Golden State Brides

by Keli Gwyn

  “I’ve chosen the music for the fall concert.” He read the names of three pieces, two of which Miles was familiar with, and then he paused. An expectant hush fell over everyone.

  “The final selection will be Bach’s Double Violin Concerto. I gave a good deal of thought to my choice for the two soloists. Most of you would agree that Miles Rutledge is an exemplary musician and won’t be surprised that he’ll take one of the spots. The second will go to our newest member, Mrs. Elenora Watkins, who is also exceptionally talented.”

  Ellie’s bow clattered to the floor.

  Chapter 20

  Elenora reached for her bow and sat up so fast her head swam. No. Righting herself so quickly wasn’t the reason. Mr. Morton’s announcement had caused the world to spin. She’d best breathe deeply and steady herself, because she wasn’t about to swoon in front of a roomful of men. And not just any men. Her fellow musicians, among them several violinists who might not be happy she’d garnered one of two solos.

  A loud clap rang out, followed by several more, and then every one of the members was applauding for her and Mr. Rutledge. She dared not look at him. The others might be willing to show her support, but after their earlier exchange, he might not be in as generous a mood.

  “Congratulations!” His rich voice held a note of surprise.

  He held out his hand as one man would to another. She extended hers. Although his firm handshake was a perfectly acceptable gesture given the circumstances, heat raced to her cheeks with the speed of a runaway locomotive. His touch brought back memories of his near kiss at the Duprees’—mem-ories she was trying hard to forget. “The same to you.”

  He leaned close. “We’ll have to work together on this. Are you up for that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He smiled. “Thought you might feel a need to prove that you’re as good a violinist as I am.”

  She cast him a sidelong glance. “I don’t have to prove that. I am.”

  The room quieted. Mr. Morton set them to work on the first selection and assigned both Mr. Rutledge and her to second violin. She did her utmost to play flawlessly, but she was unfamiliar with Schubert’s symphony and missed a few notes the first time through, as did several others, including Mr. Rutledge.

  Mr. Morton wanted them to get an introduction to the four works they were to perform, so he had them move on to the second. She relaxed. Her instructor in Omaha had helped her with Bach’s Air from Suite No. 3 not long before she’d left for California. The gentle strains flowed from her fingertips, whereas Mr. Rutledge struggled. Each time he faltered, she fought the urge to smile.

  “And now, gentlemen and Mrs. Watkins, we’ll make Miles’s evening and try our hands at the first movement of Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik.”

  She ventured a glance at Mr. Rutledge. Sure enough, he looked as happy as Tildy did when a new wanted poster went up in the sheriff’s office. Something told Elenora that Mr. Rutledge had played the serenade before, which she hadn’t, although she’d heard it performed. If memory served her, the tempo was brisk. She scanned the sheet music on the stand. The first movement was allegro, which would keep her fingers busy. She’d need to keep her focus on her playing and not allow herself to be distracted by the man beside her.

  Despite her good intentions, she was unable to ignore him. The music flowed from him as freely as words from Tildy. Elenora concentrated, but the further into the piece they got, the tighter her neck and shoulders became. She must stop this or—

  She squeaked.

  It took every ounce of willpower she had to forge ahead as if nothing had happened. How she made it to the end she didn’t know, but it came at last. She’d never been as eager to lower her violin. Hopefully her fellow musicians would overlook her mistake.

  Mr. Rutledge whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry. Once you’ve had some practice, it’ll come easier.”

  How dare he act as though he was a virtuoso when he’d fumbled his way through Bach’s Air? With her mouth clamped shut to keep from spewing some spicy words, she took a number of shallow breaths, which did nothing to calm her. She parted her lips and filled her lungs three times before she could focus on Mr. Morton’s instructions.

  “I realize I’m rushing you tonight, but since it’s unusually warm, my goal is to end our practice early.”

