Emily's Fortune

  For a moment she lay on her back, eyes closed, but when she opened them, she saw a huge hairy face looking down at her with two terrible eyes, and before she could roll away, a huge brown tongue suddenly poked out and licked her face.

  Emily screamed, but on the other side of the fence, Jackson was rolling on the ground with laughter, and the big brown cow that had stopped by ambled on to another part of the pasture.

  Jackson continued to laugh as Emily climbed back over the fence and found her shoe. He went on hee-hawing as she tied the lace and picked up her carpetbag. But as they walked back to the inn, he said, “Now, listen here, if you don’t get a bed, the best place to sleep is under a table, ’cause no one can stumble over you during the night.”

  No bed? Emily wondered. Things were going from bad to worse. And who would want to give a bed to a dirty girl in a torn dress and wrinkled socks?

  Inside, the innkeeper was giving instructions: “Women and girls sleep up,” he said, pointing toward the stairs; “men and boys sleep down. Don’t sleep with your boots on, don’t hog the covers, and no more’n five to a bed.”

  Emily followed the women and girls, already missing the soft bed she had shared with her mother back in Miss Nash’s big house.

  There were four bedrooms upstairs, with two beds each. Women were busy setting their bags down, and Emily knew she had to hurry if she wanted any space at all.

  Taking off her shoes and socks, she lifted her dress over her head and placed it on a chair. Then she slipped under the covers on one of the beds, and was soon joined by two women on one side of her, one woman on the other.

  There were only two pillows, and Emily didn’t even get to share one. Her small head sank down between them, where she couldn’t see out. When the women on either side of her moved, Emily got an elbow in the ribs, a knee against her leg, an arm across her face. And then the women began to snore.

  Sssnnnooog, went the first woman.

  Sssnnnooop, went the second.

  Sssnnnoooz, went the third.

  Bong, bong, bong, went the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs.

  When the clock struck one in the morning, Emily heard it.

  When it struck two, she was still awake. She slept some after that, but at five, when the woman beside her got up to use the chamber pot, Emily saw her chance and slid out of bed. She put on her dress and felt around for her shoes and socks. Then, picking up her carpetbag with Rufus and his little box inside, she made her way downstairs to see if she could find a sofa or chair where she might curl up and sleep a few more hours before breakfast.

  But the snoring downstairs was even louder than the snoring up. In the early-morning light, Emily could see men and boys sleeping every which way. There were men under tables, men propped up in chairs. Every sofa had a man on it, and one little boy had rolled himself up in a rug.

  There was a faint noise in the kitchen, and Emily wondered if the innkeeper’s wife might be up starting breakfast. She tiptoed through the hallway toward the kitchen. She could just make out a sign above the door that read:

  CUSTOMERS ARE NOT ALLOWED IN THE KITCHEN.

  KEEP OUT!

  But all she wanted was a peek.

  And what in

  blinkin’ bloomers

  do you think

  she saw?

  There was Jackson by the big iron stove, his hand deep inside the cracker barrel.

  “Jackson, what are you doing?” Emily whispered. “Didn’t you read the sign?”

  “What sign?” asked Jackson.

  Emily pointed to the door behind her. “Back there. Customers aren’t allowed in the kitchen.”

  “I was hungry,” said Jackson, and Emily noticed for the first time just how very thin and bony his face was.

  “Well, we shouldn’t be here,” Emily told him, and was sure of it when she heard footsteps upstairs. With her carpetbag in one hand, she pulled Jackson out the back door, but not before he had crammed his pockets full of crackers.

  “Didn’t you get enough to eat last night?” she asked.

  “I never get enough to eat,” said Jackson. “All they put on my plate was the last ladle of beans. The last bit of bread. A little dried-up piece of meat.”

  “Well, then,” said Emily, opening her carpetbag and pulling out the lunch sack she had been saving. “Let’s go eat in the barn.”

