Song of My Heart (15 page)

The ivory sheet of paper stared at her, the salutation lonely at the top of the page. How she wanted to share everything about the evening—her initial nervousness, her joy as music overtook her soul and carried her from the watching crowd to planes of bliss, her desire to dissolve into tears in response to the exuberant ovation and the wilted bouquet of flowers Sid shyly thrust at her at the end of Friday’s performance. But if she were to share all, she’d have to tell them about the hidden door and Mr. Baxter’s warning.

Slapping down the pen, she rose and paced the little room. “Perhaps ‘warning’ is too strong a word.” She consoled herself, a feeble attempt to escape the fingers of unease that crept up and down her spine. “After all, he didn’t
threaten
me.” Her feet came to a halt as she recalled his friendly smile, coupled with the casually voiced,
“If you wanna keep singin’ . . .”
She wrapped her arms around her middle and shivered. He
had
threatened her. He’d threatened her in the worst possible way, because he knew how much she needed that money to send home to Mama and Papa.

No, she couldn’t tell anyone about the door.

Too restless to sit and write, she headed out of her room. Perhaps a walk would help her clear her mind. She tiptoed down the hallway, aware that her employers dozed in their bedrooms. Miss Shelva had informed Sadie that she and her sister napped every Sunday afternoon and Sadie should only disturb them if the mercantile caught on fire. She eased down the stairs, mindful of the fourth and fifth risers, which always squeaked, and let herself out the back door.

The bright sun hit her full in the face, and she lifted her hand to shield her eyes. In her haste, she’d left her bonnet behind. She considered returning for it, but unwilling to risk disturbing the sleeping sisters, she decided to remain bareheaded. She’d simply find a shady spot to sit. Immediately, the tree in the side yard of the community building came to mind, so she headed in that direction.

The streets were empty, everyone closed in their own houses for a quiet Sunday afternoon. For a moment, loneliness attacked, but Sadie resolutely pushed the feeling aside. At church that morning, Reverend Wise had advised the congregants on the importance of being content regardless of one’s circumstances. Even the choir, which Sadie had joined last week, shared a song that encouraged a contented spirit. As she made her way across the street, she hummed “It Is Well With My Soul,” finding herself smiling as the words played through her mind.

She might be far from her family, but she had much for which to be grateful. She seated herself beneath the tree, tucking her legs to the side and smoothing her skirts over her ankles. A soft breeze teased her skin, and she sighed, content. After the past weeks’ frenetic pace—learning everything about clerking in the mercantile, practicing for performances, and finally singing—it felt amazingly good to simply sit and do nothing. She’d enjoy a time of rest, then she’d finish her letter so she could send her parents the money Mr. Baxter had given her last night after everyone had left. Wouldn’t they be pleased to find such a substantial sum in the envelope?

Sadie frowned, envisioning the rows of seats in the opera house. Two sections of six seats across by eight rows deep provided seats for ninety-six attendees. Both Friday and Saturday, at least a dozen people stood along the north wall, bringing the number to over a hundred. Mr. Baxter charged a half dollar per ticket, which meant each night he’d taken in at least fifty dollars.

She gasped, her mind racing. If he collected a similar amount every week, four weeks a month, and twelve months a year, even after paying her and purchasing coal oil for the lights, he’d earn a tidy sum. The man would be rich in no time! Surely he’d have the funds to build his elaborate opera house—maybe like the one in Dalton that was constructed of carved rock with a spindled balcony and a curved stage—in less than two years.

“Just think . . .” Sadie hunched her shoulders, an excited giggle building in her throat. “In no time at all, I’ll be singing on a real opera house’s stage instead of in a basement singing room.”

“What’s that you said?”

Sadie yelped, slapping her hand over her racing heart. She whirled toward the intruding voice, and she nearly collapsed in relief when she spotted Sid at the edge of the shade cast by the tree’s waving limbs. “Oh my, Sid, you nearly scared me out of a year’s growth.”

He grinned sheepishly and ambled close. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Was takin’ a walk—thinkin’ some—an’ saw you. Can . . .” He gulped, streaks of red decorating his tanned cheeks. “Can I join you?”

