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June 1879
Deadwood, Dakota Territory
Another stagecoach. Another strange town. Bertha flicked her fan open and waved it across her face. Lordy, it was hot. The young girls, obviously sisters and straight from the farm, sitting across from her were fortunate enough to have the liberty of taking off their bonnets and wearing short-sleeved, gingham blouses with lightweight skirts. What she wouldn’t give to wear something similar instead of her long-sleeved, high collared, white blouse, blue brocade jacket, and heavy skirt with three layers of petticoats underneath. She did remove her dust-spotted gloves but would have to put them back on before the stagecoach stopped. No sense in getting James’s ire up before she uttered one word.
The stagecoach rocked and swayed. Bounced and bumped over the dirty, dusty road. At least she was sitting alone on her seat across from the sisters and a man who had more hands than an octopus. It was obvious the poor new school marm didn’t know how to handle him. If he didn’t keep to himself, she’d have to pull her parasol out from her carpetbag and smack him over the head.
She closed her eyes, letting the scene from her youth cross her mind. Mamaw and Papaw’s farm. Going barefoot all day. Fishing and playing in the creek. But the farm was gone, or at least owned by someone else. Five years ago, and within a few days of each other, they’d passed. It hadn’t taken but a few short weeks after the burial for her parents and her mother’s siblings to divest themselves of the property. Since she and James were in New Orleans, and it had been July, she couldn’t make it back in time for their funerals. Afterward, James wouldn’t allow her to return to at least gather a few precious mementos.
Her mother probably had no use for Mamaw’s pie, cake, and bread pans. Nor her cooking utensils and red sewing bag Bertha had carefully stitched as a Christmas present when she was learning to sew. Cockeyed with stitches so large and uneven, she was surprised Mamaw’s knitting needles hadn’t slipped through. But from the moment she’d presented her grandmother with the bag, it had sat alongside her rocking chair where she did her knitting and sewing in front of the fireplace. If she were ever blessed with a daughter, she’d teach her everything Mamaw had taught her. She blinked back a tear.
With a lace handkerchief, she dabbed a spot of sweat from her upper lip. It wouldn’t do to greet James all hot and sweaty. He wouldn’t like that. Not one bit. Many times, in the month since he’d left her behind in Kansas City, she’d contemplated not following him, but without funds other than what James had sent her for food on the many stops west, she was, overall, destitute.
How many cities and small towns had they lived during the past thirteen years? How many run-down, war-torn houses had to be fixed up? How many people had called them names for coming into the south? She’d always felt as if she were helping people, but James thought she was a soft-hearted woman. All he wanted was money. Money, money, money, and more money.
Next stop: Deadwood. Would this town be better than some of the others they’d lived? Would there be other women of her social status? She held in a giggle. Social status. She’d worked so hard to maintain what both James and her mother considered important, she’d become a harridan. A bitter woman. Someone who scared people, who did her bidding to keep her from getting angry at them.
Frankly, she hated who she’d become. Mamaw and Papaw wouldn’t like her, either. A question she’d asked herself year after year while married to James was would she have been happier with Sy? Even if she couldn’t bear a child, would their marriage still be strong? In her darkest moments when James was physically showing his anger, she let her mind conjure up what it might have been like.
And now she was old. Well, maybe not old, but old enough that the chance of having a child were remote, much to James’s anger. He was now forty-six and she was thirty-six, much too old for them to even try. Not that he hadn’t given up. His ways of getting her with child hadn’t changed from the day they’d married.
The stagecoach driver’s voice rose above the creaking of the coach, calling for the team of eight horses to stop. One of the sisters, Julia or Suzanna, lifted the canvas window covering failing dismally in its duty to keep out dust. Someone opened the door. The driver held his rifle over one shoulder and tipped his hat. “Thought you might like a look at your new home, Mrs. Woods. The view from here is one you don’t want to miss.”
“Well, let’s make it quick.” If they were one minute late for their estimated time of arrival, James would take it out on her—even if it weren’t her fault. She offered her hand to the man. The coach tipped as she stepped out, nearly making her topple into the driver. She’d gained too much weight over the past few years from all the rich food she’d eaten. Something else James complained about, but then he was in worse shape than her.
