Shadow of Legends (12 page)

Dover's beard-covered chin seemed to bob up and down as he talked. “Why do they call it the dead line?”

Dacee June's wide grin revealed a mouthful of large, straight white teeth. “Because past that line, you're liable to find yourself dead.”

“It's not all that bad. But it is definitely the frontier.” Abigail's eyes sparkled with an I-know-more-than-I'm-saying dance.

“I presume you all stay out of that section.” Dover held his coffee cup in front of him as he spoke, and Rebekah noticed his manicured fingernails.

Dacee June reached down and scooped Quintin's buttered biscuit off the floor. She gave it a quick glance, then popped it back into his eager hands. “Oh, it's fine in the daytime. But at night we usually just sit up here on Forest Hill and watch. Even the sheriff doesn't patrol past the dead line.”

“My, it sounds like a difficult place to raise children,” Olene said.

Todd refused to look across the table at Rebekah.
Thanks, Olene. I do trust you'll go back through Chicago and tell Rebekah's father how dangerous Deadwood is. Perhaps Mr. Jacobson sent you here to chide us to move to Rapid City. Or did his daughter arrange this?

“Actually . . .” Dacee June blurted out as she tried to wipe stewed tomatoes out of Fern's ear, “all of Deadwood is safe for kids. Everyone in the whole town looks out for you. A kid can roam from China Town to Ingleside clear up to Central City and never worry about anything. It's sort of like being adopted by the whole town.”

“Dacee June is right about that,” Abigail added.

Watson Dover wiped his mouth with the blue cotton napkin, then turned to Abigail Gordon. “Speaking of children, I thought perhaps you would bring young Amber to this luncheon.”

Rebekah watched her response closely.

Abigail cleared her throat. “If we have business to discuss, I thought this was not a place for her to attend.” It was the reply of a mother, not an actress.

Dover tapped his fingers on the rim of his coffee cup and glanced down. “I do trust you have good baby-sitting.”

“What kind of baby-sitting I have, or don't have, does not concern you, Mr. Dover.” The controlled voice came out with such authority that everyone at the table froze in place.

The attorney looked as if the opposition had just introduced new evidence. “Well, not me personally. It's just that I wanted to bring some kind of report to Dr. Gordon.”

When Abigail turned to the man next to her, her eyes flashed like a mama bear protecting her cub. “Dr. Gordon has not seen fit to contact his daughter or me for over three years. I doubt seriously if he cares who is her baby-sitter. Your presence here confirms that. If he is concerned about her, I expect he will come to visit her.”

Rebekah hid her grin behind her coffee cup.

Dover responded like a man vainly trying to placate a lynch mob. “Oh no, he's remarried now. It wouldn't be appropriate.”

Abigail's words slammed down like a gavel. “Nor is this conversation appropriate!”

“Well, I agree,” Olene blurted out. “Certain attorneys seemed locked on caustic comments. I'm curious about the support and care offered to the children by the whole community you mentioned. I would have thought everyone was so concerned with getting rich, they might tend to neglect the children. How do you account for this widespread compassion and generosity?”

Most at the table resumed their eating. Except Watson Dover. He sat stunned.

“Some of it has to do with all the babies dying,” Rebekah's voice was soft.

“Oh my,” Olene pressed. “What happened?”

“For a couple of years we had an outbreak of diphtheria, smallpox, and scarlet fever,” Rebekah reported. “It hit the children the hardest. It was horrid. I believe over two hundred infants and children died in two years.” In her mind, Rebekah could see an endless procession of tiny wooden caskets. She could still hear the sobs of grieving mothers.

“My word,” Olene nervously tugged at his gold cuff links. “I had no idea of the primitive conditions out here.”

“But all of that seems to be settled down now.” Dacee June stared in horror as Fern grabbed a big handful of stewed tomatoes, then was somewhat relieved when she stuffed the whole wad into her mouth.

Tobias Olene sprinkled salt on top of his white beans. “What caused things to settle down? Did they find a cure? What made the difference?”

“The fire.” Dacee June popped a bite of ham into her mouth like a person who didn't know when she would have another opportunity to eat.

Watson Dover broke his self-inflicted paralysis and took a sip of coffee.

