Six Little Sunflowers: Historical Romance Novella (American State Flower)

by Gina Welborn

  She glanced around to see if they had missed anything. The last hotel room she cleaned would be her best work ever. All she had to do was make sure the suite was perfect and then she would have finished her final shift as being Félicie Richmond, chambermaid.

  Linens replaced.

  Bed made.

  All furniture washed and oiled.

  Marble counters cleaned.

  Mirrors polished.

  Windows washed.

  Pearl laid the oil cloths on the cart, drawing Félicie’s attention. “Did I tell you about the time he crawled under that blazing naphtha tank and got a man out who was in there unconscious?”

  “He who?”

  “Carp.” Pearl groaned. “Who else would I be talking about?”

  True. He was the only man Pearl ever talked about. This week.

  Félicie nodded to acknowledge she’d heard Pearl’s words while doing her best not to look interested in another conversation about the angelic fireman. She motioned to the broom and dustpan.

  Pearl released an exaggerated groan. Then she walked away from the broom and dustpan to the southwest window. “I wonder if we can see Engine House No. 2 from here.”

  Félicie sighed. Maybe she ought to encourage Pearl to propose to Captain Yeary. Once he refused, Pearl would be devastated. While she hated to see Pearl’s heart broken, if that was what it took for her to accept reality, then so be it. Pearl needed to forget about the man and focus instead on becoming the hotel’s best chambermaid.

  Crockery cleaned.

  Toilet scrubbed and disinfecting power added.

  Washbowl and bathtub scrubbed.

  Carpet swept.

  “Oh!” Pearl pushed the sheers away from the window. “There’s a fire.”

  “It is smoke from a bakery,” she answered without pause, and Pearl nodded as if that made sense to her. “Let’s finish work.”

  Pearl nodded again.

  Félicie closed her eyes and focused on her mental checklist.

  Floors swept.

  “Félicie?”

  Floors washed.

  Floors pol—

  “FAY-lee-cee!”

  Félicie looked to Pearl. “Our shift is almost over. Please, I want to finish and be done.”

  “Come here. Please,” she added when Félicie didn’t move. “You’ve lived in Wichita longer than in have. Look out the window and tell me what building’s on fire.”

  “The smoke is from Minor’s Bakery. I promise.”

  “Look to be sure.”

  Félicie released an annoyed breath then walked to the window. She looked to where Minor’s Bakery was on Topeka Street. She frowned. How strange. The smoke was further west. Broadway? No, Broadway was only two blocks away. The fire had to be on Market, or Main. But the bakeries on Market were on the north, not south, end of the street. The businesses on that city block were Bergman’s Grocery, Clayton’s Cigars, Dr. Hamilton’s office and residence, attorneys Cade & Roberts, and Madame Laurent’s House of Design. Félicie leaned closer to the window, squinting as she studied the grayish-white plume rising. Considering the new construction on Broadway, her view of the buildings was blocked. Madame Laurent’s was south of the cigar shop and to the north of Dr. Hamilton’s. Félicie had an appointment in less than an hour to collect her new work clothes.

  Madame Laurent’s shop was not on fire.

  “It is the cigar shop,” she muttered.

  Yet as Pearl walked away, Félicie stayed staring at the pillar of smoke. It had to be the cigar shop. Or Dr. Hamilton’s perpetually cold wife adding logs to the hearth.

  Had to.

  Félicie glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Hays’s black candlestick telephone next to the couch. The first time she saw a plume of smoke from this view of the skyline, she called in a fire, only to learn smoke was more visible on a colder morning. She had felt like such a fool. Never again did she look through the hotel’s windows. There were too many things outside to distract her from work.

  She yanked the curtains closed.

  One mistake was enough for her to learn her lesson.

  ~***~

  Carpenter Yeary knew smoke. A bushfire smelled no more like a chemical fire than a barbeque pit did a cozy blaze in a hearth. With a warm February breeze against his face, he halted at the corner where Topeka intersected Douglas. Withdrew his hands from the side pockets on his suitcoat. Looked around. Sniffed. Fire! Two city blocks away, three at most. It wasn’t big. Not yet. It wasn’t from a bakery either.

