Debra Holland (28 page)

Nick opened the gate and led Chester the Pinto into the corral. He made quick work of changing the saddle, then motioned for David to come forward and mount.

Once on the horse, Nick motioned David to walk the horse around the corral. Again, he studied the rider, and gave instructions.

David became more relaxed in the saddle. The joyful look on his face brought a lump to Ant’s throat.
 

“They look good together.” Elizabeth murmured.

After about half an hour, Nick motioned for David to come to the fence and dismount. He took the reins and led the Pinto out of the corral and over to them. David trotted by his side.

Elizabeth laughed. “You’re going to turn into quite a cowboy, David.”

The boy grinned at her and petted the filly’s nose.

“This is Star,” Nick said. “She’s a special horse—”

“Magical,” Elizabeth interrupted.

Nick laughed. “A magical horse,” he echoed. “Star was just a day old when haughty Miss Elizabeth Hamilton, newly arrived from Boston, visited dam and foal and went down on her knees in the stall and gave the filly a hug. I knew right then, I was in big trouble.”

David looked up and gave him a curious look.

Nick ruffled the boy’s hair. “I fell in love, David.

The boy made a face.
 

Nick flicked the tip of David’s nose. “You just wait until it happens to you.”

“And I…” Mrs. Sanders picked up the story, “Fell in love too.” She paused for emphasis. “With a foal.”

Ant laughed, and even David crooked a smile.

She petted Star’s nose. “I realized that living in Montana might have some redeeming features after all.”

Nick grinned at her. “You mean me?”

She playfully lifted her nose in the air. “I meant the foal.”

“The Carters gave us the filly as a wedding present.” Nick looked down at David. “Your uncle can bring you here as often as you want, and I’ll work with you to develop your riding skills.”

A generous offer from a man who must have a lot better things to do with his time.

Elizabeth touched David’s shoulder. “As I said, he’s going to turn into a cowboy, Mr. Gordon.”

“Call me Ant.”

Elizabeth giggled.

Ant gave her a sheepish look. “A university nickname. Now, about the Pinto...”

David’s face was turned to his. The pleading in the boy’s brown eyes took Ant back years. Emily had given him those looks before, and Ant had been equally unable to resist his young sister.
 

Ant stuck his hand out to Sanders. “You have yourself a deal.”

David clapped his hands together and gave a little bounce, which was all the thank you Ant needed.

He’d only bought a horse, but Ant realized that what he’d really just received was a gift of friendship from an extraordinary couple. He’d met a lot of people in his life. With his career, he’d mostly focused on the bad ones, and thus he had developed a cynical outlook on life.
 

Maybe it’s time to turn my attention to the givers.

* * *

Harriet hummed under her breath, bent over the table in the kitchen of Ant’s new home, carefully cutting the cotton material pinned to a paper pattern. She loved the design of ferns and leaves in shades of gray and black on a black background. What luck that old Abe had left behind his wife’s Singer sewing machine! Although she wasn’t the best dressmaker, she could sew a skirt to go with the white bodice she’d picked out at the mercantile with the credit that Ant had gifted her.

Harriet loved the leg-of-mutton sleeves—the first she’d ever had on a dress—and the lace at the cuffs, as well as a froth spilling at the neck. Then she’d splurged on material to make a skirt with the back flared in the latest style to wear to Samantha’s wedding.

It had been a long time since Harriet had made herself anything new. Not since she’d come to Sweetwater Springs. Even if she’d wanted to use some of her house money, Mrs. Cobb wouldn’t have let her commandeer the kitchen for a sewing project.

She gave a wiggle of happiness, enjoying having the kitchen of Ant’s house to herself. David was asleep in his room, and Ant sat in the big chair in the parlor reading.

Their first day in the new place had gone perfectly. Ant had dropped off Harriet and her possessions and left her with David, while he went back into town on business.

David had sat on her bed while she unpacked, watching everything with curious brown eyes. She kept up a stream of one-way conversation, although sometimes he nodded or shook his head in the appropriate places, so she knew he’d listened.

She and David had explored the house together, peering into every nook and cranny. Harriet took an almost proprietary delight in each new discovery. After they’d exhausted all the possibilities inside, the two had roamed around the property familiarizing themselves with each building. Then they’d wandered down to the stream, where David taught her how to skip rocks. Somehow he managed to convey what he wanted without using any words at all.

Harriet finished cutting out one piece of fabric and started on another one. A line of a poem came into her mind, and she started playing with it. By the time she’d completed the pattern, she had several lines.

I need to write them down.

Eager to find a paper and pencil, but not wanting to leave a mess in the kitchen, Harriet unpinned the paper from the material, sticking the pins into her little velvet cushion. Then she rolled the skirt into a neat bundle. Gathering up everything and taking the oil lamp, she walked into the other room. Ant didn’t look up from his reading.

In her bedroom, she allowed herself a sigh of satisfaction at seeing the colorful crazy quilt made by her mother draped over the bed. Setting the dress pieces and the rest of her sewing things in a box in the corner, she found her poetry journey and pencil.

Harriet carried them into the main room, sat down on the settee, pulled the oil lamp closer so she could see, and began to write. When she’d jotted the words down, she played with them, scratching out a couple and substituting new ones.

Ant looked up from his book. “Working on your new column?” he said, a teasing light in his eyes.

Harriet pulled herself out of her reverie. “A poem.”

Ant’s expression shuttered. He gave her a short nod, and then turned back to his book.

