Under Starry Skies

by Judy Ann Davis

  Behind her, Brett spoke. “Come, Abby, let’s sit with Tye and Maria.” He took her elbow and escorted her to their table near the kitchen. “From the turnout tonight, it appears your business may be very successful.”

  “Oh, I hope so.” She spoke in a low voice as they wove their way among the tables. “This is either going to make or break me financially.” She said a silent prayer she would make enough money to allow her to pay off her bank loan and cover operating expenses for a few more weeks.

  Once seated, the two Irish sisters, Peg and Polly, began their first number, a playful old ballad called, “Gently Down the Stream.” They weren’t two stanzas into the song when Emma McNeil, dressed in a fashionable, but low-cut, burgundy taffeta dress, sashayed into the dining room on the arm of Lang Redford. All heads turned to watch the widow. Her hair was piled on her head and pinned with elaborate combs. Her face was covered with layers of powder, rouge, and lip coloring so thick they looked like they had been shoveled on. Even the piano player and singers stopped to stare.

  Tye Ashmore leaned in and met Brett Tumble’s befuddled green eyes with an equally baffled gaze. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

  Abigail merely stared at her aunt, tongue-tied. If Aunt Emma had planned to attend in proper widow weeds as she had earlier suggested, she was wearing anything but discreet black. A huge diamond pendant encircled her neck and nestled itself between the two mounds of her bosom like a raindrop falling between two plump peaches. Lang Redford, lanky and clean-shaven, sauntered between the tables wearing a dark, worsted suit, a white shirt with a starched pointed collar, and a grin as wide as the Colorado River in flood season.

  Both Tye Ashmore and Brett Trumble had the good sense and courtesy to stumble up and greet Emma as Abigail choked out, “Why, good evening, Aunt Emma and Mr. Redford.” She nodded to the singers to begin again as the couple slipped into their seats to the right of Maria and Tye.

  Emma patted her hair, preening. “Why, my dear nieces, I’m impressed by the grand turnout. However did you manage to contact so many distinguished people so quickly?” She smiled and glanced about the room, aware everyone was observing them.

  Across the table, Abigail looked at Maria who was wide-eyed and speechless. “Actually, Aunt Emma, it was Brett and Tye who helped us collect names for a guest list, and Maria and I wrote personal invitations to each.” She glanced at Brett who had leaned back in his chair and was now sipping on a glass of wine and enjoying the entire spectacle.

  Emma wasted no time in scrutinizing both her nieces with open jealousy. She turned to Abby first. “Well, I see you’re looking like Cinderella at the ball, Abigail. I’d love to know who you use for your seamstress. Her work is exquisite even if it’s lost on your broomstick figure. No one would ever guess you’re wearing one of my old cast-offs.” She laughed lightly like a cackling hen. “If you should have need of any more hand-me-downs, I’ve several trunks in the attic you’re welcome to rummage through.”

  “And you, my dear, Maria,” she continued, turning, “my, my, your shawl must have cost a fortune. I doubt a school teacher’s wages are hardly sufficient for such finery, or are those little confections on my account at the store?”

  Maria’s face turned crimson with embarrassment, but it was not as livid with anger as Tye Ashmore’s was. Maria laid a hand on his forearm to try to quell his seething rage. “The shawl is a gift for my birthday from Tye,” she managed to say with a calmness she hardly felt, “but the dress—”

  Tye cut her off sharply. “Quite frankly, Mrs. McNeil, I’m a bit confused why a relative who has so much would care so little about her nieces.”

  Emma’s lips thinned with anger. She stared at him, then recovering, laughed a high-pitched haughty laugh. “I’m appalled by your words and bold behavior, sir.”

  “As I am by yours, ma’am,” he said, his gaze steady, his face dangerously calm.

  Across from him, Brett inhaled and held his breath. Lang Redford leaned forward about to intervene but thought otherwise when Tye glared at him, daring him to make a move. Lang eased his body back into his chair unsure of how to gauge the escalating ominous atmosphere.

  A serving girl appeared, bringing bowls of steaming, rich soup to set before them. She was followed shortly after by another server bearing plates of beef, potatoes, and candied carrots. The rest of the meal was eaten without conversation, each person lost in his thoughts, and Abigail was glad she had commissioned the Irish sisters to perform and cover the awkwardness at the table.

