Shadow of Legends (5 page)

Rebekah closed the door behind her and meandered back into the parlor. She slumped down into the worn Austrian bentwood rocker.

Father, you left all your furniture . . . and me! You moved us to a then-illegal settlement in the heart of Indian country . . . started a bank, married off your daughter . . . and went to Chicago to find a new wife. Look at me. What do I have to do today? Now I have to sew a dress to wear at the church's Raspberry Festival that I don't even want to attend. And what do I have to do tomorrow? Something equally tiresome.

Rebekah stood and waltzed across the room. “And Mrs. Fortune, what would you like to do?”

“Well, thank you for asking . . . I think I'll rent a hack and ride out on the north side by Lake Michigan . . . Perhaps I'll stop at Lincoln Park for a concert . . . then maybe meet Sylvia and Daphne at Mayberrie's across from the Water Tower and we'll discuss the latest English novel we're reading over flat salt crackers and Chinese tea.”

“Those days are forever gone, Mrs. Fortune.”

“Thank you for being so pessimistic.”

“You're welcome.”

She folded her arms and stared down at the rooftop of the Gem Theater.
At least the girls who work at the Gem have interesting diversions each day. The reviews say they have a very talented cast this summer. I trust that means their acting.

Through the narrow glimpse of Main Street that the Wall Street portal offered, she spotted Mert Hart's hack trot by.
There you go, Rebekah dear. Just take a little jaunt on Mr. Hart's three-seater. Why you can ride up to Central City, over to Lead, and back again for less than a dollar. Of course, the round trip is only seven miles, and we'll halt sixteen times to pick up and let off other passengers.

At Lead I can stop and listen to Mr. Hearst's mind-numbing stamp mill. Why, if I'm just going to complain, I might as well just stay home and sew.

She scooped up a well-worn mail-order catalog off the open desktop of the fall-front oak secretary. She scanned the pages as she wandered through the parlor.

All right, “Jordan, Marsh and Company, Boston, Mass.” . . . just exactly what should I sew? “English mohairs and brilliantines will be very popular this season. For durability these goods are unexcelled. All the new and plain colors, gray and brown mixtures. Also brocades, stripes, checks, and fancy weaves.”

That's what I want . . . a fancy weave brilliantine!

She tossed the catalog back onto the oak secretary.

“And here on Forest Hill, in Deadwood, Dakota Territory, used zephyr ginghams are making a handsome revival . . . and here we have the latest . . . green and white checks. Anyway, it will be good enough for the Raspberry Festival.”

Raspberry! That's what I want . . . six yards of raspberry-colored silk lansdown . . . and six miles of black lace!

She snatched her sewing basket off the glass ball and claw feet parlor table, then instantly set it back down.

I am not going to sew. I'm going to read and wait for Todd to get back to town. He had no reason to dash off after the others. It's the sheriff's responsibility. We hire lawmen to take care of such problems. The rest should stay home. Especially those who were not even asked. They chase after robbers like a hero in a melodrama with fake fights and rubber knives. I did not marry a marshal, Todd Fortune. I do not want to spend my nights and days wondering about your safety. I want you to be right down there at the store, where I know where you are at every minute of the day, just like my mother knew where father was. At least . . . she thought she knew.

Rebekah towed the Austrian bentwood rocker out to the covered front porch, then returned to the house. The volume in her hand had a pressed violet bookmark.

A breeze skimmed down Whitewood Gulch and conveyed an aroma of dust, pine, and the mercury that was used to separate gold from dirt. Dry, but not hot, the wind drove Rebekah back inside for a glass of lemonade before she even sat down. The sun had now popped out from behind the clouds.

When she did finally relax in the chair, she unbuttoned the cuffs of her white blouse.
Do not worry, Mother, I will not expose the fleshy part of my arms, but at least I can loosen my sleeves.

The book flipped open to the violet bookmark abandoned on a page next to a quote marked “so true” in pencil in the margin.

Mrs. Speaker, I am grateful for the lending library you run out of your home, but I wish you wouldn't write little notes in the borders of your books.

