by DiAnn Mills
Chloe rose long before dawn and bathed in the chilly waters of the creek. She washed her hair and let it drape about her shoulders in hopes it would dry before time to pin it up for work. A satchel held her worldly possessions, but tonight they’d have a better resting place than lying hidden beneath the trunk of a fallen cypress tree. She’d washed her dress last night and wrapped a discarded blanket around her until this morning. The dress was a little more than damp, but it was clean. If only she had something to eat. Maybe she’d be offered some breakfast this morning.
With a sliver missing from a full moon and a sky full of twinkling stars to light her way, Chloe lifted her satchel and started her trek toward Kahlerville. Mr. Barton had indicated she might not be able to handle her new position. She’d show him. Her days had been filled with hard work ever since she could remember. School had been a joy, and she enjoyed the challenge of all her subjects, especially arithmetic. To her, solving number problems was like putting all the pieces of a puzzle together and caused her to temporarily forget her bleak circumstances.
Glancing up at the sky, she figured 80 percent of the right portion of the moon appeared, and that phase was called something . . . She’d remember it later. Ah, a waxing gibbous moon. Her step picked up. Life had taken a definite turn for the best.
The boardinghouse windows revealed a hint of light, and that meant signs of someone up and about. From Chloe’s estimation, the time was around five o’clock. The cook must be starting breakfast before the boarders rise. She could smell the coffee, the bacon sizzling, biscuits baking. Shaking the dizziness from her head, she entered the boardinghouse.
“Good morning. Mr. Barton?”
When no one responded, she made her way back to where the smell of coffee nearly gave her chills.
“Good morning. Mr. Barton?”
“He’s not here,” came a gravelly voice. “Whatcha need?”
Chloe walked toward the voice. “I’m Chloe Weaver, the new desk clerk and bookkeeper.”
A short, chubby fellow with an apron tied around his waist flipped bacon in a huge, cast-iron skillet. “Mornin’, Miss Weaver. You’re a mite early, aren’t you?”
She attempted to ignore the tantalizing smells wafting about. For a moment, she thought she’d faint. “Uh, yes. I’m early. A little eager to get started.”
“Well, Mr. Barton ain’t here yet. Sit a spell. Coffee’s done. He opened the oven door. “And so’s the biscuits. I bet you haven’t had breakfast.”
“No, sir.” Her mouth watered, and she glanced away.
“Call me Simeon.” He nodded toward the coffeepot on the stove. “Open up that there cabinet and get yourself a mug. Butter and honey are on the table for a biscuit.”
Chloe dug her fingers into her palms to stop the shaking.
“Don’t be nervous about your first day at work. Barton’s fair, but he expects ya to do what he’s paying ya for. You can put your bag behind the door.”
“Oh, I intend to. I mean do a good job.” She set her satchel in the appointed spot and poured the coffee, willing her hand to stop trembling. She licked her thumb and forefinger before reaching for a hot biscuit. In the next instant, thick sweet honey and melted butter oozed from her biscuit. “Thank you. This is delicious.”
He chuckled. “That’s what I like to hear. From the looks of you, I’d say you’ve missed a few meals. Ol’ Simeon will take care of fattenin’ you up. You can be my tester.”
“Tester?” she said between bites.
“Yeah. Taste my food and see if it needs anything.”
She smiled. “I’d be happy to help you with that little chore.” Once she finished the biscuit—in as ladylike a manner as possible—she sipped the coffee. “All right. How can I help you?”
Simeon grinned wide, revealing a mouthful of missing teeth. “You and me’s gonna get along just fine.” He leaned toward her. “You shore are purdy. Too bad I’m not thirty years younger. We’d be doin’ some courtin’. All that shiny black hair. My mama was part Indian, too.”
Chloe let him talk. She had no intentions of ever courting or making any excuses about her mama. Today was a fresh start for a new life.
*****
Zack took a bittersweet look around the newspaper office. He loved the sights of people scurrying about, the smell of ink, the sound of typewriters, the hum of reporters and editors relaying the pertinent facts of their latest stories, and the touch of a newspaper. To him, few things compared to the thrill of handing a reader a fresh copy of the New York Times. Once he arrived back home in Kahlerville, he’d do the same for those people he’d grown up with and missed during the past few years in the big city.
