Gunsmoke and Gingham

by Kirsten Osbourne

  Felicity called to her husband and hurried to meet him. Morgan would’ve said hello to his friend and customer, but the woman disembarking in a flash of immense purple in the sunlight, snared him and wouldn’t let go.

  Purple hat. Purple silk dress.

  And not in an appealing way.

  For Pete’s sake.

  Morgan cleared his throat and clapped Dad on the back. “That is Mrs. Speare.”

  Disoriented, Dad consulted the picture. Compared the woman destroying the color purple for everyone else, to the girl in gray who closely resembled her, to the portrait and back again.

  Mother and daughter. Had to be.

  “Oh, good,” Dad murmured. “Very good.”

  “There she is, now.” The young, flaxen haired woman nodded at the woman dressed from head to toe in garish purple. The hue might be acceptable for a widow’s late mourning, but complimentary to her pale skin and hair the same color as her daughter’s? No.

  Arrah had taught him many things, the least of which was a thing or two about fashion and a woman’s duty to dress to best set off her features. Arrah’s white-blonde beauty had been showcased in palest of greens, blues, and pinks. Never had she worn anything so tasteless.

  Mrs. Speare and purple got along as well as Morgan and Arrah—which meant not at all. The jet black of full mourning would have done her no favors.

  Dad didn’t seem to notice. He doffed his hat, held it over his heart, and took in Mrs. Speare. “Zylphia?”

  “George?”

  Dad nodded and offered his hand.

  The woman, Zylphia Speare, gushed. Simpered. Smiled—but not as lovely as her daughter’s.

  For Pete’s sake—making a grown man watch his father’s courtship was wrong on so many levels.

  The introductions went all around. “Mr. Hudson and Mr. Hudson, may I present my daughter, Miss Elizabeth Louise Speare.”

  Ah, so the young one was a Miss Speare. Rocky’s wife hadn’t been mistaken.

  “Your letter said you’d bring two children?” Morgan couldn’t help but ask. He’d expected two children—and that had led to an unnecessary and uncomfortable span. He needed justification.

  Elizabeth held his gaze, and slipped her arm through her mother’s…for support? “My brother decided to remain behind in St. Louis.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t.

  Children? Who called a woman in her twenties a child? Just how old was this brother?

  Befuddlement must’ve shown because Elizabeth filled in the blanks. “My brother is a carpenter, a journeyman with a successful furniture-building company. He thought it best to remain in the city.”

  “Welcome to Mountain Home.” Dad took Elizabeth’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to have you join us. This is my son, Morgan.”

  The girl smiled. Again.

  Mrs. Speare leapt into the conversation’s lull. “We’ll be the happiest of families.” She opened her arms—silently demanding a hug. From him.

  Morgan backed up a step, the thought of embracing Dad’s bride a horror he’d failed to anticipate.

  “Oh, stop,” she chided. “Don’t be shy, young man.” She looped her arms about his neck and pulled his spine into a bow. She enveloped him in a cloud of floral perfume.

  He nearly choked. He didn’t like anyone too close, and didn’t enjoy the casual touch of friends. This woman, a complete stranger, ran amok over every boundary, everything comfortable. She’d offended, in too many ways to count. If not for Dad, he’d break her hold and put distance between them.

  “You and I,” she said, her face far too close to his, “will be the best of friends, you and I. Mother and son. You must call me Mother.”

  Chapter 3

  Back at the house, Morgan helped Dad unload the wagon. He carried trunks and valises upstairs, and crates into the kitchen.

  The faster Morgan unloaded the ladies’ belongings, the faster he could escape. Dad no doubt wanted to make his new family’s acquaintance. And Morgan wanted air. And peace.

  The mere fact that Dad’s bride ordered him to address her as Mother meant he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not ever.

  He would decide how he’d address the woman, if at all.

  He’d just cleared the kitchen door to fetch the last trunk when Ray strode through the back lot, by way of the shop.

  Ray Cresswell—more friend than cousin—waved. “Why is the shop closed at half-past four?” His dark hair shone with a flash of red in summer sunlight.

  “Company arrived on the train.”

