But even better than a dog would be a wife.
Sweat dribbled into his eyes, and he winced. He yanked off his hat, cleared the moisture from his forehead with his shirt sleeve, then tied the handkerchief he always carried in his pocket around his head to catch any other dribbles. He settled the hat over the bandanna. It was a tight fit but it worked. He moved forward, the sun heating his head and shoulders, a breeze teasing his cheeks, and his thoughts carrying him to places he tried not to go.
He’d turned twenty-four in mid-January. By the time his older brothers had reached twenty-four years, they were already married with a youngster or two underfoot. Although the Good Book advised against covetousness, he envied his brothers. Partly because they had families, and partly because they had two healthy legs that enabled them to walk behind a plow and cultivate the soil, just as Pa had done before them. Pa was proud of his strapping farmer sons. Another reason to envy his brothers.
They’d been astounded when he said he intended to raise chickens. He’d only be squandering his money, they told him. Chickens stunk, they said. Chickens were messy. Chickens attracted foxes and coyotes and hawks, and he’d never be able to raise enough of them on his own to make a living. Recalling their bold statements, he even envied their surety—Titus and John were confident men, so unlike Amos.
But maybe he had some confidence after all because he’d spouted at them, “Wait and see. I will be a successful chicken farmer.” Then he’d gone ahead and bought the farm and chicks despite his brothers’ dire predictions. And things weren’t going so bad for him.
People in town bought his eggs. He even sold a few, at a reduced price, to the local grocer. If that big, fancy hotel run by Mr. Fred Harvey started buying his eggs instead of having them brought in on the railroad, he’d be set. He squared his shoulders and felt a smile growing. Wasn’t it fine to prove his brothers wrong? To show his pa he was still capable of taking care of himself even with his bum leg? And if he showed himself capable of making a living, then maybe—It’s possible, God, isn’t it? I don’t want to be alone my whole life long—he’d find a lady who didn’t mind his gimpy gait and crooked hip.
He reached the edge of Florence and stopped at the first house, where the missus had said she’d take a dozen eggs twice a week. She answered the door on his first knock. A bright smile burst across her round face.
“Good morning, Mr. Ackerman! I was hoping you’d be by today. I need to bake a birthday cake for my youngest grandchild—he turns three tomorrow—and I’m all out of eggs.”
“Do you need more than a dozen?” Amos couldn’t resist bragging, “I have plenty.”
She held out her apron skirt to form a pouch, laughing as she did so. “How about two dozen today, then?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Amos loaded her apron, careful to place the eggs so the shells wouldn’t crack. He counted out twenty-four and then waited while she went inside to unload her apron and fetch his payment. He cringed when she returned with a fifty-cent piece pinched between her fingers. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I came here first, and I don’t have any change.”
“No need to worry.” She pushed the coin at him. “You just keep it.”
He held up both hands in protest. “Oh no, ma’am! I can’t take a whole fifty cents from you.”
“That’s what I would pay the grocer for two dozen eggs, and Mr. Root doesn’t deliver them to my doorstep.”
“But—”
A mock scowl marred her face. “Didn’t your ma teach you not to argue with your elders?”
Amos chuckled self-consciously and ducked his head. His ma had taught him that and a whole lot more. He pocketed the coin, then met the woman’s gaze. “Thank you, ma’am. And tell that grandson of yours happy birthday.”
Her smile returned. “I will. Good day, Mr. Ackerman.”
The woman’s kindness warmed his insides as much as the sun overhead warmed his outsides. Amos continued his trek through town, knocking on doors, accepting refusals as politely as he accepted coins in exchange for eggs. By the time he reached Root’s Grocer, only twelve eggs remained nestled in the straw. The owner took them and gave Amos fifteen cents, which Amos requested be placed on his account. Then he used up that credit plus a little more by buying cornmeal, a half pound of sugar, coffee, beans, and a side of bacon.
