Chasing Adventure

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  He scratched several days’ growth of whiskers. Maybe he’d grow a beard for the upcoming cold season. Moving away from the window, he set his mug on the desk and rolled down his shirtsleeves then buttoned the cuffs.

  By traversing the length of Main Street three times a day, he connected the faces of the merchants with their names and normal hours of business. When he walked his rounds, he made sure to move with the confident swagger bred by years of marshalling. People always cleared a path. He adopted an aloof look so townsfolk didn’t engage him in idle talk. No need to get too friendly—he wasn’t staying.

  The Regulator clock on the far wall bonged out the hour, and he glanced over his shoulder. About time for the westbound train to arrive.

  At the door, he paused and pulled his Colt from his right-side holster. In a move he’d performed thousands of times before, he thumbed out the cylinder to make sure each chamber but the first was loaded, and then jerked his wrist to click it into place. He donned his duster and grabbed his hat from the hook by the door before stepping outside. This late in the morning, the sun warmed the air, leaving only a hint of the early fall day.

  No raucous noise came from the saloon. A quick glance confirmed the areas next to the buildings were clear of anyone sleeping off a bender. Harte turned right and strode toward the center of town. Curls of smoke rose from the blacksmith’s chimney. Watching the quiet Reinhart ply his trade at the forge provided an enjoyable way to pass the time. The man might be built like a mountain, but several of his creations revealed an artist’s touch.

  Before Harte reached the mercantile, he spotted a trailing cloud of steam and heard a tooting whistle announcing the train’s arrival. He lengthened his stride to be near the depot as the first passengers disembarked. The train rolled to a stop, and the brakes hissed. Behind the caboose was a silver and black car he hadn’t seen before. The presence of a private car piqued his interest.

  Two men climbed down the iron steps and moved toward stationmaster Jack Waite, wearing a navy-colored uniform with a billed cap. The shorter man dressed in a suit stepped forward, gesturing toward the private car. An arm waved high then outward.

  From this distance, what they said was unintelligible. What was the city fellow requesting? Did a problem exist here? Harte straightened, ready to walk closer in case his help was needed.

  Jack scratched a finger through the salt-and-pepper hair at his temple shaking his head.

  The shorter man pulled a wallet from inside his jacket and extended a couple of bills.

  After pocketing the money, Jack nodded, blew the whistle slung from his neck on a chain, and waved an arm toward the engineer.

  The train wheels slid then gripped and inched backward. Within minutes, the shiny car was uncoupled from the caboose, and the train eased forward again. Using a two-man pumper cart, the new arrivals struggled to inch the private car far enough down the rails to divert it to a short side track.

  The silhouette of a large man appeared in one of the windows before he moved out of sight. The guy looked well muscled and strong. Why didn’t he assist the less-athletic men? Since nothing about the men’s behavior was criminally suspicious, Harte eased away from the building and descended the steps toward the street.

  Footsteps rushed along the platform from behind, beating a hollow rhythm. “What a lovely little town.”

  At the sound of a light female voice, Harte turned and spotted a well-dressed, red-haired woman.

  “Just look at the quaint church steeple. And horses in a real rail corral. A dirt street and wooden sidewalks. Is that a blacksmith’s shop?” Gazing all around, the young woman stepped forward. “Oh, oh.” She teetered on the edge of the platform, windmilling her arms to regain her balance.

  What the—? Harte ran along the street toward the platform with his arms outstretched to position himself three feet below where she stood.

  In a flurry of billowing skirts and flailing limbs, the lady fell.

  Her reticule swung around and clumped him in the side of the head, making his eyes water. Wincing, he shook away his wavy vision. Holding her tight, he flexed his knees to absorb the impact, doing his best not to react to his first close contact with a woman in six months. The firmness of her hip in his hand and the teasing scent of sweet flowers made ignoring her impossible.

  “Oh, my.” Blue eyes in a creamy-skinned face blinked fast before staring upward. She tilted her head then her pink lips spread into a smile. “You’re strong.”

