“A few hours in the morning. Finding a real teacher is on my list of things to do.”
“After the breakfast dishes are done, I can manage without my helpers in the morning, so the boys can go to school.”
Prudence’s brows drew together.
Bertha braced herself for condemnation, but knew she’d hold her ground. Education is important!
“I never thought of that. But you’re right.” Prudence gave a decisive nod. “They should get an education, just like any other child.”
Bertha shook out her apron and tied it on. She started unbuttoning the cuffs of her sleeves to roll them up.
“Here.” Prudence extended the parasol to Bertha. “Maybe you should keep this for a while.”
I’ll never use it. She shook her head. “Take the parasol with you. You never know when you might need it.”
Prudence eyed the parasol. “You’re probably right.” Her gaze roamed around the room. “You can always use the frying pan.”
* * *
The furniture for Bertha’s private room took two weeks to arrive before she could finally move into the boardinghouse. At last, with Howie’s help in toting her trunks to her new room, she took possession of the establishment. Although she’d miss their evening strolls in the darkness when he escorted her to the Morgans, she felt enormously pleased to be living in her own space.
At her request, Howie had painted the walls of the bedroom, kitchen, and dining room white. Bertha had sewn curtains for her room—pink roses on a navy background—as well as for the kitchen—those were green and brown stripes. She planned something dark and heavy for curtains in the dining room but hadn’t yet picked out the material.
This night, now that supper was over, Bertha set her two young helpers, who insisted on being called George and Abe after the famous presidents, to washing and drying the dishes and pots and pans, while she worked in her room. She left the door open to monitor the boys and moved around her room, emptying the trunks.
After digging out her linens, she made the four-poster bed. The white featherbed puffed over the top, and she folded her quilt over the foot, just like at home, except this bed was twice as wide. Bertha had a moment of sadness, missing her sisters and their late-night conversations—although she didn’t miss how they often kept talking when she wanted to sleep.
Small square tables, tucked next to each side of the bed, held milk-glass lamps. A third matching lamp sat on a nearby desk.
She hung her dresses, skirts, and shirtwaists in the wardrobe, and folded undergarments, nightgowns, and a stack of handkerchiefs into the bureau drawers. Her books lined a wall shelf, with her beloved puppe sitting on the end, the rag doll’s embroidered features faded from years of play. A comfortable leather chair stood next to the desk, with a framed photograph of her family hanging on the wall above. A basket contained balls of yarn, with kitting needles poking from a blue one. A few inches of a scarf hung from one needle.
The erdmanlein stood on her desk. She’d wait until spring to set the gnome in the garden—the final touch to creating a real home.
Bertha pushed the empty trunks into the kitchen and returned to the bedroom. I’ll ask Howie to carry the trunks up to the attic later. She stood back to survey her domain. The place looked fresh and cozy. She couldn’t wait to sit in the leather chair and read one of the books she’d borrowed from Prudence. In anticipation, she walked over to the shelf and surveyed the titles.
A knock sounded on the doorframe, and she turned to see Dean Tisdale peeking in.
The man stood tall enough to fill the doorway.
Bertha didn’t see Dean very often, because he lived with his mother and son in one of the cabins and took his meals with them. “Good evening,” she said. “Is your mother well? I’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t seen her for days.”
“She’s well. I’ll tell her you inquired after her.” Dean stabbed a thumb toward the front of the building. “We’ve made a space for you out there, Miss Bucholtz, where you can be comfortable in the evenings socializing with the men, and people can come visit you and all. Come see and sit a spell.”
The idea didn’t appeal, and she opened her mouth to politely turn down his offer, but the boyish look of expectation on his rugged face stopped her. Bertha couldn’t say no to the hope in his blue eyes. “Show me.”
He grinned and cocked his head in the direction of the dining room. “After you.”
