by Kit Morgan
Newton looked at her over his book. “Life out here can be quite hard. He looks like he’s had a time of it.”
“He also seems to have an eye for Imogene Sayer.”
Newton set the book down. “Does he?”
She nodded. “Yes, he was quite embarrassed when we brought her up. Mr. Cotter voiced his opinions on the matter without hesitation. I thought Cutty was going to die on the spot.”
Newton smiled. “Leave it to Imogene to fall for someone like him.”
“The most unlikely gentleman in town?”
“Yes. But then, she always was a strange egg. I would think the two of them a fine match.”
Nettie sat back and sighed. “I suppose.”
He looked at her as he leaned back himself. “And what about you? Did you enjoy your time with Mr. Cotter?”
Nettie drummed her fingers on the settee. “He seems quite amiable and … I don’t know, there’s something about him I can’t put my finger on.”
“You’ve only just met – how can you put a finger on anything? You haven’t spent enough time together yet. But you shall.”
“Will you come with us tomorrow?”
“Certainly. I’d like to see where he plans to build. Not to mention what he plans to build.”
“Well, he plans a house, of course.”
“A house, or a shack? Some of these men don’t differentiate. Mr. Jones tells me his brother lives in some hovel far outside of town.” He eyed her, waiting for her reaction.
She swallowed hard. “Hovel?”
Newton tried to hide a smile. “From what Mr. Jones tells me, his brother didn’t even have any decent windows when he married our cousin and took her out there.”
“No windows?”
“You can ask her yourself the next time she comes to town.”
Nettie stared straight ahead. “Oh dear. Do you think Mr. Cotter plans on building something to simply get us by? Four walls and a roof?”
“Could be …”
She rubbed her face with both hands. “Ohhhh, what have I gotten myself into?”
Newton could stand it no longer, and began to laugh. “Whatever this marriage has to offer. I would hope a man with a good heart. What does it matter where you live, or in what?”
She pulled her hands from her face. “Easy for you to say when you’re living in a fine hotel!”
He laughed again and put an arm around her for a hug. “He’ll build you a house, dear sister, not some shed, I’m sure of it. You have nothing to worry about.”
She relaxed. “If you say so. But if I have to entertain in a closet, I’ll not be responsible for what happens to my guests.”
“You’ll have a fine little cottage, you’ll see.”
Nettie sighed. “Better a cottage, than a heartless manor.”
“True,” Newton said and released her. “When is Mr. Cotter going to call?”
“In the morning, after breakfast.”
“Does he plan anything after driving out to see his building site?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Perhaps it’s time to play matchmaker.”
She sat up. “What do you mean?”
Newton shrugged. “You said Mr. Cutty had an eye for Imogene. It might be fun for you and Mr. Cotter to help that along.”
“You mean put them together?”
“They sound like they already are. But why not invite Imogene to tea with you and Mr. Cotter while Mr. Cutty is there? Have a fine time of it?”
Nettie smiled. “Yes, you’re right. That would make things interesting.”
“Then you can get to know Mr. Cotter and our cousin at the same time. Besides, you’d have two chaperones.”
Nettie smiled. “Yes, and I could ask Imogene a thing or two.” She gave him a solemn look. “After all, she knew our mother.”
Ten
Amon tried to concentrate on the task at hand but found it difficult. He’d already shaved off too much on one side of Colin and Belle’s cradle. If he wasn’t more careful, he’d have to start over. Jasper and a few of the other men had felled and stripped the tree he’d marked, for which he was grateful. They’d dragged it back to the men’s camp just that morning and helped him section it into the pieces he needed.
A good thing too. His afternoon would be taken up by Miss Whitman.
He planned to show her where he wanted to build a house, a small patch of land he’d had his eye on for some time and no one else had claimed. Probably because they already considered it Amon’s – he rode out there often enough, and none of them were as eager to build as he was. Or had the skill.
