A Most Unsuitable Match (22 page)

She’d heard plenty of stories from other boarders this past week. Fort Benton’s main street was nothing compared to what she’d encounter in a gold camp. And when it came to danger, the Missouri River was nothing compared to the trail to Alder Gulch. She still wanted to find Aunt Edith, but she wasn’t cut out for Montana.

Even though Samuel was right, facing it called the dark cloud back overhead. Fannie pulled her hand away. To keep from crying, she began to walk again, this time along the perimeter of the adobe fort.

She was sorry she’d ever left St. Charles. Homesick and frightened. She missed Hannah. She missed Minette. Worst of all, if she couldn’t handle Montana, it probably meant she wasn’t cut out for Samuel, either.

“I never meant to be a burden to you.” Her voice wavered. “I never should have left home.”

“You aren’t a burden,” Samuel said. “You’re . . . please, Fannie . . . please don’t cry.” He cupped her cheek in his palm and swept a tear away with his thumb.

She turned away and swiped at her own tears. He reached for her, but with a little shake of the head she stepped away. “I’ll be fine. And you’re right.”

“I . . . am?”

“Of course you are. I’m not an idiot, Samuel. I don’t belong here.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll speak with Mr. Valley about staying on at the boarding house for a few weeks. Mrs. Webb said it was three weeks up to the gulch and three weeks back. I’m assuming you can send word with another freighter headed this way if you find anything?”

He nodded. “I’ll write. As often as I can.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

Back at the boarding house, after Lamar and Samuel had headed for the levee, Fannie reread Mr. Valley’s posted rules.
Sixty dollars a month for room and board.
She would need over a hundred dollars to stay here for eight weeks, and that only gave Samuel and Lamar two weeks to search a gulch teeming with thousands of people.

A needle in a haystack.
Finding either woman would likely prove impossible . . . in spite of the man in Sioux City and whomever Samuel had talked to last night. As for his finding his sister? He was admirable to hold out hope, but . . .
Faith is the substance of things hoped for . . . the evidence of things not seen.

Fannie thought over the verse she’d memorized as a child. She was something of an expert in hoping for “things not seen,” but she was quickly losing faith. Mother’s passing had ended any hope of knowing her love. Belief in a secure future had faded before she left home. As for the faint hope she’d harbored about Samuel and her—it was better not to think about that at all.

Pacing to the edge of Abe Valley’s boarding house porch, Fannie stared toward the west. It was time she faced reality. Not a whisker of any of the big things she’d hoped for seemed possible. And now . . . now even the little things were a challenge. A hundred dollars and more to pay for her room might as well be a thousand. Of course Samuel had no idea she was nearly out of money. And he didn’t need to know. If Samuel and Lamar could earn their way to Alder Gulch, then she would find a way to earn her keep in Fort Benton while they were gone. Somehow, she would hang on to a glimmer of hope in regard to Aunt Edith . . . even if it seemed she should let go of others.

Abe Valley told Samuel and Lamar to seek out a freighter named Dick Turley. “He’s a frightful-looking man, but he’s survived things that would have killed a dozen lesser men. His father was a fur trapper. Married into a Piegan band, then got himself killed, leaving Dick to grow up with his mother’s people. Since they’ve let it be known they won’t take kindly to his being harassed, Dick’s bull trains tend to make it through without any Indian troubles. I can’t guarantee he’ll welcome you with open arms, but if I was headed to the gulch, I’d want to be with Turley’s outfit. Tell him I sent you his way.” Valley paused. “Tell him I’ll vouch for you.”

Valley’s warning didn’t prepare Samuel for the snaggle-toothed, one-eyed, bald-headed mountain of a man that was Dick Turley. They found him sitting on an upended stump just outside of E. G. Palmer’s store, whittling a bit of wood with the biggest knife Samuel had ever seen. Abe Valley’s name didn’t seem to do much at first.

Turley eyed Lamar and grunted, “Don’t need a cook.”

“I wasn’t thinking to cook,” Lamar said. “I was thinking you might need an extra hand with your animals. I tended a fine batch of southern Thoroughbreds on the place where I grew up. I can trim hooves, tend cuts, repair harnesses, cure colic . . . handle just about anything that pesters four-footed critters.” Lamar looked toward Turley’s mules. “And while I’m partial to Thoroughbreds, I’ve tended my share of mules, too.”

Turley grunted. He eyed Samuel. “What
you
got to offer?”

Lamar spoke up. “Sam can shoulder more freight than any man you’ve ever seen. And he preaches a fine sermon. Held Sabbath services on board the
Far West
all the way up from Sioux City.”

Turley stopped whittling. Squinted at Samuel. “There’s nobody in Alder Gulch wants to be preached at.”

“Can’t say that I’m surprised,” Samuel said. “I don’t really like being preached
at
, either.”

Turley grunted. “You know the Shepherd’s Psalm?”

“Sir?”

