Whispers on the Wind (A Prairie Hearts Novel Book 5) (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I
n a mood just about as foul as they came, Hunter dipped the mop back in the bucket of water and swished it around. Seemed any chore that took more energy than lifting a rag, Kendall gave to him. He was only going along with him now to build a little goodwill. Eventually, he’d insist they split everything, chores and money. Since he’d arrived, every cent had gone into the bank, and he’d worked harder than he had in years.

Actually, this was a good way to work out his frustrations after the way he’d gone and muddled things with Tabitha. He flopped the mop’s wet cotton tendrils into the wringer, then leaned forcefully forward, pushing his muscles to the limit.

“You’re gonna bust that thing,” Kendall said from behind the bar. “Then we’ll need ta buy a new one.”

He shot Kendall a look of warning, and went back to his mopping. His plan to banish Miss Hoity-Toity from his mind once and for all had done the opposite. Since the moment he’d walked out her door and back into the saloon, she was the only thing he could think about. Her downy-soft lips, the way her womanly curves fit perfectly in his arms, the passion with which she’d kissed him back.

Damnation! He’d let her under his skin.
I’m forty years old. I know better!

“Be careful. You’re sloshing dirty water everywhere. Making the floor worse.”

“I don’t know why we stripped out the shavings just to mop the floor. They cover the mess.”

“We gotta change ’em out from time to time, and mop the floor. If we don’t, this place would stink to high heaven.”

“It already stinks to high heaven. This isn’t making anything better.”

Hunter looked around in time to see Kendall make a face. The original owner was getting angry.

“I’ll say it again. It’s strong in here,” Hunter said. “I’m not lying.” The wide-open prairie, with its sweet-smelling air, came to mind.

“And
that’s
why we swept the old shavings into the alley and we’re mopping the floor. After which, the new shavings from the mill will be good for another six months. The sweet scent of woodchips covers up the sweat, muck, and spit. Understand?”

“You make it sound so enticing.”

“Don’t get smart. You can leave anytime you want.”

“Yoooo hoooo?” a scratchy old voice called from the front door. “Mind iffin I come in?”

Hunter turned to see Mrs. Hollyhock in a blue calico dress. Seemed she was waiting on an invitation to enter. He sloshed the mop back into the bucket and wiped his hands on the towel he had tucked in the waistband of his trousers. “You sure you don’t mind coming into the saloon, Mrs. Hollyhock? We can talk out front, if you’d like.”

“I’m too old to bother about things like that, Hunter boy. There’re things in life worse than saloons, ya know.”

Yes. He knew about that. Things like desire, confusion, and the dull ache in his heart.

“If I mean ta visit you any time I please, I’ll need ta do it in your place of business.”

“Fine then. We don’t mind, if you don’t.” He put out his elbow, and escorted her inside.

She looked around wide-eyed, and then smiled at Philomena, coming down the stairs in her low-cut, pink dress. Violet wrinkled her nose at the murky water sloshed around by his bucket.

“Don’t mind the mess, we’re doing a bit of spring-cleaning.”

“In October?”

“Late spring-cleaning.”

“Hello, Violet,” Kendall said. “Never thought I’d see you in here. Can I get you something? On the house, of course.”

She rolled her eyes. “What would I want from the bar, Kendall?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked.”

“I’ve come ta see my
grandson
.”

“Grandson?” Kendall hurried around the bar just as Hunter pulled out a chair at the table closest to the door. “I think that fall in the street knocked some of your brains loose. You’re not making sense.”

Hunter felt a smile coming on. “I’m her adopted grandson, Kendall. And she’s come for a visit. I think that’s mighty nice.”

Kendall slapped a large palm to his tall, shiny forehead. “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner. You scared me there for a moment.”

She took the chair he offered. “Thankee kindly.” She looked around. “On second thought, would ya happen ta have any tea behind that long counter? I see a woodstove in the back of the room—feel its warmth. Wouldn’t take but a few minutes to brew up a few cups.”

Hunter cut a questioning gaze to Kendall, who shook his head.

“We don’t,” Hunter replied. “But Kendall can run down to the mercantile and get some. I don’t know why we didn’t think of that sooner. Kendall!” he barked when the bartender just stood there.

“Oh, right. I’ll be right back.”

Kendall banged out the door with all the grace of a bull in a ballet.

Philomena hung around the far end of the bar. Hunter caught her curious look every now and then. A pang of something stirred in his chest as he remembered what Miss Hoity-Toity had said about women being bought and sold. Them not wanting to do what they did. He’d never really given the quandary much thought, being the women he’d run across seemed to have enthusiasm for their profession. Was that all an act?