  A small shaft of early-morning light came from a high window inside the barn. There was a huge mound of sweet-smelling hay that almost reached the rafters, and a stall on one side where the cow could rest during the night. It had already been milked and let out to pasture. Emily opened the sack the neighbor women had given her and handed the sausage to Jackson.

  “Here,” she said.

  Jackson reached for it hungrily, then stopped. “But it’s yours!” he said.

  “We’ll share,” Emily told him.

  She took Rufus out of his box and let him crawl about as she and Jackson had their breakfast. They ate the sausage and the bread and cheese, nibbled some carrots, and devoured the caramel cake. Emily fed another tiny bit of carrot to Rufus.

  “Ah!” said Jackson, leaning back in the hay, hands on his belly. “That’s the first time I’ve been full since Christmas.”

  “What happened at Christmas?” asked Emily.

  “I was in an orphanage, and the church ladies showed up with a big turkey and plum pudding. Never ate so much in my life. All of us kids did. But then I knew it would be next Christmas before they came again, so I just hiked out of there.”

  “Where did you go?” asked Emily, picking up a little stick to guide Rufus into turning around. Then she amused herself by tracing letters in the dirt as she listened to Jackson.

  “Well, I was on my own, just knockin’ about, till the Child Catchers caught up with me and put me in a home where they used any excuse at all to beat me. So I ran away again, and this time when I was caught, they dropped me off at the Overhill Stagecoach Company with a ticket to the West. Some family out there wants to put me to work.” He looked at Emily’s scribbles. “What you writing?”

  “My mother’s name,” Emily said. “Constance Wiggins. And here’s the name of the woman we lived with….” She drew in the dirt some more. “Luella Nash.”

  “I don’t know my letters,” said Jackson. “All I can read is my own name. Never stayed in any place long enough to learn.”

  J-a-c-k-s-o-n, Emily wrote in the dirt.

  “That’s it,” said Jackson. “How do you spell your name?”

  E-m-i-l-y, she wrote.

  “Funny-lookin’ name,” said Jackson. And then, “What do you want to do now?”

  “What I really want to do is sleep,” said Emily. “I was bumped and kicked all night long. I could curl up right here.”

  “Go ahead,” said Jackson. “I’ll see you around, then.” He got up and started to leave, then stopped. “Thank you for the breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome,” Emily told him. She put Rufus back in his box, then curled up in the hay and fell asleep.

  • • •

  The sun was fully up, carriages came and went, and still Emily slept on, exhausted from her travels. She slept all of the morning and part of the afternoon.

  She was dreaming of cinnamon toast and hot cocoa when the barn door burst open and Jackson came in.

  “Hey, Emily!” he called proudly. “I read your name!”

  Slowly she sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What?”

  “I saw your name! It’s there in the newspaper up on the porch.”

  “How can that be?” asked Emily. “Did it say Emily Wiggins?”

  “All I knew was the word Emily,” said Jackson.

  Emily left Rufus and her carpetbag in the barn and went back to the inn with Jackson. They made their way through the people coming and going. They went up onto the porch, stepped over a sleeping dog, squeezed between the rocking chairs, and looked at the newspaper pinned to the wall. Jackson pointed to a story at the top of the
page.

  “What does it say?” he asked her.

  Emily was too surprised to answer. There in big black letters was the story:

  Girl to Inherit Fortune

  Emily Wiggins, daughter of a woman who worked for the late Luella Nash, will inherit ten million dollars. Constance Wiggins, who died in a carriage accident along with her wealthy employer, was the sole beneficiary of the Nash estate. She had only one child, a girl named Emily, eight years old, who will now inherit her mother’s fortune. Lawyers for the estate are trying to find her. Emily has long brown hair and green eyes and is believed to be on her way to Redbud.

  “Is that you?” asked Jackson, pointing to the word Emily.

  “Yes,” said Emily, and in a voice weak with surprise, she softly read the story aloud to him.

  “Ten million dollars?” Jackson whispered in astonishment.

  “I…I guess so,” said Emily. She was not sure just how much money that would be. One million, she guessed, was a lot of thousands, and ten million…She wondered if she could squeeze it all into the carpet bag.

