Sometime after dawn, McLendon dragged himself out of bed, feeling groggy after such a fitful night’s rest. He splashed water from the pitcher into the basin, washed his face, used his finger to scrub his teeth with his final bit of tooth powder, and dressed in his good suit. He checked his pocket watch: it was nearly eight. Yawning, he made his way to the hotel lobby, where Major Mulkins was waiting.
“Will you take breakfast, Mr. McLendon?” he asked. “May I offer you oatmeal this morning, or perhaps you’d prefer bacon and biscuits with your coffee?”
“Oatmeal would be agreeable,” McLendon said. Mulkins led him into the dining room, which was deserted.
“Most everybody in town is previously breakfasted and gone,” Mulkins said. “The prospectors like an early start, before the sun gets too high and hot.”
McLendon was perspiring under the fastened collar of his shirt. “It’s already uncomfortably warm. Surely the heat can’t get much worse.”
Mulkins chuckled. “You’re in for an unpleasant surprise. I’ll bring your oatmeal. May I sweeten it with a bit of juice from a can of peaches? It’s a nickel unsweetened, seven cents with the juice.”
“I’ll live recklessly this morning. Pour on the juice.”
As he ate, McLendon looked out the window. His view was frequently obscured by clouds of dust blown by a strong wind, but there was very little to see anyway. A few prospectors fussed with tents or loaded saddlebags on mules. The stage was standing outside Bob Pugh’s livery, but there was no sign of the driver or guard. Perhaps they were still asleep in the stalls.
McLendon dawdled over his last spoonful of oatmeal. Shortly before nine he watched William Clark LeMond make his way from the livery to Tirrito Dry Goods. The soap salesman held the handle of his sample case in his left hand and clamped his bowler hat on his head with his right. The wind was blowing very hard. McLendon accepted Mulkins’s offer of more coffee and began thinking through what he would say to Gabrielle. He hadn’t seen her for two years. He hoped the gift of the “Shoo Fly, Don’t Bother Me!” sheet music he had tucked inside a coat pocket would remind her that he understood her heart.
Lost in imagining a joyous reunion, McLendon was startled when Mulkins reappeared at the table and asked if there would be anything else. He dug in his pocket and handed seven cents to the hotel proprietor, who asked, “Will you be wanting to retain your room for tonight, sir?”
“I’ll inform you shortly,” McLendon said. He went back to the room, fetched his hat, and waited out of the wind in the hotel lobby for LeMond to finish his business and leave the dry goods store. It took longer than McLendon anticipated. It was nearly nine-thirty when the salesman emerged and walked back toward the livery. McLendon went outside. His hat immediately blew off, landing almost directly at LeMond’s feet. The salesman snatched it up and held it out to McLendon.
“Miss Gabrielle is behind the store counter,” he said. “Don’t be concerned—I didn’t mention your presence.”
“Obliged,” McLendon said. He took his hat and banged it against his leg, trying to knock off the dust from the street.
“Remember that the stage back to Florence leaves at ten,” LeMond said. “You see it just in front of the livery. They’re hitching up the mules now.”
McLendon said politely, “Safe travels.” Then he turned and walked toward the dry goods store. He passed the farrier’s shop; town mayor Charlie Rogers stood over a forge, banging at a horseshoe. He nodded at McLendon, who nodded back. Except for the clank of Rogers’s hammer and the keening of the wind, there was no other sound. In a few more steps McLendon was in front of the store. He noticed with some pleasure that the familiar hand-carved TIRRITO DRY GOODS sign was in place over a wooden door hung by crude latches. He went inside and there was Gabrielle, taking canned goods out of a packing case and placing them on a shelf. He thought that she was a bit thinner and her hair was longer. She turned, saw him, and calmly said, “Oh. Hello.”
Among all her possible reactions to his arrival, McLendon failed to anticipate no real reaction at all. “You’re not surprised to see me?” he asked. “Did the soap salesman who was on the stage with me alert you, after promising me that he wouldn’t?”
