Margaret Brownley - [Rocky Creek 02] (17 page)

“First, I require anyone under my employ to take a bath.” Not that she’d ever employed anyone, but he didn’t know that.

He shook his head and backed away, waving his hands as if warding off an imminent attack by a wild animal. “I ain’t takin’ no bath.”

Ignoring his protests, she continued, “I also require my employees to have a full meal.”

He looked no less obstinate.

“At my expense,” she added.

This time, he stopped moving. He brushed the hair away from his face with a quick flick of his wrist. “You’re gonna buy me a meal?”

“Anything you want at the Rocky Creek Café.” It was the best she could do given her current circumstances. How she wished she could offer him a home-cooked meal instead.

His forehead creased with indecision. He was obviously tempted but no less distrustful. He scratched his chest, then the back of his neck.

“What do I have to do?” he asked again.

She moved another step closer. “See that sign in the window?” She pointed to an offensive notice. “They’re all over town. I want you to remove them.”

He squinted up at her. “That’s all?”

“The trick is to remove them without being seen,” she explained. “You may have to wait until after dark.”

He studied her with eyes that looked too old and too heavy for his young face to bear. “I can do that,” he said at last.

“I’m sure you can.” She tilted her head sideways. “Do we have a deal? Dinner, bath, and signs.” She ticked off each one on her fingers. She then held out her hand, but he made no move toward it.

“About the bath—” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I ain’t wantin’ no bath.”

She shrugged. “It’s all or nothing.” She tilted her head. Bathing might not altogether cure his skin rash, but it couldn’t hurt. “So what’s it going to be?”

He hesitated for a beat before shaking her hand. “Deal.”

His handshake was as weak as his voice. Fearing he would change his mind, she hustled him quickly into the café and supplied him with the best Redd had to offer.

Never had she known anyone to eat so much at one sitting. She doubted that Redd’s cooking had ever been more appreciated.

Getting him to eat was the easy part. Getting him to take a bath was a different story. He cajoled and pleaded with her to reconsider, but she stuck to her guns. No bath, no job.

Now as she stood in the hallway of the hotel with Mary Lou and Brenda waiting for Scooter to finish his bath, she wondered if she would ever get him to come out. Nearly an hour had passed since she and her sisters left the room so he could undress and bathe in privacy.

Mary Lou complained nonstop the entire time. For once, Jenny didn’t blame her. A lively poker game was in progress in the hotel lobby, which meant they had no choice but to wait in the hall outside their room. The air was hot and stuffy and smelled of stale cigar smoke.

“What is taking him so long?” Mary Lou whined. She banged on the door once with her fist.

Brenda gave a worried frown. “Maybe he drowned.”

Mary Lou rolled her eyes.

“It’s possible,” Brenda said in a defensive voice. “I doubt that he’s had much experience with baths.”

What seemed like a ridiculous idea at first began to seem more plausible as time passed. Even Mary Lou began to look more worried than annoyed.

Finally, Jenny knocked lightly. No answer. Fearing the worst, she opened the door a crack and peered inside.

Scooter sat in the tin tub, his back toward her. Wide at one end and narrow at the other, the tub was, unfortunately, shaped like a coffin. Sometimes Jenny and her sisters bathed in cold water rather than pay extra for hot water that had to be ordered in advance. Today, Jenny spared no expense. She even paid double for clean towels. She only wished something could be done about the boy’s clothes and shoes.

Lye soap in hand, Scooter scrubbed his arms and chest. He scrubbed so long and so hard it was a wonder he had any skin left.

Memories of her past assailed her. She knew—knew with every essence of her being—that it wasn’t dirt he tried to scrub away but something much deeper. That something was a combination of anger and pain that no amount of soap or water or even scrubbing could make go away.

Quietly, sadly, she closed the door.

Several hours later, Jenny watched the street below. It was a moonless night, and the kerosene lanterns and gas streetlights did little to penetrate the darkness.

Scooter darted in and out of doorways like a fleeting shadow. He snatched the sign from the window of the Rocky Creek Café and Chinese Laundry directly across from the hotel then bolted to the establishment next door.

Smiling to herself, she craned her neck but already the youth had disappeared into the folds of the night.
Just wait till Mr. Applegate and the members of The Society for the Protection and Preservation of Male Independence find their precious signs missing.

