18
DESSA FILLED the trash bin with the remnants of breakfast: orange peels, the scrapings from her bowl of oatmeal, a few crumbs from the soda biscuits she’d baked. With the food trash separated from the rest, she took it all out to the two bins the garbage wagon would empty on Wednesday.
Outside, she expected the air to be fresh—but as she approached the side of the carriage house where the bins were kept, she smelled something other than the clean air or the trash. She smelled smoke.
Heart pounding, she looked back at the house but saw nothing suspicious, not even from upstairs, where Jane still slept. Turning around, she looked along the yards in both directions.
Nothing.
The smell seemed to be stronger as she approached the covered trash bins. Could someone have tossed in a match?
Instead of lifting the lid on either the food or the regular waste bin, she felt the sides first. Neither was hot.
Yet that smell . . . She looked at the carriage house. It was old and dilapidated, that was true. But the scent seemed stronger now that she was so near the building.
Setting aside the buckets, Dessa approached the door she always had such trouble opening. It took several minutes to pry it loose, even as she tugged it back and forth. Once again it sprang open most unexpectedly.
The scent of smoke was stronger than ever, though she saw nothing unusual. Stepping inside, she found her eye drawn to the blanket on the bed—more specifically, to a rather large and black circle burned right through to the hay mattress beneath.
Rolling up the rest of the blanket and pressing on the marred center to be sure there were no flames left, she felt dampness instead. Someone had started this fire . . . but just as surely, someone had extinguished it.
Dessa turned around to study the space. There was noplace to hide; she knew she was alone.
Walking back to where the boards were loose, she pushed one. The plank slid easily out of the way, wide enough for her to slip her head outside. Two loose planks, side by side, would allow a person of some girth to pass through. Someone had been here! And this was how they were coming and going.
There was no one in the area now, though. Turning back again, she searched for any sign of regular occupancy. There were no clothes, no leftover food, nothing but the burned blanket and a discarded bowl. She realized it was the same one that last time held nuts for that squirrel.
“Oh, Lord,” she said aloud, “if someone wants a roof over their head, why won’t they come to my front door?”
Determinedly, she left the carriage house to return to the kitchen, where she found the same hammer and supply of nails Mr. Ridgeway had used to hang the sign beside her dining room window. She would show this person, whoever it was, they needn’t resort to poaching. They were welcome inside.
She pounded nails in the planks until they were firmly in place—a task that took far longer than she expected. Jane came in search of her and offered to help when Dessa found several more loose boards, all the way around the structure. Between the two of them they sealed sixteen planks—a few of them crookedly, but firmly all the same.
“Now all we have to do is write a note.”
“A note?” Jane said, following Dessa inside.
Dessa brushed a loose tendril of hair from her face. Between the morning’s exertion and the heat of the sun, she wanted to take a bath. But that would have to wait. “We’re going to invite whoever was living here to come to the door.”
“But you don’t know who it was! It could be anybody. A criminal, even!”
“Then they probably won’t take advantage of the offer. But I don’t want someone staying here without knowing who it is. They must come to the door to find welcome under either this roof or that one.”
Dessa wrote the note, then nailed it to the first plank she’d righted, at the back of the building.
Just as she returned inside the house, her thoughts on that bath, someone knocked at the front door.
Henry stepped out of his carriage and approached the door to his bank, but something prompted him to take a look around. It had been a long time since he’d felt a pang of nervousness that someone was watching him. Those pangs had faded once he knew he was no longer liable to go to jail for his youthful mistake, particularly after he’d repaid the money he’d stolen so long ago.
But there it was again, the feeling that someone had followed him out to City Park and was even now watching him walk into his bank.
Memories of those two notes came to mind. He’d received only the two, so he’d preferred to forget about them. Until now.
On the top step leading to the door, Henry turned around, pretending he’d forgotten something in his carriage. But instead of going back to the carriage, he scanned the street again. There were a few pedestrians walking on the other side of the road, coming out of the market. A boy ran from one doorway to another, while a delivery wagon sat outside. Nothing unusual, no one even remotely shady.
He shook his head, then continued on toward the bank’s entryway.
Dessa opened the door just in time to see the back of a woman dressed in one of the loveliest gowns she’d ever seen. It was far more ornate than something Dessa would wear, the shade a pink of the ripest watermelon, with shirred sleeves that were pulled low off the shoulders to complement a satin basque fading into a pleated skirt drawn tightly at the back. When she turned, Dessa’s eye was immediately drawn to the low and wide cut of the square décolletage, made almost decent by a threadlike trim along the edge.
