“Not a problem,” Becky replied. “I could stand to lie down myself. Growing a baby is exhausting, and I'm no spring chicken. But please take the cake away. James is going to get awfully fat if he keeps picking away at it.”
Giggling, Lydia collected her confection. The icing and flowers had already begun to wilt. I'll wrap it up and give it to the newlyweds tomorrow. “Bye, Becky,” she said to her friend. “Thanks for the talk. It helped me quite a bit.”
“See you tomorrow, Lydia,” she replied. “Remember, we have another meeting of Ilse's infamous committee.”
“Ugh,” Lydia groaned. “I suppose I'll have to explain about that damned petition.” She shook her head. “Fine. It needs to be done. See you then.”
“See you.” Becky waved as Lydia let herself out.
Chapter 4
Lydia carefully arranged some sandwich triangles on a plate, and then had to make a quick cursing grab as it nearly slipped out of her sweaty hands.
“Had to open your mouth, didn't you? Couldn't just make an excuse?” Muttering under her breath, she made her way carefully out of the kitchen into the dining room, where she placed the sandwiches next to the other plates, one piled with cut fruit, and the third with jam thumbprint cookies. “I should just forget about this group and let them find somewhere else to meet… and eat. Why am I contributing to this nonsense?”
Of course, it's too late now. She'd taken a stand and she would have to defend it. And bare my soul to stupid Ilse Jackson. Lydia sighed, inflating her full bosom to nearly obscene proportions, modest neckline or no.
This time, her friends didn't come early. Instead, the entire troupe seemed to arrive en masse, squeezing through the doorway two by two, ignoring the snacks Lydia had so lovingly prepared and taking seats around the dining room.
Ilse arrived last. Entering the room with the air of a displeased princess, she took her position of power and addressed the group.
“While I'm delighted to have received such support for my idea of a Founder's Day celebration, I must say, I was dismayed by the gauntlet thrown down by our most respected host at the end of the meeting. I've spent the whole week thinking of what reason a seemingly respectable business owner of our town would deny such an obvious and helpful measure. The only answer I could think of was that, as a single woman, you must have no idea the harm these loose women wreak on marriages. Thus, I will chalk up your comments to ignorance, but I won't take no for an answer. You're wrong, Lydia Carré, and I expect you to admit it.”
Lydia raised her eyebrows. Then she took a deep breath and spoke, choosing her words carefully to address the issue and not Ilse's sarcastic tone.
“Let me start by asking a question. Should your plan succeed, should you close the saloon, what would become of the women?”
Titters and murmurs greeted her words.
“What difference does that make?” Ilse demanded. “I couldn't care less where they go so long as it's away from here.” She snorted in derision. All around the room, women nodded, thinking no doubt of their own husbands and families.
Lydia nodded, her face hardening. “That's what I thought. All right then, I will not retract my refusal. The petition is a wasted effort because there is no law preventing a saloon from operating. You can pester the mayor, the sheriff and anyone else you like until the cows come home and accomplish nothing.”
She considered them, saw the puzzled frowns, the considering expressions. Then she went in for the kill.
“But that's not the real reason. The fact is, if enough people protest something together, something can be accomplished. My reason for refusing is that closing the saloon and sending the girls on their way is a cruel thing to do. Do any of you know any of those girls? Do you know their names, their ages, the reasons they do what they do? Or do you dismiss them as some kind of foreign creatures? They're not, you know.” She met each set of eyes. Some glared with outright malice. Others looked sad. The rest just appeared confused. But they're listening. That's good. “There are seven of them. Most are under the age of thirty. Most of them feel they have no other choice. The truth is, most women in their situation don't have a choice. Our society sets women up for this, and then takes great delight in taking advantage of them… or shunning them. I'm sure you can figure out who does what.”
Some of the glares turned uncomfortable.