She walked through the swinging doors of the dining room into the midst of the miners. They’d pushed the tables against the walls and brought the benches into the middle, arranging them in a horseshoe. The men had positioned a single leather chair, which matched the one in her room, in front and center of the U. A milk-glass lamp lit a small table next to the chair.
The miners, even Obadiah, had forgone the saloon tonight. They filled the benches, the same anticipation on their faces that Dean wore.
Bertha looked around for Howie, making sure to check the dark corners but didn’t see him. Surely he’d nothing to do with this?
Dean gestured to the chair. “The boardinghouse has no parlor, but we thought we could kinda make one here against the wall. So we asked Mrs. Morgan for the chair, table, and lamp.”
I’m going to murder Prudence!
“We’ll move the eatin’ tables back before we go to bed,” Dean assured her.
Horrified, to be holding court with the men, Bertha forced a smile, not wanting to disappoint them. My mother’s parlor all over again, except worse.
“See, Miz Bertha,” said a man with a scar across his chin.
She remembered avoiding him at the party.
“We’re so grateful about your good food and all. Ain’t et better cookin’ in me whole life.” He patted his belly.
“Thank you.” Bertha made a mental note to ask Howie the man’s name.
“Have a seat, Miss B,” a man called. “We’re going to crik our necks lookin’ up at you.”
Gott im Himmel! “Let me just fetch my knitting,” she said with a weak smile, turning toward her bedroom. She walked as slowly as possible to prolong the inevitable. Once in the room, her dear sanctuary, she desperately wished to close and lock the door.
Instead, Bertha picked up the basket of yarn and carried it into the dining room, where she sat, conscious of every eye on her. She set the basket on the floor. “Just for an hour, gentlemen,” she said in a soft but firm voice. “You work hard and need your sleep.” She lifted the watch pinned to her chest to check the time.
“Yes, ma’am,” several murmured.
Bertha picked up the ball of yarn with her needles and the scarf she’d begun before leaving St. Louis and began to knit.
The men sat in silence.
Bertha wasn’t about to initiate conversation. She kept her gaze on her knitting, feeling the weight of the men’s gazes. After a few rows, she looked up to find the miners watching her—not moving, not speaking—as if she was the most engrossing entertainment they’d ever seen.
I’m on display. She looked down and angled forward a bit to glance at her watch. Only three minutes had passed. Only with great effort did she hold in a sigh. This is going to be the longest hour of my life.
CHAPTER NINE
The morning after Bertha moved to the boardinghouse, Howie missed breakfast for the first time in a long while because he couldn’t fall asleep the night before. As soon as he’d finished eating supper, he headed back to his room behind the stable and discovered the walk was lonely without Bertha by his side.
Up until recently, he’d been reasonably content here in Morgan’s Crossing, for he had three things together in one space—privacy, cleanliness, and warmth—that he’d never before experienced in his life. He’d gone from sharing a tiny log cabin with his family, to an orphanage with as many cots as an unheated room could hold, followed by bunkhouses and boardinghouses in varying states of warmth and cleanliness—both the buildings and the fellow roomers.
His humble abode at the Mo
rgans’ had three small windows—one on each exterior wall—and was made of brick to protect the stables. No sense risking a spark from the small stove burning the wooden walls and igniting the supply of the hay and straw.
The place was Spartan, for he’d never been a man with a need to acquire belongings. He had a bed, chairs and a table, and a combination cupboard and wardrobe he’d made for one wall. Only the framed photograph of his father dressed in his Union army uniform, and the blanket made of squares crocheted by his grandmother meant anything to him.
What more does one man need? Or so he’d thought. Now I know differently.
The room only served to highlight all Howie didn’t have to offer Bertha. Last night, he’d stayed awake for long hours, trying to figure out how to earn enough money to afford a wife and a nice house—for she deserved no less. He thought of and discarded several wild ideas, such as striking out on his own to prospect for gold. The problem with all the schemes was they’d take years to accomplish, if he didn’t lose his shirt first, and he’d have to leave Morgan’s Crossing to accomplish them. Even worse, with him gone, Bertha would be exposed to the whiles of his rivals, and furthermore, considering how much he missed their ritual of walking home together, the idea of being parted for months and years was unthinkable. Finally, he gave up trying to untangle the problem.
