Last Chance Cowboys: The Outlaw

by Anna Schmidt

  Two

  Amanda could not recall a time when she had been more excited. A week after her shopping trip in town, she was on her way to Tucson. On the ride there, their foreman, Bunker, prattled on and on about his memories of the town, but she was so focused on her own dreams of what adventures might lie ahead that she barely heard him. They arrived late in the afternoon, and he agreed to deliver her belongings to the boardinghouse, while she hurried to the bank to meet with Mr. Baxter.

  Once inside and seated on an upholstered bench outside the banker’s office, she was so nervous that she had trouble sitting still. His name and title were prominently displayed on the glass panel of the office door: Ezra G. Baxter, President. She could see her prospective employer hunched over paperwork whenever his secretary—a thin, nervous man—hurried in or out, always taking care to close the door with a soft click. After waiting nearly half an hour, she wondered if perhaps she had been forgotten.

  The secretary, who had not introduced himself, glanced her way every few minutes with an apologetic smile. Amanda stood on the pretense of taking a closer look at a painting that hung just across from the banker’s office. Now she was standing near the door and could hear paper rattling, as if someone were wadding it into balls and tossing it aside.

  “Fitzhugh!” the banker bellowed, and Amanda was so startled that she leaped back and nearly collided with the secretary, who begged her pardon and then scurried into the office, once again closing the door behind him. A second later, he opened the door, raced to his desk where he grabbed a stack of papers and folders, and then indicated that she should follow him into the office.

  “Mr. Baxter, this is Miss Porterfield,” he said, his voice cracking.

  The banker stood. He had gray hair that was beginning to thin. He was short and stocky with eyes so small that Amanda could barely discern their color—only that they, like his hair, appeared to be gray. He wore a white shirt, a black string tie, and a charcoal-gray frock coat.

  “Miss Porterfield.” He indicated a chair across from his, waited for her to be seated, and then sat down so heavily that his chair cried out in protest. The secretary hovered nearby, still clutching the paperwork. “I believe we have some acquaintances in common—Dr. Wilcox?”

  At first Amanda thought he meant Addie and wondered how they might have met. But then it dawned on her that he was speaking of Addie’s father.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She noticed that he had not introduced his secretary, and she frowned. She did not like it when anyone was treated as anything less than equal. She and her siblings had been raised to show respect for every individual.

  The banker studied her for a long moment. She focused on his bushy eyebrows and long sideburns to keep from meeting his gaze directly, and perhaps appearing impudent. “As you are no doubt aware, I find myself in something of a bind,” he said. “The recent death of my wife—mother of my two children—has become a problem.”

  A problem? Who thought that way about someone he supposedly had loved? “My condolences, sir,” Amanda murmured.

  “The truth is that I had thought to hire a man to tutor my children, but others have convinced me that simply will not do, given my daughter’s age. Therefore, you have been recommended as a substitute.”

  Amanda flinched. She did not like being relegated to the position of substitute. “I am applying for the position of tutoring your son and daughter, sir. I am not interested in a temporary position as a substitute while you seek a more suitable candidate.”

  Baxter frowned. She met his gaze and smiled. “Yes, of course. That is why we are here.” He cleared his throat and continued. “You will receive a monthly stipend of fifty dollars in addition to room and board at Miss Dooley’s boardinghouse. I will need your services only for the remaining weeks of the term. You will—”

  “Why do you feel the children need tutoring? It is my understanding that they are quite bright and—”

  Baxter pursed his lips and glared at her. He was a man clearly used to giving instruction and asking questions rather than answering them. He glanced over his shoulder at his assistant, who quickly sorted through the papers he carried and handed one to him. “I hold here the attendance record for my children for the months since their mother’s passing,” he said as he skimmed the paper, then passed it to her.

  “According to this, your daughter has missed a good deal of class time, and your son has hardly been in school at all.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And of the days missed, how many were due to illness, or to the time surrounding the loss of their mother?”

  “She was not lost, young lady. She died.” He pointed to the stack of papers and folders. “It’s all here, Miss Porterfield,” he said testily. “May we perhaps not get the cart before the horse in the matter and complete the interview?”

  “Of course. I apologize,” Amanda said softly as she clasped her hands primly on her lap and tried to arrange her expression to one of respect and rapt attention. Inside, however, she was wondering what she might be getting into. Her instinct was to end the interview immediately, find Bunker before he left, and head back to the ranch.

  “I see that you come highly recommended,” the banker continued as he picked up a piece of stationery lying on the large blotter that covered his desk. “Your father was respected throughout the region as well, and I believe that your brother will be on the ballot to become our next district sheriff.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He removed his spectacles and took his time folding the stems and pocketing them before he leaned forward and said softly, “Tell me, Miss Porterfield, why should I entrust my children to your care?”

  Why indeed.

  Not for the first time since leaving the ranch early that morning, Amanda felt uncertain of her decision to come to Tucson. After all, what did she really know about teaching? She was educated—her parents had insisted on that—but she had begun to understand that her ability to read and write, her knowledge of such topics as geography, history, and art, and her grasp of the basics of mathematics and science was only the beginning. Imparting that knowledge to young minds would take discipline and creativity and…

  On the other hand, it could be an adventure. Amanda smothered a smile as Baxter once again cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently.