“You heard me. Do you know the Shepherd’s Psalm?”

“Well . . . yes. I . . . uh . . .”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Now? Here?”

“Naw,” Turley said, and spat. “Why don’t you wait until next week sometime?” He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yes, Preacher, I mean right now. Let’s hear it.”

Samuel recited the psalm. Turley listened. “Well now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He paused. Spat again. “Been some time since I’ve heard that. I like it.” Folding his whittling knife, Turley stood up. “All right, then. Let’s see how hard you two can work.”

Samuel and Lamar had one of Turley’s massive wagons loaded by noon. The man seemed pleased enough. He said they’d pull out at first light the next morning. When he offered to buy them a drink, Samuel had just opened his mouth to make an excuse when Turley made a face and said, “Sorry, Parson. Shoulda realized you’d be a teetotaler.” He pointed in the direction of the boarding house. “Tell Abe I’ll make good on it if he puts a steak on yer dinner plates. How’s that?” Turley headed off without waiting for an answer.

Samuel found Abe Valley elbow deep in bread dough in the lean-to kitchen attached to the main room. He seemed surprised that Samuel was asking after Fannie. “I thought she was with you. She headed toward the levee a while ago. Said something about Mrs. Webb’s store and getting one of them calico bonnets.” Valley held his dough-encrusted hands up to his face to mimic a sunshade. “Said something about style not mattering as much now.” He grimaced. “She’ll likely be just fine, long as she doesn’t get lost.” Valley chuckled. “She asked me for a job.”

“A job?”

He nodded. “Asked if I’d be willing to let her serve tables and help with clean up and such in return for her board.”

“What did you say?”

“Told her if she really meant it, I’d be more than obliged.” He chuckled. “Word gets out that little gal is serving tables here, folks will line up halfway to the fort just to get a look at her.” When Samuel frowned he shook his head. “Now, don’t get yer dander up, son. A man can’t help it that he likes pretty scenery. I’ll see to it they behave themselves. You can’t expect her to just stay in her room waiting for you to come back, can you?”

Of course he couldn’t expect that. He just didn’t like the idea of all those men staring at Fannie. On the other hand, the idea that she’d asked for work was admirable for a girl who’d been raised in one of the biggest houses in St. Charles. He had to smile, though, at the thought of Fannie pushing a broom.

“I had to ask her if she even knew how to sweep a floor,” Valley said. “I think it made her a little mad . . . but then she said she thought she was smart enough to learn.” He laughed again. “Tell her when you find her she’s due for her broom lesson with Abe.”

Valley’s lack of worry relaxed Samuel some. Still, the farther he and Lamar got from the boarding house, the more unsettled he felt about Fannie’s setting off on a shopping excursion alone. At least she wasn’t wearing the silks and carrying that parasol. He hoped she’d tucked that gold locket out of sight. And she’d know to avoid the strip of saloons on Main . . . wouldn’t she?

“This is a heck of a place for her to decide she has gumption,” Samuel muttered as he and Lamar broke into a lope. What passed for gumption in Missouri could be dangerous in Montana.

Was that a scream?
Lord . . . NO!

If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.

R
OMANS 12:18

Their aroma preceded them, but it wasn’t unwashed bodies . . . it was liquor. Fannie was nearing Mrs. Webb’s mercantile when three braves stumbled out from behind a livery. She backpedaled immediately, intending to duck into the barn, but she was too late. They saw her. A combination of paralyzing terror and fascination stopped her in her tracks. The three men were tall and, if she could just get past the panic she was feeling, she might even call them impressive—except for the whiskey bottles. Long braided hair . . . leggings . . . beaded moccasins. Apart from the fact they couldn’t seem to stand still, they might have been subjects for a painting.

All of that flitted through Fannie’s mind, but in its wake the fear returned, for they’d stopped staring. Now they were conferring with one another, and the way they kept looking at her, Fannie knew she was the subject. Her hand went to the place Mother’s locket usually hung. Thank goodness she’d tucked it inside her dress.

The tallest of the three braves tilted his head. Took a step forward. Fannie took a step back. The other two moved to block her retreat. She spun to look at them, and just as she did, the tall one poked her back. She spun back around. The three men laughed. One waved his bottle in the air and did a shuffling kind of two-step in a circle.

The one who’d poked her reached out again. This time, he touched the bun at the back of her head. Pulling his finger away, he looked at it. Held it up to the light. Said something to his friends, and reached for her again as they all began to talk at once.

One of them must have caught a glimpse of the locket chain. Fannie winced when he inserted his finger between her neck and the high collar of her blue dress and yanked. Hard. The chain broke, and the locket fell between her breasts. When Fannie put her hand to her chest, the men laughed again. She crouched down, wrapped her arms about her knees, and began to scream.

Rough hands clawed at the bun at the back of her head. Voices yammered. She heard rather than saw a whiskey bottle fall to the earth. And then . . . footsteps . . . men yelling her name . . . and darkness.