The sisters followed her, oohing and aahing over the scenery. She had to admit it was quite impressive. After the stagecoach had wound its way through gorges and narrow passages, the valley opened up. She couldn’t tell what shape the town was in, but she agreed with Julia about the people resembling ants scurrying from building to building. The sun glared off several signs, making her squint. Which one was James’s bank? Which house was theirs? Had he bought another run-down place for her to fix up or one she could easily settle into?
“All right, folks.” The driver held open the door. “Time to get going so we’re not late.”
Bertha held onto the straps on the sides of the coach to keep from being pitched to the floor as the driver sent the horses weaving and winding into the valley at breakneck speed. Whoever had made the road into Deadwood obviously forgot to dig up tree roots and remove rocks. How the coach didn’t lose a wheel was beyond her. With their wide eyes and hands gripping each other, the sisters were every bit as scared as she was.
With one last turn, the horses slowed. A massive sigh of relief filled the inside of the coach as the driver urged the horses on. Bertha pulled back the curtain and sucked in a breath. This was Deadwood? This was where James expected her to live? In all the towns he’d dragged her to, this had to be the worst and she had been to some war-torn cities. Muddy streets. Ramshackle buildings looking as if a crew of blind men had constructed them. Wooden sidewalks so crooked and uneven, they looked like drunken caterpillars.
The place was total chaos. They passed several buildings that, from the names of them, were owned by Chinamen. What in heaven’s name were Chinamen doing in Deadwood?
The wagon wheels sucked through the mud as the driver urged the horses down what could only be described as a disaster. Men leaned against saloon posts, smoking cigars, and calling out to the scantily dressed women hanging over upper-floor railings. They were certainly soiled doves. Were these the type of women she’d have to associate with?
With the exception of a few men, most were wearing filthy pants and shirts, hats with holes in them, and had beards that could probably nest a family of racoons.
The buildings they passed on the muddy, horrible-smelling streets weren’t in any better shape. Even the war-ravaged cities of the south looked better than Deadwood. How did the buildings stand through a summer breeze, much less a winter gale? Many of the outside boards were still covered with bark.
The coach slowed before a dry goods store with the name Haywoods’ printed on a sign hanging by one chain. Even though there was a wooden sidewalk, a wide plank board was placed between the coach and wooden steps leading to the boardwalk. Would James be there to help her cross the rather flimsy-looking board? Someone had better be. Over the years, she’d gained a bit of weight, and the board didn’t seem strong enough to hold her.
Someone opened the door, and a handsome man, dressed in a crisp white shirt beneath a blue brocade vest, stepped onto the board and held out his hand.
“Mrs. Woods, I presume? I’m Dan Iverson. I can take you to your husband.”
She couldn’t hold back a giggle. The man was devastatingly handsome. So much more than James who’d put on more weight than she had, and with the loud clothes he wore, he appeared more like an over-stuffed peacock than a banker. Mr. Iverson tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.
“I’m so pleased to finally meet you. Mr. Woods has been regaling us with your beauty.”
A snort popped from her mouth before she could stop it. Unless it was to make himself look better, James would never praise her. He hadn’t said a kind word to her since before their wedding night. She needed to cover her snort. “And where is my husband? I’ve missed him so.” Liar. “It’s been so long since we’ve been together.” Not long enough.
Mr. Iverson patted her hand. “He’s at his bank. I’ve been instructed to take you there. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”
Bertha bit her bottom lip to keep another snort in. The only reason James wanted her with him was because a married man seemed more honest than a single one. If people only knew what type of man he was, they’d lock him up and throw away the key. If she were only so lucky.
“Be careful, Mrs. Woods.” Mr. Iverson tightened his grip on her arm. “These boardwalks aren’t very even.”
That was an understatement. She stepped over a missing board and gripped his arm at the next crooked one. She paused at a ruckus behind them. “What is going on?”
Mr. Iverson glanced over his shoulder and chuckled. “It looks as if my buddy, King Winson, is having a little trouble with the new school marm.”
Like brown monsters, two mud-covered figures emerged from the sludge they called a road. “Why, the poor girl.” A sense of wanting to help washed through her. When was the last time the desire to help someone less fortunate had come to her? James had drummed into her that helping the unfortunate was a sign of weakness. People needed to take care of themselves. At least he practiced what he preached and always thought of himself first.
“Come along, Mrs. Woods. You husband gave me strict instructions to bring you directly to the bank.”
