Place to Belong, a (28 page)

And back when those wolves tried to take a calf, he'd needed Lucas then too. And all the repairs yet to be done. He still hadn't gotten to that leak in the barn roof.

He climbed down out of the box, entered the hotel, and started across the ornate lobby toward the desk. And stopped dead. He had forgotten. Mr. Porter had hired Betsy Hudson—no, Engstrom—as the desk clerk. There she was, his brand-new sister-in-law, looking right at him as surprised as he was. Now what should he say?

Much more firmly than he felt, he continued to the desk. “Hello, Betsy.”

“Ransom.”

“May I, uh, speak to Mr. Porter please?”

She frowned. “He wasn't expecting you today, the snow and all. But he's here. Just a moment please.” She disappeared beyond a doorway behind her. She moved with the same grace he'd always seen in her. Looking at her objectively, you'd say she was a lovely young woman. Had she not lured Lucas away—no, Lucas was at fault. He was the one who did it.

Ransom looked around the room while he waited. Where would Mr. Porter put the furniture? The place was pretty well filled to the walls with furniture already.

“Ah!” Mr. Porter came out beaming. “Welcome, Mr. Engstrom! I admire your dedication, coming in with a foot of snow out there. Some of the old-timers are claiming more is on the way.”

“Just what we don't need. I brought the pieces you requested.”

Mr. Porter chuckled. “Actually, I like an unexpected snowstorm. We filled at least five rooms last night with people who decided not to go home yesterday. Nasty out there.”

“Yes, sir, it was nasty. We had to bring in the calves so they wouldn't starve or freeze. Took us all day.”

“My father was a cattleman. Nearly killed him.” Mr. Porter rubbed his hands together. “Let's go see,” he said and strode out the door.

Out at the hitching rail, Ransom jogged ahead of him and hopped into the back of his wagon. He untied the canvas tarpaulin and uncovered the pieces. He was suddenly ashamed of them. He saw imperfections, a dozen things that should have been done better. Maybe Mr. Porter would reject these. He probably should.

But Mr. Porter was still beaming. “Excellent. Excellent.”

“Sir, if they don't meet with your complete approval, I'll gladly change or replace whatever you think is imperfect.”

“Imperfect? Hardly, my dear boy! Let's take them in right now.”

“Sure you want to do heavy lifting, sir? Let me, please.”

And here came Lucas out the door! Ransom's mouth dropped open. Of course. Lucas worked for the hotel here. He was the handyman. He'd do the heavy lifting. Ransom should have expected this. Why hadn't he?

The slacker smiled brightly. “Hello, Ransom!”

He nodded, only because Mr. Porter was watching. “Lucas.”

They each took an end and toted the biggest piece, the easy chair, into the lobby. Mr. Porter pointed. “Right there.” They set it down. “Now, if you'll move that chair out of the way and replace it with this one, please?” They did so. Ransom couldn't help noticing that Mr. Porter was just as cool and comfortable ordering Ransom around as he was ordering the hired help around. How much did Lucas make here anyway?

They placed the end table and coffee table, moving the existing furniture aside. The furniture that Mr. Porter was replacing was beautiful, similar to a Queen Anne design, in cherry, with
solid joinery. Why was Mr. Porter casting aside these fine pieces in favor of Ransom's that were put together in an old barn?

Mr. Porter stepped back to admire. “Good. I like the effect very much. Change out the draperies for beige damask and we'll have the look I want. Mr. Engstrom, come to my office, please. I'll cut you a check. Lucas, remove those pieces.” No
please
. Just do it. At least Mr. Porter used
please
when ordering Ransom around.

Ransom followed Mr. Porter behind the hotel desk and into his office. “Please be seated.” Mr. Porter slid his lap drawer open.

Ransom settled into a remarkably comfortable chair, and this wasn't even Mr. Porter's big overstuffed chair. Mr. Porter's must be really, really comfortable. Ransom wished he could get a look at the underside of this chair to see how it was cushioned to make it feel so good.

Mr. Porter handed him a check already made out. “This is for these three pieces.”

“This is more than we agreed on, sir.”

He waved a hand. “Transportation. Now. How many pieces can you provide?”

“Depends on when you need them.”

“By July.”

Two months! Ransom did some quick calculating. It took them at least three days for each piece to really get it right, when you added up all the time that each one took. Three days apiece, sixty days: “Twenty pieces, maybe a couple more. And we have five pieces of each design finished, ready for immediate delivery.”

“Excellent. Excellent. I'll take all fifteen of what you have now.”

