by Lyn Horner
Sweet Mary, why did she have to think of him again? He plagued her constantly, showing up in her dreams nightly and stealing into her thoughts every time she lowered her guard. Why couldn’t she forget the handsome rogue, along with her preposterous dreams and visions?
Forcing herself to concentrate on work, she stopped to ask a slim, sandy-haired gentleman if he would care for anything else. She had served his meal shortly before her run-in with the miner. As she had then, she noted his suave good looks, neatly trimmed mustache and stylish sack suit – all the rage among young gentlemen back home, she recalled. A black portmanteau stood beside his chair, indicating he had just arrived on the train. Located so close to the depot, the café drew a good portion of its business from arriving passengers.
“We have fresh baked peach pie today, sir, if you’d care to try a slice,” Jessie announced, removing the man’s dinner plate.
“No thank you, but I would like more coffee, please,” he replied in a cultured voice. His hazel eyes watched her closely.
“Of course, sir. I’ll be right back with it.”
When she returned with the coffeepot, he again studied her. “It took courage to stand up to that oaf the way you did.”
“’Twas more desperation than courage,” she replied, bending to refill his cup. “I simply couldn’t abide his attentions.”
“I can well believe that. Still, you showed spirit, something I admire in a woman.”
Straightening, she smiled ruefully. “Some would say I have a bit too much spirit.” David Taylor, for one.
“Not I, I’m sure. And if you’d care to put me to the test, I would enjoy escorting you to dinner tonight.”
Jessie stiffened, remembering several such invitations she’d received while working at the hotel in Chicago, all from fancy gentlemen like him, who regarded a poor working girl as an easy target for their lust. She could think of no other reason why this man would seek her company.
“I’m flattered, sir,” she said coolly, “but I couldn’t possibly.”
He raised his eyebrows, plainly surprised by her refusal. Smoothing his mustache, he glanced at her left hand, which she was using to steady the heavy coffeepot, with the aid of a folded towel.
“May I ask why not? You aren’t married, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” she said curtly, disliking his personal question. “But I’ll not be going anywhere with a total stranger.”
He laughed, unperturbed by her bluntness. “Let me introduce myself, then. My name is Blake Stanton. I’m newly arrived from back east, and you are quite right to be cautious. I am a stranger to you, but I intend to remedy that situation as soon as possible, Jessie.”
Startled by his use of her name, she quickly recalled Billy Owens saying it, but that didn’t give this presumptuous fellow the right to address her in such a familiar way. Giving him a frosty smile, she said, “I must see to my other customers. Excuse me, please.” And she walked away.
Fortunately, Ivar Andersen returned moments later, saving her from having to face Mr. Stanton again when he rose to pay his bill.
Jessie was somewhat fearful of her employer’s reaction when he learned about her trouble with the miner. He had fired his last waitress for being rude to the customers, she recalled. But she needn’t have worried. When Billy told him why and how she had defended herself, Ivar laughed so hard that his rounded belly shook beneath his black frock coat and his face turned ruddy above his graying beard. His light blue eyes twinkled behind wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Ha! I wish I could see you conk him with the tray!” he chortled in his thick Danish accent. Converted by Mormon missionaries, he and his family had gathered to Zion from Denmark ten years ago.
Jessie smiled, thankful for his sense of humor. More customers walked in just then, and she returned to work, putting the troublesome miner firmly out of her mind.
Not until she was walking home hours later, did she think about the impertinent Mr. Stanton. He had implied that she would be seeing him again. She hoped not, for she wasn’t interested in becoming involved with him, or any other man for that matter. She’d had enough of men.
For the umpteenth time that day, David came to mind. Angrily shoving her memories of him aside, she instead turned her thoughts to her brother. She prayed Tye was all right. She’d received a brief note from him a few days ago, delivered to her at the café by a miner on his way back home, wherever that might be, after nearly losing his arm in a mine accident. Ever since then, Jessie’s fear for Tye had gnawed at her like a living thing.
