by Lynn Donovan
CHAPTER THREE
Myrakle and Dumpling gathered with the other ladies on the open veranda of Miss Viola Redburn's Victorian, brick and tan house while her nephew unloaded the trunks. It was dark and hard to really know, but it seemed the home was smack-dab in the middle of town. The house was enormous. Large enough to house all ten brides-to-match comfortably, like a boarding house. He placed each trunk on the porch next to the women and indicated with an upturned hand for them to identify which was theirs. Myrakle stood next to hers and waited, suppressing a yawn.
The excitement of their arrival waned along with her energy. One of the girls released a wide-mouth yawn and the rest followed suit, along with Myrakle... even Dumpling yawned. She had never been so bone-weary tired. Finally, Mr. Redburn stepped onto the porch and opened the front door. He stood back to let the girls enter.
Miss Viola's home was exactly what Myrakle expected. Spotlessly clean, handmade doilies on every headrest and side table, and a warm and inviting parlor lit by Tiffany lamps. The girls stood in a cluster, gazing at the many beautiful accessories Miss Viola had obviously treasured. One entire wall had been dedicated to bubble glass, oval-framed photos of happy couples on their special day. Were these Miss Viola's previous matches?
Mr. Redburn pushed through the women and turned in the middle of the room to face everyone. He rubbed his brow as if his head ached. "Now, ladies, you've all caught me off guard tonight. But rest assured I'll get it sorted out tomorrow. For now, let's get you settled. Get a good night's sleep, and we'll work everything out — after breakfast."
Myrakle watched the girls bombard him with questions. She was too tired to ask anything other than which bedroom should she settle in. Dumpling sat at her feet and watched the commotion. He yawned and lowered his front end to the floor, placing his head over his front legs. Myrakle smiled at his three attempts before he placed his head the way he wanted. She returned her attention to Mr. Redburn, who pumped his hand in the air, trying to stifle the questions.
"I'll answer all your questions... in the morning," he kept saying over and over. The girls were not accepting his delay in answers. The way Myrakle figured it, he probably didn't know the answers to what's going to happen next. From the look of his troubled brow, he had no idea. But from the strength in his jaw, Myrakle sincerely felt he would figure something out— tomorrow.
The girls needed to stop. Mr. Redburn needed to gain control of them. Myrakle knew what to do. She drew in a deep breath and hollered. "Ahhhhh!"
Silence washed over all the girls as every startled eye turned on her.
"Can you show us the way to our rooms?" Myrakle spoke calmly.
Relief washed over Redburn's face. "Certainly. This way, ladies."
He pointed to a door leading from the parlor. "There are five bedrooms upstairs and ten of you. So I suggest you work out who bunks with who."
Jasmine slipped up beside Myrakle and took her arm. Lifted eyebrows and a solicitous smile asked the question. Myrakle nodded. The two of them pulled their trunks toward the stairs. Mr. Redburn leapt to intercept and whistled for a man from the kitchen to come help. The two men followed the girls upstairs, lugging trunks behind them. The girls waited for their luggage and then proceeded to claim a room.
The rooms were decorated much like the parlor with two doily-covered reading chairs, two individual beds, matching homemade quilts, and one vanity table with a cross-stitched cushioned seat, the tiny initials, "VR," sewn in at one corner. It was perfect— for now.
As Myrakle entered the room, tension fell from her shoulders like spring blossoms tumbling in a soft breeze. Jasmine turned and flipped a dismissive wave. The girls must have said goodnight. Myrakle chose a bed by placing her trunk at the foot board. She glanced toward Jasmine to be sure she did the same. Together, they cracked open their luggage and changed into bed clothes, took down their hair, braided a plat down their backs and crawled into their chosen bed. The covers smelled like they had been hanging in fresh sunshine and just placed on the bed as she pulled the quilt to her chest.
Myrakle gasped, jumped to the floor, and knelt beside her bed. Humbly, she said her prayers. When she opened her eyes, Jasmine was kneeling also. Dumpling stood watching, waiting. When she climbed back under the covers, he turned three times and settled on the braided rug beside her bed. She smiled. "Good night, Dumpling. Good night, Jasmine."