“Sir, are you replacing everything in your lobby?”

“Even the vases and lamps. And wait until you see the new rugs. Woven by Indians down south. Marvelous designs. Vivid. And I can get them for fifty cents a pound, delivered.”

“But what you have now is beautiful.” Ransom still couldn't digest this.

Mr. Porter settled back into what was obviously the most comfortable chair in the whole world and rested his elbows on the chair arms, pressing his fingertips together into a tepee. “Yes, it is pretty. But my lobby looks just like every other hotel lobby east of the Mississippi. We need something different but just as beautiful if we're going to set ourselves apart. The moment Mavis showed me that end table you made for Cassie, I knew I'd found the perfect thing.”

“But—”

“You see, I wanted something that says Wild West but also has all the workmanship and finish of the finest furniture, not just sticks pounded together or tied together with twine or sinew, for pity's sake. Your designs are of the best quality, and yet they say, ‘You are out west now, Visitor, and this is nothing like back east. Enjoy your stay.'”

Ransom groped for words. “Thank you, sir” was all he ended up with.

Mr. Porter continued. “Oh, and I'll need two sofas. You know, davenports. Same design as your easy chair but seven or eight feet wide. Long. I'll take measurements and let you know exactly how long.”

“We can do that, yes, sir.”

Mr. Porter was absolutely glowing. “Excellent! Custom-built furniture to exactly fit the space for it. Couldn't be better! Now. Even after my lobby is remodeled, keep turning it out. We can set up a booth at the Wild West show this summer, you know, a vendor's tent and later maybe even a storefront, if Hal Whittaker retires like he keeps threatening to do and closes his smoke shop. I keep telling him, Don't quit until after the show, because he's bound to make a lot of money with all those people in town. And, of course, we sure don't want a
boarded-up storefront for visitors to walk past. Wouldn't look good for the town.”

“No. It wouldn't.” Ransom's head was practically spinning. Mr. Porter and all these grand ideas—what if they could actually work? He would need a lot more hired help. Skilled carpenters and woodworkers. That meant salaries. It also meant maybe not getting all the work done on the ranch. How could he handle the ranch and this business both?

He needed Lucas.

Another question came to mind. “What will you do with the furniture you're replacing?”

“Lucas and Betsy are in a little apartment that needs furnishing. I'll give them some. Sell the rest.” Mr. Porter stood up. “Mr. Engstrom, it's a pleasure doing business with you.”

Ransom stood also. “And with you, sir.” They shook and Ransom went out the door, the bank check in hand. He would pay Arnett, Micah, and Chief first, of course, not nearly as much as they were worth, but a nice sum for each, and see how much was left. He'd have to start buying lumber; there wasn't nearly enough to handle this kind of volume. And—

Lucas, over by the door, was placing a lamp on the new end table. He stood erect and turned to Ransom, sporting a grin like he'd seen Ransom only the day before. “Congratulations, brother! Your furniture is a real hit. I'm glad.”

And then Ransom did what gave him an immense sense of superiority and satisfaction. He walked out the door.

H
ector Tamworth.
Where had she heard that name before? Cassie studied the return address on this envelope.

“Another shoot?” Gretchen asked. “Or another shooter?” She set out the plates for supper.

Cassie tore the envelope open and pulled out the letter. “Another shoot. In early June. I remember now where I heard his name. Ty Fuller talked about him. He does shooting and riding exhibitions at state fairs.”

“Ooh!” Gretchen peeked over her shoulder. You mean, ‘On Tuesday, see this fellow's Wild West show in our arena. Tickets on sale now.'”

“That's it. The Talbot and Lockwood show did a couple of state fairs, but we were usually heading south when most of them were running. They're harvest expositions in most states.” Cassie glanced at Gretchen.

The girl was grinning wide and goofy. “Cassie, it's so exciting to know you! You've done so many amazing things.”

Mavis snorted. “One thing she's never done was the milking.
So that job is all yours. How about milking one cow now and the other after supper?”

Gretchen's voice dripped sarcasm. “Oh, I'd love to. Milking is so much more exciting than riding in a Wild West show.” She picked up her jacket and huffed out the door.

Mavis asked, “So this Mr. Tamworth is inviting you to a match?”

Cassie nodded and put the letter aside. She stirred the gravy on the stove. “He says he heard about me through Mr. Fuller, that I'm good now and only going to get better. He's invited me to Denver. They're doing an expo there. That's short for exposition. And a shooting contest is one of the grandstand events.”

“Gretchen is right. That's exciting.”

