A day, and then two, and finally five days passed in a blur of work and sleep and simple gratitude for having a job, however temporary. Tom’s body slowly adjusted to the hard labor demanded of it, although muscles he hadn’t used in years were stiff and sore.
Each afternoon, he and Jackson were paid for their day’s labor on the construction crew and told to appear the following morning.
Friday arrived at last, and Tom longed for the weekend, only to learn that the forty-hour week hadn’t been invented yet, and everyone took for granted that Saturday was a workday like any other.
By the time their shift was finished late that Saturday afternoon, both he and Jackson were bone-weary and fed up. The only slight consolation was they’d been able to pay Zelda and Isabella for two weeks’ room and board---the princely sum of eight dollars each---and they’d bought themselves a few more clothes and some sturdy work boots.
They’d fallen into the habit of bringing a fresh change of clothes and a towel to work each morning so they could visit the bathhouse before they headed home at night. They’d both learned quickly that bathing at the Ralstons’ or at Isabella’s was a production. Buckets of hot water had to be heated on the range and dumped laboriously into a large tin tub behind sheets draped across chairs for privacy.
One session like that had been more than enough. The bathhouse at the mine was both convenient and refreshing after a day’s hard labor, and well worth the quarter it cost.
Besides themselves, Lars Olsen was the only other worker who bathed every day. Tom had learned from overhearing conversations among the construction crew that most of them considered a daily bath not only unhealthy but also downright dangerous. He had to wonder how their poor women put up with the smell. Tom figured he had a pretty strong stomach, but even in the open air, he’d learned to stay upwind of most of his fellow workers.
Lars, his blond hair wet and his tanned skin shining from hot water, was coming out of the bathhouse at the same time as Tom and Jackson late that Saturday afternoon.
“Hey, Lars, care for a beer? I’m buying. We owe you one for all your good advice,” Jackson suggested.
Lars’s handsome features split in a delighted grin. “Yah, sounds goot to me,” he agreed, and the three of them headed for the Imperial Hotel.
The bar was smoky and the noise level deafening. The room was crowded with coal miners and laborers, men weary from the long week’s work, celebrating the end of a hard week’s labor.
Tom glanced around. There were three or four women in the room as well, but it was obvious that they weren’t the same sort of female as Zelda or Isabella. These women wore their bright dresses tight and dangerously low cut. Their manner was flirtatious and provocative as they moved from table to table soliciting business.
Their clothing might be a little more subdued than the hookers from his own time, Tom decided, but the way they went about their work was the same.
“Hello there, handsome,” one of them greeted Olsen as they moved across the room looking for a table, and the young man blushed to the roots of his hair.
“Goot evening, Susie,” he responded. She came over and stood on tiptoe, holding his arm in a familiar grasp and whispering in his ear. Lars shook his head. With a good-natured shrug and a pat on his cheek, she moved away.
Tom smothered a grin. It was obvious that Lars could recommend other services besides bathing and what coveralls to buy.
They finally located an empty table and ordered beer from the harassed waiter. They waited and waited, but no beer arrived.
“The hell with this,” Jackson finally declared. “I’m gonna go see what the holdup is.” He shouldered his way through the throng and over to the bar. After a short time he returned with two foaming mugs of beer on a tray and set them in front of Tom and Lars.
“One of the bartenders just quit. The owner remembered me from the other day, and he wants me to help out for a while behind the bar.”
He winked at Tom and Lars and grinned his wide, white grin. “Said if I pitched in for an hour or two, all three of us get free beer all evenin’. Not that I’ll have time to drink it, but I’ll make certain you lucky dudes get my share.”
“Not a selfish bone in your body, Zalco,” Tom teased.
“Hate to disappoint you, Tom, old son, but I’m not doin’ it just to get you deadbeats free beer. See, I’ve come to the conclusion I’d dearly love a steady job here.” Jackson nodded around at the smoky, stuffy bar. “Man’s only gotta work on that killer construction crew a week with a game leg like mine to really appreciate the good life.” He winked and went back to the bar.
Tom and Lars toasted one another and drank. It seemed that half a lifetime had passed since Tom had last tasted the bitter, malty goodness of beer, and he appreciated every single drop.
