Amy walked along the rain-freshened street. Yesterday’s dust had turned to tan liquid, while the drooping grasses and bedraggled blossoms glistened with moisture.
She stopped to examine the last of the yellow avalanche lilies and the tiny pink bitterroot. Tall woody stalks of purple, fan-shaped flowers were beginning to bloom. Lifting one blossom with her finger, she said, “It’s about time. Back home—” She stopped and sighed.
Back home in Kansas, the hills would have been covered with a carpet of color since March. Here the mountain weather wasn’t that kind. But it would do no good to mourn the differences. Amy tightened her grip on the newspapers and letters and cut up the rocky slope to the Randolph cabin.
Before she opened the door she stopped to admire the new, well-oiled hinges, and the way the door stood square in its frame. Looking across the street at the pile of logs, she said, “Hope it doesn’t take as long to build a church as it does to put hinges on a door.”
Eli came to the door and reached for the mail. “Father, they’ll need to hurry if that pile of logs will become a church before Independence Day.”
He lifted his head from the newspaper and said, “Independence Day? Better think toward September, unless I raise the logs myself. There’s too much happening in the diggings right now.” There was a touch of sadness in his voice as he added, “I can’t pry a fellow away to build something as unexciting as a church. What about your friend Daniel? Their mining isn’t showing much color. Would he and his father help out a bit?”
Amy studied her father’s graying hair and the deep sad lines on his face. His statement about raising the logs made her see things she had been ignoring. He was getting old. What would happen to me if he were to die? Amy’s throat tightened and she shook her head impatiently.
Eli waved his newspaper and shook his head in disgust. “The paper’s full of war talk. There’s a push to get this end of Kansas Territory designated a new and separate territory. And both the North and South want us to side with them.” His voice was solemn. “The slave problem will pull us into war sooner or later. If Lincoln is elected President, I guess we’ll be forced into action. The South’s making no bones about their feelings, and Lincoln will push the slavery issue first thing.”
She pondered his words. Slavery issue. The words sounded stuffy, but the expression in his eyes made her recall the conversation up at Clara Brown’s cabin. She moved her shoulders uneasily. Somehow this summer seemed to be different. Even Father and Aunt Maude were pulling the wrappings away from her, forcing her to see life. But what was it they wanted her to see?
Eli tugged at the newspaper, continuing, “Slavery is an issue, even in this end of the territory. There’s bad feelings against Aunt Clara Brown. A more gentle woman I’ve never known.”
“And that man she’s letting live in her woodshed,” Amy said slowly. “Yesterday, down by Joe’s store, a fellow on a horse tried to run him off the street. Called him a bad word. Father, do you think Barney Ford is a runaway slave?”
“I don’t know,” Eli turned to peer at Amy. “But then, does it matter? He’s here, and I’ll accept him at face value.”
“How’s that?” Aunt Maude asked.
“As a dignified man, trying hard to earn a living and reunite his family.”
Their conversation still nagged at Amy the next day as she strolled through town. Thinking about the changes in Central City, she wondered if life had also changed in Kansas.
Sometimes it seemed as if most of the people in the United States had streamed into the mountains, armed with gold pans and picks. All spring she had watched them come, thinking, Soon there won’t be room for one more pair of feet in the creek, let alone room to wash a pan of gravel.
These days, after her father’s reference to the tug-of-war over the Pikes Peak area, Amy became more conscious than ever of the men trickling into the mining town.
They were dressed either like gentlemen or in the frayed, coarse garb of the miner. But there was a difference. In the conversations echoing through the streets, she heard soft southern accents slipped in beside the flat, clipped speech of the northerners. North and South, like Father said.
One thing that hadn’t changed was the lack of women. Several women had joined their men, but the bright-bird foliage of the dance-hall girls was still in the majority.
Of the feminine faces, Amy had to admit, they were the most attractive. The newcomers were as stern-faced and rough-clad as their husbands. And not one was young enough to claim as friend.
