Chasing Adventure
Book 8 in “Entertainers of the West” series
A Montana Sky series novella
By
Linda Carroll-Bradd
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
Chapter One
Early September, 1887
The trolley jerked forward, the horses plodding down the middle of Broadway in New York City. Thora Alviss tightened her grip on the brown paper-wrapped package balanced in her lap. Every trip to the business district marked another accomplishment—her completion of a new story. Quite literally, she sat on the edge of her seat, anticipating her editor’s response to Teresa’s Triumphant Travels, A Rise from Irish Immigrant to Industrialist’s Wife. This tale, based on her great-grandmother’s history, contained some of Thora’s best writing. If her editor agreed, she’d receive her fifth contract.
“Next stop, corner of Broadway and Spring.” The uniformed attendant clung to an overhead bar, his stance wavering with the trolley’s movement.
As a young girl, she’d loved reading stories penned by Ned Buntline. Her copies were well-worn, and the paper edges bore smudged fingerprints. Today, she’d sit with her editor and broach the subject of a new series—one that involved a subject she’d studied for years. United States Marshal Harte Renwyck would serve as the basis of a hero who fought to bring justice to the Wild West. A stalwart man who chased after—
“You getting off at this stop, lady?” A hand with dark hair bristling on each knuckle grabbed the bar on the forward seat.
Startled from her musings, she glanced to her right, wrinkling her nose at the acrid scent of tobacco wafting on his breath.
The passenger, a man wearing trousers of rough cloth and thick-soled boots, cleared his throat and spat out the window.
“Let me think…” She leaned forward to look around him at the busy foot traffic on the mid-town sidewalk. Should she depart here, or wait for the next stop at Grand? The publishing house was midway between—
“Move it, lady. I’m getting out.”
At the rude shove against her thigh, she gasped and scooted into the aisle then tucked the package under her arm. If only Mother hadn’t taken the carriage to her Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting, then Thora wouldn’t have to ride public transportation. Oh well, one stop was as good as the other. She followed the line of people shuffling down the middle aisle and descended the metal steps to the macadamized asphalt street. Upon reaching the already crowded sidewalk, she pressed herself against the stone building to let the flood of departing passengers abate before turning south. Coming to Manhattan always flustered her nerves because people moved at such a quick pace.
No one paused to notice the glint of sunlight off the windows of the upper floors across Broadway. Or to enjoy how the ever-changing shadows from a scuttling cloud cast an ominous pall over the boxy canyon created by the multi-storied buildings. Oh, she liked that phrasing. She itched to pull out her notepad and jot down the wording so she wouldn’t forget. But she had an important delivery to make, and Thora quickened her footsteps.
As she walked, a dozen different conversations in multiple languages assaulted her ears. Only occasionally did she hear an understandable word or two of French or Italian. At the edge of the street, a newsboy in ill-fitting clothes paced, hawking his papers. She passed a restaurant emitting scents of cooking sausage and fresh breads, making her stomach rumble. Her poached egg and toast breakfast had been hours ago. One of her governesses had carried a similar garlic and fennel smell, but she remembered being admonished by Mother not to mention that fact. Wonder what Miss Wolfrick is doing now?
At the next intersection, she lifted her skirts and stepped with care to avoid the stinking manure piles. So different from her family’s Upper West Side neighborhood. Maybe the street cleaners were on strike here.
Several people approached walking abreast, and Thora had to sidestep. Jostled from the side, she tightened her grip on the package, hearing the paper crinkle. She’d read about gangs that worked together to cause accidents and then dash off with items dropped in the crush of bodies. She was too smart for that ploy to be used against her. When traveling downtown, she never carried a reticule. Instead, Mother’s modiste had sewn small pockets on the inside of her fitted jacket to hold spending money and the house key.
Spying her favorite tea shop meant the publishing office was in the next block. Maybe she’d stop after her errand was complete and indulge in a plate of petits fours and a pot of tea. Such an occasion would allow her time to jot down the wonderful city description before she forgot the exact words. Delivery of her latest novelette to her publisher was certainly a cause for celebration. Even if she’d be the only one hoisting a cup at the table.
A gold banner imprinted with Warren Brothers Publishing fluttered above the stone archway in the early fall breeze, and she pulled open the heavy door. Tiles arranged in a multi-colored pattern covered the lobby floor with a dizzying mosaic. On a previous visit, she tried counting the small pieces and gave herself a headache.
This particular building boasted a modern elevator that carried people to the fifth floor. But she wasn’t ready to trust Mister Otis’s contraption that stole her freedom to move at her own pace. Besides, she’d read of an account of an elevator malfunction that trapped people for hours and didn’t wish to risk a similar fate.
Writing was such a solitary occupation. As she walked among these workers going about their daily business tasks, she enjoyed the sense of being part of their world. Thora rested a gloved hand on the carved banister, secured her package, and climbed the marble steps to the third floor. Once inside the Warren Brothers Publishing office, she waited for someone to acknowledge her presence at the empty reception desk near the entrance door.
About ten feet away, the middle of the room held a group of desks. Four clerks clacked erratic tempos on their typewriters. Three men formed a line outside the office door marked Publisher, each holding a sheaf of papers.
