by Sierra Rose
“The article—interview—first of all. Then a few words into the ear of your brother-in-law might be helpful, as well. Before I talk directly to him myself, of course. Because, if he could appoint me to fill the vacated post, then the council, and the town itself, might accept the situation more readily.”
“Done and done.” Eyes sparkling, Hannah reached out to shake Abigail’s hand, and the bargain was sealed. “This will be an exciting campaign, and I do believe you’ll turn this little metropolis upside down before things are over. I can’t wait for the fun to begin.”
Seeing the new vim and vigor in her friend that her plans had inspired was all the payment Abigail needed. “We’ll make a good partnership, Hannah.”
“I’m sure we will. And, now, Abby, it’s time for me to leave; I’ve taken up far too much of your time as it is. You have a whole houseful of guests to see to, and I—” the barest flutter of laughter, “well, I must get home to my cats.”
Chapter Fourteen
“MAY I TREAT YOU TO dinner, Ben?”
February temperatures were still cool enough to require a coat, and perhaps a hat, for any outdoor work. However, Ben, who had been helping his newest roustabout, Brent Wheeler, unload and transport heavy wooden crates stacked to the rim of Forrester’s buckboard, was sweating like a Trojan. He paused near the door of the storage room to swipe a shirt sleeve across his flushed and clammy face.
“Dinner, huh? Is it that time already?”
Hannah glanced down at the tiny jeweled timepiece pinned to her bodice. “Close enough.”
Breathing heavily from exertion, he swiped again. “Thought you were tied down to the Gazette office whilst Oliver went off gatherin’ news at the Sittin’ Eat.”
“Normally I am. Today—” she spread her gloved hands wide, with a disarming smile, “—today I am not. I hear the Sarsaparilla is serving some special concoction of mutton stew and brown peas.”
“Doncha believe it, Hannah. Wilbur is just givin’ a new name to somethin’ leftover. Yesterday it was lamb stew. With green peas. The whole mess has aged a trifle. Howsomever, I reckon I can always eat. Hey, Brent, give it a rest, boy,” he interrupted to call out to the teenager still straining his muscles. “Come on back about two o’clock, and we’ll set things to right.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Forrester, sir.” Taking his boss at his word, the young man saluted, hopped agilely down from his perch near the wagon’s seat, and immediately disappeared.
Ben, watching him go, grinned. “Havin’ these whippersnappers show such respect makes me feel old. Like I’ve got one foot in the grave.”
“He seems to be in a hurry,” Hannah observed. Had the ground not been semi-frozen, surely little puffs of dust would have been created by Brent’s hasty footsteps in the opposite direction.
“Yeah. He’s head over tincups in love with Bessie, over to the bakery. Reckon he’s been havin’ his noon meal there ever since I hired him. Many more cookies and cakes, and the kid will be too hefty to work here. So. Whatcha got in mind, sister-in-law?”
“Well, I had something rather private I wanted to discuss, soooo...”
“Huh.” Ben paused to consider, his fine greenish-brown eyes squinted just a little against the pale noonday sun as he looked off into the distance.
Tuesday, with milder temperatures and a whiff of spring in the air, brought men and women out in force: to shop, to congregate, to conduct whatever business must be done. Ben’s crowd of happy hooligans, his gray-haired or balding pot belly stove-sitters, were gossiping in their usual place. They had gotten adept at employing pipes and spittoons with equal dexterity, and tearing apart the reputations of anyone they could think of, while sprawled in the way of every serious customer attempting to navigate the store aisles.
“Tell you what.” He needed a third brush of his damp sleeve before continuing. “Let’s gwan to the house. Got privacy galore there; and, if Cam is restin’, well, I reckon we can scare up somethin’ to eat from somewhere. Just lemme get my jacket.”
She waited the necessary few minutes while he fetched outerwear, spoke a few words to Elvira about his destination, and rejoined Hannah. As they started off along the wooden sidewalk, she sniffed delightedly at the air and its whole motley mixture of scents, some pleasant, some not so much.
“And how is my sister?”
“Gettin’ along as good as can be expected. I’ll be relieved when that dirty dog Gabe gets back in town, though.”
