Corrin stared at her. How could a blind person possibly have a favorite color?
“And why are you so partial to the color pink?” Mr. Strupel asked, a smile playing across his handsome face.
Corrin had always thought Paul to be handsome, but she had guarded her heart ever since she lost her true love so long ago. No! She needed to be in control tonight.
“Well, I’ll give you a couple of reasons,” Amelia answered. “First, I think it sounds pretty. Pink. And I hope you don’t think less of me for saying this, but whenever I wear pink I get compliments on how nice I look. And the other reason I like pink is because it feels so soft!”
Corrin and the men smiled. How naïve of her. And precious. She couldn’t help but see Paul Strupel’s admiration of Amelia. It was written all over his face. Her answer intrigued him.
“You think pink is a color that feels soft?” Paul asked.
“Oh, yes, I do. Here, feel my hair ribbon.”
Paul reached up and felt the silken bow tied neatly in the back of her hair, and as he did, his eyes never strayed from her face. Corrin had seen that look before, and she didn’t like it. Sure, she didn’t love Paul---never have and never will---but Amelia was half his age. Of course, this was the west, and men often waited until they’d made something of themselves before they took a bride. She couldn’t blame him, though.
Her blind niece had no idea of how pretty she was. No one could miss the silkiness of her complexion, the rosiness of her cheeks, the gleam in her eyes, the soft sheen of her hair. Corrin had to admit she was an engaging young lady inside and out.
“See, Mr. Strupel, my ribbon is pink and it feels ever so soft. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes. I see exactly what you mean. And you’re right, pink definitely looks pretty on you.” He was smiling with delight.
“Oh, dear. Thank you, but I hope you weren’t thinking that I was fishing for a compliment.” Amelia blushed.
“Most certainly not. I don’t hand out compliments where they aren’t due.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” Mr. Cowan added. “I can’t remember the last time Strupel ever said anything nice about...well, anything.”
“Don’t listen to him, Miss Jackson. What does he know? He’s just an old timber boss who occasionally needs to be taken down a notch or two.”
“Let’s adjourn to the parlor, shall we?” Corrin had tired of the dinner conversation.
“This saloon has a parlor?” Amelia asked. “I’m surprised, because from everything I was told about saloons, they didn’t have much about them that is
proper. . .” Amelia stopped and ducked her head. “I’m sorry, Aunt Corrin. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
Corrin cringed. At least now she knew exactly what her niece thought of her and her establishment. But the girl was wrong. How could she know that Corrin ran a respectable place? All she did was sell beer and whisky to hard-working men. She never hired women of ill-repute or soiled doves. The waitresses didn’t wear obscene costumes and weren’t allowed to drink. The Silver Slipper Saloon in Glory Gulch, Colorado, held a reputation of being an upscale enterprise in the middle of a downfallen world.
“That’s all right, Amelia. The parlor is one of my private rooms. You’ll soon find out this isn’t one of those kinds of places.” What else could she say? The girl couldn’t see, but she’d learn soon enough how things work around here.
They stood, and this time Mr. Cowan was first to offer his arm to Amelia, much to Mr. Strupel’s dismay. The four of them backtracked out the same door they had entered and made their way through the saloon and up the stairs.
The gentlemen were quite familiar with the parlor Corrin referred to, which was actually a small, cozy room adjacent to her own boudoir. As business partners, they’d often conducted private meetings there. As friends, they’ve shared an after-dinner drink and comfortable conversation.
They made themselves comfortable while Mr. Cowan built a fire in the small fireplace. Summer evenings in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado were always quite cool, sometimes dipping as low as 40 degrees.
Paul sat on the settee with Amelia, and Corrin snuggled into an overstuffed chair. When he had finished trifling with the fire, Jeremiah leaned back on his hands on the floor, and the conversation continued into the night.
› › ›
Amelia yawned after a couple hours had passed. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight,” came the response from Mr. Cowan.
