Chasing Adventure

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Thankfully, El Davis bedded down on a blanket pallet in the stable with his mules. Thora felt guilty about the man sleeping in an unheated structure on such a chilly night, but propriety, such as it was, had been maintained.

  The hotel room held a pleasing mix of furnishings. A black-painted iron bedstead occupied the far wall, flanked by a pair of wooden nightstands. A small table with two chairs sat to one side of the window. The bureau and a matching commode stood in one corner opposite the clothes closet hidden behind the open door.

  From the window, she had a view overlooking the town’s main street. After the long ride with only prairie and mountains in sight, she’d chosen this side of the hotel for the chance to watch whatever activity occurred in this tiny town.

  A peek at her brooch watch told her to hurry downstairs. People in the West ate earlier than was her family’s habit. So, she either became used to this new schedule or waited until the midday meal.

  Today, she hoped to locate and speak with the relatives of the injured boxer. Thora needed to finish her story and have the manuscript ready to post when the freighter returned the following week.

  When she reached the foot of the stairs, she gave a quick look toward the parlor past the registration desk then turned right and followed the delicious scents of cooking meat and brewing coffee along the hallway toward the kitchen. The previous evening’s tour had been brief, and she looked forward to exploring the front parlor with three distinct sitting areas later. A floorboard creaked underfoot, and Thora glanced ahead.

  Moving from the kitchen, Missus Fitzhugh carried a basket toward the adjacent dining room. “Morning, Miss Alviss. Just take any empty chair.”

  “All right.” Thora let the tall woman with brown hair and blue eyes go before her, and then followed. She’d noticed the hotel manager’s familiar accent yesterday and couldn’t wait to ask what part of New York she was from.

  A young blonde girl and a man wearing a well-trimmed moustache and a already sat at the table. Upon her entry, the man stood and nodded.

  He was tall, about the same height as the deputy, uh, Marshal Renwyck. The thought of the deceit the stubborn man played on her still made her jaw clamp tight, but she fought to keep irritation from her tone.

  “Please, be seated, sir.” Thora slid into a tall-backed chair. “We’re all staying here, and I don’t expect such formality at each meal.”

  “Thank you, Miss Alviss.” Missus Fitzhugh claimed the chair at the head of the table. “I like to think of the boarders here as an extended family.” She smiled. “Even if our time together is short.” She lifted a platter of sausage patties and placed one on the girl’s plate on her right. “Make your own introductions, please, as we serve ourselves the food.”

  “I’m Josie, and I’m seven.” The blue-eyed girl smiled and reached for the basket of biscuits. “How old are you?”

  Thora blinked at the abrupt question as she accepted the meat platter.

  “My name’s Thora Alviss, and let’s say I’m old enough.” She directed a wink at the youngster. “That means, Josie, I’m an adult.”

  “Hush now, Josie. Most women don’t like answering that question.” The dark-haired man with green eyes sitting to the girl’s right gave her braid a gentle tug. “Name’s Bill Simms, ma’am, and I’m one of the managers at Morgan’s Mine. The other manager, who also lives here, works the evening shift so you’ll rarely see Cal at breakfast.”

  Thora nodded. “Pleasure, Mister Simms.”

  While everyone filled their plates and enjoyed sausage, eggs, and biscuits, conversation dwindled to food-related matters.

  Josie set down her glass of milk. “Mama, she’s the first person I’ve heard who talks like us.” She looked across the table. “Where’d you live before?”

  Thora swallowed her last bite of egg and wiped a napkin against her lips. “I’m from New York City, the Lenox Hill neighborhood, actually.” She glanced at Missus Fitzhugh. “I noticed your accent last night when I checked in but was too tired to comment. Interesting to find another New Yorker so far from home.”

  With lips pressed tight, the hotel manager shook her head. “That city holds disagreeable memories, and I’ve put my past behind me. Morgan’s Crossing is now my home. What brings you here, Mis—uh, Thora?”

