[Late one afternoon, when the evening shadows were stretching across the street and Amy got up to light the lamps in the post office, Lizzie came again.
She breezed in with a wave and a smile. Amy nodded and went to count out money for postage charges. She handed the letter to her customer and watched him leave, but her thoughts were on Lizzie. That girl isn’t looking for a letter. Could it be she’s forgotten the slight that sent her flying out of here last time?
Amy turned with a brisk smile. “Now, Lizzie, what can I do for you? A letter?”
She looked directly at Amy, the expression in her eyes was frank, unwavering. Amy caught her breath. Their eyes met, and Amy couldn’t turn away. Lizzie was using some unseen scale to measure her. What does she see and why are Lizzie’s thoughts important to me? The woman had called her only a dance-hall girl.
Lizzie’s gaze still held Amy’s. Her voice was flat as she said, “The letters come care of the madame, if they come at all. Most of the ones we write stay unanswered. And most of us don’t peddle our last names for a good reason.”
Amy winced at the girl’s twisted smile. “Lizzie, I’m sorry. So you didn’t come to talk about the mail. What can I do for you?”
“You really mean that? You want to do something for me—us?”
“Well—” Amy hedged, beginning to regret the direction her impulse was leading.
Lizzie’s laughter was as clear and sharp as a bell. “Don’t worry! I don’t intend to put you on the spot. But I do have an idea, and you’ll be the one to benefit. Did you hear the Grand Hotel has a piano now? Just today it was delivered.”
“Oh, was that the commotion down the street? I wondered about all the excitement. I heard the wagon and saw people heading out like they were going to a fire.”
She paused, as the facts caught up with her, “Oh, Lizzie! A piano! How wonderful; will you be playing it?” She saw the shadow in her eyes and wished the words back.
Dryly Lizzie replied, “I don’t think I’ll be asked. But that’s the reason I’ve come. I hear they’re looking for a piano player among the respectable people in town. There was a fellow, but he’s left for California Gulch.”
She continued, “Amy, up Central City way you were anxious to play the piano—and running scared your aunt and pa would catch you at it. Aren’t you free to do as you please now? How about coming over to the boardinghouse and letting me teach you a couple of snappy tunes. A gal with a natural talent like yours shouldn’t be hiding it under a bushel.” She paused and added, “That’s Scripture.”
Amy leaned across the counter and thrust her fingers through the wire mesh of the cubicle, “Oh, Lizzie, don’t do this to me! You know I would love it more than anything, but I can’t. I don’t know enough.”
“You do. More’n once I’ve heard you sit down and pick out a tune after hearing it just once. You’ve got a rhythm too, a real good beat. That’s important. And you can sing. Learning the words will be harder than learning the notes of the music.”
Amy was still clinging to the enclosure, feeling as if her heart would burst with longing. Lizzie’s eyes were gentle now, and she patted Amy’s hand. “Come on. Let me teach you what I know; then if you keep your nose clean and stay away from the likes of us, you’ll make it in big time. Who knows? The way Denver City is booming, in another year or so, you could be earning your keep in a respectable hotel.”
Amy forced the words. “You’re forgetting my husband.”
“I know you’re here alone. Word gets around. I thought you’d already forgotten him.” Her smile was mocking. “Come on, Amy, you aren’t the first gal who’s had a change of heart.”
Amy watched Lizzie turn quickly and head for the door. Her voice was muffled as she called out. “Come up; I’ll teach you. Just ask for Lizzie.”
During the days that followed, Lizzie’s voice continued to ring in Amy’s ears. It wasn’t just the words. It was the mocking challenge in her eyes. Could Lizzie be lonely too? Was this a test? Is she asking me to prove my friendship by going up to that place?
One day, while musing over the invitation, Amy watched the new grandfather clock in the Tabor parlor. Deeply conscious of the measured ticking, it seemed every swing of the pendulum gave a secret message. Act now while there is time.
Amy knew she had decided. No matter what, this was her opportunity; it was the secret dream come to life. Secret dream? I threw that away that night when I married Daniel. Or did I?
Amy shivered. Just this, just the piano. Father can’t be hurt—he won’t know.
Later that week Amy realized the advantage of the fast-approaching winter. In the evenings when she locked the post office, darkness had cloaked the town of Buckskin Joe.
Safe from the probing of curious eyes, Amy could cut through the dry brown grasses of the meadow leading to the boardinghouse snugged at the base of the mountain.
These evenings Lizzie would be waiting in the parlor with a plate of pastry or a bit of meat and bread. While Amy ate, Lizzie would sit at the piano and pound out the notes and explain the curious signs and words on the sheet of music.
