Song of My Heart (24 page)

Sadie threw her arms outward, dislodging Sid’s hold. She turned her back on him, hugging herself. Silent sobs shook her body. She wanted Mama. She wanted her mother’s comfort. But Sid was right—going home meant giving up the source of income that would feed, house, and clothe her mother, sister, and brothers.

“Your ma needs you, Sadie, but not there. She needs you here. She’s gonna be countin’ on you more than ever now.” His words filtered through the numbing shock, making her wonder if he’d read her secret thoughts. Warm hands curled over her shoulders. “You can’t go back. There’s nothin’ waitin’ for you there.”

She nodded jerkily, finally recognizing the truth of his statement.

“But here . . .” Sid went on, his voice soft and convincing. “Here you got the means to take care of your family.”

Sid was right. It would be selfish to go home. She’d come to Kansas to gain employment—the type of employment unavailable in Dalton. She had to stay. Mama and the children depended on her. Hadn’t Papa even said so in his letter? In her mind’s eye, she saw the line written in Papa’s oversized, messy script:
“You’re a good girl to put your family first, Sadie-girl. I’m proud of you.”
She’d continue making him proud. She’d care for her family the only way she knew how.

But would the twenty dollars a month from her mercantile job be enough? No, she needed the singing money, too. Her mouth went dry. Mr. Baxter would find another singer if she didn’t agree to perform all three nights. She bolted toward the mercantile.

Sid trotted alongside her. “What’re you doin’?”

“I’ve got to ask Miss Melva and Miss Shelva for permission to go find Mr. Baxter. I have to talk to him—to tell him I’ll keep singing.”

Sid grabbed her arm, his eyes wide. “You’re gonna do it? The private shows, too?”

Sadie swished her hands over her eyes, removing the remaining vestiges of tears. She heaved a shuddering sigh. “I have no choice. He told me it’s all or nothing.”
I’ll do it, Papa, so Mama and the children won’t go hungry.

Sid blew out a breath, his face breaking into an expression of both joy and relief. “Go ask, then. If they say yes, I’ll take you out to his place myself—I gotta exchange wagons anyway. You better talk to him before he finds another singer.” Sid gave her a gentle push toward the door. “Hurry, Sadie.”

Sadie stepped up on the stoop, but she didn’t hurry. She couldn’t. Her feet felt as though they’d turned to lead.

23  

A
sa squeaked the cork into place with his thumb and then held up the slender bottle by its throat to the shaft of sunlight streaming through the barn window. The red wine filling the bottle turned the aqua glass a muddy shade of purple. He’d been disgusted when he’d discovered aqua meant greenish-blue, but now he chortled, delighted by the sight. No one would guess the bottle’s true contents—especially with his cleverly designed labels intact.

He set the bottle on the worktable and reached for the glue and a paper label:

Very carefully, he applied glue to the upper third of the label. When the shipment reached its destination, the receiver could score the label with a razor blade and tear away the word “vinegar,” leaving the “Baxter’s Fancy Red Wine” intact. Took a steady hand and careful thought to brush on the right amount of glue and then center the scrolled label between the bottle’s barely visible seams. But Asa had perfected the task over the past few days, readying his first shipment.

With another raspy chortle, he placed the bottle in the crate at his feet. He balled his hands on his hips and surveyed the fruits of his labor. Nine more crates sat on the barn floor, each containing an even two dozen bottles, ready for Sid to load in the wagon and transport to Abilene. The saloon owners who’d been shut down by Kansas’s prohibition laws would be thrilled to buy his illicit liquor.

But he wouldn’t sell all of it to former saloon owners. He’d need a supply for his Tuesday nights of poker, roulette, and blackjack. He didn’t figure the Tuesday crowd would be as fond of his wine as they would the homemade beer waiting in kegs in the hidden room under the mercantile, but he’d have some on hand anyway. Asa rubbed his palms together, imagining the piles of money he’d soon amass. The thought made him giddy.

