Chapter Two
March, 1878--Pueblo, Colorado
Leaning toward the shop’s small lathe, Blake Wymer adjusted the handkerchief over his mouth and nose, then held the tip of a fine-point chisel against the top of the slim piece of oak. As he pumped the foot pedal to keep the clamped wood spinning, he touched the chisel tip to the rod, drew it along the rod, angling it and adding pressure toward the middle, then eased it straight again toward the bottom. Several passes were needed until the spindle, gently curved with a bead in the center, matched the other fifteen he’d created.
These would support a rail along the front of a bar shelf meant to hold liquor bottles at Bradford’s Gentleman’s Club. The commission for Wymer’s Furniture Shop was their first for an item other than household furniture. Everything had to be just as ordered. This eight-foot bar, with matching backsplash and shelves, would be seen by residents and visitors and could serve as a great advertisement for the Wymer brothers.
His vision for the shop’s future was to be open to creating different items, and he had the support of his younger brother, Axton. Between the two, they agreed about changing the name to Wymers’ Woodworking to demonstrate both an expansion of the items they could create and the fact that two men now plied their skills in the business. Unfortunately, their mother wanted to keep the business running just as it always had as a tribute to her late husband, Derwin.
Straightening, he lifted his right foot from the pedal. After pulling the handkerchief under his chin, he blew off the fine dust. Without any pressure, the lathe slowed, its whine quieting in pitch until it stopped. He laid down the file and unclamped the wooden piece, before setting the spindle into a nearby crate holding the others. To stretch away stiffness, he entwined his fingers behind his neck and arched his back. Then, he rolled his torso side to side.
Sunlight filtered through the shop’s windows and the open double doors on this warmer-than-usual afternoon. Bits of sawdust floated in the air. From the other side of the workshop came the grinding sounds of his brother, Axton, using the belt sander to smooth the curved braces meant to hold up the mahogany bar.
Blake stood and reached for the corn-silk broom to sweep the wood shavings into a pile before dumping them into a bucket. Once the bucket was full, he’d add melted paraffin, stir it, and pour the mixture into a pan of small rectangular molds. His mother loved using these blocks to start the day’s wood fires in the cook stove and the one in the parlor. The size of this commissioned piece alone would produce more than they could use. Maybe he’d offer some to Thomas Murray to sell in his mercantile.
The sander slowed to a stop. “Finished with this one. I’m calling it a day, Blake.”
“I did, too. I’m just cleaning up.” He turned and glanced at his brother, who laid squares of burlap over the pieces in process on a side counter.
Blake lifted the broom to brush off the lathe, then turned the corn silk on the front of his clothes and the tops of his boots. Finally, he swept the small pile and disposed of the shavings. He preferred starting work on Mondays with a clean shop. This Saturday’s half-day ended their work week, and the brothers deserved a bit of good-natured fun. “Challenge you to a darts match?”
“Sure. Let me grab us a couple of beers.” Axton moved to a corner in the workshop where a small wooden keg sat on a stand.
As a concession to their mother’s distaste for alcohol, they didn’t drink it under her roof. Moving aside the sawhorses, Blake cleared a path so room existed behind the game’s painted line on the concrete floor. He gathered the steel-tipped darts from a cup on the workbench and set them atop a stool. After unbuttoning his cuffs, he rolled up the sleeves of his chambray shirt and pulled the shirt tails loose from his trousers. He needed freedom of movement to play his best game.
“Here’s your glass.”
“Thanks.” Blake turned and accepted his beer from the man who could be his twin, except that Axton stood an inch taller and his hair was a few shades darker. They shared the same color of hazel eyes and boasted similar broad shoulders and athletic builds. He lifted the glass to his lips and enjoyed several swallows of the tangy brew. “Ah, that’s good.” He set it down. “Let me hang out the Closed sign.” He took a couple of steps. “Should I close both doors?”
“Nah. People from town know we only work a half-day.” Axton shook his head, then drank. “Leave one open. I want to feel the warm air circulating. Because we both know this balmy weather won’t last.”
