by Ann Parker
Abe rested his forearms on his thighs and cracked his knuckles. “He was talkin’ ’bout the cold, right? Well, hard marchin’ drove some men crazy. The waitin’ did too. Almost worse than battle itself.”
“Worse.” Inez made an irritated gesture. “Everyone mentions the horrors of war, but no one will say. So what was it, Abe? The killing? Seeing others die?”
Abe’s mouth tightened. “All right, Inez. Here’s a story t’ give you a taste, if’n that’s what you’re askin’. A soldier offered a friend sittin’ next to him a drink from his canteen. Was real hot that day. The heat never bothered me too much, but some got sunsick, just plain lost their minds and motivation. Anyhow, this fella’d just reached out to hand him the canteen when a shell hit. Blew his friend’s head off, leavin’ him sittin’ there, canteen held out, and him all covered with blood and brains.”
Inez raised a hand to her throat.
“Yep.” Abe cracked his knuckles again, then wiped his palms on his black worsted pants. “And that soldier didn’t end up pissin’ hisself every time a gun went off, like that Weston fella.”
“Abe.”
He looked up, tension etching his face.
“Did that happen to you?”
“Nope. Happened to Mark Stannert, Inez. Your husband.”
Her throat closed. It took a minute to work out the words. “He never told me.”
“Reckon not. It’s not the kind of story men share with their womenfolk.”
She turned and stared out the window, at the hulk that was Mount Massive. “Do you think….Could that have something to do with Mark’s disappearance? Maybe some memory set him off. Like what happened to Weston.”
Abe shook his head. “I never saw Mark havin’ that kind of trouble. But if old Unconditional Surrender Grant comes to town, I’m wonderin’ if there won’t be a whole lot more men havin’ nightmares.”
***
Two hours and a quarter of a bottle later, Inez ran an ink-stained fingertip down the last column of figures, double-checking her addition, then slammed the ledger closed. She leaned back in her chair, staring out the window at the rooftops along State Street and the mountains beyond. A cool breeze slipped in through the half-opened window and shifted a few papers on her desk. She set the ounce of pure silver that served as a paperweight on top, then flexed her fingers absently to work the kinks out of her cramped hand.
The street was nearly deserted.
I surely hope the Fairplays will bring them in. If they’re out there.
Discouraged, Inez rested her hand on the recent photo of William her sister had sent, propped open where she could see him while she worked. She traced the contours of his round face, touched the nose in the image. And what are you doing today for the holiday, little William? Perhaps playing by the ocean. Giving your Grandmere fits with sticky hands, having eaten your fill of ice-creams. And I am so far away.
Inez grasped the bottle of whiskey and added more to the cup, which by now had lost even the tinge of coffee.
A knock on the door startled her. A splash mottled the leather cover of the ledger. “Yes?” She grabbed a piece of blotting paper to wipe the cover.
Sol opened the door. “Mrs. Stannert, the Fairplays are here. Turns out, the missus needs a place to gussy up. Mr. Jackson said….” He hesitated here, looking over his shoulder as if to determine whether he really needed to continue, then looked back. “Well, he thought she could use your room. In back.”
Her grip on the bottle tightened as she stared at the hapless bartender. “Oh. He did, did he?”
“I guess it’s the only place with a mirror, and a pitcher and washstand and stuff. Plus it’s the only place she could, hmm, change.” Sol seemed uncomfortable plowing into these areas of the feminine sphere.
“And I guess Mr. Jackson is too much of a coward to discuss this with me himself.”
“Well, he’s talking with Mr. Fairplay and—”
“Never mind!” she barked. She shot out of her chair and in a dozen steps was across the office to the door that led to her private room. Once inside, she scanned the area. Her wardrobe stood open, her and Mark’s clothes, hanging side by side. She strode to the wardrobe, grabbed a wide-brimmed straw hat from the top shelf, and slammed the twin doors shut, twisting the handles closed with a vicious yank. She picked up the pitcher, saw there was still water in it, and slammed it down.
