Weeping Angel (9 page)

He couldn't understand why Emmaline was so agitated about the situation. Amelia Marshall wasn't a hot commodity type of woman. True, she was pretty, but not with the same passion as Emmaline.

As he walked toward Gopher Road, Frank saw Pap loitering in front of the mayor's house. A cast-iron railing surrounded the lawn and front border of curly pink rose bushes, and Pap had his foot propped up on the mud scraper. He'd ingratiated himself into the company of Amelia and Mrs. Dodge. The two women stood on the other side of the closed gate while Pap gave his jaw plenty of exercise by planting a crop of words on his plaster-smiling audience.

As Frank approached, both women looked up, but Pap kept on talking.

“I played an upright in the El Dorado. You've heard of the El Dorado, haven't you, Miss Marshall?”

“I'm afraid I haven't,” she replied, turning back to face Pap.

“Why I'll be ding busted, Miss Marshall,” Pap said, shaking his derby-topped head. “Everybody's heard of the El Dorado down in San Francisco. It's the best damn gambling house I ever played in.” Pap shifted his stance and brought his foot down.

Frank noticed Amelia grew visibly embarrassed over Pap's brash language. But Pap didn't back off. He kept right on, and both ladies were apparently too cultured—and perhaps too perplexed by his attentions—to stop him.

“What all can you play, Miss Marshall?” Pap asked while adjusting the gunnysack of bottles and cans slung over his back. They made a trash-sounding noise, as if Pap were hauling a bin of garbage. “Any ballads? Popular tunes?
Love
songs?” He gave her a broad, infatuated smile, and when she didn't make a comment, he went on. “I know a few orchestral pieces by the Greats. You know, like Back and Vagger.”

Amelia nodded and corrected. “I believe you mean Bach and Wagner.”

Frank couldn't figure out what had gotten into Pap. Pap O'Cleary was running at the mouth like a braggart full of more verbal lather than suds in a shaving mug.

“Yeah, I mean those fellows,” he amended, then kept yacking. “Say, do you know how to play ‘The Band Played On?' ”

Amelia gave Frank a short glance, Pap still unaware of his approach, then she shook her head.

“Ah, I'm sure you've heard it.” Pap started to hum the tune, then sang, “Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde, and the band played on . . . hmm-hum-hmm-hum-hmm-hmm . . .” Pap swung his arm a bit, his fishing pole hitting the fence. He put the words into baritone. “He'd glide . . . hmm-hum-hmm . . . But his brain was so loaded—”

“Bust your talkbox, Pap,” Frank said, striding up to the trio. “Can't you see you're wearing the ladies out?”

“Huh?” Pap whipped around, the superfine hook on the end of his line slicing through the air. It snared Amelia's hat, and as Pap inadvertently jerked the pole, he pulled her toward the fence.

“Ow! Get it off me!” Amelia braced herself against the black iron spears and stood immobile.

“Oh, dear!” Narcissa cried and went to Amelia's side.

“What in the hell?” Pap's eyes widened as soon as he saw he'd hooked a hat and the woman beneath the brim. “Why, I'll be damned! I've caught you, Miss Marshall.” He didn't give the line any slack when he added, “Now all I have to do is reel you in.”

Amelia obviously didn't appreciate Pap's humor. “Unhook me right this minute!” She looked at Frank when she spoke, but he doubted she was talking to him. Just the same, he dropped his baseball bat and pole and took several strides to reach her side.

“Tip your head a little,” he suggested.

She lowered her chin a bit. In a quick examination of her hat, he found a lot of ribbons, feathers, and pieces of green stuff. A gleaming gold-filigree knob caught his eye.

“This fancy gold thing your hat pin, Miss Marshall?” She started to nod, but he stopped her by cupping her cheek with his left hand. “Don't move your head.”

“Yes . . . that's my hat pin,” she whispered in a voice that broke. He noticed she kept her eyes downcast so he couldn't see their color. But he remembered they were brown. She sure had soft skin; she felt like velvet beneath his palm. And Pap was wrong, she did have freckles. Three. On the bridge of her nose.