  A police siren cut through the air.

  Carp took off, running west on Douglas, pushing through the confused pedestrians. Normally he would have apologized. Not now. If the fire spread, the whole block could burn. He pumped his arms and sprinted across English Street. People stepped back, giving him a clear path down the block. They had to smell the smoke, too. Where was the origin?

  The buildings were too close, too—

  He skidded to a halt as an automobile cut him off with its sudden turn onto Broadway, a carriage following. His lungs burned, feet ached in shoes not made for running. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted someone at a fire-box, ringing in the call. In ninety seconds, Engine 2 would be on the ground if it wasn’t already.

  He sucked in a breath and released it. Once the traffic cleared, he broke into a sprint again. He was getting closer. He could smell it. More gawkers rushed into the streets, shoving one another for the best view.

  There! On Market Street.

  “Move, move, move!” Carp waved. The crowd parted. He turned left onto Market and kept running. Smoke above the cigar shop. No, next to the cigar shop…

  MADAME HELAINE LAURENT’S

  HOUSE OF DESIGN

  Two police wagons skidded to a halt in front of the dressmaker’s shop. Officers jumped out and began to secure the area. Carp halted in front of the two-story building. He sucked in huge gulps of air. If the fire hopped next door to the cigar shop— Nasty smoke billowed from the roof and from under the first-floor’s partially-opened windows. A shattered chair lay on the sidewalk, in front of the building. He looked up. On the bricked building’s second floor, a stunning redhead stood in front of the busted window, coughing and holding a little dog in her arms. She eased onto the window frame as if preparing to jump.

  “Don’t!” he called out over the angry clang of fire gongs.

  Her panicked gaze shifted.

  Carp looked right.

  Up Topeka came Ladder 2 in a dead run, the Pumper right behind.

  “Stay back,” yelled a police officer, waving at the crowd.

  With more skill than any tiller-man in Wichita, Andrew Clark did a pretty bit of steering and braking. Even as he curved the truck to the left, the crew began hoisting the ladder. Carp held his breath. Every second counted. The truck tilted then stopped, settling on all four tires right in front of the building. Joe McDermott sprang up the slowly-rising ladder. The redhead offered him her dog. Joe shook his head. Within seconds he had the woman over his shoulder, holding her kicking legs firm even as she yanked and pulled with her free hand on his large overcoat.

  The horses pulling Engine 2 slowed next to the ladder truck.

  Carp rushed over. He tossed his black suitcoat onto the engine then kicked off his shoes. “Smoke heavy A-side, boys,” he said pulling on his turnout gear. “Let’s get inside.”

  Gillon’s gaze shifted to the building. “All that fabric—”

  “I know.” Carp tugged on a pair of rubber boots. The place was practically filled with kindling. And if a spark jumped over to the cigar shop—

  “Joe, stop! My mother’s still in there.”

  Joe sat the unharmed redhead on the ground. “Where is she?” he demanded, scowling under his helmet.

  “There.” She pointed up to the lean, dark-haired woman on the roof.

  “Stay here, Rena, or I swear I’ll—” Joe looked to Carp. “I’ll grab her.”

  Carp nodded. He pulled on his turnout gear and rubber slic
ker. “Parker, you’re with me. We’ll do an interior attack while we have good access.” He grabbed an ax. “Leland, let’s keep this contained. I’d rather lose one building than the entire block.”

  ~***~

  “Carp’s our best smoke-eater.”

  “Got that fire out in no time, he did.”

  “I heard electrical fire.”

  “Carp will know.”

  “Don’t know what we’d do wi’out Carp on the job.”

  Félicie gritted her teeth as she wove through the people on the sidewalk to get closer to Mama Helaine’s shop. By the way everyone raved about Carpenter Yeary, one would think he was the only person working the fire. She stopped in front of the cigar shop next door. Five vehicles blocked the east side of the street in front of the red-brick building she knew all too well. No flames engulfed the dressmaker’s shop, no burn scarring on the building either, at least from what she could tell in the dusk. Only one window broken. The firemen seemed to be preparing to leave. None of the dresses behind the windows looked burned either.

