Gifts of Love

by Raine Cantrell

  What did count for him was her age. She claimed nineteen years, but she looked younger. He could get three, maybe four good years out of her before he threw her out.

  Erin didn’t fidget. She stood and waited and knew he was silent for some deliberate reason of his own. In her first maid’s position she had been subjected to a housekeeper who enjoyed lining up the staff for morning, afternoon and evening inspections. But she hated being made to feel as if she were no more than a piece of furniture.

  And Jaffery made her wait, playing his own game as he chose a fresh cigar from the carved box on his desk. He clipped off the end, brushed the cigar beneath his nose, sniffing appreciatively, then rolled it between his fingers, listening with a deepening smile to the soft crackle of properly aged tobacco.

  He stuck his match and puffed furiously until the tip glowed. “I do enjoy a good cigar as much as I enjoy a good woman.” Leaning back in his chair, he dropped his gaze to the cigar. “Florence is leaving us. I’ll have to find a girl to replace her.”

  Erin bit the inside of her lower lip, steeling herself for what was coming. Inside her, she screamed, I need time. Just a bit more time! But beyond the blink of her eyes, she offered no visible reaction.

  “You appear to be smart, Erin. You could be making more money if you worked her room.” Jaffery waited, and when she said nothing, he smiled once again. “Florence won’t be taking her clothes with her. She’s about your size, isn’t she? Pretty girl like you would look even better dressed proper. Well, you think about it and let me know.”

  He picked up his newspaper and Erin knew she was dismissed. Without a word she turned and headed for the door, sweat beading her brow. She was going to be sick again.

  “Erin,” Jaffery called, stopping her at the door. “Don’t make me wait too long for an answer.”

  Erin did not make it to her room. She was thankful that most of the women were still sleeping, so that no one witnessed her being sick. She hurried to scrub the wood steps, running up and down the flights of stairs to haul fresh water, and on her last trip brought a bucket up to her room.

  She was splashing tepid water on her face when Maddie came in.

  “Again?”

  Shamefaced, Erin nodded, patting her face dry with a linen cloth.

  “Erin, you’ve got to answer that rancher’s letter. You can’t keep this up or you’ll lose that baby.” Eyeing the dark circles beneath Erin’s eyes, she added, “I don’t think you can wait until something better comes along.”

  Folding the cloth, Erin took a few minutes to form an answer. “I agree. I can’t wait, but I don’t know how I can tell a man I don’t know about the baby. If he’s my only hope of getting away from here and making a home, I could lose him before I have him.” Cupping her flushed cheeks, Erin shook her head. “Listen to me. What am I saying? I don’t want to lie.”

  “Just for a little while, Erin,” Maddie urged. “See if he writes you back again. Make it a point to stress how much you want children. He’s not a god, but a man, and I’m sure he’s looking for a wife and not a saint. Erin, don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself? You can’t punish yourself over what happened. People make mistakes all the time.”

  Erin heeded Maddie’s warning and suggestions along with a few of her own. Later that night, she labored over every word of her reply to Mace Dalton.

  The luck of calm seas and fair winds placed Erin’s letter into Mace’s hands within three weeks.

  Ketch grinned like a beaver eyeing up the first leaves of spring, but Mace was reluctant to open the letter. He waited until everyone was asleep, the fire banked and a small glass of whiskey half gone before he read her reply.

  My Dear Mr. Dalton…Mace almost crushed the paper in his hands. Possessive already? He groaned in despair, his gaze frantic as he searched the darkened corners of the room, looking, always hoping that he would see or hear again the soft, loving voice of his wife.

  “Sky?” he whispered, seeing her touch in the woven hangings on the windows, the rugs, the faded patterns of the pottery. But Mary Blue Sky was dead these past five years. Dead in all but her spirit, which lived within his heart and their children.

  His hand brushed the small tabletop by the side of his chair, coming away with a layer of dust. The whole room, which Sky had taken such pride in, showed neglect. And Mace knew it would be the same in every other room of the house.