  The inquisitive side of Thora’s nature cried out to ask questions, but she refrained. “I’m a writer, hoping to locate a couple of subjects to interview.” She glanced at Bill. “Perhaps you can direct me to them.”

  He sipped at his coffee and nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Well, I’m searching for two tall, blond men who I believe are relatives of the headlining boxer from last Saturday’s match. Did you attend?”

  “Nah, Cal and I tossed a coin, and he won. A couple wagonloads of miners went.” He shot a glance at Laura then looked back toward Thora. “Was the contest as exciting as they reported?”

  As she was about to launch into a description, Thora realized the topic was probably not suitable for a child as young as Josie. “Perhaps I can fill you in later. Although…” She smiled. “My publisher would say you should wait and buy the dime novel to read the story.”

  Eyebrows raised high, Bill sat back. “Dime novels, huh? Interesting.”

  Glad to talk about her passion, Thora leaned forward. “The novels published by the Oceanside Library contain several stories in each issue.”

  Laura pulled the empty platter toward her. “More coffee anyone?”

  Both Thora and Bill nodded.

  “Mama, can I be excused?” Josie stood beside her chair.

  Laura quirked an eyebrow at her daughter. “Bring in your dishes then you may go outside.” She rose and stacked plates, setting the silverware on the top one.

  Josie copied her mother’s actions, and then the two left the room.

  Glancing toward Bill, Thora bit her lip. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Don’t think so. Laura’s just fastidious about her duties.”

  Thankful she hadn’t caused offense, Thora turned back to the matter at hand. “Well, first, I’m looking for anyone with the last name of Andrusha.”

  “You’ll want to visit the saddlery shop that’s a couple hundred feet to the left as you exit the front porch. Don’t be fooled by the sign that reads Andrews.” Bill cradled his mug in his hands. “Nicolai Andrusha is the owner, and his wife, Cinnia, is the dressmaker next door.”

  Excited shivers ran over her skin. “So close.” Although, from what she’d observed of the town, everything was close.

  Back from the kitchen, Laura made a circuit of the table, refilling mugs. “Thank you, Thora, for not giving a report about the match. Since leaving the East, Josie has been exposed to all sorts of…experiences. I prefer to protect her from what I can.”

  Lifting the mug toward her nose, Thora inhaled the rich scent. The fresh coffee was just what she needed. She dribbled in a half spoonful of sugar and stirred. “I understand, and I’ll save any details for when she’s not present.” She took a sip of the fragrant brew. “I enjoyed the meal.”

  A flash brightened her expression, and Laura nodded.

  “I agree.” Bill stood and pushed his chair up to the table. “About time for me to head to the mine. Got a new guard starting today.”

  His comment barely registered as Thora imagined the upcoming conversation with the man in the saddlery. Maybe she should jot down a few questions to shape the interview.

  “Excuse me, please.” Thora rushed upstairs to gather her reticule and journal then give her appearance a last look. The forest green dress with pin-tucked bodice and a long swag that overlaid the striped underskirt and gathered at the back waist was her most professional outfit. She worked long hatpins through the matching hat accented with four white silk roses and into her upswept hairdo.

  Once Thora left the boardinghouse, she noticed a clear sky and the crisp air of fall. Within her paint collection would be the correct term for the beautiful blue above.
Female readers would appreciate learning such details. She vowed to jot down color descriptions in the back of her notebook when she returned to the boardinghouse.

  In the distance, a rhythmic thud sounded, but she couldn’t identify the noise. She walked along the well-trod path to the road and then turned toward the shops. The first thing she saw was a large vegetable garden at the back of the wooden structure Bill mentioned. As she approached, she noticed both shops looked identical from the outside and shared a common wall. From the overhang shading the front porch, the roof slanted upward to a peak that rose two stories tall. After a quick double knock at the saddlery, Thora opened the door and leaned in her head. “Excuse me.”

  “Morning, miss.” The blond man sitting at a workbench turned on his stool. “Did you want the dressmaker’s next door?” He jerked a thumb toward the near wall.