“So ver are you from, you and your friend?” Lars leaned his elbows on the small table, his open face affable and curious.
Tom had learned discretion at the hands of the North West Mounted. “We’re traveling men,” he temporized. “I guess you could say we’ve been almost everywhere. How about you, Lars? What brought you here from Sweden?”
“Ach, I vanted a place of my own,” Lars replied. “Back home, there ver too many boys in the family, five big men and my parents and two little sisters, on vun small acreage. It vasn’t enough to support all of us, so I come to Canada. See, there isn’t land to be had back home for the asking, the vay there is here.” His broad face grew pensive. “But I am lonesome here in Canada. I miss most of all my little sisters. Ven I came first I vorked on a farm in Saskatchewan. The family vas goot to me, but I didn’t like so much space. I’m a mountain man, and ven I have made some money, I vill go further Vest, closer to the sea, and I vill find land and a vife and make a home of my own.” There was absolute determination in his tone, and Tom envied him. Lars had a definite goal in mind, an attainable goal. In comparison, Tom’s own overwhelming desire to return to his own time seemed more than ever unattainable.
“Out toward Vancouver there’s beautiful farming land,” he told Lars. “You’d like it out West.”
Lars drank again, looking at Tom curiously from over the rim of the beer mug. “So you’ve been there, to this Wancouver? Out Vest?”
“Oh, yeah.” Tom envisioned the sprawling, beautiful modern city, wondering with an ache of nostalgia what it looked like now, in its infancy. “We spent some time on the West coast, Jackson and me. Had a job there once.”
They’d been hired to try and locate a cache of gold rumored to be lost in the mountains near Hope. They’d enjoyed the search, but it was unsuccessful.
“So vat brought you here, to this coal mining town?”
Tom knew Lars was too polite to ask how two men who’d traveled as much as Tom claimed could possibly be as ignorant of everyday things as he and Jackson were. Suddenly a great and overwhelming loneliness came over him, a longing for someone besides Jackson to accept him for what and who he really was.
Jackson was a good friend, but as Tom looked across the open, sunny face of the young Swede, he had a sudden desire to confide in Lars. He wanted to explain how he’d come to be here, in this hotel bar, at a time in history when technically, he hadn’t even been born yet.
And so he tried as Jackson plunked a steady supply of beer down on their table. Tom did his best to convince Lars that he and Jackson came from far in the future. He leaned close to the other man and spoke in what he thought was a clear, convincing manner, outlining the highlights of the world he knew so well.
Two hours later and halfway through his explanation, he knew it was a hopeless endeavor.
Lars laughed hugely at the very idea of such things as cars and airplanes and computers. Even when Tom detailed exactly what was going to happen to the town of Frank the following year when the mountain slid down, Lars didn’t believe for a moment he was telling the truth.
“So, you haf’ been listening to Indian stories,” he chided Tom. “They are superstitious, these In
dians. They think the mountain moves, and they von’t camp here at its base. It is a big yoke around here. Ve have back home men who can tell such tales as you, also,” he added with admiration. “They go from willage to willage, entertaining the people, but none are as good as you, my friend.”
He reached over with his huge fist and tapped Tom good-naturedly on the shoulder.
Feeling utterly frustrated and misunderstood, Tom finally gave up and concentrated instead on emptying the overflowing mugs that kept appearing like magic in front of him.
The moon was up, high and cold in the starry sky when he and Lars left the saloon. Jackson was still busy pouring drinks, and he waved cheerfully at them from behind the bar. It was past eleven.
“Good night, my friend.” Affectionately, Lars wrapped his arm around Tom’s shoulders and drunkenly thumped his back in a friendly manner once or twice, endangering Tom’s ribs. “Thank you for a good evening. See you Monday morning.” He set off, a trifle unsteady, heading for the construction camp where he slept in a tent with two other men.
Tom made his way to the Ralstons, aware he’d had a little too much to drink and not caring a good goddamn. He felt fine, he decided.
He and Lars had talked easily once Tom stopped trying to burden him with the truth. But even knowing that Lars hadn’t believed him hadn’t seemed to matter after a few more beers.
