Thad pursed his lips. The women were enjoying his new position as Sadie’s beau even more than he was. He glanced around, his brow pinching. “Where’s Sadie?”
Miss Melva squinted one eye at Thad. “So you sayin’ the reason you come in was to talk at her?”
Thad nodded, bracing himself for a scolding for taking Sadie’s attention away from work.
Both women left their tasks and flew at Thad, hands wringing, faces wearing matching frowns of concern. Miss Shelva spoke first. “We’re worried as worried can be about Sadie.”
“She’s just so sad-lookin’ all the time,” Miss Melva said. “Can’t hardly raise a smile out of her. An’ she don’t eat.”
The pair exchanged an appalled look, both tsking. Miss Shelva said, “I keep tellin’ her she’s gonna make herself sick if she don’t eat, but she just pecks at her food.”
“Sister even cooked up a mess o’ peach tarts, since we all know how much Sadie likes peaches.” Miss Melva threw her arms wide. “She didn’t eat nary a one! Two bites—that was it.”
Twin tears shimmered in Miss Shelva’s eyes. “We’re wonderin’ if maybe we hadn’t oughtta send her back to Indiana afore she fades clean away from homesickness.”
Thad pinched his chin. The sisters tended to overdramatize, but even in the brief snatches of time he’d been able to carve out for her, he’d noted Sadie’s lack of sparkle since her stepfather passed away. He understood mourning—she’d obviously adored the man—but he hadn’t realized she’d resorted to not eating. Yet she’d agreed to meet him for a picnic on Sunday, so surely she just needed the right kind of prompting to eat. Imagining how the Baxter twins probably encouraged—shrieking in her face—he decided the best way to boost Sadie’s appetite was to give her a break from the well-meaning but forceful mercantile owners.
He repeated his earlier question. “Where’s Sadie?”
Miss Melva waved her hand toward the rear of the store. “Sent her out back to burn trash.”
Miss Shelva’s bushy gray eyebrows rose. “You gonna talk to her?”
Thad nodded. “With your permission, I’m going to invite her to Cora’s for supper.”
The pair broke into bright smiles and identical chortles. Miss Melva flicked her fingertips on Thad’s arm. “You got our permission, Sheriff, to take Sadie to supper. Take her right now, if you’ve a mind to. That barrel’ll burn itself out without watchin’.”
“An’ you give her a good talkin’-to about maybe goin’ home,” Miss Shelva said. Her smile faded. “I’d miss her somethin’ fierce. What a sweet girl she is. . . .”
“She wouldn’t hafta be gone forever, Sister.” Miss Melva patted her sister’s back then swung a pleading look on Thad. “Goin’ home for a while, though—to see how her ma an’ all them little brothers an’ her sister’re makin’ out now that her pa’s gone—would do her a world of good.”
Thad gave each woman’s arm a squeeze, earning matching blushes and titters, then headed for the back door. With each step, his resolve to cheer Sadie grew. When he was a preacher, he’d need to be able to offer comfort as well as sound advice. Ministering to Sadie would be good experience. More than that, he yearned to see her unburdened and happy again. Please, Lord, ease her pain.
He pushed open the door and spotted Sadie at the far corner of the yard, poking a stick into a barrel from which smoke rose like a writhing snake. Her yellow hair gleamed in the sunshine, curling strands dancing in the stout breeze that plastered her dress and apron to her slender form. His heart caught in his throat. He didn’t want to suggest she leave Goldtree. But he shouldn’t be selfish. A preacher wouldn’t be selfish.
Squaring his shoulders, he took off across the yard. Give me strength, Lord, to do what’s best for Sadie.
25
I am not going back to Indiana, Thad, and I don’t wish to discuss it any further.”
Thad ground his teeth, stifling a growl. In the half hour since he’d slid across from Sadie into his familiar booth at Cora’s café, she’d stubbornly refused every one of his suggestions—including the one to dig into the delicious stew Cora had delivered to their table. His bowl was empty, but hers held congealed broth dotted with chunks of beef and vegetables. Unappetizing. He doubted she’d eat it now. But he pointed at her bowl anyway.
