The Drum_The Twelfth Day Read online

  The door banged behind her, jerking her attention away from the tree.

  Silas?

  She twisted to look, only to be blasted in the face by an icy wind that swirled into the room.

  A man bundled from head to toe stepped inside. As he unwound his scarf, he had to leap out of the way to avoid stepping on the runaway goose when it made a dash for freedom.

  Penny released the breath she was holding. Woody Burnside. Woody—who also worked Mr. Hardt, caring for the livestock owned by the mining company—scanned the room as if looking for someone. When his gaze found Penny, his anxious expression saddened. “Silas—I mean, Mr. Powell is…well, he’s gone.”

  Penny tightened her grip on the bouquet so she wouldn’t drop it. Beneath the heavy bombazine and layers of petticoats, her skin grew cold and clammy.

  “Gone?” Genevieve echoed.

  “What do you mean, ‘he’s gone?’” Reverend Hammond demanded.

  “Just a while ago, he took one of the horses and rode out of town.” Woody answered.

  “He fled from her,” someone whispered.

  Penny’s burning cheeks were the only part of her with any feeling left. Her limbs had frozen, and inside she’d gone numb. Hadn’t she been warned something like this would happen? Last night, awful nightmares had disturbed what little sleep she’d gotten. She’d dreamed of being lost and wandering alone in the darkness.

  The gamblers who were sitting at the tables turned back to their card game, and the miners standing around the room looked everywhere but in Penny’s direction. None of them seemed surprised.

  Her friends cast pitying looks her direction.

  Only Reverend Hammond and Genevieve appeared truly shocked.

  “We’ll fix this Penny,” Genevieve stated, as if fixing what was obviously an ill-conceived match was easily done.

  “We can send someone after him,” Reverend Hammond offered.

  “No!” Penny moved liked a wooden puppet as she handed Genevieve her bouquet and pulled off the veil, returning it to Birdie. “Here, I don’t need this.”

  She refused to marry a man who had to be dragged before the preacher. She had more pride than that. But the town had that cursed deadline to meet and she knew they would hound her if she didn’t get away.

  Making a beeline for the door, she snatched her cape from a hook on the log wall and snagged a walking stick, which would come in handy in case she had to hike into the mountains to escape.

  “I swear to you, Penny,” Genevieve called out, “by day’s end you shall be a bride.”

  God forbid!

  Agreeing to a third marriage had been a mistake from the start.

  Holding the walking stick upright, Penny burst through the door into the frigid morning air.

  A cluster of miners standing outside parted as if she were Moses and they the Red Sea. Ignoring their curious stares, she headed up the street, being careful not to slip off the loose boards put down to function as sidewalks.

  “Penny, slow down!” Birdie scampered up behind, holding her skirts so the hem wouldn’t drag. “What a dreadful man. You’re lucky not to be tied to him.” She glanced over and did a double take. “Is that Grandpa Gus’s walking stick?”

  “Yes, of course. I grabbed it without thinking. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, he won’t mind if you use it. He swears he doesn’t need it.”

  “But it belongs to him.” Penny tried to hand over the walking stick. Birdie seemed reluctant to take it.

  “Why don’t you come inside where it’s warm? I could make us some tea.”

  “No thank you.”

  “Coffee then.”

  Penny huffed as she quickened her pace. If her corset weren’t laced so tight, she’d have run. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk right now.”

  Birdie finally accepted the walking stick. “Then come by later. Please.”

  “I will try.” Penny kept her eyes trained ahead, quite unable to meet her friend’s sympathetic gaze without bursting into tears.

  She wouldn’t be crying over Silas Powell. In a sense, his abandonment was a blessing. She’d started questioning their suitability on the first day she’d met him, although she had been determined to honor her promise, and had tried very hard to believe her intended was the person described in the letter.

  Her fingers shook as she withdrew the folded paper from a pocket pinned to her jacket. Mr. Powell hadn’t actually written the letter; Mr. Hardt had penned it on his behalf. Why had Silas’s boss lied for him? She would give Mr. Hardt a piece of her mind, should she ever see him again. He had no business meddling in other people’s affairs, even if he thought he was doing them a favor. She tore the letter into tiny pieces and tossed the bits into the air.