  It was beyond warm. It was downright hot. The temperature at the front of the mercantile had still registered ninety-five degrees when she’d checked it on her way to the rehearsal at a quarter of seven. Her undergarments stuck to her, and she could feel moisture on her forehead. Some of the men had been mopping their brows with their shirtsleeves, but a lady couldn’t indulge in such behavior. Her only option was to pull out her lace-edged handkerchief, even though such an action would draw attention to her as the lone female. As damp as she was, she had no choice. She’d just have to endure any teasing that came her way. She dabbed her forehead.

  “Miles. Mrs. Watkins. I’d like you two to come up front, and we’ll have a go at the concerto. Shall we?”

  She rose, and the viola player across the row did the same. He grabbed her stand and moved it into position. “Here you go, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” Perhaps there were advantages to being the only woman after all.

  Mr. Rutledge took his place, and she stood facing him. The next few minutes were her opportunity to redeem herself. She kept her eyes glued to the music in front of her and made no attempt to look at him while she played.

  The accompaniment faded, and she realized the only sound was coming from her instrument. She ceased playing. Everyone was looking at her. A shiver rippled down her spine, and she came close to swaying.

  “Mrs. Watkins?”

  “Yes?” She gave Mr. Morton her full attention.

  “It’s customary for a musician to watch the conductor.”

  “I know—I mean, yes sir. I understand.”

  He started them at a point several measures before the one where she’d finally stopped playing. Why had it taken her so long to notice she was no longer accompanied? She couldn’t think about that now. She must concentrate on the music, on Mr. Morton, but not on Mr. Rutledge. If she were to look at him, she’d think about other things. Things not at all related to the music. Things like how nice it had felt to be in his arms, and how close he’d come to ki—

  She jerked her thoughts back to the piece, making sure to cast frequent glances at the conductor.

  Mr. Morton lowered his baton a short time later, and she and the orchestra came to a discordant halt. He shook his head, stepped from his platform with his arms folded and brow furrowed, and crossed the stage until he stood between Mr. Rutledge and her. He spoke softly but with a firm tone.

  “I chose you two because you have the ability to do a fine job. However, I’m at loss to understand what’s going on. The concerto works because of the interplay between the two soloists. The violinists chase one another at times. At others they play in unison. It’s a team effort, one that will require you to work out your differences, whatever those may be. I know we’re just beginning to learn the piece, but I want you to put forth your best effort. And I want you to look at one another. You can’t play this concerto without doing so. Have I made myself clear?”

  Elenora trembled. “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Morton returned to his platform, told them where to begin, and raised his baton.

  She did her best to divide her attention between the music, Mr. Morton, and Mr. Rutledge, but the room began to spin. She couldn’t hear the others. The phrase “Have I made myself clear?” echoed in her fuzzy mind. Mr. Morton, with his full face and spectacles, didn’t look a thing like Pa, but he’d sounded exactly like him when he said that.

  Her trembling intensified. Her body was wet and cold. Her knees were melted wax. She mustn’t faint. If she did, her violin could be damaged.

  She sank to the floor and sat in a crumpled heap, clutching her violin with one hand and her churning stomach with the othe
r.

  Miles shoved their music stands aside and dropped to his knees. “Ellie, what’s wrong?”

  She tilted her head and nearly toppled over. “I—I don’t know. I feel s–s–sick.”

  He wrapped an arm around her and pressed a hand to her damp forehead.

  A chorus of concerned voices peppered him with questions.

  “She’s burning up.” A quick check of her pulse told him her heart was racing. He scooped her in his arms and rushed to the door. “Hank, run over to the house and tell Mother to meet me in the garden with water and a cloth. We’ve got to cool her down.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Miles tried not to joggle Ellie too much as he descended the stairs and crossed the alley behind his shop, but she was as limp as a rag doll, bouncing in his arms with each step. He shoved his way through the tall hedges that formed a border around his yard and made for the shade of the large oak tree, where he lowered himself to the bench beneath it with her in his lap, and cradled her to his chest. She smelled of rose water and rosin, sweet and woodsy.