Grabbing her cloak off the peg, she stormed out of the back room. “Sol, please inform Mr. Jackson that this was not part of our bargain. Mrs. Fairplay may use my room. I suppose I have no choice. But she’d better not rifle through my things. I’m off to the church picnic. I believe I’d rather listen to the church women prattle than hear Mrs. Fairplay pontificate about life on the stage and warble her lines.” She paused to drain her cup.
Inez turned to go, then stopped, retreated back to the desk, seized the near empty bottle, and slammed down the rolltop to hide the bills and ledger from prying eyes.
“Can’t arrive empty-handed,” she said tersely.
Sol stared at the bottle in her hand, clearly horrified.
“Oh, stop staring, Sol. I’m not going to bring a bottle of liquor to the church picnic. I’m taking this downstairs so that Maude Fairplay is not tempted to take a little liquid courage on the house before emoting. Please go ask Bridgette to wrap up a cherry pie for the church.”
Sol took the stairs down two at a time, whether anxious to fulfill her request or escape her ire, she didn’t know.
Inez stepped carefully from tread to tread, the distance seeming to grow and collapse with each step. C.A. stood by the bar, snapping his pocketwatch open and shut, open and shut. Maude was holding forth to a rapt knot of drinkers, who gazed upon her as if she were visiting royalty. Behind Maude, glancing around nervously, a tiny woman with the Orient in her features balanced an enormous valise and two hatboxes, while gripping the handle to a small, wheeled trunk.
Deciding that the missus was otherwise engaged, Inez focused on the mister first. “Mr. Fairplay.” She drew out his name in a drawl and held out a hand in greeting. “Soooo sorry I won’t be in attendance at your first performance here at the Silver Queen. Alas and alack. I have, however, a church social to attend.”
He swept off his pearl-gray derby, and bowed over her hand extravagantly. Inez glared at Abe over the top of Mr. Fairplay’s head and continued, “Mr. Jackson and Mr. Isaacs will take excellent care of you and help monitor the crowd that will no doubt be beating down the doors any minute to attend your performance. And here comes Michael O’Malley as well. It appears we have plenty of extra hands this afternoon to handle the adoring throngs.”
Bridgette’s eldest son was heading toward Inez, a brown-paper-wrapped pie-shaped bundle in his hands, gaze riveted on Maude.
“Thank you, Michael.” Inez relieved him of the pie and turned to Maude, who was waving her fan in a dramatic fashion. “Ah, Mrs. Fairplay. The room upstairs is ready for you. I look forward to hearing a review of your performance on my return this evening.”
She turned to Abe, adjusting her hat. “You won’t miss me at all, I’m sure.” Her eyes swept around the half-full room. “Probably no one else will either.”
Inez turned and swept through the door, pie held high before her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
She’d barely rounded the corner to Chestnut when she spied a buckboard rattling her way, holding Susan, Terry O’Loughlin, Mrs. Flynn, a couple of other young women she didn’t recognize, and Mr. Braun at the reins.
“What good timing!” Susan’s brown eyes were shining under a broad-brimmed hat that was a cousin to Inez’s, except for a green ribbon surrounding the crown. “We were just going to drive past your….” Susan looked around at the other women in the wagon. “Well. And here you are! Mr. Braun had offered to see if you could come.”
“As you see, I can indeed.”
Braun pulled the horses to a stop and set the brake, before ste
pping from the wagon. “Mrs. Stannert,” he said gruffly. “An honor.” He took the pie from her, passed it to Miss O’Loughlin, and gave her a hand up into the wagon.
Inez settled next to Susan and said in a low voice, “Your landlady is coming?”
Susan grabbed the wooden seat as the buckboard jerked forward. “I mentioned this picnic to her and she expressed an interest,” Susan whispered back. “She said it sounded like a proper event, and even convinced some of the other boarders to come along.”
Inez twisted in her perch to see the women seated behind her. Mrs. Flynn sat, parasol upraised, its fringe fluttering. Her pale striped summer dress was hemmed with layers of knife pleats and ruches, looking, Inez thought, more appropriate for a tea in the parlor than a picnic by the springs. Mrs. Flynn was observing the street scene with interest, the ribbons of her bonnet streaming down the back of her neck. She acknowledged Inez with a nod and smile. “Mrs. Stannert, good to see you again. It’s been so long since I’ve been out to a social. It was very kind of Miss Carothers to invite me and the other ladies.” She leaned forward and said in a confidential tone to Inez, “I recently completed two years of mourning for my departed husband. Otherwise, I would have declined.”
