style="font-size:15px;"> No, she would not focus on the family’s losses today. Surely this blessed little boy was the good Lord’s reminder to all who gazed upon his innocent face that life could go on, even after tragedy.
“Oh, fine.” Dinah shook her head. “You’re a big help.”
“I know, I know.” Ida carried Carter to the back of the store where she located a rag and some lye soap. “Give us a minute for a Texas spit-shine, and we’ll be as good as new!” she hollered.
She gave the youngster a good scrubbing. He fought her attempts, but only in fun. When they finished, she led him by the hand through the carefully organized aisles of dry goods up to the front, where Dinah stood waiting, hands on her hips.
“See?” Ida grinned. “Cleaner’n a whistle.”
Carter skipped behind the front counter and eyed the candy jars. “Jelly beans, Mommy?” he begged.
“No, son. I think you’ve had enough treats for one day.”
“Peppermint?” He pointed to a second jar.
“Absolutely not.”
Ida stepped in front of the row of glass jars so they would present no further temptation. Surely he would be pleading for licorice whips or gum before long. Or taffy. He loved the colorful, hand-wrapped delicacies from nearby Galveston Island.
Safely distracted, Carter grabbed his bag of brightly colored marbles. As he settled onto the floor to play, the bag spilled open and they rolled around in every direction, making all sorts of racket against the wood-planked floorboards.
“Peawee, Mother!” he hollered, then dashed underneath the counter to capture his favorite marble in his tight little fist. “Peawee!” he said again, holding it up.
Dinah sighed as she reached to pick up the other wayward marbles.
“The only problem I see with boys,” Ida said with a wink, “is that they grow into men.” She joined Dinah behind the counter in preparation for the usual midafternoon influx of customers.
“You’d best not carry on with that train of thought,” Dinah said, “or you will never catch a husband.”
Ida rolled her eyes as she responded, “I’m not looking for one, I assure you.” Before she could stop it, an image of the handsome stranger floated through her mind. She quickly pushed it away, determined to remain focused. Sensible girls were not swayed by fancy clothes.
She thought of her childhood friend, Sophie Weimer, who had no greater wish than to marry and present her husband with a half-dozen children in steady succession. Ida shuddered at the very thought of such a life. No, she would not marry—at least not unless the Lord presented her with exactly the right man. And she wasn’t likely to stumble across the right man in a place like Spring Creek.
At that moment, a couple of rough-looking railroad fellows made an entrance. They jabbed one another in the ribs and let out simultaneous whistles in the direction of the ladies.
“None of that in here.” Dinah faced them, brow furrowed, ready for a battle. “Or you’ll have me to contend with.”
Their gazes shifted to the floor and they wandered off to play dominoes, pulling wooden-slatted chairs around a barrel and settling in for a game. The menfolk often gathered in the store to pass the time this way. No wagering, of course—Dinah would never abide such a thing.
Ida didn’t mind their presence in the store so much, as long as they kept their language clean. And they were better off here than in the saloons, after all. There was nothing wrong with an innocent game of dominoes.
“I wish I had your patience.” Ida spoke to Dinah in a hoarse whisper. “Truly. I can’t seem to look a man in the eye without wanting to slap him.”
Dinah gave her a sad smile. “That’s because you haven’t yet loved a man.”
Ida nodded, as if Dinah’s words settled the matter, but a feeling of uneasiness settled over her. Love did not carry the same appeal for her that it did for others. It almost seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. “I could happily live my whole life without knowing what that feels like.”
“Oh, my dear,” Dinah said, turning to face her. “I predict you will one day look a man directly in the eye and slapping him will be the furthest thing from your mind.”
Mick managed to locate the barbershop in short order and entered to the sound of raucous laughter from the patrons inside. The barber, an elderly fellow with smiling eyes, introduced himself as Orin Lemm, a native of Spring Creek. His assistant, a young fellow named Georg, ushered Mick to a chair and promptly took to lathering up his whiskery chin, a minty smell filling the air.
“Work for the railroad?” Orin asked as he finished shaving a man in the chair next to Mick’s.
Mick guarded his answers. “I’m from the Chicago area. Just visiting.” There would be plenty of time to explain his reason for being here later on.
“Really?” Orin’s face lit up. “I have a cousin who lives in Sha-ka-gee. Maybe you know ’im.” He dove into a monologue about his cousin’s liver condition, scarcely pausing for breath.
Once Mick was lathered and ready, Orin moved over to take Georg’s place. As the older man worked the razor this way and that, he continued to talk nonstop. His knowledge of Spring Creek was clear, and his pride in the town surely exceeded that of anyone else. In fact, Mick couldn’t remember when he’d ever heard someone brag to such a degree.
“Spring Creek was just a tiny place when I was a boy,” Orin explained with great zeal. “Mostly farmland.”
“Oh?” Mick found that hard to believe, considering the current state of the town. How long had it been since the hotels and stores had been built? Likely they’d come about as a result of the influx of railroad workers.
“Yep. Sugarcane and cotton,” Orin continued. “But when the railroad came through, everything changed overnight. Much of the land was acquired by the railroad. We’re a major switchyard for the Great Northern now. Fourteen lines of track and a roundhouse.”
“Not everyone’s happy about that,” one of the railroad men interjected. “Folks ’round here’ve made me feel about as welcome as a skunk at a picnic.”
Several of the others made similar comments, though most agreed they’d grown to love the area, in spite of the heat and the poor reception from the locals. Mick wondered how they’d stopped perspiring long enough to fall in love with the place.
“I’ve got no complaints,” Orin was quick to throw in. “Having you men in town has really helped my business. Never seen so many whiskers in all my days. And life’s not boring. That’s for sure.”
His young assistant nodded in agreement. “You won’t hear me complaining.”
Orin proceeded to fill Mick’s ears with all sorts of town gossip, covering everything from who was bickering with whom to where to buy the best liquor. He thought the whiskey at the new Wunsche Brothers Saloon was the best around.
And he discussed, in great detail, the shapely legs of the
