When they were far enough from the town, Jamie filled them in on the events that had followed the fire. He was riding next to the wagon, and his voice came out of the cold darkness. He spoke clearly to be heard above the creaking of the wagon.
“It started with the keg of whiskey someone broke out to thank the folks who helped put out the fire,” he said. “I suppose the men did deserve a drink. But it didn’t take long before there was a fair number of them as drunk as the two who started the trouble to begin with.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Fortune bitterly.
Jamie paused long enough to make her wonder what he was thinking, then went on with his story.
“Poor Mr. MacKenzie was the worst of the lot. He was awful bitter. I can understand: This morning he owned a store, and now all he has is a pile of ashes. But he seemed to take it pretty personal. Anyway, he finally got up and made a speech about what you folks had done to him that got the others as riled up as he was.
“I could tell they were getting a big mad on. I tried to talk them out of it; pointed out that Fortune had saved little Nancy Conaway’s life, and that all of you had worked on the bucket brigades. They weren’t having any of that. Even so, I thought it might blow over—until some of them went out looking for tar and feathers. That’s when I decided I’d better come and roust you out.”
Fortune shuddered at the nearness of their escape.
She was glad to be free of the town, which she had disliked from the moment she arrived there. And she was relieved that Walter had been able to save the night’s take. But she was deeply troubled that she had not found out why her father had wanted them to go to Busted Heights to begin with. His unfinished business would have to remain unfinished, and that bothered her.
They traveled until morning, when they found a place to get out of sight of the road in a small stand of trees next to a stream. They washed up in the cold water, glad to rid themselves of the stink of the smoke, which still clung to their skin and hair.
The men took shifts standing guard a few miles up the road, in case the angry townspeople decided to pursue them. When darkness fell they began to travel again. They drove through Smith’s Corners, the next town along the road, without stopping.
Two days of hard travel later, they reached Bevins.
It was the last town they planned to stop in before they reached Independence, where they were to join Abner Simpson’s wagon train to make the journey across the plains and over the Rocky Mountains to California.
Bevins was a pleasant surprise after the string of increasingly dreary settlements that had led them to Busted Heights. Not only was it larger and more prosperous looking than the last several places they had been; but somehow it seemed to have an air of friendliness about it.
Moreover, Fortune no longer felt like a fugitive.
“That could be just because we’re far enough from Busted Heights to stop worrying about revenge,” pointed out Mrs. Watson when Fortune expressed this feeling.
Whatever the reason, she felt more comfortable as she looked the town over.
We’ve nearly reached the end of the beginning, she thought, looking around the town. One more town and the real journey begins. Oh, I wish you were still with us, Papa!
They gathered the next afternoon in a space not unlike the site of their catastrophic performance in Busted Heights. The fact that they had had no problem finding a place suitable to put on a show confirmed that word of their last performance had not yet traveled this far west.
As Fortune listened with growing anxiety to the argument developing between Mr. Patchett and Mrs. Watson, she began to think that finding a place to work had been the easy part.
“You can’t possibly expect me to do that, Henry!” cried Mrs. Watson. “It is an insult to my talent!”
Mr. Patchett sighed. “My dear Mrs. Watson, all I am suggesting is that you play the scene exactly the way you did the last ninety-six times we performed this show!”
“It’s not the same, and I won’t do it! The whole production is wrong anyway. We have no sense of style, no sense of elegance. Now, here’s what I think—”
“Woman, I do not care what you think! Will you please take your position before I lose my temper completely?”
Fortune sighed. At least things were back to some semblance of normality. With Jamie’s arrival the troupe had decided to attempt a different play, since they were all thoroughly tired of The Widow’s Daughter. Though his work would be limited to walk-ons and lines like, “Yes, Your Majesty,” his very presence freed up one of the other actors to take on some larger parts.
She glanced over to where Jamie stood at the edge of the makeshift stage, waiting to make his entrance. Aaron gave him his cue. Fortune winced as she watched Jamie bolt awkwardly up the steps, stumble, and blurt out his line so fast that it seemed like one long word.
“No, no, no,” said Mrs. Watson. “Here, try it like this.”
“Madam,” said Mr. Patchett, “are you directing this play or am I?” Though he spoke softly, there was murder in his voice.
“Oh, what difference does it make, Henry?” she asked airily. “We’re just trying to get it to come out right, aren’t we, ducky?” Her second comment, addressed to Jamie, was accompanied by a squeeze of his cheek.
“I guess so,” he said, looking very uncomfortable.
Fortune could sympathize. She had been caught in the Patchett-Watson crossfire herself, and she knew it was no fun. Worse, it had been going on all afternoon. She could see Mr. Patchett’s usually good temper wearing thin.
“Looks like your boyfriend is going to make a mess of things,” said Edmund, sidling up beside her.
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Fortune snapped. “And I think he’s doing perfectly well, all things considered.”
Edmund gave her an evil grin and walked toward the stage.
Wondering what he was up to, Fortune found herself wishing again that they had never let him join the group. Suddenly she realized her entrance was coming up. She lifted her skirts to head for the stage. Halfway there she stopped, surprised by an unfamiliar line. After a moment she realized that Edmund was delivering a fake cue. Aaron picked up on it, and sent the dialogue spinning off into nowhere.