What a day it had been. Surely tomorrow would be less stressful. She drifted to sleep with visions of the handsome gentleman holding her hand. Maybe-Joseph.
Dumpling pawed at Myrakle's arm. She ignored his insistence. He tried again. She grabbed his paw and held it gently but firmly in her hand. "Stop. I wanna sleep."
He pulled free of her grip and pawed at her again. She opened her eyes. Jasmine peeked around her leather luggage, smiling as she shrugged on her dressing gown. "Come on, sleepy head. Someone is ringing a dinner bell."
"Dinner?"
"Well, you know what I mean. It sounds like one of those iron triangles the cooks use to call in the ranch hands. It must be our call for breakfast."
Myrakle dragged herself from the warm covers and dug out her dressing gown. Jasmine and she padded barefoot to the parlor, falling in line with the other girls who were in various states of disarray and sleepiness. Myrakle marveled at how long Jasmine's braid trailed down her back. When her hair was pinned up, Myrakle had no idea it was this long.
Following their noses, they crossed the parlor and entered a hall opposite the stairs. To their right was a long room with a large dining table covered with a cream-colored linen cloth, silver and crystal salt and pepper shakers were placed along the length of it. It looked as though it could seat twelve people. To their left was a small dark room. Mr. Redburn sat behind a highly polished oak desk with his head in his hands. A pile of papers centered between his elbows.
"Good morning, Mister Redburn." The girls chanted as they passed the room. Myrakle chuckled at the procession as each girl turned her head and spoke to their benefactor. She followed suit and bade him good morn. He lifted tired eyes and watched the parade of girls.
Entering the kitchen, a scruffy old man stood at the stove. His white wispy hair was as thin as a spider web and a variegated gray and white beard covered the bib of his rawhide apron. The girls stopped once they were clustered in the large country-style kitchen. He spoke, but Myrakle couldn't read his lips for all the hair. She turned to Jasmine.
"He says he's got coffee, biscuits and cream gravy, fried salt pork and... beans." She shrugged with a whimsical grin. "Then he said, 'Ya'll come eat up.'"
Myrakle frowned. "Did you say 'beans'?— for breakfast?"
"I believe so." She looked less enthused than Myrakle felt about the offerings. Chatter rose from the girls, but hunger moved them forward. The cook held a stack of dishes. He lifted the top most and handed it to whoever approached him. He spoke again and pointed with a tilt of his age-spotted head.
Jasmine turned around to Myrakle. "He says his name's Clarence McGruder, but folks call him Beans. Coffee's on the stove."
Myrakle received her plate and accepted the cook's generous portions. "Thank you, Mr. McGruer."
She followed the other girls to the washboard and took a mug, then to the stove. Using the skirt of their dressing gowns, they lifted the enameled coffee pot and poured coffee. It smelled burnt. Carrying her plate and cup, she trailed the other girls through a different door that lead into the long dining room. Silverware had been laid out on a sideboard along with a stack of linen napkins.
Myrakle sat her plate and mug next to Jasmine's and retrieved them both a set of utensils along with a napkin. The girls waited for all to be seated. Except one— why couldn't Myrakle remember her name?
Cina! That was it. Cina Fairbanks. She scooped beans into her mouth as if she were starving to death. Someone alerted her to stop. Myrakle couldn't tell who. But following the girl's embarrassing admonition to wait, they reached out to one another, clasped hands, and bow
ed their heads. Ah, prayers. Myrakle peeked up but didn't see anyone's mouth moving, so she resumed her prayerful position and said her own thanksgiving to herself.
Then the girls picked up their polished-silver forks and took small, cautious bites. Suddenly, everyone turned to Helena. She looked shocked and embarrassed. Coffee dripped down her chin. A brown wet stain fanned out across the cream colored tablecloth in front of her. She grabbed her napkin and wiped at her face and dressing gown. "I-I'm so sorry. This coffee is—"
Myrakle scanned the girls. Bert took big gulps of the coffee and leaned on both elbows, a mischievous grin slightly hid behind her cup.
Alice spoke, "It's awful! How can you drink this stuff?"