Bertha sighed. Of course, he had. He certainly wasn’t concerned for her safety. If he was, he’d never let her travel on her own like she’d been. No, it was more a matter of putting on a show for ‘the little people’ as he referred to anyone he thought was lower than him, which was nearly everyone.
They passed a liquor store, dentist shop, tonsorial parlor, tinsmith, a print shop, an alley filled with barrels of glass bottles, and a place called the Bella Union where the off-key tinkling of piano keys came through swinging doors. Finally, after jostling through crowds of repulsive-smelling men, Mr. Iverson stopped before a door bearing the words, First National Bank, The Honorable James Woods, President.
Bertha’s stomach turned. Honorable? Once again it seemed he had pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. What scheme had he come up with this time?
Mr. Iverson opened the bank door and let her enter before him. After the outside heat and overriding scent of refuse, the cool interior was a refreshing change. She let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting before trying to find her husband. How should she greet him? With two employees watching, should she hug him? Kiss his cheek? What she’d like to do for making her come to this god-forsaken place was punch him in his flabby stomach.
“Bertha, my darling.” James planted a kiss on her cheek. “I missed you so much.”
All right, it was showtime. She kissed him back. “I missed you, too. I’m so glad to be here finally.”
James turned to Mr. Iverson, his demeanor changing from loving husband to someone who wasn’t happy. Anyone else probably wouldn’t see it, but as in tune to his moods as she was, she knew something was up.
“Iverson.” James didn’t offer his hand. “Thank you for bringing my lovely wife to me, but since we’ve been apart for several months, you can take your leave.” Without another word, he took Bertha by the elbow and turned his back on Mr. Iverson.
Once in his office with the door closed, he released her elbow. “Took you long enough to get here.” Without offering her a place to sit, he took his chair behind his large, oak desk. “Where have you been?”
“Really, James?” She tugged off her stained, sweaty gloves and tucked them into her waistband. “You’re the one who had me stay behind and clean up your mess.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or did you forget?”
“Don’t get smart with me, woman. I expected you here last week.”
Exhaustion from the trip set in, and she took a wooden chair across from his desk, praying the legs creaking didn’t mean she’d end up on the floor.
James narrowed his eyes. “Did I give you permission to sit?”
“No, James, you didn’t, but I’m tired.” He’d make her pay for her insolence, but right now she didn’t care. She was used to his beatings, anyway. “You have no idea what I went through to get out of New Orleans after you left. There were plenty of people angry at you for promises you made and didn’t keep—except for their money. I had to go into hiding for a few days and sneak away during the night.”
“I see you managed. As usual your clothes are impeccable and, based on your size, you didn’t starve.”
He should be one to talk. He was at least several pounds heavier since she’d seen him last. “And neither have you, husband.” At this point she didn’t care what he did to her, she just wanted to find the nearest bed and sleep for a week.
“Did you bring the money?”
“Of course, I did.”
James tapped a quill pen on the desk and raised an eyebrow. “Is it all there?”
With a clunk, she dropped her small reticule on the desk. “Except for my expenses coming out here, yes, it is.” She’d carried the blasted thing on her wrist for weeks, never letting it out of her sight. The relief of handing it over was strong. She tossed a stack of papers on top of the bag. “Here are the receipts for my expenses.”
He leaned back in his chair and frowned. “Is there anything else, my dear?”
“I’m exhausted, James. Where is our new home?”
“It’s at the end of Main Street. It’s where all the important people live.”
Of course, it was. She didn’t expect anything less. “Can we please go home, then?”
With a deep sigh, James pressed his palms against the top of the desk and pushed himself up. “I suppose, but I’ll have to get back to work right away.”
As if she had germs or something, he swept past without touching her. Except for a quick kiss on the cheek, he never was one to be demonstrative in public. But, even after their childless years of marriage and disdain for her barrenness he still demanded his husbandly rights, as he probably would tonight. She just prayed she didn’t get some awful disease he may have contracted from whomever he used for release when he wasn’t with her.
****
She had to admit James had good tastes in homes. The two-story, blue house with white trim and shutters on the corner of Lee and Broadway was pleasing to the eye. Unlike the buildings in the main part of town, this one seemed sturdy and well-built. A covered porch ran across the front. She imagined a couple of rocking chairs or maybe a swing where she and James could sit at night and talk. What a pipe dream.