“What do you know about it?” Mary Miller, Ilse's best friend, sneered. “Do you talk to them?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she replied. “I feel bad they get left out of everything, so if I have any leftovers, I take them over there. And I talk to them. Want to know what I found out? They're women just like us.”
“Not like me,” Ilse replied, her nose in the air. “I would rather starve than debase myself that way.”
Lydia laughed in bitter irony. “What a stupid thing to say,” she retorted. “You've never been hungry in your life. You throw a fit if the pot luck is delayed for a long prayer. Imagine not eating for days… for weeks. Until you've experienced real hunger, you have no right to judge what others do.” Ilse fell silent, her porcelain cheeks flushed with anger. Lydia ignored her. “One of the girls up there is named Mary, just like you.” She turned Ilse's snooty young friend. “She looks like you too. Poor thing. She was walking home from school one day and a boy assaulted her. Raped her, right there in the grass. Then he went on and bragged to all his friends about what a slut she was. Everyone believed him, even her parents. They threw her out. Seventeen with nowhere to turn. Another is called Julie. Julie's suitor convinced her to share liberties. Then he left. Then her parents died. With no prospects in sight, she ended up working.”
Against her will, her eyes slid to Becky, whose story was so similar. The lovely blond was tracing the wood grain of the table with one hand, clutching the small swell of her baby with the other.
“The oldest of the 'girls', if you can call her that, is Ruth. She was a respectable married lady until her husband died. With three sons attending universities, she did what she had to do to fund their education. She hopes they never find out how she pays their tuition. Think, ladies. All these working girls have certain things in common. None of them has a saleable skill, and none of them has a father or husband to support her. Think about how fragile that makes a woman.”
While most of her audience still looked confused, Kristina's expression had changed. So had Becky's. I hope she's not angry with me.
“I'm fully aware that I'm blessed. My parents gifted me with a skill and over the years, I've been able to work by cooking, but I lost my family young too. I was only sixteen when the typhoid epidemic robbed me of my parents. That whorehouse, but for the grace of God, would have been my destination too. I can't help but think of Miranda Charles.”
“Now you stop right there,” Ilse hissed. “Miranda is a decent woman.”
“She is,” Lydia agreed, “but she's also a mother who loves her children. What do you think she would refuse to do if it kept her boys fed? She's fortunate her parents are able to help her, because that pension wouldn't keep them alive a year. Kristina.”
The pastor's wife met her eyes, looking nervous.
“You have a skill. With luck, you could use your music to make a living. You're blessed. Becky…”
“I can sew, and sell what I sew. I could get by if I needed to.” Lydia's friend scrubbed at her cheek. “I see your point.”
“But surely,” Kristina protested, “you can't mean to say you want them doing…that! Selling the gift God has given spouses to anyone who comes along. It's monstrous.”
“I know,” Lydia agreed. “I hate prostitution. It's wrong and it takes advantage of the vulnerable, but closing the saloon won't end it. It will hurt those seven women. Several of them are saving up their profits to make a new start somewhere else. If we did somehow manage to shut down the saloon, it would force them to use their savings to relocate, unless, of course, you'd be willing to welcome them into the community.”
; The women began to squirm, no doubt imagining a lady of the evening sweeping up a store where their husbands worked, or acting as clerk in the bank beside a younger brother.
“I know I'm asking hard questions with no good answer,” Lydia said. “I hate that by refusing to do this, I'm endorsing their suffering. But I believe I'm also shortening it. And that is why I can't sign. It's cruel.”
“She's right.” Kristina rose from her chair. “Ilse, you need to scratch my name off that paper. I'm ashamed I ever suggested such a heartless thing. What's wrong with me?” She looked at Lydia, stricken.
“You didn't realize,” she told the younger woman, “and why would you? Who ever thinks of these things? But I'm glad you understood.”
The breathless silence in the room broke out into pandemonium as women began to quarrel among themselves. Some protested Lydia's view. Others affirmed it. I got them thinking. That's all I can do.
