Late the next evening, after Amy had finished the practice session with the band, she found Daniel waiting for her. Amy was frowning in frustration over the dismal evening as she left the piano. Her heels made staccato exclamations of anger on the plank floor as she crossed the ballroom to find her shawl.
Chewing her lip and fuming, she paid scant attention to the tall man unfolding himself from one of the deep velvet chairs. Flipping her shawl from the rack and thinking of the miserable evening, she glanced up as he stopped beside her and took the shawl. “Daniel! I didn’t know you were here.” She paused, “Shouldn’t you be at revival service?”
“It’s long finshed. I’ve come to walk you home.”
She swallowed hard. Last night’s hurts surfaced. He wrapped the shawl about her shoulders, adding, “You should have a heavier wrap; but then I shouldn’t meddle.” His lips twisted in a wry grin, “Certainly you’re earning more than I ever shall.”
Outside the steps were icy, and he took her arm. She could feel his warmth coming through the thin shawl. Without willing it, Lizzie’s word popped into her mind. Vamp. Lizzie had told her to vamp him. Amy’s face burned.
“I was hoping it would be warm enough to walk for a while.” His voice was muffled, making her wonder at the note of regret she was hearing.
With a touch of malice, she said, “We could go to Augusta’s for pie.”
“I’ve had enough pie for a couple days.” He tightened his grip on her arm, pulling her closer.
Slowly he asked, “Mind telling me why you left Fort Lupton?”
She shrugged. “I intended to go home. Took the wrong stage and didn’t have money to leave here.”
“That isn’t why.” He waited. Finally he asked, “Why didn’t you write to your father or me?
“Because I discovered freedom. I like it.” She lifted her chin, and saw his eyes. He seemed miles away. She thought back over their conversation. Why did he mention her earnings?
Now could be the right time, she mused, especially if he feels the lack of money. Her pulse quickened as she reviewed the dream of the little white church back east. The two of them together. Funny, I’d nearly forgotten that dream. It’s becoming more attractive.
Glancing sideways at him as they walked, she spoke, finding her words stiff and uncomfortable. “Daniel, you’re different; I hardly know you. Grown up. We’re strangers.” She paused and rushed on. “How can I say it? Is it the preaching?”
“Preaching? Amy, it’s more what God’s doing in me.”
She found herself liking the new maturity. The confidence and dignity—surely he’d be able to get a church back east. “Daniel,” she said slowly, “you mentioned money. I’m certain the churches back in the states pay more—” she stopped when he frowned.
They continued to stroll down the road, first silent and strained, then abruptly spilling unimportant words. Amy felt the tension growing between them.
At last he said, “I didn’t realize you played the piano like that.”
“Thanks to Lizzie I do.” She looked up at him, wanting to say all the other things, about how music was a need digging into the deepest part of her. A craving. But it didn’t seem to be the time.
When they reached the boardinghouse she protested, “You know it isn’t necessary to escort me. Buckskin Joe is perfectly respectable. I’m not afraid to be on the streets at night.”
“I didn’t think you were.” He waited, and Amy shivered. Finally she swung the door open and he followed her in. The parlor was dimly lighted by one lamp. The round iron stove still radiated heat and Daniel pulled chairs toward it.
Augusta passed through the hall from the kitchen. She looked around the door and smiled. “Night, children.”
Amy murmured, “Night,” and listened to the whisper of her slippers on the stairs.
“Nice woman,” Amy nodded. He hesitated, shifted uneasily on his chair and then asked, “Where do we go from here?”
“What do you have in mind?” Her voice was flat. “I walked out.”
“I can forget that.” He leaned forward and took her hand. “You’re still my wife. I realize I’d be asking you to give up more than I can offer; you have a good job and an opportunity to play the piano here.”
“Doesn’t it bother you that I play for dances?” He winced, and she pressed on. “I do so because I don’t happen to feel the same way you, my father, and John Dyer feel.” She hesitated. Feeling compelled, she added, “Daniel, I am what I am. To deny how I feel inside is to be false to myself. You must accept this.”
When he didn’t reply, she leaned forward, speaking earnestly and quickly, “There was a girl at quarterly meeting last summer who told me how it was back east. Big cities. I’ve never been to a large city. For me it’s always been a poor little town and a poorer church.
“I would like going to a church where they preach about good and beautiful things. About love and honesty and self-respect. Not all the things that make people fearful.”
Daniel leaned back in his chair and the brooding expression on his face made her heart beat faster. He was thinking, considering. Maybe it wasn’t foolish to dream.
