Forget Me Not (3 page)

“Hmm.”

Josephine forced a smile on her lips. She'd gone from “You don't say?” to “Hmm.” Not exactly encouraging.
Perhaps she should have taken Sheriff Tuttle's offer of five dollars to see her through until he could contact the railroad. But it was a matter of principle for Josephine. For the first time in her life, she was on her own. Despite things being dire, she didn't want to spoil her independence with a handout. She just
had
to get a job in Sienna to tide her over. She was an educated woman with perfect decorum. Somebody would surely find her invaluable . . . at least for a week.

“Honey, that's awfully interesting, but I just can't use you.” Reaching down, Effie patted the bulldog's flat head. He licked her hand with his drooling tongue.

Josephine took the defeat by swallowing the lump in her throat. She wasn't skilled at being aggressive. She had never had to be. Everything she'd ever wanted had always come to her because she'd had the money to buy it.

“Thank you just the same,” she said quietly.

Josephine exited the Line House hotel's lobby, stepping outside and squinting her eyes against the late-afternoon sun. She'd already tried the Bar Grub eatery; she'd bypassed the livery and the Walkingbars saloon. She was in serious need of a job, but she wasn't cheap. She'd rather take the money from the sheriff before she dressed up like a floozy and served alcoholic refreshments to rowdy men.

Unbidden, the image of that man in the sheriff's office filled her head. He looked tough and hardened by a life on the range that seemed to demand a lot from a cowboy. She'd gleaned that much from the Beadle's. Men out West had to be as strong as leather. He certainly had been. The bulk of his power had been in his torso, where the muscles across his chest filled out the shoulders of his coat. Open to her view was his blue plaid vest and a pistol with a pearl-like handle which rode in a holster belt lashed around his hips. He was a brawny man, given to few words in a
lady's company. Just like Rawhide Abilene. When he'd moved, the big spurs on his boots made a sound like tin bells.

Josephine carried on to her final destination: the general store. She looked down as she walked, noticing spears of grass had pushed up through the boardwalk. From the larger cracks, yellow-petaled flowers rose to bloom. In the city, the sidewalks were brick and unaccepting of nature's wildly sewn seeds. Here the slats of sagging wood buffered her heels and, in places, gave a slight bounce to her steps.

If only she hadn't left New York in such a hurry, none of this would have happened. After the Beauchamps' party, she'd hastily packed her valise rather than her heavy Gladstone trunk so that she could get away faster. If only she hadn't decided to travel in coach rather than first class. But she had had to economize her limited funds because she hadn't known what to expect by way of prices out West. In coach, Josephine had had to be in charge of her own luggage—a responsibility she'd never in her life had to contend with.

If Hugh could see her now, he'd have a riotous laugh at her expense. She hadn't come to hate him yet. Perhaps in time she would. For now, she could only look back with bitterness and resentment.

She'd been doomed the moment the ink from her signature had wetted the surface of the legal documents Hugh had gotten his lawyer to draw up. After that day, society had insulted and excluded her. The circles she had traveled in existed only in the margins of charmed little lives. Once she'd become an outcast, social pressures and prejudices had been inflicted on her. She'd suffered disgrace and, ultimately, exile. Which she'd accepted with a greater courage and compassion than her destroyers had flung at her.

It was horrible being talked about. However unfounded the charges against her, they were still charges of reprehensible behavior.

Josephine reached the store's door, where, just above, a placard had been hung and scribed: Zev Klauffman, Mercantilist. The picture window to her left had been boarded up, leaving her to wonder what disaster had befallen the glass. Letting herself inside, she gazed at the interior. The space was narrow with a wide aisle that ran from the front door to a rear exit. On the right side, six cast-iron stoves were lined up in a proud display. Behind them, shelves of spices, remedies, flatirons, kerosene lamps, and books. Opposite were barrels of crackers, barrels of undiscernible contents, boxes of shoes, a rack of hats—both men's and ladies'—shelves of folded clothing mostly of denim, and a tableful of various fabrics.

