Ione's Dilemma: Dorado, Texas Book 6 (Grandma's Wedding Quilt 8)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Accepting the bowl, Morgan narrowed his gaze on the pretty blonde’s face. His body stiffened and leaned forward. Were her blue eyes glassy because she was choking?

  Frowning, Penn leaned forward, as well, a hand hovering near Ione’s back. “Are you all right, miss?”

  “I’m well.” She nodded, setting her ringlets bobbing. After a sip of water, she smiled. “Yes, Sally, my parents are proud of Josie’s accomplishments. How about the composition of your family?” She gazed at the red-haired woman. “Do you have siblings?”

  “They’re all living in a houseful fit to burst back in Chicago. That’s why I live in Texas.” Slapping the table, she threw back her head and laughed.

  Missus Treadwell cleared her throat and glanced at Sally with a frown.

  Reddish color rose in the young woman’s cheeks, blending with her freckles. Sally ducked her chin and pushed a kernel of corn around her plate.

  The widow didn’t tolerate crass behavior from anyone, especially not the ladies who worked in a job that Morgan suspected Missus Treadwell disapproved of on principle. But, their rent payments were steady and probably difficult for an entrepreneur to turn down.

  Only the distant tick-tocks of the pendulum clock from the entryway filled the air.

  “Ione, did you find your room to your liking?” Maisie swirled the tines of her fork through a small dab of remaining potatoes.

  The blonde eased forward to look around Olivia. “I did, thank you.”

  “Because if you want the furniture positioned differently, that can be arranged.” Maisie leaned back in her seat, resting a hand on her stomach.

  “I much prefer to await the arrival of my trunks and see how everything fits.”

  “Trunks?” Lydia’s eyes bugged out. “You have more than one? Are they both filled with fine dresses like that one?”

  “Hush, child.” Missus Treadwell pinched her lips tight. “Asking about another’s possessions is downright rude.” She pointed toward her daughter’s plate. “Now finish your vegetables.”

  Lydia huffed out a breath but bent her head to the task, grimacing as she chewed.

  “Another tasty meal, Ivey.” Missus Treadwell stood and braced her hands on the table edge. “Coffee and tea will be served in the sitting room shortly.”

  The signal for the boarders to remove themselves from the room while the table was cleared. Morgan moved to stand until he spotted Ione turn toward Penn and lean close, speaking in a low voice. A flash of jealousy stabbed his chest. What is that about? Private conversations so soon? Then he watched as Penn shook his head, flipping a reddish lock of hair over his forehead, and held out a staying hand.

  Burning with curiosity, but again not wanting to be obvious, Morgan stood and took slow steps to the sitting room. A breeze of cool air filled the entryway. He heard the clatter of footsteps on the outside stairs as the three saloon workers headed to their evening jobs. As he walked, he analyzed what he’d learned about the new schoolteacher. Her vocabulary and precise manner of speaking impressed him. Rounding the corner into the sitting room, he spotted Anzel with the checkers already lined out on the game table.

  Berg sat on the davenport, a newspaper spread across his leg crossed over the opposite knee.

  Morgan took the chair opposite his nightly opponent, in front of the red wooden disks, and waved a hand. “Make your move.” So far, the finish on this first table he’d constructed with the inlaid squares was holding up to almost daily use. When he’d first relocated to Dorado two years earlier, and before he acquired a steady clientele, he’d bartered furniture and shelves built for the boardinghouse as part of his rent payments.

  Voices in the hall caught his attention, and he paid little notice to the place where he moved his next disk.

  Penn entered, followed by Ione. “This is the sitting room where most of us gather each evening. The books on the shelf are available for anyone’s use.” He swept a hand to encompass the room’s occupants. “As you can see, we engage in quiet pursuits—reading, games, handcrafts.”

  “Oh, you mean handcrafts for the women.” She tilted her head and smiled.

  What a lovely smile. Morgan wished she aimed the happy expression in his direction.

  “I’ve been known to work on harness repairs or do a bit of whittling while sitting fireside.” Penn scratched a hand over the long sideburns running to below his ear. “But my insignificant carvings are nothing like the artistic items Morgan creates.”

