‘‘Is that what you are calling it?’’
‘‘The one on the corner?’’
She propped her hands on her waist. ‘‘Exactly how many saloons are you in the process of building?’’
He drew his brows down. ‘‘Just the one.’’
‘‘Then obviously that’s the one I’m talking about. That one on the corner.’’ She pointed toward the northeast. ‘‘That metal two-story imitation of a country mansion.’’
‘‘That’s why you’re ignoring me?’’
‘‘What do you think?’’
He rubbed his lower lip with his hand. ‘‘You know, Rachel, it isn’t a sin to run a gambling house or even to serve liquor.’’
‘‘Not a sin? Not a sin!’’ She placed both hands on top of her head. ‘‘Gambling is an insidious art. And the drinking. The drinking is even worse.’’
‘‘Get your Bible.’’
She lowered her hands. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Go ahead. Go get your Bible. You show me where it says drinking and gambling are sins. You show me where it says that, and I’ll shut her down today. This minute.’’
‘‘Ephesians 5:18: ‘Do not be drunk with wine.’ ’’
‘‘You ever seen me drunk?’’
She moistened her lips. ‘‘No.’’
He nodded, as if accepting a compliment.
‘‘You’re serving it, Johnnie.’’
‘‘Exactly. I’m serving it. You got any verses in that pretty little head of yours that say anything about serving it?’’
‘‘The very fact that you serve it encourages others to drunkenness.’’
Spinning toward the pastry table, he landed both hands on it and hung his head. He stayed there for several minutes before looking over at her. ‘‘I have absolutely no control over what the men of this town choose to do with their liquor.’’
She clasped her hands together.
He stood and leaned a hip against the table. ‘‘Listen, if you want to be this town’s Holy Spirit, you go right ahead. But don’t expect me to do the same.’’
She stiffened. ‘‘I am not trying to be anyone’s Holy Spirit.’’
‘‘Oh no?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Okay. Conscience. You trying to be anybody’s conscience?’’
Her mother’s words whisked through her mind as surely as if that blessed woman were standing right there in the kitchen.
‘‘The measure of a lady is determined by the success or failure of her husband and by her ability to encourage others to greatness.’’
‘‘Only through encouragement.’’
‘‘Ah, Rachel. It’s an impossible task what you’ve set yourself up to do. Even God gives His people free will choice.’’
‘‘Well, He doesn’t serve temptation up to them on a silver platter.’’
He raised his brows. ‘‘Now you really do need to go get your Bible. I suggest starting with Genesis 3: Temptation of Man.’’
‘‘Anyone can justify anything if they twist up their Scriptures enough.’’
He lifted a corner of his mouth. ‘‘Yes. They certainly can.’’
She tightened her lips. ‘‘If you don’t mind, I need to go to the mercantile. We open tomorrow, and I have some supplies I need to pick up.’’
He drummed his fingers against his leg. ‘‘I came to get my storeroom key back.’’
She hesitated, then drew the key up through the neck of her dress before pulling it over her head.
His fidgeting stopped. His body straightened. His eyes darkened.
Neither of them moved, then he took a step toward her.
She held out her hand, palm up, in the universal signal for stop. ‘‘No. No more of that. I’ll be your friend, Johnnie, but nothing more.’’
‘‘Because I run a gambling house that serves liquor?’’
‘‘Among other things.’’
‘‘What other things?’’
He knows you, Lord. And you know him. And you want him back, don’t you?
She lowered her hand. ‘‘You’ve forsaken your greatest friend of all, Johnnie. How can I, knowing that, feel secure in a serious relationship with you?’’
He winced. ‘‘One has nothing to do with the other.’’
‘‘It has everything to do with everything.’’
He held out his palm.
She took a step, and then another, until she was close enough to place the key in his hand.
He closed his fist over it. ‘‘I miss you.’’
Her mouth relaxed. Whatever she’d imagined him saying, it wasn’t that.
‘‘Do you miss me?’’ he asked.
You have no idea.
