“Catherine! Ivy!” Samson Ross’s voice boomed through the kitchen as soon as he entered the room. “Which of you writes the clearest hand?”
Ivy glanced at her cousin, who shrugged. “I suppose I do?” Catherine said after a moment.
“Get a piece of paper and write on it that we’re only accepting coins for payment from now on,” Samson directed her. “I’ve had enough of losing money to those counterfeiters. Hang the sign on the front door, but make it sound nice, all right? We still want their business—we just want a different kind of money.”
“I can do that, Uncle Samson.” Catherine headed off to the small office area in the back of the kitchen where they kept things like paper and pens and ink.
“Coins only, Father? That’s a good idea,” Ivy replied.
“Young fellow sitting out there in the dining room suggested it,” Samson replied. “He was at the marshal’s office when I got there, and he made some useful suggestions. His meals are on us all week—three meals a day, if he wants them.”
Ivy glanced out into the dining room and saw Mr. Baker sitting in the center of the room. “Mr. Baker?”
“Seems that was his name.”
“I’ll go take his order.”
Ivy pulled in a breath and made sure her apron was clean. She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous—after all, Mr. Baker was just a customer, and she dealt with customers continuously. But her heart was beating a little strangely when she headed out to greet him.
“Hello, Mr. Baker,” she said. “My father tells me you’ve come up with some wonderful ideas to help us out around here.”
“I hope they’re wonderful. We’ll have to see about that.” Mr. Baker smiled at her. “How are you today, Miss Ross?”
“I’m doing very well. What would you like today? We have steaks—well, I’ll be honest. We always have steaks. My brother, Titus, is the cook, and he’s obsessed with steaks.”
Mr. Baker laughed. “I’ve never learned how to make them decently.”
“Neither have I. There are reasons why I’m a waitress and not a cook. Let’s see—we also have chicken and dumplings, pot roast, hearty beef stew . . .”
Mr. Baker held up a hand. “I’d enjoy some stew, please, and some bread.”
“It just came out of the oven.”
“I can smell it, and it’s making my mouth water.”
Ivy smiled. “All right, stew and bread. Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Mr. Baker paused, then glanced around. “Miss Ross, I need you to promise me something,” he said, lowering his voice.
“I can’t promise you anything until I know what it is,” she replied, lowering her voice as well. “You could get me in all kinds of trouble.”
“True. But hopefully I won’t.” He glanced around again. “Your father’s being most generous by giving me free meals, but you must tell me if I’m encroaching on that generosity too much.”
“If you start ordering seven slices of pie at a time or something like that, then I’ll be concerned. Other than that, I think everything will be just fine.” It touched her heart that Mr. Baker was worried about being a burden. That said a lot about his character.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
Ivy went into the kitchen and put his tray together. As she was ladling up the stew, Catherine came up to her, a big grin on her face. “So, I see that he’s back.”
“Yes, he came back, and he’ll be here a lot this week. He’s helping with the counterfeiting case, and Father’s thanking him with free meals.”
“And that was his only incentive to help? To get free food?”
Ivy shook her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that maybe he’s being so helpful because he likes you.”
“Oh, he does not. Don’t be silly.”
“I think you’re the one who’s being silly if you can’t see how he looks at you. Open your eyes, Ivy—the man’s besotted.”
“How can he possibly be besotted? We only met yesterday.” Ivy set the bowl of stew on the tray a little too hard, and some of the broth sloshed over the side. “I think you’ve got just romance on the brain.”
“Me? Romance? I don’t know why you’d think that,” Catherine retorted.
“It might have something to do with the five romance novels you borrowed from Mr. Redfern’s library,” Ivy shot back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, this food’s getting cold.”
She had protested Catherine’s theory, but as Ivy walked out into the dining room, she couldn’t help but wonder if her cousin was right. Additionally, she began to hope her cousin was right. When was the last time a man had been besotted with her? She didn’t think it had ever happened . . . and for that matter, what did “besotted” even mean? Was it more of an obsession, or was it the kind of thing that led to marriage and families and . . . and all those wonderful things she wanted for herself?
She set the tray on the edge of Mr. Baker’s table, then took the dishes off one a time and arranged them in front of him. “Here you are,” she said. “I hope you enjoy your meal.”
“Miss Ross, I . . . Could you possibly sit and join me for a moment?” He looked at her hopefully.