  Morgan opened his mouth to make a humble comment.

  “Hey, Shipley, king me.” Anzel guffawed. “Where is your head tonight?”

  Morgan whipped his gaze back to the game table. Sure enough, one of Anzel’s black disks sat on his home row. Vowing to be more diligent, he topped the disk and scanned where his next best move was.

  “Pardon me, Ione, but I must excuse myself. I need to check the wood boxes in the bedrooms before people are ready to retire for the night.” Penn gave a slight bow then turned on his heel and disappeared.

  With sidelong glances, Morgan watched her progress toward the bookshelf. When he spotted her lift a hand and run a finger over the scrollwork he’d carved around a knot in the wood, he felt like she’d touched his own skin. A thrill raised goose flesh along his arms. Over the next few minutes, he fought to keep his other eye on the game. But he failed badly. Only a few moves passed before Anzel crowed about his less-than-usual win and set up a new game.

  The Treadwell women came into the room, bringing with them the rich scent of coffee. Ivey carried the mugs on a tray, and Maisie set a heaping plate of gingersnaps on a side table. Lydia tagged behind with the sugar bowl and creamer set.

  Of course, the cookies would be gingersnaps—they were Berg’s favorite, and Ivey was the household’s baker. Morgan watched the exchange of secret looks and smiles between the married couple as Ivey sat beside Berg. Occasions like this—where people came together at the end of the day in relaxation—were what had driven him to contact the Bexar Bride News in the first place. Or like at the town’s Valentine’s Dance, when he had no one special to turn to as a partner. Dancing with the married or spinster ladies in town wasn’t satisfying. He didn’t like feeling that he was missing out on an important part of life. As if drawn like a ship at sea to a welcoming lighthouse, he turned so he could see Ione.

  Perched on one of the upholstered chairs, she balanced a teacup and saucer on her knee while listening to the female conversation. Her head tilted, making the ringlets sway.

  A movement that proved as transfixing as a hypnotist’s swinging watch. Morgan angled his position in the chair so he could make a half-hearted effort at competing against Anzel and still see this woman who had captured his attention in a way he’d never experienced.

  Chapter Six

  Stretching, Ione rolled over and gasped, grabbing tight to the edge of the single mattress to keep from falling onto the floor. A bolt of bright light stabbed her eyes. She squinted before easing open her eyes a tiny slit. The hands of the clock on her nightstand pointed to nine-thirty-five. That cannot be right. She sat upright and grabbed the wind-up clock, flipping it over to inspect the back. The alarm lever was in the Off position. Had she forgotten to set the timepiece upon retiring, or had she turned it off?

  Quieting the alarm and then going back to sleep could be because she’d tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, getting used to the straw tick mattress. Crackles from the shifting filling kept waking her just as she’d drift off. Shoving hair from her face, she blew out a frustrated breath. Her spring coil mattress at home had a completely different feel and sound. Here in Dorado, she had no maid like Eistir who tapped on her door and brought warm water. Her first day in a new residence, and she’d missed breakfast. Both were examples of the many adjustments she’d have to make to her new life.

  Another was the very uncivilized actuality of having to use an outhouse to take care of her personal needs. How embarrassed she’d been when she’d asked about the lavatory and rec
eived only blank stares and a stiffened posture from Missus Treadwell. Thankfully, Maisie took pity, pointed out the location of the privies, and showed her where the lanterns hung on the wall outside the back door for night-time trips. This morning, Ione would have to use the chamber pot under the bed, because dressing and making her way outside would take too long. Especially since she couldn’t step outside her room without her hair being fixed.

  Oh, where was Eistir when she needed her help? Thirty minutes later, Ione took a last look in the mirror on the top of the bureau, angling her head to check the combs that secured the bulk of her hair high on her crown. Her curls tumbled down to her nape, not as neat and contained as they usually were. She’d donned her least fancy outfit for her trip today to inspect the schoolhouse—a tan-and-yellow flowered shirtwaist and a pecan-colored skirt. Last night, she checked very carefully the garments worn by the Treadwells and noticed the younger women wore their corsets much looser than was the fashion in Des Moines. In fact, she suspected Lydia hadn’t been wearing one at all.