“No wonder I feel so sluggish,” she said. “I usually wake up around five or five-thirty in the morning, so I am rarely up this late.” She was a staunch morning person, enjoying the freshness of the cool, morning air. Having discovered many years ago that this was the best time of the day for her to say her daily prayers, Amelia would often walk to a nearby stream to sit on the bank and commune with God. Occasionally, she would just sit in silence and learn from the sounds of the water or the breezes blowing through the trees or the birds as they called to one another in their euphonic songs. She believed that if one sat still enough or quiet enough, one could almost hear a blade of grass growing straight and unbending as it reached toward the sun.
Amelia had been taught that if she reached toward the ‘Son’, she too would grow strong and healthy and prosperous, eventually becoming what she was meant to be, and thereby fulfilling her purpose in life. But what possible purpose did God have for sending her to the edge of the earth to a saloon? Fatigue precluded her from mulling it over any further.
Bidding good night to the gentlemen, Corrin escorted Amelia back to her room as the gentlemen took their leave.
At the door of Amelia’s room, Corrin informed her that because of her business she kept late hours, and, consequently, got up late in the morning.
Amelia assured her this would not be a problem, as she usually just ate fruit and drank juices in the morning. She also convinced her Aunt that she would have no trouble entertaining herself until she got up to begin her day sometime around ten-thirty in the morning.
Corrin explained to her where she could find a bowl of fruit in the kitchen and then left briefly to obtain a duplicate key to the back door in the event Amelia would want to go exploring during the morning hours when the saloon was closed. Upon returning with the key, she did her best to expound upon the exact location of the privy, the general mercantile, and the church.
“If you get lost just yell out for the closest person to help you find the Silver Slipper Saloon, and they’ll help you out. The people in this town are all good people. You can trust most everyone.”
Corrin also prepared a shallow bath of lukewarm water for her in the room across the hall, which Amelia was most grateful for. Assorted soaps and lotions lay on a dressing table beside the bathtub, which Corrin announced Amelia could use to her heart’s content.
They said good night, and as Corrin turned to go to her own room, Amelia grabbed her arm and stopped her. “Aunt Corrin?”
“Yes, dear?”
Using her hand as a guide, she found Corrin’s face and kissed her gently on the cheek. “Thank you.” She longed to say so much more, but was so unsure of everything yet.
Corrin smiled and returned the kiss. “You’re quite welcome, honey.” Then pivoting quickly, she heard Aunt Corrin retreating back toward the stairs.
She found her way to the bath across the hall, carrying a clean chemise. Pinning her hair up on top of her head, and after locating a cake of rose scented soap, she disrobed and slithered down into the water, allowing its warmth to permeate every segment of her being. She sighed enormously as all residues from the events of the day were washed from her, both physical and mental, cleansing her all the way through to her soul.
After the bath, she dressed in her chemise and returned to her room, draped her clothes over the trunk, slipped happily between the sheets, and nestled comfortably under the quilt on her new bed.
“Dear Lord, thank you for this day and for guiding me. And thank you for h
elping me to be more open-minded to what you have planned for me. Thank you for bringing Aunt Corrin into my life. I think... I’m going to like her...” Before she had finished, she drifted into slumber.
CHAPTER THREE
As the obscurity of the night hours yielded to the coolness of dawn’s first glow, Amelia found herself awakening to the melodic songs of wrens outside her window, the newness of the crisp morning air, and a certain excitement welling up from deep within. How long had it been since she had actually awakened with anticipation of the unexpected discoveries boasted of by a new day? The joy she felt in her heart surprised her, and though she didn’t get as much sleep as usual, she rose from her bed.
She placed her hand upon the window pane and savored its coolness, knowing that all too soon it would give way to the torridness of the sun’s relentless rays. With the same efficiency and busyness of the birds singing their melodies while hunting for their breakfast outside her window, Amelia flitted about the room preparing for the day’s activities, anxious to explore this foreign place.
