Horse hooves clattered and spurs jingled in the south field. Three Trent brothers, with Abel in the lead.
Zillia’s muscles tightened. What are they doing here?
Abel hefted his huge body off his horse. “Couple of my dogs got loose and we need ‘em for a hunt. Have you seen ‘em?”
Zillia’s fists clenched at her sides. “Should’ve known those mangy mutts were yours, Abel Trent! They came after my goats and killed one of the babies. I shot one, and I hope Wylder got the rest.”
“Which one did you shoot?” Abel stepped towards her.
Zillia stood her ground. “The one that decided to kill Orrie’s favorite goat.”
Abel’s brother, Ed, dismounted and came up to her. “Missy, those dogs are premium coon hunters.” He squinted, eyes absurdly tiny in the flabby folds of his face. “Worth far more than your raggedy goats.”
“Goat killers are worth nothing, and the sheriff will agree with me.”
A reddish hue crept up from Ed’s collar and over his face. He opened his mouth to reply, right as Wylder strolled through the trees.
“Is there a problem?” Wylder asked.
“Did you track them down?” Zillia hadn’t heard any shots, but she still hoped.
“Unfortunately, no.” He looked over at Abel. “Figured those were yours. They high-tailed it to Edgar Billing’s land. You’d better get over there before they bother his prize-winning dairy cows.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth, half-breed?”
Wylder’s knuckles turned white as his fingers tightened around the stick he still carried. “Your dogs aren’t here, Abel. Leave us alone. If we see them again, they’ll be dealt with accordingly.”
Abel looked at the stick and then at Wylder’s face.
Zillia closed her eyes. Wylder had trounced Abel more than once, but Abel was with his brothers. Please, please leave.
Dogs howled and barked once more, farther to the north this time. Abel nodded to the other men. They all mounted their horses and rode off without another word.
Wylder stood straight and still, watching until they disappeared into the trees.
Zillia’s hands shook. I can’t let evil people intimidate me. I’m not a little girl anymore. If I’m going to survive, I have to fight for what I want. She gulped a few breaths of the crisp, fall air and reached down for Orrie. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”
A cloud of smoke hit her face when she opened the door. “Oh no, not the pie!” She fanned the smoke out of her face and rushed to pull open the oven. Pan and pastry had become a blackened mess.
Out went the smoking thing to the porch steps, right as Wylder came up to the door.
“Keep your ears open for those dogs. I’ll report them to the sheriff, but after a taste of freedom they are going to be hard to catch. You always take your gun with you outside, right?”
She nodded.
He lifted his chin towards the burnt pastry. “What’s that?”
“Your pie.” Zillia lowered her head.
“Aw, Zillia, you really made me a pie?”
“I wanted to.” Her fingers curled in her coat pockets. “I tried.”
He knelt down to examine the charred object. “Well, the crust crinkled up real good.”
“Why are you so nice to me?” she burst out. “You ask for one thing, and I can’t even do it right! After all you and your family have done for us, I could never, ever pay you back.” Her lips trembled, and she struggled to hold herself together.
Wylder stood and stared at her for a moment. Then he placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. “It’s been a tough day, Zillia. You’re such a little spitfire, you know that?” His eyes shone as he studied her face. “You’re my friend. I will always be here when you need me.”
For some reason, this only made her feel worse. She turned away so he wouldn’t see her frustration. “Thank you,” she managed. “Do you think... you could bury Sammy? I don’t want Orrie to have to see.”
“Of course. I’m happy to help you.”
Her heart melted into a puddle of guilt as her shaky fingers brushed the end of his knobby muffler. She turned back through the door.
He followed her and stood on the threshhold. “Well,” he said finally. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Please don’t fret about the pie. You tried your best.”
The door closed behind him. She sank into a chair and pulled her hat down over her face. “What a horrible, horrible day.”
Orrie tugged on her sleeve. His eyes were round and hopeful in his dirty, tear-streaked face. “Zilly, can I have pie?”
8 The Hat Shop
Soonie pointed at the “Help Wanted” sign as they passed the door of the hat shop after church. “The store must be doing well if Mrs. Purpose is hiring.”
