Gingerly, Gabe pulled back the comforter, snagged his pants off the bedpost, and stepped into them. Coffee. He needed coffee. He'd drink a couple of cups while reading his Bible, then tend to the animals, wash up, and put on his uniform before hauling the youngster out of bed.
A kind of restless, nameless energy coursed through his body as he went about his morning chores, but it wasn't until he put a razor to his face, leaned into the mirror, and looked square into his own eyes that he discovered the reason behind it.
Hannah Grace Kane.
He was getting downright accustomed to seeing her every morning, if not anxious to do so.
Just before seven, the windup alarm clock pealed off its annoying clang.
"Up and at'em, dear sisters," came Abbie's equally annoying announcement. ON how did she do it? How did she manage to rise before the entire household and appear ready for anything? Hannah wondered, rolling over on her side and taking her pillow with her, pressing it over her head to block the torturously bright lightbulb hanging directly over her bed.
"Abbie, please pull the switch on that light."
"I can't. You'll go back to sleep."
"Which I am allowed to do," she muttered with a groggy morning voice.
"You know how angry you get with yourself when you oversleep." Abbie pounced on her bed like a cat eager for play, which made Hannah groan.
Across the room in the other bed, Maggie rolled over and groused, "How can you be so chipper in the morning, Abigail Ann? It's simply not fair," Her tone, ill-humored and whiny, put a smile on Hannah's face, cueing her to cover her mouth with the corner of her blanket. She let her eyes adjust to the light while Maggie droned on about the negative aspects of morning. "It seems I just close my eyes, and minutes later ,the sun's up. Why, oh, why, can't I set aside one morning for sleeping in?"
"Oh, pooh, listen to you!" Abbie chided. "You slept in Saturday morning."
"Till eight o'clock," Maggie said. "That's not sleeping in."
"It is, in Grandmother's eyes."
`Aargh! Six o'clock is sleeping in to Helena Kane," Maggie grumped, pulling the blankets back over her face in one dramatic move.
Abbie made a production of bounding off Hannah's bed, sprinting across the room, and thrusting herself across Maggie's covered body. Maggie made a distant, muffled squeal beneath the weight of her younger sister. When the tickling began, it was all-out war, interspersed with fits of wild laughter and even more bellowing, the old bed springs squeaking in loud protest. At one point, all Hannah saw was Abbie upended in a whoosh of pink and white petticoats. She giggled at the sight.
As Hannah watched the two go at it, memories flooded of days gone by-days they'd played with dolls and other toys, danced to silly tunes, frolicked in the backyard, skipped rope, walked to school, and even squabbled for no good reason. She tried to picture life apart from her sisters and couldn't quite do it.
How things would change if she married Ralston. If. What a big word for only two letters. She knew Ralston's impatience for an answer grew daily, but she still sat on the fence, wondering what to tell him, trying to determine her exact feelings for the dear man. And he was dear. Lately, he'd been more attentive-asking her about her needs, inquiring about her day, complimenting her appearance, even holding her hand more frequently. There were no recent kissing attempts, but that didn't bother her in the least. His occasional pecks on the cheek or forehead satisfied her plenty.
He even spoke to her father about the proposal, and, although Ralston hadn't divulged the details about their conversation, her father had told Hannah that he would give them his blessing, providing they both prayed about it and determined the marriage to be in line with God's perfect will.
God's perfect will? How did one ever ascertain such a thing? Hannah read her Bible dutifully, a chapter from the Old and New Testaments and two Psalms daily. Moreover, on her morning walks to the Whatnot, she thanked God for all His blessings and prayed for her family and friends, particularly Jesse. Most of her prayers were for others, though, as it seemed rather selfish and presumptuous to mention her own needs, much less express the many questions she had about determining His will. It all seemed so complicated and unattainable. She imagined a huge Being sitting upon His throne, issuing out instructions on matters of war and poverty, certainly not matters pertaining to simple little Hannah Grace Kane.
