All or Nothing (13 page)

“Well, aren’t you the clever one?” She snatched it greedily, eyeing RuthAnne with all of the interest of a rattlesnake after a pocket mouse. RuthAnne heard footsteps tread across the plank floor inside. The rough-hewn casita door opened quickly to reveal the sour face of Clara Carington.

“Kendrick must be joking.” With rolling eyes, Clara turned her back, leaving RuthAnne standing open-mouthed in the doorway. “Well don’t just stand there like a bump on a log. You’re here to work, and there’s plenty to do.”

Clara was a full head shorter than RuthAnne and a fair amount rounder than her daughter, though equally squeezed and pinched. Her expression was cold; the thin line of her mouth showed her displeasure with their current situation. Her taffeta dress, edged with lace and bows, would have been more appropriate on a woman half of her age. The shade of green would have been more becoming to a redhead than the blonde-tinted hair obviously hiding the shock of white underneath. With the blooming beauty of her daughters, she clearly longed for the days when she herself was the object of a man’s affection.

“What should we call you?”

“RuthAnne, ma’am. RuthAnne Newcomb. I’m a laundress here at the fort.”

“A
laundress?
Well, that’s a first. I thought all of the fort laundresses were too busy herding their fatherless children or chasing soldiers...”

“I don’t have children, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ve heard plenty about your sort. The only soldiers on this side of the fort are officers.
Married
ones. You’d do well to remember that.”

“I don’t have designs on anyone, Mrs. Carington. I’m a hard worker and will do my best to help however I can.”

“You can
help
by escorting my daughters in off of the porch and out of view of the common rabble. Megan, really! You’re going to give those poor boys delusions of grandeur.”

Megan tittered as she flounced her way inside. Clara turned. “Where’s Amanda?” She demanded an answer, as if RuthAnne had absconded with her child.

Megan’s warning look was withering. RuthAnne strained a smile and straightened her shoulders. She would not lie for the girl. “I only just met Megan, Mrs. Carington. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Amanda yet.”

Clara turned her disapproving glare to her daughter. “Megan. You need to keep better track of your sister.”

“Here I am, Mama.” Amanda Carington tripped up the stairs with dusty shoes. By her apple-red cheeks and sweat-rimmed face, she’d obviously run the whole way back. A shock of red hair had flown out of its pins and down her back. The girl looked young, bright-eyed, and full of mischief.

“What on earth are you doing flying around the fort? How many times have I warned you about Indians wandering about! That Yavapai scout has it in for me.”

“Charley?” RuthAnne said. “I wouldn’t worry about him, ma’am. He’s on a spirit walk. He won’t be back for some time.”

“What are you, some heathen-lover?” Clara’s words stung like a scorpion.

RuthAnne opened her mouth to answer, but found no retort that would smooth the situation over. “I don’t know him very well, ma’am. I’m only new here at the fort. I’m from back east.”

“East!” Megan grabbed RuthAnne by the hands and hauled her indoors to pepper her with questions. “Where did you come from? When? Do you know anything about the latest fashions? Do you know any gossip from New York? Or Chicago? Tell me everything!”

Megan sat heavily upon the dainty-legged, Victorian Empire sofa, pulling RuthAnne down to answer a barrage of questions; Amanda bookended her sister, adding a question or two of her own. Though the girls were twins, they were nothing alike in appearance. Where Megan was short, blonde, and opinionated, Amanda was demure, redheaded, and slender. Her face was sharp featured and natural as opposed to her sister’s obvious affinity for rouge and lip color. Megan’s complexion would look much lovelier had she strived for accenting rather than changing her appearance. The only thing identical about them was their deep brown eyes. They were like two sides of a coin; different but obviously as close as only sisters can be.

“Did you ride on a
real
train?” Amanda clasped her hands together in delight.

Megan gave a snort of disgust. “Not like those claptrap trains out of California. What a laugh that was!”

“We, I mean,
I
rode out on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line out of Kansas City, Missouri as far west as it would take me,” RuthAnne said. “I hired a stagecoach to bring me here.”

“Did the train seats have real velvet cushions?” Amanda was positively dreamy-eyed.

“They were deep forest green, a crushed velvet. There were hand-painted pictures above all of the windows...”

“What sort of
people
rode with you?”

