California Romance (9 page)

“Maybe you could look at it occasionally and say a prayer for her and my mother. I worry about her constantly.”

“I will, but I don’t need the picture,” Matt protested. Yet when Seth insisted, Matt’s hands turned sweaty, and his heart beat unnaturally fast. He slipped the picture into the pocket inside his vest “as a favor to Seth,” he reminded himself, and was never without it.

The image of Sarah’s honest face rode sidesaddle with Matt across the California range even when he wasn’t looking at it. In spite of his unwillingness to admit the rusty hinges of his heart were creaking open, the image of Sarah’s sweet face was like oil to a long-unused lock. Over and over, Matt wondered how any man could treat an innocent girl the way Gus Stoddard treated Sarah. He found himself wishing he could intervene, “for Seth’s sake, of course,” he reminded himself.

Just before spring roundup, the town of Madera planned a money-raising event. Seth Anderson was wild to go. Matt was sitting in the kitchen watching Solita toss tortillas when Seth raced in. “What time are we leaving?”

Matt gave him a puzzled look. “Leaving for where?”

“To Madera. This Saturday. There’s gonna be a baseball game and stuff for the little kids and a box social. I’ve never been to one. Gus didn’t cotton to such, so even though he took us to church, we didn’t get in on the fun. I’ve been saving my money to bring Sarah out West, but Solita can pack me a lunch. It will be fun to watch you bid on a young lady’s box.”

“Me!” Matt’s stool tipped and threatened to spill him on the floor. “A box social is the last place I intend to go.”

“You gotta go, Boss. It’s to raise money to repair the church roof.”

Matt stood. “I’ll make a contribution.”

Seth looked so disappointed that Matt relented. “Tell you what. I’ll go to the game, and I’ll give you some money to bid.”

“It won’t be half as much fun without you.”

Seth’s disappointed response convinced Matt. “Well, if it means that much to you, I suppose I could go and watch. But don’t expect me to bid, no matter how fancified the boxes are or how much they smell of fried chicken and chocolate cake.”

“Is that what they put in them?” Seth licked his lips. He staggered out holding his stomach, leaving Matt wondering why he’d agreed to appear at the social.

Solita told him, “It is good that you are going, Senor Mateo. There are many nice senoritas in Madera who will be glad.”

“I am not going to make senoritas glad,” Matt mumbled. “Did you cook this up with Seth?”

Solita placed her hands on her apron-covered hips. “Would I do such a thing?” she demanded, but Matt noticed she didn’t deny his charge.

For the rest of the week, Matt felt like a trapped bobcat. On Saturday he reluctantly donned his best plaid shirt, tied on a red neckerchief, and crammed his Stetson down to his ears, feeling like he was headed to a hanging. By the time he and Seth reached Madera, the boy had lost some of his high spirits. With a pang of regret for being surly, Matt suggested they volunteer for the ball team.

Seth immediately perked up and showed a surprising amount of skill.

The dreaded box social finally began. Matt had never seen such an array of ribbons, ruffles, and flowers as adorned the boxes, but he kicked himself for coming.

Evan Moore, Madera’s portly postmaster, made a fine auctioneer. “Who’ll start the bidding?” he called, holding up a box and sniffing it. “Smells like fresh-baked apple pie.”

“Two bits.”

“Two bits?” Evan looked outraged. “Twenty-five measly cents for this lovely basket? What kind of miser bids two bits?”

The crowd roared.

The bidder quickly raised his hand. “Sorry, I meant to offer six bits.”

“Not good enough. This is worth at least a couple of good ol’ American dollars. Dig deep, folks. None of us want to be dripped on next winter ’cause the church roof leaks.”

One by one, the baskets sold. Seth bid twice but dropped out when others “dug deep.” Only a worn shoe box tied with string remained. Evan held it up. “Almost through folks. What am I bid?”

Stone-cold, dead silence greeted his plea.

