Springwater Seasons Page 19

  He laughed, but he did not lower his hand. “Tact has never been my strong suit,” he said. “Come on, Savannah. Join the party, or June-bug, for one, won’t get a moment’s joy out of it, for fretting about you. I suppose you’ve noticed that social events are not exactly thick on the ground here at Springwater.”

  She let out a long, despairing sigh. “How can I go in these clothes?”

  “I’ll head back to the station and fetch whatever you need. You have a few—” he chose the word carefully, “proper things. I’ve seen you wear them. I assume whatever underthings you have on will suffice?” From the look in his eyes, she guessed that he was thinking she must not be wearing any, given the revealing nature of her dance-hall getup. The hell of it was, he was right, though she sure wasn’t about to say so.

  Savannah knew she was beaten; June-bug, kind hearted to a fault, would indeed come looking for any lost sheep, and if she still refused to attend the festivities, her friend was sure to fret over the fact, thereby missing out on all the fun herself. “The blue skirt, then. And the white shirtwaist. They’re on pegs, in my room.”

  Parrish executed an abbreviated salute. “Back in a trice,” he said, and was gone. Savannah watched, through the window, as he strode off down the road again, strong arms swinging at his sides. It seemed that he’d made a place for himself at Springwater, for all his faults and foibles, and she envied him that. She also missed the feel of his hand resting against her cheek, missed the stroke of his thumb and the warm pressure of those nimble surgeon’s fingers, though she would have been even less willing to admit to it than to confess that she coveted his ease of belonging.

  As promised, he returned in good time, with her clothes draped over one arm. She did wish he had come by the back way, instead of striding straight down the middle of the road, for all and sundry to see.

  “Don’t forget to wash your face,” he said, in a confidential whisper, plainly drawn toward the buzzing hive of builders at Trey and Rachel’s place.

  Savannah was almost grateful for that remark, even though it shot through her, stinging like turpentine poured over a fresh cut. She’d best get her schoolgirl feelings toward this man under control. He clearly looked down on her; hadn’t he criticized her clothing and her face paint and her occupation time and time again?

  “Thank you,” she said briskly, almost snatching her good skirt and shirtwaist from his arms.

  *

  He gave her high marks for courage, but then he’d known that about her almost from the first. Even back in Choteau, when he’d watched her working the crowd that frequented the Hell-bent Saloon, he’d noticed how she always kept her backbone straight and her chin up, how she looked people straight in the eye and gave as good as she got in just about every kind of situation.

  He would have given a great deal himself, just then, to watch her with the women parlaying around June-bug McCaffrey’s long tables. He had no doubt that she could hold her own, and it had surprised him to discover that she didn’t share the same confidence. She really was scared, pretty as she looked in her prim little skirt and blouse, with that fine face of hers scrubbed with such vigor that he could see the glow even from a distance. She’d taken her hair down—the thought of that tightened something in his groin—brushed out countless loopy curls, and rearranged the coppery tresses into a loose bun just above her nape.

  A good-natured punch in the arm jolted Pres out of his musings; he turned his head and saw Trey Hargreaves standing beside him, grinning with all the pride of a homeowner. “Jacob and me, we’ve been talking,” Hargreaves said. “Looks like there’s going to be a fair amount of lumber left over, after we’re through here. There’s some from when they built the station, too. We—I’m speaking for the town now—we’d like to put up a little place for you, over there behind the Brimstone. Nothing fancy, of course. Just a couple of rooms and a place where you could attend to folks when they have need of a doctor.”

  Pres was taken aback by the magnitude of the offer. He hadn’t considered settling at Springwater, or anywhere else for that matter. He’d gotten stranded there, that was all, and that wasn’t the same thing as deciding. “You’d do that?” he asked, amazed.

  Trey grinned. “Hell, yes. You’ll never get rich, mind. There isn’t a lot of cash money around here, and I don’t imagine there’ll ever be, unless somebody strikes gold. But we need a doctor, if we’re going to make this a place where folks will want to settle down, and all of us pretty much agree that you’d do.”