“I’m not due for my break,” she replied.
“I wanted to see . . . well, maybe it’s not important. I’m sorry if I’m keeping you.”
“Wait,” she said impulsively. “We’re not very busy—I’ll take my break now. I’ll let the other waitress know.”
Mr. Baker smiled, and she tried not to blush as she ducked into the kitchen to tell Catherine what she was doing. It was, however, impossible to control one’s blushing.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it out to Mr. Baker’s table. He rose when she approached, and held the chair for her as she sat.
“I need to tell you, Mr. Baker, that I don’t usually sit with the customers,” she said. “It’s not very professional, and it’s not a habit I want to develop.”
“I understand that completely, and I respect it,” he replied. “If it helps, you might consider this a business matter.”
“Oh?” Her heart sank. She’d been hoping he’d have something more romantic to say. Well, maybe not romantic, actually—it was far too soon in their acquaintance for that. But something that might lead to romance. That would have been nice.
“Yes. You see, I’m going to be setting up my photography studio over the next couple of days, and I need to bring in some clients right away. I know it’s indelicate to bring up finances, so I hope I’m not offending you, but I do need to get my business off on the right foot, and I believe you can help me with that.”
Ivy sat up a little straighter. “I can? What do you mean?”
He seemed a little embarrassed. “Do you recall yesterday when I said you looked like an angel? I believe I frightened the wits out of you.”
She chuckled, looking down at the table. “I wasn’t frightened. I was startled, and perhaps concerned, and put on the alert . . . All right, maybe I was frightened.”
“But you aren’t anymore?”
“No. I’m still a little startled, though.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Because I look nothing like an angel.” She held up both hands and shrugged. “I’m just a plain girl working in a restaurant. Catherine’s the beautiful one. Surely you think so too.”
“Catherine?” He glanced around. “I haven’t noticed a Catherine.”
“You haven’t noticed her?” Was the man foolish as well as a bit odd?
“Miss Ross, since we met yesterday, I haven’t been able to see anyone but you.”
Well, now. That didn’t sound like business at all. She blinked, trying to recover her senses. “Be that as it may, how can I possibly help you with your business?”
“I’d like to put a portrait in my front window for advertising purposes. It helps if people can see my work rather than just supposing that I’ll do a good job. May I take your portrait for my front window, Miss Ross? You created a lovely vignette in my mind yesterday, and I’d like to try to create it once again.”
“What’s . . . what’s a vinaigrette?”
He smiled gently. “I believe a vinaigrette is a fairly new sort of salad dressing. A vignette is a scene or an image. If you were able to come around eleven in the morning, I believe the light in the studio would replicate the afternoon light here—there are different window angles, you see. You could bring a friend along, if that would be more comfortable for you.”
“And then you’d put that picture on display in your window? I have to be honest, Mr. Baker, but that sounds perfectly awful. I don’t think I want people gawking at me like that.”
“I don’t think they’d be gawking as much as they’d be admiring and appreciating,” he replied.
She shook her head. “Let me get Catherine for you, Mr. Baker. Once you’ve met her, you’ll see that she’d be much better suited to this.” She began to rise, but Mr. Baker placed his hand on hers, and she sank back into her chair.
“If you truly don’t want to do this, I’ll never bring it up again,” Mr. Baker said. “But you’re the young lady I want for my model. I’m sure Catherine is lovely, and I’m sure she’s a very nice person as well, but I’m rather stubborn, Miss Ross, and once I set my mind to something, it takes forever to change it. Yours is the face I’d like to use. Why don’t you think about it while I eat, and you can let me know in a little while?”
She looked at the table and realized he hadn’t touched his food—he must be starving. “Of course—you need to eat. Please, go ahead, and we’ll talk later.” This time, he let her stand up and walk away, and it was a good thing because she really had no other answers to give him. Did he actually want to hang her portrait in his front window? And why on earth had he chosen her when there were other much prettier girls in Creede?
She entered the kitchen and leaned against the counter, trying to catch her breath. Naomi came out from the back room—her tears had finally dried up. “What’s the matter?” Naomi asked. “You look . . . I’m not sure how you look. But it’s worrying me.”
“The new photographer in town wants to take my portrait and hang it in his front window for advertising,” Ivy blurted.
