[Canadian West 05] - Beyond the Gathering Storm Page 6

  She knew she had just been dismissed.

  “Miss Delaney,” he called after her when she was almost to the door. “Should you ever change your mind ...” He let the sentence drop. Christine gave a slight nod.

  She had her hand on the doorknob when he called again. “And bring me in another pencil. This fool thing’s worn down to the quick.”

  CHAPTER Six

  The location of the detachment had not been chosen because it was a large or prominent prairie town. Its claim to an RCMP office was its central position in the area that needed to be patrolled. Amid miles and miles of stark prairie and more miles of empty foothills sat this little town, directly in the middle. The distances no longer had to be covered on horseback—though Henry knew there would be days during the winter when he would long once more for a good dog team and a sled. Many roads, in the best of weather, posed difficulty even for the high-built Fords. He dreaded the winter storms and spring rains. But they’d have to deal with those when the times came. For the moment it was enough to face and manage what came up day by day.

  He rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck. Though it had been a routine day—which to a police officer was always an advantage—he still had reports to write up. He was hungry, but the thought of food at the local café did not entice him. Everything they served was so highly spiced it made his stomach complain. Rogers, his fellow officer, joked, “If it didn’t taste like fire, it’d have no taste at all.” But it was either settling for café fare or the impossible task of rustling up something in his bachelor quarters.

  He had been at his new posting in the South for three weeks. Three weeks. It didn’t sound long. Yet it felt like forever. It was so different from the North. He’d been watching and observing to catch the feel of the whole flow of life here from his two fellow officers. Even so, he felt he was constantly on the brink of making some major official faux pas. So far he had managed to cover his hesitancy and fear of going against what was culturally acceptable.

  Canadian law was the law of the West. He would uphold the law as he had vowed and been trained to do. But the details—the things that swung on individual interpretation—were the issues that could stump him. The Force had a reputation to uphold. An image to protect. Henry was very conscious of that fact. He lived and breathed with the Force in mind.

  He rubbed his neck with more vigor. I’m not sure I was cut out for this ran relentlessly through his mind. He silently noted, I feel I’m walking on a beaver dam in spring floodwater. I’m not quite sure where to place my next step.

  “Boy,” he admitted aloud, feeling the fringe at the back of his head. “I’ve got to get a haircut.”

  Three weeks was too long to let the regulation cut go. But Henry had been so busy trying to figure out his new posting that he’d not had time to look up a barber.

  He couldn’t remember seeing a striped pole in this little one-horse town. Well, there must be somebody who cuts hair. He looked at the young constable across the room, busily scratching out his daily report.

  “Laray,” he asked. “Where does one get a haircut in this town?”

  “Sam’s,” Laray answered without even looking up.

  There was a stirring at the other desk in the room. Rogers repeated, “Sam’s.” Henry noticed the two officers exchange a look and a grin. They are setting me up, thought Henry. But he pretended to fall in with whatever their little scheme might be.

  “He the best place in town?”

  “Sam’s,” repeated Rogers. “Definitely.”

  “Only place in town,” put in Laray with a chuckle.

  “Wouldn’t matter though—if there were a dozen. Sam’s would still be the place to go,” said Rogers. Now both laughed.

  Do these guys think I’m dumb or what? thought Henry, but he only nodded and repeated, “Sam’s.”

  With a final chuckle from his two companions, they all returned to their paper work. Suppose Sam’s is about on par with Jessie’s Grill, Henry mentally groused. Tortured stomach—tortured hair.

  He shrugged and went back to his reports. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could get to Jessie’s, down the spicy food, chase it with his mints for stomach acid, and head for bed. Tomorrow might be a totally nonroutine day. He needed sleep to handle whatever might come.

  The three left the building together. Laray turned to lock the door behind them. “Going to Jessie’s?”

  “Where else?” This from Rogers.

  Laray laughed. “Yeah—where else?”

  They fell into step.

  “Did you find that little church you were asking about?” Henry knew the question was directed to him.