Amy’s wandering walks continued around the mining town. Her favorite time of day was late afternoon, before supper and after Aunt Maude had exhausted her daily store of tasks.
She grew to love the summer evening walks. With the sun behind the mountains, the yellow soil no longer threw heat into her face, and the day mellowed out like a soft sigh.
In the evening, on a high perch above town, Amy found she could keep track of all the comings and goings. Seated on her favorite rock wedged between the cedar trees, she watched the miners breaking out of the hills, heading for home. Some limped along slowly. It was easy to guess it had been another bad day for them, hacking through rough rock without the slightest promise of color.
But others moved briskly down the hill. Amy watched them swinging along, jumping the creek and heading for one of the three new saloons.
One evening as she sat on her rock, she could hear a sound coming from the boardinghouse. Someone was running fingers across the piano keys.
Amy moved restlessly on the rock and pressed her hands across her eyes as she tried to imagine being in that room. She could nearly feel the keys; could nearly guess the sound each touch would bring.
“What’s wrong?” Amy raised her head and looked into the face of a girl bending over her.
Amy blinked and stared at the girl, dumbfounded. Finally she came to her senses and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I was seeing visions.” The girl wore a neat calico frock, a band of black ribbon holding curls away from her face.
“Visions?”
“I mean, I’ve wanted to meet a person like you for so long—you know, a girl my age—I, well, I thought I was dreaming. Suddenly Amy burst into a barrage of questions. “Who are you? Did you just arrive? Is your father a miner? Where do you live?”
The faint frown and the concerned look disappeared. Now the girl chuckled and settled down beside Amy. “I guess you’ve been out here for some time.”
Amy nodded. “Nearly a year. In all that time I haven’t seen a soul my age except for dance-hall girls. I do hear there’s families moving into Denver. We haven’t been there since last summer, so it doesn’t help me a bit. I’m looking forward to conference time.” She added, “My father is the pastor of the Methodist Episcopal Church.”
“Oh,” the girl nodded. “I’m Elizabeth Steele. I’ve always been called Lizzie.”
“I’m Amy Randolph. Tell me all about yourself. Where are you from? I love the way you fix your hair. It’s a pretty color. Mine’s so curly I can’t do a thing with it.”
Lizzie leaned back and looked critically. “It’s not so bad. But at your age I’d expect curls instead of braids.”
“My aunt.”
“Oh, well, why don’t you just start with a few little curls around your face? I’ll show you.”
Lizzie bent over Amy and began brushing curls loose from her braids. Amy said, “My mother is dead and my Aunt Maude is ancient. Poor soul, I can’t yawn without shocking her.”
“I know. I’ve aunts like that back in New York state. Our generation will just have to clear all the debris out of the tracks before we can make time.”
Amy’s eyes widened at the strange expression. She said, “New York. I suppose we really seem backwoodsy to you.”
“You seemed so sad when I first saw you, is it—”
Amy said hastily, “I’m not sad. I was listening to someone plunking on that piano and I was wishing with all I had that I could just go down and play it. Just once.” She knew she was pleading and she clenched her hands into fists.
Lizzie studied Amy. Slowly she said, “Seems if you want to play a piano that bad, there ought to be a way. Won’t they get you a piano?”
“Father can’t afford a piano. Besides, Aunt Maude thinks they’re of the devil.”
Lizzie shrugged. “You don’t like to shock the older ones, but sometimes you have to. It isn’t right to let someone’s opinions ruin your life. Now take pianos—”
Amy frowned and then caught her breath. Lizzie was saying, “…free spirit. We can’t let all the old people tell us how to live. After all, they broke the rules their parents made.”
“We do think alike,” Amy whispered. “Oh, I don’t want you to think I want to be bad; it’s just that I feel so stifled, and sometimes—”
“I know. Sometimes I wish I were more brave. I hear about some of the things others do and I wish—Amy, did you hear about what happened last week? Four of the girls from the boardinghouse nearly stampeded the supply wagon team.”