“True enough.” Blake strode toward the doorway, unhooked the sign from the back of the door, and stepped onto the rocky drive fronting the shop. Lifting the sign, he hung the leather thong on the nail on the right-side door, shifting it until the bottom edge lined up parallel to the ground. He tilted his chin toward the sky, relishing the sunlight’s warmth on his face. Swinging his gaze to the west, he gazed at the front range of the Rocky Mountains in the distance. White covered the craggy peaks and clung to the foothills. Two inches of snow still lay over the ground from a spring storm three days ago. He reentered the workshop. “Remember who went first last time?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll still beat you.”
Blake laughed and worked free the buttons on his shirt, then he quaffed the rest of his beer. “Big words. Now, back those up with some high scores.” After setting down the glass, Blake swung his right arm in several circles to limber up his muscles.
Axton loosened his shirt, as well, and pumped his right arm into the air several times. “Are we starting at five hundred one or three hundred one?”
“I’ve got nothing planned for the afternoon. Let’s play a long game.” He walked back to the keg to pour a refill.
Axton moved to the main counter and slid a notepad toward the edge. He pulled a pencil from over his right ear, drew a line down the center, and wrote their initials at the top of the column. “Ready to go.” He collected three of the darts, stepped to the Oche, and tossed the first one, landing it in a fifteen-point wedge.
As the brothers alternated turns, they discussed the progress on building the bar, what other jobs waited, and the status of the expected shipment from their lumber supplier. They handled business details between brotherly taunts about dart accuracy, their techniques, and their abilities to hit the highest-scoring spots.
Blake thoroughly enjoyed the banter and teasing. The work they did was exacting and required concentration. Noise from the machines prevented much conversation while they created. During these games, the beers relaxed their tongues. They joked around about the fact they were both single with no prospective mates in sight. When the scores dipped below one hundred, they both shed their shirts and played in their sleeveless wool undervests. By this point, between tosses, they elbowed and jostled each other, laughing enough to have to stop and catch their breaths. The beer buzz felt good.
Blake wrapped an arm around Axton’s neck and rubbed his knuckles over his brother’s head. “Only ten points separate us. Want to put money on the outcome?”
The light in the workshop doubled, casting a wider swath over the machinery.
“Blake Derwin and Axton Clyde, what is going on in here?”
A high-pitched gasp sounded.
At the outrage in his mother’s voice, Blake straightened and released his hold. The immediate reaction shouldn’t be the same as when he was eight, but habit ran strong. Grinning, he turned, correcting for a wobble in his step. “A darts game that is really…” Seeing a slender woman standing next to Mother with her blonde head bowed sobered his attitude. He shot a sideways glance at Axton and shrugged.
Axton dove for the bench where he laid his shirt and slipped his arms into the sleeves. “Sorry, Mother.”
“I am shocked at your hedonistic behavior.” Elfrida Arthur Wymer stood just inside the open double doors, arms crossed. Her reticule swung from her wrist like a pendulum.
The other woman looked up, her cheeks blushing dark pink. Her gaze swept up and down.
Leslie Norval. Blake bit back a groan. What was this woman doing here, inside their shop? “Why?” He huffed out a laugh. “We’re grown men at the end of our workday.”
Frowning, she fanned a hand in front of her nose. “Is that alcohol I’m smelling?”
“A couple of beers are all. And we’re not enjoying them in your house, as requested.” He took his time to collect his shirt and cover his bare arms. Being scolded like a child got under his skin. Maybe he’d been too lenient in letting her think she was in charge of the business. He figured she still worked through her grief. But this belief she still dictated his and Axton’s lives had to stop.
Their sister, Clarine, married young and moved out from under Mother’s influence. Thankfully, she lived downtown in the apartment over Otto’s butcher shop. More than once, Blake sought her advice on how to handle Mother’s matchmaking pushes. “Axton and I earned the right to relax for a while.”
“Well, look who I ran into at the mercantile.” Flashing a wide smile, Mother linked an arm with the other woman’s. “I thought, wouldn’t it be fun to invite Leslie to supper? Having a guest always makes a meal special.”