Maggie and Abbie saw things differently, believing God cared about the everyday things of life. If ever anyone walked passionately and intimately with Him, it was Hannah's sisters. Quiet, sweet, resolute, and dedicated Maggie served the Lord with tireless determination, always looking for one cause or another to sink her teeth into; boisterous, outspoken Abbie was ever fervent in her faith.
While her sisters continued romping and wrestling on the bed, Hannah did some mental wrestling of her own. Did Ralston Van Huff strive to bring out the best in her, build her confidence, and encourage her on matters of faith and prayer? Her stomach clenched uneasily. Could she even be certain Ralston possessed a wholehearted faith?
Quite unexpectedly, the image of Gabriel Devlin's face popped into her mind. Now, there was a man not afraid to show his faith-why, he spoke out, unabashed, about how he prayed for Jesse.
She shook herself back to reality. Tonight, Ralston would take her to Culver House for dinner. Perhaps this evening would prove the defining moment in their relationship, particularly when she asked him where he stood with God.
"Stop it! Stop it this instant, Abigail Kane, or I will cut your hair off the next time I catch you sleeping."
"Ha! If you do, I'll paint your face black while you're sleeping."
Hannah narrowed her eyes on her scuffling sisters, hearing enough. In one fast maneuver, she tossed back her blankets, leaped from her bed, and ran across the room, throwing herself atop the pair and creating an even bigger fracas.
Rubbing his freshly shaven face, Rufus McCurdy surveyed the little restaurant for an available table. He hoped his new duds, complete with tweed trousers, Western shirt and bow tie, and brand-new socks and shoes would conceal his identity. A new wool coat hung loosely over his arm, his handsome new hat dangling off his hand. The same hand that had made a clean sweep over his smooth face now combed through his fresh haircut as he took a deep breath, trying to appear calm.
A few heads turned when he closed the door behind him, the "OPEN" placard that was hanging by a chain flapping against the glass. Out the corner of his eye, he noted whether any patrons appeared overly interested in his presence, then quickly relaxed when they all returned their attentions to their breakfasts.
"Table over in the corner," a man behind the serving counter ordered, pointing with his spatula. The cook? It must have been, for he wore an apron bearing witness to splattered grease, catsup, and mustard. Rufus nodded his thanks and made a path through the densely arranged tables. Now and then, someone acknowledged him with half a nod or a silent, disinterested glance. He pulled back a spindly chair and sat down, glad to have a corner table where he could keep an eye on customers coming and going.
Where is that scrawny old thing who owns this place? Eva somethin' or other. As if she'd heard his private thought, Eva appeared from behind a closed door, three heaping plates balanced on her skinny arms, and maneuvered her way to a table near him. Plunking the plates down in front of three men in business attire, each one smoking a pungent cigar, she promptly headed for the coffee pot, then came back to refill their cups. The one with his back to Rufus thanked her profusely, then drew her down to him and whispered something in her ear. She slapped him on the shoulder and snickered. Without delay, she moved over to Rufus next. He had wondered whether she'd noticed him. Must have eyes in the back of 'er head, he ruled. Setting down the coffee pot on the empty table next to him, she removed a pad of paper from her pocket and a pencil from behind her ear.
"What ken I get y, mister?" she asked, gaze fixed on her pad.
"Is that feller here you was tellin' me'bout yesterday?"
It gave him a powerful rush to know that his disguise had worked. He sat up a little straighter, pride welling up, and thumbed the navy suspenders that helped hold up his tweed trousers. "Guess I clean up good, huh?"
She stepped back and tilted her face, giving him a hawklike stare. Then, she lowered her pointy chin in confusion. "When was y' in here?"
"Yesterday, 'round two. Had me a big bowl o' bean soup."
Looking skeptical, she asked. "What's yer name?"
"S-Smith," he stammered, caught off guard. Drat! I couldn't come up with somethin' more original? "Gomer Smith," At least the first name had a unique ring. "I come from up in Iowa," Is Iowa up? "I tol' y' I was on the lookout for my cousin's kid. Seems he disappeared a few months back, and they's, uh, there's a whole bunch of us out searchin' for 'im, includin' the law."
It was downright difficult keeping his speech half decent, not to mention his lack of know-how hidden.