Amy whispered, “I heard! I couldn’t admit it to anyone, but for just a second I couldn’t help wishing I were one of those girls racing the pony carts down the middle of town.”
“It could have been dangerous,” Lizzie added. “Just as the supply wagon took the corner, they came charging right at him.” Lizzie snickered behind her hand. She shook her head, but her eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’m not that daring, but it sounded like high fun.”
Amy nodded, whispering, “I thought so, too.” Then she added, “I hear the fellow with the team was angry. He had three kegs of molasses tip and run all over his wagon. Got it in the mail bag. Ugh!”
Lizzie said, “I’ve seen a few shootouts since I’ve come west. I wonder if they shoot women for riding horses like that.”
“You’re teasing.” Amy looked into the mocking brown eyes. “I don’t shock that easy. I’ve seen a gun fight, too.” She paused and then blurted out the words. “Somehow I think you’re just like me on the inside.”
Lizzie’s solemn face moved closer. “Do you think so? Then tell me, what is it that you want more than anything else in the world. If you tell me, I’ll tell you what I want.”
Amy had to cover her face to shut out the curious eyes. She thought about the question. After sorting through everything, measuring the shabby cabin, Aunt Maude, the bottomless feeling of her life, there was only one thing.
She dropped her hands. “I don’t know hardly anything about life except what I see right here. But if there’s just one want, I want to have a piano and learn to make music on it. I know I could. It’s like it’s already inside, just waiting to come out.”
“Oh, Amy Randolph!” the girl breathed softly, “You are such a child.” Amy lifted her chin and Lizzie continued, “I’ve never had a chance to be a fairy godmother, but I can’t resist it now. Come, Amy. Now before supper is over and the men come flocking in to play their games and sing their songs. Come, and I’ll let you play that piano.”
Amy studied her face. Lizzie wasn’t teasing. “Do you know how to play a piano?”
She nodded, “I also know the woman who runs the boardinghouse. I know she won’t mind if we go in and plunk a few keys. Come on.” Her hand tugged at Amy. Amy hesitated only a second. There would probably never be another chance.
Together they flew down the hill, slipping and sliding, Lizzie laughing with excitement and Amy desperately determined.
Wooden steps went down the hill to the back door of the boardinghouse. Amy hesitated on the steps. Through the high window, nearly on a level with her nose, she could see the piano. A cluster of candles threw flickering light across the polished wood. The ivory keys gleamed. She hurried after Lizzie.
Inside, Lizzie skipped across the long room and closed the door, but not before Amy saw the dining room and the wash of rainbow colors. She heard the muted voices and heard the clink of dishes. When Lizzie returned she asked, “Won’t they wonder?”
She shook her head. “No one will pay any heed.” Pulling the stool close she asked, “Can you read music?” Amy shook her head. Lizzie chewed her lip, instructed, “Watch my hands.”
As her fingers rippled over the keys, Amy shivered with delight. “Oh, play something I know.”
Lizzie’s face was mocking and her dark eyes shadowed as the gay, tinkling melody faded away. Now the somber chords of a hymn came from her fingers. Amy bent close and sang softly, “Arise, my soul, arise. Shake off thy guilty fears. The bleeding Sacrifice in my behalf appears.” She was still singing, “Before the throne my Surety stands; My name is written on His hands.” when Lizzie’s hands crashed down on the keys.
It was an ugly chord, and Lizzie hissed, “Hush; it sounds like camp meeting and you’ll bring the house down around our ears.”
Amy leaned against the piano as Lizzie swung into a rollicking melody. She sang the words and Amy attempted to follow. Now she whispered, “Please, let me try.” Lizzie got to her feet and Amy slipped onto the stool.