His note had said that he was in a mining camp called Alta, southeast of Salt Lake City in the WasatchMountains, and that he’d hired on at one of the large mines. He’d moved into a vacant cabin and was trying to build up his grubstake. He was doing fine. She mustn’t worry about him.
Ha! As if that were possible.
Her thoughts were cut off by a flash of lightning streaking across the western sky, followed seconds later by a distant clap of thunder. A storm was approaching. They occurred here quite often in the evenings between July and September, according to Ivar and Billy. They had warned her that these storms sometimes brought hail and could cause flash flooding.
Hoping to beat this storm home, Jessie picked up her pace. Even so, she was drenched by the time she reached the boardinghouse, but at least she hadn’t been struck by any hail. She stopped on the covered front porch to squeeze water from her skirt and wipe her feet on the doormat before going inside. Eleanor Wilson would probably have a fit if someone tracked mud into her house. The widow had a sour disposition, and she ruled her little kingdom with an iron hand.
As Jessie might have expected, her gaunt, sharp-featured landlady stood waiting for her when she walked in. Encased in a stiffly starched black gown, with her gray-streaked black hair scraped back into a tight bun, she wore her usual stern expression. She made Jessie think of a large, mean-tempered crow.
“I hope you wiped your feet, Miss Devlin,” she snapped.
“Aye, that I did, ma’am,” Jessie replied, attempting to edge past the woman so that she could get to the stairs.
Mrs. Wilson moved to cut her off. “See that you don’t drip on the stairs. I just had them waxed and the runner cleaned.”
Fighting not to say something she would regret, Jessie pasted on a false smile. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be very careful.”
The woman gave a stiff-necked nod and stepped aside. Before she could think up another admonition, Jessie gathered up her skirt and petticoat and made a beeline up the stairs to her room. Locking her door, she breathed a sigh of relief and quickly stripped off her wet clothes, leaving on only her shift. She placed the wet things in a wicker laundry basket and lit the oil lamp standing on her bureau. Then she unpinned her hair.
Goodness, she was tired! It had been a long day, made more wearying than usual by that obnoxious miner.
Eager to cleanse herself of the cooking odors she invariably carried home after a day’s work, she turned to the nearby washstand, poured water into the basin and wet her washrag. She picked up the bar of lilac scented soap she had brought with her from Chicago -- her one small luxury. About to lather the washrag, her gaze was drawn to the flickering water in the basin and, just like that, she was caught by the lamplight reflected there.
Jessie stared at the glittering surface. Everything around her fell away. The mysterious inner sight she hadn’t experienced since that foggy April night in Chicago, when she had deliberately sought it out, took hold of her now. An image appeared in the water, and she unconsciously caught her breath.
It was him, David! At first, she saw only his face, smiling, looking happy. Then another face appeared, a woman’s face. She was faintly exotic looking with copper tinted skin and dark hair, and she gazed up at David as if he were the center of her whole world. He was holding her in his arms, and now he twirled her around. They were dancing!
A strangled cry broke from Jessie’s lips, instantly freeing her from the vision.
Feeling as if she’d been stabbed in the heart, she dropped the soap and rag from her shaking hands and staggered to the bureau, clutching at it for support. She met her wounded eyes in the small mirror hanging on the wall above the bureau, hating what she saw. With a furious snarl, she turned her back on that pitiful creature and directed her rage at the one who had caused her to look like that.
How can he do this to me? He was supposed to be mine! How dare he smile at that woman like that? Who is she? If I get my hands on her, I’ll strangle her!she railed silently. She wanted to smash the mirror, throw the water pitcher, rip apart the bed linens. If David were here, she would scratch his eyes out and leave him broken and bleeding. The way he had left her.
But he wasn’t here. And she would never see him again.
She released a wavering breath and with it, her fury drained away. Unclenching her fists, she slumped against the bureau, caught on a sea of desolation. After a long, numb moment, she crossed to the bed and sank down upon it, curling onto her side.