  He stroked her moist brow, which felt cool to the touch. The color had drained from her face. All were signs of heat exhaustion such as he’d seen on the wagon train during his trek to California.

  “Mr. Rutledge?” Under different circumstances he would’ve enjoyed hearing her say his name in that soft, breathy tone. As it was, he’d prefer her usual direct manner of speech.

  “It’ll be all right, Ellie. You got overheated, but we’ll get you cooled down. I need to loosen your collar.” He held her with one arm, removed the silk flowers pinned at her throat, and reached for her top button.

  “No!” She swatted at him.

  “It’s too tight. You’ve got to get some air.”

  The front door slammed, and Ellie jumped. “Tildy! Sh–she can’t see me like this. Put me down. Now. Please.”

  He didn’t want to let her go. She was in a sorry state. And he liked having her in his lap. Very much. But if he continued to hold her against her will, she’d hold that against him. He set her next to him. She leaned against his side, and he resisted the temptation to wrap his arm around her.

  Tildy sped across the yard. “Mama, Sheriff Henderson said you almost fainted. Are you all right?”

  “I will be, sweetheart, as soon as Mr. Rutledge takes me inside. I got too warm, and I need you and Mrs. Rutledge to help me cool off.” Ellie jumped to her feet, but she teetered, grabbed his shoulder, and sank back onto the bench beside him.

  Tildy reached out to steady Ellie. “I think you’d better let him carry you.”

  “She has a good idea. You’re none too steady on your feet.”

  Ellie pressed her palms together and rested her chin between her thumbs and forefingers, looking as though she were praying.

  Lord, she needs me, but I can’t force myself on her. Please, let her accept my help.

  She gave him a weak smile. “I’m doing a little better. If you’ll support me, I think I can walk.”

  “Certainly.” He stood and helped her to her feet. She wrapped her arm around his waist, and he put his around her, pulling her to his side. She fit perfectly.

  Tildy supported her other side, and together they got her to the front stoop.

  Mother met them with a pitcher in one hand and a basin and cloth in the other. She set them on the entry hall table and rushed over. “Elenora, you poor girl. Come inside, and we’ll take care of you.”

  “I’m sorry to be a burden. I won’t impose on you any longer than necessary.” Her voice was still weak, but her independent streak was as strong as ever.

  “It’s no trouble, dear. It does my old heart good to be there for a body in need, especially one who’s become like a daughter to me.”

  Mother patted his arm, motioned him to step aside, and traded places with him. “Son, you can go take care of things at the hall while Tildy and I see to Elenora. We’ll have her right as rain again in no time, and then we can all have some dessert and a nice chat.”

  She started toward the parlor but cast a glance at him over her shoulder and gave him one of her knowing smiles. Mother had known all along what he’d been slow to realize. Ellie belonged here in El Dorado—with him. He just had to keep her from leaving.

  The way he saw it, his best tactic was to keep Grayson from finalizing his offer and spiriting her away. And the best way to do that was to prevent Ellie from being so successful that she was sure to impress him.

  Starting tomorrow she would have to redouble her efforts because things at the mercantile were about to change.

  Elenora nestled in the corner of the settee in Mr. Rutledge’s parlor half an hour later, a helping of caramel pudding on the end table beside her.

  “Don’t you want to try the pudding, Mama? I did most of the work myself. The only thing Mrs. Rutledge did was turn it out after it cooled.”

  Elenora ate a bite of the creamy dessert and set her bowl aside. Although she was no longer unsteady, her stomach was still unsettled, and the rich dessert didn’t sit well. “It’s delicious, dearest.”

  Tildy smiled an appreciative smile. “Mrs. Rutledge is going to teach me how to make gingerbread for the bake-off at El Dorado Day.”

  “I hadn’t heard about that. When is it?”

  Mrs. Rutledge’s spoon clinked in her empty dish. She set the items on a side table and joined Elenora on the settee. “The celebration, which we hold on the first Saturday in August, commemorates the summer of ’56 when Miles and two other merchants constructed the first of our fireproof buildings. There are games, competitions, and a barbeque.”