‘‘Answer me,’’ he said.
She slowly nodded her head.
‘‘The city’s first concert is tomorrow night at the schoolhouse.’’
‘‘I saw that. In the paper. An evening of song, piano music, and ‘comic recitations,’ it said.’’
‘‘Go with me?’’
Her heart flip-flopped. O Lord. Why couldn’t he still be a missionary?
‘‘I’m sorry, but thank you.’’
His gaze never wavered from hers. ‘‘Scared?’’
‘‘Out of my wits,’’ she whispered.
He brought the key to his mouth and kissed it.
Feeling an impact she dared not acknowledge, she took a deep breath. ‘‘We’ll be serving our first meal tomorrow when I ring my bell at noon. Will you be coming?’’
He put the key around his neck, letting it drop underneath his shirt. ‘‘Probably not, love.’’
‘‘I’ll not charge you. Seeing as we’re neighbors and all.’’
He stood for long, tense moments staring. Delving into her very soul with his penetrating gaze. ‘‘I think I’m falling in love with you, Rachel.’’
And then he turned and left.
————
Rachel and Michael filled the tables with platters of beefsteaks, hash, potatoes, bread, biscuits, and griddle cakes, along with tea and coffee, then rang a loud, heavy bell that Michael had found on an abandoned ship.
Men poured in from all quarters, each measuring out three dollars in dust as if it were no more than five pennies. When all were settled about the table, Michael offered a prayer, the conclusion of which signaled a scramble of hands, arms, and elbows.
Dishes flashed by in a blur, foodstuffs slid from platters to plates, crisp commands punctuated the air.
‘‘Taters.’’
‘‘Bread.’’
‘‘Steak.’’
‘‘Coffee.’’
On it went until all were served and shoveling food into their mouths. The cacophony of sounds from moments before dissolved into slurping, chomping, and burping.
Michael and Rachel stood unmoving, then slowly turned to each other.
‘‘Looks like we’re in business, Miss Van Buren.’’
She allowed a smile to stretch across her face. ‘‘So it does, Mr. Van Buren.’’
‘‘Who’s gonna wash all those dishes?’’
Her smile broadened. ‘‘You and me, sir. You and me.’’
‘‘What do you think about hiring on some help?’’
‘‘I think at three dollars a plate, we could hire the Queen of England if we wanted to.’’
————
Rachel turned her head to the side, trying to see her coif in the tiny looking glass hanging above her toilet table. Oh, what she would give for the full-length mirror that had graced her dressing room back home.
And she desperately missed the big feather bed she’d had when renting Johnnie’s shack. But such lavishness was no longer to be had, for she now made do with a cot and a blanket.
The toilet table before her was no more than a trunk elevated by two claret cases and draped with neatly fringed blue linen. Across its top she had placed a rosewood workbox, two Chinese ornaments of exquisitely carved ivory, and a Bohemian glass cologne stand?
??all token items she’d brought with her from New Jersey.
She smoothed her hand along the twist of hair pinned tightly to the back of her scalp, then reached for her made-over bonnet. She had covered it with green taffeta ribbon and a garland of cherries.
Carefully fitting it on her head, she tied a large bow beneath her chin, dipping and turning to see how she looked in her reseda-green cambric dress. She’d not worn it since arriving but had saved it for a special occasion.
Tonight’s concert at the schoolhouse and the grand opening of the Cottage Cafe certainly warranted a bit of extravagance.
Moving to a little pine table beside her bed, she briefly scrutinized the oilcloth she had tacked over its top, pleased once again with its result. Pine had such a dreary look about it that she’d not only wrapped her table but also a wide bench that stood at the foot of her bed. Its neat plaid covering gave it an almost sofalike look.
Cupping the lantern on the table, she blew out its flame. Then did the same with the sconces on either side of her looking glass. The warming stove in the corner, with braided rug at its feet, held no fire as of yet, and she paused one last time before leaving the sanctuary of her very own room.