Violet cleared her throat.

He pulled out the chair beside her and sat, wondering what they should talk about. It wasn’t like when he’d rescued her from the buffalo. That day was filled with excitement. It was hard to get a word in edgewise. There was plenty of inspiration, as well as egg to rub off. And Tabitha had been there to help the conversation along whenever it petered out.

“Philomena, have you met Mrs. Hollyhock?” he called. “Come on over and say hello.”

The saloon girl’s head jerked up. She moved it back and forth.

“We’d like you to. Mrs. Hollyhock won’t bite.”

Mrs. Hollyhock waved her hand. “Come on down and say hello, sweetie. I’ve met ya before. Don’t ya remember? Several times on the street, and once when ya was takin’ a walk out behind my inn. I asked ya if you’d like some lemonade, and you told me no, but thanked me all the same.”

Philomena came forward, doing her best not to sashay in front of their guest. She suddenly looked shy and young. He wondered how long she’d been working here, and felt a prick of shame that he’d never taken the time to find out. Her perfume wafted around.

Mrs. Hollyhock patted the chair beside her. “Have a seat right next ta me. I always thought you had a pretty smile.”

As Philomena did Violet’s bidding, Farley came through the doors and stopped dead in his tracks.

Mrs. Hollyhock waved the piano player over. “Don’t be shy, Farley, come have a seat, too. We’re just getting ready to have some tea.”

Farley stood in stunned silence, his gaze tracking between Hunter, Philomena, and old Mrs. Hollyhock.

Kendall came through the door, a bag in his hand. “Maude said to boil some water, stir in the tea, then let the brew sit for a few minutes. I’ll have to wash some cups if everyone is going to partake.”

Hunter nodded to Kendall. “You best get busy.”

Farley spun on his heel. “I came to collect my earnin’s, but I can come back.”

“You’re feeling better, I see, Farley,” Hunter said. “Will you be able to play this weekend? I don’t think I can stand another day with Buckskin Jack at the keys.”

“I’ll be here.” Farley darted out the door.

“I wonder where he’s off to like a bat outta hell,” Mrs. Hollyhock muttered. She looked at Philomena. “Aren’t ya cold, honey? I’m sure my grandson won’t mind iffin you cover up some when there ain’t no men to impress.” She looked around at the empty bar. “Isn’t that right, Hunter? No one in here now for the little missy to entertain. The fall air is gettin’ chilly. We wouldn’t want her comin’ down with nothin’.”

Hunter sat straighter.
My adopted grandmother might present a problem.

Kendall showed up with a tray of rattling coffee cups filled with hot water barely colored at all, drawing Violet’s attention away from the question she’d just asked. He’d really rather not address the Philomena situation at the moment, or where it might lead.

“Here we are,” Kendall said. He set the tray on the tabletop, and passed out the cups.

Violet jerked her head up and narrowed her eyes. “Ain’t ya havin’ any?” Jittery hands reached out to touch the cup in front of her.

“No, ma’am. Tea makes me sick. Never could abide the stuff.”

Her face softened. “Well, thankee then, for makin’ this. It’ll strengthen my soul.” She blew on the hot liquid, and Hunter found Kendall’s gaze over her gray head.
Thanks
, he mouthed, reaching for his own cup. Kendall nodded and started for the bar.

Philomena was no help at all. The tea party progressed in starts and stops and the saloon girl never said a word. Just smiled at anything anyone said, happy to drink her tea and listen.

“Yer probably wonderin’ why I came ta see ya, Hunter,” Violet said after drinking her last sip and setting the cup down with a clunk. “I’d like ya to come out to my place for supper. Tomorrow evening. Just like I mentioned.”

Thursday night? He didn’t have any plans, but after struggling for conversation today, another evening with Violet felt a little daunting.

Her hopeful gaze caught his.

“Sure. Kendall’s been running the bar without me for years. You make up a list of things that need fixing or doing while I’m there. I’m happy to help any way I can.”

“Now, I’ll let ya all get back to your saloonin’.” She stood, and Hunter followed suit. She pulled him down and kissed his cheek. “Four o’clock. Don’t be late.”

Hunter escorted Violet out, the action raising a few eyebrows from townsfolk on the street. “Do you need me to walk you home?”

She adjusted the basket once more on her arm. “I walk this all the time. Gives me time ta have a little chat with my creator. I don’t want him not ta recognize me when I show up on his doorstep, iffin you catch my drift.”