“Mr. LeMond didn’t say a word,” Gabrielle said coolly. “Aunt Lidia wrote that you disappeared from St. Louis, and Mr. Pugh, the livery owner, mentioned last evening that a stranger had arrived from Florence. It crossed my mind that you might come this way. You’re quite predictable to anyone who knows you.”
McLendon had imagined controlling the conversation from the outset, but she had him off balance. He said, “I’ve come because we have something to discuss,” but before he could continue, a raggedy prospector came in and inquired, “Miss Gabrielle, did the stage bring ’em yesterday?”
Gabrielle smiled the great warm smile that McLendon remembered so well and said, “Yes, Mr. Haines. Will you have a penny’s worth?” When he nodded, she took a small box from the counter and shook some of the contents into a canvas sack.
“I haven’t the penny this morning, Miss Gabrielle,” the man said. “Will you extend me credit? I’m sure to find some color any day now, and then I’ll pay the debt promptly.”
“Of course you will, Mr. Haines,” she said. “I hope you have good luck today.” The prospector touched his finger to the brim of his hat in a courtly gesture, said, “Ma’am,” and left the store. Gabrielle’s smile instantly vanished, replaced by her previous neutral expression. She arranged a few more cans on the shelf as McLendon gathered himself. After several long moments of awkward silence he said, “What did that fellow want?”
Gabrielle continued shelving cans. She said over her shoulder, “Lemon drops, the hard candies. The prospectors suck them to alleviate thirst in the heat of the day. If they don’t have the candy, they must use pebbles, which don’t taste as pleasing.”
“He can’t afford a penny?”
“Many of the prospectors need occasional credit. We trust them to pay us when they can. They’re for the most part decent men, seeking their fortunes through hard, honest work. I wouldn’t have Mr. Haines sucking pebbles for the lack of a penny. I realize this isn’t the way that you believe in doing business.” She put the last can in place, wiped her hands on an apron worn over her long dress, and said, “You mentioned something to discuss. Perhaps the death of your wife? Aunt Lidia mentioned her demise in the same letter that informed me you’d vanished from St. Louis. Let me express my sympathy for your loss. Does that conclude our business? If so, I believe the stage back to Florence is ready for boarding.”
“No, we need to talk,” McLendon said. “Can we go somewhere, do this in private?”
“My father is busy in the back storeroom, unpacking some of the boxes that arrived yesterday. I must remain on duty at the counter. You can say what you need to here, but be quick. I’ve a great deal of work to do.”
McLendon reached for Gabrielle’s hand, but she moved it away. “Then I’ll begin by saying I’m sorry. I acted abominably. I’ve come all this way to make things right.”
Gabrielle began arranging open containers of small items—nails, buttons, needles, and spools of thread—on the other end of the counter, keeping distance between herself and McLendon. “Oh, there’s no need. I’ve gotten on with my life just as you have with yours. No cause to feel guilty where I’m concerned.”
“But because of me, you’re here.”
“I’m happy here.”
McLendon sensed an opening. “Of course you’re not. No one with any sense could be. I’ll take you away. This place is dirty and dangerous and the man who owns the hotel charges extra for bathwater—”
Gabrielle laughed. “Major Mulkins, that sweet man.”
“Yes, Mulkins. And not just him. The mayor’s wife gobbles jelly straight from the jar and the sheriff is a scarecrow with a bent badge and patchwork beard.”
“I like the sheriff’s beard. It has unique character, where ordinary beards such as yours do not. I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to in making this long trip, and the effort I know that it takes you to sound so sincere. But I have no need or desire to be rescued. You can be on your way with a clear conscience.”
“But I have plans—”
“Of course you do,” she interrupted, and even though there was sarcasm in her tone, he welcomed it, felt glad for any reaction at all. “You always have plans. But they change in an instant, don’t they, depending on your own best interests. I decline further involvement in your plans now or ever.”
