The Listening Sky Read online

  “Is he one of the owners?” Jane asked.

  “Naw. Colin’s a cattleman. His pa is John Tallman; guess ya heard a him.”

  Jane had not heard of the man, but gave no indication. She listened to the cook tell about how he first met Colin Tallman. He was cook for John Tallman’s freight outfit crossing Indian Territory.

  “Smart as a whip an’ soaked up ever’thin’ John taught him. Turned out to be ‘bout as good a scout as his pa and grandpa, Rain Tallman.

  “Lumber company’s owned by a feller named Rowe over at Trinity. Colin and T.C.’s got a interest. T.C.’s logged most a his life but he’d rather ranch. Gonna do it soon’s he gets the town goin’ again.”

  Now, as she lay in the dark listening to the snores, it became clear in her mind. After mulling over the events of the day she came to the conclusion that Kilkenny would not immediately, perhaps would never, have full employment for all the women he had brought here.

  The conniving jackass!

  He had brought them here as prospective wives for the single men. That was the reason why the street back of the town had been marked off, and building sites prepared. A dozen cabins had already been built, cabins that with additions could house large families.

  To advertise for brides was not unusual. Notices were routinely placed in public places. The women who answered the advertisements went into the arrangement with their eyes wide open. Not so here! The honorable Mister Kilkenny had brought them here on the pretext of giving them jobs. The jobs were waiting on and servicing some of his dirty, foul-mouthed lumberjacks.

  Well, she had news for him!

  She would give him an earful and demand to be sent back to Denver at once. She would rather be in Denver with hundreds of people who hated her than be here in this small place with one who was determined to make her life miserable, that is if he allowed her to keep it.

  Thank God she had carefully hung onto the pitifully small hoard of money her Aunt Alice had left her five years earlier. The poke and the painting of her mother were securely locked in her valise.

  Jane would never forget the day her curiosity had prodded her to remove the wooden back of the picture frame; she had hoped to find a date on the back of the canvas that would tell her mother’s age at the time of the painting. What she had found hidden between the canvas and the back of the frame had changed her life forever.

  At age ten it had been hard to understand all Mrs. Gillis had told her on that summer day long ago. From that day on, she had not been allowed to forget who she was, why she was there, and why more than any of the others she must study and work to redeem herself.

  During the years that followed, Jane had lived in constant fear of discovery. Then gradually, her common sense had taken over and she had come to realize she was a person in her own right, and not responsible for the deeds of another.

  Long ago Jane’s orphanage records had mysteriously disappeared from the file. Jane had seen to that. Now someone had discovered her secret and held her responsible. Mrs. Gillis must have been the source. As she had grown older the woman had begun to guard her position as headmistress of the school with a zeal that bordered on desperation. Jane suspected she was secretly glad to see the last of one who had the qualifications to assume her job.

  Jane’s mind continued to mull over her immediate problem until gradually the demands of her exhausted body took over and she dropped into a deep sleep. She dreamed of being chased through the woods by an Indian warrior, tomahawk lifted for the kill. She awoke to the sound of a rooster announcing the start of another day.

  Kilkenny dreaded the task ahead and wished that Colin were back in town. Colin didn’t know much about the lumber business, but he knew a hell of a lot more about women than Kilkenny did. His friend of many years would not be at all happy to find Patrice here in Timbertown. T.C. wasn’t happy about it either, but there was nothing to do now but talk to her, find out why she had come, and offer to send her back to the stage station.

  He looked out the front window to see the woman leaving the cookshack. Herb would have told her to come here. T.C. sat down behind a square table he used as a desk. It was cluttered with papers and ledgers. He was not only unskilled in handling women, he was in desperate need of someone to put all this paperwork in order. Garrick Rowe, the mill owner, had promised to send a bookkeeper down from Trinity. If the man didn’t arrive soon his job would become impossible.

