Chapter 3
Chapter
The nerve of that man! Interfering in her business.
Restricting her freedom. Smiling at her as if he actually liked her.
Despicable, deceitful man. He might bamboozle other women with his calm demeanor and dry wit, but she saw through his facade.
Deputy James Paxton had cared about one thing tonight—getting her away from the Salt Fork and preserving the peace for Milton Taggert and his saloon full of liquor lovers.
And he’d succeeded, dragging her away like some kind of criminal.
Noreen wiped her shoes on the rug inside the boardinghouse entryway as if trying to wear a hole in the weave.
“You better not be in trouble with the law again.”
Noreen swallowed a gasp as her chin lurched upward and her gaze landed on the disapproving frown of her landlady. “Mrs. Barker, you startled me.”
The woman prowled around the lower floors of the house with the stealth of a cat. And with her teacup in hand, and her mention of the law, Noreen had no doubt she’d been sitting by the front parlor window, spying on whomever happened by. Especially her tenants.
“Maybe you’d hear better if you didn’t slam doors and attack my rug like a grater on cheese.”
Noreen swallowed the sarcastic retort that sprang to mind and forced an apology through her tight throat instead. “Sorry, Mrs. Barker.”
She couldn’t afford to lose her room here.
It was the only respectable place in town for female boarders and therefore the only alternative to her stepfather’s home.
Her mother might have chosen to tie her life to Arthur Clevenger, but Noreen had made no such vow, and the moment she’d found employment, she’d escaped from under his roof and under his thumb.
Mrs. Barker raised a brow as if doubting the sincerity of Noreen’s apology, not an unwarranted reaction. “I only rent to women with good morals, Miss O’Sullivan. You run afoul of the law, and you’re out on your ear.”
Oh for pity’s sake. “I am not a criminal, Mrs. Barker. I’m a reformer endeavoring to make this community a better place. A safer place. All within the bounds of the law, I assure you.”
“If that’s so, then why did Deputy Paxton deliver you to my door? And don’t try to feed me any nonsense about him courtin’ you, ’cause I won’t believe it.”
“Of course he’s not courting me.” Though an inexplicable pang jabbed her chest at her landlady’s assumption of the impossibility of such an occurrence.
Was she really so repellent that the idea of a man wanting to woo her was unfathomable?
Noreen shoved the depressing notion aside and focused on the issue at hand.
“Deputy Paxton happened across me in town.” No need to specify where.
“And being the gentlemanly type, he insisted upon walking me home.”
Mrs. Barker sniffed. “That does sound like something the deputy would do. He’s such a nice young man. Always ready with a smile and a willingness to lend a hand.”
Her expression softened into something that almost looked . . . dreamy. Noreen couldn’t recall ever seeing such a wistful look on the middle-aged woman’s face.
“Reminds me of my Percy, God rest his soul. That man had a heart of gold. Needed it to put up with my persnickety ways.” Her mouth curved at the corners, and a shadow of a dimple appeared in her left cheek.
Noreen nearly lost her balance while standing on flat feet. Mrs. Barker had a dimple?
The miraculous dent disappeared in the next heartbeat, however, returning the widow to her normal prudish state.
“Well, get on with you, then.” Mrs. Barker shooed her toward the staircase with the hand not holding her tea. “You’re the last one in, as usual. I need to lock up for the night.”
More than happy to escape the judgmental glances and unflattering repartee, Noreen bid her proprietress a tepid good-night and hurried up the stairs to the small room with the slanted ceiling next to the bathroom.
It was the cheapest space in the boardinghouse, cramped and noisy when water ran through the pipes, but it was home, and the moment Noreen crossed the threshold, a layer of stress fell from her shoulders.
No critical attitudes could find her here. No whispers of pity or condescension could penetrate the walls. No maternal disappointment or paternal bullying would spring at her from behind the dresser, and no angry saloon owners with fisted hands stood ready to silence her with physical force.
Here in the privacy of her room she could drop her bravado and admit that if Deputy Paxton hadn’t been there to intervene, her debate with Milton Taggert could have ended very differently. Noreen sighed as she crossed to her washstand and unfastened the top few buttons on her high-necked blouse.
