Weeping Angel (32 page)

Frank turned to Amelia and whispered, “What's your box number?”

“I'm not supposed to tell.”

“But you will.”

“Five,” she replied in a tone full of breathless anticipation.

The first several baskets garnered a nice amount. It had been decided beforehand, the proceeds would go toward a single-rail roundhouse so Lew Furlong wouldn't have to drive the Short Line backward all the way to Boise. Some had objected to this cause, saying a telegraph would be more useful to the town. But the majority had won, although the cost of such a renovation was more than the citizens could ever hope to furnish on their own. It would take a donation from a healthy bank account to see such an endeavor to fruition. And seeing as Cincinatus Dodge was in favor of the roundhouse, the popularity of it had gone in his direction.

When Mayor Dodge came to Amelia's basket, he held it up by the handle and lifted the cloth to peek at the contents. “Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen!” He wet his lips and made a big to-do over the offerings. “Box number five is a feast to fill a stomach starved for perfection. I won't hear of a bid less than seventy-five cents.”

“Seventy-five,” someone called.

Frank sought out the man through the crowd and recognized him as a cow runner from the Tumbling T.

“Seventy-five,” Cincinatus said with a frown. “I couldn't on good conscience let this mouth-watering meal go for seventy-five. Do I hear one dollar?”

“One dollar,” Frank bid.

Amelia gazed at him, a blush stealing into her cheeks.

“One dollar.” The mayor looked over the men. “Gentlemen, are you going to let Mr. Brody walk away with this supper for a mere dollar? I can smell fried chicken and biscuits. And is this . . . ?” He poked inside with great melodramatics. “My word, it is. Cherry pie.”

“One twenty-five,” came another offer.

Amelia glanced nervously at Frank.

“One twenty-five,” Cincinatus recorded. “At one twenty-five I would have to say this basket is being pilfered.”

Frank cut to the chase. “Three dollars.”

Amelia glanced at him, her expression bright. All around, women were awed by the charitable gesture.

Frank figured he'd aced the competition. It was only after Cincinatus was repeating “Three dollars going tiwce” that out of the blue a voice offered five.

All heads turned toward the new bidder.

Cobb Weatherwax stood off to the side holding up five dollar bills. Frank wondered where in the hell Cobb had found five green frogskins.

“Five dollars!” Cincinatus boomed, a shock of oiled hair spilling over his brow. “Five dollars for box number five seems like fate!”

“Don't go closing out anything yet, Dodge,” Frank remarked, then proposed, “Eight dollars.”

“Eight dollars!”

A gasp resounded.

“Eight-fifty,” Cobb bid without hesitation, and Frank grew annoyed. Damn, maybe Pap was right. Cobb did have an infatuation for Amelia.

Frank clenched his mouth tight. “Nine,” he counterbid before the mayor could firm up the prior offer.

“Ten dollars.”

Frank gave Cobb a hostile glare that went unnoticed. Just what the hell did Cobb think he was doing? Cobb never had any spare money—much less ten dollars. That was why Pap spotted him drinks so often. Something wasn't right.

It was then, Frank spied Emmaline not far behind Cobb, an expression of forced innocence on her face.

“Ah, hold on there, Dodge,” Frank called. “Don't pronounce anything final until I can count my money. I don't know how much I have on me.” Then to Amelia. “Excuse me, sweetheart.”

Amelia looked at him puzzled just before he cut through the throng to have a word with Emmaline, who'd stepped back from the proceedings and stood behind a tree.

He would have been inclined to apologize about not taking her to the picnic, but she'd resorted to using Cobb to play a dirty trick. That didn't earn her his respect, and any empathy he was feeling vanished.

She greeted him sweetly, and he bent his head to whisper in her ear, “Em, sugar, you got me.”

“I don't know what you mean,” she breathed in a light, airy tone.

“I think you do. Cobb can have Amelia's supper. Now you just tell me the number of yours, honey, so I can buy it for myself.” He pulled back and gave her a lazy grin full of promise. “And we can go off somewhere and enjoy it.”

Her lashes fluttered, and if he knew better, he would have pegged her for being coy. “Thirteen.”

