Western Spring Weddings: The City Girl and the Rancher / His Springtime Bride / When a Cowboy Says I Do. Kathryn Albright
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“Listen, Miss Seaforth, like I said, you might start thinkin’ what to do if Arness doesn’t show up.” Actually, if he was in her skin, he would be thinking what to do if he did show up. Run the other direction, he hoped.
“Emily,” she said suddenly. “Are you finished with your ice cream?”
The girl nodded. “Yes, Mama, but—”
“Then we must excuse ourselves and retire to our hotel room. Good afternoon, Mr. Harris.”
He watched the slim, graceful woman until she disappeared through the doorway, then chugged down the rest of his coffee just as Rita appeared at his elbow. “Want some more?”
“Want some? Yeah. Gonna have some? No. Gotta ride out to the Bar H while I can still mount a horse.”
* * *
By morning Clarissa knew she was in real trouble. Her meager funds would soon dwindle, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she acknowledged that the situation called for extraordinary measures. After breakfast she left Emily in the care of the kindly waitress and began canvassing up one side of the dusty street and down the other, looking for employment.
The dressmaker smiled but shook her head. The barbershop, the sheriff’s office and the blacksmith had no use for a female. That left the bank and the Golden Partridge saloon, and she soon found that the bank wouldn’t hire a woman, either.
Very well. She straightened her spine and stepped off the sidewalk. For the first time in her life she would walk into a saloon.
Inside the Golden Partridge it was dim and smoky, and even at this hour of the morning it smelled of something pungent. Tobacco, she guessed. And spirits. She halted just inside the swinging batwing doors to get her bearings, and in that instant a pall of silence descended. Even the piano player’s music dribbled to a stop.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the bartender called out. “Ladies aren’t allowed in here.”
She clenched her fingers around the reticule holding the last of her money—two dollars. “I...I assumed that to be the case, sir. I was wondering if you...that is, would you have any employment available?”
The bartender’s meaty hand swiped back and forth across the expanse of mahogany countertop. “Not for a lady, no.”
“For what, then?”
The man paused to size her up. “Well, I dunno. Can you sing?”
Some hours later, Clarissa marched up and down in front of the big two-story brown house on lower Willow Street for a good ten minutes before she could work up the courage to open the gate. “Go on down to Serena’s place,” the bartender had instructed. “Ask her for a dress—something not too flashy but—” the man actually blushed! “—real female-lookin’.”
She had never been within a mile of such a place! Her knees felt wobbly, but she stuffed down her misgivings, walked up the steps and stood trembling on the wide front porch of Serena’s house. Before she could ring the bell, the door swung inward and a tall, gray-haired woman in a lacy black wrapper peered out at her.
“Miss Serena?”
The woman gave a short nod. “Whaddya want, honey? A job?”
“Well, yes, in a way. Tom, the bartender at the Golden Partridge, said I should ask you for an appropriate dress for—”
“Did he, now? Appropriate for what?”
“For singing. He gave me a job singing at the saloon tonight, but...I have nothing to wear. He said my travel dress wouldn’t be quite right.”
Serena eyed her travel suit. “Got a good eye, does Tom. Well, now, dearie, you just come right on in and we’ll see what we can do.”
“Thank you kindly, Miss—”
“Just Serena. Well, come on, honey! No need to be shy.” She closed the door with a soft click. “Mary?” she called over her shoulder. “Mary, come on down here. Got a dove that ain’t soiled yet, and she needs yer help.”
A slim girl with very blond ringlets appeared in the parlor. She was clad in something with fluffy pink feathers around the shoulders and a slit up one side. She smelled of something over-sweet, lily-of-the-valley, perhaps.
“Mary, take Miss—what’s yer name, dearie?”
“Seaforth. Clarissa Seaforth.”
“Tom sent her over from the saloon,” Serena explained. “Mary, take Miss Seaforth upstairs and find somethin’ with some sass to it. She’s gonna sing at the Golden Partridge.”
Clarissa followed the girl up the thickly carpeted staircase and into a pleasant bedroom with blue flowered wallpaper and white lace curtains. A narrow bed sat in one corner and a carved walnut armoire stood on the opposite wall.
“Y’all look pretty small to me,” Mary remarked. She rummaged through a welter of gowns and finally extracted a handsome crimson velvet creation. “Here. Try this one.”
While Clarissa unbuttoned her bodice and stepped out of her gored skirt, the blonde girl circled around, studying her. Before Clarissa could step into the velvet gown, Mary snatched it back. “Oh, no, that won’t be right on you, honey. Try this one instead.” She slipped a dark green moiré taffeta creation off its hanger and held it out.
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Yes, you could, honey. Don’t argue.”
Mary buttoned the gown up the back and stepped away with an assessing look. Then she folded back one door of the armoire and spun Clarissa around. “Hmm. Here, take a look at yourself in the mirror.”
A stranger with huge green eyes in a very pale face stared back at her. “Oh,” she breathed. “Surely that isn’t me!”
Mary laughed. “Sure is, honey. Green suits you.”
“But the neckline is so...so...”
“Low? S’posed to be low, honey. Why do you think Tom sent you to us?”
“Well, he expects me to sing tonight, and he did not care for my travel suit.”
Mary frowned. “Where y’all from, honey?”
“Boston.”
“Huh! That explains everything. Bet you’ve never been within a city block of a place like Serena’s, have ya? Didn’t think so. And y’all aren’t fixin’ to move in here, are ya?”
“Well, no. I have secured employment as a singer at the СКАЧАТЬ