Funwas not the word he would use. At the beginning of the year, his mother started hounding them both—but mostly him—about finding a woman to marry. She actually told him he wasn’t getting any younger. This “surprise” guest was at least the third one she’d foisted onto them. Of course, the house was hers following his father’s death three years ago. But, short of going into town and paying to eat at a restaurant, he couldn’t avoid sharing a meal with whoever she dragged home.
Looking sideways through her lowered lashes, Leslie fluttered her fingers. “Hello, Blake. Hello, Axton.”
Not her, again. Blake couldn’t count how many times he had to deflect her flirtatious ways. Feeling a bit defiant, he didn’t turn his back as he finished fastening the buttons and just nodded in her direction.
“Good afternoon, Leslie.” Axton stepped closer and dipped his head.
“Now, boys, I expect you in the house soon to clean up and join us in the parlor. Maybe the four of us can enjoy a game of cards before sitting down to the meal.” She narrowed her eyes at them both before turning to leave.
Cards, in Mother’s thinking, meant a boring game like euchre or whist. He preferred the more-complicated casino or knaves.
Axton gazed out the door, then swung it closed and shoved the bolt into the lintel overhead. “Well, that was uncomfortable.”
“Shouldn’t be. The workshop is our space. They infringed on our territory.” Blake grabbed his glass and choked down the warm brew. “I intend to finish our game before going inside.”
“You think we should?” Axton frowned.
“Absolutely.” Blake crossed his arms over his chest. “We need to get tougher about standing our ground. Maybe we should check with Clarine and ask when she could attend a family meeting concerning the direction of the business. She still holds a quarter interest.”
“I agree.” Shaking his head, Axton ran a hand over his jaw. “But I’m definitely not looking forward to Mother’s response.”
All joking around bled from the darts match. But they played until Blake threw the dart that hit a double and reduced his score to the desired zero.
Working individually, they completed final tasks to secure their tools before entering the house and heading upstairs to their bedrooms. Blake stripped to the waist and used a washcloth and his bar of Mister Taylor’s sandalwood soap to wash. He glanced at his shaving mug but decided against it. Tomorrow morning before church would be soon enough. Atop a clean vest, he pulled on a tan shirt that his sister said highlighted his eyes. He appreciated it for being well-worn and soft. After inspecting his blue jeans for any stains, he left the room, deciding they were clean enough for time spent at home.
Before stepping into the parlor, he braced himself for the upcoming conversation of matchmaking innuendo and small talk.
Mother and Leslie sat at the small table near the window.
Axton lounged in an armchair. He wore a whole new set of clean clothes.
Traitor.
“There you are. Would you like lemonade, Blake?” Mother gestured toward the other woman. “Leslie made it fresh.”
Leslie reached for a glass.
“No, thanks. I prefer coffee.” From the corner of his eye, he spotted Axton sitting upright, but he didn’t acknowledge the move. Instead, he backed out of the room and headed down the hallway toward the kitchen to fetch a cup. Even better would be if he had to brew a new pot. The gray enamelware pot sat on the back burner. He lifted it and heard a satisfying slosh.
“Are you intentionally making Mother mad?”Axton spoke in a hushed voice as he collected two mugs from the upper cupboard. “You love lemonade.”
True, he did. But, for whatever reason, he was feeling prickly. “Can’t a man drink what he likes in his own house?”
Extending a mug, Axton arched an eyebrow. “Maybe?”
Blake stepped beside his brother so his voice wouldn’t carry. “I’ve known Leslie Norval for at least a decade since her family moved to town. If something was going to spark between us, don’t you think it would have by now?” He poured coffee into his mug, stopping half an inch from the top for the addition of cream.
“Probably.” Axton walked to the icebox to collect the cream pitcher. “But what choice do we have? Pounce on the first eligible woman in her twenties who arrives in Pueblo?”
“No, we invite them here.” He grabbed a spoon from the drawer and stirred in cream until the color was the way he liked.
“I don’t understand.”
“I responded to an ad in a matrimonial newspaper to list with a Chicago matchmaker.”
Axton’s eyes bugged. “You did not.” He stirred in cream and set the spoon in the sink.