Satisfied with her endeavor to make herself look presentable, she slipped out the door, tiptoed through the corridor that lead to the stairway, and slowly descended the stairs as she gripped the banister. It was smooth and possessed the feeling of being painted.
She decided to explore this strange, new environment further before heading outside for a quiet talk with her Maker. Before long, she concluded that the stairs jutted from the second floor only to separate the room below into two, large halves. Feeling around the perimeter of the room, Amelia familiarized herself with the location of its windows and the two front doors. Her friends had always described the front entry to all saloons as containing two, swinging half-doors, but this one was composed of two, full-sized wooden doors with a latch that locked them together tightly.
Scattered throughout the large hall, numerous round, wooden tables sat in no particular pattern, each with several chairs stacked upside down upon them. The tables were not fancy and by running her hands along the tops and sides, Amelia discovered that many of them had been scratched and marred through much apparent use.
Against the back wall to the left of the stairway, resided an upright piano with a round, revolving stool nestled safely under the keyboard, out of the way of those who may be tempted to rest upon it and pound out an unlikely tune. Amelia lifted the lid and gently rubbed the tops of the smooth, ivory keys, fondly remembering the myriad of hours she and her mother had spent at their own piano at home, not playing the roles of mother and daughter, but rather as instructor and pupil. Grace Jackson had traded her beloved china hutch for that piano, and it had become as comforting and familiar to Amelia as her own mother had always been.
It had been four months since Amelia stood near a piano. As she recalled the last time she played, silent tears trickled down the contours of her cheeks. It became too lamentable for her to dwell upon---not now---not today. She quickly put it out of her mind. Banishing the liquid nuisances with the back of her hand, she proceeded to locate middle C with her right index finger and skillfully guided her fingers across the tops of the keys as if they were whispering a silent cantata. Being careful not to play a single note, in her mind Amelia strained to hear the music her fingers were meticulously performing. She took a deep breath, sighed heavily, and with admirable determination proceeded with the tour of her newly acquired habitat.
Next, she located the smoothly polished bar. There was a considerable amount of temptation within her to explore the area immediately behind it, but she was unyielding to its beckoning, and decided against it at this time.
Testing the door to the right of the bar, Amelia found it unlocked, and she cautiously opened it and slipped into the chamber within.
It didn’t take her long to discover she had entered the kitchen where she had spent a delightful evening the previous night. Finding her way to the sideboard where her Aunt had told her she would find a heaping bowl of fresh apples, Amelia confiscated a large, firm one from the top and placed the treasure into her skirt pocket.
She located the pump handle, and then after much fumbling around, found the hutch containing dishes and glasses. With glass in hand, she carefully made her way back to pump a fresh glass of cool water ,and, as usual, she spilled some of the precious liquid down the sides of the glass, over her hands and shirt sleeves into the basin directly below.
Amelia huffed as she carefully placed the glass onto the board beside the pump and began her accustomed search for a towel. After cleaning the mess as best she could, she reclaimed the glass and located the back door. Once outside, she locked the door, tucked the key back into her pocket, and followed the structure until she came to the corner of the building.
Leaning backward against the wall and making sure she was about four feet to the left of the corner, Amelia proceeded to pace forward in a straight line as her Aunt had instructed her. She counted her steps until her walking stick hit against the small structure. “Seventeen paces to the privy,” she reminded herself aloud.
Meticulously placing the glass of water on the ground, she covered it with her handkerchief. Upon emerging from the tiny structure she took up the glass, backed against the side of the edifice and edged her way around the right corner.
Counting paces once again, she proceeded to walk a straight path until her cane collided with a tree. Turning 180 degrees, she sat down, leaned backward and allowed the hushed reverence of the morning to wash over her with its cleansing authority.
Amelia remained silent as she increased in the knowledge of the unseen world around her. Wrens and robins darted about, calling their messages in euphonic song to one another.
