by Zina Abbott
“Well, it’s only August 30th, so I’m not handing a thing over to you. I’m taking the mail to Mrs. Ames. I need you to get out of my way. I only got a half hour to drop this off and get some eats before I head out to the next town. You’re not authorized until after the first, and I’ll expect to see that letter saying you are before I leave anything with you next trip. And don’t you touch a thing inside this coach.”
By now, Hank’s breaths were coming in heaves. He clenched the fist that did not hold his valise. “Fine. When you bring the mail to the post office next Wednesday, I’ll show you the letter. I do have the delivery days correct, don’t I? Every Saturday and Wednesday?”
“Nope, don’t work that way, sonny. I bring the mail to Mrs. Ames as a courtesy. When her husband was alive, he came and got the mail himself. You want this mail next Wednesday, you have your backside and your letter proving you’re the postmaster here at this office by eleven-thirty in case I get lucky and pull in a little early. Otherwise, the mail goes nowhere.”
Hank opened his mouth to protest. Instead, he jumped aside, startled by the thud of a heavy object landing behind him. He turned to face the conductor riding shotgun who offered him a less-than-friendly smirk.
“There’s your trunk.”
Hank nodded and forced his words through gritted teeth. “Thank you. If you don’t mind, I’ll pull it against the outside wall out of the road and come back for it later.” He turned back to the driver. “Will you at least direct me to where the post office is?”
The driver pointed west across the corral for the mules, a stream, and a road. “It’s there, in the Ridge Hotel.”
Hank nodded his thanks and stepped with swift strides towards the two-story building bearing the sign in large letters that identified it as the hotel. He wondered if he misunderstood when the man said the post office was in the hotel. Perhaps, they pointed it out to him because it was easier to find the hotel first before asking about the post office itself. He expected the post office to be a separate building like the ones he had visited in Salt Lake City. Even though a small community such as Wildcat Ridge probably did not need a large structure to handle the mail operation, hopefully the building was adequate to also house his other business, plus have a room upstairs where he could live.
Hank fumed. So much for being welcomed into town as a new, well-respected federal employee. Things were not going as planned. If nothing else, he realized the Wells Fargo driver and his shotgun conductor were loyal to the widow now handling the mail. He needed to be the first to walk in there to introduce himself. It would be best that she learned directly from him, not from the stagecoach driver, the good news he had arrived to relieve her of the burden of handling the mail that she had been forced to take on after the death of her husband.
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Chapter 7
~o0o~
I n anticipation of the Wells Fargo driver stopping by to drop off the satchel of mail on his way to the Crystal Café for his noon meal, Diantha stood waiting behind the registration counter. As a man carrying a valise hurriedly walked inside and approached her, she smiled in welcome, always happy to greet a new guest planning to stay in her hotel. “Good day, sir. Welcome to the Ridge Hotel. I’m Mrs. Ames. Do you wish a room for tonight?”
Diantha patiently waited for an answer. A feeling of unease began to build up in her as he stared at her. Up close, she saw that, instead of looming over her like most men, he stood only three or four inches taller than her. He was a handsome man about her own age, perhaps slightly younger. From his tanned complexion and physique, she could tell he was accustomed to working outdoors. As he tipped his derby and nodded in response to her greeting, she wondered the nature of the business that brought him to Wildcat Ridge.
“I’m not sure. I’d like to see the post office first and meet the widow handling the mail.”
Diantha blinked in surprise. She stepped to the end of the counter and turned so her side faced the newcomer as she made a sweeping gesture with her hand in the direction of the open sorting case behind her. “You have come to the right place, and I am the postmistress. Although, if you are here to pick up a letter, I know I do not have any mail for a name I do not recognize. Perhaps what you are expecting will arrive in today’s mail? It should be here shortly.”
The man stared at her as if stunned. “Ah, no, I don’t believe so. Allow me to introduce myself…”
Diantha broke eye contact and looked towards the front of the hotel at the sound of the door opening. The stranger halted his introduction and also turned to see who entered.
Diantha looked past the newcomer towards the approaching Wells Fargo driver bringing her the day’s mail. After Eugene’s death, she realized it was up to her to take over all aspects of the postmaster position. Not wishing the stagecoach drivers to consider her incapable of working the job, she had offered to meet the coach and collect the mail satchel the way her husband had done. The kindly men who drove for Wells Fargo insisted on bringing the mail to her on their way to the Crystal Café. The town still received rain and snow in late March and April, which left the streets either muddy, slushy, or icy much of the year. She had gratefully accepted.
Diantha smiled at the driver as he drew near. “Thank you so much.”
The mail bag landed with a heavy thud as the driver tossed it on the counter. “Glad to do it, Mrs. Ames.”
Diantha watched with curiosity as he turned and glared at her new customer—well, potential customer.
“You told her yet?”
The man with the carpet bag shook his head. “Not yet. I was just about to introduce myself.”
The driver grunted his displeasure and turned back to Diantha, an expression of regret on his face. “I’m right sorry about this, Mrs. Ames.” He paused and nodded his farewell. “Well, I’d best get next door if I want to eat before my last stop of the day.”
