A gray-haired man dressed in a navy-blue uniform with gold buttons turned from a stack of boxes. “Good afternoon, miss. How may I help you?”
“I just arrived on the stage from San Antonio and need to know when my trunks will be delivered.”
The clerk stepped to the counter and reached for a sheaf of papers. “What is your name, miss?”
As the only female passenger who’d disembarked in this little town, she should have been known to this agent. “Ione Forrester.” She idly glanced at the nameplate posted to the side of the barred window. Bert Tabbart.
As he skimmed a wrinkled finger down the list, he nodded. “The Overland West freight wagon comes through on Tuesdays and Fridays, and your trunks are scheduled on the next delivery.”
“All right.” Two days. For that length of time, she supposed she could make do with the items in her small traveling case. “I didn’t see a cab stand out front.”
“Cab?” Gray eyebrows crept together over his hooked nose.
“To hire for transporting my case to the boardinghouse.”
Mister Tabbart shook his head. “Town’s too small to need such a service.”
Ione stiffened. She couldn’t imagine how people got along under these austere circumstances. “Do you have a suggestion for how I get my portmanteau”—she swept a hand toward where her case sat—“delivered to the boardinghouse?”
The man shrugged. “Penn will bring it down. Once you get there, just tell him to come fetch it.”
Fetch it? What quaint language. She glanced over her shoulder at the dark wood case and pursed her lips. Did she dare leave it behind? If the town was as small as it looked, then the case would not be abandoned and vulnerable to theft for long. Ione turned back to the window. “By there, Mister Tabbart, do you mean Treadwells’ Boardinghouse is not far?”
“Nothing in Dorado is far.” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the shiny wooden counter, and pointed toward the window. “Go outside, turn left and go down three blocks to Fourth Street. The boardinghouse is one block north, uh, to the right on the far side of the street.”
“I appreciate the directions.” Uncertain of what the appropriate tip was for receiving directions, she slid a nickel across the counter, but the clerk had already turned away. He’d find it soon enough.
In a few minutes, she’d be in the first place that she could call her own. The dormitory where she’d stayed while attending Illinois Female College didn’t count, because she’d had to share. During her travels, she’d thought about the accessories she might want to include in her room’s décor. Of course, she wouldn’t have any choice about the furniture, like she hadn’t in her family home. But here in a rented room, she could decide on the linens, rugs, and artwork for the walls. She hoped the room had space near a window with good light so she could set up her quilting hoop. Nothing was more soothing than placing stitches that added design and texture into a beautifully patched top.
Giving her case a sideways glance as she passed, she girded herself to head toward her new home. Although she was used to walking through the streets of Des Moines, that city was her home turf. Now she glanced at the unfamiliar names painted on the windows as she moved along the boardwalk. Sheriff’s office, Jail, Texas First Bank, Millie’s Café. Across the street stood a doctor’s surgery, Othmann’s Mercantile, Shipley’s Carpentry. She walked farther and passed before the Golden Door Saloon, Crosby’s Leather Shop, Spengler’s Blacksmith Shop.
She looked into the faces of the few people she passed then stopped herself. No one who lives here is known to me. That realization faltered her steps, and she leaned a hand against a wall. All she had in case of an emergency was the name and address of her father’s colleague, a man she had never met, who lived thirty or forty miles away. Not too comforting, but closer than the nine hundred or more miles back to her parents.
“Miss, are you all right?” Seemingly from nowhere, a stranger of average height materialized in front of her.
She jerked at the question and looked into the concerned expression of a man wearing a fitted plaid jacket and matching trousers. A snowy white handkerchief with perfect point peeked from his breast pocket. From under a black stovepipe hat, sparkling blue eyes peered into her face. “Yes, thank you.” She pressed a hand to her chest as she took in his appearance. Maybe someone in this town does have a sense of style. “I’m headed to the boardinghouse.”
“My name is Colin O’Shea, and I’d be happy to escort you.” He stepped to the street side of the boardwalk and extended his left elbow.