In the morning, once he’d fed and watered the horses, groomed them, and mucked out their stalls, Howie washed up and figured he’d mosey over to the boardinghouse to see if he could scrounge something to eat from the tenderhearted cook.
As he walked along the path behind the cabins leading to the back door of the boardinghouse, Howie bent his head against the chill wind. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets but barely noticed the cold because thoughts of Bertha kept him warm. He couldn’t wait to see her smile at him. He knocked on the kitchen door, his heartbeat stuttering.
“Come in.”
That’s odd. Bertha usually answers the door. Maybe she has her hands buried in batter or something. He let himself inside and saw her standing at the table cutting up carrots. From the smell of the savory meat in the cast iron pot, he figured she probably was cooking stew.
Instead of greeting him with her usual smile, Bertha scowled.
“What?”
She brandished the knife. “Did you know what the men were up to? Did you put them up to it?”
Up to? Alarm stabbed him. “What happened?”
Bertha eyed the knife with an arched brow, as if the blade had somehow jumped into her hand without her knowledge. She set it down and placed her fists on her hips, still frowning.
Howie hurried around the table, placing his hands on her shoulders, and scanned her face. “Are you all right? Did someone hurt you?” I’ll kill him.
Surprisingly, the scowl fell away from her face, replaced by a soft smile. Bertha let out a breath, reached up, and took his hands, bringing them down between their bodies. But she didn’t release him. “I’m unharmed.” She tilted her head to the inner door. “Come see.” She pulled on his arm and led the way, releasing him when she reached the door.
He followed Bertha through, his gaze on her backside, so he didn’t immediately follow her dramatic swing to the front wall of the dining room and point to a chair and table. “Why is this furniture here? Did someone take them from your room?”
“My room still retains one leather chair and two bedside tables.”
“Then…?” Howie looked from her to the chair and back.
“Welcome to my parlor.”
Bertha used a sarcastic tone he’d never heard. Since her ire wasn’t directed at him, Howie sort of got a kick out of seeing this side of her.
“Imagine me sitting there.” The scowl returned, and she stabbed a finger in the direction of the chair. “On stage!” Her voice rose in a theatrical way.
Howie crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the wall, prepared to enjoy the show.
She pivoted to face the middle of the rest of the room, extending her hands, swinging her arms wide. “The tables are pushed against the walls. And here…” She gestured in a U shape. “I’m surrounded by benches full of men all staring at me.”
“Sure wish I’d known. I would have been in the front row.” With my tongue hanging out.
She frowned and once again stood with arms akimbo. “Twenty-five miners staring at me…no, twenty-six. Dean Tisdale was here, too. Now that I know you weren’t involved, I think he spearheaded the whole debacle.”
Howie’s amusement vanished. Dean Tisdale’s courting her. A possessive feeling came over him. Annoyance made him push off the wall and stalk over. You’re mine.
Bertha looked up at him. “No one said a word for the whole time!” She threw up her hands. “Can you imagine? Last night was the most uncomfortable hour of my life—and I’ve experienced a lot of uncomfortable hours.”
His annoyance vanished. Guess Dean’s plan backfired. Howie decided he could afford to be magnanimous. “Want me to hide the chair?”
She let out a frustrated breath and sank into the chair in question. “No. There’s another in my room to borrow. Oh, Howie, what am I going to do? I can’t bear to go through another hour like that again.”
“Tell them no.”
“But I don’t want to hurt their feelings. They were so pleased with themselves.”
“Please them or please yourself. Most would pick pleasing themselves.”
