Lame Bear interrupted, and the doctor answered him, nodding and turning to Fannie. “Lame Bear is concerned that you didn’t accept his gift. You said you didn’t need a horse because you were leaving. He says that obviously you do need a horse, since you’re still here. And he says that perhaps I should thank you by providing the saddle you need in order to be able to ride Smoke.”
Fannie turned to the old man. “I didn’t think you spoke English.”
Lame Bear shook his head and gestured to the doctor, who said, “He doesn’t speak English. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand it.”
For the first time, Fannie thought she noticed a faint glint of humor around the old man’s dark eyes. How had she not noticed that before? She cleared her throat. “I’m waiting for news from a friend, but I don’t need a horse—even though I realize Smoke is a very fine one.”
The doctor and Lame Bear spoke for a few minutes. Finally, Lame Bear nodded and, with a hint of a smile, headed back toward the fort.
“I’ve promised Lame Bear that you can ride Smoke whenever you like.” The doctor smiled. “And I’ve agreed to get you a saddle.”
Fannie gazed after the old man. “He certainly is … persistent.”
“The Blackfeet are a generous people.” Putting a hand on his son’s shoulder, Dr. LaMotte smiled. “I can’t imagine what a man gives a lady who’s already received—and rejected—a horse. A saddle you don’t really want doesn’t seem like an appropriate thank-you, either.”
Fannie laughed, then nodded toward the men waiting outside the clinic. “Don’t let me keep you. You’re clearly needed.” She glanced at Patrick. “I realize that you don’t need an escort, Patrick, but I wouldn’t mind one. What if we send your father back to work and you and I take a walk?” She reached for his walking stick. “You can show me how you use this, and I’ll tell you how my blind friend at home uses hers.”
Patrick looked her way. “You have a friend who can’t see?”
“I do. Her name’s Minette.”
“Pa says your eyes are blue. What about your hair?”
“Patrick!” the doctor scolded.
Fannie laughed an answer. “My hair is blond and today I have on a green dress. Any other questions?”
“Will you have supper with us? I want to hear more about your blind friend. Did she go to a special school? Pa says they have schools for kids like me.”
“They do. In fact, there’s a very good one not far from my home in Missouri. Minette was a student there for three years.”
“And can she do everything? Did they teach her to do everything?”
“Well, she can do almost everything. She’s not very good at driving a team—but then some sighted people can’t seem to do that well, either.” When the boy laughed, Dr. LaMotte looked at Fannie and mouthed the words thank you with such sincerity it made her blush.
“Do people treat her like she’s stupid?” Patrick asked. “Sometimes they treat me that way. They yell. I can hear just fine.”
“It’s just something people do. Minette said that at school they told her to look calmly at the person yelling and say … very quietly”—she dropped her voice almost to a whisper—“you don’t need to yell. I can hear you”—she raised her voice to a shout—“perfectly fine!”
Patrick laughed again. He looked up at his father and said, “Can’t you please make this lovely lady join us for supper?”
Fannie teased, “Patrick LaMotte, you cannot know that I’m lovely.”
“’Course I can,” the boy chided. “I can tell by the way Pa talks to you.”
“You,” Fannie said, blushing, “are far too accomplished at flirting, young man. And while I would enjoy joining you for supper, I have a previous engagement serving over at the Fort Benton hostelry.”
“Then lunch,” Patrick said.
“How old are you?”
“I’m ten. Why?”
“Because, you’re quite charming. The girls at school are going to fight over you.”
“Until I spill peas down my shirt,” Patrick muttered. “Or knock over their milk.”
“There will be no spilling of peas and no sloshing of milk,” Fannie said. “I can show you how it’s done.”
“You can?”
“With your father’s permission, yes, I can. Minette used to make me eat blindfolded.”
Dr. LaMotte smiled. “I have a hunch that Patrick would be amicable to your joining us for a late lunch after you help Mr. Valley.”
“Yes!” Patrick enthused.
