Chapter Two

Rosalind Kemp approached the new Santa Fe Depot from the west, making use of the exterior door that led directly into the kitchen. Thankful for an architect who’d crafted convenient entrances and exits for each section of the building, she slipped into the Harvey House kitchen without disturbing any of the guests in the neighboring lunchroom.

Their heavyset French chef looked up from rolling out pastry crust for the English-style baked veal pie that always seemed to be in demand during the dinner service. “How is Mrs. Williams faring today?”

Savory aromas from meat pies already in the oven tickled Rosalind’s nose as she closed the door behind her. The clanking cadence of boys washing dishes mixed with the rhythmic tattoo of the assistant’s knife as he prepped the vegetables. The music of a Harvey House kitchen. An orchestration that Felix Dupont directed to perfection.

Rosalind smiled as she tucked the white linen napkin she’d borrowed into the laundry basket under the shelf nearest the door. “She ate one of the tea cakes you sent.”

Monsieur Dupont winked at her, the movement twitching his carefully waxed mustache. “Très bon. She is far too thin and far too sad. I am glad you asked me to bake for her. We will get her smiling yet, oui?”

“That’s my goal.” Rosalind grinned, feeling better than she had in ages.

She’d balked when she’d received the notice that she’d been reassigned to the new lunch counter in Gainesville. She’d grown quite content with Kansas. After completing her training in Topeka, she’d taken a position in Emporia followed by one in Wellington. As one of the few girls who’d managed to avoid matrimony within her first year of employment, she’d built up an impressive five years of seniority and had earned not only the opportunity to travel at the end of each contract period, but also the privilege of requesting transfers to other stations. She’d dreamed of putting in for a new post in California, someplace so far removed from Texas that the mistakes of her past wouldn’t find her. Unfortunately, before her current contract expired, she had been reassigned to the very place she’d gone to such lengths to avoid.

No doubt the Fred Harvey company thought they were doing her a kindness by moving her to a station so close to her hometown of Honey Grove—and in truth, she had been grateful for the chance to spend a few days with her sister, brother-in-law, and her adorable two-year-old nephew, Pierce, before starting work in Gainesville—but Texas was the last place she wanted to be. Not with the increased risk of a cowhand or railroad worker having a Prairie Rose tucked into his billfold.

Be that as it may, when the Fred Harvey Company asked one of its girls to take a position somewhere, she took it. With a smile. So here she was, determined to make the best of things. Focusing on someone other than herself helped. Everyone had troubles and regrets. If she could ease the burden of one such person while she was stationed here, then her return to Texas would have been worth all the worry and stress.

“I don’t know why you two bother with the crazy train lady,” one of the dishwashers said as he moseyed closer, a freshly washed cake tin in his dish towel-clad hands. “Ya’ll are new here, but everyone in these parts knows Widow Williams’s got an attic full of cobwebs, if ya know what I mean.” The lanky youth tapped a finger to his temple as if she might need the clue to decipher his oh-so-subtle insult.

Rosalind glowered at him through the clear-glass spectacles she’d taken to wearing since returning to Texas. “Constance Williams deserves our pity, not our scorn. She’s all alone in this world and misses her son. Can you blame her for hoping for his return?”

“I can when the feller cocked up his toes seven years ago. He ain’t a-comin’ back, Miss Kemp. Not by train or wagon or three-legged mule. And his mama visitin’ the depot ever’ Tuesday to look for ’im among the passengers ain’t gonna change that fact.”

“Enough, Henry.” Chef Dupont jabbed his rolling pin in the direction of the sink. “Get back to work.”

“Name’s Hank,” the boy groused, but he turned to obey. Jobs that paid as well as a dishwasher in the Fred Harvey system were few and far between for a lad of his years. Plenty of locals would line up to replace him if he lost the position.

After ensuring the boy returned to his station and resumed his work with sufficient vigor, Chef Dupont turned his gaze to Rosalind. “I feared that might be the case with Mrs. Williams. Losing a child”—his gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted slowly, as if the effort required for the simple movement was almost too much for him—“is a difficult storm to weather. Some . . . lose their way.”

Had he lost his way? Or perhaps someone he loved had suffered that fate? Rosalind had heard him speak of a wife once or twice, but always in the past tense. And never in relation to a child. Rosalind placed a hand on his arm, the ache in her chest growing as she tried to fathom the depth of such pain.

Her touch seemed to rouse the older man from his melancholy, for he straightened his posture and twitched his curled mustache upward with the force of a quickly manufactured smile.

“We will be her compass in the storm.” He nodded to underscore his words. “I will bake her sweets to remind her that living can still bring joy, and you will bring her company to remind her that she is not alone.”

“Yes.” Rosalind’s voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t care. This man with his tender heart and skilled hands was the epitome of the father she’d always wanted.

Her own father had been a skilled baker, a trade he’d begrudgingly passed down to Rosalind’s older sister, Abigail, when he’d failed to sire a son to succeed him, but his heart had been far from tender. Rosalind had fared better under his sharp tongue than Abby had, with his penchant for constantly finding fault. However, the favor Rosalind had enjoyed had nothing to do with her skill with a needle or her nursing abilities when he took ill. He had valued her strictly for her face, planning to trade her looks for a suitable son-in-law who could run the family bakery in Abigail’s place.

Rosalind smiled as she considered the son-in-law her father had acquired after his death. Edward Kemp would not have cared for Zacharias Hamilton one bit, seeing as how Zach had a knack for putting bullies in their place. Zach would have told him to his face that he was a bigoted fool to think any man could run the Taste of Heaven bakery better than Abigail. And he’d have been right.

