“Oh, I do feel grateful.” Darcy sounded more like herself. “I thank the Divine every day. Probably ten times a day. Maybe more.”
Wanting to turn Darcy’s thoughts from the fire, Bertha nodded toward the house. “You must show me around. I can’t wait to see everything. And afterwards….” With a teasing smile, she paused for dramatic effect and glanced between her friends. “I will tell you about the day Prudence threw a tray of biscuits across the kitchen.”
* * *
Mrs. Morgan’s latest project was to fix up the meeting hall in time to hold a party for the arrival of some of her friends. The women of Morgan’s Crossing had never before banded together to scour the town as apparently—spearheaded by the first lady—they appeared dead set on doing.
As if she were a general commanding her troops, Mrs. Morgan organized the women and Howie. Soon after breakfast, he found himself perched on a ladder, swiping a cloth-covered broom at the cobwebs festooning the ceiling. While he wielded the broom, he watched the women disburse through the large space of the meeting hall with buckets and rags, each one taking a section of wall to wash down.
Mrs. Morgan was the type of general who led the charge. She worked as hard as any of her soldiers. Howie figured if she’d been in command, the Union army would have won the Civil War in a matter of months. Although not usually prone to fanciful thinking, he couldn’t help wondering—given that Pa had died at the Battle of Gettysburg—how his life would have turned out differently if his father had come marching home, instead of being buried in some farmer’s field.
Standing high on the ladder was almost as good as cloaking himself in shadows, for the women seemed to forget he was there, and he had a chance to listen to their conversations. The women talked and laughed while they worked, enjoying themselves while accomplishing a great deal at the same time.
Howie had an odd fascination with Mrs. Morgan, never having seen a lady like her. Not that he’d interacted with many women in his life. He’d been raised in an orphanage for boys after his grandmother died. Then, as soon as he was grown enough to do men’s work, he’d run away, taking odd jobs and making his way west and north. He’d been a cowboy and a miner at places with nary a female in sight. Eventually, he’d crossed paths with Michael Morgan, ending up in a town full of men and less than ten women.
After Howie finished the ceiling, he started nailing down loose floorboards. Then, while the women scrubbed the floor, he moved outside to replace missing shingles on the roof, before installing a new window. Then he painted the whole interior a pale sage green.
To his surprise, Howie found he didn’t mind working for the ladies, although they were very particular about what they wanted him to do. He liked their obvious gratification with restoring the meeting hall, and he took satisfaction in pleasing them. In addition, they plied him with food. He couldn’t complain.
Finally the meeting hall was as clean as could be, and Mrs. Morgan sent them all home. They gathered up mops and brooms and buckets with scrub brushes and rags and said their tired good-byes.
Mrs. Morgan and Howie walked together back toward her home. He carried two pails full of cleaning supplies, and she held a broom.
“I’m not sure if my friends will arrive tomorrow or the next day. I guess everything depends on what kind of time they’ll make.”
“The road should be dry. That’ll help.”
“When we reach the house, if you’d be so kind, I’d appreciate you taking the bathtub upstairs to my room, while I start heating water.”
“I could carry some buckets upstairs to partially fill the tub,” he offered.
“Thank you. I’ll add the hot water myself.” She sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for a civilized bathroom.”
Howie remained silent, out of habit, and also because he didn’t know what a civilized bathroom was.
“I expect you and Mr. Morgan to use the bathhouse tomorrow.”
“Me?” he blurted, stunned that she’d suggest such a thing. Not that he hadn’t planned to try out the new facility tomorrow before the party.
“Certainly. You’ll need to be at the house sitting in the parlor with Mr. Morgan and me when everyone arrives.”
He didn’t want to go anywhere near that parlor. After El Davis pulled up to the house with his oversized wagon stuffed full of new furniture from a catalogue, Howie had helped the teamster and Mr. Morgan unload. Then he had to assemble beds and help Mrs. Morgan arrange the parlor.
