Western Ways

by Tysche Dwai

  “I’m sorry. It appears our journey has ended rather precipitously. We have arrived at St. Angel’s.”

  Precipitously? Of course. Only an educated person would use such a word in normal conversation.

  Grace stared at a narrow, three-story red brick building. She read the engraved sign above the doorway. St. Angel’s Home for Women.

  Mr. O’Connell eased from the buggy, then assisted her to the ground. She shook out her skirts, aware of his tall, substantial body before her. Looking up, she met the gentle look on his face. Then he bowed and, with a hand at her waist, guided her up the stairs to her new home.

  A tall woman dressed head to toe in gray wool opened the door, allowing them entrance. “Miss Morgan, I assume,” the severe woman said, closing the door behind them.

  Her frosty tone would have put off any other woman. Not Grace. Looking her square in the eye, Grace murmured, “I am. And you must be Mrs. Couture.”

  Mrs. Couture nodded and folded her arms across her narrow chest.

  Giving the sourpuss of a woman a sweet smile, Grace said, “Would you be so kind as to find someone to carry in my valises, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Couture glared down her pointy nose at Grace. “The coach driver will do it momentarily.” She swept a long look at Grace, staring at her midsection.

  It took all of Grace’s fortitude to remain silent under the woman’s rude scrutiny.

  “So,” Mrs. Couture said, nodding curtly at John, “he the father, is he? How come he’s not marrying you?”

  Chapter Two

  John’s narrowed eyes, took in the proprietress then Grace, his gaze settling on her stomach, which appeared slim as a young girl’s. But he groaned inside as he deciphered the meaning of the woman’s words.

  St. Angel’s Home for Women must be a place for fallen women to stay—ones who’d had the misfortune to get in the family way.

  Grace raised her chin. “This gentleman is not the responsible party. Now then, I’d like to view my rooms, especially since I paid for them several months ago.”

  The woman sniffed. “As you wish.” She turned on her heel and added, “Follow me.”

  Grace took a step after her. John stopped her by grabbing her elbow. “You could have told me you were...”

  “Pregnant?” she said curtly, pulling her arm from his grasp “Once again, sir, it’s none of your business.”

  John scowled into her flashing eyes, then raked his fingers through his hair. “You’re right. It’s not. I just want to help you.”

  “Why? Because your mama would want you to?” She stepped away from him and headed down the hallway.

  The woman was too perceptive. He couldn’t help his behavior due to his upbringing, unable to leave any woman in distress. “Grace! Wait.” The intimate familiarity of her name escaped him before he could prevent it.

  She stopped, turned to face him. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. O’Connell. It isn’t often people would think to help a stranger, especially one without apparent morals.”

  “If you need anything...”

  “I don’t require your assistance.”

  “I understand,” he said, his gaze settling on her waistline. She glanced down at her middle, and then met his gaze again.

  “Well, then, good day.”

  Once inside the buggy, he settled back with a sigh. The woman was an enigma, and he had yet to decipher her. One thing for certain, though; she needed a husband and a father for her child. Life for a single woman with a baby could be very difficult.

  At twenty-three he was old enough to be married, yet had far to go in the world to make a living before being able to provide for a wife and family. Besides, he hadn’t been hit by Cupid’s arrow yet, though with Grace, he had to admit, that ‘arrow’ had come close.

  He was as chivalrous as the next man when it came to women, but making a sacrifice like marrying a fallen woman surely qualified more for stupidity than chivalry, and he dismissed Grace from his mind.

  Grace heaved a deep sigh of relief after John O’Connell left. For the rest of the evening, as she unpacked, guilt centered deep inside her. She’d been barely civil to the man, who had only been trying to help her. Then she decided she was justified in her behavior. He was performing the duties of a gentleman only because of his upbringing. She knew how he truly felt; she was a fallen woman and he’d judged her accordingly.

