Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (14 page)

They walked along in silence. Finally, Noah said softly, “I make my living with words—but honestly, what does a person say in such a moment?”

April gave him a little smile. “Sometimes nothing is exactly the right thing.”

Noah and April had just walked past the bandstand when June Spring came trotting back from the direction of the campground. “You’d better hurry,” she said. “May is fit to be tied. The land rush has started, and our tent isn’t up yet.”

“Land rush?” Noah frowned.

April explained. “It’s what we call today and tomorrow. A rush to get set up—and sometimes there’s a bit of a fight over prime camping spots for those who didn’t prearrange things with the superintendent. But I reserved ours.” She spoke to June. “Pap Green promised me that spot.”

“What size tent did you order?” May was bent down reading the tag on a canvas bag.

“The biggest,” April said. “Twelve by fourteen, is it?”

May shook her head. “They’ve left us an eight by ten.”

Emilie nudged a board with her toe. “And look at this. The flooring’s all warped. Are you sure we’re in the right spot? Maybe the name is wrong on the tag.”

April pointed above them. “See that branch? Perfect for a swing.” She walked over to a couple more small trees. “And these are for the hammocks. This is definitely the spot. Pap Green promised.”

Noah looked down the long row of tents already in place. Here and there a family scurried back and forth between a tent and a wagon, unloading camp chairs and, in one case, a rocker. Just then a man stepped up from behind a nearby tent and, without saying a word, began to help himself to the pine boards stacked near the hackberry tree.

“That’s
our
tent floor,” June said and grabbed the board.

“Doesn’t have a name on it,” the man said, and held on.

“Doesn’t have to.” Hartwell rushed over. “The lady said it’s spoken for.”

The man glowered, but he backed off, and June’s face glowed with delight as she gazed over at Bert.

“Our knight in shining armor,” Emilie joked, “and guardian of the tent floor.”

Bert rolled his eyes. “Tell you what. How about you ladies guard your spot while Shaw and I take the tent over and make the exchange with Pap Green. We’ll find out about the flooring, too.” He smiled at Noah. “And maybe talk a little baseball?”

Noah readily agreed and suggested that he and Bert could pitch the tent when they got back. He looked at the four ladies. “And I resent those expressions of disbelief. As it so happens, I spent the better part of one entire summer pitching tents for Sells Brothers’ Circus.”

June spoke first. “The circus? Really? You’ve been with the circus?”

Noah nodded, then grinned. “And I’d appreciate it very much if you didn’t broadcast that part of my résumé to the Chautauqua board. I doubt they’d be impressed by the fact that I count Chuckles the Clown a personal friend.”

Hartwell laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He nodded toward the ladies. “But I can’t speak for them. The little one there once had a crush on a circus clown.”

“Bert Hartwell!” June scowled at him. “I was six years old.”

“Seems like yesterday,” Hartwell said, and together he and Noah headed off in search of Pap Green.

Less than an hour after Bert and Noah went in search of Pap Green, Emilie lifted the tent flap and, along with April, stepped inside their newly raised tent, also known as the Bee Hive. Not only had Bert and Noah arranged for the exchange, but they’d also returned with one of the larger tents that boasted two small sleeping areas on each side of the peaked-roof portion of the canvas.

“This is positively luxurious,” May said, stepping inside and twirling about. “We may never want to go home.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” April said. “But it is very nice.” She smiled at Noah and Bert. “Thank you
very
much. We’ll be able to get all moved in this afternoon.” She nodded at Emilie. “While you meet with Miss Jones and write your article.”

“You two had better get going,” May said. “We’ll see you at supper.”

Emilie took Noah’s arm, and together they headed toward the gate to meet Miss Jones. “It was very kind of you to set aside your plans this afternoon,” she said.

“I enjoyed every minute,” Noah said. “You’re very blessed.”

“In what way?”

“To have good friends. Cousins. Family.” He sounded wistful.

“I imagine it’s hard on your family,” Emilie said, “to have you traveling so much. Do you get homesick?”

“Not in the way you mean,” Noah said. “I don’t really have any family. I’ve been on my own since I was about thirteen. As to home, well…that’s another subject.”

“I didn’t mean to pry. I apologize.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” He changed the subject. “I only hope I didn’t talk myself up too much when it came to baseball.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. No one really expects you to hit a home run every time you come up to bat.” She paused. “Three or four per game should be sufficient.”

“Thank goodness,” he said. “For a minute there I thought I was in danger of disappointing my new friends.”

Friends.
He considered them friends? They walked along in easy silence.
Friends.
Emilie decided she liked the idea. Very much.