“Did they feed you?”

“There was a Harvey Company Restaurant at the stop in Topeka. They served us steak and potatoes, apple pie...it was just delicious.” RuthAnne smiled, as this had impressed Mara, as well. “The Harvey Girls were lovely and sweet. We...I ate with a minister and his wife. He gave a small Sunday service in the back of the car...”

“I don’t want to hear about
church!
” Megan laughed heartily. “One thing I’m grateful to tears this place doesn’t have...”

“Hallelujah for that!” Clara Carington’s booming voice went from laughing to mumbling in the other room. They heard a bottle set down with a heavy glass clink.

Megan shook her head. Amanda looked concerned. “Mother’s got the laudanum. It’s the heat. It’s too much for her.”

Megan pooh-poohed her sister with a wave. “Now, give me all of the latest gossip.”

“I was working most of the time and didn’t follow the latest news.”

“Well, you obviously didn’t follow fashion.” Megan pouted, fingering RuthAnne’s dress.

Annoyed, RuthAnne was about to point out that she was very in tune with the latest fashion, as she was a highly skilled seamstress. She weighed how to say so without resorting to a childish retort.

“Maybe wearing oversized, faded frocks is the latest rage in Kansas City.” Clara chimed in from the other room, causing her daughters to giggle ruthlessly.

There would be no talking to these young women. Let them think they knew so much more than she with last year’s fabrics and too-long hemlines. Someday they would darken the door of her shop in town, and she would smother them with kindness. For today, there was work to finish so she could get back to waiting on those who really needed her.

RuthAnne gathered herself and took in her surroundings. Her fingers traced the red and white striped velvet fabric that covered the couch. Its length was perfect for a ballroom, to fill with ladies in ball gowns, or to accommodate the elaborate bustled dresses that seemed favored by the Carington girls; highly impractical for a family parlor, in her opinion. The wingback chairs were draped with grime-darkened sheets, as was a kerosene lamp on a spindly-legged round table. The layer of dust showed it had been some time since they had been back to the fort.

The crates and barrels were hardly unpacked yet; packing straw littered the wood floors where the girls had unearthed a few of their belongings. It wouldn’t have taken much for them to put this small space into order. She could see why the women needed some help; they simply were not used to caring for themselves. RuthAnne gritted her teeth, smiled, and set to work.

Hours later, Clara had collapsed onto her hand-carved teester bed with its huge canopy and etched-mirror headboard. Amanda was fanning her, as commanded, though the girl looked equally uncomfortable in the afternoon heat. RuthAnne swished her loose skirt, feeling the air hit her skin, and couldn’t help but grin. Fashionable, no. Functional, absolutely.

With a frown, Megan adjusted her tight bodice and trotted off to the post store. RuthAnne shook her head as she watched the heavily-dressed girl attempt to sashay down the cottonwood lane, across the parade ground directly in front of the soldiers drilling and marching in formation. Delusions of grandeur indeed!

RuthAnne unpacked the remainder of Clara’s clothes and piled her plethora of lacey undergarments, button shoes, skirts, hats, and jackets in the wardrobe of the post commander’s quarters.

Next, she unpacked the daughters’ room. Each had a lovely feather tick mattress over carved wooden beds. She changed sheets and pillows to fresh linen found in the bottom drawer and laid light summer coverlets over the top of each mattress.

The large steamer trunks posed a storage problem, taking up too much space. After some thought, she upended them by each girl’s headboard for them to use as dressers, adjusting the contents to keep hastily packed items from spilling out of the cloth-and-wood drawers. RuthAnne carefully rehung some lovely light fabric dresses on their wide wooden hangers.

As for the remainder of the Carington family’s household goods, she finished putting away purchases from their journey and the fine china and crystal, minus a goblet or two that hadn’t survived the trip. She hauled the packing materials out back to be pulled apart later for stove kindling. The furniture dusted, cobwebs rousted out, rugs batted with the large paddle, floors swept, and freshly polished glass windows left open for circulation, the house was ready at last. It had taken most of the day.

White lace curtains barely trembled in the slight afternoon breeze. RuthAnne busied herself in the kitchen with Whit’s delivery of canned goods, flour, butter, and bacon just sent over from the post store. Her duties complete, she could have left, but these weren’t the type of women to seek out the mess hall. RuthAnne took a deep breath and set to making their dinner.