Evan cast an imploring glance toward Matt. Despite his resolve to have no part in the social, Matt’s heart ached for the owner of the unattractive box. He opened his mouth.

Seth beat him to it. “I bid a half eagle.” He fished a five-dollar gold piece out of his pocket and held it up. “It better be enough. It’s all I’ve got.”

The crowd gasped. Only one or two of the fancy boxes had sold for that much.

“Sold!” Evan shouted. “What lucky lady gets to eat supper with Seth Anderson?”

“Me. Bertha Bascomb.” A wispy, white-haired old lady hobbled forward.

Seth led Bertha to a nearby table. When he opened the box, a sour smell rushed out.

Matt’s heart sank. Not only were the bread and cheese ancient, but Bertha was proudly lifting out the sorriest excuse for cake Matt had ever seen. If it hadn’t been so pathetic, it would have been hilarious. Matt quickly said, “Mrs. Bascomb, I missed out on a box. Is there enough for three?”

“If you ain’t too big an eater,” she grudged. “I don’t want to skimp on this young man.”

Seth remained gallant. “My boss and I had a big dinner so there should be enough.”

The two men somehow choked down the terrible meal, amid grinning townsfolk and cowboys. Looks of respect showed that Seth Anderson’s kindly bid had endeared him to Madera.

Matt’s stomach had barely recovered from the box social when a few days later a young lad galloped up to the Diamond S corral where Matt and Seth were leaning against the fence. He reined in his horse and leaped from the saddle.

Matt blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here, Johnny? And how come you’re in such an all-fired hurry?”

Johnny rubbed a grimy hand over his freckled, sweaty face. “Telegram. Mr. Moore said I was s’posed to get it here pronto.”

Matt’s heart lurched. A lump as solid as Bertha Bascomb’s sour bread and heavy cake formed in the pit of his stomach. He hated telegrams, especially since Dori had gone back east. Had something happened to her? Matt shook his head. It was far more likely that his impetuous sister had been expelled from the eastern academy she attended. Matt had received previous warnings about Dori’s conduct. Her shortcomings had only been tolerated by the grace of God and several generous contributions to the prestigious Brookside Finishing School for Young Ladies in Boston.

Matt reached for the telegram.

Johnny shook his head. “It ain’t for you, Matt,” he said. “It’s for Seth.” He tossed a soiled envelope to the younger man. “From St. Louis.”

Seth’s face went paper white.

Alarm shot through Matt as Seth ripped open the message. “Is it about Sarah?” he demanded. “Bad news?”

Seth looked stricken.
“The worst.”

“Well?”
Matt’s question cracked like a bullwhip.

“Read it for yourself.” Seth thrust the telegram at Matt, eyes filled with pain and hopelessness.

Matt snatched the message and read:

The words slashed at Matt’s heart like a hunting knife, cutting and tearing until he could barely breathe. Sarah engaged to be married? “Who is this Tice Edwards fellow?” he demanded.

Seth looked defeated. “A real rat. Everyone in St. Louis knows him. He owns a riverboat where folks go to gamble.”

Matt caught his breath. Such a monstrous thing couldn’t be true. Not when he had fallen in love with her picture. How could such a sweet and innocentlooking girl be promised to a riverboat gambler?

T
he news that Tice planned to wed her the following day sent Sarah into a panic. She must disappear. Tonight. But how? At least Gus and Tice hadn’t waited until evening to spring the bad news. By midnight the children would be asleep, and the two men she hated and feared most would probably be having an early celebration: Tice, knowing tomorrow he would have her in his control, and Gus, ecstatic at having his six-thousand-dollar debt forgiven and at receiving unlimited gambling privileges.

Sarah checked the time. It wasn’t quite six. No wonder Gus had been grumpy. After his nights of gambling and carousing, he tended to sleep much later. “Lord,” she whispered while beating the biscuit dough until it threatened to fight back, “I have eighteen hours. If I fly around and finish my chores quicker than usual, I should be able to make it.”

