Chapter Nine
Pete and Les had come in nearly at dawn, stumbling to their bedrolls like their bootlaces had been tied together. They’d tried to be quiet, but they’d nearly brought the tent down with their clumsiness, and the stench of whiskey that roiled off them was enough to set fire to Nicholas’s nose hairs. He lay awake, listening to them fumble to take off their jackets and finally lying down. It wouldn’t do them much good—Mr. Jensen would expect them up as soon as the sun peeked over the rise, and if Nicholas judged right, that was less than thirty minutes away.
He was fully awake now, so he pulled on his boots and climbed out of the tent, purposely leaving the flap just open enough that the first rays of light would come streaming though and catch Pete right in the face.
The small Chinese woman who prepared their meals bustled up to the fire ring, her back bent from the weight of the bundle of firewood she carried. As she drew close to the ring, her slipper hooked on a clump of dirt, and she stumbled.
“Whoa there.” Nicholas darted forward and caught her elbow. “Are you all right? Let me take that.” He lifted the wood off her back and set it down next to the pit.
The woman nodded and smiled, her head bobbing up and down. Then she set to work building the fire, her hands moving deftly.
Nicholas stepped back, feeling her gratitude, but also her discomfort that he was interfering with her work. He understood that all too well—his mother hated it when he got underfoot in her kitchen.
He turned to see Ho scurrying up to the fire. He touched the woman’s shoulder and spoke to her in rapid Chinese, then nodded toward Nicholas with a wide grin. Oh, this must be Ho’s wife. Nicholas smiled again and walked away, wishing, not for the first time, that his language lessons were much more advanced.
It wasn’t long before the men stumbled from their tents and headed toward the fire for the hot mugs of coffee that waited for them there. Pete and Les hadn’t emerged yet, and Nicholas smiled. He took his coffee and settled down on a stump near the fire, curious to see what would happen next. A nicer man would have gone into the tent and woken them up, but for some reason, Nicholas wasn’t feeling very nice that morning.
Mr. Jensen downed his coffee in three swallows and his biscuit in two bites—Nicholas had never seen him do anything slowly. Then he glanced over the gathered men. “We’re down by two. Where are Pete and Les?”
“I believe they’re still in bed, sir,” Nicholas replied.
Mr. Jensen swore as he turned on his heel and strode over to the tent. He threw back the flap and bellowed inside. Five seconds later, two very startled and sleepy men stumbled over to the fire, their boots in their hands.
“Any man who leaves this camp for any reason will return to it fit to work,” Mr. Jensen announced. “I don’t give you time off so you can waste half a day’s work as thanks. Nick, I’m putting you in charge of both crews this morning. I need to make up a supply list and do payroll, and I imagine that’ll take me until about noon. Everyone, go to Nick for your assignments. I expect a full day out of all of you. I mean it.”
Mr. Jensen headed back to his tent, his anger roiling off him like a desert mirage.
Nicholas watched him go with a measure of surprise. He hadn’t expected to be given full charge of the camp. It wouldn’t be a difficult assignment—he knew what needed to be done and who was best at doing it. He glanced back to see the men looking at him expectantly.
“All right,” he said. “Today we’re just finishing up what we started yesterday, except for one thing. Pete, Les, I’d like you on my crew for a bit. We need the mules.”
Pete and Les had put on their boots, and now they glowered at him over the rims of their coffee mugs. Nicholas chose to ignore that and get the day started right. “Let’s work hard for an hour and then meet up for a break. Get on, then.”
The men headed off to their different work positions, each carrying a shovel or pickaxe. Pete didn’t move, however, until Nicholas started to walk off to his task. Then he stepped in Nicholas’s path, blocking him with a massive shoulder.
“Why’re you putting us on the Chinaman crew?” he asked, his breath hot on Nicholas’s cheek.
“I told you—we’re ready for the mules, and you and Les are the mule drivers. You can go back to your crew once we’re done.”
Pete nodded. “I see how this is gonna be. You, getting on the boss’s good side, taking over, doing whatever you want with the rest of us. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. And I don’t think Les likes it either. Just keep that in mind.”
