Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (13 page)

      
Melanie looked over at the spunky twenty-eight-year-old woman who had become her fast friend on the journey to Bluebonnet. “I think I understand.”

      
“Of course you do—Deborah raised you, didn't she?” Charlee shot back. “In a way, she raised me too, although we're much closer in age. I came to her boardinghouse a scared kid who'd just ended a disastrous relationship with a certain arrogant
Tejano
rancher.”

      
“Jim?” Melanie asked, although she was certain it must be Charlee’s husband.

      
“Yes, I was a scrawny, clumsy, Missouri hill girl hopelessly in love with this elegant
ranchero
who was engaged to a fancy
Tejana
. Deborah made me over into someone who can pass for a lady—when I want to.” She winked at Melanie, who emitted a burble of laughter. “Deborah also got me to thinking about what it meant to be a woman and stand on my own two feet, to be beholden to no man.”

      
“I know how you feel. Mama and I've had lots of long talks over the years since I came to live with her and Papa. You know, she gives Obedience lots of credit for helping her learn to stand on her ‘own two feet’ when she arrived in Texas back in ‘thirty-six. I've heard so many stories about Obedience that I can't wait to meet her.”

      
Charlee laughed. “Just wait, my formidable Boston abolitionist. You'll be overwhelmed. Even Hellfíre keeps a respectful eye on Obedience Oakley since the time she caught him stealing a pork chop from a platter by the stove while she was making supper.”

      
Knowing the scrofulous old orange tom to be a fiercely independent beast, Melanie cocked her head inquiringly. “What did Obedience do to him?” In Melanie's memory no one had ever crossed the huge battle-scarred cat and come off the better for it.

      
Charlee's green eyes danced. “I hate to tell and spoil his reputation. She grabbed him with both hands—one around his tail, the other in a choke hold—and pulled his head and neck back until he spit the pork chop out. His eyes practically popped from their sockets before he'd let go of his prize. Then, she plunked him into a vat of pickling vinegar 'ta cool down th' consarn thievin' varmint’!”

      
At the picture of a sodden pickled orange cat shaking mustard seeds and dill weed from his fur, Melanie burst out laughing. “I can't wait to meet her!”

      
“Jeehosaphat! ‘Bout time yew got back, Charlee. Where's Deborah?” A deep, braying voice boomed across the front porch of the large white frame boardinghouse, followed by the groaning of the wooden steps as Obedience came barreling down them. “Yew must be Deborah's daughter Melanie. She wrote yew took after yer daddy 'n' wuz a real beauty. Shore 'nough true, child.” The rawboned giantess practically lifted Melanie off the ground in a bear hug of welcome. As she struggled to regain her breath, Melanie said, “I'm so happy to meet you, Obedience. Mama's told me ever so much about you.”

      
“Where's your ma ‘n pa? I been hankerin' ta meet thet feller fer a pretty considerable o' years now,” Obedience replied.

      
It was difficult for Melanie to tell if Obedience's question about her father was merely curious or slightly hostile. “They're still back at Renacimiento, I'm afraid. You see, Mama's expecting again the end of July, and Papa wouldn't let her travel this far before the baby's born.”

      
“I tried to tell the overprotective fool it wouldn't hurt her, but you know men,” Charlee said with a patronizing air. “Jim is still convinced I shouldn't ride to town alone.”

      
“Jeehosaphat! I know yew set him straight, but I cain't figger my Deborah puttin' up with sech tomfoolery—unless she's doin' poorly.” Her brown eyes squinted in concern as she looked at Melanie for confirmation.

      
“Oh, no. Quite the opposite. She's been feeling wonderful; but with roundup going on, Papa couldn't get away and they agreed that she'd wait until fall, when they can all come as a family. No one—not even Papa—makes my mother do anything she doesn't agree to,” Melanie said staunchly.

      
Charlee laughed and started up the steps. “Let's go in and we'll tell you about Melanie's plans here in San Antonio....”

* * * *

      
“Yew think yew kin git thet prissy-ass Pemberton ta give yew a job writin’ fer his newspaper?” Obedience asked. Then, observing the determined set of Melanie's jaw, she answered her own question. “Yep, mebee yew will, at thet.”