Growing up with a drunkard father who possessed a mean streak that could slice with cruel words or bludgeon with backhanded blows depending on his mood, she knew the dangers of pushing too hard.
Of making herself a target. But coming away from the spinster society meeting, she’d been too full of renewed zeal to exercise caution.
She couldn’t imagine Frances Willard backing down.
She’d stand for what was right, no matter the personal consequences.
As Noreen poured water from the ewer into the chipped porcelain basin, Deputy Paxton’s voice rang through her memory.
“How many men did you keep from entering the saloon tonight?”
She dipped a washcloth into the lukewarm water, squeezed it out, but failed to lift it to her neck.
In all of her passion-fueled protesting over the last few years, she’d never stopped to consider whether her reformation efforts were actually producing progress.
All of her focus had been on proclaiming truth.
Not on getting people to hear that truth.
As much as it galled her to admit, the irritating deputy might have a point.
Noreen ran the damp washcloth over her neck and face, letting routine guide her hands so her mind could wander down new paths.
How did Frances Willard fight for temperance?
She used her political connections and social standing to bring awareness to those with the power to enact change.
Politicians. Newspapermen. Writers. She lectured to women’s groups and organized those who shared her beliefs.
One woman might be ignored, but hundreds standing together had a voice.
Noreen draped her washcloth over the drying bar and reached for the folded papers in her skirt pocket.
She might not have any political connections or social standing to exploit, but thanks to the Lord’s perfect timing, she now had a group of women willing to stand together to better their community.
All she had to do was convince them that temperance was a worthy battle to wage.
The following afternoon, in the lull between the lunch and dinner crowds at the Albany Hotel, Noreen washed dishes, handing off the freshly scrubbed place settings to the young kitchen maid at her side.
Luella accepted the plate and swirled her dish towel over its surface with vigor.
The girl was only fifteen, but she worked hard and gave Mrs. Winslow no reason to regret taking her on three months ago.
Luella came from a difficult home life, something Noreen understood far too well.
The girl’s father, Claude Templeton, was one of the farmers who frequented the Salt Fork, drinking away funds that could be better spent on providing for his wife and daughter.
When Martha came to Noreen at the end of the winter term with concerns about some bruises she’d spotted on Luella’s wrists, Noreen had taken the girl on as a personal project—finding a way to keep her out of the house after school while earning her own funds so she and her mother could have a way to escape should the need arise.
It had taken some fast talking to convince Mrs. Winslow that the hotel would benefit from having an extra pair of hands in the kitchen, but after the first month, Luella had more than proven her worth.
“Noreen, I’m going to check on the table linens for the dinner service,” Mrs. Winslow called, one hand on the swinging door that led from the kitchen to the dining room.
“When you are finished with the dishes, start prepping the vegetables for the salads and side dishes. Lu can peel potatoes for the mash.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Winslow pushed through the door and disappeared from the kitchen. The moment the door swung closed behind her, Luella turned an eager face toward Noreen and practically bounced on the balls of her feet.
“So . . . which spinster profile did you get?”
The plate Noreen had been washing slipped from her fingers to clatter against the metal basin. “How do you know about that? It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“Oh, it is. But Miss Evans let me help with the research. We met every Saturday for the last month to work on it.” Her eyes shone with excitement.
“It was so inspiring. Learning about women who make a difference in the world all on their own, without a husband or father telling them what to do. I had no idea there were so many. Miss Evans says there are likely hundreds more. We just don’t know about them because their stories aren’t flashy enough to end up in newspapers or history books.
” Luella collected the plate from the dishwater and smiled. “Women like you and Miss Evans.”
The girl’s adoration soothed the places inside Noreen’s spirit that had been rubbed raw over the years from those who looked down on her with disapproval, dislike, and even scorn.
Her heart softened and stretched, letting her sisterly feelings for the girl fill even the forgotten corners.
If she could make a difference in Luella’s life, assure her that she was enough all on her own, Noreen would consider her life a success, even if Congress never passed prohibition into law.