Nicholas tried to keep his voice light. “I just need the mules, Pete. That’s all.”
Pete kicked at the ground and strode off to the picket line where the mules were tied up. Nicholas watched him go with some hesitation. Pete was still feeling the liquor, and he hadn’t had much sleep. His temper was liable to flare under regular circumstances, but now? The man was a powder keg just waiting for a match. Nicholas was no stranger to a fight, but he’d rather not engage in something like that his first time in charge of the camp.
Nicholas and his crew had moved the larger obstructions out of the way. Now they needed the mule to come along behind to smooth out the ground. They’d rigged a log with spikes driven into it that would drag along behind the mules, creating a much better foundation for the railroad ties and tracks they’d be laying soon. The ornery animals would only listen to masters that were more ornery than they were, making Pete and Les the perfect men for the job.
A few minutes later, Pete and Les led the animals up to the starting point, and Nicholas helped them hook up the log, one rope being attached to the harness of each mule. As they walked evenly, the log would be pulled in a uniform manner, cutting the men’s workload. It certainly saved time over raking the ground themselves.
Nicholas turned to rejoin his crew, but just then, he heard a voice shout, “Nick! Behind you!” He whirled to see the log coming right at him, the mules having turned sharply. He tried to jump out of the way, but the log raked across the lower part of his left shin, and he went down. A hoof caught him in the chest, and he was unable to breathe.
Ho raced into the middle of the chaos, grabbing the mules and calming them. From his position on the ground, through a haze of pain, Nicholas heard Ho say, “Shh. It’s all right. There now.”
Ho speaks English. The rascal, was Nicholas’s last thought before everything faded out.
***
Nicholas blinked several times, trying to bring his eyes into focus. The pain in his leg was something else, but he refused to dwell on it. Wouldn’t do him any good. Mr. Jensen sat on a stool nearby, Ho behind him. “What’s going on?” Nicholas finally asked, his voice raspy.
“Well, that’s what I’m here to find out from you,” Mr. Jensen said. “Just what happened this morning?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I asked Pete and Les to bring the mules over to my patch of land, and I helped them hook up. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground.” Nicholas looked at Ho. He didn’t know if he should keep the little man’s secret or not. He imagined Ho had a good reason for his deceit, and until he knew what it was, he didn’t want to spoil anything.
Mr. Jensen leaned forward, putting an elbow on his knee. “They’re saying you pushed them around, threatened to cost them their jobs.”
Nicholas shook his head. “No, sir. That never happened.”
“And that’s what Ho said.” Mr. Jensen thumbed over his shoulder at the Chinaman. “Turns out, he can speak English better than some of the men on this crew. He said you just asked them to do their jobs, stayed calm the whole time.”
“Thanks, Ho.” Nicholas nodded at his friend. “What happens now, sir?”
Mr. Jensen passed a hand across his face. “Things get a little complicated. You’ve got to get some better medical attention than what we can offer here. I’m no doctor, but seems to me, you’re about right for infection, and I’m willing to wager you’ve got a cracked rib or two.”
“I’ll agree with tha
t,” Nicholas said. He hadn’t taken a deep breath since he woke up—it hurt too much.
“We’ve also got to get a sheriff involved. It turns out . . . well, Ho and a few other men told me that Pete swung those mules on purpose.”
“On purpose?” Nicholas had been willing to believe it was all an accident—a very painful, unfortunate accident.
“’Fraid so. I don’t know if he meant to hurt you or just scare you, but his actions were clear, and we need to bring in the law. I’m outfitting a couple of wagons right now—one to take you to the doctor, and the other to take Pete to the sheriff’s office. He’s blaming it on the whiskey, but I’m blaming it on him.” Mr. Jensen stood up. “Think you could stand to travel in about an hour?”
“I probably could,” Nicholas said, lying with every word. He couldn’t imagine even stirring from his bed, let alone jouncing along those roads in the back of a wagon.
“All right. That’s what we’ll do.” Mr. Jensen gave a sharp nod and left the tent.
