself on a riverboat not long after leaving a ranch I’d been working on, and discovered I was pretty good when it came to cards. In fact, I was very good. But I was…reckless. The truth is, I wasn’t liking myself a whole lot about then.

  “I’d left home to prove to my father that I was worth my salt. That’s how I ended up working on ranches and cattle drives. I went home feeling like a success only to find out my father had died cursing the day I’d been born. He’d been ashamed of me, ashamed that I’d gone off to become a cowboy, and then more so when he found out I’d been playing cards. He’d lost his own fortune about then, and I suspect he felt I sh
ould come home and help him to regain his. Instead, I was full of myself and I waited, wanting to earn enough money to rub his nose in it when I finally did show up. But he was already dead.”

  He stared into his drink. “My mother didn’t last much longer. I saw them buried and headed back out on the river. I was playing recklessly. Hitting the games hard and not going out of my way to make friends. I think I was just looking for an excuse for someone to shoot me. It was a bad time. A real, bad time.”

  He fell silent. Margrett waited him out. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Wistful. “But then I met Alice, or rather, I met her again. We’d grown up together, but about the time I was heading west to play with cattle, she headed north to try living in Chicago. Her aunt had encouraged her to go to a teaching college there. Somewhere about this time, she was headed back to New Orleans to visit her own parents, who never liked me a whole lot. I suspect they’d been behind her big move to Chicago – they wanted her away from me.

  “Anyway, one day I looked up from the cards and there she was. As I said, she was going to New Orleans to visit and we…talked. I skipped a few games to spend time with her, and when she left, I got off the river for a while.

  “She visited her people, I stayed in New Orleans, and we had the occasion to meet over dinner and…and I wanted to live. She’d given me something to live for.” He paused, running his fingers along the grains of the table. “When she returned home, I booked passage on the same paddleboat, and we spent the entire trip making plans. The last night of the trip, she and I were married. Everything suddenly seemed so right…so easy.” He looked at Margrett with mournful eyes.

  “I had enough money to start over, some investments… hell,” he said, with a huff of a laugh, “I won some stocks in a copper mine in Arizona. I put some money in a logging concern, and I figured I just needed enough to get a house where I could keep an eye on both of my investments. I took one last trip down the river, but this time, I played high-stakes.