Gather The Children (Chronicles of the Maca Book 2) (26 page)

Anna kept a smile off her face and held tight to a squirming Mina. “Du start off with, 'Dear Miss O'Neal' and then put a comma after O'Neal. That vill be a mark like this,” and she demonstrated without actually marking on the paper.

Daniel stared at his mother. It seemed all the white women were deemed competent enough to read and write. Strange.

Lorenz ducked his head, grasped the pencil, and then spoke again. “Mama, how do y'all spell dear, and why can't I say Dear Antoinette?”

This time, Anna did smile. “Du more formal must be vhen writing, and dear is spelled d e a r with a large D.”

It was a very slow letter. Lorenz kept asking his mother to spell almost every word, but Collins noted the boy did know his letters. If he had been taught them in the brief time he had been here, that meant this was one sharp kid and O'Neal and MacDonald knew it.

Two weeks later, Collins was sitting in the office at the O'Neal plantation. He had given a verbal bare bones report of what they found, including the fake grave for Kid Lawrence, and slid the two letters and his written report over to his employer.

O'Neal, clothed in a brown, gabardine suit tailored to show off his wide shoulders, had MacDonald's letter spread out in front of him, his strange, copper eyes with the golden circles around the dark pupils were zigzagging back and forth as he read. There was a cigarillo clamped in his teeth, and he was frowning. Finally, O'Neal sat back and looked at Collins. “MacDonald says that they will be changing Lorenz's name to MacDonald when the judge comes through in the fall. Any chance Lorenz actually wants to leave there?”

“None that I could see,” replied Collins. The kid calls MacDonald 'Papa' and he seemed right at home. I suspect Daniel will be coming back. He doesn't regard the place as home.”

“What is this MacDonald like?”

“He's big, powerful, and I'd say fairly smart. He, Mrs. MacDonald, and the boy accused you of wanting the two young men as shields against their, and your, biological father. Biological is MacDonald's word.” He wanted Red to know that he had found out more than what O'Neal had told him. He waited.

Red took the cigarillo out of mouth, set it in the ashtray, and looked back at Collins. His eyes had darkened and gone hard. “That information goes no farther than this room.”

“Understood, that's why it isn't written down in the report.” He tapped the sheaf of papers still in front of him.

“He also wants to know if I want that damn horse back, and if I do what arrangements we should make to achieve this end. He mentions that they may be in Saint Louis come summer if nothing is convenient before then. Did he say why they were heading north?”

Collins shook his head. “No, can't say that he did. They were breaking mustangs when we rode up. MacDonald had his back to us, but the kid must have seen us top the rise. He rolled off the horse to make it look like he was hurt, and MacDonald helped him back into the barn. I figured it was a ploy to get their guns, and it was. The kid was also one of them that shot the two your pa hired. No one bothered explaining why it was him rather than MacDonald.”

O'Neal stubbed out his cigarillo. “I know you've been riding hard, but I've another job lined up for you after you've had a good night's sleep.” He grinned at the dust covered man. “It's a hell of lot easier. I want you to go back to Carson City and run the two houses and the Player's Palace. Miss Lawrence will leave as soon as you arrive, and you decide if the bookkeeper she's hired is suitable. I just got my second telegram from her wanting to know when you'd be there. I can't leave here right now or the damn carpetbaggers will come calling. They're confiscating any property that belonged to rebels, or those who financed the War for the South. Since I didn't fight the Union, I should be able to keep the plantation; however, it looks like it's going to be more of a ranch than cotton plantation for a while.” He sat back. “Any questions?”

After Collins left, Red took up the letter addressed to his sister Antoinette and weighed it in his hand. Should he give it to her? His mother would object, but it might be one way to hold on to Lorenz. He would insist Antoinette read it aloud and watch her as she did so. Then he could decide if he would permit her to write back.

Margareatha was seated at her desk in the upper room of the Player's Palace. The previous night's receipts and orders for the coming week were spread out at the side of the open ledger. To her right sat a small tumbler of brandy and a cut glass bowl for her cigarillo. The open window let in the street noise of horses, wagons, and men from below. The light breeze that stirred the lace curtains at the window gave an illusion of air moving around the room.

Her red curls tumbled down her back. She'd swept the front hair up and back in a higher wave than what was considered stylish for now, but her hair was too curly to part in the front and smooth down in a bun. She'd used a deep green, velvet ribbon to outline the mass of curls and hold them up from her neck. She'd chosen a light, summer muslin dress of light green, sprinkled with darker green leaves. Since June brought the summer heat, her dress was without a collar and the muslin ended at the elbows to become white lace cascading down to her wrists. Her summer shawl of light green lace she had placed over one of the chairs in front of her desk. To her left sat two more ledger books holding the receipts from Red's whorehouses. Why he wanted each kept separate was his business. She dipped her pen and meticulously began the entries.

She had not sensed any outside danger and completely engrossed herself with the nice, clean numbers marching in each column. The quick rap on the door startled her, and she gave a slight jump, then frowned when a young voice chirped, “Western Union.”