  “I love children,” she began, and saw that this made the banker sigh with exasperation, so she changed tactics. “However, I also understand that they can be a challenge—especially once they reach their teen years. I am not so very far from that age myself, Mr. Baxter.”

  The flicker of interest that passed over the man’s haggard face told her she was on the right track. “Go on.”

  Amanda scrambled for some credential she might offer. “Living on a ranch rather than in a town can expose one to many different personalities and circumstances,” she said. “I assure you that I have faced, or at least been privy to, any number of difficult situations.”

  “Such as?”

  She told him of her younger brother Trey’s illness as a child, and then of her father’s shocking death that the family first thought was an accident, but later turned out to be murder. She told him of her mother’s debilitating grief that was lessened by the family taking in an abandoned toddler. And the more she talked, the more certain she was that instead of convincing him she was the right person for the job, she actually validated his opinion—and hers—that she was the last person he should trust to tutor his children.

  “I know the examples I offer are…”

  “And what of your plans, Miss Porterfield?”

  “My plans?”

  “Yes. To wed and have a family of your own.”

  She was so taken aback that she stammered out the first thing that came to mind. “I have no plans, sir. Only hopes.”

  To her surprise, he smiled and stood. He c
ame around the desk and offered her a firm handshake. “Welcome, Miss Porterfield. It is my opinion that you will have your challenges, but the fact is that you are the sole applicant for the position, and I have no choice.” He nodded to his associate, who finally set down his burden of papers and folders on the desk, then stepped away as if awaiting further instruction. “Please join my children and me for dinner tomorrow evening. Our home is just behind the boardinghouse. You will meet Ellie and Eli, see the library where you will conduct sessions, and make sure you have whatever supplies you may need for the task. We dine promptly at six.” He shook her hand again, dismissing her, as his secretary collected the untouched papers once again before moving to open the door and ushering her out.

  When the door had clicked shut, Mr. Fitzhugh pulled a leather satchel from under his desk, packed the papers and folders inside, and presented it to her. “You will want to go through these thoroughly before tomorrow’s dinner,” he said. “Mr. Baxter will expect you to know everything about his children before you are introduced.” He glanced at the closed door leading to his boss’s office and lowered his voice. “I’m afraid they can be something of a challenge—especially now that their mother is gone.”

  Amanda accepted the satchel. “I’ll return this. Thank you.”

  “No need,” he assured her. He blushed and then walked with her past the tellers—both of whom seemed more interested in her than in the customers they were serving.

  It was when she reached the street that she realized it appeared she had the job and could begin her new life as an independent woman. She smiled all the way back to the boardinghouse.

  Miss Dooley’s was an imposing Queen Anne structure wrapped with a spacious porch, featuring twin garrets on the second floor with windows that overlooked the town. In the midst of a cluster of adobe dwellings and shops, the place was an oddity, to be sure. Bunker had told her the Dooley family had settled in Tucson from Ohio, and that Mr. Dooley—the current owner’s father—had built the house in this style to pacify his wife’s wish to return east as soon as possible. “It’s not the usual kind of place you expect to see in these parts, but folks around here have gotten to like it. Miss Thelma Dooley is the last of the family—never married, took good care of her folks in their later years, then turned the place into a boardinghouse.”

  Amanda stood staring up at the house’s gleaming windows and twin garrets. Oh, she did hope she would be assigned one of those garret rooms. She climbed the front steps and lifted a brass door knocker to announce her arrival. Before she could lower the knocker, the heavily carved solid wood door swung open, and a man filled the doorway.

  Amanda gasped and nearly dropped the satchel. For this was not just any man. This was the man from Eliza’s store. The stranger she’d been warned to avoid. This was none other than Mr. Grover.

  Amanda stepped farther away from the door, teetering dangerously on the edge of the porch’s top step. Mr. Grover reached out, catching her by the forearm before she stumbled. “Easy there, miss. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He released her arm and held the door open for her to enter.

  Their eyes met, and she saw recognition cross his handsome face, followed by a scowl. “Miss Porterfield, I believe.” She noticed he did not have the manners to remove his hat, and that irritated her enough to bring her to her senses.

  “Do we know each other, sir?”

  The scowl turned immediately to a grin—and not just any old grin, but the most charming one Amanda had ever seen. The man had dimples. “My mistake,” he said.

  Flustered beyond the ability to speak, Amanda swept past him and through the doorway with all the grandeur she could manage. Once inside, she heard his boots on the steps leading to the street, accompanied by his soft laughter.

  And then it hit her—Mr. Grover could also be boarding with Miss Dooley. What other business could he possibly have on the premises? Or maybe he had come to ask about a room but been turned away.

  “Oh, please let it be the former,” she whispered, for living in close quarters with the handsome, mysterious cowboy practically guaranteed the adventure she longed for.

