Chapter 4
Blade carried his saddlebags down the hotel stairs with silent relief. His money stash was still rolled up in the toe of his sock.
“You didn’t come back.” Ginny stood stiffly behind her counter. “You find someplace better?”
He ambled closer, certain she was more concerned about a refund than being stood up for coffee and conversation. “Time got away from me, and I camped at the Hawkins place.”
She pursed her painted lips. “You chose the ground over a warm bed?”
“Like I said, time got away from me.” He smiled as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “About the room. I like to keep my options open. Would you keep my dollars on deposit? That way I’ll have a room if I need one.”
Relief flooded her face. “Sure thing.”
He dug the room key out of his vest pocket and set in on the counter.
“Mr. Masters, did you see Zed Hawkins? How’s he doing?”
“That’s why I didn’t make it back. Zed wouldn’t stop talking.” He walked toward the door.
“If you see him again, tell him . . .” Her voice broke ever so slightly. “Tell him I hope to see him soon.”
He turned and touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. “I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”
“Watch out for his daughter,” she called. “She’s got the devil’s temper.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He steered the wagon to the back of the store that sold lumber and feed. After setting the brake, he jumped down and weaved around neat stacks of lumber until he located a pile of eight-foot fence posts flagged with a placard that read ‘Hawkins. Paid.’ He estimated fifty posts, by length and height.
A short man wearing bib overalls and a leather cap stepped from the store. His bare, tanned arms bulged with muscles. “Can I help you?”
“I’m supposed to pick up posts for the Hawkins Ranch.”
The man peered up at him for an unreasonably long time. “You’re the feller who got slapped by Stormy Hawkins. You chased after her, too. I hope you gave her a good piece of your mind.”
Blade hid his groan by coughing. News traveled fast in a small town.
The man grabbed his hand and squeezed as he shook it. “Zed Hawkins is a good man, but he should’ve taught her some manners.”
Blade freed his hand and slid a fence post onto the wagon. “I honestly can’t say, Mr. . . .”
“Taylor. Jack Taylor. This is my establishment.” He picked up two heavy corner posts and tossed them into the back of the buckboard like they were matchsticks. “Stormy Hawkins would be a real looker if she dressed like a woman, but don’t tell my wife I said that. No reason to upset her. Not that she has cause to worry.” He peered over his shoulder toward the store’s open back doors.
The loading dock was deserted.
“Don’t think about doing more than lookin’ with her,” he said. “Jonathan Vance over at the Land & Loan has claimed her, and you don’t want to get on his bad side. He fights dirty when he thinks he’s been crossed.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” Blade replied with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “What else can you tell me? I hired on with Zed Hawkins for a few weeks.”
“Stormy Hawkins doesn’t have many friends, I can tell you that. One time I heard screeching over in the schoolyard. Sounded like someone was being skinned alive. Turns out Stormy had Emma Schultz by the hair and wasn’t going to let go until Emma took back calling her a tomboy. Hell’s bells, that girl is all boy. Shoots, rides, ropes, all real good. Miss Smithers—that’s the schoolmarm—says Stormy’s too smart for her own good.
“Mother died giving birth,” Jack Taylor continued. “Folks say she was a whore that met up with Zed, Brownie, and Running Bear during the war. They also say she married all three in a secret Indian ceremony.” He paused to load a few more posts. “Alls I know is they work hard and pay in advance for what they order.”
“Yoo-hoo, Jack,” a pretty pregnant woman called. “Sacks.”
“My missus,” he said proudly. “She needs me to load some feed.” He shook hands again. “Stop back anytime. And, come to the Founders Day dance. Emma Schultz is a real looker.”
Blade massaged his hand. Jack Taylor had a bone-crushing grip.
His next stop was Farber’s General Store. Running Bear needed soap, coffee, clothespins, matches, cooking oil, allspice, salt, pepper, and kerosene. Zed had added two tins of Honest Labor pipe tobacco to the list.
Wearing a crisp, snow-white apron, Mrs. Farber rushed up as soon as he entered. “Mr. Masters,” she exclaimed. “Abigail? Abigail, come here. This is the man Stormy Hawkins slapped.”
The hum of business and conversation stilled. Every person in the store turned to look at him.
“He chased after her,” Mrs. Farber declared. “Gave her a stern talking to.”