Diantha fought down the panic she felt at his words. She could not think of any remaining family members whose death would leave her bereaved. Had Mr. Crane taken legal action of some sort and this man had come to tell her all her remaining money had been seized? Wide-eyed, she turned to the man before her. She forced herself to speak, her words coming out in a whisper. “What is it you intend to tell me, sir, that would prompt a comment like that?”
She watched as the man, clearly unnerved by the driver’s words, cleared his throat in an effort to regain his composure.
“Mrs. Ames, my name is Henry Cauley, although most people know me as Hank. Effective the first of September, I am the new postmaster of Wildcat Ridge.”
Diantha repeated his words in her mind as she tried to make sense of them. She felt light-headed and suspected her face lost all color. “Why, Mr. Cauley, I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about. I have served as postmistress ever since the death of my husband. I notified the Post Office Department of the situation here, and that I would continue in my husband’s place. I received communication from them acknowledging their receipt of my letter. I have never been notified that there is to be a change.”
Hank Cauley’s forehead creased in confusion. “I don’t know why not, Mrs. Ames. I received my appointment letter at the beginning of the month. I assumed they would have sent you notification at the same time.”
“I have received nothing from the Post Office Department since they sent me my second quarter pay draft in July. Both the letter and the draft were made out in my name.”
Hank reached into his inside jacket pocket. “Here, I will show you my letter…”
As the door opened and the first group of townspeople arrived to await their mail, Diantha, with an uncharacteristic edge to her voice, cut him off. “We will continue this discussion later, Mr. Cauley. It is time for me to sort mail so people do not need to wait any longer than necessary when they come for their letters.”
“Since I will be doing the job next time the mail comes, perhaps I can be of h
elp.”
“No! Even if what you say is true, it is not yet September first, and you are not authorized to handle the mail. Please, step aside.” She gathered up the hotel registration book and placed it in the drawer.
“Of course.”
Diantha glanced up in time to catch the expression of irritation that flashed across the face of the man claiming to be the new postmaster. Realizing she watched him, he forced a smile and stepped back to the side. She reached for the mail satchel and used her key to open it. She turned and dumped the contents on the counter in front of the mail sorting case. Before she could begin placing the mail in their proper compartments, her mouth dropped open in dismay as Hank Cauley began talking to the three women on the other side of her counter.
“Good day. Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Hank Cauley. I’ll be taking over as postmaster starting the first of September.”
Diantha twisted back to face the man. “Mr. Cauley, please! As I stated earlier, I have never received official notification of any changes. Please refrain from saying anything of that nature.”
Upset almost to the point of tears, Diantha set aside the manners she had been taught from the time she was a small girl to glare at the man standing next to the side wall which supported the stairway leading to the upstairs rooms. She steeled herself to meet, without flinching, the angry expression on his face as his gaze bored into hers.
Mr. Cauley responded, speaking in a tone she recognized as forced civility. “Very well, Mrs. Ames. However, I do wish to settle this today.”
Diantha turned her attention back to sorting the letters that came in the mail that day. Unfortunately, she knew even if Mr. Cauley said no more, the damage had been done. In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of the three women, full of curiosity, and perhaps a touch of concern, look between her and the gentleman who now stood off to the side and watched her every move. She knew, once she handed them what mail she found for them, they would be off to spread what they had heard to the others in Wildcat Ridge.
Diantha ignored the opening and closing of the door two more times as, with her back to those in her lobby and praying her trembling fingers did not betray her, she began to sort the mail alphabetically by last name into the pigeonholes of the mail case.
As soon as he had been granted the postmaster position, Eugene had commissioned the case and had it specially built in Salt Lake City. In addition to compartments that could hold letters sorted alphabetically as well as stamps and other small items, it was designed with a ledge on which to place the unsorted mail, and a drawer for additional supplies. Two doors opened like a cupboard for full access, but they could also be closed and locked for security. Diantha remembered his excitement when it had arrived on the train in Wildcat Ridge years before.
Diantha felt the tension inside her build as she heard the murmurs among those waiting for their mail. Although Mr. Cauley—the pretender, the usurper—did as she asked and said no more, his words spoken to the first group that came for their mail were already being spread. She listened as Mr. Cauley quietly deflected questions addressed to him, but it did not prevent people from speculating.
Diantha froze in place as her mind caught up with her hand that already held the letter uplifted, ready to place it in the proper slot in the case. Addressed to her, the return address belonged to the Post Office Department in Washington, D.C. Ignoring the terrible breach in manners she exhibited, she dropped the handful of mail she held in her left hand and tore the missive open. Inside, she found a letter and a bank draft. A quick glance at the draft told her the amount covered only two months of pay rather than the full third quarter. She sensed the room grow quiet as she focused her attention on the contents of the letter.
It started with condolences, and then moved to appreciation for her faithfully stepping forward to temporarily complete her late husband’s obligations. Last, it informed her of what she feared most ever since Mr. Cauley explained his purpose for being in Wildcat Ridge.