  “What are you going to do with all that money?” Jackson asked, looking around to make sure no one else was listening.

  “I’ll give it to Aunt Hilda, for taking me in,” Emily replied. “Maybe I can buy her a horse and carriage. Do you think ten million is enough for a horse?”

  “A horse!” Jackson exclaimed. “It’s enough for a ranch!” Grabbing her by the arm, Jackson led her back down the steps and over to the shade of an oak tree. “Listen, Emily,” he said. “A lot of people will be looking for you.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Emily answered.

  “But some of them might be the wrong kind of people,” Jackson said. “And they’ll be looking for you for the wrong reason.”

  Emily did not understand. She had lived all her life in the big white house, so she didn’t know much about the world. But if people were looking for her, it was to tell her about the money, wasn’t it?

  “Everyone will try to be your friend, Emily, because they’ll want some of that money,” Jackson explained. “I think you should get to your aunt Hilda’s before you tell anyone who you are. If people find out…well…you might not get to your aunt Hilda’s at all.”

  Now, what in the

  hokie smokies

  could that mean?

  This was truly alarming news, and Emily was frightened.

  “Jackson, what do you mean?” she said. “Why wouldn’t people want to help me?”

  “Because they might want to help themselves more. The lawyers want to find you so they can give you the ten million; that’s good. But what if someone kidnapped you and wouldn’t give you up till he got the money? That’s bad. A lot of folks might be looking for the girl with the brown hair and green eyes, which is you.”

  Glancing around to be sure no one was paying attention, Jackson yanked the newspaper off the wall and held it behind him.

  But Emily was still upset. “What am I going to do?” she cried. “There must be newspapers in other places, and people will have seen them. When we get on the stagecoach, they’ll guess who I am.”

  What would the neighbor women suggest? she wondered.

  Mrs. Ready would say: “The wrong sort of people might be looking for her.”

  Mrs. Aim would ask: “So how can she hide until she gets to Redbud?”

  And before Emily could think what Mrs. Fire might answer, Jackson grabbed her arm.

  “Come on,” he said, and pulled her back to the barn. There he crumpled the newspaper and hid it under the hay.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” he said, taking a pair of sheep shears off a hook on the wall. “I’ll cut your hair short to make you look like a boy, and you can have one of my shirts, my cap, and a pair of britches.”

  “But…but it’s all you have!” Emily said, looking at the small parcel he carried under his arm, knowing it could not hold much more than that.

  “It’s all right,” said Jackson. “You shared your lunch with me, didn’t you? When the Child Catchers get me again, they’ll give me another set. They always give you more clothes, new or not, when they send you off to a different family.” He held up the shears. “Ready? Should we do it?”

  Oh, dear! Emily thought. If only the neighbor women were here.

  “If she looks like a boy, it might keep the lawyers from finding her and giving her the money,” Mrs. Ready might say worriedly.

  “But if people know who she is and she’s traveling alone, isn’t she putting herself in danger?” Mrs. Aim might ask.

  And Emily felt sure she knew what Mrs. Fire would say: “Then let her look like a boy till she gets to Redbud, and her aunt will sort it out.”

  She had to trust someone, and one thing she did know: Aunt Hilda had invited her to come and live with her before she knew anything about the ten million dollars. And Jackson, despite his teasing, had been her friend too before he knew about her fortune.

  Might as well get it over with.

  “Ready,” she said, taking off her bonnet…. She sat down on a wooden box. “Aim,” she said…. And then, holding perfectly still, “Fire.”

  Jackson took the shears and began.

  Snip, snip, snip, went the shears. Locks of brown hair began falling down around Emily’s shoulders. Snip, snip, snip, the shears went again. Around her head, behind her ears, across her forehead. Snip, snip…snip, snip…When Jackson had finished, Emily’s head felt very cool indeed, and when she ran her fingers through her hair, all her curls were gone. She swallowed.