  “I did.”

  “So how’s it going?”

  “Fine. You might want to join us.”

  The other two men both laughed, and Laray said, “Not me. I was done with church when my pa wasn’t able to whip me anymore. ”

  “What’s it like?” queried Rogers.

  “Small. But friendly. I think I’ll like it. I’ve gone only once. Drew Sunday duty on the other two weekends.”

  “I don’t mind Sunday duty,” put in Laray. “Often quieter on Sunday.”

  “Except for the guys who party too much on Saturday night,” offered Rogers. “I get awfully tired of handling drunks and breaking up fights.”

  Henry had thoughts of his own on the subject, but he kept them to himself. They walked the remainder of the way in silence. Even the smell of Jessie’s Grill was hot and spicy.

  They were nodded to a table by Jessie. She came over herself, her grin revealing the missing tooth. Somehow in Jessie’s face it seemed to fit. She was ... well, she was rather rugged in appearance. Brassy red hair was pulled back from bony cheeks in a bedraggled hair ribbon. The bright red lipstick, applied somewhat carelessly, matched in tone the bright rouged spot on her sallow cheeks. Her strident voice seemed to match her looks.

  Already, though, Henry had sensed that the people of the community had respect for Jessie. She’d had a tough go, but she wasn’t looking for favors or handouts. She worked day and night, but she was making it on her own. Henry knew there must have been a Mr. Jessie somewhere in the past, though the only evidence of him now was the handful of little Jessies he’d spotted here and there. He had not asked questions about the family but expected to learn more in time. His eyes searched her face as she stood by their table. He felt sorry for the woman and her obviously difficult circumstances.

  “What you got cooking tonight, Jessie?” asked Laray goodnaturedly. There really wasn’t need for the food-spattered menus she pushed toward them. The regulars had each item already memorized.

  “Special is beef stew ’n bakin’ powder biscuits,” she said. She turned her head away to cough.

  The stew would be nothing like his mother’s, but Henry ordered it anyway.

  “Make it two.”

  “Three.”

  While Jessie went to dish up, Henry stretched out his legs. “Either of you happen to know of a cheap place a fellow might rent? I might like to batch.”

  “Batch? Man, I’d hate that,” said Laray. “I’d hate to eat my own cookin’.”

  “I think I’d hate to eat your cookin’ too,” joked Rogers.

  Henry had other thoughts. He didn’t mind cooking at all. Had almost enjoyed it while in the North, and he’d had precious little to cook with there. The nearby corner store here would make things much easier. Besides, he knew his own cooking would be much easier on his digestive system.

  “Don’t know of anything right off. If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know,” Rogers responded. “I know this guy in real estate. I’ll ask him, if you’d like.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” said Henry.

  Their plates arrived. Other patrons came and went. Henry was very aware of eyes on the uniforms. One rough-looking cowboy glared at them. Probably had spent a night locked up for some infraction of the law. Others ducked their heads. A few young girls cast interested glances their way. O
lder women and town businessmen nodded in acknowledgment. The presence of the Force brought stability to towns like theirs.

  Henry was only too glad to finish the stew. After his last drink of bitter coffee, he rose. “Might be a little late in the morning,” he said, running a hand over his hair before placing his Stetson. “Gotta get this hair cut. Where do I find this fella Sam?”

  “Sam’s? Just off Main Street. Corner of Main and Fourth, second building south.”

  “What time does he start?”

  Henry did not miss the exchange between the two other officers. “Eight-thirty.”

  “Thanks,” said Henry with a nod. Already he was planning to be the first one in the door when Sam flipped his sign to Open.

  But when he arrived at eight-fifteen, the chair already was occupied by a very young boy. Henry ruefully removed his Stetson and hung it on the hat rack. He hoped this would be worth the wait. If the other two got their hair cut by Sam, as they claimed, he should fare all right.

  “Take a seat. I’ll be right with you,” a woman called. He’d never found a barbershop with a receptionist before.

