by Hebby Roman
There was the Sargent Hotel, but they couldn’t afford it. And there were precious few other rooms to let in the small town. Again, she was trapped by circumstances, and for the sake of her mother, she had to overlook Mrs. Brackett’s wagging tongue.
Not that their room was much. Originally, it had been a goat shed until Mr. Brackett had tired of keeping the animals, claiming they ate everything in sight, including his wife’s laundry when it was hanging outside.
He’d upgraded the built-on shack when they’d moved in after her father’s death, adding more planks to secure the walls, and loaning them a pot-belly stove for warmth and simple cooking.
She raised her head and gazed at Maxine. “Everything is fine. I’ve been given extra duties. I’m to help Miss Phillips, Mrs. Gregor’s nurse, along with working in the laundry.”
Maxine’s eyes widened, and she must have realized what her gossiping had wrought because she had the good grace to look down and clear her throat. “You’ve been given extra duties?”
“Yes.”
“I hope they’ve offered you extra pay.”
“No.”
“I see.” Maxine gulped, glanced out the big front window and back again. “Well, um, I understand.” She tried to smile, failed, and bobbed her head. “You best go on back. I looked in on your mother, and she’s doing fine, but she’s worried about you being late.”
“Thank you,” Crissy said.
Maxine came from behind the counter, grabbing up some items. “Here are a few extras for being such good tenants—a cone of sugar and a bag of coffee. I noticed y’all were almost out.”
She turned to a slab of meat, hanging behind the counter. “And Wally brought in some fresh venison.” She took a big hunting knife and carved off a few pieces of backstrap, wrapping them in brown paper. “Here’s a little something for tonight’s supper.”
Crissy accepted the packets of food, knowing them for what they were, guilt gifts. “Thank you, Mrs. Brackett. It’s kind of you,” she said between gritted teeth. “I’ll pay you when I get my wages.”
“No, no.” Maxine waved her hands. “You don’t have to pay, and please call me Maxine, not Mrs. Brackett. They’re gifts. Please?”
“All right, Maxine. It’s kind of you, and I’ll be sure to tell my mother.”
At least, the woman appeared to regret her loose lips, but she’d made their life in Brackettville more precarious. If her mother hadn’t been ailing, Crissy would pull up stakes and move to a place where no one knew their past.
It had been the original reason her father had brought them here—to start over. But he’d been killed in an accident after a few weeks on the job.
Not knowing what else to do, her mother had returned to her former profession, but discreetly, because the town was small. She’d entertained strangers, stagecoach passengers who were passing through, never any of the locals or soldiers.
But after a few weeks, her mother had taken sick. She was tired all the time and coughed a lot. Dr. Irving had said it was consumption but with rest, her mother might recover.
“Well, I won’t keep you.” Maxine wiped her hands on her apron.
Crissy bowed her head and walked down the long hallway connecting the former goat shed to the back of the house.
Her mother, Mary Shannon, was sitting in the windowless room, staring at a small fire in the pot belly stove. When she heard the door open, she jumped to her feet, and stood tottering, weak and off balance.
Crissy dumped the food on the table and embraced her mother.
Her mother reached up and patted her cheek. “Daughter, you’re so late. I was worried. I thought—”
“I’m sorry, Mama.” She bent and gave her mother a peck on the cheek. She took her mother’s hand and led her back to the bed. “Shouldn’t you lie down for a while? I’ll reheat the biscuits and fry up the venison Maxine gave us. Are you hungry?”
Her mother sank onto the bed, coughing and covering her mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m glad you’re home. I was worried.” She smiled. “Fried venison sounds good. I’m a bit hungry.”
Crissy nodded. “I’m glad.” She glanced at her mother, noticing she looked thinner.
Crissy got out a skillet and melted some bacon grease they’d saved. She sliced the backstrap and coated it in flour, seasoned with salt. Soon, the tantalizing odor of frying meat filled the tiny room. She reheated her skillet biscuits and stirred up some gravy with the venison juices.