He must have moved the furniture around in half a dozen placements until the woman settled on the right arrangements. After a second run to Sweetwater Springs, El returned with additional furniture, as well as items for the store, which meant more hauling more and more things up and down the stairs of the house, sometimes twice. Maybe I’ll wait outside on the porch.
“It’s important for you to be there to help unload and all. I particularly want you to meet Miss Bucholtz.”
The very idea made him uneasy. “Why is that, ma’am?” he bluntly asked.
Mrs. Morgan hesitated. “Keep this under your hat, mind you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She let out a tired sigh. “I’ve brought Miss Bucholtz here to replace Mr. Gabellini.”
Howie pictured a dried-up old spinster with the same commanding presence as Mrs. Morgan—a real battle-axe. Fireworks are comin’.
“Are you sure a woman is the right, uh, person for the job?”
“Bertha Bucholtz is one of the best cooks I know. I guarantee, by this time next month, you men will all be sporting five extra pounds.”
Sounds good to me.
“I’ll expect you to help her get started—much the same as you did with the store and the meeting hall.”
Not too long ago, Howie and the ladies had cleaned the company store of several years worth of dust and grime. That also meant dusting or washing almost every single item that was for sale in the place. He figured the boardinghouse needed the same overhaul. “I can do that.”
“And help keep an eye on things. Most particularly, keep an eye on the men. Of course, Mr. Morgan plans to have a stern talk about their behavior and the severe penalties of taking any liberties with Miss Bucholtz.”
“I’ll keep watch.
“The thing is…I’ve observed that you have a quiet, respectful way about you, Howie, which is what Miss Bucholtz will need.”
The compliment settled uneasily in his middle. He wasn’t used to many kind words coming his way.
“You see, Miss Bucholtz is shy.”
There goes my idea of a battle-axe. A shy woman running a boardinghouse for miners?
“Although I’ve seen her warm up when she becomes comfortable with people.” Mrs. Morgan gave Howie a sideways glance. “Not unlike yourself.”
Howie wasn’t aware he’d warmed up to anyone.
“We were mail-order brides together at the agency, although she didn’t make a match. I…well, I haven’t always treated Miss Bucholtz nicely. Actually, if truth be told, I’ve never treated her kindly.” Her shoulders drooped, and she stopped talking.
Howie figured he should say something, although he wasn’t sure what. “Guess you have a chance to start fresh,” he ventured.
“I believe I’ve done so,” she said slowly. “Hopefully because of this job opportunity—” her shoulders lifted “—Miss Bucholtz will be of the same opinion.” She straightened and quickened her steps.
Howie had just spoken more to a woman in one conversation than he had in the whole last year combined. But he wasn’t quite finished. “Don’t you worry none, Mrs. Morgan. I’ll take good care of your Miss Bucholtz.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Howie wondered what in the heck he’d just signed himself up for.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bertha had never enjoyed a supper more than this one with her two friends and their husbands. White tapers in silver candlesticks cast a glowing light over the table and a satiny carved sideboard, which was situated next to the kitc
hen and open to the main room. Bertha sat next to Trudy across from Seth. Gid and Darcy had taken places at the head and foot of the table.
A marvelous sense of well-being curled around her. Darcy had coaxed Bertha to try the outdoor bath, which proved to be as wonderful as Trudy promised. Just as her hair had mostly dried and she’d changed into fresh clothing, supper was ready.
For the most part, Darcy had refused to allow Bertha into her kitchen, claiming an intention to show off her domestic skills and prove she’d taken the cooking lessons at the agency to heart. For supper, they feasted on fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and the pickled beets Bertha had taught her to make, followed by huckleberry pie made from berries Lina had put up.
Darcy entertained them all with her tale of the hapless chicken on their plates. She told Bertha how Trudy had acquired chickens from a difficult woman in town and subsequently brought some to Lina, who, in turn had given this one to Darcy to cook for Bertha’s dinner.
She described awkwardly killing, plucking, and dressing this chicken for their meal—only the second one she’d ever cooked. Like all the agency brides, Darcy had to pass the chicken test, proving she could successfully take a bird from live and running around the yard to the table. Both Prudence and Darcy had a lot to learn before they could even attempt the test.