None were her editor, Mister Gordon.
A young man pushed a rolling cart into view from a back room. Giving her a nod, he dropped letters and thick envelopes onto the front desk then disappeared down a hallway.
Oh dear, perhaps she should have arranged for an appointment. Excitement had filled her last night when she’d blown out the oil lamp and climbed into bed. Finishing a story provided Thora with such satisfaction, and she’d wanted to share that heady feeling. Who better than with her editor?
For several years, she’d kept secret her secret employment from her banker father or her socialite mother. They’d not appreciated the award in literary arts she’d received from the Elmira Female Academy, and she knew they’d disapprove of her being a novelist. Although staunch believers in providing a well-rounded education for their children, her parents wanted her to consent to a suitable marriage match—one preferably with the son of one of their acquaintances. She shuddered.
One of the typists, a brunette wearing her hair in a neat bun at the back of her head, rolled the stationery from the machine and stood. Paper in hand, she approached the spindled half-wall separating the entrance from the rest of the office. “Who are you here to see, miss?”
“Mister Gordon.” Thora noticed a dark ink smudge near the waist of the woman’s blouse.
“Which one—Lewis in genre or Jeremiah in literary?”
Warren Publishing had two Mister Gordons? What would the man who edited literary works look like? Did he dress in tweeds and smoke a pipe, in
stead of the rumpled suits and askew ties that comprised her editor’s attire? Or maybe he pulled a small table near a fireplace where a hound dog or two lay to edit the manuscript?
“Miss?”
The woman’s voice jerked Thora from her musings. She flashed an apologetic smile at her rudeness of making the clerk wait. How many times had her parents scolded her for daydreaming? “Mister Gordon in genre. You see, I’m one of his—”
“Sorry, that Mister Gordon’s not in at the moment. He’s taken one of his authors to lunch.”
He does that? Thora stiffened and pinched her lips tight. Why hadn’t he ever asked her to lunch? What was talked about at these lunches? The notion of discussing plot with someone who appreciated that aspect of writing seemed so professional. Maybe I’m not an important enough author. “Oh.”
The typist held out her hand. “I can put that package on his desk.”
The paper crinkled as Thora clutched the prized manuscript to her chest. Only by using sheer will did she keep from moving away. She remembered the piles of manuscripts in Mister Gordon’s office that created two-foot stacks along one wall. Her breath caught. “I’d hate for my book to get lost.”
The brunette stiffened and inhaled through her nose.
Recognizing the woman’s affronted look, she stepped forward, raising a hand to placate her. “Oh, no, not that you’d lose it. I’m Thora Alviss, one of Mister Gordon’s authors, writing as Twyla Lyn Ashworth.” She’d always liked how the nom de plume rolled off her tongue—quite balanced it was, with two syllables and then one—
“Really, miss, I have delivered manuscripts to offices before.”
“Of course.” Thora glanced across the office and saw only one man standing outside the publisher’s slightly open door. This occasion might be a great time to meet the head boss. “Could I leave him a note? You won’t need to loan me any paper. I’ll just write on the covering.” She advanced toward the hinged gate and rested a hand on the top. “I’ll only be a moment and won’t bother a thing on his desk.”
“Miss Johnson!” A bellow came from the publisher’s office. “Where’s that memorandum?”
The brunette clerk jumped and glanced over her shoulder, brows wrinkled into a frown. “I really have to deliver this document right now.”
Thora flashed her most gracious smile. “Of course, please don’t let me detain you.” As if having the right to be there, she moved to the other side of the half-wall and skirted the desks. At the point of turning down the corridor, she heard a rude curse and a sharp bang. She looked toward the noise but couldn’t see into the office.
“What the dickens do you mean we’re being sued?”
Curiosity driving her to learn more, Thora sank into the nearest chair. From this angle, she could only see a wedge of the office past the door left ajar and the back of a tall man facing a massive wooden desk.
“Sorry, Mister Warren, but I just opened the post. Through her lawyer out of London, Missus Celia Albright Ramsworth claims we reprinted one of her stories in a June issue without her permission and without paying her.”
Leaning to one side, Thora recognized Mister Bogdan, the company’s lawyer, from when she signed her first contract. His stiff posture displayed his tension over delivering the bad news.
“Of course, we reprinted it. Most of the stories in our publications are reprints. All American dime novel publishers do it. We provide an outlet for sharing the abundance of works created by British authors with a new audience.” A puff of smoke rose above the desk. “We’ve been using reprints for decades. Why break tradition?”
Thora heard the man’s indignation and wished she could see his expression. Did the reprint issue mean stories by American authors were being reprinted in England? The thought of a wider audience, even if she received no payment, made her smile. Perhaps those new readers would search out her next story. Oh, what if princesses or duchesses read the stories she penned? An image presented itself of a woman wearing an elegantly styled day gown, sitting in a dark-shelved library with a copy of one of Thora’s stories open on her lap. A curling tendril of steam drifted from a nearby bone china teapot. What would that—
A deep throat clearing sounded. “Like I mentioned at the last staff meeting, the government’s copyright office has started taking these claims more seriously than in years past.”
