by Sierra Rose
“Happy Thanksgiving to you, Abigail,” Hannah greeted her. “Have you gotten your dinner?”
“Oh, indeed, I have, my dear. Twice over. In fact, I doubt I shall ever fit into this gown again without a smaller corset and tighter lacings.” She laughed comfortably. “Is this your family?”
Ben and Camellia smiled at the newcomer and introductions were made all around, as Hannah explained that these were just two members; the other four were floating about somewhere. For a little while pleasant small talk flowed back and forth. The hall was gradually emptying, as families gathered up sleepy children and began to wend their way home.
“And where is your medical friend today?” Ben asked.
“Who, Gabriel?” Hannah managed to restrain a snort.
“He’s out on a call,” Camellia said.
Diverted suddenly, she glanced around but failed to spy the tall, handsome doctor with the big, green eyes. “That is odd. Normally he would be here, the center of everyone’s attention, glad-handing the men and flirting with the ladies.”
“Yes, well he can be larger than life. And that’s what we love about him.”
Why wasn’t he here? Did he really have a call? Or was he mad about what she had said. That she only wanted to remain friends. Hannah knew that staying friends was for the best. She didn’t want or need the drama. And she was sure he didn’t need it either. She could picture herself looking deeply into his eyes and holding his hands. No! She couldn’t think like that. That doctor was off limits.
Before Hannah could say a word, Abigail went on to mention the weather. Not exactly what she was used to, certainly. Was this warmth unseasonable?
“Warmth?” Ben, working on his third piece of apple pie, chuckled. “Ma’am, it’s less’n fifty degrees out there. For us southerners, that’s almost cold enough to freeze the marrow in our bones.”
“Cold?” It was the lady’s turn to chuckle. “I’m from New York City, Mr. Forrester. You’ve hardly felt cold until you’ve seen icicles hanging from every window pane and watched snow falling to a four foot depth.”
“You don’t say!” Ben, fork laid aside to reach for his cup, was honestly amazed. “That must be somethin’.” Turning toward his wife, he covered her hand with his. “Mayhap we’ll have to take a trip up north someday.”
“In the middle of winter?” Camellia’s amused reaction almost questioned her husband’s sanity. “Go on with you, Ben; I hardly think so.”
For a few minutes, conversation ebbed and flowed, in aimless chatting that included the town, the area, and the new business, with all four contributing bits and pieces. Only a few dozen diners remained; in the kitchen, to the rear, those ladies who had volunteered to take care of clean-up were clearing tables and washing dishes. Those heroines were carrying on their own conversation, interspersed with hearty laughter and a few lusty giggles.
After a while, Ben began making the motions of a stuffed-to-the gills, drowsy male ready to head home and relax for a few hours. That included fetching Camellia’s hat, reticule, and heavy shawl, along with his own coat.
The other sisters, and their spouses, had stopped by the table to be introduced, make a few sounds of welcome, and depart. Once Ben and Camellia, too, had decided to leave, after a few minutes’ final chat with Rev. Beecham, Hannah honed in on her target.
“Is it necessary for you to rush off anywhere?”
Abigail brought the tea cup to her lips, sipping with an expression of enjoyment. For the taste? Or because someone other than herself had brewed it? “No, my dear, I’ve closed the shop for today. Was there something you wished?”
“M’h’m.” Hannah grinned and retrieved paper and pencil from her capacious reticule. “Our interview.”
They were sitting off to the side, out of the line of thinning traffic, at a table not quite but almost in the corner. Any conversation, carried on in lowered tones, would certainly be confidential. If that were even necessary.
Ready to go to work, Hannah Burton, fearless reporter, looked up. “And so you traveled here from New York?” she prompted.
“Indeed I did.” The gaze of sharp blue eyes softened with reminiscence, and the slow turning of the delicate jet bracelet wrapped around one wrist indicated a fading back into memory. “Before that, however, I was born and raised in a tiny hamlet you’ve no doubt never heard of, in the province of Munster, near the City of Cork.”
