Della (Cowboys and Debutantes Book 2)

by Vivi Holt

  Then she closed her eyes and drifted off.

  Chapter 4

  The room was dark when Della woke, and it took her a few moments to figure out where she was. She sat up and grabbed her head with a groan. With her fingers, she gently palpated the back of her skull to discover a large, painful lump. She rubbed it ruefully, then swung her legs over to rest her feet on the floor.

  She was in the bedroom of the apartment, and the curtains had been pulled shut across the window. There was no way of knowing what time of day it was, though she could see the glow of sunshine from behind the fabric. The sound of footsteps outside pricked her ears and she stood slowly, smoothing her hair back into place with both hands.

  When she peeked through the cracked-open doorway, she saw Clement sitting on the love seat, his legs crossed leisurely, sipping a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. Spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and furrows creased his forehead. He looked up, half-grinned and slipped his spectacles off, placing them on the table beside him. “Ya up?”

  She nodded. “Thank you for helping me. I must have hit my head.” Again she patted the lump and winced.

  “Ya sure did.” He stood and hurried to her side, offering her his arm for support as he led her to the kitchen table and helped her take a seat. “Coffee comin’ right up!”

  “Thank you.”

  She watched him fill a cup. Then he sliced a thick piece of bread onto a plate, and slathered it with creamy butter and a spoonful of preserves. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, and his biceps and forearms bulged when he bent his arms. His pants fitted tightly around his muscular thighs and trim waist. She blushed - she hadn’t noticed before just how attractive he was - and her face heated up as though she were sitting by a fire. She fanned herself with one hand and sighed. Heaven’s above, how hard had she hit her head? She must be hallucinating if watching a cowboy banker serve her a slice of bread made her pulse race.

  He strode back to the table and lay the snack in front of her, then watched as she took a sip, his hands on his hips. She glanced up at him under arched eyebrows. “I’m fine, really - no need to hover, I assure you. Just a little bump on the head, nothing to worry about. Come to mention it, though, who was that woman? She was a menace! She might have killed me if I’d been there a few seconds earlier.”

  He laughed and took a seat beside her. “That was Honey Barnes. And no, she wouldn’t have killed ya or anyone else. She’s just fired up ‘cause her husband Joseph went and drank away his wages again. She does it every now and then. Hank Welch the saloon owner gets bent out of shape ‘bout the damage she does, but he’s too tender-hearted to press charges, and thanks to Joe she ain’t got the money to pay for it anyhow. So she spends the night in the sheriff’s lockup, then they take her home once she’s calmed down.”

  Della’s eyes widened as his story progressed. “How often does she do this?”

  “‘Bout every six months or so.”

  Della took another sip and pondered his words. What a strange place this was, where a woman could deface an establishment with an axe and be sent home, only to do it all over again a few months later. “What time is it?”

  “Oh, ‘bout five o’clock. I let Francisca and Jim close up the bank for me today so I could sit here with ya.”

  She ducked her head. “I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t cost you any business.”

  “No, no. Yer my priority now.” He grinned and popped his spectacles back on his nose. “I’m afraid ya’ll think me an old fuddy-duddy with these things on my face, but I cain’t read without ‘em.”

  “Not at all,” she said, but admitted to herself he didn’t look quite the same. Not worse, just different - smarter, perhaps.

  He smiled. “Did ya wanna try out that women’s Bible study group?”

  “Well …”

  “I will admit, most of the women in this town don’t seem to me the kind ya’d likely strike up a friendship with. The Bible study group is a higher class of social gathering for women, accordin’ to my understandin’. It might be good for ya - ya could make some friends. It’d help ya get settled, I reckon.”

  She chewed her lower lip in thought. Really, all she wanted to do was go back to bed, curl up in a ball and lay in the dark. She didn’t want to meet anyone. Her head hurt, she missed home and she was beginning to fully appreciate just how much her life had changed in the past few weeks. Nothing would be the same for her ever again. But, perhaps he was right - if this was to be her life from now on, it made sense for her to try and find some friends to share that life with. It might make things a bit easier for her, though after meeting a few of the locals she highly doubted it. If only Effie or Hattie or Pearl had come to the same town, she might have been able to stand it all. “I suppose I can go once, try it out. When is it?”