“Ladies, ladies,” she remonstrated, drawing their attention back to her. “I believe we've dealt with this topic enough. We have lots of planning to do for Founder's Day. Let's plan.”
Unfortunately, the genie could not be returned to the bottle. Angry over the unexpected turn of events, the women trailed out, Ilse leading the way.
Lydia stumbled to the counter, planted her hands between the uneaten trays of snacks and hung her head, breathing deeply.
A hand closed around her arm and Kristina's soft voice said, “Thank you.”
Lydia nodded, not trusting her voice.
“It's hard to force people to think, isn't it?” Becky asked. “But I'm glad you did.” She rubbed circles on the larger woman's back. “You were right, even if most of them will never admit it.”
“I've offended too many people,” Lydia said in a shaky voice. “I'm going to lose so much business I'll have to close up.”
“No you won't,” Kristina said wryly. “I bet you have the best week ever. Everyone will be coming in to see who else dared to show up.”
Though she felt rather like tears, Lydia laughed. “How like most people that would be.”
“It would,” Becky agreed. “And you have at least two people on your side, you know.”
“Make that three,” another voice said from the vicinity of the doorway. Lydia, Becky and Kristina turned to see who had come in.
“Addie?” Lydia blinked several times. “What can I do for you? I hate to tell you, but the café is closed.”
“I know,” she replied. “I was out buying some supplies at the general store and a whole bunch of ladies came in. I heard a lot of pointless yammering that didn't add up, so I wanted to see what it was all about. I mean, what I was hearing sounded scandalous, but you were nicer to me than you had to be, and I like a good scandal now and again. Plus, that black-haired woman stuck me as pretty obnoxious. How can I help?”
Lydia couldn't help but smile. “Would you like to join the cooking committee? Our town is celebrating Founder's Day. You can cook, right?”
The younger woman rolled up her sleeves. “Yes, ma'am. Put me to work!”
The three cells in the tiny jail all stood empty, which was just as well. Dylan's mind was so far from police work, he would probably have been chatting up whatever drunk happened to be on hand. Instead he sat with his feet up on the desk, staring at the newspaper but not taking in a single word. His mind kept conjuring black hair out of the ink and soft fabric out of the paper. Lydia. What on God's green earth took me so long? Now the reasons no longer made sense to him. Only the third day of their official courtship, and he couldn't remember what life had been like before her kisses. I don't want to imagine.
The door swung open, hitting the far wall with a resounding crash. Dylan jumped and his chair tipped over, dumping him onto the floor.
“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.”
Dylan rose from his undignified heap to greet Jesse West, who had just stepped in out of the blistering Kansas sun.
“My fault,” Dylan replied. “I was daydreaming. But I thought I told you three days. It's only been two.”
“I like to stir up trouble,” Jesse replied with an unrepentant grin. “Actually, Addie wanted to spend some time with the women of town, and I think she was headed to see Miss Carré. I get antsy when I don't have enough to do, and that hotel room feels like it's closing in on me, so I decided to come see what's happening over here.”
“You'll need a place of your own soon,” Dylan commented.
“I know,” Jesse replied. “Do you know of anything?”
Dylan considered. “There's one place, but I'm not sure what you or your wife would think. Wade Charles, my previous deputy, who was killed, built it for his wife and their sons. They were happy there, but…”
“I see your point. Addie is a pragmatic girl, but I'll have to run it past her. Still, a home intended for a family sounds like a good start. What was he like?”
“Wade?” Dylan considered. “He was a good man. At home, he loved his wife and wrestled with his boys. The neighbors complained about the noise of all their playing, but Wade pointed out to them that since he was a lawman, he wasn't going to arrest himself, and certainly not for noise, so they should quit fussing.”
Jesse grinned. “I like the sound of him.”
Dylan continued. “I think you would have liked him. Shame how things worked out. Here at work, he was cool and calm, always. No criminal, no matter how abusive, ever ruffled him.”
