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“Ned, you might try Third Street. There’s a First Methodist Church on the corner.” He chuckled. “And you might try the Second Methodist Church on the opposite corner! There was a theological argument, I believe, and some chairs were thrown around.”
Uncertain, Ned lingered at the depot. For some reason, he turned his attention to that corner of the lobby where only two nights ago, he had noticed a woman sitting on a trunk, chin in hand. He thought it odd that she wasn’t sitting on the bench, which made him suspect she trusted people as little as he did.
She was long gone now, but he remembered her pale skin and her brown eyes, probably nothing special in themselves, except that her eyes were large and the brown so deep.
He also remembered the worried look in them, and how he had just resisted the urge to go over there and ask her if something was wrong, and if he could help. He had even checked back later that evening, but she was gone by then. Whoever was supposed to meet her in Cheyenne must have finally arrived. Ned couldn’t help hoping she gave the man—husband, fiancé, whatever—a piece of her mind. Ladies had no business sitting alone in train depots.
Never mind that. “Chore girl, chore girl,” he muttered out loud as he went first to the Plainsman to get a room for the night, ate lunch, and then went in search of the First or Second or maybe Third Methodist Church in town. Or maybe it was the Second Methodist Church on Fourth Street?
The First Methodist Church promised some help, if only because a man stood by a signboard, putting up letters to spell next Sunday’s sermon. Ned watched for a moment as The Wag turned into The Wages of Sin.
Ned thought about his most recent sin, a pleasant one, really, committed four days ago in Nettie Lewis’s parlor house on Third Street. Hopefully the man putting up the sign wouldn’t be able to read Ned’s misdemeanors on his face.
“Sir, I’m looking for a chore girl,” he said, with no preamble. “The stationmaster said you might know some poor unfortunate lady a bit down on her luck and...”
The man pointed across the street to the Second Methodist Church. “He takes in strays.”
That was one way to put it. Ned couldn’t help conjuring up the image of a bedraggled pup that had wandered onto the Eight Bar many years ago. Mama had let him keep the ragged morsel until it became obvious they were harboring a wolf.
Ned crossed the street to the building with raw, unpainted wood proclaiming itself the Second Methodist Church. He heard someone singing “Rock of Ages” in a vigorous baritone, and followed the sound.
The singer was a man almost as short as he was round, slapping on paint in rhythm to his hymn. Ned watched in real appreciation until the man noticed him and stopped.
“Did you come to help, sonny?” the man asked.
Ned came closer and saw that the painter was at least a decade older than his own father, but brimming with health and energy that Dan Avery no longer possessed.
“Not quite, sir,” Ned told him. “I’m from the Eight Bar near Medicine Bow and I need to hire a chore girl in the worst way. A neighbor lady told me the Lord would provide, so I’m here.”
“Reverend Lucius Peabody,” the man said. “Racine, Wisconsin, come West to rescue the damned. In the worst way, you say? That’s an odd way to phrase your needs in front of a minister of the gospel.”
“Oh, no!” Ned began. “I mean I need to find such a person right now to help care for my father, who has heart disease, and look after the house. I’ll pay thirty dollars a month, but she has to be respect...”
The minister held up his hand, brush and all, appearing not to notice the paint dripping down his arm. “I don’t run an employment agency,” he said, “but I might be able to help you. Come closer.”
Ned did as he was bid, holding out his own handkerchief when the little man appeared not to possess such a thing. Reverend Peabody took it with a nod and wiped his arms after setting the brush in the tin can.
“Two nights ago, the sheriff brought a little miss here. She’d been waiting for her fiancé from Lusk to pick her up at the depot.” The minister had dropped his voice to barely above a whisper.
I know, I saw her, Ned thought, filled with chagrin that he had done nothing about his charitable impulse.
“He hasn’t showed up yet?” Ned asked.
“Worse than that,” Peabody said with a shake of his head. “She said her fiancé was a man from Maine, name of Saul Coffin. Sheriff Miller got a garbled telegram from Lusk’s sheriff, something about a shooting that left one man dead or nearly so, and the other in jail.” The minister looked skyward, as though expecting a vision. His hand went up to trace imaginary letters, courtesy of Western Union. “Bar fight. Stop. Coffin. Stop. Deader than Abe Lincoln. Stop.” He put his hand down. “Miss Peck said her fiancé had a foul temper, but who’s to say the coffin was just a coffin, with anybody in it, or the sheriff meant Saul Coffin?”
“If Mr. Coffin never showed up, that’s a pretty good indication,” Ned began. “What’s the law like in Lusk?”
“’Bout like this letter, sketchy, garbled and confused,” Peabody replied. “And the sheriff fought for the South. Writing coherent messages has never been his specialty.”
He stood there for a long moment, sizing up Ned, who gazed back. “You don’t seem like a bad customer,” he said finally. “Follow me.”