  Ray hefted the other end of the particularly large, heavy trunk. Between the two of them, they wrestled it up the stairs and into the bedroom Dad had shared with Mama.

  Ray swept off his hat, mopped his forearm over his brow, took in the myriad trunks, and glared at Morgan. “What company stays in the master bedroom?”

  Not a discussion to have in the house. Not now. “Come on.”

  Morgan thumped down the stairs, glad to see the women and Dad were in the parlor so he wouldn’t have to stop to introduce Ray. His cousin had a way of speaking his mind, and until he understood the situation, no one wanted to know what Ray thought.

  Morgan opened the back door before he realized Ray hadn’t followed.

  His cousin had halted at the base of the stairs, staring into the parlor. Captivated by the hideous purple get-up or the lovely vision in gray.

  Morgan figured he knew which had snared Ray’s attention.

  “Come on.” Morgan repeated, grabbed Ray by the arm, and shooed him outside. He headed for the wagon and waiting team.

  Ray whistled through his teeth, Ray’s patented expression of appreciation every time he admired a beautiful woman. If Morgan had heard it once, he’d heard it a thousand times.

  “Who is she?” Morgan vaulted into the wagon.

  Morgan untied the reins from the brake handle, clicked his tongue, flicked the reins. “Dad’s company.”

  Ray’s infatuation soured to distrust. “Why is a pretty filly like that visiting your pa?”

  How to answer that? By the time they’d pulled up to the carriage house, Morgan had opted for direct and blunt. “Her mother’s engaged to be married. To Dad.”

  Ray whirled. “Since when?”

  “Don’t know. A few months. They’ve been writing.”

  “You know what this’ll do to my mother?”

  He could imagine. “Dad’s a grown man. He makes his own decisions.”

  “Am I supposed to be happy my uncle, my widower uncle—up and forgets Aunt Tillie to marry somebody else?”

  “Mama’s gone. Nothing can change that.”

  “It’s too soon.” Ray shoved off the seat, bouncing the rig in his anger.

  The conversation seemed over, until Morgan had the second horse unhitched, the wagon stowed, and had taken a curry comb to the team.

  “You know what?” Ray demanded, “Mama still cries at night for her sister. It ain’t right of Uncle George to forget the bride of his youth.”

  “I know.” He doubted Dad had forgotten. But a new wife would change things.

  “How long have you known ‘bout this?”

  Two more long strokes of the comb. “A few days.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Couldn’t think about it, much less speak of it.” He stilled, finding comfort in the steady horse beneath his hands. “Now we both know. Dad’s ready to marry again. He’s chosen Mrs. Speare.”

  Minutes passed. He took up his comb again, stroking in soothing arcs.

  “Mrs. Speare? The young one or the old hag in purple?” Shades of the carefree Ray showed through.

  “The elder. In purple.” He coughed to hide a grin. “The younger one is Miss Elizabeth Speare.”

  “Available, is she?”

  Morgan shrugged, not liking his cousin’s interest. Not at all.

  “Wait—unless you’ve already claimed her.”

  “What? No. No.” The idea thrilled and chilled. “The girl’s my stepsiste
r. Or will be.” He’d have to be insane to want Mrs. Speare as stepmother and mother-in-law.

  Ray nodded toward the house. “I might have to pay the pretty lady a visit.”

  On their first evening in the Hudson home, Elizabeth kept her smile tacked in place as long as she could manage. She wanted nothing more than to claim exhaustion, retire from this “First Family Supper”, as Mother had deemed it, and retire.

  The dining room was nicely appointed, the chairs comfortable. Mother was in one of her better moods, enjoying Mr. Hudson’s full attention. Mother had seated herself at Mr. Hudson’s left, leaving Elizabeth and Morgan to fend for themselves.

  “Do tell me more,” Mother urged Mr. Hudson. “I’m enraptured with everything about you.”

  The conversation had dragged on like this for a half hour. Mr. Hudson happily answering every question, and Mother’s conversation skills making a fine showing—if ignoring her daughter and soon-to-be stepson didn’t count.