With supper cooked, Crissy and her mother sat at the table, held hands, and said grace. Hungry from all the extra work today, Crissy dug in and ate quickly, sopping up the last drops of gravy with a biscuit.
Her mother, on the other hand, though she’d said she was hungry, ate a few bites of the venison and nibbled on one biscuit.
She started coughing again, and Crissy brewed some tea with honey and a dash of apple cider vinegar. She put her mother back to bed and brought the medicinal tea to her.
Her mother’s brown eyes were suspiciously bright, and Crissy checked her forehead for fever. She seemed a bit warm but not too feverish. She’d learned her mother often had fever with her condition, and Dr. Irving had said to bathe her temples with cool water.
Crissy left her mother drinking tea and stepped through the back door to the well to draw fresh water. When she returned, her mother had finished her tea and had her tattered deck of playing cards out, spread in a mysterious fashion across the plain quilt on the bed.
Her mother had learned how to tell fortunes from one of the other “girls” who’d worked at the Tin Star in San Antonio. The other lady had claimed to have gypsy blood and knew how to read the cards. To Crissy’s way of thinking, it was a lot of superstitious nonsense, but it gave her mother something to do. For that, she was thankful.
Crissy made her mother lie back while she bathed her face with the cool water. She wrung out the washcloth and dampened it again, laying it across her mother’s forehead. Her mother sighed and clasped her hand.
“You’re such a comfort to me. I don’t know what I would do without you.” Her mother squeezed her hand.
“Oh, Mama, you know I would do anything for you. I want you to get well.”
“I know, and I wish you could stay with me. I get lonely. I hope you won’t be late again.”
Crissy sucked in her breath. She didn’t want to alarm her mother, but there was no help for it. She had to tell her, had to explain.
“I’m afraid I’ll be coming home late for the next few weeks, Mama. I’ve been given extra duties.”
Her mother sat up straight and removed the washcloth. “At the laundry? Will they pay you more? We can always use the money.”
That was an understatement.
They barely got by on what she made with little enough to spare for things like clothes, or the tea and honey, which helped her mother’s cough.
Crissy hated to tell her mother, but she had the right to know the gossip had started. They would need to face the ugly truth together. She didn’t want to name Maxine, though, as her mother depended on their landlady’s kindness.
It was odd Maxine hadn’t said anything before, especially when her mother had been plying her trade in this very room and using the back door to let in her customers. But Nurse Phillips was a strong character. For all Crissy knew, the nurse had pressured Maxine into revealing her mother’s past.
Why couldn’t people mind their own business?
“Mama, I won’t be paid extra.” She took another deep breath. “Miss Phillips, who’s the nurse for the commander’s wife, needs my help, now Mrs. Gregor is worse—”
“Oh, no, God bless her. Poor Mrs. Gregor.” Her mother bent her head. “I will pray for her.”
Her mother was tender hearted, despite her own misfortunes and illness. Crissy had to turn her face away; she didn’t want her mother to see her tears.
“But if the nurse for the commander’s wife needs help, why shouldn’t they pay
you?” Her mother asked. “It’s only fair if—”
“There’s nothing fair about it.” Crissy faced her mother and snagged her mother’s gaze. “Somehow, Miss Phillips learned of your prior profession, and she’s using it to make me work for her. Otherwise, she will go to the commander, and I’ll lose my job.” She shook her head. “I don’t have any choice.”
Her mother gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Crissy, and we were careful. How could it be—?”
“I know we were careful, but people talk.” She shrugged.
And they’d tried to be cautious. Crissy had spent her nights, under the stars in the backyard, sleeping in a bedroll, while her mother earned them a living on her back. Some nights, she’d slept in one of the rockers on the porch of the general store.
Crissy bit the inside of her cheek and tried to blank out her thoughts. When her father had saved enough money to bring them to Fort Clark, her mother had hoped to put her past behind her.
