Land Of Promise

by Cox, Carol

  “I wouldn’t need to set out makeshift seating. I could make it large enough to have a dining area inside.”

  Michael stepped closer. “And a kitchen where you could bake while you’re open for business. The smells will drive people wild.”

  “And a place to sleep,” she said, envisioning her own quarters in the rear of the building. The benefits of the idea convinced her. She turned to Michael. “Would you be willing to escort me to the sawmill this afternoon? I need to get some prices.”

  ❧

  Elizabeth stared up at the rough wood building. Fresh paint glistened on the lettering over the door: Capital Restaurant & Bakery.

  “What do you think?”

  Michael beamed. “I like the name. It may not be the fanciest place in the town, but it serves the best pies around.”

  “I never thought I’d be able to keep working while this was going up, but we did it.”

  “You did it. This never would have happened without your grit and determination. And Prescott would have lost out on a fine new business.”

  Elizabeth smoothed her apron and smiled. “I can’t believe I’ll be able to work during the day and sleep all night. What luxury!”

  “For awhile, maybe.” Michael studied her, his eyes shadowed by concern. “When business picks up, you’ll be just as busy as before. You need to hire someone, Elizabeth. You’re strong, but you can’t do it all on your own.”

  “I might, but I need to be sure I’m making enough to pay for the building before I take on another expense.”

  “If you don’t spend a little more to give yourself some rest, you’ll wind up losing the business anyway.”

  “I’ll have you know I slept for five hours straight last night. I felt positively slothful.” She chuckled at Michael’s worried expression, then sobered. “All right, I’ll consider hiring someone. I know I can’t keep up this pace much longer.”

  The relief in his eyes warmed her more than the morning sun. Thank You, Lord, for sending me a friend like Michael, someone who accepts me as I am and likes me that way. Being able to talk to him is almost as good as having James around.

  No, better. The thought shook her to the soles of her shoes. She had left James behind in Philadelphia without a second thought, sure of his undying friendship but knowing they would keep in touch through the mail.

  Could she do without Michael’s presence so easily? Elizabeth tried to imagine spending her days without a glimpse of his dark, curly hair and ready smile. Without his stimulating conversation. Without his strength and support.

  The thought painted a thoroughly dismal picture. And a frightening one.

  When had she started relying on someone other than herself? If she intended to make her way on her own, could she afford this strong attachment she felt for him? Was it too late to back away?

  And did she want to?

  “I need to check on my pies. It wouldn’t do to let them burn while I’m getting used to the new oven.”

  Michael followed her through the dining room and into the kitchen. He leaned on the counter and scooped up a glob of leftover dough with one finger.

  “You never did tell me why you decided to start a bakery instead of selling mining supplies.” He popped the dough into his mouth and smacked his lips.

  Elizabeth opened the oven door and peeked at the pies inside. They still needed a few more minutes. “I needed something I could open right away and operate on a shoestring.” Prompted by Michael’s puzzled look, she recounted the way Richard had squandered her money.

  “That’s outrageous! The man ought to be horsewhipped.”

  “I would have been glad to volunteer, but it wouldn’t have gotten my money back.” Michael’s outrage cut through her assumed nonchalance. It felt good to have someone care. What would he say if she told him about the Bartletts’ purpose in bringing her out to the territory? No, she could never do that. Even now, the memory made her blush. She could only imagine Michael’s reaction. He’d probably offer to string Richard up from the nearest cottonwood.

  And when did you start relying on a man to fight your battles for you, Elizabeth Simmons?

  “I’m thinking about adding more to my menu. Serving full meals instead of just baked goods and coffee.”

  “Sounds good, if you can find the time. I still say you need to hire some help.” He used another blob of dough to scrape a large drop of filling from the bottom of a bowl. “Mmm.” He closed his eyes blissfully. “Do you cook as well as you bake?”

  Elizabeth slid the pies from the oven to the counter. “That’s just it. I don’t. Soup is about the extent of my abilities. But I ought to be able to put together something simple, don’t you think? Venison stew and biscuits, perhaps?”

  “Sure, that’s about all they serve over at the Juniper House, and I know I’d rather look at you while I’m eating than stare at Mr. Bernard’s scruffy beard.”

  ❧

  Michael walked across the open plaza, enjoying the late afternoon sun. With this contract to deliver freight for the new mercantile, he was set for a profitable summer. Now, if he could keep his drivers on the road and the Indians from stealing his teams, he could begin to expand.

  Glancing toward Elizabeth’s bakery, he thought of heading over there to sample one of the new pastries she had added. No, better not. If he kept on eating her wares, more than his business would expand.

  The tinny sounds of a saloon piano jarred his thoughts and filled the air with a crude melody. Knots of well-dressed men and women clustered along the west side of the plaza, looking across toward Whiskey Row. Michael shook his head. He would never cease to be amazed by the way Prescott’s upstanding citizens felt comfortable standing and listening to the songs that emanated from the saloons, places they would never be seen entering.

  The rapt expressions on the faces of a group opposite the Nugget caught his attention. Drawn by the haunting voice that floated across the way, he walked over to join them.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” the woman nearest him murmured.