“Are you telling me I will have to stop this practice, Bogdan? Is that what you’re saying?” A chair smacked into something solid. An average-sized man wearing dark trousers and a white button-down shirt stomped from behind the desk to the side window.
“Well, sir, I don’t believe I have a definitive answer. Yet.”
Thora scooted forward in her chair. Because she’d been reading adventure stories for years, she’d noticed the works of the British authors occupied the first three-quarters of the pages of the dime novel while her stories and those of other American authors were always situated toward the back. The subject was one she’d asked Mister Gordon about when he first accepted her stories. Now, she realized he’d never given a specific answer.
“You’re the company lawyer. What in blue blazes am I paying you for if you don’t have an answer?” The slap of a hand on wood resounded in the air. “I need stories to fill those pages three times a week. Where do you suppose I’ll find them?”
This opportunity was not to be missed. Thora jumped to her feet, and before she knew it, she’d pushed aside the office door. “I have an answer for that question, Mister Warren.”
The man with a head of wavy, brown hair and a trimmed beard gawked. “Where did you come from? Who are you?” He moved to the desk and crushed out a thin cigar in an overflowing ashtray. “Do you have an appointment I wasn’t aware of?”
“Oh, Mister Warren.” The clerk’s feminine voice sounded from the doorway. “I’m sorry for the interruption. Miss, please come with me.”
Thora didn’t turn to acknowledge the woman. “Mister Warren, sir, I’m Thora Alviss.”
His thick brows crashed downward then he glanced at the other man. “Bogdan, who is this woman?”
Thora squared her shoulders. “I’m one of your American authors.”
The dark-haired lawyer in the navy blue suit searched her face with a frown. “I don’t believe I recognize her.”
“Show her out.” The publisher waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve got to handle this latest disaster.” The publisher slumped into his chair and rested his head in his hands. “Paying for every story will bankrupt us. Why didn’t I go into accounting like my mother encouraged?”
Ignoring the arm Mister Bogdan extended toward the door, Thora stepped around him. “Mister Warren, perhaps if you gave prominence to your American authors, more would write for The Oceanside Library.”
He looked up, his eyes wide. “What’s that you say?”
Mister Bogdan ducked his head.
Thora caught the man’s suppressed grin and knew she now had an audience for the ensuing conversation.
The lawyer skirted around her to claim a wooden chair near the window.
She gripped the manuscript tighter, reminding herself her career was at stake. But, she hadn’t thought her impulsive suggestion all the way through. How did she know other writers would feel the same way she did? Could be they were just happy to be paid something for their creations, like she’d been with her first sales. Would they even be in a position to produce more works of fiction than they did now? “My stories are always placed in the last quarter of the publication. But if I knew they’d be featured in the front half, I’d write faster and produce more stories.”
Angling his head, he moved his hand up and down to indicate her height. “Tell me again who you are.”
“Thora Alviss, but I write under the pseudonym of Twyla Lyn Ashworth.”
“What do you write?”
What an odd question. She straightened. “Stories for women, sir. That’s what Oceanside Library prints.”
“No.” Shooting her a frown, h
e chopped the air with his hand. “I mean, what’s your theme?”
“Theme?” Vaguely, she remembered Mister Gordon touching on the need to identify that subject when she submitted Faith, Hope, and Perseverance on the Westward Journey, the first of her Oregon Trail stories. She tugged on the hem of her shirtwaist. “Well, I—”
“Spit it out, girl. I haven’t got all day.” With jerky moves, he rummaged around on his desk, shoving loose papers every which way. “Ashworth, huh? Where is that confounded journal? That name sounds only vaguely familiar. Of course, I’ve got lots of people working for me. Ah, there it is.” He grabbed a worn leather notebook and ran a finger down a column. “Aaron, Abram, Adair, Ahearn.”
Should she interrupt his musings to provide her pen name? These few moments were sufficient to prepare a proper response. What was the theme she wrote about most often? After glancing at Mister Bogdan who watched with an eyebrow cocked, she shuffled her feet.
“Here it is. Alviss, aka Ashworth.” Mister Warren bobbed up his head. “Say, are you the one who wrote that Oregon Trail story?” After flipping several pages, he stopped and ran a finger across a line of print.
So, he does recognize my work. Her pulse kicked up a beat. Quite an honor.
Standing a bit straighter, she flashed a smile. “Yes, sir, actually the series had four stories. They released the first week of the month from January through April. ” She was quite proud of the works. They were the result of many hours spent at the downtown library researching firsthand accounts. Those details had been essential to create the scenarios involving the overland trek, since nothing in her life paralleled such a dangerous undertaking.
“Huh.” He tapped a finger on the open book. “Says here you have a good handle on the basics of writing, but your characters could be more fleshed-out, even larger-than-life.” He glanced up and pinned her with a narrowed stare. “What have you got to say about that assessment?
Her throat dried. Her editor wrote that negative evaluation? The publisher’s frank words stung, and Thora blinked back the burn of tears. She’d always thought including the historical details was more important than exaggerated actions. “Why didn’t Mister Gordon ever mention that criticism?”
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