[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm (9 page)

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Authors: Janette Oke

BOOK: [Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm
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“Don’t know of anything right off. If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know,” Rogers responded. “I know this guy in real estate. I’ll ask him, if you’d like.”
“I’d appreciate it,” said Henry.
Their plates arrived. Other patrons came and went. Henry was very aware of eyes on the uniforms. One rough-looking cowboy glared at them. Probably had spent a night locked up for some infraction of the law. Others ducked their heads. A few young girls cast interested glances their way. Older women and town businessmen nodded in acknowledgment. The presence of the Force brought stability to towns like theirs.
Henry was only too glad to finish the stew. After his last drink of bitter coffee, he rose. “Might be a little late in the morning,” he said, running a hand over his hair before placing his Stetson. “Gotta get this hair cut. Where do I find this fella Sam?”
“Sam’s? Just off Main Street. Corner of Main and Fourth, second building south.”
“What time does he start?”
Henry did not miss the exchange between the two other officers. “Eight-thirty.”
“Thanks,” said Henry with a nod. Already he was planning to be the first one in the door when Sam flipped his sign to Open.
But when he arrived at eight-fifteen, the chair already was occupied by a very young boy. Henry ruefully removed his Stetson and hung it on the hat rack. He hoped this would be worth the wait. If the other two got their hair cut by Sam, as they claimed, he should fare all right.
“Take a seat. I’ll be right with you,” a woman called. He’d never found a barbershop with a receptionist before.
He took a seat and picked up a day-old paper. The headlines announced conflict across the Atlantic, food lines and railroad hobos, more farms and businesses fighting for survival in the prairie dust bowl. Henry sighed and put the bad news down.
He heard a step and then the voice again. “Here you go. Give this to Mrs. Crane. She’s going to the meat market and promised to get some sausage for Mommy.”
The boy hopped down from his perch and disappeared through the back doorway.
“Now—run straight home.”
Henry heard his giggle. “I’m not going home, Mom. I’m going to Mrs. Crane’s house. Remember?”
There was laughter in the voice that responded. “I meant home to Mrs. Crane’s. Here, kiss me ’bye.”
He heard the little smack. “Now run.”
Henry picked up the paper again. He did not want to intrude on this private moment.
“Bye, Mom,” the child called as he bounded out the door.
Henry concentrated on the paper as the woman entered the room. He should be next, providing Sam—probably her husband—was on site. She was arranging some tools on the small shelf near the barber chair. From the corner of his eye, he noticed her lift a black barber cape.
“You’re next,” she announced.
“I was ... I was looking for Sam,” he managed to croak out as he put the paper aside and stood.
“I’m Sam” came the voice from behind the cape.
He was totally taken aback. “You give haircuts?”
“That’s what the sign says.” Her tone was crisp.
He moved awkwardly toward the chair. “Just the standard regimental cut,” he heard himself saying as he settled into it.
“I understand,” she replied, her voice still cool. “I’ve done a good many cuts for the Force.”
Of course. If she was the only barber in town, she had been giving the men their haircuts. “I guess you have,” he mumbled. “Being the only barber here.”
“Look,” she replied stiffly, “you don’t like my haircut, you can drive into Fort Macleod.”
He lifted his eyes to the large mirror reflecting the scene in the shop, and he saw her face for the first time. She was standing directly behind him, her hands holding the cape and her expression questioning whether to proceed or send him on his way.
“No. I didn’t mean ... sorry. Go ahead. Please.”
Her hands swished the cape over his shoulders, and the woman leaned forward to fasten it firmly. He got his first full look at her face. A mass of curly brown hair framed an oval face with a slight dimple in one smooth cheek, and she had a pair of the loveliest violet eyes.
It was those eyes that confirmed the truth to him. He knew with a surety that sent his head—and heart—reeling. This was she. This was the young woman he had been sent to almost five years earlier. This was the Swedish logger’s young widow.
Henry fought to control his swirling emotions. He was totally unprepared for this sudden encounter.
CHAPTER
Seven
Christine was thrilled to note the early signs of spring. Though dirty snow still lined the sidewalks where the sun’s rays were unable to reach, the water trickling along in the gutters could almost sound like the streams in her beloved North country. She closed her eyes for a moment to enjoy the pleasant memory. Well, said Christine to herself, opening her eyes to continue her walk to work,
running water is running water. Even here in the street it still makes wonderful music.
She wondered if any workers hurrying along ahead of her had noticed the sound.
She clung to her especially light frame of mind as she, almost by habit, entered the big building, climbed the stairs, and turned to her right. The same routine, the same duties, the same Miss Stout faced her as she opened the office door. The woman had stopped wearing the lacy hankies and fancy pins on her lapels. Apparently she had again given up on Mr. Kingsley. Christine thought the receptionist carried her own little halo with her—not a halo of light but one of cloud. It drifted about her head and wrapped about her shoulders.
I am a lonely spinster,
it seemed to say.
I am unappreciated. Unloved.
Miss Stout on occasion withdrew even more deeply into her gloom and wrapped it about her thin body. Christine did hope this wouldn’t be one of those days.