Yes, sir, ply them with enough drink, and the men would gamble all night. But he’d have to limit their imbibing and then shut things down at a reasonable hour. After all, the fellas had to return to work the morning after, and a bunch of red-eyed, dragging workers would certainly signal something was awry. He couldn’t risk attracting that snoopy sheriff’s attention. What had Hanaman been thinking, bringing a lawman to Goldtree?

But Asa wouldn’t make it easy for the sheriff. Nobody’d hear the activity in the mercantile cellar—sturdy concrete walls absent of windows would hold the sound inside. And nobody’d see men coming and going from the mercantile, because they’d use the tunnel leading from his barn to the cellar. A half mile in length and reinforced with sturdy timbers, it had taken Asa almost four months to finish the secret passageway. But now it was done, and he could open his gambling room to men eager for some fun.

The rattle of wagon wheels drifted from outside. Asa smiled—Sid, arriving to load the “vinegar.” Rolling down his sleeves and fastening the cuffs around his thick wrists, he sauntered to meet the boy. To his surprise, Sid wasn’t alone.

Asa scowled, jamming a stubby finger in Miss Wagner’s direction. “What’s she doin’ here?”

The moment Sid set the brake, Miss Wagner scrambled down from the high seat and faced Asa, her expression pleading. “Have you located a singer to replace me?”

Asa crunched his lips to the side and folded his arms over his chest. What with needing to get that wine into bottles, he hadn’t had a chance to send out a single inquiry. But Miss Wagner didn’t need to know that. “Why?”

“B-because I . . .” Tears pooled in the girl’s eyes. “I need the job. I need the money to . . . to send home to my mother. My father . . .” A tear trailed down her pale cheek. She didn’t even bother to wipe it away. “He died. So . . .”

Asa rubbed his prickly jaw. Not that he gloried in the girl’s loss, but the timing couldn’t have been better from his standpoint. A desperate employee was a reliable employee. She’d do what he asked without question. And her voice—as well as her more-than-pleasing appearance—would continue to draw customers. Asa wanted to jump up and down with glee at this turn of events, but he kept his feet firmly planted and maintained a stern tone.

Squinting, he pinned her with a firm look. “If I say you can stay on, you gonna change your mind on me? ’Cause if I commit to keepin’ you, I don’t wanna get left standin’ high an’ dry”—he almost choked on his own unintentional pun—“if you decide it’s too much work or you don’t like the songs I pick.”

She swallowed, but she didn’t shrink away as she had the last time they’d talked. “I won’t change my mind. I-I’ll sing whatever songs you choose, and I’ll work three nights a week.” She paused, her expression apprehensive. “The pay . . . the pay is still the same?”

Oh, it would gratify Asa to lower the amount and watch her squirm. But that’d be just plain cruel, considering she was mourning the loss of her pa. Asa didn’t understand that kind of mourning—he couldn’t honestly say he’d been sad standing beside his pa’s grave—but it was clear the girl was torn up. He wouldn’t rub salt in her wounds. “Pay’s the same.”

Her shoulders wilted. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter.”

He flipped his hand in reply, then scowled at her. “One more thing. These Tuesday shows? They ain’t for everybody.”

Her brows came together. “Yes, you told me. They’re for m-men only.”

“That’s right. But not for
all
men.” Asa arched one eyebrow, squinting with the opposite eye. “These’re special shows for certain fellas. A kind of . . . private society, you might say.” In the big cities, highfalutin’ men gathered together in by-invitation-only dens to smoke cigars and complain about the country’s leaders. Who would’ve thought Butterball Baxter would grow up to play host to such exclusivity?