  He took a seat and picked up a day-old paper. The headlines announced conflict across the Atlantic, food lines and railroad hobos, more farms and businesses fighting for survival in the prairie dust bowl. Henry sighed and put the bad news down.

  He heard a step and then the voice again. “Here you go. Give this to Mrs. Crane. She’s going to the meat market and promised to get some sausage for Mommy.”

  The boy hopped down from his perch and disappeared through the back doorway.

  “Now—run straight home.”

  Henry heard his giggle. “I’m not going home, Mom. I’m going to Mrs. Crane’s house. Remember?”

  There was laughter in the voice that responded. “I meant home to Mrs. Crane’s. Here, kiss me ’bye.”

  He heard the little smack. “Now run.”

  Henry picked up the paper again. He did not want to intrude on this private moment.

  “Bye, Mom,” the child called as he bounded out the door.

  Henry concentrated on the paper as the woman entered the room. He should be next, providing Sam—probably her husband—was on site. She was arranging some tools on the small shelf near the barber chair. From the corner of his eye, he noticed her lift a black barber cape.

  “You’re next,” she announced.

  “I was ... I was looking for Sam,” he managed to croak out as he put the paper aside and stood.

  “I’m Sam” came the voice from behind the cape.

  He was totally taken aback. “You give haircuts?”

  “That’s what the sign says.” Her tone was crisp.

  He moved awkwardly toward the chair. “Just the standard regimental cut,” he heard himself saying as he settled into it.

  “I understand,” she replied, her voice still cool. “I’ve done a good many cuts for the Force.”

  Of course. If she was the only barber in town, she had been giving the men their haircuts. “I guess you have,” he mumbled. “Being the only barber here.”

  “Look,” she replied stiffly, “you don’t like my haircut, you can drive into Fort Macleod.”

  He lifted his eyes to the large mirror reflecting the scene in the shop, and he saw her face for the first time. She was standing directly behind him, her hands holding the cape and her expression questioning whether to proceed or send him on his way.

  “No. I didn’t mean ... sorry. Go ahead. Please.”

  Her hands swished the cape over his shoulders, and the woman leaned forward to fasten it firmly. He got his first full look at her face. A mass of curly brown hair framed an oval face with a slight dimple in one smooth cheek, and she had a pair of the loveliest violet eyes.

  It was those eyes that confirmed the truth to him. He knew with a surety that sent his head—and heart—reeling. This was she. This was the young woman he had been sent to almost five years earlier. This was the Swedish logger’s young widow.

  Henry fought to control his swirling emotions. He was totally unprepared for this sudden encounter.

  CHAPTER Seven

  Christine was thrilled to note the early signs of spring. Though dirty snow still lined the sidewalks where the sun’s rays were unable to reach, the water trickling along in the gutters could almost sound like the streams in her beloved North country. She closed her eyes for a moment to enjoy the pleasant memory. Well, said Christine to herself, opening her eyes to continue her walk to work, running water is running water. Even here in the street it still makes wonderful music. She wondered if any workers hurrying along ahead of her had noticed the sound.

  She clung to her especially light frame of mind as she, almost by habit, entered the big building, climbed the stairs, and turned to her right. The same routine, the same duties, the same Miss Stout faced her as she opened the office door. The woman had stopped wearing the lacy hankies and fancy pins on her lapels. Apparently she had again given up on Mr. Kingsley. Christine thought the receptionist carried her own little halo with her—not a halo of light but one of cloud. It drifted about her head and wrapped about her shoulders. I am a lonely spinster, it seemed to say. I am unappreciated. Unloved. Miss Stout on occasion withdrew even more deeply into her gloom and wrapped it about her thin body. Christine did hope this wouldn’t be one of those days.

  She did not have time to hang up her coat before Miss Stout said, “Mr. Kingsley wishes to speak with you.” Her words were terse, and Christine could imagine that cloud ’being tucked in tightly.

