Letter Perfect ( Book #1) (4 page)

Ruth reached up and tried to smooth back a springy blond curl. It bounced right back into an undisciplined coil and brought a part- ner along. She sighed in surrender. Making a good first impression wasn’t to be her lot in life.

Ruth didn’t want to come to California. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to meet her father.
No, that’s a lie. I do. I really do
. She jounced along in the stage and worried … about what her father would be like and about her own future.

A corkscrew curl breezed across her eyes. Ruth pushed it back into place. That had been the same way Mama touched her for the very last time—to smooth an errant wisp back with her weak hand and bravely smile. The memory knifed through Ruth.

Mama welcomed her home from the academy as if nothing were amiss—either in the report Headmistress Pettigrew sent or with her own health.

Mama declared she’d sent Ruth away to the unceasing string of ladies’ academies and finishing schools because she wanted her daughter to be well-educated and prepared adequately for a comfortable life. At least that’s what she’d said—but consumption often struck those abiding under the same roof. Mama never once confessed how that fact drove her to protect her daughter. But Bernadette had been more vocal. It had been so like Mama to deny herself the comfort of Ruth’s love in an attempt to spare her.

Ruth did her best to make up for it and for her failure to shine at those schools, though. In those last months she’d shown Mama every scrap of devotion she possibly could.

That still didn’t take away the guilt of not having been there to comfort Mama throughout the months when she’d been gone. Well, she’d done everything Mama asked—including mailing off that mysterious letter, then boarding the stage and taking this trip.
Following Mama’s dying wish is the least I can do
.

She set her hunter green felt hat in her lap and brushed off some of the dust before perching it on her head. The Overland Stage bounced just as she stuck in the hatpin, so the pin scraped painfully across her scalp. She secured the hat in place with a wince. Even the gusting California wind shouldn’t dislodge it now.

Keeping the leather shades drawn on the stage windows cut down on the wind-blown dust, but she’d baked in this oven on wheels as long as she could bear. Riding in here ought to convince the worst sinner to repent simply because it felt like a foretaste of how dreadfully miserable it would be to roast for eternity in hell’s fire. Finally, she’d rolled up one shade just for the sake of selfpreservation.

The stage driver hadn’t taken her seriously this morning when she inquired about riding atop with him. Surely that perch had to be cooler and less dusty. As it was, she’d been trapped inside this dreadful conveyance for three weeks. The Widow Andrews had been her companion until early this morning—an arrangement Bernadette pronounced as satisfactory and proper. There had been other passengers who boarded and exited with boring regularity. None seemed friendly in the least—unless she counted the dandy who tried to smoke his cigar and kept nudging her with his knee. The sharply pointed tip of Widow Andrews’s parasol convinced him to alter his ways.

The past few days felt as if they’d lasted a year apiece. Crossing the plains had been dusty and monotonous, but as the stage climbed over the Sierra Nevadas, every last tilt and sway made the stage rebound worse than a storm-tossed ship. By the time they’d stopped last night in Placerville, Ruth took courage in two facts: the worst of the trip was over, and she’d never have to endure such a crossing again. Her new life awaited.

As towns went, Placerville actually looked … well, odd. According to the hotel maid, it had originally been called Dry Diggings. Ruth believed her; everywhere she turned, someone had dug. She carefully attended each step for fear of wrenching her ankle in an ill-placed hole in the street. All around the town and hills the land bore pockmarks from prospecting, and she’d even seen a grizzledlooking man pry mortar from the side of a log building as he muttered something about gold.

That alone ought to have made her stay in her room for the night, but hearing the town’s name had been changed to something else before Placerville really caught Ruth’s attention. For years it had been known as Hangtown. Just a few steps down Main Street, vigilantes used a rope and the center of three oak trees for justice, regardless of the nature of the crime! Convincing Widow Andrews they needed to “stretch their limbs after the arduous journey,” she’d wandered up and down Main Street and managed to satisfy her morbid curiosity by looking at the hanging tree.

Her father lived between Placerville and a town called Folsom, on a ranch named the Broken P. A big city called Sacramento lay after Folsom, but Ruth didn’t particularly mind the fact that she’d be in a smaller town. She’d already endured living in a big city where society expected pretty manners and silent women.
If Hangtown
is rough and Sacramento is cultured, then perhaps—if God is merciful—
Folsom will be somewhere in between. That would suit me just fine
.

With that happy thought, Ruth now smiled out the stage window and wished it would go faster. The steep foothills of Placerville had slowly changed to rolling hills. In patches, the area was still heavily wooded; in others, the hills had been cleared and now boasted cattle herds. One of them might be her father’s place!

In the distance she occasionally saw a bit of a small town. Hilly and wooded as the land was, she could only see glimpses here and there of civilization. And alone in the stage, she couldn’t even share her joy at arriving at her final destination.

She looked down and critically reviewed her appearance. The ivory ruffles at the throat of her traveling gown hung limp. She fluffed them and retied the black silk ribbon that kept her cameo brooch at her throat. Within the privacy of the stage, she had unfastened the large jet buttons of her traveling jacket to make the heat less oppressive. Now she slipped them back into their buttonholes. Sitting in this miserable conveyance had wrinkled the skirt of her ensemble beyond redemption. The last time she’d been this damp and rumpled, she’d slipped out of a vapid poetry reading and gone fishing with the gardener’s sons.

She got along well enough with the gardener’s young boys, and with Hadley, but other than them, Ruth hadn’t ever spent any appreciable time with males … well, other than Grandfather. Grandfather had been a banker, a gentleman. He and Hadley were both city men.