Diantha, one hand clutching the draft and the other the letter, braced her fists on the shallow ledge of the sorting case. Her eyes squeezed shut, she dropped her head and rolled her back in defeat as her knees threatened to give out on her. She knew all the training she had received to prepare her to deal with any crisis in a manner befitting a Southern plantation woman would now be put to the test as it never had been before.
Diantha carefully placed the papers on the case ledge. She slowly straightened. With perfect posture, she turned to face the lobby. It had filled to the point she felt like she was on stage with a standing room only audience. She forced a smile on her face. “Ladies…” She had caught sight of Jasper from the livery and young Tommy Bridges, the teenage son of the town telegraph operator. “…and gentlemen. Thank you for your patience. I’ll have the mail ready for you shortly.” She raised a hand and gestured in Hank’s direction. “While you are waiting, may I introduce you to Mr. Henry Cauley? Please congratulate and welcome him. He will be your new postmaster, starting the first of September.”
Diantha forced herself to look Hank Cauley in the face. She expected to see a look of triumph on his face. Instead, she witnessed his eyes express concern and empathy towards her.
Please, do not pity me. We have all had our fill of pity. It has not brought back what we lost.
She quickly faced away from the room to discourage questions or expressions of regret from the people she had come to know as friends. It had taken the disaster and her becoming the town postmistress for her to become more socially open with them. She had particularly drawn closer to the widows, whose sorrow she shared. Now, she had a job to do, and she must hold herself together until she could hand over the mail to those waiting for it.
Once she had everything sorted, she gathered two of the letters for the first three women who had entered and turned to face them. She handed the mail out before she spoke with regret to the third woman. “So sorry, Mrs. Magnus, I have nothing for you today.”
The woman sighed, offered Diantha an expression of concern that spoke volumes, and thanked her before she walked away.
The mayor, Hester Fugit, stepped forward. “Anything for me or Mr. Vaile?”
Diantha reached for mail in the case for the two and handed it to her.
“What about outgoing mail, Diantha?” Hester held up two letters. “Do I still leave them here?”
“Yes. The driver should be by in a few minutes to collect the outgoing mail. As for next week…” She glanced over at Hank Cauley who, with folded arms and an intent expression, watched the proceedings. “I do not know what provisions our new postmaster will make for managing the mail. Until he does, as long as you also include enough money for postage, you are welcome to leave it with me. I’ll see that he gets it.”
Once the townspeople had received their mail, Diantha knew she must escape before she caused more of a scene by falling apart in front of everyone. She placed the outgoing mail in the mail satchel and secured the lock before she turned to Hank. “Mr. Cauley, the stagecoach driver will stop here shortly to pick up this bag. Please do not touch it. I find I need to take care of a few things in back, and then I will return to see about a room for you.” She quickly grabbed up her letter and draft from the Post Office Department, closed the doors to the mail sorting case, and locked it.
Only after she had entered her private quarters and locked the door behind her did Diantha yield to the tears that had threatened to fall ever since Mr. Cauley had told her his purpose for coming in Wildcat Ridge. She had lost the postmistress position.
After she had received confirmation from the Post Office Department that, due to her husband’s death, future drafts would come to her in exchange for her taking over his duties, she had assumed the matter was settled. She thought she had been doing an excellent job. She had no idea they would seek another man to fill the position. Why did they not offer her an opportunity to apply for the job? Why must she learn of the change only two days before the new post
master took over?
Diantha stared at the draft with its two months of pay. It was not as much as she had counted on. Even a full quarter of pay would not have been enough for a person to live on well with no other source of income. However, she had intended for this third quarter pay to buy most of the coal and wood her hotel and laundry shed needed to get her through the winter. With so few men in town, and not many inclined to cut wood, she had not yet worked out how she would obtain those supplies so essential to survival over the long, cold months of the year. She only knew she must.
Those quarterly drafts for the postmistress position represented sure money. No matter how many or how few paying customers she hosted in her hotel, she could count on that money to help her survive the lean times. It provided her with food and fuel. Now it was gone.
Diantha only allowed herself a quarter of an hour of bemoaning her circumstances before she secured the draft in the one desk drawer in which Eugene had installed a lock. She next washed her face with cool water to rid her eyes of the puffy redness caused by her tears. Studying her face in her mirror, she confirmed all traces of her crying fit were erased. She reasoned with herself that it was not Mr. Cauley’s fault the powers that be sought a new postmaster without notifying her so she could apply for the position. He had no control over the letter informing her she no longer held the postmistress position arriving the same day he did. If what he had stated was true, that he had learned at the beginning of the month he had been granted the position, then it was the Post Office Department that had been negligent in not notifying her sooner. She picked up the letter. It was dated only two weeks earlier.
Whether she was happy about the change or not, for the sake of the citizens of Wildcat Ridge, she must work with Mr. Cauley to make a smooth transition of the mail service. She took a deep breath and stepped through the door into the hotel lobby.