Not sure whether to be offended or amused, Ned followed him around the church to a side already painted, which featured a young woman standing on a wooden box, scrubbing the window.
She was humming to herself and hadn’t seen them yet, so Ned hung back just to look at her, the same young woman he had noticed two days ago in the depot.
Her hair was covered in a bandanna, but he already knew it was smooth and dark brown. He couldn’t see her entire face yet, but he recognized her trim figure.
“Miss Peck?” the Reverend Peabody called.
Even before she turned around, Ned knew he would see brown eyes of considerable depth. Now he saw interest and even recognition.
“You were in the depot a few nights ago,” she said to Ned.
At least, he thought that’s what she said. Her accent was charming, but nearly incomprehensible and made him shake his head.
She must have seen that reaction several times since she had left wherever it was she came from. She repeated herself more slowly, and the words came out stilted and exaggerated, but understandable.
“I was,” he replied. “Beg pardon, ma’am, but where are you from?”
“The US, same’s you,” she said. “Maine.” She spoke slowly and distinctly. “Maybe you would introduce yourself?”
Of course. Lord, he was a ninny. “Um, Edward Avery, ma’am, and you are?”
“Katherine Peck,” she said. Still standing on the box, she set the wet rag in the bucket, swiped her hand across an apron many sizes too large for her, and held it out to him.
He shook her hand, enjoying the firmness of her damp handshake.
Ned had always been a man of swift decision. Perhaps Wyoming, with its vagaries and harsh living had pounded that into him. Maybe he even prided himself on his ability to size up someone. He took another look at Miss Katherine Peck, she of the impenetrable accent and no prospects, if she was washing windows for a preacher, and wasted not a minute.
“Miss Peck, I’ll pay you thirty dollars a month to be my chore girl.”
Chapter Two (#ulink_ba0b32a2-cb3e-5694-a939-418a2c72c917)
“What makes you think I need a job?” she asked, her eyes going from the rancher wearing a canvas duster, to the round little minister who had so kindly taken her in a few nights ago.
“Well, Mr. uh, Reverend, uh. He said...” Mr. Avery stopped. “Maybe I was wrong.” He turned to go.
Katie could tell she had embarrassed him, and she wondered again why she carried around so much resentment. Things weren’t good and she did need a job. She needed something. A man had offered her employment and she had snarled at him like a homeless pup with nothing going in its favor.
“I do need a job, because I am not going back to Massachusetts,” she said.
He stopped and turned around, but his eyes looked wary now. “You said Maine.”
“I work in Massachusetts,” she said in a rush, unwilling to apologize for her sharpness, but equally unwilling to embarrass him further. “I’m a mill girl. I regulate four looms in Lowell at the Chase Millworks. I came West to get married, but I don’t think that’s happening.”
The rancher nodded. “The preacher told me a little.”
Katie could tell he was unwilling to ask any more, which touched her heart. Maybe people didn’t pry out here. Maybe others came West on a shoestring like she had, with their own histories to leave behind.
She could tell he was a patient man—something in his eyes—but she could also see that he had no time to waste, the way he slapped his gloves from one hand to the other. And she needed a job.
Katie stepped down off the box and seated herself on it. “Mr. Avery, you tell me what you need, and I’ll answer your questions.” She indicated the other corner of the box, as if they sat in the parlor at the dormitory at the millworks, and not the back wall of a half-painted church.
He sat down, hat in hand, which he set on the ground beside him, and didn’t dillydally. “My father is, well, he’s dying of heart disease. He can’t do much except lie in bed and chafe about the hand dealt him. He won’t want you there, even though he knows he needs you.”
“Just the two of you?” Katie asked. “You don’t have a wife?”
“I have a little brother,” Mr. Avery said. He made a wry face. “He’s not altogether. I mean, he’s polite and kind and generally follows orders, but...”
He looked away, and she saw the muscles work in his face. She knew she sat with a private man, one not accustomed to telling anyone much of anything, and here she was, a stranger.
“You can’t quite trust him to take care of your father while you do the outside work,” Katie filled in.
His expression changed and his shoulders relaxed. She could tell he was relieved that he didn’t have to say more.
“I’ll pay you thirty dollars a month, in addition to your room and board,” he said, not looking at her. She saw the red rise in his face, and she knew there was more.
“Will I have a room?”
“No, ma’am,” he said finally. “Pa built the place a room at a time, as we needed it. It all connects and there’s nothing for a chore girl.”
She couldn’t take his offer, even as she knew she wanted to. As it was now, she shared a tiny room with two other women of questionable virtue who were, as Reverend Peabody whispered in a low voice, “Trying to get out of the life.” The collection plate on Sunday yielded very little revenue in a railroad town like Cheyenne that was just starting to think about respectability, but not too hard. The meals were almost as sparse as they had been at home in Maine, and the minister had a wife and two hopeful children.