  That was a good sign.

  While she knew nothing about fires—barring the ability to start one with flint and a knife—this one looked to have been small and short-lived. She drew in a breath to steady her nerves, releasing the tension inside. Rena and Mama Helaine had to be safe. She had no reason to worry. None. Not at all.

  Two firemen stepped out onto the front steps, both holding axes and lanterns.

  “Hot spots out!” one yelled.

  “All clear!” said the other.

  They stopped at the bottom of the steps and spoke to a policeman. Another set of firemen worked on pulling down the ladder. Another checked the ladder truck’s wheels. A half a dozen others lingered about the horse-drawn wagon, rolling the hose and checking equipment.

  The highly-esteemed captain was nowhere to be seen.

  She would wager Alta and Pearl knew the names of every fireman from Engine 2—which were bachelors, which ones had girls they were courting—even though Pearl had only moved to Wichita in December.

  If Pearl and Alta were felines, men in uniforms would be catnip.

  Félicie shivered. Right now, a warm fire would be nice. Once the sun set, the temperature seemed to remember it was still winter. She blew on her gloveless hands then rubbed her arms. The threadbare woolen coat she wore over her uniform only gave the appearance of warmth. Nose and ears red from cold, she must look a sight. Her cheeks had to be splotchy, too. This was why she rarely left the hotel in the winter. She stood on her tiptoes to get a better look around. Rena and Miss Trudy-Bleu were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Mama Helaine.

  Oh, the ambulance wagon! Perhaps they were in it. It had to be on the other side of all the emergency vehicles.

  Félicie stepped onto the street and made her way along the crowd’s edge, swerving around the ladder truck.

  A horse neighed.

  She stopped. Horses? All the other vehicles were motorized. She stared at the two horses attached to the engine wagon. The brown horse neighed. The white one shook his—her?—head. In warning? Since her experience with large animals was non-existent, she took a precarious step forward.

  “Do not bite me,” she whispered, “please.”

  She eased closer.

  The horses continued to watch her as she approached them.

  “Nice horsies,” she muttered.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Félicie froze, grimaced. The man’s voice was hoarse. Likely from yelling, from breathing smoke. “I know, sir. I am sorry, but I am looking for—” She turned to her left.

  Her breath caught. No. No, no, no, no, no. Why him? Of all the policemen and firemen on this street, why did it have to be him?

  But it was.

  He was right there, a few feet from her nonchalantly standing between the ladder truck and the engine wagon. They had never been this close. Every other time she has seen him, he had been surrounded by minions, sycophants, or adoring fans. At church even! Although shaded somewhat by his burn-scarred leather hat, even with those dark, heavy brows, his green eyes stood in stark contrast to the soot and stubble on his face. She had forgotten how remarkably beautiful and intimidating Captain Carpenter Yeary was.

  No, not forgotten.

  Not noticed.

  She never had any reason to notice. In fact, she had several reasons not to notice him. She ought to say something.

  Her mind went blank.

  His intense gaze traveled the length of her before fixing on her face. He frowned, a V deepening between his brows.

  He was looking at her as if—

  Chapter 3

  A gentleman should usually wait for a lady to recognize him first on the street. This privilege of recognition is her prerogative. Especially is this the case if he is simply the acquaintance of a single evening’s entertainment.

  ~ Social Life; or The Manners and Customs of Polite Society

  “YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHO I AM, do you?” Félicie blurted, and then realized how snooty her question sounded, how her words implied she was someone of importance. Which was not true. She was someone of non-importance. He had no reason to know who she was. They were not in the same social sphere. She was the help. He was the town’s hero. He saved lives. She cleaned toilets.

  He gave her a strange look, as if she were an oddity. In light of her most recent comment, that was fair. It was.

  And then he shrugged.