      
“I'm a fellow New Englander, at least by adoption, and I've worked on newspapers in Boston,” Melanie replied.

      
“We persuaded Rafe that you and Wash will be ideal chaperons for his eldest daughter,” Charlee added puckishly.

      
“An’ why not? I got me three granddaughters now, back in Tennessee. I reckon I kin take on a fourth one right here in Santone!”

      
“I know I'm leaving you in capable hands, Melanie. Not that you need any help, mind,” Charlee added quickly. “If I'm to get home before one foul-tempered, yellow-haired Texian stomps in, demanding dinner, I've got to head back to Bluebonnet.”

      
Melanie couldn't resist a laugh. Having met the fearsome Jim Slade on numerous occasions, she was not deceived. Neither was Obedience. “Yew git on ‘n I'll bring them papers out from thet lawyer feller soon's he's got 'em writ up. Feels real good bein' a woman o' property agin after trapsin' clear ta th' Canady border ‘n back a half-dozen times in 'leven years.” She paused to consider as they walked toward the front door of the big house. “Reckon ever’ woman does a fool thang er two fer a man—onliest thang is ta be shore it's fer the
right
man!”

      
The older women laughed, but Melanie said with the certainty of untried youth, “You speak for yourselves. I don't ever plan to do anything foolish for
any
man.”

      
“I reckon I'll wait on thet one,” Obedience said with a slow wink at Charlee.

* * * *

      
The newspaper office was a small cluttered place of roughly hewn whitewashed wood, squeezed between two large store buildings of Spanish style in the older part of town. The large glass window on the front door was neatly lettered
San Antonio Star
.

      
Melanie peered inside the grimy window and could see the familiar outline of a Washington Hand Press through the dusty gloom. It was early, scarcely eight a.m., but what good newspaperman wouldn't be busy at work by now? Straightening her unadorned straw bonnet and smoothing her businesslike gray suit jacket and skirt, Melanie knocked firmly on the door.

      
From behind the metal labyrinth of the press, an old man moved to open the door. He bobbed his head in a polite greeting. “Mornin', ma'am. Mr. Pemberton's not here yet. I'm Amos Johnston, his assistant.”

      
Melanie smiled and offered her hand to the startled black man, who quickly wiped the ink from his fingers onto a rag he pulled from his pocket and then gingerly returned her salutation. She loved the familiar smells of linseed oil and carbon black. “I'm Melanie Fleming and I'm here to see Mr. Pemberton about a job.”

      
Amos Johnston's wizened face took on a puzzled expression. “A job, ma'am?”

      
“Yes. As a reporter. My friends, the Slades from Bluebonnet, told me he was looking for someone to cover local stories.”

      
“Oh, er, well, I don't rightly know. If you'd care to come back this afternoon, I expect he'll be back by then. He went out to try and get an interview with a fellow born and raised here who ran off and became a scalper down in Chihuahua. Just came back last week, or so Mr. Pemberton heard. He lives outside town, but if I know the boss, he'll track him down and get his story.”

      
“So he's doing his own reporting as well as editorials and advertising. Are you his only employee?” Melanie asked as she drew a copy of last night's
Star
from beneath her arm.

      
“Yes, ma'am—er Miss Fleming. I came west with Mr. Pemberton all the way from Massachusetts. He's a good man with high standards. Guess that's why he hasn't hired a reporter yet,” Amos said uneasily.
And he'll never hire a woman!

      
“I can see that he's good—strong editorials, good bold headlines, clear type style. You're a fine printer, Mr. Johnston, but I still can plainly see the two of you need help. Mr. Pemberton's using the pieces submitted by the city council and the ladies' guild without editing or checking them, isn't he?” At a nod from his grizzled head, Melanie added, “I know. I'm sure he hasn't time to rewrite, but the style is clumsy, and the news can be repetitious and slanted when he just takes whatever is offered and runs it. I could cover council meetings, the court, even the ladies' circles and social events,” she added with a hint of martyrdom in her voice.

      
“You say you did this kind of work before?” Amos could tell the determined young woman obviously knew something about newspapers.

      
“Yes, in Boston for nearly four years,” she replied. “Tell your Mr. Pemberton I'll be back at two p.m. sharp!”