“I suppose so,” Zillia said. She had never been inside. The merchandise was far too expensive. Mama had always trimmed their hats, even when they could have afforded to pay someone else.
She reached out to trace the fancy curled letters. “Soonie, maybe I could work here.”
“Perhaps.” Soonie shrugged. “But how would you manage everything else? You already have so much to do.”
“It’s almost Christmas, we don’t have any crops. I could get up earlier to feed and milk the goats. Pay someone to care for Orrie.” Zillia clasped her hands together. “Oh, Soonie, this could help so much!”
“Maybe.”
Zillia tugged Orrie over to Grandma Louise, who was talking with a friend. “Grandma, could you watch him for a moment? I need to run back into church.”
“Of course. Don’t be long now; beans are on the stove.”
Zillia hurried past the shops, all decorated with bows and stars for Christmas, to the church porch.
Mrs. Purpose was reaching out a chubby, white hand covered with jewels to shake Pastor Fowler’s thin, tan one. “Lovely sermon, as always,” she said.
Pastor Fowler beamed.
Why doesn’t he smile during his teachings? Zillia remembered Soonie, dancing for the Lord under the trees. What would Pastor Fowler have to say about that? Maybe he wouldn’t approve. But it was right there in the Bible, Zillia had read the verses for herself.
“Did you have a question, Miss. Bright?” Pastor Fowler asked kindly.
“Oh,” Zillia stammered. “I need to speak to Mrs. Purpose. When she has a moment.”
Mrs. Purpose’s powder white eyebrows traveled up the brim of her hat, which was adorned with false cherries, a strange bird, and what must be ostrich plumes. “Yes, Zillia, what can I do for you?”
“I saw the sign in your shop’s window. You’re looking for help?”
Mrs. Purpose looked her over, eyes lingering on Zillia’s shabby clothes, worn shoes, and gloveless fingers. “Well, yes. I do need some help around the store. A hat trimmer, to be precise. Do you know someone with experience?”
“Yes, ma’am. I would like the job.”
“Don’t you run a farm?” Mrs. Purpose wrinkled her nose.
“Now, Mrs. Purpose, I’m sure she would do quite well.” Pastor Fowler nodded at Zillia.
“She certainly would,” said a gentle voice. Mrs. Fowler, the pastor’s wife, had come up behind her. The tall, willowy woman laid a gloved hand on Zillia’s shoulder. “Why, this girl plowed two acres of river land in a day. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes Ma’am, I do my best.” Zillia’s words flowed faster in her excitement. “My mama taught me how to sew and I learn quickly. I helped her trim hats for years, especially when we lived in Alexandria.”
Mrs. Purpose squinted. “That’s right. I remember some of the hats your ma wore. A bit simple, but lovely work. Well, I suppose I could give you a try. I’ve had a hard time finding someone for the job. Most of the men in town don’t want their womenfolk working in a shop, even though it’s perfectly respectable.”
“There’s no one to object in my case.” Zillia smiled.
“It’s probably for the best, Dearie.” Mrs. Purpose gave a c
urt nod. “Men can be bothersome.”
Mrs. Fowler covered her smile with a lace handkerchief.
Pastor Fowler frowned.
“Be at my shop by eight am tomorrow. Sharp.” Mrs. Purpose glared at her over wire-rimmed spectacles. “I don’t abide tardiness.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Zillia ducked her head and almost tripped in her haste down the porch steps. She caught herself and slowed to a walk. She didn’t want Mrs. Purpose to think she was too wild and impulsive to work in her store.
After she plopped into the wagon next to Orrie, she told everyone her news.
Grandma Louise tilted her head back and frowned. “I know you need money, but do you think working in town is the best way?”
“Well, at least I’ll have four new walls to stare at all day. And something different to occupy my time.” Why can’t they see how this can help me?
Soonie touched her arm. “Zillia, have you thought about selling the farm? You’ve kept this up for over two years now. Maybe it would be best to let it go.”
