“Have you seen this?” Josie demanded. She followed Amanda into the parlor and shoved the newspaper into her hands. It was unusual for her calm and mild-mannered sister to look so upset. The oldest and tallest of the three, Josie had Mama’s turquoise eyes, but her dark-brown hair was from Papa’s side of the family.
Amanda quickly scanned the front page with growing dismay. The article couldn’t have been more inflammatory. Words like lunatic, fool, and hysteria made her sound more fit for an insane asylum than public office. Worse, the article made no mention of the other candidates. An outsider might think she was the one and only candidate and that Two-Time was going to the dogs.
If that wasn’t bad enough, every offense Amanda had committed through the years was cited. Papa jokingly claimed she emerged from the womb demanding equal rights for female infants, which was only a slight exaggeration.
The article went all the way back to when she was in second grade. That was the year she picketed the schoolhouse for showing favoritism toward male pupils by placing the boys’ outhouse in a more convenient location than the girls’.
She thrust the paper back at Josie. Had she not returned from Austin with a new sense of purpose, running for sheriff would never have crossed her mind. It looked like her plan to make the town more favorable to women had failed miserably.
“You must be out of your cotton-picking mind!” her sister Meg said with a shake of her blond head. At age twenty-three, Meg was older than Amanda by two years and had recently married. “A sheriff is a dangerous job even for a man. But a woman…”
“Poor, poor Mama,” Josie said, tossing the newspaper on an upholstered armchair. “She won’t be able to show her face in public.”
Just thinking of the shame she brought to her family made Amanda groan. Why, oh why, couldn’t she be more like her sisters? Josie hid her writing talents behind a nom de plume. Mama and Papa only recently found out that their oldest daughter wrote the Two-Time Gazette’s Miss Lonely Hearts column and had done so for more than two years. Somehow, Josie managed to maintain a certain independence without calling undue attention to herself.
“You must withdraw your name at once,” Meg insisted. “It’s the only way.”
Amanda glared at her. “I’ll do no such thing.” When did Meg become such a wishy-wash? If that’s what marriage did to a woman, thank goodness Amanda wanted no part of it.
“But you must,” Josie said. “No good can come of this. You know you haven’t got a chance of winning the election. So why put yourself through all this ridicule?”
“It’s for a good cause,” Amanda said stubbornly.
Since her trip to Austin, she felt even more restless than before. Just hearing what the other suffragists had accomplished had filled her with a burning desire to do something more to change the town and lay the tracks for future generations of women.
Meg gave her a sympathetic look. “Oh, Mandy, I know you mean well, but there are other good causes. What about your work with orphans and war veterans? The way you’re going now will get you nowhere.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Amanda argued. “Times have changed. Women can now vote in Wyoming. And in Austin, I met a woman from California studying to become a lawyer.” Two-Time had grown in many ways during the last few years. The train and telegraph had changed the way people traveled and communicated. Once the Texas railroads were completed, even stagecoaches would be a thing of the past, but the same old biases existed.
“A woman’s place is not just in the home. It’s wherever she wants it to be. She no longer has to marry, have children, obey her husband, and meet society’s expectations.”
Josie threw up her hands. “There you go again, disparaging marriage and family.”
“I’m not disparaging anything. I’m just saying that women today have other options. My running for sheriff proves it.”
A shout came from the top of the stairs. “What?” Papa demanded. “What did you say?”
Josie and Meg exchanged worried glances. Papa had a heart scare a while back, and the doctor warned him to stay calm. That was like trying to contain a newborn pup.
Amanda balled her hands at her sides. It was much too early for this. She hadn’t even had her morning coffee. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was running for a national office.
Bracing herself with a deep breath, she turned toward the staircase. “They said I can’t be serious about running for sheriff.”
“Running for—” Papa thundered down the stairs with his suspenders flapping at his side. A tall, barrel-chested man with liberally salted dark hair, he still maintained the energy of youth despite his bulk. He snatched the newspaper from the chair and glanced at the headline. As his gaze traveled down the page, his wide girth shook like a trembling leaf.
“What is the world coming to indeed!” he bellowed, waving the paper in Amanda’s face.
“Now, Papa,” Josie cajoled. Married to her husband, Ralph, for more than five years, she had nursed him through some serious bouts of pneumonia due to his poor lungs. If anyone could calm Papa, it was Josie. “Remember your heart…”
“Remember your heart!” her fathered parroted. “Remember your heart! That’s all I ever hear. You sound like that Houston fella. Save your battle cries. I don’t want to hear them!”
Ignoring her father’s protests, Josie slipped her hand around his arm, her voice gentle enough to soothe a child but firm enough to overcome Papa’s objections. “Let’s all sit down and discuss this calmly.”
The veins in Papa’s neck stuck out like thick cords. “I don’t want to be calm. I want to know why my youngest daughter is making a fool of herself yet again!”
Quick footsteps announced Mama’s arrival. “Henry! Why are you shouting?” She looked from one to the other.
As always, Mama’s fair hair was perfectly coiffed despite the early morning hour, her voice properly modulated and slender frame composed. Whereas Papa was always hanging from a high wire, Mama was solid as a rock, providing the calming influence the family so often needed.
