With a groan of frustration, Thad charged across the grassy yard to the corner. He scanned the street, but he didn’t see her anywhere. He rubbed his chin, trying to decide what to do. He had the fixings for a simple lunch, so he could walk to the mercantile, ring the buzzer, and ask her to join him for another picnic. Maybe he could pry loose what was troubling her. But what if she wouldn’t tell him?
He slapped his hat on his head. Females! One minute smiling and forgiving, the next taciturn. He set his feet in motion, stirring dust with every pounding footstep. He wouldn’t spoil his Sunday playing twenty questions with Sadie. As he closed himself in his little living area at the back of his office and reached for his supply of bread and cheese, his righteous indignation fizzled and died.
Who was he fooling? Sadie’s sorrow was his sorrow. He felt it in the depth of his soul. She wanted some privacy or she wouldn’t have sneaked off without speaking to him. So he’d give her privacy. For now. But come tomorrow, he’d stop by the mercantile and ask if she’d changed her mind about allowing him to court her. And he prayed she wouldn’t say yes.
22
Sadie hid a yawn with one hand while unlocking the mercantile door with the other. She’d gotten very little sleep last night, and even less the night before. Bits and pieces of her conversation with Sid from Saturday evening—“He’ll fire us both if you don’t sing at those special invite-only shows, Sadie”—collided with advice from Papa’s letter—“I know it’s hard for you to be far away, Sadie-girl, but the Lord is always with you. Follow His ways, and you’ll land on your feet every time.” Sadie felt certain doing what Mr. Baxter asked wouldn’t be pleasing to God. But not doing it would create so much conflict. For her, for Sid, for her family. So what was best?
She crunched her eyes tight and whispered the same prayer she’d offered a dozen times in the past two days. “Lord, show me what to do.” But when she opened her eyes, only the familiar street scene of Goldtree greeted her. How she wished God would pen His reply across the awakening sky so she’d have clear direction.
As if sent on a lightning bolt, another bit of wisdom from Papa’s letter winged through Sadie’s memory: “Keep reading your Bible every day and talking to God.” Guilt pricked. In the past weeks, she’d failed dismally in following her parents’ example. At home, Papa read nightly to the family. But here in Goldtree, between working at the mercantile and preparing for her performances, it seemed she never had a minute to spare. Exhaustion at the end of the day encouraged her to drop into bed at night for sleep rather than taking the time for Bible reading or prayer. How disappointed Mama and Papa would be if they knew.
Shame lowered her head, and out of the corners of her eyes she caught sight of a little wax-paper-wrapped bundle waiting on the porch. She sighed. She’d told Sid on Saturday night to stop leaving her the gifts, but apparently he’d chosen to disregard her request. She appreciated his kind consideration, even while she rued his bold persistence. Yet no matter how many thoughtful deeds Sid performed, she still viewed him as her childhood playmate and cousin. Never a beau. If only her heart would rise and take wing within her chest when Sid approached—the way it responded to Thad’s presence—how much simpler things would be.
Sadie lifted the package and peeled back the paper, revealing a sweet roll from Cora’s. Still warm. He must have been there only moments ago. The scent of cinnamon wafted upward, tickling her nose. Sadie had always loved the scent and flavor of cinnamon—it reminded her of Mama’s apple pastries—but today her stomach roiled. Sighing, she scuffed her way to the storeroom and tossed the sweet roll in the rubbish bin. She stood, staring down at the treat, tears threatening. Until she was able to put her worries to rest, she wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep. Or allow herself a moment of time with Thad.
One tear rolled down her cheek, and she whisked it away with the back of her hand. It had nearly broken her heart to hold herself aloof from him yesterday after he’d been so kind, retrieving her letter and asking to court her. But if she were going to leave Goldtree, she must protect her heart. And his.
“Sadie?” one of the twins bawled from the main room. “Where are you?”
Sadie bustled out of the storeroom. “I’m right here. What do you need?”
Miss Shelva rattled off a list of duties she expected Sadie to accomplish during the morning. Sadie sprang into action, and the hours slipped quickly by. At noon, Miss Shelva hung the little hand-scrawled “LUNCH—BACK AT 12:30” sign on the door and ushered Sadie upstairs, where Miss Melva had their simple meal waiting on the kitchen table.
