Rimfire Bride (16 page)

“Yes, please,” Benji echoed.

“What about you, Mr. Malone?” she added.

“If you have any coffee, I’ll have that.”

“I’ll make a fresh pot,” Elfrieda said as she cut two slices of bread for the croûte.

“Slice off another piece of bread,” Drew said.

“I’m already doing it,” Elfrieda said with a chuckle. “I know you. When you smell the apples and the cinnamon, you’ll be wanting one, too.”

Drew and the boys watched as Elfrieda toasted the bread in butter and sugar and cinnamon, then cooked the slices of apple in the pan residue. When they were soft, she spooned them onto the bread and placed one in front of each of them.

“I’m so glad you came to live with us, Mrs. Considine. Daddy never fixes good things like this,” Benji said as he took a bite of the croûte.

“Thank you, Benji, but do you know it’s already tomorrow? You boys had best get some sleep,” Elfrieda said. “If you don’t need me for anything else, Mr. Malone, I’ll go get their beds ready and then go on to bed myself.”

“You go ahead. I’ll wash these cups and plates.”

“You don’t have to do that. Just leave them be
and I’ll take care of them in the morning. Come on, boys, let’s get you ready for bed.”

“Good night, Daddy,” Sam said as he finished his hot chocolate.

“Good night, Son.”

“I’m glad we didn’t die,” Benji said as he threw himself into his father’s arms.

“I am, too,” Drew said as he held his young son. Then Drew saw Sam standing back watching the two of them. “Come here, Sam. I need to hug you, too, because we’re the three musketeers.”

“What does that mean?” Benji asked as he cocked his head quizzically.

“It means we love each other.” Drew kissed each of his sons on the top of his head. “Now off to bed with both of you.”

Drew gathered the plates and the boys’ cups and put them in the dishpan. He poured hot water from the copper teakettle that always sat on the back of the cookstove, then refilled it with water from the kitchen pump, which brought water up from the cistern under the house. He carefully washed and dried the dishes, then put them back on the shelf above the marble sink.

He smiled. Frank often said Drew would make some woman a good wife someday, because until he hired Elfrieda, he had tried to do everything himself. He had done none of it well. Probably Rose was right to goad him into getting help. Even she had suggested he should take a wife. Addie’s mother. How could she even suggest such a thing?

He refilled his coffee cup and sat at the kitchen
table, holding his cup until the coffee grew tepid. Normally the kitchen was brightly lit by a gas chandelier, but at the moment a low-burning kerosene lamp dimly illuminated it.

In his mind, Drew was once again cradling the dying Addie in his arms, her blood soaking his shirt as he applied pressure to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Again he heard the words, as clearly as if she were lying here before him.

Get a good woman to take care of my boys. I love you.

It was time.

Sam’s teacher wasn’t the only single woman in town who, in Elfrieda’s words, had “set her cap” for Drew. There was also Bessie McNiel, a young widow, the mother of a ten-year-old daughter. She had let Drew know, in no uncertain terms, that she was more than ready to find another husband, and father for her daughter.

Clara Hollenbaugh was a German immigrant who worked at A. Logan’s Bakery and often brought pastries. Presumably they were for Sam and Benji, but she always brought them to the law office. Drew had finally convinced her that while he loved the honey-glazed krapfen and the fried Berliners filled with vanilla cream, “the boys” should not always have something sweet. So now, every Tuesday, as regular as clockwork, Clara delivered warm krautkrapfen for both Frank and Drew. The dough was rolled up jelly-roll fashion with a filling of sauerkraut, onions, and ham, and both men looked forward to their Tuesday lunch.

All three eligible women—teacher, widow, and
baker—were active in the Ladies’ Christian Union, a group of ladies who did charitable work around Bismarck. They also managed the Reading Room, where single men of all ages, mainly soldiers from Fort Lincoln, transients, and newcomers, could come listen to readings of the classics. Drew himself had been invited to read on numerous occasions, and he had enjoyed the evenings, even though the joke around town was that the Reading Room should really be called the Marriage Market. It was said that after only four visits to the Reading Room you would find your name in Colonel Lounsberry’s “Current Comments” section of the
Tribune
announcing your betrothal.

Jana Hartmann.

How would she be as a wife, and a mother to his children?