Her friends shared about their lives, often telling stories poking gentle fun at their spouses. For couples who’d been married only a few months, they certainly had accumulated a lot of anecdotes. Bertha’s stomach hurt from laughing so much, and she basked in the love and camaraderie of the group.
Bertha gazed around the table, especially studying the men—the husbands whom her friends had chosen in blind faith and subsequently fallen deeply in love with. She felt gratified that each one matched her expectations formed from the correspondence with their wives.
Quiet Gid, with thick silver-blond hair and a face that was as angular and interesting as his wife’s, displayed a calm presence. His penchant for topping Darcy’s quotes made them all laugh.
Seth, with his fascinating gray eyes, was the more striking of the two men. Although obviously a man who knew his own mind, he often allowed Trudy, who was like a mother hen with four chicks, to take leadership of the group.
Yet as the evening wore on, a faint thread of discontent wove through Bertha’s good feelings. At one point, suddenly tired from her long day, she checked her watch.
Apparently Seth caught the glance. He leaned forward. “We’ve decided it’s best to leave at the crack of dawn. So we should head to bed soon. If we drive all day and make good time, we can reach Morgan’s Crossing not long after dark. We’ll only have a quarter moon, so I don’t want to be caught out too far away from the town.”
As Bertha glanced toward the ladder-like stairs, she noticed a small window on the side of the river rock fireplace. Is that stained-glass? She couldn’t tell in the dark.
Gid followed her gaze. “I originally had two stained-glass windows. They were made by a friend of mine. After the fire, I wrote to him, commissioning replacements of the ones I’d lost. He sent back the small ones, but he also instructed me to make a space for a bigger window, so he can show off some of his more advanced designs. It will go in the empty window in the tower—the one that’s now covered by shutters.”
“I love all your whimsical creatures, but I see you are in need of an Erdmanlein—a gnome. You must make one, for he will watch over your house and bring you luck.”
His eyes quickened with interest. “Can you describe these gnomes? I don’t think I’ve seen any pictures of them.”
“I can do better. I’ll be right back.” Bertha rose, hurried into the downstairs bedroom, and opened one of her trunks, pushing away the layers of bedding to find the painted clay figurine. She smiled at the gnome, who stood about ten inches tall. He had a clever, wrinkled face, white beard, and a pointed red cap. He wore a blue shirt, brown knee britches, and a black belt with a square silver buckle and held a shovel.
She had a sudden stab of missing her Opa, remembering the way he’d pinch her cheeks and hand out candy—thin, round chocolates in foil wrappings that made them look like coins, or diamond-shaped black licorice. I’ll write him soon and tell him I showed off his Erdmanlein. He’ll be pleased.
Back in the main room, she handed the figure to Gid. “He’s a garden gnome. You must place him facing the house.”
Gid studied the Erdmanlein from every angle before passing it to Darcy. “I can certainly carve and paint one like him.”
“The red hat and white beard are traditional,” Bertha told him. “He can hold different gardening tools…or anything, really. If you make a wife for him, she must wear a dress in drab colors, poor thing.”
The gnome was passed around the table, with everyone taking time to admire the figure, until he ended up back in her hands. Holding the Erdmanlein made the vague discontent and longings Bertha had struggled with for the last year suddenly crystalized into certainty. She wanted what Darcy, Lina and Trudy had—loving husbands, children someday, a sense of purpose…she gazed at the beautiful home—and my own place.
* * *
Howie wasn’t sure how much more waiting around in the Morgan parlor dressed in his best clothes—a suit that had seen better days—he could take. He fidgeted, and his gaze returned time and again to the dark windows, dressed up with rose velvet curtains.
The Morgans sat on at the ends of the sofa, leaning into the light from lamps on the inlaid side tables so they could see to read. Mrs. Morgan held a book, and Mr. Morgan perused a newspaper.