  “Thank you, Miss Stout,” she answered brightly, hoping to share a bit of her spring happiness. She did not bother to go for her steno pad. If she needed it, she’d come back. None of the other girls had arrived yet, so there would be no observers of the early-morning visit to the boss’s office.

  She rapped on the door and opened it. “You wished to see me?”

  The shaggy head swung her way. “You here already?”

  Christine felt the query did not need a reply.

  “Sit,” the man said. She sat.

  He pushed his chair back, then changed his mind and leaned forward. “I know your answer was no, and I’m not out to change that.” At the same time he raised a hand to forestall any words she might be inclined to say. “However ...” He hesitated. “I was wondering if you’d object to making another supper. Just one.” He lifted the hand again, this time palm up.

  Christine gave the matter thought, then nodded silently. “Good.”

  He exhaled loudly and pushed back again, looking very pleased. Christine’s immediate thoughts went to Miss Stout. The woman would be overjoyed.

  “When?” she asked simply.

  “Friday. This Friday. I’ll do all the shopping—just give me a list.”

  “Friday.” She nodded. “Fine. Is there anything in particular you’d like me to serve? I have little experience with any fancy dishes.”

  “Fancy dishes we don’t need. Just some of that chicken and dumplings you served before. That was wonderful.”

  “But ... but don’t you think your guest might enjoy something ... well, different this time?”

  “Nope. Nope. He’ll love that, I know he will.”

  He? Who was her boss referring to?

  “It’s to be a surprise. I haven’t told him a thing about it.”

  Whatever the plan and whoever the guest, Mr. Kingsley seemed tremendously excited.

  “How many? For supper?” asked Christine.

  “Just us. Two. And you, of course. I want you to sit with us this time.”

  “Me?”

  “I want it like ... like a family meal. Instead of you serving like a maid.”

  Christine swallowed and nodded again. “If you wish.”

  He beamed. “That’s all set, then. You just get me that list.”

  “What if I go ahead and get what I need and you simply reimburse me?”

  “That’s good. That’s great. I never did like shopping.” He sounded
relieved.

  Christine rose. “Friday,” she said as she turned to the door.

  “Friday,” her boss agreed, obviously very pleased with himself. “Oh,” he called after her. “You can plan on the meal being ready about seven. Boyd won’t be back home until then.”

  Christine nearly stopped in midstride. Boyd? So now she was to be cooking a meal for the boss’s son. For some reason she could not have explained, her heart suddenly began to beat much faster.

  Christine was in the large kitchen nervously fussing over the final preparations for the meal when Boyd arrived. She could hear Mr. Kingsley’s booming voice welcoming his son home from college. It made her even more anxious. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep her hands from trembling as she served.

  “Boy, that’s the longest trip ...” Christine could not pick up the rest of Boyd’s words. She heard both men laugh uproariously and wondered what the joke was. With a final flutter of nerves she picked up two filled serving bowls and proceeded to the dining room. Quickly her eyes scanned the table. She had tried hard to make the table setting attractive without being too feminine. She wondered now if it seemed overdone, a bit showy for two bachelors. Quickly she removed the two candles in their tall crystal holders. Still she was uncertain. The fanned napkins were the next to go. She shook them out, then folded them and laid them beside the plates. That helped—but she was sure her aunt Mary would have been disappointed.

  She had lived with Uncle Jon and Aunt Mary in their Calgary home while she took the secretarial course. During that time she had begged to be taught the niceties of city life that would prepare her for being a hostess in an urban setting. Though her mother had taught her the accepted manners of genteel society, her upbringing in the North had placed her far beyond the range of city social customs. Aunt Mary had been happy to teach her the duties of a charming hostess, along with the decorative touches that helped to make a memorable meal. Christine had been put under Cook’s tutelage in the kitchen. She had loved it. In fact at one point she had considered becoming a chef instead of continuing her secretarial training. Her practical nature had kept her on track, however. There were far more positions available for secretaries than for chefs.