Two Brides Too Many (10 page)

F
riday morning, Kat added a period to her last sentence and, laying her journal in her lap, shut her eyes and leaned back in the rocker. She swayed in slow, steady sweeps, breathing in rhythm with the chair’s light creaks.

She had the room to herself for a few moments, and she wasn’t quite finished taking full advantage of it. Kat had come upstairs to “get ready” for her walk into town after they finished the breakfast cleanup, and Rosita was down playing with the other children.

She’d taken advantage of the quiet to write in her journal. Since she’d left Maine, her writing had less to do with poetry than it did prayers. More like pleas, really. Petitions for herself and for others—Nell and Rosita, Father, Vivian and Ida, Edith and Lucille, and Thelma and her three children. Kat found herself especially diligent about praying for Nell’s Judson Archer. Nell wanted him and needed him. Kat prayed Judson was a good man who would take care of her sister and cherish her. And that he’d show up soon.

As Kat went down her list of people to pray for, she said a special
prayer for Patrick’s family, wherever they were. A squeal from downstairs pulled Kat out of her reverie. Opening her eyes, she stilled the rocker and carried her journal over to the trunk. She had better get moving. There were things she needed to tend to, and right now, finding a home for Rosita topped her list.

Sliding her book of writings down the inside edge of the trunk, she bumped up against the flask and the dishtowel she’d wrapped around it. She didn’t know why she’d even kept it. She buried the flask beneath the tea towels Ida had embroidered for her, squared her shoulders, and walked over to the wardrobe.

Kat pulled her hat off the shelf and tied its ribbons firmly under her chin. Then she walked down the stairs, where waves of laughter rolled out of the parlor.

Two button eyes peered over the back of the sofa. HopHop’s long ears flopped over Rosita’s little brown hand, and a strand of raven black hair streaked the bunny’s expressionless face.

“Greeting, Miss Hattie. I’m HopHop the bunny.” A toothy smile widened the little girl’s face. Hattie tittered. Kat giggled, and so did the others.

Nell rose from a chair and joined Kat in the doorway. “Look how happy you made her,” she said under her breath.

“I just gave her the rabbit.”

Nell pinched her lips together and shook her head. “You gave Rosita hope.”

Hope in the form of a rabbit? Kat smiled. Perhaps she had made a difference, even if it was only a small one, for a short time.

“While you were upstairs, Thelma’s husband took a break from
the work and stopped by.” The smile left Nell’s eyes. “He’s found them a place to live.”

“That’s great.” Kat forced herself to smile. “So they’ll all be leaving? When?”

“Tomorrow.”

The news added even more urgency to Kat’s errand. Once the other women and children were gone, Rosita wouldn’t have anyone here to play with. Then what would she do?

“I’d better get going.” Kat glanced over at Rosita. She clutched HopHop, watching one of the other little girls play puppet with a sock monkey Hattie had found in her things. “I’ll be back in plenty of time to help you with lunch.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“I’m sure, and the walk will do me good.” Kat smoothed the lace collar on her two-pieced dress.

“I should go with you,” Nell said, moving to follow her sister.

“You’re needed here.” Kat gestured toward the children. “And Judson could call for you at any moment.”

Nell shook her head. “I hope so.”

“I do too. Just because Patrick turned out to be a…God rest his drunken, two-timing soul, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t find Judson and marry him.”

Kat gave her sister a quick hug, then strolled down Hattie’s front porch steps. In truth, she was thankful for a little more time to herself. The sun felt good on her patched shoulder, and she liked the local practice of only wearing one petticoat. A simpler, more comfortable way of dressing suited her just fine. She took careful strides down the
hill to the core of Cripple Creek. What ground wasn’t slushy from the melting snow was littered with the ash that still filled the air with a choking dryness.

