Cactus Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (19 page)

      
That alone would have piqued her interest, since he was leaving the home of a
Tejano
, but what made it even more significant was that on her way to the store earlier, Charlee had seen Tomasina Carver enter the Rojas home by the front door. A queer coincidence, indeed. Could two such unpleasant people know one another? “I'm just fanciful because I've been warned about him, and I don't need to be warned about her,” she muttered to herself, deciding to tell Lee the next time he visited her.

      
Laughingly, she recalled his visit of yesterday. He had sported a nice set of swollen knuckles on his right hand and had assured her, under duress, that Slade had a matching imprint on his left eye. He was mortifyingly protective of her, she thought fondly. In many ways, he had taken Richard Lee's place. If truth were told, he was a good deal more conscientious about her welfare than Richard Lee had ever been. She quickly pushed that thought aside as disloyal. Nevertheless, her young
Tejano
companion had cheered her greatly with his assurances that she still had a place in everyone's heart at Bluebonnet—everyone except Jim, of course. Lee even tried to convince her that Slade was genuinely attracted to her and would marry her if only she would accept his suit! Ridiculous!

      
Charlee let out a proud, bitter laugh at that bit of fantasy. Lee was surely a Latin romantic if he believed such stuff. Lord only knew what fabrication Slade had made up to excuse his own guilt, she thought disdainfully; and then she dismissed the whole thing from her mind. She had more than sufficient concerns to occupy her time and attention now that she was living at Kensington's boardinghouse.

      
Deborah's establishment was run like clockwork, neat and orderly, yet wonderfully spontaneous. The boarders were an odd assortment of men and women of all ages and walks of life, ranging from a prim schoolteacher who had been left widowed in the War of 1812, to a gristly old Indian fighter and scout named Racine Schwartz. She had gone to the general store that afternoon to buy him pipe tobacco. Mrs. Kensington did not allow chewing, thank you. It saved a lot of washing the walls.

      
If the people were diverse in background and education, all were basically respectable and surprisingly mannerly for such a wild place as Texas. Even old Racine, despite all his scars and hair-raising tales, never cussed in front of womenfolk, and minded his table manners surprisingly well for a frontiersman used to the rigors of living in the wilderness.

      
Charlee was placed in charge of the kitchen after the first evening, when she amply demonstrated her skills by roasting a succulent haunch of venison with wine and fine herbs, as well as baking half a dozen luscious peach pies. The boardinghouse larder was well stocked with a surprising variety of fresh and salt-cured meats, and the backyard boasted a large vegetable garden, several varieties of fruit trees, and sundry berry bushes. In addition to overseeing the kitchen, Charlee also was to take charge of the planting and harvesting of all home-grown produce. She had a great deal more to learn about bartering for meats, staples, and delicacies as well as keeping the linen closets stocked, the laundry done, and the accounts up to date.

      
Charlee felt immensely fortunate in having the opportunity to learn all the intricate details of running a business and at the same time using the domestic skills she had cultivated since childhood. She did not want to admit she owed her good luck to Jim Slade, but it could not be denied. “I'll just show him what I can do all by myself. I'll be a woman of property someday and never be beholden to him or any other man.”

      
She would always be beholden to Deborah, however. In the first few weeks she had lived there, Charlee learned to refine her ungrammatical speech, not to mention curbing her crude remarks and cussing. It was Deborah who first convinced her to embark on the difficult and unlikely task of refining dross to gold. She would become a lady.

      
“You're walking as if you have tacks in your shoes, Charlee.” Deborah sighed.

      
“Well, it's these da—cursed high heels! It's not bad enough, having to slog around with a hundred pounds of petticoats and trip on long hems and cinch your waist in like a whey-belly horse, but now...high-heeled slippers!” She sighed and sat down on the large horsehair sofa in the front parlor.

      
Deborah came over and placed one elegant hand on Charlee's slim shoulder. “Take heart. Once you get in practice, it won't seem awkward at all. You're tiny and short, Charlee. You need the height and grace the heels give you. A great many tall, gawky girls would give anything to be petite and delicate like you and be able to wear such pretty shoes.”