“Well, damn, who said thirteen was an unlucky number? I'll make sure no one else gets a chance with it.” Frank winked at her and walked away to her sigh. As he did so, he motioned for Cobb to follow him.

“Mr. Brody,” Cincinatus shouted. “Where are you? Have you come to any conclusions? I've got other suppers to sell.”

Frank pushed through the crowd and yelled, “In a minute, Dodge. This is taking some thought.” To Cobb, he frowned and nudged him behind the treasure-fishing booth. “What the hell's going on, Cobb?”

He gave Frank a blank stare. “I don't know what you mean, Frank.”

“How much did she give you to buy Amelia's supper?”

Cobb looked as guilty as a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

“I'm not stupid, Cobb. How much did she give you?”

He took off his beaver top hat and crushed the brim in his hand. “Ten dollars.” He gazed down, then up. “You aren't mad at me, are you, Frank?”

“No.” Frank dug into his trouser pocket and pulled out ten dollars more. “Here. Now you have twenty. When number thirteen comes up, go straight for the kill and offer twenty frogskins up front.”

“I don't know . . .” Cobb glanced over his shoulder, but couldn't see Emmaline through the degree of hats. “That Miz Shelby said to buy number five.”

“And I'm telling you to forget number five. Buy number thirteen.”

Cobb's face grew indecisive, his simple mind working to comprehend it all. “I think I'll keep the twenty dollars.”

Frank felt a tic twitch at his jaw. “Hell, no, Cobb. You bid the twenty on number thirteen.”

Cobb didn't look convinced.

“Christ,” Frank swore. “You bid the twenty dollars on number thirteen, and I'll give you free drinks every Friday night.”

“Saturdays, too.”

“Dammit, Cobb, but you're making me mad.”

Cobb began to walk away.

“All right!” Frank hissed. “Saturdays, too.”

Cobb grinned through his beard—a flash of white. “Thanks, Frank.”

“Mr. Brody!” Cincinatus hollered. “I'm closing the bid right now at ten dollars.”

Frank pushed through the throng and returned to Amelia's side. “Hold on, hold on. Since it's going toward a good cause, Dodge . . . fifteen dollars.”

“Fifteen!” Cincinatus's silk hat practically fell when he tipped his head. “That's the most any basket has ever been bid for.” He took up his gavel and slammed it on the table. “Going once, twice, number five, sold, for fifteen dollars!” He gazed at his wife. “And who is the maker of number five, my dear?”

“Amelia Marshall,” Narcissa announced with a knowing smile.

Suddenly, the ladies in the Thursday Afternoon Fine Ladies Society had the need to flock together. It was as if a mound of birdseed had been dropped on a particular patch of grass, and thereupon a frenzy of chirping and picking began. And it was almost as certain, when they were through, there wouldn't be even a hull for Amelia to hang on to. She'd been plucked right in front of them by the enemy, that evil tipper of strong waters, and hadn't done a thing to stop him.

*  *  *

“Are you sure we should go this far?” Amelia asked while awkwardly traipsing after Frank. Laden with the supper basket and her open parasol while trying to manage her petticoats and skirt in the brush, she wasn't sure how much farther she could walk through the wooded terrain.

“We're within earshot of Reverend's Meadow.”

Amelia doubted that. The sounds of the picnic had ebbed, and only the slow trickle of water over river rocks and the songs of sparrows were their company. She might have complained about the jaunt, but she
wouldn't admit a physical weakness of any kind to Frank.

Besides, he was hauling more than her.

He'd returned to the saloon to drop off his baseball gear, leaving behind his White Stocking cap in favor of his straw panama. When he'd come out of his room, all she'd been expecting was a lovely picnic. She hadn't expected him to reappear with his tackle box, fishing pole, net, and a blue-and-white gingham spread. When she'd asked him about it, he'd said he didn't think she'd want to sit on any insects. She'd assumed they'd be dining with the others on the grass, but he had other plans.

And he hadn't been secretive about them either.

They'd walked right through the other picnickers and headed up a narrow trail until it thinned to nothing. Amelia had felt so self-conscious, she almost pleaded for him not to take her out of eyesight; but when she thought of all the stares she would attract, she conceded privacy might just be the best answer.