Fannie agreed and Dr. LaMotte smiled. “I have to make a sling for the patient who’s likely going to give me an earful for making him wait so long in the clinic,” he said. “But after that, when you’re finished at the hostelry, Patrick and I would be honored if you joined us for lunch.” He smiled and glanced at his son. “I, however, will not be dining blindfolded.”
Fannie returned the smile … and it stayed on her face all the way back to Abe’s, as she wondered how it was that she didn’t remember Dr. LaMotte as anything but an aging doctor who could translate for the Blackfeet. He wasn’t old at all. Oh, he had a bit of gray showing at his temples, but he probably wasn’t much past thirty. All in all, Dr. LaMotte was … well.
Surprising.
But God commendeth his love toward us, in that,
while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
ROMANS 5:8
Dick Turley’s bull train lumbered into Virginia City in a pouring rain three weeks after leaving Fort Benton. The Montana scenery he saw on the way set Samuel to inwardly praising the God who’d created such grandeur. The mining camps, where the Sabbath meant going into town to gamble and drink and enjoy a little attention from the ladies on display, set him to praying. Today, as rain poured out of the sky, the women posed beneath overhangs along the street like a flock of painted birds, raising their ruffled skirts to scandalous heights and occasionally calling out to passersby. They seemed to take particular notice of Samuel, and some of the things they called out made him blush.
More than just the women seemed to notice him, though. As he and Lamar clomped alongside the bull train, Samuel watched more than one man put his hand on the pearl-handled weapon at his side. A couple even swept their own long dark coats back behind their holsters. Casting a somewhat panicked prayer toward the heavens, Samuel tugged his hat farther down on his head and, as soon as the rain stopped, concentrated on helping unload the freight. Finally, he asked Dick Turley, “Do people up here always consider newcomers the enemy? I feel like I’m under a microscope.”
Turley shrugged. “I told you to buy a gun. Only two kinds of men dress in long black coats up here. Preachers and gamblers. Nobody expects a preacher, for obvious reasons, so they figure you’re a gambler. They’re taking your measure.” He slapped a few dollars into Samuel’s palm with the words “fer you and your friend. You’re both welcome on my train any time.” Turning away, he crossed the muddy street and went into a saloon a few doors up from where Samuel stood, feeling conspicuous and unsure.
Lamar said in a low voice, “From the look on some of the faces staring at us, I’d best keep my head down. White folks have a way of thinking a black man who makes eye contact is asking for trouble. You decide what’s next. I’m right behind you.”
Just then, a feminine voice called, “Hey, sweetie.”
Samuel was of a mind to ignore it, but as it turned out, the woman wasn’t talking to him.
“I like molasses. Why don’t you come on up here and visit Rosalie?”
“Lord, have mercy,” Lamar muttered.
“Come on, now. Don’t be shy. Come on and step outta the rain. Rosalie don’t bite, and it looks to me like you and the tall one could both use a friend.”
He was tired, soaking wet, and more than a little afraid, and so Samuel stepped underneath the nearby overhang and made eye contact with the smooth-skinned beauty wearing the lowest-cut, brightest yellow dress he could have imagined. Then he surprised himse
lf by snatching his hat off and asking—more loudly than he intended—“Is there any place in the gulch where a man could hold a service? It’s the Sabbath, you know.” He took a step toward the woman named Rosalie to make room for Lamar to duck out of the rain.
Rosalie leaned to her right so she could see around Samuel to smile at Lamar. She put her hands on her shapely hips, then looked up at Samuel. “I’ve been asked for an entire dictionary full of things since opening, but a place to hold a church service? That’s a new one.” She looked Samuel up and down. “I guess I should have realized the truth when I didn’t see a holster strapped around that leg.” She ran the flat of her hand along Samuel’s belt and down his leg where a holster would normally be as she fluttered her long eyelashes at him. When he stayed still and stared straight ahead, she chuckled and shook her head. “A preacher. Will wonders never cease.”
When she glanced behind her through the doorway to the saloon, Samuel followed her gaze. The makeshift bar made of roughhewn boards thrown atop rickety sawhorses was lined elbow-to-elbow with men. If he’d been counting, Samuel figured he’d probably just seen no fewer than two dozen shots of whiskey thrown back, glasses slammed back down onto the bar, and refills poured. When the woman lingered before him, the scent of roses made him think of Fannie. Thank God she wasn’t here.