  “Tonight after supper.” His eyes drifted back to the sitting room and his newspaper. “What’re we havin’?”

  Her eyes flew wide. Was he suggesting she should cook for them?

  Francisca and Hans Schmidt owned a tiny cottage built from rough-cut lumber covered in tar paper, with shingles for the roof. It could have looked worse, but Francisca had a talent for home decoration - inside the house it fairly glowed with cozy warmth and love. Colorful rugs lit up every floor surface, lace curtains lined the windows, and fresh flowers stood in vases on every flat surface. There were works of art on the walls, and the basic furniture was adorned with lovingly-crafted pillows and bric-a-brac. “Your home is lovely,” said Della, untying her hat and putting it on the coat rack with her coat.

  “Oh, thank you so much,” sighed Francisca, taking her by the arm and leading her into the den. “Come and meet everybody. I am so glad you are here. I was worried about you today when Señor White carried you in after you hurt your head. You were so pale! I told him he should get the doctor, but he was sure you would be fine. And here you are!”

  “I feel much better, though my head still hurts a bit.” Della entered the room, and everybody turned to watch her.

  “Everyone, this is Della White,” announced Francisca proudly. “She is from New York City!”

  The dozen women smiled and murmured welcomes. Most immediately turned back to their conversations, but one caught her eye and waved. She lifted her hand awkwardly to return the gesture, then noticed another lady standing by a punch bowl, dipping her cup in and lifting it tentatively to her lips. She had wavy auburn hair, full lips, brown eyes and curves that filled out her fitted blue dress …

  Della gasped and spun away, her face pale. It was the woman from the saloon, Honey.

  “What is it, dear?” asked Francisca, her brow furrowed.

  “That woman is here - the axe-wielding madwoman from the saloon who almost killed me!” she whispered, shooting looks over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t about to be attacked again.

  Francisca’s face relaxed, and she chuckled in amusement. “Oh, you mean Honey? No, she is perfectly safe. Honey - come over and meet your latest victim!”

  Della blanched, and grabbed hold of Francisca’s forearm. “No, no,” she hissed. She turned slowly to find herself face to face with Honey.

  Honey’s eyebrows arched high, her cheeks flushed red. “Victim? Oh dear, what have I done now?” she asked, concern in her melodic voice.

  Della forced herself to smile.

  Francesca pried her arm free and rubbed it with relief. “Now, now, Della, no need to be afraid. Honey would not hurt a fly - intentionally.”

  “No, I certainly wouldn’t.”

  “Well, you just about killed me today,” snapped Della, her heart pounding. “You knocked me down in front of that saloon you chopped to pieces.”

  Honey looked ashamed, covering her mouth with her hand.“Oh, that was you? I’m so sorry - I didn’t see you there, and I was intent on finding that scoundrel Hank. I hope you weren’t hurt.”

  Della felt pity at the look of horror on the young woman’s face. “Never mind. I suppose all’s well that ends well.
I did get an awful bump on the back of my head, but I’ll live.”

  Honey grabbed her hands and took them between hers, squeezing them tight. “I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Well, I suppose…”

  “It’s just that sometimes I can’t take it anymore. Joe drank it all away, again, and the children are hungry. Francisca here and Abella help out when they can, but it’s just not enough when you’ve got so many little mouths to feed. Not to mention they all need new boots and clothes. I just don’t know sometimes how we’re gonna make it. I come here every week in the hopes that if we all pray about it together, maybe something will change.”

  Della’s chest tightened. No wonder the poor woman had just about gone mad. “How many children do you have?”

  “Five so far. I’ve told Joe no more, but he pays no mind to anything I say, and I seem to be as fertile as a deer mouse.” She snorted.