As soon as he was gone, Nicholas let out a breath and closed his eyes. He hoped the doctor could do something about the ache he felt all throughout his body.
“It’s bad, huh?”
Nicholas opened his eyes. He’d all but forgotten that Ho was there. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad. But we’re not going to talk about me. You can speak English? Why did you hide that from me?”
Ho grinned and sat down on the stool Mr. Jensen had left behind. “I didn’t mean to make a lie. It’s just . . . well, people from my country have hard time here. We look for work, sometimes we find, sometimes we don’t. All the time, people think we want their jobs. On railroad, men think we want to take over. So I pretend not to speak English so they aren’t so mad at me.” He shrugged. “It works. Most of the time.”
Nicholas shook his head. “And here I thought I was teaching you something. I must have looked like a fool, trying out those Chinese words.”
Ho held up both his hands. “No, no. You did a good job. You speak Chinese like me someday.”
Nicholas laughed, but it hurt. He pressed a hand to his side, trying to ease the pain. “No, I could never do that. But thank you. Learning from you gave me something to look forward to.”
Ho tilted his head to the side, regarding Nicholas. “You don’t feel so good.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know how I’m going to get to the doctor.” Nicholas winced as he tried to adjust his position.
“Don’t worry. We’ll make it work.” Ho gave a nod and left the tent, leaving Nicholas to wonder what he was up to.
***
When Ho returned, he brought his wife with him. She pressed a cup of something to Nicholas’s lips. It was horrible—easily the worst thing he’d ever put in his mouth—but Ho assured him it would ease the pain. Then six other Chinamen entered the tent and carefully lifted the corners of Nicholas’s bedroll, creating a litter, which they carried outside.
The wagon had been lined with blankets, and the men laid Nicholas inside with the greatest of care. He was beyond grateful—his leg was now throbbing so badly, walking would have been a nightmare.
He watched with interest as Pete was led to the other wagon. The man was kicking and spitting, struggling against the hold of the two men who pinned his arms to his sides. Mr. Jensen walked up beside Nicholas’s wagon and watched too.
“He’ll have an armed guard on him the whole way into town,” Mr. Jensen promised. “He’ll calm down when he’s staring down the barrel of a Colt.”
“What about Les?” Nicholas asked.
Mr. Jensen shook his head. “He may have known what Pete planned to do, but we can’t get any evidence that he helped, and none of the witnesses say they saw him doing anything. We have to let him be for now.”
“I’d keep an eye on him nonetheless,” Nicholas replied. “He’s got a mean streak too, especially toward the Chinese workers.”
“I’ve noticed.” Mr. Jensen looked over at the other wagon again, where Pete now sat in the back, subdued. “Don’t worry—we’ll be on the alert. All right, let’s get this little trip underway.” He climbed up into the driver’s seat, surprising Nicholas. He’d assumed Mr. Jensen would have someone else perform this task. Ho took the seat beside Mr. Jensen, and the wagons began their jouncing journey.
At first, Nicholas thought he could handle the pain, but that was just his pride talking. A few minutes into the trip, he passed out, and when they revived him in town, he didn’t feel one bit embarrassed.
Chapter Ten
The second meal service of the day also passed without incident, and Rachel decided it was probably safe to start breathing again. She wouldn’t let down her guard entirely, but she might allow herself to enjoy her job again instead of spending every second wound tighter than a top.
The next morning marked the start of a new era, Rachel decided. It was time for her to put aside her insecurities and really run the dining room the way it was meant to be run—with no more fear. She braided her hair carefully, hoping it would stay in place for at least a little while, then headed down to the dining room. She had just reached the base of the stairs when Mr. Grover from the telegram office poked his head through the hotel’s front door.
“Knock, knock,” he said, entering all the way. “I’m looking for Giselle Hardy. Is there a Giselle Hardy around?”
“Yes, I’m right here.” Giselle walked down the hallway from the kitchen. “How may I help you?”
“I have a telegram for you.” He held it out, and she took it with a curious look on her face. “Have a good day now.” He was gone almost as quickly as he’d arrived.