“I brought some lemons.” Susan nudged a net bag at her feet. “We can make lemonade at the springs.”
“I’ve not been to Soda Springs before, Mr. Braun.” Mrs. Flynn cocked her head and twirled her parasol in a manner that Inez thought positively coquettish. “How far do we have to go?”
“Just five miles. We go on the Boulevard. It is a very smooth ride. Just one steep hill, not so bad.” He turned the horses at Third and headed west.
Inez clamped a gloved hand to her flapping straw hat so it wouldn’t take flight. As the buckboard left West Third Street proper and approached the toll gate, she marveled at the road—sixty feet wide, smooth, solid, and amazingly free of dust—no longer the crooked “Lunatics Lane” from a year ago. The sun, the gentle breeze, the chattering and laughing of the women around her all conspired to improve her disposition.
Once they arrived, Inez and Mr. Braun positioned several blankets in the shade of some pines. Susan, still relying on her cane, settled on a picnic blanket with Mrs. Flynn nearby. The boarders oohed and aahed over the scenery. Several decided to wander the trails and explore the soda and iron springs.
After shaking out the last blanket, Inez looked up at the forested slopes of Mount Massive. She took a deep breath. The sharp, dusty scent of pine cleared her lungs and her mind.
“Inez, would you take these over to the tables?” Susan indicated the bag of lemons and the cherry pie on the blanket. As Inez retrieved them, Susan added in a low voice, “And maybe you could find Reverend Sands? I’d like to introduce him to Mrs. Flynn and the teachers from the boardinghouse. I’m hoping they’ll eventually join our church.”
Inez smiled at Susan. “I’ve no doubt that, once they meet him, they’ll be singing in the choir by next Sunday.”
She strolled over to the long tables where Mrs. Warner, presiding over the desserts, was guarding pies, sweets, and melting ice cream from a gaggle of small boys. Inez caught the tail end of what sounded like a lecture in nutrition. “When those plates are clean as a whistle and your mothers say so, then you can have some. And that goes for you too, Bradley.” She took an ineffectual swat at a red-headed youngster who made a successful grab-and-run with a handful of candies. The boys scattered.
Inez handed the flustered woman the pie and lemons, inquiring, “Have you seen the reverend?”
Mrs. Warner looked around distractedly, adjusting her bonnet, which was sliding dangerously over one ear. “He was here just a while ago. Oh yes. Miss Snow wanted to talk with him. I think they headed off in that direction.” She pointed toward one of the paths leading toward the springs.
Inez nodded her thanks, observing that Bradley and the rest were approaching from the rear, in what looked like an attempt to take the dessert table with a flanking maneuver.
She made her way down the path, enjoying the mountain air and sunshine. Children’s voices trilled above the lower pitched notes of the grown-ups. All receded behind her, and the song of birds took up the volume.
Granite slabs—some no bigger than a stepping stone, others the size of a small shed—were scattered among the trees. Inez stopped a moment, listening, trying to determine if what she heard was the murmuring of voices or perhaps a spring nearby or maybe both.
“Oh please say yes!”
There was no mistaking Birdie’s voice. Inez frowned and looked to the left. About twenty feet away was a large granite boulder.
Inez took a few silent steps, keeping the trees between her and the stone.
The sigh of boughs in the breeze mingled with the susurration of running water beyond the granite.
Birdie’s beseeching face came into view, along with the back of the reverend’s shoulder and frock coat.
What is he saying? Inez paused behind one of the larger pines and strained to hear, but his voice was too low. From Birdie’s face, however, it appeared that his answer was not to her liking.
Inez wavered, trying to decide on a course of action.
Birdie seized his hand, clutching it to her breast. “Don’t say that. Oh, you don’t know, you just don’t know how I feel.” Her blue eyes were imploring. Tears began to slide down her cheeks.
Another low murmur.