Michael had installed windows that could be rolled open, inviting the ocean’s breeze right into her chamber. The calico curtains draped along the window’s edges waved as if shooing her out the door.
Turning down the wick, she extinguished a genuine gas fixture mounted alongside her door and hurried down the hall to tap on Michael’s door. ‘‘Are you coming?’’
‘‘Be right there,’’ he answered.
Lifting her skirts, she negotiated the narrow stairs leading to the kitchen. All stood clean and quiet after their noonday meal.
It didn’t seem quite right. This peacefulness. The world should have stopped and shared in her mourning of Lissa. Not a day went by that Rachel didn’t think about her. Wonder about her.
Was she happy ‘‘playing house’’ up on that hill? Pretending she was married to that man? Cooking for him. Darning for him. Sharing with him something he had no right to receive?
But the world offered no answers, nor had it stopped spinning. Hadn’t so much as hiccupped. Just kept gambling, drinking, and searching for gold.
Straightening a stack of plates, Rachel sighed and moved into the dining area.
The second pine-board table was the only piece of furniture she’d had to purchase. Oh, how she wished she could have decorated it with some daylilies or buttercups, but of course, there were none to be had.
Biting her lip, she took a seat, folded her hands, and examined the room. The barren walls with two lonely screens of painted roses looked stark and uninviting, but the room had come alive as soon as the men entered it.
She had calculated what she must charge for each meal based on the cost of its ingredients plus profit. The resulting figure bordered on the indecent, so expensive it was. Yet, with eggs costing three dollars each, sugar, tea, and coffee at four dollars per pound, and meat priced up through the roof, she’d really had no choice.
She’d hinted to Michael that they were quite comfortable financially, but the truth of it was they’d have to be very, very frugal in order to pay their rent, pay for their supplies and sundries, and hire some help.
Which meant Michael still needed to find odd jobs and she still needed to work on Johnnie’s property. She’d best not do it on Sundays when he was there. As close as he had come to a declaration yesterday and as close as she’d come to admitting the same, it would not be at all wise.
She gripped her hands together. Just thinking of the way he looked and of the words he’d said created a flurry of activity inside her stomach.
‘‘Rachel?’’
Yelping, she spun around, nearly unseating herself in the process. Johnnie had poked his head and shoulders inside the front door.
‘‘What are you doing?’’ He stepped in, a baffled look in his eyes.
She quickly stood, smoothing her skirts. ‘‘I was, um, praying.’’
‘‘She was daydreaming,’’ Michael said, coming through the back entryway. ‘‘I’d bet my boots we’d have opened two days earlier if we could get back the hours she’s spent ruminating over who knows what.’’
‘‘Michael!’’ She seared him with a look so intense, even he received the silent message and held his tongue. For all the good it did her.
Stiff with humiliation, she could not bring herself to look at Johnnie. And what was he doing here anyway? She’d already told him she wouldn’t allow him to escort her to the concert.
And if he thought to casually walk over to the schoolhouse with her and Michael, then he had another think coming. Even though the three of them would know he wasn’t her escort, no one else would.
She heard Michael walk past and open the door. ‘‘I’ll see you there.’’
‘‘Wait,’’ Johnnie said. ‘‘I need you to wait on the porch. Your sister will need an escort.’’
‘‘Aren’t you taking her?’’
‘‘Not this time.’’
‘‘Then who are those flowers for?’’
Flowers? she thought. Had he brought her some lupine? But the sting of embarrassment kept her from looking up to see.
‘‘Just wait on the porch, Michael. She’ll be out in a minute.’’
The door closed, then silence.
Johnnie moved into her line of vision several steps back from the table that she hovered behind. Still, she kept her chin tucked.
That didn’t keep her from admiring the tight-fitting gray kerseymere trousers he wore, though. They must have been new. She’d never seen them before. The legs of the pants covered his boots, strapping under the heels to hold them down.
She watched his knees bend as he lowered himself to the point where he could look back up into her face. ‘‘I came to congratulate you on your day’s success. The boys have done nothing but talk about it all afternoon. They especially enjoyed the mince pie you served for dessert.’’