  Francisca patted Honey’s arm. “There, there - let us not worry about what has not happened yet. Each of your little ones is as precious as anyone could be.”

  Honey nodded sadly. “I know. Sometimes they drive me to distraction so I forget, but they are precious.”

  Francisca turned to the group. “Shall we begin, ladies?”

  Everyone ended their conversations and made their way to the various sofas, armchairs and stools scattered around Francisca’s small den. Francisca hurried to the kitchen and came back wearing an apron and carrying a tray of food. Another lady, a blonde with her hair in a high bun, followed with a tray full of tea cups and a teapot in a cunning knitted cozy. She smiled warmly and chatted easily with the women around her. “Help yourselves,” encouraged Francisca, passing cups around the group, as the women pulled out their Bibles, and began their discussion on the book of Esther.

  Della took a seat beside Honey, who grabbed a small sandwich and shoved it indelicately into her mouth.

  She leaned over toward Honey and whispered into her ear. “Francisca is so exotic-looking and has such an interesting accent. Do you know where she’s from?”

  “Oh yes, she’s from Chile. She traveled from there to Seattle on a steamboat.” Honey took another sandwich and gulped it down.

  Della wondered how often the poor woman got to eat a hearty meal. “Oh, how interesting. And who’s the blonde lady with Francisca?”

  Honey finished chewing and swallowed nervously, patting her mouth with a napkin. “Abella Goode - she’s Francisca’s best friend.”

  Della nodded and crossed her ankles demurely. “Well, she’s very pretty.”

  “She sure is. She was a soiled dove, you know.”

  Della gasped, her eyes bulging. “What?”

  “Yep. Came all the way from France, and her went and husband died on her, out on the Oregon Trail. When she got to Livingston, she had to take a job as a sporting woman just to get a roof over her head and a meal in her belly. Back then, there weren’t many jobs for anyone, let alone a Frenchwoman on her own. But then Stanley Goode - an Englishman, mind you - fell in love with her and asked her to marry him. Ever since, she’s been trying to work her way into the proper circles, but none of these women’ll have anything to do with her.”

  Della watched Abella move gracefully around the group, offering the plate of treats to each woman in turn, and noticed the subtle ways each of them snubbed her, something that had escaped her attention before: a turning away of the head, pretending not to hear her, excluding her from their conversations or acting as though their cup of tea absorbed all their attention. But still, Abella smiled and acted as though nothing was amiss.

  Soon she reached Della and Honey and offered them the tray. “Would you ladies like something to eat?” she asked. Her blue eyes sparkled, and Della saw tiny freckles sprinkled across her dainty nose.

  “Yes, please!” said Honey, grabbing a handful of sandwiches.

  “Thank you.” Della reached for a sandwich and a napkin.

  “You must be Della.” Abella’s soft French accent made every word sound like a melody.

  “Yes, that’s right. Della White - I’m pleased to meet you. Honey tells me your name is Abella - what a pretty name.” Della refused to treat the poor woman with anything but good manners. After all, her situation wasn’t so far removed from the Frenchwoman’s. The only difference was that she’d been fortunate enough to be taken in by a kind-hearted man. Her heart thudded at the realization of just what Clement had done for her - and where she might have been if not for him.

  Abella’s eyes glistened and she inclined her head. “Thank you. That is so kind of you.”

  The Bible study itself was brief, followed by more conversation and socializing. Della spoke more with Honey and Abella, and the three of them stayed behind to help Francisca clean up. Finally Clement showed up to walk Della home, she saw him standing out on the porch. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, tied on her bonnet and waved farewell to her new friends.

  Clem leaned against the porch railing waiting for Della. He held his hat in one hand and ran the other through his wild hair, accidentally standing it on end. He hoped for her sake she’d made some friends that evening. He didn’t know too much about womenfolk, but he did know they set a whole lot of store on friendships and social circles.