The town was abuzz with activity. Some men loaded piles of rubbish into carts and wagons, while others worked on the water pipes or erected tents or other makeshift buildings. Kat strolled east on the sunny north side of Bennett, her boot heels clacking on the boardwalk. Farther up, the First National Bank of Cripple Creek had hung a shingle on a charred warehouse. She stepped out around the folks lined up out in front of it. Passing the burned-out Cash and Carry gave her pause. As she walked out around the ten-by-twelve-foot frame box that sat on the street, she read the sign:
OLLIE
’
S SALOON
. Kat’s breaths grew shallow and her knees weak.

She shook her head.

She couldn’t think about Patrick. Not about any of it. Not now. She needed to concentrate on finding a home for Rosita.

At Bennett and Third Street, Kat turned south past the Mush and Milk House to Myers Avenue, and turned right.

Keeping her head high and her gaze straight on, she walked at a clipped pace toward the burned-out area where she’d first seen Rosita. She had a job to do: find Rosita’s family. There had to be more to her family than a deceased mother. Maybe a father somewhere. Aunts. Uncles. Grandparents. Someone had to be looking for the child. And if her only family was the Sunny girls, as the child referred to them, then so be it.

“Hello, little lady.”

Kat started, and spun around. She saw the mule first, then a wiry man in grubby overalls on the other side of the animal.

“Boney’s the name. Boney Hughes.”

“Kat…Katherine Sinclair.”

“Well, Miss Sinclair, you look about as out of place here as udders on a bull.” He spit a stream of brown on the snowy street behind him.

Kat forced down a gag before she spoke. “I’m looking for Sunny. I know her…uh, building is gone, but I thought she might be here for the reconstruction.”

“Men are taking care of that. Sunny’s workin’ out of Lola’s Parlor till they can get her new buildin’ up.” He looked down the street, where a handful of tents stood. “Lola’s is that brick building at the end.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Hughes.” Kat headed down the street and stopped outside the two-story house. The fire had scorched one side of it, but etched flower bouquets still decorated the glass windows on the front, obscuring the view to the inside.

Kat straightened her spine and opened the door. Her boots sank into a plush carpet. A grandfather clock stood between two Queen Anne chairs. Flocked wallpaper. Mirrors. It wasn’t how she’d expected the inside of a brothel to look. Not that she’d given it much thought. But it was no wonder that some women would turn their heads this way. Lofty living. Fine gowns. Amans attention.

Patrick’s attention
.

The sound of a rustling gown drew Kat’s attention to the velvet drapes at the back of the room. A curvy woman in a silk dress sauntered through them. At the sight of Kat, the woman’s smile melted.

“Not a client, I see.” She slapped her lace fan shut against her other hand. “You a missionary, come to save us?”

A slow burn crept up Kat’s neck and over her jaw. “Uh…I’m looking for Sunny.”

“That’s me.” Wavy blond hair streaked the woman’s bare shoulders.

When Kat was nervous, her gloves made her hands sweat, so she tugged them off. “I’m Kat Sinclair, and I’m not a missionary, ma’am. I just wanted to talk to you about Rosita.”

“Carmen’s girl. None of us have seen her since the fire that took her mama.”

“I found Rosita during the fire. My sister and I have been caring for her, but we can’t continue to do so. I came to ask about her family. If you or any of your…uh, workers know anything about Rosita’s father or—”

“Most of the girls don’t say much about family, and I don’t ask. We have an understanding.”

“But surely you must have heard something. Did she see any visitors besides the—”

“Rosita did mention a grandmother once. At least I think that’s what the child was talking about. Tell you what…” Sunny tapped her made-up cheek with her fan. “I could take the girl in. She’s used to us, and there are enough of us around here that we could see to her.”

Nell wouldn’t like it, but Kat had to consider what was best. The little girl wasn’t entirely comfortable with the sisters, and they were ill prepared to care for her. Patrick was gone. Judson had yet to turn up. It was best that the little girl have a stable, if not respectable, place to live. Kat was about to accept the woman’s offer when a whiskered man stumbled down the stairs, adjusting his belt.