“Only men comin’,” Asa went on, “will be those I choose to invite. So you don’t be talkin’ up the Tuesday show. Let me do the advertisin’. An’ you make sure you don’t let nobody see you a-creepin’ downstairs on Tuesday nights. Don’t wanna rouse questions. You got it?” He waited until she nodded in agreement, then he looked at Sid, who hadn’t budged from the wagon seat. “S’pose you gotta take her back to town now afore you can get that load ready for transport.” He injected as much disgust into his tone as possible even though an hour delay wouldn’t affect the deal.

Sid shrugged. “I’ve already got my gear packed an’ ready to go. So if you’d rather, I can load the crates real quick an’ drop Sadie off at the mercantile on my way out of town.”

The last thing Asa wanted was Sid carting his wine down the middle of Goldtree’s Main Street. He coughed and waved both hands in the air. “Take ’er to town first. Then hightail it out here an’ get to loadin’.”

“Will do.”

Asa took Miss Wagner’s arm and urged her to climb aboard. After she settled herself on the seat, tucking her skirts beneath her just so—she sure was a graceful thing—she peered down at Asa. Gratitude shone in her blue eyes. “Thank you again, Mr. Baxter.” Her chin quivered. “My family will appreciate the money I can send.”

Asa slipped his thumbs into the pockets of his vest and offered a solemn nod. He watched the wagon roll off his yard, holding his delight inside until he was certain the young folks were out of range of sight and hearing. Then he did a little jig right there in the sunshine and let out a whoop of jubilee.

When Sid drew the wagon to a stop in front of the mercantile, Sadie placed her hand over his arm. “Thank you, Sid, for taking me to see Mr. Baxter. I feel better now, knowing I’ll have the means to see to Mama’s and the children’s needs.” Yet her assurances didn’t remove the stone of dread from her stomach.

Sid patted Sadie’s hand, offering a sympathetic look that brought a fresh rush of tears to her eyes. “I’m sorry you can’t go back to Dalton, Sadie—I know how much you wanna see your ma.”

“And attend Papa’s service.” Sadie bit her lower lip, controlling the desire to weep. Papa was no doubt already in the ground. She’d always hated viewing the headstone that marked her real father’s resting place. Perhaps it was a blessing to be far away. She wouldn’t have to carry a picture in her head of Papa lying in a pine box or of shovelfuls of dirt being emptied into his grave. Drawing in a breath to clear her tears, she grasped the edge of the wagon and climbed down.

Sid leaned sideways, reaching one hand to her. She clung to him, grateful for the comforting touch. He said, “I’ll be gone most of the week. This load I’m takin’ for Asa is goin’ all the way to Abilene.” His chest puffed with pride. “Asa’s promoted me to chief freightsman. Better wages.”

Her apron flew up, tossed by the wind, and she pulled free of Sid’s grasp to push it back down and hold it there. “Th-that’s wonderful, Sid. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. But it’s also longer hours.” He grimaced. “Wish I didn’t have to leave you now, especially after gettin’ such bad news.”

Bowing her head, Sadie silently petitioned God for strength. “I’ll be fine, Sid.” She released a mirthless chuckle. “If I have to learn a whole new repertoire of songs, I’ll be too busy to think much. That will help.”

“Well . . .” He gazed down at her, clearly reluctant to leave.

She bobbed her head, forcing her lips into a smile. “You better go. Mr. Baxter’s waiting.”

“Yep, I know.” His shoulders heaved with a mighty sigh. He released the brake. “I’ll come see you soon as I get back to town. Bye now, Sadie.” He slapped down the reins, and the wagon jolted forward, leaving Sadie standing in a puff of dust.

With Sid’s departure, Sadie needed to return to work. But her feet remained planted in the dirt road, unwilling to carry her forward. She had no desire to enter the mercantile. She preferred to find a quiet place and give vent to the grief that squeezed like a band around her chest. When she was little and wanted to mope, Papa had teased her doldrums away or put her to work.
“Busy hands’ll keep the ache away,”
he’d said. She clamped her hand over her mouth. He’d been the dearest, most loving papa any girl had ever had.