She sank her second finger into her hollow cheek, as if waiting for something to register. Suddenly, her little brown eyes popped. "Ah, you! Now, I remember." She tilted her face and studied him further. "Yep, you plumb changed, all right, got yerself a haircut and-and what else? Y' shaved! Well, I'll be,"
He nodded, wanting to get on with things. Her loud, raspy voice rallied a few customers, causing their heads to raise and turn. His nerves set to jangling.
"Y' want some coffee?" she asked, pouring before he had a chance to say he'd rather have tomato juice. He'd already had three cups of stiff, black brew back at the camp.
"So, yer lookin' for that kid, eh? Yeah, Vanderslute's here t'day. Right there, matter o' fact," She turned her body and pointed. "Hey, George! Man here wants to talk t' you."
Two tables over, the fellow with his back to Rufus, the one who'd whispered something in Eva's ear, swiveled on his chair, a half-smoked cigar hanging out from under his pencilthin mustache. "What's that?" he asked, sticking the cigar in an ashtray.
"This feller's got some questions for y' 'bout that kid that was hangin"round here way back in August."
"Oh yeah? Don't know as I can tell you anything. That was a while ago." The man pushed back in his chair, rose, and came directly to his table, perching over him with owl eyes.
"George, this here's Gomer Smith. Hails from Iowa. What city did you say yo'r from?" she asked.
Horse hockey! City? I don't know no stinkin' cities in Iowa.
George leaned forward, looking keenly interested.
"Well now-I didn't tell you-and for good reason," he blurted, fishing in his shallow head for the good reason.
Both Eva and George stared at him intently and waited while nothing but the sounds of gabbing patrons, shuffling newspapers, and grating forks and knives came between them.
Before Rufus made an even bigger fool of himself, George grabbed his hand and gave it a hearty shake. "Well now, Aunt Eva, it's not important what city he comes from. What's important here is ar good manners." His mouth slanted into a grin, and, quick as a steal trap, he pulled out a chair and sat down. Rufus wasn't sure if he should relax or keep his guard up good and high. He clasped his hands in a tight knot and plopped them in the center of the table, then quickly thought better of it and stuck them in his lap. Tarnation! I wouldn't know good manners if they up and bit me in the backside.
`Aunt Eva, bring this here man a big plate of bacon and eggs. That suit you, uh, uh-?"
Rufus had to think a minute. "Gomer," he supplied. Then, to Eva, he affirmed, "Yeah, that's fine."
Eva hobbled off as fast as her wrinkled old body would take her.
"Ah, sorry 'bout that, Gomer. Rememberin' names is one of my bad points."
"Yeah, I know what y' mean."
"Now then, what's your interest in that little fugitive?"
Rufus proceeded to weave a tale he'd only half thought out ahead of time. Dim-witted, he was, for not plotting out his words more carefully. What must this George fella think of me? he wondered. But George's questions fueled his lies, lending him confidence to continue, and, by the time he finished, his zigzagged story seemed to stretch about as far as the Mississippi River.
"Well, I'll tell y' what," George finally said, leaning back in his chair to stretch out his legs, hands fastened behind his head. "I do believe that kid was here, all right. 'Bout so tall, dark-haired thing, skinny little mongrel. Eight or nine, mebbe. Dirty and scruffy, too. What's the kid's name?"
"Name don't matter. That's him, though. You described him to a tee," Rufus said, sure of it, heart pumping blood faster than his veins could handle.
George shook his head, deflating his hopes. "Can't say where he might've taken off to, though. Humph." His head kept up a constant back and forth shaking until finally he paused and lowered his chin. "Unless..." He straightened, put a finger to his cheek in deep thought, then started nodding. "Yeah, that could be it," he said, talking to himself.
"What?" Rufus asked, nearly coming off his chair with nervous excitement.
"I don't want to get your hopes up." George chewed on his lower lip and gazed across the table at Rufus. For just an instant, Rufus felt baited, but he didn't care.
"What? What was y' goin' to tell me?"
"Well, there was this stranger comin' through town. Think he said he was moving to Sandy Shores. He, uh, took a job at a-a lumbering outfit. Yeah, that's it. Lumbering. Anyway, he was asking questions about that boy, and, come to think of it, once that stranger moved on, I never did see that boy again."