  “No, Mister Andrusha, I’ve come to speak to you.” After latching the door, she walked inside and inhaled a fresh scent of tanned hides and herbs with a touch of citrus like no other leather she’d ever smelled. The small products on display—wallets, watch fobs, belts, spectacles cases—in a glass-enclosed display were of exquisite craftsmanship. She wished for the time to browse, but the need to finish her story and get the manuscript into the post burned in her chest.

  “My name’s Thora Alviss, sir, and I believe you’re related to Boris the Bear, I mean Viktor.” Holding out her business card, she approached his bench.

  “Miss Alviss.” He glanced at the card and nodded then refocused on rubbing a cloth over a square of leather. “Viktor’s my cousin.”

  After dumping the card in her reticule, Thora pulled out her journal and poised the pencil over a clean page. “Could you give me some background details about Viktor? Like where he’s from or how long he’s been in the sport?” She watched his circling hand slow then stop. The scuffed cover of her journal could use some of that same attention.

  Several moments passed before the leather worker looked up, his gaze squinting. “What interest does a New York publishing house have with a Russian boxer in Montana Territory?”

  Of course, this man she’d just met would be suspicious. In her excitement, Thora had jumped right to the heart of the matter without providing any preliminaries. For her next interview, she’d lay out all the background details before asking her first question.

  For several minutes, she explained her job, the themes of her Oregon Trail stories, and for this particular story, how she was fictionalizing the events she’d witnessed.

  After pulling over another stool for her to use, Mister Andrusha shared what he knew about the cousin he hadn’t seen in fifteen years.

  Thora recorded everything he said, but the details weren’t as plentiful as she’d hoped. Probably the lack was due to the families living on opposite sides of America. “Since I’m not using Viktor’s and Odette’s real names, I’ve christened the heroine Ophelia. Maybe you can supply a different Russian name that starts with ‘V.’”

  Grinning, he nodded. “Sure, what about Vitenka, another name which also means victor, or Vassily?” He pointed to her journal. “Two ‘s’ in Vassily, meaning royal.”

  Thora’s smile grew. The inconveniences she’d put up with to reach this town had paid off. “Thanks for suggesting those. I would have had to find a book on Russian literature in a library but…” She lifted her hands palms up in a hopeless gesture.

  “No library here.” He chuckled. “Lots of folks struggle initially with the adjustment to rural living. I love life in a small town. And you’re in luck, because if you decide against those names, I have Russian folk tale books at home.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Mister Andrusha.” Quite generous, especially to a person he’d just met. She scribbled a note to use a similar act of kindness in a later story.

  “Nicolai is fine.”

  “And I much prefer Thora.” Nodding, she glanced at the journal to check for missing information. “As an aside, I’m wildly curious about that fancy wagon.”

  “For details on the wagons, you should talk to my wife next door. Cinnia, her sister, and their best friend were part of a vaudeville troupe that performed here last fall.” A grin spread, and he huffed out a breath. “In fact, we just celebrated our first anniversary a few days ago. What a life-changing year it’s been. But back to your question, I received an update yesterday that Viktor is in a Denver hospital on complete bedrest.”

  Vaudeville? That story was one she definitely needed to get. With almost every person she’d spoken to, Thora collected a new idea. With so many possibilities, she had no worries about what to write next. “You heard so quickly? Via a telegram? I saw the wires along the ride here.” Nicolai’s report provided a second verifying source for the boxer having to travel to Denver to reach a specialty hospital. She didn’t need the duplication, but Thora liked her facts to be accurate.

  “Nope. The man who provided security at the event stopped by yesterday with the news from Doc Cameron in Sweetwater Springs. I guess the doctor received the wire from Denver.” He reached for her journal. “If you let me, I’ll rub out those scuffs on the cover. I’ve been watching you handle that notebook, and as a leather worker, the marks bother me.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she released her book with suddenly numb fingers. Could Nicolai mean that Harte Renwyck had ended up in this town? On the drive, the freighter mentioned several other towns in the area where he delivered, so what were the odds the marshal came here? “To be clear, you saw Marshal Renwyck yesterday?”