  “The kitchen staff has outdone themselves,” Emma finally said in a dramatic voice and clasped her hands to her bosom as the main course was finished. “I wonder what they will serve for dessert.”

  “Apple pie, I imagine,” Brett said. Devilish humor flashed across his face. He swiveled and smiled. “Both Maria and Abigail have voracious cravings for apple dishes.” He openly winked at Abigail. “I saw a farmer unloading six dozen bushels of apples at the kitchen yesterday.”

  “Yes, but it’s Swedish apple pie,” Maria corrected him. “Abby hired Anna Ashmore to come over and supervise the kitchen staff in making one of her famous desserts from her bakery. It was always a favorite of ours when my father owned apple orchards in New York.”

  ****

  When the singers ended their repertoire of songs, Emma rose from the table and took a spoon, tapping loudly on her crystal water glass to get the attention of the diners. “I wish to say a few words to my guests,” she announced to everyone at the table and in the room.

  Brett lightly poked Abigail with his elbow, then glanced at Tye, a smirk on his lips. He mouthed the words, “What the—”

  Tye shook his head and glanced toward the ceiling. It was going to be a long night. Emma McNeil was about to steal the show.

  The room grew quiet as Emma looked over the crowd, clasping her hands to her ample bosom in dramatic fashion and throwing them outward to the crowd. “Welcome! Welcome. I think it’s only proper I should say a few words as owner of the Mule Shed Inn. I’m so pleased to be here and so happy to see everyone turn out for the reopening of it, despite the recent and unfortunate death of my dear husband, Henry, God rest his soul. When I devised the idea of hiring Abigail to manage the inn, I had no idea she was so capable. Her uncle would be proud to see she’s now using her God-given talents, doing the same work he loved. I’m sure as you look around, you can see the many changes we’ve made.” She paused. “And, of course, I would like to thank the town council, school board, and everyone in the town for providing a teaching position for Maria as well. As you all know, my two nieces came here penniless, like paupers, looking for a better life than the one in Utah where their poor, destitute father died.”

  In both shock and embarrassment, Abigail and Maria sat frozen to their chairs.

  Tye rose to his feet as if someone ignited a bottle of nitroglycerin under his chair. He tapped his water glass so harshly with the first utensil he could find, a large serving spoon, and was amazed it didn’t shatter. He rounded the table and pushed Emma unceremoniously down into her seat.

  “Just a second,” Emma sputtered, “I’m not finished—”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, you are,” Tye whispered in a dangerously low voice. “Don’t test my patience, you old witch. It’s not beneath me to have you gagged, trussed up like a turkey, and carted out of here.”

  He picked up his wine glass and took a deep breath. “As you know, I’m the Ashmore who’s not much of a talker.” The crowd chuckled. “But tonight we toast Miss Abigail O’Donnell for the wonderful evening and reopening of the Mule Shed Inn and its barroom. Lots of work went into the reopening, and she deserves everyone’s admiration. She and her staff have worked hard over the last few weeks.” He raised his glass to Abigail, still recovering from the sting of Emma. She forced out her brightest smile as the room filled with applause. “And tonight both Captain Brett Trumble and I wanted to do something very special for Abigail and her sister, Maria, our new teacher, who will b
e twenty-two next week.” He motioned to one of the serving girls standing in the kitchen doorway, then nodded to the piano player in the corner of the room.

  As a lively Irish song was played, two of the kitchen help rolled out a wooden cart with two cakes, each splendidly done up with layers of gold frosting. Atop one, a replica of a book was fashioned in icing, and on the other was the outline of the inn, done by the artistic hand of someone in the kitchen.

  Maria gasped, and Abigail leaned over, gave her a quick hug, and spoke over the din of the piano, “Happy Birthday! If Amos hadn’t reminded me, I might have forgotten. We’ve been so busy lately. You with your school and lessons, and me with the inn’s renovations. Let’s celebrate together.”