“One moment,” she said and stood, stretched, and glanced at the ticking clock behind her. Almost noon, she'd been working for an hour. She walked across the small room and opened the door.

A slender boy of about ten in much washed clothes and hat with Western Union stuck above the brim stood there. He knew this was business and handed her the paper.

“Just a moment and I'll get my purse.” She walked over to her purse and extracted a dime and gave it to the boy, who was fidgeting back and forth.

“Um, Miss Lawrence, Mr. Miller wants to know if you want to pay for forwarding the one that came in for Mr. O'Neal from the same place.”

A slight frown went across her face, and she said, “Just a moment, I'll see who this is from first.” She opened the telegram and stood there clutching it in both hands as her mouth opened and her copper eyes with the golden circles around the pupils widened. Silence spread over the room as she read and re-read the words, “A letter from your mother, Mrs. Anna MacDonald, nee Schmidt to follow.”

“Ma'am, are you all right?” The boy finally managed to say. He had more deliveries to make, and while Miss Lawrence always tipped good and he could spare a few extra moments, he couldn't dawdle or Mr. Miller would be mad.

Rita looked up and around the room as though trying to locate the voice that had intruded on her thoughts. Finally she wet her lips, and murmured, “Yes, yes, I'll pay to forward the message, but first I want to add one for you to take back with you.”

She sat down at the desk as her legs had become too wobbly to stand. She pulled a tablet from one of the drawers. The pen scratched out a quick note advising Red to return, or send someone else to run the Player's Palace and do the bookkeeping. She fully intended to leave as soon as the letter arrived with her mother's location. She also directed Miller to give the rest of the money to the boy as a tip. The note was folded and sealed to prevent someone other than Mr. Miller opening it. She opened her purse and fished out a twenty dollar gold piece.

“Here, this will pay for the two telegrams and the rest of the money is yours. I've instructed Mr. Miller to give you the difference. If you don't receive at least ten dollars, you come back here and let me know.” She snapped the last sentence out to keep from getting up and throwing her arms around him. There was still enough awareness within to realize the scandal that would create.

The boy stood there staring at the two items in his hand in disbelief. Finally he raised his eyes and gulped out. “Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am. I'll run right back to the station.” He stared at her again and then turned and ran out the door.

Rita sat bolt upright at the desk, flashbacks of her life running in her mind. The horror of losing her family, of being locked in that shed of O'Neal's, of the ordeal of a Catholic nunnery where she was branded a heretic. Dear, God, Mama was alive. Lorenz was with her. Why now, why when she had carved out a life? What words could she possibly use to tell her mother about how she made her living? And yet deep inside all she wanted was for her mother to put her arms around her and to tell her that she was Mama's beautiful daughter. She finally stood and put the receipts and money into the safe and draped the shawl around her shoulders. She had to move, leave this stuffy little room, and breathe air or she would surely scream.

She walked down the stairs and out the front, unable to focus on anyone or anything. She did not acknowledge the greeting from the cleaning woman, nor did she see the few determined card players getting an early start on the evening.

Carson City had started as a mining camp in the 1850s and boomed throughout the Civil War It had supplied the gold and silver the Union so desperately needed, and miners arrived in hordes, partly to avoid a draft and partly for the wages. Yellowbellies, released from Yankee prisons but barred from returning to the South, migrated here where there were the amenities of civilization combined with railroads, telegraphs, a brewery, and no fervent local political challenges Carson City was new, raw, and exploding with incoming arrivals. To accommodate them, new buildings, new roads, new and bigger hotels tried to keep pace with the people who came: People determined to forge Nevada into a new and powerful force in the nation.

The War was over and the economies of the East and South were depressed, but here the building went on with the sound of hammers and the smell of raw wood filling the air. The mines ran night and day, the stamp mills adding their din to the town noises. People were arriving in large numbers on stage from the East and South, or the railroad from California to replace the few who left as their fortunes declined. The air remained dust filled and scented with sawdust and the stink of man and beast.

Rita strode unheeding through the dusty streets, past the backside of the St. Charles-Muller Hotel, and went up Curry Street. She didn't notice the women who withdrew their skirts or the young boys that gaped at her height. She wanted refuge from prying eyes and that refuge was home. Her rapid steps carried her to Proctor Street and she marched up the steps into her house, and closed the door firmly behind her.

Teresa appeared with broom in hand staring at her. “Are you sick, Senorita? Can I get you something?”

Rita tried to form words and found that her mouth and lips were dry. The blank, dumb look began to leave the copper eyes and she answered, “Yes, a glass of water. Bring it outside, please.”

It took four weeks for the letter to arrive. Rita had resumed her daily life of nights at the Player's Palace and days of bookkeeping and ordering. Once the incompetent fool Red had left in charge of the whorehouses had tried to withhold funds and she left him with a raging headache that incapacitated him for days. She put the Madams in charge of their respective houses, but knew it couldn't last. The one was too far gone in booze to be efficient. To compensate, she put the madam from the Sporting Palace in charge of both houses and increased her salary temporarily on the understanding that when Red's agent arrived, everything would return to normal.