Amy continued, “She said they go to concerts and have dances. She’s—”
Daniel looked up, “Amy, please. I think you know how I feel; I also know how you’ve been raised.” He hesitated, as if about to say more; then taking a deep breath he said, “You know how important this is—” He gestured toward the line of benches in Augusta’s parlor and the little organ by the makeshift pulpit. He took a deep breath. “Right now, I think it’s best to put off this talk. I want to discuss our future when the revival services have ended.”
“Because you think I will be changed?” Amy leaned forward to look into his eyes. “Daniel, I feel just as strongly. Don’t forget, I’ve been in the church much longer than you, and I see it as hopelessly out-of-date.”
“What replaces a personal commitment to God? What’s better than learning to follow after Him with all your heart?”
“I still believe that,” she said quickly. “But—
He looked at her for a moment, hesitated. Finally he said, “We’re both tired. Now I don’t think either of us would give an inch.” His grin was crooked as he reached for his hat and stood up.
He went after his coat and Amy followed. While he stood beside the door, she saw the twisted grin. She whispered, “Last night hurt you, too. Oh, Daniel, what is wrong with us? We were such good friends before—” She couldn’t finish the sentence, but it was easy to lift her arms to the hunger on his face.
Between kisses he admitted, “Amy, I want you so badly. Do you understand? I love you.” When he held her away and looked into her face, Amy’s throat tightened.
She reached for him again. Love? Whatever it is, Daniel, I want you. She dropped her arms, remembering those words—One of us must give. “Daniel, you said one of us must give. You meant me, didn’t you?” She studied the hunger on his face. Right now, she thought, I am afraid it will be me, and I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting.
By morning Amy was able to think clearly, without emotion. At the post office while she worked, she firmly lectured herself: Amy, you get control of the situation and worry about love later. She relaxed and smiled. “All it takes is a plan,” she murmured, feeling pleased with herself.
Now there were other things to think about. This was the evening of the ball at the Grand Hotel, and the band Mr. Mayer had brought from Denver was terrible.
Late that afternoon, sorting mail and stacking newspapers impatiently, Amy chafed in her solitude. The last customer had left the building when she allowed her fingers to rest among the letters. Too bad Lizzie couldn’t make an appearance now; it would be nice to have a talk with her.
She flipped through the letters still wondering about Lizzie. The last time she had been in the post office her sunny smile had not hidden the shadows in her eyes. Lizzie was afraid.
Slowly Amy sat down on the stool behind the counter and thought. What would it be like to be a Lizzie? She shuddered. Somehow the pretty dresses and the gay, laughing girls didn’t seem as attractive since she’d begun to see the shadows in their eyes. What had Father Dyer called them? Pasteboard pretties.
Amy got down off the stool and walked toward the door. Storm clouds were rolling in over the peaks. She watched them drop lower, until one by one the white-capped mountains disappeared from view and the sun was only a lighter circle in the clouds. Slowly the afternoon flattened out into a wash of shadow gray. Amy shivered and rubbed her chilled arms.
While she was still looking out the door, she saw clusters of people on the street pause, turn, and wait.
There was something sad about those motionless figures and Amy’s attention was caught. She watched drooping shoulders sag even more.
In unison, the figures began to turn slowly. The undertaker’s long black wagon slowly passed the post office, and idly Amy wondered where the mortician found a pair of perfectly matched jet black horses.
One of the pedestrians broke away from the group and came into the post office. It was a miner clad in grimy buckskins, dirty from the mine. He carried his hat in his hand and his face was still marked with sadness.
She asked, “Who died?”
“Don’t know.” He grinned at her with a white slash of teeth in his dirty, tired face. “Us young ones don’t care as long as it’s an old, worn-out one. But if it’s a miner or one of the pretty little girls from the boardinghouse across the way, it gets scary. Makes a body fearful.”
“Why?”
“You oughta listen to the preacher. After death comes the judgment. It’s enough to make a person straighten up his life, seeing that wagon and thinking of someone being hauled off, someone like you.”
“You don’t think a loving God is going to take everybody to heaven, no matter what?” she asked curiously.
He scratched his head. “I’d like to think that. But deep down inside I know better’n that.”
He leaned against the counter and folded his arms, a frown on his face. “There’s something you can’t ignore. If that kind of thinking is right, then how come people never get over the fear of dying? Seems that’d be the first place God would start changing things for a body.”
He paused and then slowly said, “Might be a nice idea if it were so. At times this earth seems about all the hell a body ought to have to face.”
As he left the building, Amy couldn’t keep her thoughts away from Lizzie. The afternoon wore on, and Amy’s fear grew. That miner had talked about a young person dying.
