Torn looked confused, yet in this state of suspended belief his day-old beard, glittering eyes, and bushy mustache were darkly appealing. He blinked. “Aren’t you the same smart-mouthed little tomboy who busted in here and fired me earlier?”
“Am I?” She looked up at Underwood, her gaze steady yet polite. Miss Roberts said her eyes were her most riveting asset, and that she should use them to full advantage when dealing with Spade’s cronies.
Underwood chuckled, relaxing as he gave her a complimentary once-over. “My mistake, I guess. Ira’s out back with Charlie, the other driver, unloading your sacks of supplies and none too happy about it!” he said as he gestured for her to precede him. “Can’t wait to see his face. Wouldn’t miss this for all the whiskey in Atchison!”
The proprietor was dropping huge bags of flour off a wagon into a waiting man’s arms, his thin face pinched and his talk liberally laced with profanity, as they stepped into the cavernous storeroom. Tom paused beside her for a moment, and then lightly took her arm.
“Got a surprise for you, boys,” he called to them. “Guess who this little gal is. And guess what she wants!”
Ira Lewis threw her a cursory glance and then straightened to his full height up on the wagon. “Mrs. Spade, isn’t it?” he asked sarcastically. “What brings you back in your finery? Can’t get credit from the mercantile down the street? Or did you come to rub my nose in it again?”
“I deserve that,” she said quietly when Tom pulled away and began to protest, and to keep him from stealing her thunder, as protective males so loved to do, she took his elbow again. “Were all these stacks of supplies to be delivered to the way stations, Mr. Lewis? All this?”
The storekeeper grunted. “Were, until you informed me I was no longer—”
“Will twice the amount fit onto my usual two wagons, or will I need a third one?” Sahara asked coyly. “I’d like to double my monthly order, from here on out.”
Lewis looked appropriately thunderstruck while the man on the ground approached her with an appraising grin. “So this is Sahara Spade,” he said in a low, melodic voice. “Lord, the things I’ve heard about you! But pardon my manners—I’m Charlie Oswald. Not sure I’m still driving for you, but I’d like to be, ma’am.”
Oswald was compactly built, short yet muscular, with brown hair and blue eyes that flirted with hers. He raised her gloved hand reverently to his lips, yet she sensed he was testing her—trying for a reaction.
“May we speak candidly, Mr. Oswald?” she asked as she reclaimed her hand.
“I’d like nothing better.”
“Good. You deliver the supplies to all the way stations along the Spade route, am I correct?”
Charlie nodded, looking courtly despite the dark, damp spots where his shirt clung to his chest. “Yes, ma’am, ever since the line got started.”
Sahara smiled graciously. “In your estimation, do the station keepers and passengers receive adequate food and supplies to maintain themselves—as well as the lofty reputation of Spade Express?”
Oswald’s smile wavered. “Perhaps, in light of Mr. Spade’s recent passing, you don’t really want to discuss—”
“Spade Express belongs to me now, and I’d be remiss if I were ill-informed about my employees and their working conditions.” She glanced from Charlie to Tom, who was following her words just as closely. “You see, I plan to be on tomorrow’s stage for a visit to each of the stations along the trail as the supplies and pay are handed out. I was appalled when I discovered that at Mr. Spade’s direction, half the food was being diverted to the army—but more horrified when I realized how little that left each of the stations to get by on. Are my assumptions correct? Are the provisions—and the pay—on the paltry side?”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Mrs. Spade, I believe you’ve pretty well summed it up,” he said quietly. “Not that I can complain—we drivers can choose where we eat and sleep, whereas some of those station keepers have to spend day and night in—if you’ll pardon my French—dugouts that are little more than hellholes.”
“Horatio Spade didn’t get filthy rich by lavishing good food and excessive pay on his employees,” Underwood chimed in cautiously. “His advertisements make the run from here to Denver sound like some wild, romantic adventure, but frankly, ma’am, I’d advise you to stay here and let Charlie and me make the run with the new supplies. The Indians get testy, and the ride’s enough to jar a healthy man’s insides loose—and the dust! Why, that pretty blue dress’d be brown by the time we—”
Sahara was smiling indulgently, letting him finish his litany of horrors. “I’m pleased you gentlemen have been honest,” she said with a growing grin, “but a little dirt never scared me, and I’ve been looking forward to this trip for so long that—why, in your own words, Mr. Underwood, I wouldn’t miss it for all the whiskey in Atchison!”