Cassie was only half listening because she was already planning. The shoot was less than a month away. This time Cassie must take Micah along to handle the guns. But no. Micah had a new life now, one no longer tied to hers. He was a bridegroom, a furniture builder, an industrious provider for his equally industrious wife. He seemed to relish his new roles, and Ransom praised his work highly. She could not ask him to leave this.

Then Cassie got a grand idea. “School will be out then. Can Gretchen go along and handle my guns for me? I need someone to have the next gun ready. I had a terrible time in Louisville, trying to do it myself.”

“I'll have to think about that. Cassie, she isn't thirteen yet.”

Cassie smiled. “By thinking about it you mean you'll be praying about it.” And they both laughed.

At supper Ransom was his usual quiet self, and Arnett chirped. Arnett was a curious case, Cassie decided. He acted younger and younger in spirit, but his body moved older and older. He had slowed up since she'd first met him. And Chief. Poor Chief was not nearly as fine as he tried to lead them all to believe. He was ill, he admitted that much, but in what way she had no idea.

That evening beside the fireplace, Cassie carefully cleaned and oiled each of her guns. The shotgun needed bluing, but she didn't have the time or the proper chemicals. She would ask about gun blue at the store when next they went into town. She painstakingly removed the tiny flecks of rust that were starting and oiled it well.

Ransom closed the ranch's ledger, laid down his pencil, and stretched mightily. “I'm about ready to call it a day.”

He only half rose because Mavis said, “Before you go . . .” He sat down again.

Cassie watched Mavis. Had her prayer borne fruit? Apparently.

Mavis set aside her mending. “I've been thinking about Cassie's next shoot. Ransom, you and I privately agreed that she is not to go alone. Not only is it dangerous for a woman that age, but before this last fiasco, she'd never traveled alone, and that trip was not a good training event. Besides, she cannot do her best when she's distracted.”

Cassie had no idea they'd been talking about her.

Mavis went on. “Gretchen will manage the ranch, doing my jobs and taking my responsibilities, and I will go with Cassie to Denver.”

“I think that's an excellent idea.” Ransom nodded slowly, thoughtfully, as if still considering the idea.

“Well, I don't!” Gretchen snorted.

Arnett was nodding too. “That'd be good for Cassie and good for Gretchen. Only way to learn responsibility is to take on some. Wish I'd done more of that with my kids. And it'll be good for you too, Mavis. Get you away from here for a week or so. A vacation sort of, but with a purpose. When's the last time you took off from working?”

After sending Arnett a rolled-eyes look, Mavis continued. “It seems everyone agrees, so it's settled.” She looked pleased. “Gretchen, if you wish, you may invite Jenna over to help you.”

“Can I? I mean, I can?” Gretchen brightened.

No one mentioned it, but Cassie figured that if a man accompanied her, she would have to take two hotel rooms. Two women would need only one room, a fifty percent savings. And to travel with Mavis! Two and a half days each way on the train, call it three, two days at the shoot, perhaps a few days to tour around Denver to see the sights, to see the expo—what a great time they would have together! She was more excited than ever about this next shoot coming up.

Life would be perfect if only Ransom didn't hate her.

Getting into show-shape took a lot longer than she expected or wanted. For one thing, she was riding Wind Dancer for several hours each day, polishing their routine, practicing the simpler tricks. Could she trust her arm to support her without collapsing when she tried the harder ones? She couldn't bring herself to try. She had not done a handstand on Wind Dancer's back in over a year. Could she even do it again?

Shooting practice, though, pleased her. She instructed Mavis on how to handle the guns in a shoot and promised to write down exactly which gun she would be using in which order.

When the day came that they stepped from the platform into the railway car, headed for Denver, she felt a deep sense of satisfaction.
Thrilled
fit better. It was the first time she'd truly felt prepared since that night when her wagon burned. A long, long time ago.

And wasn't the journey south fun! They laughed, they watched the land glide by, they marveled at the mountains and talked about the passing farms and ranches. Cassie most enjoyed talking about homes. The whole idea of creating a home was so new to her. Mavis had made a splendid home that produced wonderful men and women—well, Gretchen would be a woman in a few years. Cassie had much to learn.

To no one's surprise, they talked about Ransom. Mavis remained convinced that he liked her. Cassie could not shake the fact that he hadn't wanted her with him when he went out for those missing cattle during the blizzard. Even worse was when they got back to the safety of the barn and he said nothing to her. Not a word. No thanks, not even criticism. Mavis tried to excuse it away. Cassie wasn't buying that, not at all.