Hunter smiled and nodded. She was pretty wise, in this way of thinking. He could use a little walk time himself. He hadn’t given the state of his soul any consideration for a long time. He glanced over to Storybook Lodge, wondering about Tabitha. What was she doing? Her aunt most likely had chastised her up one side and down the other. And with good reason. He didn’t have anything to offer such a woman. Nothing at all.

“Penny for yer thoughts.”

He’d forgotten Violet was there.

“Just thinking how happy your visit made me.”

She winked. “My pleasure, grandson, my pleasure.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

W
ith cumbersome movements, Bao maneuvered around the warm brick workroom as gracefully as the water buffalo she remembered from China. All she lacked were the long, curved horns. She brushed away the sweat from her forehead, remembering the cool forests and rice paddies of her homeland, where she’d played as a little girl, no older than Lan. Thinking of her daughter, pride warmed Bao’s heart. She was so smart. Learning her letters and numbers. She would do fine in this new world. She wouldn’t be a laundress imprisoned by a business or town where she didn’t feel safe venturing out. This was America. The land of opportunity.

Setting a stack of folded linen on the table by the wall, she stopped to stretch her aching side.

“You feeling all right, Mrs. Ling?” the woman who went only by the name Marlene asked. “You’ve put in a long day. Why don’t you quit? Now that I’ve gotten the hang of how all this works, I’m getting faster.”

“Will in moment, thank you.” She returned her smile. “Need to make lye. Almost out.” Marlene didn’t know that in truth, she was trying to keep busy. Tap had gone to the mercantile to get a few eggs and a bottle of milk, and until he was back safely in the four walls that held their world, she was a bundle of nerves.

“Do you need help gathering the ashes from the fire pit? I don’t mind doing that. Gets me outside for a while.”

“No, thank you. I do.” It was more important the woman finish the ironing that Tap had begun. Thursday, several accounts came in to pick up their laundry. Tomorrow would be here soon.

Eager to be finished, Bao went through the back door, over to the fire pit where they warmed large kettles of water. Moving slowly so as not to hurt her baby, she lifted several shovelfuls of wispy ash from the rim of the fire—being careful not to pick up any dirt—into a bucket. Carrying that to the wooden ash hopper, she added her load to the small amount of water left at the bottom of the barrel, leftover from the last batch. When that was done, she added more water. Later, she’d pull the cork, and let the lye drain into the bucket below. Tomorrow, with the new lye, they’d be able to make soap.

That complete, Bao took a moment to enjoy the cool evening air. She gazed across the way and up the hill to the school that sat on the same knoll as the small, white Christian church. Would they accept Lan next year in their school? Some of her friends said yes, but Bao had her doubts. She’d begun to prepare her daughter, who didn’t understand. Bao didn’t want a fight on their hands. Or for anyone to be hurt if things turned violent. When her daughter’s eyes filled with tears, she wished there was something she could do to change people’s hearts.

“Why?” Lan would ask. “Why do they hate us?”

“I do not know.” Although she did, and very well. “Someday when Lan is woman, she change way people think? Yes?”

That would bring a smile back to her daughter’s face.

“Yes, Mama, I will. I will do that for you.”

In her stillness, a rustling sound between her building and the telegraph office caught Bao’s ears. Lan was not permitted outside the shop or the shanty without either of her parents. What was she thinking?

As swiftly as she could, Bao moved that way, expecting to see her child. Instead she pulled up short at the figure of a man trying to peer into the window of the laundry house. She jerked back, turned to run . . .

“Wait!”

The voice was familiar. She was far enough away she’d be able to dart inside if he tried to grab her. She turned. She recalled the face. A cowboy who’d come into the laundry house with Gabe Garrison and Jake. Their friend? Was his name Tyler?

“I’m sorry if I gave ya a fright, Mrs. Ling. I was just passing by on my way to the saloon and, well . . .”

You look in my window?

“Ma’am?”

“That all right,” she forced from her lips. She gave a small bow and hurried away.

Tabitha opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling in her bedroom.

My birthday.

Twenty-nine years old.

Spinster.

The hated word pained her like a prickly pear on baby’s skin
. How had this happened?
My life has whizzed right past, each year faster than the last.

She took a deep breath, and then let the air out slowly. If she were home, her mother would whisk her off to Lady Em’s Tea House where they’d eat miniature cream-cheese sandwiches flavored with dill, and finish with a plate filled with slices of pecan pie, the portions tiny enough for a doll’s hands. A cozy fire would be burning in the corner. Bright fabrics, pictures of queens, and small British flags everywhere. Women would chat the day away in breathless conversations about gowns, handsome men, and good matches. In the evening, when her father returned home from work, he’d reminisce about the huge parties his parents had thrown over the years for his popular sisters, attended by an abundance of friends, male and female, always ending the story asking why Tabitha never wanted a party of her own.

