Authors: Jill Gregory
When Saturday night arrived, the gown was ready. From the moment Emily slipped it on and began to fasten up each of the tiny jet buttons, her pulse began to race.
She hadn’t been to a dance since she was fifteen. At that time, she and Aunt Ida had still been struggling to keep the farm, and everyone for miles around knew that Uncle Jake was in prison, that Pete and Lester were on the run. It wasn’t a pleasant memory.
Emily had been a late bloomer, thin and awkward, and when she’d finally found the courage to step inside the little Missouri schoolhouse festooned by colored lanterns and bursting with fiddle music, no one had said a word to welcome her.
And not a single young man had asked her to dance.
She’d left the festivities early, ridden home all alone, and returned her mare to her stall in the barn. Then she’d climbed up into her favorite place, the hayloft, huddling in the sweet, hay-scented darkness and thinking about all the young people laughing and spinning across the school-house floor. Later, when she’d returned to the farmhouse, she’d told Aunt Ida that the fiddle players hadn’t been able to keep a tune, that the refreshments were sparse, and that the company was boring.
She’d been grateful when Aunt Ida didn’t ask her many questions.
Shortly after that night, they’d lost the farm, and moved to the boardinghouse in Jefferson City. She’d gone to work for Mrs. Wainscott—and her days of attending dances had ended.
But tonight she was going to a dance in a new town, where she’d already made one friend. And she was no longer young and thin and awkward. And in this dress …
She peered at herself in Aunt Ida’s old bronze-framed mirror, which Pete had hung over the pine bureau in her room—and felt a sense of wonder at her own transformed image. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she could pass herself off as a young woman of means and education and privilege—not as plain old Emily Spoon.
Her hair had been tamed for once—it was tightly coiled atop her head, held in place with a dozen pearl hairpins that her mother, according to Aunt Ida, had worn
on her wedding day. Only a few delicate curls had been permitted to dangle, softly framing her face.
The low-necked dress hugged her body enticingly, but decorously, she felt. The rose silk fell in graceful folds, its rich color accenting the creaminess of her skin and the natural rosy hue of her lips.
The lace sash made her waist look tiny, and it didn’t seem to matter that she didn’t have matching rose kid slippers but merely plain black ones. The dress was enough.
“Whoa, Emily—don’t you look like something the angels dropped down from heaven.” Uncle Jake’s deep-set eyes shone as she stepped out of her room, feeling absurdly shy. Her uncle set down his playing cards and snatched his cigar out of his mouth—then gave a long appreciative whistle. Joey, in exact imitation, did the same, though only a slight wheeze came from his lips.
“You sure do look pretty, Em-ly!” he added, as if to make up for the whistle.
“It’s the dress. It did turn out well, didn’t it?” Emily twirled around for them to see, absurdly proud of her accomplishment. Lester came forward, his face scrubbed, his hair plastered with pomade, his good blue-and-yellow plaid shirt buttoned up to his neck.
“I’m going to have to stick by your side and fight off every man in the room wanting to dance with you all night!” he declared, looking worried.
“Don’t be silly.” Emily tucked her arm through his. “You don’t have to stay by me—or dance with me. You go find yourself some pretty girl to flirt with—I’ll have Nettie Phillips to talk to, and maybe she’ll introduce me to some other ladies in town—ladies who will want me to make dresses for them.”
“I promise you, Em.” Lester steered her toward the door. “You’re going to be doing a lot more dancing tonight than talking. I just hope Pete finishes up at that tournament and gets over to the dance in time to help me.”
Pete had made it into the final rounds of the poker tournament, and the winner would be determined tonight in a private upstairs parlor of the Gold Gulch Hotel.
If he won, Emily knew, he’d be raring to celebrate. And if he lost…
Well, she’d just have to see that her hot-headed brother didn’t get into any kind of a fight with the winner.
By the time she entered the Gold Gulch Hotel, Emily’s heart was pounding. She didn’t know why. It was only a dance. Just because it was the first dance she’d attended since she’d blossomed into a woman, and because she was wearing a gown every bit as spectacular as one Augusta Wainscott had worn to a ball in honor of Missouri’s governor, was no reason to feel so nervous—or so excited.
As if something wonderful were going to happen …
Most likely
, she told herself,
people will know who you are and stay as far away as they can
.
At first the lobby and dining room of the hotel looked to be a blur of people, lanterns, swirling gowns, loud music, laughter, and stamping feet.