In an instant, she brushed aside years of lectures about not talking with strangers. Ione bobbed a curtsey at the kindness he offered. “I’m Ione Forrester. The clerk at the stage office gave me directions. I know it’s not far.”
Smiling, the man lifted his hat to expose slicked-back red hair and nodded. “You’d be right there. But what’s the harm in walking together on this fine spring day?”
Suddenly, the exhaustion of the day’s travel hit. Ione wanted to reach her destination and allowing this man to escort her seemed harmless enough. Although she refrained from the appearance of being too forward by not taking his elbow. “Thank you. I appreciate the assistance.” As they walked down the next block and crossed to the other side at Fourth Street, they spoke of the weather and her trip on the stagecoach.
“Here you be, Miss Forrester. Safely delivered.” Mister O’Shea dipped a shallow bow and turned on his heel. A jaunty whistle filled the air as he strode away.
“Thank you again, sir.” A quick look to her left revealed her destination—a big, two-story house painted blue-gray with white trim. She took in the wide porch with carved wood supports. A row of rocking chairs lined the area in front of big windows. Respectable, possibly comfortable, but not fancy. Ione switched the small carpetbag to her left hand, hitched up the hems of her skirt an inch or so, and mounted the wooden steps. She would have to reconsider her dresses with trains which would not fare well in her new home. Possibly all her dresses would need to be re-hemmed. Oh, dear. Had she passed a dressmaker’s shop?
The front door swung wide, and a woman with brown hair displaying a touch of gray at the temples stood in the open space. She wore a plain gray shirtwaist with pleats on the bodice and a full skirt. “Good afternoon. I assume you’re Miss Ione Forrester?”
“Yes, I am.” She stopped on the porch and dipped her chin.
“Ellen Treadwell, at your service.” She glanced at the carpetbag and lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have cases at the depot?”
“Just one today. Two more will arrive on Friday.” Ione liked this woman’s efficient manner. At least, these arrangements appeared to have gone smoothly.
“I’ll have my son collect your belongings.” The woman stepped back into the house and waved a welcoming hand. “Come inside. But I find I cannot bide my tongue. I feel I must warn you, Miss Forrester.”
“Warn me?” She stiffened, a foot stumbling over the threshold. Oh, wasn’t her room ready, after all?
Missus Treadwell clasped her hands in front of her waist. “You should take more care for your reputation than to be seen in the company of Mister O’Shea. Why, he’s the proprietor of one of the town’s saloons.” After speaking, the older woman clamped her lips tight.
A saloon owner? She gasped and spun to stare wide-eyed. What would Mother say if she learned of this incident? And occurring only minutes after her arrival. “Oh my stars. He never mentioned his profession. Mister O’Shea appeared so helpful and just offered directions.” She let out a sigh. “His manners seemed so nice.”
The very first decision she’d made on her own, and she allowed a man of questionable character to escort her through town. Was her mother right? Did Ione invite trouble into her path?
Chapter Five
Morgan pushed off his stool and arched his back, rubbing fingers over his lower back. Carving figures into his furniture pieces always added interest, but he tended to work in a hunched position that cr
amped his muscles. Rolling first one then the other shoulder, he tossed a look toward the window and then froze. Across the street, O’Shea walked beside a well-dressed, petite woman Morgan had never seen before. Her sophisticated clothes—a burgundy skirt with ruffles and a train topped by a cape bordered in velvet—set her off as someone from a larger city. A stylish bonnet like he’d seen in his sisters’ fashion magazines sat atop a bundle of tight blonde ringlets.
After crossing the shop floor, he scooted aside a table to stand near the window for a better look. Speculation whirled through his thoughts. Who might she be? A visitor to one of the town’s families? Did being in the company of O’Shea mean she was a new employee for the Golden Door? He leaned forward until his cheek pressed against the cold glass as he watched them walk north out of sight. A glance at the clock told him he’d have to wait a couple more hours before learning any more details.