  She shrugged. It didn’t matter. She would likely never see him again anyway. What did she care what he thought of her? And even if he did care for her she would not, could not reciprocate his feelings. Her goal—to settle in a fine home in San Francisco with her aunt and brother—was all that mattered. Only then, afterwards, could she think about her own future, pursuing her writing.

  Tomorrow she’d pay visits to the gambling halls, asking about town as to which would offer her the best luck. While she was skilled, a good dose of luck never hurt.

  John settled into his spacious, furnished apartment located within the University of Montana campus proper. He had been hired as a full-fledged professor after earning his degree in agriculture from the University of Minnesota.

  In 1892, the Montana legislature had taken advantage of the federal Morrill Land Grant Act of 1862 and established the Agricultural, Mining and Mechanical Arts College. The purpose of the college was ‘to promote the liberal and practical education of the industrial classes in several pursuits and professions in life.’ Scientific and classical studies were not to be excluded, but were of secondary importance.

  John felt he’d found his place—educating young people about a way of life that was second nature to him. Not only had he received his education in the field, he’d lived the life of a farmer. And happy he was to leave that hard life behind.

  Turning to his valise that stood in the center of the furnished parlor, he unpacked his belongings. Besides the parlor was a small kitchen with a hotplate and an icebox.

  The bedroom held a comfortable bed and a water closet with a claw-foot bathtub, a true luxury. He’d grown up on the family farm, and his father still hadn’t built a water closet in the house. The outhouse they had functioned just fine, Father proudly replied to his family’s complaints. Bathing in a tub will be a real luxury.

  Tonight, he planned on taking his first bath. No more bathing in a big copper tub in the kitchen as he did at home. Although his home life with his family had been happy, without any of the finer things, he’d vowed to possess those finer things in the near future and rise above his past poverty. Once he purchased his own home, horse and carriage and a houseful of furniture, he’d send money home to better his parents’ meager existence.

  Pulling a notebook from the satchel holding his writing supplies, he took up a pencil and made note of a few furnishings he required. A bookcase or two to house his supply of books would be needed. His parents would be shipping his library soon, along with other personal items he knew he wouldn’t require immediately.

  Sinking down into an over-stuffed armchair covered in a gold brocade fabric and trimmed with tassels, his thoughts wandered to the woman he’d met on the coach. Grace. Lovely name—lovely woman—but ultimately disappointing, due to her condition.

  He shrugged. She was just one of many women he would meet while living and working in Montana. He pulled his watch fob from his waistcoat pocket and noted the time. Five-thirty was the supper hour noted in the teacher manual, and he was starving, not having eaten since morning. After tugging on his gray wool coat, he left his apartment and locked the door behind him.

  When he arrived at the commons-dining area, he pulled on the door handle and found it locked. He peered inside a window, saw only darkness. As he turned away, Mr. Roger Carlson, another professor, stalked toward him.

  “Good evening, Professor Carlson,” John said cordially.

  The elderly man nodded and gave a gruff, “Good evening.” Then he reached down and tried turning the knob. He scowled, glimpsed the time on his watch fob. “Its supper time, isn’t it?”
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  John nodded again.

  “Then why aren’t the doors open?” he asked, rather accusingly.

  “I’ve no idea,” John said.

  Abruptly, the professor hit the side of his head and said, “It’s Friday, isn’t it?”

  John nodded, none the wiser.

  “That’s why the dining room is closed.”

  “The teacher handbook says—”

  “That it opens at five-thirty on every day except Friday. Friday is Cook’s day off. Obviously, you didn’t read the fine print.”

  John groaned. “Apparently not. So, where is the nearest eating establishment?”

  “No idea. I rarely leave the school grounds.”

  “Then how do you manage on Fridays?”

  “I have some fruit and sausage in my apartment to tide me over until breakfast.” Professor Carlson saluted and trudged away.