“Dirty dog? Why is that?”
Ben shrugged his broad shoulders in their trapping of denim and cord. “Well, no, I reckon I ought not call him names. Every man should be able to go visit relatives, if he has a mind to. You got any idea when he’ll get his tail back in town?”
“Why ask me? Letty is the one you should be consulting.”
“Well, I still think he coulda been a little more considerate. It ain’t his wife about to give birth to her first child. Wait, take care, there.” Warningly, he took her arm as they approached an area of broken boards, jagged and splintered, detrimental to anyone unaware of what danger lay underfoot.
“What on earth—?”
“Dadrat that worthless Wilbur Knaack,” grumbled Ben, steering her carefully clear. “Told him earlier to get that hole fixed, ’fore somebody falls in and gets seriously hurt. Wait here on the bench a minute, will you, Hannah, whilst I go inside and have a few words with that lazy son of a gun?”
Hannah hid a grin as she swished a handkerchief across the bench’s worn seat and gingerly perched on its edge. After all this time, she had become well-versed with Ben’s famous temper. A deliberate oversight like this would have him wearing his mayor’s hat and spouting blue flame at the hapless restaurant owner.
Sure enough. She could hear the yelling from inside: a stream of growled invective (Ben’s voice); whiny but garbled protest (Wilbur’s); then Ben again, barking orders and a deadline. Several startled patrons, those new to the town administrator’s way of dealing with a problem, beat a hasty retreat, dashing past Hannah and scurrying off into less threatening environs. Within a few minutes, Ben emerged, with the effect of dusting off his hands in satisfaction at a job well done.
“How soon?” she murmured, as they started on their way again.
“This afternoon. I’ll let him get through the dinner hour. Then I’d better see a carpenter out here, sawin’ up planks and nailin’ the boards in place, or I’m gonna get hot under the collar.”
Amused, Hannah peered up at her companion from under the brim of her hat. “Oh, the cares and burdens of public duty weigh heavily upon the conscience of a responsible city official.”
“Huh? Oh. Well.” He gave her a sheepish crooked smile. “Forgot you’re a writer. Puttin’ flowery words together just comes natural to you, don’t it?”
“Sometimes. If I work at it. And how are you doing, Ben?”
“Me? I’m okay. What’re you talkin’ about?”
In a deliberate show of affection, and trust, Hannah tucked her hand into the bend of his ready elbow. “Everyone asks about Cam, and worries about her—as they should. It seems to me you might be getting left by the wayside.”
Again that sheepish smile. No wonder Camellia had fallen in love with this big brawny, occasional clumsy, often endearing man. “Sorta figured it goes with the territory, y’ know? No, I’m all right, Hannah. But thanks for askin’.”
Having reached the Forrester house in record time, they went in at the back porch, through the kitchen door. As Ben shoved his key into the lock, he called out a greeting, in case Camellia was napping on the settee.
No fear of that. Hannah crossed the threshold only to discover her sister balanced on the highest rung of a stepladder, cleaning cupboards that she couldn’t usually reach.
Shocked and angered, Ben flung aside his hat and reached for her. “What exactly in the name of Heaven are you doin’ up there?” he demanded. “Get back on solid ground right this very minute.”
Clearly his m
ood of the boardwalk incident—and the confrontation with Wilbur Knaack—was still simmering on low. Now, it was flaring up with new flames at this sight of the love of his life, and their not-yet-firstborn, teetering far above him in such a precarious position.
Her hair was tucked under a mobcap; her cheeks were flushed with exertion and grime; her apron wore a phalanx of dust, smudges, and cobwebs. “Ben, I truly don’t know how you have been able to put up with me. Hello, Hen, good of you to drop by. This place is filthy. Why, I’m ashamed of myself for letting things get into such a state.”
“You come down from there, this instant,” said Ben, between his teeth. It was not said with any degree of affection. “Have you gone plumb crazy?”
His rough hands grabbed her elbows as support, to guide her in descending slow, painful steps, one by one. When she was finally, safely on the ground, he forced her onto a chair while he simply stood, hands on hips, and glared at her.