  Félicie blinked. Really? Of all the...

  With a growl under her breath, she lifted her chin. He would not get the best of her. “Shrugs can be an ineffective means of communication. The shrugger assumes the person to whom the shrug was conveyed will understand correctly what the shrug means. Sometimes this does occur, especially if people know each other well. In this instance, sir, I have no idea what your shrug was meant to imply; thus, I am sorry to say, your attempt at communication has failed.”

  “Carp?” A policeman strolled up. “Is there a problem?”

  He said nothing. Not at first. He stared and stared and stared at her. Then—

  “Nah, Seth. I got this.”

  Félicie kept her face bland. Rolling her eyes at him would not be good form.

  The police officer’s brown-eyed gaze shifted in her direction. The corner of his mouth quirked upward creating a dimple that, she was sure, he knew caused ladies to swoon. Or at least pledge undying devotion. “Well, now seeing how it’s my job to keep watch over the civilians—this time, my friend, I got this.” He tipped his hat then struck his hand out. “Sergeant Seth Beaufoy.”

  Beaufoy? She seemed to recall Rena attended last year’s Flower Parade with a policeman named Beaufoy. Delightful had been Rena’s summarization of the parade. Flatteries as polished as the brass buttons on his dark uniform had been her summarization of the officer.

  Sergeant Beaufoy looked at her quizzically. “Can I help you, Miss...?”

  Félicie shook his hand. To not do so would be rude on her part. Thankfully, etiquette did not require she share her name. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Sergeant Beaufoy. Could you direct me to the building’s owners?”

  “Are you friends with Miss Laurent?” he asked, still shaking her hand. “Or family?”

  “I know her.” Félicie smiled because, in her experience, a smile distracted people from realizing she had not answered their question. Smiling rested nicer on her conscience than lying did.

  Yes, there was that, too.

  “I have business with Madame Laurent,” she explained.

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Sergeant Beaufoy flashed her another one of those swoon-inciting grins that, strangely, made her want to chuckle. “They make clothes, you wear clothes, et cetera, et cetera.” He waved at nothing in particular. It struck her that even if he realized the clothes she wore were not items Madame Laurent would make or sell, he would not care. Why that made her sad, she had no idea.

  “Seth, let her go.”

  “Carp, be honest. D
oes she look like she wants me to let her go?” Sergeant Beaufoy winked, and her cheeks felt as warm as the hand he continued to hold. “I think she doesn’t.”

  Félicie looked to Captain Yeary. Unlike Sergeant Seth Beaufoy, he wore no smile. He looked down his perfectly straight nose at her. What was that supposed to mean? If she were she Pearl or Alta, she would know how to respond. Rena would know how to respond. Rena knew how to flirt and be coy and how to interpret a man’s glances, winks, and shrugs. Even Mama Helaine could, and she was fifty!

  But for the last twelve years, Mama Helaine and Rena had not lived in a hotel or spent their time cleaning a hotel room like Félicie had—alone. Except for church on Sundays, her interaction with men—really, with people—was limited.

  Both men looked at her in expectation of a response.

  Félicie pasted on a smile. When in doubt, smile.

  “Seth, let go of her,” repeated Captain Yeary.

  “Alas, my dear.” Sergeant Beaufoy raised her hand to his lips. “Until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” she echoed, tightening her coat around her chest.

  “The Leap Year Day festival. I’ll look for you at the concert in the park.”

  Oh. That. The last Leap Year Day festival she attended had been in the previous millennium—1892, to be precise. Back when her twelve-year-old self still believed in fairies, good luck, and love conquering all. Nothing in the world could convince her to attend tomorrow’s festival.

  Félicie indented the corner of her mouth. “You may look for me.” There. She could be coy.

  “Yes, indeed I will.” After a slap to Captain Yeary’s shoulder, Sergeant Beaufoy walked off.

  “It was nice speaking with you,” Félicie said to be polite. “To you both. I shall leave now.”

  Captain Yeary stepped forward.

  Félicie stepped back...and then stepped again to put even more distance between them.