“What are you waiting for?” Mrs. Dodge inquired.

Pap piped in, too. “Yeah, Frank. Just yank it out.”

“I will.” Frank grasped the pin and eased the eight-inch length of wire from her hat. As soon as he had it in his hand, Amelia skirted out from under his touch. Her eyelashes flew up, and she stared at him as if he were on fire. He lifted his gaze to her uncovered hair. He liked the color brown. Not too plain and with threads of gold woven throughout.

“Thank you,” she supplied, keeping that peculiar look on her face as he handed her the pin.

The duck-wing hat dangled from the end of Pap's hook, and he had to dump the sack of bottles and cans in order to grab hold of the brim to assess the damage. “Never caught me a mallard before. I'll unsnarl it for you, Miss Marshall.” He wiggled the hook out without any regard for the delicacy of the hat's ornaments.

Narcissa Dodge laid a hand on Amelia's shoulder and spoke in a quiet tone. “I'm not feeling well, Amelia. I think it's the heat. I want to go inside and lie down before we start the chicken.”

“Of course. I'll go with you.” She took her hat from Pap, who offered no apologies. Then, shifting her head at a slight angle, she returned, “It's been a . . . an experience, Mr. O'Cleary.”

“That it has, Miss Marshall. I'm anxious to see you at the saloon for your first lesson.” He picked up the gunnysack. “When do you think that will be?”

“This week I'm sure.”

“Hey! Tomorrow's the start of this week. So I'll see you soon,
Miss Marshall.”

“I . . . yes, I suppose you will.” Amelia turned, put her arm around Mrs. Dodge, and the pair walked toward the house.

Pap smiled after them, and Frank bent down to retrieve his bat and pole.

“What do you think, Frank?” Pap asked with moon eyes. “Did I make a good first impression?”

“Well, Pap, if you're asking my opinion, I don't think you ought to aim for a summer wedding.”

T
he sun mercilessly beat down on Amelia's hat as she struggled to push her Acme lawn mower across the carpet of lush grass in her rear yard. She shouldn't have let seven days lapse between the cuttings, but the mix-up with the piano had thrown her off schedule. And now the lawn had grown too tall, and she had to use every muscle in her body to maneuver the unwieldy machine.

She would have adjusted the cutter bar, only she wasn't sure how to or if she had the right tool in her household set. Most likely, Coney Island Applegate would know. He was the towheaded nine-year-old boy who used to mow her lawn for a nickel. That was before a nickel was a nickel saved.

As the four blades sliced the grass, Amelia let her mind wander to Narcissa. She was worried about her. Lately, Narcissa's health had been failing. At first, she had only complained of dizzy spells; but now, it seemed as if she didn't have any energy left, and her appetite had dwindled to almost nothing.

Last night after Sunday supper, when she and
Narcissa were in the kitchen washing dishes, Amelia made Narcissa promise she would visit Dr. White for a check-up. Narcissa had sadly waved off Amelia's concern, stating she was nearly twice Amelia's age and her body was slowing down. The disclosure had hurt her friend, for Amelia knew how much Narcissa wanted a child; but she and Cincinatus had never been able to conceive one.

Amelia didn't want to believe Narcissa. Even the change in a woman's life didn't make her deteriorate in just a few months. No, something was wrong; and as Amelia huffed to turn the roller and wheels around the trunk base of her silver linden tree, she began to fear the worst for Narcissa.

The branches provided a canopy of welcome relief, and Amelia paused to revel in the linden's offered shade. Its creamy white flowers scented the air, and the peaceful drone of bees flitting about provided Amelia with music. She leaned her back against the smooth bark and wished she was finished with the sizable lawn so she could sit on the veranda and sip a glass of lemonade as cool and refreshing as the one Mr. Brody had made her.