“You serious about wanting to hold a service?” the woman asked.
“I … I suppose I am.” If it would keep him and Lamar from getting shot by some territorial gambler calling out the new blood, he’d preach in every saloon in the gulch. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Yes I am. Serious.”
Her laughter was mellow. Amused, not unkind. “Well, then. Follow me.” Latching onto his coat lapel, she pulled Samuel through the door, calling to Lamar as she moved, “It’s all right, honey. You come right on in. This is my place, and everybody’s welcome at Rosalie’s.” She hauled Samuel to the far end of the bar, where a man sporting a white apron was standing next to a cash register. Releasing Samuel’s lapel, she leaned across the bar and said something to the man in the apron. With a bemused smile in Samuel’s direction, he put two fingers to his mouth and let out a screeching whistle that instantly transformed the saloon from pandemonium to silence.
When Rosalie held her arms out to him, the man came around and lifted her onto the bar. Every eye in the place was on her as she said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Rosalie’s is pleased to present, for the first time ever in Alder Gulch, probably for the first time ever in all of Montana Territory, a genuine preacher.” She bent down toward Samuel. “What’s your name, honey?”
Looking away from the woman’s décolletage, Samuel stuttered, “S-Samuel B-Benjamin Beck.”
Rosalie considered the name and then stood back up to address the crowd. “His name is Brother Sam.” She winked down at Samuel and then said to the crowd, “Everybody keep quiet until he’s through. Bar’s closed for the next hour, but if you stay through the sermon, Bill, here, will pour you a free shot.” She looked toward the back of the saloon and called, “Rachel! Tell the girls to get on out here and listen, too. If they don’t like what they hear, they will most definitely enjoy what they see.”
With a grin, Rosalie leaned back down, braced one hand on each of Samuel’s shoulders, and hopped off the bar. Looping her arm through Lamar’s, she pulled him to the opposite side of the room and then, with a nod, called out, “All right, Brother Sam. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”
What Samuel had, as he surveyed the waiting crowd, was a dry mouth and no idea what to say. When he’d asked about conducting a service, he was expecting to be taken to some town hall and given a few minutes to find a passage in his mother’s Bible and to maybe even scrape the mud off his boots. His motivation was more about getting off the street and out of the line of sight of the men with guns than preaching. What could he possibly say to this crowd? This was embarrassing. God, help me.
Expectation hung almost as thick as the smoke in the room. Female tittering caught his attention. He looked toward the row of brightly clad women, their eyes flirting as they murmured behind fancy fans. He could feel himself blushing. He looked away.
You said my Word sings about my love. So sing.
He wished he’d paid more attention in church. Maybe he could remember the hymn they’d sung at Mother’s funeral. God—help!! Clearing his throat, Samuel began to sing. “ ‘There’s a land that is fairer than day … and by faith we can see it afar … for the Father waits over the way … to prepare us a dwelling place there.’ ” To his amazement, as he began the chorus, the piano player joined in with chords and, by the end of it, was adding impressive flourishes and embellishment. “ ‘In the sweet by and by … we shall meet on that beautiful shore… . In the sweet by and by … we shall meet on that beautiful shore.’ ”
Miraculously, Samuel remembered two more verses, and when the last strains of the song died away, the crowd applauded. Cheered. And bellowed for more. So he sang the only other two hymns he knew, and still they wanted more. The piano player began a familiar melody. It wasn’t a hymn, but Samuel knew it, so he sang “When I Saw Sweet Nellie Home.” The crowd hooted and stomped and clapped. A few sang along.
Finally, Samuel pulled the Bible out of his pocket, thumbed over to a favorite passage, and read about man’s unworthiness and God’s love. It was, he decided, probably the worst sermon that had ever been preached in the history of preachers. But the crowd listened. Some even swiped at tears, and when the hour was up and the bar reopened, Rosalie snatched Samuel’s hat off his head and handed it to the bartender, calling out, “I’m passing the hat for Brother Sam. Be generous, boys. Think of your mother and how she’d feel about someone chasing down their wayward sons and daughters to tell ’em God still loves ’em.” Sam started to protest, but Rosalie held her hand up in a way that said Hush.