“What fire?” Olene quizzed.

Dacee June mumbled something, pointed to the bulge in her mouth, then nodded at her brother.

“We just about lost the entire town last fall,” Todd explained. “Three hundred buildings were destroyed.”

Dacee June swallowed hard, then took a deep breath. “But only one man died. The deaf Englishman called Casino Jack. I guess he was drunk and passed out. He must not have smelled the smoke. It's a cinch he didn't hear anyone yell,” she reported.

Dover stared at his plate and pecked away at his food. He seemed to ignore the conversation around him.

“Three hundred buildings?” Olene waved a silver fork across his plate. “But there is no trace of that fire now.”

Todd surveyed those at the table. “Folks in Deadwood don't sit around and mope much. We just jumped in and rebuilt. As you can see, we used a lot more brick this time around.”

Olene seemed to be calculating replacements costs. “Did the hardware burn?”

“Nope. The fire started in the Empire Bakery on Lee Street and swept east,” Todd reported. “We built our brick store building a few years ago. A brick company over in Spearfish went under and owed Dad quite a sum. So he took it in bricks and we rebuilt then. Of course, we did a lot of business after the fire.”

Olene rubbed his clean-shaven chin with his fingers. “It sounds like a quite profitable venture.”

Todd ground his teeth, then glanced down the table to Rebekah.

“Actually, Mr. Olene,” Rebekah replied, “Fortune's Hardware sold most everything at wholesale to any who wanted to rebuild. We didn't think it right to make a profit from others' tribulation.”

Todd laid down his fork and turned to the Cleveland businessman. He forced himself to talk slowly. “Tell me, Mr. Olene . . . if you had a monopoly on the hardware business in Deadwood and half the town burned down, would you sell to them at your cost?”

“I, eh . . . I've never heard of anything like that. I, eh . . . well, I, of course, don't work in our sales division so I really couldn't predict what . . .”

“Mr. Olene, I believe it is a very good question,” Dacee June piped up as she cut a ham slice for a biscuit-chewing Quintin. “What would you do?”

Todd could see Watson Dover visibly relax as Tobias Olene took the witness chair.

“I, eh . . . well, as I . . . this is, conjectural, of course . . . I don't see how this . . .”

Todd watched Olene squirm.
Feed them and grill them. Not a bad strategy
.

Olene pushed his chair back. Its legs squeaked across the polished floor. “What does this have to do with selling me your hardware?”

Rebekah glanced at Todd. He liked the way her eyes flashed.
Go to it, Mrs. Fortune. You've got the fight in your eyes now!

“I believe all of us Fortunes will need to know the answer before we consider any sales,” Rebekah insisted. “If Deadwood burns . . . and it surely will again someday . . . will you sell at wholesale to any who want to rebuild? You see, Mr. Olene, this is the way business is done here in the West.”

By his fidgeting Todd surmised that Olene was ready to bolt to the front door.

“Do I understand that you are forcing this to be a condition of the sale?” Olene blustered.

“Not at all. We aren't obliging you to do anything. You came to Dakota and made an offer to purchase our store,” Todd corrected. “The answer to this question will help us to appraise what kind of company we're dealing with. What's your answer? Are you the kind of a company that sells wholesale when neighbors get burned out?”

Olene cleared his throat. “I will give you an honest answer. I doubt very much if we could maintain a profit margin and afford to sell wholesale under such circumstances.”

“We didn't ask if you could afford it,” Todd persisted. “We asked if you would do it.”

“That's all very hypothetical. With so many buildings rebuilt in brick, I don't know if there is a very real problem. We would, of course, be very supportive of the volunteer fire department.” Olene tugged on his shirt collar in an unsuccessful attempt to loosen his tie. “That's as much of an answer as I can give at this time.”

“I reckon it's obvious where you stand,” Todd said.

“Would anyone like some more ham?” Rebekah stood and retrieved the large platter from the two-wheeled serving cart. Todd knew it was her signal that the matter had been pressed hard enough, for the time.