Soon after the sessions began, Amy made several new discoveries. The first was that often she detected the odor of liquor on Lizzie’s breath. She wondered, Why, Lizzie? You’ve always been the happy and carefree one. Why drink? There was no answer to the unasked question, but Amy continued to watch Lizzie, trying to dig out a deeper understanding of the girl.
She also discovered that in this house it was impossible to keep her secret. The dance-hall girls were there to grin through the doorway and cheer her on as she played the piano. She was the stranger, the outsider, but they accepted her without question.
As time passed, Amy began to realize those secret sessions at the boardinghouse in Central City had only whet her appetite. Piano became her passion. She plunged in, studying everything Lizzie could teach her.
Soon she began to feel confident. Lizzie was right—for her it was easy. Her fingers rippled across the keys as if they were born to produce music. Now before the evenings ended, the dance-hall girls began slipping into the room. Amy was only vaguely conscious of them dancing, swaying, and singing in the darkened parlor behind her.
After several weeks, on an evening when Amy had played until she felt her fingers would drop off, Lizzie brushed her hands away from the keys and cried, “Enough! Amy, you’ve about worn out this piano. The girls have waited patiently, and you shan’t have my job. Be off now, go down to that hotel and tell them you’ll play. Do it quickly before someone moves to town and snatches up the job.”
Amy took a deep breath and said, “I’m just now realizing that there’s something I need to do before I can go looking for that job.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve never told Augusta Tabor about the lessons, nor my desire to play the piano at the hotel.”
Lizzie followed Amy to the hall as Amy wrapped herself in a shawl. In the dimness she peered at Lizzie’s face. Her friend shuddered. “I know what you’re thinking. No one dares do something like this behind Mrs. Tabor’s back. Yes, go tell her immediately.”
“I’d like to thank”—Amy stumbled over the title and all it implied—“the—your madame for letting me use the piano.”
“Never mind. You needn’t; she’s—”
“Lizzie, on the contrary,” a voice interrupted. “I would like to meet your friend. Dear child, you do have a talent. It makes me happy to see you use it.” Amy turned toward the open door behind her. Through the shadows she watched the woman beside the fireplace rise and come toward her. Amy could see the woman was tall and slender—beautiful. By the light of the fire she could see the pale gleam of hair, piled high and cascading in curls.
Even in the shadowy room there was something familiar about the woman. Amy frowned, trying to dig back into her memory. Then she shook her head and said, “You’ve been good to let me use the piano. I—” Amy hesitated, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Well, I’m not called madame.” She gave a derisive twist to the words and added a low throaty chuckle before saying, “I’d answer more quickly if you call me Silverheels.”
“Silverheels—I thought you looked familiar! I met you in Denver City. Remember the woodpile?”
The woman’s smile thawed slightly. “I do. You’ve changed. Such a skinny little thing you were; now you’ve the marks of being a beautiful woman.” Her smile was mocking and her eyes dancing with glee. For a moment Amy expected the woman to offer her a job. Feeling awkward, she headed for the door.
As Amy left the boardinghouse, the men and the girls were trooping into the parlor. She stood on the steps and drew on her mittens, listening critically. Lizzie was back on the piano stool, playing a polka. Lizzie is good, but now I’m better, she thought.
The day she walked into the Grand Hotel, Amy bolstered her courage by clinging to that memory. But as soon as she entered the parlor, nothing existed beyond the beautiful piano.
Swishing up to the front desk, just as Lizzie had instructed, Amy asked for Mr. Mayer. While she waited, Amy smoothed the silk frock she wore and wondered how much of her confidence was due to Augusta’s gown.
Unbidden came the memory of that conversation with Mrs. Tabor. As she mulled over it, Amy wondered why it seemed so necessary to hide Lizzie’s part in the affair. Why had Augusta asked those probing questions, and why had she wanted to know what she could play?
She had thrust Lizzie’s borrowed music into Augusta’s hands, and had given answers to clear the troubled frown from Augusta’s face. Later Augusta had given her the gown—gray, not a bird of paradise color. Augusta had stamped the word respectable on it all.
Now Amy followed Mr. Mayer to the ballroom, its bare floors and peeled log walls warmed by a scrap of carpet, deep wine velvet draperies, china lamps decorated with gilt and painted roses—and that piano. Amy stroked the shiny dark mahogany and reverently touched the gleaming keys. She forgot all else. Now this was her piano, nothing else could be important.
