California Romance (12 page)

“I can sell my mother’s wedding ring if I have to,” Sarah told her. “But it’s my last resort.”

“Indeed it should be!” The old lady snorted. “Before you do anything like that, let me see what I can find out.”

A few days later, after Sarah had pounded the streets looking for work and found nothing, her landlady bustled into the kitchen where Sarah was finishing a mountain of dishes. She triumphantly waved a piece of paper. “A friend gave me the address of an employment office not far from here.” She beamed. “There’s a G
IRLS
W
ANTED
sign in the window. Hurry yourself on over there before the positions are filled.”

Sarah quickly changed from work clothes into her mother’s Sunday-goto-meeting dress. She plaited her red-gold hair, wound the braids around her head, and topped them with her mother’s old black hat. Heart beating with anticipation, she ran to within a block of the employment agency then slowed and regained her composure. It would never do to burst into an office red-faced and out of breath. “Please let the sign still be there,” she murmured when she reached her destination.

It was. The door stood open. Should she knock or just walk in? Sarah had never faced this situation before so she tapped lightly and hesitated on the threshold. A masculine voice called, “Don’t just stand there. Come on in.”

A twinge of annoyance straightened Sarah’s spine. A rather discourteous way to greet one. She lifted her chin and walked inside. Once she had a job, there would be no call for her to put up with such rudeness.

A well-dressed man about Tice Edwards’s age sat with his feet propped on an untidy desk. He stared at her then stood. His belly bulged over a fancy, too-tight belt. “Well, and what have we here?” His teeth gleamed in the travesty of a smile. “Sit down. Sit down.”

The look in his eyes reminded Sarah of Tice. It made her uncomfortable, but the need for a job overrode her desire to turn and run. She had outwitted a riverboat gambler. Surely she could put up with rudeness. Sarah poised on the edge of a chair facing the desk, still clutching her reticule. “I am looking for a position.” It sounded better than
job
. “I can cook, sew, tend children, clean, or wait on tables.”

The man looked her over and smiled again. “Take your hat off and let your hair down.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sarah said in the icy voice with which she’d refused to marry Tice.

“Your hair. I can find you a better job than household drudge. The starting salary is—” He named what sounded to Sarah like a princely sum.

“What would I have to do, and why do you want my hair down?” Sarah demanded.

The man gave a long-suffering sigh. “Do you want a job, or don’t you? You look like someone’s sainted aunt with your hair like that. People who come to my club want to be served by girls who are lively and attractive. In the right clothes and with that hair, you can be a raving beauty. You’ll make more just in tips than you can imagine.”

A warning bell sounded in Sarah’s brain. She remembered her father saying,
“If something sounds too good to be true, it probably isn’t true.”
“Club? Do you mean a restaurant?”

He guffawed. “Hardly. I run the Golden Peaks Men’s Club. High-class entertainment. Can you sing? Ace Hardin’s girls have to do more than serve food and drinks.” He leered. “A lot more.”

Sarah stood so quickly that her chair crashed to the floor. She felt her face flame. “I will neither sing nor serve food and drinks in your Golden Peaks or any other club. Such places are unholy and lead men to destruction. They are an abomination to God and to decent people.” She whipped around and started for the door.

Hardin sprang with the speed of a panther. He grabbed Sarah by the shoulders and kicked the door shut. “No one talks to Ace Hardin like that. You came in here of your own free will, missy.” He began dragging her to an open door in the back of the room. “I’ll lock you in the storeroom and let you reconsider. You’re just the kind of girl who will bring customers to my place. I’m not passing up a chance like this.”

Filled with horror Sarah slumped. Only Hardin’s cruel grip kept her from falling. The next instant she began kicking and scratching with all her strength. She opened her mouth to scream, but Hardin let go with one hand and put meaty fingers over her mouth. “Shut up, you hellcat,” he commanded.

It was the opportunity Sarah needed. She wrestled her right arm free and snapped open the reticule still hanging from it. She pulled out Seth’s wooden gun and shoved the muzzle into the man’s stomach so hard he let out a huge wheeze.