Before he could correct her assumption, he was surrounded. Eager hands reached out to touch his, accompanied by quick stories about Stormy Hawkins’ unruly temper and bad manners. He tried to memorize names with the faces. Joseph McDonald. Sam Elrod and his wife Georgia. Ellen Sharpe with daughter Dora. Jane Simon and Mrs. Levi Hollingsworth.
Mrs. Farber nudged her daughter forward.
Abigail was proper and plain, about eighteen, with clean, even fingernails and brightly polished shoes. “Are you looking for work, Mr. Masters?”
“I hired on at the Hawkins Ranch for a few weeks,” he said.
A collective gasp swirled through the store. People exchanged furtive glances.
Mrs. Farber shooed her customers back. “We should get your supplies. Is that your list?” She snatched the paper from his outstretched hand and handed it to her daughter. “Come this way, Mr. Masters. I think you’ll want a mail slot of your own. You won’t be with the Hawkins’ long.”
Marveling at her self-assured forecast, Blade followed her past tidy displays of notions and nails. He’d need privacy during the negotiation for the Hawkins property. A separate mailbox would skirt suspicion.
At the mail counter, Mrs. Farber checked several boxes on a form and swirled the paper toward him. “Sign here. And, here,” she said briskly.
When he finished, she smiled in a knowing way, but he didn’t bother trying to guess why. He’d decided long ago to ignore the designs others tried to impose. He knew what he wanted. Wild horses couldn’t drag him off course now.
Mrs. Farber opened a large, deep drawer and pulled out two newspapers, a Harper’s Bazaar, and a Harper’s Weekly. “They’ll be wanting these. The Hawkins’ read more than any family in Prosperity.”
He needed to know one more thing. “What about wires?”
“We deliver sealed telegraph messages to Yankton, and they’re sent from there.”
Abigail approached. “Your supplies are ready, Mr. Masters. It came to two dollars and thirty-four cents, and I charged it to the Hawkins’ account. My brother is setting the parcels in your wagon now.”
Blade picked up the mail. “Thank you, Abigail.”
After a prompt from her mother, she walked with him to the front door. “Abby,” she offered with an earnest smile. “Mr. Masters? I hope you’ll come to Founders Day.”
“I’ll try my best, Abby,” he said.
Outside, Blade tossed a tip to the gangly young man standing by the wagon.
The lad wore a long, crisp apron, like Abby and Mrs. Farber. His hair was slicked flat, parted down the middle. “Thank you and come again,” he chirped.
Blade climbed onto the seat and reached for the brake handle.
“Mr. Masters, sir? Would you ask Stormy to save a dance for me at Founders Day? Tell her I’ve been practicing.”
“Practicing?”
“Last year, I didn’t know how to lead, so she did it. Everyone laughed at us.” His boyish face flushed. “I want to try again.”
“Good for you, son. I’ll tell her as soon as I see her.”
After a light tap of the reins on the horses’ backs, he drove slowly down the broad, hard-packed street. Prosperity was going to be his trading post, the town’s residents his neighbors. He’d keep to himself most of the time, but he’d need supplies. And occasionally, information.
He’d learned more about the Hawkins family already, but not what he’d expected. Stormy was the butt of unending gossip concerning her mother. Whenever she came into town, a ‘Never a Lady’ patch was slapped onto her back. It was no wonder she chose cows over friends and books over dances.
His mother had always insisted that attire was the lens through which a woman was judged. He’d never put much stock in her assertions, but he’d always been a bit too much like his father, dismissive because he didn’t care about ruffles and starch.
He passed in front of the clothing emporium. In the shop window, a dressmaker’s mannequin displayed a stunning, plum traveling dress with a matching over-jacket.
Impulsively, he reined the horses to a stop. After setting the brake, he jumped down and opened the store’s door. A small bell tinkled over his head.
An assortment of dresses and suits hung on circular racks. Along the walls, bolts of fabric and spools of ribbon were shelved by hue.
He strode to the window display and checked the velvet ensemble for a designer’s tag. He did not find one. The tailor or seamstress had to be local.
A matron wearing a high-collared shirtwaist and peach walking skirt rose from a secretary desk. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to buy a dress for Stormy Hawkins.”
She cocked her head as if she’d not heard him correctly. “We’ve never sold a dress to Stormy Hawkins. Mister . . .”
“Blade Masters. It’s a surprise.”
“Yes, it is,” she murmured. “Do you have a style in mind? Mature ladies still like their bustles, but the latest fashions from Paris are tight from the neck to the knee with a shallow, flaring train.” She jerked her head up. “Is this for the Founders Day dance?”