Sunny smiled in his direction. “I could put the girl to work in the kitchen or with the laundry…something for another twelve years or so. Then she’ll be old enough to earn some real money.”

Kat flushed beneath her collar, and her shoulder wound began to burn. Sunny planned to… “You will do no such thing.”

“Have it your way, miss. But we’re all working girls, and I need to get Jeb here squared away.” Sunny raised her hands, flaunting her painted nails. “So unless you’re planning on rosying up your cheeks and lowering that hidebound neckline of yours, I suggest you scat.”

“Thank you for your time.” Thanks to Mother’s early influence, Kat was able to give a gentle answer, but she turned quickly and put her energy into opening the heavy leaded-glass door. Nell wouldn’t take to seeing the sheriff again so soon, especially if he’d come to report her sister rotting in jail for a fight in a brothel. Kat held her head high and walked out.

T
HIRTEEN

M
organ left his coupé at the hospital. He needed to stretch his legs a bit, and he took long strides down the hill to Bennett Avenue. He’d been on his feet much of the night, but the train ride across this country and the mountainous buggy ride had left his legs restless. Besides, the house he was to have moved into upon his arrival in Cripple Creek had burned to the ground, and the clear and inviting afternoon air offered him a reprieve from his temporary housing in the hospital’s dingy basement.

He knew he was ahead of the train’s scheduled arrival, so he decided to take a circuitous route to the depot. He would get his blood pumping while he made a mental list of some of his tasks.

He needed to send a telegraph to let his mother know he’d arrived safely.

To arrange transport for his belongings.

And secure a place to store them until he found proper housing.

Morgan hadn’t finished his list when he caught sight of a familiar face. Across the street, Miss Sinclair stepped out of one of the most
scandalous enterprises on Myers Avenue. A man stumbled out the door behind her.

“Not so fast, you pretty gal, you.” The drunk waved a glove in the air then sniffed it and touched it to Miss Sinclair’s cheek. Scowling, she grabbed her glove, and the man toyed with her, bobbing it up and down like bait.

As Morgan turned onto Bennett Avenue, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever see Miss Sinclair among polite company, or if all of her friends were of questionable character. With so much to do before dusk, he best get back to his list. If his things were on the midday train, he’d need to tend to them straightaway, before work tonight.

Morgan resumed his walk to the Midland Terminal at the east end of town. He was still considering his observation of Miss Sinclair when he heard piano music, a fair-to-middling rendition of “Swanee River.” The rich notes reminded him of Opal’s concert piano. It couldn’t be—He quickened his steps to the depot.

There on the landing, Miss Taggart, the woman he’d met at the hospital the day he arrived in town, perched on the bench in front of his square grand piano.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He marched toward Miss Taggart, not stopping until he was standing directly over her.

She lifted her hands off the keys as if they’d suddenly become hot. Lowering her rounded chin, she peered up at Morgan, her eyebrows raised. “Doc-tor.” She scooted off the end of the bench, stood, and pulled gloves from her pocket.

“Miss Taggart?”

“Due to the ongoing deliveries of relief items for our fire victims,
your belongings arrived at the depot early today, and the piano was just sitting here begging to be played.”

“I see.” That explained why Opal’s piano and his other furnishings sat outside exposed to the elements, but it didn’t explain why this woman whom he’d only briefly met had availed herself of his possessions. The perfectly coiffed and finely adorned woman reminded him of Penelope Covington back in Boston, and he couldn’t help but glance around expecting to see Penelope’s beady-eyed father charging toward him with his ultimatum. That image didn’t help his disposition toward Miss Taggart.

“When I heard the train whistle this morning, I came to help direct the delivery of some of the supplies.” She pulled the gloves over her small hands. “My father is Reverend Taggart, the parson at the First Congregational Church of Cripple Creek. The buildings there are being used to house the homeless and to serve as a sort of depot for clothing and bedding, and such things.”