  When the song ended, Brett rose and said to Abigail, “I’ll see to the clearing of a space for some dancing and have the kitchen staff serve the cake and apple pie.” They both glanced at Emma whose face was livid. It was taking every ounce of her willpower to remain seated and keep her temper in check. The tension at the table grew like a wild fire out of control.

  “I see Dr. Wade is in town,” Brett said casually, once he was seated. “I haven’t seen him since we served in the war together.” He turned to Abigail, “You’ll have to excuse me for just a few minutes this evening while I buy him a shot of your good Canadian whisky in the barroom. I’m sure Tye would like to join me as well since Flint and Dr. Wade know each other.”

  “Cullen Wade?” Emma asked, breaking her icy silence. “The doctor? What’s Dr. Wade doing in Golden?”

  “Who’s Cullen Wade?” Abigail looked confused.

  “He’s a doctor from Virginia who Flint knew from childhood.” Tye pushed away from the table and stood. “Even though he was wearing a different colored uniform during the war, he did a most remarkable job of helping wounded soldiers of both the North and South. I hear he’s looking to move west and find a small town where he can relocate and practice.”

  “Wouldn’t it be grand if he chose to come here?” Maria asked. “Our town needs another doctor. Doc Silverstone is getting up there in years.”

  Without warning, Emma rose suddenly, jostling the table. Silverware and dishes rattled. “I want to go home.” She held a handkerchief dramatically to her temple. “I feel a headache coming on.”

  “But you haven’t even had an opportunity to dance or mingle with the guests.” Abigail stood. “Why don’t you sip some water or go outside and get some fresh air?”

  “I want to go home now,” Emma whined in a shrill, waspish voice. “I don’t need to mingle with dirt farmers, annoying ranchers, and silly lumbermen. And I don’t need to mingle with odious young people who have no manners.” Her gaze swept the table and landed on Lang. “Get the carriage immediately!” She brushed past Abigail and stormed toward the entrance door. Behind her, Lang Redford scrambled to his feet and followed on her heels like a dog cowering to his master. Amos was standing just inside the entrance when she flounced by and snapped, “My shawl!” She ripped it from his grip as soon as he handed it to her. Within minutes, she was gone.

  Tye’s eyes narrowed, watching Emma’s display. He wondered why the mention of Cullen Wade sent Emma into a despicable rant and hasty departure. There was something not quite right about the old biddy. And there was something troubling about Lang Redford who had spent most of the night in restrained, sullen silence. He reminded himself to wire his brother, Luke, who was marshalling up north and ask him some questions.

  With a multitude of thoughts still tumbling in his head, Tye rose from the table and held out his hand to Maria. She looked perplexed, distraught, and downright miserable. “Come, let’s have a dance in celebration of your birthday, Maria.” She nodded and stood, and he saw the tears brimming in her eyes. “On second thought, let’s get some fresh air.” Gently, he steered her toward the kitchen and back door.

  Once outside, they walked around to the side of the inn where the path led to the cottage and farther beyond to a road winding its way up to the manse on the hill. They could see a lone light shine from two front windows like cat’s eyes. Behind them, Amos had lit all the lanterns and gaslights, and a warm glow spilled out from all the Mule Shed’s windows along with the infectious sound of music from the fiddlers, banjo, and piano players.

  “Why does she act so superior?” Tears began to splash down Maria’s cheeks. “Why is she so nasty and hurtful? Why does she have a need to shame everyone?”

  Tye heaved a sigh and pulled her to him as she silently wept on his chest. He could smell the sweet scent of roses in her hair. “Maria,” he said gently next to her ear, “some people are born with a mean streak. Emma has never been a happy woman. My pa used to tell us happiness is the result of being too busy to be miserable.”

  “Tell me, does the wretched woman have any redeeming qualities?” She began to cry all over again. “All I ever wanted was a warm home, a dependable teaching position, an orchard…and some chickens.”

  “Orchard? Chickens?” Now where did all this suddenly come from? Tye stroked the back of her hair with his hand. It felt sleek and soft, like the fur of a baby kitten. “You want apples and chickens?”

  Between bursts of weeping, Maria blurted out, “Yes, chickens. Don’t you dare laugh, Tydall Ashmore. Don’t you like custard pie? A good breakfast? You know, all those foods you make with eggs? Abby and I used to raise them back in Utah.”

