The Springsweet (16 page)

"And was he?" I asked.

"Of course not," she scoffed. She picked up her sewing again. "But he got a lot of fools to pay pennies to see him run up and down Main Street screaming like a stuck pig."

Though inwardly the implication stung, I managed a tart reply. "Well, at the very least, I'm a genteel springsweet. Whether my dowsings find water or no, I assure you, I'm well-mannered throughout."

Mrs. Rubert would have been entirely correct to reprimand me, but she laughed instead. "You and Birdie make some pair."

"Thank you," I said, standing carefully once I'd basted my squares in neatly. Mrs. Rubert let me drift away, and as the day turned, I sewed a little and pickled a little; I helped pack fresh pork into a salt barrel, and kissed Louella's scraped knee.

Dinner approached, and I found myself washing dishes at the pump. With so many hands frying and stirring, baking and dishing, they needed scullery far more than they needed another sous-chef. We had dirtied a mountain of pots and pans, and I despaired I'd make my way through even half before the meal was all gone.

While I sat alone at my mountain of tin and brass, smooth hands fell over my eyes. It took no effort at all to guess their owner.

"Shouldn't you be finishing the west wall with the others, Mr. de la Croix?"

Disappointed, Theo leaned over my shoulder. "How did you know it was me?"

"Lucky guess," I soothed. I shied away, so his cheek wouldn't brush mine, and I waved a hand at the lengthy chore ahead of me. "Make yourself useful, won't you?"

For once, Theo's grace failed him. He didn't even pretend to consider my request. "I'll have to get back to the men before they miss me. I just wanted to say hello."

"Hello."

Exhaling a laugh, Theo knelt down beside me. "You're a puzzle to me in every way. I think you do it on purpose."

I smiled a bit, dipping my hands in clean water, then smoothing my hair beneath my bonnet. "I do. Every morning, I get up just before dawn so I have a private hour to plan. How might I confound someone today? What trouble might I visit on some poor, unsuspecting soul?"

"I don't doubt it," Theo said. He tried to pull me into one of his dark, soulful gazes but then thought better of it. Standing instead, he slipped his hands into his pockets. "But the joke's on you today, Miss Stewart. I hope you wore comfortable shoes."

Curious, I peered up at him. "Why would you hope that?"

"Well," he said, "there are twenty-some bachelors to every single, respectable girl in these parts. And by my prudent estimation, at least eighteen of them are here right now."

"What of it?"

"I believe they all intend to stay for the dance." Leaning down once more, he caught me with a wicked smile. "And it's likewise my prudent estimation that you are the only respectable, single girl of courting age present today."

I paled. "Certainly not..."

Taking his leave of me, Theo dared to bow on his exit. "I do intend to cut in on a waltz. Just so you know."

He walked away, leaving me cursing under my breath. It was absolutely cruel that he'd finally discovered a sense of humor at my expense. Glaring very darkly at his back, I stewed, and I planned an escape. I very likely would have effected it, as well.

But as I went to Birdie to claim exhaustion, I saw Emerson at his buckboard. He pulled a fiddle from its case and held it up to inspect it.

Its body gleamed in the beginning lamplight, the strings catching and casting light like golden threads.

He tucked it beneath his chin to test its tune. Somehow, his rough fingers pulled the sweetest note free; the bow quivered beneath his hands, as if it begged him to draw forth one note more.

Madly, I longed to be that instrument, a yearning so sudden and so complete that I ached with it. And aching as I did, it no longer mattered if I had to waltz with the whole of West Glory—I had to stay. I had to hear him play.

I wanted nothing more than to hear him play just for me.

Thirteen

The new barn smelled sweet, of sawdust and sun-warmed pine, but ripe as well. Everyone who had worked from dawn in the prairie heat crowded inside, fripperies like bonnets and hats abandoned to comfort.

Someone had strewn clean straw, marking out the part of the barn that would be our dance floor.

Our light came in buttery patches, cast from buggy lanterns and hurricane lamps. They hung from the loft and lined the windowsills. They burned brightly, the smoke from their oil and beeswax a smudging hint of perfume.

The babies played in the stalls, and the older folks sat around the edges, to watch and chatter while the young ones, married and single, joined in the center to dance.