Hannah, who could recognize all the signs of an incipient domestic quarrel, took a large pace backward. She had wanted only to confer with Ben; she had no desire to walk into the middle of a thunderstorm, complete with lightning and loud rumbles, between husband and wife.
Camellia smiled up in all innocence at the irate behemoth towering over her. “I didn’t expect you home for dinner.”
“Clearly.”
“Really, Ben.” Her hands were nervously busy with the folds of her dusting cloth, pleating, unpleating, re-pleating. “There’s no need to make a fuss.”
“Isn’t there? That baby is half-mine, remember. And you got no right riskin’ him, and yourself, doin’ such a fool thing as—as—”
“Cleaning,” she contributed helpfully. “I was just cleaning.”
He could hardly be expected to know all the ins and outs of pregnancy, especially when each, for each woman, was so different. An experienced mother, or her physician, might have explained that the nesting instinct is a common symptom during the last trimester, indicating that birth might be imminent. Ben had already noticed, to his increasing dismay, Camellia’s shortness of breath, her backaches, her heartburn, her fears about the ordeal she must soon undergo.
Where in blue blazes had Gabe disappeared to? It was way past time for him to be back in his office to respond to these concerns!
“Ohhh...” A spasm suddenly twisted Camellia’s features, and she pressed a palm flat to the rounded distension of her belly.
“Oh, what is it?” Hannah, throwing caution to the winds, rushed to kneel at her sister’s side and pleaded anxiously for information. “Are you in pain? Has something happened? Is it starting?”
“No.” The spasm altered into an expression of utter radiance. “Here, Hen. Look. And touch.”
Gentle movements, like a washing-in of the sea upon golden sand, were rippling over the bulky surface of that abdomen. One lusty kick brought a surprised little “Oof!” from both prospective mother and prospective aunt.
Amazed, incredulous, rapturous, Hannah sent her wide-eyed glance upward. “Cam!” she burst out.
“I know. I think he’s not happy, being so confined.”
“You’ve seen this already?” she appealed to Ben.
“Oh, yeah. The little scallywag keeps me awake, of nights. Reckon he don’t much like sharin’ the bed with me, neither.” Although his mood still fulminated, with an almost visible scent of fire and brimstone in the air, a necessary calm was beginning to take hold; and he could only warn his bullheaded wife, as he had so many times, to please not take such foolhardy chances when she had no business doing so.
“Poor old Ben,” Camellia chuckled, sympathizing. “You had no idea when you married me, almost a year ago, just what you’d be getting into, did you, sweetheart?”
His sheltering, sweltering gaze took on a sudden gleam, as if the fervor of his mood had just shifted far south. “Darlin’, I had every idea. But, for now...” He bent, scooped the cumbersome woman up into his arms, and, with a good deal of his own huffing and puffing, managed to make it to the settee. There he gratefully deposited her onto the cushions and ordered her to stay.
“Stay,” muttered Camellia, displeased. “I am not a dog, Benjamin Forrester.”
“Didn’t say you were, honey. Still, I wanna see you sittin’ there when I leave the house, pretty soon, and I wanna see you sittin’ there when I get back. How about some tea? And maybe a nice hot water bottle for that backache I know is botherin’ you?”
The somewhat meager noon meal was nowhere near as elaborate nor as succulent as Camellia, with her acquired skills, might have provided. But between the two of them, Ben and Hannah, they did their best. Ben brewed a pot of coffee; Hannah boiled water for tea. While Ben sliced bakery bread and rummaged around for butter, Hannah scrambled eggs and cold leftover potatoes into an edible dish, and sliced a couple of fresh tomatoes, for good measure.
Camellia was being punished for her earlier shenanigans atop the stepladder. Banished to the parlor settee, she was at least served her repast on a nice tray, complete with napkin and condiments.
Small talk, about all and sundry, got them through dinner.
“And don’t you go gossiping about me,” she advised, at one point. “I’m right here; I can hear every word you say, you know.”
“Well, good,” said Ben, unmoved. “Then maybe you could kindly fill your mouth with edibles, ’steada complaints, so Hannah and I can get a word in edgewise. She said she wanted to check about somethin’ with me, and you been holdin’ us up.”