Her heart ached. Every year was the same.

She wasn’t like other girls. She’d rather spend the day in the library, with a favorite book, where she could sail away to distant shores, go into battle, or ride an elephant through a thick jungle laden with dangers around every corner. She wasn’t, and didn’t want to be, that person her mother and father wanted. She marched to a different drum.

Well, at least no one here in Logan Meadows knew that today was her birthday. Aunt Roberta, as mad as she’d been yesterday, hadn’t mentioned it.
Thank God.
Her face heated, recalling the angry exchange. Hunter’s bridled irritation. The slap.

Rolling onto her side, she saw the volume of
Tom Sawyer
on her nightstand. Last night, for some strange reason, she’d brought the book up to her bedroom. She’d read bits and pieces of the story she knew so well. The fact that Hunter had left the book behind when he’d stomped out of her shop was still a prick to her heart. She’d not only slapped him, but stole away his newly awakened desire to read.

She sighed. She couldn’t change the past. She reached for her watch.

Six o’clock. Several hours before time to open.

Slipping out of bed, she threaded her arms into her wrapper against the early morning chill, and pulled tight the sash. Before anything else, she’d build a fire downstairs. Feeling melancholy, she pushed aside the curtain and looked down at the cheerful creek below.

A buckboard driven by Win rattled across the bridge. Sheriff Preston and Nate were approaching from the other direction on their way to the office. Tabitha could imagine Susanna, cozy and warm in her little yellow home, kissing her new husband and stepson goodbye before sending them off for the day.

Life. And love. She felt left out.

Win pulled the wagon to a stop to speak with his brother and nephew. Albert laughed at something Win said. Slapped his thigh. Nate tried to climb up onto the wagon, but his pa pulled him back.

In her sad state of mind, the homespun scene was almost too much to watch.

She spotted Hunter on his way back from the festival grounds or the train station.

She dropped the curtain and stepped back. Hurt and confusion made her breath catch. Had she really said all those things to him? Their words had been heated, but then he’d gone and kissed her, and she’d slapped him.

Unable to stop herself, she peeked out to watch his progress. He was so tall. So handsome. Her heart thwacked against her ribs as she remembered their conversation during their walk under the stars—before he’d brought up the girls. A smile curled her lips when she thought about how he’d thrown himself into danger to save Mrs. Hollyhock. Not just any man would do that. Not only that, but he’d kept her secret about being trapped in the outhouse. He’d been her friend. What if she hadn’t slapped him? Would he have continued kissing her? Courted her? She didn’t know, and now she wouldn’t ever find out.

Hunter must have called out a greeting, because Albert turned. When he was close enough, Albert clamped his hand on Hunter’s shoulder and gave a little shake, large smiles all around. Nate skipped over to the side of the bridge and looked over at the water.

A sob gushed from Tabitha’s throat. She let the curtain drop and backed away. She’d been happy here once, hadn’t she? She’d loved the process of building. Then slowly stocking her shelves. Life had been good. Livable.

Then Hunter came to town.

With his arrival, Tabitha realized she’d just been subsisting. Living in the shadows of everyone else’s happiness. Was it so wrong to want her own? With the back of her hand she stifled the jerking sounds of her sorrow, then sat on her unmade bed, tears trailing down her face unchecked.

The sounds of the men on her boardwalk reached her ears. Nate’s silly giggles brought a shaky smile. Look at what Susanna and Albert had just gone through to find their contentment. It hadn’t been easy. A lot of give and take had been involved. Was there a chance for her and Hunter? Even if she weren’t twenty-nine years old and facing spinsterhood, she realized she’d still be attracted to Hunter. But was attraction enough? They were complete opposites. He owned a saloon, encouraged men to drink and partake in the sins of the flesh. She read about and admired Josephine Butler, Florence Nightingale, and Elizabeth Wolstenholme, women who had made a mark trying to improve the plight of the prostitute.

What am I doing?
One kiss does not a marriage proposal make. I’m putting the novel before the hours, months, and maybe years it takes to create such a project. Most likely, Hunter grabs a kiss wherever and whenever he can. Why do I think I’m anything special to him? I just slapped him silly in front of my aunt . . .

Tabitha closed her eyes.

She took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her face. She’d allowed herself this self-pity, but now she was through. Today was her birthday. She’d wrap up her sorrow in a neat little box and stash it under her bed.

She’d make this day special, and no one would be the wiser.