“Come on, sweetheart. We're almost there.”

She had to plow between the heavy leafage, and once on the other side, sunlight dappled through the trees and made a bright circle in a scattered patch of yellow-centered, white daisies. The air smelled like mint when the wind blew ever so slightly. There was a peaceful spot next to the water where Frank spread out his blanket and deposited all his fishing paraphernalia.

He walked toward her and took the basket from her grasp; his warm fingers brushed hers. She felt his deep voice melting into her as he said in a resonant tone, “You look like you need to sit down, Amelia. I don't think you get out in nature too much.”

“I go outside,” she protested as she walked toward their picnic setup. “Last I checked, both my front and rear yards were outside.”

“I'm talking about the wilderness.” He set the
basket next to his fishing pole and gazed at her seriously. “Have you ever gone camping?”

“You mean with a bedroll?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“You ever want to?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

Amelia grew somewhat flustered. What was he implying? That they go camping and share a bedroll? Inasmuch as she wanted to share his likes and spark his interest in her, she couldn't pretend to be enthusiastic about sleeping in the wide open. Bears were known to haunt the area, as well as huge black ants and big flying bugs with antennae that were as long as her fingers. She shivered from the thought of a winged insect getting caught in her hair.

She watched Frank as he sat on the spread, then patted the space next to him. “Sit down, Amelia, and take a load off.”

It suddenly hit her, they were truly alone. This was their first outing together as a couple, and her inexperience blew up in her face. She'd wanted him to be attracted to her, but what was she supposed to do when he was? The tiny plot he wanted her to sit on was no wider than her broom and, not to mention, directly in the sun. The blue-and-white checked cloth was not overly large, and Frank was a tall man. He took up half of the coverlet with his long legs.

Drawing in a soft breath, she wouldn't show him her anxiousness. She was a modern woman; she played gay tunes on the piano. Still holding her parasol, she gathered the fabric of her skirt and sat beside Frank. The fullness of her petticoats puffed around her, billowing against Frank's knee in a sensual touch of sheer fabric against the coarse composition of his trousers. She grabbed a handful and tucked the salmon-colored silk toward her.

“Get rid of the umbrella. Take your hat and gloves off,” Frank suggested, “and feel the sun on your skin. It's nice.”

The propriety in Amelia fought against the idea for a moment, then she decided there was no harm. No one was in the vicinity to reproach her. She slid the long pin from her hat, removed her gloves, and put both next to her purse. Folding her parasol, she kept it by her side in case she got too hot.

Sitting with her knees bent and locked together was uncomfortable, and her corset stays were all but ready to snap in this position. It was her own fault for adjusting the laces on her corset this morning. But she'd wanted her waist nipped in just one more inch. As she'd made the necessary alterations, she'd noticed a fragile spot in the cording where it had rubbed in the eye, but she hadn't had the opportunity to replace it.

“What do you say we see what you have underneath all this?”

“W-What?” she stammered, having just been thinking about her clothing.

Frank gave her a curious smile as he extracted her hat and cloth from the basket. “The supper I paid fifteen dollars for. What do you think I was talking about?”

“N-Nothing.”

He brought out all the items, lining them up in a neat row. If she'd been thinking properly, she would have gotten the plates right away; instead, she got them now and began serving him.

“I hope you like it.” She handed him his plate.

Taking up a fork and knife, he crossed his legs and said, “I know I will. You told me you could cook fried chicken.”

“Being able to cook it and make it edible are two different things.”

She gave herself much smaller portions, the heat, her corset, and the company, factors for such meager
amounts. She'd never eaten a meal with a suitor before, which was more than she could say for Jonas Pray. Oddly, in the short time she'd known him, he'd never taken her to the Chuckwagon for dinner. Nor had she cooked him a meal.

Frank had no problem consuming the large amount she'd given him. He devoured a drumstick in no time, and was working through his cole slaw and biscuit while she nibbled on a pickle. She was dying to ask him what he thought, but wouldn't press the subject. She knew she could cook a passable supper, in fact, a very satisfying one. Still . . . having Frank's stamp of approval . . . After all, he'd paid top cash for the dinner.