8

The next morning, Cassie hurried with her kitchen duties in order to have a free moment to speak to Mr. West when he arrived. After throwing several handfuls of ground coffee into the coffeepot, she pushed the brew to the back of the range to steep. She’d positioned a large bowl on the worktable and opened the flour bin when Mr. West entered the kitchen.

Her heart gave a little hop. If he said no to her request, she had no idea what she’d do. She dusted her hands on her apron and crossed the room to where he stood.

“I have a favor to ask, sir.”

“You don’t need to ‘sir’ me all the time, Miss Haddon.” His expression softened when he looked at her. “What is it you need?”

“We aren’t too busy between noon and supper time. I have some business to attend to. By the time I leave at the end of the day everything’s closed.” She knew she was talking too fast and slowed herself down. “If I could have a free hour this afternoon, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how pleased—”

Mrs. Fielder bustled in from the dining room, broom in hand. “Never seen the floors look so good.” She stopped beside Mr. West. “You must’ve worked extra hard last night.”

He glanced between her and Cassie, appearing annoyed at the interruption. “I hired that fellow who was here. Name’s Wash Bennett. He’ll come in and mop the floors after you leave.”

Mrs. Fielder sniffed. “How d’you know he won’t rob you blind?”

“I don’t. But in the meantime, I’d like you to set a plate of food out for him before you go home.”

Cassie watched him, enjoying the way his gravelly voice vibrated in the room. He wasn’t one for long conversations. She wished he’d talk more so she’d have the pleasure of listening to him speak.

“Humph.” The cook’s response could have been a yes or a no. She swished away and thumped the broom against the wall. “Don’t think I won’t be checking the pantry every morning.”

“Fine. You do that.” The skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Now, Miss Haddon, as I was saying, you may take an hour off.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, thank you.”

One hour. She knew where her first stop would be. Where she went after that depended on the answers she received.

That afternoon, Cassie walked the three blocks to Lindberg’s Mercantile, hoping to see her friend Faith. She often brought her baby son to the store for a while each afternoon, although Thaddeus Cooper, Noble Springs’ former sheriff, now managed the business.

She passed the lawn surrounding Courthouse Square and turned left on King’s Highway. The mercantile sat across the street in the center of the block. Cassie prayed she wouldn’t have to deal with Sheriff Cooper. Somehow she hadn’t lost the awe of him she felt when he’d served as sheriff. She’d much rather ask Faith her questions.

Familiar scents of oiled floors and leather surrounded her when she entered the building. For once, the bolts of colorful fabric displayed near the left of the door didn’t tempt her to linger. She had enough time for a conversation with Faith, but not for daydreams over items she could no longer afford.

Cassie glanced toward the rear of the store, noticing Faith’s “woodstove regulars,” Mr. Grisbee and Mr. Slocum, were in their usual places with a checkerboard between them. They’d stopped their game, apparently waiting to hear why she’d come.

When Sheriff Cooper ambled over, she bit back disappointment. After offering a polite greeting, she said, “Faith isn’t here today?”

“Nope. Baby’s sick. Expect you’ll see her Sunday at church, though.” He sounded dismissive.

She straightened, trying to make herself taller in response to his six-foot stature. “Perhaps you can answer a question for me.”

“Ask away.” He tucked his thumbs in the pockets of his vest.

“I’m in need of a place to rent, Sheriff.” She licked her dry lips. “Have you heard of anything nearby? Not too dear?”

There. The words were out of her mouth. She held her breath, waiting for his response.

He gave his head a slow shake. “You fixing to stay in town this time? Not going to run off to St. Louis again, are you?”

“If I were, I wouldn’t be seeking a place to live.” She pasted what she hoped was a charming smile on her lips to soften her sharp retort.

“Well, afraid I can’t help you. Have you tried the boardinghouse?”

“My goodness, no. Share lodgings with a houseful of men? There must be something else available.”

A chair scraped on the wooden floor. She turned to see Mr. Slocum striding toward them.

“Miss Haddon. Happens I might know of something.” He stroked his tidy gray goatee. “Probably nothing a lady like you would want, though.”

“Please, Mr. Slocum. Tell me about the house and let me decide.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a house. More like a cabin, or maybe you’d call it a shed.”

She put her hand to her throat. “A shed? Is it habitable?”

“Probably. When I first came here twenty-some years back, I built this little place to keep the weather out while me and the wife put enough by to build a proper house. Now I use it to store firewood and such. Wouldn’t take much to move everything out—if you’re interested.”

Somehow she’d pictured a sweet cottage like Rosemary had before she married Elijah. By no stretch of the imagination could Rosemary’s home have been called a shed. But if Mr. Slocum and his wife had lived in this place, how bad could it be? A glance at the wall clock behind the cash drawer told her that her hour was speeding past. She didn’t have time to waste.

“I am interested. If it’s not too far away, may I see it now?”

“Not too far at all, just over on Third Street, near the boardinghouse. Mind you, the cabin hasn’t been lived in for years. You sure?”

“I’m sure.” She felt like part of her had detached and watched from a distance. Timid Cassie Haddon, finding somewhere to live for herself and her mother. A month ago she’d never have dreamed she could do such a thing. But then a month ago she never dreamed she’d be earning seventy-five cents a day working in a restaurant kitchen.