The liquor had released the tight knot of anxiety that had been with him since he’d arrived in Frank. For the first time, he felt almost happy.
He whistled a haunting Western tune under his breath as he made his way through the dark streets of the now-familiar town. He was hungry; the last he’d eaten was the lunch Zelda had packed for him, and that was a long time ago. Maybe he could raid the cupboards and make himself a sandwich when he got home.
It would be nice if Zelda was up, he fantasized. They could make a pot of that infernal tea and sit and talk. There ever seemed a chance these days to be alone with her, to have a private conversation. She was always busy, cooking, cleaning, ironing clothes, helping Eli with his homework. Maybe if they had a chance to talk, he could tell her some of the same things he’d tried to tell Lars.
Zelda would believe him, he assured himself. She was an intelligent woman; she had imagination and foresight.
She was a desirable woman. For the rest of the short distance, his brain insisted on creating X-rated fantasies that involved his adept removal of the intriguing layers of clothing she habitually wore.
A Distant Echo: Chapter Thirteen
There was lantern light shining through the kitchen windows of the Ralstons’ house, and Tom opened the back door and smiled with delight to find Zelda sitting with a cup of tea at the kitchen table.
“Hey, pretty lady. How’re things?”
She didn’t answer, and Tom’s smile quickly faded when the ominous look on her face signaled that all was not well.
“What’s up, Zel?” He took off his coat, missing the hanger on his first try and depositing the package with his dirty work clothes on the floor underneath the coats. He frowned, suddenly concerned. “It’s not Virgil, is it? He’s not worse?”
Virgil had stayed in bed for several days, but yesterday morning he’d gotten up and made his special porridge before Tom left for work, insisting he was feeling much better. Tom had been immensely relieved.
She shook her head, a single, definitive shake. Tom noticed that she was wearing one of her long-sleeved white blouses and her usual long dark skirt. It was really too bad, he mused with a pang of real regret, that nobody had yet thought up those nice, tight leggings that women in his own time wore. She’d probably be a lot more comfortable in something like that, and he’d certainly enjoy them one hell of a lot more than these floor-length jobs.
Come to think of it, he could also envision her in a little miniskirt, not too short, just mid-thigh, made of denim. With pink satin panties----
Her voice snapped him out of his pleasant reverie. “You’ve been drinking, have you not?” The words were spoken in such a horrified, hushed tone that Tom was sure at first she was joking with him. “You are inebriated.”
He grinned at her and winked, pretending to be much worse off than he really was. “Jus’ a few little beers, pretty lady,” he said, deliberately slurring his words and then staggering a bit as he sat down across from her at the table. “Had a few beers after work with good ole Lars.”
Her full lips pressed together in disgust and her chocolate-brown eyes all but shot sparks at him. Her curly hair, escaping in all directions from the bun she’d tried to stuff it into, was a nimbus of fire in the lamplight.
“I might not have made myself clear when we arrived at this agreement about room and board, Mr. Chapman, and for that reason I’m going to overlook this transgression,” she began in a voice that quivered with anger and outrage.
“Imbibing in spirits is simply not allowed in this house.” Short of breath, her words came out in spurts. “I will overlook tonight’s spectacle for the sake of fairness in case I didn’t previously spell this out. But if you choose to succumb again to demon rum, you will have to find other accommodations immediately.”
Her chest was heaving with emotion, and color had stained her cheeks a deep rose. She’d never looked more desirable, or sounded more ridiculous.
Still mellow and loose from the beer, Tom didn’t take her words too seriously. Highly amused by actually hearing her say such things as “imbibe” and “demon rum,” he didn’t know whether to burst into laughter or gather her into his arms and make better use of her passion.
“Hey, Zelda calm down,” he said with a smile, reaching across to touch her hand. “A couple of beers doesn’t turn me into an axe murderer. I’m not even drunk, or at least not much. I was just putting you on a little.”
She snatched her hand away from his touch and leaped to her feet, wrapping her arms around her torso, her breasts heaving.
