Whistler in the Dark (2 page)

Your most obedient servant,

James M. Spaulding

Please commence the trip with all possible speed
. Emma clenched her hands into fists. “But I don't want to move to Colorado Territory! It's—it's a wilderness!”

“It's not a wilderness. Twin Pines sounds like a nice little town.” Mother sighed. “Sweetheart, I know it will be a big change. But we've talked about this before! You knew I was looking for a position somewhere in the West.”

I didn't think you'd find one
, Emma wanted to shout. She pleated her skirt between her fingers, avoiding Mother's gaze.

Mother's voice grew thin. “Emma, try to understand. I … I need to make a new beginning. Here in Chicago, I'll never be anyone but Mrs. Richard Henderson.”

And why was that so terrible? Emma fought back tears, missing her father so much that she could hardly breathe. Their little house that leaked around the windows during heavy rains, and never heated properly, and barely held the half-dozen ladies wearing huge hoop skirts who had gathered every Thursday during the war to sew shirts for the soldiers—why, it had never seemed so dear.

And what about
her
? Would she have good neighbors in Colorado? The kind who brought custardy
blanc mange
when Emma felt poorly, as Mrs. Beecher had? Would Emma find a friend like Judith Littleton? Judith had been Emma's dearest friend ever since, as five-year-olds, they had been assigned to share a desk on their first day of school. These people, this neighborhood, Chicago—
this
was home.

Why were Mother's causes always more important than Emma? Mrs. Littleton's scorn rang in her memory: “Scandalous … ridiculous … masculine …” Mrs. Littleton had done war work too, but now she spent her afternoons embroidering monograms on handkerchiefs and teaching Judith and Emma how to tat lace. Only Emma's mother wanted to move to the wild frontier and march through life wearing a Reform Dress, with no regard for her daughter's feelings.

Emma stared at the floor. If they stayed in Chicago, she would be shamed beyond words by her mother's Reform Dress. The only escape was moving to horrible Colorado Territory. She was trapped. It wasn't fair! But as Emma opened her mouth to protest, her father's very last words to her rang through the years: “Be a good, obedient girl for your mother, Emma. She'll need your help. Promise?” Emma had promised. Surely Father hadn't known that Mother would announce a wild plan like this! Still … Emma had promised.

“I think Twin Pines will give us new opportunities,” Mother continued. “I'm looking forward to writing articles. Most will be news, of course, but I hope I can make a difference by letting Colorado women know about the reform movement. And I'm counting on your help with the newspaper. Perhaps you can write a special column for young people.”

Composition was Emma's least favorite subject in school.
“Mother—”

Before Emma could continue, Mother gasped and jerked to her feet. All hint of color drained from her cheeks.

For an instant Emma thought that her lack of enthusiasm had caused Mother such distress. Then, through the open window, Emma caught a snatch of a whistled tune fading into the distance.
Maggie by My Side
.

The hair on the back of Emma's neck prickled, and goosebumps rose on her skin. “Father used to whistle that tune. Just like that.”

“Yes,” Mother managed. “
Exactly
like that.”

Emma shivered. “Maybe it was Father's ghost—”

“Don't be ridiculous.” But Mother's voice shook—just as it had the day the letter about Father's death arrived. She picked up the daguerreotype and drew a deep breath, staring at the image. “It was your father's favorite song,” she said in a faraway tone. “My parents always called me Margaret, but your father called me Maggie. I haven't heard a man whistle
Maggie by My Side
since your father enlisted in the army.”

Emma flew to the window. Twilight shadowed the street. She heard the clip-clop of a team of horses pulling a carriage down the muddy street, and the Beecher boys whooping over a croquet game next door. Nothing more.

“I imagine it was just a worker heading home.” Mother pressed the daguerreotype against her heart before replacing it on the table. “We were silly to let it startle us so.”

Emma stared at the carpet. She didn't think they'd been silly. The whistled tune echoed in her head, and another shiver scuttled over Emma's skin. Father had been dead for two years. And now they heard his special song, whistled just as Father used to, on the very evening Mother tried on her first Reform Dress? Just as she announced plans to take Emma from their old family home and move to the wilds of Colorado?

If it wasn't Father's ghost, it was an omen. A bad one.

C
HAPTER
2

C
OLD
W
ELCOME

Silas banged the stagecoach door open and grinned at his two passengers. “Here we are, ladies!”

Emma took a deep breath.
Here we are
.

After two weeks of frantic packing, she and Mother had spent endless days rattling west in train cars and, finally, a stagecoach. In eastern Colorado Territory, the lush green of prairies had given way to an arid, sandy brown, sprinkled with prickly pear cactus and tufts of silver sage. This morning, the road had left the flat plains and climbed along what felt like a boulder-strewn path. Now, she and Mother had finally arrived in their new home.

Emma's mouth felt dry. Silas offered his hand to Mother before helping Emma step down to the ground.

Twin Pines was situated along a creek in a long, high meadow. Emma's gaze went first to the rocky hills rising sharply beyond the town. The nearer slopes were marked only with stumps, but pine trees dotted the higher elevations. Emma couldn't remember a bluer sky.

Suddenly, several sharp explosions shattered the afternoon. “Good gracious!” Mother gasped, grabbing Emma's arm. “Was that gunfire?”

“Nothing to fret about!” Silas spat a stream of tobacco juice into the street, aiming away from their skirts. “Somebody's just letting folks know the mail's in.”

The stage had stopped in the middle of what appeared to be Twin Pines' single street, and people were already hurrying toward the coach. Silas tossed a leather pouch toward a short, balding man wearing a once-white shirt and limp cravat. The short man stepped up on a mounting block and began pulling envelopes from the mailbag. “Jack Tomkins! Nels Torkelson! Nathaniel Russert! Hang on, there, it's still ten cents a letter!”