  Unfortunately, John had no snacks in his apartment. He decided to walk to a restaurant to find his supper. He took his time, ambling up Main Street, having recalled seeing several small eating establishments on the ride to the college. Bozeman appeared to be spread out with neatly boarded walkways down Main Street. The town, however, was surrounded by wide open, dusty terrain. He’d have to see about purchasing a horse to thoroughly explore his new home.

  The walkways grew more crowded the further west he headed. He discovered several restaurants, all on the same street, squeezed in between saloons, dry goods stores and other businesses. The ladies carried parasols, despite the cool weather. Some men were attired in fine coats while others wore simple chambray shirts, vests and brown cotton duck overalls—clothing appropriate for manual labor.

  He paused in front of Mrs. Connor’s Eatery and looked into the glass-paned window to see several customers partaking of their dinner. After he entered, an older woman wearing a white cap approached him with a smile.

  “By yerself, are ye?”

  Irish, he decided from her accent. He found her friendly demeanor comforting. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She waggled her finger at him. “Fine handsome man such as yerself shouldn’t be eatin’ alone. Come along.”

  The woman showed him to a table for two next to a window overlooking the street. “The special today is clam chowder and biscuits. The rest of the menu’s on the board over there.”

  John looked over his shoulder to where she pointed and saw several items chalked on a blackboard. In the end, he decided the chowder and biscuits sounded appetizing.

  A tiny, younger replica of the woman who had seated him arrived at his table to take his order. She smiled brightly and, instead of asking for his order, asked his name, where he was from, where he was staying. He soon realized the girl was flirting with him. He grinned and enjoyed her attentions until she got around to taking his order. Her hair was very blonde he saw, beneath her cap, her frame on the pleasantly plump side. Pretty, he’d call her, yet, as thoughts of his coach companion filled his mind, he found she didn’t attract him.

  Soon she returned with his chowder and a plate full of biscuits. He gulped one biscuit down, then another. He’d just raised a spoon full of chowder to his lips when he saw a dapperly-attired young man on the opposite side of the street.

  John set down his spoon and continued to watch him. The man appeared to be a tourist exploring the establishments. Though he was a stranger, there was something familiar about him. Wearing a brown plaid suit coat with matching pants, brown boots on his feet and a brown felt hat on his head, the man was small. His hair must be very short since there wasn’t a single strand to be seen from beneath his hat.

  The man crossed the street and headed for the eatery, pausing outside the window to read the menu on the blackboard. Then he glanced at John, quickly turned and walked away.

  Those eyes! John stilled. Grace’s eyes—the man possessed Grace’s eyes!

  John came to his feet. The act of shoving his chair back, rising and leaning on the small table sent his coffee cup crashing to the floor. He jumped out of the way of its splash. Within moments, the pretty server flew to his side to clean up the mess. John thanked her then threw several bills on the table.

  Hurrying outside the restaurant, he looked up the street where the man had headed and sprinted in that direction. After a dozen blocks, he wondered what he was doing. Sure, the man held a passing likeness to Grace. Likely, even that had been his imagination. Damn that the woman seemed to always be on his mind—she’d invaded him, body and soul.

  He reached a street that housed several gambling halls and saloons. John ambled past them, peering over each set of swinging doors, noting the similar structures. Lively music and raucous shouts and laughter poured from the establishments. Having been brought up by strict, God-fearing parents, he was surprised he felt an ‘itch’ to enter. His family had played some card games. Just for fun, of course, never for money. What was the harm in a few innocent games? Perhaps he’d stop by one of the places soon and try his hand at a game or two.

  Daylight was fading. Time to head for home. Grace flittered through his mind once more. He’d courted a few women over the years. None seriously. Was he at the point in his life where he desired one particular woman in his life? Thinking of Grace and her situation, he felt sorry for her. Nodding in satisfaction, he decided pity was all he felt for her—nothing more.

  Gambling of any kind had been outlawed across the state of Montana. Regardless, the new legislation hadn’t stopped the construction of thirty saloons in Bozeman proper alone. Most lawmen were gamblers, too, and turned a blind eye to what they considered ‘harmless fun’ compared to other lawlessness.