Because the boarders living at Treadwells’ worked in several locations throughout Dorado, they brought news of the latest happenings to mealtimes. He pushed away from the window and returned to the item lying on his workbench. The period until he could pull the shades and lock the door stretched before him. But the note due his father would not get paid by idleness. He slipped back onto the stool and took up a chisel before bending to his task.
Hours later, and after a brief washing up and donning a clean blue flannel shirt, Morgan heeded the ringing supper bell and double-timed his way down the stairs. Rich smells of roasting meat and baking bread drew him forward, and he moved into the large dining room to take his usual chair midway down the rectangular table. Unable to resist, he ran his fingertips along the edge, checking to verify the last oiling he’d done was still in good condition. He glanced at the covered dishes on the table, his mouth watering.
The blacksmith, Berg Spengler, entered the room and nodded. Behind him walked the other residents who sat at their normal spaces, followed by the family members who entered from the hallway leading to the kitchen. Brunette Ivey Treadwell Spengler carried a platter with a mound of meat chunks covered in dark gravy and set it in front of her mother’s chair.
Missus Treadwell settled into the chair at the head of the table where a stack of plates sat and glanced around. “Lydia, please go upstairs and knock on the door of room five.”
“Yes, Mama.” The youngest Treadwell daughter scampered toward the staircase, her long reddish-blonde curls bouncing.
“Our newest resident arrived today, and I hope you all do what you can to make the young lady feel welcome.” Missus Treadwell met everyone’s gaze.
Anticipation straightened Morgan’s posture in his chair. Could the new arrival be the woman he spotted on the street today? For a brief moment, he wished he’d left on his more business-like shirt and waistcoat. Then he dismissed that idea, because his evenings were for relaxing and enjoying leisurely pursuits.
Descending footsteps sounded on the carpeted stairs, and two women entered the dining room. Lydia skipped to the chair at her mother’s right and sat.
The petite woman hesitated at the threshold, eyes widening as she took in the gathered group.
Chairs scraped on the floor as all the men stood.
Morgan got his first good look at the new arrival. Close up and in person, she was shorter than she’d appeared on the street. Several inches less than his six-foot height. The burgundy dress she wore was far and away of finer quality than any other woman in the room. His sisters, Betia and Dina, would know the exact fabrics. All he knew was the dress’s style highlighted a well-formed figure, hugging each curve. The color complimented her fair hair and creamy skin. The newest resident was very attractive, and he looked forward to becoming better acquainted.
A thought niggled in the back of his mind, and he averted his gaze. Letters from three prospective mail-order brides sat on the table in his room, awaiting his next reply. What business did he have paying special attention to a new boarder?
“There you are.” Missus Treadwell waved a hand at the empty chair at the opposite end of the table. “Have a seat, and we’ll get to introductions in a moment. I’ll say what I always do when a new person joins the household. On behalf of myself and my children, the Treadwells welcome you. We hope you’ll feel comfortable enough to address each of us by our given names. I like to foster a family atmosphere in my establishment. Mealtimes are seven in the morning and half past six in the evening. Be prompt, and you’ll find plenty to satisfy your hunger. No talk of religion or politics allowed, and of course, no swearing or alcohol under this roof.”
Morgan tracked the woman’s progress around the backs of the occupied chairs to the empty one to Penn’s right. He noticed everyone else watched her movements, as well. Strangers in this small town were always objects of speculation—like he’d engaged in hours earlier. Lowering to his seat, he again forced himself to look away to avoid appearing rude.
“Ivey, will you announce tonight’s menu?” Missus Treadwell unfolded her napkin then started serving big spoonfuls onto plates and passing them.
As she pointed to the meat platter, Ivey grinned. “The main course is a ragout of pork with mushrooms, wild onions, and turnips.” She gestured toward other bowls. “Mashed potatoes with chopped garlic and parsley, pickled beets and artichoke hearts, buttered corn, and rolls.” She removed the cover from the closest bowl and scooped a spoonful of potatoes onto the plate before handing it to her left. “As is probably obvious, I’m the cook here at the boardinghouse.”