  For him, settling into life in Livingston had simply meant working hard day and night until he’d established his business and built the apartment overhead to sleep in. He’d never given a whole lot of thought to relationships, though some had developed naturally over time. He didn’t go out of his way to spend time with his friends, just saw them when they came into the bank or went out hunting together. Sometimes he’d go to a church picnic or some other outing, but otherwise he entertained himself with his work. That had kept him well occupied and content for several years. It had only been in the past year that he’d begun to feel something was missing from his life, and when Stan Goode suggested he needed a wife, the idea had taken root and he’d finally written away for a mail-order bride.

  He walked behind Della up the stairs to their apartment. She chattered away about the friends she’d made, seeming more chipper after the evening’s affair. He smiled in satisfaction. It’d been a good idea after all - he was glad he’d encouraged her to go.

  After she’d washed up and changed for bed, he knocked on their bedroom door and entered the darkened room, only to trip over the boots she’d left lying on the floor. She seemed to already have fallen to sleep beneath the covers on her side, facing away from him. He undressed and slipped quickly into his side of the bed. The steady rhythm of her breathing made his skin tingle all over, and he longed to reach out and touch her.

  He heard a sob and frowned. Then another, followed by a sniffle. Was she crying? What should he do? It was clear she didn’t intend for him to hear her distress - her head was buried in her pillow, muffling the sounds. He tucked his hands under his head, lying still in the darkness listening to her, his heart thumping in his chest. Finally he turned onto his side and laid a hand on her back. “Della? Ya all right?”

  She didn’t respond, only took a deep breath.

  “Della?”

  When there was still no response again, he rubbed her back gently, then turned away to give her privacy. He felt completely helpless. He’d thought she’d had a good time at the Bible study, yet here she was crying herself to sleep beside him. He knew then he was in over his head.

  Chapter 5

  Della peered into the stove, then shut the door with a bang. The fire within was steady, and she’d set the coffee pot on the stove top to boil. So far, so good. She frowned and reached for the handle — perhaps she should move it a little to the left … ouch! She pulled her hand back with a gasp and sucked on her fingertips where they’d been burned. Now what? She’d lifted the coffee pot with a cloth the last time, but the cloth was nowhere to be seen. She gathered the edges of her apron around her hand and tried again. There, that was better. She smiled with satisfaction, then looked around for the honey to apply to the b
urn. Clem had brought some home the previous evening after work, much to her delight. She loved honey, and missed the sweet treats she’d been used to back home.

  Clem strode into the room, his face freshly washed and his damp hair combed back from his handsome face. When he smiled, a little dimple crinkled one cheek and made her pulse race. Whenever he came near her now, she tingled all over, and his presence made her nervous. “Good mornin’, wife,” he said with a chuckle. “And what, pray tell, are ya up to?”

  “I’m making coffee,” she announced proudly.

  “Well, how about that?” He sat at the table and set his hat on one knee.

  “Would you like some?”

  “Sure would. And is there anythin’ to eat?” He arched an eyebrow, looking hopeful.

  “Well, I think there’s some leftover bread in the bread box. We ate all of the preserves, but …” She stammered, uncertain of what else to say. “What do you usually eat for breakfast? Back in New York, I’d have a croissant with a mug of chocolate or coffee, but I haven’t been able to find croissants here.”

  He frowned. “Well, let’s see. I suppose I’d love some pancakes, or cornbread with buttermilk. My Ma used to make oatcakes for me sometimes.”

  Her cheeks warmed, and she absently sucked the honey from her fingertips. “I see. Where would I find those kinds of things, do you think?”

  He tipped his head to one side and stared at her in puzzlement. “Well, ya’d make ‘em, of course.”

  She laughed. “Me? I’m sorry, but you know I don’t know how to cook.”

  He looked miffed at her words and leaned forward in his seat. “I’m sure it ain’t that hard.”

  She was getting more flustered by the moment. What did he expect from her? Was she to be his servant now, waiting on him hand and foot? It all seemed too much for her to bear - she didn’t know the first thing about how to make an oatcake, pancake, or any other cake for that matter. “What do people around here do for food?” she asked, filling a cup with coffee and handing it to him.