“Good luck to ye, boy,” a typesetter said.
“Tear ’em up with your own newspaper,” another man said.
“Enjoyed working with you,” still another said.
Zack returned their well wishes with his sights set toward his cold apartment and then home. He gathered up last night’s newspaper—a keepsake—and headed out onto Times Square into the wintry morning. But before he trudged the streets to his apartment, he needed to stop at the Saint Vincent de Paul Orphanage on Forty-second Street to see about Curly and Charlie. Once he finished there, he’d have time to pack up his few belongings before noon and do a little sightseeing on his last afternoon in New York City.
Taking the trolley, he arrived at the building housing the motherless and fatherless children of the area. A mixture of wondering why get involved and a deep need to make sure the boys were well taken care of swirled about his mind. How easy it would be to simply forget yesterday and carry on with his own affairs. Unfortunately that hadn’t happened. God had pushed him to make sure the twins hadn’t run off again and to contribute a few dollars to their welfare. He could even send a little money regularly to the orphanage. Yes, that was a fine charitable consideration.
Opening the door, he noticed the inside of the building wasn’t much warmer than the outside. Bare toes and ragged coats flashed across his mind.
“May I help you?” a veiled sister said.
Zack moistened his lips. “Yes, ma’am. My name is Zackary Kahler, and I’m checking on a set of twins who I believe were delivered here by a policeman yesterday.”
She smiled. “Welcome. My name is Sister Catherine. You must mean Curly and Charlie.”
He nodded. “Have they decided to stay put?”
“At least for the day. The two often work with the newsboys. Are you a relative?”
“No. I met them prior to the policeman escorting them back to you.”
“Oh, you must be the man with the wallet.”
“I am.” He relaxed slightly and smiled. “Are they all right? I mean they sure are young to be wandering the streets. I know the city is full of orphans.”
“They’re doing well.”
“I understand their mother was killed in the Triangle Factory fire.” When the sister affirmed this, he braved forward. “And their father?”
“The family emmigrated here from Ireland. According to the children, he died when they were babies. They have no family in this country. Would you like to see the twins?” Sister Catherine folded her hands in front of her, making him wonder if she was praying. An uneasiness swept over him, and he couldn’t shake it off. He had things to do.
“No need to trouble yourself. Actually I wanted to take care of the paperwork for setting myself up as a benefactor of sorts.”
She nodded, as though thinking through his request. “I see. If that is the case, they need to thank you properly.”
Before Zack could object, she disappeared down a dark hallway. Did he really want to see those two again? With his gloved hands behind his back, he glanced about and noted the draft from the door, the threadbare rug, and the lack of light. But he did hear the faint sounds of children in the distance. From what he’d heard, this orphanage was much better than most.
Just when he was about to give up and get busy with the ever-growing list of preparati
ons to be made before he boarded the train for Chicago tomorrow and from there the Northern Pacific to Texas, Sister Catherine appeared with Curly and Charlie. Her hands firmly grasped a shoulder of each twin. From their reddened faces, the two had been scrubbed clean. Their clothes were ragged but patched, and the shoes were the same ones he’d noticed earlier.
“Children, Mr. Kahler has been so kind to visit you.”
The two exchanged wide-eyed glances but said nothing. She tapped their shoulders.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. I trust you have been behaving yourselves.” When neither responded, he bent to their level. They reminded him of leprechauns. His mother would call them two peas in a pod. She’d also say how cute they were. Cute, but thieves. A curious thought twisted through his mind, then planted itself firmly in his heart. He must have taken leave of his good senses. Standing, Zack smiled at the sister.
“I’d like to complete the paperwork necessary to send money for these two until they are adopted.”
“Adoption, sir, is highly unlikely, unless you were contemplating the idea.”
Zack’s heart suddenly felt like freshly churned butter. Along with the softening came a surge of fear. “I’m not married.”
“A father is better than no parent at all. Our Lord would bless you for this act of charity.”
What could he say? He sensed the twins staring at him—more like boring a hole through his coat, jacket, and shirt. “I’m leaving the city tomorrow. Returning home to Texas.”