Emerson stood under the window, playing tuning scales so Mr. Rubert could match the key on his mandolin. A white-haired man I hadn't met during the day stroked the pearl edge of his banjo, his foot keeping an anticipatory beat.

A little boy still in his short britches sat in quite seriously, a pair of wooden spoons clutched between his fingers. To my wonder, when the men raised their instruments and started to play, that lad kept perfect, snapping time with them.

"I wrote myself in on this one," Mr. Bader said, joking about dance cards we neither had nor needed.

The lot of us lined up in pairs, for that's what a reel called for. Our band played it rather faster than the sedate quadrilles I was used to, and soon the barn was full of boot stomping and arm swinging, clapping and unexpected laughter.

It seemed our early-morning call to work meant little—there was energy and spirit enough to dance a reel and a two-step, a Texas schottische and a double-time polka that left me gasping. Skirts of every color bloomed like flowers.

I spun from partner to partner in a dizzy, heady swirl. So many hands clasped mine, and I gazed into eyes of every shade. The speed of it dazzled me, compelled me—
just one more dance
—when I thought I could dance not one step more.

But when it came to the jig, I begged out of young Mr. Maguire's arms so I could steal a drink from the barrel and catch my breath. Dabbing my face with my kerchief, I turned to watch the spectacle. It was glorious and wild, joy lifting the roof and filling the night with song.

"Come dance," someone said, and caught my elbow. I had already grown used to the informality, passing from partner to partner as the song and the moment moved me, so I stepped into a waltz with Royal Wakes unawares, and by the time his hand fell onto my waist, I couldn't escape.

"We haven't been introduced proper," he said with a smile. He led well, with a light touch and refined steps. Nevertheless, I found him entirely repulsive.

"Miss Stewart, late of Baltimore," I said.

His smile grew as he turned me through the first chain. "Royal Wakes, late of right here. How do you do?"

Looking past him, I tried to catch another's eye, anyone's eye. I begged Emerson to raise his head, but he was lost in
The Blue Danube,
thankfully one of the faster waltzes. If they slowed the tempo, I had no hope of rescue whatsoever. As neutrally as I could manage, I said, "Fine, thank you, and yourself?"

"Pretty good, all around." He squeezed my hand, a strange light passing in his gaze. Then he pulled me closer, so much so that I felt the heat of his body radiating through his clothes. The sensation struck me as primal and unpleasant, and I leaned my head away, my only reprieve.

But to counter it, he leaned in, so his lips moved against my ear. "I just wanted to apologize for your locket."

Stiffening, I forgot to breathe. How brazen he was, to speak so openly about the wrongs he had done me, about the crimes he visited on innocent people throughout the county. Weighing my reply, I said, "If you were sorry, you wouldn't have done it."

"To be fair," he said, turning me again, "that was more Ellis than me. He's the mean one."

Lifting my chin, I said, "To let it happen is just as much a sin as doing it yourself."

"Why can't you be sweet?" he asked.

Annoyance darkened his blond brow. His grip grew tight, not so much to hurt but to warn. I knew his cut; I recognized a coward. He tagged after his brother, playing bandit. Had he not quailed when I refused to play his victim? Had he not wavered when Ellis wanted to put the gun to me?

This little man was nothing and, advice to the contrary, I refused to pay him in fear. He repaid me with a sharp squeeze that made my eyes water.

And that was the moment Theo decided to find his way to me. No doubt it was because he knew the fast waltz always preceded the slow one, but the reason mattered not at all. He was my rescue, and I was glad to see him.

He put a hand on Royal's shoulder and offered him the most charming smile. "I'm afraid this one is more vinegar than sugar. May I cut in?"

"Be my guest," Royal said.

Picking up the steps without hesitation, Theo thanked him and swirled us from Royal's company. Flicking his head back to clear the hair from his face, Theo glanced heavenward a moment before looking down at me. "What did he say to upset you so?"

My heart sank; I'd given Theo rather less credit than he deserved. And I was tired of holding in this awful secret, no matter what Birdie said would come of speaking it.

"That jackanapes is one of the men who robbed my coach. He had the gall to apologize for stealing my locket."