Harriet’s pencil hovered over the page as she tried to figure out what had just happened. Although he hadn’t said anything, Ant seemed to radiate disapproval about her writing.
No, not about the writing.
When he thought she was working on a column, he was approving.

About my poetry.

Well some people didn’t like poetry or judged it frivolous. But she hadn’t thought Ant would be in that group and couldn’t help feeling hurt about his dismissal of something she found so pleasurable.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks.
Harriet tried to finish the line she’d been working on when she was interrupted. But she did care, and Ant’s disapproval had dammed up her creative flow.

Being around him doesn’t bode well for my future poetry efforts.

* * *

Ant walked up the steps of the whitewashed brick bank that had a barred window on either side of the entrance, turned the handle of the door with
Livingston’s Boston Bank
painted in black letters across it, and stepped through. He took off his hat, closed the door behind him, and hung it on a rack, from which dangled a shapeless brown hat and a black bowler.

An elderly, balding clerk, perched behind a wooden counter looked up from writing something, his faded blue eyes widening as his gaze kept traveling upward to Ant’s face. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Livingston.”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“Anthony Gordon.”

The clerk laid down his pen, rose, and went to an inner door, where he tapped three times, and then went inside, closing it behind him. He reappeared almost immediately and said, “Mr. Livingston will see you, Sir.”

Ant stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. A gilded cage holding three finches caught his attention.
Wouldn’t have thought Livingston was the type to have birds.

Livingston, sitting behind a desk spread with papers, rose and walked around to shake his hand. “Mr. Gordon, how can I help you?” He gestured for Ant to take a seat on the wooden chair in front of his desk, then walked back behind it and sat down.

Ant admired a seascape hanging behind the banker before bringing his attention back to Livingston. “Wanted to talk to you about putting up an office building.”

“Heard you were going to start a newspaper.”

“Been thinking I might want to expand a bit. Build something big enough for the paper, and have some space to rent to others. Wanted to know if you think that would be a viable concern.”

Livingston tapped his index finger on a stack of papers. “I’m planning on building a hotel. Guests shouldn’t have to stay at Widow Murphy’s. She’s enough to drive them out of town.”

“So I’ve experienced,” Ant said in a wry tone.

The banker gave him a faint smile of acknowledgement. “I want people to stay—do business here. We need to expand the town.”
 

“Also be good for families driving in from farms and ranches that are more than a day’s drive from town. They can stay overnight.”

Livingston nodded in approval. “Exactly.”

“How fast can a building go up around here?”

“Depends on how much money you want to throw at it.”

“I have money, but the venture will probably come close to tapping me out. What do you think of such an investment?”

“Are you looking for a loan?”

“No. Just advice.”

The banker sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, obviously thinking. Silence stretched out. “Sweetwater Springs is a growing town. I think you’d be able to attract tenants. And...there might be a way we could combine forces to our mutual benefit.”

Ant’s interest quickened. “What do you have in mind?”

“If we build at the same time, we can use the same architect, workers, masons. Place bigger orders for wood and stone and other materials and get cheaper prices.”

Ant straightened in his chair. “We could have a uniformity of design that would enhance the look of the town.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“Don’t know if you’ve been to South Dakota, Minnesota, or Iowa, Livingston, but they have a stone in that area that’s mighty attractive. Sioux Quartzite, a pinky brown stone they’re using as building facades. Different from brick. Fits a Western look, yet still looks elegant.”

Livingston frowned in thought and then slowly nodded several times. “I believe I’ve seen what you’re talking about. Didn’t pay those buildings too much attention at the time, but now that you mention it, that stone would work just fine. Provided it’s not too expensive.”

“It’s practically local. Should be cheaper than importing limestone and marble, not that I’d intended marble, anyway.”

“I’d love to build a marble bank, but it’s just not practical here. I do hope to expand the bank someday, though, when this country’s out of a recession.” Livingston reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a folded paper. He spread the map of the town out across the desk and turned it so Ant could see.

Ant studied the drawing, picking out the mercantile, church, schoolhouse, bank, saloons, and some other businesses. The grid spread far beyond the main street to encompass the whole area. It would take a lot more settlers to fill the spaces.

Caleb pointed one finger at a spot near the railroad next to the mercantile. “Here’s where I’m considering building the hotel. Make it easy for people heading West to stop for the evening, instead of staying on the train all the way through. The train noise will be a nuisance, though.”

Ant tapped the other side of the railroad. “You haven’t built up this side of the town?”

“Not yet.” Livingston slid his finger to the other side of the mercantile. “Here’s an empty lot. You could claim it. It’s next to a saloon, which should provide you with easy access to news.”

Ant looked up at the banker, not sure if he’d made a joke. Since Livingston didn’t crack a smile, Ant decided he hadn’t.

“Unfortunately, the mercantile is brick, and I don’t see the Cobbs as willing to change the façade.”

“Maybe we can talk to Mack about adding a façade to the livery,” Ant joked, wanting to see if the banker had a sense of humor.
Always easier to do business with a man who can laugh.
“That might cause the Cobbs to make some changes.”

Livingston actually cracked a smile.

Ant relaxed a bit. “If we’re going to dream, how about turning the church into a cathedral and giving the Nortons a bigger parsonage. Miss Stanton would probably love a two-story schoolhouse, and Red Charlie could use a fancy blacksmith shop.”

“You are a dreamer, Mr. Gordon.”

“More of a joker.”

Livingston drummed the fingers of his right hand on his desk, seemed to come to a decision, and stilled his hand. “I already have an appointment with the architect who designed the Sanders’ house for two days from now. Do you want to join us? Give you a chance to meet the man. We can talk about our ideas.”