Why was she blaming David? He didn’t know he was supposed to be hers. She had never told him about her dreams or the vision that had sent her in search of him. If she had, might everything have turned out differently? She would never know; it was too late. She must accept that he wasn’t, after all, meant for her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Blake Stanton returned to the café the next day during the slow hours of mid-morning. Not happy to see him, and exhausted from a sleepless night spent trying not to think of David, Jessie brought the easterner the coffee he ordered, knowing full well it was merely an excuse to pester her. Regardless of that, he was a customer, so she forced herself to smile while he informed her that he had come to Utah from New York on a mining venture. Since he expected to be here for several weeks, he added, he would very much like to enjoy her company over dinner now and then.
Once again, Jessie turned him down, being as polite as she could manage. She continued to do so the next day and the next, but on the day after that she gave in out of sheer weariness and agreed to dine with him that night. Despite her misgivings and Ivar Andersen’s warnings.
“I have bad feeling about him,” Ivar said when she told him she had finally accepted Mr. Stanton’s invitation. “He is all nice on outside, but inside . . . .” Ivar shook his head. “I think maybe he is rotten. You must not trust him, Jessie.”
Although Ivar would not say why he was so suspicious of the easterner, Jessie tried to keep his advice in mind that evening. At the same time, she made up her mind to enjoy herself for once and not let a ghost with gray-green eyes spoil the occasion.
Seated across a linen-draped table from Blake, as he insisted she call him, she glanced around. He’d brought her to the dining room of the Salt Lake House, where he was staying. The hotel was a plain wooden structure, the dining room not terribly grand, but compared to its well-dressed patrons, Jessie felt like a pauper in her plain calico gown, particularly next to her companion. Resplendent in a black frock coat, gold brocade vest and snowy white shirt, with a diamond stickpin in his silk four-in-hand tie, he made the difference in their stations glaringly obvious.
However, Blake seemed to care only about pleasing her. He coaxed her into ordering antelope steak, something she had yet to taste, then surprised her with a bottle of champagne, a luxury she’d never dreamed of trying.
“To our first evening together, Jessie,” he toasted.
She hesitated, then smiled nervously and touched her goblet to his. When she took her first swallow of the fizzy golden liquid, her eyes opened wide, and she coughed as bubbles shot up her nose.
Blake laughed softly. “I should have warned you it tickles.”
“It surely does!” she gasped. She sipped the stuff more cautiously after that and eyed her escort dubiously when he refilled her goblet.
“Are ye trying to make me tipsy, sir?” she asked.
He grinned and stroked his mustache. “Nothing so sinister, my dear. But I am in hopes the champagne will loosen your tongue. I’d like to know more about you, Jessie.”
“Indeed? And just what would ye like to know?”
“Let’s see, you’ve said you came west with your prospector brother who, I gather, immediately headed into the mountains in search of silver. But you haven’t mentioned where you came from. Why don’t you start with that, hmm?”
“Oh.” That seemed innocent enough. “I grew up in Chicago, although I was born in New York City.”
Blake’s eyebrows arched upward. “Indeed? We share the same hometown. Do you remember New York?”
“Nay. I was still a babe when Da moved us to Chicago.”
“I see. Go on, tell me more.”
The champagne must have accomplished its purpose. Before their food arrived she’d told him about her family, leaving out certain details he didn’t need to know, and her childhood in Chicago. While they ate, he questioned her about the Great Fire – the bad thing about telling people where she was from – and much as she hated to, she recounted the ordeal once again.
Swallowing a tasty bite of antelope, she added, “The city is recovering fast, I’m proud to say. ’Twill be grander than ever once all the rebuilding is done.”
“Yet you chose to leave it behind and come here. Why, I wonder. What brings you to the fair land of Zion, Jessie Devlin?” His lips twisted into a sneer. “Please don’t tell me you’re another zealous convert.”