He bade Mr. Root farewell, loaded his wagon with his purchases, and turned his feet toward home. But then he paused at the edge of the boardwalk. The steep-pitched roof of the three-story turret on the Clifton Hotel peeked above the treetops, capturing his attention. Selling his eggs to individuals was fine and good, but if he wanted to fulfill his dreams of expanding his business—adding more chickens to his flock for eggs and also for meat—he needed to sell to something bigger. And the Clifton Hotel, the townsfolk of Florence boasted, was the biggest hotel in all of Kansas.
The Santa Fe railroad that had brought him to town carried passengers through Florence every day of the week. When the train stopped for watering, those passengers marched up to the lunch counter or entered the dining room to partake of the hotel’s offerings. Word had it, up to a hundred people enjoyed a meal in the hotel each day. Which meant the cook needed eggs. Lots of eggs. Would they let Amos provide them?
Temptation to head over to the hotel and ask to speak to the manager made his feet itch. But then he glanced down the length of his dusty bibbed overalls to the toes of his scuffed boots. When a man pursued a business deal, he shouldn’t be dressed in his work clothes. Besides, he’d sold every last egg from his wagon. The manager and cook would want to see the quality of his eggs—their size and color—before making a decision.
A distant whistle cut through the air, alerting him that another train would pull into the station soon. At the same time, his stomach rumbled. Dinnertime already. He needed to get back to his farm. Giving the wagon’s handle a tug, he bounced the wooden box from the boardwalk and headed for home.
As he followed the dirt road out of town, he made his plans. Tonight he’d fill his big tin tub and take a bath. With store-bought soap so he’d smell extra good. Then in the morning, after he gathered the eggs, he’d put on his Sunday suit and take the fresh eggs in to the hotel. Anticipation coiled through his stomach, making him wish he could leap in the air and kick his heels together in excitement, the way he’d done before the accident stole the ability from him. But even if his legs couldn’t leap, his heart could. It beat an eager thrum the whole way back to his farm.
Because tomorrow, his dreams very well could come true.
Kansas City, Kansas
Dinah
“I’m very sorry, Miss Hubley, but Mr. Harvey’s stipulations for servers are quite clear. You must be eighteen years of age to apply for a position as waitress in one of the restaurants.”
Dinah slunk low in the tapestry chair on the far side of the interviewer’s desk. With her fistful of money, she’d purchased decent clothing and train tickets. Then she secured an interview with the Harvey House representative and traveled the distance from Chicago to Kansas City, all in pursuit of a dream. Hadn’t she learned by now dreaming was a useless waste of time? Of course she had, but at Rueben’s encouragement she’d found the courage to climb into the boat of hope. Mrs. Walters’s statement poked a hole in the boat’s bottom, and Dinah sank with it.
Why hadn’t she lied about her age? She’d already given a false address and blatantly misled the Harvey representative concerning her moral character. She’d claimed herself an orphan, which might not be true—Tori’d been buried two days ago, but Dinah didn’t know if her father, whoever he was, still lived. So many mistruths had slipped from her lips, but when asked her age, she baldly gave an honest answer. Perhaps there was some small droplet of decency still left within her dry, barren soul. But what had her honesty accomplished? Rejection. A bitter taste filled her mouth.
Mrs. Walters’s face pursed in sympathy. “Don’t be so downtrodden, Miss Hubley. Your eighteenth birthday will come in a year’s time, and you c
an apply then for a waitressing position.”
Tiredness, frustration, helplessness rose up in one mighty wave. “What am I to do until then? I can’t go back—there’s nothing there for me. I came all this way for a job so I could take care of myself. I’m almost out of money.” She’d have had a tidy sum if she hadn’t purchased a burial plot in one of the city’s nicest cemeteries, a fine pine casket, and a carved granite headstone. But she couldn’t bear to place her mother in an unmarked grave in the potter’s field no matter how Rueben chided her for spending her money on the dead rather than the living.
She blinked back tears and finished. “Please, won’t you let me train to become one of Mr. Harvey’s servers? I won’t tell anyone I’m only seventeen.”
The woman’s eyebrows descended. “We must be forthright with Mr. Harvey, Miss Hubley.” Her expression softened. “But if you’re open to other positions …”
The draining hope dared to puddle. “Other positions?”