“An’ what would your mama say if she saw how you’re letting food go to waste?” He supposed he sounded like a nag, but concern for Sadie sharpened his tone. “You can’t go on like this—not eating, working all day an’ then singing at night. You’re gonna wear yourself out an’ be of no use to anybody.”
She set her lips in an obstinate line.
Thad sighed, reining in his frustration. Being quarrelsome hadn’t gotten him anywhere. Maybe he should try a gentler approach. “I’m not trying to rile you. I’m worried about you. So are Miss Melva an’ Miss Shelva.”
Tears shimmered, but she blinked and chased them away.
He pushed his bowl aside and rested his arms on the table, leaning in. “We’re not trying to send you off for good, Sadie. All of us, especially me”—a blush stole across her pale cheeks, pleasing him—“want you to come back. But don’t you think it’d be easier to set your mourning aside if you had the chance to go home, see your family, an’ say a proper good-bye to the man who raised you?”
Her stiff shoulders wilted. She poked at a dried biscuit on the little plate beside her bowl. “It isn’t that I don’t want to see my family. I . . . I worry about Mama . . . how she’s doing. She’s buried two husbands now.” Sadie’s chin crumpled as tears threatened. But she shook her head hard, determination squaring her jaw. “But I can’t leave. It would take a week to get there, another to get back. That’s too many days of no work. I have to work to get paid. So . . .” Her voice faded to silence.
Thad cupped his hand over hers. “You’ve made good money with your singing.” He’d been shocked when she’d shared what Asa Baxter paid her. If he was interested in accumulating wealth, he’d take up singing lessons. “Haven’t you set extra aside—enough to get by for a month or so?”
Sadie pulled her hand free and lifted her cloth napkin, dabbing her mouth. Thad thought it a silly thing to do—a person couldn’t get messy when she didn’t eat. She lowered the napkin to her lap and stared down at it. “I send almost everything to Mama. And I’m sure she’s had the sense to set some of it aside. But if I leave, Mr. Baxter will have to close the opera house for a few weeks. Or he’ll find another singer to take my place.”
Thad detected a note of fear in her voice. “He might have to find somebody else for a few performances, but then you’d be back to singing again.”
Her head bounced up. “No. He’s already warned me. If he brings in someone else, it will be for good. And now that he’s starting—” She turned sharply away, biting down on her lower lip.
“He’s starting what?” Thad prompted.
She angled her face slightly to peek at him. “It isn’t important. But my singing is important. Making money is important. Papa worried about his sons growing up to work in the mines. He always talked about wanting his boys to go to college someday—to be more than common laborers. That can’t happen unless Mama has money to pay for their education. So I can’t take time away to go home, even for a visit. I have to work.”
She slid from the booth, tossing her napkin over the bowl of stew. “Thank you for the supper, Thad, but I must practice now. I have new songs to learn for . . . for next week.” She dashed out of the café before Thad could form a protest.
He sat, fingers pinching his chin and brow pulled low, replaying their conversation. Something had Sadie rattled. Had Asa Baxter threatened her, or were her own desires to earn as much money as possible holding her captive? Either way, she was bound to make herself sick if she didn’t let loose of fretting. He dropped some money on the table to pay for their meal and then pushed out of the booth. Sadie might view him as a pest, but he intended to go down to the singing room and try once more to talk
sense into her.
When he stepped out onto the boardwalk, he spotted one of Asa Baxter’s freight wagons pulling into town. Sid Wagner sat on the high seat. He’d left on Monday—for Abilene, someone had mentioned. Thad had thought it too bad he’d been gone the same week Sadie got the news on her stepfather. Having her cousin close by would’ve been a comfort to her. But now that Sid was back, maybe he could help convince Sadie to take a break.
Thad stepped into the street and waved his hands. “Hey there, Sid! Hold up for a minute!”
Sid pulled back on the reins, drawing the wagon to a stop. He peered down at Thad, his face both tired and wary. “What is it, Sheriff?”
Thad noticed Sid adopted an insolent edge when addressing him, but he decided to ignore it. He propped one boot on the wheel hub and hooked his elbow on the edge of the seat. “Need to talk to you about Sadie.”
Sid lost his belligerent look in an instant. He set the brake and came half out of the seat, wrapping the reins around the handle with clumsy motions. “Is she all right? Is she hurt?”
