Chapter 35
Weeks passed and never had more miserable ones darkened Miss Hattie’s soul. Her health became so delicate that others feared for her life.
The first thing Kate noticed about Boston was the closed-in feeling. After the wide-open spaces of Arizona Territory, the narrow streets and tall brick buildings made her feel both trapped and claustrophobic. The stomach-wrenching odors didn’t help much either. The stench of sewage mingled with the smell of coal, dyes, whiskey, and fish. The hot August sun baked horse manure onto cobblestone streets and flies buzzed around in a frenzy.
She couldn’t quite explain it, but the ranch smells seemed so much sweeter somehow, earthier. Even with all those cattle.
Boston even sounded different. Instead of creaking windmills and the soothing sounds of rustling grass and lowing cattle, her ears were blasted by peddlers blowing fish horns to attract customers and yelling, “Here comes the fishmaaaan, bring out your dishpaaaan.”
Wagon wheels and horses’ hooves clamored across uneven brick roads and church bells rang from tall towers. She felt as if she was being accosted from every direction. After leaving the new Union train station she hurried down Canal Street toward Haymarket Square. She passed taverns and boardinghouses, auction halls and warehouses. The sights and sounds of a city she’d known all her life now seemed foreign and she felt like a stranger in a strange new land.
Like Lieutenant Philip Nolan in The Man Without a Country, she felt adrift. She was born and raised in Boston, but her heart was in Cactus Patch. Refusing to sign Miss Walker’s papers was the right thing to do. She now knew why; she was hopelessly in love with Luke Adams.
She hated letting Miss Walker down, of course, but loving Luke meant she could not give her heart to the Last Chance. The old lady deserved better. The ranch required it.
Kate grimaced. Pain that started in her chest now spread throughout her body. She’d done the right thing, but oh, how it hurt. It hurt so much she could hardly breathe. She missed the ranch, missed the ranch hands, especially Ruckus. She even missed her horse, Decker. But no one left a bigger hole in her heart than Luke. She’d cried on the train all the way to Boston, and though her tears were spent, her anguish remained.
It was hot, but unlike the dry heat of Arizona, it was muggy, and this sapped what little energy remained after traveling. She’d barely walked a couple of blocks from the station before the heat and humidity took its toll. She pulled her steamer trunk out of the way of passersby and sat on top of it, sweat pouring down her face.
She wished now she’d taken a hansom cab, but what little money she had left after train fare would have to last until she found employment.
People scurried by, giving her no heed. Nannies pushing prams, bankers and merchants hurrying about their business. No one seemed to notice her save beggars thrusting tin cans in her face.
She started down the sidewalk again and crossed the street, dodging shays, cabriolets, horsecars, bicycles, and omnibuses. Her trunk bumped along the cobblestones and scraped against the curb.
Finally she reached her destination, but even that looked less appealing than it had four months earlier. Had the city really changed that much in such a short time—or had she?
The five-story brick building was just off Richmond Street where she’d lived before traveling to Arizona. It was located in a less desirable part of town and lacked an elevator, but it had an indoor privy and rent was cheaper than the Working Girls Home on Union Park Street.
The owner of the building was Mrs. Potter, a sixty-year-old widow who walked with a cane and smelled like unbaked dough. She opened the door to Kate’s knock and peered at her from beneath a mop of white hair.
“Oh, it’s you again.”
Kate smiled politely. “By any chance is my old apartment still available?”
“No, but the one next to it is.”
“I’ll take it,” Kate said. Digging into her drawstring bag, she pulled out enough coins for a month’s rent and placed them into the palm of the woman’s arthritic hand.
Mrs. Potter dropped the coins into the pocket of her grimy apron. “How long you staying this time?”
“I don’t know yet,” Kate said. If her plans worked out and her old publisher accepted her new book, she would then be able to afford a better apartment. It wouldn’t be easy to convince Mr. Conner to publish another one of her books, but she had to try. If worse came to worst, she would travel to New York and try one of the publishers there.