  “Da. He hired on as a guard at the gold mine up the hill.”

  How strange. Now even more than before, she wanted to speak him again and get answers. For the moment, as much as her lightest weight corset allowed, she made herself comfortable on the stool and watched Nicolai smooth oil into her journal cover. The longer he worked, the more she suppressed her urge to get outside and find the marshal. Soon, she’d have the chance to interview her desired subject—even if the man had been cagey about his identity.

  Nicolai set aside the rag and extended the journal. “Almost good as new.”

  Thora accepted the notebook and lifted it to her nose. “What a wonderful aroma. I noticed the smell when I first entered. What’s it called?”

  Bracing a hand on the workbench, he winked and shook his head. “Sorry, inquisitive lady. The scent is a family recipe that’s been passed down for generations and now enjoys patented secrecy.”

  I wonder why his eyes are twinkling. “I sense a story there, but I’ve taken up enough of your time for which I thank you.” Thora slid off the stool as gracefully as she could then straightened her skirts.

  “My older brother, Valerik, might remember more details about Viktor. He lives on a ranch about an hour outside of town.” He tipped his head toward the far wall. “That’s where the traveler’s wagon is stored, and you could see the caravan up close.”

  “Tempting, but I’m on foot.” She walked to the door and turned in the entrance to jiggle the journal. “I appreciate you restoring my journal’s cover. Good day, Nicolai.”

  “Anytime, Thora. Be sure to talk to Cinnia. The story of her vaudeville life would make a great plot.” He raised a hand before focusing again on his work.

  Once the door shut and the lock clicked, she leaned her weight against the wooden surface. Since learning Harte was in Morgan’s Crossing, she’d heard a ticking clock in her head. Her nerves sparked like firecrackers, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

  Nicolai said the mine was “up the hill.” Thora glanced in both directions and spotted where the road to the left rose upward. Knowing a good writer should go prepared, she returned to her hotel room to collect her scrapbook. Remembering her advice to herself, she thought of the order of her questions.

  Outside again, she strode down the dusty road, heedless of her hems. Halfway up the incline, she had to stop to catch her breath. The higher elevation must be affecting her breathing.

  The thudd
ing had grown louder, so the noise was probably part of the mining process.

  Where the road curved around a copse of trees, she again stopped to regulate her breath. As she sucked in air, Thora turned to gaze at the town with its scattering of businesses and homes, including what looked like a grouping of canvas tents. Past the meandering river and off in the distance were buildings and corrals marking several ranches. And, as expected, the never-ending prairie.

  At the sight, she pressed a hand to her stomach and blinked against sudden dizziness. When had she ever seen so much of the world at once? The expansive sight made her feel insignificant. No wonder El Davis hadn’t wanted her to set out on her own across the wild open space. If Thora had gone astray from the road, she might have become lost in the wilderness.

  When her breathing returned to normal, Thora followed the curve and spotted a man cradling a rifle next to a domed hole in the side of the mountain. Square timbers lined the opening and disappeared into shadow. To the side of the clearing stood wooden buildings. The biggest held a sign stating Mine Office. Recognizing her quarry, she walked directly toward the guard, noting the moment he squinted in recognition.

  His posture stiffened.

  “Good day, Marshal Renwyck.”

  His mouth remained closed, and he stared, one dark eyebrow cocked.

  “Yes, I did learn your name since our last encounter.” She searched his expression for a reaction, but he looked as if he’d sucked on a lemon. “Come on, Mister Renwyck, you’re not one of the Queen’s Life Guards at Buckingham Palace. You can talk to me.”

  “So, you were following me, Miss Alviss.” His glance flicked to meet hers for a second or two before moving to the left in a slow scan.

  “Not true.” Why does he keep saying that? “What I want to know is why you kept your identity secret.”