  “Chiquita, wait!” Josefina nimbly leapt over a drunk sprawled across the sidewalk in front of the doctor’s office. The exotic dancer never bumped into people or knocked things over. Penny envied her natural grace. “I have something for you that will help.”

  Was it another prayer card? The first one she’d given Penny hadn’t worked.

  Penny took the offering and glanced at one side, which showed the image of the infant Christ and his mother. The other side had a prayer in Spanish, which she didn’t understand, having no knowledge of the language and being a strict Protestant from New England.

  She didn’t wish to hurt her friend’s feelings, so she tucked the card into her cloak pocket. “Thank you, Fina, I’ll keep it with me.”

  “Don’t just keep it. Recite the prayer!”

  Penny’s breath clouded the air as she attempted to distance herself from the remaining, and more persistent, ladies in her wake. It was a miracle she had any friends left, considering her bad luck had been credited for everything from broken lamps to broken limbs.

  “We’ll send Sheriff Draven after that coyote to bring him back.” Molly’s shout came from close behind. A blur of gray and white crossed Penny’s path, and she would’ve tripped and fallen on her face had Molly not caught her arm.

  The goose honked as if it was Penny’s fault.

  “Better yet, Draven can skin him!” Molly’s dark eyes flashed as she waved an imaginary knife. The sheriff, with his fierce scars and frontier sense of justice, might consider scalping as proper punishment.

  Penny pulled her arm free and drew her cape closer. “I don’t wish Mr. Powell ill.” She dodged the honking gander darting around her skirts in a frantic effort to reach the person it believed to be its mama.

  Molly swept the bird into her arms. “Daniel, behave yourself!”

  What in the world would Molly do when she had a real baby?

  “Mr. Powell jilted you! At the very least, he deserves to be horsewhipped.”

  “At least he had the good sense to leave town before I could kill him. My first two husbands weren’t so fortunate.”

  Penny left Molly standing in front of the wagon repair shop wearing a puzzled expression. Perhaps the irony should’ve been explained, Penny hadn’t actually killed anybody. Her first two husbands had died unexpectedly a short time after marrying her, so it stood to reason Silas might imagine he was bound for the same fate.

  Upon reaching the place where the sidewalk ended—if two boards could be called a sidewalk—Penny stopped to catch her breath. She glanced behind her and sighed with relief. Her friends had stopped following. The men outside must’ve gone back into the saloon, but that didn’t mean someone wouldn’t try to find her.

  Just over the bridge, a curving path led to the stables and corrals where the burros used at the mine were kept. As a child, whenever she’d been unhappy she had often fled to her family’s barn for sanctuary.

  Taking a deep breath, she started up the steep incline.

  Her right side ached by the time she reached the split-log structure, where snow covered most of the bark-shingled roof. Thank goodness, someone had shoveled a path.

  The stiff leather hinges resisted as she opened the door, but as soon as she stepped i
nto the warmer interior she was greeted by the comfortingly familiar smells of hay and manure. A soft clucking sound came from somewhere in the back of the barn…Woody’s hens.

  Behind gated stalls, the donkeys raised their heads and regarded her with dark-eyed curiosity. Not pity or scorn. Animals were never judgmental. They didn’t care if she carried bad luck like a disease. They wouldn’t remind her that the town’s future was at stake, or that everyone expected her to do her duty and marry before the deadline tomorrow.

  Penny sank to her knees and allowed the pent-up tears to spill down her cheeks. Her chest ached and her heart felt bruised and battered. Oh Lord, she couldn’t go through this again. Providence obviously did not intend for her to marry. How many disasters would it take before she got that through her hard head?

  Sometime later, whistling drifted in from outside the partly opened door. Penny recognized the tune, Buffalo Gals, and also the whistler, Woody Burnside. He must be returning to his job. Not wanting to be caught crying, she hurriedly wiped her cheeks and came to her feet.