  Grace pulled the brim of her felt hat lower over her eyes and surreptitiously shoved a strand of hair beneath it while she sat at a table with several men. Guessing at the price she’d pay if anyone guessed she was Grace Morgan and not Gray Morrison, she was careful of her appearance.

  Even before entering the hall, excitement filled her at the thought of sitting down at the table and holding the cards again, hopefully the right cards.

  What was it about gambling that always made her feel that way? Was it merely the enjoyment of playing the games themselves, or was it the fact she felt powerful when she won? Pragmatic always, she knew the answer was a combination of several reasons. Mostly she enjoyed the feeling of besting a man at a man’s game. After years of physical abuse at the hand of her drunken father, she’d wanted to beat men, in some fashion, at their own games. The only thing more satisfying would be revealing her womanhood to them. She shuddered at the thought of their reaction!

  As she stared down at her cards, her heart beat at a runaway pace. Luck had found her, this first night. Never had she played so well or won so much money. She’d made enough now to send for her family. Smirking at the men circling the table, she laid down her last winning hand, rising from her chair simultaneously. “It appears I’ve been lucky again, gentlemen.” She reached forward and swept her winnings toward her.

  A hand clamped over her cowhide gloved one. The gloves were a necessity for she knew one look at her hands and the men would realize she was a woman.

  “Wait a damned minute, mister,” growled the black-bearded man directly across from her.

  Grace’s gaze met Gus Parker’s scowl.

  “You cheated. Everyone at this table saw you.” With a dark, menacing look, he added, “Ain’t that right, boys?”

  Non-verbal consensus came in the form of grunts from a few. Others remained silent. One rose and left. Grace felt all eyes on her and her cheeks turned hot in a combination of anger and humiliation. Though she didn’t want to feel it, fear rose in her. No one had ever accused her of cheating, and now she wasn’t quite sure how to handle the situation.

  Fortunately, she recalled seeing this same thing happen to a man in a saloon in Nevada. She adopted his casual manner. Shrugging her shoulders, she yanked her hand out from beneath Parker’s. “Me? Cheat? Look to yourself, man, for you’re an awful poker player.”

  Hear
t hammering in her chest, she dared to meet the man’s eyes. Fury filled his face and spoke volumes. Not for the first time did she wish she’d learned to shoot a gun. She didn’t even own one. She’d noticed how the men in town openly wore their guns. As a matter of fact, the laws clearly stated a man had a right to bear arms as long as the weapons were in clear view.

  An elegantly dressed bald-headed brute of a man appeared at her elbow. Grace saw he was one of the Nugget’s owners. “What’s the problem?”

  “He cheated me out of five thousand, Royce. Others here can back me up.”

  Royce glanced at each man’s face. “That true, boys? The little gentleman here cheat?”

  Grace cringed at the man’s description of her. The piano player had stopped playing, drinks were no longer being poured. Utter silence fell with a thud on the hall. Grace felt all eyes on her.

  After a long, tense moment, Royce said, “Looks like you might be in the minority, Parker. Give the man his money and get the hell out of here.”

  “Damn it, Royce!” Parker bellowed.

  He went silent when the saloon owner pinned him with a hard look.

  The other men rose from the table and stepped away. Royce folded his arms and nodded at her. “Pick up your winnings and get out, mister. Time to call it a night.”

  Nodding in agreement, Grace pocketed her earnings, then turned on her heel and headed for the door. Just when she reached the swinging doors, a hard hand grabbed her elbow and whirled her around. She gasped.

  Royce gave her the once-over. Finally, he leaned over and whispered, “Mister Morrison? I’m advising you now, lady, stay away from The Golden Nugget—if you know what’s good for you.”

  Grace’s eyes widened when he said softly, “Next time, be sure the glue’s dry beneath the whiskers.”