He had thought she could be the perfect package: attractive without being self-centered, intelligent without being overbearing, and effervescent without being gushy. But why would such a woman enter into a business arrangement with Elizabeth McClellan?

D
id
you go down to meet the rescue train last night?” Mr. Watson asked the next morning when Jana walked into the store.

“No, my sister and I were both in bed by ten o’clock.”

“Well, it was nearly midnight when it finally pulled in. I and about half the town were at the depot, mainly to meet Phin Causey. He sent word ahead that he’d be on the train with a fine lot of Mercer County venison. Everybody wanted a hindquarter and nobody wanted to wait till morning, so we all were there to meet him.”

“I’ll bet the other people were pleased to see all of you out to meet them, too.”

“I expect they were, but I was surprised how many prominent citizens were on that train. It would have been a blow to the community if it had been a bad accident. Billy Pye and his son, Johnny, were on it, and then Lulu Mason and Sadie Cole
were coming back from Miles City. You know they’re the favorites over at the Opera House. Oh, and Drew Malone and his two little boys were in the wreck, too. Somebody said he was coming back from Little Missouri. Must be he’s defending some good-for-nothing over there, but why oh why would he subject those poor children to that riffraff.”

“Oh my! Was anyone hurt?”

“No, not even a scratch on anybody. Those cars could have all turned over you know, or worse, they could have telescoped. That’s when folks get hurt bad, and most often killed, when the cars telescope in on each other.”

“It sounds like it was a miracle,” Jana said.

“I think it was. They say only the tender turned over. Say, what picture do you want to paint today?” Mr. Watson withdrew a stretched canvas from under the counter.

“I don’t think I’m going to paint today. Mrs. Watson asked me to translate a melodrama from German into English, so I’ll be doing that.”

“Ah, yes, for the Reading Room. Well, since it’s Fern askin’ you to do it, go right ahead. But do change dresses at least a couple of times. You won’t have to do any selling on the floor today; far be it from me to get in the way of one of my wife’s projects.” Mr. Watson chuckled.

Jana chose a comfortable morning wrapper to start the day. The marine-blue cashmere felt soft against her skin, and she hugged herself to feel the sensuousness of the fabric. The frog-looped gold braiding that stretched down the front from her
neck to her hemline made her think of a uniform as she took her place in the window, and with the strong wind blowing, her perch was quite drafty. Before sitting, she rearranged her window, placing the table that held her art supplies in position as a desk.

As she was moving the furniture, a passing gentleman quickly came to assist her. “Miss Hartmann, it ain’t fittin’ for a lady to be movin’ furniture, especially one as pretty as you are. Let me help ya.”

“Why, thank you, sir.” Jana moved aside, letting him put her table in place. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you.”

“Liam Flannery’s the name. I’ve been meanin’ to get meself over to the Custer, but the little woman, she don’t much want me to be doin’ that.” His face began to turn a shade of red as he looked toward his feet.

“It’s good that you’ve got a good woman to take care of you, Liam, and thank you again for helping me.”

“Ma’am, ye could be a doin’ something to help me out, too, if you don’t think I’m a might too bold to be a askin’ ya such a thing.”

“If it’s something I can do, I’ll be glad to help you. What do you need?”

“I’m one of the lads that hold back the fiend, and we’re trying to raise some money to help the cause.”

“The fiend? I don’t understand.”

“Just look around ya. Bismarck’s pretty much a wooden town, and if a fire gets started, the whole town’s gone. That’s why me and the boys at the
firehouse call fire the fiend. Once it gets started, it’s hard to stop it.”

“I see. I’ll be happy to donate to that cause.” Jana turned toward the store.

“No, no. I don’t want money, least not your money as such. It’s the dance. The one on Thanksgiving night. We’re raising money to help pay the standin’ reward. The first team that gets to the firehouse when the alarm bell rings gets a whole ten dollars, and that’s real money.”

“Oh, Mr. Flannery, I don’t think I can give you ten dollars.”

“No, no, the boys think ye’d be the one that raises the most money, if you took a turn in the—the, aw shucks, Miss Hartmann, the kissing booth.”

“The kissing booth?” Jana gasped.

“I tol’ ’em ye wouldna do it. Ye was a finer lady than that.” Liam turned to leave, knocking over a chair.

