Mail Order Roslyn

by Zina Abbott

  “Maybe I did something right, Roslyn. Before I left home, I used some of the money you gave me for Emmy to buy her this.” Penelope held out her hand which contained a bar of Pear’s Soap, still in its wrapper.

  “Thank you, Penelope. I’m grateful you thought to get it.” Roslyn swallowed as she fought back tears. You’re forgiven. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I truly was angry when you first showed up today, but, I’ll admit, it turned out to be for the best. Thank you for being willing to take care of Emmy.”

  Penelope blinked and fumbled her fingers inside her left sleeve until she pulled out a handkerchief, dyed black like everything she wore. “That means so much to me, Roslyn. I know we don’t always see things the same way, but what I said before is true. Once Ma is gone, except for Emmy and this baby I’m carrying, you are my only other close family. I can’t bear the thought of losing you, too.”

  “You haven’t lost me, although I’m sure there are times you wish you could. I’ll write once I get settled at the stagecoach station.”

  Penelope sighed and dropped her hand into her lap. “I’ll miss you. Roslyn, if you are determined to dress in men’s clothes and somehow convince them you are Ross, please be careful.”

  “I’ll be careful, Penelope. I’ll miss you, too.”

  Roslyn slipped behind the privacy screen and quickly used the chamber pot. She washed her hands and then tossed the sliver of soap in Emmy’s bag. She settled the baby on her left shoulder before she hiked the tow sack on the opposite side and picked up her carpetbag. “We need to leave the room. Emmy and I have a stagecoach to catch. You do, too, don’t you?”

  Penelope rose and picked up her own bag. “Not until this afternoon. Perhaps they will allow me to wait in the lobby downstairs so I don’t have to stand out on the street.”

  .

  .

  .

  .

  Chapter 6

  ~o0o~

  Between Junction City and Ellsworth, Kansas

  May 1, 1866

  W hile he waited inside the otherwise empty coach, Elam felt his stomach tying in knots. If Roslyn Welsh was true to her word, she should arrive soon. Unless someone else showed up to buy a ticket, from what Isaac Peterson told him, he and the striking redheaded woman with her baby would be the only two on this leg of the journey—at least, as far as Abilene. Not knowing how she would react to finding him sharing the conveyance with her, he did not know if it would be a good thing or a bad thing.

  He had heard the others call her Roslyn—a pretty name for a woman. He wondered where she came up with the name Ross. Based on what he saw yesterday and what he overheard the cousin say earlier today, she had used the name before. Did she choose it because it was similar to her real name, or had there been someone close to her named Ross?

  Not for the first time, Elam fingered the crutches and Spencer repeating rifle that stood on end. He braced them between his straight wooden leg and the side of the coach. If he ended up having the bench to himself, as he hoped, he would move them so they lay flat. If he had his druthers, he would remove his wooden prothesis that joined the stump right above where his left knee used to be and set it aside so he could travel without it rubbing against the end of his stump. Sometimes, it was easier to get around and more comfortable using the crutches. Unfortunately, seeing a man with a missing leg put people off and prompted them to turn away, even more than seeing a man who walked with an awkward gait due to a stiff wooden leg. Right then, the last thing he wished was put off Roslyn Welsh any more than she already was after what happened earlier that morning.

  Upon hearing Isaac’s voice outside, Elam stiffened in anticipation. He felt the vehicle slightly rock as he listened to the scraping behind him. He guessed something had been loaded in the back boot. His right foot—the good one of flesh and bone—pressed his battered and fraying knapsack he had carried during the war tighter against the base of the bench. He faced the door as it swung open.