The front yard was devoid of flowers, trees, or anything else to take away from its starkness. Would she be able to get flowers to plant out here? She itched to get her fingers dirty, but in all probability, if she were to find things to put in the ground, James would demand she let someone else do the work.
“Was this home here when you arrived, or did you have it built?”
James stood on the wide, covered porch, its roof held up by six white pillars. He puffed out his chest. “I bought it from someone who’d struck it rich. I convinced him since he was so rich, he needed a new home.” He puffed out his chest. “I also talked him into putting his vast holdings into my bank.”
Knowing her husband as she did, he probably used some type of underhanded way to get the man to sell his home. “Where did he move?”
“Up the hill where many of the rich are settling. Someday soon, that’s where we’ll be.”
Bertha craned her neck to get a view of the few buildings perched on the side of the hill above Main Street. Looked like a lot of walking just to have a better home. “Can we go in?”
“Of course.” He pulled out a ring of keys, chose one, and unlocked the front door.
Why did a man need so many keys? The bank and this house. What more did he need? Had he been saving them from all the other places they’d lived?
A scent of freshly baked cookies or cake washed through the front door.
“I had the cook make up some gingerbread cookies for you. I know how much you love them.”
She bit her lip to hold back a retort. She hated gingerbread cookies. He was the one who loved them.
The foyer and hallway dividing the house in half were dark and papered with large, red . . . Huh. What were these flowers anyway? Did something this large even grow in nature?
To her right was the dining room, whose walls were the same as the foyer. Heavy, velvet, wine-colored drapes covered two windows. Lord, how she hated dark rooms. Thankfully the third window was covered in sheer drapes at least allowing some light to enter the room.
A table with seating for at least twenty people sat on a wool carpet with the same pattern as the walls. A sideboard and large China cabinet filled two walls. Who did he think they were going to entertain in this room? Was he going to invite some of those disreputable-looking men, or worse yet, the prostitutes?
The room across the hallway was obviously set aside as James’s office. The desk, similar to the one in his bank office, sat before a large, covered window. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases, containing books she knew he’d never read, filled two walls. Knowing how he flaunted what he called his “knowledge of the world,” this was another attempt at showing off.
He grasped her elbow and pulled her from the room, closing the door behind them, and locking it. “As you know, this room is off limits. You are never to enter it when I’m not home. Understand? I only showed it to you, so you’d know what it looks like and how hard I work to support you.”
She bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. How hard he works? The man was crazy if he thought she believed his claims. The only thing he worked at was scamming people out of their money, and, as far as she knew, coming up with schemes to make more money—many of which were probably illegal.
He stopped before a room next to his. “This is your room to do what you wish.”
Ah, yes. Her sitting room. She had to give him credit for always allowing her a sitting room, although he never failed to criticize how she decorated it. The room was every bit as dark as the other two. The first thing she’d do, and she didn’t care what he thought, was to get rid of the dreary drapes. She’d heard winters could be cold and snowy in the west, so like she had done in Minnesota, she’d pack the drapes away and put them back up to keep the cold out.
The only other thing in the room was a secretary. She ran her hands over the scratched and stained surface. Of course, he wouldn’t buy her something new.
“Isn’t up to your standards?”
His voice in her ear raised the hair on the back of her neck. She didn’t dare tell the truth. “It’s perfect. Just what I need.” Hah, who was she going to write? Her grandparents were gone, and it had been years since she’d written or spoken to her mother.
“I have someone delivering you a small couch and matching chair.” James stood beside her, rocked back on his heels, hitched his thumbs in the edge of his yellow vest, and puffed out his chest. “I bought them off Al Swearingen.”
Figured. Used again. And who was Al Swearengin? The way James was acting, he must be someone important. “That sounds wonderful, James.”
He snorted. “Don’t know who he is, do you?”
“How can I when I just arrived, and you never wrote to tell me about Deadwood?” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.
“Don’t get smart with me, woman. He’s only the proprietor of the largest entertainment center in town. A very important man, he is.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Now, let’s go to the parlor, then I’ll show you the upstairs. You can rest afterward for tonight.”
Her stomach turned. That could mean many things and none of them good. “That sounds wonderful.”