Her uncle couldn’t call her useless now.

Cassie followed Mr. Slocum along a gravel path that led behind his white clapboard home. Flowers budded on a lilac bush growing next to the house. A small cabin—indeed that’s what it was—sheltered in a back corner behind a plowed garden plot. An oak tree spread dappled shade over the entrance. She noted that the door hung straight on its hinges, and the two windows she could see were protected by shutters. A stone chimney rose at the rear of the building.

The door creaked when Mr. Slocum tugged on the latch. Inside, cobwebs draped over what appeared to be a full cord of wood resting in the center of the main room. Broken chairs, a legless tabletop, and an iron bedstead leaning against the wall filled what was left of the space. To the left, a doorway led to what must be a second room. She noticed a stovepipe penetrating the back wall, and prayed it might be connected to a small stove. With the firewood blocking her view, she couldn’t be sure.

For a long moment, Cassie stared, trying to imagine how she’d convince her mother to live in such surroundings.

“Told you it wasn’t much,” Mr. Slocum said. “But you can have the place for four dollars and fifty cents a month.”

“Four dollars. No more.”

His gray eyes crinkled at the corners. “Reckon I can live with that. You’ve got grit, Miss Haddon. Never would have guessed.”

“It comes over me at odd times.” She returned his smile and then waved her hand at the woodpile. “Now, please tell me how long before all this is cleared out. I’ll need to clean before Mother and I bring our things over.”

“Let’s see. Today’s Thursday.” He pushed his hat back from his forehead and took a hard look at the contents of the room. “I’ll get Grisbee to help me. The place will be all yours Saturday for sure.”

She thanked him and then walked the short distance to West & Riley’s with her heart thumping. Four dollars was almost a full week’s pay.

Another thought sprang to mind. She’d talked to Mr. Slocum as if she and Mother were poised to settle in the cabin. But they lacked one tiny thing. Furniture.

They lacked two things if she considered her mother’s reaction. What if she refused to leave the Stewarts’ house?

When she was a child, her father used to chide her about jumping before looking to see where she’d land.

She’d really done it this time.

Cassie paused inside the kitchen door to don her apron while trying to control her whirling thoughts. She and Mother could get by with a bed, a table, and two chairs. Assuming she could afford the furniture. She wiped sweaty palms on her apron. She had only a few dollars left after giving Mr. Slocum a month’s rent.

“Are you going to stand there all afternoon?” Mrs. Fielder’s sharp voice slashed through Cassie’s worries. “Mr. West told me to take the leftover beef from the noon roast and make meat pies for supper.” She gestured toward a bowl filled with chopped potatoes and onions. “Those need to be fried up, then mixed with beef and gravy and dumped into those pans.”

A row of brown stoneware pie pans waited on one of the two worktables. Cassie hesitated. “I don’t know how to fry potatoes.” A memory from childhood stirred. “I can make piecrust, though. Cook used to let me help her.”

Mrs. Fielder planted one hand on her round hip. “Well, why didn’t she teach you to fry potatoes, then?”

“Mother wouldn’t let her. She was afraid I might burn myself.”

Shaking her head, the woman blew out a long-suffering breath. “Fine. I’ll take care of the potatoes. You make the crust. We’ll see if you can manage that.”

Within a short while, the kitchen filled with the aroma of frying onion and potato. Cassie stood at the worktable cutting lard into flour. Thankfully, for a few minutes she could think about something other than the dilemma that awaited her. For those few minutes she’d revisit the happy times she’d spent helping their cook. Before everything changed.

The two knives she used made a scratching sound, like fingernails on a slate, against the oversized crockery bowl. When she sprinkled water over the crumbled mixture, Mrs. Fielder stepped away from the range to watch.

Cassie kept her eyes focused on her task.

“You need more water.” Mrs. Fielder lifted a half-filled cup, her hand poised to pour.

“No.” Cassie pushed the woman’s hand away. “Cook said to use a light hand when adding liquid. Too much makes a tough crust.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then the tight lines around Mrs. Fielder’s mouth relaxed. “Go ahead then. Soon as I fill those pie plates, you top ’em and we’ll put ’em in the oven. ‘Proof of the pudding,’ and all that. Just remember, I’ll make sure Mr. West knows who made the crust.”

Cassie checked the contents of the bowl. She’d done everything the way she remembered, although she’d never had to prepare pastry in such a large quantity before. Her nerves jumped. What if her distraction over renting the cabin caused her to forget a key ingredient? She poked the mixture with her finger. The consistency felt right—a little bit damp and yielding, but not sticky.

The beef filling sent a savory fragrance over the room as Mrs. Fielder scooped spoonfuls into each pie pan. After sprinkling flour over a cloth, Cassie patted a handful of dough into a ball and rolled the first crust flat. If her efforts turned out like cardboard, she hoped the meat and potatoes would be enough to give the patrons a satisfying meal.

Her stomach fluttered. She should have offered to wash the dirty pots, sweep the floor, chop vegetables, anything, instead of yielding to impulse and claiming she could make piecrust.

Before she’d left earlier, Mr. West started to say something about being pleased. She hoped he meant with her work. What would he say now, once he saw the results of her pastry making?

After the step she’d taken today, she couldn’t afford to lose this job.