  “Miss Porterfield?” The voice cracked with old age as a small, bent woman of indeterminate years emerged from the shadowy depths of a room just off the foyer. Amanda had remained standing in the doorway as she tried to regain her composure. The woman edged past her and closed the door, leaving them in near darkness with only a thin thread of sunlight highlighting a thick layer of dust on an ebony, mirrored coatrack that dominated the space. “You’ll have to learn to shut the door behind you on coming and going. I can’t take the dust.” As if to prove her point, she launched into a prolonged coughing spell.

  “I apologize,” Amanda managed once the coughing eased.

  “Since you are here, I am assuming that Ezra Baxter has hired you, although I knew he would—no choice, really. That will not be the case here, I assure you. There are rules to be followed,” the woman continued. “The front door is locked promptly at eight in the evening. I have the only key. You will have a key for your room, of course. Meals in the dining room daily at six and five.” She pointed one spindly finger toward a room on the opposite side of the hall. “Noonday is not served, except on Sundays after church. No supper is served on the Sabbath. If you plan to be absent for any meal, I need notice a day in advance.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Amanda said. “Mr. Baxter has asked that I come for supper at his home tomorrow evening.”

  “Very well.” Miss Dooley said no more. In fact, she seemed to have momentarily forgotten that Amanda was still there.

  “Is my room…”

  “Top of the stairs, first door to your left. It’s open, and your trunk is there. I told your friend Mr. Bunker there was no reason for him to wait. I knew Ezra would hire the first person who came through the door—he’s that desperate. Your friend asked me to wish you luck and tell you good-bye. I’ll get the key and be up directly.”

  Amanda was halfway up the stairs when the woman added, “I’ll tolerate no male visitors except in the parlor with me present, unless they are family, and there will be no spirits on the premises at any time. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Amanda trudged on, pausing on the landing to look out a small arched window at the street below. She saw Mr. Grover standing outside a shop on the main street. He was talking to another man, and their conversation seemed quite serious. At the top of the stairs she faced a long, narrow hallway with doors to either side. One door was partially open and revealed a sink.

  “Bath at the end of the hall is shared,” Miss Dooley shouted from below. “Best fasten the latch when you are in there or risk being interrupted.” Miss Dooley’s voice faded as a door on the first floor near the back of the house opened and closed with a bang.

  Amanda stood for a moment at the top of the stairs to get her bearings. She breathed in the scent of furniture polish, the leftover odor of fried bacon from what she assumed was breakfast served earlier that morning, and cigar smoke she identified as coming from a room at the rear of the hall. She heard a man clear his throat, as if trying to rid himself of some blockage in his lungs. He sounded as if he was choking, and she was tempted to go to his aid when she heard Miss Dooley mounting the stairs.

  She leaned over the bannister and motioned toward the open door. “Is he all right?” she whispered.

  “Ollie? He’s fine. Don’t pay him any mind.” She opened the door to the room she’d indicated would be Amanda’s. “Well, come in,” she barked as she moved quickly to the windows and pushed back the heavy draperies to reveal one of the large rounded windows Amanda had admired from the street. And when she saw her trunk at the foot of the four-poster bed, she felt a swell of pleasure tighten her chest.

  She had done it. She had left her childhood home and come to a place where she was in charge of her comings and goings, the people she would meet, t
he things she would do. For the first time in her life, Amanda felt truly grown-up.

  “I’m full up,” Miss Dooley was saying as she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the coverlet on the bed. “There are five of you. Oliver Taylor works at the saloon down the street. He sleeps during the day and is out much of the night. Across the hall from him is Mrs. Rosewood—she lost her husband some time ago, moved in here last fall, and keeps mostly to herself. Then there is Miss Lucinda Jenson, who opened a hat shop last month.”

  “And the fifth boarder?”

  Miss Dooley frowned. “Just left. He’s as new as you. Mr. Grover is the name he gave.” She hesitated. “I am unsure of his occupation, but he paid in advance, and in these hard times one cannot afford to reject a lodger who does so.” She spoke as if talking to herself rather than Amanda—as if trying to convince herself she had made the right move. But then she turned her sharp eyes on Amanda and added, “You would do well to stay clear of that one. He is too handsome for his own good, and men like that…” She handed Amanda the key and scowled, waiting for her to agree.

  “I’m quite sure that I will be busy enough with the Baxter twins that I will have little time for socializing,” Amanda assured her.

  Miss Dooley let out a huff of disbelief. “You’re quite a pretty thing, aren’t you? I cannot imagine what Ezra must have been thinking, hiring a mere girl to take charge of those children. You have experience?”

  Amanda was not about to allow herself to be interviewed by Miss Dooley now that she had secured the approval of Mr. Baxter. “I am prepared to meet the requirements of the position,” she replied as she walked to the door and waited for her landlady to take her leave.

  “Supper promptly at five,” Miss Dooley repeated.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Amanda closed the door and then, in a fit of pure joy, took a running leap onto the bed and nestled into the soft feather mattress.

  * * *

  Seth’s decision to move on to Tucson had come with some complications. For one thing, the hotel was expensive and full up, while the rooms over the three saloons in town were rent-by-the-hour accommodations.