Deborah Camp (2 page)

“Is this Wet Your Whistle, Indian Territory?”

That voice, slurred but achingly familiar, sliced through Adele’s sermon, and all eyes swung back to the train. A man stood on the top step, swayed slightly, and pulled his hat more firmly down on his forehead. He reached out a hand, settled it on the porter’s shoulder, and descended the two steps with slow deliberation. Another porter was behind him, one hand under his elbow to steady him. He was obviously inebriated and could barely place one foot in front of the other.

Gaining the platform, he squared his shoulders and tipped up his chin so that the shadow cast by the brim of his hat inched back to reveal a square jaw, lopsided smile, and chiseled nose. His eyes glinted from the murky depths beneath his hat, and he shrugged off the helping hands of the porters.

“Thank you, gentlemen. You’re so very kind.” Southern charm dripped like honey off the words. “I
do believe I spy a sweet flower from the Kansas plains. Dellie? Is that you?”

Adele’s heart climbed into her throat and lodged there, beating furiously. The nickname sent her back to her girlhood.

He strode forward, his path not quite straight, but in her general direction. Doffing his hat to reveal a head of jet-black hair, he manufactured a sweeping bow.

“My dear Dellie, I have answered your call,” he announced, the words bumping into one another. “Your intended has arrived on sched—schedule.” He straightened and his smoky blue eyes crossed. “Rrreno Gold, at your ssservice.”

That said, he pitched forward, face first, at her feet.

From her bedroom window Adele watched the 10:10 power its way down the track away from Whistle Stop. Though the noise of the train gradually diminished, the noise in the room did not.

Adele turned and examined the sprawl of drunken maleness snoring in her bed. The spare bed-pillow enticed her, and she had to summon every ounce of will not to place that pillow over Reno’s open mouth and smother him and his obnoxious snorting sounds.

His dark hair tumbled across his forehead and tomorrow’s beard shadowed his jaw. A dimple snuggled into his chin. He made smacking noises, shifted his rangy body on her bed, kicked at her quilts, then settled deeper into his liquor-induced unconsciousness.

She had tried to rouse him, but he had barely batted an eyelash. Three men had hauled him from the depot
to the restaurant. Because there were no guest rooms available in the sleeping quarters upstairs, he had been dumped in Adele’s bedroom. His hat lay on the floor along with his fancy-stitched boots, satchel, and saddlebag.

His dusky hair contrasted starkly with the white bed linens. Adele leaned closer and sniffed the aromas of leather and cigar smoke underlining the smell of whiskey. She snagged the chain attached to his watch and slipped the timepiece from his vest pocket. It was expensive. His initials were etched in the hinged gold lid. She popped it open, and sweet chimes greeted her. Humming the snatch of song, she recognized it. A Chopin Nocturne.

Ah, a glimpse of the Reno Gold she had once known! A Reno Gold who recited poetry and played Chopin and Liszt on the piano. Smiling, she leaned even closer to his sleeping form. He had stopped snoring for a few moments, giving her a chance to admire the fan of his stubby lashes, the straight bridge of his nose, the allure of his masculine lips, full and firm and …

A tentative knock on her bedroom door spun her around to confront Sally Baldridge.

“Sorry to bother you—” Sally tipped her head to one side. “What were you doing just now?”

“I … uh … I was just …” Adele stared at the watch she’d dropped onto Reno’s chest. “I was admiring this timepiece. It’s beautiful.” She tucked it back into the watch pocket of his black satin vest. “In fact, his clothes must have cost a tidy sum. Perhaps he isn’t a gold digger.”

“And perhaps he spent what little money he possessed
on this finery to impress you.” Sally came forward and peered down her nose at him. “He hasn’t changed a bit. He’s just taller and bigger.”

Adele glanced around, feeling helpless. “How will I get him off this bed? He weighs a ton. It took three men to carry him in here.”

“Yes, dear, I know.
Everyone
knows.”

Adele winced at the truth of that. Yes, everyone knew by now that Adele Bishop had ordered herself a husband who had arrived on the 10:10 so drunk that he’d passed out at her feet. Oh, the humiliation!

“What am I going to do, Sally?” she whispered.

“About him?” Sally cast the snoring man another glare of disgust, then flicked her hand at him as if he were nothing but a bothersome fly. “When he rouses up, tell him to remove his sorry self from your sight. You have more important issues to tackle right now. Our cook is causing trouble again.”