The aroma of coffee came to her. Her gaze traveled to the shelf, and she saw large manila bags. Arbuckle's was printed in bold letters across the front, beneath which was the picture of a flying angel in a long flowing gray skirt, around her neck a streaming red scarf.

“May I help you, ma'am?”

Josephine looked up at a man dressed in a frock coat with a neat black tie at his shirt collar. A white apron was fastened around his waist, and he held a feather duster.

“Yes, you may.” She squared her shoulders for fortitude and went into her memorized list of qualities, trying to sound as impressive as possible. When she was finished, Mr. Klauffman merely looked at her with a wan smile.

“That's something,” he said with brows raised. “But unfortunately, I don't have need of a clerk with your . . . background. Frankly, there isn't a single job in the whole town that needs those qualifications.”

“Yes . . . I can see that,” she mumbled, her hands clasped together so tightly her fingers hurt. Tears stung the back of her eyes, and she fought them. Humiliation seemed to be her shadow these days. She recoiled at the thought of returning to Sheriff Tuttle
and asking him for the money. She just couldn't humble herself in such a way.

Josephine felt a wave of dizziness assail her. She faltered.

“Ma'am?” Mr. Klauffman came to her aid, putting his hand on her elbow to steady her. “Are you ill?”

“No . . . I'm just . . .” She was sick at heart. “I didn't eat on the train today. I suppose I'm a little weak.”

“By all means, then, sit down.” He ushered her to a stool and deposited her in front of the cracker barrel. “Would you like something to eat?”

“No. Just a glass of water, please,” she said as she removed her gloves. A shaft of sunlight poured in from the smaller window on the door's right and caught the stones glistening on her fourth finger. Bright dots of reflected light showered the planked floor. Gazing at the ring, she didn't know why she hadn't taken it off in New York.

Zev Klauffman returned with a metal cup filled with water. “Here you are, miss.”

She took the glass and sipped the cold water. The liquid cooled the heat on her cheeks. Lowering the glass, she said, “Mr. Klauffman, I'd like to sell you my ring. It's solid gold set with a flawless diamond and six emeralds.” She held out her hand for him to inspect the piece of jewelry.

“Why, ma'am, um, Mrs.—”

“No, it's Miss,” she quickly corrected. “Miss Josephine Whittaker.” Hugh had been so flamboyant in his purchase of the ring, nobody would suspect it was a wedding setting.

“Why, Miss Whittaker, I couldn't possibly buy that.”

“I'm not asking for its full value. One hundred dollars would suffice.”

“One hundred dollars?” Mr. Klauffman's Adam's apple bobbed. “I couldn't even come close to reselling it for that.”

“But it's worth one thousand dollars.”

“Miss Whittaker, nobody in Sienna has that kind of money.”

Josephine struggled hard against the tears she refused to let fall. “Are you married, Mr. Klauffman?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Then you could give it to your wife.”

“Where in God's green earth would she wear such a ring?”

“That's entirely up to her. You name your price, and it's yours.”

Zev Klauffman shook his head. “I couldn't make you a fair offer.”

“I understand that.”

“The best I could do would be ten dollars. Now, Miss Whittaker, that would be like stealing it from you. I couldn't do that.”

She wiggled the ring free and pressed it into his palm. “I'm sure your wife will be exuberant.”

Josephine Whittaker left the mercantile ten dollars richer than when she went inside. She had enough money to get a room at the hotel and buy a meal at the Bar Grub. She spent a restless night, too upset to relax yet too physically fatigued to fight sleep. The next morning, she went to see Sheriff Tuttle, who informed her that her valise had not shown up in Tipton. From there, she went to the depot and asked Mr. Vernier if he could please telegraph the Union Pacific and put in a lost claims report for her.

For four days, Josephine paid visits twice daily to Sheriff Tuttle and Mr. Vernier. Each time, she was told her valise had not been returned. On the fifth day, she was nearly out of money.

Discouraged and desperate, on Tuesday she had no choice but to accept that her five hundred dollars and her handsome clothes were gone. The wardrobe in the luggage she'd ended up with was cut a size too small for her. She'd had to wash out her foulard suit once, its grosgrain underblouse and her intimate wear three
times. Ironing the spring walking costume with all of its pleats and lapping flounces was impossible for her. She'd paid Effie Grass a whole dollar to press everything.