Just after eleven o'clock that morning, Rufus rode into camp. "Mount up, you big lazybones. We're headin' fer Sandy Shores."
The boys all scrambled to their feet, wiped the slumber from their eyes, and stared gape-mouthed at Rufus.
"Pa! What happened to y'?" Roy asked, voice wavering with shock.
"What do y' mean?"
"You look all-all spiffed."
"Y' hardly look like y'rself, Pa," Luis whined. "What'd y' go and do t' yerself?"
"Where'd y' get them new clothes?" Reuben groused. "I thought you said we didn't have no money t' waste. And y' got a new coat an' hat." Envy shone in his clouded eyes.
Rufus sneered. "It was all fer a good cause. Stop y'r bellyaching, all of you. Now, mount up, and I'll tell you all about it on the way. Things is lookin' up, boys. I got a good feelin' this time."
Under his breath, but just loud enough for his father to hear, Reuben muttered, "Yeah, that's what you always say."
our stories tall, Culver House Hotel represented all that was the best and most progressive in the hotel world, particularly for a modest town like Sandy Shores.
Having been destroyed in the fire of 1889, along with at least fifty other businesses and homes in a five-block area, Culver House rose from the ashes to reopen just two years later, perhaps not as large or flamboyant as the first building, but every bit as tastefully elegant. Sandy Shores' citizens were nothing if they weren't full of grit and gumption, so soon after the fire, they had gathered for town meetings in City Hall to plan their strategy for rebuilding. Nothing happened overnight, but now, four years later, the ordinary visitor would have no inkling that a fire had wiped out a good share of the northeast section of the downtown area.
Ralston and Hannah passed through the veranda on the Third Street side and entered Culver House's welcoming lobby through the glass double door. A blast of warm air greeted them, a welcome relief from the chilly night. Leather easy chairs and potted plants graced the room, where, suspended from the ceiling, three oversized chandeliers gleamed and glistened, their light reflecting off the elegant marble floor. Ralston put his hand to the center of Hannah's back and guided her across the large room toward the dining area, past the broad, massive oak staircase, the Western Union Office, a cigar room, a barbershop, and several small conference rooms with shiny oblong tables and matching chairs. It was a lovely place, and Ralston insisted on bringi
ng Hannah here every weekend. She would have been just as happy to eat at the Lighthouse Restaurant, but it fell far beneath Ralston's standards. And, because of his high standards, it never bore mentioning that Marie's Ice Cream Parlor would be a wonderful place to stop after dinner.
Hannah's sturdy heels click-clacked across the marble floors, the sound echoing off the walls and high ceilings. She removed her heavy shawl and bonnet and lifted her yellow satin skirts past her ankles to take the two steps up to the restaurant level, Ralston's firm hand cupping her elbow and nearly squeezing the lifeblood from it. She was thankful when he finally released it.
"Good evening, Dr. Van Huff, Miss Kane," Dressed all in black, a white towel draped over one arm, the maitre d' greeted them, friendly only insofar as his professional status would permit.
"Good evening, Peter," Ralston said, his tone cool and cavalier. "We'd like our usual table, please."
"Certainly, sir."
Of course, Ralston never inquired whether Hannah would like a switch in scenery; he presumed to know her preferences. A tiny knot of resentment tightened under her rib cage as Ralston pointed her in the proper direction.
When they arrived at their customary table in the corner, Peter pulled out Hannah's chair and retrieved her napkin for her, spreading the snowy linen cloth across her lap. Hannah smiled up at him, but he kept his gaze averted, as if he feared stepping over the boundaries of propriety. Hannah thought his aloofness a bunch of silliness, and she yearned to tell him so, but it wasn't her wish to humiliate the middle-aged man whose dark muttonchops reached clear to the chin line. The thought occurred to her that Ralston might intimidate him. Whether purposely or not, Ralston did tend to set people on edge. Perchance once they married (if we marry, she reminded herself again), she could make a few subtle suggestions as to how he might make folks feel more comfortable.
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