“Irish,” breathed Hannah, in surprise.
“Oh, yes. My father served as minister of The Rock of the Presbytery Church there—a pitifully small congregation—and we lived, all twelve of us, in a pitifully small manse. It never failed to amaze me, once I learned the facts of life, how the Reverend St. George Killarney could manage to provide so little for his family by way of funds, but did manage to procreate on such a regular basis.”
Hannah’s cheeks flushed. This was just a step farther into intimacy than she had been prepared to go. Still, since Abigail was willing to divulge, she was willing to listen.
“You’ve heard the phrase about someone being poor as a church mouse? Well, that was us. Never enough to eat, never enough to wear... Well. After a siege of cholera—” her voice dipped and twisted, “—we were five. Only five, and those not strong. So I became a mail order bride.”
An audible inward suck of breath neither interrupted the monologue, nor halted it. The quiet words continued, while Abigail toyed with a spoon left on the table.
She was barely eighteen when, in response to a proposal of marriage from one Courtney Fitzsimmons, she left the green sod of Ireland behind her forever and boarded ship for New York City. Courtney, at the ripe old age of fifty, had already made his fortune on Wall Street and was now looking for a beautiful young wife to grace his mansion and share his bed.
“Unfortunately, what he was looking for—a daughter of one of the landed gentry (class envy, I do believe) with whom to mate—was not available. Court was new money, only, tied to a disreputable background. Not one of those gilded high society families would even consider his suit. Poor man; he had to settle for me.”
They’d been successfully (“happily” was not a description that correlated with this arranged match) married for more than twenty years, with Court piling up money hand over fist, when he decided to strike out on a new undertaking.
“For some reason, he got it into his head to come to Texas,” Abigail related, with a faraway look in her eyes. “He’d always been an adventurous sort; he felt he’d already conquered the business world, and he was looking for new experiences. So he sold all that we had, purchased what we needed, and south we came.”
Abigail having refused to leave her favorite pieces of furniture and personal belongings gathered together over the years, her husband had arranged for a wagon train, with as many comforts as possible, in which to travel. It was a slow, leisurely journey, taking in the sights along the way. Until Memphis. Near Memphis, tragedy struck.
“The stupid jerk.” Was there no love lost between the couple? “Determined to prove just what a tough man he was, despite his age. While he was cutting firewood one evening, he was bitten by some poisonous snake. A rattler, I believe someone said. It wasn’t pretty. Nor was it quick.”
Hannah paused in her note-taking to execute a little shiver. The death could have happened only recently, but she saw no real bereavement in the pretty face opposite, heard no real grief in the calm voice. Nor was her new friend, dressed as usual with flamboyance, wearing widow’s weeds.
“That’s terrible, Abigail. I’m so sorry.”
“What? Oh. Well, of course you are, my dear. But, you see—” she leaned forward, in more confidential vein, “—our marriage was simply an arrangement. There were things he needed from me, and things I needed from him. And not much feeling in between. Rather like nuptials for the royals, you understand; just to carry on the line. So—” she sighed, “we buried him.”
“You did?” Hannah, startled, gulped. “Where, out there in the wilds?”
> “No, no, of course not. We found a minister, who helped me take care of the appropriate details. Our train kept on, as did I. When we arrived here several weeks later, Hannah, I looked around and liked what I saw. That’s when I decided that—well, here I shall stay.”
A warm, fascinated smile. “And I’m very glad you have, Abigail.”
“Thank you, dear; I appreciate that. Now.” She glanced around the room, to ensure that no one was listening. Or even paying attention. “Just how much of that will you print in this newspaper of yours?”
“Only what you would like printed. Only the—um—less personal particulars, how’s that? And once the article is written, you’ll have final approval before I hand it over to Mr. Crane. Will that serve?”
“Perfectly, Hannah. And, at that time, we’ll discuss a date for my Grand Opening, and the consequent advertising. Now, suppose the two of us go find out where that doctor acquaintance of yours has been hiding out, when nearly the whole town has come to celebrate a holiday. He ought to be accounted for, don’t you think?”