“He does? Oh, that’s wonderful!” Naomi threw her arms around Ivy and hugged her, but then stepped back when Ivy didn’t return the gesture. “Is this a bad thing? You don’t seem at all excited.”
“I’m going to have to think about it, honestly. It’s not clear to me what I should do.”
“If my opinion means anything, I think you should do it. It sounds fun.” Naomi turned her attention to the dishes, and Ivy pulled the next batch of bread from the oven. That sounded like fun?
***
When Miss Ross had approached Caleb’s table to tell him she’d pose for the portrait, she’d spoken so quickly, he almost couldn’t understand her, and she’d disappeared back into the kitchen as fast as she’d come. She reminded him of a little mouse that scurried out of its hole just long enough to become frightened and then retreat, although there was certainly nothing mousey about her.
Catherine had done a very nice job with the sign for the front door, Caleb noted as he left the restaurant. Perhaps the other merchants would do the same thing. The bank would end up exchanging quite a lot of bills for coins, but that was their function anyway . . . and that got Caleb to thinking. Who ended up paying the ultimate price for counterfeiting? Mr. Ross and the other merchants were certainly out varying dollar amounts, but who covered the shortage at the bank? He supposed that all depended on who owned each particular bank. In the end, people were being hurt by this greedy practice, and he was more than glad to do his part to hunt down the culprits.
His next errand was to go back to the livery and pick up the wagon he’d rented from Otto. The man had everything hitched up and ready to go, which was a definite blessing because Caleb really had no skills or patience for that sort of thing. A stop by the general store to pick up the mattress was next on his list, and he decided to open an account and get some basic food staples as well, primarily coffee. Yes, he was more than welcome to stop in at the Iron Skillet all he liked, but it seemed rather ridiculous to head in there every time he wanted something hot to drink. Then he was off to Mrs. Olson’s.
It wasn’t until he entered his room and was staring at his trunks that he realized he’d forgotten one important detail—it had taken two men to get his trunks up the stairs. He hadn’t done it alone.
“What’s troubling you, Mr. Baker?” Patty asked when he entered the kitchen. He slumped down on one of the chairs, feeling a bit frustrated.
“Do you ever get a plan in your head of how you think things are going to go, and then you go to do it, and your plan is completely foiled?” he asked her.
“You mean like, you plan to make flapjacks for breakfast, but you get in the kitchen and you realize you’re out of baking powder?”
“Yes, exactly like that.” No, not really, but close enough. “Are there any young men in this neighborhood I could hire to help me move my trunks?”
“Well, not right close by. We’ve got some older men and a few young ladies, though.”
“I suppose I could ride back out to Main Street and see who I could find. I just wanted to get this done quickly—I’m an impatient sort when I want to complete a project.”
“I know I’m not as young as I used to be, but I’m certainly not old. What if I gave you a hand?”
“Oh, no, Patty. I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.” Besides that, he wasn’t sure she actually could.
“Well, you’re not asking. I’m volunteering. And if we put Miss Eva on the job too, why, I’m sure the three of us could get it done.”
Now that was just too far. “You’re a gem for wanting to help, but no. Ladies shouldn’t be doing such difficult physical things.”
Patty gave him a look, and he realized belatedly that he was about to receive a lecture. “Mr. Baker, perhaps you don’t know this, but the entire human race exists because women do hard things. After we have those babies, we wash those babies’ diapers and we lug that laundry heavy and wet up and down the stairs. We chop wood, we carry wood, we move furniture—just what is it you think you’re protecting us from, Mr. Baker?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re right, Patty, and I’m sorry. You women are amazing creatures, and I stand in awe every day. I just believe that if I could spare you some of that heavy lifting, I should do it.”
“And that’s very gentlemanly of you, but there’s a choice to be made here. Do you want your trunks taken downstairs now, or do you want to wait? Because I think you’re eager to be on your way.”
“I am eager.”
“Then let’s get it done.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m ready.”
“On one condition,” Caleb said. “I’ll find some men to help me unload in town—I won’t be asking you for that.”
“Fair enough. I’ll go fetch Miss Eva.”
There had been times in Caleb’s life when he’d been called upon to swallow his pride. Apologizing to the marshal and the deputy had been one of them, for sure. Of course, apologizing to Miss Ross had been difficult too . . . Come to think of it, he’d had to swallow his pride several times since arriving in Creede, and he’d only just gotten there.