Done for the morning, he set down his tools and decided to wash up before meeting his future bride. His entire body shuddered at the thought and he leaned against his worktable for support. Why did thinking of her as his bride affect him so? It made no sense. He wasn’t in love with her – how could he be? He found he was starting to like her, but that wasn’t enough to make his body react in such a way, was it?
He’d never had feelings for a woman before. Come to think of it, he never really had feelings for much of anything except his work. All his forethought, talent and passion went into creating works of art for others, be it a piece of furniture, a picture frame, a hotel balustrade or a baby’s cradle. All of it was performed with the same passion a lover would bestow upon his bride. He wondered if he was capable of giving Miss Whitman the same attention.
“Most curious,” he thought as he put his tools away. But whom could he ask? Who would know of such things? Jasper had never been married as far as he knew, nor any of the other men in the camp. Maybe he could ask Seth or Ryder Jones. He’d grown to be friends with them while they built the hotel and knew them best. Had they gone through this? Did their wives, while courting them, cause the same stir in their emotions? Should he be concerned? Maybe he was just coming down with something …
… no, there was nothing wrong with him physically. This was something else. In fact, now that he thought on it, it had started before Nettie and her brother ever came to town. But then it was small – only since Miss Whitman’s arrival did it begin to grow and spread through him like a blaze. The realization set his blood on fire and he gripped the table again. His breathing picked up and fear assailed him. What was happening?!
His heart racing, he turned from the small workshop area in the corner of the barn and stumbled out of the building, out of breath and lightheaded. Surely there was an explanation, there had to be. For the first time he figured he’d do well to seek the counsel of Doc Drake. Something was off, and he was determined to find out what it was before he married Miss Whitman. After all, it wouldn’t do to marry the girl if he was … dying or something.
He caught a dark flash out the corner of his eye.
Amon spun and tried not to fall over as he searched his surroundings. Nothing there.
Good grief! Was he starting to see things too? He again looked around, with the sudden sense that he wasn’t alone. But he knew he was the only one in the camp – the others had either gone to town or off to hunt. With his luck, it was probably that idiot Clinton Moresy. He frowned at the thought and turned a complete circle. “Clinton?” he called. “Is that you?”
Still nothing.
It wasn’t like the little weasel to keep his mouth shut, which meant it had to be someone else. But who on Earth was it? Or were his eyes playing tricks on him? He rubbed them in an attempt to clear his vision, opened and closed them, opened them again.
And that was when he saw him.
He was huge, muscular and the blackest man Amon had ever seen – what his Negro friends at Oberlin used to call “blue-black.” Where did he come from? What was he doing in the men’s camp? For that matter, what was he doing in Oregon, where Negroes were excluded from settling? “Hello there!” Amon yelled. “What do you want?”
But the man said nothing. He stood to one side of the cabin, hands on hips, legs slightly spread. It was a commanding pose. Yet he was d
ressed like a slave – his trousers were torn, his shirt and coat practically rags.
He grinned, straightened up … then took off at a run.
“Hey! Wait!” For some reason, Amon felt compelled to chase after him, and did. Odder still, it felt good to do so.
The slave, or whatever he was, was a fast runner, faster than any man Amon had ever seen. But of course he would be, considering his height. Amon picked up the pace, still hoping to catch him.
There were few trees growing in this part of the prairie, though they were headed toward the main tree line. Even so, he shouldn’t have lost sight of the big Negro, but he did. He came to a stop and spun in a circle to search for any sign of his quarry. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said as he tried to catch his breath. Considering no one else was there, it only made sense that he hadn’t seen the man at all.
He looked around again, more furtively this time. There was clearly no sign of him. “Where did you go?” he asked aloud. “I couldn’t possibly have lost sight of you …” But he had. Either that or he was hallucinating – wasn’t that a pleasant thought? He sat down hard upon the ground, rubbed his eyes again, blinked a few times and stared at the prairie and the few scattered trees, none of them big enough to hide a man of the Negro’s size.