Chapter Three
“I DON’T SEE WHY I HAVE to go along,” grumbled Hannah. “This was all your idea.”
“Because I don’t know where he lives,” patiently explained Abigail for the third time, “and you do. Good Gracious, you enjoy working yourself into a state, don’t you? Are you always this difficult?”
Hannah wasn’t sure he really wanted to see her. After all, he never showed up for that dinner. She didn’t want to make him feel uneasy. Because that was the last thing she wanted to do.
Hannah, looking up from under her hat in the fading light, pulled a reluctant grin. “And you must have been talking to one of my sisters.”
“Not at all. But it’s quite easy to read the expression on your face. Hmmm. Apothecary Lane. Cunning; I can certainly guess who added that name. Now, do we turn left or right at this corner?”
Shivering just a little as they stepped onto Gabriel’s darkened front porch, Hannah dragged the cloak more tightly around her shoulders. By late afternoon, deep into November, with the sun rapidly disappearing toward the horizon, the temperature of the air had gone a number of degrees south from chilly to almost frigid, and both women were feeling the effects. No brightness of illumination shone from inside, and no sounds emanated forth. It mattered not. At this point, they were just anxious to get indoors, where they might warm up.
Hannah raised her gloved hand to knock at the door. Silence. Then another knock, slightly firmer and more emphatic.
“Gabriel Havers,” she called against the glass. “Are you in there?”
A response at last, typically surly. A muffled curse. Then, “Go away.”
“No. I want to enter. Kindly undo this lock immediately.”
Another moment of silence, then a crash of something that sounded like glass breaking, from somewhere a room or two away. “Whoever you are, take off. I ain’t in no mood to see anyone.”
Frustrated and furious, Hannah, who refused to take no for an answer, pounded again on the door. “You know perfectly well who I am, Gabriel. Now open this door and let me in, or, I swear to goodness, I will find myself an axe in your woodshed and chop my way through.”
At this, Abigail, torn between astonishment and admiration, stared at her companion. “My, my. I retract whatever I said earlier, my dear. You make a formidable foe when you’re challenged.”
Hannah paused for only one brief sharp look sideways before returning to the fray. “Gabriel! Do you hear me?”
Heavy footsteps approached, and the door was pulled suddenly open. “I hear you, goldarn it. The whole world hears you. Whatddya want?”
“We are kind-hearted Christian women, doing our duty, here to bring you some of the feast you missed,” said Abigail, peering up against the dim light that cast him as an enormous shadow. “Are you all right, Gabriel?”
“Huh. Even a place locked and bolted can’t keep some people out. All right; you’re here. May’s well come in, then.” Turning abruptly and rudely away, he shambled off like a grizzly retreating into its cave, leaving them no choice but to follow.
Back in the kitchen, to the rear of the house, the sweep of his arm indicated table and chairs where, apparently, they could be seated or not; their choice. While the two women silently put down the heavy basket of covered dishes and removed their outerwear, Gabriel set a match to several lamps conveniently placed and stirred up a slumbering fire in the cook stove. Slowly dawning light and warmth helped ease the air of melancholy, of depression, that seemed to permeate every corner.
“Some hot tea would be nice,” Abigail, still standing, with her gorgeous skirts shifted out of the way, hinted gently.
The jerk of his head, as he sank down heavily onto a bench, indicated the cupboard and available supplies. “Help yourself.”
“I shall, thank you.” Capably, she filled a kettle at the sink to set on a burner.
Meanwhile, Hannah had executed a brief search and managed to find what she needed. Sliding plates, utensils, and some rather wrinkled napkins upon the table, almost under Gabe’s nose, she gave him another keen glance. He looked away. He had green eyes that could mesmerize any woman. He was a well-dressed, handsome man and would make some woman very happy one day. Many women were taken with his good looks, and she always heard him talking about finding a wife. He was lonely and wanted love. Just needed to find the right woman who would steal his heart.
