Tye nodded.
“Who else knows about this?”
Amos, Maria, and Tye shifted uncomfortably in their stances, peering guiltily at the floor.
“You all know?” Abigail shot them an incredulous look.
“And we need to keep it a secret,” Tye said. “Gossip flows around here like the water in Cherry Creek.”
“Well, good luck with that,” Abigail said and flounced out the door.
Later that day, when Abigail told her aunt about the incident with the lynx she was surprised by Emma’s reaction. The woman nodded indulgently, then suddenly broke out into a long, hysterical ripple of laughter. “I told you to go back to Utah, if you know what’s good for you.”
It was only when Maria mentioned the fresh flowers on their uncle’s grave that the woman stiffened and grew sober, staring at her in confusion before her eyes glazed over in hostile fury. And much earlier in the evening than before, and later into the next day, they were tormented by the same plaintive and repetitious sound of the spinet.
Chapter Six
Abigail hesitated in the entranceway of the Mule Shed Inn inhaling the sweet smell of newly sawed wood and the tangy odor of linseed and shellac. It had been three weeks to the day since she and Maria had arrived in Golden and settled into their cottage. To her relief, Maria spent every minute of every day caught up in arrangements for opening the school, which left Abigail a free hand with the inn.
Under the skilled direction of Amos, the shabby-looking structure had come alive like a pauper putting on a suit of fine clothes. Abigail had decided immediately the Mule Shed should be perceived as a new establishment and under new management. She wanted it to be a place where a gentleman could take a lady to dine, an establishment where a man could play cards and imbibe in good whiskey, a place of entertainment, and center of activity for the local town folks.
Inside the barroom, she tore down all the undesirable pictures of robust, scantily-clad women and replaced the back wall behind the bar with an array of mirrors and gas lights. Later, once she had some profits to spare, she would have murals painted along the room’s expansive, newly painted walls. For now, the only portrait adorning the room was a large oil painting of her grandmother she had discovered while sifting through the dust and junk stored in the attic of the cottage. It showed a vivacious young woman, seated demurely atop an open wagon, pulled by a team of four, gray, stout-shouldered mules. In the Arbitration Room, she hung a series of pictures depicting lumbering operations she had stumbled across in her uncle’s office.
Under Amos’s meticulous directions, all the bedrooms on the third floor were cleaned, disinfected, aired, and ready for patrons. Abigail closed down all but six, pilfering the best furniture from each room and redistributing them among the others. The largest room, at the very head of the stairs on the second floor, she relegated to Amos, despite his protests for something smaller, less fancy.
With the help of Will Singer, she rehired the cook and two serving girls for the kitchen and dining room. On the advice of Tye, she located a crusty old lumberman, Charlie Haney, who had injured his back in the woods and was looking for less strenuous work as a bar keeper. Noted best for his ability to make lively conversation, Haney was also an expert at distinguishing good whiskey and ale from the smell alone, and it was through him, she was able to engage the services of a piano player and two Irish sisters whose voices were as light as mockingbirds. Big Jake was the last to be added to her staff. At two hundred pounds, the robust trapper could break a man in half with his well-muscled arms. Abigail hoped his looks alone would keep the peace, but she cautioned him to remove anyone from the premises who started the slightest disturbance including any gentleman who entered the guest parlor without a calling card or a good reason.
Yet, despite her frugal maneuvering, she still needed new draperies, carpeting, and some much-needed paint for the dining room. Although she hated the thought of being indebted to anyone, she realized there was only one way she’d ever be able to complete the room and open the inn—borrow the money. She approached Emma the same afternoon.
“If we make the place as presentable as possible,” she told her aunt, “we have a better chance of enticing people to return.”
“I know, my dear, but the object of allowing you to manage the Mule Shed was to make money, not for you to spend it,” Emma replied curtly, standing like a queen in the center of her furniture-shrouded parlor.
“Have you been down to see it?” Abigail swallowed, trying hard not to disguise her irritation.
Emma shook her head. “Why on earth would I want to go down there and see the pitiful place that did little more than take up hours and hours of your uncle’s time?”