Although the soup and rolls looked inviting, Sadie couldn’t carry a single bite to her mouth. Each time she tried, her throat constricted and she knew she wouldn’t be able to swallow. She lowered her spoon to the table and sat back in her chair. “May I be excused?”
“But you ain’t even ate a bite yet!” Miss Shelva scolded.
“You didn’t eat breakfast, neither,” Miss Melva said, waving her spoon at Sadie. “Gonna waste away to nothin’ if you don’t eat.”
Miss Shelva put in, “How you expect to keep up your strength with no food in your belly?”
Miss Melva chuckled and poked her sister on the arm. “Maybe we oughtta fetch the sheriff—reckon he could convince ’er to eat.”
Sadie’s face flamed. Miss Shelva opened her mouth to add her comments, but before she could speak, Sadie pushed away from the table. “Excuse me,” she said, and fled. She zipped past her bedroom door. If she went in, one or both of the sisters would surely follow. So she clattered downstairs instead. Both twins called after her in strident tones to come back, but she ignored their insistent appeals. It was her lunch break—she’d use it as she pleased. And right now she needed time alone more than she needed food. She had to think.
When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she pushed open the back door and ran across the small yard. A huge cottonwood grew at the far edge of the property, casting dappled shade across the sparse, wilted grass. She sank down beneath the tree, using a few gnarly roots as a lumpy seat, and leaned against the rough bark. Closing her eyes, she began an earnest, lengthy prayer for guidance. For wisdom. For peace.
“Give me an answer now, Lord,” she begged, “so I know what I’m to do.”
“Sadie.”
She gasped. Her hands flew upward to prevent her wildly thudding heart from leaving her chest. God? Then she spotted Sid a few feet away, his face somber. “Oh my . . . I thought—” Had she really thought the Lord would speak aloud to her? She shook her head in self-deprecation. “You frightened me. What are you doing here?” Couldn’t people leave her alone for even a few minutes?
“The Misses Baxter told me you’d taken off. Glad you didn’t go far. I . . . I gotta tell you something.” Sid bent on his haunches before her. He pressed a crumpled sheet of stationery against his knee, smoothing the page. “Sadie, I got a letter from home. An’ . . . it’s bad news.”
His sober expression, coupled with the catch in his voice, sent a chill through Sadie’s limbs. She braced her palms against the cool ground. “W-what?”
With his eyes on the paper, Sid drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Pa wrote to let me know about Uncle Len.” His eyes flicked to meet hers, then dropped again.
Papa? Sadie’s pulse beat so hard in her temples she could hear the blood rushing through her veins. Fear took a stranglehold, holding her voice captive.
“The infection in his leg . . .” Sid gulped, his head low. “He died, Sadie. Over a week ago.”
Sadie shook her head wildly, tendrils of hair slapping against her cheeks. “No!” She dug her fingers into the moist dirt beneath the tree. “No, he can’t be dead. He just sent me a letter. And Mama would have told me if he was gone.” But even in her panicked state she recalled the date the letter from Papa had been mailed. Three days earlier than the one from Mama, which had blown away. Surely the lost letter contained the heartbreaking report.
With a start, Sadie realized
Papa must have penned the letter only a day or two before succumbing. During his final hours, she was on his mind. How much he loved her, even though she wasn’t truly his.
Papa . . . oh, Papa, no . . . Her mind screamed the words, but somehow her tongue refused to work. Sid’s image swam as tears flooded her eyes. She pressed a fist to her mouth to hold back wails of agony. She tasted earth on her fingers—a familiar flavor from years of gardening with Mama, of digging fishing worms with Papa, of making muddly-mud pies for Effie. Oh, I want to go home!
She jolted to her feet and stumbled toward the mercantile.
Sid pounded after her. “Sadie, wait.”
He caught her arm and spun her around. The sun hit her full in the face. She squinted at him, wriggling to free herself. “Let go. I have to pack. I have to arrange for a stage. I have to—”
“Go home?” He barked the question. “Going home won’t bring him back.” Sid’s harsh voice stung like a lash. “Going home won’t change nothin’.”