Noah hitched the rented rig up just outside the Paddock and escorted Emilie and Miss Jones to a table in the hotel dining room before excusing himself to ask after Madame Jumeaux at the desk. Before he could say a word, the clerk waved him over and handed him a note. “Madame Jumeaux left this for you when she checked out.”

“She checked out?” Noah frowned.

“Yes, sir. Midmorning. Lock, stock, and barrel, as they say.”

Noah crossed the lobby to the window by the door and opened the envelope:

Her first name was Grace. Not very French. Noah folded the paper and tucked it back into the envelope, then crossed back to the desk. “Was madame distressed when she checked out?”

“Isn’t her kind always distressed about something? The woman makes her living in the theater. Seems like being distressed would be a way of life.” The clerk looked over at Noah. Cleared his throat. “Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with the theater, of course. It’s just that—well, sir. You know what I mean. There’s theater and then theatrics. And she seemed to have more of a gift for the latter. You don’t need to worry over her. Turns out she was in town to talk to Colonel Barton.”

“Colonel Barton?”

“Yes, sir. You haven’t heard of Colonel Josiah Barton?”

Noah shook his head.

“Famous around these parts and beyond,” the clerk said. “Fought with the North brothers and their Pawnee Scouts back in the ‘60s. Got religion somewhere along the way. He’s retired now. Makes it his business to help mothers and such find their long-lost kin—sons, brothers, and such. When he can.” The clerk paused. “Anyway, when the colonel’s gone, his housekeeper has orders to take them in until he gets back. So your lady friend? She’ll be just fine.”

“And if I wanted to check in with her—just to make sure? Where would I go?”

“You’d head to the colonel’s house. You passed right by it on your way here from the train station. White house. Lots of red geraniums out front.”

Noah remembered the house, mostly because of the flowers. Ma had loved red geraniums. “This Colonel Barton,” Noah asked, “he served in the West?”

“All over the West, from Fort Kearny to Fort McPherson and beyond. Fought with the Pawnee against the Sioux and Cheyenne. Word is he’s writing his memoirs. If he gets it done, it’ll be something to read, I can tell you that.”

Fort Kearny.
Ma had mentioned Fort Kearny. She’d been there, both on the way out with Pa, and then on the way back, alone. Of course there was almost no chance Colonel Barton would remember one woman in a sea of faces. For that matter, he probably hadn’t been anywhere near Fort Kearney when Ma was there. And yet, a man who decided to write a memoir…You never knew what he might recall. Or whom.

I
t was late Wednesday afternoon before Emilie made her way to the
Daily Dispatch
office, her first Ten for Ten article in hand. Relieved when she saw Dutch still hitched out back behind the newspaper office, she hurried in the back door and up the few steps that led to the double doors opening into the newsroom. As expected, most of the reporters who occupied the desks in the large room had already turned in their columns and were either on their way home for an early dinner or tracking down a story. Her heart pounding, Emilie paused just outside the newsroom doors and looked down at the neatly written pages in her hand.

She couldn’t imagine a more receptive or enthusiastic subject than Miss Ida Jones. Miss Jones had worked hard and found success in what was, on the whole, a man’s world. She was intellectual, articulate, and charming. And for all her firm beliefs, Miss Jones displayed nothing of what Father called “the typical suffragist’s strident voice and pushy ways.” Miss Jones displayed a keen intellect and ready wit. The first installment of Ten for Ten was very good reading—for men and women alike.

The manager at the Paddock Hotel dining room had allowed Emilie the use of a corner table for nearly three hours. She must remember to send him a thank-you note. Perhaps she would do so beneath her byline. There was nothing like a little free advertising to win support.

My byline.
Just thinking about it made her smile.
A special report from E. J. Starr. First in a series.
For a moment, she wavered, but then she convinced herself—again—that this wasn’t the same thing as requesting a regular column in the paper. And besides, she’d used a pseudonym. Of course she knew she couldn’t expect Father to print her name in the paper only hours after he’d agreed with Mother about the Ladies’ News. She’d come up with a way to keep everyone happy—and to offer the
Dispatch
a scoop. Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the double doors and headed for Father’s office.

He looked up and frowned. “Why aren’t you at home, helping your mother get ready for our guests?”

“Because she said she didn’t need me. Aunt Cornelia came over to help, and Mother sent me off to the grounds with the cousins to rehearse.” Emilie paused. “She even said I could help them prepare the Bee Hive—and stay with them during the assembly. You must have had a hand in that. Thank you.”

Father laid the pen in his hand down. “You’re welcome. But don’t give me too much credit. Your mother would never stand in the way of something that would strengthen family ties. We want you to remain close to your cousins.” He glanced at the papers in her hand. “You did a nice job with the Ladies’ News. I appreciate the way you handled it.”