She looked up at the storekeeper, who was now regarding her with something akin to wonder. “Your patience is greatly appreciated, Mr. Lewis. I’ll notify my bookkeeper that we’re doubling my standard order, and I’ll see you two bright and early tomorrow, ready to roll! This’ll be the trip of my lifetime, and I can’t wait to get started!”
Chapter 11
When she stepped out of the Planters House hotel at seven-thirty the next morning, Sahara was enthralled. The gleaming red Spade Express coach stood ready, catching the rays of morning sunlight, as did the team of six dapple-gray trotters that stood harnessed in front of it. Express agents were loading mail pouches into the storage boot beneath the driver’s box, and arranging parcels and passenger luggage in the black boot at the carriage’s rear. People were milling about on the sidewalk, caught up in the excitement of yet another westward stage departure, and Sahara felt her blood bounding. What a trip this would be!
Parked behind the coach were two freight wagons with arched canvas covers and tandem wagons hooked on behind—her supply shipment! She hurried down the walk, seeking Charlie Oswald and Tom Underwood. Oswald was checking the harnesses on each twelve-mule hitch and didn’t see her, but his darker companion was quick with a smile and a wave.
“Good morning, Mrs. Spade!” he called out. “You’ll be the fairest flower on the prairie in that dress.”
“And you’re full of—flattery,” she teased. His dark eyes wandered to the vee of her flounced bodice. She also noted that freshly shaven and clad in clean black clothing, Mr. Underwood was a stunning eyeful of masculinity. “Are we ready?”
“Ever since I laid eyes on you.”
Sahara was about to put him in his place when Charlie Oswald joined them, his blue eyes twinkling. “If this mule skinner gives you any trouble, ma’am, you let me know,” he piped up. “Underwood’s a womanizer from the word go—”
“Takes one to know one, Charlie.”
“—but I’m a ladies’ man,” Oswald corrected without missing a beat, “and a lady like Mrs. Spade here knows the difference.” He focused on Sahara, gesturing toward the four loaded wagons. “I can tell you, the station keepers’ll be mighty glad you’ve upped their allotments, too. You’ll be greeted with open arms.”
Sahara lifted an eyebrow. “And why would that be, if they don’t know I’m coming?”
The two drivers exchanged a glance. “We telegraphed ahead,” Underwood admitted. “Thought they should know about Horatio’s passing, and about the arrival of their new owner, so they can prepare appropriately.”
“But I never intended for them to go to any special trouble—”
“Believe me, the improvements won’t be much, farther west,” Oswald said quietly. “And we notified them for security reasons as well, since you’ll be riding in the private Spade coach. Don’t want you to be a target for—”
“I’ll be riding what? That’s my wagon, right there,” Sahara said. She glanced over to see the passengers boarding it, and then her head snapped up. A low thundering announced the arrival of six shiny black Morgans hitched to another Concord coach, which was royal blue and
black, trimmed with gleaming brass scrollwork around the windows and doors. The blue-jacketed driver tipped his hat to her as he pulled up ahead of the other stagecoach.
Sahara scowled at the two freight men. “I suppose you ordered this, too? I have no intention of—”
“The coach is yours, ma’am. Much more appropriate and comfortable than the commercial carriage.”
“And that’s Spade’s finest team and driver, kept on call for when Horatio did his traveling,” Tom explained. “You’re paying the man. He might as well be on the road.”
“But this makes me look like a—a—”
“Wealthy woman?” Oswald finished. “You are, Mrs. Spade. Lord knows your late husband had some resentful employees and rivals, but by upgrading your way station conditions, you’ve already improved the Spade image. Nobody begrudges you your money, ma’am. Why not enjoy it?”