But her mother and father couldn’t marry because Mary Shannon was still married in the eyes of the Church, not knowing if her missing husband was alive or dead, though it had been years since she’d heard from him.
Of course, Mr. Brackett and his wife knew what went on behind their store. At the time, they’d passed no judgment, realizing earning a living in a frontier town for a single woman was difficult.
Her mother caught her hand again. “I’m sorry, so sorry, Crissy, to put you through this. I wish many things had been different in my life. That I’d been a better mother and an honest woman.”
Her mother’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “And now this.” She blew her nose. “I didn’t want you sullied by what I’ve had to do—”
“I know, Mama. I know you didn’t want this kind of life.” She gazed at her mother. “I know you couldn’t help what happened. I don’t blame you, Mama. Really.”
Crissy knew the tragic story of her mother’s past all too well. Her mother had been ill-used and left with few options. It was not a pretty story.
“I love you, Crissy.”
“And I love you, Mama.”
Crissy leaned forward, and they embraced.
Her mother drew back and glanced down at the cards. Her eyebrows arched, flying up like startled starlings and her mouth rounded into an “O.” She bent her head and reshuffled the deck, laying them out again.
She frowned and closed her eyes, sinking against the pillow. “Do we have any more tea?” She pulled out her handkerchief and covered her mouth, going into spasms of coughing.
“Yes, we have more tea. I’ll put the kettle on now,” Crissy said.
“Good girl.”
While she made the tea, her mother gathered up the cards, reshuffled them, closed her eyes, and mumbled under her breath.
She held the cards out to Crissy. “I know you don’t believe in this, but humor me, please? I want you to cut the cards, and I’ll read your fortune.”
“Mama, you know it’s not a question of me believing. It’s forbidden in the Bible to tell fortunes.”
“I don’t do it for pay, just a bit of fun to take my mind off…” She lowered the cards and looked down. “I know how devoted you are to your faith, but I don’t really believe… If you don’t believe, it can’t be a sin. Now can it?” She dabbed at her mouth with her handkerchief. “Besides, I’m feeling better now and after I’ve told your fortune, why don’t we play some pinochle?”
Her mother loved card games and checkers, but lately, she’d been too tired to stay up. Crissy’s heart lightened, hoping her mother was feeling better.
“All right, Mama.” She put the tea on a stool beside her mother’s bed. “It’s a deal. I love playing cards with you, though, you always manage to win.”
Her mother laughed and tossed her head. Like in the old days.
It gladdened Crissy’s heart, seeing her mother happy again, despite what they were facing. She cut the cards.
Her mother shuffled and spread them out across the threadbare quilt.
Crissy gathered together the dirty dishes and placed them in the dry sink. After they finished playing cards, she’d use the remainder of the water to wash them.
Her mother gasped, and she cradled her face with both hands.
Startled, Crissy wondered what her mother saw. Please, not more bad news. Not for her sake, as she didn’t believe in fortune telling, but she didn’t want her Mama to be upset.
Her mother waved her hand, motioning her to the bed. “The cards have wonderful news! You’ll be married by the end of this year to the man of your dreams. He’s handsome and good and kind. And you’ll be very happy together.”
Crissy opened her mouth, but no words came. She didn’t want a man in her life… any man. She’d seen what they could do to women; how they used and discarded them.
Her father had been a gentle man. An immigrant, he’d worked hard and tried to give them a better life but based on what she’d seen, he was the exception.
She didn’t want a husband—any husband. All she wanted was to return to the convent as a lay sister and serve God. She didn’t have the qualifications of a nun, not being of a good family, who could endow the convent. But she could serve the other nuns and lead a quiet and peaceful life. Away from the everyday world and all its ugliness.
Her mother’s hazel eyes were wide and sparkling with joy. She was obviously happy, and they had precious few happy moments to share.
She put aside her qualms and said, “Thank you, Mama. It makes me glad to know I’ll find someone to love and care for me.”