I guess none had yet, so he waited.
“We have fried chicken,” she pointed out, retrieving containers of leftovers brought just for the doctor’s consumption. “Some mashed potatoes, and gravy. Your choice of several breads, and some ham. Even lemon cake and peach pie. We missed you at the dinner.”
“Huh.”
“Gabriel, dear.”
At the word, and the tone, of her co-conspirator, who had turned from the stove with kettle in hand, ready to pour hot water into a waiting teapot, Hannah raised both brows in surprise. What was this? Had she just detected something unusual in Abigail’s attitude?
“You look terrible. What has happened?”
Drawing in a great sigh that expanded his chest, only to collapse it again upon exhalation, Gabriel scrubbed at his bewhiskered cheeks. “Too late,” he said bleakly, as if to himself. “They sent for me too late.”
“Too late? For what?” With a swoop of her elegant skirts, Abigail brought tea and cups to the table. “Here, drink some of this. Yes, drink it. Have you eaten anything today?”
He paused. As if parts of him had been inexplicably scattered far and wide to the four winds, he now made a visible effort to gather forces together and concentrate on the task before him. Mainly
that of conversing with two unwelcome visitors. “Uh. Food. Dunno. Don’t think so.”
Hannah might have served as an invisible presence in the room; Abigail was presiding over the table with a warm, maternal demeanor that surely must be soothing for a man clearly kerflummoxed by some traumatic event. She poured the tea, added a generous spoonful of sugar, dipped up portions of the Thanksgiving meal onto a plate, spread one of the folded cloths across his lap in quite a chummy manner, even pushed a knife and fork into his hands.
Had she been so concerned, so doting, so watchful when her own husband lay dying of snakebite in a forgotten forest such a short time ago?
“Food first,” the older woman quietly advised. “Then talk.”
With a reassuring calmness, Abigail finished the pouring, with cups for herself and Hannah, and a slight nod that directed Hannah to partake. Apparently quite comfortable in her assumed role as hostess.
“Many of your friends were at the church hall today,” she said into the sweet silence, after a few sips. Light, easy conversation, to bridge the chasm between wherever the man had taken his inner self to, and the here and now. “They’re a nice bunch of people, Gabriel. You have many who love you and care about you.”
Her only answer was a grunt. He stared at the utensils, then
shrugged and began to work his way through a slice of spiced ham.
After a bit, when some hint of color began to return to a complexion that had appeared like bleached bone, Hannah ventured, “Have you been here alone all day, Gabe?”
“Alone. Yeah, guess so. Most of it. After I got back.”
“Got back from where?” Just gentle, idle talk, bringing him back into the normal routine of life.
Gabriel had had enough, for the time being; with his plate only partially emptied, he put things aside to stare off into space. Such a rare occasion, reflected Hannah irrelevantly, for this man of such prodigious appetite, to show so little hunger now.
“A little farm about ten miles outa town—the Popes...Lawrence and Marcella Pope. Expectin’ their first child in another month or so.”
“And what happened, Gabe?” This was Abigail again, with her hand laid lightly over his, in support and friendship. An overreach?
“What happened? Why, I lost ’em, Abby.” His head turned so slowly, to stare at her, that the women would not have been surprised to hear an audible creaking, like the movement of some ancient and rusty machinery. “I lost ’em both, mother and baby.”
The sound of a ragged gasp—from either, or both. Flame from the lanterns flickered; one extinguished itself entirely, Hannah's unsteady hand snaked out to turn up the wick of the lamp on their table. Branches rattled suddenly with a rise of wind, to scratch against a window pane as if seeking entrance. From somewhere, far distant, came the sound of a wolf baying at some nonexistent moon.
Chill. And stark. But an atmosphere no more so than inside this kitchen.
“Gabe.” Abigail’s voice was barely a whisper, as her grasp tightened slightly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry. Oh, yeah. Me, too. Lotta that goin’ around.”