Sahara didn’t know what to say. No doubt Horatio’s private coach was more comfortable, but she never guessed she’d be set apart like visiting royalty, to be gawked at by townspeople already coming out to watch the illustrious Widow Spade board her elegant carriage.
Seeing her new driver approaching her with another man, she went to meet them. “I—I really don’t understand why you were put to the trouble of—”
“It’s me duty to take ye wherever ye care to go, Mrs. Spade,” the blue-jacketed man said with a slight bow. “Fergus McGee, I am—and proud to be the honorable Mr. Spade’s coachman for nearly a decade. And this is yer express messenger, Luther Bean.”
Bean gave her a silent, assessing nod. He was a big man with a bushy beard, wearing buckskin pants and a fringed shirt. And he was toting a double-barreled shotgun with an obvious sense of purpose.
Again Sahara was taken aback. “We need a guard?”
“We’re transportin’ precious cargo,” McGee replied in a brogue that teased her ears. He stood tall and
barrel-chested, with brown hair and expressive gray eyes—younger than she’d thought at first—and he filled out his blue corduroy uniform with broad shoulders.
“Every stage has an agent ridin’ shotgun,” he explained. “‘Tis a practical, precautionary measure, should we meet up with any hazards or difficulties on the road.”
Sahara’s gaze wandered to the red coach, in which she could count eight heads, and then she looked at the Scot again. “I have this entire wagon to myself?”
“Why, of course, ma’am. She’s yers.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Sahara turned and walked quickly to the crimson Spade Express stage and summoned the man who was shutting its door. “Some of these passengers are riding with me,” she announced. “I see no reason for eight people to sit like sardines—”
His expression reflected utter horror. “Mrs. Spade, this is nothing out of the ordinary. One passenger less than usual, actually.”
“I don’t care.” She peered through the windows of the coach at the passengers, who were regarding her with equal curiosity. “Who has the farthest to go? I’ve seen the horrendous overland fares they’ve been charged, and anyone cooped up in a coach for that many miles deserves more for his money.”
The stage agent consulted a list from his pocket. “Well, Mrs. Pruitt and her son are headed for Denver—”
“Put them in with me.”
“—and a Phineas Jenkins from St. Louis is bound for Salt Lake City—”
“He can join us, too.”
“—but, ma’am, you should realize—”
“Mrs. Spade, ‘tis not only unnecessary, ‘tis imprudent,” Fergus McGee was insisting. “We can’t take the risk that one of these people might be a threat to yer—”
“Nonsense. That woman with the little boy can’t be
much older than I am, and I’ll welcome her company,” Sahara replied firmly. “And poor Mr. Jenkins, sitting on that center bench without a back to it! What a horrible way to pass the next six hundred miles.”
When she saw the agent and McGee trying to come up with more objections, she smiled at them. “We’ll let Ben Holladay gouge his passengers with crowded coaches and outrageous fares. Spade Express is going to operate differently from here on out,” she said in a sweet but unwavering voice. “Just ask Tom Underwood and Charlie Oswald. Transfer the luggage and we’ll be off. And Mr. McGee?”
The driver, who was shaking his head as he walked back to the blue coach, turned to her with a questioning look.
“I appreciate your patience and understanding about this matter. And if it’s not too much trouble, I have one more favor to ask.”
“Aye, Mrs. Spade?” he replied as though suppressing a sigh.
“After we’ve gone down the road a ways—and if there’s room,” she added with a nervous grin, “I’d sure like to ride up in the box with you and Mr. Bean. That looks like the finest seat in the country for catching a view.”
Fergus McGee’s rugged features relaxed into a fetching grin. “‘Tis that, indeed, Mrs. Spade. Luther and I’ll be pleased to make room for ye.”
“Aren’t you rather old to be sucking your thumb, boy?”
Phineas Jenkins and his reedy voice were already growing tiresome, and they hadn’t reached the first way station yet. Sahara felt sorry for little Mitchell, who was thin and pale and trembling, as was the mother he hid his face against. “He’ll be fine in a bit,” she said kindly. “He’s not used to the bumpy ride yet, and he’s anxious to see his papa.”