  “Okay. Now the clothes,” said Jackson. “Here.” He opened his parcel, and out fell a pair of britches and a shirt without a collar. He gave them both to Emily, as well as the cap on his head.

  “I’ve got to go help the innkeeper if I want any extra for supper tonight,” he said. “Change into my clothes, and when you come out, I’m going to call you Eli.”

  And Jackson went away.

  Emily slipped off her dress and petticoat and put them and her bonnet at the bottom of her carpetbag. Then she put on Jackson’s faded yellow shirt. It wasn’t exactly clean. She pulled on his britches. They were rough and scratchy, but they fit. A pair of blue suspenders hung from the waistband, and she slipped them over her shoulders. Her own socks and shoes were gray, so they did not seem to matter. Finally she put on Jackson’s cap. Then she left her bag and Rufus’s box and started for the inn.

  The innkeeper was looking around. “Here, lad!” he called when he saw her. “Could you carry this hatbox into the parlor for the lady in the red dress?”

  Emily was relieved that he mistook her for a boy. “Sure,” she said. She took the large hatbox from the innkeeper and followed the woman in the red dress into the tavern and over to the parlor.

  “Thank you, son,” said the woman, giving Emily a nickel. “Just set it there on the table.”

  Emily dropped the nickel in the pocket of her britches. On her way out again, she stopped for a moment to look at herself in the big mirror next to the staircase.

  A boy of eight stared back at her. A boy with short straggly hair, wearing a cap down over his eyes, a faded yellow shirt, and brown britches with blue suspenders.

  “Hello, Eli,” Emily whispered to her reflection, and tried to walk like a boy as she went outside. She took bigger strides. She swung her arms. She jumped down the last two steps, and even tried to whistle.

  “Hey, Eli! Want to climb a tree out there by the pasture?” called Jackson.

  He began to run, and Emily followed. It was easier to run in britches, she discovered—even scratchy britches that made her itch—than it was to run with a skirt and petticoat twisting about her legs.

  They reached the pasture and straddled the fence. This time Emily climbed up all by herself. After she made it onto the first branch of the big tree, the second seemed a bit easier. And after she hoisted herself onto the second branch, the third was easier still.

  There she sat, looking out over the fie
lds, her feet dangling five yards off the ground.

  Jackson grinned at her. “How do you like it?” he asked.

  “I like it fine!” said Emily, beaming. “If my mother could have worn britches, she would have liked it too.” She looked at Jackson. “Do you miss your mother?”

  Jackson turned away. “Nope,” he said. “She was never around much for me to miss. I miss my pa, though. What about you?”

  “I miss my mother every day,” said Emily, her eyes tearing up. But she had a home to go to now, and she would soon be living with her aunt Hilda.

  • • •

  Emily stayed in the shadows as much as she could that afternoon, watching the children in other families as they arrived or departed Callaway’s Inn. Boys, she noticed, liked to push and punch each other. They jumped up and down. They took off their jackets and used them to wallop each other over the head.

  When the innkeeper needed help, both Jackson and Emily volunteered. As visitors slid down off their saddles, Jackson tied up the horses. He carried bags and even babies up the steps to the parlor. Emily swept the porch and brought in wood for the stove box. There were so many children about that the innkeeper didn’t know one from another.

  When it was close to suppertime, Emily felt hungry and went inside to see if the food was ready. She wound her way through the people milling about in the hallway, and almost bumped into a man who was standing at the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

  The man wore black boots up to the knee, brown britches, and a brown shirt. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows; his large arms bulged out of his sleeves, and on one of the huge arms was…a tiger tattoo.

  And who in the

  freakin’ frazzles

  do you figure

  he was?

  Emily’s heart thumped loudly—so loudly she was almost afraid that the man could hear it. Ducking behind the grandfather clock, she slowly raised her eyes to the person there at the bar. He was talking to the man next to him. She remembered the silver-black hair of a wolf, the eyes of a weasel. And when he spoke, Emily recognized the voice of the uncle she had hoped never to see again.