Thad hadn’t intended to panic the man. He held up one hand. “Whoa there, slow down. She’s fine. Leastways, she isn’t sick. Except at heart.”
Sid plopped back on the seat and scowled. “What’re you tryin’ to say?”
Another wagon rolled up behind Sid’s. Thad needed to let Sid get out of the street. “Park this thing an’ then come to my office. We’ll talk there.”
The man didn’t look happy, but he nodded. Thad headed to his office and waited in the doorway while Sid angled the wagon close to the boardwalk, set the brake, and hopped down. His feet scuffed. The days of travel had left him dirty, tired, and—if Thad guessed right—grumpy. But this was important. It couldn’t be put off.
Thad gestured Sid inside, then closed the door. Only two chairs occupied the office, one by the table that served as his desk and the other in the corner. Thad dragged them to the center of the floor, aimed them face-to-face, then said, “Sit.”
Sid folded his arms over his chest. “I’ve been sittin’ on that wagon seat for longer’n I care to admit. I’d ruther stand. Now . . . what’s wrong with Sadie?”
If Sid was going to stand, Thad would, too. He hooked his thumbs in his back pockets, pretending a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “She’s worn out, Sid. Working all day, every day but Sunday in the mercantile, practicing in her room in the evenings, then singing every Friday and Saturday night. She hardly gets a chance to rest. And this past week, mourning over her stepfather, she hasn’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive. Miss Melva, Miss Shelva, an’ me all think she needs a break. But we can’t talk her into going back to Indiana for a visit. So I was hoping maybe you would—”
“You want me to talk her into going home?”
“That’s exactly right.”
“I . . . I can’t do that.”
Thad frowned. “Why not?”
Sid fidgeted with his shirt button, his gaze bouncing around the office. “Just can’t, that’s all.”
Thad grunted. “But don’t you think it’d be good for her?”
Sid set his feet wide and imitated Thad’s stance—thumbs in pockets, chin angled high. Thad got the feeling he was about to be challenged to a duel. “Maybe. But it ain’t for me to say. It’s gotta be Sadie’s choice, an’ it seems to me she’s already made it if she’s told you she’s stayin’.” His eyes flicked to the side, avoiding Thad’s gaze.
“But she’d listen to you, you being her cousin. Somebody she knows an’ trusts. So why don’t you—”
The muscles in Sid’s jaw clenched. “She’s gotta sing.”
Something in Sid’s words made the fine hairs on the back of Thad’s neck prickle. “She’s got to sing?”
Sid spun and clomped toward the door. He grabbed the door handle and sent a murderous glare over his shoulder. “McKane, let Sadie be. If she wants to go home, she’ll go. If she wants to stay, she’ll stay. But don’t be pesterin’ her, ’cause—” He clamped his lips closed. Then he blew out a mighty breath. “Just leave her be.” He stormed out of the office.
Thad sank into the closest chair, his mind whirling. He might only be a temporary lawman, but he knew suspicious behavior when he saw it. Sid and Sadie were hiding something.
His chest tightened. Did he really suspect Sadie of deceit? The stew soured in his stomach.
Sid had told him to leave Sadie alone, but he couldn’t do it. Every instinct told him Sadie’s lack of appetite had less to do with sorrow and more to do with a pressure to appear on that opera house stage. He had two mysteries to uncover now. But he was more concerned about the one affecting Sadie.
He shot out of the chair, out of the office, and down the boardwalk. Sadie had said she needed to practice, so he knew where to find her.
Sadie’s fingers tripped lightly on the ivory keys, the notes providing accompaniment to the song rasping from her throat. She needed to sing with greater feeling, but her vocal cords refused to cooperate. The title of the song, “Hold Me Tighter in Your Arms,” brought sweet memories of the day Thad had whisked her into the alleyway and held her while she’d cried, but the lyrics stole the innocence of her memories.
Mama would call the words indecent. Seductive, even. Sadie found it difficult to form the lyrics, let alone sing them with the feeling Mr. Baxter would expect. Hence, her throat closed, creating a husky tone that didn’t sound like her at all. Which was fitting, because she didn’t feel like herself, singing rollicking tunes called “Little Brown Jug” and “Ben Bolt.”