Then the blur dissolved into a throng of people—ranchers and townspeople, miners, gamblers, and merchants. Women in a rainbow of gowns, their faces flushed and bright, men in expensively cut black suits or denim and buckskin. There were three fiddlers and a harmonica player on a raised platform at one end of the hotel dining room, where all the tables and chairs had been cleared to make way for the dancing. Colored lanterns added a festive
glow, and against the walls of the dining room and the lobby were refreshment tables draped with white linen cloths, sagging with pies and cakes and cookies, pitchers of lemonade, decanters of whiskey and bourbon and elderberry wine.
“Well, now, Emily Spoon, there you are. My, my, just look at you.” It was Nettie Phillips. She had tapped Emily on the shoulder and grinned at her—and Emily drew a breath of relief to find a friendly face.
“And who is this handsome gentleman?” Nettie turned toward Lester.
“May I introduce my cousin, Lester Spoon.” Emily kept a firm grip on Lester’s arm as she felt him trying to slip away. Always as shy around women as Pete was cocky, Lester mumbled something unintelligible, but resigned himself to waiting as Nettie Phillips took charge of more introductions.
“You’ve met Margaret Smith, of course.” She waved a hand toward the young matron whom Emily had encountered in the mercantile. “But Lester hasn’t—and you may as well both meet the rest of the Smith clan,” she said briskly as the four people she’d been chatting with all visibly stiffened. “Here’s Margaret’s husband, Parnell,” she indicated a tall, reedy man with a high forehead and spectacles, who made no effort to shake Lester’s hand. “And his parents, my good friends, Bessie and Hamilton Smith.”
Emily thought poor Margaret looked as if she didn’t know whether to greet the Spoons or pretend they didn’t exist. Her mother-in-law, Bessie, looked equally nonplussed. Emily took swift stock of the tall, stalk-thin woman in plum sateen. Bessie’s white hair was piled atop her head in plump sausage ringlets. Her very pale blue eyes blinked rapidly in her long face as Nettie completed
the introductions. Beside her, her short and plump husband frowned, twisting the end of his mustache between two thick fingers.
With a sinking heart, Emily remembered—Hamilton Smith was a
banker
.
“Miss Spoon.” The banker sounded grim. “Mr. Spoon.” As he looked at Lester, he sounded even grimmer.
Dismayed, Emily wondered why she’d ever thought coming to this dance was a good idea. If Nettie’s dearest friends couldn’t summon up even a morsel of friendliness upon Nettie’s own recommendation, what would the rest of the town do?
Parnell Smith, who had his mother’s height and pale coloring, was studying her and Lester as if expecting them both to pull out guns and try to steal his pocket-watch, fob, and Margaret’s thin gold wedding ring.
And Margaret—
Emily paused, suddenly noting that Margaret Smith was no longer regarding her with reluctance or wariness, but with interest. Very definite interest. The young matron had begun eyeing Emily’s dress.
Her own gown was pretty, a white-sprigged muslin with pouffed sleeves and a square neckline.
But sapphire blue would have suited her better
, Emily thought.
Margaret’s eyes had grown round. “My … my goodness, what a lovely gown,” she burst out. “I haven’t seen anything quite so smart since our last trip to New York!”
“Emily made this gown herself,” Nettie put in. “It’s the latest style back east. She knows all about the latest fashions, yes, indeedy.”
Bessie Smith was examining the fragile lace of the décolletage and the tight-fitting sleeves. “Well! I must say,
it’s quite breathtaking, Miss … er, Spoon. You’re obviously an accomplished seamstress.”
“Bet she could make you a gown just as nice for that bankers’ convention you’re going to in Denver next month,” Nettie remarked.
“I doubt that Miss Spoon would be interested in—”
“Oh, I’d be glad to make you a dress,” Emily interrupted swiftly. She added a smile, and was amazed to see Bessie’s taut face relax. “I’m thinking of setting up a shop—one day. And do you know what, Mrs. Smith? Black chiffon and sea-foam green would be splendid on you. I see something with a ribboned overskirt, a bodice adorned with seed pearls, and—”
“Really!” The woman stepped closer, her pale blue eyes taking on a fascinated sparkle. “I saw a picture in a mail-order catalogue of a ball gown adorned with seed pearls and gold spangles…”
“Oh, yes—that’s all the rage in the East,” Emily assured her, thinking of the gown Mrs. Wainscott had worn to the theater the night before Emily had left her household forever. “If you’d like to come by our ranch tomorrow, I’d be happy to draw a sketch for you—you could make suggestions, of course.”
