New Beginnings Spring 20 Book Box Set

by Hope Sinclair

  “Jane,” the waitress replied stiffly.

  “Jane,” Mr. Larrabee repeated, his voice perverting her name as his smile spread, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth that bore a stunning resemblance to the bright yellow kernels of corn that were bobbing around in that night’s supper—a brothy vegetable soup.

  It was just after ten at night, which meant that the steel mill had just rotated shifts—releasing the men who had spent the late afternoon and early evening toiling over the molten vats of liquid steel, and replacing them with the next crop of workers who would carry on through the night and into the early morning.

  Every shift rotation at the steel mill was marked by the sudden influx of patrons at Bosko’s Restaurant. The steel mill was built on the outskirts of Chicago, and workers faced at least a mile-long trek back into the city after each shift. Bosko’s was the only restaurant located on the otherwise barren stretch of road that led to the city, which made it an easy choice for steel workers coming off of a shift already tired, and oftentimes burned or injured. The men couldn’t face the walk on an empty stomach. The warm aroma of fresh, home-cooked Polish food wafting from Bosko’s was, more often than not, a temptation too great to resist.

  For men like Mr. Larrabee, it seemed that food wasn’t the only temptation to be found at Bosko’s. A frequent patron of the restaurant, Mr. Larrabee had made it quite clear that his cravings extended beyond the plain Polish staples that were offered on the restaurant’s menu. Rather, it was the beautiful young waitress who caught his interest, and he certainly wasn’t the only one.

  Jane Brooks was beautiful, with a soft youthful face that looked even younger than her twenty-two years, sharp eyes that shimmered like gray pearls, a crown of vibrant auburn curls, and the delicate womanly figure that seemed reserved for romantic paintings or marble sculptures—pinched narrow waist, curved bosom, and hips that proved more than adequate for childbearing—the young waitress was an easy target of male affection, particularly from the unrefined men who came to Bosko’s after a lengthy shift at the steel mill.

  Drenched in sweat and ash, it seemed as though any decency that these men might usually have had melted away with the steel, leaving them immune to the normal rules of decorum and formality that governed interactions between gentlemen and ladies, and rendering them unashamed of flaunting their ill intentions brazenly.

  Jane was sorry to say that she had grown accustomed to unwanted attention from the rough and impolite steel workers that patronized the restaurant. The young woman had first taken the waitressing job at Bosko’s a year earlier, after her mother’s death, and in that time she had quickly become disenchanted with the stark realities of life as a single woman in the city.

  “What will you be having tonight, Mr. Larrabee?” Jane asked, already growing impatient.

  “What are my options?” The man’s voice was smooth and sultry. A year ago the crude hint of suggestion in his voice might have made Jane’s skin crawl, but she had long perfected the delicate art of avoiding an unwanted advance. As a young, single woman living alone in Chicago, it was a necessary skill.

  “Vegetable soup or pierogi and kielbasa,” Jane said.

  “Is that all?” Mr. Larrabee asked. “I was hoping for something a little more comforting on this cold winter night.” He glanced up at the waitress, his eyes twisting with lust.

  Jane sighed heavily, returning the man’s sultry stare with a defiant glare. “If you’re unsatisfied with the menu offerings,” she said bluntly, “you’re more than welcome to air your grievances to the chef. Though I must warn you, Mr. Bosko doesn’t take kindly to criticism.”

  Mr. Bosko, the restaurant’s owner and chef, was a hulk of a man. Towering at nearly seven feet tall and appearing to measure just as wide, he was an intimidating figure. He was certainly not the sort of man you’d want to test by openly insulting his cooking.

  Of course Jane knew that Mr. Bosko’s personality and mannerisms couldn’t be further opposite from his intimidating stature and presence. He was a warm and kind man, through and through. But the patrons of the restaurant didn’t know that Mr. Bosko had a soft side, and Jane had no intention of disclosing that her boss was a gentle giant at heart.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Larrabee said quickly, his face going suddenly pale, and the flurry of nerves replacing the glassy lust in his eyes. “On second thought, the pierogi and kielbasa should be more than sufficient to satisfy my appetite.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Jane snapped.