“And what will you do there?”
In the past few minutes, the twins had moved closer to him. Their thin bodies touched his, but he refused to look their way. “I recently purchased the town’s newspaper.”
Sister Catherine pulled the twins closer to her side. “Did you hear that, children? This kind man owns a newspaper in Texas. Oh, Mr. Kahler, what a fine home you could provide for these little angels.”
Angels? Obviously, the kind sister had not seen these two in action. “How old are they?”
“Six. They will be seven on June—I’ll have to look at their file.”
Zack regretted ever considering visiting the orphanage. “I know nothing about raising children.”
“Do you have family in Texas? A mother? Sister? Aunt? Any female relatives?”
“I have all of those and an eight-year-old brother.” Why did his heart slam against his chest? No, God. Absolutely not. I have things to do when I get home.
“Splendid. Large town or small?”
“Rather small.”
Sister Catherine stood on her toes and laughed aloud. “You are an answer to prayer, kind sir.” She hugged the children into her black skirt. “My precious Curly and Charlie, you are leaving us for a new home and a father.” Tears filled her eyes and spilled over her cheeks. “God bless you. God bless you, sir. I’ll leave you to get acquainted with the children while I retrieve the necessary papers for you to sign and find Sister Agatha to start the preliminary proceedings.”
What had he gotten himself into? “Do you mean adoption papers?”
“Oh yes. Why, you can’t simply walk out of here with these children. There are certain legal steps that must be followed.”
“And how long will this process take?” Where were his senses?
She touched her forefinger to her chin. “I’m not sure. Please excuse me while I find Sister Agatha. You can wait in our parlor.” Sister Catherine guided Zack and the twins to the small room, which apparently was rarely used.
The twins had nothing to say, which surprised him, and in turn he could think of nothing clever. Adoption papers? He knew about the orphan trains that headed west with children. Some of those children found good homes, and others became nothing more than servants. Those couples didn’t meet with judges. Of course, he wasn’t married.
An hour later, Sister Agatha and Zack boarded the trolley to pay a call on the judge. Numb best described Zack. In his hand, he carried a copy of New York’s laws regarding the legal adoption of minor children by adult persons. Because of his scheduled departure the following afternoon, Sister Agatha wanted the judge to hear the case immediately.
The judge welcomed Sister Agatha and Zack into his chambers. He scrutinized Zack as though he were a criminal.
“Why do you want these children?” The judge removed his spectacles and laid them on his mahogany desk.
Why did he want them? He wasn’t sure he did. “Well, sir, I’m a newspaper reporter, and I covered the story about the Triangle Factory fire. It was a tragic event, and when I learned about the twins orphaned by it, I wanted to do something to help.”
“Adopting them is quite a ‘something.’ Who is going to care for them while you’re working?”
“I’m leaving New York tomorrow afternoon for my home in Texas. I’ve bought a newspaper there.”
“He has family in the town,” Sister Agatha said. “Women who could care for the children.”
The judge nodded. “Were you and the children’s mother, uh, involved?”
Zack sensed his face reddening. “No, sir. I know nothing about her.”
“It’s highly suspicious for you to want the children and immediately leave the city. Especially since you’re unattached and do not plan to marry in the near future.”
Zack moistened his lips. “I come from a good family and an excellent little town. My stepfather pastors a church there. One of my uncles is a doctor, and another is an attorney. Both sides of my family are good people of the community.”
“So they would vouch for you?”
“Yes sir.” Why did his heart sound like a hammer?
“You’re not planning to sell them, are you?”
“Absolutely not. As a Christian man, I don’t believe in such practices.”
The judge lifted a pen and dipped it into an inkwell. “I want both of your uncles’ names and how to contact them. I expect the attorney to write me concerning the welfare of the children.” The judge squinted at the paper. “The Sullivan children. This adoption will not be finalized until I hear from him. Is that clearly understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“That will be all.” The judge studied him again. “I hope you have a good head on your shoulders, young man, because this undertaking will not be easy. You can’t return children like they were puppies who chewed up your shoes.” He dismissed him and Sister Agatha with a nod.