Mrs. Olson came back with Patty, a look of determination on her face. “Patty tells me you need help with your trunks. Let’s have at it.”
Caleb shook his head with resignation. It was clear that these women were bound and determined to help him, and short of saying something that would offend them even more than he already had, he’d better let them do whatever it was they were set on doing.
Getting the trunks to the top of the stairs wasn’t a problem. They each took a handle, and it was accomplished with relative ease. But descending the stairs . . . things became trickier at that point.
Caleb took the lead, grasping a handle on the end and walking backwards down the stairs. It was difficult to see where he was going, but he felt around with his toes before he took each step, and because they were moving slowly, that wasn’t difficult.
As the weight of the trunk shifted forward, though, Caleb found himself needing to speed up to keep the trunk from going out of control, and the momentum pulled both Mrs. Olson and Patty clean off their feet and onto their bottoms.
“Oh!” Mrs. Olson gasped as she landed, caught off guard.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Eva. Did I smash you?”
Caleb wedged his feet and held up his end of the trunk, trying not to let it go end over end down the rest of the staircase. “Is everyone all right?”
“Fine—just a bit rattled.” Mrs. Olson cleared her throat. “I believe this is actually a better angle, Mr. Baker. Would you be offended if I were to continue on as I am?”
He wasn’t sure at first what she meant. “You’d like to come down the stairs on your . . . um, posterior?”
“That’s correct. I believe I can keep from dropping my end of the trunk more easily that way. My center of gravity would be lower, and therefore, I would be less liable to be pulled over again.”
Patty shook her head. “The way the two of you are going on, trying to be polite . . . Mr. Baker, please carry on. Miss Eva and I are going to slide down behind you as we are, and we’ll put the edge of the trunk on our laps like so.”
Caleb tried very hard not to snicker as the two ladies slid down the staircase on their nether regions, carrying their end of the trunk on their laps, but for all its oddness, their method did work, and within moments, they were all at the bottom of the staircase.
“Next time, I’m hiring a porter,” he said as they all tried to catch their breath.
“Next time, I’ll let you,” Patty replied. “Now let’s get the other one before we change our minds.”
“How have you managed all these years by yourself, Mr. Baker?” Mrs. Olson asked as they climbed back up to the second floor. “You’ve been traveling with this equipment for some time, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but this is the first time I’ve ever stayed in a boarding house,” he replied. “Hotels usually have porters or bellboys. I honestly didn’t think of it.”
“Mr. Baker, I’m going to tell you a secret, and you mustn’t repeat it to a single soul,” Mrs. Olson said, taking a step closer to him. He didn’t know why, as Patty was standing right there and it was obvious that the secret was no secret to her. Perhaps Mrs. Olson was trying to create an air of mystery.
“When I was a little girl, my favorite thing in all the world was to slide down the stairs exactly like that,” she whispered. Then she resumed her normal voice. “My mother was absolutely scandalized and nearly had a fit of vapors that I could do anything so unladylike, so I’d wait until she wasn’t home and then I’d slide and slide to my heart’s content. This just now was rather fun, actually.”
Caleb saw a sparkle in her eyes, a glimpse of the little girl she’d once been, and he remembered his first impressions when he’d met her—that he’d photograph her in a certain light to show her inner self and not the careworn face life had given her. “Mrs. Olson, may I give you the gift of a portrait?” he asked. Now that he’d seen the possibility, he couldn’t let it go by without exploring it. The seeds of the child she used to be were still inside, and if he could unlock them through her eyes . . .
“A portrait? Oh, my. It’s been so long since I’ve had a portrait taken. Likely not since my wedding day.”
“Then come down to my studio day after tomorrow and let me do that for you. It would be my pleasure.”
She seemed to contemplate, then gave a nod. “All right, I believe I will. Now, let’s get this other trunk downstairs—you don’t have time to waste in standing around chatting.”
They got the second trunk down the stairs, and once it was on a level surface, it too was easier to carry. They got both trunks loaded onto the wagon, Caleb reminded Mrs. Olson to come down for her portrait, and then he was off. As he turned the wagon onto Main Street, he couldn’t help but laugh at remembering Patty and Mrs. Olson both being pulled right onto their bottoms. It wasn’t gentlemanly to laugh about it, but it sure had been funny.