Bertha shook her head. “There’s more to it. I don’t have the courage to speak up. And it’s no use to tell me to do so. My family’s been trying for years to help me grow a backbone.” She sighed. “The ironic thing is I thought I was escaping all that when I fled to Montana Territory.”
“Escaping all what?” Howie asked. Curious to learn more, he pulled a bench closer and sat.
“My mother has been very patient with my dislike of social occasions. For the most part, she’s indulged me in participating as little as possible.”
He found himself liking her mother—that the woman hadn’t pushed Bertha to go against her reserved nature.
“Of course, she did have my other sisters to focus on. Our house is always a hub for young people, particularly men—after all, our parlor is big and comfortable, my sisters are pretty and interesting, and we serve plenty of refreshments, courtesy of my baking. When we had company, I avoided the parlor as much as possible. But the day I received Prudence’s letter, my mother told me that from then on I would have join in the socializing.”
Howie made a noise to show he was listening.
“Talk about out of the fire into the frying pan.”
“Your family sounds wonderful. You love them. They love you. Why did you leave?”
“I thought if I put myself someplace else…” Bertha gave a self-depreciating laugh…
“But why did you leave your home?” he persisted, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs.
She raised her hands in a helpless gesture and let them drop into her lap. “I wanted to be myself. I wanted to be away from everything that was comfortable.” She paused. “I wanted to challenge myself…push myself in ways that were different from how my family wanted me to be, which was more outgoing, more like my sisters.”
They couldn’t see how special she is.
“As long as I stayed, I’d just be the shy sister. And as much as I love my family, I had a feeling, at least a hope, that if I left them, left St. Louis…” Bertha looked down at her hands. “I would find myself, my place…my ability to shine,” she lifted her eyes, gazing directly at him.
Her words moved him and made him proud. “I think you’ve found that place, darlin’,” he drawled. “All because you took a risk.”
Her smile bloomed.
Seeing that smile made his heart sing. Howie grinned back. “That’s better. Now, let’s figure out a middle ground—still won’t be comfortable, but better than sitting and being stared at.”
She gazed at him with a hopeful exp
ression.
“How do you feel about poker?”
* * *
Three days later, Bertha stood in the pantry, notebook in hand, checking supplies and going over the next day’s meals. After two weeks of cooking for the boardinghouse, she’d figured out the right portion sizes for various dishes, although some things, like the sheer number of biscuits she needed to bake to fill hungry miners had shocked her.
Although, the Morgans had already ordered more supplies for the store and boardinghouse, they wanted one final accounting, making sure Bertha had enough food to last until the end of May and the expected spring thaw.
Howie had been busy chopping wood, creating an ever-growing stack for the kitchen stove, and Michael Morgan had also ordered extra coal for the cylindrical heaters in the dining room and the upstairs dormitory.
A knock sounded on the back door. With a leap of her heart, Bertha hurried around the table where she was chopping potatoes to open the door. Only Howie or Mr. Morgan used the back door, taking a trail behind the cabins that led to the boardinghouse. About an hour ago, light snow had started falling, but melted on contact with the ground and she didn’t want to keep either man waiting in the cold.
Bertha opened the door to see Howie, all bundled up, wearing a brown knitted cap, scarf, and mittens, in addition to his coat. She couldn’t help a broad smile in greeting.
His face was red with cold, and a light dusting of snow clung to his shoulders. He carried a rectangular fishing basket.
She brushed the snow from his shoulders as an appropriate excuse to touch him. “Go right on over to the stove.”
He gave her the basket. “Brought you a mess of trout. Figured you can do something with them.”
“I didn’t know you could fish when there’s snow.”
“You can fish all year round. I caught them just before the snow started. This time of year, fishing takes a thick skin and a heap of patience. I usually spend some time high on a riverbank to spot the fish before I cast. Target the trout and aim so I’m careful not to cast long shadows. But this batch is from a trap I set, knowing you’d need more than just a couple.”
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha: A Montana Sky Novella (Montana Sky Series) Page 9