“It’s really coming along. Sometimes you have to invest time, money, and effort before you get to reap the rewards. A few hundred dollars would go a long way to help the time and effort.”
“Oh, my. Really, my dear.” A shadow of annoyance crossed Emma’s face. “Whatever makes you think I’d risk my money on Henry’s old, dusty, flea-bitten place?”
“But you’re more than willing to take half the profits if I succeed?”
Emma threw back her head and let out a frightful peal of laughter setting Abigail’s nerves on edge. “What an ungrateful thing for a penniless waif to say! In view of your situation, I shall overlook your boldness.”
Abigial felt her cheeks grow hot. It took every ounce of energy to swallow her fury and pride. She wanted to shout at the old biddy. “I apologize, Aunt Emma, but we do need to secure the money. If I can’t get any help from you, I’ll be forced to ask for a loan from the bank. Certainly Uncle Henry was well-known in town and his credit was excellent.”
Emma’s brutal look was almost too much to bear. “Don’t be a silly, silly fool, my dear girl! You’ll not get a penny from the bank in this town. They’re a tight-fisted lot who would sell their mother’s souls before they would loosen their grip on a handful of cash.”
Abigail heaved a weary sigh. “I’ll have to try, nonetheless.” She rose, walking stiffly toward the door. “Should I succeed, Aunt Em, I’ll be forced to deduct half the amount of the loan from your share of the profits. It’s only fair.”
“Fair?” Emma spit back at her. “You’ll shortly learn what’s fair and what’s not fair in this town, once you visit the bank!”
Later in the afternoon, seated in the plush office of Golden’s National Bank, Abigail forced herself to smile at the paunchy, balding bank president, Patrick Marsh, before coming directly to the point.
“I need a loan,” she admitted, “to cover a few expenses at the Mule Shed. Paint. Draperies. Things for renovation.”
March leaned back in his chair, crossing his fleshy hands on his protruding stomach. “Collateral?” he asked.
Abigail shook her head. “None, except for a few cases of Canadian whiskey and some French wine. My aunt still owns the inn. I’ve agreed to manage it and divide the profits with her. Eventually, I hope to buy her out.”
“Sorry, that won’t do, Miss O’Donnell.”
Abigail straightened and raised an eyebrow. “Your bank doesn’t believe in speculating?”
“On the contrary. We take risks and chances all the time. You must understand, you are new to our area. We would need someone to attest to your character.”
“My late uncle’s reputation is not enough?”
The banker blushed. “Yes, yes of course. You misunderstand me. Your uncle was an honest man, but I fear your aunt’s reputation is—” He cleared his throat nervously. “Well, suffice it to say, a little questionable. Emma has been known to run up outrageous bills about town.”
With as much dignity as she could muster, Abigail rose. “I see. Thank you for your time.” Weak-kneed she carried herself to the door, halting on the sidewalk to catch her breath and steady the heaviness she felt in her chest. Her disappointment settled in her stomach like a painful knot. She was helpless to halt her embarrassment. Tears began to form, and
she wiped them away quickly with the back of her hand.
A voice called out to her.
She looked up to see Brett sauntering up, a crooked grin on his face. “Lovely day, Miss O’Donnell.” He stopped and gave her a thoughtful stare. “But the look on your face tells me we might be in for some rain.”
Abigail sighed a disheartened sigh and swiped at her cheek again. Of all the people she had to run into, Brett Trumble was the last person she hoped to see. It was humiliating to have to admit she had been rejected for a loan by the local bank. “It seems Golden’s bank doesn’t back people willing to give a good day’s work to make an honest living. Holding up a flatboat with goods is beginning to appear like a sound idea to raise some cash.”
Brett winced. “You are not going to let go of our misfortunate encounter, are you?” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “You know, there are secrets to loosening the grip on those stiff-necked old weasels inside.”
“I’ll not have a thief telling me how to swindle a banker.” She sniffed and dug into her reticule, but before she could withdraw a handkerchief, Brett shoved his into her hands and pulled her close to him to shield her from the curiosity of people passing by.