Troubled, Theo glanced to find Royal in the crowd again, then looked back to me. "The marshal's outside. I was just speaking with him. You should—"

"No." I pressed in, keeping my voice low. "Birdie already forbade me to speak of it, and it doesn't matter anyway. It seems most everyone knows."

"Are you serious?"

I offered a bitter smile. "It seems as long as we're being robbed by the likes of him, no one worse will come around. The Daltons murder; those two only pillage."

Affronted, Theo seemed as though he might leave me there on the floor and start some ill-advised trouble over it. But I had seen enough trouble; I knew what came of valor when it crashed into villainy.

Tenderly, I stroked his shoulder and coaxed him with a soft voice to look at me again. "It's not worth it. Please just leave it."

The music shifted, melting from a sprightly pace to a slower, more intimate one. As I had closed the last conversation unequivocally, he changed the topic with the tempo. "Speaking of Mrs. Neal, she asked if I would drive you to your appointments this week."

"I didn't know I had any."

Theo nodded, taking the half turn that would bring us to the front of the barn again. Faces swirled at the edges, a patchwork of strangers all turning sentimental on the sweet, high cry of the fiddle. "Four, at least. I admit, I accepted the task for reasons most selfish."

Of course he had.

And dancing there with him, I could see a future for the two of us. Companionable and friendly; I
had
learned to like him. We would be good friends and good partners. Perhaps we'd read poetry after dinner; he might indulge me and let me plait his hair with ribbons.

But when we turned, I caught sight of Emerson, one foot propped on an overturned crate. The lamplight bronzed his hair; it touched the soft curve of his lips and outlined the strong line of his jaw. I loved the way his suspenders cut into his shoulders; my flesh tingled with the contemplation of how smooth or how rough his cheek might be.

He played the waltz with knowing hands, strong hands—and I wanted him to play me just the same. Even if I could only say such a thing to myself, I did have to admit it.

Then, as if I had stirred him, Emerson raised his head and looked, unerringly, into me. If his fingers lingered longer on the strings, I didn't know—but I felt them. If I had a breath, it slipped from me; trembling on a vibrato note, I closed my eyes against the disappointment of losing his gaze in the next turn.

Rubbing his very smooth cheek against mine, Theo murmured, "You're never going to see me, are you?"

It took me a moment to realize what he'd said, but when I did, I felt it like a dagger. Pierced with guilt, I pulled back. There was no sense in denying it; that would heap insult on injury, neither of which he really deserved. "Theo, it's not..."

"Well," he said, with remarkable civility. "It was good, at least, to hear you call me by my given name this once."

He didn't turn me out on the floor-—I'm not sure he had it in him to be rude, even if he wanted to be. No, he passed me back into Mr. Maguire's arms before he walked away.

Watching him slip outside without incident or commotion, with his back held straight and his head high—it was then I realized he had not lied to me.

Theo de la Croix believed in chivalry with his whole heart, and I had just broken it.

***

Though it meant carrying Louella a long way in the dark, I was glad when the music ceased. My novelty made it difficult to sit out, but my miserable spirit made it just as difficult to dance.

Shuffling outside with Birdie, I saw her eyes turn keen. Subtly, she turned, skimming her gaze across the wagons and buggies that waited for their drivers. I had not the heart to tell her that the rich, red velvet phaeton wouldn't be there; there would be no last-minute offer of a ride home.

"Up," I murmured to Louella, shifting her onto my shoulder. I cut my way through the crowd, thinking that I would point us toward home and Birdie would naturally follow.

"Hey there, Birch," a man said—Carl, from the restaurant.
Clammy hands, weak grip,
I thought ungenerously; I had danced twice with him, but thank God none of the waltzes.

Emerson stood at his buckboard, his hat pushed far back on his head. He looked quite ready to leave but stayed nonetheless to reply. "Carl?"

Carl ground his cheroot out on his boot, wandering lazily in Emerson's direction. Even in the dark, I made out the shadow of sweat on his shirt, the sheen of it on his skin. "Everybody was real surprised to see you today. Pleased, mind you. Just surprised."

"The barn had to go up," Emerson replied.

Carl laughed, but it wasn't a friendly sound. He clapped Emerson on the back, too hard to be genial. Something percolated there—nothing I could see, but the bitter tang of it spiced the air between them. "That's the spirit. Shame we don't see you in town much."