  Kilkenny’s house was square, two-storied, with porches on the front and back. The four rooms on the ground floor were divided by a central hall running from the front door straight through to the back. The front two rooms were T.C.’s office and his bedroom. The back two were the kitchen and the surgery where Dr. Foote reigned—when he was sober. The kitchen was seldom used since it was easier to walk across the street to the cookhouse. The three upstairs bedrooms were occupied by the doctor, Herb and Colin, when he was there.

  Kilkenny heard the sound of heels on the porch, then the opening of the door. He stood as Herb ushered Patrice Cabeza into the office.

  “Good morning, Señora Cabeza.”

  “Good morning, T.C.” Her voice was soft and had the flavor of her Spanish ancestors. “I prefer to be called Patrice Guzman.”

  “Sit down, Señora Guzman.”

  “We’ve known each other a long time, T.C. Too long to be so formal.”

  Large dark eyes studied the man behind the desk. As Patrice arranged her colorful shawl about her shoulders, the large silver rings in her ears moved against the olive skin of her neck. Hair as black as midnight hung straight and shiny to her waist. She was well aware of her beauty.

  “Why have you come here?” T.C. asked bluntly, then added, “I think I know—”

  “—Of course, you do.”

  “Colin isn’t here.”

  “He will be sooner or later. He usually shows up where you are and vice versa.”

  “How is your husband?”

  She shrugged. “Same.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “I hope not. Look at your papers, T.C. You’ll find Bertha Kotch’s application.”

  He snorted. “Bertha Kotch? My, my what an imagination you have.”

  Not a flicker of amusement showed in Patrice’s dark eyes.

  “I have left Ramon.”

  “It doesn’t take a law degree to figure that out. Why? He gave you everything you wanted. You couldn’t see Colin for dirt after meeting Ramon.”

  “—What is between me and Colin is none of your business.”

  “This town is my business. I want you to leave. If you stay, you’ll be nothing but trouble.”

  “You need cooks, seamstresses, laundresses”—a faint smile touched her lips—”women for your loggers.”

  “I can’t see you doing any of those things.”

  “Why not? I’ll work until Colin gets here.”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “If I remember right, Señora, you are quite useless at anything other than what will benefit Patrice Guzman Cabeza.”

  “I have a strong sense of self-preservation… as you have.” She lifted her brows and spoke softly. “Can you fault me for that?”

  “Have you ever not gotten what you wanted?” His voice was hard and impatient.

  “A few times.”

  “I’ll send you back to the stage station. Get your things—”

  “I’m not going. If you try to make me, I’ll raise such a stink half the single women you brought in will go with me. And men, real men, don’t like to see a lady abused. You employed me to come here and work. What possible reason can you give for sending me away?”

  “I don’t need to give a reason, but if I did it would be that you’re unsuitable. Anyone with half an eye can see you’ve not done a day’s work in your life. You know damn good and well that Ramon will be here as soon as he finds out you’re here. I want no trouble between him and Colin.”

  “Colin can take care of hi
mself.”

  “Damn it to hell! You’ll not use Colin to kill Ramon.” T.C. slammed his fist down on his desk. “I can’t make you leave, but if you stay, you’ll work for your keep… as a laundress.”

  “I can pay for my keep.”

  “No. You’ll work and be paid four cents a shirt, six cents for pants, plus your board.”

  “If I don’t work, I don’t eat. Is that it?”

  “That’s it. Until we set up a boarding house or the hotel is ready for guests.”

  “When do you expect Colin?”

  Kilkenny shrugged. “Herb,” he called. “Take the senora to the laundry and give her a pile of dirty clothes.”

  “Thank you, T.C.” Patrice said sweetly, and smiled at the big, blond man who opened the door for her.

  “T.C… ?” Herb had a puzzled look on his face.

  “Take her,” Kilkenny almost shouted. “Get her out of here.”

  “Come on, Herb,” Patrice said. “Your boss has a burr under his blanket this morning. You know, what this town needs is a good whorehouse. Don’t you agree?” Her eyes flicked to T.C.’s angry face and then back to Herb’s red one. She laughed and grasped his arm with both hands. “My, my, what do you know? A big, bad gunman who can still blush.”