Soon, nearly as often as Amy played, Mr. Mayer came, bearing piles of sheet music clutched in his pudgy fist.
By the first week of October the peaks surrounding Buckskin Joe were pristine white with the first heavy snow of the season. But in town, the same storm had merely dusted a fine powder. The snow that hung on the brown meadow grasses like garlands of tinsel disappeared as soon as the sun touched it.
The day after the storm, Daniel Gerrett walked into Buckskin Joe with Father Dyer’s snowshoes hanging from his shoulders. He looked around at the fast disappearing snow. Recalling his hike across Mosquito Pass, while Father Dyer rode his mare toward Denver City, Daniel had to grin.
The first miner he met inquired of the grin and the snowshoes. He pointed to the glistening white mountains and explained, “Too deep to take a horse across.”
With a frown the man replied, “Horses’ legs are longer than yours.”
“But when I wear these I have bigger feet.”
The fellow was still frowning as Daniel headed for Father Dyer’s cabin. As he leaned the snowshoes against the cabin, he was thinking he should have made some inquiries—but on the other hand, maybe not.
Restlessly Daniel moved around the cabin. He started a fire, checked out the supply of beans and cornmeal in the tin lard pails, and thumped the straw mattress covering the bunk. By the time he had finished settling in and preparing his evening meal, it was dark.
“Chicken,” he muttered, “just like a stupid chicken running from the ducks.” But he couldn’t deny the reluctance he felt. “Dyer advised the trip. You were willing to go clawing your way over the pass. Now you haven’t the gumption to walk down to the post office and say hello.”
He decided to go to the Tabors’ place. Dyer had said it was close to the store, and that it was a two-story building. It shouldn’t be hard to find.
When he left the cabin the moon was topping the snow-covered peaks. The town lay on the hill below Dyer’s cabin. As he walked, Daniel could make out the bulk of the stamp mill. The glow of lamplight identified the scattering of cabins and made it easy to guess the direction the road took. In the distance, close to the shadow of the mountain, stood a large structure, lights streaming from every window.
“Must be the Tabors’ boardinghouse over that way,” Daniel muttered. Changing direction he headed across the meadow. As he walked along, he mused aloud, “Strange to stick a boardinghouse so far out of town.” With a shrug he headed up the path.
When Daniel opened the front door, he hesitated. A long blank hallway stretched in front of him. There were two closed doors, one on each side of the hall. From behind one door came the low murmur of voices. Just as he started toward the door, the one behind him opened with a crash and a woman surged through.
Daniel stepped backward just in time to collide with the woman. She murmured, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you. I’ll find someone to dance with you.”
She turned to go and Daniel stretched out his hand, but just as abruptly he dropped it. That sleeve he had nearly touched was as fragile and transparent as the wings of a moth. He felt his face warm as he began to understand. “I—uh, I’m looking for Amy Randolph Gerrett. I suppose I’ve come to the wrong place.”
The woman turned slowly. There was something changing in her face. As he watched, he realized she wasn’t young.
The words came slowly. “Amy Randolph Gerrett.” Abruptly she tossed her head and looked him in the eyes. “I know her. Mister, I have an idea you can find your young lady in town at the Grand Hotel.” She turned with a swish and Daniel saw the impudent flash of black stockings and dancing shoes spiked with shining silver heels. The rainbow gauze of her skirts settled as she opened the door and disappeared.
Daniel’s face was still burning as he hurried back through the meadow and turned toward the row of lights marking the road through Buckskin Joe. Tramping down the road, he discovered his thoughts were moving in a troubling circle. That woman said the Grand Hotel. Dyer had said the Tabors’ boardinghouse.
The music from the hotel attracted his attention. Daniel stopped in the middle of the street and caught his breath. She had sung for him just that one time, but the memory of her voice was still with him. This was Amy singing.
Slowly he walked through the door, wondering at the song he was hearing. Daniel hesitated in the lobby, looked at the man behind the counter, and then turned to follow the voice.
“Down in the valley, the valley so low…. If you don’t love me, love whom you please…. Angels in heaven know I love you.”
The last plaintive phrases were fading away when Daniel stepped into the room. The woman at the piano played another melancholy chord, paused, then swung into a polka.
Later he watched her toss her head at the applause. He saw the flash of her smile as she bent over the keyboard. He continued to study her. The smooth, blonde braid he remembered had become a cascade of curls that moved with the music. Her frock was soft gray, of a fabric that seemed to have become part of her body.
Daniel sighed with regret as he watched. He stood there in the doorway a moment longer before he turned slowly and went back the way he had come.