“Huh?” He frowned down at the touch that seemed to tether rather than tease. “No. Come in so’s I can visit the post office.”
“The post office? Why on earth would you—”
“Mail. Didn’t get hardly nothin’ from anybody, the whole time I was gone. Even locked away, with a permanent address. Thought I’d check to see if anything has been returned. Or held up.”
During this whole confrontation Vickie had remained silent, clearly not trusting her voice or her outraged senses to keep from spitting out something so detrimental that the family relationship might be irrevocably severed. Or, at least, at a guess, so would her perfidious sister see it.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. What difference does it make now, as to what mail you received and what mail was probably lost en-route?”
Jessica was aware that her voice had become louder than it should be, and more shrill; and that her face was unattractively flushed with temper. After all her plans for a day centering upon her needs, her wants, her demands. And here was this thoughtless oaf—correction: her future bridegroom—doing his best to upend everything!
Sam’s lean face acquired a mulish look. “Just wanna check to see what I’ve missed, Jess. Anything wrong with that?”
Oh, stars above! Not so malleable, after all!
With a murmur of, “Best I leave you two alone to—discuss…” Vickie was attempting to sidle off the bench and away, as was her wont. Caught in the midst of some contretemps, better to simply disappear if at all possible.
Whenever some public conflict might be arising, whenever raised voices might ensue or an actual loud squall approach, you could trust her sister to slither away, thought Jessica with contempt.
She never stayed to meet trouble head-on. Unless it were at home, where no-one other than family could witness.
“Fine, Sam.” Putting a rein on the temper tantrum she wanted to throw, Jessie tossed her hair like a southern belle about to exclaim, “Fiddle dee dee.” Instead, she purred at the man she planned to marry. “You go on and run your errands, and Vic and I will continue with our business at the dress shop. No, no, you can’t have even an inkling of what I’ve decided to wear, so don’t bother to ask.”
As if he had expressed any interest at all! The man was a living human being, and yet he was so curiously just—not present. As if only a husk remained to walk around, while the spirit dissipated itself elsewhere.
“And then,” she patted his cheek flirtatiously, “you come on back and we can go ring shopping. I’d love to see what’s available.”
It was an eye roll that Vickie was expecting from the beleaguered groom-to-be, and it was an eye roll she got. But only as a sideline, so that Jessie didn’t notice.
“All right, sweetheart. You g’wan now, and I’ll see you soon. Remember, c’mon back to the shop.” Dropping the artificial sweetness as soon as Sam shrugged and strolled away, Jessica threw a hard look at her sister. “As for you, get up off that bench and back inside. You need to remember your responsibilities.”
With a shrug very like that of the now-absent Sam, Vickie languidly obeyed.
“Look at this, Vic,” Sophie held up the small blue bottle of tincture provided by her pharmacist as soon they had entered. “Such a silly old fool I am—it was in my reticule all the time. I hope my forgetfulness didn’t cause you any harm?”
“Not at all, Auntie. I literally ran right into Sam, and we had a chance to say hello.”
“Oh.” She wore a look of disappointment. “That was it?”
“That’s all she needed, and all that she’ll have in the future,” interrupted Jessica. Could her tone have been more cutting? “You all seem to have lost your memory about somethin’ else. Sam is my intended. He accepts that, and should everybody else. C’mon, Maisie, let’s get going on these dress patterns.”
Fluttering a little, which was entirely unlike her usual capable self, Sophie followed her niece into the back room where all the magic was to begin. “I’m so sorry, dear, for all the fuss. But you must remember, as well, that it’s bad luck for the groom for the groom to participate in any of the details before your wedding day.”
Jessica halted her procession with a jerk to glare at her aunt. “I’ve never heard such a thing, and I don’t believe you have either. You’re just making things up for some reason.”
“Oh, Jess, why on earth would I do that?” But she sent a wink in Vickie’s direction, carefully shielded from the older girl’s scrutiny.
Chapter 8
This and that, in a day that seemed packed full of ongoing events.
Plans that are made, no matter with how much hope, can also be waylaid.
First of all, Sam’s visit to the post office met with only limited success.
“Goldarn it, boy, I’m sure happy to see you back in one piece,” said Grenelle Hubbs, coming out from behind his counter for an extended period of back-slapping and hand-pumping. “I reckon you went through hell and back, didncha?”
“I wouldn’t say it was much of a picnic, sir. But, thank you. It’s good bein’ back home again.”
“Here, cuppa coffee? Sit a spell, and lemme catch up with you.”
“Thank you kindly, sir. Don’t mind if I do.”