Abigail turned incredulous eyes toward her sister. "Alice, don't be rude!"
Bert shrugged and scooped more beans in her mouth.
Mr. McGruder ran into the room. Jasmine snickered and turned to Myrakle. "He's asking what's going on in here."
Some of the girls looked like they wanted to cry. Esperanza Martinez just looked mad. Helena looked so embarrassed. Myrakle felt sorry for her and glad she hadn't taken a sip of the coffee yet. She looked at Jasmine whose lips were taut and her chin quivered. She busted out laughing and some other girls laughed too. Jasmine turned to the cook. "I'm sorry. But this coffee really is terrible."
Mr. McGruder scowled. His beard moved with his words and his eyes revealed a troubled response.
Jasmine stifled her laughter long enough to tell Myrakle, "He's been making it this way for thirty years."
Helena's eyes darted to Mr. McGruder. "Well, with all due respect, sir, it's inedible."
Myrakle's curiosity got the better of her and she drew a tentative sip of the stuff in question into her mouth. They were right. It was awful. Her tongue sensed a chunk of grounds. She worked it around in her mouth and delicately eased it into her napkin. "How much coffee did you use?"
The cook looked at her with confounded eyes. A typical reaction when she spoke for the first time.
Jasmine erupted in laughter again. Finally, she told Myrakle, "He used two handfuls o' grounds per cup o' water."
"Ewww," the girls unanimously exclaimed. Violet Montgomery rose gracefully, as if she were the matriarch of this family, and marched toward the kitchen, gently pulling Mr. McGruder with her. He looked scared... or bewildered.
"I hope she's going to show him how to make coffee for real people." Jasmine pushed her cup away and turned her attention to the biscuits. "However, his biscuits are divine." She smiled with her hand still holding the fork protruding from her lips.
Myrakle cut a biscuit with her fork and lifted it dripping with creamy gravy to her mouth. Jasmine was right. This tasted like pure heaven. She took a bite of the salt pork. It wasn't bad. A lot like bacon, only without the smoky flavor. But the beans, she would let go into the compost bucket. Assuming they had a compost bucket like Papa had.
"Beans, what's wrong?" Mr. Redburn stepped into the dining room from the door across the hall. The girls started talking at once, which had become their custom. Redburn pumped his flat hands, trying to calm them down. "Now, listen here. Beans has been working for me for a very long time. I've never had one complaint about his cooking."
"But, Mr. Redburn..." the girls started in, again, listing their complaints.
"Alright, alright!" His face darkened. "I'll discuss easing back some on the coffee." He stopped. A thought had come to him that pleased him a great deal. His lips curled into a smile. “Seeings how you all are here to marry, I think we should work out a schedule for you to cook and clean. If you don't know how, this'll be a good opportunity for you to learn. If you already know what to do, then you'll be a big help to Beans. Besides, I don't know a better teacher than Beans. We always rotated between the ranch hands to help at the chuck wagon, I don't see why that wouldn't work with you gals."
The cook rushed into the room, a look of desperation in his eyes. Jasmine chuckled and turned to Myrakle. "He says he ain't no teacher!" Jasmine moved her head in an overly animated titter-tottering way. She must have been imitating his tone. Something Myrakle would never hear or be aware of.
Redburn turned to him with a huge grin. "You're the closest thing I got to a culinary teacher. It never hurt none of the boys to learn a thing or two about cookin'. Besides, these ladies need to know as much about cooking and cleaning as possible before I match them up to an unsuspecting groom in town."
Myrakle turned to the girls. The one whose eyes were dark and beautiful, Esperanza Martinez. "Unsuspecting groom? What are you saying? Our grooms don't know we're here?"
"Now. Well I— I'm still sorting everything out. My— well, my aunt didn't keep very good records and I'm just trying— I need time to figure out what she had in mind. The only written account is for— well, it's gotta be a mistake, and I'll figure something else out. I promise you. Somehow we'll get all of you married as soon as possible."
Violet frowned. Did she know who he thought was a mistaken match?