Earlier in the day, she'd requeried all those establishments she'd gone to before, hoping that one of them had had a change of heart and would give her the opportunity to prove herself. Mr. Vernier still didn't require an assistant at the rail office, nor did Sheriff Tuttle need her archery services. Effie Grass had remained adamant she had no positions available, and so had the postmistress and the man who ran the land office. And nobody at the half-dozen other businesses had had a sudden opening for someone with her talents.

Now, as she stood in front of Walkingbars, she listened to the tinkle of piano music. The saloon had no windows. The concentrated smell of stale liquor and rancid perfume spilled over and under the swinging doors.

A gnarl-toothed old cowboy approached her, spitting a foul juice in the street. “Hey, sugar darlin', come on inside with ol' True. I heared y'all've been lookin' for a job. Billy'll hire you.”

“N-no, thank you.”

Josephine quickly went on her way. How could she have thought even for a second that she could go inside? But a cold reality had finally set in. She had to have a job.
Any
job to get the money to buy a ticket to San Francisco. As it was, Thursday's train would be pulling out without her, leaving her hopelessly deserted.

Deep in thought, Josephine crossed the street and was almost hit by a fast-moving wagon drawn by a team of horses. Her heartbeat lurched, and her breath felt cut off. She barely got out of the way, turning her head as her pulse continued its dancing and she glanced at the man holding the reins. Her surprised gaze skimmed over his silhouette. She recognized him
immediately as the one from Sheriff Tuttle's office the day she arrived in Sienna. His eyes momentarily locked on hers, and he appeared as if he wanted to say something, but she turned away before she could make any sense out of his expression or hear his words.

The rugged man unnerved her. She couldn't be sure why. Perhaps it was because she'd never encountered a man so . . . so larger-than-life off the pages of the dime novels.

Disconcerted, she managed to put the near-accident out of her head as she entered Zev Klauffman's mercantile.

“Miss Whittaker,” he greeted in a friendly tone.

“Mr. Klauffman.” She felt inside her handbag for the lawn handkerchief she normally kept butterscotch candies in. She'd been out of the treats for days. It was odd how even that little luxury was missed. Laying out the square of white on the counter, she showed Mr. Klauffman a pair of delicate gold-filigree earrings. She'd worn them on the train. “I'd like to sell these, please.”

He sadly shook his head. “Now, Miss Whittaker, I just can't buy those from you. It's too much already that you just about gave me that ring. I'd rather give you a few dollars.”

“No,” she broke in. “I can't accept money from you that way.” Lowering her gaze, she chewed the inside of her lip. “If you can't buy the earrings, then I want to work for you. I know what you said before, but perhaps you can reconsider. I could do whatever needs to be done. I'm sure I could manage the feather duster, and I could—”

“Miss Whittaker, I don't get much traffic through here this time of year with all the local boys on cattle drives. I barely have enough to do myself without going stir crazy.”

She mutely nodded. “I understand.”

But she didn't accept that understanding without
remorse. She milled around the merchandise tables, absently fingering the items while trying to think of what to do next. She was seventy-five miles from nowhere without a single prospect of getting even a few feet out of Sienna.

The bell above the store's door bounced against the jamb.

“Zev,” came a man's booming voice. “I hope like hell you kept that notice for a cook I tacked up on the board a few weeks ago. Tuttle put his deputy and Pete Denby on the noon stage for Cheyenne. Goddamn,” he swore harshly. “Said Denby had a warrant out on him, if you can believe that.”

Josephine lifted her gaze from the sewing notions in the glass counter case.

“Well, J.D., Denby did have that look about him,” Mr. Klauffman remarked.

The man called J.D. barely paid Josephine any regard as he stepped around her to stare at an almost bare space of wall behind Mr. Klauffman's counter. A few fliers and handbills were pinned up, and promotional literature for something called barbed wire from Washburn & Moen Co. of Worcester, Massachusetts. Straining to see, Josephine couldn't find any advertising copy about work for a cook.