  Kilkenny forked his long fingers through his thick, black hair, raking it back from his forehead. It was a gesture of frustration.

  When Herb brought in the woman with the small boy, Kilkenny looked at the application on his desk. Mrs. Silas Winters was a widow from Fort Collins.

  “Mornin’, ma’am. Have a seat. Hello, son. What’s your name?”

  “Buddy. I’m five.”

  “Then you’re about ready for school.” T.C. sat down and leaned his elbows on the table.

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “Pa said school was for sissies.” The small freckle-faced boy rested his chin on the table and glared at T.C.

  “Hummm… well, your ma will have to straighten you out on that. Mrs. Winters, it says here that you have worked in a bakery.”

  “Yes, sir. I worked in one after… after…”

  “—After Pa killed hisself.”

  “Buddy!”

  “Pa was a soldier. He killed lots a Indians.”

  “Hush up!”

  T.C. looked more closely at the woman and judged her to be well past forty. There were streaks of gray in her dark hair and her face showed lines of age. Her hands were work-worn. A couple of generations back one of her Sioux or Cheyenne ancestors had roamed this land.

  “What would you need in order to open a bakeshop besides the building to put it in?”

  On hearing the words, the woman’s mouth dropped and worked, but no words came out. When they did come, they were so hesitant that he could barely hear them.

  “You mean… I could?”

  “Why not? Every town needs a bakeshop. We’ve got a lot of working men to feed. If you’re willing and have the know-how to run one, the company will back you.”

  “I’d like a chance at it.”

  “After you pay the company back for setting you up in business, the profits are yours.” T.C. gave her a sheet of paper. “List what kind of stove you need and anything else and I’ll see that you get it in a week or two. In the meanwhile, we’ll start fixing up the building between the mercantile and the harnesss shop. There’s living space in the back for you and your boy. You can help Bill Wassall at the cookhouse while we’re getting it ready. He would like to shift some of the cooking chores over to someone else. He’s getting old and cranky,” he added with a grin.

  “Ma makes bear claws an’ jelly cake.” Buddy fingered the half-full inkwell on T.C.’s desk.

  “Nothing I like better than bear claws.” T.C. reached for the inkwell, covering the opening with his palm.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Winters stood and took her son’s hand. “Come on, Buddy.”

  “Is he a stinkin’ Indian, Ma?”

  “Oh… oh, my goodness! Buddy!” Mrs. Winters jerked on her son’s arm, pulling him toward the door. “You shouldn’t say such a thing.”

  T.C. came around the table and opened the door.

  “Don’t let it worry you, Mrs. Winters.” He put his hand on Buddy’s head. “I’m a quarter Blackfoot, Buddy. And all humans stink at one time or the other.”

  “Do you put paint on your face and scalp babies?”

  T.C. laughed. “Not lately. I painted my face once and my mother made me wash it off. She was Blackfoot. Her father was an Englishman who came from across the water and married into the tribe. He was proud of his half-breed children.”

  “Did your pa come from cross the water?”

  “He came from Ireland. Kilkenny is an Irish name.”

  “Is Winters a Irish name? My pa was—”

  “Hush. You talk too much.”

  “He needs to be in school.” T.C. glanced at Mrs. Winters’ disapproving face. “We’ll have one as soon as we can get a place for it and I can find a teacher.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You’ve no cause to be sorry. And welcome to Timbertown. Both of you.”

  When Sunday Polinski left the office, T.C. was smiling. He wished for a couple of dozen like her. She had told him she came from a family of eight girls. With no sons, her pa had taught his girls to do most things a man could do. She had left home, she said, because her sisters were better looking than she was and she didn’t stand a chance of getting a man of her choice.

  T.C. doubted that. Sunday Polinski was a fine, healthy-looking woman with a happy disposition.