  Pres shoved a hand through his hair, somewhat at a loss. He’d been living in the McCaffreys’ hayloft—not a cold or uncomfortable place, though certainly a humble one—and he supposed he’d probably worked off the cost of his room and board. Summer wouldn’t last forever, however, and even though he’d earned the price of a stagecoach ticket several times over, putting splints and bandages on hapless cowpunchers, most of his patients had paid him in venison, dried beans, fresh eggs, or stewing chickens. He’d kept the money for much-needed supplies, and given the food to June-bug; she and Jacob had a veritable army to feed, what with all those kids, the studious, blossoming Miranda and her baby, himself, and Savannah.

  “I guess I don’t have anything better to do,” he said, at some length.

  Trey laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it,” he said, and then lowered his voice by several notches to confide, “I think my Rachel might be in the family way. She’s peevish of late, and queasy in the mornings. I’d sure feel a lot better knowing you were going to be around to catch the baby.”

  It was a common phrase, “catch the baby,” but it always struck Pres as humorous, raising a mental image of an infant shooting through the air like a cannonball, with the attending physician scrambling, arms outspread. He indicated the assemblage of house parts and eager if inept carpenters with a nod of his head. “Looks like you and the missus will have a roof, walls, and floors before a week’s out,” he said. His mind had returned to Savannah by then; he imagined her living in the soon-to-be vacant rooms over the Brimstone and felt a sense of indignation rise within him like steam.

  “Looks like it,” Trey agreed. His gaze was at once proud and fond as he glanced toward the walls of the station, behind which the women were huddled, busy as a flock of hens pecking up corn kernels. “Rachel will be glad to see the last of that saloon, and we’ll have Emma with us again, too.” He paused and shook his head. “I’m in debt up to my ears, though, and that’s a fact,” he added ruefully.

  “I guess Savannah—Miss Rigbey—will go to live in the rooms you and Rachel have been using,” Pres said. He imagined amorous cowboys sneaking up the stairs of a night, stray bullets rising through the floor. His belly ground painfully, and his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, with no conscious instructions from his mind.

  Trey’s expression was serious all of the sudden, and a little too astute for Pres’s comfort. “She’s not a whore, you know,” he said. “I’ve been Savannah’s friend for a long time now—five years or so. Except for my Rachel, there’s no finer woman in the world.”

  Pres ran his hand over his jaw; his beard was coming in, but then, it was always coming in. He ought to just give up and let it grow, that being the fashion, but he didn’t like the feel of hair on his face; it was unhygienic and, furthermore, it itched. “You don’t need to explain Miss Rigbey to me,” he said, with an implied shrug.

  Trey offered no trace of a smile now; his eyes were slightly narrowed, and everything about him testified that he was in earnest. “Don’t I?” he asked. “I’ve seen you watching her, Doc. And since you don’t come to the Brimstone to drink or play cards, I figure Savannah must be the reason you spend so much time there.”

  Pres folded his arms. “Are you about to warn me off, after that friendly speech about how the ‘town’ needs a doctor and I’ll do as well as the next sawbones to wander down the trail?”

  “No,” Trey said, still solemn. “I can see that there’s something betw
een the two of you, everybody can—except for you and her, maybe. What I’m telling you is this: Savannah’s a friend of mine. One of the best I’ve ever had. I’m prepared to like you—fact is, I already do—but if you treat my partner as anything short of a lady, I’ll leave you with some marks to show for your mistake.”

  Pres had never run from a fight in his life—unless, of course, you counted the ones he might have had with himself—and he wasn’t about to start then. Still, he had wondered about Savannah, through many a long night.

  “What happened to her?” he asked.

  Trey raised his hat and thrust a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure. Something pretty bad, I reckon. She’s got no family that I know of, and before she came here, I’m pretty sure I was the only friend she had. If you want to know what makes Savannah who she is, Doc, you ought to ask her.” The hint of a grin might have been lurking at the back of his mercury-colored eyes; Pres couldn’t be sure.

  “She’s as likely to spit in my eye as answer,” he said.

  Trey laughed. “You’re right about that,” he agreed, as Jacob approached.