"As soon as possible?" Alarm washed through the girls. Myrakle watched this knowledge transform them from nervous brides-to-match to vicious maids-in-waiting. It would have been funny, if she weren't in the same predicament. She slipped Dumpling another piece of salt pork and sat still while the girls screamed at Mr. Redburn. Violet quietly sat back down at her place along the table.
Mr. Redburn did his best to calm them down. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. He held himself in check. Myrakle was impressed, actually. Had it been Papa, he'd have walked to the barn and chopped wood or something strenuous. Maybe Mr. Redburn would go find some wood to chop. Meanwhile Violet jumped up and hurried to the kitchen.
She came back into the dining room and spoke over the others. Myrakle could tell she was straining to be heard by the cords in Violet’s neck as she spoke. "I've got fresh coffee! And I found sweet cream and sugar cubes!"
The girls settled. Abigail gathered everyone's mug and put out new ones. Coffee was poured, cream and sugar was added, and spoons stirred the sweet cream into the dark brown liquid. Soon, the girls were calm. The tension in the room settled. The coffee tasted wonderful. And Dumpling got another bite of salt pork.
Myrakle sat back, satisfied by a full tummy. Mr. Redburn's slip-of-tongue surfaced in her mind. What did he mean by 'an unsuspecting groom'? Didn't Redburn know who they were here to be matched to? Would she have a chance to express her feelings about the gentleman who had helped them at the train depot? She sat back with a light sigh. How wonderful it would be to be courted by that deliciously handsome man.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Ladies—" Redburn came into the parlor several hours later with his hat in one hand and leather gloves in the other. All ten brides had gathered in the front room after they had unpacked. Helena read a book, others cross stitched, knitted, or crocheted, still others chatted. Jasmine, of course, chatted, and Myrakle watched her mouth but paid little attention to what she went on about. Her mind was filled with crystal blue eyes and long dark eyelashes.
Maybe-Joseph's crooked-tooth smile made her giddy. She glanced at her Dumpling. He lay at their feet, occasionally opening one eye and closing it when there was nothing of interest to him. She focused on Mr. Redburn.
"—Beans has given me a list, and I'm going to the Mercantile for supplies." He carried a thin leather-bound journal between his ribs and arm. Gold embossed letters stated, "Records." Why would he take his accounting books with him to the mercantile? Myrakle shrugged off the question. Perhaps people did things differently here in Colorado.
Alice jerked her handwork to her lap. Her face contorted into anger, or maybe just impatience. "When will you tell us about our husbands?"
He turned back with surprise in his eyes. Had he honestly expected no questions?
"Right. Well" —he shoved a thumb over his shoulder pointing in the direction of the store— "let me get these supplies and then I'll... we'll discuss how best to move forward."
Bertha
Langston, no, she wanted to be called Bert, crossed her arms over her chest. "What do you mean, Mr. Redburn?”
"I won't be long," was all he said and placed his hat on his head as he pushed the screen door open. The girls gawked at his retreating stature.
Myrakle turned toward the window to watch Redburn ride away on the same supply wagon they had ridden from the train depot. Mr. McGruder stood in the dust waving goodbye and walked toward the back of the house. She glanced at the clock above the mantle, nearly eleven o'clock. Surely McGruder would start lunch soon. Had Redburn made a chores schedule, like he'd said he would? Did Mr. McGruder need help with the noon meal? She thought of her Papa's shepherd pie. It was one of her favorite dishes and she had learned to make it just like he did. Were there potatoes in the root cellar? Was there even a root cellar? Would that handsome stranger at the train depot like shepherd pie?
She rose. The least she could do was ask if Mr. McGruder needed help.
Dumpling lifted his head but didn't make any effort to stand. As she entered the hall leading to the kitchen, he brushed against her side, walking along with her. She smiled. He was such a faithful companion.
"Mr. McGruder?"
The man glanced up. His lips moved, but with the scraggly beard and unkempt mustache, she couldn't see what he said.
"I read lips, Mr. McGruder, but I can't see yours."
His mouth moved behind the strands of white hair. His eyes shone compassion. He gestured in such a friendly way for her to come closer, she thought he might be about to share a delightful secret with her. She walked toward him smiling with anticipation. He reached into a large burlap bag and lifted a handful of pinto beans, pointed at them, then to his chest.