Jesse appeared to be deep in thought. At last he spoke. “I may be filling his position, but I won't be replacing him. I'm used to doing things a certain way. I know you're in charge, but following orders might not come too easy for me. Up to this point I've been a free agent. Wanted dead or alive leaves a lot of room for interpretation.”
“I suspected as much,” Dylan told him. “I do expect, if I give you a direct instruction, for you to follow it, but I didn't hire you to be an automaton. I want your ideas. You may see things from a perspective I didn't consider.”
“I hope to,” Jesse replied.
“Take a seat, West,” Dylan said, indicating the second chair, which he'd shoved into the corner to make room for his sprawling. “Show me what you can do.”
Jesse grinned again and dragged the seat into position beside the sheriff. “So, tell me more about this train robber problem. What's going on?”
Dylan dug around in the drawers of his desk and brought out several newspaper clippings as well as notes written on heavy white paper in a small, precise hand.
“Last year this band of robbers pulled of more than a dozen heists. Mostly they robbed trains, but they also hit a few banks. They kept their faces covered and the victims never could agree on any descriptions.”
“Most likely there was a large group,” Jesse pointed out. “Robbing trains requires more planning than anyone realizes.”
Dylan nodded. “That was my thought as well. Anyway, as time passed, they grew savvier, but also more violent. The last robbery was the worst. They killed several passengers on the train. It was only by the grace of God that Cody and Kristina got through unharmed.”
“That was the day Deputy Charles was killed?” Jesse asked.
Dylan nodded, scowling into his mustache. “Yeah. Hit by a stray bullet, poor man. That was a pretty small group of robbers. We killed one outside, and two got away. In the train, one was killed – Cody said they called him 'boss' – and one was captured. A lot of folks figured the trouble was over…”
Jesse shook his head. “Not a chance. Unless they're super smart, really strong and motivated, I find it hard to believe an operation like that would be run by only a handful of men. I would guess the boss was in charge of that operation. A flunky, but a high level one, under the direction of a more powerful leader.”
Wow. Dylan regarded Jesse with new respect. “You pegged it exactly. The one we captured let out that much. He said the real boss was his father, and if we didn't let him go, there would be hell to pay. He was right.”
“So th
at's when they started targeting the town?” Jesse guessed.
“Yeah,” Dylan agreed. “It's been all Rob and I could do to keep the streets guarded so incidents like the firebombing at Mrs. Heitschmidt's shop didn't become commonplace. That was the worst, but there's been quite a bit of petty mischief. Thefts, small fires, properties damaged. It was never enough to create all-out panic, but fear is simmering. We had to create a citizen's patrol to keep watch at night.”
“Seems pretty quiet now,” Jesse commented, scratching his golden hair.
Dylan nodded. “Something weird happened. I figured the violence would escalate, especially after the hanging, but it didn't. The harassment has virtually stopped, except for these letters.” He indicated the stack of paper on the desk. “They threaten all kinds of dire consequences, mostly to me, but a few to Cody. They're postmarked Colorado.”
Jesse's face turned to an image of intense concentration. He lifted one hand and made a gesture Dylan couldn't interpret before cupping his chin, one finger tapping his lips. “Something happened to the operation. Something not related to this town. If they're reduced to writing letters and even the small-scale harassment has stopped, it stands to reason their gang got hit hard by something…” His eyes widened and he sucked in a noisy breath. “Could it be… it all fits.”
“What are you thinking, West?”
Jesse shook his head. “It's a wild idea, Sheriff, but all the facts fit. Addie and I met in Colorado. We traveled across the southeastern part of the state. One evening we got attacked by some ruffian. We managed to put him out of our misery, but later on I got to thinking. They'd been having problems too, but not with train robbers. Homesteads and farms were being looted and burned. I put together a posse and we rousted out a huge nest of criminals. Caught almost the whole crew. Only the leader and his flunkey got away.”
“You think it's the same crew?” Dylan asked, startled. “What a coincidence that would be.”
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