“B-but, Sid, I . . .” A sob choked off her protest. She placed her hands against his chest, which heaved with the force of his rapid breaths.
Sid gave her a little shake. “He’s gone, Sadie. An’ that means he won’t ever be able to care for your family again. Don’t you see what you gotta do? You gotta stay here. Work. Keep earnin’ that pay. At least until Effie or the boys’re bigger an’ can help out some, too.”
Sadie threw her arms outward, dislodging Sid’s hold. She turned her back on him, hugging herself. Silent sobs shook her body. She wanted Mama. She wanted her mother’s comfort. But Sid was right—going home meant giving up the source of income that would feed, house, and clothe her mother, sister, and brothers.
“Your ma needs you, Sadie, but not there. She needs you here. She’s gonna be countin’ on you more than ever now.” His words filtered through the numbing shock, making her wonder if he’d read her secret thoughts. Warm hands curled over her shoulders. “You can’t go back. There’s nothin’ waitin’ for you there.”
She nodded jerkily, finally recognizing the truth of his statement.
“But here . . .” Sid went on, his voice soft and convincing. “Here you got the means to take care of your family.”
Sid was right. It would be selfish to go home. She’d come to Kansas to gain employment—the type of employment unavailable in Dalton. She had to stay. Mama and the children depended on her. Hadn’t Papa even said so in his letter? In her mind’s eye, she saw the line written in Papa’s oversized, messy script: “You’re a good girl to put your family first, Sadie-girl. I’m proud of you.” She’d continue making him proud. She’d care for her family the only way she knew how.
But would the twenty dollars a month from her mercantile job be enough? No, she needed the singing money, too. Her mouth went dry. Mr. Baxter would find another singer if she didn’t agree to perform all three nights. She bolted toward the mercantile.
Sid trotted alongside her. “What’re you doin’?”
“I’ve got to ask Miss Melva and Miss Shelva for permission to go find Mr. Baxter. I have to talk to him—to tell him I’ll keep singing.”
Sid grabbed her arm, his eyes wide. “You’re gonna do it? The private shows, too?”
Sadie swished her hands over her eyes, removing the remaining vestiges of tears. She heaved a shuddering sigh. “I have no choice. He told me it’s all or nothing.” I’ll do it, Papa, so Mama and the children won’t go hungry.
Sid blew out a breath, his face breaking into an expression of both joy and relief. “Go ask, then. If they say yes, I’ll take you out to his place myself—I gotta exchange wagons anyway. You better talk to him before he finds another singer.” Sid gave her a gentle push toward the door. “Hurry, Sadie.”
Sadie stepped up on the stoop, but she didn’t hurry. She couldn’t. Her feet felt as though they’d turned to lead.
23
Asa squeaked the cork into place with his thumb and then held up the slender bottle by its throat to the shaft of sunlight streaming through the barn window. The red wine filling the bottle turned the aqua glass a muddy shade of purple. He’d been disgusted when he’d discovered aqua meant greenish-blue, but now he chortled, delighted by the sight. No one would guess the bottle’s true contents—especially with his cleverly designed labels intact.
He set the bottle on the worktable and reached for the glue and a paper label:
Very carefully, he applied glue to the upper third of the label. When the shipment reached its destination, the receiver could score the label with a razor blade and tear away the word “vinegar,” leaving the “Baxter’s Fancy Red Wine” intact. Took a steady hand and careful thought to brush on the right amount of glue and then center the scrolled label between the bottle’s barely visible seams. But Asa had perfected the task over the past few days, readying his first shipment.
With another raspy chortle, he placed the bottle in the crate at his feet. He balled his hands on his hips and surveyed the fruits of his labor. Nine more crates sat on the barn floor, each containing an even two dozen bottles, ready for Sid to load in the wagon and transport to Abilene. The saloon owners who’d been shut down by Kansas’s prohibition laws would be thrilled to buy his illicit liquor.
But he wouldn’t sell all of it to former saloon owners. He’d need a supply for his Tuesday nights of poker, roulette, and blackjack. He didn’t figure the Tuesday crowd would be as fond of his wine as they would the homemade beer waiting in kegs in the hidden room under the mercantile, but he’d have some on hand anyway. Asa rubbed his palms together, imagining the piles of money he’d soon amass. The thought made him giddy.