“Stand back!”

Hardin’s mouth fell open. His skin turned a sickly green, and his hold on her loosened. “You–you’re not going to shoot me, are you?” He took a step back.

Sarah pushed the gun farther into the overhanging belly that hid the carved pistol. “Put your hands in the air and walk backwards to the storeroom door,” she ordered.

Step-by-step they crossed the room with Sarah’s hand firm on Seth’s toy. “Reach behind you, and open the door. Step inside and don’t try any tricks. I won’t say what might happen if you do.” It wasn’t a lie. If her bluff didn’t work, she was a goner.

Hardin did as he was told.

The door closed behind him.

Sarah turned the key in the lock and fled from the employment office as if pursued by Gus Stoddard and Tice Edwards.

W
hen Sarah fled from Ace Hardin’s employment office, she headed straight for Miz Hawthorne. She flung herself into the good woman’s arms and sobbed.

“My goodness, child,” the old lady gasped. “Whatever is the matter?”

“I should have left when I first felt something was wrong, but I need a job so much. I didn’t know that he—” A fresh torrent of tears came.

Miz Hawthorne’s arms tightened. “Who? What did he do to you?”

“He said to take down my hair and asked if I could sing.” Fury dried Sarah’s tears, and she sat up straight. “He said ‘his girls at the Golden Peaks had to do more than serve food and drinks—a lot more.’ I told him such places were terrible and started to leave. He grabbed me and said he’d keep me in his storeroom until I changed my mind!”

“How did you get away?”

The absurdity of Sarah’s escape sent her into peals of laughter. “I threatened him with a wooden pistol!”

“You
what?”
Miz Hawthorne stared as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

Sarah chortled. “I really did.” She groped in her reticule and brought out her weapon of defense. “I stuck the muzzle right in his fat belly and backed him into the storeroom. He thought I was going to shoot him!”

After a moment of stunned silence Miz Hawthorne said, “Well, I never!” and burst out laughing. When she could control herself, she wiped her eyes and pushed Sarah away. “We have to tell our sheriff about this right away. The idea, recruiting young girls to serve in such a place. The sheriff will put a stop to that.”

“No,” Sarah cried. “I’d have to sign my name on a complaint. It would become public knowledge. Please, Miz Hawthorne, don’t tell anyone what happened.” A new, terrifying thought struck her. “You don’t know Tice Edwards. He has the chief of police in St. Louis under his thumb. If Gus found Seth’s letter, Tice may already have had the authorities in St. Louis send telegrams to sheriffs along the train route.” She finally convinced her landlady the best thing to do was for the runaway to lie low for a few days and see if there were repercussions from the fiasco, although Mrs. Hawthorne doubted there would be.

“I don’t know this Ace Hardin, but if word ever got out that a slip of a girl had gotten the best of him with a toy pistol, the scoundrel would be the laughingstock of Denver.” Her eyes twinkled. “After you leave, I’ll tip off a deputy sheriff friend of mine. He’s an honest young officer. If anything can be done to put Hardin out of business, he will see to it.”

“You won’t mention my name, will you?” Sarah pleaded.

“Oh no. I’ll just say Hardin and the Golden Peaks Men’s Club need looking into.”

For the next week Sarah seldom went out, even to look for work. Miz Hawthorne guarded her as a mother cougar guards her cubs, and the few young ladies staying with her at the time knew nothing except that “Miss Joy” would soon be leaving. Yet Sarah no longer felt secure in Denver. Destitute and dependent on her landlady’s kindness, the thought of being followed and dragged back to St. Louis against her will prompted her to forget about employment—especially after being nearly frightened to death when she saw a man who closely resembled Tice Edwards.

The next day she tearfully got out her mother’s wedding ring and without a qualm gathered together the trinkets Tice brought while courting her and prepared to leave Denver. However, the pathetic amount she received from their sale left her without enough money for a quick ride to Madera. Although it would take much longer, she would have to make the last leg of her journey by stagecoach. Miz Hawthorne wanted to make up the difference, but Sarah refused.