The conversation trailed off. Todd finished his coffee, then helped young Fern remove her hand that was stuck fast in the cream pitcher. He then glanced down the table at the determined look on his wife's face.
Mr. Tobias Olene, you have made a capital offensive blunder. Under no circumstance should you have aggravated Mrs. Rebekah Fortune. On the other hand . . . thank you, Lord. His insensitivity and arrogance was more convincing than six months of my best logic. If she gets aggravated enough, she'll insist we stay here and run the store the rest of our lives. ‘Course, I could just be getting cocky and optimistic!

By the time the peach cobbler was served, Dacee June had taken the children out to play on the front porch. The front parlor window was open wide as Todd helped Rebekah clear the table.

“What now?” he whispered as they entered the kitchen. “Which one of these charming men should we deal with first?”

Rebekah stacked dishes on the counter and scraped the scraps into a tin bucket on the floor. “How about Mr. Olene?”

“But you said Abigail's business is much more important,” he cautioned.

“Most certainly . . . that's why we'll get the other out of the way first.”

“You are riled over him, aren't you?” he grinned.

“Yes.”

“I'm glad.”

“I know you're glad, Todd Fortune. But the matter is not resolved just because he peeved me.”

“What shall I tell him?”

“Nothing.” She blinked her long, dark eyelashes. “I'll take care of Mr. Tobias Olene. There's a little actress in every woman.”

Todd trailed Rebekah back out to the parlor. Both Dover and Olene were standing. She scooted over to Tobias Olene and slipped her arm in his as she led him to the hat rack. “Mr. Olene, please give my fondest love to my father when you see him next. I trust he ­hasn't remarried without notifying me.”

“Oh, no . . . I'm sure he hasn't . . . at least, I don't think he has. My word, he was with Mildred Dodge the last time I saw him.” Olene unsuccessfully resisted her prodding and inched to the door.

“Oh, don't worry about Mrs. Dodge. She was dropped several months ago, according to his letters.” Rebekah handed him his hat.

“Eh, we haven't discussed this proposal.” He pulled several ­folded sheets of paper from his coat pocket.

Rebekah plucked them from his hands. “Thank you, Tobias, for making the trip to Deadwood. Todd or Daddy Brazos will contact you in a few weeks and let you know what we think.”

“A few weeks?” He spoke like a man sentenced to be hung a few days before Christmas.

“Let's say a month, just to be sure. Of course, if you don't hear from them, the answer is obvious.” With one hand still on his coat sleeve, she held the front door open for him.

“But, I've got to have decided something this week. I didn't get a chance to explain.”

“This is a family business, and the whole family will have to discuss it. I'm sure you understand. Mr. Olene, you told us quite a lot today, actually,” she insisted.

“But we have much more to discuss,” he continued to protest.

“I'm sure a good businessman like yourself has everything articulately explained in these documents. I assure you we will read the details very carefully.”

“But . . . but . . .”

She grabbed his shoulders as he stepped back out on the porch, then she leaned over and kissed his blushing, bushy cheek. “Take that home for my father, would you, Mr. Olene?”

“Yes, well . . . certainly, Rebekah. I'll be stopping in Chicago for a few days on my way home. Eh, thank you for dinner. I'll, eh, look forward to hearing . . .”

The door was closed before the sentence was completed.

Todd Fortune ushered his wife back into the parlor where Watson Dover and Abigail Gordon awkwardly waited. Both gazed at a painting of a neatly arranged flower garden that was signed in the corner,
Rebekah Jacobson
.

“You are a very smooth lady, Mrs. Fortune,” Todd whispered.

“And sealed with a kiss,” she winked.

“Do you always have your way with men?”

“Just the pushovers like you, Todd Fortune.”

He turned to the Chattanooga attorney. “Now, Mr. Dover, why don't we all sit down. We'll let you and Mrs. Gordon finish discussing this proposal of yours.”

Dover perched himself on the edge of the settee. Abigail Gordon chose the straight-backed side chair across the room. Todd and Rebekah remained standing at the wide doorway leading to the entry hall. The lawyer glanced back at the open window where Dacee June hovered on the porch, trying to look uninterested. He cleared his throat. “I thought perhaps Mrs. Gordon and I could have a private discussion.”

Todd joined Rebekah on the sofa. His shirt collar felt damp with sweat. “Mrs. Gordon asked us to sit in with her.” He leaned back and slipped his arms on the back of the couch.