One part of her daily routine did vary. After the second week of waiting, she started stopping at the Post Office off of Carson Street for any mail. She could not bear the thought of anyone else touching her mother's letter or intruding into her personal life.

She stopped in one morning at eleven o'clock and walked to the collection area. The men assumed their look of embarrassment and the women, as usual, pulled their skirts away. Rita ignored them. She knew she was faultlessly coiffured and faultlessly dressed in more stylish, expensive clothes than they wore or could afford. Deep down, she rather enjoyed the discomfort she inflicted on them just as she had enjoyed defying the nuns. She always kept her face composed, smiled at the Postmaster whether there was mail or not, and swept out of the room leaving a lingering hint of expensive perfume.

The morning the letter arrived was no different except she forgot to smile. She paid the man from her bag, clutched everything in her hand, and stalked out to her chaise, climbed in, snapped the reins, and turned the horse toward home. Once there, she again surprised Teresa, but this time she asked for nothing and went to her bedroom and closed the door. She wanted no one to see her face when she read it. First she sniffed at the letter, but there was no trace of her mother's smell. She smoothed it open.

My darling, beautiful, Margareatha,

Mr. MacDonald brought Lorenz home today and he has given me your address. Lorenz says hello. You must sell that place and come home immediately. I do not care what you have done. I only thank God that you are alive and my prayers have been answered. Do not delay. We are waiting for you.

I married Mr. MacDonald seven years ago, and we have a three-year-old daughter. Do not worry about a place to sleep. Our house is big enough as Mr. MacDonald is a good husband and a good provider. He will welcome you just as he has welcomed Lorenz. Our ranch is near Schmidt's Corner. The town is named after your Uncle Kasper.

Do you remember him and Gerde? They have been praying for your safekeeping also. They lost their little Hans in the typhoid plague of '57-'58 and have not had any more children. Your grandfather Schmidt is in good health. He and his wife, Johanna, have eight children.

The closest town to us of any size is Arles, Texas. Let us know when you are coming, and we will meet you there. Send any letter to Schmidt's Corner, Texas. It will take time, but it will arrive.

My darling, my heart, I cannot wait to have my arms around you again.

Your loving mother,

Anna Maria MacDonald (nee Schmidt)

Rita stared at the paper, remembering her mother's handwriting, the lessons and practice sessions. The memories of her tall, slender, dark haired, grey-eyed mother smiling at her went rolling through her mind: the cooking lessons, the care of laundry, and the help with her catechism lessons. It was a place where everything had seemed safe, warm, and loving.

She stood and mentally reviewed everything that needed to be accomplished before she left. Her mother may proclaim that MacDonald a good provider, but inwardly she wondered. The men stopping at the Player's Palace and reports from Red indicated that Texas was as beaten economically as the rest of the South.

Rita went into the dining room and opened the top drawer to the credenza and pulled out two sheets of paper. First she would answer her mother and then send Red another telegram. She would be leaving the first week of August whether a replacement was here or not.

Nature, genetics, and the year of her birth had all conspired against Margareatha. She stood six foot tall when most women were barely five foot. A century later, men would say, “She has big boobs.” Now they said, “She is a fine, full figure of a woman,” with the same awed look on their faces. Her height and intelligence frightened men. Few were bold enough to really talk with her, but all welcomed the chance to beat her at cards. Had they known she could also read their minds and see an image of their cards displayed in her mind, she probably would have been hounded out of town or burned as a witch. She did not care. The cards provided her with an extremely good living. It was Red's whorehouses she detested. It was impossible to fathom why the women stayed, and she felt no compassion for them.

The Postmaster looked at her in surprise when she entered the second time in one day. It was close to two o'clock, and there were few people. She handed him the letter, properly addressed and sealed. “It'll go out on the next stage, ma'am.” She nodded, spun, and walked out to the railroad depot.

The depot was as empty of people as the smaller building she had just left. She saw Mr. Miller coming out of the telegraph office, hat in hand, and she stepped into his path.

“Good morning, Miss Lawrence. I was just on my way to the bank, but I'll be happy to send something for you.” He opened the door and practically bowed her in. Rita tried to keep the contempt off her face and was partially successful.

The same young boy she'd tipped so lavishly the month before was seated at the key. He jumped when he saw them and almost bowed to her, and her face softened as she handed over the note for Red. Miller read it, grunted, “Humph, ten words, one dollar, please.”

She paid and turned to leave as Miller spoke again. “Uh, Miss Lawrence, we truly will be sorry to see you leave.”

She spun and glared at him. “That information goes no further than this room.”

“Of course, ma'am, I was just voicing a personal opinion.”

She nodded and hurried out of the building. It was stuffy, hot, and confining. The outside wasn't much better, but at least there was fresh air.