Mrs. Potter lifted a key off a nail and handed it to her. “This is the last time I’m renting to you. I can’t have people moving in and out on a whim. And don’t you forget no men visitors and no alcohol.”
“I won’t forget,” Kate said.
“See that you don’t.”
The door slammed shut and Kate heaved a sigh.
The room was on the third floor at the end of a long, dark, and musty-smelling hall. The apartment was small, dingy, and so dim it took Kate’s eyes several moments to focus. Identical to her old place, the room was furnished with a sagging upholstered chair, table, lumpy bed, and small wardrobe. The kitchen was an L-shaped space with a kerosene cookstove, icebox, and running water. The plumbing didn’t work in the winter months when the pipes froze. During each cold spell she would have to walk down three flights of stairs to fetch water from the old well in back or settle for a bucket of snow.
Crossing to the single window, Kate yanked open the curtains, lifted the sill, and breathed in the putrid air. Even her imagination couldn’t carry her away from the realities outside.
Traffic sounds rose from the busy street and sun streamed through the open window, but nothing chased away the gloom. She tried to concentrate on her plans. She needed a typewriter but couldn’t afford one. What little money was left after paying for train fare and rent would have to do for a couple of months.
Perhaps Mr. Taylor, founder and publisher of the Boston Globe, would let her borrow one of his typewriters. He had published several of her articles and seemed affable enough. Though the Globe put the banning of her book on the front page, the paper was more critical of censorship than her writing.
If all else failed, she could use the typewriter at the library. That would mean having to work during library hours, and that she didn’t want to do. She did her best work in the still of night and working in public was too distracting. Mr. Taylor was definitely her best bet.
Below her window a boy called to his dog and she immediately thought of Homer. Before she knew it memories of Cactus Patch flashed in her mind. It all seemed like a dream. But not Luke; he seemed all too real. She pictured him so clearly, she could imagine him standing in the room with her. Tears chased away the vision but not the loneliness or the terrible crushing pain that threatened to consume her.
Arms crossed in front, she moved her hands up and down the sleeves of her shirtwaist to ward off a sudden chill. Little by little warmth crept back into her flesh, but nothing could be done for the bleakness of her heart and soul.
Chapter 36
Bessie wasn’t one to interfere in other people’s business unless, of course, she had good reason. And if a heartbroken nephew wasn’t reason enough to get involved, then what in heaven’s name was?
Luke had been in such a miserable state since Kate Tenney left town that even the annoying Miss Chase had given up on him. Now the brazen girl was zeroing in on Michael, which didn’t please Bessie one whit. Of course, now that the Saturday Evening Post had accepted one of Michael’s short stories, every unmarried woman in town had set her sights on him. Michael was turning out to be quite the celebrity.
Arms folded across her middle, Bessie gave a self-righteous nod. Yes, she was right to come today. She had every right to interfere in Luke’s affairs. The rate Michael was going, he would find a wife before his older brother, and how would that look?
Her mistake was dragging Lula-Belle to town with her. Her sister wasn’t happy about it, but she nonetheless insisted upon dr
iving. Thank goodness Luke had been able to repair the buggy after Sam ran it off the road.
Now Lula-Belle held on to the reins of her slow-moving horse like one might hold on to the back of a speeding train. “I still don’t understand why we have to go to town today. You know Monday is my wash day.”
Bessie sat on the seat next to her and fanned herself. It was the end of October but it still felt like July, and though it wasn’t yet noon already it was hot. “Would the world come to an end if you did your laundry on Tuesday? Or, heaven forbid, Wednesday?”
“I’ve always done my wash on Monday,” Lula-Belle said.
Bessie rolled her eyes but held her tongue. The last thing she wanted was to get into a spat over soiled laundry. They didn’t speak again until Lula-Belle pulled up in front of their nephew’s blacksmith shop.
“Let me do the talking,” Bessie warned, climbing down from the buggy. She straightened her hat and marched inside.
Luke greeted them with a smile, but Bessie wasn’t fooled. Not one iota.
