On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

By
S
HELTER
S
OMERSET

N
OVELS

Between Two Worlds

Between Two Promises

On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

Published by
D
REAMSPINNER
P
RESS

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

382 NE 191st Street #88329

Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

Copyright © 2012 by Shelter Somerset

Cover Art by Anne Cain   
[email protected]
Cover Design by Mara McKennen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61372-446-0

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

April 2012

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-447-7

To Marco

Acknowledgments

I
WOULD
like to thank the Chicago History Museum for its prodigious aggregation of data on every conceivable topic from Chicago’s early Swedish migration to the imperceptible gay scene of the Gilded Age. I would also like to acknowledge the South Dakota State Historical Society for its wealth of information on frontier life in the Black Hills during the Gold Rush years.

Author’s Note

M
ATRIMONIAL
N
EWS
was an authentic weekly matchmaker periodical published in San Francisco and Kansas City from the 1860s to its demise in the 1890s. We can assume of the thousands of respondents from around the world who answered the frontiersmen’s calls for companionship, some might have been lonely homosexual men hiding their true identities, like this novel’s protagonist, Torsten Pilkvist. The personal advertisements illustrated in the novel are fictitious, but they represent a typical approach used by the men and women who advertised.

Chapter 1

L
OVE
smacked Torsten Pilkvist in the face like a sack of flour. He knew the moment Joseph van Werckhoven stepped off the hansom cab. Normally, Torsten paid scarce attention to the boarders his parents took in for ten dollars a week at their six-bedroom row house in the North Side of Chicago. But this time, Tory, watching from one of the guest room windows upstairs, could barely peel his eyes off the stranger from New York City.

Mr. van Werckhoven had traveled to Chicago to oversee the opening of his family’s downtown drugstore. According to the telegram from Tory’s second cousin in Brooklyn, a long-time housekeeper for the van Werckhovens, the store would be the family’s first outside of New York. The Pilkvists had prepared for the gentleman with far more effort than for any other guest that Tory could remember. Fortunately for Tory, Chicago had grown so rapidly the past few years that local inns, already bulging with lodgers, could hold few newcomers. The well-to-do Mr. van Werckhoven had limited options of places to stay.

Fifteen years after the Great Fire of ’71, Chicago had mushroomed
to more than one million residents, surpassing Philadelphia and Brooklyn to become the nation’s second-largest city. Buildings rivaling cathedrals were being constructed downtown. Some people were calling them “skyscrapers.” Only five years old when the fire had spread across the city, Tory remembered little of the calamity. But he would never forget the anguished faces of the adults. Even in his neighborhood of River North, which the flames had spared, residents, including his parents, wore their somber expressions as tangibly as their derbies and bonnets. Perhaps that was why Tory had developed a profound fear of fire.

Yet the enthusiasm to rebuild soon eclipsed the city’s despair. Survivors had said the fervor for renewal overtook the city almost as quickly as the fire had. Resurrected into action, residents and ambitious newcomers alike lifted the city from the smoldering ashes. The building frenzy continued unabated and seemed to grow with intensity each passing year. Joseph van Werckhoven, like hundreds of thousands like him, had ventured to Chicago to capitalize on that unstoppable growth. Peering at him while he paid the coachman, Tory was delighted he had.

The New Yorker nodded to the coachman and, with a crocodile valise clasped in each hand, ascended the marble steps. Tory dashed to the upstairs landing to gaze through the balusters while his mother greeted the debonair stranger at the door. The setting sun hadn’t played tricks on Tory’s eyes while he’d gazed from the window. The newcomer radiated masculine good looks. Taller than average, he stood above Tory’s five-foot-one mother by at least eight inches.

“Good afternoon. I’m Joseph van Werckhoven.” He slipped off his gloves and top hat and bowed his head.

“Ja, of course, we expect you. Please come in. I am Anna Pilkvist.” She opened the heavy oak door wider and gestured for him to enter fully.

A typical flush heated Tory’s cheeks when his mother greeted their new boarder. Her thick Swedish accent, sticking to her lips like molasses, was not always easy for outsiders to understand. Mr. van Werckhoven, obviously a gentleman, seemed unfazed. He nodded in acknowledgment of her kind words and mentioned how fortuitous that Heloise had recommended their home to his family.

“It will be so much nicer staying in a pleasant home than a stuffy hotel,” he said.

“So glad Heloise write us about you,” Mrs. Pilkvist said, looking up at the guest through batting eyelashes. “Heloise say only wonderful things about your family.”