“Don’t you think I’ve considered that?” Zillia didn’t mean the words to come out so sharp, but once begun, they were hard to stop. “Jeb would definitely try to stop me, if word reached whatever jail he’s locked up in. Even if I could manage to sell the land where would I go? My relatives in the East don’t want me. There’s no one but the Trents, and I’d rather die than live under the same roof as Jemima, wouldn’t you?” A tear slid down her cheek and she scrubbed it away with a worn handkerchief. I can’t let go of Papa’s farm. It’s the last thing I have to hold onto.
Soonie bit her lip and stared down at the reins. “I know, Zillia. But Wylder will be gone this spring and I’m not sure what I’ll be doing now school’s finished. We won’t be able to help you any more.”
“Wylder is going away?” Zillia choked out.
“Yes.” Grandma Louise’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and Zillia couldn’t tell if her smile was happy or just brave. “He’s taking a job with a new lumber camp upriver. He didn’t tell you?”
Zillia’s fingers tightened around the wagon seat. “No, he didn’t.” Well, it wasn’t like he had to tell her every detail of his life. It wasn’t really her business. Right?
All her excitement about the new job floated away in the breeze like dandelion seeds. She laid her head on her arms and left her neck to the wagon’s jolting mercy.
“Zilly, are you okay?” Orrie peeked under her arm.
“Yes, sweetheart. I’m just tired.”
###
The next morning, two hours earlier than usual, Zillia milked the goats, fed the chickens, and packed bread and a jar of pickles in her Sunday basket. Then she and Orrie began the hour walk to town.
Soonie always referred to this sort of morning as “a golden day,” unseasonably warm, with brilliant rays of sun filtering through branches bereft of finery.
Zillia was thankful for the fine weather, but she couldn’t help but wonder how they would make the journey on colder mornings. She would have to cut up an old blanket or two and improvise jackets for both her and Orrie. I certainly can’t wear Papa’s coat to town.
Thirty minutes later, Zillia knocked on the door of Mrs. Kent’s home. The woman had three children of her own. She had agreed to care for Orrie in exchange for eggs and butter.
A fit of coughing met her ears through the thick wood. The handle turned and the door cracked just enough to reveal Mrs. Kent’s white face. The lady wiped sweat off her forehead with a dirty apron. “We all have colds today, Zillia, and little Davey has the fever.” She looked down at Orrie and gave a weak smile. “I don’t want him to be catchin’ our ailment.”
Zillia’s heart thudded to the dust. What would she do with her brother? “All right, Mrs. Kent. Hope you all feel better.”
She took Orrie’s hand and led him back to the road. “You’ll have to behave yourself and come with me today, just this once.”
He gave her an angelic smile.
Despite the early hour, the town of Bastrop bustled with activity. Customers stood in line outside the butcher shop and bakery, waiting for the first pick of fresh meat and bread. Wagons trundled down the road toward the end of town, where farmers gathered to market their goods once a week.
River was a good-sized town, boasting cotton gins, a bank, several stores, four churches and two schools. Papa had chosen River because he knew Mama wanted to remain close to ‘civilization’ as she had called it. Zillia remembered how fun trips to town used to be, when they could walk into any shop and purchase anything they wanted. I didn’t even realize how spoiled I was.
When Mrs. Purpose opened the door of her store, she stared down at Orrie as if he were a rabbit coming to eat her prized cabbages. Her lips drew into a thin line. “My shop is for ladies. Children do not belong here.”
Zillia’s first attempt at speech failed. She swallowed hard and tried again. “I really need this job. Please give me a chance.”
Mrs. Purpose’s eyes softened. She tapped her fingers against her double chin. “I must stay up front to assist customers. You will have work in the back, and watch him every moment.”
Too thankful to speak, Zillia simply nodded.
“Come on in.” Mrs. Purpose swept through the front door. A little bell tinkled over Zillia and Orrie’s heads when they followed her into the store.
“Don’t touch anything,” Zillia hissed down at Orrie, whose eyes had doubled in size.