  “Doesn’t take much to hold a slip of a woman like you.” Aware of a gawking Jack in his peripheral vision, Harte bent over so he could lever her feet to the ground and held her elbow until she caught her balance.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Her breathless words fanned warm air against his skin. The young woman was petite—the top of her head came only to his shoulder. The lady was dressed in fancier clothes than he’d seen since Denver and looked wholly out of place in this frontier town. “Be careful where you step, miss.” After a pointed glance toward a nearby pile of horse manure, he pinched his fingers on the brim of his hat and jerked a nod. Propriety forced him back a step, but he moved with reluctance. He’d done what he could and should leave the lady to learn about the west on her own. But something he couldn’t explain compelled him to stay near.

  “Miss Alviss, your bags are stacked yonder.”

  Jack’s voice pulled Harte from staring at the new arrival. He glanced at Jack who pointed a rheumatism-twisted finger back toward the depot.

  “No hansom cabs?” After leaning forward and glancing down the street, the woman turned toward the older man then scanned the platform. “Oh my, I don’t see a porter, either. Is one available?”

  Her nasal vowels indicated an accent from the east. Needing to be on his way to perform the rest of his rounds, Harte somehow couldn’t coax his feet to obey. Did her perfume contain hypnotizing powers? By her stylish wine-colored suit and skirt with matching bonnet, this woman looked like she belonged in a big city—one even bigger than those in the West. Her precise diction indicated she had several years of schooling.

  “No porters here. Most arrivals are met by townsfolk or do for themselves. The young lad who works at the livery, Pepe, is sometimes available, but he rode out to collect a rental horse.” The stationmaster grabbed the lapels of his jacket and rocked back on his heels. “Didn’t you make advance arrangements before coming? Is someone meeting you?”

  “Oh, dear.” Her shoulders slumped. Frowning, she heaved out a sigh then pursed her lips as she gazed around the immediate area. “I suppose such a lack is to be expected out West. I must make a note of that fact.”

  What an odd comment. Harte scratched his chin.

  “Well, please direct me to a reasonably priced hotel. I can make several trips with my luggage.” Turning, she lifted the hem of her skirts in preparation for climbing the steps. “Doing for themselves is how people out West act, am I right? I must make do.”

  “Sorry again, miss, no hotel.” Jack peeled off his cap and ran a wrinkled hand through his bushy hair. “The Murphys a couple blocks past the mercantile rent rooms on occasion.”

  Big-city folks have no idea about what exists in small towns. Harte narrowed his gaze and waited to see how she responded to this next surprise. He’d lay down money she’d head to the depot and ask about a return fare to her home back East.

  “No hotel?” Wide-eyed, she stumbled and grabbed for the rail. “How will I ever find him?”

  At her words, Harte narrowed his gaze. She sought a man but hadn’t made arrangements for said man to meet her? Strange. The woman’s face paled, and Harte edged close, fearing she might faint. If ever a woman was out of her element, that person was Miss Alviss.

  “I’ll help the lady, Jack.” Before thinking through the situation and realizing what he obliged himself to, he’d opened his mouth and made the offer. Why not? He had to walk in the same direction to return to the office and could carry a bag or two. A stroll through town wit
h a pretty lady on his arm could prove a pleasant diversion. He thought back to the last time he’d walked out with a woman. A casual activity he hadn’t enjoyed in too many months to count. Or could even be years.

  Miss Alviss flashed a smile, creasing a dimple at the left corner of her mouth. “What a truly chivalrous and gentlemanly offer, deputy. I do admit to being a bit travel weary and the assistance is much appreciated. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Giving a nod in his direction, she continued up the steps.

  Lofty praise for lending a neighborly hand. When was the last time he’d had such pretty words aimed in his direction? Moving with the speed of Mercury, Harte vaulted the steps to the platform and rounded the corner of the depot office. A small mountain of luggage comprised of a portmanteau, two valises, two carpetbags, and a satchel squatted beside a wooden bench. His boots skidded to a stop. Looked like he’d be the one making multiple trips.