  “My shortcomin’s is I ain’t much for geegaws and ribbons.” Sunday continued with a wide grin. “I ain’t carin ‘bout quiltin’ and tattin’, but I can make ya some of the best dad-gum cedar shingles ya ever laid yore eyes on.” She batted her eyes at T.C. “I’m goin’ to find me a good man, get me my own homeplace an’ raise me a batch a young’uns. You been asked for, Mr. Kilkenny?”

  T.C. smiled. He liked the girl. She was open and honest.

  “You’ll have plenty to choose from, Miss Polinski. I just don’t want you to start a war among the men.”

  “Oh, shoot, T.C. Call me Sunday. Now about the work I’m to do while I’m lookin’ for a man—”

  “We need someone to make soap and someone to make candles to sell at the mercantile.”

  “Flitter! I can make enough soap in two days to last the winter, that is if ya have the grease an’ lye. Then what’ll I do?”

  “I figure you’ll have a man by then, and I’ll be out a soapmaker.”

  Sunday tilted her blond head, and her blue eyes sparkled with good humor.

  “I ain’t takin’ the first one what asks me. I sure ain’t takin’ any what came in with us. I a’ready had a set-to with one of ‘em.”

  “Which one?” T.C. asked quietly.

  “The bushy-haired galoot with enough room ‘tween his front teeth to drive a wagon. They called him Milo. He pinched my bottom and I slapped his jaws.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “That’s sure as shootin’. I know jist where to put this”— she raised a clenched fist—”where it’d hurt him real bad.”

  T.C. grinned again. “You say your pa taught you to fight dirty?”

  “My pa raised us girls to take care of ourselves. I’ve had to lay one on a time or two… or three. Takes the starch outta a struttin’ rooster ever’ time.”

  When Sunday left the office, T.C. watched her cross the street with Herb. She skipped along beside him taking two steps to his one, laughing up at him and talking a blue streak. Sunday Polinski was the kind of woman his friend, Colin Tallman, needed. She was not a great beauty like Patrice; she was full of laughter and well able to carry her own weight. She would be a loyal helpmate. A man should choose his life’s companion very carefully.

  Come to think of it, when the time came for him to take a wife, she would be the kind of woman he would look for. He certainly didn’t want to go throug
h life, grow old, and die without knowing that some part of himself was left behind. But there was plenty of time to think about choosing a mother for the children he planned to raise in the high country. He had to get this town on its feet. It was a commitment he had made to Garrick Rowe. No way in hell was he going to break his promise to the man.

  T.C. stood at the window until he saw Herb start back across the street with another woman for him to interview. Why in hell had he volunteered for this job! Hell—he knew why. Money. Money to pay for something he had wanted all his life.

  Polly Wright was a small girl with large dark eyes, a soft mouth and a dimple in each cheek. She wore her light brown hair parted in the middle and braided. Each braid was coiled and pinned neatly over her ears. The gray wool shawl was draped around her shoulders and crossed in front. She came into the room with quick nervous steps and sank down into the chair in front of the table.

  “Polly Wright?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sensing that his scrutiny was making the already nervous girl more nervous, T.C. looked down at the paper, although he already knew what it said.

  “Were your folks willing for you to leave home at age sixteen?”

  “I don’t have any folks, sir.” She kept her eyes on the floor and spoke scarcely above a whisper.

  “It says here that you worked in a rooming house.”

  “Yes, sir. I worked for my board and I worked for a seamstress too.”

  T.C. noticed that she had balled a handkerchief in her hands and was plucking at the lace edge.

  “We have plenty of work for a seamstress. There’s a storeroom full of material for shirts, pants and underclothing. We’ve brought in four of Isaac Singer’s sewing machines. Have you ever used one?”

  “No, sir. Mrs. Bartley, the lady I worked for, wouldn’t let me touch hers. I did the hand work. I can tat,” she added, and looked up hopefully.

  “Tat? What’s that?”

  “Lace. Real… nice lace.”

  “Lace? Oh, well… they tell me it’s no trick to operate a sewing machine.” His silver-colored eyes searched her face. Polly looked intently at the hands locked in her lap. “We have a large number of single men here, Miss Wright. Have you thought of getting married?”