“It doesn’t have to be a large room,” she surprised herself by saying. “A corner of the kitchen?” Try a little harder, Mr. Avery, she thought, encouraging him silently to think of something, because she couldn’t burden the Peabodys any longer.
Silence, then, “I could partition off the sitting room. No one sits there.”
He was quiet again. Kate could tell he had no intention of begging or pleading. He wasn’t that kind of man.
She knew it was going to be a poor, hard job, but she was used to those. She put out her hand. “I’ll do it.”
He shook her hand for the second time in barely ten minutes. She felt relief cover her like a blanket and made no effort to release his hand. He chuckled and hung on to her hand, too. “I get the feeling that we’re both really relieved by this turn of events,” he said.
“Ayuh.”
“What?” he asked.
“Yes,” she translated. “I’ll try to remember that you don’t speak Maine.”
She let go of his hand and stood up. “I... I’d better finish this window,” she said, shy now. “I promised the preacher.”
He stood up, and put on his hat, which made him loom over her. She stepped back instinctively, teetered on the edge of the box and felt his firm hand in the small of her back to steady her.
“Be careful!” he admonished, but kindly. “Train leaves at seven tomorrow morning. Can you meet me at the depot?”
Katie nodded and applied herself to the window. He tipped his hat to her, and left as quietly as he had come. In another minute she was singing again, something a little livelier than the reverend’s “Rock of Ages.”
Satchel in hand, Ned was waiting at the depot by six thirty the next morning, wondering if Katherine Peck would come, or if she had changed her mind. He had already bought her ticket to Medicine Bow, but he knew he could exchange it if she changed her mind. I need you, he thought, looking through the depot doors toward Fifteenth Street. He hoped she would see him as an ally, and not just a boss. Pop needed to be handled delicately.
And there she was, coat too light for this climate slung over her arm, tugging a battered tin trunk after her. She shook her head when one of the other passengers offered to help her. Maybe she thought she would have to tip them, and she had no money.
He took it from her, surprised how light it was. He thought of Mrs. Higgins’s own daughter, and her two trunks full of clothing and household goods, when she married a rancher near Sheridan, plus furniture. Katherine Peck had next to nothing. Maybe she saw Wyoming as a step up from the mills.
He gave her her ticket and tipped a young boy a quarter to wrestle her trunk aboard the westbound train, which steamed and waited—just barely—acting like a horse ready to race and held in check with some effort.
She followed him down the aisle and sat where he pointed. He sat next to her, after removing his duster and stowing it overhead, along with her coat. That coat would never do, but he didn’t feel bold enough to tell her.
They had some time to wait, and he did want to know more about her.
“I was wondering if you might have second thoughts about accepting my offer,” he said, more as small talk than serious conversation.
“No second thoughts,” she said. “Nay, not one.”
Nay? He asked himself. That’s quaint, but I can understand her better. “Will you go back to Massachusetts or Maine when you accumulate some savings?” he asked her, even though it pained him. He was not a man to pry.
“Not either place,” she said firmly. “I don’t aim to backtrack.”
There was so much he wanted to ask her, and it must have shown on his face. She stifled a little sigh, then folded her hands on her lap with an air of resolution. “I am, or was, a mill girl, from Lowell, Massachusetts,” she said. “I went to the mill at twelve years.”
“You have a fellow out here?” he asked.
“One of the mill’s floor managers has a cousin who farms near Lusk.”
“Ranches,” he corrected. “No one farms anything in Lusk.”
“Saul Coffin went there four months ago. He and I had an understanding.”
“Going to marry you?”
“Ayuh. A month ago he sent me part of the train fare. He was supposed to meet me here.” She looked at the back of the seat in front of them. “The Reverend Peabody said he told you what we think happened to Saul, uh, Mr. Coffin.”
“Lots of reasons a man can miss a train,” he said, suddenly not wishing to crush her with the likelihood of her fiancé’s death, even though she had already heard the worst. “Something delayed him, that’s all.”
“The reverend told me the same thing,” she said, looking at him now. “After you left, he and I walked to the sheriff’s office and told him where I would be, if someone came to inquire.”
“Wise of you. You may hear from him yet,” Ned said.
He could tell that she didn’t believe him, which made him wonder if she’d ever had a nice thing happen to her. He didn’t think there were many.
“Boooard! Boooard!” the conductor called.
Ned thought Miss Peck might look back at Cheyenne as they pulled out, but she kept her gaze directly in front of her. The town obviously held nothing for her except disappointment, something that she seemed to possess a lot of.
“Nothing here for you,” he commented, mostly just to fill an empty space.
“No, sir,” she agreed promptly.
“Christmas is coming,” Ned told her, then felt like a complete idiot. Of course it was coming! So was the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. New Year’s, too.