“Ah, but you see, thieves and weasels understand each other, Miss O’Donnell,” he whispered near her ear.
She felt the warmth of his body as he shielded her from onlookers, and she wanted to hide there forever. He waited until she composed herself and dried her eyes, then gently turned her by her shoulders and nudged her toward the door of the bank.
“I’m not going back in there,” she murmured, shaking her head, digging in her heels. “It was embarrassing.”
“Oh, yes, you are. You never let the weasel win, Abigail.”
Once inside, he ushered her straight toward the teller’s window where he demanded to see Patrick March.
The old banker appeared almost instantly, scuttling across the floor like a crab. “This is a surprise, Captain Trumble. Is there something I can do for you?” He looked uncomfortable as soon as he noticed Abigail standing beside Brett.
Around them, Abigail felt the heavy silence as the teller and bank personnel ceased their tasks, watching the display.
“Now, now, Marsh,” Brett said in a lazy tone as his gaze circled the bank and landed on each employee. “You know I never discuss business anyplace other than behind closed doors, away from prying eyes.” Heads dropped on cue, and paper rustled as employees scuttled about looking busy.
“But…but of course,” Marsh stammered. “My office. This way, please.”
Inside the office once again, Abigail took a seat Brett held for her before he lowered him to one on her right, propping his booted calf casually atop the other knee. Patrick Marsh eyed Abigail suspiciously, then glanced at Brett.
“Is there something I can do for you, Captain Trumble?”
“Actually, there is something you can do for Miss O’Donnell here.” Brett smiled an easy smile that Abigail was becoming accustomed to. “I don’t believe you know Abigail’s dear cousins, Joshua and Adam, fought valiantly beside me in the cause.”
When Abigail started to protest, Brett reached out and laid a restraining hand on her arm. “And Miss O’Donnell, noble to the end, has spent her last penny trying to bring these brave soldiers to their final resting place beside their beloved uncle. Now she yearns to get her uncle’s inn on solid financial ground and reopen it, and all she needs is a loan, but I understand she was refused. How terribly unsympathetic and unpatriotic of you.”
Abigail watched red heat creep up Patrick Marsh’s neck and settle about his ears. Clearing his throat, he asked, “How much does the young lady wish?”
“Three hundred dollars,” Abigail spoke up. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Brett Trumble was shameless. She almost hoped the banker would refuse her request. Instead, he merely nodded and said, “I shall draw a draft this afternoon, and she shall have her money tomorrow morning. Will that be acceptable?” He pulled uncomfortably at his cravat as if it was choking him. “I didn’t know you were familiar with Miss O’Donnell, Captain Trumble. She never mentioned she knew anyone in Golden.”
“Know her?” Brett grinned and gave the banker a conspiratorial wink. “Why Mr. Marsh, I was so smitten by Miss O’Donnell the first time I met her I felt like I was falling overboard into the depths of the Arkansas River! Of course, I know her.”
Later, back out on the street, Abigail threw him a vexed look. “Besides a thief, you’re also a very talented liar.”
Brett threw back his head and roared with laughter. He pulled her around the side of the building, yanked her to him, and kissed her soundly. When he released her, she stepped back dazed and regarded him.
He held up a hand palm up. “Just add amorous rogue to my list of qualities, if you must,” he said. “And I’m enormously pleased you’re keeping one!” Then he turned and sauntered away, hands in his pockets and whistling softly to himself.
“And a scoundrel,” Abigail called out after him. Her hand went to touch her lips as she watched his back disappear from view. “A pompous one, too,” she added in a whisper.
Chapter Seven
Tye Ashmore stopped outside the General Store and stared at all the goods in the window, but especially the black lace scarf his sister had thrown over the shoulders of a mannequin dressed in a yellow satin gown. The black color reminded him of Maria’s thick raven locks, and the jewels sewn into the lace sparkled as bright as her hair in sunlight.