A single glance around the shack sent hope plummeting to her toes. The place had never looked worse. How could she accomplish everything from washing the streaked windows to scrubbing the worn floor? She also needed to bake and wash clothes. Gus would rage if, on what he considered a special day, things weren’t spick-and-span. Sarah set her jaw in a manner that boded no good. If she did all that needed doing, she wouldn’t have a smidgen of time for herself. She would not bake bread. She would not wash clothes. They could wait until tomorrow—and by then she’d be gone. Fleeting pity for the burden soon to fall on Ellie’s eight-year-old shoulders stirred Sarah, but she shrugged it off. Let Tice hire someone to help. Or as Gus had said, he could always get a woman to replace his long-suffering wife.

Sarah patted out her biscuits with well-floured hands, planning as she worked.
If I can catch Timmy alone and offer him a cookie he might help me
, she decided.
There’s no use asking the boys or Ellie for help, even if they were around. They’d make a worse mess just to be ornery
. Her fingers itched to get started sweeping and cleaning instead of cooking mush and setting out butter and jam. Thank goodness they were out of bacon and eggs. Gus would roar, but when she’d asked for money to replenish the larder, he’d refused to give her any.

The ticking clock counted off the racing minutes until seven of Sarah’s precious hours had been swallowed up in hard work. Sarah grew so frustrated she wanted to stomp her feet and throw a tantrum like Ellie did when she didn’t get her own way. Hindrance after hindrance continued to rise, as if conspiring against her. Instead of staying away with his cronies as usual, Gus popped in and out of the house, commenting on how well Sarah was doing for herself by marrying Tice. She longed to hurl bitter words at him but bit her tongue and reminded herself that, by this time tomorrow, she’d be shut of him.

Not so for Ellie and Timmy. The older boys could fend for themselves, but the younger children would be at Gus’s mercy. Sarah was almost glad when the youngsters acted up worse than ever before, fighting and demanding her attention. The last straw was when Sarah forcibly separated them and ordered them outside.

Ellie shrilled, “You ain’t our ma. I hate you, and I’m glad you’re going away. We don’t have to do what you say. We’re gonna get a new ma. Pa said so.”

“And she ain’t never, ever gonna tell us what to do,” Timmy piped up, his face contorted with rage. He was so unlike the little boy who crept to Sarah for comfort it eased her guilt over leaving them, even though she could not stay.

“I feel like Job’s granddaughter,” she muttered to herself. “The way I’ve been plagued, the devil himself must be in league with Tice and this family today.” She washed her hands and hot face, smoothed her hair, glanced around the cottage, and sighed. The place looked as good as she could make it, considering its shabby condition. Pale sunlight poured through the freshly washed windowpanes. Sarah had even washed the bedraggled calico curtains, and the floor smelled of the strong lye soap she’d used to scrub it to within an inch of its life. She’d relocated stacks of old newspapers and soiled clothing dropped at will by simply tossing them out of sight.

Reheated leftover stew and more biscuits had made up dinner an hour before. Sarah racked her brain to think of something for supper. Baked potatoes, maybe, and there was enough buttermilk. She’d make corn bread, open one of the last jars of fruit she had canned last fall, and serve the few cookies she had hidden from the children. Gus would complain, but she didn’t care. It would be the last time she’d have to hear him rant and rave.

The clock struck one. It was time for her to go for the final fitting of her wedding dress.

Sarah sighed again. In spite of rushing, she wasn’t one inch closer to being ready to steal out in the dead of night than she had been seven hours earlier. Now she had to spend precious time in a final fitting of the elaborate wedding gown Tice had selected for her. Sarah hated every inch of fancy lace, every tuck, every thread of the fine satin dress. She hated the cloud of a veil held by orange blossoms that would shroud her until her husband-to-be lifted it. Most of all she hated the imagined stares of those who came to gawk at her in her bridal white, the knowing glances exchanged between men as vile as Tice himself.