She scooted over a bit and patted the ground beside her. “Of course.” She disliked the wariness that assaulted her in Sid’s presence. After their years of comfortable camaraderie, his recent churlishness had cast a pall on their friendship. Her heart had warmed, however, with his gift of flowers—sad-looking, droopy things tied with a bright yellow ribbon—Friday night. She’d tossed away the flowers, but she’d placed the rumpled ribbon next to her family photograph as a reminder of her once-close relationship with her cousin.

Sid plopped down, knees bent and legs spread wide. He leaned against the tree and sent an uncertain glance in Sadie’s direction. “Nice out here. Not too hot yet. But now that June’s here, it’ll get a lot hotter in no time.”

The weather was a topic for strangers. Sadie jumped to a more personal topic. “You weren’t in church this morning.” She watched his face for signs of irritation.

He sighed, staring outward. “Yep. Slept in. Purely tuckered after all that buildin’ I did on the new porch an’ then stayin’ up late for your performances.”

Sadie had stayed up late, too, but she’d managed to get up for church. She nudged him with her elbow. “Your folks wouldn’t be pleased to have you sleeping through services.”

A brief scowl pinched his brow. “Only one Sunday, Sadie. I’m not likely to turn heathen just by missin’ one service.”

She shifted slightly to face him. “No, probably not, but
something
has changed you. And I wish I knew what it was.”

Although he didn’t move, she sensed him pulling away. “Whaddaya mean?”

“I’ve never known you to snap at me, or act high and mighty.” Would he bluster in anger? His jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t snap. She continued in a soft tone. “But more than once since I arrived in Goldtree, you’ve behaved boorishly with me.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. He still didn’t look at her.

“Sid?” She placed her hand on his arm. He jumped as if she’d pinched him, but he didn’t pull away. “Have I done something to offend you? Because if I have, I’d like to make things right. You and I have been friends for too long to have this antagonism between us. Will you tell me what’s wrong so we can go back to how we used to be?”

Sid jerked his arms forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “I don’t wanna go back to how we used to be.”

His vehemence, as well as his strange statement, dismayed Sadie. “You don’t want to be my friend anymore?”

He shook his head.

Sadie looked down, blinking back tears. His rejection hurt more than she could understand. “Oh.”

He wheeled on the seat of his pants, taking her chin in his hand and lifting her face. His eyes smoldered with deep emotion. “I wanna be more.”

Sadie sucked in a sharp breath. “M-more?”

Sid gazed directly into her face, his fingers possessive on her jaw. “I wanna be your beau, Sadie.”

“Sid!” Sadie pulled back, out of his reach, but his hand hovered in the air in front of her face. She inched sideways, putting a little more space between them. “You can’t be my
beau
.”

The dark scowl of days past returned, giving him a stern appearance. “Why not?”

She held out her hands. “We’re cousins!”

“Not by blood.” He rolled to his knees, anchoring her skirts to the ground with his weight. Then he leaned in, like a cat cornering a mouse. “You ain’t really a Wagner. Oh, sure, you call Uncle Len Papa, but he’s not your real pa. So that means we aren’t real cousins.”

Sadie’s heart raced so fast, she could hardly draw a breath. “But . . . but . . .”

“I tried to tell you how I feel by takin’ you to dinner. An’ givin’ you those flowers.” His familiar face, so close his breath touched her cheek, lit with fervor. “Those’re things a beau would do. Didn’t you understand?”

How could she have been so blind? Now she recognized his childish tantrums as jealousy, his desire to please her as signs of affection. Her chest ached. “Oh, Sid . . .”

He sank back, resting his backside on his bootheels. His expression faded from eagerness to apprehension. “What?”

Sadie caught his hand and held it loosely. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she had to be honest. “I’m very flattered that you care so much for me. Any girl would be honored to call you her beau. But—”

He yanked his hand free. “But you don’t wanna be that girl.” His voice sounded flat. Not angry, not even sad. Just emotionless.

Tears stung her eyes. “I’m sorry.” He looked to the side, his jaw muscles twitching. Sadie dared to touch his arm. “You know I care about you. You’ve always been my favorite cousin. But that’s the problem—you’ve been my
cousin
. My playmate and companion. Not a prospective beau.”

The beautiful early summer day lost its luster as Sadie watched Sid battle emotion. Frustration, sorrow, disappointment—they paraded across his face in quick succession while she prayed inwardly for him to understand. Finally he blew out a noisy breath and stretched to his feet. He stood, staring down at her, his eyes empty. And then determination bloomed across his features.

