He’d emphasized that even though living away from her home was difficult, it was necessary for the future of the tribes. Eventually Constance would adapt and be better able to lead her family and her tribe to prosperity.
Moreover, Mariah had seen no sign of neglect or mistreatment. Yes, Constance was homesick, but that would pass.
“We must respect the family’s wishes,” she insisted as they returned to the car. “They sent Constance here.”
Hendrick didn’t answer, a sure sign that he disagreed.
Anna ambled to the car with Mr. Sowich. “I’d like that,” she told the school’s director, “if my brother will let me.”
“Let you do what?” Hendrick growled.
“Mr. Sowich said I could help in the classroom. It’ll help me decide if I want to be a teacher.”
Hendrick studied his sister’s determination and nodded curtly, but Mariah could tell that he disapproved. Anna, however, either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She readily agreed to come back to the school at the first opportunity.
“It’s just a mile from town,” Mr. Sowich said. “You can walk here.”
Mariah did need to verify the directions to town. “Back down this road to the intersection and then turn left?”
Hendrick could have added that he’d already told her to make that turn, but he didn’t say a word.
“That’s correct,” Mr. Sowich confirmed. “Brunley’s a small reservation town. You won’t find many whites, I’m afraid.”
Mariah’s hackles rose at the prejudicial tone, completely inappropriate for the director of an Indian school. But she couldn’t change his attitude in a minute, and she did need to ask him about Frank Gillard. No small part of her wondered why an Italian immigrant would settle in a reservation town.
“Thank you, Mr. Sowich.” She paused, unsure how to phrase this. “I wonder if you happen to know a Mr. Frank Gillard.”
Sowich stiffened ever so slightly. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone. Why do you ask?”
She couldn’t give away her mission, even to a fairly respectable man. “A small matter of personal business.”
If anything, his expression grew tenser. “Personal business, you say? If you don’t mind a little advice, I’d act with caution, Miss Meeks.”
“Why?” What had Frank Gillard done to inspire such concern? “Is he—” she hunted for a respectable word “—in trouble with the law?”
“Not at all, not at all,” Sowich said hastily—perhaps too hastily. “I simply meant that it would behoove you to act with due caution. Given your education, you must understand the need for prudence when dealing with a man you’ve never met. Don’t rush into any, uh, business.”
Mariah processed his words with growing alarm. The man seemed to know exactly why she wanted to see Gillard. How? Had the Society’s director, Mr. Isaacs, cabled ahead? If so, how much did Sowich know about her mission, and how much had he communicated to Gillard?
“Are you friends?” she asked.
Sowich shivered, though the day was scorching hot. “I wouldn’t say that. In fact, we seldom talk.”
Then how had he learned about her mission? “But…” She raised a finger, attempting to hold Sowich’s attention as he backed away, but he was rapidly backpedaling out of range.
“Good day, Miss Meeks. I wish I could talk longer, but I must get back to my charges.” Without waiting for her response, he hustled back to the school and yanked Constance inside after him.
Chapter Eight
Brunley amounted to little more than a cluster of bleached, ramshackle buildings in the midst of rolling prairie. The squared facades and dusty streets looked as if they belonged in a town from half a century ago. Mariah suspected that few strangers graced its streets except the curious few who stepped off the train on their way to visit the national park.
A group of Indians on the mercantile porch watched Mariah’s car pull into town and slow to a stop. Wind swirled the dust into miniature cyclones, and a horse-drawn wagon waited outside a feed store. The purple mountains still loomed in the distance, their snow-dusted peaks not yet visible. If God had touched the mountains with beauty, He must have run short by the time He got to Brunley, and man did nothing to enhance the starkness.
Hendrick whistled. “Lucky there’s a filling station.”
So there was. Its fuel pump squatted beneath a wooden canopy, looking so rusted and clogged with dust that she doubted it worked. Mariah looked up and down the main street and saw only two motorcars, a dusty Model T and a shiny blue Packard, both parked alongside bleached wooden buildings. Other than those, transportation appeared relegated to horse travel. Hitching posts stood in front of every business, though only a few were occupied. Brunley was clearly a sleepy little town.
“Let’s see if they have any gasoline,” she said. Hendrick drove up to the pump, and, after several minutes, out sauntered a tall, lean Indian wearing a stylish fedora over his braided black hair.
As with every other man they’d encountered on this trip, his gaze slipped past her and landed on Hendrick.
“What’ll it be?” The Indian spoke perfect English and, upon closer examination, had startling green eyes that betrayed at least some white blood.
“A fill and a quart of oil.” Hendrick hopped out of the car. “I’m going to check the cooling system. We’re still using too much water. I don’t suppose you’d have any inch-and-three-quarter hose?”
Mariah started to leave a five-dollar bill on the seat for Hendrick, but changed her mind and gave it to Anna. “Pay for the gasoline and whatever else your brother needs for the car. I’m going to the mercantile for supplies. I’ll also ask about the hotel.”
“All right,” the girl said dreamily, her chin propped on the back of the driver’s seat where she had a good view of the tall and admittedly striking station attendant.
“I’ll return here when I’m done.”
Anna barely nodded her head.