* * * *

      
Clarence Vivian Pemberton was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a slightly thickening middle and thinning head of white hair. Born in northern Maine, the second son of a prosperous farmer, he had moved to Philadelphia at the rebellious age of twenty-one. Facile of mind and capable of writing with acerbic wit, he quickly found his way into the printing trade. After an apprenticeship with a Philadelphia press, he had worked as a journalist for newspapers from Vermont to Virginia, and finally started his own small daily in Concord, Massachusetts.

      
As Pemberton dismounted at the livery that afternoon, he castigated himself for the thousandth time for his stupidity in coming to this godforsaken wilderness. “San Antonio, where the chapeau vies with the sombrero, the Paris of the Southwest,” he muttered to himself as he rubbed his aching posterior.

      
“Somethin' wrong, Mr. Pemberton?” Whalen Simpson, the livery owner, inquired solicitously.

      
“Only that I rue the day man ever considered taming the equine species, my dear fellow. If only this accursed place had roads so one could use a rig.”

      
“Depends on where ya wanna go,” Whalen replied reasonably.
Damn fool Yankee. Lucky he warn’t scalped!

      
“I needed to go a good distance outside town to a burned-out ranch house. Unfortunately, my quarry eluded me,” Pemberton said peevishly.

      
“Didn't know ya wuz a hunter,” Simpson said, looking in vain for signs of a firearm on the slumping body of the newspaperman.

      
Rolling his eyes heavenward, the older man stomped off, cursing the wasted morning.

      
When Pemberton opened the door to the
Star
and found a young woman in wrinkled, oversized clothes primly perched on a chair chatting with Amos, his mood did not improve.

      
Cocking one shaggy white brow, he skewered her with piercing pale blue eyes.
 
His New England accent had evolved through fifty years into an intimidating twang. “And precisely who might you be, young woman?” he inquired.

      
She jumped up from the seat as if scorched by a hot stone and faced his considerable height. “I’m Melanie Fleming, Mr. Pemberton, and I've come to apply for a job as a reporter. The Slades told me you were looking for someone.”

      
“I am looking for a man to handle news gathering and writing for me, yes. You scarcely qualify,” he replied, looking down at her dainty face and figure.

      
“I've worked on newspapers before—gotten the stories, written them, even helped set type and deliver papers,” she replied gamely.

      
“She knows a case box upper from lower, I can tell you, Mr. Pemberton. And she's worked with a Washington like ours,” Amos put in before Clarence quelled him with a fierce scowl.

      
“Your ‘bank president’ look doesn't scare me,” Melanie said boldly, taking a gamble.

      
“Bank president look?” Pemberton echoed, a faint hint of puzzlement in his voice.

      
“My grandfather is Adam Manchester, president of the Union National Bank of Boston. He stands and glares at people just like you do. Mostly they cave in.”

      
“But you, I assume, do not,” he observed waspishly.

      
“No. I do not. Nor do I ask for favors. I'm qualified to work for you. Here are my references,” she said, pulling a sheaf of papers from her reticule and handing them to Pemberton. “Since you're from Concord, you might be interested to know I was there several times on Mr. Garrison's business when you were publishing the
Register.
I covered the passage of freed slaves on the Underground Railroad. One of the stopping houses was just outside Concord.”

      
“You wrote for Garrison's
Liberator
?” Pemberton's voice betrayed just a smidgen of his surprise.

      
“Indeed I did—and for the
Sentinel
and the
Challenger
,” she answered proudly.

      
“Still, that was New England. All well and good when you're surrounded with intellectuals and bluestockings. This is the Texas wilderness, a horse of quite a different color.” He grimaced at his own bad joke.

      
“Mr. Pemberton, I was raised in Texas, up north on a big ranch that my father carved out of the wilderness. I'm no tenderfoot and I've scarcely led a safe and comfortable life while living the past four years with my grandfather in Boston. I was in the thick of the Fugitive Slave Act riots on the Common in the fall of 1850. When the mob almost burned Mr. Garrison's office, I was with him. I've hidden with runaways in rat-infested basements and been attacked by drunken mobs, even shot at. Nothing here in San Antonio can scare me,” she finished with bravado.