  “Oh, dear.” She let out a sigh. “In New York City, the porter used a push cart, and the quantity of my bags didn’t pose such a problem.” She dashed forward and grabbed the satchel, lifting the long strap over her head so it rested on her opposite hip. Then she leaned over and reached for a carpetbag.

  Knew she was from a really big city. Not wanting her to strain anything, Harte moved to her side. “I offered, although I didn’t know you had so many pieces. But I’ll manage. Somehow.” For a man accustomed to traveling light, he couldn’t imagine what she packed inside all these cases.

  Cheeks blushing, she straightened and turned her head, her neck stiff. “Deputy, I am a healthy woman perfectly capable of assisting with the transport of my own belongings.”

  “Duly noted, miss.” His words came out more clipped than he intended. Years of dealing with criminals had stolen his ability for idle talk. Setting his jaw, Harte hoisted the portmanteau to balance on his left shoulder then stooped to grab the handles of the matching carpetbags. “If you lift the valise, I can stretch my fingers around the handle.” Barely, but for his pride’s sake, he needed to make the offer.

  Bending over, she lifted both valises. “I’ve got them. Now, if you’ll indicate the direction, we’ll be on our way.”

  The corner of the leather case dug into his shoulder, and his right hand already ached from the weight. “Head toward the brick building down a ways on the opposite side of the street. The boardinghouse is past the mercantile.” He trudged down the steps, each move jolting his shoulder muscles. The lady’s rigid posture and swishing bustle informed him she still resented his thoughtless remark. Not exactly how he envisioned his morning walk through Sweetwater Springs. Chivalry, my backside.

  Chapter Three

  Thora descended the Murphys’ boardinghouse steps, glancing around as she tied the ribbons of her velvet bonnet under her chin. Today was her first full day in a real frontier town. Everything was so different from what she knew in New York. Familiar with buildings of stone, glass, and concrete, she studied the details of the one- and two-story clapboard and log houses. Some displayed weathered boards and shingled roofs. Others were decorated by chalky whitewash and colored trim around the windows. All looked about one-third the size of her family’s home, and a few would fit in the foyer.

  No sidewalks fronted the houses to ease the traveler’s path. Yards—if a person could bestow such a name upon a small patch of dry earth—separated the house from the dirt street but were not marked by fences or arbors or fountains or shrubbery. A few homes displayed scraggly flowers in beds hugging the foundations. Thora gave a mental cheer for the industrious people wishing to make the best of things and to bring beauty to this raw place.

  A flapping noise drew her attention around the corner of the boardinghouse. Clotheslines stretched from the building to both ends of a sturdy post where sheets and undergarments billowed then stilled in the gusts of the morning’s chilly breeze. Right in full view of anyone on the street. Tacked to the corner of the house was a sign reading “Laundry: weekly or by the piece.” A reminder that Missus Murphy supported her family and an ailing husband as best she could. The previous night, the man’s hacking cough kept Thora awake for longer than her travel-weary body preferred.

  Clomping hoof beats drew closer. She turned to watch the team of horses approach—one a reddish-brown horse and the other white and black. Nothing like the matched pairs of prime horseflesh pulling brougham or landau carriages on the paths in Central Park. The rough-lumbered wagon piled with bound rectangles of dried grass rumbled by. Could those oversized blocks be hay? She’d only seen the grain as loose flakes in the feeding troughs of the park’s stables.

  The driver was dressed in rough denim trousers and a brown corduroy jacket. A battered straw hat sat atop his head. He sat hunched with his elbows on his knees, raised a stiff forefinger to the brim of his floppy hat, and nodded. “Ma’am.”

  Glad for the spontaneous greeting, Thora smiled and waved a gloved hand. “Morning, sir.” After a glance around the quiet street, she followed the wagon, figuring he was headed to the commerce district. Holding up the front of her skirts, she shifted her gaze from the dusty street to the way ahead. Habit made her ensure she didn’t run into anyone, but walking through rutted dirt in heeled boots proved a challenge. Thankfully, the density of pedestrian traffic in this town so far was nil.