Blade nodded.
She tsked. “Stormy would rip the seams. Let’s pick a color first. What do you like, Mr. Masters?”
“Emerald green. And, not too frilly.”
“Green. Let me think. Her hair is so red.” She shuffled through the rack of women’s dresses and moved to one for older girls. “Yellow is out. She’s in the sun too much.” She dropped her arms and took a half-step back. “She really should try them on.”
He patted his vest pocket. “Surely there is a way, Mrs. . . .”
“Rosenbaum.” She smiled resolutely and fussed through the racks again. “Nothing ready-made will suit Stormy Hawkins. She is petite with a bosom, a difficult shape to fit.” She walked to the back of her shop and parted a curtain. “Laura, would you come out here?”
Turning back, she smiled. “Laura Boe is a wonderful seamstress. She and I could select the fabric and add just enough lace to make it special. I estimate five dollars for the materials.” She glanced at his hand, still on his pocket. “Yes, and ten for the sewing. This is a rush order with the dance coming up so soon.” She quickly wrote a receipt and held it out for his approval.
He dropped five dollars into her hand and held the remaining coins where she could see them.
“Ah, there you are, Laura. We have a special order. A dress for Stormy Hawkins.”
The seamstress gazed at her employer with obvious disbelief. “That girl never wears dresses.”
Mrs. Rosenbaum shot the dark-skinned woman a reproving look. “It’s a surprise from Mr. Masters for Founders Day. He’ll get Stormy to come in for measurements.”
“Yes, ma’am. She’ll have to come in tomorrow or there won’t be enough time.”
Blade thought fast. If he enlisted Zed’s help . . .
The shop owner clapped her hands. “I know how we can take her measurements without spoiling the surprise.”
“I’ll make sure she comes in tomorrow. Are we agreed?” he asked. “Mrs. Boe?”
Laura nodded.
Mrs. Rosenbaum held out her hand for the rest of her money. “This is very exciting. Stormy Hawkins in a dress.” Suddenly, she frowned. “You do understand, Mr. Masters, that after the dress is made, we can’t make her wear it.”
Blade smiled as he left the shop. He’d never ordered a dress before, but a land buyer needed to get on his seller’s good side. This dress scheme would demonstrate that he had Stormy’s best interest at heart.
Attending the Founders Day dance in a fancy dress could change how people treated her, and how she thought about her possibilities.
His grin broadened as he imagined Mrs. Boe chasing Stormy through the emporium with a measuring tape while Mrs. Rosenbaum barred the door. He tried to recall the last time he’d felt so light-hearted.
Truth be told, he was looking forward to Stormy’s reaction to his surprise. Delighted would be nice. Furious was a definite possibility. He’d be content with shocked.
~ ~ ~
Jonathan Vance stuck his head out of the Land & Loan door and stared hard at Blade Masters’ back. Masters hadn’t flashed a tin star, and he didn’t carry himself like an itinerant cow-puncher.
According to Ginny at the hotel, Masters had money in his saddlebags but nothing that identified who he was or whom he worked for. Maybe he was a gold digger looking for a rich widow. More likely, he was a land speculator, a lone wolf scouting for properties. It took one to know one.
If he was right, Masters would soon discover the Hawkins spread. The property was magnificent. Parceled up and sold as small sodbuster farmsteads, it was worth a medium-sized fortune. More than enough to set up a smart man for the rest of his life.
Vance retreated to his back room, poured himself a whiskey, and swirled it as he studied his image in front of a full-length mirror.
Last night, when he was in bed with Starlie Benoit above the Kicking Horse Saloon, the whore had suggested a beard might help him look more like an up-and-coming statesman.
He knew better. He was the bastard son of an upstairs maid who’d loved laudanum more than life. He’d learned the hard way that a man determined to become governor didn’t fiddle with his looks. He got himself a landowning wife.
If Stormy Hawkins didn’t agree to marry him at this Founders Day dance, he’d corral her when she defaulted on her loan.
After that, he’d make her dress right and act like a lady. And, on their wedding night, he’d tie her wrists and ankles to the bedposts and show her what he really liked.
Vance downed his drink in a big gulp, put on his jacket, and checked his appearance in the mirror. Satisfied, he stepped out onto the sidewalk. It wouldn’t be hard to find out what Masters was doing in Prosperity, and if he needed to be chased off.