  “It sounds like fun.”

  Tildy squeezed between them, her eyes bright. “She said it’s almost as much fun as Placerville’s Fourth of July celebration. And she wants you to help her plan things.”

  “Me?” Elenora clapped a hand to her chest.

  Mr. Rutledge entered. “Were you missing these?” He set the two violins down, reached inside his jacket, and produced the violets he’d removed earlier, which he handed to her with a flourish. “Flowers for a lovely lady.”

  “Thank you.” She took them, and her fingers brushed his, causing her to feel light-headed again. Keeping her distance from him was vital, because his every touch made her skin tingle. Although pleasant, she couldn’t allow herself to lose sight of her goal. She needed to remain focused if she wanted to secure the offer from Mr. Grayson.

  “You must be feeling better. Your color’s returned.”

  “I am.”

  He took his place in his armchair and dug into his pudding. “This is right tasty.” He ate a few bites and pointed his spoon at Elenora. “I owe you an apology.”

  “I don’t understand.” Surely he wouldn’t mention the intimate scene in the garden when she’d been in his lap. It had been improper of him to suggest he unfasten her top button, but she’d set him straight, so no harm had been done.

  “I forgot to open the windows in the hall this afternoon so the place could air out. Mr. Morton rarely cancels practice early, but it was like a furnace in there.”

  “Oh, that. I should have known better than to work so hard in this heat and neglect to take in liquids. I’ll be more careful in the future. Thank you for getting my violin—and the flowers.”

  “The men send their well wishes, and Mr. Morton said he was sorry if his surprise contributed in any way.”

  Tildy sprang from the settee and stood beside him. “Surprise? What kind of surprise?”

  “Your mama and I were assigned a duet, which we’ll perform at the fall concert.”

  “Congratulations to you both.” Mrs. Rutledge beamed. “What piece?”

  He informed her, and she nodded. “That will call for plenty of practice.”

  “Yes, a great deal. He told me he’d like us to run through the concerto at least three times a day.”

  Elenora was in the process of pinning on her spray and poked herself. She shook her finger. “Together?”

  �
�Is that a problem?”

  “We’re both busy people. I don’t see why we can’t rehearse our parts separately during the week and leave the joint sessions for the rehearsals.”

  Mr. Rutledge scraped the last bit of pudding, cleaned his spoon, and pushed his empty bowl away. “I think his request has to do with tonight’s performance. You didn’t exactly—how shall I say this?—make the best impression on him.”

  Tildy chimed in. “What happened?”

  “Your mama…” He chased his thumbs around each other.

  Elenora held her breath. There’d be no end to Tildy’s teasing if he told her about the embarrassing mistake.

  “I think she was feeling poorly and that affected her playing.”

  “Did she squeak?”

  His twinkling eyes met Elenora’s, and she released a shaky breath. She’d just have to endure the jests.

  He smiled and pulled Tildy close. “Squeak? Why yes, as a matter of fact she did, but what violinist hasn’t at one time or another. What I wonder, though, is if I can make a certain young lady squeak.” He tickled her sides, and she squealed with laughter.

  “D–d–don’t! St–stop!” She tugged at his hands.

  “Don’t stop, you say? All right.” He tickled her once more, and she dissolved in a fit of giggles.

  Elenora’s eyes stung, and she studied the braided rug at her feet. Jake hadn’t been able to enjoy his daughter, and Tildy had missed out on far too many moments like this. He hadn’t valued the gift he’d been given. Mr. Rutledge, on the other hand, must have been a doting father. Look how good he was with Tildy. Perhaps someday she’d have a father like him.

  The ache in the pit of Elenora’s stomach didn’t help her queasiness. She did her best to be a good mother, but the task of raising a child on her own was a lonely one. Surely there were nice men in Marysville who would make decent husbands—when the time came that she had a healthy bank account and could consider such a self-indulgent option.

  Tildy’s laughter subsided. “I’m going to enter the bake-off at El Dorado Day, and Mama’s going to help with planning.”