“That’s too harsh. I’m a changed man from the one that you remember.”
“Really?” Gabrielle asked, arching her eyebrows in mock astonishment. “You seem exactly the same to me.”
A wizened man emerged from the storeroom. McLendon extended his hand to Salvatore Tirrito, but the old fellow ignored it.
“I’m just visiting with Gabrielle, Mr. Tirrito,” McLendon said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Tirrito’s English vocabulary was sufficient to spit out, “Bastard!”
Gabrielle said something to her father in Italian—McLendon had no idea what, because he’d never bothered to learn any of the language during his time with her in St. Louis. She apparently assured the old man that things were fine and he could return to his work in the storeroom. Tirrito fixed McLendon with a baleful glare and stalked away.
“Let me be clear,” Gabrielle said to McLendon. “This current plan you have for me—for us—is that you swoop into Glorious, rescue me from this hideous place, and carry me away to some great city where we’re to live happily ever after. Is that correct?”
“Though you’re mocking me, yes, that’s the concept in general. California is my preferred destination. I’m sincere in this intention.”
“And does any aspect of this plan include my father?” Gabrielle asked. “How would he fit in?”
“I suppose he would stay on here, operating his store,” McLendon said.
“You think that I would abandon my father to go with you? That I would leave him all alone? You plainly have a low opinion of me.”
“On the contrary, I have tremendous respect for you,” McLendon said, marveling at how Gabrielle had seized and held the upper hand. “Come with me now and after we’re settled somewhere we’ll send for your father, or do whatever you want concerning him.”
“What I want,” Gabrielle said briskly, “is for you to get back on the stage to Florence, and from there go on to California or wherever you like. Your ultimate destination is of no consequence to me. Leave my father and me alone. We don’t in any way require your attentions or concern. I find your attitude to be offensive.”
“Don’t be offended,” McLendon pleaded. “What I want to do is correct my errors of the past. Far from intending any insult, my being here is a compliment to you. I believe you’re so special that you’re worth my coming all this way to be reunited. This is the sum of my thoughts and my entire intention.”
Gabrielle came out from behind the counter. She was a tall woman and McLendon a man of average height, so their eyes were level. Hers stared hard and unblinking into his.
“I’ll tell you what you thought and what you intended. You thought I was a lowly Italian who would never get over the pain of losing her man to a rich white girl. You intended to come here to Glorious and sweep me off to California because that was what you wanted, never considering whether it was best for me. Well, I’m happy here; I’m staying. If you need forgiveness, then fine, I forgive you. And now I have work to do.” She opened another box and resumed putting cans on shelves, pointedly turning her back on McLendon.
He remembered the gift he’d brought. “I have something for you: sheet music.” He took the pages out of his coat pocket and smoothed them out on the counter. “This song ‘Shoo Fly, Don’t Bother Me!’ has become quite popular. It’s a sprightly tune, and will sound well when played on your piano.”
Gabrielle continued unpacking cans. “Thank you for the gift, but it’s of no use to me. I no longer have my piano.”
“Why not? I can’t imagine you giving it up.”
She glanced briefly at the sheet music, gently touching the pages with her finger. “Oh, it was too unwieldy to bring west. We sold it to help pay our way here. I really must get back to work.” She took more cans from the box and put them on the shelf, turning each carefully so that its label faced out.
McLendon blurted, “Your aunt Lidia told me that I broke your heart.”
Without turning around, Gabrielle said, “Hearts mend.” A burst of wind gusted through the open doorway and blew the sheets of music off the counter.
McLendon stared at Gabrielle’s back for a few moments, and then, not knowing what else to say or do, he left the shop. He thought he would return to the Elite Hotel, retrieve his valise, and get out of Glorious, but then he looked west, past the cluster of prospectors’ tents, and saw the Florence stage disappearing over the horizon toward Picket Post Mountain.