The Measure of a Lady Page 5

  ‘‘Watch yer tone, Lambert,’’ the man beside him said. ‘‘That’s a sunbonnet yer talkin’ to.’’

  Rachel awarded her scruffy defender with a smile.

  The man running the table scowled, then moderated his tone.

  ‘‘Does Johnnie know about this, miss?’’

  ‘‘Of course he knows,’’ she replied. ‘‘I’m sorry he neglected to tell you, but we’ll be closing down every day between breakfast and supper. Now off you go.’’

  She looked at the men, but no one moved. She rapped on the skillet. ‘‘You heard me. Time to go.’’

  Those seemed to be the magic words. Within a few minutes, she’d closed the door behind the last customer.

  ‘‘Come along, Lissa,’’ she called. ‘‘All’s safe now.’’

  Lissa entered the room, a pouty look about her mouth.

  ‘‘Mr. Soda,’’ Rachel said, ‘‘we are going to need a good deal of water if our efforts are to be fruitful. Would you be so kind as to show Lissa where she could fetch some?’’

  He swallowed. ‘‘Yes, miss. I suppose I could.’’

  ‘‘Why do I have to haul the water?’’ Lissa asked. ‘‘Why don’t I stay here and you haul the water?’’

  Rachel took a deep breath. ‘‘Mr. Soda, I’d like to introduce you to my sister, Miss Lissa. Lissa, this is Mr. Soda and he is going to show you where to fill the water pails.’’

  Soda nodded his head in acknowledgment and Lissa threw her sister a glare before following him out the back.

  Rachel put away the frying pan, slipped on an apron she’d found earlier, and grabbed a gunnysack. She walked back into the hotel only to stop short as she spied a crowd of men jostling for position at the front window.

  One tipped his hat. Another waved. And yet another pasted a ridiculous grin onto his bushy face.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Ignoring them, she ripped a hole in the bottom of the sack, walked over to the statue, and pulled the burlap bag over it until the statue’s head popped through. There. Much better.

  Brushing her hands together, she hauled a tick off the bunk closest to the kitchen.

  The front door crashed open. ‘‘Here, miss, let me get that fer ya.’’

  She whirled around. A man wearing the customary garb of rolled pantaloons, muddy boots, and an unadorned monkey jacket hurried toward her.

  ‘‘Good heavens, sir,’’ she said, touching a hand to her throat. ‘‘You scared the living daylights out of me barging in that way.’’

  He halted and whipped his hat off. ‘‘I’m sorry, miss. It’s jus’ that I cain’t rightly stand around watching you struggle with this here tick when there’s a man around to carry it fer ya.’’

  She offered him a soft smile. ‘‘It’s no trouble, sir. It’s my job. But thank you. Now, please, you’re keeping me from my work.’’

  He rolled his hat round and round in his hands. ‘‘It’s right sorry I am to be disturbin’ ya, miss. But, I’m not leavin’ till ya tell me where it is yer wantin’ this here tick.’’

  Sighing, she stepped away from the mattress. ‘‘Very well, Mr. . . .?’’

  ‘‘Albert Roberson.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Roberson. I’m taking it out back to the line I’ve rigged up.’’

  Throwing the tick to his shoulder, he glanced at his friends still peering in the window and tossed them a triumphant grin.

  Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, she guided Mr. Roberson to the cord she had tightly stretched between two posts in the yard.

  ‘‘Careful not to let it drag in the mud, sir. It’s a nice sunny day for cleaning, but I don’t wish to add to my labors by caking the tick with mud.’’

  ‘‘No, miss. I’ll be real careful.’’

  He threw the tick over the line, its weight causing the rope to bow some. Thanking him, she walked him back to the front door and closed it firmly behind him. The latch did her no good, for the ring it was to slip over held a padlock that was closed tight. And with no key in sight.

  Turning her back on the men, she went to the kitchen and retrieved a coal shovel. After wiping it clean, she set to using it on the tick.

  Never had she seen—or smelled—a mattress so filthy. With each whack of the shovel, more dirt and debris poofed out. Stopping to catch her breath, she propped her hands—shovel and all—against her knees.

  She mentally counted the number of ticks lining the walls of the hotel and groaned inwardly. How could anyone let his bedding get into such a state?