She glanced at the bed where Mary Lou had finally settled down, engrossed in her book. Mary Lou had taken a great interest in Wordsworth lately. Jenny nodded approval. Maybe there was hope for her sister after all.

The sound of carriage wheels drew her attention back to the window. Mr. Hampton’s fine carriage and horses drew up in front of the hotel, right on schedule. He stepped down and helped Brenda alight.

Hidden from view, Jenny kept her gaze focused on the street below, hoping to see some sign of affection or interest between the couple. There was none.

Not wanting to look like she was prying, she pulled away from the window just as Brenda burst through the door.

She flung off her shawl and frantically clawed at her bodice. “You’ve got to get me out of this thing,” she cried.

She turned her back and Jenny started on the row of tiny buttons that ran from her neck to her waist. “Do keep still. How can I unfasten you when you wiggle so?”

The gown fell to Brenda’s feet. Jenny loosened the corset lacings. Brenda wiggled out of it and then kicked the offending garment across the room.

Jenny draped a dressing gown around her sister’s shoulders. “Did you and Mr. Hampton have a pleasant carriage ride?”

No answer.

Jenny’s hopes died. It didn’t look promising. The problem was Mr. Hampton was the only man who met the criteria as stated in Miss Jenkins’s book. He was also the only one with a perfect PHAT score. “What did you two talk about?”

Brenda let out a bracing breath. “Mr. Hampton talked about barbed wire.”

Mary Lou looked up from her book and laughed. “What did I tell you? The man is obsessed.”

Jenny gave Mary Lou a warning look. “Mr. Hampton is serious about his occupation. It’s only natural he would want to talk about it.”

Brenda bristled with indignation. “Kip doesn’t talk about razors and haircuts. He talks about interesting things like opera.”

“Which proves my point exactly,” Jenny said. She pulled several combs from Brenda’s hair, and her dark curls tumbled down her back.

“Not only did Mr. Barrel show poor judgment in stealing you away, but his weakness for opera leaves a lot to be desired. Miss Jenkins wrote in her book that a man who likes opera is nothing more than a namby-pamby.”

“That’s not true!” Brenda pulled away, her eyes ablaze. “There’s nothing weak or foolish about him. He’s a very gifted singer. He could have been famous had he not suffered stage fright.”

Jenny sighed. The foolishness of youth. “You know I only want what’s best for you. I don’t want either one of you to ever have to worry about your next meal. Mr. Hampton can offer you a wonderful life, if you’ll let him.”

Brenda wrinkled her nose. “What if I don’t want what Mr. Hampton can give me?”

“It’s what Papa wanted for you,” Jenny said, and that ended the argument.

Their father’s last wish on his deathbed was that Jenny take care of her younger sisters. He made Brenda and Mary Lou promise to obey her. His concern for his daughters came too late but had no less of a binding effect. Even Mary Lou loathed going against their father’s wishes, still now, seven years after his death, though she continued to fight it.

Jenny won the battle with a sense of uneasiness. She didn’t hold much hope that Brenda had found her match.

Mr. Hampton apparently thought otherwise. The very next morning, she was astonished to receive a message from him requesting permission to take Brenda on yet another carriage ride.

Oh, happy, happy days.

Now all she had to do was convince Brenda to give Mr. Hampton another chance. Always quick to recognize another’s fine qualities, Brenda was bound to learn to appreciate Mr. Hampton’s many virtues.

Jenny glanced at the message again, unable to believe her good fortune. Who would have guessed that Brenda would have a beau before her more outgoing and slender sister?

With this thought in mind, she practically flew up the stairs to break the news.

Fifteen

When unjustly incarcerated, a lady must maintain her standards of
propriety, even when the brigand in the next cell ogles her charms.
Under no circumstances should she bellow, screech, or weep, unless
absolutely necessary to gain release, of course.

— M
ISS
A
BIGAIL
J
ENKINS
, 1875

T
rouble started first thing that morning. Rhett left the boardinghouse earlier than usual, but already a crowd waited outside his office when he rode into town. Applegate was clearly the leader.

Drat.
What did Jenny do this time? Fighting the urge to keep going, he dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching post. Applegate and the others thundered off the boardwalk to greet him, everyone talking at once.