Thinking of the quenching drink, Amelia slid her backside down the trunk and sat on the cushion of her two petticoats. She placed her feet apart, then hiked her pale blue percale skirt above her knees in an unladylike manner. The air felt good on her legs. She counted herself lucky she'd worn her short muslin drawers, only thigh high, and lightweight cotton hose.

She closed her eyes and promised herself she'd get up in just a minute. She hadn't slept soundly last night, her slumber distracted with thoughts of Frank Brody. She kept on reliving that fleeting moment on Narcissa's walkway when he'd removed her hat. She'd been thrown willy-nilly into a whirlpool of feelings outrageously different from the ones she'd felt for Jonas Pray. Her every nerve ending had focused on
the way Frank had held her cheek in his strong hand; the way he'd taken charge. Thinking about the familiarity of his conduct brought tingles across her skin. What had possessed her to stand idle while he plucked the pin from her hat?

She knew better than to get caught up in a man's presence. She had prior experience with the spell of attraction. Her world had gone up in a poof the last time she went under. She had to be strong and resilient, just as Mother and Aunt Clara would have been and would have expected from her. No more backbone of jelly. From now on she would be firm and impenetrable because people tended to make the same mistakes over and over if they didn't nip them in the bud.

That decided, Amelia vowed to attack the lawn without bending to the power of the tangled green turf. She would cut the whole of it in no time flat. All she needed was another minute to gather her strength. She was feeling rather drowsy and enjoying the shade too much to leave it just yet. She would . . . soon. When her feet didn't hurt anymore. . . .

*  *  *

Sometime later, Amelia felt a tickle on her leg or, actually, her skin where her stocking ended in a roll and her embroidery-hemmed drawers began. Too sleepy to move, she dozed off again and hoped whatever it was would stop. It didn't. She lifted her hand to swat at that spot; then in the recesses of her mind, she came awake with the thought of insects. Perhaps ants, or worse yet, a big hairy spider.

Her eyes flew open and she bit back a scream when she gazed at her leg only to find nothing there. But
someone
was next to her, and from the pristine white of the trousers, she knew exactly who before raising her chin to see her guest.

“Frank . . .” His name left her lips in a rather sleep-scratchy voice, and too late, she realized she'd
been dreaming about him and inappropriately called him by his first name. When he said nothing in return, she followed the line of his intense gaze.

He stared at her exposed legs . . . her drawers and her hose. In a scant second, she grabbed hold of her skirt and sailed the fabric across her limbs in a flurry of starched white and blue. Thoroughly embarrassed, she scrambled to her feet—or at least tried. She became entangled in the volume of material and stumbled. She felt a supportive grip on her upper arm, but slapped at Frank's hand.

“You needn't concern yourself, Mr. Brody. I'm capable of standing on my own.”

He merely laughed and let her go, only so she could sway toward the tree and push off from it with disgust at her sudden clumsiness.

“You caught me unaware,” she snapped, feeling undressed. Her resolve to be firm and direct seemed to be melting under the hot sun. Bringing her trembling hands upward, she adjusted the cockeyed tilt of her gardening hat. What must he think of her? Napping outside with her limbs exposed. Surely her face outshone the red cherries in Beamguard's Mercantile. “I thought there was a spider on me.”

“There was,” he stated in a rich voice, “but I flicked it off with my finger.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she suspected the story he gave her was far from the truth.
“Humph.
I was mistaken. There
was
a big spider on me. The kind with,” she paused and looked into his smiling gaze, “blue eyes and black hair. I believe Beadle's Gardening Handbook calls them wolf spiders.”

“I think you're right.”

“I know I'm right.” She took hold of the handle on her lawn mower. “One thing about these Acme mowers—they're big enough to run over either a wolf or a spider.”

He laughed deeply, then stepped aside.

She swept her gaze over him, once again reminded of his good looks. But she wouldn't waste thoughts on such silliness, so she checked the time from the chatelaine watch pinned to her bodice. “It isn't noon yet. You should be sleeping.”