  He still looked surprised that the house had arrived, since he’d oft predicted that it wouldn’t get there before spring. He kept glancing back and shaking his head.

  “I’ll be derned,” he said, for the hundredth time.

  Pres slapped him on the back. “Life is full of surprises,” he said, and then wondered if he wasn’t addressing himself as well as Jacob.

  Jacob McCaffrey was nothing if not a good sport. Voice booming, brooding eyes full of good-natured understanding, he demanded, “You two mean to stand around here jawin’ and leave the rest of us to do the real work?”

  Trey and Pres exchanged another look, then went their separate ways, Trey to help assemble the roof, Pres to unload lumber and kegs of nails alongside Landry Kildare.

  *

  They all looked up when Savannah entered the public room of the station, as though sensing that there was an imposter in their midst. June-bug beamed at her, and Rachel’s expression was friendly, too, but the others were watchful, assessing the newcomer and being none too subtle in the process. Had they been discussing her before her arrival? Just the thought made Savannah want to run until her knees gave out—to hell with Dr. Parrish and his chiding and his challenges.

  Rachel brought an attractive, fair-haired woman over to her, almost shyly. “Savannah,” she said, “this is my dearest friend in all the world, Evangeline Wainwright. We knew each other in Pennsylvania. Evangeline, Savannah Rigbey. She’s an—investor.”

  Without hesitation, Evangeline put out a strong, slender hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, in a clear voice. She was smiling warmly, and her eyes were full of light. “Will you be settling here at Springwater?”

  Savannah stammered something, though her mind was whirling at such a pace that she didn’t know what. An investor?, she thought. What could have prompted Rachel to assign her such a title? Everyone would know—must already know—that she owned half interest in the Brimstone Saloon, that she worked there, sang there, sold whiskey there. But then, those things probably couldn’t even be mentioned in polite company. “Yes,” she answered belatedly. Weakly. “I’m staying.”

  “Come and sit down,” Rachel said, pulling her toward the tables, where the women had laid out a series of colorful quilt pieces, apparently working out a pattern. “June-bug’s made tea, and there’s coffee, too, if you’d rather have that. What do you think of the wedding ring?”

  “Wedding ring?” Savannah echoed stupidly. She might have been wearing regular clothes, but she felt as if she were still in silk and feathers. The paint, washed off because it was only sensible and certainly not because Dr. Parrish had suggested that she do so, left a sort of physical echo on her face.

  Evangeline laughed, but pleasantly, the way she probably laughed with Rachel and the others. Savannah was heartily confused, having been scorned so many times in the past, by just such women as these.

  “It’s the name of a quilt pattern,” Evangeline said. “See?” She pointed out the interlocking circles of colored fabric worked into the squares.

  Savannah’s hand trembled slightly, but she couldn’t stop herself from reaching out, touching the cloth. She’d always dreamed of owning such a quilt; to her, the colorful patterns symbolized normalcy. “How beautiful,” she said, and blinked rapidly, fearing she would disgrace herself and weep for all she had missed.

  After working up her nerve, she looked from one face to another, and it seemed to her that the women were not so wary, nor so severe, as when she’d first come in. Those she didn’t know were still a little distant, though. “Did you all contribute?”

  One woman—Savannah would later know her as Mrs. Bellweather—spared a nod. Miranda, seated at the far end of the table with a pile of bright scraps before her, was watching Savannah with an expression of eager encouragement in her eyes, like someone trying to persuade a baby to take its first faltering steps.

  “It’s for the next Springwater bride,” Evangeline said, eyes bright. “We made one for Rachel already—Jacob’s ladder, it’s called—and mine is a log cabin pattern. June-bug and Sue stitched that one up, over a snowy winter.”

  Savannah looked about. Her throat felt tight. “Someone is about to be married?”

  Rachel laughed. “No one in particular. We’re all sewing our bits and pieces of calico together, though, and matching them up when we meet. When there’s a wedding, we’ll be ready.”

  Savannah was charmed and a little bemused. She sat down, at only a slight distance from the others, on one of the long benches, and June-bug set a steaming cup of tea in front of her, already laced with milk and sugar, just the way she liked it. “She’ll be a lucky bride, whoever she is,” Savannah said, perhaps a bit wistfully.