“Sadie . . .” He swallowed. “I’m not willin’ to just be your cousin anymore.” His shoulders squared. “Whatever it takes to win your affection, I’ll do it. I’m gonna woo you like no man’s ever wooed a woman before. An’ I’m gonna win your love. You wait an’ see.” He spun and stomped away, his arms swinging.

Sadie sank against the rough bark of the tree, no longer content. If Sid followed through on his promise to woo her, things in Goldtree could become very uncomfortable.

15 

E
arly Monday morning, Asa poured himself a cup of stout coffee and peered out the square window—set low to accommodate his height—into his backyard. Dawn was breaking, sending a rosy glow across the landscape. More than enough light for a man to see where he was going. So where was that Scotty?

He reached into his pocket and retrieved the brief telegram that had arrived Saturday. DELIVERY MONDAY SUNRISE STOP FIVE SAMPLES STOP CASH TO SUPPLY STOP. Asa scratched his head, yawned, and shoved the telegram back into his pocket. He hoped Scotty was as good as his word, or this too-early awakening would be for naught. Predawn rising was for chickens and dirt farmers.

Memory carried him backward in time to Ohio, his family’s farmstead. Cornstalks rustling in the breeze, cows mooing in the pasture, Pa hollering, “Hurry up, Asa, an’ bring in that milk!” Never enough money. Or food. Or anything else that mattered. Asa slurped his coffee, swallowing the memories along with the steaming brew. Those days were far behind him. He was a businessman now, with a fine house, half a dozen tailor-made suits, a full pantry, and money in his cash box with plans to get a heap more. He’d never go back to cow-milking or scrabbling in the dirt for a measly living.

But first he needed bottles. He squinted out the window again, willing Scotty to appear. As if the power of thought could make things happen, the squeak of wagon wheels reached Asa’s ears. He pressed his face to the windowpane and spotted a wagon pulling up beside the barn, just as Asa had instructed. With a gleeful chortle, he clacked the coffee cup into the tin sink basin and charged out the back door as fast as his short legs would carry him.

He reached the wagon as Scotty swung down from the seat. “You get ’em?” he asked. No need for friendly greetings between superiors and underlings.

Scotty nodded and headed for the rear of the wagon. “Right here.” He lifted out a slatted crate with bits of straw poking out from between the narrow bands of wood. He bent over to place the crate on the ground, but Asa waved his hands.

“Somebody might see. Take it in the house.”

Scotty sent a glance around the yard, his eyebrows high. “Who’s gonna see?”

The snide question set Asa’s teeth on edge. So his house was a mile from his closest neighbor. So he didn’t expect Sid to fetch the wagon until after eight o’clock. So there wasn’t much chance of being seen. He still wanted privacy, and since he was the one paying,
he
would decide where he viewed the merchandise.

With a grunt, he spun toward the house. “Just c’mon.” Asa led Scotty to the house and pointed to the table. “Put it there.”

Scotty plopped the crate on the checked tablecloth while Asa closed and locked the door and then whisked the curtains together to prevent anyone from peeking inside. Asa caught Scotty’s derisive smirk. He decided to ignore it, but he’d give the man a stern warning about maintaining privacy before he left. Last thing he wanted was for somebody—especially that new sheriff who spent his days roaming the whole town—to start putting two and two together.

“Let me see what’cha got.” Asa rested his fingertips on the edge of the crate, licking his lips in eagerness.

Scotty dug through the straw and pulled out a short, roundish, yellow-colored bottle. “This here is called an onion bottle. It’s imported all the way from Belgium. You can get it in this color or green or clear.” He pulled out a second one, similar in height but with a less-rounded shape and a longer neck. “This one, called acorn, is made in the east, so it don’t cost as much. Can probably get two acorns for the price of one onion.” He set them down side by side beside the crate.

Asa discounted the bottles. Short and squatty, they reminded him too much of his own reflection in the mirror.

Scotty pulled out two more bottles, both slender with smooth lines of deep red glass—one about eight inches in height and the other closer to a foot. “These’re hand-blown, so they ain’t cheap, but they’re the most common. Easy to hold. A fellow can drink straight from the spout.” He demonstrated, raising the shorter one to his lips.