“What are you all doing here so early?” A shadow of alarm touched her face. “Is Ralph…?” Josie’s husband’s lung condition had grown progressively worse through the years.
“No, it’s not Ralph, Mama,” Josie assured her.
Papa turned to Mama with a scowl. “Do you have any idea what our daughter has done this time?”
Mama shot Amanda a worried frown. There didn’t seemed to be any question in Mama’s mind which daughter had Papa so upset. “No—”
“She’s gone too far, that’s what!” he bellowed. “Thanks to her, we are now the laughingstocks of the town. Who ever heard of a woman running for sheriff?”
Mama’s mouth dropped open. Hands on her chest, she stared at Amanda. “You’re running for sheriff?”
“I can explain—”
“Explain?” Her father’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “You think an explanation will make this right? Do you know what a dangerous job that is? You were too hard to raise to take chances with your life, and I won’t have it!”
“You needn’t worry,” Amanda said. “There’s no way I can become sheriff. I mean, who’s going to vote for me?”
“Who indeed?” Papa threw up his hands as he glanced at the ceiling. “Where did I go wrong? Hmm? Would you tell me that?” Papa wasn’t especially a religious man, but his habit of directing his frustrations to the Man in the sky had increased along with his daughters’ ages.
He sounded so distressed, Amanda felt sorry for him. It couldn’t be easy to remain stuck in the past. Not with the speed at which society was changing.
“You should be happy, Papa, for raising us with minds of our own.”
“Minds of your own? Is that what you call it? I call it plain stupidity. Do you have any idea what a sheriff does?”
“You mean besides sit
with his feet on the desk and take bribes?” She’d spent enough time in jail to know that the last sheriff was more of a crook than anyone he managed to put behind bars.
“A sheriff carries a gun and puts himself in danger, that’s what!” he thundered.
“If that’s what you’re worried about, you can relax. I’ve got as much chance of winning the election as a mule.”
“Then why run?” Papa frowned. “Hmm? Do you think this a game?”
“No, Papa. But you must admit I’m just as qualified as the other candidates and am entitled to equal rights.”
“Equal rights, equal rights!” he thundered. “Now you sound like that rock woman.”
“Stone.”
“What?”
“Her name is Lucy Stone.”
If Papa knew she’d just spent a week with the activist, he would have a conniption. She told him she had gone to visit her cousin, which was only part of the truth. She hated lying to him, but in this case, it was for the greater good.
Papa tossed the paper to the floor. “Equal rights doesn’t mean you can run for office.”
“And why not?” she demanded.
His nose was practically in her face. “Because it’s a man’s job to run for office, that’s why! You don’t see us bellyaching to give birth or clean house. So why should women insist upon taking on a man’s responsibility?”
Amanda gritted her teeth. Josie signaled her with a mute shake of her head to back down, but Amanda was too incensed to heed the warning.
“That’s the most ridiculous, outrageous, and—”
Fortunately for Mama’s delicate ears, the dozens of clocks that graced the parlor and dining room walls sounded the hour of eight a.m., effectively drowning out Amanda’s voice with a chorus of bongs, bells, and cuckoos. A horologist by trade, Papa collected clocks like a squirrel collected acorns.
Muttering something known only to himself, Papa spun around and stomped from the room.
Five
Amanda rode out of town early that Wednesday morning on her brown-and-white pony, Molly. Though it was still early, the sun already felt warm on her back.
White puffy clouds dotted the sky like tossed hats. Texas was in the throes of a drought. It was yet another blow to farmers affected by the railroad and availability of produce grown in other parts of the country. Mesquite trees were usually the last afflicted by lack of rain, after livestock deaths and failed crops, but already the spiny and normally hardy trees were starting to wilt. Not a good sign.
Even the bluebonnets that normally covered the rolling hills like a colorful counterpane this time of year had yet to bloom, and the air lacked the usual perfume fragrance.
She followed the dirt road to the Wendell farm. It was actually a home for indigents, but Mr. and Mrs. Wendell refused to call it a poor farm, much to the irritation of county supervisors.
Amanda rode the well-trodden road toward the two-story adobe farmhouse. She waved at residents working in the cotton field. Old Mr. Jacobs waved back, his dark face split by a wide grin. A former slave, he supervised the other workers. Now he and his men were preparing the soil for planting—an act of faith in a time of drought.
She rode her horse to the fence, where he met her.
“How are you, Miz Lockwood?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Jacobs. How’s your wife?” Mrs. Jacobs had some stomach problems a while back.
“Sukey’s fit as a fiddle. One good thing about being poor…the doctor cures you faster,” he said and laughed.
Amanda laughed too. “Give her my best.” After a few more pleasantries, she broached the subject very much on her mind. “I’m forming a new group, and I wonder if you would care to join.”
“What kind of group?”
“A women’s rights group.”
The national women’s movement had seen a few bright spots in recent months. The women’s suffrage amendment proposal sent to Congress three years prior had still not been voted on, but former California-senator-turned-lawyer Aaron Sargent was still pushing it. Inspired by his efforts, some women had convinced other men to join the fight—a brilliant plan. Men had the power, so why not recruit them to the cause?