Zack glanced at a smiling Sister Agatha. Her wrinkled face and apparent joy did not relieve his apprehension.
Lord, help me. I think my impulsive nature just got the best of me.
Chapter 3
Friday morning, Chloe stirred eggs, peeled potatoes, and set out dishes for the boarders’ breakfast before Mr. Barton arrived on this first morning of her employ. He strode through the kitchen door like a noble king ready to issue a proclamation. She took note of his banded hat and fitted suit. Obviously, he wasn’t picking up a paintbrush this morning. She hadn’t noticed before, but his right hand was shriveled.
“I’ve had some good help this mornin’, Mr. Barton.” Simeon poured him a cup of coffee and added a generous spoonful of honey and lots of thick cream. “Would you like yer breakfast now?”
Chloe’s stomach still growled, but she’d not complain.
Mr. Barton pulled out his pocket watch. “We’ve got a good twenty minutes before getting started. Miss Weaver, you may not get a chance to eat until evenin’. Let’s get us a plate of breakfast and talk about all of your duties.”
She had no idea what she’d done right to deserve a whole plate of food, but she’d not refuse it. “Thank you, sir.”
They sat in the corner of the dining room. Mr. Barton said nothing while he hurried through his breakfast. He reached for his coffee. “I did some askin’ around and learned you’re a smart young woman.”
She thanked him with a nod since her mouth contained a delicious piece of crusty fried potato.
“Miss Scott says you were one of her pri
ze students. She had a hard time keeping you busy in school. Had to send to Austin for harder arithmetic and more books for you to read.”
Chloe swallowed. “I enjoyed learning.”
He leaned in closer across the table. “Brother Whitworth says you never miss a Sunday or a Wednesday night prayer meeting. That’s real good, ’cause most folks with mixed blood tend to stay away from church.”
She wasn’t about to tell him her regular church attendance was due to her father’s abuse and not the mixture of Comanche and white blood flowing through her veins. God knew her heart.
“He also said your father died in a house fire a few weeks ago on a Wednesday night while you were at church.”
Chloe gazed into Mr. Barton’s deep blue eyes. What hadn’t he found out about her? Yet the newspaper had reported the fire and her father’s death. “Yes sir.”
“I don’t believe in hiring someone just because they need a job or been subject to hard times. I need people who can perform a task and do it well. If you can’t, you’re gone.” He raised his voice a tad. “See this?” He held up his withered right hand. “I’ve made it in this town because I work hard. Not because I expected someone to give me a handout.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. I don’t believe in charity. Never have.”
His gaze bore into her face. “The only reason I’m not doing the bookkeeping is that my penmanship is deplorable.” He took another swallow of coffee then pulled out his pocket watch again. “Three minutes to six o’clock. Time to get started. Good luck, Miss Weaver.”
In the next hour, Chloe learned how to register a new boarder, including what information to gather and how much money to collect in advance. Mr. Barton gave her a key to the small cash box and instructed her to guard it with her life. She pulled her only ribbon from her hair and threaded the key through it. Turning her back on Mr. Barton, she slipped the ribbon and key inside the bodice of her dress.
Mr. Barton’s instructions included showing her an empty boarder’s room, as well as the spare room behind the registration desk.
“Now, when a customer asks what the rooms look like, you can describe them in detail. Also, when a customer checks out, you remove the sheets and pillowcases and bring them downstairs to the kitchen. On Saturday mornings, all the beds are changed. Simeon has someone who picks up the linens and returns them clean. You make the bed and dust and sweep the room too. The chamber pots are to be emptied in the outhouse every morning and evening. Make sure you use the back staircase at all times. Treat this boardinghouse like your own home. Keep it clean and perform whatever duties need to be done. The customers are to be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy. No matter what they say, they are always right. No matter what they need, you fetch it for them. If Simeon needs help and you aren’t busy, you give him a hand. Make sure the customers are always happy. I’ll tell you more as you go along.” He snapped his fingers. “Newspapers are delivered on Saturday morning. Keep them on the front counter for the customers to purchase. It’s an honor system, but keep a watchful eye for those who take one and don’t leave a nickel.”