Amon got to his feet, studied the landscape again and shook his head in disbelief. “I’d better see Doc Drake right away,” he said, his voice holding a hint of panic.
He turned to head back to the men’s camp and stopped short. He had to be over half a mile away! Great Scott, how did he get this far out? Yes, he’d taken off after the stranger with everything he had, but he hadn’t been running for more than a minute … had he? Could he have lost sense of time that badly?
Amon closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He had to find out what was wrong with him! He’d heard of things like this, diseases that could cause strange visions. But how did he get it? And was it contagious?
He took a deep breath in an effort to calm down and headed back to the men’s camp. He had no choice – he’d have to cancel his time with Miss Whitman and seek out Doc Drake instead. If anyone could help, it’d be him.
* * *
“Does his note say why he couldn’t call on you today?” Imogene asked.
Nettie stared at the note in her hands and sighed in disappointment. “No, it simply states that he had to postpone our time together.”
Imogene and Cutty exchanged a quick glance. They were to meet in the hotel dining room, then ride out to the building site with Amon. Instead, they were met with a note delivered by Seth Jones, stating he couldn’t be there. “I, for one, think it’s mighty rude of that young pup,” Cutty complained. “He’s got some nerve …”
“Oh, stop,” Imogene said. “Rude would’ve been not sending a note. I’m sure Mr. Cotter has a good reason for not being here.”
Nettie sat back in her chair. “This isn’t going to make my brother happy.”
“Where is young Newton?” Imogene asked.
“He’ll be along. He went to speak with Mr. Van Cleet about something.”
“That likely means he’s at the bank,” Imogene concluded. She saw the disappointment on Nettie’s face. “Now, now, it’s not as bad as all that. Get rid of that long look.”
“What long look?” she asked, suddenly sitting straight.
“The one you were just wearin’,” Cutty remarked, his voice noticeably softer. “Ya like him, don’t ya?”
Nettie thought a moment as her disappointment deepened. “Yes, I guess I do,” she said in surprise. “How did this happen?”
Imogene laughed. “Sometimes it’s just like that. You spend a few hours with someone, sometimes only moments, and your heart knows.”
Nettie looked at her, aghast. “Knows what?”
Imogene smiled and looked at Cutty. “That you found the one.”
Cutty audibly gulped, and he pulled at his shirt collar a few times. “Shouldn’t we have Mrs. Upton bring us some tea or somethin’?”
Imogene smiled. “Of course, why not? Since we’re here, we might as well get to know each other.” She gazed across the table at Nettie. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you and your brother. I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you here. It gives me one more reason to stay.”
Cutty jerked in his chair at that. “Stay? Does that mean ya were plannin’ on goin’ somewhere?”
“All my young cousins are married now, with the exception of Nettie. After she’s taken care of, what reason would I have to remain here?”
Cutty cleared his throat and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words escaped. Finally he blurted, “Because all yer family’s here, that’s why!”
Imogene sighed heavily. “Yes, that is a reason,” she said, staring at him pointedly. “But can you give me another?”
Cutty hemmed and hawed. “Well … I … that is … Consarnit, Imogene Sayer! What’re you askin’?”
“Ha! As if you didn’t know, you old whiffler!”
Cutty folded his arms across his chest and frowned just as Mrs. Upton came out of the kitchen. “Well, folks, are you all ready for your excursion?”
“I’m afraid there will be no excursion today, Mrs. Upton,” Nettie informed her. “Mr. Cotter had other business to attend to.”
“Oh, and it’s such a lovely day too. Seems a shame to waste it.”
“She’s quite right,” agreed Imogene. “I say we go on our own excursion.”
“What?” Cutty barked. “Where would we go?”
“We could show Newton and Nettie His Majesty,” Imogene suggested.
“Oh, yeah,” Cutty agreed, “That’s not a bad idea.”