  She skirted away from Larrabee’s table, then navigated the rest of the bustling restaurant on her way back to the kitchen. The cramped dining area was filled with workers, fresh from their shift. Their chatter vibrated through the walls—crude jokes, laughter, twangy accents.

  Across the restaurant, Jane caught the eye of Emily Pritchett, her long-time friend and fellow waitress, and they exchanged a knowing look of disgust before Jane pushed her way through the swinging kitchen door and escaped the chaos of the dining room.

  Like Jane, Emily was a young and attractive woman who, through a series of unfavorable circumstances, had wound up forced to fend for herself in Chicago. Unlike Jane, though, Emily wasn’t facing the dire realities of life entirely alone, she had the support of her grandmother. Though Emily’s grandmother was elderly, unemployed, and more often than not suffering through the late stages of her failing health, Jane was secretly envious that Emily had a warm home to go to at the end of every long and dreary day at the restaurant. Jane desperately longed for the comforts of companionship—any companionship, even that of an elderly relative.

  Jane turned into the kitchen and nearly ran straight into Mr. Bosko, who stood over the stove stirring a bubbling pot of boiled cabbage.

  “Oy! Careful!” Mr. Bosko grunted, then muttered something under his breath in his native Polish.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bosko,” Jane chirped, swinging around the cramped kitchen and fetching a clean plate, which she then carried to a steaming pot of pierogi that sat beside the stove. Using a long ladle, she quickly filled the plate with food as Mr. Bosko looked on.

  “You’re distracted tonight,” he observed, stirring the pot on the stove as his eyes followed Jane through the kitchen. “What’s troubling you?”

  “Nothing,” Jane said. She had no intention of burdening her boss with her own petty complaints of crude or difficult customers. Mr. Bosko had enough to worry about. Besides, unsavory steel workers were just part of the job… if it wasn’t for their loyal patronage, the restaurant would go out of business. Jane knew there was no point complaining about things that couldn’t be changed.

  The kitchen door swung open again, and Emily nearly collided with Mr. Bosko as she stepped inside.

  “Oy!” Mr. Bosko grunted for a second time.

  “I see Mr. Larrabee is in rare form tonight,” Emily said to Jane, ignoring Mr. Bosko as she slipped through the kitchen and reached for a clean plate. She repeated Jane’s motions, filling the plate with a steaming heap of soft pierogi and kielbasa.

  “Always,” Jane sighed heavily. “I wish he would just go away, or at the very least find the decency within himself to eat his meal in silence.”

  “Decency? Mr. Larrabee?” Emily scoffed. “You’ve given the man far too much credit. He doesn’t have a decent bone in his body.”

  Both women knew it was true. They had both taken turns serving Mr. Larrabee for months, and if it wasn’t Larrabee, it was another man just like him. The restaurant was full of inappropriate men.

  “Is this someone I need to talk to?” Mr. Bosko offered, wielding a ladle menacingly over the stove.

  “Of course not, Mr. Bosko,” Emily said diplomatically. While both women complained freely about the men who frequented the restaurant, neither of them wished to cause a scene or disrupt business. They were, however, grateful that their boss was willing to come to their defense, even if it meant losing a paying customer.

  “So,” Emily whispered, this time keepin
g her voice down so that the conversation didn’t quite reach Mr. Bosko’s ears. “Has Mr. Larson written back yet?”

  Jane’s cheeks turned red hot and she kept her eyes pointed down at the plate in her hands.

  “Not now,” she hissed. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Oooh!” Emily crooned a bit too loudly, and Mr. Bosko glanced up from the pot on the stove.

  Jane nudged Emily quickly in the side and sent her a fierce glare, but she couldn’t remain cross with her friend for long, not now that Wyatt Larson was on her mind.

  As Jane trudged dutifully back toward Mr. Larrabee, his steaming hot plate of food balanced on her arm, her mind was no longer dwelling on the dreariness of her circumstances, nor on the unsettling grin that the crude customer wore stretched across his face.

  Rather, her thoughts were focused entirely on Wyatt Larson.