  At the end of the block, she turned right and paused, taking a couple of breaths. Yesterday, when the disapproving deputy escorted her here, she’d spotted a mercantile and a few shops bunched together. Now that she saw the town up close, she viewed it as if she’d landed in a foreign place. Without streetlights and paving, the road appeared unfinished and raw. Clapboard buildings stood in only the roughest neighborhoods of New York. If nothing else, this town certain fit what readers in the East would label as frontier, providing her with essential background information.

  In the last few days of her journey, as the train carried her farther from the East into the western region, she’d realized her promise to produce a story within six weeks had been a rash claim. Never had she seen such empty expanses of land. Even more naïve had been her staunch belief she’d locate Harte Renwyck. Her editor’s information that the marshal was assigned to this region might not be sufficient. The town’s pleasing name also weighed in her decision to stop here first.

  How could she locate a specific U.S. marshal in the vast lands of Montana Territory? Although telegraph poles shadowed the railroad route, she’d also noticed how the distance between cities—more appropriately labeled as towns—stretched farther toward the end of her journey. Marshal Renwyck could be a mere five miles north of where she stood right now, but she had no way to reach him. The railroad only ran east to west—nothing like the trolleys and cable cars transecting her hometown in every direction.

  But she wasn’t ready to give up. Just because Sweetwater Springs was nothing like she’d pictured, she would do what she planned—use the location as the setting for adventure stories. While sitting in the family’s well-furnished home in Lenox Hill, she’d imagined a town similar to New York but on a smaller scale. Like the New York City of the 1830s her grandmother described with such affection.

  She glanced down a side street containing more houses on both sides. Although the architecture displayed nothing of special note or acclaim, surely a resident or two lived through interesting experiences she could use to build new stories. Her characters could be men who searched the wilderness for wild mustangs to tame or pelts to collect. Even if the fur trade had been over for decades, and she knew absolutely nothing about capturing horses.

  The words of Mister Warren, the publisher, rang through her thoughts. “Readers want excitement and bigger-than-everyday-life events.”

  Thora dug into her reticule and pulled out her notepad and pencil. Making a list always got her creative muse working. Maybe she could feature the men and women who had to fight Indians and bears to build their farms and ranches. Or the hero could be the driver of a thundering stagecoach escaping Indians. She scribbl
ed each idea at the top of a new page.

  Events involving danger were always popular. She could write about a town’s sheriff thwarting robbers intent on emptying the bank’s vault. Or the story could feature a mild-mannered entrepreneur determined to be part of building rugged Montana Territory, who had to strap on a six-shooter to protect what he’d built.

  When the ideas stopped, she returned the notebook to her reticule. Tilting back her head, she gazed at the cloudless blue sky, appreciating the lack of sooty haze from thousands of coal fires burning in homes and factories. A glance to the side between the houses provided a view of swaying brown grasses and a forest beyond. At home, the city blocks of houses and businesses ran into each other and appeared to go on forever. Above the prairie, the ridgeline of a purplish mountain range filled the horizon. Imagine that. Wilderness started right at the edge of town.

  With eyes closed, she listened for a sound to direct her next steps. The abnormal quiet weighed on her senses. No rattle of trolleys on tracks or squeaks of sellers’ carts. No newsboys hawking papers on the corner. No one haggled with the vegetable vendor. No conversations in multiple languages. No footsteps of pedestrians shoving to get past. Her stomach contracted. Had she ever been anywhere this bereft of people?

  In the distance came the trill of a songbird. Maybe here in the quiet of nature, she’d develop the writing style she knew lived deep inside, waiting for the right place and time to be set free. Possibly without the distractions of meeting her mother’s social requirements, she’d be left alone for the extended periods her creativity needed. And no one here would think her odd for that behavior. She took several gulps of clean air until spots danced in her vision, and she expelled a long sigh. Flailing an arm, she grabbed for the closest sturdy object…and encountered warm fabric covering a firm body. She opened her eyes and gasped.