  He didn’t need or want a woman for himself, but he didn’t deny that his children needed a woman’s softness. And he certainly didn’t deny the need for a housekeeper. That settled, he again began to read Erin’s letter.

  Since you have made my description a condition of further correspondence, I will supply what details I can first. I was born in May of 1854. My hair is black and my eyes are green. My coloring is called fair. It is most difficult to give you my weight measure, but I believe it is one and one quarter centals.

  Mace paused and frowned. “Cental,” he murmured, then grinned. “So she weighs a little more than a hundred and twenty-five pounds.” His own weight was a fraction less than double hers. He read on.

  My height is almost five and one-half feet. I do hope this information will suffice. I do not have a likeness to send to you. You made mention of hard work. I am not afraid of work, honest work of any kind. In my present employment I often toil from six o’clock in the morning until late evening.

  Mace had to stop again, annoyed that curiosity about this woman’s employment should interfere. What sort of respectable employment carried those hours? And why should he care?

  With his free hand he lifted his glass and sipped his whiskey. He didn’t like the vague image his mind was creating. Erin Dunmore mustn’t be real. What was deviling him that he should wonder how long that black hair was? Or how thick? Was it straight with almost blue-black light when the sun was caught within?

  Like Sky’s? his mind supplied. The whiskey burned his throat as he tossed the last of the drink down. He started to put the letter aside, but stopped himself. There wasn’t all that much more. He could at least finish it.

  Let me reassure you, Mr. Dalton, that the isolation of your home does not deter me. I admit, too, that I was greatly pleased to learn of your having children. I have longed for a family and would be most grateful if you would consider writing more about them. If you feel satisfied with my reply, I shall hope that you will answer me promptly. I must reach a decision shortly. Your response will have some account in my future plans.

  With all respect,

  Erin Dunmore, San Francisco, California

  Mace dropped the letter to his lap. Bringing his steepled fingers to rest against his lips, his thoughts took a serious turn.

  The brief physical description did not satisfy him. He found himself tantalized with the vague image that kept forming. She had offered few clues to herself. This second letter was as neat as the first; not one ink blot marred the paper. Twenty years old and just now looking to marry. There was something wrong with that.

  As his curiosity peaked, he found annoyance surfacing that she in turn had not asked personal questions about his habits or appearance.

  With a grunt of deeper annoyance, he realized that he was put out because she inquired about his children and not himself. What was wrong with her? She was, as he had told Ketch, too good. He was the one she would be marrying. Living with. Sleeping beside.

  But you never intended this to be a real marriage, a voice nagged from the back of his mind. He should be feeling pleased that she cared about the children. It was a point to lend weight in her favor.

  Before he allowed more questions to plague him, Mace rose and lit the lamp on his desk. Drawing a fresh sheet of paper toward him, he sat, dipped his pen into the inkwell and began his reply.

  He found himself glancing at the delicate handwriting time and again as he tried to put some warmth into his words. He was nearly done when he heard Cosi whispering his name.

  “What is it?” Mace called out, turning the lett
er over.

  “You’d better come, Mace. Tariko is down in her stall.”

  The Palouse mare took priority over some faceless woman, and his letter lay forgotten.

  Tariko lifted her head when Mace entered her large box stall. Cosi had already lit several lanterns and hung them from the wooden beams. Mace spoke softly to his prized mare, her value not measured in money, but for being a gift from Thunder Rolling In The Mountain, the chieftain of the Nez Percé Indians.

  Mace knelt in the straw by her head, his big hands gentle as they moved over her black-spotted coat, which whitened toward the rump. She was tough, game, a runner without equal, bred for a man to ride through rough terrain. Murmuring soothing words, he examined her forefeet, turned in so they could toe dance the narrowest pass and wide-heeled to make her surefooted, and listened to her labored breathing.

  “It’s distemper for sure,” Cosi whispered.

  “Seems so. It’s a good thing she’s been away from the herd. Take the colt out and I’ll start making a purge for her.” Mace smoothed Tariko’s velvet nose. “Rest easy, girl. Ketch’ll make you light bran mashes and have you fit in no time.”