“I won’t be beholden to you, Mrs. Hawthorne. I can make it on my own the rest of the way. I have enough to purchase passage on the stage to Madera and pay for what little food I’ll need and lodging at the stage stops. Once in Madera I’ll be safe with my brother. The Diamond S Ranch is close by.”

“I hate to see you go, child, but go you must,” Miz Hawthorne told her. “Godspeed, and I’ll be praying for you. Always remember: He cares for His own.”

“I know.” Sarah embraced her. “I’ll never forget you. I’ll send word when I get to California.”
If you ever do
, an inner voice mocked.

Sarah didn’t listen. God had delivered her from Gus Stoddard, from Tice Edwards, and from Ace Hardin. He knew what lay ahead and would prepare ways of escape.

Sarah traveled the endless miles from Denver to Madera in a rocking coach. She shrank into a corner and looked over her shoulder at every stage stop. She kept her veil over her face much of the time, a shield against bold stares, even though it almost gave her heatstroke. She rejoiced when other women or families came aboard or clean-cut cowboys who glanced at her then respectfully looked away. If it became necessary to identify herself, she gave the name
Miss Joy
, which she’d used to take passage.

Not all the trip was unpleasant. Sarah marveled at the ever-changing landscape. Towering forests. Deep canyons with silvery streams rushing from their mountain birthplaces to their final destination: the Pacific Ocean. Huge rocks ranging from frowning granite walls to grotesque red peaks and columns. Stretches of desert with little shade. Pungent sagebrush. Giant tumbleweeds. Long-eared rabbits the loquacious driver called
jacks
. Deer and antelope. Sheep and cattle and horses.

Sarah learned from listening to California-bound ranchers who boarded the stage that there would be no sheep on the Diamond S. “Scourge of the earth,” one weather-beaten man declared. “Those stinkin’ sheep crop the grass so close our cattle starve, along with drivin’ folks crazy with their
baa baa.”

Weary beyond description Sarah reached Madera travel worn and near penniless. She was tired of looking at flat land. Even glimpses of the snowcapped Sierra Nevada in the distance had palled—and if she never saw another stagecoach, it would be too soon. Thoughts of a real bath sent a pang of longing through her body. She sighed. Baths cost money she didn’t have.

The stagecoach door swung open. Stiff from her long ride, Sarah carefully lowered her veil and accepted the driver’s helping hand. She clutched her precious reticule and stepped out of the coach. The driver swung her carpetbag to the board sidewalk nearby. His team snorted and stamped, obviously eager to reach the large water trough in the middle of town. Their hooves stirred up a cloud of yellow dust. Sarah quickly reached for a handkerchief and held it over her nose, wondering what to do next.

The driver pointed toward the wooden sidewalk and a portly, bald man standing in front of a building identified as M
OORE’S
G
ENERAL
S
TORE
. M
ADERA
P
OST
O
FFICE
. “Set yourself down in the shade of the store. Our postmaster will take care of you.”

The jolly-looking man laughed. “I sure will, miss, or my name’s not Evan Moore. Would you care for some lemonade? It’s fresh made.”

The friendly welcome unknotted Sarah’s nerves. She threw back her veil, dropped to a bench, and fervently said, “I can’t imagine anything I’d like more.”

The postmaster’s eyes twinkled. “Fine. Would you like to come inside or stay here in the shade? My ‘post office’ is actually just a cubbyhole behind the counter in my general store. It has enough pigeonholes for the mail.”

Sarah smiled at him. “I’m too tired to move, Mr. Moore. If you don’t mind, I’ll see your post office—and the store—some other time.”

“Fine. Fine.” He rubbed his hands together and stepped inside. When he returned, carrying large glasses of cold lemonade, he sat down beside her. Sarah thanked him and timidly said, “I’m Sarah, Seth Anderson’s sister. How can I get word to the Diamond S that I’m here?”