  Michael nodded, so captivated by the sweet tones he couldn’t bring himself to speak. The clear notes drifted outside on the early summer breeze. The same voice singing the same song that had captured his interest once before.

  “Each time I see the sun set

  Beyond the distant hills,

  My heart remembers how far you have gone.

  So think of me each evening,

  And until you come again,

  I’ll dream of you in our dear mountain home.”

  The song ended to raucous cheers from the saloon’s patrons. The listeners on the plaza let out a collective sigh.

  “What a lovely voice!” a woman exclaimed.

  “Yes, it’s a shame she chose to waste it in a barroom.” Her male companion led her away, and the rest of the group dispersed.

  Michael bristled at the comments. Did they really believe any woman would go into that life if she had any choice? And one with as sweet and pure a voice as that?

  He turned to go back to his office, but his feet refused to carry him there. He looked back over his shoulder at the saloon. Someone rattled the piano keys in a noisy rendition of a Stephen Foster melody. Apparently, the singer was taking a break.

  Michael started to leave again and, once more, found he couldn’t. What is it, Lord? Are You trying to tell me something?

  The Nugget pulled at him like a magnet, drawing him across the street. Michael followed the compulsion, wondering with every step what he was getting himself into.

  When he reached the boardwalk, the jangling piano tune ceased, and the plaintive soprano voice started in again.

  “Brennan came riding across the broad moor,

  His beautiful maiden to find.

  ‘Oh, where have they hidden that comely young lass,

  That raven-haired sweetheart of mine?’ ”

  Michael reached the entrance of the Nugget. He gripped the top of the rough swinging door, clenching his hand un
til he could feel slivers of wood dig into his palm. Lord, if this is You, You’re leading me into some awfully strange places.

  Hoping he hadn’t lost his mind, he pushed open the door and stepped into the saloon.

  Michael blinked, adjusting his eyes to the dimness after the bright sunlight outside. No one paid the slightest attention to his entrance, which suited him fine. The saloons of Prescott were hardly his usual haunts, although his father spent plenty of time in them.

  He sidled along the back wall to a pocket of shadow and stood riveted, his gaze focused on the girl on the stage.

  The noisy hubbub ceased, and the men turned their attention to the singer, to all appearances as entranced as Michael.

  The girl sang on, her eyes fixed on a point high above Michael’s head, paying no heed to her audience. The lamplight created a halo effect around her blond hair and brought out its reddish glints. She was small, Michael noted, though taller than Elizabeth. Her frame seemed much too small to house such a glorious voice.

  Lord, this is no hardened saloon girl. Look at that sweet face. What is she doing here? Michael watched, fascinated by the contrast between her and the painted women hanging on the customers near the bar.

  She wore a plain, pale blue dress and no makeup, hardly the garb one would expect in such a place. The dim lighting of the shadowy interior accentuated the deep wells of sadness in her eyes. The more he watched, the more Michael’s confusion grew. Who could this girl be? And what was the purpose of his coming here?

  The wistful song ended, and once again, the listening men offered loud applause. The young girl stepped off the low stage and made her way through the boisterous crowd, ignoring the crude comments and invitations as she shouldered past the leering patrons.

  She started for the staircase at the back of the saloon. A burly, flat-eyed man near the bar shook his head and gestured toward the tables up front. The girl’s face pinched in a look of pain.

  Holding her head high despite her defeated expression, she walked toward a table where a rowdy group of miners greeted her with loose-lipped smiles.

  “Come for a little visit, Darlin’? Here, you sweet thing, sit right down beside me.”

  “There’s no room for another chair,” another said. “She can sit on my lap.” Bawdy laughter erupted as the speaker grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled her toward him.

  She shook free of his grip and edged away from the group. The man at the bar scowled and started toward her.

  Without a second thought, Michael stepped forward and took the girl by the arm. She flinched and whirled to face him, wide-eyed.

  He made an effort to control his anger and keep his voice even. “Would you join me over there?” He pointed to an empty table some distance from the pawing drunks.

  She stared up at him like a frightened animal, jerking her head back and forth as she looked first at him, then the man by the bar, then at Michael again. He could feel her tremble beneath his touch.

  “I only want to talk to you.”

  Something in his tone seemed to steady her. She nodded briefly and sat down in the chair he held out for her. Michael saw the heavy man at the bar nod smugly.

  “My name is Michael O’Roarke.” He stared into eyes the color of turquoise. “Do you mind telling me who you are?”

  After a long pause, she lowered her gaze to the table and answered. “I’m Jenny. Jenny Davis. And you’re the first man who’s spoken decently to me since I came here.” She raised her head and studied him. “I don’t remember seeing you before.”

  “I’m not exactly a regular. And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, you don’t look like you belong here, yourself.”

  Jenny’s chin quivered. “I don’t, Mister. I don’t belong here at all.”

  “Then why. . . ?” Michael held up his hands, then dropped them on the table. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s all right. It just seems like a long time since anyone cared.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “I’ve only been here a month or so. Up until then, I lived with my family on our farm out toward Chino Valley.”