“Hello!” Dessa said, opening the door wider. She wished she hadn’t exerted herself quite so much this morning; she felt soiled and ugly next to this light-haired beauty. “Come in, won’t you? I’m Dessa Caldwell.”
The young woman looked momentarily indecisive, as if she might turn around again. She clutched a velvet pouch so tightly that Dessa saw her knuckles were nearly as white as the handkerchief sticking out the side of one hand.
Dessa neared her. “Is that one of the handkerchiefs I made?”
The woman held it out, not so much to hand it back as to simply show it. “I stole it from another girl.”
It didn’t matter. “Come in, won’t you?” Dessa nearly whispered the invitation, but it was enough. As she held the door, the other woman came inside. “Can I get you something? Tea, perhaps? Would you like breakfast, or perhaps an early lunch?”
She shook her head. “No . . . I don’t know why I came.” She turned back to the door, but Dessa still stood near it. “I need to go.”
“Oh, but do stay!” Dessa insisted. “Just for a visit.”
Dessa led the woman to the settee in the parlor just as Jane joined them from the kitchen. Dessa introduced Jane, though she couldn’t offer the name of their guest in return.
Jane looked between the visitor and Dessa. “Do you want me to keep sewing those pillowcases?”
Dessa nodded, grateful the girl had noticed the other woman’s tension. “Yes, Jane. There is more material upstairs. Take your time finding something suitable, all right?”
With Jane gone, Dessa turned her attention fully on the woman who sat on her settee. “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like something? Tea?” Dessa gave a quick smile as she watched the woman twist the ribbon on her little pouch. “I don’t like tea much myself, but I’ve always welcomed it when I’m looking to do something with my hands.”
The woman’s light eyes took on a hint of what could only be relief. With that simple observation and admission, Dessa had broken through, tipped the woman’s indecision in favor of staying. The woman burst into tears, and Dessa moved immediately to a spot next to her so she could put her arms around her.
“Oh!” She leaned back from Dessa’s touch.
“I’m sorry,” Dessa said gently, settling her hands back in her lap. “I only wanted to offer comfort.”
The woman stood, but thankfully did not go near the door. She moved to the chair Dessa had vacated. Then she wiped at her tears, using the handkerchief in the very manner Dessa had hoped it would be used. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s touched me without wanting something.”
“I shouldn’t have assumed you’d welcome such contact,” Dessa admitted. “I’m so very sorry.”
The woman shook her head, then wiped away another tear and offered an unexpected, brief laugh. “I’m a little nervous, but I suppose that’s obvious.” She took a moment to compose herself, closing her eyes, stiffening her shoulders. Then she opened her eyes and looked at Dessa curiously. “Do you know that we can hear you singing those hymns at night? Here you are, singing to God while Miss Leola curses you. She’s just happy you go to bed early, or you’d ruin her business altogether.”
“I never meant any harm. Is my voice so unpleasant?”
“No, not at all,” she said. “It’s what you’re singing, not how you’re singing. Men don’t tend to stop in when they hear words like ‘Sinner, come home.’”
“I suppose I should offer an apology,” Dessa said with a smile, “but it wouldn’t be a very honest one.”
“Miss Leola always has the piano player play his loudest while you sing, so anyone who makes it past the door won’t be bothered. I suppose she should apologize for that.”
Dessa thanked her, then said, “Do you mind if I ask your name? I’m so glad you’ve come, but I don’t know what to call you.”
“I’m known as Miss Remee to everyone around here. You’ve probably guessed I live at the bordello down the street.”
Dessa nodded. “You’re most welcome here, Miss Remee. For as long as you like.”
Miss Remee looked around the room, her gaze settling on the stenciled wall. “My mother used to have curtains in the kitchen with pineapples on them. A symbol of welcome, she used to say.”
“That’s what I hoped they would be here, too.”
Miss Remee’s delicate brows tried to gather, but her forehead was too smooth for such an expression to mar her appearance. Her eyes were a lovely shade of amber, nearly gold, and just now they seemed to be swimming in a pool replenished with diamonds.
“My mother’s kitchen wasn’t very welcoming, though. Not once it was obvious I wouldn’t attract a suitable husband.”
“Does your mother live here in Denver?”
She wiped her eyes again, dabbed at her nose. “My folks are in Indiana. Far enough away, even with the railroad.”
“Sometimes distance is just what we need.”
“That or a shotgun.” She smiled at Dessa’s raised brows. “Say, do you have a family you left behind somewhere?”
Dessa shook her head. “Plenty of bad memories, though.” Then she asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some refreshment?”
Miss Remee hesitated, but a slow smile soon appeared. “I overheard a couple of the girls claiming you bake a good scone.”