Chapter Fourteen
Amelia frowned as she lifted a bolt of pink printed calico from the shelf of the dry goods store in Gunnison.
It was a decent weight, but she wasn’t convinced by the weave.
She turned the bolt to look at the price marked in pencil on the end of the bolt and was promptly even less convinced by the price.
Pursing her lips, she slid it back on the shelf.
She was determined to put her new workroom to good use and, thus, equally determined to get good fabric.
“Mr. Brown’s prices are surely reflecting this new mania for printed fabrics from factories back east,” Helen muttered on Amelia’s right.
Amelia hummed in agreement. Fashion trends were slow in coming to Gunnison, but the young ladies of the town had taken a liking to calicos for their smocks and blouses under their pinafores.
Mr. Brown, the purveyor of the dry goods store, had clearly heard of this growing fondness for prints and had ordered quite a supply of them.
Unfortunately, he also had a shrewd nose for business and had marked the fabrics’ prices accordingly.
Amelia selected another calico, a pastel sage green with merry little yellow flowers dotting it. She ran the fabric between her fingers and then held it up to catch the light from the large glass window at the front of the store.
“Oh, absolutely not,” she said with all the hauteur of a society matron inspecting a tray of diamonds.
“I can assure you that all of our fabrics are of the highest quality for price,” Mr. Brown piped up from behind the counter. Helen, who was too short to be seen over the shelves, rolled her eyes at Amelia, not buying his patter for a moment.
Amelia, tall enough to see over the shelves, looked down her nose at Mr. Brown. “Can you indeed? Because these calicos resemble chintz more than good cottons.”
Mr. Brown, a balding man of about forty years who rigorously oiled his hair and waxed his mustache every morning, anxiously pushed his spectacles back up on his nose.
“My good lady, I can assure you! I can! These are straight from a factory in New York, where I hear that the good ladies are quite taken with them.”
“The ladies of New York are quite welcome to them,” Amelia retorted. “They’re chintz, I can assure you.”
“Come along, Amelia,” Helen said, sniffing aristocratically.
“I know a good draper who carries a collection of fine, polished cottons and silesias.” She looped her arm through Amelia’s, and together, they sailed right past a flummoxed Mr. Brown and out of his store and onto the wood-planked walking path.
They had only managed a few steps before they both broke down in girlish laughter, collapsing against one another.
“Oh, that was delicious,” Helen said, shaking her head. “Though I do feel a little bad for poor Mr. Brown.”
“I don’t,” Amelia responded. “No one in their right mind would pay those prices.”
“I fear that when it comes to the young ladies of Gunnison, none of them are in their right mind regarding fashion right now,” Helen said, steering them down the street toward the draper’s shop.
“They’ve all got a bit of a mania right now.
Someone’s been passing around copies of The Delineator, and now it’s all any of them can talk about. ”
“Ruby was asking me about curling tongs,” Amelia admitted. “She claimed they were for making paper flowers, but I’ve also seen her holding a clay pipe stem to a candle to try and make curls in her forelock.”
Helen chuckled again. “I can’t believe young ladies are still trying that. I used to get quite a tongue-lashing from my father for nicking his pipe to do the very same.”
“Well, I just hope she’s skilled at it,” Amelia sighed. “Goodness knows I burnt my fingers enough times trying it myself as a girl.”
This made Helen laugh again. “So, when will you be going back to Brown’s to negotiate?”
“In a day or two, I imagine,” Amelia said. “I suspect his prices will be more in line with my purse then. The prints might not be good enough for a frock, but I think they’ll do well for some new curtains for Ruby.”
Helen hummed an agreement as they passed a glass shop window with a display of lace gloves. “Oh, look how delicate!” she cooed, pressing her nose right up against the glass. “Those ones with the little pearl buttons on the wrist are quite fetching.”
Amelia peered over her. “I hardly suspected you of liking something so delicate.”
“I like a dainty as much as the next woman on occasion,” Helen responded. “I just get so few opportunities—wrangling herds of wild children doesn’t lend itself to silks and laces.”
“Too true,” Amelia sighed. She knew exactly what Helen meant; she loved her life on the frontier, the freedom and vistas it offered, but sometimes she longed for the chance to put flowers in her hair or wear fine gloves.
They turned away from the shop window, and Helen nodded toward a sign pasted up on a nearby post. “Well, here might be a chance for a turn about the dancefloor with a gallant gentleman,” she said. “The harvest festival is the highlight of the social calendar in Gunnison.”
“Oh?” Amelia asked, peering at the poster. It advertised games and food, and the promise of lively music and dancing on the final evening. Prizes were given out for livestock, produce, and all sorts of other things. “That might be a jolly time.”
“It usually is,” Helen said, grinning. “There’s always a mighty tug-of-war contest between the men of Gunnison, which is always a sight to behold.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes,” Helen said, lowering her voice and leaning in closer to Amelia. “There’s a great deal of bare forearms and eschewing of shirts for it.”