Mr. Jacobs’s white teeth flashed against his dark skin. “You want me to join a women’s rights bunch?”
“Why not? You have the vote. That gives you a voice.”
He shook his head. “The Fifteenth Amendment might give us the right to vote, but that doesn’t mean beans. The polls are generally blocked to the likes of me. Even an act of Congress can’t change the way people think.”
She sighed. Suffragists believed their troubles would be over once they gained the right to vote, but that might only be wishful thinking. “There’s strength in numbers,” she said. “And that’s what’s going to change people’s minds, not some silly law.”
“What you say is true, but I’d probably do you more harm than good.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you if I thought that was true,” she said.
“Oh, it’s true all right.” He reached beneath the brim of his straw hat and rubbed his glistening forehead with the back of his hand. “A black man living in a poorhouse ain’t likely to win you any favors.”
“Are you sure I can’t change your mind?”
He shook his head. “I wish you luck. But don’t go expecting any miracles.”
A miracle was exactly what she hoped for. “I’ll let you know when the first meeting is. In case you change your mind.”
She rode off with a wave and moments later reined her horse in front of the two-story farmhouse.
Mrs. Wendell walked out to the porch to greet her. She wiped her hands on the spotless white pinafore worn over a blue gingham dress.
“What brings you here today?” she called, patting the figure-eight braid pinned to the back of her head.
Amanda slipped from her mount and wrapped the reins around the fence post. “Brought you some tin goods.”
“Mercy me. What would we do without your generosity?”
“Miss Lockwood, Miss Lockwood!”
At the sound of children’s voices, Amanda turned. The brother and sister ran up to her, and she greeted them with hugs and smiles.
“Did you bring somethin’ for us?” eight-year-old Libby asked. She was a pretty child with big blue eyes that looked too serious for such a young age. Today, two yellow plaits tied with pink ribbons fell down the length of her back to her waist.
“I most certainly did.” Amanda reached into her saddlebags and pulled out two peacock feathers. “One for you and one for your brother.”
Six-year-old Charley gazed down at the eye-spotted tail feather, a look of awe on his freckled face. Small for his age, the little shaver didn’t talk much, but now as always, he greeted her with a big smile.
Libby held the feather in her hands like it was cast from delicate glass. “This is so pretty.”
“It is pretty,” Amanda agreed. “The eyes on the feathers protect the peacock from harm. For that reason, some people think they’re good luck.”
“I’m going to keep this forever and ever,” Libby exclaimed.
“You can wear it in your hair,” Amanda said. “Nature always saves its most colorful creations for the top. That’s why flowers bloom on the tip of stems where we can most enjoy them.”
“Is that why you always wear those funny hats on your head?” Charley asked.
“Charley!” Mrs. Wendell exclaimed. “Mind your p’s and q’s!”
“That’s all right,” Amanda said and laughed. “He’s not the only one who thinks my hats are funny.”
Mr. R. B. Rennick didn’t think much of her fancy peacock hat either and had stated his opinion in no uncertain terms. Whenever he came to mind, her cheeks flared, and today was no different. It was the strangest thing. Hoping Mrs. Wendell didn’t notice
her red face, she turned to her horse and dug into the saddlebags.
“I brought you some penny candy and a book.” She handed Charley the bag of candy and Libby a copy of Mr. Fox. “I thought you might like to read it to Charley.”
Libby nodded. “Charley can now write his name.”
Amanda looked down at the beaming boy. Charley had definitely put on some much-needed weight while under Mrs. Wendell’s care, and his little legs no longer looked like they belonged on a chicken.
“Sign your own name? Why, that’s wonderful, Charley. You’ll have to show me.”
The two youngsters held a special place in her heart. Being poor and receiving help from the county was considered shameful, but in this case, their mother didn’t have much choice. Her husband deserted the family, leaving them destitute. Mrs. Wendell found them living down by the river in an old army tent.
“Thank you, Miss Lockwood,” Libby said.
“You’re very welcome. Say hello to your mama for me.”
“I will.”
Amanda smiled as she watched the two children race off. She untied the package of tin goods from her saddle and joined Mrs. Wendell on the porch.
“You’re very good with them,” Mrs. Wendell said, smoothing her apron. “One day, you’ll make a fine mother.”
“That will be difficult, as I don’t intend to marry.”
Mrs. Wendell’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Ah, I forgot. You’re one of those, what do you call them? Modern women.” She laughed. “One day, you’ll change your mind. You’ll see. When the right man comes along.” She took the package from Amanda and backed toward the door. “You look hot. Do you have time for some lemonade?”
“Always have time for that.”
Fanning her heated face with her hand, Amanda followed Mrs. Wendell into the house. Three older women—all widows down on their luck—sat in the parlor mending trousers and darning socks.
An older man with a Welsh name that no one could pronounce sat in a corner whittling. Since he spelled his name with a lot of Ls, everyone called him Mr. El for short. Long white hair fell to rounded shoulders, and one front tooth was gold. He blamed his dry, hacking cough on gold mining.
A Match Made in Texas Page 3