What kind of man would her father be? Hearing that her father had turned his life around had come as a shock—a pleasant one, but even that knowledge didn’t allay Ruth’s anxiety over meeting him.

“Oh, Lord, why did you take Mama? I would have managed okay with her in my life. She loved me for who I was. I just wanted to live with her and be plain old Ruth.”

In the weeks since Mama went to the hereafter, Ruth had asked God that selfsame question over and over again. He’d been silent.

Mama never seemed to see Ruth’s flaws. Even when Ruth’s escapades earned her the censure of others, Mama lovingly saw past the problem and gently murmured that everyone spilled, sneezed, or had a slip of the tongue. She could explain away the most egregious mishaps, and in her presence, Ruth didn’t mind being tall, clumsy, or so free-thinking.

But Mama went to the bosom of Jesus. Now Ruth knew she’d have to live with everyone expecting her to fit the mold of a lady. Impossible.

Well, they can expect whatever they want, that doesn’t mean that’s what
they’ll get
. After all, this situation was just as unexpected to her as it would be to them. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what she might find. Who was this man—her father? What kind of life would he offer her?

She grimaced as a collective image of all the finishing schools she’d known came together in one setting. Elegant people dressed in beautiful clothes of rich silks and velvets came to mind, no doubt the latest fashions straight out of
Godey’s
. That refined ladies’ magazine had graced the parlor table of every feminine reading room she’d ever endured. In fact, one sat beside her even now—a gift from the Widow Andrews.

Ruth picked up the publication and opened it to read:
We know
very well that, while some boys are quite content to play at housekeeping with
their sisters, others are quite too restless and consider it beneath their dignity. Let
the boys have their workshop, then, by all means, as soon as they are old enough
or have proved themselves capable of being trusted with mischief-making tools
.

“They could let me have a workshop with mischief-making tools as well,” Ruth muttered and flipped several pages. She found a lovely pattern for quilting, a new style of mantilla complete with hood, and an advertisement for Douglas and Sherwood’s
celebrated
tournure corset
. Closing the pages, Ruth sighed. “I don’t want a celebrated corset. I want to go home.”

But she had no home. She might never have a home again. It was always possible her father would reject her and send her from his sight. He might believe Ruth to be too unmanageable—too unpredictable. He might have an entirely different family. Ruth had read of men leaving families in the East to hide in the western territories where they began life anew with a new wife. It was also possible her father had done this.

I might have brothers and sisters
. The thought was neither alarming nor comforting. It was simply one more possibility in a vast sea of options. Ruth sighed and stared out the window.
I just know I won’t
meet anyone’s expectations. I’m going to be quite disappointing to whomever’s
there to meet me. Father will remember Mother in her elegance and grace and
believe me to be the same. But I won’t be anything like her. I’m just plain old
Ruth
.

She pictured herself stepping from the stage with wild hair, smudged gloves, and rumpled clothes. Oh, she was going to make a bad first impression on everyone living in California. Much as she’d love to just be herself and not fret over such outward appearances, it wasn’t to be. All of her life Mama and teachers had drilled manners and comportment so she would be a woman of consequence.

Unfortunately, the only consequences had been disasters. The moment Ruth went out in public, she invariably stepped into the limelight. Once there, she said or did the wrong thing. Her bold conduct, forthright speech, undisciplined thoughts, and strong sense of justice managed to raise brows. If she failed to conduct herself respectably in the city where she was reared, how would she ever manage to present herself passably in a place where she couldn’t begin to know the rules?

But this might be different
. Hope began to surge anew.
This is the
West. They probably don’t follow even half of those elaborate social conventions.
This is a chance for me. I could start out new, fresh! Finally, I might
fit in
.

Ruth pulled her Bible out of her tapestry valise, seeking comfort and encouragement from one of her favorite passages. The stage jounced so badly, she couldn’t follow each line, so she closed God’s written word and recited it by memory.

“‘Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.”’ She smiled. “I’m a new creature and the old things are passed away.” But just as quickly as this confidence came, Ruth felt a hint of despair. “At least I hope the old things are in the past.”

She tucked away her Bible, then whispered a quick prayer for self-control as they pulled into Folsom.

Built on the side of one of the mountainous foothills, Folsom slanted more than any of the towns back home or in the middle of the flat plains she’d crossed. Clean, bright-looking businesses lined the street, giving it a welcoming air. A flare of excitement rushed through her. She’d finally arrived!

The stage started to slow as it went past a tall, muscular cowboy who stuck a hat atop wavy black hair and shoved a bandana in his rear pocket. It reminded her she ought to tidy up a bit, too.

Ruth made one last desperate attempt to put her hair in order. She dabbed at her forehead to make sure she wouldn’t look over- heated and tucked the hankie back into her sleeve, then tugged her cuffs in place so she wouldn’t look too disheveled.

Time to face her new life.

The stage pulled in and stopped. Joshua didn’t pay much attention, just minded his own business and continued up the boardwalk toward Maltby’s office. A fire a few years back decimated the town, but they’d rebuilt. Within a year, the buildings and boardwalk looked downright spiffy. He passed the barbershop, the laundry/ public bath, and had just reached the door to the jail when the stage driver jumped down.

“Hey, McCain! I’ve got a delivery fer you!”

Joshua nodded and strode across the rutted dirt street. He expected the customized saddle he’d ordered from Independence to arrive any day, so being called over to pick up the piece quickened Josh’s pace. He made his way to the other side of the dusty, persimmon-colored stage as the driver reached up to help someone disembark.