He straightened, and she could not keep from following his progress. The jacket he wore was no ill-fitting ready-made coat of cheap material and cut. Clearly, the wool frock had been custom made by a gifted tailor.
His tucked linen shirt held tiny single pleats running from neck to waist with a cravat of the same fine linen at his throat.
This was no gambler’s garb he wore, but something any gentleman back home would be proud to own. She continued her trek up, finally resting in the solace of his gaze.
O Lord. He’s absolutely beautiful.
‘‘I wondered if there were any leftovers.’’ His attention moved to her lips. ‘‘Have you a sweet for me?’’
‘‘Yes, actually, I do,’’ she answered.
He moved toward her, bringing out the hand he had hidden behind his back, a huge cluster of delicate cream-colored syringas in his grasp. ‘‘Congratulations.’’
Her gaze flew to his even as she moved around the table to accept his offering. ‘‘Oh. Wherever did you find them?’’
The most penetrating and unique fragrance wafted about her. Closing her eyes, she held them against her nose.
‘‘They are as common as dandelions in the mining camps upriver,’’ he answered. ‘‘A couple of men by the names of Audubon and Crocker brought these in with them today.’’
‘‘Audubon the naturalist?’’
He shrugged.
‘‘Well, they’re beautiful, Johnnie. Thank you ever so much.’’ She brushed a bloom with her knuckle. ‘‘I’m going to go put these in a pitcher of water, then I’ll be right back with that piece of pie.’’
‘‘No. No pie. You’ll be late for the concert. I’ll get it later.’’
When she returned to the dining area, he was nowhere in sight.
She stepped out onto the platform. ‘‘Where’s Johnnie?’’
Michael pulled his pacing up short. ‘‘He’s already left. Come on, the place is filling up fast.’’
Ta
king her brother’s arm, she glanced at the schoolhouse. A mass of flanneled backs crisscrossed by suspenders crowded the door.
When the two of them arrived, however, the men immediately doffed their hats, parted like the Red Sea, and allowed them to enter.
chapter 16
Rachel pressed a handkerchief to her nose upon crossing the threshold of the packed-to-capacity schoolhouse. A nauseating perfume of sweaty, unwashed, alcohol-ridden men pervaded the room.
She waited until Michael paid a man at the entrance for admittance to the event. Seats were five dollars, standing room three dollars, women free of charge. She heard the doorman inform her brother that every seat had been taken except those on the front row, left side of the aisle, which had been reserved for women.
She scanned the room looking for Johnnie but could not locate him among the masses, for the entire populace had come to their feet upon her entering. Michael took her arm, led her to the front, and faltered when she came to a standstill.
On the left side of the front row sat four women. All extravagantly, yet tastefully, dressed. All women of fair but frail natures. She could not, would not, sit side-by-side with them.
A handsome, even dashing, gentleman on the first row, right hand side, quickly swooped into a bow. ‘‘If it pleases you, miss, I would be honored to offer you a seat.’’
Every tongue stilled and every eye in the place focused upon the unfolding scene. Troubled, she looked earnestly at the man before her.
Large disheveled curls framed a fine clean-shaven face with a patrician nose and a kind mouth.
‘‘But, sir,’’ she said, ‘‘you must have surely come at the earliest of hours to acquire a seat in such a coveted location.’’
‘‘I insist.’’
She smoothed the concern from her face and curtsied. ‘‘Then I insist you visit my cafe for a free meal. Our grand opening was this very day.’’
He extended a hand to help her rise from her curtsy. ‘‘You are the proprietress of the new Cottage Café , then?’’
‘‘I am.’’ She placed her hand in his and glanced at Michael.
He stepped forward. ‘‘May I present to you my sister, Miss Rachel Van Buren?’’
The gentleman brought her fingertips to his lips, brushing them as quickly and lightly as a delicate butterfly. ‘‘Enchanted.’’