  Straightening, she lifted the shovel again.

  Whack. Whack. Whack.

  When her arms stung to the point they no longer obeyed her commands, she returned to the kitchen, found a broom, and started knocking away cobwebs and brushing down the plank walls of the hotel.

  She wondered where Lissa was and what was taking her so long. She wondered what exactly Michael was helping Mr. Parker with. And she wondered what on earth she would make for supper.

  Pausing, she cocked her head, listening. Then, she heard it again. A shuffling. A subdued giggle. A ‘‘shhhhh.’’

  Rachel moved to the back door, and there stood Lissa, surrounded by a group of miners placing buckets of water next to the shack.

  One of the men saw Rachel and nudged his neighbor. Who nudged the man beside him. Like a line of dominoes, one man tapped another until all were aware of her presence.

  In their center stood Lissa, eyes defiant and challenging.

  Rachel nodded her head. ‘‘Gentlemen, thank you for the water. You are excused.’’

  They silently, and somewhat sheepishly, filed down the alley, leaving Lissa and Soda to face her alone. Lissa cocked a brow. Soda wrung his hands.

  ‘‘Lissa, you will beat that tick hanging on the line behind you until you have knocked every speck of dirt from its stuffings.’’

  ‘‘I tried to haul the water, Rachel, but those men would not hear of it. They insisted on doing it for me, and then some. I tried to say no, but they would not let me.’’

  Rachel’s gaze wandered to the tick. She swallowed. ‘‘Yes. I suppose that’s true enough. Still, look at all those buckets. Who do they belong to?’’

  Lissa shrugged. ‘‘I really couldn’t tell you.’’

  Rachel then turned her attention to Soda. ‘‘Do you have a key to the padlock on the front door?’’

  ‘‘Yes’m.’’

  ‘‘Would you please go and lock the front door for me?’’

  He hesitated. ‘‘I don’t know, miss. Mr. Johnnie, he hardly ever locks the door.’’

  She held out her palm. ‘‘Then give me the key and I’ll lock it. I don’t wish you to get into any trouble.’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘No, miss. I’ll lock it, if that’s what you want.’’

  She allowed him to pass by her, then reached to the side, picked up the shovel, and walked it out to Lissa. ‘‘You’ve a mattress to beat. And so help me, if I see some man doing it for you, cleaning the ticks will become your sole responsibility and no one else’s. Do I make myself clear?’’

  Lissa jerked the shovel from Rachel’s grasp and made her way to the tick.

  ————

  Johnnie frowned and jiggled the door again. Why was the door locked? Where was Soda? His customers?

  He pounded on the door. ‘‘Soda! Open up.’’

  Seconds later, he heard the lock snap free and the latch release. The door swung open.

  ‘‘What in the blazes is going on?’’ Johnnie asked Soda, stepping into the hotel, then coming up short.

  The floor gleamed, the bar shone, the tables were dust free, his statue was wearing a burlap sack, and the fourth bunk over was missing its tick.

  His gaze reversed its course. His statue was wearing a burlap sack?

  Michael stepped in beside him, then went back outside and began to swipe the mud from his boots.

  Johnnie turned to Soda. ‘‘Where are my customers?’’

  Soda swallowed. ‘‘From now on we�
�s closed every day from mornin’ to supper so’s the ladies can clean up the place.’’

  Lissa shuffled in with a bucket and rag. ‘‘Hello, Mr. Parker.’’

  ‘‘Lissa.’’

  She moved to the empty bunk and began wiping down its base.

  Setting his jaw, he made a move toward the kitchen.

  Soda reached out a hand, stopping him. ‘‘You’d bes’ be wipin’ off them boots or goin’ round the alley. The missy will be givin’ you a tongue-lashin’ fer shore if’n you walk acrost her floor in them muddy boots.’’

  Her floor?

  Johnnie glared at him. ‘‘The floor will be a mess the minute the men start piling back in.’’

  Soda stared right back. ‘‘She’s been workin’ mighty hard. I’ll not have ya ruinin’ her floor.’’

  Johnnie hesitated. ‘‘Soda?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Mr. Johnnie?’’