  Custard pie? Breakfast? He was still unsure of how to sort it all out. His sister, Betsy, had once told him weeping women don’t make a hill of sense. Just go with the flow of tears and agree with them. “Yes,” he said. “Of course I like custard pie.”

  “And why does that old shrew berate everyone?” Maria’s voice was muffled by his jacket.

  “Well, at least two men have escaped the old gal’s rage, God rest their souls,” he murmured into her hair and pulled her even closer to him. “Her first husband and your uncle. And I’m guessing both of them aren’t in line to lay out a bed of lilies when it’s her turn to meet the Almighty.”

  Maria choked out a small laugh and followed it with a hiccup.

  He rubbed her back gently as if he was soothing a small child. “Listen, Maria, the Indians have an expression about people like Emma who want to have power over you and your thoughts. They say, don’t let your enemy set up a teepee in your head. I’d probably say, don’t let the old biddy camp out in your mind.”

  “Thank you, Tye,” she said sniffling. “I’m sorry for ruining your evening. Tell me, who is responsible for buying this lovely dress? Was it your sister? I’m willing to pay for it. I don’t want to feel like I’m a beggar.”

  Tye sighed. “Actually, it’s a gift from Frank Norwell, and the only reason I’m telling you is so you won’t badger me ’til all my cows come home. It was supposed to be anonymous. Norwell’s wife, Virginia, once gave Betsy a dress to wear when we first moved here, and now both Betsy and Frank, each wealthy in their own right, make it a point to carry forth her generosity whenever possible as a silent tribute to her. She passed away many years ago.”

  “She must have been a very generous person.”

  “Yes, she was. Emma might have learned a lot from Virginia Norwell had she lived.”

  “Do you think I’m a coward for not standing up to her?” She pulled away and searched his face.

  He shook his head. “No, no, I don’t. I think it takes far more stamina to be silent.” He chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” She took the handkerchief he handed her and dried her eyes.

  “I was thinking if Emma were my aunt, I would have hogtied her, dumped her ugly carcass at the foot of the mountain, and let the lynx have a go at her.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the night wore on, Maria was glad to see the crowd was gradually dwindling. Husbands began to escort their wives home, stopping to peer into the crowded barroom where Charlie and Amos were dispensing whiskey and ale with flying hands.

  Abigail walked the town mayor and his wife to the door and
into the twilight and stood in the center of the wide, three-sided porch, watching the carriages pull up in front of the steps to gather their guests. Her mind scrambled with thoughts, she made her way to a side door leading into the office. Once inside the room, she found the office lit with a single oil lamp on a side table, giving off a rosy glow, and she remembered Amos had told her he planned to have a light in every window of the inn to chase away the evening shadows and welcome the entire town. She slipped back outside and looked at the structure’s massive front and smiled. Warm yellow light spilled out every window and made the building glow like a huge beacon. She made a mental note to thank Amos and the entire staff for all their long hours and hard work.

  Inside again, her thoughts strayed to her aunt and her bizarre behavior. What had caused Emma to act so maliciously and to leave so suddenly? As she pulled the shade down on the window for more privacy, she paused and looked toward the manse on the hill. An almost full moon lit the sky. Clouds scudding across the night sky and past the moon shed an eerie light bouncing off the slate roof as if goblins were dancing atop it.

  She sat at her uncle’s rolltop desk and noticed Amos had neatly stacked all the inn’s bills for the evening’s event in a corner of the desktop. Rummaging through the bottom right drawer, she searched for some blank paper for ciphering but discovered instead a small black book she had overlooked in her early perusal of the desk and its contents. It was a ledger of sorts, dog-eared and tucked beneath piles of assorted bills and papers. Leafing through it, she realized it was a collection book instead with columns and entries of people who had given her uncle money over the last few years. She noticed the name, Aeron O’Donnell on the fifth page. Her father! She hurriedly riffled through the remaining pages until she found more entries where her father paid as little as twenty-five dollars and as much as two hundred dollars to her uncle over the last ten years. The only explanation for the payments was a simple entry, “for Irene M” written beside each entry.