The moment the big clock pointed to five, Amy was at the door. Turning the key in the lock, she wound the shawl tight and flew down the street and across the meadow.
It had been a long time since she had come this way—to the boardinghouse. The madame, Silverheels, had seen her as a meddler. But no matter what Silverheels would think of her meddling now, she must relieve her guilty conscience by finding Lizzie. Lizzie needs to know about God, judgment.
When she stepped into the hall of the boardinghouse, Amy was met by a blast of warmth and delicious food smells. There was the clink of silverware and soft laughter. She followed the sounds and went to stand in the doorway of the dining room, searching the crowd for Lizzie.
Silverheels saw her and hastily crossed the room.
“What is it?” There was an impatient frown on her face, and Amy found herself stammering.
“Lizzie? I saw the hearse and couldn’t help—”
Silverheels’ face cleared and she laughed, “Quite a crush you have on that gal! Lizzie’s all right. She’s out right now. I’ll tell her she’s not to neglect you again.”
The woman’s playful air and gentle smile swept Amy and the room. Those watching turned back to their plates.
Silverheels took her arm. Leading her into the hall, she said, “My dear Mrs. Gerrett, I can’t have you disturbing the whole place. My clients mustn’t—”
Seeing Amy’s face, she sighed wearily and her lips drooped. “Do I have to stand here and defend myself?”
“No, no. It’s just that I’m fearful.”
“I heard it was a girl—not from here. She was a coward, tired of living. She couldn’t face the future. Some say she had a lover who’d jilted her.” She shrugged, “Who knows? She probably took laudanum.” Her voice mocked as she added, “The fruit of the poppy has stolen her away.”
Impatiently Silverheels spun away from her. Fascinated, Amy watched the bright full skirts swish around her body, drawing tightly across her thighs and hips. Just before they settled back into place, Amy saw the quick flash of silver dancing slippers.
Amy went home, with Silverheels’ mocking smile and gentle laugh following her. When she reached the boardwalk, her steps slowed as Amy mulled over the strange, fascinating woman.
She looked up. It was dark. “The ball!” She ran into the Tabors’ parlor and stopped. She had forgotten the revival meeting. Feeling as if she had dropped into a different world, Amy stood looking at the sober crowd pushing into the parlor before she dashed toward the stairs.
Late that night, when the ball was over, the events of the afternon rose to trouble her.
Now Amy crashed her final chord and turned around on the piano stool. Exhausted by the effort needed to follow the bumbling musicians, she rested, watching them put away their instruments.
The group—two violinists, a short fat man playing the French horn with one sticky key, and a saxophone player still puffing from the high altitude—were joking and laughing, full of their success and wine. Shaking her head as she reviewed the evening, Amy got to her feet and discovered Father Dyer.
“I’m here to escort you home.” He eyed the clinging gray silk and she detected a note of reproach in his voice as he said, “We’ve had a good service tonight.” His grin was twisted as he added, “For making people do some serious thinking, there’s nothing more effective than a tragic death.” He paused. “You know we’ve had one today.”
She nodded, wishing desperately for his total silence. “Daniel’s still with some of the seekers.”
“So he sent you.”
His eyes were twinkling as he patted his thick hair. “I might be an old fogey to you, but at least I don’t go barefoot on the top of my head.” While she laughed, he added, “And I’m not so old that I don’t recognize a tug-of-war. Good luck, my dear.”
She blinked up at him. “You want me to win?”
“Only if you get what you want.”
At the Tabors’ she left Dyer in the parlor with Daniel and the crowd of people kneeling beside the benches. As she hesitated in the hallway, Amy was conscious of the seekers. She moved her shoulders uneasily as she walked up the stairs. In her room she pulled the pins out of her hair, admitting she could feel only scorn.
But with the silk dress half off, she paused. The miner in the post office had talked about being afraid of dying. Curiously she probed the things he had said.
That miner must think about death every day, she mused. With every stick of dynamite he handles, every time he walks into those dank, dark mines. She shivered.
And those people downstairs—why did they come to listen to a man who frightened them? What sent them running to fall before that crude bench in an agony sometimes lasting for hours?
Just before she slipped between the sheets, Amy looked at the dusty Bible lying beside the lamp. Ironic, that she had suggested to Daniel that he read it for answers to his questions. Now he talked about how important it was to be reading it all the time. With eyes wide, staring at the ceiling, Amy thought of Daniel’s beliefs and a tiny twinge of misgiving touched her. But then, if he really loved her, he would change.