her hair dyed was hard enough.
She laid a hand to her bosom and forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply. She mustn’t panic. Most likely Mr. Rhodes was merely passing through, whatever Mrs. Porter’s speculations to the contrary.
Lark smoothed her crisp black skirt, straightened the cameo at the throat of her white shirtwaist, patted her hair. She’d been reckless, keeping the clothes from her old life, and she should have changed her first name, too, as well as her last. Autry had taken everything else from her—her pride, her self-respect, her dignity. She’d fled with her favorite gowns, two weeks’ allowance, and the money he kept hidden in the humidor in his study.
A few garments and the name her mother had given her at birth seemed little enough to claim as her own.
After steadying herself as best she could, Lark walked decorously to the top of the stairs, glided down them and swept into Mrs. Porter’s spacious, homey kitchen. The huge black cookstove, with its shining chrome trim, radiated warmth, and the delicious scent of brewing tea filled the room.
“I’ve set out a plate of my lemon tarts,” Mrs. Porter said, with a nod to the offering in the center of the round oak table. “Mr. Porter loved them, you know.” She paused, sighed sadly. “Dear Mr. Porter.”
Lark assumed Mr. Porter was deceased, since Mrs. Porter always referred to him in the past tense, but there were signs of his presence all over the house. His hat still hung on a brass hook in the front entryway, for instance, and books with his name inscribed on the flyleaf lay open, here and there, as though he’d just been perusing them. A half-smoked cigar lay in the ashtray on his desk in the study, and his birthday—January 28—was noted on the wall calendar next to the pantry door.
Not quite daring to inquire after him, Lark simply nodded and helped herself to one of the tarts.
“Sit down and make yourself comfortable, dear,” Mrs. Porter urged. “One shouldn’t eat standing up. It’s bad for the digestion.”
Circumspectly Lark took a chair, careful to avoid Mr. Porter’s. Roomers came and went, but, as if by tacit agreement, no one ever sat in Mr. Porter’s place. At present, Lark was the only permanent boarder, although a traveling dry goods salesman occasionally took the large room adjoining the kitchen.
Secretly Lark coveted that room, because it had its own entrance, a brick fireplace, a desk and a small sitting area, but the price of it was beyond her means. Ironic, she reflected, since her weekly budget for freshly cut flowers to grace her dining room table back in Denver would have covered a month’s rent, with money to spare.
“Maybe he’s come to work on the railroad,” Mrs. Porter speculated suddenly.
Lark hoped the look on her face would pass for puzzlement, though it was actually apprehension. Had she realized the railroad was coming to Stone Creek, she wouldn’t even have gotten off the stagecoach at all, let alone taken a room and applied for the recently vacated teaching position at the town’s primitive little school. Indeed, she’d been settled in before she’d known, with the last of her funds spent to secure living quarters.
Mrs. Porter smiled brightly, setting two bone china teacups on the table with a merry little clatter. “I’m referring to Rowdy Rhodes, of course,” she explained, her tone cheerful, her eyes alert. “Mr. Porter always complained that I just say things, out of the clear blue sky, with no sort of preamble whatsoever.” She paused, frowning a little. “Yes, I’m sure he’s here to help build the railroad.”
“It’s quite all right,” Lark said. Everyone else in Stone Creek was excited at the prospect of train tracks and a depot linking them to such far-flung places as Flagstaff and Phoenix; the economic benefits were considerable. To Lark, however, the coming of the railroad meant disaster, because Autry owned it. By spring, the countryside would be crawling with his minions and henchmen—he might even show up himself.
Just the thought of that made her shiver.
Mrs. Porter sat down, then poured tea from the lovely pot, which matched the cups and saucers. Looking at the delicate objects, Lark was seized by a sudden and poignant yearning for the life she’d left behind. Unfortunately, that life had included Autry Whitman, and had therefore been untenable.
“How are things going at school?” Mrs. Porter asked companionably, but the questions she really wanted to ask were visible in her eyes.
Who are you, really?
Where did you come from?
And why are you so frightened all the time?
A part of Lark would have loved to answer those questions with stark honesty. Her secrets were a very heavy burden indeed, and Mrs. Porter, while an obvious gossip, was a friendly woman with motherly ways.
“Little Lydia Fairmont is finally learning to write her letters properly,” Lark said, glad of the change of subject. “She’s a bright child, but she has a great deal of trouble with penmanship.”
Mrs. Porter sighed and stared into her teacup. “Mr. Porter loved to read,” she said. “And he wrote a very fine hand. Copperplate, you know. Quite elegant.”
“I’m sure he did,” Lark replied, saddened. Then, tentatively, she ventured, “You must miss him very much.”
Mrs. Porter’s spine straightened. “He’s gone,” she said, almost tersely, “and that’s the end of it.”
Feeling put in her place, Lark busied herself stirring more milk into her tea. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
Mrs. Porter patted her hand, her touch light and cool. The house was large, and it was cold, except for the kitchen, since the fireplaces in the parlor and dining room were never lit. When she wasn’t at school, where there was a potbelly stove and plenty of wood, Lark either shivered in her room, bundled in a quilt or read at the table where she was sitting now.
There had been no snow since before Christmas, but the weather was bitter, just the same. Would the winter never end? Though spring would surely bring trouble, Lark longed for it with helpless desperation.
“No need to apologize, dear,” Mrs. Porter said graciously. “Have another lemon tart.”
Lark, who had been hungry ever since she’d fled Denver, did not hesitate to accept the offered refreshment.
The back door opened, and Mai Lee, Mrs. Porter’s cook, dashed in, a shawl pulled tightly around her head and shoulders. She carried a grocery basket over one arm, with a plucked chicken inside, its head lolling over one side.
“Make supper, chop-chop,” Mai Lee said.
“Have some tea first,” Mrs. Porter told the woman kindly. “You look chilled to the bone.”
“No, no,” Mai Lee answered, hanging up her shawl and setting the basket decisively on the worktable next to the stove. “Stand here. Be warm. Cook chicken.”
Mrs. Porter rose from her chair, fetched another china cup and saucer from the breakfront, with its curvy glass doors, and poured tea, adding generous portions of sugar and milk. “Drink this,” she told Mai Lee, “or you’ll catch your death.”
Dutifully Mai Lee accepted the tea, only to set it aside and grab the dead chicken by