Adele groaned. “What is she refusing to do this time?”

“She won’t make grits and she’s serving stew for the fifth day in a row. Our regular customers complained about that yesterday, Adele. Why must the woman be such a sore tooth?”

“I’ll speak with her.” Adele ran her hands down her black apron and mentally prepared for battle. She marched past Sally and through her private parlor and office to the door that opened onto the restaurant.

Only a few men loitered at the counter, sipping coffee and eating toast and jam. The next train due in was the 12:48. There was enough time for the cook to whip up something besides beef stew. Fixing a determined expression on her face, Adele entered the domain
of the irascible and impossibly testy Minnie Ball.

“Good morning, Minnie.”

The rotund, sour-faced woman aimed her beady eyes at Adele and gave a sniff of contempt. “That your weddin’ dress?”

Adele examined the pots simmering on the stove. “I see you’re warming up the stew. That’s good. However, we’ll need another main dish today. How about potato soup? The customers love that.” She peered into the big ovens at the pies baking in them. “Apple and pumpkin? They smell delicious. Now about breakfast—”

“
I’m
the cook,” Minnie said, almost growling. She reminded Adele of a bulldog, with her pushed-in nose and the folds of skin around her mouth and chin.

“Yes, of course, but I’m the manager and I must be sure everything is in order. We’ve served stew too often lately, and we don’t want our customers to complain and go elsewhere, do we?”

Minnie folded her big arms against her big breasts. “What’s yer point?”

“Point?” Adele swallowed the knot of nerves forming in her throat and wished she didn’t find this woman so intimidating. “My point is simple, Minnie. Add potato soup to the lunch menu today, and tomorrow morning I expect you to serve grits.”

“No grits. I ain’t got time to mess with grits.”

“Minnie, we’ve discussed this already. Our customers want grits for breakfast, and we will provide—”

“I ain’t no Reb. I’m a Yankee. I don’t eat grits and I don’t cook what I don’t eat.”

“It’s 1884, Minnie, and the war ended some twenty years ago. We’re serving grits.”

“Then you fix ’em.”

“
You’re
the cook.”

“You’re right there, missy.”

Adele stood toe to toe with the woman and felt her resolve begin to shrivel. “What about the potato soup? Have you an equally illogical reason why you won’t prepare it?”

Minnie glared at her for nearly a full minute, then she narrowed her eyes and turned away. “I guess I could stir up some ’tater soup.”

Adele released her breath. She decided to accept the small victory and not insist on a larger one by forcing the grits issue. The swinging door popped open and Sally peeked in, much to her relief.

“Very good, Minnie. Carry on,” Adele said brightly, then escaped from the kitchen with Sally right behind her. “She’s agreed to fix potato soup.”

“And the grits?”

Adele shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”

“You’re frightened of her,” Sally charged.

Adele released a harsh laugh. “And you aren’t? I should fire her and I will once I locate a suitable replacement.”

Sally shook her head. “A hedgehog would be more friendly than that woman. Maybe we can hook her up with Reno.”

“Don’t be cruel, Sally. We couldn’t do that to our old friend.”

“Friend? Pray tell, when was Reno Gold ever our friend? As I remember it, we tried to shake him off like a saddle burr.”

“You always misunderstood him, Sally. He wasn’t
the ruffian you made him out to be. He often quoted poetry to me when we were alone.”

“Alone?” Sally widened her eyes. “When were you alone with Reno Gold?”

“Oh, from time to time he did odd jobs for my aunt.” Adele moved to the sun-struck window and looked out on the depot. Autumn leaves skittered across the gray wood platform, swept clean by the prairie wind.

The sight of the gold and yellow leaves whisked her back to her four years in Lawrence, when she and Reno had woven a frayed, fragile friendship on the windy Kansas plains. He had been unlike any other boy she’d ever met. One moment he’d seemed as dangerous as a mountain cat and in the next he was reading Shakespeare’s sonnets to her in his husky voice, the sound of which always made her heart trip-hammer.

Back then Adele had imagined that he could be anything he wanted to be because of his quick mind and intense curiosity about the world around him. No machinery had escaped his attention, no book had gone unread. And yet he had also possessed a wild streak that had made Adele wary of him even as she was drawn to him.