Allowing Chef Dupont to get back to his veal pie, Rosalind crossed to the silver cabinet to see about polishing away any water stains that might mar the shine of the utensils scheduled for the dinner service. No Harvey Girl was ever to sit idle, after all. There was always silver to polish and china to inspect for cracks or chips. Nothing but the best would be placed before a customer. Fred Harvey might have passed away last year, but his standards for quality lived on in each of his establishments.

Rosalind had just started rubbing out a small smudge on the handle of a butter knife when the door connecting the lunchroom to the kitchen pushed inward.

“Is Rosalind back from her break yet? Oh, there you are. Perfect!” Callie Sanderson skittered to the back of the kitchen, neatly dodging worktables, stoves, and splattering dishwater, successfully keeping her white apron as bright as her smile.

The petite brunette with glowing eyes and pink cheeks exuded joy wherever she went. It was no wonder she had already collected a half-dozen marriage proposals from besotted rail workers and cowhands alike. The only proposal that mattered to her, though, had come last week, when Mr. Flint Halbert stopped over for an extra day on his monthly business trip from Topeka to Denver. Callie hadn’t stopped smiling since. She’d met the young businessman during her training in Topeka a year ago, and the two had kept in touch via letters. They planned to wed as soon as Callie finished her current contract. Gainesville would need a new Harvey Girl by Christmas.

Callie grabbed the knife from Rosalind’s hand, heedless of the fingerprints she left in her wake, and pushed the empty water pitcher she held toward Rosalind’s chest in exchange. “Trade with me.”

Rosalind grabbed the pitcher out of reflex. “Why?”

“Because he’s here.” Callie’s eyes danced.

“He, who?”

“Listen to you. ‘He, who?’ Who do you think, silly?” Callie circled Rosalind and gave her a little shove from behind. “Only the handsomest lawyer in Gainesville. The one who asks for you every time he comes in. The one with the warm brown eyes that would make even me swoon if I weren’t already so enamored with Flint’s baby blues.”

Rosalind’s belly clenched, and her pulse quickened. Mr. Durrington. She squashed the urge to smile.

None of that, now. He was a customer, and Fred Harvey had strict policies against romantic activity between employees and customers. Which was a good thing, because she needed to steer clear of anything even hinting of romance. She was a Harvey Girl. Dedicated to the system. Determined to earn her way into a California position. The West equaled freedom. An escape from her past. Julius’s photography business was based out of Austin, after all. The chance of his work touching her in California was extremely slim. Once there, she could finally be her true self again, stop looking over her shoulder, and maybe even find love.

Stumbling across love in Texas would be a disaster. For her as well as for anyone who cared for her. Better for all involved to stick to the California plan. Caleb Durrington would tire of her soon enough. Heaven knew she did all she could to discourage his interest while maintaining the gracious demeanor required of all Harvey Girls. He was persistent, though, and she couldn’t deny that his tenacity gave her a secret thrill. But she’d managed to resist his charm this long. She’d manage a bit longer.

A second shove sent Rosalind careening toward the large water barrel stored near the door to the restaurant.

“I wish you’d let me do something different with your hair,” Callie lamented as Rosalind placed the empty pitcher beneath the spigot and removed the cork plug. Local water was used for cooking and cleaning, but Harvey had deemed it unfit for their famous coffee, so they shipped in barrels of drinking water from Fort Worth. “I’ve seen your hair after you wash it. It’s so pretty, all those gorgeous golden waves. I don’t understand why you pull it back so tightly and wrap it in that rigid braid. Why scrape it into such an unattractive style?”

To make myself unattractive. But that was not the answer Rosalind voiced. “To keep it tidy. You know how Mr. Ledbetter is about hair escaping its pins. My curls can run amok.” They didn’t usually, but they could if she, say, got caught in a windstorm or had a bird alight on her head.

“Yes, but the rest of us manage to stay tidy with our looser styles,” Callie bemoaned as Rosalind stoppered the spigot and turned to face her well-meaning friend. “Doesn’t it make your head ache?” She pulled a face. “Mine hurts just looking at you.”

“I’ve gotten used to it.” Mostly. Although the first thing she did every night when she reached the privacy of her upstairs room was pull out every last pin and massage her scalp.

“Well, at least Mr. Durrington doesn’t seem to mind.” Callie’s face cleared, and the twinkle returned to her eyes. “He asked for you specifically, you know. Better quit dawdling and get out there.”

For a moment Rosalind considered sloshing the water from the pitcher onto her dress so she’d be forced to go upstairs and change, but such clumsiness would do her no favors in proving to Mr. Ledbetter that she was worthy of promotion.

“I’m sure one of the other girls can take his order,” she tried instead. Not that she expected such a weak ploy to work. Ever since Callie had gotten herself engaged, she’d been on a mission to help her compatriots find husbands as well. Whether or not they wanted one.

Callie grinned mischievously. “Not if I gave them the hands-off signal.”

Harvey Girls were not allowed to chat with each other while in the restaurant, but they found ways to communicate without words. Hands gathered behind the back with fingers displayed to enumerate section and seat numbers, for instance, staked a claim on a particular customer. All other girls would keep their distance.

“Why would you do that?” Rosalind frowned even as her heart thumped a little faster. “I’ve got no interest in him.”

“Ha! And I’ve got no interest in Monsieur Dupont’s petit fours.” Callie ate at least two each evening after the final dinner service. “Either way, Mr. Durrington certainly has an interest in you. He asked for you by name, Rosalind, so the hands-off signal was really his doing, not mine.”

“You’re a meddler of the worst sort, Callie Sanderson.” Rosalind rolled her eyes, but a smile crept onto her face despite her attempt to remain exasperated.

“You’ll thank me someday.”

I doubt it.

Nevertheless, having been given no choice in the matter, Rosalind gripped the water pitcher’s handle in her right hand, straightened her posture, and pushed through the door leading to the lunchroom.