Mariah left the girl and crossed the street to the mercantile. White heat shimmered off the ground, and dust clogged the air. She’d never been the nervous sort, but she had to admit to a bit of flip-flopping in her stomach today. How would she find Frank Gillard, and what would she say to him when she did? Mr. Sowich’s warning rang in her ears. Until this moment, she’d thought she had a plan. Now she knew wasn’t so sure.
Mouth dry, she ascended the mercantile steps. The Indians silently watched, one occasionally spitting tobacco juice into a clay pot at his feet.
“Hot day,” she commented with a smile.
They did not reply. Maybe they didn’t understand English. For the first time in years, she felt out of her element. She could dash into a tenement or wrest a youth from a sweatshop, but she knew nothing about Blackfeet culture.
“I need to get supplies,” she needlessly explained before darting inside.
The door slipped silently closed behind her without the familiar tinkle of a bell. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she examined the sparse goods. The store’s shelves held a few tins of canned meat, some filthy muslin and rolls of commercial flypaper. Judging by the fly population in the building, some of those rolls could be put to good use. A goodly quantity of dust had blown in, and the plank floor had been worn into dips and furrows. The boards creaked with every step as she surveyed the paltry offerings.
“What kin I do for ye?” asked a pink-faced white man in a soiled canvas apron. Sweat poured down his chubby cheeks and stained the underarms of his grayed shirt. Tufts of wheaten hair curled upward like pigs’ tails. “Pickles are on sale ta-day.” He pointed to a barrel of slimy pickles well past their prime.
“No, thank you.” Mariah turned from the acrid odor. “Do you have any fresh bread?” A fruitless inquiry, judging by the shelves, but worth a try.
“The missus don’t bake in this heat. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Of course,” she said, trying to keep the frustration from her voice. Town after town had offered little more
than tinned meat and the occasional shriveled potato. How she longed for fresh peas, which would be in season in Pearlman, or even overripe strawberries. She sighed. The Lord always provided for their needs, not necessarily for their wishes. “Perhaps some crackers, then.”
“One pound or two?”
She hesitated. The hotel might offer a restaurant, but that would soon prove too costly for her dwindling funds. “Two.”
While the clerk packaged the crackers, she selected several tins of potted meat, beans and prunes. A pound of coffee, ground, rounded out her supplies. Not fine fare, but they wouldn’t starve.
She looked through the store. No one else was inside. That gave her the chance to ask the clerk about Mr. Gillard. While the man calculated the total, she gathered her courage. An innocuous question was always the best start. “Could you direct me to the hotel?”
“Nex’ block down,” he said with a wave of the hand. “Can’t miss it.”
Considering she’d missed the entire town earlier, that was not a given. “Do you know if meals are served there?”
The clerk’s hand paused in the midst of calculations and his small eyes narrowed to dots. “Do ya mean ya won’t be wanting these supplies?”
“On the contrary,” she assured him. “We expect to tour the park and will want provisions.”
“Right.” He resumed calculating without bothering to answer her question. “That’ll be $10.72.”
“Ten dollars?” She surveyed the small quantity of goods. They would cost little more than two dollars in New York, less in Pearlman.
He scowled. “If you don’t like the price, you can take yer business elsewhere.”
“There’s another general store in town?” She couldn’t imagine a town this size supported more than one.
“Nah.” He grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, probably from tobacco, which seemed to be the only commodity in great supply.
“Then why did you suggest I go elsewhere?” The clerk was clearly taking advantage of her. She could argue the price, but since this was the only store in town, he held the upper hand. “Oh, never mind.” She pulled the money from her handbag and noted how low her supply had dipped. She needed to wire for money today. “Is there a place where I can send a cable?”
“Sure is,” flowed a smooth masculine voice from directly behind her. “A block down the street.”
Mariah whirled around to see a muscular man of perhaps forty dressed in a fine brocade vest, denim trousers and shiny boots. He took off his cowboy hat, revealing a head of wavy chestnut-colored hair, slightly crimped by the brim.
“Ma’am.” He pressed the hat to his chest. “It’d be my pleasure to escort you there.”
Mariah had to admit he was good-looking and well dressed for a cowboy, but definitely not her type. He hovered a tad too close, too eager to please.
“No, thank you. I have a car.” She nodded and turned back to the clerk. “What did you say? Ten dollars?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed with a hard swallow. “No, ma’am, $6.72,” he spluttered.
Mariah frowned. She was sure he’d said ten, but she wouldn’t argue with the more reasonable price.
“Are you sure, Drivett?” asked the man behind her.
The clerk paled and with shaking hands pored over his tally sheet. “Seems I made a bit of an error here.” He ran a finger over his calculations. “Yep, here ’tis. My two looked like a six. Total’s really $2.72.”
“Two seventy-two?” Mariah repeated. Given the clerk’s abrupt about-face, the man in the brocade vest must be more than an ordinary cowboy.
“Thas what I said.” The man cowered, wiping his mouth repeatedly. “Take it or leave it.”
She’d take it. Mariah handed him three dollars. He fumbled in his cash register drawer and with a shaking hand dropped the change into her hand.