But at least, she consoled herself as she finished the song and reached for another piece of music, she would still be able to sing her familiar hymns and sweet ballads on Friday and Saturday nights. She needn’t limit her repertoire to these questionable offerings. She only wished the realization would eliminate the guilt that continued to prick at the back of her heart.
As she laid the next sheets of music across the piano’s music ledge, a faint creaking sound reached her ears. She paused, looking toward the carved double doors at the back of the room. She’d left them slightly ajar. For some reason, being closed in the windowless room—regardless of its ostentatious appearance and even with all the lights glaring—left her unnerved. But she couldn’t leave the doors wide open without the music drifting along the hallway and up the stairs, so she compromised by leaving only a gap that offered a glimpse of the hallway beyond.
Looking at the doors now, she frowned. She’d left only a six-inch opening, but the gap was wider than that—at least a foot’s clearance. A slight draft might have moved one door, but both of them? Someone must have given them a slight push, making the hinges squeak. Yet no one stood in the opening.
A chill wiggled down her spine, and her pulse sped. She called, “Is someone there?” She tipped her head, listening closely, but no one answered.
She took several calming breaths. Obviously she’d left the doors open wider than she’d thought. She needn’t sit here like a child waiting for a bogeyman to jump out of the shadows. But she shouldn’t leave the doors so wide, either.
On shaky legs, she skittered up the aisle and caught the door handles. She pushed the doors inward until a scant four-inch gap remained. Her heart pounded. Oh, how she hated feeling all hemmed in. But better to keep the sound muffled. Mr. Baxter would not be pleased if the sound carried beyond the cellar.
With a sigh, she turned to go back to the stage, but another sound—the click of a door latch—froze her in place for ten fearful seconds. Then she spun toward the gap, peeking at the shadowed hallway beyond. Someone had just closed the door at the top of the cellar stairs. So she hadn’t imagined her visitor. But the person was gone now.
“You’re safe, Sadie,” she whispered, her voice too low to create an answering echo. “It was probably Mr. Baxter. He came down, realized I was practicing, and decided not to bother me. Yes, surely that was it.” But her pulse continued to race. She gave herself a little shake and spoke more firmly. “Don’t be a ninny
. Just go sing.” Hugging herself, she hurried back to the piano. The sooner she finished practicing, the sooner she could go upstairs again.
She sat on the little piano stool and placed her fingers on the keys. She began the introduction to “Lily Dale.” While she played and sang, she repeatedly raised her head to peek over the piano’s sleek top for evidence of an intruder. By the end of the song, she’d convinced herself she had no reason for concern. At the first opportunity, she’d ask Mr. Baxter if he’d come down to the opera room. If he denied having visited, then she would worry.
26
Thad settled into his reserved box seat in the opera house. Mr. Baxter had cheerfully assigned him the first seat in the recently added row beneath the gas sconces, a location that provided a straight view to Sadie’s profile as she sang. The position of one pillar shielded her partially if she shifted too far forward on the stage rather than remaining directly beneath the overhead chandelier, but all in all, it was a good seat and he was glad to claim it as his own.
The past week had been one of the hardest he’d ever remembered. As much as he wanted to spend time with Sadie, he’d avoided her. He blamed it on needing to haunt the cave opening, waiting for the unknown bootlegger to make an appearance, but the truth was he didn’t know what to say to her.
Although he’d fully intended to speak to her when he’d entered the underground singing room over a week ago, the song—delivered in a husky, almost suggestive tone—had stopped him in his tracks. Why had Sadie chosen such a coarse number? He felt a blush building, thinking about the lyrics that had slipped from her sweet lips. Glancing around at the audience, which waited in hushed expectation for the performance to begin, he wondered how they’d react when she opened her mouth and began singing about the pleasant pressure of a man’s hand on her spine.
Roscoe and Miriam Hanaman wriggled into their seats next to Thad’s, Roscoe’s natural bulk and Miriam’s voluminous dress of plum velvet making it a tight fit. The mayor’s wife beamed at Thad. “Good evening, Sheriff. Are you eager for another of Miss Sadie’s impressive performances?”
Song of My Heart Page 20