Emma's heart sank. Why, she could almost throw a rock from one end of town to the other! Twin Pines boasted fewer than a dozen frame buildings. Some of them, square and proper, were labeled with signs:
General Store, Boardinghouse, Land Office
, and
Hardware and Mining Supplies
. A line of horses stamped at the picket pole in front of the largest building in town—a saloon.

The rest of the town faded down the street with a curious, rickety air. Some buildings had been constructed of rough logs. A number of businessmen apparently worked from canvas tents. A collection of odd cabins and shacks sprawled haphazardly on the rolling ground around the town. The street itself was a washboard of ruts and mud, and Emma knew why the men tucked their trousers into their boots. An unfortunate combination of rotting potato parings and ox droppings scented the afternoon.

Dismay settled on Emma's shoulders. Twin Pines looked nothing like the tidy village Mr. Spaulding had described.

He had lied, Emma realized. Thunderation! He had lied!

“Excuse me, is this really Twin Pines?” Mother asked Silas slowly.

“Yes, ma'am.” Silas shifted his attention to his assistant, who had clambered to the top of the coach, where supplies and the Hendersons' carpetbags had been lashed down. “Start with the ladies' luggage, Bob.”

Mother frowned. “But Mr. Spaulding's letter said …”

“Did Spaulding paint a pretty picture?” Silas shook his head. “That's a land speculator for you. He's a promoter. Staked every penny he's got on this town, so I hear. Came out from New York and bought lots of land cheap, so he could sell it to farmers and businessmen as prices rise. Spaulding's desperate to bring new immigrants out from back east.”

“Mother—” Emma began, but she saw fire in Mother's eyes and swallowed the accusation she wanted to shout: Look what you've done!

The driver caught one of their carpetbags and set it off to the side. “I'll be here long enough to rest my horses and get a meal, ma'am. Let me know if you want me to load your luggage again and take you back.”

Emma caught her breath. Oh!
Could
they go back to Chicago?

“Leave it there for the moment,” Mother said in a clipped tone. She looked around grimly. “I expected to be met,” she muttered. “Emma, wait for me here.” She marched toward the Land Office. Emma was glad Mother had decided to travel in a sensible gray dress instead of the horrid Reform Dress. She looked formidable enough as it was.

Silas set the other carpetbag at Emma's feet. “This is yours too, ain't it?” Emma nodded miserably. Silas was chewing tobacco, and he wore a huge bowie knife on his belt and smelled of sweat and onions—and he was the most familiar thing in sight! Tears threatened, and Emma blinked hard.

“There's some good folks in town,” Silas said, as if reading her thoughts. “Oh, say, did that fellow find you and your mother last night?”

“What fellow?”

“Never saw him before. He stopped in the stable and asked if Mrs. Henderson and her daughter were on my stagecoach. I told him you were inside the station house. Didn't he find you?”

“No.” Emma frowned. “What did he look like?”

“Well, it was dark, and I was tending a horse with a loose shoe, so I didn't get a good look. Short fellow. Had a limp, I think. Smelled like he'd been traveling hard.”

Emma crushed a clod of dried mud beneath the toe of one boot, considering. She'd heard someone whistle
Maggie by My Side
again last night as she was dropping off to sleep. “You must have been dreaming,” Mother had said crisply this morning—just as she had when Emma had thought she'd heard the tune again in Chicago. But Emma
knew
she hadn't been dreaming. Was Father somehow trying to reach his widow and daughter? Fear and hope mingled in a quick shiver before she shook her head. Father had stood taller than most men, and a ghost wasn't likely to ask a stage driver for directions—

“Emma?” Mother called, hurrying forward with a portly man in tow. “This is Mr. Spaulding.”

“How do you do,” Emma said reluctantly, sizing up the man who had painted such a rosy picture of this miserable town.

“I trust your trip went well?” Mr. Spaulding asked. The buttons on his maroon paisley vest looked ready to pop. Beneath a dusty top hat, his forehead glistened with sweat, although the afternoon smelled like rain and a cool breeze made Emma appreciate the sun sifting through her shawl. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

“The trip was uneventful.” Mother's voice was hard. “But, Mr. Spaulding, I must be frank. My first glimpse of Twin Pines does not reveal the idyllic town you described in your letters.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, I—ahem—I have occasionally been accused of describing the town as I know it can
become
, instead of as it is. I'm sure you'll forgive me that indulgence.” Mr. Spaulding didn't quite meet Mother's eye.

“Is there a church?”

“No. That is—not yet. Although Miss Holly has organized Sunday gatherings. Bible readings and hymn singing and such.”

Mother pursed her lips. “What about a school? I expect Emma to attend a proper school in the fall.”

“And she will! That's what, three months away? I'm sure … that is, by then … with a little luck …” Mr. Spaulding's voice trailed away as he reached for his pocket watch. “Not quite one o'clock!” he concluded, as if that had direct bearing on the conversation. “Silas made good time.”

The man was impossible. This place was impossible! No church, no school—why, it was horrible!

Mother glanced at the luggage, then at Silas, who was heading toward the saloon. “I'd like to see our house, sir,” she said. “And then the newspaper office.”

“Yes! Yes, of course. The freight driver delivered your equipment two days ago. As to your accommodations … ahem! I'm afraid I've had to arrange for temporary quarters. Right this way.” He picked up their two carpetbags and led the way—to a two-story frame building labeled “Boardinghouse.”

Emma's spirits, already low, dipped further. A boardinghouse!

“You did promise us a house of our own.” Mother's tone could have sliced lard.

Mr. Spaulding nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, of course. I—ahem!—am already working on that small detail. There are shortages, you understand …”