Jamie looked from one to the other, his eyes wide with panic.
Mr. Patchett, who had turned aside to make a note of something, looked up. A puzzled frown wrinkled his face. “Jamie?…”
“Uh…uh…”
He looked frantically out at Fortune.
Aaron erupted in gleeful laughter.
“It’s not funny!” said Jamie sharply.
“I should say not!” snapped Mrs. Watson. “Henry, you should see to—oh, never mind, I’ll do it. Now, look here, Edmund. If you and Aaron think—”
“Mrs. Watson,” said Mr. Patchett, “would you please—”
“Be quiet, Henry. This is important!”
Fortune caught her breath.
Mr. Patchett’s face turned an odd shade of red. Without a word he stalked onto the stage. Silence filled the room, the kind of quiet that prevails before a tornado. Mrs. Watson’s air of grand control was replaced by a nervous expression.
Mr. Patchett stood before her without speaking for a moment.
He’s going to hit her! thought Fortune, simultaneously horrified and fascinated. To her disgust she found herself, as she often did, wondering how she could use this moment onstage. She shook the idea away.
As it turned out, Mr. Patchett had no intention of hitting anyone. Instead he bent and began to undo his shoelaces.
“Madam,” he said gravely, “as it is obvious you will never be happy until you have filled my shoes, I will give them to you.”
As he spoke he slipped off his brogues and kicked them toward Mrs. Watson’s feet. The actress said nothing, but her lower lip began to tremble. Walter jumped to his feet. Mr. Patchett waved him aside and continued his speech.
“Furthermore, it is clear that you will never rest until you are the one who wears the pants in this organization. Therefore, let me give you these, also.” Unbuckling his trousers, he dropped them to the floor. After stepping deftly out, he picked them up and tossed them in her direction. “I hope they fit,” he said sweetly. He turned to the others. “As there is obviously no further need for me today, I shall be in my room. Please call me when it is time for dinner.”
His shirttail flapping around his skinny bare legs, he turned and stalked out of the hall with all the dignity of one of the crowned heads of Europe.
The members of the troupe looked at one another. After a moment of stunned silence Mrs. Watson—who had caught Mr. Patchett’s pants—dropped them as if they had suddenly threatened to bite her.
Suddenly Fortune realized just how funny the expression on Mrs. Watson’s face was. She began to laugh, a rollicking release of mirth that was soon joined by the others…all save Mrs. Watson. She gazed at them in growing horror, her cheeks turning crimson. “Philistines!” she cried. Then she turned and fled the room.
After a moment Jamie ran after her.
Suddenly Fortune realized what kind of problem she had on her hands. The rehearsal was ruined. And if she couldn’t pull the group back together, the performance would be, too. Turning to Aaron, she snapped, “Now look what you’ve done!”
“Me?” he said, the essence of wounded innocence. “What did I do?”
“Oh, forget it!” she snapped.
The last thing she saw before she left the room was the puzzled expression on his face.
Mrs. Watson sat beneath an oak tree, sobbing convulsively. Jamie knelt beside her, his hand on her shoulder, talking quietly.
Stepping softly, Fortune moved closer.
“It was kind of you to stick up for me,” said Jamie to Mrs. Watson.
“They…they were laughing at you.”
“I know,” said Jamie. “I’m used to it.”
“How can you stand it?” wailed Mrs. Watson. “That’s why I ran out. They were laughing at me, too! AT ME!”
Throwing her arms around Jamie’s neck, she buried her face in his shoulder.
He disentangled himself, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—a large red bandanna, utterly different from the tiny lace ones Mrs. Watson was so fond of. He began to dab at her eyes.
Look at how gentle he is, thought Fortune.
A terrible thought struck her. She remembered just the other night thinking that Mrs. Watson was very attractive for her age. Could it be that he was interested in her?
Fortune stamped her foot, impatient with her own foolishness. Mrs. Watson was old enough to be his mother for heaven’s sake. Anyway, it made no difference to her. Jamie could like Mrs. Watson, or that girl who was with him the night of the fire, or his horse, for all she cared.
She bit her lip. Even so, she wished Aaron would show her some of the kind of tenderness that Jamie was now demonstrating. No one ever held her when she wanted to cry. Not that she would ever let anyone see her in that condition. She was leader of the troupe, and if she was going to get them to California she had to be strong, to lock away—
“Fortune!”
She gasped. Mrs. Watson had spotted her. Embarrassed at what might appear to be eavesdropping, Fortune stammered, “I…I just came out to see if you were all right. I feel badly that—that your feelings were hurt.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” said Mrs. Watson, mustering her dignity. “I was simply taken aback by the rudeness of some people. Fortunately, not everyone is like that.” She looked fondly at Jamie.
“I know what it’s like,” said Jamie quietly. “That’s all.”
She patted his cheek. “Well, I want to give you some private coaching. We’ll show those yahoos who can act and who can’t. By the time I’m through with you, Aaron and Edmund will look like such amateurs they’ll be ashamed to be on the same stage with you.”
Fortune stifled a groan. As if she didn’t have troubles enough already!
Deciding she needed some advice, she headed for the only place she could be sure of finding a sympathetic ear.