Turning curiously, to look over her shoulder, Camellia demanded, “Is that true, Hen?”
“It is, indeed. At the time, when Ben suggested coming here to speak in privacy, I didn’t realize it would end up being so complicated.” She chortled and spooned up more eggs. Grappling with her strong-minded sister made for hungry work, but she enjoyed getting back some of her own once in a while.
“Well, can I listen, too?”
“Of course, Cam. And you can even add comments, and voice your opinion. But I do need to keep the information confidential for a while.”
Finished, Ben took up his coffee cup, leaned back into his hard-backed wooden chair, and surveyed her. “All right, Hannah. Fire away.”
Briefly and concisely, Hannah described her last night’s visit to the Table, her chat with Abigail, and Abigail’s astounding announcement about deciding to jump into the town’s politics.
Ben’s denim-clad right leg, crossed easily over the left thigh. returned to the floor with a clunk. “You ain’t serious. She ain’t serious.”
Hannah scowled. “Of course she’s serious. Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Well, b’cause—b’cause she—well, it ain’t right for—I mean—Dagnabbit all, b’cause she’s a woman. She can’t go gettin’ herself elected to the town council!”
“Careful, there, Benjamin. Right now, sitting here, you’re outnumbered, two to one.”
The baby gave a sudden fierce kick that nearly knocked its mother off the settee. “Mercy! I do believe it might be three to one, Hannah. And she doesn’t appreciate her father being so chauvinistic.”
The blank expression on Ben’s rugged face had all the look of betrayal. How dare this infant, child of his loins, consider being born female? “You’re sayin’ that Abigail—the one that owns and runs Table of Contents—that Abigail—”
“Do you know any others in town?” Hannah asked coldly.
“—That she wants a seat to help run Turnabout?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Camellia, who had gotten her breath back, shifted to add her own voice in support. “Why, Ben, dear, I think that’s a marvelous idea! She has all sorts of experience, she knows what would be good for the town, and what wouldn’t. And just think how progressive we would be considered. Why, new residents would want to move here in droves.”
“Huh. Or move away. And we’d be considered a laughingstock, more like.” His tone was as gloomy as his turned-down mouth. “Hone
y, this wouldn’t work. You ladies just gotta take under advisement that—”
“What, Ben?” Hannah, rising to start clearing scraped dishes with a clatter and a bang, refused to give any quarter on this issue. “That we are inferior in some way?”
Much beset, he was about ready to crawl under the table to escape this hornet’s nest he had unwittingly stirred up. “No, no, o’ course I didn’t mean that. You shouldn’t be takin’ words outa—”
“Then don’t be thinking those words. You have no other candidates for the seat that Mr. Cutter vacated, have you?”
“Uh...not at this very moment,” Ben ventured cautiously. “But I’m sure somebody’ll come forward to put their name into the hat. We just had some hot tempers that night, and—”
“Simply think how a lady’s calming presence will keep those hot tempers at bay,” piped up Camellia from her settee. “And imagine the whole different perspective an intelligent woman will bring to any problems that arise. Hen, this is a brilliant idea. Please let Abby know that I will support her in her campaign, and I’m sure that my sweetheart Ben will, too, once he’s had time to think over the proposition.”
Her sweetheart Ben let out a groan. “If that don’t beat all. You’re gonna have me hornswoggled and henpecked b’fore I’m thirty, I do declare.”
Hannah couldn’t hold back a giggle. Then, relenting, she turned from the sink to lay a comforting, reassuring hand upon her brother-in-law’s hunched shoulder. “Cheer up, Ben. It could be worse. Abigail could consider running for the position of town mayor.”
Chapter Fifteen
AT NEARLY NOON ON FRIDAY, February 17th, a stagecoach for the Southern Belle Line, Inc., driven by Sam Tucker on his weekly run, came thundering into Turnabout as if Old Scratch himself might be following right behind. It was a cavalcade more unusual than most: Sam’s trademark battered Stetson had disappeared, his shotgun partner was nowhere in sight, the coats of all six harnessed horses wore swathes of white froth, and a saddled horse was tied to the rear boot.