  They had become acquainted months earlier when, after a particularly harrowing few months, Jane found herself at an emotional low point: horribly lonely and hollow, and tired of her dismal circumstances and even more dismal future.

  Facing such dreary prospects, it had been all too easy for Emily to get a foothold in her mind, to convince Jane to read the advertisements in the newspaper seeking mail-order brides. While Jane might once have scoffed at these advertisements—most dripping with the desperation and sadness of the lonely men who had penned them—Jane now looked at them with new hope, saw them as a means of escaping her seemingly hopeless existence in Chicago and carving out a promising new life out west.

  Of course, her hopes had been all too quickly dashed when she started reading the advertisements. Jane quickly realized that most of the men seeking brides in the newspaper weren’t entirely unlike the patrons of Bosko’s: unrefined, unmannered, and utterly lacking class or decorum.

  She had almost abandoned the venture entirely…

  Then she found Wyatt Larson.

  And, well… that had changed everything.

  TWO

  It was nearly midnight when the women left the restaurant, joining arms to trudge along the ice-laden road that led back to Chicago. It wasn’t a particularly safe route, at least, it wasn’t one that put Jane’s mind at ease. But traveling alongside Emily made the mile-long walk feel almost enjoyable. It gave them the opportunity to gossip freely and to discuss Jane’s new favorite topic: Wyatt Larson.

  “So,” Emily pressed. “What’s this about Mr. Larson that had you blushing as red as a beet in the kitchen earlier?”

  Jane felt her face turn pink all over again, and she couldn’t help but smile. “He finally sent a photograph,” she said, biting her lip against the bitter night wind that whistled around them, stinging her soft face and making her eyes burn against the cold.

  “A photograph!” Emily exclaimed. She withdrew her arm from Jane’s, then promptly used the gloved palm of her hand to swat the other woman’s shoulder playfully. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I wouldn’t have made it through an entire night at work, if I knew!”

  “And that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” Jane said wisely, smiling at her friend.

  “Well, let me see it!” Emily groaned impatiently. “Is he handsome? Is he just dashing? He must be, the way you were blushing at the mere mention of his name!”

  Jane reached into the pocket of her dress and her fingers found the soft parchment letter that was tucked away inside, hidden. She had derived a sense of comfort and strength from that letter. All night long, she had continually reminded herself of the little secret that was hidden away in her pocket… the little secret of hope, of a future, of a means to escape Chicago and never look back.

  Wyatt Larson represented all of those things. He represented the promise of a better life out west, and the promise of never having to tolerate unruly men like Mr. Larrabee ever again. And, to answer Emily’s question, he was impossibly handsome. Almost too good to be true.

  Jane withdrew the letter and unfolded it with her bare hands, the wind stinging against her skin. She held onto the paper tightly and carefully withdrew the small clipped photograph. Then she took a moment to admire it privately for what might have been the hundredth time before passing it reluctantly to Emily.

  Emily took the photo in her gloved hands but Jane didn’t let go. She didn’t trust Emily’s grip with an item this precious, certainly not with the bitter winds whipping around them. Until Jane had the real Mr. Larson, in the flesh, this photo was the best thing she had, and she was quite protective of it.

  Emily’s eyes went wide instantly and her mouth dropped open softly. “Oh, Jane!” she gasped. “He’s so… so…” she shook her head, clearly at a loss for words.

  “He’s so perfect,” Jane interjected defensively on her friend’s behalf, snatching the photograph back. She had been plenty protective of the photograph, but she hadn’t realized that those instincts extended to a defensiveness of the photograph’s subject, as well. Now with the photograph safely pinched between her two hands, she stared down at the solid, strong face of Mr. Larson.

  He was impossibly handsome, and in a way that was entirely unlike the men that Jane was accustomed to seeing in Chicago. The men in Chicago were a motley combination of European genes: ruddy skin, crooked noses, dark unsavory eyes, teeth too large and mouths too small, pale mops of dirt-brown hair…

  But Wyatt Larson? He was different, handsomely, wonderfully different. He had a wise face… the kind that looked to be whittled out of mahogany, carved into sharp lines and heavy angles. The contours and shadows of his face might almost be intimidating, if it wasn’t for the soft warmth of his almond-shaped eyes. His eyes, bright beacons of kindness, seemed almost to illuminate the entire photograph.