“Quiet,” Rhett ordered. “One at a time.”

Applegate was at the head of the line so he spoke first. “If you don’t do somethin’ ’bout that Maxwell boy, we’re gonna have to take the law into our own hands.”

Expecting the usual complaints about Jenny, Rhett hooked his thumbs over his belt and waited. He didn’t like hearing that Scooter was in trouble again, but he’d rather deal with the boy then have to confront Jenny with another complaint.

“Yeah!”

“You tell him, Applegate.”

“Yeah!”

Rhett signaled for quiet. “One at a time.”

“I’m tellin’ you Marshal, that boy ain’t nothin’ but trouble,” Fairbanks called from the back of the crowd.

“What did he do this time?” Rhett asked. It must have been something big to bring everyone to his door this early in the morning.

“He done gone and stole my signs,” Applegate sputtered.

Rhett stared at him. “Are you telling me that all this fuss is about a few cardboard signs?”

“They ain’t just cardboard signs,” Applegate said, looking offended. “Those were the express property of The Society for the Protection and Preservation of Male Ind’pendence.”

“Yeah!” the others yelled, raising their fists.

“No one has the right to steal our property!” a man shouted.

“Ya durn tootin’ they don’t have no right,” Applegate said.

“Right no,” Lee Wong said.

Rhett lifted a brow and regarded the Chinese man with open curiosity. “You belong to the group too?”

Wong crossed his arms and slid each hand into the opposite sleeve of his tunic. “Marriage no be good,” he said in his singsong voice. “Wife do laundry. No need Lee.”

Rhett couldn’t argue with him. If he ran a laundry, he’d be against marriage too.

Applegate stared at Rhett with rheumy eyes. “So what do you plan to do about it, Marshal?”

Rhett sighed in frustration. “I’ll talk to the boy.”

A collective groan filled the air.

“No offense, Marshal, but you’ve been talkin’ to the boy and there ain’t nothin’ changed. It seems to me that it’s time for action, not words.”

Rhett considered his options. In the past he’d been lenient with Scooter because of his age and family problems. The boy was only doing what any boy would do under the circumstances: trying to survive in the only way he knew how, by stealing. But this latest escapade was different. That’s what worried Rhett. This wasn’t about food or other necessities. This was mischief, plain and simple.

As much as he hated to think it, it was time to teach the boy a lesson before he ended up in real trouble.

“So what do you plan to do ’bout it, Marshal?” Applegate persisted.

“Plenty,” Rhett said. Without another word, he mounted his horse and rode out of town.

“What?” Jenny looked up from the desk and stared at Mary Lou, certain she’d heard wrong. “What did you say?”

Mary Lou tossed her reticule on the bed. She and Brenda had just returned from their daily walk. “I said Scooter is in jail.”

“Jail!” Jenny jabbed her pen into its holder. “That can’t be true. He’s only twelve years old. He’s too young to be in jail. You must be mistaken.”

“No mistake,” Brenda said. “We saw the marshal ride into town with Scooter on the back of his horse.”

“And he was handcuffed,” Mary Lou added, her eyes round.

Jenny shook her head in disbelief. What was Rhett thinking? To put a boy that young in jail was criminal. “What did he do? Steal food?”

Brenda shook her head. “Mr. Applegate said Scooter stole his signs.”

Jenny’s mouth fell open. All this fuss was about a bunch of foolish signs? Signs that she paid Scooter to steal? Shock turned to dismay.

“Rhett . . .” She cleared her voice and started again. “Marshal Armstrong put him in jail for stealing . . . signs?”

“Mr. Applegate said it was private property,” Brenda said.

Jenny jumped to her feet. “I don’t believe this. Of all the ridiculous . . .” She hit the desk with her fist. Books fell and papers scattered everywhere. “I won’t allow this.”

Mary Lou and Brenda exchanged worried looks.

“What are you going to do?” Brenda asked.

“What that boy’s own father refuses to do. Protect him.” She grabbed her parasol and reticule and stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard the whole hotel seemed to vibrate. She didn’t stop until she reached the marshal’s office.

Rhett looked as if he’d been expecting her. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “If you came because of Scooter, you can save your breath. He’s in jail, where he belongs.”