He bobbed his head, a finger stuck in his mouth. When she had to go into a shop, she would normally leave him outside with someone. She wasn’t quite sure how he would react to this strange new environment.
They threaded though tables topped with lacy bonnets, straw hats with ribbons to tie under one’s chin, stovepipe hats for gentlemen, and the latest rage... bowlers, brought down from New York. She was glad she came bareheaded. Mrs. Purpose would have had a fit of vapors if she saw her in Papa’s old broad-brimmed hat.
A wooden counter rose at the back of the shop, topped by measuring devices and sample hats for custom fittings. A mirror in a golden frame hung on the wall.
A quick look in the glass and Zillia turned away. During the long walk a thin layer of dust had powdered her face and her collar was stained with sweat. No wonder Mrs. Purpose wanted her to work in the back. She patted her curls in attempt to put them back into some form of order.
Mrs. Purpose pulled back a fabric curtain to reveal a small door behind the counter. She beckoned to Zillia. “Come, you’ll be working in here.”
The room was larger than the store front, and much less tidy. Tables and shelves overflowed with laces, ribbons and fabrics.
“You can see my last employee wasn’t much for order,” Mrs. Purpose sniffed. “But she was a genius in the art of hattery. Alas, she married an insufferable man and went away to San Antonio.”
A box of hats clattered to the floor, and Mrs. Purpose stacked them back again. “Your first task will be to clean and organize this area. I don’t care how you arrange everything; just make sure it’s manageable. I would have taken the task myself, but I’ve been far too busy with customers to trouble myself with this chaos.”
The bell tinkled and she bustled back towards the door. “See what you can do while I’m gone.” She closed it in her wake.
Zillia surveyed the space. Order had been absent from this area for quite some time, it would take several hours to make it right again.
“Might as well get started, Orrie.” A few, small, empty spools where piled on the counter. She handed these to him. “Look, you can put these on this ribbon, like this.”
“O.k.”
Much larger spools were lined against the wall, most holding ribbon and lace. The contents of these were partially unwound and tangled together on the floor. She chose a spool of lovely green satin thread to start with. Patiently, she followed the ribbon, unsnarling it from the mess inch by inch. A sense of satisfaction filled her as each loop of ribbon smoothed back into place. Settling
into a rhythm, she finished the green silk and began on a filmy lace, so fragile she feared it would dissolve in her fingers. A smile played on her lips. It had been a long time since she’d had the chance to touch such beautiful things. Now here she was, surrounded by finery.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could keep this job? What if Mrs. Purpose offered her a raise, right away? What if she made her a partner? They could afford new coats, maybe even some things for the house. We could get the pump fixed. And repair the cracked walls.
Five spools finished. The pile was almost gone. What should she work on next? She brushed a square of crimson velvet against her cheek.
A woman’s shriek interrupted her reverie. She glanced up. Spools lay scattered on the floor. No Orrie.
“Oh no,” she whispered. Pushing the pile of ribbons from her lap, she jumped up and hurried through the door.
At first, all she saw were feathers. Soft, fluffy, and sticking to every surface in the room. Four feather-covered shapes jumped and shrieked around the counter. Arms waved wildly to clear the air of quills.
One person was much smaller then the others.
“Zillie!” Orrie ran toward her, his mouth drawn with fear. “Big chickens!”
The larger three, Zillia realized in horror, were Mrs. Purpose, Mrs. Trent, and Mrs. Fowler. They stopped hopping about and stared at her.
“I’m so sorry.” Zillia bent down to scoop up a handful of feathers. Most of them escaped her grasp and settled on various perches in the room. “I don’t know how he got away from me so fast. I promise I’ll clean everything up.”
Mrs. Fowler knelt down to smile at Orrie. “Haven’t I seen you at church?”
Orrie beamed. “Yep.”
Mrs. Trent brushed feathers off her dress as though they were cockroaches. “You brought him to work with you? How could you be so irresponsible?” She turned to Mrs. Purpose. “What did I tell you? Absolutely not a fit guardian for a child.” She glared at Zillia.
The River Girl's Song: Texas Women of Spirit, Book 1 Page 7