She did not have time to hang up her coat before Miss Stout said, “Mr. Kingsley wishes to speak with you.” Her words were terse, and Christine could imagine that cloud ’being tucked in tightly.
“Thank you, Miss Stout,” she answered brightly, hoping to share a bit of her spring happiness. She did not bother to go for her steno pad. If she needed it, she’d come back. None of the other girls had arrived yet, so there would be no observers of the early-morning visit to the boss’s office.
She rapped on the door and opened it. “You wished to see me?”
The shaggy head swung her way. “You here already?”
Christine felt the query did not need a reply.
“Sit,” the man said. She sat.
He pushed his chair back, then changed his mind and leaned forward. “I know your answer was no, and I’m not out to change that.” At the same time he raised a hand to forestall any words she might be inclined to say. “However ...” He hesitated. “I was wondering if you’d object to making another supper. Just one.” He lifted the hand again, this time palm up.
Christine gave the matter thought, then nodded silently. “Good.”
He exhaled loudly and pushed back again, looking very pleased. Christine’s immediate thoughts went to Miss Stout. The woman would be overjoyed.
“When?” she asked simply.
“Friday. This Friday. I’ll do all the shopping—just give me a list.”
“Friday.” She nodded. “Fine. Is there anything in particular you’d like me to serve? I have little experience with any fancy dishes.”
“Fancy dishes we don’t need. Just some of that chicken and dumplings you served before. That was wonderful.”
“But ... but don’t you think your guest might enjoy something ... well, different this time?”
“Nope. Nope. He’ll love that, I know he will.”
He? Who was her boss referring to?
“It’s to be a surprise. I haven’t told him a thing about it.”
Whatever the plan and whoever the guest, Mr. Kingsley seemed tremendously excited.
“How many? For supper?” asked Christine.
“Just us. Two. And you, of course. I want you to sit with us this time.”
“Me?”
“I want it like ... like a family meal. Instead of you serving like a maid.”
Christine swallowed and nodded again. “If you wish.”
He beamed. “That’s all set, then. You just get me that list.”
“What if I go ahead and get what I need and you simply reimburse me?”
“That’s good. That’s great. I never did like shopping.” He sounded relieved.
Christine rose. “Friday,” she said as she turned to the door.
“Friday,” her boss agreed, obviously very pleased with himself. “Oh,” he called after her. “You can plan on the meal being ready about seven. Boyd won’t be back home until then.”
Christine nearly stopped in midstride.
Boyd?
So now she was to be cooking a meal for the boss’s son. For some reason she could not have explained, her heart suddenly began to beat much faster.
Christine was in the large kitchen nervously fussing over the final preparations for the meal when Boyd arrived. She could hear Mr. Kingsley’s booming voice welcoming his son home from college. It made her even more anxious. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her hands from trembling as she served.
“Boy, that’s the longest trip ...” Christine could not pick up the rest of Boyd’s words. She heard both men laugh uproariously and wondered what the joke was. With a final flutter of nerves she picked up two filled serving bowls and proceeded to the dining room. Quickly her eyes scanned the table. She had tried hard to make the table setting attractive without being too feminine. She wondered now if it seemed overdone, a bit showy for two bachelors. Quickly she removed the two candles in their tall crystal holders. Still she was uncertain. The fanned napkins were the next to go. She shook them out, then folded them and laid them beside the plates. That helped—but she was sure her aunt Mary would have been disappointed.
She had lived with Uncle Jon and Aunt Mary in their Calgary home while she took the secretarial course. During that time she had begged to be taught the niceties of city life that would prepare her for being a hostess in an urban setting. Though her mother had taught her the accepted manners of genteel society, her upbringing in the North had placed her far beyond the range of city social customs. Aunt Mary had been happy to teach her the duties of a charming hostess, along with the decorative touches that helped to make a memorable meal. Christine had been put under Cook’s tutelage in the kitchen. She had loved it. In fact at one point she had considered becoming a chef instead of continuing her secretarial training. Her practical nature had kept her on track, however. There were far more positions available for secretaries than for chefs.
Now she fidgeted with the cutlery and rearranged the water glasses. Was the crystal too much?
She heard the voices drawing close and guessed that Mr. Kingsley was gradually leading his son toward the dining room. There was no more time for fussing. She reached up to tuck a stray curl away, and then they were in the doorway. Mr. Kingsley pushed his tall son ahead of him while he chortled in pleasure.
“My little surprise,” he bawled gleefully. “Got us a cook.”
Christine felt her cheeks burn. The young man was more handsome than she had remembered. He studied her openly, his eyes indicating his own pleasure.
“You remember Miss Delaney?”
Mr. Kingsley had not ceased slapping his son on the back. Rather worse than the tapping pencil.
Boyd nodded. Christine noticed the twinkle in his eyes. “Who could forget?” he said with a courtly little bow and a smile at her.
“Who could forget? That’s good. Who could forget?” Mr. Kingsley thumped his son’s back again. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. You won’t forget the chicken and dumplings. No siree.”
“Excuse me,” said Christine, flushed and a bit uncertain. “I need to finish dishing up.”
“May I help?”
Boyd’s question surprised her. “No. No, thank you. I’ll just ... I’ll ...” She gave up and hurried from the room.

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