Giselle unfolded the paper. “I’ve never received a telegram before. I’m not sure whether to be nervous or excited.”
“Do you want me to give you some privacy?” Rachel asked, taking a step toward the dining room.
“Oh, gracious, no. You don’t have to leave.” Giselle smoothed the paper out on her knee, then held the page up to the light. “Oh. Oh, no.”
Rachel moved to her side. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“It’s Nicholas.”
Rachel’s stomach plummeted so fast, she nearly vomited on the spot. “What . . . about Nicholas?” she finally managed to ask.
“He’s been injured, and they’re sending him here to recover.”
“Injured? Just injured?”
Giselle reached out and caught Rachel’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think how this news might impact you too. It must . . . it must seem like Daniel all over again.”
Rachel nodded, unable to speak.
“I don’t think his life’s in danger,” Giselle continued. She guided Rachel over to a chair and helped her sit. “They would have said so, wouldn’t they?”
Elizabeth came into the lobby just then, tying her white apron around her waist. “What’s the matter?”
Giselle handed her the telegram in answer.
Elizabeth read it, then handed it back. “He’s lucky to have a sister so close who can take care of him. We’ll put him up in room two upstairs—it’s the room we always seem to use in times of illness. I do believe Dr. Wayment heads there automatically when he’s called to the Brody.” She rested a hand on each girl’s shoulder. “Everything will be just fine. Now, they didn’t say when he’d be arriving, so let’s take care of this meal service and then we’ll fix up his room. We’ll have it ready for whenever he does arrive, all right?”
Rachel blinked a few times and nodded. Elizabeth’s no-nonsense approach had snapped her back to reality. She stood, then looked at Giselle. “Are you all right?”
Giselle smiled, although her eyes were moist. “I’m fine. Let’s get to work.”
***
It was almost all Rachel could do to concentrate on her tasks. Giselle had to be right—surely the telegram would have said if he was in serious condition. Then again, perhaps whoever sent it didn’t want to alarm them. She pushed the thought from her mind and delivered plates of chicken and mashed po
tatoes, smiling at her customers and cleaning up spills.
Once the service was over and the tablecloths changed, she excused herself and took a walk over to Dr. Wayment’s house. She had no way of knowing if he was home, but this was something she could do that would make her feel useful. She knocked on his door and was greeted by his elderly housekeeper.
“Hello. Is Dr. Wayment in?”
“He is, in fact,” the woman said. “Come in, and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Rachel waited in the hallway while the housekeeper knocked on the doctor’s office door. Then she stepped inside at his invitation.
“Rachel,” Dr. Wayment greeted, coming to his feet with a book in his hand. “What a nice surprise. What brings you by? Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I’ve just come to let you know that we’ll shortly have a patient for you.”
“Oh? Have a seat and tell me about the case.”
Rachel lifted a shoulder. “That’s just it—we know very little. He’s the brother of one of our new waitresses, and she got a telegram this morning saying that he’d be arriving soon to recover from an accident. He was working on the railroad.”
“Arriving on the train?”
“Yes, sir, but we aren’t sure which one.”
Dr. Wayment nodded. “And there was no other information given?”
“None. Giselle—his sister—is quite concerned.”
Dr. Wayment fixed her with a gaze. “Am I mistaken, or is Giselle perhaps not the only one who’s concerned?”
Rachel felt her cheeks grow pink. “I might be a little bit worried too.”
Dr. Wayment chuckled. “I’ll make sure my bag is well packed for every eventuality, and I promise to do my best for this young man. For your sake as well as Giselle’s.”
“Thank you.” Rachel looked down at the carpet. “I appreciate it.”
“You don’t like my knowing your little secret?” His voice held a large hint of amusement.
“Oh, no, it’s not like that. I don’t really have a secret. Not anymore. It’s just that maybe, in the past, I cared, but now, it’s not so much caring as just being concerned.” Rachel couldn’t stop herself—the words just tumbled out. “Of course I care if something happens to him, but that’s as far as it goes, really. It’s not anything.”
A Careless Wind (Kansas Crossroads Book 7) Page 5