Yes, sir, ply them with enough drink, and the men would gamble all night. But he’d have to limit their imbibing and then shut things down at a reasonable hour. After all, the fellas had to return to work the morning after, and a bunch of red-eyed, dragging workers would certainly signal something was awry. He couldn’t risk attracting that snoopy sheriff’s attention. What had Hanaman been thinking, bringing a lawman to Goldtree?
But Asa wouldn’t make it easy for the sheriff. Nobody’d hear the activity in the mercantile cellar—sturdy concrete walls absent of windows would hold the sound inside. And nobody’d see men coming and going from the mercantile, because they’d use the tunnel leading from his barn to the cellar. A half mile in length and reinforced with sturdy timbers, it had taken Asa almost four months to finish the secret passageway. But now it was done, and he could open his gambling room to men eager for some fun.
The rattle of wagon wheels drifted from outside. Asa smiled—Sid, arriving to load the “vinegar.” Rolling down his sleeves and fastening the cuffs around his thick wrists, he sauntered to meet the boy. To his surprise, Sid wasn’t alone.
Asa scowled, jamming a stubby finger in Miss Wagner’s direction. “What’s she doin’ here?”
The moment Sid set the brake, Miss Wagner scrambled down from the high seat and faced Asa, her expression pleading. “Have you located a singer to replace me?”
Asa crunched his lips to the side and folded his arms over his chest. What with needing to get that wine into bottles, he hadn’t had a chance to send out a single inquiry. But Miss Wagner didn’t need to know that. “Why?”
“B-because I . . .” Tears pooled in the girl’s eyes. “I need the job. I need the money to . . . to send home to my mother. My father . . .” A tear trailed down her pale cheek. She didn’t even bother to wipe it away. “He died. So . . .”
Asa rubbed his prickly jaw. Not that he gloried in the girl’s loss, but the timing couldn’t have been better from his standpoint. A desperate employee was a reliable employee. She’d do what he asked without question. And her voice—as well as her more-than-pleasing appearance—would continue to draw customers. Asa wanted to jump up and down with glee at this turn of events, but he kept his feet firmly planted and maintained a stern tone.
Squinting, he pinned her with a firm look. “If I say you can stay on, you gonna change you
r mind on me? ’Cause if I commit to keepin’ you, I don’t wanna get left standin’ high an’ dry”—he almost choked on his own unintentional pun—“if you decide it’s too much work or you don’t like the songs I pick.”
She swallowed, but she didn’t shrink away as she had the last time they’d talked. “I won’t change my mind. I-I’ll sing whatever songs you choose, and I’ll work three nights a week.” She paused, her expression apprehensive. “The pay . . . the pay is still the same?”
Oh, it would gratify Asa to lower the amount and watch her squirm. But that’d be just plain cruel, considering she was mourning the loss of her pa. Asa didn’t understand that kind of mourning—he couldn’t honestly say he’d been sad standing beside his pa’s grave—but it was clear the girl was torn up. He wouldn’t rub salt in her wounds. “Pay’s the same.”
Her shoulders wilted. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter.”
He flipped his hand in reply, then scowled at her. “One more thing. These Tuesday shows? They ain’t for everybody.”
Her brows came together. “Yes, you told me. They’re for m-men only.”
“That’s right. But not for all men.” Asa arched one eyebrow, squinting with the opposite eye. “These’re special shows for certain fellas. A kind of . . . private society, you might say.” In the big cities, highfalutin’ men gathered together in by-invitation-only dens to smoke cigars and complain about the country’s leaders. Who would’ve thought Butterball Baxter would grow up to play host to such exclusivity?
“Only men comin’,” Asa went on, “will be those I choose to invite. So you don’t be talkin’ up the Tuesday show. Let me do the advertisin’. An’ you make sure you don’t let nobody see you a-creepin’ downstairs on Tuesday nights. Don’t wanna rouse questions. You got it?” He waited until she nodded in agreement, then he looked at Sid, who hadn’t budged from the wagon seat. “S’pose you gotta take her back to town now afore you can get that load ready for transport.” He injected as much disgust into his tone as possible even though an hour delay wouldn’t affect the deal.
Song of My Heart Page 18