“Oh my,” Amelia murmured. “Well, I suppose they do say that the countryside is full of wonderful sights.”
“Don’t they just?” Helen agreed with a giggle behind her fingers. “I must inform you that your own dear husband caused quite a bit of blushing and swooning at the last one.”
Amelia didn’t respond, but she did preen a bit at this information.
While they weren’t exactly married (and she had no intention of advertising this fact), it was still nice to know that she would be appearing on the arm of such a desirable man.
And it’s not like you can deny that he’s handsome behind that gruff mask of his, she mused.
Why, I bet if he ever smiled, he’d be the handsomest man in the whole county.
Amelia shook her head hard at that thought. Cody’s alleged handsomeness was nothing to her; he was merely the means to a secure life. She repeated this fact over and over in her head until it felt true enough.
They were nearly to the draper’s when they came across the post office situated near the railway station. One of the postmen, loading up his wagon with leather post satchels, waved and caught their attention.
“Mrs. Walker!” he called and came bustling up, holding a letter. “I’m right glad to see you. You’ve got a letter, and running into you like this saves me a trip out to your husband’s ranch.”
Amelia, surprised that anyone should send her a letter, stared at the envelope for a moment.
Panic seized her for a moment, certain that she’d see Dean’s spidery writing on the return address.
If that were the case, he’d know exactly where she was.
Of course, that was illogical—he wouldn’t very well write to her.
He had a nasty habit of simply appearing in her life when she least expected it.
“Mrs. Walker?” the postman prompted.
Amelia shook her head, then accepted the letter with a smile she hoped passed for pleased. “Thank you, sir,” she replied. He touched the bill of his cap and scurried back to his wagon. Amelia continued to stare down at the letter.
“Amelia, darling, are you well?” Helen inquired, peering into her face.
Amelia swallowed and tried to give her a reassuring smile. “I’m fine,” she said. “I simply didn’t expect to get a letter. I don’t know anyone who would be writing to me.”
“Haven’t you any family?” Helen inquired.
Amelia shook her head. “Not anymore. Oh!” she said, peering down at the return. “It’s from Maryjane! I didn’t recognize her name—she must’ve married. Good for her,” she said. “Would you mind terribly…?” she said, gesturing with the letter.
“Not at all,” Helen said. “You read, and I’ll navigate.” She took Amelia by the arm, who promptly tore the envelope open and withdrew the letter.
My dearest Amelia,
I’m writing to tell you two bits of news.
The first, as you may have guessed from the direction on the envelope, I have married!
I’ve found a wonderful husband, a station master with ambitions of opening a freight company.
Can you imagine? Sending goods and people just winging all over the entire continent.
We are bound for San Francisco and hope to be settled in the fall.
The second piece of news is not quite so jolly.
I remember your anxiety about a certain man, though, of course, I never had the entire story.
A stranger arrived in town about a week ago and began making inquiries into your whereabouts.
He claimed that he was a husband in pursuit of a runaway wife, which, of course, I knew to be nonsense, as you never claimed to be married.
In any case, though he has a comely face, there’s something in his air that puts me off.
Needless to say, none of us at the boarding house are eager to give him any information.
I do hope this news hasn’t upset you. I pray that you are as happy in your new life as I am in mine. When I am settled and have a home of my own, I sincerely hope that you will come to see us. I hear there’s a rail line all the way to Gunnison now, so the trip shouldn’t be too terrible.
They grow oranges in San Francisco—isn’t that jolly?
Your friend,
Mary Jane Tyler
Amelia stared down at the letter. She knew that her feet were still moving, as people and shops were passing by, but she couldn’t feel them.
She couldn’t feel much of anything but the growing sense of dread that gnawed at her insides.
She stared and stared, hoping that the words would change.
She had the sudden, irrational urge to run somewhere, anywhere, other than where she currently was.
“Was that an Arizona postmark?”
Helen’s voice broke into her reverie. Brought back to the present, Amelia shook herself slightly and quickly stuffed the letter into her reticule. “Yes,” she answered, trying to order her thoughts.
“I hear the desert is quite lovely,” Helen offered.
“Yes,” Amelia said. She fished around for something to say that wouldn’t appear too curt but would curtail any further conversation on the topic.
She liked Helen, counted her as a friend even, but she still didn’t know her well enough to burden her with her past. It seemed sordid, having a man chase her all over creation like this. “It was surprisingly cold,” she added.
“Mm,” Helen hummed. Amelia caught her looking at her askance, but she didn’t make any inquiries, which Amelia was grateful for.
They reached the doorway of the draper’s shop, but Amelia’s heart wasn’t in it anymore. It seemed trifling at best to worry about finding a few yards of silesia when her entire life she was building was in danger. Dean was just too dogged to leave her be.
There’s really only one solution, Amelia realized as she stared at a row of bolts of fabric without really seeing them. I have to persuade Cody to really marry me—only then will Dean be unable to claim me as his own.