  “Your family lives nearby, and they don’t mind you being part of this?”

  “That’s just it. They aren’t here anymore. They aren’t anywhere.” Her features grew taut, and she clenched her hands. “The Apaches raided our place a couple of months ago. They killed my ma and pa and my little brother, too. I was out in the root cellar the whole time, so they never knew I was there.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “But I saw the whole thing. And I heard it.” A shudder ran through her body.

  Michael reached out and laid his hand on her arm. This time she didn’t flinch. “And you came here because you had nowhere else to go?”

  She shook her head violently. “I would have died before I came to a place like this on my own. Martin Lester—he was a friend of my pa’s—came by the day of the funeral. He showed me some papers where Pa had made him guardian for us kids if anything happened to our folks. Only I was the only one left.” She squeezed her eyelids shut. Tiny crystal droplets appeared on her lashes.

  “He took me home with him, said he was going to be a father to me. But he. . .he wanted to act more like a husband than a father.”

  Michael squeezed her hand. “You mean he forced himself on you?”

  “No!” Jenny looked around nervously and lowered her voice. “He tried, but I fended him off time after time until he got tired of it. He said he’d spent plenty of money on my room and board and had to get some kind of return on it. So he brought me here. He knows the owner real well.” She nodded toward the man at the bar. “That’s Burleigh Ames. They’re good friends. Martin traded me to Burleigh for a supply of whiskey.”

  “Traded you?” This time Michael was the one who had to lower his voice. “You mean he thinks he owns you?”

  “He doesn’t think so, Mister. He knows so.”

  “What does he have you do here?” Michael asked slowly, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

  “He makes me sing for my room and board. So far, I’ve kept from having to go further, but he’s pushing me in that direction all the time.”

  She laid her fingers on Michael’s forearm, her touch as light as a butterfly’s wing. “And it’s wearing me down. I’m terrified I’ll turn out to be like one of them.” She flicked a glance toward the rear of the building, where two laughing women helped a drunken miner stagger up the back stairs.

  She turned back to Michael and shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe it’s because you’re the first person who’s been willing to listen.”

  “I think I know why.” He’d been led here for a purpose; he felt sure of it. “How about if I help you get away from here?”

  “You mean escape? Are you crazy? He’d kill me if I tried that.”

  “Where do you sleep?” At Jenny’s startled look, Michael held up his hand. “I only need to know so I can plan the best way to get you out of here. What time do things settle down around here?”

  “Everyone’s pretty well gone by midnight. And my room’s upstairs, right at the back.”

  “Can you stay awake until then? Be ready to meet me in the back alley at, say, one o’clock?”

  Jenny’s eyes were blue-green pools of wonder. “I can do that. But I still think you’re crazy. Where am I supposed to go?”

  Where indeed? He hadn’t considered anything beyond actually getting Jenny off the premises. She would need a place to stay, someone strong to protect and guide her. A broad grin stretched across his face.

  “I know just the place. You’ll be safe there, I promise.”

  Jenny gave him a long, measuring look. He could understand her hesitation. After what she’d been through, why should she trust him. . .or any man, for that matter?

  Finally, she nodded. “I don’t know a thing about you, Michael O’Roarke, except your name and that you
’re a good listener. Whatever you have in mind, it can’t be worse than what I’ve already gone through. I may be as crazy as you are, but I’ll trust you.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you out back, then. One o’clock.”

  Michael shouldered his way through the crowd. He caught Burleigh Ames glaring at him when he neared the door. No, I didn’t buy a drink, did I? And I’m going to cost you a lot more than that if my plan works out.

  Fourteen

  A heavy blanket of clouds massed overhead, shrouding the town and blocking out the moon’s light. Michael crept along the alleyway behind the row of saloons.

  His foot sent an empty bottle rattling across the gravel and he froze, listening. The darkness worked to his advantage in keeping him unseen, but he would have given a lot for just a bit of light right now.

  A soft breeze stirred the treetops. From farther down the street, he heard a woman’s shrill laugh. No one seemed to be aware of his presence, or if they were, they didn’t care. He advanced a few yards farther and checked his position. The Nugget should be the next building down.

  He picked his way along the alley and pressed against the wall. Now what? He should have arranged some sort of signal, but the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Was Jenny still in her room or outside waiting for him?

  He didn’t want to risk making a sound, but he didn’t have much choice. “Jenny?” The low whisper wasn’t much louder than the breeze.

  A dark figure detached itself from the blackness and moved toward him. “I’m here.”

  She wore a hooded cloak of a dark material that blended into the night. When she raised her head, he could just make out the pale oval of her face.

  Michael put his arm around her shoulders and felt her muscles tense. “Don’t be afraid. I just need to know where you are so I can guide us out of here.”

  They moved through the darkness step by cautious step. Michael’s pulse raced in direct contrast to their slow pace. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but to do so would be to invite discovery.

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. At any moment, he expected the rear door of the Nugget to fly open to reveal Burleigh Ames in pursuit.