“Berg Spengler, town blacksmith.” The bear of a man ducked his head as he passed the plate.
“I’m Maisie Treadwell, and I’m the maid.” The woman with honey-blonde hair served a portion of beets and handed the plate top the next person, quickly repeating the gesture with the next one.
“I hope the potatoes don’t have too much garlic.” A dark-haired boarder giggled. “I have to work tonight.” She added a serving of cut corn and passed the plate. “Oh, I’m Olivia Domingo, and I am a barmaid at the Golden Door.”
Morgan glanced across the table in time to see the new woman’s eyes shoot wide and her backbone straighten before she passed the plate to Penn.
Then she pulled her expression back to neutral. “My turn, I suppose.” The stranger leaned forward and gave a little wave.
Ah, she speaks. Morgan savored the sweet sound of her voice.
“My name is Ione Forrester, and I have been hired to be Dorado’s new schoolteacher.”
“Welcome to Dorado, Miss Forrester. We’re glad you’ve joined us.” The rapid words spewed from his mouth before Morgan gave them any thought. Which made him look like an awkward schoolboy. He cleared his throat and passed plates until he set his on the table.
She responded with a quick nod then shifted her attention to the next person.
As Morgan waited through the introductions of Penn Treadwell, the livery stable owner, and the other Golden Door employees—Sally Doolan, another barmaid, and Dmitri Baklanov, piano player—he chastised himself for his over-eager response. To counter his blunder, Morgan used a calm voice to state his name and profession, vowing to sit back, eat his meal, and let the others do the remainder of the questioning.
By the time the last two introductions—of Anzel Crosby, leather crafter, and Lydia, junior maid—were made, everyone had been served. Only the clinks of cutlery on glazed stoneware sounded for several minutes.
“Miss Forrester, tell us a little about yourself.” Missus Treadwell buttered a piece of fluffy roll before taking a bite.
“I was born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa. Has anyone visited there?” She glanced around with an eyebrow arched but received only head shakes. “The buildings are quite impressive, most being three stories tall and made of brick or stone. A fountain is situated to the side of the Federal Building, and the Polk County Courthouse has a cupola that’s almost as tall as the building itself.”
Her blue eyes flashed with what Morgan could only describe as an inner glow. She must really love whe
re she used to live. He searched his memories to see if he’d ever felt that way about Fredericksburg, the closest town to his family’s land holdings. But he couldn’t remember feeling that passionately about anything but his woodworking.
“The city is bisected by a river, which makes traveling to the opposite side of town challenging at times. My father is a respected and skilled doctor with an established medical practice.” A blush colored her cheeks, and she sipped from her water glass. “My mother is quite involved with charity work for Father’s hospital and other community causes.”
Morgan watched her delicate gestures as she sliced her meat into small, neat cubes, setting the knife across the top of her plate after each bite.
Then she raised the fork holding a meat piece using her left hand and slid it between shapely pink lips.
At the unnerving direction of his thoughts, Morgan shook his head and loaded his own fork with a hunk of pork. He let the gravy linger on his tongue to see if he could discern tonight’s secret ingredient. Ivey enjoyed experimenting with combinations that sometimes became more savory or spicy than she intended. The grainy texture and slightly gamey taste of the sauce made him suspect chicken livers, but he’d wait until after the meal to ask if he’d guessed right.
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” Maisie scooped up a forkful of corn.
Ione dabbed her mouth before responding. “One of each. Chase is the youngest, and he’s employed as a cowhand in Missouri. Josie is a year younger than me and attends medical school.”
“Oh, medical school for a woman? Your parents must be so proud.” Sally lifted the bowl with rolls and offered it to Dmitri before taking one and passing to Morgan.
Brows wrinkling, Ione coughed and raised the napkin to her mouth.
Ione's Dilemma: Dorado, Texas Book 6 (Grandma's Wedding Quilt 8) Page 4