Well, Mr. Longfellow, just what enamored Mrs. Speaker?

Her eyes scanned the verse.

“The holiest of all holidays are those

Kept by ourselves in silence and apart,

The secret anniversaries of the heart.”

Oh? And just what anniversaries of the heart did you have in mind, Mrs. Speaker?

Secret anniversaries of the heart sound delightful. Somehow these depressing Black Hills have drummed all the confidential jubilees out of me.

Sunlight reflected on a deep, jewel-tone, burgundy-colored dress on a woman far below who bustled out of the back door of the Gem Theater. Rebekah laid her book on her lap and watched.
There's my Raspberry Festival dress! I'll order the material from Paris and have one whipped up by Friday night!

Rebekah plucked up her lemonade from the deck of the porch and sipped it as the woman in the radiant dress far below stared up at Forest Hill.

Are you gaping at me? Do you expect me to wave? I don't even know your name. Of course, I don't want to be rude, either.

Rebekah cautiously raised her hand to her shoulder and waved it back and forth twice, then let it drop in her lap. The black-haired woman dashed for the base of the Wall Street stairs up to Williams Street.

No, no . . . I didn't want anything. I was just trying to be civil. I hope she didn't think I was signaling her.

Rebekah crept over to the front of the porch and waited for the woman.

Long black hair pinned upon her head.

Rustling silk dress.

Considerable makeup.

Strong, attractive features.

Troubled eyes.

“Mrs. Fortune?” the woman called out as she reached Williams Street.

“Yes? I trust you didn't come clear up here because you thought I signaled you.”

“Oh no, I understand. Rather awkward, I know. I hesitated coming up here. But I very much need to speak with you.”

Rebekah brushed a wisp of hair from her eye. “Yes?”

“May we sit on your porch?”

“Yes, of course,” Rebekah motioned. “Come on up. May I get you some lemonade?”

“That would be very nice.”

When Rebekah Fortune returned from the kitchen with another glass of lemonade, the woman rested on a rough wooden bench next to the rocker.

“Would you rather sit in the rocker?” Rebekah offered.

“Really? You wouldn't mind? Just for a minute.”

“Please help yourself.”

The woman in the beautiful burgundy dress rocked back in the chair and closed her eyes. “It brings back some pleasant memories.”

“You had a rocker as a child?”

The woman opened her eyes and surveyed the tops of the Main Street buildings. “It hasn't been that long,” she murmured. She had a wide mouth and full, dark lips. “I've seen you up here lots of days and wondered what it would be like to sit on the throne.”

Rebekah sat down on the bench, a lemonade in her hand. “On the throne?”

“Oh, some of the girls at the Gem see you as the queen of the gulch.”

“Why on earth do they do that?”

“Because most of the time we only see you when you sit up here in Forest Hill. And when you walk downtown, you carry yourself like royalty, at least the way I imagine royalty would walk.”

“I was unaware I walked differently.”

“It's a compliment. Really.”

Rebekah took a sip of very sweet, lukewarm lemonade. “I'm ashamed to admit I don't even know your name. Here you know all about me.”

“I go by Abby O'Neill.”

“I've seen the handbills! You're the star of the current show, aren't you?”

“At least one of them. Have you seen any of our productions?”

“Oh, no. I'm afraid I don't often go into the badlands. But I read a quite splendid review of it in the
Courier.”

“Yes, well, I am a professional actress and singer. But that's all. The Gem has a reputation I'm not always proud of. I didn't know that when I contracted to perform here until September. I have nothing to do with what happens in the private boxes. Do you believe me?”

“Yes, I do.”

Abby continued to rock and stare at the roofs along Main Street below them. “You have an incredible view up here. No wonder you like this house. You can see all of Deadwood from your porch, can't you?”

Rebekah stood up and gazed around. “Yes, but my one regret is that I can't see the front of our hardware store from here.”

Miss Abby O'Neill took a sip of lemonade. “I suppose you'd like to sit up and keep an eye on your husband.”