To her astonishment, Bessie Smith accepted readily, and her daughter-in-law began inquiring about hats and slippers and shawls.
“Well, Mr. Spoon.” Deserted by his wife and mother, who both suddenly bunched around Emily Spoon and Nettie, gabbing a mile a minute, Parnell Smith suddenly found himself forced to make conversation with the huge, red-haired outlaw who was shifting uneasily from one booted foot to the other. “We heard you and your family have set up ranching at the Sutter place.”
“It’s the Spoon place now. And Emily wants to call it the Teacup Ranch—since she’s hankering to get herself a full matching set of teacups soon as can be.” Lester might have been shy around women, but he’d never been the least intimidated by any man. He glowered at the Smiths, as if daring them to sneer at the name.
“Indeed.” Hamilton Smith raised his goblet of brandy to his lips. “To the Teacup Ranch.”
There was an awkward pause.
“I trust things are going along well at the … er, Teacup Ranch?” Parnell asked stiffly.
“Things are going along right fine.”
“Glad to hear it. So long as you stick to ranching, there won’t be any problem then.” Hamilton Smith fixed him with a hard stare.
“What else
besides
ranching do you think we’d be doing? Care to be more specific?” Lester challenged, his face hot. “Say what you mean, Mr. Fancy Banker! If you have the guts to do it!”
“Now see here,” Hamilton exclaimed, his face flushing with anger, but Parnell quickly stepped forward.
“This is a town dance. Not a saloon. If you want to start a fight, Spoon, I’ll oblige you, but step outside—”
“Fine with me,” Lester began, but suddenly his gaze fell once more on Emily, now surrounded by a whole herd of chattering women. She looked so vibrant, so
happy
. The women of Lonesome were admiring her gown, asking her questions, seeking her advice, and she looked more pleased than he’d seen her in a long time.
If he got into a fight with that Margaret Smith’s menfolk, it would ruin everything.
“You want to fight or not, Spoon?” the banker’s string-bean son asked with determination, though Lester saw him swallow past his Adam’s apple.
“Nope.” Lester sighed with resignation. “I don’t. Think whatever you want. I don’t give a damn.” Turning on his heel, he sloped away.
It was the first time he—or Pete, as far as he knew—had ever turned away from a fight. It felt terrible, he thought.
I need a drink
, he decided, heading toward one of the refreshment tables set up along the wall. Whiskey was called for. Good strong red-eye. This going straight business was turning out to be a lot harder than it sounded.
Emily didn’t even have a chance to notice that he’d gone. The little crowd of women surrounding her kept growing. She caught Nettie’s eye and saw satisfaction there, and felt a rush of gratitude toward this feisty old woman who was trying to smooth her way.
And then she spotted Clint Barclay and her breath got stuck in her throat.
He was standing before the blue-draperied window of the hotel’s dining room, looking more dangerously handsome than ever, his tall, broad frame encased in dark pants and a white lawn shirt and black string tie. His dark mahogany hair was neatly combed, his lean jaw clean-shaven.
He was deep in conversation with a beautiful little redhead. An unpleasant sensation jolted through Emily as she saw the intent way he was listening to the girl. The redhead’s charms were well displayed in a low-cut green gown that hugged her tiny but perfectly shaped figure the way a grape’s skin hugs a grape. The girl was laughing, her head tilted provocatively up at the tall sheriff, and he had leaned down toward her as if to catch every word she spoke—or as if to see every charm she flaunted.
And Emily, who’d been speaking to Carla Mangley, the blonde girl she’d seen with Clint Barclay after her
run-in with Jenks, faltered in midsentence, forgetting what she was about to say.
“Um … I… uh …”
“Yes, Miss Spoon? Can you or can you not make my daughter a dress and matching bonnet in time for the box lunch social?” Carla’s overbearing mother, Agnes, repeated her daughter’s inquiry, a hint of impatience in her voice.
Then she too followed Emily’s glance and caught sight of the sheriff’s dark head bent toward the redhead.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Just what does that Berty Miller think she’s doing?” Her rounded and delicately powdered cheeks turned a bright red. “Excuse us a moment,” she muttered, and seizing her daughter’s arm, ducked away from the little throng with Carla in tow, exhibiting all the determination of a cavalry officer leading a charge.