  Cosi knew it was a measure of the mares trust that she didn’t stir as he led her colt from the stall. When he returned to Mace he offered to stay with her.

  “No. You get some sleep, Cosi. I’ll tend her.”

  Mace lost track of the days. He ate when Ketch or Becky brought him food, slept when exhaustion forced him to, and often woke to the morning’s light with Jake curled by his side. When Tariko was able to stand on her own three days later, he stumbled out of the barn. He didn’t remember falling into bed, sleeping around the clock, waking at Ketch’s summons.

  He grumbled. Something was nagging him, something that he had left unfinished. Blinking as Ketch pulled aside the thick curtains that covered the two windows in his room, Mace stretched and yawned.

  “What’s the day, Ketch?” Mace growled, fumbling with his quilt until he kicked it free. He felt a stab of guilt for the clumps of mud from his boots that had dried on the quilt and sheet.

  “Nineteenth of December. But don’t be worrying about the letter. I sent it off with a bank draft to cover Erin Dunmore’s traveling expenses.”

  Mace rose in a controlled rush, scowling. “You did what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask her to come. I can’t marry her, Ketch.”

  Ketch saw the anger that Mace was trying to stifle but refused to be swayed by it. “Little late to be letting me know that, boss. Letter’s on its way. Soon she’ll be here.”

  “Damn you! I don’t want her. I can’t have—”

  “Papa,” Becky said, coming into the room, “I brought you coffee.” She came to where her father sat on his bed, holding his head with both hands. “Can we go cut our tree soon?”

  “Tree?” Mace repeated, taking the cup she handed him.

  “The tree for Christmas, boss,” Ketch answered. He knew by the look Mace shot him that it was the last thought in his mind. “Might also think ’bout fixin’ this place up a mite. Give it a sprucin’. Women set a store by those things.”

  “Oh, is the lady coming here?”

  Mace glanced at his daughter’s face. He had to close his eyes, unable to speak, thinking of his children, their need.

  “Boss?” Ketch prodded.

  “Yeah, Becky, she’s coming here.” Shooting another black look at Ketch, he added, “If you want her here so bad, you get the mop detail and spruce up.” He burned his tongue on the hot coffee and ignored Ketch’s mutterings about this place needing more than a mop.

  “Might think ’bout sprucin’ yourself up, too, boss. You look ’bout as black as an ol’ grizzly comin’ from his winter’s sleep, an’ you’re snarlin’ like that ole gray wolf that’s been killin’ calves.”

  Becky’s hand on his arm stopped Mace from answering Ketch. “I’ll help, Papa. I’ll clean and make everything pretty for her. Jake’ll help me. You’ll see.”

  Mace nodded, but refused to look at her. Wolf, house, Christmas tree, kids and sassy-mouth Ketch were welcome to find a home down in Hell’s Canyon. If he had a wife…Yeah, he told himself, if he had a wife he’d be rid of Ketch, kids, house and tree. The wolf would be his only worry.

  Just the thought of being up in the mountains, riding alone through the forest that would thin as the timberline climbed, listening to the sharp cry of the wind in the trees or over the creased ridge tops that made a man feel small, was enough to bring a smile to his lips. Rubbing his bearded face, he turned to Becky, hating his selfish thoughts.

  “Ketch is right. I’m mean as a grizzly. You lend Ketch a hand ’round the house and I’ll take Jake out to look for a tree. Deal?”

  “Deal, Papa.” Becky offered him a too fleeting smile and a quick kiss on his cheek.

  Mace suddenly realized that Becky didn’t laugh or smile nearly as much as she once had. He looked up to see that Ketch was watching her, too.

  “Like I said, boss, a woman’s what you need.”

  “Need, but not want, Ketch. You fix up that room the others used. Chimney wasn’t drawing well last I heard.”

  “But you’re marryin’ this one.” Ketch stopped himself from saying more. Mace’s eyes were bleak and painful to look at. “Sure thing, boss. Me an’ Becky’ll tend to it.”