  Just as he hoped, it was her. Beneath her straw bonnet that had seen better days, he studied the fair skin. Now it was no longer covered with a smear of street dirt like she was trying to give the appearance of teenage boy peach fuzz, he saw that her cheeks and nose were dusted with pale freckles. Clutching the blanket that encased her infant with one hand, she lifted her skirt with the other as she focused on stepping inside the coach. He held his breath as he waited for her to spot him. Once she raised her gaze until it reached his face, she froze in place for several seconds before she turned her head away and continued her climb inside. She sat on the bench across from him and in the opposite corner—as far from him as she could get and still be in the coach. He said nothing as she settled in. She slid the strap of the bag he knew held the baby’s things off her shoulder and placed it on the bench next to her.

  “Hello, Mrs. Welsh. I’m right pleased to see you again, hopefully under better circumstances than earlier today.”

  Roslyn nodded. “Mr. Stewart. No offense if I appear less than enthusiastic finding you here. I had hoped to escape being around anyone who witnessed that humiliating scene in front of the hotel.”

  “Nothing to be discomfitted over. Once you figured what you was up against, I thought you handled it right smart.” He hesitated. “Mrs. Welsh, with this here leg of mine, it helps to be sitting on this end of a bench. I’d have been happy to sit where you’re sitting so I’d be the one facing the rear, but I didn’t want to put you out none having to climb over me to get inside. If you’d favor riding facing forward, I’d be right pleased to swap seats.”

  “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Stewart. Where I’m sitting is fine. Here may be better for keeping the wind and dust blowing through the window from getting all over Emmy.”

  Elam experienced a wave of relief that she responded with genuine politeness instead of stiff annoyance. “Emmy, that what you call her? Right smart name for a girl.”

  “Thank you. I named her after my ma. Her real name is Emma, but I call this little one Emmy to distinguish her from Ma.”

  Elam’s body jerked back and then forward as the stagecoach began moving. He noticed Roslyn clutch the baby even tighter to keep her from falling. He relaxed in his seat and sighed. Good. For this part of the journey, anyway, it would only be the two of them traveling in the stagecoach. Once the coach settled into a rhythm, he watched the woman who, with eyes closed, leaned her head against the wooden wall behind her seat. As much as he would like to learn more about her, he knew he must allow her to rest. He remembered enough about having babies in the house when he still lived at home to know they could disturb a household at all hours of the day and night, and folks had to get their sleep when they could.

  “I know I can be outspoken and meddle where I have no business to, but why are you on this stagecoach headed west, Mr. Stewart? I thought you…uh…I mean, don’t you have a job back in Junction City?”

  Elam suppressed a smile. She almost admitted she knew he worked at the livery. She would have had no way of knowing that except the day before, she had been there dressed as a young man named Ross. “Ain’t nothing wrong with being outspoken, ma’am. I worked on and off at different jobs, but the man who owns the livery where I picked up most of my work said he don’t need me again for at least a week. He done told me he hoped there’d be no hard feelings, but if I found something better, to up and take it.”

  Roslyn sat up straight and opened her eyes so her gaze focused on him. “And did you find something better?”

  “Yes, ma’am. After Mr. Peterson said he’s looking for more stock tenders, I talked him into hiring me on.” He waited while her eyes surveyed his crutches and stiff leg that jutted out straight as it rested on the center bench of the coach. “I done told Mr. Peterson about getting shot in the leg during the war. I don’t move right quick around the animals, but I can take care of them. Plus, I done won him over with what else I can do.” Elam patted his rifle. “I growed up in the woods shooting game all my life. I already proved myself a fair sh
ot before I joined up at the start of the war. When they mustered me out, I took part of what was owed me in this here Spencer and a full cartridge box I got in my knapsack. Figured I could be right helpful to Mr. Peterson if them Cheyenne take a notion to visit the station.”

  Elam watched Roslyn turn away and shudder. She pulled her baby tighter against her body. He guessed she relied heavily on Isaac’s assurance the station was a safe place to live. He suspected the woman possessed a certain amount of bravado, but it ended when it came to putting her baby in danger.

  “I didn’t say that to put the fear in you, ma’am. It’s just, you never know what them Indians will do.”