  Jane had heard it said before that the eyes were the window into a man’s soul, perhaps that was why she liked Wyatt’s eyes so much. Because they did appear to be a window into his soul, into the true depths of his character. And should his eyes be any indication, Jane knew with almost absolute certainty that Wyatt was a good man.

  Of course, his letters had all but confirmed as much. He was genuine, intelligent. He wrote with an educated eloquence and integrity that Jane found refreshing. Though she would never admit it aloud, not even to Emily, Jane had almost surely fallen in love with the man penning the letters. Seeing his face in a photograph was merely confirmation for the feelings she had already long developed.

  “He certainly is handsome,” Emily agreed finally, though her voice was heavy with reluctance. “But he appears…” her voice trailed off, and she glanced uncertainly at Jane before finishing, “…exotic.”

  Jane immediately decoded what Emily was saying. She was suggesting that Wyatt looked Indian. Like one of the red-skinned men who dressed in leather hide and adorned himself with face paint and feathers.

  And Jane would be lying if she hadn’t wondered the same thing. She glanced at the photograph again, admiring the strong yet handsome face.

  So what if he is? she decided firmly.

  Jane had never seen an Indian. The tribes had been moved west long before she was of the age to notice such things, anyway. And while the sight of an Indian was foreign and strange in Chicago, Jane understood that this wasn’t the case in the western territories. She understood that things were different beyond the life she knew in Illinois. And that was part of what made her nervous about talking to Wyatt… and about what she was about to do.

  “Emily,” Jane said carefully. She had known for some time now that this moment was coming, that revealing her plans to Emily was inevitable. She hadn’t planned on doing it that evening, but with the photograph in her hands, and her heart suddenly softened by the sight of Wyatt, she realized that this moment was as good as any.

  “I’ve made a decision,” Jane said suddenly, before hesitation or nerves could get the better of her.

  “Oh?” Emily said, smiling back with a mischievous grin that revealed that she already knew what her friend was about to reveal. This helped to put Jane slightly at eas
e.

  “Wyatt—Mr. Larson—has asked me to travel to the New Mexico Territory with the intention of becoming his bride,” Jane said shortly. “And… well, I plan to oblige.”

  “Oh, Jane!” Emily shrieked, and she was suddenly throwing her arms around her friend in a manner that made them both nearly lose their footing on the slick ice-dusted road.

  They clung onto each other as their feet skirted around, until finally they regained their footing and the hug turned from one of necessity to one of affection.

  “I’m so happy for you,” Emily said genuinely. “Really, I am. I know how lonely you’ve been… how hard things have been since losing your mother. I didn’t plan on revealing this, but… well, I’d been praying for you for some time, Jane. I’d been praying that you might find someone noble and good, so that you might never be afflicted by this loneliness again.”

  “I’ve been praying, too,” Jane admitted hesitantly. “And I hope it’s not foolish of me to say that I hope Wyatt Larson might be the answer to those prayers.”

  THREE

  Silver City, New Mexico felt every bit as delightfully foreign and remarkably brand new as Jane envisioned. It felt like a world derived straight from the pages of a fantasy book, with clear turquoise skies and the soft silver slopes of gray mountains carved out of the earth in the distance.

  The air was crisp and dry, seasoned with the sense of change, and though it was February, Jane was delighted by the warmth that hung in the air and by the absence of snow and frost. The weather was mild, and the wind blew hints of warmth rather than gusts of frost, so Jane found the climate to be nearly intoxicating. It filled her with the same hope and excitement that one might feel when they taste the first drop of spring after a long and frigid winter.

  New Mexico was Jane’s spring. Wyatt Larson was the warmth after a winter of frigid, lonely frost.

  Wyatt had made all the necessary arrangements for Jane’s passage to Silver City. He had arranged for the train journey, then he had chartered a wagon that would take her the rest of the way to his home. Further, he had booked and paid upfront for accommodations at the finest guesthouse in town—it wasn’t much, he had said modestly in one of his letters, but he wanted Jane to be comfortable.