  Woody stepped inside and then stopped abruptly, his eyes going round. “Hey there, Miss Penny. I didn’t know you’d be coming up here.”

  Penny forced a smile. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s odd, I know.”

  “Not odd, just surprising.” His gaze turned sympathetic. “You sure you don’t want me to go after Mr. Powell?”

  “Very sure.” Penny brushed bits of straw off the satin skirt, her best gown. “I’ve come to see Shadow. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, I don’t mind.” Woody picked up a pitchfork and went to work shoveling refuse out the manure door without questioning her strange request to pay a visit to a donkey. The townspeople considered him slow, but she had observed him numerous times and had decided he was just different…in a good way.

  As Penny approached a stall, one of the smallest burros plodded over to greet her. She stroked the donkey’s dark, velvety nose and rubbed between its furry ears.

  Shadow nuzzled her hand.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you to eat.”

  “Here you go.” Woody offered her a handful of dried apples. “Stay as long as you like.”

  “Thank you. I’m most grateful.”

  He went back to work, picking up where he left off from his whistling.

  Penny divided the dried fruit between the three burros, and petted them while they chewed contentedly. Being with the animals calmed her and helped her think more clearly.

  In spite of the rough conditions, she liked Noelle and had enjoyed getting to know the townspeople and making new friends. She would be sad to leave, but her future obviously wasn’t meant to be here.

  Another woman could step in, one of Madame Bonheur’s girls for instance. One of them—

  Pearl—had married the sheriff. Finding husbands for the other soiled doves would be better for everyone concerned, save the madam. The awful woman would no doubt move back into her parlor house and resume her trade. Ever since she’d been kicked out so the incoming brides would have a comfortable place to stay, she mocked them every chance she got, and had offered them jobs just in case.

  Penny’s heart ached for the unfortunate women and others who were in desperate situations. She and Genevieve had talked often of how women needed to help each other. In fact, that was the goal of the Benevolent Society of Lost Lambs. She would write and ask Genevieve to recommend her for a position at the society to help other women make happy marriages. Surely, the matchmaker would understand and give her blessing.

  A sense of calm came over Penny as she came to her decision. “Mr. Burnside, I’ll be returning to Denver. I’d rent a rig, but I don’t know the way back over the mountain to the next town where I can catch the train.”

  Woody stopped working, propped his arm on top of the pitchfork handle, and regarded her for a moment. He wasn’t one to hurry a reply. “I sure am sorry you’ll be leaving us, ma’am. Miezhen will miss you.”

  Penny touched an ivory comb tucked into her coiffure. Woody’s Chinese wife had given her the unusual comb, shaped like a figure eight, as a wedding gift. The number eight, Meizhen had explained, was good luck. Sadly, the Chinese talisman hadn’t been any luckier than the veil. Penny would return the precious keepsake if it weren’t holding her hair in place.

  “She has the other women, I won’t be missed much.”

  “You’re wrong there.”

  Woody might’ve mean what he said, but he was the one who had it wrong. After she left, the townspeople would breathe a collective sigh of relief, her friends included. She knew they walked on eggshells around her.

  “Nevertheless, I’ve made my decision. My help is needed at the mission, where I can be of some good. If you would take me as far as the train depot. I’d pay you for your trouble.”

  Woody shook his head. “Ma’am, I can’t make a decision like that without asking Mayor Hardt. We got to get his permission first.”

  Penny stiffened her spine. She needed no one’s permission to decide what to do with her life, and certainly not the mayor’s. In fact, he bore some responsibility for her present situation. His letter, rather the one he wrote on Silas’s behalf, had convinced her to accept a disreputable scoundrel.

  On the other hand, she couldn’t dismiss Mr. Hardt’s occasional acts of kindness. Besides offering his handkerchief that first day when she’d spilled Silas’s whiskey, he had also came to her aid in the general store after she knocked over a display of canned beans. She ought to thank him, but she wasn’t asking for his permission to leave.