Shocked by his sarcasm, she leaned forward and whispered, “Faith, sir, I’d not be taking that tone in public hereabouts if I were you. As for me, I was raised a good Catholic, and my sainted mother would turn over in her grave were I ever to change.”
He chuckled. “Then why are you here?”
She sat back, wishing he wasn’t so persistent. “I had a falling out with my father and decided to leave home with Tye,” she said, spearing a slice of carrot with her fork. Nothing would make her tell him about her dreams and visions, let alone David Taylor.
“I see,” he said, obviously not entirely satisfied. He pushed back his empty plate. “So, while your brother wanders the mountains, you’re left to fend for yourself.”
“Tye is not wandering the mountains,” she said testily. “At least not yet. I had a letter from him last week. He’s taken a job in one of the big mines, in a place called Alta. He means to learn all he can about silver mining before he begins prospecting.” She didn’t go into Tye’s other reason, his lack of money.
“And I like fending for myself,” she added.
Blake grinned at her declaration. “Mmm, I rather thought so. Which is just as well, I might add, since your brother’s chances of striking silver and making it pay are slim at best.”
“You’re not very encouraging, sir.”
“I’m sorry.” He reached to pat her hand, causing her to stiffen at his touch. “I only meant to explain why mining in this region takes money.” He removed his hand, and she was able to relax again.
“You see, aside from the BinghamCanyon placers west of here, gold and silver aren’t found lying around loose in Utah. And the ore that’s blasted from the mountains requires extensive processing. That often means shipping it to San Francisco or back east, even as far as England. The railroad has cut costs considerably, and a number of local smelters are now in operation, but it still requires a hefty sum to develop a claim.”
Realizing Tye’s chances of success were even slimmer than she’d imagined, Jessie sighed. He was chasing a rainbow, just as she had done. Aye, and look where that had gotten her, she thought bitterly.
“At least the Mormons no longer stand in the way,” Blake continued. “Brigham Young and the elders opposed mining and railroading within their borders for years, not wanting their flock corrupted by riffraff from the mining camps and end-of-track towns. However, they’ve changed their tune of late, no doubt because of the handsome profits they were passing up.”
“Ye seem to hold the Latter Day Saints in contempt,” Jessie remarked, hearing the sneer in hi
s voice again.
His lips curled derisively. “I resent hypocrites who presume to judge others while excusing their own peccadilloes in the guise of religion.”
“Ah, polygamy ye mean. But aside from that, they appear to be fine, hard-working folk. They’ve turned this dry valley into fertile farmland. Surely that’s to be admired.”
“Perhaps. But a good Catholic girl can’t approve of polygamy, can she?” he challenged, tossing his crumpled napkin onto the table.
“No, of course not. But being Irish, I’ve tasted my share of bigotry, and I try not to dish it out. Besides, not all of the Saints are polygamists. Mr. Andersen isn’t.” She did not add that Ivar’s only wife had died a year ago, or that he was under pressure from his church to remarry, as Billy Owens had confided to her.
Blake studied her briefly, then held up his hands and dipped his head in surrender. “I bow to your greater wisdom, my dear. And I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
Jessie laughed. “You’re about as humble as the Queen of England, sir, but I forgive ye anyway.”
“Ah, the lady is shrewd as well as lovely,” he said, hazel eyes glittering in the lamplight. Then he cleared his throat.
“Returning to my original point, mining requires a great deal of money, and that’s why I’m here. I represent a syndicate of eastern investors who mean to purchase a promising claim and develop it. They’ve left it up to me, with the help of a geologist, to ferret out such a claim and buy it up.”
“But what if the owner doesn’t wish to sell?” Jessie asked, duly impressed by his position.
“Most prospectors are eager to sell, since they haven’t the means to improve their claims.” Blake grinned roguishly. “But, should the fellow feel differently, I suppose I’ll just have to talk him around.”