“Yes, and you’ve already met him. You just don’t realize he’s the one.”
Her heart turned over in her chest, and she felt the flush of heat spreading from her neck to her face.
Yes, she’d met a man, a Sergeant Donovan. And heaven help her, she’d be hard-pressed to withstand his charm. He was more than handsome, with his dark curly hair, turquoise eyes, mischievous smile, and a dimple in his left cheek.
It was uncanny, her mother seeing such a thing in the cards, especially after what had happened today. But it was probably a coincidence. She didn’t believe in such stuff and nonsense.
Chapter Three
Davie pulled out a handkerchief from inside the vest of his dress uniform. He mopped his forehead and the back of his neck. When he entered the barracks, he found the building empty. Not too surprising, they had the day off, and most of his fellow soldiers had headed to town, using their free time to get drunk at the Spring Street Saloon.
He shucked out of his heavy wool uniform and folded it carefully, storing it in his locker. He changed into a white cotton shirt and a pair of patched dungaree trousers. He rummaged through his trunk, grabbing his sketch pad and some lead pencils.
He left the quiet building and crossed the parade grounds, heading for Las Moras Springs and the large pool of water it fed. He looked forward to the cool grove of live oaks rimming the pond and hoped, though it was the middle of the day, to glimpse some of the wild critters who came to the springs.
‘Twas a sad day at Fort Clark—Lieutenant Colonel Gregor, the fort’s commander—had lost his wife. All the fort had turned out for her funeral and burial, except the twenty men who’d been chosen by lot to stand guard duty.
After the funeral was over, the soldiers were given their leisure. Davie had glimpsed Crissy with her fellow laundresses. They had formed a row behind Mrs. Garza, wearing dark dresses and looking like a flock of blackbirds, lined up on a tree branch.
When the commander had dismissed them, he’d almost gone after Crissy. At the last minute, he’d changed his mind. For the past few weeks, he’d made certain to cross her path, more than once. He’d learned her habits and found she was helping Nurse Phillips take care of the commander’s wife. And she and her mother lived behind the Brackett General Store.
Each time he’d approached her, she’d turned away and asked him not to bother her.
Bother her? Hell’s bells, he worshipped her!
She was his angel; he’d taken to going to church on Sundays at the almost-finished St. Mary Magdalene’s in town. He wanted her to know he was a Catholic and an honorable man.
He knew she saw him at Mass and sometimes, he caught her looking at him, as if she was studying him. But when he tried to meet her eyes, she invariably looked away.
He didn’t understand it. He’d not forgotten their kiss, and he could have sworn she’d kissed him back. Now though, she wanted nothing to do with him. And he’d heard some ugly gossip about her mother at the saloon—something that was hard to believe—and one of the reasons he’d wanted to avoid the saloon today.
Sighing, he settled on a large flat stone, overhanging the spring-fed pond. Dragonflies skimmed the surface, the ever-present mosquitos hummed in his ears, and a bass leapt up and snapped at a fly. Across the pond, a spotted fawn broke from the underbrush and gracefully dipped its angular head to the water’s surface.
Davie held his breath and, with the pad on his crossed legs, he sketched the fawn, getting down the deer’s outline before it leapt away and disappeared into the thick undergrowth, probably to join its mother.
Bending over his pad, he filled in the lines and shadings, and slowly but surely, an image of the deer took shape. He stuck out his tongue and bit down on it, concentrating. His hand moved faster, wanting to capture the essence of the fawn before the image, etched on his brain, faded.
Once he had the young deer on paper, he relaxed and glanced up, taking in the quiet peace of the place, and noting the way the trees were formed and the tangled mass of underbrush, along with bright dots of wildflowers.
Sketching the background was easy and freeing. Slowly, tension flowed out of him, washing away in the low gurgle of the springs beneath the pond. He was glad he hadn’t gone to town, happy for the tranquility and harmony of nature. And drawing was his secret pleasure.