“Oh, yes,” Roxanne Pruitt replied. “We’ve spent the past three weeks selling our home and furnishings in Kansas City, and packing the rest of our belongings to follow later. It’s been exciting but upsetting for both of us.” With an apologetic smile, she dabbed a tear at the corner of her eye. “Wendell’s been setting up a new bank in Denver, you see, and his letter said he’d finally found a nice home and was ready for us to join him. We can’t wait to be together as a family again.”
Sahara gave her a sympathetic smile. Mrs. Pruitt couldn’t be more than twenty; blond, as fragile as a bird, and very protective of the chick under her wing. Her nose and eyes were pink from crying, and it was plain she’d gotten little sleep lately because each time the stagecoach struck a rut, the poor creature squeezed her eyes shut and gasped. Even though she empathized with Roxanne’s mixed emotions at leaving her home to start a new life in a strange city, Sahara realized it was going to be a long, long journey if this sniffling continued.
She looked at Mr. Jenkins then, who was lolling against the leather seat across from them, his pear-shaped bulk jiggling with each bump in the road. “How about you, sir? I believe the agent told me you’re bound for the City of the Saints?”
“Right you are. On assignment from St. Louis, to report on the Mormons and their settlement in Utah,” he answered proudly. “Of course, I’m not making a trip of such magnitude solely for the benefit of the newspaper. If conditions look favorable, I intend to start up my own journalistic endeavor, rather than returning.”
He peered at her through smudgy spectacles, which, along with his unkempt, pomaded curls and his ill-fitting suit, gave the immediate impression of stodginess. “And you, I believe, are the recent widow of Horatio Spade?” he asked in a sly voice. “My condolences, ma’am. Upon seeing you, one has to wonder about the future of Spade Express—er, from a service standpoint, of course. From what my colleagues tell me, it can only improve. I’ve heard tales of ghastly, dirty food and passengers gone mad from lack of sleep and—”
“So perhaps you’ll take notes, and on your trip back to St. Louis you can write a piece about Spade Express being the most accommodating line in the business, after I’ve made some changes,” Sahara challenged. Roxanne’s eyes were widening with each horror he listed, and she wanted such talk stopped immediately. “This is my first trip west, so we’ll discover any inconveniences together, Mr. Jenkins. I intend to rectify such problems as I encounter them, and until that time, I can hardly be held accountable for situations I inherited only days ago, now can I?”
His chuckle was low and disagreeable, and the only pleasure Sahara could anticipate as she met his beady-eyed gaze was that his greased, uneven curls would be a magnet for the dust drifting through the windows. By tonight his head would resemble a mud dauber’s nest—and he deserved it for being such a sanctimonious twit.
Mrs. Pruitt’s eyes were still wide. “You’re Sahara Spade, and you’ve invited us to ride in your private coach?” she asked reverently. “I had no idea. I thought they provided an extra wagon because the passenger list got longer than they expected.”
“Not likely,” Jenkins scoffed. “Spade and Holladay cram all the fares on board they possibly can, without any regard for one’s comfort, or the heat, or any other inconvenience. Why, a friend of mine crossed to the Colorado Territory by stagecoach and refused to return home until the railroad’s completed! That’s the sort of ride you and your boy are in for.”
Sahara bit her lip to keep from ordering Phineas out of the moving carriage. Of all the nerve, to—
“Well, I appreciate your kindness.” Roxanne’s voice floated over the creaking of the coach and the team’s steady hoofbeats. “Mitchell and I aren’t terribly good travelers, and—oh, no, honey, please say you’re not going to be—”
The little boy at least had the presence of mind to aim for the floor, but that was small comfort when the stench of his motion sickness hit them. Phineas grimaced and stuck his head out the window.
“Driver, halt this stage!” he ordered. “We’ve got a horrid mess, and this vile odor will have us all retching! Stop this stage, I say!”
A few moments later came the squeal of the brake, and the stagecoach slowed to a stop. Jenkins was out the door before anyone else could move, gagging violently, and little Mitch was starting to wail while his mother turned paler and tried to keep her feet out of the mess on the floor. Sahara sighed to herself and climbed out, wondering how many of the 595 miles to Denver they had left to go.
Sahara Splendor Page 11