Mrs. Walters began ruffling through a stack of papers on her desk. Her face lit up and she lifted one small sheet. “Would you be willing to go to Florence?”
The name sent a jolt through Dinah’s middle. She looked frantically right and left, as if Miss Flo might materialize from the wood paneling.
Mrs. Walters continued, seemingly unaware of Dinah’s inner turmoil. “The Clifton Hotel in Florence, Kansas—Mr. Harvey’s only hotel—has need of a chambermaid.”
Slowly Dinah’s frozen mind thawed enough to process the interviewer’s words. Florence was the name of a town. In Kansas. Far from Chicago. “You said … chambermaid?”
“Yes. You would be responsible for cleaning the hotel rooms after guests have departed. The job includes a room and meals as well as uniforms and sixteen dollars a month. Might this interest you?”
A chambermaid. Cleaning other people’s messes. Wasn’t that what she’d been doing at the Yellow Parrot since she was big enough to wield a broom? A lump of cynicism tried to fill her throat, but she pushed it down. At least she’d be part of Mr. Harvey’s staff. And next year, after her birthday, she could apply again to become a server.
Dinah offered a hesitant nod. “I am interested, but I don’t have much money. What does a train ticket cost to get to …” She didn’t want to say the name Florence.
A smile tipped up the woman’s lips. “If you accept the position, I will arrange transport for you.” She glanced at the stately grandfather clock in the corner. “As a matter of fact, I believe we can get you to the station for the evening train, and you could be in Florence by morning.”
She paused, gazing at Dinah with expectation. “Shall I send a telegram to the manager at the Clifton Hotel, informing him the position for chambermaid has been filled?”
Dinah closed her eyes. Becoming a chambermaid hadn’t been her plan, but at least she’d be sheltered, fed, and clothed. She’d be far from Chicago where the stigma of the Yellow Parrot couldn’t touch her. She’d be working for Mr. Harvey, perhaps earning his respect, and have the chance to become a server when she turned eighteen.
“Miss Hubley?”
Dinah popped her eyes open.
“If I’m to reach the manager with a telegram today, I need an answer.”
Dinah drew in a big breath and blew it out. Florence, Kansas … Could she live in a town with the same name as the woman who’d callously arranged to steal her innocence? But what other choice did she have? Resigned, she nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll go.”
Florence, Kansas
Amos
Amos cradled the basket of eggs against his ribs and made his way up the paved walkway dividing the front garden of the Clifton Hotel into identical halves. Although he’d seen them before, he couldn’t resist pausing to admire the pair of ornate fountains sending up water in a crystal stream. Something inside his chest seemed to flutter. A man who could afford such elaborate trappings in the yard of his business would have the money to buy eggs. He only needed the manager to take a liking to him and his Leghorns’ creamy-white eggs.
As he stepped onto the porch, lifting his good leg first and pulling the lame one behind him, a ruckus greeted his ears. He peeked through the big glass window into the dining room. Such activity! The chairs around all six tables held guests, and waitresses in long black dresses with starched white aprons bustled here and there, bringing out plates of food. He drew back.
In his eagerness to show his eggs to the manager, he’d forgotten the morning train carried passengers hungry for breakfast. He peeked in the window again, shaking his head. Such a dolt! No one would talk to him with all those people wanting their food. Well, then, he would wait. Twenty minutes—that was the length of time the engineer needed to fill the train’s tank with water. Not much time at all.
Tucking the basket, which he’d covered with a red-checked square of cloth to make it look more presentable, under his arm, he aimed himself for the gazebo corner of the rambling porch. White-painted wicker chairs invited guests to sit and relax. Guilt tried to nibble at him—he wasn’t a guest, so should he make use of those chairs?—but in the end the ache in his hip from the long walk overrode any worry. He needed to sit.
He moved beneath the octagon roof, sighing as the shade from the lilac bushes growing alongside the railing touched him. His dark wool suit was too warm for this weather, but he owned no other. Underneath, he felt sticky from sweat, and he hoped the scented soap from last night’s bath hadn’t worn off already. He chose a chair near the hotel’s lapped siding and sank down, placing the basket of eggs in his lap.