“Start here,” Lizzie murmured pointing to the key right under the gold-lettered name. Amy’s fingers were moving, picking and she was humming. Lizzie beamed. “You’re a natural. Now let’s see if you can put music to my song.”
She bent close and slowly sang the words. Amy fumbled with the keys, while Lizzie frowned and then beamed approval.
Abruptly Amy realized she must bend close to see the keys. The sun had set and there was only the flickering light of the candles. “Oh! Father and Aunt Maude will be searching for me. Please, Lizzie, talk your friend into letting us do this again.”
Lizzie followed her to the front door. Amy had turned for one more imploring word when she heard footsteps. Light from the dining room flooded the veranda. There could be no mistaking that coiled mass of graying hair, those sharp elbows akimbo. Amy flew backwards, bundling into the row of cloaks, and Lizzie followed.
There was a thump on the door and quick steps.
“My niece is here; I heard her singing.”
“Oh, you’re the parson’s sister.” The woman’s voice answering was strident. “Do you church people have a corner on singing? Is the likes of us too rare for singing the grand old music? Be off, old lady. I’ll sing the songs I learned at my mother’s knee, God rest her soul.”
The door slammed, Lizzie grasped Amy’s hand, dragging her to the back door. “I’ll be in trouble if we don’t get out of here!” Amy mourned. Lizzie shoved Amy through the door.
Quickly Amy fumbled her way up the wooden steps and turned to run. Her first step threw her full force into a dark warm object. The exclamation and the rough fabric under her hand sent her reeling away. “Wait!” A hard hand came down on her shoulder and her face was tilted to the light of the moon.
“Amy Randolph, what were you doing in that boardinghouse?” It was Daniel Gerrett and with a sigh of relief, Amy sagged against his arm.
“Oh, Daniel! I thought for certain that Aunt Maude had caught up with me. But let’s go quick! That woman pretty nearly shoved her off the veranda, she could be coming this way.”
“Now wait a minute,” Daniel said slowly. “What was your aunt doing in that place?”
“She heard me. I don’t think they sing many church hymns in that place.”
“That was you singing something about guilty fears?” His grip loosened. “Does your father know you were in there?”
“No, he’s been in Denver City since early this morning. I met a girl, Lizzie. She was trying to teach me to play the piano.” In the dim light Amy could see the frown on Daniel’s face. “Honest. She knows the woman who runs the place.”
“Playing the piano. That’s something to sneak around about?”
She winced. “I guess I was being a sneak. Daniel, I wanted desperately to just touch that piano just once. I knew I could play it and I did!”
“Why would your aunt object?”
“She thinks everything around here is of the devil.”
“Well, I’m not sure it isn’t. Though I don’t know much about devils.” He glanced around and then said, “But surely not pianos.”
“Aunty believes the devil’s trying to get fancy music in church just to send us all to hell.”
By the light of the moon, Amy could see the puzzled but unwavering look on Daniel’s face. She waited. Finally he sighed, “I don’t know how to get you out of this fix without getting you into a worse one. You can’t just walk home can you?” She shook her head. “If I take you home she’ll tack my hide to the front door, and there goes our friendship.”
He took her hand and tugged. “Well, come on. If we don’t do something she’ll catch us standing right here.”
They moved slowly down the street, with Daniel murmuring, “I suppose I should face the lionness, but I’m chicken enough to look for an easier way out. What if I take you to Aunt Clara’s? Then I’ll just happen to pass your Aunt Maude while she is searching for you. I’ll say I saw you up there and volunteer to fetch you home. She might even end up liking me after that kind deed!”
Daniel was still chuckling when they heard the footsteps behind them. Aunt Maude! Before Amy could come up with an excuse, her aunt dashed toward her. Amy and Daniel both saw the tears on her face as she threw her arms around Amy.
“It will never happen again,” she breathed into Amy’s collar, her voice so muffled that Amy could barely make out the words. “Not if I have anything to say about it!”