“And I received—”
“Boys, what’s taking so long? We’re waiting to start the game.”
Blake returned the pitcher to the icebox. “Tell you later.” Then he walked to the parlor. Maybe, if he focused on the letter he received two days ago, he could get through this afternoon. The card game was as banal as he expected. Between the brothers, they traded off changing the subject when Mother started hinting about the upcoming spring dance.
If Mother’s claims were to be believed, then Leslie deserved half the credit for the meal. But Blake wasn’t fooled. He recognized his mother’s blandly seasoned pot roast and boiled vegetables that cried out for a few shakes of Worcestershire sauce. But he’d never embarrass her by collecting the bottle from the kitchen. The apple cake with burnt sugar icing salvaged the meal.
He lost a game of Rochambeau with Axton over who had to escort the guest home when Mother and Leslie started clearing the dishes. Just as well. He needed to inform Leslie exactly how he felt so she’d turn her fluttering eyelashes in another man’s direction.
She hadn’t come prepared for an evening walk but dissembled about borrowing one of Mother’s unstylish jackets. She eyed Blake’s shearing-lined denim one.
“Sun’s gone down, so the air’s probably cold.” He pulled a navy jacket with shiny buttons off the coat rack. “Here, you’ll need it.”
“Oh.” With wrinkled nose, she donned the jacket. “Thanks.”
After closing the front door, he lit the lantern the family kept on a porch shelf, making sure to carry it between their bodies. His boot heels resounded on the boardwalks of the two full blocks down Santa Fe Avenue. They met no pedestrians or riders. After turning right on Second Street, he spotted a few people coming out of the Range Café. No clouds blocked the stars, which meant the temperatures would drop even farther overnight.
“You know, your mother’s right about the spring dance.”
“How so?” Please, not this topic. “That it’s happening on the twentieth?”
“No, silly. That you and I should go together.” She sidled closer to his arm with the lantern.
He scooted to the left. This is the moment. “Leslie, I hope you’re not hurt by what I’m about to say or take it the wrong way. But at least ten spring dances have happened since you moved to town. The reason we never attended one together is because I don’t view you in a romantic way.” Getting those words out after all this time felt emboldening. Why hadn’t he said anything like this before?
She stopped walking, and her mouth gaped. Then she scurried around behind and latched onto his left arm. “But that’s only because you haven’t given us a chance. If we spent time together, you never know what could develop. I’ve heard people say they fell in love with their soul mate while dancing.”
The desperate note in her voice made him cringe. “Maybe for them.” He thought of the letter and how on first reading he’d been mesmerized by the honesty of the woman’s words.
Scowling, Leslie jammed her hands on her hips. “Well, Blake Wymer, you will never know what you’re missing.” With a toss of her head, she turned and stomped away down the boardwalk.
Blake kept pace, never letting her disappear past the lantern’s circle of light as they crossed the bridge over the Arkansas River and turned toward her South Pueblo neighborhood.
At the house on the corner of Fourth and D Streets, she ran up the porch steps, tossed the jacket onto the railing, and went inside.
On the return trip with Mother’s jacket slung over an arm, he sat on the bench in front of Charley’s Barber Shop and pulled the letter from his wallet. He didn’t dare leave it in his bedroom for his mother to find.
Dear mystery man,
Have you sat somewhere—a theater, a park, even a room—surrounded by people and still felt lonely? Have you stared at the stelle at night and wondered if you exist in this multitude, but your amore lives in a different solar system and never will spin into your orbit? Il destino. Destiny. Is that the only way lovers can meet?
If you’ve never had similar thoughts, then stop reading. We are not well-suited.
But if such issues cross your mind, then consider writing and sharing yours. My name is Gianna, I grew up in Salerno, Italy, and I’m a governess to my cousin’s three children in Chicago. My heart overflows with love for those bambinos, but I wish to meet a man on whom I can bestow my affection and be rewarded with the same. I wave my hands too much when I talk, can be fanciful like a child, and I sometimes forget the English word for what I wish to say. But I am a loyal and devoted person who yearns to be the stella in my beloved’s eyes.
Respectfully sent,
Gianna