“No, wait.” Jana righted the chair. “I’ve never been asked to do something like that before. Thanksgiving’s just a couple days away, so let me think about it for a while.”

“That’s fair enough. If you show up at the dance, I’ll take it ye thought about it and said yea to me askin’, and if ye don’t come, there’s no harm done.”

“I agree. That’s fair enough.”

Jana smiled as she watched Liam walk down the street. She was thankful he had left her a graceful way out of the dilemma he had set for her. No way was she going to a dance. First of all, she had never been to a dance in her whole life, and second, she would not go alone. Though not
brought up in a social environment, she certainly knew that a single woman who wanted any kind of a reputation did not attend a social function alone. And to be asked to participate in a kissing booth?

As she thought about it, she laughed out loud. She—the woman the firemen thought would bring the most money at a kissing booth. What would they pay if they knew she could winnow mowed hay with the best of them, or shock corn as fast as any man in Madison County, Illinois? Or even better, what would someone pay for a kiss from her if they saw her in a butcher shop behind “the Yards” stuffing wurst in casings? And now, some people were looking down their noses at her for displaying herself in a store window to sell fancy clothes, or, even worse, living in the Custer Hotel.

Drew Malone. He was one of those people.
I’ve never known a woman to stay there. That’s for railroad workers and transient army officers. It’s not a place for a woman.
Those were his words.

Maybe she would go to the dance and be a part of the kissing booth. Surely the dapper Mr. Malone and his darling wife, Elfrieda, would come to a charity dance to benefit the firemen. He had wanted to kiss her for free on the night of the election. Let him pay for the privilege.

When Drew went
to work the next morning, he saw a new picture on the wall, a painting of a wheat field with a homesteader’s shack in the background. One lone tree shaded the house, and colorful clothing fluttered on a wire stretched from the house to the tree, while a woman dressed in a
white waist and a dark skirt surveyed the scene. The woman’s hair was just a shade darker than the ripened wheat, and the tall, willowy figure reminded him of someone but he couldn’t immediately place who it was.

“How do you like the new picture?” Frank asked.

“It’s very nice.” Drew examined it more closely. “It’s more than very nice. It’s quite good. Where’d you get it?”

Frank smiled. “I bought it from a local artist.”

“A local artist?” Drew shook his head. “I didn’t know we had somebody this talented living in Bismarck. Who is he?”

Frank laughed. “What makes you think it’s a he?”

“You’re right, I was making an assumption.”

“An assumption, my learned friend, that you would never make in a courtroom, as it is not supported by fact.”

“Touché,” Drew said. “All right, who’s the artist?”

“Jana Hartmann.”

“What?” Drew was surprised by the answer. “You mean the woman . . .”

“Who works for Walter Watson. Yes, that’s exactly who I mean.”

“Well, how did you come by this painting? How’d you know she did such a thing?”

“It’s not a big secret,” Frank said. “While she’s sitting in the window at Walter’s store in his fancy clothes, she’s started to paint pictures. Most of the time it’s fruit or flowers that she paints, but when I saw this one, I thought it would be appropriate for
the office, seeing as how we probably handle more land-claim business than any other law firm in town. It’s sort of representative of the immigrant, don’t you think?”

Drew touched the painting. “It’s really quite good, isn’t it? Where do you think Miss Hartmann learned to do this?”

“I think there’s more to that lady than meets the eye. Caroline tells me Fern Watson’s got her translating a classic play from German to English for the Ladies’ Christian Union to present sometime soon. And besides all this stuff, with working for Walter and all, she’s helping her sister serve meals in the saloon over at the Custer.”

“No doubt she’s making a lot of connections,” Drew said, thinking of her work with the woman who called herself Little Casino.

“Evidently, she is. I know that Walter has been just real pleased with her.”

“So”—Drew rubbed his hands together—“do I have some work piled up?”

“You do indeed. You’ve been off playin’ cowboy for two weeks, but maybe that will come in handy. Have you ever heard of the Marquis de Morès?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“He’s someone you’ll probably get to know quite well. He’s a French nobleman, married to the daughter of a wealthy American. He’s contacted the Northern Pacific about finding a tract of land for him, and they’ve contacted us because of you.”