For a pleasant few minutes they chewed the fat, greeted a few others who wandered in to pay their respects, and chewed the fat some more. The postmaster asked what his visitor had put up with during his years in uniform, and how he was doing now.
“You’re lookin’ scrawny as some ole coon dog with ticks, son. Reckon your ma will have a bit of doin’ to put back that weight you lost. Anything else goin’ on?”
Sam, while not wishing to admit to any weakness, felt he ought to reply in kind to this show of concern. “Caught a bullet—here…” One finger tapped his temple, where a reddened scar had not yet been covered by a growth of thick dark hair. “T’ord the end, we had quite a skirmish right there at Rock Island. Guards were quick to line up their muskets, and a few prisoners were shot. I was one of ’em.”
Scowling fiercely, Grenelle hauled a pipe from his pocket to clean out the dregs of old tobacco. “Daggone Yankees. Reckon you were mighty happy to see the last of them. You healin’ okay?”
The rise and fall of his shoulders, slightly diminished though they were, spoke more loudly than words. “Been havin’ some headaches. And a—a memory problem.”
“Huh? Memory problem?”
“Yeah. Sticky. Things I oughta recall just—just ain’t there. Important things. Blocked away, somewhere, and I can’t get to ’em.”
“Huh.” The postmaster, puffing away at the pipe he had finally managed to fill, tamp, and light, studied his young visitor. “Dang shame, I’d say. Forgot important whatsits, you mean?”
“Dunno.” With a slow shake of his head, Sam balanced his cup between both hands and stared into its murky contents, as if he were searching for the meaning to life. “Can’t—quite—wrap my mind around it…”
The truth of what lay beyond, like a wisp of fog teasing for entrance into his wounded brain, had not yet reached him. Possibly never would. And, meanwhile, what he couldn’t remember was a constant irritant, day and night. People? Places? Events? What dark spaces occupied a never-never land of the imagination?
“Well, son, I’m sorry to hear that. You talked to anybody about it?”
“Naw. Dunno what could be done, except maybe with time.”
“Mariah been doctorin’ you?”
A smile. “You know Ma and her brews. She’s got a whole cupboard fulla dried herbs and potions. She knows her way around takin’ care of sick ones, all right.”
Finally Sam reached the point where he could state his purpose in coming by.
“Mail held up?” Grenelle scratched his grizzled beard, pondering. “Not sure, son, but I can check on it for you. I took me a leave of absence for a while, y’ see—had a sister up in Abilene got herself into some trouble, so I needed to be away. The guv’mint got itself a substitute postmaster
in here to take over, and I found things a right mess when I got back.”
“So it’s possible you might have somethin’ for me?”
“Oh, just about anything is possible, son. It’s findin’ it that is the problem. Reckon maybe your folks mighta put any of your mail on hold, if they gave up hope you wouldn’t—uh—well, that they might not see you again.”
With a small frown, Sam scrubbed one finger over an oil stain on the thigh of his trousers. “Huh. Yeah. Sorta thought the same myself, a time or two. So. Can you check on this for me?”
“Sure can. But it’ll take me a little time. Gotta go back into the storage room and dig through a lotta boxes to see what I can come up with.” Grenelle peered over his spectacles. “You in a hurry?”
“Nope. Just like to find out what I’m missin’.”
“All right, then. You head on back in a few days. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can come up with. Fair enough?”
Sam’s smile, on such a somber face, was like the sun’s rays suddenly breaking through rain clouds. “Always fair, Mr. Hubbs. Appreciate it.”
Nor was the next plan to be easily accomplished.
“Well really, Sam, I don’t want just any old ring.”
Jessica had extended her arm to squint down at the shining bauble on the fourth finger of her left hand. It was the ninth or tenth such she had tried on, and none of them suited her desire. James T. Reilly, proprietor of the Precious Adornments store next door to Maisie’s, was exhibiting the patience of Job as he brought out sample after sample that the particular Miss Clark might examine to her satisfaction.
Garnets, pearls, yellowish-green citrine, a soft pink topaz…
So far, none would do.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “Nothing any larger? Something more fabulous than these? Have you any other gemstones?”
“Well, Miss Clark, I do have a few locked away in the safe. More for the discriminating buyer, you understand.” His significant glance shifted sideways to the intended groom. Discriminating means expensive, dear sir, in case you were wondering. “A few diamonds, set in the purest gold, with exquisite design. Sapphires, emeralds…”
“Oh, that sounds lovely, doesn’t it, Sam?” she appealed with starry eyes and flushed face.
Mr. Reilly raised both brows in question; Mr. Marsden raised one shoulder in answer. With a nod, the proprietor discreetly disappeared into the back room.