  Taking the little girl by the hand, Ketch started for the door. He tried to wipe out the sight of Mace’s fingers curling into a fist. The man had to let go of the past. It was eating him from the inside out.

  With the Christmas holiday approaching, Erin’s mood was as dark as the shortening days. She couldn’t help but think of the delicious aromas that rose from the kitchen as the cooks set about outdoing each other with delicate treats meant for their employer’s table. The household staff was allowed an extra afternoon off, but as the under parlor maid, Erin’s best time had been to clean the morning room where the tree was displayed in all its finery.

  Glossy beeswax candles in their round silver holders graced the tips of the weighted branches. Fragile hand-painted ornaments peeked from between the fragrant pine needles. Each day saw new boxes from the elegant shops in the city added to the growing pile beneath the tree.

  But the sweetest and most painful memory came from the image of herself kneeling to feather dust the tiny figures of the crèche. She never understood why anyone would tell the Christmas story with a bit of sadness. Mother, father and child—poor, yes, she didn’t deny that—but they were together. A family.

  Rousing herself from looking into the past again, Erin finished folding the sheets, unable to understand why business seemed to be picking up, not slackening off in this holiday season.

  With every day that passed, she heard the women talking and learned that she was not the only one Jaffery claimed owed him for his expenses. Each woman who worked in his house paid him a handsome share of her money for his operational costs. Every time a group of church ladies banded together and voiced an outcry against the houses of prostitution, political payoffs increased to keep them open.

  To Erin, it appeared to be a vicious circle. The more money Jaffery demanded, the harder and longer the women worked. For most of them the alternative would be the street.

  In the two months she had been here, she had seen a few fights break out, but these days were marked by increased drunkenness, fighting and violence against the women.

  Daily, she prayed for her letter to come. She was exhausting herself trying to fight the desperation that hovered in the back of her mind.

  She set a date of January fifth of the new year as the day she would leave here. Believing herself to be close to four months along, Erin knew the constant running up and down the stairs, too little sleep and her own nerves were draining whatever strength she had. Keeping this baby became the most important goal in her daily struggles.

  Erin confided her plan to leave to Maddie, and the woman, once again coming to her rescue, took up
a clothing donation from the others. Every minute that Erin could steal from her chores was spent tearing garments apart, stealing lace from this one, a flounce from another, and stitching them into more modest styles. All the clothes underwent a transformation, except for the lilac satin robe Florence had left behind.

  Alone in her room, Erin slipped it on, feeling the smooth, lush weight of the robe. She blushed when she saw herself in the mirror. The robe had no fastening but for a tie. The sleeves fell open when she raised her arms to examine the rectangular shape of the material that formed them. The back was thickly embroidered with flowers of every color and shape. The hem trailed behind her when she walked. She felt soft, feminine and just a bit wicked wearing the robe.

  For the first time, she gave some thought to the man behind the letters that might mean her freedom and the realization of her dream.

  What was Mace Dalton like? She had never asked him to describe his own appearance. Not that his looks would matter. As long as he was kind, she didn’t care if he were five feet tall and bald. Maddie’s favorite customer, one of her steadies, was short, balding and portly, but he never hit her, always brought her a gift and left her a little something extra that Jaffery didn’t know about.

  Was he a good father to his children? Her mind supplied the answer before she finished asking herself the question. Of course he was. He had cared enough to keep them and find them another mother. He had made a home for them.

  Would he like her? Erin didn’t know and tried not to care. Freeing her thick black hair from its tightly pinned roll, she shook it until a few waves curled near the ends that brushed her waist.

  She peered closely at her face in the hazed mirror, the shadows beneath her eyes marring the flawless skin she had been blessed with. Her hand curled and drifted down to rest on her stomach, which was still flat, she saw and felt, spreading her fingers.

  “I’ll keep you safe, little one. Mama will make us a home somewhere.”

  “Erin! Erin, it’s here! Where are you?”