  Elizabeth sipped cold well water, far too aware of Morgan Hudson on her right. He sat at the foot of the table, his presence immense. And tension-filled. He didn’t like her, or Mother, and utterly distrusted them both. That was evident in each glance and in every vigorous stroke of knife through beefsteak.

  What a disaster. Why must he be the first man to turn her head?

  Of course, she’d noticed men before Morgan Hudson. But he’d been the first to truly captivate her.

  If she’d arrived without her mother, she might’ve had the slightest of chances with Morgan. But not now.

  He, naturally, would never be remotely interested in her, if only because of their parents.

  Parents who got along swimmingly and seemed to adore one another. Their correspondence had been going on for months, introducing them thoroughly, but the magnitude of the lovers’ affection had accelerated much faster than Elizabeth could have supposed.

  Behind the swinging door into the kitchen, a crash of shattering dishes erupted.

  “Heaven’s Angels!” Mother jumped, her hand at her throat. “What on earth?”

  Both Hudson men eyed the door into the kitchen. Morgan’s brows drew together. He chewed, dropped his napkin beside his plate, and had just pushed back his chair as if to check on the housekeeper when the woman erupted through the swinging door separating kitchen and dining room. The door banged against the wall. Her chest heaved with labored breaths.

  Elizabeth stilled.

  The woman had been cold and unpleasant from the moment Mr. Hudson had made introductions. Unhappy to hear “we’re having company for dinner, five in all” meant two ladies were joining them.

  Well, if not from announcement of guests for supper, then from the moment she learned the guests would be staying indefinitely.

  What was the woman’s name? Oh, yes. Ina… Her surname started with a D, but Elizabeth couldn’t recall. She knew Mother’s moods intimately, knew precisely what to do to ease the tensions, but this—this was a whole new ball of wax.

  Mother set her fork down with precision and straightened her spine further. “Do we have a problem, Miss Dimond?”

  Elizabeth had seen Mother’s Imperial Empress routine a time or three. Ina didn’t deserve it.

  “Yes, we have a problem!”

  “I will deduct the cost of the dishes from your pay.”

  Ina’s cheeks, red with anger, mottled. “You haven’t authority—”

  “You are fired.” Mother’s tone remained even and moderate. “You will leave my home within sixty seconds.”

  The housekeeper—the former housekeeper—gasped, shrieked with outrage, and pushed back through the still-swinging door.

  The wall clock ticked louder than ever.

  Embarrassed, Elizabeth couldn’t look at either Hudson, as both men remained frozen, as if stunned by Mother’s incredible overreach. Her home? No wedding had occurred. Mr. Hudson could easily decide Mother wasn’t the right match, might dismiss them—

  Mother set her hand upon Mr. Hudson’s fist on the tabletop. “A woman must control the domestics in her home. I will have respect from the help.”

  Miss Dimond returned through the door, sending it crashing once more. Her reticule swung from one wrist and a serviceable parasol clutched like a bludgeon. “I’ve kept house for the Hudsons for years!” She pointed her parasol at Morgan, jabbed as if to wound. “Since your mama took sick. Two long years I nursed her, while cancer grew in her belly. I loved your mother. I treated you like my own. And you, George, I treated you like family.”

  The poor woman was bushwhacked by sudden introduction of a bride from St. Louis.

  That explained much.

  Familiar, painful empathy flooded Elizabeth. Ina had filled her labor for the Hudsons with love, lived like his wife…but not.

  Morgan threw his napkin onto his plate, and shoved back his chair, and rose to his considerable height.

  Ina stopped him with both hands raised. “What do I get for my trouble? Nothing. Only news of five, maybe six for supper. Do I see five or six? No, I see four.”

  This wasn’t about food prepared. This was about the guest list. And Mother’s chair slid indecently close to George Hudson at the head of the table.

  “You owe me two months’ salary, George.” Ina vibrated with anger. “Full wages. This…this woman brought plenty in those crates. Ordered me to wash them, and dry them, without a single water spot.”

  Elizabeth saw straight through the woman’s fury to the pain beneath. She’d called him by his first name, leaning heavily on the familiarity. The woman who’d kept house for George Hudson all these years was in love with him. Probably had been since she’d come to work for him. All while nursing his dying wife, scrubbing his floors, cooking his meals, washing his clothes.