Only then did he notice he wasn’t alone. On a chair in the deepest shade from the lilacs, a girl slept with her feet tucked up underneath her. Her hands, the palms pressed together and resting against the chair’s rolled armrest, formed a pillow for her cheek. A few strands of her light-brown hair had worked loose from her simple braid and swayed gently against her jaw as the Kansas breeze teased its way through the thick bushes. How peaceful she looked. He couldn’t help smiling at the picture she created.
But he’d startle her if she awakened and found him sitting there staring at her. He should find someplace else to wait. One hand gripping his basket, he used the other to push himself out of the chair. As his weight left the seat, the chair tipped up on two legs, then descended with a hollow thump against the floorboards.
The girl leaped up so quickly Amos thought she might sail over the railing and into the lilacs. Round eyes as delicately blue as the larkspur growing in Ma’s garden back home stared at him in obvious fright. She clutched her fingers together at her waist, and her bodice lifted and fell with frantic puffs of breath. Her face had lost all color. If she fainted, he would catch her. But first he’d better put down his eggs.
When he bent to place the basket on the chair, the girl gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “Wh-what are you going to do?”
His eggs safely set aside, he straightened and gave the girl a curious look. Because her hands were over her mouth, he couldn’t be certain he’d heard her correctly. “Did you ask what I’m going to do?”
She nodded, still hiding the lower half of her face—an appealing face, Amos noted—heart shaped with high cheekbones and thick-lashed eyes.
He chuckled and gestured to his little basket. “Well, I hope I am going to sell my eggs to the hotel’s manager.”
Her wide-eyed gaze zipped to the basket and then back to him. Slowly she lowered her hands. “Oh.” Her shoulders wilted, and she eased back into the chair.
Amos heaved a prayer of gratitude that he wouldn’t have to catch her after all. He’d never held a girl before, and his hands went moist just thinking of doing so now.
The train whistle blasted, the sound piercingly shrill so close. Both he and the girl winced. Guests spilled out of the hotel and headed across the street to the loading platform, their clamoring voices nearly as loud as the whistle had been. In a few more minutes, he’d be able to take his eggs inside and show them to the manager. But he neede
d to do something else first.
He hitched two steps closer to the girl—one wide stride, one shorter one. She shrank back, her blue eyes sparking with distrust. He stopped. “I want to say I’m sorry for scaring you. I didn’t see you there until I’d already sat down, or I would have left you alone to sleep.” From the look of her pale face, purple-smudged eyes, and trembling limbs, she needed a good long rest.
Sympathy twined through his chest followed by a host of questions. Why was she sleeping on the hotel porch? Was she old enough to travel alone? She didn’t appear to be, so where were her parents? Why was she so skittish? Her reaction to his approach brought back painful reminders of his family’s dog slinking away in fear from Pa. He swallowed and asked, very kindly, “Will you forgive me?”
She stared at him, her brow puckering as if she were confused. Her rosy lips parted, closed, then parted again. Her answer sighed out, so soft he might have imagined it. “Yes.”
Amos smiled, more relieved than he could explain. “Good. Good.” He picked up his basket of eggs and started for the dining room. His feet on the floorboards made an odd bump-clunk, his bad leg falling heavier than the other.
“Mister?”
The girl’s timid voice stopped him. He looked over his shoulder.
She was pointing at his hip. Her cheeks wore bright splashes of pink. “What … broke you?”
Heat rushed to his face. The question was tactless, yet her tone held no rancor. He sensed she didn’t intend to insult him, so he decided to answer. “A wagon wheel rolled over me when I was eleven.”
“Oh …”
Her expression held such deep dismay he wanted to assure her. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t bother me anymore.” Well, it did, both in physical pain and embarrassment, although not as much as it had in the beginning. But he didn’t need to tell her all that. To his relief, a small smile appeared on her face. “Good-bye now, miss.” He plodded the remaining distance to the front doors and started inside. But before he crossed the threshold, he glanced at the girl.
Through the Deep Waters Page 4