Mr. van Werckhoven set his luggage on the mahogany floor and gazed about the narrow entrance foyer, his expression cheerful and earnest. “I must say, Heloise failed to do your home justice in her descriptions. It’s quite lovely.”

From Tory’s crouched position, he detected a pink hue germinating over his mother’s pale cheeks. He wondered if she might not be playing coy. She smoothed the front of her bustled skirt and blushed some more. Laying the gentleman’s frock and hat on the sideboard, she called for Tory using what he surreptitiously referred to as her “party” voice.

Tory jumped to his feet, checked his reflection in the hallway mirror, and patted his hair to make sure the pomade still kept the unruly waves in check. His heart pounding, he descended the stairs, careful not to appear overzealous.

“We run bakery next to house,” Mrs. Pilkvist was telling the new boarder as Tory made his way downstairs, his sweaty hand dragging along the wooden handrail. “My husband there now working.”

“Heloise mentioned your bakery.” Mr. van Werckhoven raised his nose elegantly and inhaled. “I think I can smell it now.”

“Folks come from as far away as Hyde Park and Douglas for our tasty lussebulle and tartas.” She giggled. “You come at good time. Supper will be ready in about an hour, and afterward you can try some of our treats. We like to have cakes with tea and coffee for our guests in the parlor.” She turned to Tory, standing on the bottom step. “Torsten, come meet our new boarder, Mr. Joseph van Werckhoven. This is man Heloise write us about. Mr. van Werckhoven, this is my Torsten.”

It was as if the soles of Tory’s gaiters were nailed to the wooden step. He could barely compel himself to move forward and accept Mr. van Werckhoven’s outstretched hand. The guest stepped closer. Tory, trying his best not to ogle the man’s shimmering cocoa-colored eyes, finally shook his hand. He hoped that the stranger would not notice his sweaty grip.

The man’s touch sent a tremor along Tory’s arm. Alarmed by the sensation, he let his hand drop by his side like a dead weight.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you.” Joseph’s smile revealed a large set of even white teeth.

“Heloise tell me all about how nice your home is in New York City,” Mrs. Pilkvist said. “She say it’s like a palace. I hope that you will find ours to your liking.”

“Heloise flatters us,” Joseph said. “But there’s nothing more splendid than a well-suited home for one’s family, regardless of size.”

“Ours suits us good,” Mrs. Pilkvist said. “We bought it five years ago. We used to stay in small flat above bakery. We rent it to young couple now. Then we see the new row houses be built, so we buy one from bank. At first we think it too big for our family, especially since Tory’s two sisters each had one foot down the aisle, but Mr. Pilkvist come up with idea to take in boarders. Chicago growing so fast, we think to make money off it.”

Joseph chuckled. “It does seem the entire world is moving to Chicago. The train here was packed full, and with the most interesting types of people. My father and I hope to achieve as much success here in Chicago as your family has.”

“Ja, your store will do good.” Mrs. Pilkvist giggled and blushed. “I have no doubt.”

“I’ll make sure to toast all of our prosperous futures at supper,” Joseph said. “You still live here with your parents, Torsten?”

For a moment, Tory had no idea the stranger had addressed him. So mesmerized he was by the man’s dignified manner and looks that every sound seemed absorbed by the papered walls. His chestnut pompadour flipped stylishly over the top of his head, and the thick, curly mustache, precisely waxed, accentuated his soft lips. His shoulders, broad and sturdy, held aloft his lean body like a statue. And the lavender cologne rose from under the banded collar of his Coulter shirt as if he’d stepped from a garden. When Joseph repeated himself, Tory shook to attention. “Yes, I do still live here.”

“Then you’ll be taking supper with us?”

“We all usually eat with the boarders,” Tory said. “Except Pappa. He’s often busy in the bakery.”

“Good, then you can tell me about your wonderful city. I’m eager to learn more.”

“We have three other boarders who come from elsewhere too,” Mrs. Pilkvist said. “They maybe tell you what they discovered about Chicago.”

Joseph eyed Torsten. “I’d much rather learn from a native.”

Tory’s mother lifted her eyes to the high ceiling. “I never quite think of it that way. Tory is only one among us who is born here. Even his sisters all born in Sweden, although just babies when we come to America.” She looked back to the guest. “In the meantime, Mr. van Werckhoven, we show you upstairs where you stay. Torsten, follow me with Mr. van Werckhoven’s things.”