“I just know we’ll find the perfect ring for me here, Sam, dearest. I just know you want me to be happy in my choice. You do want to show me off, don’t you?”
There were no more Confederate States, no Confederate government, no Confederate army. Whether he would ever receive his back pay, owing or not, was a moot point. Clearly Jessie neither knew nor cared if he could afford a pricey bauble with which to adorn herself; it seemed that, in his opinion, she was interested only in the smug contemplation of what she had acquired, in comparison to that of other mortals less blessed.
He supposed the matter of money didn’t much count with her, coming from such a wealthy background as she did, where every bill could be paid on time with cash left over in the bank account afterward.
But it counted with him. A man has his pride. Even if it was slow to come, after so nearly losing himself during his incarceration. Let Jessica look over the wares offered, let her oooh and aaah. If he could afford it, they could discuss the items. If he couldn’t—well…
“Here you are, Miss Clark,” said the ever-hopeful Mr. Reilly, returning. “Beautiful, are they not?”
They spent another half hour at a small table, while Jess inspected the merchandise with everything short of a jeweler’s loupe, and Sam, still standing in the hope his position would hurry her along, shifted from one foot to the other.
“Oh, dear me. I really can’t decide. What do you think, Sam?”
“I think you’d oughta find out first what each one costs,” he suggested levelly, without even a hint of amusement.
Giggling, she fluttered an invisible fan. “Silly boy. Why, I hadn’t even considered such a picayune matter!”
“No? Consider it now.”
In the end, they left the shop ring-less, though a disappointed Jessica kept casting forlorn looks backward over her shoulder, as if she would never be able to see the place again. “Really, Sam. Why you felt you needed to hustle me out of there, like some—like some common trollop—I simply can’t imagine. My favorite really was that lovely sparkly diamond, in its heart setting. Why did you refuse such a simple wish?”
“Because,” towering above, as they strode along, the muscles in his jaw felt clenched as tightly as those in the arm that escorted her, “I couldn’t afford it. Reckon you’ll just have to set your sights a little lower, Miss Clark ma’am. I ain’t no rich moneybags, y’ know; just a poor dirt farmer. You need to know that before we go any farther.”
“Well yes, of course I know that.” Her grip on the crook of his elbow sharpened, as she went on comfortably, “But don’t worry. I’ll have money enough for both of us. Where are we going?”
“If you’ll recall, Miss Sophie asked me to deliver you to the Hotel Dupree, so’s you can get somethin’ to eat.”
“Oh, good. They have such wonderful pastries. What do you like best, Sam?”
His somber gaze was already settled on the far horizon, as if wondering what he’d gotten himself into. “Dunno. Never had a meal in the place.”
“You haven’t!” She halted in amazement; and, because she halted, so did he. “Then you’ll get your choice of delicacies today, I promise you.”
“No, ma’am, I won’t. I’m leavin’ you there—got some other stuff to take care of right now.”
“Oh, but, Sam!” Jessica nearly stamped her foot in frustration. “We haven’t even finished discussing the whole ring situation. I really must insist on your providing me with an absolutely breathtaking, knock-’em-in-the-eyes ring that everybody will be gossipin’ about.”
“Huh. Reckon we got some time yet to think on that. Mayhap I can hike on over into Arizona Territory and mine us some chunks of solid gold, huh?”
“Sam, dear!” She jiggled his arm enough to get his attention. “Sam, can’t you act the least bit lover-like with me?”
“Lover-like?” He almost reared back, as a restive horse might do. “How d’ you mean?”
“I don’t know. Use your imagination. Just—um—well, hold my hand. Or kiss my cheek. We are betrothed, remember.”
His mutter was entirely too low and ground out for her to understand.
“Sam!”
He was beginning to wonder if he might possibly go deaf—an old war wound, suddenly worsened—so he wouldn’t be hearing his name again and again, in a variety of exasperated tones.
“Gotta pay attention to propriety, with people watchin’.” As they mounted the wooden walkway’s two steps, he took a fleeting glance at her lips. Would they feel soft and warm and taste of strawberries, as in that elusive tangle of memory from somewhere? “All right, here we are. I’ll walk you inside to your table. Then I’ll see you around.”
“Sam!” she wanted to wail. “You’ll see me when? Where? How soon?”
“Not sure. Ah, here you go.” He had walked her through the elaborate hand-carved door, past a small dim foyer and on into the restaurant itself, where Sophie and her niece were already enjoying tea at a corner table. Once arrived, he tipped his hat to the ladies, offered a pleasantry or two, and made a relieved escape from the clutches of his bride-to-be.
An Endless Love to Remember: A Historical Western Romance Book Page 14