“Are you checking to see if Betsy has any new guns for sale?” a scratchy voice said behind him. He turned and looked down at old Theofila Sarowski, mother of the town’s blacksmith, and whom everyone called Theo. She leaned on her cane with a face wrinkled worse than a dried apple. Her eyes were like tiny black beads, and her hair was as gray as the color of flagstone. She reminded him of a baby possum, small and wizened. Betsy had often described her as being as old as dirt, as sharp as the best knife in her store, and as odd as a two-headed snake.
He touched the brim of his hat and smiled. “Actually, I purchased a new gun, but today I’m picking up a school bag for the new school teacher and checking on the delivery of a petticoat. I was also looking at the shawl.” He held the door for her. “I was wondering whether it would be appropriate as a birthday present for a lovely woman.”
Mrs. Sarowski clutched her hands to her chest and faked a swoon. “Ah, Tydall Ashmore, if I were only ten years younger I’d be chasing after you—good-looking fellow that you are—with or without a present of a shawl. I’m surprised no gal has caught you yet. You have to stop sidestepping so fast.” She grunted. “But it’s a mighty fine shawl, young man. And far be it from me to refuse any kind of petticoat you selected, though I tend to like those new imported ones the best—with fancy French lace!”
Tye laughed. Old Mrs. Sarowski was at least eighty years old, and he’d bet his last dollar at seventy she probably could have given any man a fair run for his money. She had raised ten kids and now lived alone on the outskirts of town where she took care of a few milk cows and goats. She was an avid reader, canned all her vegetables, often exchanged books and recipes with his sister, Betsy, and made the best cheese in the Territory.
Betsy raised her head as they entered the store, obviously having heard their conversation. “Tye’s brothers and I believe if we can get him out of those buckskins he’s so fond of, we might be able to find him a wife, Mrs. Sarowski.”
“And what about you, missy?” she asked. “How about a husband for you?”
Tye leaned his hands on the counter and raised any eyebrow as much as to say, “Now look what you’ve started, sister.”
“So tell me, Tydall,” the old woman continued, “are you courting this young lady?”
“I’m hoping to, but she seems to be the independent sort. Like some other women I know.” His gaze skidded from Theo to his sister.
“Now, young man, you need to give her some time to get settled in and to get
to know the town and its people. Don’t push the river, it will flow on its own accord.”
“This may be a case when I’m in the river rowing with one oar,” Tye said sourly. He twirled his finger to indicate he was rowing in circles and getting nowhere.
Both women laughed. Beside them, the bell tingled over the door, and Emma McNeil swept in. She wore a black mourning dress of the finest taffeta. When she saw Tye and Theo Sarowski, she stepped around them to reach the counter. “I need some yard goods and supplies,” she said. “Immediately. I’ve other places to visit today.”
“As soon as I finish with Mrs. Sarowski, I’ll be able to help you.” Betsy smiled.
Emma McNeil’s face turned from calm to disgust in a bare second.
“No, no,” Theo spoke up. “Please wait on Mrs. McNeil first. I want to browse the merchandise and jaw a bit with you young’uns. This petticoat thing is scratching at my curiosity with a vengeance.
“I would say stepping aside would be a wise thing to do,” Emma replied tartly. “After all, it’s evident who buys more goods in this town.”
Theo chuckled. “True. True. So don’t forget to put a pound of sugar on your account.” She turned and started to the back of the store, her cane tap, tap, tapping on the wooden floor.
“Why on earth would I need sugar?”
“Crabby old biddies need every means possible to sweeten their dispositions,” the old woman said, her voice fading as she proceeded up the aisle.
Unbridled anger raged in Emma’s eyes. “Why I never have spoken with anyone so ill-bred and ill-mannered in my life!” She spit the words out for everyone in the store to hear.
“Bull! Have you listened to yourself lately?” Theo rejoined from somewhere in the back of the store.
With a huff, Emma slapped her list onto the counter. “Just deliver these supplies to the manse by nightfall. I refuse to be in the same room with that crazy woman!” She sniffed in disdain and stomped to the door.
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