  As a final touch, she pinned on the silver brooch watch onto the left side of her dress’s bodice. This piece of jewelry—a college graduation gift from her parents—had become her most coveted after she’d buried Bradford’s cameo in the bottom of her undergarment drawer back home. She lifted her cape from one of several pegs on the wooden rail that ran along one wall. The room didn’t even have an armoire in which to store her clothes. What would Mother say?

  Shaking her head, she twisted the key and opened the door. One foot over the threshold and she almost stepped on a cloth-covered plate set right outside her door. “Oh.” Ione glanced around to see if plates sat next to other boarders’ doors. No. Maybe the cook took pity on her, because she was a new resident. Ione bent to remove the napkin and saw a biscuit with a slab of ham in the middle, a peeled hard-boiled egg, and a shiny apple. Carrying the plate to the small table set in the corner of her room, she couldn’t resist a bite of the egg.

  As she gobbled up the food, she made a mental list of the things she needed to make the room habitable. A kettle so she didn’t have to perform her ablutions with ice cold water. Her own stash of tea and a teacup and saucer, because that was the way she’d been taught to properly start her day. A tumbler for storing her toothbrush. The room lacked a vanity of any sort, but she might make do if she commissioned a small shelf be hung above the stand with the pitcher and bowl.

  Her thoughts went to the beautiful carving on the bookcase in the sitting room and wondered if the dark-haired man—she thought Morgan was his name—had constructed them. Tracking her gaze over the swirls had been as mesmerizing as watching a leaf twirl in an eddy at the river’s edge.

  Quick blinks dispelled her reverie. Much needed to be done today, and she shouldn’t lollygag. Ione tossed a navy cape around her shoulders, tucked a small sketchbook into the crook of her arm, and lifted the plate. As she descended the stairs, she looked into the entry and the sitting room, aware of how empty the house seemed. At home, noises made by the cook and the maid had been ever-present so Ione had never felt truly alone, like now. Home. When would she be allowed to return? A lump threatened to rise in her throat and swamp her with homesickness. This teaching opportunity was what she’d studied for. She squared her shoulders and stiffened her posture—Forresters always put their best efforts forward.

  Walking down the hallway toward the kitchen, she caught the sound of faint humming and smelled a wonderful yeasty odor. As she rounded the corner, she spotted the plump brunette cook working a massive lump of dough on the wooden table in the middle of the room. “Good morning, Ivey.”

  Her head jerked up, and she smiled. “Ah, Miss Forrester. I mean, Ione.” With the back of her forearm, she brushed at the tendrils of hair clinging to her forehead. “Did you get settled in well enough last night?”

  “For the most part.” Ione lifted the plate and waggled it a little bit. “I see you must have taken pity on me because of my arrival yesterday.”

  Blue eyes sparkling, Ivey shook her head. “Sorry, not me. I know better than to go against Mother’s rules.”

  “Then how did the plate of food come to be placed next to my door?” Ione walked to the counter and set down the heavy plate in the metal sink.

  The cook resumed her kneading and flashed a quick smile. “During the meal, I spotted a certain wavy-haired man making awkward gestures under the table. That’s when I noticed your plate was missing.”

  Closing her eyes for a moment to remember the line-up of male boarders, she realized the description only fit the carpenter who’d welcomed her so effusively. “Mister Shipley?”

  After leaning over and dipping her hand into a bin built under the table, Ivey sprinkled a layer of white flour atop the dough. “I think you have an admirer, and that he made sure you had something to eat is really sweet.”

  Forward is a more appropriate description. “The act was a considerate one.” Of course, this statement came from the mouth of a woman who was so obviously in love she wanted to see the same emotion everywhere.

  “But you don’t want to count on that sentiment continuing.” Ivy dusted off her hands and stepped close. “Mama may sound stern, but she’s been running this boardinghouse for a long time. Her schedule works.”

  “I understand, and I want you to know I don’t normally lie about in bed. Three days of travel took its toll, and adjusting to…” Heat burned her eyes. She looked away and swallowed hard. The circumstances here were nothing like she was used to. But, of course, she couldn’t speak a disparaging word. “I won’t speak of the charitable act done on my behalf.” She busied herself with slipping her arms through the cape’s slits and securing the buttons that lined the front. “If you’d be so kind, please point me in the direction of the schoolhouse.”