Howie could have occupied his mind in the same way, but he was too antsy, anticipating the arrival of the Flanigans, the Walkers, and, most importantly, Miss Bucholtz. The Barretts were also due to show up tonight, arriving separately, having driven in from the Indian reservation. He hoped he could get everyone’s luggage situated, as well as make shy Miss Bucholtz feel comfortable.
The sound of wheels and hoof beats had Mrs. Morgan dropping her book beside her on the cushion of the sofa and hurrying to the window to peer out, although Howie doubted she could see much in the darkness. “They’re here!”
Thank goodness.
Mrs. Morgan reached for her shawl, hanging on a hook by the door. “Hurry, gentlemen!” She flung open the double doors, sped through the vestibule, and out onto the porch.
Michael, also chivvied into a suit by his wife, got to his feet. He cocked his head at Howie, who hadn’t moved, and shot him a “you heard the lady” look.
Yes, sir. He rose and followed his boss out of the house.
In expectation of a late arrival, Mr. Morgan had left two lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the porch. The moon, little more than a quarter, barely provided any glow. But someone in each of the wagons held a lantern.
Howie paused in a dark corner of the porch. Two wagons. How was he supposed to know which one contained Miss Bucholtz, whom he’d agreed to watch over? Then he saw the wagon in the lead had two ladies on the seat next to a man. Figuring if the middle woman sat next to her husband, then the woman on the outside with a lantern in her lap must be the new cook. He headed in that direction.
Before he got there, the driver helped the woman in the middle climb down on his side.
“Trudy!” Mrs. Morgan called, hastening over to her friend and giving her a hug.
More sure now he had the right woman, Howie halted beside Miss Bucholtz and saw his image of a thin, older woman was entirely wrong. In the glow of the lantern, he could see she was young, probably not even as old as Mrs. Morgan. Her thick blonde hair was pulled back from a pretty, round face.
Suddenly self-conscious, Howie wanted to melt into the shadows, but resisted the impulse. He’d promised to take care of this woman.
Miss Bucholtz shifted the lantern, showing more of her face.
In the uncertain light, he could see the apprehension in her eyes and lost his reticence in a wish to put her at ease. “Miss Bucholtz?”
She nodded.
“I’m Howie Brungar,” he said in his calmest voice, the one he used with skittish horses. “I work for the Morgans. Let me take that.” He reached up for her lantern.
She relinquished the light.
He set the lantern to the side on the ground, straightened, and extended his hand to her.
She hesitated, biting her lip.
Is she too shy to allow me to help her down? Is something else wrong? Howie wondered if he should back away. She might be more comfortable with the aid of Mr. Flanigan or Mr. Walker, whom she’s more familiar with. But he wanted to be the one she trusted, not only because he was supposed to be watching over her, but also for another reason, one he couldn’t pinpoint. “You’ll be quite safe with me.” He left his hand in place. “Come on, now,” he coaxed, willing her to trust him.
Miss Bucholtz shifted to face him and climb out. She gave him her hand. Just as her foot was fishing for the step, something made her glance to the side. In so doing, she missed and overbalanced. With a cry, she fell into him.
Howie caught her, bracing against her weight. The fullness of her breasts pressed against his chest. Making sure he held her securely, he slowly lowered her to the ground, feeling an arousal in response to the slide of her rounded body against the front of his. He didn’t release her right away, for his arms seemed to have developed a mind of their own, locking around her feminine form.
Time must have frozen, because Howie felt like he held her forever, even though he supposed the whole incident had taken much less than a minute. “You steady, Miss Bucholtz?” He hoped her answer was no, so he had an excuse to prolong their embrace.
She nodded and looked away.
But not before he saw a look of shame on her face. As a gentleman, he had no choice but to release her, despite having a primitive urge to roar and carry her off to his cave. Shaken by his sudden longing, he stepped back and lowered one hand, keeping the other on her to make doubly sure she was stable on her feet. Even through her coat, he could feel the curve of her arm, making him aware of their differences—man and woman—hard and soft.
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha: A Montana Sky Novella (Montana Sky Series) Page 5