“What brings you two to town on a Monday?” he asked.
Bessie saw no reason to beat around the bush. “We’re worried about you.”
“Me?” He looked from one to the other. “Why?”
“You know why.” Even today he had dark shadows under his eyes. Obviously, he wasn’t sleeping well. He had also lost weight. “You hardly said a word at Sunday’s dinner. Nor did you touch your meal.” If anything, he became more somber and distant with each passing week.
“You didn’t even taste one of my sourdough biscuits,” Lula-Belle added, sounding offended.
He inclined his head. “I apologize to you both. I have a lot on my mind lately.” He waved a hand at a miniature windmill he’d been working on for months. As far as Bessie could tell it looked no different from the last time she saw it weeks ago.
“Nonsense,” Bessie exclaimed. “You have only one thing on your mind, and you know it. And that’s Kate Tenney.”
Annoyance flashed across his face and his lips puckered. “I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Good. Because that means you won’t interrupt what I have to say.”
“She doesn’t like to be interrupted,” Lula-Belle added. “Why, I remember that time when—”
Bessie poked her elbow into Lula-Belle’s side. It was no time for one of her sister’s long-winded stories. “Anyone can see that you’re miserable.”
“So what am I supposed to do about it?” he asked, his voice curt. “She knows how I feel but she left anyway. She didn’t even bother sayin’ good-bye.”
“That’s a good sign,” Bessie said.
Lula-Belle glanced at her. “It is?”
Exasperated, Bessie threw up her hands. Didn’t her sister know anything? “Of course it is. Good-bye is, well, good-bye.” Okay, so maybe she was grasping at straws, but she didn’t have a whole lot to work with. “If she didn’t say good-bye, that means it’s not final.”
Luke grimaced as if in pain. “It felt final to me. I told her how I felt and she still left.”
She gave him her best motherly look. “That’s because you don’t know how women think. Just because a man says he loves her doesn’t mean she believes him.”
“I believed it when Murphy told me he loved me,” Lula-Belle said.
Bessie scoffed. “You believed me when I told you the moon was made of green cheese.”
She turned back to her nephew and heaved a sigh. If love and marriage were left to the male population, civilization would have ended with Adam and Eve. “So how did you tell her that you loved her?”
He frowned. “How did I tell her? I just blurted it right out.”
Bessie felt a sinking feeling inside. “No, no, no. That would never do. Women want to be courted.”
“I did court her. I told her I had a fancy for her. Then I told her I had a hankering for her. Then I zeroed in for the kill and told her I loved her. If that’s not courtin’ I don’t know what is.”
Bessie threw up her arms in exasperation. “No wonder she left.”
Luke frowned. “You think I should have come right out and asked her to pair up with me?”
Bessie rolled her eyes. “No, no, no!” Where, oh where had she gone so wrong? “You only mention pairings if you plan on building an ark.”
The frown lines deepened between his eyebrows. “Are you sayin’ I shoulda played my hand closer to the chest?”
Bessie rolled her eyes. Men! “What I’m trying to say is that a woman doesn’t just want words, she wants proof. She wants to see that you love her with her own two eyes.”
Luke rubbed his chin. “It’s kind of hard to prove anything when she’s in Boston and I’m here.”
“Yes, that is a problem,” Bessie agreed. Now they were getting somewhere.
Lula-Belle sniffed. “That’s why they have trains.”
Bessie glanced at her sister in surprise. Maybe she wasn’t so dense after all.
“Lula-Belle’s right.” Personally, she would never do anything so foolhardy as to travel on two thin metal rails. The sheer speed of a train terrified her. Nonetheless, she had no qualms about encouraging Luke to travel on one. She’d agree to let him go to the moon if she thought it would get him a wife.
“You must definitely go to Boston. No woman can resist a man willing to put life and limb on the line to chase after her.” Recalling how Sam had chased her halfway to Tucson—practically killing himself in the process—Bessie smiled and added, “Trust me, I speak from experience. And I’ll tell you another thing . . .”