****
By the time he left to go back to the bank, her feet ached, head pounded, and her stomach was rubbing against her backbone. The only good part of the day was when he pointed out their separate bedrooms with a connecting door. Her mattress called to her, but James’s parting words to her were to make sure she spoke with the cook about what to make for supper. She hadn’t met the woman, yet, as James believed it was beneath a man to enter a kitchen.
The one thing she would do, though, was remove her boots and slip on a pair of comfortable slippers. Her bags hadn’t arrived yet, but in all her travels, she’d learned to pack necessary items in the carpet bag she always kept with her.
Instead of taking the front stairway to the foyer and down the dark hallway, she headed down the back servant stairs. She opened the door at the bottom and let out a gasp. Thank the good Lord above for James’s ego and insistence of men not going into a woman’s domain. The room was bright, so bright it nearly blinded her.
Now this was a room she could enjoy. Two walls were banks of windows, one with a wooden table beneath it and the other a long countertop. A sink with a handpump was situated at an angle in the corner where the walls of windows met, so anyone doing the dishes could enjoy the outside view.
Yellow and blue checkered curtains covered the storage shelves beneath the countertop, while the shelves above were left open. Valences of the same fabric covered only the top of the window, leaving the rest open to the sunshine. A breeze flickered the valences.
Pots and pans, spoons and spatulas were suspended from hooks in the ceiling above a large, wooden table centered in the middle of the room. She’d never seen a kitchen as amazing as this one. It had been so long since she’d been allowed to cook anything and she itched to take an apron from the hook by the back door, slip it over her head, tie it in the back, and make . . . well, she didn’t know what, but something. But, if James found out, the consequences wouldn’t be worth the joy of cooking again.
She was surprised word hadn’t gotten back to him about the times she’d helped cooks in the various places she’d fixed up. His spies seemed to know everything else she’d done. Maybe, like James, his spies felt it beneath them to step into a kitchen. But now, besides what Mamaw had taught her, she had knowledge of southern cooking. What she wouldn’t give right now for a beignet from Café du Monde in New Orleans.
She ran a finger over the cast iron stove with four plates, a water warming bin, and a top holding two sad irons. A few containers of spices stood beside the sink. Another, shorter counter divided the stove from an icebox. She opened the ice box and bent down to see what food it held.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my kitchen?”
At a woman’s sharp tone, Bertha jumped back and slammed the door shut. She took a deep breath before turning around. In the few seconds before facing what must be the cook, she gathered her wits, dug deep for the persona she hated, raised her chin, spun on her heel, and looked down her nose at the person before her.
Expecting James’s young, pretty help he usually hired, she was surprised at the short, stocky woman whose face had more wrinkles than Methuselah. Her gray, wiry hair was pulled back in a tight bun, making her resemble a dried apple. With her hands on her hips and her fierce scowl, she could have scared the evilest of men. Where had James found her?
A spike of fear jolted through her. Throwing her shoulders back, Bertha folded her hands in front of her and stared at the woman. “I’m Bertha Woods, Mr. Woods’ wife. And you are . . .?”
“I be Moira Slinghuff, cook and housekeeper.” Her accent was hard to place but resembled someone from Ireland. “I don’t cotton with anyone coming into my kitchen, so I’ll be tellin’ you to leave. Nor do I cotton with anyone interferin’ with my work around the house.”
Bertha raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me? My husband owns this house. I’m the husband’s wife, so therefore, this is my kitchen and my house. I’ll go where I please and when I please.”
Moira shook her head. “That’s what you think, dearie. Your husband been tellin’ me ‘bout you. Told me you’d try to take over my job, but I were to ignore you.” She opened a container, took out three cookies, dropped them on a plate, and slapped the plate on the table. “So’s I’m tellin’ ya to leave my kitchen. You go do what you fancy society women do and let me get to work. Go to your posh sitting room and I’ll bring ya some tea in a bit.” Without another word, she turned her back on Bertha, started a fired in the stove, a put a kettle on for tea.
Bertha stared at the diminutive woman before finally leaving the room and going to her sitting room. She plopped onto the only chair in the room, a straight-backed, wooden one that must have come from the dump, if the city had one.
“Posh sitting room indeed. Just where does she think she’s going to serve the tea? There’s nothing here but the secretary.” After years of giving orders, it was a shock to be told where to go and what to do from someone other than James. So much for thinking she’d make friends with the cook and do some food preparation. Obviously, once again, James was one step ahead of her.