“Thank you.” Now was her last chance to broach her most pressing question. Despite the cowboy hovering at her back, she couldn’t let this opportunity slip. One or the other might have the answer. “I don’t suppose you know a Mr. Frank Gillard?”
If at all possible, the man got even paler. “M-m-mister Gillard?” He licked his lips, eyes darting past her. “I fergot. Them canned plums is on sale fer ten cents.” He dug two quarters from the register and offered them to her.
She didn’t take the money. Judging by the clerk’s reaction, the cowboy must be Frank Gillard. But how could that be? He looked less Italian than she did.
“Donate the change to the Beson Creek Indian School,” she instructed before turning to face Gillard.
The man was grinning. His steel-gray eyes raked her from head to toe.
“Mr. Frank Gillard, at your service.”
Mariah searched his features, but she couldn’t find the slightest resemblance to Luke. There must be a mistake. This couldn’t possibly be Luke’s father.
“Uh,” she said, her brain whirling. What on earth was she supposed to say to him? She couldn’t come right out and announce that she was from the Orphaned Children’s Society. That would put him on high alert. She couldn’t betray her mission if she hoped to discover the truth about this man.
“Miss?” He extended a hand. His nails were manicured, and he wore a heavy perfume that made her feel like sneezing.
She wiggled her nose to arrest the impulse. “Sir.” She grasped his hand, expecting a handshake, but instead he raised her hand to his lips.
“Call me Frank, please.”
Frank? The familiarity shocked her. “Is it usual to call strangers by their Christian names in Montana?”
One side of his mouth lifted in a wry grin, the controlled response of a man of power and influence. “Forgive me, but we don’t see many women in Brunley, certainly none as beautiful as you.”
Mariah cringed. Beautiful she was not. Plain and practical, yes, but definitely not beautiful.
“Then there must be no women here at all,” she said dryly.
He laughed. “And intelligent, too.” He nodded toward her hand. “Not to mention unmarried.”
Mariah instinctively glanced at his hands. No rings. If he was Luke’s father, he’d never remarried—or didn’t wear a wedding band.
“Beautiful, unmarried women are particularly rare in these parts,” he continued, “especially when they’re alone.”
“I’m not alone.” Mariah turned back to the counter, suddenly uncomfortable. She’d wanted to find Frank Gillard, but she hadn’t expected to face him right away. Now that he stood before her, she couldn’t think of a way to ask him what she needed to know.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, standing beside her. “A woman like you shouldn’t be alone here.”
Was that a threat? She glanced at his face, but those steely eyes didn’t give away a thing. She took a deep breath as Gillard directed the clerk to package her purchases.
“Have the lady’s purchases sent to…where are you staying?”
“The hotel next block down, but I can certainly carry them that far.”
“Nonsense. I’ll walk you to the Mountain View Hotel, and you can tell me more about yourself along the way.” He extended an arm, expecting her to take it.
She did not. “I must return to my friends first. Hendrick and Anna will wonder what’s taking me so long.”
He frowned at Hendrick’s name. “Your fiancé?”
She hesitated. If she said he was her fiancé, Gillard would stop trying to attract her, which he was very clearly attempting to do. But Hendrick wouldn’t know she’d said that, and besides it wasn’t the slightest bit true.
“No,” she admitted. “They’re just friends. We hope to see the park.”
“So you shall,” he said, taking her hand without permission. “Miss…?”
Clearly he wanted to know her name, but she couldn’t tell him her last name. If he knew her brother was taking care of Luke, he’d recognize the surname.
She forced a smile. “In the spirit of Brunley, you may call me Mariah.”
He laughed and kissed her hand again. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Mariah. Shall we leave this dark establishment for the brightness of the open air?” He swept a hand toward the door, but that was hardly necessary seeing as he’d never released her hand. “To the Mountain View?”
She shook her head. “I need to get my automobile. It’s at the filling station.”
“Ah, this friend Hendrick is your driver.”
She blushed as he pushed open the door. “No. I drive my own car.”
“A woman of means and daring.” The oily-smooth smile returned as he escorted her onto the porch. “You said you needed to send a wire?”
Not with Gillard looking over her shoulder. “It can wait.”
“Good. Do you have any plans for supper, Miss Mariah?”
She hesitated. After the long drive she really wanted a bath, but dining with Gillard might produce valuable information.
“I’ll take your silence as a no,” he said. “I hope I’m not too bold, but would you care to dine tonight at my ranch?”
“Your ranch? Aren’t you a cowboy?”
He roared with laughter, and the Indians on the porch joined him.
“What did I say that was so humorous?” she asked.
He patted her hand. “I own a ranch, High Plains. I’d love to have you—and your friends, of course—for supper.”
Gillard owned a ranch? But two-and-a-half years ago, he’d been too destitute to support his child. Something was not right, and the ranch would be the best place to discover what that something was.
She offered the biggest smile she could manage. “We’d be delighted.”
Hendrick was a little annoyed at his sister’s brazen interest in the tall Indian, but Mariah would soon take care of business, and they’d leave this town forever. He watched Mariah cross the dusty expanse, nod at the Indians on the mercantile porch and disappear inside.
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