  ‘‘When I return, my Lorenzo Bartolini had better not be wearing a flour sack.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be glad to return her to her former glory, Mr. Johnnie.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ He spun out the door and made his way down the alley. He shook his head, barely suppressing his anger. What could that woman possibly have been thinking?

  At the end of the alley, he paused and watched as Rachel swung at a tick with all her might.

  Uumph. Up the shovel came. Whack.

  Uumph . . . whack.

  Uumph . . . whack.

  Straightening, she leaned the shovel against the post, then braced one hand against it and the other hand on her back.

  After a moment, she left the shovel, returned to the tick, and struggled to lift it off the line. All instincts urged him forward, but he checked them. Surely she didn’t mean to move that thing all by herself?

  Yet that’s exactly what she set out to do.

  She tugged, inching it off the line bit by bit. Anyone could see she was too weak to handle the mattress alone.

  She crouched underneath it, allowing half of it to fall down her back like a cape, then propped her head along the crease in its middle. Lifting her hands up to steady it, she stood, balancing it on her head, and started moving backward.

  The other half of the tick slowly followed, and when it finally came free of the line, it fell with a thud against her face and torso, folding over her like an upside-down book trying to slam closed. She staggered.

  He jogged toward her. But not soon enough. Like a top that had lost its momentum, she tottered to the ground and hit with a resounding splat. The mattress still sandwiched her inside of it, and mud now caked both it and her.

  He smiled at the epithets coming from inside the folded over tick. They were the cleaned up versions of the real ones and were spewing from her mouth with feeling.

  Ankles, pantalets, and petticoats peeked out the edges like lettuce and leg o’ lamb. She flayed about. He reached down and flipped back the top of the mattress.

  She now lay completely flat on the tick. An open-faced sandwich.

  She squealed.

  He bowed and extended a hand. ‘‘May I be of service?’’

  She scrambled off the mattress and turned a gorgeous shade of red.

  Any neatness that her serviceable brown dress had held this morning had long since disappeared. One of his aprons drooped down her front, its ties wrapped multiple times around her waist. The hair twist at the back of her head sagged, with one section of silky hair tumbling free across her shoulder.

  She lifted her chin. ‘‘Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. I didn’t realize you were home.’’

  He allowed his smile to widen. ‘‘I know.’’

  The blush moved down her neck, but she held firm his gaze. The girl had pluck. He’d give her that.

  ‘‘Next time you need to move a tick,’’ he said, ‘‘just let Soda or me know. We’ll be glad to assist you.’’

  She tightened her lips. ‘‘I can do it. I just slipped is all. It’s my fourth one today and I guess I’m a little tired.’’ She took a deep breath. ‘‘Are you hungry? You’re a bit low on supplies, so supper will be a simple affair. But it is on the stove when you are ready.’’

  Moving to the nearest post, he undid the rope, stretched it taut, and re-secured it. ‘‘You closed down my hotel.’’

  ‘‘I forgot to have you do it before you left.’’

  Lifting the tick, he flung it back over the rope and began to roll up his sleeves. ‘‘Had you discussed your intentions with me, I would not have let you close it. Do you have any idea how much money you cost me today?’’

  ‘‘I can’t very well scrub it down while the men are in there.’’

  Picking up the shovel, he swung it into the tick. Mud flew everywhere.

  She gasped and jumped back, but not before the stuff peppered them both.

  He swung again. ‘‘That may be, but I rent out tables to certain men at certain times of the day. They depend on the money those bring in, as do I.’’ Wwwwhump.

  ‘‘If you will just let that be, I will do it later.’’

  He continued to beat the mud out of the mattress. ‘‘You can have the hotel from nine to noon. That should be sufficient.’’

  ‘‘But it took me all day just to do the floor and four ticks.’’ She paused. ‘‘Three ticks.’’

  He swung. ‘‘Nine to noon, Rachel.’’

  ‘‘Eight to noon. And I haven’t given you leave to call me by my Christian name.’’

  Wwwwhump. ‘‘The men stay up almost all night long. They aren’t going to rise at eight in the morning. And, please, call me Johnnie.’’

  ‘‘You are making a mess. You need to let that mud dry, then beat it.’’

  He glanced at her and swung.

  Her lips pursed as if she’d taken a chunk out of a lemon.