“You may think this is amusing, but I assure you, I do not!” she spat at him. “I will not have my brother exposed to the evils of alcohol in his own home. There are enough examples of what spirits can do in this town, without Eli witnessing it here.”
Tom realized that she was actually trembling, and he felt a pang of remorse. He’d forgotten for the moment about Isabella. Zelda had probably only seen the really wicked side of liquor. As far as he knew, Virgil didn’t drink at all, so she likely wasn’t even aware that a man could have a few beers once a week without turning into a raving alcoholic.
“C’mon, Zelda, sit back down and we’ll talk about this. The odd beer just relaxes a guy a bit.” He leaned back in the chair, trying to look both sober and unthreatening. “You’re overreacting just a little here. I’m a long way from being soused.”
To his utter amazement, his words seemed to push her over the edge. Angry tears glistened in her eyes. “Over---overreacting, am I?”
She moved swiftly to the range and flung the oven door down, grabbing a pot-holder and pulling out a heaping plate of scorched food. “This was your dinner, ready exactly on time, but you chose not to come and eat it.” She upended the plate and dumped the whole mess on the oilcloth-covered table in front of him. Bits of gravy spattered on his shirt, and an ugly glob of greasy sausage dropped into his lap.
“I refuse to be taken advantage of in such a manner.” Her voice rose to a near shriek. “I assumed you’d had an opportunity to work late, and I waited supper for you. I never dreamed you were in---in one of those dens of iniquity, succumbing to temptation. As far as I’m concerned, from now on you can cook for yourself. I’m through struggling to provide meals for a man who hasn’t the common decency to come home and eat them.”
Tom was too flabbergasted even to get angry. He sat in shocked silence as she turned on her heel and flounced out of the room, her back ramrod straight, her hair bouncing and tumbling in tendrils over her shoulders. He heard her booted feet pounding up the stairs, then scurrying up the narrow ladder to her attic room.
Tom had most of the food mess cleaned up by the time Virgil crept quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Couldn’t help but hear the rumpus,” he said, lowering himself into a chair and lifting the lid of the teapot to see if there was any left. “Reach me down a mug, would you, son?”
Tom did, and Virgil poured himself some tea, stirring in three spoons of sugar and then adding a dollop of milk. He stirred again and took a long, deep draught. He swallowed and sighed with pleasure. “Nothin’ like a good cuppa tea,” he said, the way he always did. “Y’know, I think I’d fancy a sandwich. There’s a bit of cheese in the cupboard there and fresh bread. Mebbe you’d join me, Tom?”
Tom cut thick slices of bread for both of them, adding the cheese. Then, with Virgil directing him, he toasted the sandwiches on top of the range in the wire contraption that substituted for an electric toaster.
The result was ambrosia. Tom devoured his, and Virgil silently proffered another half. “Not as hungry as I figgered,” he remarked, and Tom understood that Virgil hadn’t been hungry at all, but he’d realized Tom was ravenous.
When Tom was done, Virgil looked at him and grinned, exposing several gaps where teeth were missing. “So our Zelda’s riled up at you fer havin’ a few beers,” he commented. He took several more gulps of tea, and his faded blue eyes twinkled at Tom over the rim of the mug. “I should’a warned ye. She’s got a right snappy temper, has our Zelda.”
Snappy wasn’t the word for it, Tom concluded. His pants had a huge grease stain across the front, and the gravy hadn’t done his shirt much good, either. “I think she was upset because I didn’t make it back for dinner,” Tome remarked in a mild tone.
Virgil nodded. “Likely. She’s a good lass, but she sorely hates cookin’, ya see. Puts her in a foul mood. And she’s got this here bee in her bonnet about boozin’. It’s to do with that Women’s Temperance Union she joined before we moved here.” He leaned across the table. “Don’t let her get under yer skin with all that carryin’ on, Tom,” he added in a whisper. “She’s a fine lass, but she’s too serious by far. What she needs is to get out a bit more, have some fun for a change, see how the other half lives, so to speak. She’s had too much responsibility in her life, what with raisin’ Eli, and now me takin’ poorly isn’t helpin’ none. Not much of a life for a young lass.”
Now and Forever: Time Travel Romance Superbundle Page 74