“That's not what I said,” Rebekah stiffened, then shrugged. “But I guess that's what I meant.”

“Don't worry about your Todd . . .”

My Todd . . . is that how he's known in the badlands?

“. . . he's a treasure. All the girls think so.”

“I trust they aren't prospecting.”

“No, ma'am. Not for your Todd, anyway. He's the strong, serious type. Does he ever laugh and have a good time?”

Rebekah stared at the woman.

“Forgive me,” the actress blurted out. “That was personal and uncalled for. I retract the question.”

“Well, Miss Abby O'Neill, what can I do for you?”

“I have a desperate kind of favor to ask. Let me air it out before you turn me down. It's kind of complicated.”

“I hope you don't need me to do something illegal or unbiblical,” Rebekah said, a bit startled at the slight tease in her own voice.

Miss O'Neill's eyes tightened, then relaxed. “Oh, no . . . well, not illegal, anyway. I'm not a very good judge on what might be biblical. Here's the predicament. I have a daughter who's five years old . . .”

“Does she live here in town with you?”

Abby's eyes dropped to her lap. “Oh, no. At the moment, she lives with my mother in Omaha.”

The well-dressed woman in the rocker no longer looked like an actress, but more like a worried mother. “I imagine you miss her,” Rebekah probed.

“Yes, I do. I only contracted for the summer. It didn't seem right to move her out to the frontier. This is not exactly the kind of place to raise children, if you know what I mean.”

Rebekah rested her hands on the wooden bench beside her. “I couldn't agree with you more.”

“Oh, I don't mean up here on Forest Hill, Mrs. Fortune. This is a picturesque place to raise a family, I would imagine. You're up here away from the dust of the street, the shouts of drunks, and the unsavory elements.”

“It can be a little cramped and confining,” Rebekah added.
I suppose it all depends upon what you compare it to.
She reached over and patted Abby on the shoulder, “Now, what is this favor you need from me?”
Why did I do that? I don't even know this woman. This is the most relaxed conversation I've had with a stranger since moving to Dakota.

“My mother and my daughter are coming out to visit me. They'll be here Thursday.”

Rebekah leaned against the railing of the porch. “I imagine you're looking forward to that.”

“Yes and no. I want to see my mother, and I certainly want to be with my little girl . . . but . . .”

“Do they know you work at the Gem?”

“They know I act and sing at a theater called the Gem. But they don't have any idea what goes on inside a theater like that. A theater in the East is not nearly as rough and . . .”

“Risqué?”

“Yes.”

“And you'd like for them to never find out?”

“Exactly.”

“That does present a problem.”

“I've rented myself a nice room at the Merchant's Hotel. They'll stay with me there. We'll have a good time. They're only going to be here a few days.”

“Well, it sounds like you have everything nicely arranged.”

“All but one thing.”

“Oh?” Rebekah questioned.

Abby stood and strolled to the edge of the porch, her back toward the house. Rebekah noticed they were both about the same height. “One thing I wanted to do was to rent a carriage and drive up to that French restaurant in Central City.”

Rebekah nodded. “It's a very nice place to eat if you have several hours to finish a meal.”

“Yes, but here's the real problem. Amber is only five, and it wouldn't be good to take her along. The only people I really know in Deadwood live and work at the theater, but that's not the type of place . . .”

A wide smile broke across Rebekah's face. “And you want me to recommend a baby-sitter?”

Abby swung around, her fingers laced together and pressed to her raspberry-colored lips. “It's even more impertinent than that. I ­wanted to ask you, personally, to baby-sit.”

“Me?”

“I told you it was rather brazen. Could you, please? I'd pay you.” Abby held her breath and pleaded with her eyes.

“Nonsense. I will not take pay. Yes, I'll baby-sit one evening for you.”

A flood of relief broke across the woman's firm face, and she threw her arms around a reluctant Rebekah and hugged her. “I somehow knew I could count on a Fortune. Your whole family treats people square.”

Abby stepped back and dropped her embrace. “Sorry about the hug. I'm kind of a demonstrative person.”