True, the others she’d socialized with had shunned him, calling him Winston Baldridge’s poor relation. In his hand-me-down clothes and wearing his hair too long, he had seemed a vagabond to the others, who had been put off by his mixture of blood—Cherokee, Cheyenne, French, and Gypsy. But to Adele his patchwork of ancestry only added to his appeal.

Winston had never been mean to Reno, but he’d
never actually included his cousin in their activities. Like a stray dog, Reno had hung
around
Win, but not
with
him.

Adele had let Reno kiss her twice—once on the cheek and once on the mouth. Both times proved unforgettable and were responsible for her turning down Winston’s marriage proposal. Having experienced the heart-hammering delight of Reno Gold’s kisses, Adele found she simply couldn’t bind herself to Winston for life, for Win’s kisses were sweet and brotherly.

Sally had married him instead and had confided to Adele that she and Winston had never been blissfully happy. When Winston had died a year ago of a weak heart, Sally had told Adele at his funeral that her grief was softened by relief.

Adele had felt sorry for Winston and had excused Sally. She knew she gave Sally too much credit, was too soft-hearted where her friend was concerned. And she knew why. Moving so often as a child, Adele had not made close friends until those precious years in Kansas, when she and Sally had shared secrets, giggled over boys, and attended dances together. Sally had been Adele’s first girlfriend—actually, her only girlfriend. It was a relationship Adele clung to tenaciously, blissfully blind to Sally’s faults. She valued the friendship too much to look too closely at Sally’s tendency to snobbery.

Now Sally rested a hand on Adele’s shoulder, bringing her back to the present. “You’ve proved your point. As soon as he’s awake, show him the door.”

“Sally, just because we live in Indian Territory
doesn’t mean we must all behave like savages.”

“You sound like your mama.”

“Good.” Adele beamed.

Sally sighed. “He’s the savage, not us. Why, he was so drunk he could barely walk under his own power! He’s lucky you even allowed him to darken your doorstep. You should have known this would happen when you read that letter of his. How did he put it? Something about how he’d been knocking around the Dakotas, sniffing for riches and trying his luck? That means he’s penniless, like all the other fools who went searching for gold and silver, and now he’s hoping he can marry you and let you make a living for him. Why else would he have answered that crazy advertisement you placed in the
Territorial News
for a mail-order husband?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Sally. I have no intention of marrying anyone who stepped off that train. You’re right. I’ve proven that what is good for the rooster is good for the hen.”

Pushing through the swinging door, Minnie Ball heard Adele’s last statement. She made a sound of contempt as she placed two hot pies on the counter. “What point will you make when you back out on marryin’ the husband you ordered?” she taunted.

A knot of anxiety tightened in Adele’s chest. Minnie released a burst of hateful laughter and went back into the kitchen.

“Pay her no mind,” Sally said. “Who cares what people in this town think of you?”

Adele closed her eyes, hearing her mother’s voice ringing in her ears.
All you have is your reputation, daughter. Once that is compromised or sullied, you have defeated yourself
.

S
omeone had pasted Reno’s tongue to the roof of his mouth. With a supreme effort he peeled it away and grimaced at the awful taste. Good God, his teeth felt furry!

Opening his eyes, he got the fright of his life when he saw a woman who looked very much like a bulldog glaring down at him. She grinned, and he was sure
her
teeth were furry, too. He shut his eyes again.

“She ain’t gonna marry your sorry ass,” the hag said, her voice, coarse and offensive, a perfect match for her face. “She only used you. Don’t matter none that you knowed her once. She still ain’t gonna marry your sorry ass.”

He vaguely comprehended what she said. Mainly he was trying not to breathe, because her breath was as foul-smelling as a midsummer slop jar.

“Mrs. Ball? Where are you, Mrs. Ball?” A melodic voice drifted into the room, and the dog-faced woman whispered a word that would have made a barkeep blush. She finally left his field of vision. He coughed, his lungs rattling, and pushed himself up on his elbows.
The woman was gone. He blinked several times, forcing his eyes to focus so that he could examine his whereabouts.

The bed he was in belonged to a lady. No man would choose to sleep amid lace-edged linen and ruffled pillows. A patchwork quilt hung half off the bed and another was draped across the foot rail. White eyelet curtains filtered early morning sunlight, and rag rugs dotted the highly polished plank floor. Spying a pitcher of water and a glass on the bedside table, he helped himself and found that his hands shook and his muscles were rubbery. His stomach clenched against the cold water and he almost heaved. Pain exploded in his head, and he fell back onto the feather pillows with a groan.