  “I hope it’s someone for Landry,” said another woman, the wife of a farmer. “Poor man. All alone, with those demon boys of his to raise. Mark my words, one of these nights, they’ll burn the house down, with him right inside.”

  Miranda, who had been sewing industriously again, seemed to catch on Kildare’s name like a fish on a hook. “How does it happen that he’s got no wife?” she asked shyly. “Somebody as fine to look at as he is, I mean.”

  The others giggled, though not unkindly, but Miranda went brick-red all the same. Savannah felt sorry for her, though she hadn’t been able to help smiling a little herself. Just for a very few moments, she forgot that she could never truly be a member of this little group; she was, after all, a dance-hall woman and assumed prostitute. If it hadn’t been for June-bug and perhaps Rachel, the others probably wouldn’t have spoken to her at all.

  “Well,” insisted Evangeline, seated across from Savannah, beside her good friend Rachel, and stitching away, “he is handsome. Landry, I mean.”

  “Had him a wife once,” said another woman, after everyone had clucked over Evangeline’s daring remark. “The cholera took her. Pretty thing, delicate-like, with quiet ways.”

  Miranda twisted her hands, her face a study in sympathy for all the Kildares. “It’s a terrible thing, the cholera,” she said. “We saw plenty of it on the way out here from St. Louis.” She paused. “How long ago was that? When Mrs. Kildare passed over, I mean?”

  “Must have been quite a while back,” June-bug put in. “It was before Jacob and I came to run the station. He already had that place of his when we got here.”

  “He was one of the first to settle around here,” affirmed Mrs. Bellweather, who looked worn-down to Savannah, as though she’d known too much hardship, too much work and sorrow for one body to sort through. “Came to this country about the same time as Big John Keating and Scully Wainwright.” She paused and tightened her narrow little mouth. “She’s buried right there, too. They say he used to sleep beside that grave, till the weather got too cold.”

  Rachel and Evangeline exchanged glances and stitched a little faster.

  “What was her name?”
Miranda dared to ask. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, and her fingers were knotted together, white at the knuckles, her quilt square forgotten on the table before her.

  “Caroline,” the woman answered, after a few moments of consideration. “Why do you ask?”

  Miranda flushed and swallowed.

  June-bug laid an affectionate hand to the girl’s shoulder. “She’s just curious, that’s all,” she said, with a broad smile, neatly dismissing the subject. “Nothin’ wrong with that.”

  The sewing continued, and so did the talk, the pouring and sipping of tea, the merry laughter. Savannah was glad she’d locked up the saloon and ventured into this circle of women; maybe they hadn’t exactly enfolded her, but they hadn’t shut her out, either. She was a part of the group, if only at the fringes, and she relished the novelty of that, pretending to herself, just for that long, hot afternoon, that she was an ordinary wife, with a house to keep, and a husband to feed and humor and plague about flower seeds and glass windows and what to make for supper.

  The preparation of the evening meal was a spectacular enterprise, with tasks for everyone to perform, all of them orchestrated by June-bug, and Savannah was included without hesitation. Although she knew little or nothing about cooking, she did remember how to peel potatoes, so June-bug assigned her that job.

  Now and then, one or another of the men straggled in, looking for coffee and a temporary place out of the sun, but they soon became uncomfortable in the presence of so many women and departed again. Until Dr. Parrish came in, that is. He stood quietly on the hearth, leaning at his ease against the mantelpiece, cup in hand. His ebony eyes sought Savannah, found her, held her captive, by means of some strange and elemental magic. She did not look at him directly—refused to do so—but she was aware of his observance all the same, conscious of him in every cell of her body and every wisp of her soul.

  She was annoyed to find herself in such a state, again. She wanted to run, from him, from the calm embrace of Springwater itself, to get up from that table, throw her few belongings into a satchel, and dash off into the night, without even bothering to choose a direction first. She could not, would not ever be vulnerable again; the one time she had let down her guard, she’d all but ruined her life.