While she expressed her considerable thoughts on the subject, Luke didn’t say a word. Arms folded, forehead creased, he stared at her in stone-faced silence and didn’t move a muscle.
Bessie threw in every reason she could think of why Luke should go after the girl, but nothing she said seemed to penetrate his thick head. Stubborn, that’s what he was. Just like Sam.
She paused for breath and that’s when Luke finally spoke up.
“You think I should? You think I should go to Boston?”
Praise the Lord, Luke wasn’t so pigheaded after all. “Absolutely,” Bessie said.
“But only if you truly love her,” Lula-Belle said.
“And are willing to show her how much,” Bessie added.
Where is she?
It was a question that had run through Luke’s head since Kate left all those months ago. Now it was followed by yet another question: How do I find her?
Traveling to Boston had taken seven days, three trains, and a whole lot of praying. It would have taken a day less had he not missed his connection in Chicago because of a snowstorm. As hard as it had been to travel to Boston, that was the least of it. Finding Kate in the desert after that terrible sandstorm had been a breeze compared to trying to find her in this ugly, crowded city. He didn’t even know where to begin.
Boston confounded him with its narrow streets, tall buildings, and hordes of people. Where was everyone going? And why were they all in such a big hurry? Dodging traffic was worse than trying to outrun a cattle stampede. And cold. Never had he known such frigid weather. His teeth hadn’t stopped chattering since he arrived.
He’d checked every hotel and boardinghouse he could find, but no one by the name of Kate Tenney was registered. He closed his eyes. Think. Think. Where would she be?
Walking around aimlessly, he found himself on the notorious Anne Street, which locals called the Black Sea. Hellhole would be a more accurate name. Any sort of vice could be purchased for a price. Brothels and taverns lined the street, reaching into a dark, dismal maze of alleyways. After one woman with a painted face and low-cut gown beckoned him from a doorway, he decided he needed a map.
He must have been half out of his mind to come to this strange city. It wasn’t like him to act without careful planning. A blacksmith had to be prepared. Everything from a nail to farm equipment required a detailed plan. How could finding the woman he loved require any less?
; He wasn’t even certain it was possible to find someone in a place like this. Finding a needle in a haystack would be easier. What was he thinking? That she would be waiting for him at the train station?
He plumb better think of something fast. He couldn’t keep running in circles. Where would someone like Kate Tenney spend her time? A bookstore. He pumped his fist. Of course. Why didn’t he think of that before?
He found one two blocks away. The sign read Antiquarian, but newer books were displayed behind the dusty glass window. A riot of bells greeted him as he walked through the door. It smelled of old leather and dust. The proprietor looked up from behind a counter, spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose. The man’s shoulder-length white hair and beard would be better suited to St. Nicholas’s red attire than the frock coat he wore.
“May I help you?” he asked in a hushed voice.
Not sure why the man was whispering, Luke nonetheless followed his lead. “I’m looking for someone. Her name is Kate Tenney. She’s a writer.”
The man stroked his beard. “The only Kate I know is Kate Chopin.” He picked up a volume. “I have a copy of her book Bayou Folk. It’s her best book yet.”
Luke shook his head. “Her name is Tenney,” he said, forgetting to whisper.
“Shh.” The bookstore owner pointed to a table in back where two men sat reading. “She doesn’t go by a pseudonym, does she?” he said, his voice low.
“A pseudonym?”
“Some writers write under an assumed name. Women writers often choose male names.”
Luke blew out his breath. Aunt Bessie never mentioned—what did the owner call it?—a pseudonym. “She’s a . . . friend of mine and she writes dime novels. That’s all I know. One of them was banned.”
He wished now he knew more about Kate’s writing. Books and literature were out of his realm. After leaving Texas, he had no formal education. Even under Aunt Bessie’s patient tutorage, he never much improved his reading skills. Not like Michael, who always had his head in a book. Still, he felt guilty. Maybe if he’d shown more interest in Kate’s writing, he’d have a better idea how to find her.
Dawn Comes Early Page 27