Inez sensed a subtle shifting of stance between the two figures.
Something giving way.
The reverend extracted his hand from hers, raised it to her face, brushing away a tear.
She lifted her face to his—
Inez’s stomach twisted in a sharp somersault. She braced a hand on the tree trunk, the bark rough, sticky with sap.
Turning away, she stared down the path she’d come up. Numb. But knowing that the rage would come.
Lumbering toward her, still a goodly distance away, was Herr Braun, carrying two bowls. The white ceramic flashed hot in the sunlight, a beacon approaching.
Inez retreated hastily from the boulder field, nearly running back down the path as if she’d disturbed a hornet’s nest.
Braun held out a bowl of melting ice cream. “Mrs. Stannert. I was looking for you. The bookseller’s wife said this way—”
“Mr. Braun.” She seized his arm, ignoring the proffered bowl. “I find that I’m not feeling well. Not at all. May I impose on you for a ride back to town?”
“Surely. Surely.” He hesitated, then juggled the two bowls into one hand. The metal handle of a spoon caught a sunbeam, reflecting a needle of light sharp as betrayal into her eye.
Inez covered her face, blocking out the stab of light.
“Ach, Mrs. Stannert.” His concern sounded genuine. Hesitantly, he took her by the arm. “Erlauben Sie mich, bitte. Allow me. Please.” He led her back to the picnic grove. They passed a shrieking knot of children, all waiting their turn on a long single-strand rope swing. The girl in possession of the swing had wound the rope up and was now twirling—faster and faster—a clock spring unwinding, speeding up, as time rushed forward furiously. Only to overshoot, wind up in the opposite direction—and unwind again in reverse. Her skirts billowed out behind her, braid stuck straight out, her striped-stockinged legs a blur.
Inez’s thoughts careened in the same frenetic fashion. There’s a reasonable explanation. I didn’t see what I thought I saw. She’s just a girl. He promised me. Then, reeling the other way…Don’t make excuses for him. Oh I saw plenty enough. It’s just like Mark. There was always another explanation. Another apology. And it never stopped. Never.
“Mrs. Stannert.”
Inez blinked. They were standing by the buckboard, the horses twitching their ears and shifting, shivering away the flies that buzzed around them.
Braun let go of her elbow and pulled down the step. “Please.” He helped her up into the wagon. “I’ll be right back.”
&nbs
p; He bustled over to the tables, left off the dessert bowls, and stopped to confer with Susan. Susan’s eyes widened. She looked at Inez and struggled to stand. Inez shook her head and motioned her back down. Susan settled reluctantly. Braun gestured, and Inez filled in the approximate meaning: to town, back right away. Susan nodded, gave him a glass, and waved at Inez, who gave a half-wave in return.
Braun brought the lemonade to Inez and said simply, “For helping, perhaps,” before picking up the reins and attending to the business of getting the wagon back onto the road. The space of silence between them widened as Braun headed the horses back to town. Soda Springs and the noise of cheerful picnickers faded behind them. Suddenly thirsty, Inez drained the lemonade, thankful for the coolness.
“Better?” Braun asked a few minutes later.
“Some. Thank you.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said gruffly, “I hoped to talk with you. But maybe this is not the right time.”
She looked at him, dazed. “You wished to talk with me?” She could not imagine on what grounds their lives might have a common intersection, aside from the church.
He cleared his throat. “I know you are building in your saloon. It is your saloon, yes?”
She turned to look at him full on.
“I mean, you own the business?”
“I own it with my business partner, Mr. Jackson.”
Braun’s eyebrows shot up. “Der Neger? He is in the business with you?”
“If I interpret your questions correctly, yes, Abe is a colored. And yes, we are business partners, half and half.” Inez waited for the coda. If he says anything that hints of disapproval or condemnation, I will get off this wagon and walk.
Braun clicked and snapped the reins. “Well then. I propose to make you and Herr Jackson a good deal on lumber.”
She relaxed a little, glad that she did not have to fight that battle, at least. “I’ll need to discuss it with him.”
“Ah, but my terms are good. I can give you a deal. But only for the next two weeks.”
“Two weeks….Before the railroad arrives?”