  Roslyn offered a weak smile. “After what I’ve been through in recent years, it takes a lot to put the fear in me. It just sounds strange to be addressed as ma’am. If you were paying attention earlier, you know I’m not really a widow.” She closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. “I’ve never been married.”

  “Don’t matter. You got yourself and that baby to think about now. It’s best you pass yourself off as a widow, same as you done earlier, until your cousin showed up and upset the apple cart.” Only, how you going to explain you having the same married last name as your brother?

  Emmy woke and began to fuss.

  Elam watched as Roslyn bounced the baby in her arms and cooed soothing words in the infant’s ears.

  Emmy refused to settle. Her mouth open, she pressed her face into Roslyn’s shoulder in search of what she wanted.

  Elam canted his head and studied the woman with interest as the baby grabbed a fistful of her mother’s hair and pulled it loose from the bun. He noticed it was short, barely shoulder-length. Roslyn pulled the hair free of the baby’s grasp and shoved it once more beneath her well-pinned chignon.

  While wearing a ghost of a smile, Elam looked away. So that’s how she done it. She cut the bottom short and, while she’s being Ross, lets it hang. Reckon the rest she wears under that floppy-brimmed hat of hers. When she dresses as Roslyn, she uses pins to tuck the short ends beneath her bun. After waiting long enough to allow her to right herself, he turned back.

  A stricken expression on her face, she glanced at Elam before she began digging in Emmy’s bag. “I’m going to have to feed her. Before we left, I wasn’t able to give her enough to satisfy her, and…and, besides, after being away from her for two days, I need to feed her more often for a while to build myself up again.”

  “You got any water with you?” Elam watched her shake her head. He pulled free the canteen he had slung over his shoulder—the one he still owned from his Army days. It had been his from before he had been injured during Wilson’s raid through Alabama and Georgia. He held it up for her to see. “Don’t mind me none. Used to see Ma feeding the young’uns whole time I was growing up.” He pulled the cork out and let it hang by its chain that kept it attached. Using the inside tail of his wool coat, he rubbed the lip before he handed it to her. “She used to always sip on a cup of tea or glass of water when she nursed, said it helped her be sure she always had enough for the baby.” He nodded toward the canteen. “It won’t offend me none if you want to wipe it again, but best you drink while you take care of her.”

  “Thank you. With everything that went on this morning, I haven’t had anything to drink since breakfast.” Roslyn took the offered canteen and wiped it again with the corner of a clean diaper before she tipped her head back and took several deep swallows. She handed it back to him.

  Elam accepted the canteen and replaced the cork stopper, slapping it tightly in place with the flat of his palm. “That there jacket you got on ought to cover you good enough, I figure there’s no need in this heat you burying the baby under no blanket—unless you just want to. I’ll turn my back, give you a mite more privacy.” With that, Elan turned his upper body away from her and braced himself by pressing his good foot against the center bench. More than ever, the cup of his prosthesis rubbed against his stump and the straps pulled against his shoulders due to the unnatural position he forced himself into. He wished once more he had removed his wooden leg before he entered the stagecoach. Ma said pride comes before the fall. Still, didn’t want her seeing me with no empty pant leg.

  Elam gripped the frame of the window to keep from sliding off the seat. While listening to the faint noises of a nursing baby, he held his position for what seemed like a half hour, although he knew far less time passed. After a pair of belches that sounded like they came from a full-grown man, he detected the faint scent of urine.

  “You may turn around now, Mr. Stewart. I just need to finish changing her, then, hopefully, all this rocking will help her go back to sleep.”

  “The leather suspension that causes all the rocking is a caution, ma’am, but it beats riding on them hard wagons with no springs.” Elam eased back into a more comfortable position and watched the woman before him, two safety pins in her mouth, tug a dry diaper in place. One by one, she ran the pointed shaft of the pins through her hair and used them to secure the cloth. She folded the used diaper in a tight bundle and set it on the bench while she dug inside the baby’s bag. She pulled out another diaper, still in the shape of having had the excess moisture wrung out of it, and sniffed it. Apparently satisfied with what she found, she untwisted it and snapped it open. She held the baby to her shoulder with one hand. With the other, she wrapped a corner of the cloth around her fingers and held it outside the window to flap in the outside air.