Calling to her piano player for a waltz, she turned to Lamar. “What d’ya say, handsome. Give Rosalie a dance while they pass the hat.”
With Lamar dancing, Samuel couldn’t exactly leave, but he felt decidedly out of place. More than one of the “congregation” offered to buy him a drink. Finally, the bartender handed him a sarsaparilla, assuring him it was nonalcoholic.
A doe-eyed girl he considered far too young to be in this line of work sashayed up, loud with praise for the sermon. “You should come every Sunday,” she said. “Even if you start a church, you’ll get more business here at Rosalie’s than you ever will in the pew.” She smiled. “Is that what you’re doing? Starting a church up this way?”
Samuel shook his head. “Actually, I’m looking for someone.”
“Aren’t we all,” the girl said with a laugh.
“That’s not what I meant.” Was he blushing again? “I’m looking for my sister.”
“Your sister works in a saloon?”
Samuel barely avoided blurting out I hope not. Instead, he shrugged. “I just want to make sure she’s all right. I haven’t heard from her in a while. The last I knew, she was with a man named Johnny Chadwick and they were on their way up here.”
The girl frowned. “Johnny Chadwick, you say?”
His heart lurched. “You know him?”
She motioned for Rosalie, who undraped herself from around Lamar and, taking his hand, crossed to where the girl and Samuel stood. “He’s looking for his sister,” the girl said. “Thinks she might be with Johnny.”
Rosalie’s face clouded over. “Oh, honey,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“And here she is now,” Abe said when Fannie got back to the boarding house. “The heroine of Fort Benton.” He smiled. “Heard you saved a life today. Not bad for a prim little city gal.”
Fannie blushed. “Trust me, if I’d stopped to think what I was doing …” She shuddered.
“Well, now you’ll be famous and that means even more business. You’re going to have to start helping me cook.”
Fannie laughed. “You want to encourage business or poison people?”
“Well now, I taug
ht you to sweep and scrub. I bet I can teach you to cook.”
Fannie hurried into the kitchen and pulled an apron down off the hook. “I’ll take you up on that, Mr. Valley. Hannah and I were thinking—” She broke off. Stopped. Stared at the floor. Swallowed. “I was thinking I might have to take in boarders this fall at home.” She looked up at Abe and forced a smile. “So the people of Missouri will owe you a debt if you teach me to cook.”
Abe waved her over. “All right, then. A lesson in beans,” he said, and removed a lid from the pot on the stove. “Smell that? You don’t get that mouth-watering aroma unless you add a nice ham hock and an onion.” He had Fannie measure dried beans into a second bean pot.
By the time she had graduated from Sorting, Rinsing, and Soaking, Fannie could hear boots clomping in the front door. It was time to serve lunch.
It was midafternoon before Fannie agreed to leave a grinning Abe Valley to finish up while she made her way back to the clinic. Patrick was waiting on the porch. When Fannie called hello, he led her around to the back door and inside a combination parlor/kitchen/bedroom.
“Do I really smell pot roast?” Fannie asked hopefully as they stepped inside.
The doctor chuckled. “Yes. Buffalo though—not beef.”
“Pa’s patients pay him in meat more than money,” Patrick explained.
Fannie inhaled again. “It smells heavenly.”
“Pa’s a good cook.” Patrick felt his way to a cupboard nailed to the wall across from the stove. Counting out three plates, he turned around, took three steps, and put the plates on the table.
“Please,” Dr. LaMotte said, “be seated. It will be our pleasure to serve you.” First, he washed his hands in a pail of water on the floor beside the stove. Patrick followed suit, and while he was drying his hands, the doctor said, “I was surprised to learn you were still here. You seemed fairly set on leaving Fort Benton as soon as possible when we first met.”
“And I was surprised to learn that you have a son.”
A Most Unsuitable Match Page 16