  “You’ll need the key. Mama left an envelope on top of the piano in the parlor.” She jerked her chin toward the hallway. “Someone from the town council dropped it off before you arrived.”

  Ione cocked her head. That’s an odd place to store items. Doesn’t this business have a proper office?

  “The parlor is not used frequently.” Ivey shrugged and set her hands on the dough again. “At least, not during the week.”

  Ten minutes later, Ione had walked the length of Fourth Street, past the Treadwell Livery, Spengler’s Blacksmith Shop, and Walthar’s Bakery. The air was clear and crisp, holding the faintest lingering scent of fresh baking. The wide blue sky was marked by a few puffy clouds. She cut over one block past modest houses to the corner of Third and Front Streets. Set on a river rock foundation, the white-washed building was larger than she’d expected for what appeared to be a small town. A belfry housing a big metal bell sat atop the shingled roof. At the opposite end, a small chimney jutted above the roofline with a tented stovepipe rising a foot or so above the top brick.

  Ione walked up the wooden steps and paused under a small peaked overhang, which would prove convenient in rainy weather. The lock took a bit of wiggling to open, and she stepped into an anteroom facing a six-or seven-foot wide wall. A musty smell hung in the air. Her nose wrinkled. She thought back on the details her father had provided. Ones that she hadn’t paid much attention to, because she’d been so excited about the midterm job prospect.

  She searched her memory. Knowledge of the position came from a sister of one of his colleagues at the hospital. The room had sat empty for at least a month since the sudden departure of the previous schoolmarm Harriet Fletcher. Something about scandalizing the town by returning to Chicago to resume her singing career. Ione had had enough of scandals. During the travels to this town, she’d vowed to avoid anything that would cause the gossips’ tongues to wag.

  To her left, on three sections of the entry’s wall, pegs slanted upward from a double row of boards for hanging coats. To her right stood a door. When she opened it, she saw stacked wood for the stove and a straw broom tucked in the corner. In her teacher preparation courses, she’d been informed that placeme
nts existed where teachers were responsible for providing wood or coal for the stove. Next, she closed her eyes, wanting to anticipate the sight to come. Using a flattened hand to guide her around the partition wall, she entered the schoolhouse proper. Holding her breath, she opened her eyes for an initial look at her very first classroom.

  Student desks, wood-burning stove, wood box, small teacher’s desk, blackboard, back door—all the elements she remembered from her own school days. Plus spider webs added blurry details to the window edges. Strolling up the center aisle, she let her fingertips linger on the desktops, noting the absence of slates on more than half. That lack would have to be remedied right away. Her movement broke lacy-patterned spider webs stretched between chair backs and desktops.

  Plenty of light streamed through the large paned windows. When she scooted the teacher’s chair, a flurry of dark lumps skittered across the toes of her boots and disappeared behind the wood box. Heart thundering in her ears, she squealed and jumped backward, shuddering at the thought of sharing space with whatever rodents those were.

  Tour over, she hurried outside and quickly locked the door. The note enclosed with the key stated her duties involved keeping the classroom clean. The book on household management she’d spotted on the sitting room shelf the previous evening would be her first resource. Surely a book like that would have cleaning instructions, and maybe even a receipt or two. Then she’d throw herself on the mercy of the Treadwell women to loan her the needed supplies until she had the time to visit to the mercantile. Having no real training at these menial chores did not mean she couldn’t learn to clean. After all, hadn’t she observed the maids performing these tasks for years?

  ***

  By the time Morgan spotted Ione making her third trip down Fourth Street, his curiosity roused to a fever pitch. Was she learning the layout of the town? Walking for exercise? On this last trip, she carried what looked like a bucket and a large book. What could she be doing? When he lost sight of her after she turned the corner, he moved back to his workbench and picked up a sanding block. After running the grit paper over the slats for the back of a wooden chair a couple dozen times, he decided the time was ripe to take a break. Before he changed his mind, he grabbed his brown duster and turned the sign in the window to Closed.