  Lissa entered the yard and set her bucket down by a dozen others.

  Where had they found all those buckets?

  ‘‘Well, Rachel,’’ she said. ‘‘How nice to have a man do your chores for you.’’

  Johnnie glanced between the two women.

  ‘‘He is our employer, Lissa. If he wishes to beat his ticks, there is nothing I can do about it.’’

  Wwwwhump.

  Lissa raised a brow. ‘‘How very convenient for you.’’

  Rachel pulled down the corners of her lips. Lissa strode to the shanty.

  Wwwwhump.

  ‘‘You shrouded my Lorenzo Bartolini with a burlap bag,’’ Johnnie said.

  She reluctantly moved her focus back to him. ‘‘If you are referring to that vulgar . . . thing in there, then you will receive no apology from me.’’

  ‘‘It’s not a thing, Rachel. It’s a piece of art. Sculpted by one of the masters. It came all the way from Italy, and it cost a fortune.’’ He wiped his face against his shoulder. ‘‘And you dressed it in a gunny sack. A gunny sack.’’ Wwwwhump. ‘‘Do not ever do that again.’’

  She crossed her arms.

  He swung a few more times. ‘‘Michael says you are a tree expert.’’

  Her face softened, just barely. ‘‘Hardly an expert. More like a tree lover.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘They are one of my passions, though.’’

  He smiled as he recalled Michael’s jest about her passion for bugs but refrained from saying anything. He moved to the other side of the tick and swung.

  ‘‘Well, there is something wrong with the trees on my property. Will you look at them for me?’’

  She lifted her brows. ‘‘I’ve seen no trees since arriving. Where is your property?’’

  ‘‘Southwest of town.’’

  Wwwwwwwhump.

  She glanced to the southwest, interest evident in her expression.

  He straightened. ‘‘Do you ride, Miss Van Buren?’’

  She blinked. ‘‘Horses?’’

  He nodded.

  ‘‘Well, yes.’’ Her eyes widened. ‘‘Have you a horse, Mr. Parker?’’

  Setting the shovel down, he made a formal bow.
‘‘Would you kindly accompany me out to my place tomorrow afternoon? I’m afraid I’ve no carriage to offer, but I’ve two horses and a hothouse full of trees that desperately need some help.’’

  Her entire countenance lit up. ‘‘Oh, tell me you are not jesting.’’

  ‘‘Not in the least.’’ He frowned. ‘‘Though it may take some doing to find a sidesaddle, but not completely impossible.’’

  She clasped her hands behind her back. ‘‘It would be my pleasure to examine your trees.’’

  ‘‘Tomorrow’s Sunday. Your day off. Are you sure you don’t mind?’’

  ‘‘Not at all.’’

  He moved to her. ‘‘Show me your hands.’’

  She frowned. ‘‘Your pardon?’’

  He held his hands palm up. ‘‘Your hands, Rachel.’’

  She moved her hands in front of her and turned them over so he could see. Red, angry blisters dotted them.

  It was all he could do not to cradle them within his. But he didn’t dare. ‘‘No more beating of ticks until I purchase a baton. Now come inside and let’s see if we can find something to put on those.’’

  He indicated that she precede him, then followed her into the kitchen.

  chapter 5

  Johnnie sighed. ‘‘Will you please sit down? There is not enough room in here for both of us to be at the stove.’’

  ‘‘This really isn’t necessary,’’ Rachel said. ‘‘I can do it.’’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘‘Sit.’’

  She sat, finally. Whiffs of fried pork and boiled beans came from a covered pot at his elbow, teasing his nose and reminding his stomach of its hunger.

  He shook some crushed witch hazel out of a tiny bag and seeped it in a small tin of warm water. While waiting for it to take, he lifted the lid from the pork, broke off a large piece, and popped it in his mouth.

  ‘‘Want some?’’ he asked around his mouthful.

  She shook her head.

  He had no doubt that she was hungry. But if she chose stubbornness over sustenance, so be it.

  Poking a cloth into a cup, he poured the witch hazel into it, straining out the solid particles, and reached for a bottle of whiskey on the uppermost shelf.

  Uncorking the bottle with his teeth, he poured a splash into the cup and hesitated. Best not wash down the pork. He set the bottle back on the shelf.