She could smell the distinct aroma of pine and spruce trees. Amelia knew their boughs would be bending and swaying in an orchestrated dance, stretching ever upward toward their Creator; their mere existence a testimony of the great and sovereign God who fashioned them from the earth and who cares for them as a watchful gardener tends to his garden. As she listened to their sighing, she could almost hear them call out soft praises to their Creator.
Amelia began to softly and reverently sing her own praises to God. There were many who wouldn’t understand her way of communicating with him, but she didn’t care much what other folks thought. She simply talked with him as if she knew him intimately, like confiding in a dear friend. And she counted him as her dearest friend of all. Amelia sang songs of gratitude and love. She sang humble praises to him. She quietly communicated with her God in song for nearly forty-five minutes and then began her usual morning prayers consisting of petitioning the Lord on behalf of others as well as herself and recalling previously memorized Bible verses.
Upon completing her prayers, her soul was at peace. A joy beyond any other had saturated her from head to toe, inside and out, and she was bursting with it. She thought she might be able to reach up and touch one of those clouds her dear friend, Molly, had been articulating about since they were youngsters stretched out on the plush, velvety lawns of the Dodson’s abundant Southern home.
As she consumed her apple and drank the water that had now lost its coolness, Amelia daydreamed about Molly and their childhood adventures back home in Georgia, recalling minute details of various splendid adventures they had shared. She smiled at the fond remembrances. Soon, she would ask Aunt Corrin to transcribe a letter to Molly and would tell her friend everything that has happened to her since her mother died.
But a feeling of uncertainty intruded on her peaceful morning. Could she trust her aunt with her innermost thoughts---the kind of thoughts that would reveal and expose everything about her? The secrets shared with Molly down through the years were deeper than those she shared with her mother. How could Amelia expose herself to her aunt in the same way right now? She would either have to wait or find someone else who could be trusted with such sensitivities.
Her deliberations were suspended by the sudden barking fast approaching her. Amelia stood up lickety-split.
&nb
sp; Dogs!
Her heart pounded profusely; her palms began to sweat; her breathing became deep and irregular; and she felt almost dizzy. She had met many warm, friendly, approachable dogs in her lifetime, but her initial reaction to unknown canines was always the same---total, gripping fear!
The barking continued. She stood as still as she could, her arms brought up to her chest, clutching the now empty glass with both hands as she whispered a fervent prayer.
“Toby! Mike!” A masculine voice called sharply from the other side of the saloon. “Heel, boys! Heel!”
Suddenly both the dogs and the man were upon her, in that order. The animals jumped up on her, knocking her backward into the tree. She raised her hands to try to ward off any further attacks.
“Sorry, miss, if my dogs here gave you a fright. They won’t bite or nothing like that. They’re just checking you out, I reckon.”
Amelia had barely taken a breath as she stood still.
The man caught must have caught the dogs and commenced calming them down, and they no longer jumped up on her. She exhaled.
“Really, miss, you got nothing to be frettin' about. These here dogs are the friendliest in town, I reckon. Oh, they do their share of fussing all right, but that don’t...” He stopped a moment. “Say there, missy. What’s a fine, little, blind girl like yourself doing back here all alone? And I reckon you’re a stranger to these here parts, no doubt. You’re gonna go getting yourself lost if you don’t watch yourself.”
“I’m in Glory Gulch to see my aunt---Corrin Dannon---here at the saloon. My name is Amelia Jackson.” She composed herself after realizing the dogs hadn’t actually attacked her.
“How do you do?” The man grabbed her right hand and shook it heartily. “So, you’re kin to Miss Corrin, huh? Well I’ll be! I don’t recollect her ever talking about no kinfolk of hers. I’m right pleased to be making your acquaintance, miss. Folks around here just call me Beau. I’m the smithy in these parts. Yessiree, I reckon I can take care of all your smithing needs better ‘n anybody for hundreds of miles around. Just ask anybody.”
Angel In The Saloon (Brides of Glory Gulch) Page 3