  With dignity in every step, Ina Dimond exited, but not through the kitchen door as she probably did every evening on her way home. She marched through the reception hall, and out the front door, leaving it open wide.

  Morgan remained standing, barely containing his anger.

  Mother cleared her throat delicately and folded her hands in her lap. “That was most unpleasant, but necessary. I assure you it was necessary.”

  But George Hudson, man of the house, surprised her. “Yes. I apologize, Mrs. Speare. That was—”

  “No need to apologize.” Mother smiled brightly, as if she hadn’t a kitchen to put to rights, as if the front door weren’t hanging open for all the neighborhood to see.

  “Excuse me.” Morgan tucked his chair beneath the table with complete control. Even his voice sounded calm and steady. “I’ve lost my appetite.” He exited, following Miss Dimond as if nothing untoward had happened. As if she’d simply said goodnight and gone on her way, and he realized she’d left her shawl behind.

  Nothing wrong with us.

  No, not here. Everything is fine. Perfectly normal.

  Elizabeth wanted to silently disappear.

  Any minute, Mr. Hudson would chastise Mother, put her in her place, stand and rail at her impudence.

  But he didn’t. He held Mother’s hand, soothed her. “Hire another housekeeper of your own choosing.”

  “Geo, I’d rather cook for you, myself.”

  Geo. The personal nickname grated, chafed. Father had been in the ground six months. Mother wasn’t out of mourning. Crepe would have still draped the house, covered every window, had they not sold it in preparation for moving to Mountain Home.

  Too soon.

  As if Elizabeth didn’t exist, Mr. Hudson searched Mother’s eyes. “Miss Dimond kept the houses clean. Cooked three meals a day. Did the laundry. That’s all far too much for you.”

  “I’m accustomed to all of that and more.” Mother patted Mr. Hudson’s hands, clasped together about hers. “Houses?”

  “The first house, out back. Morgan and I moved back in yesterday. Propriety, until the wedding.”

  With deliberate slowness, Elizabeth rose. Though obligated to remain at the table, out of respect for her mother
and for Mr. Hudson, she couldn’t bear to trespass on the lovers’ discussion one moment longer.

  So much for a First Family Supper.

  Chapter 4

  Three days after her arrival in Mountain Home, Zylphia carried rugs into the back yard, hung them over the clothesline and beat them with vigor. She took tremendous satisfaction ridding her new home of dirt and dust. That Ina person might have thought herself a superior housekeeper—but she was not. Nor was she an outstanding cook.

  Zylphia would prove her worth to her husband-to-be, one day’s housekeeping after another, one well-prepared meal after another. Though he might not notice. Geo—such a wonderful man!—was far more interested in romancing her than in how clean his floors were.

  She giggled, joy in her newfound circumstances lightening her spirits more than she’d believed possible.

  The morning breeze carried puffs of dust away. Birds twittered. And she’d not felt so alive in a long while.

  If Geo hadn’t left to deliver that large shipment of rifles to a mine—what had he called it? the Peerless?—he’d be with her still. But she was an industrious soul by nature. She wouldn’t while away the afternoon. She had things to do before the family sat down to supper.

  A baby laughed, drawing Zee’s attention. Over the fence, a middle-aged woman tended to her flower and vegetable gardens. How lovely! A neighbor to become friends with.

  Though she wore a dusty work dress and her hair was tied up beneath a scarf to keep out dirt and dust, she headed for the fence. The neighbor woman wasn’t dressed better—how could she be? Tending to her garden, she wore a simple cotton dress meant for chores.

  “Good morning.” Zylphia leaned on the recently painted fence, offering a welcoming smile.

  “Good morning to you.” The woman had a hard time rising from her bent knees in the soil. She chuckled about her aching bones, and moved like a woman well into her fifties. No matter. What difference did age make? They could still be friends.

  The neighbor, a good sixty to seventy pounds overweight, plump-cheeked and all smiles, picked up a baby from where it had lain on a quilt in the shade of a maple tree. “Who might you be?”