      
“What do you mean, ‘be able to’? Any woman who's fool enough to want them can buy a pair,” she replied in disgust.

      
Deborah's laughter echoed across the large room. “You have not considered how great male vanity is and how fragile their self-image. A woman can't be taller than her dance partner or she'll soon be a wallflower.”

      
Charlee harrumphed over that. “Seems to me men are a he—whole lot of trouble, more than they're worth. Anyway, if so many short men are worried about finding short girls to dance with I shouldn't have any trouble with partners.”

      
“But Jim Slade is tall. He might like a woman he can look in the eye.” Deborah waited a moment. “Like Tomasina Carver.”

      
That brought forth a display of temper. “Why in hellfíre should I care! Let him marry that padded hussy and dance with her all night long!” The minute the implications of what she'd said dawned on her, Charlee crimsoned and cast a furtive glance at Deborah to see how she reacted to the unintentional double entendre.

      
Torn between mirth and compassion, Deborah chuckled for a minute and then sobered. She smiled warmly and sat down by Charlee's side. “You're in love with him, aren't you, Charlee?”

      
An angry denial formed on her lips and then died. What was the use? She had fought it and had denied it before that night. Then, after his cruel rebuff, she had denied it again—all to no avail. She sat still, awash in her own misery, saying nothing, revealing everything.

      
“If you want to, you can get him away from that conniving bitch,” Deborah said softly.

      
Charlee jerked upright. Never since she'd met Deborah had she heard her utter one improper syllable.

      
“That's right, I don't like her either, and I know she's not right for him. You are.” Deborah smiled winsomely.

      
“That's what Lee told me, too, only I didn't believe him. Oh, Deborah, you don't understand. He's so obsessed with polish and manners. He wants a real lady who's well read and traveled and has all the social graces, one from a fine old family, like his mother or father's. For certain, not a Missouri hill girl,” she concluded sadly.

      
“In case you haven't taken stock, you've traveled quite a bit more than most women hereabouts, you're certainly well read, and your mother was a schoolteacher. I think your bloodlines will stand up under inspection. You have a lovely face and quite a perfect, fine-boned figure. You've just never learned to display your looks to advantage.”

      
“I wore a skirt once for him and he...well, let's just say I didn't like his reaction,” she finished in frustration.

      
“Your friend Lena's peasant costume? No, that was a tactical error. There's more to being a lady than being enticing looking and wearing a skirt, Charlee. You have to know how to dress appropriately and how to walk, talk, dance, serve tea. All the things you refused to let your mother teach you.”

      
“How'd you know that?” she challenged guiltily.

      
“Let's just say I guessed, given your rather unorthodox mixture of skills. What I’m trying to tell you is, you can be as fine as any lady in Texas or anywhere else; but you have, to work at it, no matter how silly or boring you think it is. Deal?”

      
“Deal,” Charlee answered grudgingly.

* * * *

      
It was baking day, and the last thing Charlee needed in the busy kitchen early that morning was Adam. But when Deborah left on an emergency call to assist Dr. Weidermann as a nurse, Charlee had to take on the responsibility of watching the active five-year-old. She loved the bright, handsome boy dearly and often played with him, discovering the delight of having a child to love; but five-year-old children and fifty-pound sacks of flour do not mix—at least not with very satisfactory results.

      
“Sadie, you start proofing the yeast while I measure the sugar,” Charlee said to the elderly black woman who assisted her in the kitchen. Sugar, such a rare and expensive commodity, was used sparingly and kept in a special drawer in Deborah's pantry. Charlee set her huge crockery mixing bowl on the table and went to get it. While she was gone, Sadie carefully added warm water to the sticky dollop of yeast she had separated from the starter. Her back was turned to the boy, who played on the kitchen floor next to the heavy flour sack.