Now what was she supposed to do with herself? With a sigh, she went to the secretary and searched the various drawers hoping to find a quill, ink, and paper. She had no idea what she’d do with them, but it gave her something to do. If her luggage would arrive, she’d take her time unpacking.
She went to the windows and pulled back the drapes, sneezing at the dust floating from them. Housekeeper, her behind. Any housekeeper would have cleaned the drapes. She eyed the floor where her and James’s shoes had left footprints in the dust. How long had Moira been here and what had she been doing with her time?
At least the view from the window wasn’t of the main thoroughfare, but of a slope rising to the hill above Deadwood. From what she’d seen so far of Deadwood, the array of daisies, and other flowers she couldn’t identify was surprising. Surely, someone had planted them. Would she be allowed to remove the weeds growing among them? Probably not.
She glanced up at the heavy, red, brocade drapes. Well, there was one thing she could do. She put the chair in front of the window and, knowing she’d need them in the winter, she stood on the chair and lifted the curtain rod, nearly falling from the weight of the fabric. Before coming down from the chair that creaked beneath her weight, she dropped the curtains into a mound on the floor. Using the back of the chair to keep her balance, she stepped down to the floor.
“Mrs. Woods. Just what do you think you’re doing? Mr. Woods won’t like this.”
Good heavens, was the woman set on giving her a heart attack? She picked up the rod and slid the fabric off. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Moira set a tray with the plate of cookies, a teapot, and cup with a chip at the lip on the secretary and folded her arms beneath her ample bosom. “No need to get snippy with me. I asked you a simple question.”
Bertha continued with her chore. “And I asked you a simple one, too.” It was time to let this woman know who was in charge. “And I don’t care for the way you’re speaking to me. I am the mistress of this house. You’re being paid to work here, not question what I do and why I do it.” She struggled to fold the first panel, but she wasn’t about to ask Moira for help. “Now, if you’re done questioning me, I suggest you find a room and start cleaning.” She swiped a finger across the windowsill and held up the dirty digit. “I’m not sure how long you’ve been here, nor what you’ve been doing, but this place is filthy.”
“Humph.” Moira stomped from the room. “Mr. Woods will certainly hear about this.”
Bertha shook her head. “I have no doubt he will.”
With no place to put the folded drape, she set it on the floor. “Can’t get any dirtier.” After putting the second panel on the top the first, she wiped her hands on her skirt. Until her bags showed up, James would just have to put up with a few streaks of dirt.
“Now what?” Thirst beckoned her to the tea pot. Her stomach rumbled. Maybe she could tolerate the gingerbread cookies until supper. She pulled the chair to the secretary, perched on the edge, and poured tea into the chipped cup. The water was tepid at best. She took a tiny bite of the cookie and nearly spit it out. If Moira’s other cooking was as bad as the cookie, she’d lose weight in no time. She choked down the dry, evil-tasting cookie, and washed it down with the weak tea.
A bird chirped outside the window. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the cook wasn’t spying on her, Bertha opened the window and tossed the cookies to the ground. Hopefully, no birds would die from her gift. She brushed the crumbs from her hands and closed the window then reopened it. The entire house needed airing, but she’d settle for this room first. Since she wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, she left the tea tray on the secretary and walked from the room. It would be interesting to see how long it took for Moira to remove it.
She passed James’s locked office and the dining room and took the stairs to her bedroom. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she tried to lock the door connecting her room with James’s only to find there was no lock. Why should that surprise her? She couldn’t even put a chair under the doorknob because it opened toward his room. Even though James always had spies watching her every move, at least when he was gone, she had some semblance of privacy.
With a sigh, Bertha sat on the edge of the bed, removed a boot hook from her valise and took off her boots. Free from the confines of the hot, tight boots, she wiggled her toes, wishing there was a creek nearby where she could soak her aching feet. Or maybe catch a fish or two. Hah. Someone would surely rush to James and give a report on her whereabouts.
Since the room was warm, she didn’t bother to pull back the covers, but lay on top of the quilt. As she did every night while drifting off to sleep, Sy’s face and name came to her. As she did every night, she asked the same questions. Where was he? Had he married? What had his life been like? Did he have children? Would she recognize him if she ever saw him again? It had been nearly twenty years. As with every night, her questions fell on deaf ears. She’d never know.