“I could pack you a picnic!” Mrs. Upton said with glee. “Come to think of it, I’m free this afternoon myself. If you don’t mind, I’ll go with you.”
“Certainly,” Imogene told her with a smile. She turned to Cutty. “I rode in with Jefferson and Edith – they’re down at the mercantile visiting Wilfred and Irene. We’ll have to see if they’d like to go, seeing as they have the wagon.”
“Fine by me,” Cutty said rubbing his hands together. “How ‘bout some fried chicken and boiled eggs, Mrs. Upton?”
Her face broke into a wide smile. “I just happen to have some – I planned on sending you all off with a basket anyway. Let me just throw in some extra for Edith and Jefferson. After all, we can’t let that food go to waste now, can we?”
“No, we can’t!” Cutty agreed with a happy grin. He turned back to Imogene, who was staring at Nettie in concern. Her eyes were focused on the double doors with a strange longing. “What’s wrong with ya?” he asked.
Nettie pulled herself out of the stupor. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” She blinked a few times. “Where is it we’re going?”
Mrs. Upton laughed. “Just wait and see, honey! I’ll go get the basket ready. Cutty, you run upstairs and see if Mr. Whitman is back. This is going to be a fine afternoon!”
Nettie watched her head back to the kitchen as Cutty got up from his chair. “Glad to do it!” he said and scurried across the room. He disappeared into the lobby.
A strange emptiness gripped her. The thought that Mr. Cotter wouldn’t be joining them had set it off, but she didn’t understand why. She’d just met the man – why would she be so disappointed about his absence?
Her eyes drifted to Imogene. She barely remembered the woman, and couldn’t remember how old she had been the last time she’d seen her. Five or six, perhaps? Had she seen her? She supposed spending the afternoon with her elder cousin would be good for them both, and she’d have the chance to ask Imogene about their mother.
She just wished Mr. Cotter could be there to hear the details Imogene was likely to share. After all, her long-lost relative was highly entertaining. But the more she thought on it, perhaps it was best he wasn’t able to join them. Imogene might inadvertently say something that would let him know Nettie was less than what she seemed. If that happened, would he still want
to marry her?
* * *
“I’m happy to report that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you,” Doc Drake told Amon. “At least as far as I can tell.”
Amon had left a note for Miss Whitman with Seth at the hotel, then gone straight to Doc Waller’s. Doc Drake and his wife Elsie still roomed there, not having built their own home yet.
“Are you positive?” Amon asked, dreading his answer. If it was “yes,” then he might be losing his mind; if “no,” something could be very wrong with him physically.
“Have you shared with me all of your symptoms?” Doc Drake asked.
Amon bit his lip. Telling him about the huge slave he saw, who’d then disappeared, wasn’t easy, but he’d done it and Doc Drake was no worse for wear because of it. In fact, he seemed quite interested in the whole ordeal. “There’s nothing more to tell. Other than none of this is normal for me.”
“Well, either you’ve been working too hard and are more nervous about your nuptials than you thought, or we have a tall escaped slave roaming about. He’s not likely to be a free man around here …” The doctor frowned. Like Amon, he was both a Northerner (from Philadelphia, in his case) and held a low view of both slavery and Oregon’s exclusion laws.
“How likely is it that he’s real?”
“Well, one never knows around here. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about living in Clear Creek, it’s that nothing around here is ordinary.”
Amon met his eyes. “Including you?” He knew well the young doctor’s reputation as a miracle worker, though since he never seemed to fall ill (until now?) he’d never experienced it firsthand. He did, however, know others that had, including Grandma.
“This isn’t about me, it’s about you,” Doc Drake countered. “Unfortunately, I don’t know what to tell you. Physically you appear perfectly fine. Mentally … well, I hear there are tests for these things, but if you ask me, I’d chalk it up to nerves, lack of sleep, or maybe too much time at Mulligan’s.”
“I’m not a drinking man, Doc, you know that.”