  She sighed. “I’m sorry you must travel under such unpleasant conditions, Mr. Stewart. I used her last dry diaper.” She nodded toward the cloth hanging outside the coach. “This one, at least, I had time to rinse out before I had to leave the hotel room to catch the stagecoach. I hope I can stop at the next station long enough to rinse the others out so I can get them dried, too.”

  “Don’t discomfit me none. You do what you got to for her.”

  Seeing Roslyn behave as a devoted mother did not bother Elam in the least. What concerned him was his suspicion that she intended to adopt the persona of Ross at a frontier stagecoach station in an area of hostile Indian activity. It was bad enough her behaving that way in a civilized town where the women would look down on her and snub her, and the men would make derogatory remarks. However, in a male-dominated station, where most of those hired probably were less inclined to behave civilly around her—even as a woman, but especially dressed in mannish clothes—that bothered him a great deal.

  Why he cared, Elam had no idea. All he knew was, ever since the day before, when he realized he was looking at a woman, he had not been able to get her out of his mind. Seeing her this morning, dressed in women’s clothes with her reddish hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head, had sent a frisson like the coming of a lightning storm coursing through him. He had felt drawn to her. With nothing strong enough to hold him in Junction City, he felt an unexplainable compulsion to stay close to her—to go where she intended to go. Although he was not the man he used to be—not anyone who would interest her—there were ways he could look out for her from afar.

  What did she have planned when she suggested brother Ross might be interested in a job as a stock tender? Did she think they would accept that Ross mysteriously appeared and disappeared at will, leaving Roslyn in place when he was not around? Elam suspected she would need someone to protect her.

  Elam could not resist the temptation to goad—to possibly prod the woman to open up regarding her plans for Ross. “Your brother, the one you said you planned on coming to the station as a stock tender, he know how to shoot a gun?” Her words when she replied were so soft, he almost did not hear them over the noise of the turning coach wheels and hoof beats outside.

  “Ross fought in the war. He knows how to use a rifle.”

  From her tone of voice, Elam guessed Roslyn did have a brother—or had one—and he did fight in the war. Did he survive?

  “What about a pistol? He good with a pistol?” Elam studied Roslyn as her face stiffened and she turned to glare at him. She
knows I know it was her I met yesterday, but she don’t want to admit it. Elam held her gaze as he waited for her answer. It was information he needed to know in order to help keep her safe, especially if she insisted on assuming the role of “brother Ross.”

  “Ross is better with a long gun, especially a shotgun, but he can handle a pistol. What’s more, he can get around faster than you can. He’ll do fine.”

  That time, she was talking about herself, not the real Ross. Elam sat back and turned his gaze toward the scenery outside the window. Reckon I done got told.

  What really grated was that she was right about her getting around faster than he could. It would not have been the case a year and two months earlier, before he took the bullet that shattered his left shin. Back then, he would have run circles around Miss Roslyn, or “brother Ross,” or the real Ross, or just about man. Now, he was nothing but an almost useless cripple with a wooden leg. He couldn’t do much, but a man had to have a purpose to keep living. Right now, his purpose would be to do what he could to protect this woman and her baby, whether she wanted his help or not.

  .

  .

  .

  .

  Chapter 7

  ~o0o~

  Ellsworth Stagecoach Station, Kansas

  May 2, 1866

  A fter riding the coach for the better part of two days, once Roslyn heard the horn, she knew they must be approaching a station. This one should be Ellsworth, her destination. Holding Emmy away from the window and the dust boiling up from the spinning wheels, she stuck her head out in an attempt to get her first glimpse of her new home. She quickly realized she was on the wrong side of the stagecoach.