      
Just then, old Racine Schwartz called from the front hall, “Miz Deborah! ” With a sigh Sadie set her wooden spoon in the middle of the bowl and walked ponderously toward the door to explain the missus's absence to the crotchety old man.

      
“Charlee knelt in the pantry and measured a cup of sugar, careful not to spill a granule. When she rose, she suddenly realized how effortlessly easy wearing full skirts and petticoats had become to her, almost like second nature. She had on a simple rust-colored cotton dress, which brought out the bronze highlights in her hair and accented the tawny hue of her complexion. It was a cool gown with a slightly scooped neckline and elbow-length sleeves, serviceable for work, but still ladylike and pretty.

      
She was learning her lessons a day at a time, and so far it had not been impossibly painful. In fact, it was becoming rather fun to feel feminine and admired. A goodly number of young men, some of them boarders, some workers in town, had come to sit on the big wide veranda of Kensington's in the evening and sip lemonade with her. Charlee had never even thought about being courted before, and she was pleased to feel a real surge of female vanity when Billy Wilcox tried to kiss her the other night. She knew that with a little encouragement either Sam Knox or Paul Bainbridge would invite her to the dance next week, although she hadn't decided which one she would choose.

      
Realizing she was wool gathering, she smoothed her skirt and left the pantry to return to the main kitchen. The sight that greeted her almost caused her to drop the precious sugar. There sat Adam, with his beautiful black curly head bent in intense concentration—over a huge mountain of flour on the floor. In the center of the pile, he had painstakingly hollowed out a deep crater and filled it with water and the yeast paste from Sadie's bowl. He was stirring vigorously with a grubby wooden spoon and an even grubbier hand.

      
“I’m making bread, Aunt Charlee, just like you 'n Sadie do,” he announced proudly, his big chocolate eyes aglow with pride. “I'm helping you...only I couldn't reach the table...” He stopped hesitantly when he saw the look of horror spreading across Aunt Charlee's face.

      
Taking a deep breath, Charlee calmed herself. “That's all right, Adam, but you—”

      
“What dat chile done now!” Sadie stood in the hall door, hands on her hips, with a look of mounting wrath in her eyes. “Lordy, Miz Charlee.” She shook her head, scuttling to the other side of the room for a broom.

      
“No, wait, a broom will only make a bigger mess. The paste will stick to everything. It'll harden like plaster. Let's mix the water through the flour and then shovel it into the wheelbarrow Chester keeps out back. You fetch it while I get our pastry chef here out of harm's way.”

      
With that, Charlee knelt at the edge of the boy-made volcano and extracted Adam's hands, which he promptly threw around her shoulders, coating her liberally with the sticky batter.

      
“Oh, I'm sorry, Aunt Charlee. I should’ve waited for you, only I never get to help,” he hiccupped.

      
As she soothed the crying child, Charlee felt the tug of one of his little hands on her long plait of hair, which had fallen forward over her shoulder. The gleaming bronze braid was now covered with a grayish white ooze.

      
Sighing resignedly, she said, “It's all right, sweetheart. You help me finish making a big dough ball and then we can all shovel it up together. Here, help me.” The dress and her hair were now covered with paste, as was Adam. Thinking of how much bath water they'd need that night, she began to gently work the squishy ooze of yeast water into the mountain of flour, careful not to break the dam and create a flash flood across the kitchen floor.

* * * *

      
It had been three weeks since Charlee left Bluebonnet. Every day, Slade had worked furiously until he dropped, driving his men almost as hard as he drove himself. Finally, he had decided he must go to town to ask after the lumber he'd ordered. It wasn't likely to arrive for another week, but it salved his conscience to have an excuse for venturing into San Antonio.

      
Then, just by chance, he ran into Deborah Kensington walking across the Main Plaza as he left the freight office. “Good morning, Deborah. What are you doing abroad so early?” His inquiry was polite and casual.

      
“Oh, good morning, Jim. I've been up since five helping Dr. Weidermann deliver a fine baby girl to Mrs. Spurgeon. What are you doing in town?” As if she didn't know!