  Regardless, Woody did nothing without first consulting the mayor. She would be wasting her breath trying to talk him out of it.

  “You needn’t leave your work. I’ll appeal directly to Mr. Hardt myself.” According to Reverend Hammond, the mayor hadn’t been too keen on the idea of bringing in brides to begin with, so she surmised he might be convinced to take her to the next town to catch a train.

  “Thank you, ma’am. That would be best.” Woody gripped the pitchfork. “Mr. Hardt, he’ll be sorry you’re leaving.”

  “Will he?” Penny found Woody’s observation absurd, even amusing. Considering her presence had driven away one of the mine owner’s supposedly best workers, Mr. Hardt should be glad to see her go.

  Chapter 2

  Charles Hardt, mayor of a struggling town and owner of the gold mine that had given it life, had run out of time. He might be bereft of luck, as well. Thankfully, he had food, so he returned to his cabin around noon to find something to eat.

  He’d been at the mine since dawn, doing his usual safety checks and unloading the dynamite for blasting the new tunnel, all the while cursing himself for giving his crew a whole day off to celebrate the foreman’s wedding. He should’ve limited the break to a few hours. That gold wouldn’t find itself.

  He had two days to prove that the town would prosper, or the Denver & Pacific Railroad wouldn’t lay track through Noelle, and it would remain a struggling mining community. At worst, it would become a ghost town.

  Muttering to himself—he had no one else to confide in—Charlie tugged off the thick leather gloves and shrugged out of his fur-lined coat, hanging it on a peg by the door along with his hat. He rubbed his arms to get the blood going and crossed to a squat iron stove. After adding wood, he poked at the embers with a fire iron until a blaze caught. It wouldn’t take too long to warm the one-room cabin, and then he’d go back to the mine and freeze his ass off.

  He opened a box labeled Dynamite and took out a loaf of bread wrapped in a kitchen towel, cut the last two slices, and layered in what was left of the smoked ham. Before he could take a bite, a knock sounded at the door. The taps were light, hesitant, as if the visitor wasn’t sure of their welcome. Possibly it was one of the miners, though they generally forgot to knock at all.

  “Come in,” Charlie shouted, as he wrapped the sandwich in the towel and set it aside. When no one entered, he made his way to the unlatched door and je
rked it open. “I said come in!”

  A small, slender woman swathed in a black cloak took a quick step backwards onto the packed snow. She tipped her head back and blinked up at him from beneath a fur-lined hood. “Good day, Mr. Hardt.”

  Charlie’s stomach did an odd flip. His foreman’s bride…what was she doing here? “Good morning Mrs. Jackson, ah, I mean, Mrs. Powell.”

  A crease marred her smooth brow, and he wondered if he’d annoyed her somehow. All he’d said was good morning. Well, all right, so it was actually afternoon, but why would his losing track of time seem to bother her?

  “May I come inside?”

  “Be my guest.” He walked backwards to give her room to pass and then peeked out to check, in case he’d missed someone. Strange. About now, she ought to be celebrating with her new husband, but Silas was nowhere in sight.

  Charlie shut the door on the cold air.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me.” She set a tapestry satchel on the floor. Now why would she have a bag packed?

  After carefully drawing her hood off, she paused to secure an ivory comb holding her hair. She missed a few wayward strands, which curled down her neck.

  He folded his hands behind his back so he wouldn’t be tempted to help her tuck them back in place, or better yet, remove the comb entirely. “Did Silas send you up here?”

  “No. Mr. Burnside suggested I speak with you.”

  “Woody?” That didn’t make sense either. Woody should be at the barn…or maybe not. He might’ve gone into town for the wedding, but why would he send her up here?

  “I hope I’m not interrupting.” She cocked her head and looked at him questioningly, which shook him out of his musings. He was acting like he’d gotten hit on the head. She’d explain herself soon enough.

  “Not at all. Here, let me take your cloak.”

  She undid the frog closure at her neck and allowed him to lift the heavy garment off her shoulders. He draped it over his arm, then glanced again at the closed door.