“I thought she’d never fall asleep.” Amanda appeared and dropped with a hearty sigh into a sturdy kitchen chair and sniffed with approval. “It smells good in here!”

RuthAnne smiled as she checked the biscuits baking in the oven. They filled the air with their heavenly aroma, though they were not quite golden on top. She would watch them for a few more minutes. “You all need a good meal after that trek you took. I’ve heard stories.”

“I wasn’t sure Mama would make it. Well, you know. She doesn’t travel well. Besides, she’s not the easiest person to please. This ought to do it though.” Amanda gestured to the house, everything in its place, neatly swept and sparkling as if they’d lived there for ages.

RuthAnne turned back to the stove, removed the golden biscuits, and gave a quick stir to the pot of cooked pinto beans. She cubed the salt pork and browned it in its own juices before dropping it into the beans for added flavor.

“Where’d you get those?” Amanda joined RuthAnne at the counter, all but drooling over the bowlful of red, plump tomatoes.

“The stable master has a little garden. I traded him some fresh made cakes of soap for the rights to grab some now and then.” She chopped and slid them neatly into the pot before placing the lid over the now-bubbling chili.

“Mr. Baker sent over some apples, along with the rest of your supplies.” She tossed one to Amanda who crunched into it greedily.

RuthAnne picked up a wood-handled paring knife and began peeling and coring the green fruit. “So, it sounds like your mother had a difficult journey to meet you all.”

Amanda had a lovely smile. “Oh, yes. Why she went the long way instead of overland is beyond me. The trip from San Francisco down to Yuma wasn’t awful. Train cars full of miners, you know. No dinner car. Some less-than-desirables on board, but Megan and I stuck together for once.”

“It’s nice to have a sister.” RuthAnne found herself longing to tell Amanda about Mara. How worried she was about her. How tomorrow could hardly get here fast enough so that she could go and see her. Touch her. Hug her. Talk to her! But she had been sworn to keep silent.
Bowen Shepherd.
The very thought of him was enough to send her into a frenzy.
Him and his infernal suspicious mind.

Amanda let out a snorting laugh. “Nice? I don’t know if being Megan’s sister would qualify as
nice
. She’s a conniving little toad. Watch your back with her.” Then she softened again. “I do appreciate what you’ve done for Mama. The house looks beautiful.”

RuthAnne folded the apples into a mixture of sugar and cinnamon with a squeeze of fresh lemon. She poured the whole batch into a waiting crust.

“This here’s for dessert. Leave it in the oven for about an hour. Then you can let the coals die down to embers.”

“You’re leaving?” Amanda looked disheartened.

“I’ll be back after the weekend.”

“But we’ll see you tonight, won’t we? At the dance?”

“I have a lot to catch up with, and I’m leaving tomorrow. Maybe next time.”

“But all of the soldiers will be there! It’s such a fabulous place to meet men. I mean, from what I’ve heard. I’m not looking to meet anyone, but dancing would be fun. This is the first time I’m allowed to go.”

RuthAnne saw the promise and possibility in the girl’s eyes. She was longing for marriage, for escape. That much was painfully clear.

“Not all of the soldiers. Some are out on patrol.” RuthAnne hated how empty her words sounded. Would she be more inclined to go to the dance if Captain Shepherd would be there? Her heart fluttered at the thought of his hands on her shoulders. Her waist. His fingers entwined in her hair.

Amanda raised her eyebrows in question. “Which soldier are you missing, Ruthie?”

“No one in particular.” RuthAnne bit the inside of her cheek, hoping to quell the rising blush heating her cheeks.

“But you’re in love. It’s all over you.”

“I couldn’t possibly be in love. I’ve only been here a week!”

“A moment’s all it takes.” Her eyes were faraway, dreamy. RuthAnne reached to touch her hand. Amanda blinked, eyes wide, her crimson cheeks betraying her heart. “At least, that’s what they say in the serial novels I hide in my steamer trunk. Mama hates that I read them. Megan just teases, but she reads them, too. I’ve seen her do it.”

“Being in love can be a wonderful thing. To not have to wonder or fret if your love is returned. I used to be married...”

“Where’s your husband? Is he on patrol?”