Denver at last. Nice as railway travel was, Cassie was glad to get her stiff body off. The letter that came with her registration said to go to the Cattlemen's Hotel and Restaurant. She was pleased about that. With the restaurant and hotel under the same roof, they could eat without leaving the building.

At the railroad station they were about to hail a hansom when the stationmaster said, “You know, the Cattlemen's is right on the trolley line. You can take an electric trolley for two cents and save the price of a hansom cab.”

Mavis smiled. “A trolley. That would be a new experience.”

The stationmaster pointed. “Down that street a block. It's a short block. Don't forget to pull on the cord to tell the conductor to stop when you want to get off.”

Cassie and Mavis looked at each other, thanked the gentleman, and picked up their bags.

Mavis shifted her bags halfway down the block. “A new experience. Actually, if we're trying to keep you away from nasty surprises, we might not want to court new experiences too much.”

“Just don't get into a loud argument with desk clerks, and I think we'll be all right.”

“When you become a mother, you'll recognize the value of cajoling instead of arguing. Ah. I think we're here; see that little sign on the light pole?”

“And the tracks.” Cassie pointed to them, in the middle of the street.

They waited for less than five minutes before it came, rattling
worse than their old wagon on a rough trail. Its wheels were set in the tracks, but it was connected to overhead wires by a long bar that stuck out of the roof. The trolley stopped. Cassie led the way aboard, not at all certain a new experience was the thing to do. Hansoms were much less noisy.

Mavis followed. She sat down with her bag on her lap and pointed above the windows. “That cord right there, I presume.”

Cassie twisted. Yes, there was a cord on their side as well. “Now. How do we know when to pull it?”

Mavis asked the lady next to her, “We want to stop at the Cattlemen's. How do we know when to pull the cord, please?”

The lady smiled. “I'm going on past it, so I'll let you know.”

Why didn't Cassie think to ask someone? It was the sensible thing to do. She was beginning to wonder how many sensible things she simply didn't think of.

The lady beside them reached up without looking and yanked the cord. The trolley rattled to a jerky halt. Cassie followed Mavis off the car. They were standing directly before the Cattlemen's Hotel. Their trolley went rattling away.

The lobby was absolutely cavernous, at least three stories high, with the largest, most lustrous chandelier Cassie had ever seen hanging in the middle of it. They crossed to the desk. She now knew about blocks of rooms set aside, so she whipped out her registration papers for the shoot to assure the desk clerk that indeed, she was a participant. He immediately signed her in. She was learning; lessons were sometimes painful, but she was learning. They were escorted to the second floor and a very nice little room with two beds. The bellhop carried their bags. Thanks to the service, she felt far more secure and perhaps even elegant. The thought made her swallow a chuckle, which made her cough, effectively canceling the idea of elegant.

Mavis shook out her own dress for the next day, and Cassie
hung her skirt and blouse. The leg-o'-mutton sleeves looked flat and limp.

“We'll buy a newspaper when we go to supper,” Mavis announced.

Cassie had not seen Mavis read newspapers. But then, this was the big city.

Cassie opened the curtains of their small window. It provided a clear view of another small window a hundred feet away in a building as tall as this one. “This is amazing.”

Mavis came over beside her and studied the other building. She frowned. “What is so amazing?”

“A few weeks ago I was riding around in a blinding snowstorm driving cattle, not a building for miles, and now I'm in a huge city with thousands of people. It's just . . . strange, I suppose. I never thought about it before. Shall we go to supper?”

“It's early, but I'm certainly hungry enough.” Mavis bought a newspaper at the front desk on their way to the restaurant and tucked it under her arm.

The waiter, a stylishly dressed young man, seated them at a small table for two, deftly swept up Mavis's napkin and settled it in her lap, and then did the same for Cassie. He presented them with the menus. “The chef recommends the prime rib with shallots and horseradish and the steamed asparagus. What drinks may I bring you?”

Cassie replied, “Tea. With sugar, please.”

“And for me as well. Thank you.” Mavis smiled.

He dipped his head and walked off.

Cassie pointed to the menu. “Here's chicken and dumplings and you don't have to kill the chicken.”

“Prime rib and I don't have to grate the horseradish.” Mavis lowered her menu. “You know? Arnett was right. It's been too long since I went anywhere farther than Hill City. This is a rare treat for me.” She laid a hand on Cassie's. “Thank you, Cassie,
for coming into my life. In so many ways you make me happy, and this is just one of the ways, opening up my horizons.”